Ohunene
When Handsomeness Met Ground
In the sun-bathed heart of Okene, where red dust rose like prayer from the earth and children ran barefoot through narrow winding paths, peace was sweet, and gossip was sweeter.
Goats bleated freely, masquerades practiced for festival season in the bush, and the sound of "Ehe na!" And “ye ne” floated between compounds like uninvited visitors.
But above all, one name stirred hearts like a hot pot of egusi:
Ohunene.
Daughter of Adavudi, the Ohinoyi of Okene, and Ozozahuwa, the queen with a face that could stop motorcade, Ohunene was what elders called "woman wey confuse destiny."
She was everything a princess should be beautiful, graceful, refined. But she was also everything a warrior feared swift, strong, deadly. Her skin glowed like polished ebony, her waist curved like the River Niger in flood season, and her eyes could pierce a man’s pride faster than hunger pierces a man’s belly.
People didn’t just fear her. They adored her.
They called her "Ohunene the Whispering Thunder." Because, truly, her footsteps made no sound but the aftermath always did.
Now, on this fine market day, as Uhuotu, the loud town crier, was updating villagers about garri inflation and stolen plantains, something unusual happened.
Ohunene appeared.
Wrapper tied like someone about to collect her destiny. Bow and quiver strapped across her back. Ankles jingling with coral beads. Her hair braided tight, sharp enough to slice boiled yam.
The villagers paused.
Uhuotu forgot his announcement. One elderly woman selling fried akara dropped her spoon and hissed, “Eh! Wahala go start today.”
“Ohunene!” Uhuotu shouted, running after her. “Are you going to the forest again? Abi you’re hunting men this time?”
She smiled. “Just stretching small, Baba Uhuotu.”
That was her code. It meant somebody’s ego is about to get baptized in shame.
At the town square, a crowd was already gathering. Word had spread that warriors from Agassa were visiting. Peaceful visit o, but warriors and testosterone don’t mix like Egusi and kerosene.
One of them, Ozoza tall, shiny, and full of himself was doing push-ups in the middle of the square. Shirtless. Chest glistening. Women were giggling behind their wrappers like groundnut in hot oil.
“Which one be this?” asked Inya oiza, a market woman with a mouth that worked overtime.
“They say his name is Ozoza,” replied Omeyi oza, her husband. “Handsome warrior from Agassa.”
“Handsome kwa? See head like boiled yam. If he’s handsome, then I’m a giraffe.”
Ozoza stood and pounded his chest. “Is this the village where they say a woman wrestles men? I came to collect my pride!”
Laughter erupted. But it died down quickly because Ohunene entered the square.
Silence. Even the talking drum paused like it had sense.
Ohunene looked him up and down. Then turned to the crowd.
“Only one round,” she said. “If he wins, I will serve him palm wine and call him ‘Ovehere.’ If I win... he will carry my bag to the river and back. Singing.”
Ozoza grinned. “It’s settled then.”
Bad idea.
Fight start.
Round one lasted all of fifteen seconds.
Ozoza charged like a cursed cow. Ohunene dodged, spun, caught him mid-air, and slammed him flat on his back. The crowd shouted in unison:
“Chei! Ground don kiss am!”
Ozoza lay there like a forgotten yam at the bottom of the pot. His pride? Evaporated. His mouth? Still open.
“You for tap out,” muttered Uhuotu, eating groundnut from someone else’s pocket.
Ohunene dusted her hands, adjusted her wrapper, and faced the crowd.
“He said he came for his pride. Let him carry it home on his head.”
The drummers, led by Mutty Mutty, immediately burst into rhythm. One began singing:
“Ozoza, handsome but slow,
Ohunene throw am like mango,
Waka go Agassa o,
Tell dem say Okene no be play.”
The entire village sang along. Except Ozoza, who quietly carried her bag to the river and back... singing.
From that day forward, the phrase “You go collect like Ozoza” became proverb.
Even village children used it:
“If you touch my akara again, you go collect like Ozoza.”
Back in the palace, Adavudi watched from his veranda, sipping palm wine.
“That girl again,” he muttered.
“She is her mother’s daughter,” said Ozozahuwa, fanning herself with quiet pride.
Later that night, in the village square, as the moon danced behind the clouds and firewood crackled beneath boiling pots, the people told the story again and again.
Of Ohunene the Princess of Coolness.
Of Ozoza the handsome visitor who met his back in Okene dust.
Of the day when even drums paused because the storm was moving.
Chapter Two:
Council of Salt and Pepper Beards
In the cool morning breeze of Okene, the cock crowed like it was on salary, and smoke from morning fires curled into the air like gossip on a hot market day. But inside the Igbira Council Hut, the mood was hotter than fresh pepper stew.
A half-circle of ancient men beards white, bellies round, and egos even rounder sat huffing and puffing like goats in rainy season. This was the Council of Elders, guardians of tradition and gatekeepers of long talk.
At the centre sat Ozomata, the Chief Priest head bald as kola nut, eyes sharp like Okene needle. His beads clacked as he gestured angrily.
“This girl!” he thundered, slapping his staff on the ground. “She has turned our customs into a joke!!”
“Haba! Ozomata calm down,” said Eneyiohueyi, the council's wisest (and slowest) thinker. “It’s not a joke, maybe just... Seasoned comedy.”
The others murmured some laughing quietly.
“She defeated warriors!”
“She doesn’t even kneel properly when she greets!”
“She’s too popular! Women are now carrying cutlasses and tying wrappers like her!”
“But... she has protected the land,” said Inda Oiza, a mild-mannered elder who once dreamed of being a dancer before life gave him arthritis. “And the people adore her.”
“Exactly the problem!” growled Ovehere, commander of the palace guards. “What use is my title if one small girl is doing gbosa! and men are falling like jollof rice on wedding day?”
The room hissed in agreement.
Then Ozomata leaned in, voice low and slippery. “If she grows stronger, even the throne will start to shake. Are we going to wait until she crowns herself king?”
One elder gasped. Another clutched his wrapper.
“She is just a girl!” snapped Uhuotu, who had sneaked into the meeting because his own mouth wouldn’t let him rest. “A very fine girl who can beat you like drum, yes but still a girl!”
They ignored him.
Then Ozomata stood and dropped the spiritual bomb.
“We must humble her spirit... or destroy her.”
Gasps. One elder choked on his bitter kola.
“You want us to fight her?” asked Eneyiohueyi. “With what? Old bones and prostate?”
“No,” Ozomata said. “We don’t need to fight her. We just need to discredit her. Shame her. Make her lose the love of the people.”
“How?” asked Ovehere, licking his cracked lips.
Ozomata smiled like someone who just saw a way to borrow suya without paying.
“There’s an ancient law. One we haven’t used in years. The Test of Obedience. Any royal child who refuses to honour it is stripped of title and sent into exile.”
Heads nodded. Wrappers rustled.
“But who will dare deliver such message?” asked Inda Oiza.
Ozomata looked out the window. “Oh, don’t worry. The gods will deliver it... through me.”
Meanwhile, in the Palace...
Ohunene was eating roasted yam and laughing with Uzomi, the little girl who followed her around like her shadow. Uzomi had tied her wrapper like a warrior and kept trying to drag her own baby bow across the floor.
“Princess, when will you teach me how to fly in the air like you did last time?”
“I didn’t fly, Uzomi. That was a backflip.”
“Okay, when will you teach me how to backflip like flying?”
Ohunene laughed and handed her a piece of yam. She looked out over the compound where guards trained with spears. Everything felt calm.
But calm is just the drumbeat before war.
A palace messenger arrived, panting like he’d just wrestled a goat.
“Princess Ohunene, the Council... they’ve summoned you for sacred judgment.”
“Judgment?” she asked, licking yam sauce from her fingers. “Did I steal pounded yam again?”
“No, my Princess. It’s... serious.”
Back at the Council...
Ohunene entered the sacred hut with the grace of royalty and the swagger of a wrestler. Her wrapper swayed. Her anklets jingled. Her face? Calm like river water.
All the elders avoided her eyes.
Only Ozomata stood. He pointed his staff and said in his most dramatic voice:
“Ohunene, daughter of Adavudi and Ozozahuwa! You have broken ancient balance! You are too proud, too strong, too... independent!”
She blinked. “Is that now a crime?”
Ozomata smirked. “We summon you to the Test of Obedience. You must go to Enyi-si Forest alone. No weapons. No help. Seven days.”
The elders murmured. Even Uhuotu muttered, “Eh? That place where even squirrels do morning devotion before entering?”
“If you survive,” Ozomata said, “we will honour your strength. If you fail... your name will be forgotten.”
Ohunene looked around the room. Then she laughed one short, sharp laugh that silenced the whole hut.
“Is this judgment... or jealousy?”
“Don’t question the gods!” barked Ovehere.
She stepped forward till she was eye-to-wrinkle with Ozomata.
