“As promised” Uche signalled with his first finger and the servants dropped the baskets beside the small hut, “here are the gifts.” The Dibia stood and counted the baskets with her nose. There were ten baskets of yam, six baskets of tomatoes, five baskets of ogbono, and a calabash of undiluted palm wine. At least six chicken in their prime were tied together in another basket, just next to some edible vegetables. “You have done well,” the Dibia nodded and returned to her seat. The antelope skin that hung on her shoulders, kept her proud nature affirmed and nothing suggested if she was pleased with the present or not. “And here are the Six bags of cowries, for your trouble.” Uche smiled and dropped the bag into the Lion's skull, right in front of the diviner. He nodded once and his servants retired home while he took the wooden seat opposite the older woman. “I hope everything went as planned?” Uche asked The Dibia muttered some silent words and took a chalk from her goatskin bag.

Culture and tradition? They are nothing but twin sisters in a symbiotic relationship. It would be hard to tell which of the two was sucking the virtue and the moral rights of the people. Generations have come and gone. Good and bad people fading with its hood. These traditions that govern the cultures of the people had been enacted by some of the fathers who had lived long before the village had been born. But, thinking about it now, it would be difficult to pinpoint the moment in history when evil had crept in. The people had lived long enough with the folk tales of the fathers to blot the dent in the dough that had swelled in the batch of morality. Perhaps the adage, Ihe ojo gba afo, obulu omenala (If evil remains long enough it becomes a culture), was in play at the moment. Or was it the people? Why was it so hard to play the good card in life? Ejima hissed as she traced her path into the forest. She tried to keep her mind from wandering, but too many things tussled for her attenti

Jidenna rubbed his eyes and walked out from his little bamboo bed. He yawned wide, giving no care to his father’s instructions to always cover his mouth whenever the need to ease his air tract arises. The good news was that his father was nowhere near his little hut. He was away to the Igwe’s (King’s) palace and will not return until the birds retire to their nest. The man’s lectures never cease. They always went on and on until the sun was high on the cloud. If the ears could get filled up, Jide was sure that his ears would be overflowing with all the instructions his father was laying down for him. He picked his clay cup, and with his free hands, washed the drool from his face, before gulping a good quantity to rinse his mouth. He was becoming a man and his father always forgets that part. Obi will not remain a boy forever, will he? A voice at the back of his head affirmed. Besides, Ugomma was living next to their compound. What will she say when she sees the drool on his face?

The heat of the sun was already soft on her skin by the time she caught sight of the basket again. Perhaps the sun was going to bed, she couldn’t tell for sure. Her hands were burning and every muscle seemed to have turned into water. Fatigue was setting in and she knew it. She also knew that if she ceased using her hands as an oar, she would lose sight of the basket which was floating now at the edge of the river. Confident that the current of the river would not carry the basket away, she stopped beating the waters and immersed her head into the river. Every part of her body seemed to relax as the warm hands of the water massaged the weariness in her muscles. She even gulped some amount and was glad when the natural freshness strolled through her throat and blessed her thirst. With the help of the rafter, she pushed herself back to the surface, sucking the warm evening air that hung on every corner of the water body. The tenderness of the river reminded her of her husband. They ha

Jide clenched his fist and shifted the wooden stool on his head. The sun was just beginning to stand on the world so high, but he could sense his blood boiling with what he could only interpret as anger. The uneasiness on his soul added more salt to his injury. This was a futile effort. Reporting the town crier's crime to the elders was like a deer picking a fight with a Wolf and going after to report to the pack how badly they've hurt it. They were all the same, the elders and the town crier alike. Stray dogs don't leave their deeds in the dark. Even their whiff could be perceived from a far distance. Jide hissed and held firmly the wooden stool whose weight was beginning to burrow a hole in his scalp. While most Osu (outcasts), would die with excitement to have a moment in the King’s court, Jide found it rather annoying. The urine smell of the court, and the old woman who walked about bare chest, made him wonder if beauty has lost its tussle with ugliness. Even those so-called wise