GOTH AFRIKA

The night Chief Aro died, the moon hung over Orita Village like a cracked skull, white and hollow, watching. Everyone believed the Chief would live forever. He walked like a man held together by iron bones and stubborn pride. But inside his compound, behind thick mud walls and iron gates, his three daughters—Morayo, the eldest; Molayo, the quiet one; and Moriyanu, the impatient lastborn, carried a storm no one could see, and on that night, the storm broke. It began with shouts—small at first, like ordinary quarrels. Villagers around the compound heard Morayo’s sharp voice, Molayo’s trembling protests, and Moriyanu’s angry retorts. Nothing unusual, nothing loud enough for alarm, just the sounds of a family used to fear. But inside, it wasn’t ordinary. Chief Aro stood before them, drunk and raging, accusing them of stealing money from the family safe. His cane rose and fell, his voice growing darker, uglier, sharper. Moriyanu snapped first. She grabbed the pestle from the kitchen corner...

In the ancient kingdom of Odanre, where the rivers ran deep and the forests whispered secrets, there ruled a king whose heart was darker than the night. King Obanla was his name, a tyrant who found joy only in the sight of blood. His thirst for violence was insatiable—he did not conquer for power or glory but for the sheer pleasure of slaughter. His laughter echoed over crimson-stained fields, and his throne was said to be carved from the bones of his enemies. Obanla was a true psychopath, a king who bathed in the fear of his people and found beauty only in destruction. Even his own subjects were not safe, for he believed their suffering was proof of his strength. Anyone who displeased him met a gruesome end, and the rivers that ran through Odanre were said to carry the blood of innocents. Tired of the oppression, the villagers turned to the ancient ways, summoning the spirit of the forest, Aje, a powerful being of enchantment and vengeance. The elders, with trembling hands, offered sa...

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, ...