“I will go. But when I return make sure your staffs are ready. You will need them to kneel.”
Then she turned and walked out, beads clinking, head high.
Outside, the drummers were waiting.
Mutty Mutty whispered, “Should we play something sad?”
“No,” Ohunene said, without turning. “Play something that sounds like war.”
They did.
And land of Okene trembled.
Chapter Three:
Enyi-si and the Bush That Doesn’t Blink
At the first cockcrow, before the goats started their morning argument and before Uhuotu even had time to stretch his old back and shout town news, Ohunene had already left the palace.
No entourage. No drums. No cheerleaders. Just her, her wrapper tied like a woman going to disgrace evil, and a small gourd of water hanging from her side.
The sky was still yawning, and the village was half-asleep when she passed the ancient shrine of Oh-gara, where the Oracle lived in silence with a parrot that spoke more than him.
“Ohunene,” croaked the parrot. “ Enyi-si no get Google Map o!”
She smiled, shook her head, and kept walking.
Enyi-si was not your regular bush. It wasn’t the type you enter to pluck mango or chase chicken. It was a cursed, whispered-about, spiritually quarantined place where things didn’t just move at night they spoke.
It was said that once you stepped inside, even your shadow would run and leave you.
Birds entered and forgot how to fly. Hunters went in and came out as prophets or madmen or both.
But Ohunene wasn’t ordinary.
She stood before the forest’s boundary a great wall of twisted trees and vines that looked like they’d been braided by angry ancestors. She took one deep breath and entered.
Immediately, the forest swallowed her like banku in hot okro.
Day One: When Trees Side-Eye You
The first thing she noticed was the silence.
No birds.
No insects.
Not even wind.
Just an eerie, sticky stillness like something was watching her but pretending not to.
She moved slowly, her feet barely making a sound on the thick forest floor. Every few steps, she heard... something.
A whisper?
A footstep?
Or her own heartbeat?
A green monkey with one eye appeared from behind a tree and stared at her. Then it shook its head like, “You sef no dey fear?” and vanished.
At night, she found a tree with wide branches and climbed up to rest.
But the tree whispered.
Yes, whispered.
“Why are you here, girl of thunder?” it asked in Ebira.
She raised one brow. “Is that your real voice or termite indigestion?”
The tree chuckled. “Bold... You’ll need more than boldness. They’ve sent others before you.”
“Did they survive?”
Silence.
She slept with one eye open.
Day Three: Spirits and Secrets
By the third day, the forest began to test her.
She walked in circles.
She crossed the same river five times except it wasn’t the same. The fish changed colour. The water whispered names.
Names she didn’t know... or had forgotten.
On the fourth crossing, the water spoke clearly:
“Ohunene... they fear what you might become.”
She froze.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
The river bubbled. “I am the mouth they silenced... before you were born.”
Suddenly, the trees began to hum. A rhythm like drums but there were no drummers.
She stepped back.
And that’s when she saw it.
A figure. Tall, dark, covered in cowries and feathers. Eyes glowing like hot charcoal.
Adeviseh the spirit of forgotten warriors.
“You are brave,” it said in a voice that felt like thunder wrapped in honey.
“Or stubborn,” she replied, hands ready to fight.
“Both.”
It stepped closer. “You are not just fighting for yourself. You are walking the path your mother walked.”
“My mother?” Ohunene frowned. “She was queen, not a warrior.”
“She was more,” said Adeviseh. “She came here before you. Pregnant with you. Escaping betrayal.”
Ohunene staggered. “You lie.”
“Ask the wind. Ask the trees. Ask the blood in your veins.”
The spirit tossed a gourd at her feet. “Drink. See for yourself.”
She hesitated.
Then drank.
The Vision
She saw a younger Ozozahuwa, her mother, running through this same forest. Chased by masked men.
Pregnant.
Bleeding.
Hiding.
She saw a secret birth. A hidden ceremony. A blade held over baby Ohunene’s chest, drawing symbols.
The voice of an elder: “She shall be warrior and watcher. Defender of truth. Born of woman, trained by pain.”
Then fire. Screams. Betrayal.
And darkness.
She woke up under the tree, panting.
Adeviseh was gone.
But the truth remained.
They weren’t testing her because she was strong.
They were testing her because they were afraid of her story.
Day Six: Return of the Princess
By the sixth day, Ohunene had faced hunger, loneliness, and one angry talking squirrel. But her spirit? Unshaken.
She reached the forest edge by dawn of the seventh day.
As she stepped out, even the trees sighed in relief.
Waiting for her outside the village was Onimisi, her childhood friend and secret admirer, with a wrapper full of roasted yam and palm oil.
“Ah ah, you came out alive!” he shouted. “I told the elders that evil forest go fear you!”
She smiled. “I brought a gift.”
“What is it?”
She raised her wrapper slightly and pulled out...
A glowing feather.
“The spirit said to give it to Ozomata. Tell him... the forest sends its regards.”
Back in the village, word spread faster than suya at naming ceremony.
Ohunene had returned.
Alive.
Unafraid.
Unbroken.
The people began to gather.
And the Council?
They began to sweat.
Because this girl was no longer just a warrior.
She was becoming a legend.
Chapter Four:
The Feather, the Fraud, and the Foolish Elders
Morning broke over Okene like a fresh calabash of kunu cool, calm, and sweet-smelling. But the peace was only on the surface. Deep inside the Council Hut, panic was boiling like kpokpo garri in too much hot water.
Ozomata, High Priest and chief elder of long beard and short patience, had just received a package.
Not ordinary package, oh.
A single feather.
Black.
Glowing.
Still warm.
He knew it instantly.
Not chicken feather.
Not turkey.
Not even parrot feather from that loud-mouthed bird at Oh-gara’s shrine.
No.
Spirit feather.
From Adeviseh himself.
He stared at it like someone who had just opened a pot and found a snake instead of stew.
“What’s this nonsense?” barked Ovehere, who had barged into the room sweating from head to chest like a leaking sachet water. “Did she kill something in there?”
Ozomata’s hand trembled. “She met... him. She knows.”
“Knows what?” asked Uhuotu, chewing bitter kola like he was chewing government lies. “That we were just jealous?”
Ozomata growled. “No. She knows about her mother. The betrayal. The banishment. All of it.”
Ovehere dropped his staff. “Ahn ahn. Are we finished?”
Elder Eneyiohueyi the slow thinker with fast sense spoke quietly. “The people will worship her now. We tried to humble her... and made her unstoppable.”
The other elders groaned.
Then Inda Oiza, ever the peacemaker, raised his hand timidly. “Maybe we should... apologize?”
The entire hut burst into laughter.
“Apologize ke?” Ozomata shouted. “Do we look like we have shame? Never!”
“But... what if she comes for us?” Ovehere whispered.
Ozomata stood, eyes wild. “Then we must act. Tonight. Before she becomes untouchable.”
“Do you want to fight her?” Uhuotu gasped. “Have you not seen her forearms? Like pestle!”
“No fight,” Ozomata said. “We’ll use Oshiana. The whisperer.”
Gasps again.
Even the lizards under the mat blinked twice.
“You want to wake Oshiana?” asked Eneyiohueyi. “The forbidden one?”
“Yes,” Ozomata hissed. “If we can’t shame her... we’ll summon what even she can’t fight.”
Meanwhile, at the Palace...
The village square was bubbling.
Drummers were drumming like rent was due.
Women were dancing.
Children were doing cartwheels like the ground had turned to sugar.
And in the centre of it all stood Ohunene, dressed not in warrior gear but a simple wrapper and beads. Humble, smiling, radiating calm.
But make no mistake her calm was the kind that came before thunder.
Beside her stood Onimisi, handsome and hopelessly in love. He was trying hard not to stare at her too long, but his neck refused to cooperate.
“I told you, they can’t touch you now,” he whispered. “You’re basically village president.”
“I’m not interested in power,” she said softly. “I just want truth. Justice. And maybe... a little revenge.”
“Oh. Small revenge is good,” he grinned. “It helps with digestion.”
She laughed.
Just then, Mutty Mutty the town gossip stumbled toward her, out of breath.
“Princess! I just heard! Ozomata and the elders dem wan wake something called Oshiana!”
Ohunene froze.
“Oshiana?”
Mutty nodded. “That name is not in storybooks o. It’s in the forbidden scrolls. The ones even elders fear to read during thunderstorm.”
She turned to Onimisi. “We need to go. Now.”
“Go where?”
“To the shrine of Oh-gara. I need answers. And maybe a machete.”
At the Shrine of Oh-gara.
Inside the misty shrine, silence reigned. Except for one sound:
“POLITICIANS! THIEVES! EAT OKAH WITHOUT SOUP!”
It was the parrot.
“Oh, that one,” muttered Ohunene.
From the shadows emerged the Oracle Oh-gara, tall and terrifying, dressed in white with eyes like lightning and voice like thunder that had gone to Bible school.
