The Cursed Shrine

In the village of Ìrànjẹ́, there was no girl as admired as Fọlá. She was as radiant as the morning sun, with deep brown skin that glowed under the daylight and eyes that sparkled like the river under the moon. Her laughter carried through the village like a melody, and wherever she walked, heads turned.

Fọlá was not only beautiful but also full of life. She moved with the grace of a gazelle, weaving baskets by the riverside with the other girls, yet she was just as quick to climb trees like the boys. She loved pounding yam in the evenings, her strong hands working the mortar as she sang. She was stubborn too, always challenging traditions, always asking questions, always seeking more.

The young men of Ìrànjẹ́ adored her. Olákúnlé, the hunter, often brought her the biggest game from his hunts. Délé, the drummer, composed beats just for her, hoping she would dance only for him. But Fọlá, though she smiled at them, belonged to no one. She was wild like the wind, free like the river.

Yet, for all her charms, there was one warning she refused to heed: Never set foot in your grandmother’s shrine.

It stood at the heart of the forbidden forest, abandoned for decades. “Nothing good lies there,” her mother had told her since she was a child. “It is a place of darkness.” But Fọlá, in all her curiosity, could not ignore the whispers of the shrine, the way it called to her in her dreams.

One fateful evening, when the village prepared for the new moon festival, Fọlá slipped away. The forest air was thick with silence as she approached the shrine. Its wooden doors were cracked with age, vines wrapped around them like prison bars. The moment she touched the entrance, a sharp wind swirled around her, and the ground beneath her feet trembled.

A force, unseen but powerful, entered her. She gasped, her body stiffening as cold fingers clawed at her soul. When she finally stumbled out of the shrine, the sky had turned darker, and the trees seemed to bend away from her.

She returned to Ìrànjẹ́, but she was no longer the Fọlá they knew. Her once-warm eyes burned with an eerie glow, and when she spoke, her voice carried an unnatural echo. That night, the village changed forever.

Crops withered in an instant, animals cried out before dropping lifelessly, and homes collapsed as if an invisible hand had crushed them. The young men who once sought her love now ran in terror.

The elders gathered, chanting incantations, trying to save her, but it was too late. The demon had claimed her fully. She stood in the heart of the burning village, her laughter no longer sweet but filled with madness and destruction.

And then, with one final scream, her body burst into flames. By dawn, there was nothing left of Fọlá but ashes. Ìrànjẹ́ was never the same again, and the name Fọlá was never spoken.

The shrine remained untouched. Forever cursed.