“Ohunene, daughter of thunder. The earth trembles with your return.”
“I need the truth,” she said.
He pointed to a scroll on the wall.
She walked up and read the forbidden passage.
It said:
> “If power seeks to destroy truth, truth must awaken the storm within.”
“Is that a prophecy?” Onimisi asked.
“No,” oh-gara replied. “It’s a warning.”
Then he looked at Ohunene and said something that made her blood run cold.
“Oshiana is not just a spirit. It is a piece of your past. It is your mother’s curse.”
Chapter Five:
The Curse of Ozi-Oro and the Cry of the Baobab Tree
That night, the moon refused to rise.
Even the stars were hiding, like they didn’t want to witness the foolishness Okene elders were about to perform.
At the edge of the village, behind the Enyi-si hill where even goats refused to graze, six hooded figures stood in a tight circle. Each one carried a piece of the forbidden relic: feather, bone, black stone, rusted crown, tears of an unborn child (nobody asked how they got that one), and a calabash of silence.
“Oshiana,” Ozomata whispered, voice trembling but ego inflated. “We call you now. Come and swallow the storm we cannot control.”
The wind hissed.
A tree groaned.
The ground beneath them cracked slightly as if the earth itself was thinking, “Una don start again?”
Suddenly, from the shadows, a laugh echoed.
Not man.
Not woman.
But something in-between and in-between again.
The calabash shattered.
The feather caught fire.
And Oshiana rose.
No face.
No form.
Just a cloud of smoke shaped like pain, betrayal, and bad decision-making.
“Who dares disturb my slumber with their useless inheritance?” it boomed.
Ozomata stepped forward, trying to hide his bladder’s confusion. “A girl. A warrior. Ohunene.”
The spirit pulsed.
“The daughter of fire? The one with the mark?”
“Yes,” Ovehere said. “She threatens everything.”
Oshiana laughed again. This time, three birds fell from the sky.
“I knew her mother. Ozozahuwa. Beautiful. Dangerous. Smart. All the things elders hate.”
Oshiana floated closer. “You want me to finish what your fear could not?”
“Yes,” Ozomata said.
The spirit paused.
“Then bring me her blood.”
Back at the Shrine
Ohunene sat in silence.
oh-gara paced like a father who just found out his daughter wants to marry a musician.
“She carries the blood,” he said. “Your mother sealed the curse inside you. That’s why the oganigwe refused to harm you. That’s why you speak the language of spirits.”
Onimisi squatted, chewing roasted groundnut. “Wait... does that mean she’s part spirit?”
Ohunene stood. “No. It means I’m part truth. And truth no dey fear light.”
She turned to the Oracle. “How do I stop this Oshiana?”
oh-gara sighed. “You don’t. You confront it.”
Silence.
Then the parrot chimed in: “YOU GO FIGHT AIR? YOU DEY MAD?!”
Onimisi winced. “I second that bird.”
But Ohunene was already walking toward the village square.
The Confrontation
By midnight, the people of Okene were gathered.
Children held onto their mothers’ wrappers.
Drummers held their drums like maybe the talking cloud would dash them slap.
Then the air changed.
Cold.
Heavy.
Oshiana appeared in the sky like smoke that refused to scatter.
“I came for one,” it growled. “But I see a crowd of cowards.”
Ohunene stepped forward, staff in hand, eyes burning.
“You came to silence truth,” she said. “But I am not afraid of my story.”
The cloud shifted, crackling.
“You carry your mother’s fire. But fire can burn its own house.”
“So be it,” she said. “Burn me, if you must. But let the truth speak first.”
And she lifted her wrapper.
No, not like that o calm down.
She lifted the arm of her wrapper to reveal the mark a deep scar in the shape of the ancestral symbol: a circle within a star.
The villagers gasped.
It was the warrior’s birthmark.
Only seen once a generation.
Only born to those sent by the gods.
Oshiana paused.
“I cannot destroy her,” it muttered. “She is the key. The seal. The beginning and the end.”
Ozomata shouted, “LIE! Destroy her!”
But Oshiana turned.
“You want destruction? Then wear it.”
And with a shriek like thunder peeling a church roof, the spirit descended and entered Ozomata’s body.
The old man screamed, shaking like he had swallowed generator.
His eyes turned white. His staff burst into flames.
Then, silence.
He dropped to the ground.
Dead?
Maybe.
Possessed?
Certainly.
Confused?
All of us.
The Aftermath
Elder Uhuotu fainted.
Ovehere began confessing crimes he didn’t even commit.
Eneyiohueyi ran to hide inside a mortar.
And the villagers?
They bowed to Ohunene.
Some with fear.
Some with respect.
Most with awe.
But the princess didn’t smile.
She turned to the crowd and spoke:
“This is not the end. This is the cleansing. The land must heal. The elders must answer. And no more secrets will live in our soil.”
Chapter Six:
The Elder Who Woke Up Crying Blood
Three days after the storm in the sky and the spirit showdown in the square, Okene tried to return to normal.
Women returned to their farms.
Children resumed chasing lizards and playing ten-ten.
Even the goats looked more relaxed.
But deep inside Ozomata’s compound, something very abnormal was happening.
The old man had woken up.
Yes, he had collapsed like a sack of rotten yam. Yes, his eyes had rolled back like NEPA bill in December. Yes, everyone thought he had gone to join his ancestors.
But instead of dying, he returned and started weeping blood.
Real blood o.
Hot, red, and dripping like pepper soup.
Elder Ovehere and Uhuotu stood at the edge of his mat, holding a Bible in one hand and ogogoro in the other, unsure which one would work.
“Maybe he needs prayer,” Uhuotu whispered.
“Maybe he needs flogging,” Ovehere replied.
Ozomata sat up slowly, face pale, eyes wide.
“She is not done,” he croaked. “The girl... she carries the key... to the doorway.”
“What doorway?” asked Uhuotu.
“The one that separates the earth from the secrets buried under it.”
Ovehere shifted back. “See me see prophecy!”
Just then, the wind blew open the window.
A single feather flew in.
And this time, it wasn’t warm.
It was freezing cold.
Meanwhile at the Riverbank
Ohunene was at the river, barefoot, washing her machete. Not because it was dirty. But because it had spoken to her in a dream.
Yes.
Her machete.
Named Akeba meaning "victory" the blade was forged by her grandmother under a blood moon using metal stolen from a fallen star.
No one else could lift it.
Except Onimisi.
That boy had been trying to impress her for weeks now.
“Do you think this river is deep enough for us to elope?” he asked as he squatted beside her.
She raised one eyebrow. “You want to drown for love?”
“Well, if that’s what it takes to win your attention…”
She dipped the machete back into the water with a splash. “You have my attention. But do you have the spine?”
“Ah. Small insult. I love it.”
She turned to him, dead serious. “Onimisi. The spirits are not gone. Oshiana may have vanished, but something else is moving. I feel it.”
He frowned. “You think Ozomata is truly finished?”
“No,” she whispered. “And I fear… he may not be Ozomata anymore.”
Council of Madness
A secret meeting was called.
No drums.
No town crier.
Just whispers.
All surviving elders (the ones not hiding inside baskets) gathered inside the abandoned yam barn.
Even the Oracle oh-gara was present, arms folded like a suspicious landlord.
“He walks around at night,” said a trembling Eneyiohueyi. “But his shadow walks in a different direction.”
oh-gara blinked. “Then that is no longer Ozomata. That is a shell. A borrowed skin.”
“Ay!” Uhuotu clapped. “This thing has turned into horror film!”
“We must confront him,” oh-gara said. “Tonight.”
“Armed?” asked Ovehere.
“Prayed up,” oh-gara said. “And with Ohunene.”
The Confession
Later that evening, as the sun yawned behind the hills of Okene, Onimisi stood in front of Ohunene's hut, holding a carved gourd and sweating like he had malaria of the heart.
He knocked.
No answer.
He cleared his throat.
“Ohunene, the one who slices spirits and peels lies... I brought you palm wine. And... also my feelings.”
The door creaked open.
She appeared, dressed in a warrior wrapper but hair braided in peaceful coils.
“You came to pour wine or pour your heart?”
“Both. But if you say no, I’ll still drink the wine.”
She laughed softly. “Enter. Let’s see if your words have strength like your shoulders.”
He entered.
She poured.
They drank.
They stared.
Then she asked, “Why do you chase me?”
He answered honestly, “Because even lightning pauses when you walk past. And me, I’m just a tree hoping to be struck.”
She was silent for a moment.
Then she said, “If you survive what is coming, maybe I will strike you… gently.”
Onimisi grinned. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
The Final Scene
Night fell.
The moon finally rose.
But it was red.
Very red.
Like blood from a stubborn nosebleed.
Ozomata or whatever was now wearing his skin stood alone by the sacred fig tree.
He was humming.
Not a song from Okene.
But a language older than the rocks.
And behind him... the earth cracked.
A hand slowly began to rise from the soil.
Not human.
Not animal.
Something else.
And in the distance, Ohunene opened her eyes from sleep, grabbed her machete, and whispered:
“It has begun.”
Chapter Seven:
The Thing Beneath Okene
At exactly midnight, a strange sound began to echo through the hills.
Grrrmmpphh…
Not thunder.
Not drum.
Not goat.
Something… older.
The sacred fig tree behind Ozomata’s compound began to bleed. Yes bleed. Thick black sap oozed from its bark, and flies gathered like they were invited to a burial buffet.
Elder Uhuotu ran to the shrine with his wrapper tied tight like a woman in labour.
“oh-gara! oh-gara!!”
The Oracle yawned. “If it’s not spirit or soup, it can wait.”
“It’s Ozomata! He’s whistling, and now the ground is breathing!”
“Ah. Ground is breathing? Better call the ancestors before it starts singing!”
Meanwhile at Ohunene’s Hut…
Ohunene was sharpening Akeba, her enchanted machete, while Onimisi was pacing back and forth like someone expecting JAMB result.
“Do you feel it?” she asked.
“I feel many things,” he said, biting his fingernails. “But mainly fear. And maybe indigestion.”
She stood up and tied her head scarf. “Something has been disturbed. Not just the land. But the balance.”
Onimisi’s eyes darted. “Balance? Like… spiritual equilibrium?”
She looked at him with mild surprise. “Ah-ah. You know big grammar?”
“I borrowed it from Enehu.”
She smiled faintly. Then her face hardened.
“We must go to the tree.”
Onimisi's smile faded. “Which tree? That tree? That spirit-oozing, blood-crying, demon-waving fig tree?”
“Yes.”
“I should’ve married a farmer.”
The Tree of Trouble
The tree was taller than a house and older than any living elder.
As they approached it, the wind whispered in Ebira, but backwards.
“uwuayha ir aw hakim…”
Ohunene paused.
“Did that tree just tell me to eat my heart?”
Onimisi nodded like a broken radio. “Yes. And I think it insulted your lineage.”
Then, the soil cracked open with a snap! like someone stepping on dry chin-chin.
A figure began to rise.
Slowly.
Covered in mud, bones, and rage.
It had three eyes two on its face, and one where its navel should be.
Its voice was like an earthquake arguing with a volcano.
“I... am... Adeviseh.”
Onimisi squinted. “Is that a name or a WiFi password?”
Ohunene stepped forward. “Spirit of ruin. You do not belong in this time.”
Adeviseh laughed. The sound made a nearby mango tree vomit its fruits.
“I was called. By blood. By betrayal. By… Ozomata.”
The Truth Is a Terrible Thing
At that moment, the Oracle oh-gara burst into the scene with three chickens, two gourds, and one scared parrot.
“Young woman!” he shouted. “It’s time you knew the truth!”
Ohunene turned. “What truth?”
“Ozomata… is your uncle.”
Silence.
Onimisi blinked. “Ah.”
“Ohunene,” oh-gara continued, “Your mother, Ozozahuwa, was his twin. They were both born under the eclipse. One chosen for light, one for shadow.”
“Then why is he trying to kill me?” she asked.
“Because your birth cancelled his prophecy. You were the one meant to unlock the gates. Not him. He was only the placeholder. The runner-up.”
“Second position bitterness?” Onimisi muttered.
“Yes!” oh-gara nodded. “But he made a pact with Adeviseh to restore his destiny. He promised your blood in return.”
Ohunene gripped her machete.
“So I am the key. And he is the hand that wants to turn it.”
“Exactly,” said the parrot. “Na why I dey fear this family!”
Battle of the Bound Blood
With a howl, Adeviseh lunged forward, but Ohunene was faster.
She flipped backward like pepper in hot oil, then swung Akeba in a clean arc. The blade sliced through air and spirit, and Adeviseh roared in pain.
“YOU CANNOT KILL WHAT WAS NEVER BORN!”
“I don’t need to kill you,” she replied. “Just send you back to your darkness.”
She chanted words in the tongue of the forgotten ones words her mother whispered in her sleep when the moon was full.
The blade glowed.
The earth trembled.
And then BOOM!
Adeviseh exploded into a cloud of fireflies and ash.
Ozomata, still standing behind the tree, screamed as his body went limp and fell like an expired akara ball.
Aftermath and a Question
Silence.
Even the night birds stopped shouting.
oh-gara stood up from his hiding spot behind the chicken.
Onimisi stared at Ohunene like he had seen the sunrise marry the thunder.
“You’re more than a warrior,” he said softly. “You’re a storm. A beautiful one.”
She wiped her brow and looked at him.
“Then will you stand beside me in this storm?”
He didn’t blink.
“Yes. I will stand beside you. Hold your blade. Guard your back. And maybe… boil your yam.”
They both laughed.
Until oh-gara shouted, “Don’t laugh yet o! More spirits dey!”
Chapter Eight:
The Cave That Whispers Names
The morning after the battle, Okene woke up with swollen eyes not from sleep, but from crying tears of relief.
The air was fresher.
The birds sang louder.
And for the first time in weeks, the village well tasted like actual water, not like it borrowed salt from the ocean.
Children gathered outside Ohunene’s hut, peeking at her shadow with reverence.
“Mummy, is she a spirit?”
“No o! She’s the daughter of Ozozahuwa. Spirit with small breast and big weapon.”
“But she beat the ground and it coughed! That’s not normal!”
Inside the hut, Ohunene sat sharpening Akeba, humming an old Ebira war song. Beside her, Onimisi watched silently, unsure if to propose or to run for deliverance.
“I had another dream,” she said.
He blinked. “Did I die in this one?”
She shook her head. “No. But you were wearing feathers and crying inside a cave.”
“…that feels worse.”
The Oracle Summons
Just before noon, the Oracle oh-gara arrived, riding an old donkey called Anavami, which had one working eye and a limp that spoke of too many spiritual errands.
“Ohunene,” oh-gara announced, “the ancestors are calling you.”
“Again?” Onimisi whispered. “These ancestors no dey rest?”
“They want her to enter the sacred cave,” oh-gara continued. “To claim her true heritage.”
Ohunene stood. “Let them speak. I am listening.”
oh-gara frowned. “They don’t speak with mouth. They speak with dreams and trials. You must enter alone.”
“Then what’s the use of this announcement?” Onimisi grumbled.
“It’s tradition,” oh-gara replied. “And also drama. It sweetens the journey.”
The Cave of Bones and Breaths
That evening, dressed in white and armed with Akeba, Ohunene arrived at Uzi-goko, the mouth of the sacred ancestral cave.
The air was heavy with incense and old sweat. Strange markings covered the walls. Some looked like dancing spirits. Some looked like recipes for disaster.
As she stepped inside, the cave whispered:
“Ohunene… Ozozahuwa’s child… bearer of Akeba… guardian of the in-between…”
She walked deeper. Her machete hummed.
Then the ground beneath her cracked and she fell.
Inside the Dream
She landed not on rock, but on water. Yet it held her.
She stood on a river that flowed upward.
In front of her stood her mother Ozozahuwa glowing with moonlight and wisdom.
“Mother?”
“You carry more than blood, my child,” the spirit said. “You carry memory. Legacy. And danger.”
“I faced Adeviseh.”
“Good. Now face yourself.”
Suddenly, a mirror appeared.
But in it… Ohunene saw herself as a child, playing beside a boy.
The boy had Onimisi’s eyes.
“Love is your blade’s twin,” Ozozahuwa said. “But if mishandled, it can wound deeper.”
“What do I do?”
“You test it. You test him.”
Onimisi’s Test
Outside the cave, Onimisi waited, pacing like a man about to marry a lion.
Then, a whisper came from the cave entrance.
“She has called you. Enter, boy of longing.”
“Me? Alone? Naked heart?”
The wind blew.
He entered.
And immediately, he was faced with… three versions of Ohunene.
One smiled.
One cried.
One held Akeba to his neck.
“If you love her,” said the smiling one, “kiss me.”
“If you fear her,” said the crying one, “run.”
“If you know her,” said the armed one, “stand still.”
Onimisi took a deep breath.
He stood still.
The sword dropped.
And the three vanished into one.
“Ohunene,” he whispered.
She stepped out of the shadows.
“You passed.”
“Ah,” he sighed. “Please, can I now breathe properly for once?”
The Coronation Begins
The next day, drums thundered from every hut.
The villagers gathered under the great tree.
Goats were tied.
Kola was broken.
Even the palm wine refused to turn sour.
The Oracle stepped forward.
“Let the daughter of Ozozahuwa rise.”
Ohunene, dressed in full battle beads and a wrapper woven from the silk of ghost moths, stepped forward. The crowd gasped.
Even the old men forgot their bones.
oh-gara raised a gourd. “Today, we crown not just a warrior. Not just a protector. But a queen.”
As he poured libation, thunder cracked.
Then…
A voice from the crowd shouted:
“Wait!”
Everyone turned.
A hooded figure stepped forward.
Long dreadlocks. Heavy staff. Eyes that knew too much.
oh-gara gasped.
“Ohiuze?”
Ohunene narrowed her eyes.
“That’s not Ohiuze. That’s his twin. The one who vanished before the first war.”
oh-gara whispered, “Then… we are not safe yet.”
Chapter Nine:
The Twin of Shadows
The hooded figure stood like a cursed tree unmoving, ominous, and unfortunately related to people.
Ohunene’s fingers curled around Akeba.
oh-gara’s knees shook like a leaf that owed rent.
The villagers whispered:
“Na who be this again?”
“Dem don start with spiritual siblings!”
“Abeg where is the exit in case arrow fly?”
The figure pulled back the hood.
And there he was Ohiuze’s twin brother, thought to be dead for twenty harvests.
Name? Amoto.
Eyes? Like bottled thunder.
Aura? Like pepper soup with extra juju.
The Story of Amoto
oh-gara stepped forward, holding a staff and his breath.
“This man,” he said slowly, “was once destined to be the High Seer of Okene. But he disappeared after the great eclipse.”
Amoto chuckled. “Disappeared? You mean banished.”
“Eh?” the crowd chorused.
“Yes,” Amoto said, “banished by jealous elders who feared my connection to the deep roots the ancient power beneath the sacred hill. They said I was too strong. Too wild. Too… unpredictable.”
Onimisi whispered to Ohunene, “He sounds like expired ogbono soup. Thick and dangerous.”
Amoto continued, “But now, the cycle turns. The crown you wish to give her…” he pointed at Ohunene “...belongs to me.”
Loud gasp.
Even the chickens gasped.
Challenge of the Crown
“Ohunene,” Amoto said, “I challenge you to Irepa-oko the Duel of Flames.”
Now, Irepa-oko wasn’t just any fight. It was an ancient Ebira battle ritual, where warriors fought on a circle of fire, watched by the ancestors and two very judgmental leopards carved into stone.
If you win, you get crowned.
If you lose, you get roasted metaphorically and sometimes literally.
Ohunene nodded. “I accept.”
oh-gara gasped. “Child! Think well!”
“I have,” she replied. “If I run today, my shadow will mock me forever.”
Onimisi added, “And your enemies will make remix video of your disgrace.”
The Circle of Fire
That night, the sacred arena was lit.
Villagers filled every space, sitting on rooftops, on trees, even hanging from palm fronds.
Drummers pounded like the sky was about to cry.
Amoto entered the ring, wearing a robe of smoke and feathers. He held a staff carved from the bone of a dead seer.
Ohunene entered, calm like cold river. Her eyes? Steady.
Her weapon? Akeba, glowing faintly in the dark.
The Oracle raised his arms.
“Begin!”
The Battle of Breath and Bone
Amoto struck first lightning leapt from his staff, hitting the ground in a flash of fury.
Ohunene dodged, rolled, and countered with a slice of her machete that split the flame in two.
They moved like spirits.
Every clash sparked fire.
Every dodge made the wind scream.
At one point, Amoto summoned a phantom snake made of smoke.
Ohunene smiled.
“Try me with juju. I eat juju for breakfast.”
She cut the snake in two, and it turned into yam flour.
Someone in the crowd shouted, “Ah! Na real warrior be this!”
The Final Blow
Amoto roared. “I will not lose to a girl!”
Ohunene spun in the air like a possessed windmill and struck him across the chest.
He staggered.
She whispered something in old Ebira: “Let your pride return to the earth.”
Then BOOM!
With one final strike, she knocked his staff from his hand and sent him flying out of the ring into a bucket of fermented ogi.
The fire died down.
Silence.
Then cheers exploded like gunpowder on New Yam Festival.
“OHUNENE! OHUNENE!!”
Even the leopards looked pleased.
The Crown Descends
Later that night, under the giant moon, oh-gara placed the crown on Ohunene’s head.
“Daughter of strength, flame of Okene, wielder of Akeba… you are now our queen.”
Tears fell from old eyes.
Goats danced involuntarily.
Palm wine flowed like prophecy.
And Ohunene, standing tall beside Onimisi, raised her sword high.
But just as the celebration began
A child ran into the square, panting.
“They’re coming!”
“Who?” oh-gara asked.
The child looked up with fear.
“The Red Riders from the north hills. They burn everything. And they’re looking… for the queen.”
The drums stopped.
The wind held its breath.
Ohunene smiled.
“Let them come.”
Chapter Ten:
The Red Riders Are Coming
The moon hadn't even finished yawning when the rumble started.
Low.
Steady.
Sinister.
From the northern hills of Agada-Akuta, smoke rose into the night sky like incense from a drunk priest’s shrine.
Children woke up crying.
Goats began fasting without permission.
And the elders… they sat on their wooden stools and looked at the horizon.
“The Red Riders,” one whispered, “have returned.”
Who Are The Red Riders?
Let me tell you.
The Red Riders were not just any warriors. They were nightmares on horseback. Men whose skin had seen too many suns, whose eyes had forgotten how to blink, and whose laughter could curdle fresh palm wine.
They wore red not because of fashion, but because their clothes had soaked so much blood over the years that even detergent spirit couldn’t help.
Led by a mysterious warlord called Ovehere the Devourer, the Riders had sacked five villages already, including Oganya, where they burnt down shrines, chewed sacred kolanuts, and even stole an elder’s wig.
And now…
They were heading for Okene.
Ohunene’s War Council
At the center of the village, Queen Ohunene stood surrounded by her closest advisors.
Onimisi, her beloved, was already sharpening his blade and muttering, “If dem touch you ehn… thunder will first do intro.”
Eneyiohueyi, the wise elder, sat with his map made of goat leather and complaints.
oh-gara, the oracle, had thrown his divination bones but they only showed one thing: fire, more fire, and one confused tortoise.
“Ohunene,” oh-gara said solemnly, “we must fight. But we also must prepare.”
“How long do we have?” she asked.
“Three days,” Eneyiohueyi replied.
“Good,” Ohunene said, standing tall. “That’s two more days than I need.”
The Preparation
Day one: Weapons were forged, machetes sharpened, arrows kissed with poison.
Day two: Ohunene personally trained the women and children.
“They may have horses,” she told them, “but we have heart. And my heart is dangerous when angry.”
Someone fainted from the motivation.
Day three: The village transformed. Bamboo spikes lined the hills. Oil traps were hidden along narrow paths. The Okene war horn Enehu was cleaned, oiled, and blessed with bitter leaf.
Ovehere Sends a Message
On the night of the third day, just after moonrise, a lone horse approached the village gates.
On the horse was a man well, half a man. His upper body was strapped to the saddle, and a note pinned to his chest.
Ohunene read it aloud:
> “To the Queen with fire in her eyes. We are coming. And we are hungry.”
Signed:
Ovehere the Devourer
Onimisi shouted, “O hungry goat! Na hunger go finish you and your squad!”
But Ohunene said nothing.
She turned to the guards.
“Bury him properly. And clean the horse. We’ll need it.”
The Night Before War
As the village settled into uneasy sleep, Ohunene sat beside Onimisi under the sacred Iroko tree.
“You’re not scared?” he asked.
“I am,” she said softly. “But fear is the seasoning of courage.”
He smiled. “Marry me if we survive this.”
She looked at him. “Marry you even if we don’t.”
They kissed.
The wind sighed like it had been waiting for that moment.
Suddenly
A voice came from the shadows.
“You’ll need more than kisses to win this war.”
They turned.
It was Inda Oiza the mysterious former warrior who lived on the edge of the village, always surrounded by goats and rumours.
“I fought Ovehere once,” he said.
“And lived?” oh-gara gasped.
“Barely,” he replied. “But I wounded him. Deep.”
“Show me where,” Ohunene said.
He nodded. “Then prepare your sharpest arrow. Aim not for his chest… but for his shadow.”
Chapter Eleven:
The Fire Meets Flesh
The first rooster had not even finished crowing when the horns of Ovehere the Devourer sounded from the north.
“Vwoooooooooooooo!”
It wasn’t just a war cry it was thunder dipped in hot pepper and anger.
The ground shook.
Trees wept.
One man even pooped without permission.
But in the heart of Okene, Queen Ohunene stood on the watchtower, her eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk with trust issues.
Beside her were her warriors over five hundred men and women, each armed to the teeth and spiritually fortified with alligator pepper, salt, and prayer.
“Today,” Ohunene shouted, “we fight not just to live, but to remain free!”
“AYE!!!” the people roared.
Even a chicken screamed in agreement.
Ovehere Rides In
The Red Riders came like a red flood over two hundred horses, riders in crimson cloaks, each wielding curved blades and strange metal guns.
In front rode Ovehere himself.
He was massive like a carved statue of fury.
Skin like burnt bronze, tattoos all over his chest, and a horned helmet that smelled faintly of doom and roasted rat.
“Ohunene!” he bellowed. “Come out and kneel!”
Ohunene replied by firing an arrow that grazed his cheek.
Blood dripped.
Ovehere licked it and smiled. “Good. I like my queens spicy.”
The First Clash
The first wave of Riders hit the outer traps.
Bamboo spikes impaled the front lines.
Hidden pits swallowed horses whole.
From the trees, Uzomi and her archers rained arrows like judgment day.
One Rider screamed, “But they said it was just a small village!”
Another yelled, “No be small village! Na death we enter!”
But they pressed on.
At the front line, Onimisi, Adavudi, and Enehu led the defense with spears, machetes, and pure annoyance.
Onimisi slashed one Rider off his horse and shouted, “Tell your ancestors I sent you!”
Ohunene vs Ovehere
As the battle reached its peak, Ovehere rode directly into the village square, calling out Ohunene.
She stepped forward, calm and glowing.
Her sword, Akeba, pulsed with ancestral energy.
“I have waited for this,” he said.
“You’ll regret it,” she replied.
They clashed metal against metal, rage against purpose.
He struck like thunder.
She moved like wind.
They fought through the square, knocking over market stalls, sacred statues, and one innocent pot of egusi soup.
But then
Ovehere’s blade sliced Ohunene’s arm.
Blood.
The crowd gasped.
oh-gara shouted, “AYAAAAAA!”
But Ohunene didn’t flinch.
She whispered a word in Ebira.
“Asimi.”
Then she flipped, spun in midair, and drove Akeba straight into his shadow exactly where Inda Oiza told her.
Ovehere froze.
His body still stood, but his eyes turned white.
Then he crumbled.
Like puff-puff left in the sun for too long.
The Aftermath
The Red Riders, seeing their leader fall, scattered like mice in a cat’s naming ceremony.
Some ran into traps.
Some begged for mercy.
Some just lay down and pretended to be ancestors already.
Ohunene stood, bleeding but unbroken.
“Let the world know,” she said, “that Okene does not kneel.”
The war horn sounded thrice.
The drums of victory rolled.
And the people… they wept, danced, screamed, and named their newborns after machetes.
A Message from the Ancestors
That night, as Ohunene lay resting, the fire crackled.
From the flames, a vision appeared an old woman with grey eyes and warrior scars.
It was Anawura Meyi a legendary Queen from generations past.
She smiled.
“You have done well, my daughter.”
Ohunene sat up. “You are my…?”
“Yes,” the vision said. “You carry my blood. And now, my crown.”
The fire flared.
Ohunene’s wound closed.
Power surged through her.
And the spirit whispered:
“Greater storms are coming.”
Chapter Twelve:
Palmwine, Proposals, and Prophecies
Okene had never seen such joy.
The whole village turned into one big festival. Goats were released (temporarily), drummers nearly broke their hands, and aunties carried cooler upon cooler of jollof rice as if it was international duty.
The young men poured emu (palmwine) till it flowed like river Osaragada, and the old men shouted, “This one sweet pass the one from my naming ceremony!”
Even the village madman, Mutty Mutty, who usually only danced with trees, joined the celebration, screaming, “Victory soup don done oh!”
At the center of it all was Queen Ohunene, glowing like morning sun on cassava leaf, dressed in white beads, her freshly treated battle scar wrapped in lion-skin cloth.
The people chanted:
> “Ohunene! Daughter of storm!
Our sword, our shield, our queen forever!”
Onimisi’s Grand Move
After the third round of goat meat and the sixth gourd of palmwine, Onimisi stood up suddenly.
His eyes were glassy not from drink, but from boldness.
He clapped thrice.
Silence.
Then he walked to Ohunene and knelt on one knee, holding a ring carved from the tusk of a wild elephant.
“Ohunene,” he said, voice shaking like a drum with a hole, “I have fought beside you, bled beside you, kissed you under tree and moonlight. Let me call you mine… not just in battle, but in peace.”
Gasps! Cheers! Aunties nearly fainted!
But Ohunene didn’t smile.
She looked at him for a long time.
Then said slowly:
> “What you ask is precious. And dangerous.
A husband to a Queen must not be a shadow.
Will you stand beside me, not behind me?”
Onimisi stood, chest out.
“I will, my Queen. And if I fail, let the gods use my head as talking drum.”
Ohunene nodded.
“Then let the wedding come with the next full moon.”
Everyone screamed.
Even the masquerades danced.
But Trouble Was Never Far
Just as the feasting reached its peak, an unfamiliar sound sliced through the drumming clop, clop, clop hooves. A lone horse.
A tall, dark man dismounted at the gate.
He wore a brown cloak, one arm missing, and on his back, a carved wooden staff that hummed faintly with power.
He approached with calm steps and eyes that had seen too much.
The guards drew weapons.
“Stop there, stranger!” shouted Akeba, Ohunene’s cousin.
But the man raised his hand.
“I bring no war. Only a warning.”
oh-gara the oracle stepped forward.
“What’s your name, wanderer?”
The man replied:
“I am Oshiana, son of the dust and the drum. My land has fallen. And yours is next, unless you listen.”
The Stranger’s Tale
In the Queen’s hut, the elders gathered. Oshiana sat quietly, drinking water from a calabash before speaking.
He told of a mighty kingdom west of the river a land of warriors and farmers that had been swallowed in darkness.
Not by men… but by shadows.
Dark beings with no eyes. Creatures that melted into mist. And behind them, a voice only known as “Ohiuze”, the Spirit-King.
“First they took our cattle,” Oshiana whispered. “Then our gods. Then our names. Those who resisted vanished into smoke.”
He unwrapped a small pouch inside was a stone, glowing faintly red.
“They left this behind. The stone of Adeviseh. A cursed fragment of a forgotten war.”
Eneyiohueyi, the wise elder, stared at the stone.
“This is older than Okene,” he said. “Older than the drums. This is deep magic.”
Doubt and Division
Not everyone trusted the stranger.
Adavudi, head of security, muttered, “Story! Every full moon, one prophet comes with wahala.”
But Ohunene silenced him.
“I believe him,” she said. “His eyes carry truth. His scars carry proof.”
Then she turned to Oshiana.
“What do they want?”
Oshiana’s lips tightened.
“They want queens. They want leaders. They fear women of power. And you, Ohunene… they fear you most of all.”
A cold wind passed through the hut. The fire danced uneasily.
“Then they will meet me in battle,” she said.
But Oshiana shook his head.
“This enemy… cannot be defeated by blade alone.”
The Queen's Decision
That night, Ohunene climbed the sacred hill of Ene-anavami, where ancestors are said to whisper through the wind.
She stood alone, staring at the stars.
From behind, Onimisi approached.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “There is a bigger storm coming. Bigger than Ovehere.”
He took her hand. “Then we face it. Together.”
She nodded.
“But first, we must go west.”
“West?” he blinked.
“Yes. We must find where Oshiana came from. And learn the secrets behind Ohiuze.”
And So It Begins Again…
The next morning, Ohunene called her warriors.
She chose a handful:
Onimisi, her betrothed.
Uzomi, the archer.
Inda Oiza, the mysterious old warrior.
oh-gara, for spiritual guidance.
And the stranger, Oshiana.
They packed light.
They wore leather and courage.
And as the sun kissed the hills, they rode out into the unknown.
Not as hunters.
But as history in motion.
Chapter Thirteen:
Shadows on the Road to Adeviseh
The sun had barely stretched its arms when Queen Ohunene and her chosen warriors rode westward, leaving behind the warm drums of Okene for the cold silence of the unknown.
The journey began with laughter.
Inda Oiza rode with a calabash of palmwine strapped to his saddle and no sense of direction.
“Na west we dey go, not Okengwe!” Uzomi shouted as she yanked his horse back in line.
“I was just testing the wind,” he grumbled. “And the palmwine.”
oh-gara walked beside his horse, murmuring prayers and burning bitter leaf in a small clay bowl.
“Protection against unclean spirits,” he explained. “And mosquitoes.”
Even Oshiana cracked a smile. But behind that smile lived memories of burning villages and screams swallowed by mist.
Onimisi rode beside Ohunene, fingers brushing hers when no one looked.
“You sure we ready for this?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her eyes on the horizon. “But we don’t have the luxury of fear.”
The Forest That Breathed
On the third day, they entered the Ovia Forest a place locals only referred to with quiet spitting and two fingers crossed behind the back.
Even the trees seemed to whisper:
> “Go back… go back… or become compost.
“Forest dey talk?” Uzomi hissed.
“No o, na wind,” Inda Oiza replied nervously. “Or breeze with bad character.”
Suddenly, fog rolled in thick and heavy like fufu in a poor man's pot. Horses snorted. oh-gara’s bitter leaf fire went out.
Then… silence.
A bird chirped.
Then stopped mid-chirp. MID. CHIRP.
Everyone froze.
Then, a scream raw and ancient echoed through the mist.
Something rushed past. Fast. Cold.
Uzomi fired an arrow into the fog. No sound. No body. Just… gone.
“We’re being watched,” Oshiana said, drawing his curved blade.
Ohunene raised her hand. “Stay close. Nobody pees alone.”
The Night Camp and the Whispering Fire
They set up camp at the edge of a wide tree whose roots looked like giant fingers.
oh-gara sprinkled ash around the circle and chanted.
“Any spirit wey pass this line, make him lose GPS.”
Inda Oiza started roasting yam. Uzomi kept one eye open while cleaning her arrows.
But it was Oshiana who first noticed the fire was burning… backward.
The flames curled into the wood instead of out.
And from the fire, a soft voice spoke not loud, not urgent.
Just soft, like temptation at midnight.
> “One of you will betray her. One of you has already been marked.”
Everyone stiffened.
“Marked by who?” Uzomi asked.
“By the one who fears her rise,” the flame hissed.
Then it died. Just… puff.
Darkness.
Silence.
Mistrust.
Even the crickets stopped gossiping.
Seeds of Doubt
The next morning, no one joked.
Even Inda Oiza drank his palmwine quietly, which was the Ebira equivalent of mourning.
As they rode, side-eyes grew bolder.
oh-gara kept watching Onimisi.
Uzomi kept watching Oshiana.
Oshiana kept watching the trees.
But Ohunene? She watched everything.
She knew what the flame meant.
She just didn’t know who.
And worse… a part of her heart whispered, “What if it’s Onimisi?”
Her love.
Her warrior.
Her soon-to-be husband.
Arrival at the Broken Gate
By sunset on the seventh day, they reached the ruins of Ene-adeviseh the land Oshiana once called home.
But home was no more.
The walls were ash. The rivers ran grey.
Bones littered the road like forgotten truth.
And from the central shrine, a black smoke twisted into the sky without source or fire.
“Everything… gone,” Oshiana said, voice cracking.
Only one thing stood untouched a stone statue of a woman, tall, arms stretched wide, eyes covered.
At its base was a single word:
“Ohunene.”
The Queen gasped.
“This place was destroyed before we left Okene. How did they know my name?”
oh-gara bent to touch the statue. His eyes widened.
“This is not a statue,” he whispered. “This is a message.”
A Message from the Past or the Future?
The statue shimmered.
Suddenly, light burst from its chest a vision!
They all saw it.
A woman older, battle-worn, eyes fierce standing in a burning village.
It was Ohunene.
But older. Different. Powerful.
She raised a golden spear and screamed:
> “Ohiuze must fall even if I fall with him!”
Then the vision ended.
Smoke.
Darkness.
Only silence remained.
Uzomi turned slowly.
“What kind of gbege have we entered?”
Chapter Fourteen:
The Temple Beneath Ash and the Voice That Lied
They stood for what felt like hours, staring at the place where the vision had just vanished.
Even the breeze dared not blow.
Then Ohunene exhaled.
“Whatever that was… it wasn’t magic.”
Uzomi blinked. “My Queen, it was literally light shooting out of statue chest. If that’s not magic, na NEPA?”
But Ohunene wasn’t laughing.
“It was a warning. From me. Or someone who knows what’s coming.”
Oshiana knelt at the base of the statue, brushing away layers of ash.
“There’s something underneath…”
Inda Oiza joined him. With effort, they pried up a heavy stone slab.
Beneath it was a staircase winding, dark, and moist like soup left overnight in rainy season.
A breath of cold wind rose from below.
“Oh, this place don dey smell like spirit hostel,” oh-gara muttered, tying more charms around his waist.
The Forgotten Temple
The steps led down into what looked like a temple but older than any Okene shrine. The walls were carved in languages long dead. Images of women with wings, warriors without eyes, and symbols that danced when you stared too long.
In the center stood a stone table with a scroll resting atop it untouched by time.
oh-gara stepped forward.
“Let me read it. My father taught me the old tongues… before he ran away to become a drummer.”
The scroll unrolled by itself. Dust burst out like angry ancestors.
And then… it spoke:
> "When the storm walks with man,
and the betrayer shares her bed,
the Spirit-King will rise
where stone meets flame.
To stop the shadow,
the heart must break."
Silence.
Uzomi: “Why these ancient people always speak in riddle? Why can’t they just say, ‘Look, one of una go betray Ohunene. Ohiuze dey for mountain. Go burn am.’?”
Even oh-gara had no comeback.
But Ohunene’s face was still.
The line "the betrayer shares her bed…” echoed in her mind like drumbeat in empty compound.
She looked at Onimisi.
And Onimisi… looked away.
Whispers in the Dark
That night, they camped inside the temple.
No one trusted the outside world anymore.
As sleep fell like mist, Ohunene lay beside Onimisi.
“Tell me,” she whispered, “if the gods asked you to kill me to save the land… would you?”
He was silent.
Too long.
Then, “I would die first.”
But the hesitation stung more than any answer.
Uzomi’s Discovery
While patrolling the outer hallways of the temple, Uzomi found something odd footprints. Fresh ones. Not from their party.
She followed them to a hidden room.
Inside: offerings. Old but not dusty. Someone had been maintaining it.
And on the altar… a mark.
The same mark burned into Ovehere’s chest the night of his death.
She ran to alert Ohunene, only to find her Queen already holding her blade.
“I know,” Ohunene said, eyes flashing. “Someone brought the enemy with us.”
Confrontation at the Altar
The next morning, Ohunene gathered everyone.
“I saw the mark,” she said. “I felt it when we left Okene. But now I’m sure. Someone here serves Ohiuze.”
The group looked at each other.
Uzomi clutched her dagger. oh-gara held his staff tighter. Inda Oiza sipped palmwine suspiciously.
Then Oshiana stepped forward.
“It’s not me,” he said.
“Then who?” Ohunene asked.
No one answered.
Until a slow clap echoed in the shadows.
From behind a column, Ovehere stepped out.
Alive.
Smiling.
Ovehere Returns
“Miss me?” he sneered, revealing his chest marked, glowing, corrupted.
oh-gara gasped. “But we buried you!”
Ovehere laughed. “You buried my body. Not my spirit. Not my purpose.”
He turned to Ohunene.
“You think defeating me ended the game? You only cleared level one, babe.”
Ohunene stepped forward, blade drawn.
“What do you want?”
“Simple,” Ovehere said. “Your head. Your power. And him.”
He pointed at Onimisi.
Everyone turned.
Onimisi froze.
Ovehere continued, “My brother has served me well.”
Silence so thick even the spirits held their breath.
The Betrayer Revealed
Ohunene whispered: “Brother?”
Onimisi’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t know, not at first. I just… heard a voice. Promising safety. Glory. A way to protect you.”
“And you believed it?” her voice cracked.
“I wanted to save you!” he shouted. “I only sent messages. I didn’t know they’d attack!”
Ovehere laughed. “Poor boy. She’ll never forgive you now.”
Ohunene stepped back.
“I trusted you.”
“I love you.”
“And I love the land,” she said, sword rising.
Chapter Fifteen:
The Sword, the Blood, and the Betrayer’s Choice
Ohunene stood still, her blade glinting in the torchlight.
Before her: Onimisi the man who once made her heart flutter like a maiden at her first festival dance.
Behind him: Ovehere, smiling like a lizard that had just swallowed three eggs and one secret.
> “You heard the scroll,” Ovehere said, stepping forward.
“The betrayer shares her bed. The heart must break.
Shall we break it now, or later?
Ohunene didn’t move. She only said one word:
“Why?”
Onimisi fell to his knees.
“My Queen… I never meant to hurt you. When the voices came, they promised peace. They said if I just told them where you’d be… no harm would come to you.”
“And you believed them?” Uzomi growled, arrow drawn and aimed straight at his heart.
“I loved her!” Onimisi shouted. “I only wanted her safe.”
“You nearly got her killed!” Uzomi snapped.
Even oh-gara looked torn. “The scroll warned us… and we ignored it.”
Inda Oiza raised his calabash.
“I no sabi anything again. Make I drink small.”
Ovehere’s Offer
Ovehere took a bold step forward.
“Join me, sister,” he said to Ohunene. “You don’t belong in Okene. They fear your strength. They worship your beauty but plan your fall. Come. Rule beside me. We can crush Ohiuze and take his place.”
Ohunene blinked slowly.
Then laughed.
Once.
Sharp.
Mocking.
“You think I want to replace evil? I want to end it.”
Ovehere’s face hardened.
“Then you will fall with it.”
The Battle Beneath the Temple
It happened fast.
Ovehere drew his twin machetes curved, enchanted, reeking of blood and ancient curses.
Uzomi fired an arrow. Ovehere caught it mid-air and snapped it in half like sugarcane.
Inda Oiza tried to run, but slipped on a scroll and faceplanted with a loud “Yekpa!”
oh-gara raised his staff, shouting chants.
Flames danced along the walls as chaos erupted.
Ohunene and Ovehere clashed steel in the temple’s center each strike shaking the room like thunder had entered small compound.
Onimisi’s Breaking Point
Onimisi stood frozen.
His Queen.
His brother.
His betrayal.
He pulled out his blade… and pointed it at himself.
“I will not choose between you,” he whispered.
But Ohunene shouted, “NO!”
Ovehere laughed, charging at Onimisi to finish him first.
In one motion, Onimisi turned and drove his blade straight into Ovehere’s chest.
The room fell silent.
Ovehere gasped. “You… choose her…”
Then his body exploded into black mist.
Gone.
Vanished.
Not a drop of blood.
Only dust.
And silence.
Aftermath in Ash
Onimisi collapsed. Ohunene rushed to him.
“Why?” she asked, cradling his head.
“I had to show you… I wasn’t lost,” he whispered. “Even if I betrayed you, let my last act be loyal.”
“You’re not dying,” she said, already tearing her wrapper for bandages. “Not like this.”
But the wound was deep from Ovehere’s cursed blade.
The mark of betrayal faded from Onimisi’s chest.
He smiled. “At least… I saw your face again…”
And then…
Stillness.
Uzomi turned away, blinking hard.
oh-gara whispered a short prayer.
Inda Oiza poured palmwine on the floor. “For the one who messed up, but made it right.”
Ohunene Rises
Later that night, Ohunene stood alone at the temple door.
Ovehere was gone. Onimisi was gone. But her purpose remained.
She tied a red cloth on her wrist the sign of mourning… and war.
Uzomi came beside her.
“What next, my Queen?”
Ohunene’s voice was low.
> “We end it. Ohiuze awaits.
I’ve cried enough. Let them fear me now.”
And in the wind, the ancient scrolls whispered:
> “The storm does not ask for permission.
It arrives. It destroys.
It reigns.”
Chapter Sixteen:
The Mountain That Swallowed the Sky
For three days, the land mourned.
Rain fell in steady sobs from the heavens. The rivers of Okene swelled. Even the birds kept quiet as if the earth itself was preparing for what was to come.
In the hidden temple beneath the ash lands, Ohunene wrapped Onimisi’s body in white cloth, adorned with red earth from his birthplace. She lit no candles. She sang no songs.
She only whispered, “Your story will not end in betrayal.”
Then she stood.
Straight.
Sharp.
Unshakable.
> “Gather your weapons,” she said.
“It’s time to end Ohiuze’s reign once and for all.”
The Road to Ikutu-Agbahu
oh-gara looked pale. “Your Majesty… Ikutu-Agbahu is forbidden. Even hunters fear that mountain. They say spirits walk with two heads and demons cook people inside black pots.”
Uzomi grinned. “Good. I was starting to get bored.”
Even Inda Oiza usually drunk on palmwine and cowardice gritted his teeth and nodded. “Let’s go and scatter this Ohiuze like overcooked yam.”
They rode out before dawn, their shadows long, their spirits heavy.
By midday, they reached the foot of the mountain.
It was taller than any had imagined. Blackened by old fire. Cliffs sharp like broken bones. Lightning flashed at the peak even without rain.
oh-gara muttered, “This mountain no dey obey normal weather pattern. E get pride.”
The Gate of Faces
At the mountain’s base stood a giant gate carved with hundreds of faces twisted, screaming, laughing.
A voice boomed from nowhere:
> “WHO DARES APPROACH THE MOUNTAIN OF THE UNSEEN?”
Ohunene stepped forward, chin high.
“Daughter of Adavudi. Storm of Okene. Slayer of Ovehere. I am Ohunene and I have come to collect the debt your master owes.”
Silence.
Then… the gate opened.
Not with a creak, but with a loud sigh, like a grandmother tired of family meetings.
Inside, the air changed.
Cold.
Heavy.
Smelling of burnt feathers and forgotten hope.
Inside the Mountain
The mountain wasn’t hollow it was alive.
The walls pulsed.
Flames danced in patterns.
Shadows whispered.
One wall showed visions each warrior saw their greatest fear.
Uzomi: her father calling her “weak.”
oh-gara: himself, old and forgotten.
Inda Oiza: a world with no palmwine.
But Ohunene…
She saw herself.
Alone.
Throne broken.
People chanting her name not with praise, but with fear.
She blinked.
> “Not my portion,” she said, gripping her blade tighter.
“Let them fear injustice. But let them love justice when it fights back.”
The Army of Masks
Near the mountain’s heart, the group entered a giant chamber.
And froze.
They weren’t alone.
Hundreds thousands of warriors stood still, wearing wooden masks with glowing red eyes.
Motionless.
As if waiting.
Then from the shadows stepped…
Ohiuze.
Tall.
Hooded.
Cloaked in black smoke that moved like snake with no tail.
Voice like thunder and honey:
> “Ohunene. You’ve come.
You’ve killed my servant.
Now you’ll serve me… or die like the rest.”
Ohiuze’s Offer
He stretched a hand.
“I can give you a kingdom beyond Okene. Eternal power. No pain. No loss. No death.”
Ohunene smiled not sweetly.
“You think I want power because I wear a crown? You think I fought wars to become another monster with ornaments?”
She stepped forward.
“You offered me peace through control.
I offer you chaos through freedom.”
She raised her blade.
> “I am the storm.
I do not kneel.”
Let the Storm Begin
Ohiuze roared.
The mountain shook.
The masked warriors woke and charged.
Uzomi loosed arrow after arrow.
oh-gara spun his staff, calling fire and thunder.
Inda Oiza… well, he screamed and punched a mask in the face. It worked.
Ohunene moved like lightning cutting through soldiers like goat-meat at wedding buffet.
Each mask shattered released a soul twisted spirits freed by her blade.
And then…
She faced Ohiuze.
One-on-one.
His hands sparked with black fire.
Her sword hummed with light.
He growled, “You’re just a girl.”
She smiled.
“And you’re just the past.”
Chapter Seventeen:
The Queen and the Spirit-King
The chamber dimmed as Ohiuze and Ohunene faced each other, eye to glowing eye.
Uzomi, oh-gara, and Inda Oiza were locked in furious battle behind her, the sound of clashing steel, cracking bones, and angry war chants echoing across the cavern. But at the center of it all where even the fire dared not flicker stood the two most powerful forces Okene had ever seen.
> “You think you’ve won?” Ohiuze’s voice crackled like roasted corn under too much fire.
“I haven’t even started,” Ohunene replied, spinning her blade with a flick of her wrist.
Ohiuze laughed.
Not ordinary laugh oh.
The kind of laugh a village elder uses when he sees a JSS1 student trying to toast his granddaughter.
> “You are your father’s child. Adavudi was strong. But he lacked vision. I offered him the same thing I offer you now: Immortality.”
Ohunene’s face hardened.
“You offered him slavery, wrapped in sweet words and incantations. I saw how he died on his feet, with honor. I won’t bow where he stood tall.”
The Dance of Doom
Ohiuze attacked.
With a roar, black fire surged from his palms, striking the ground and raising skeletal spears from the floor. Ohunene leapt into the air, slicing through the spears mid-flight.
> “Gboah!”
The chamber shook as their weapons collided.
The Spirit-King vanished in a puff of smoke and reappeared behind her, flinging a ball of dark energy.
Ohunene ducked, rolled, came up with a spin, and flung a dagger straight into his shoulder.
> “Ah! You dey bleed? You sure say you be spirit?” she mocked.
He yanked it out and hissed, his eyes flashing red.
But her voice remained steady.
> “You hide behind fear. I stand in it. You rule with shadows. I shine through them.”
Reinforcements from the Past
Suddenly, the wall behind her exploded.
A gust of wind swept through, and from the smoke came…
Akeba the warrior monk of the eastern hills.
Uzomi’s twin brother, Enehu long thought dead, arrived with a battle cry and two curved blades.
Even Ozozahuwa, the beautiful warrior from the southern clan, stepped in with her giant hammer shouting, “Hope say una no start without me!”
Ohunene’s army had grown.
The tide shifted.
The masked warriors were now confused some hesitating, others removing their masks and fleeing. Their spell was weakening.
Ohiuze turned, now surrounded.
> “You think this crowd scares me?”
Ohunene stepped forward, blade dripping with shadow-blood.
“No. But it reminds you your time has passed.”
The Final Strike
Ohiuze let out a roar that cracked the walls of the mountain. He swelled into a massive figure part shadow, part fire, part ancient regret.
Ohunene stood her ground.
Then, she sheathed her sword.
Uzomi gasped. “Haba! You want to fight him with bare hand?”
“No,” Ohunene said.
“I’ll fight him with what he never had.”
She stretched out her palm…
… and began to sing.
Not war songs.
Not chants.
But the lullaby her mother used to sing in the moonlight, when thunder rolled and goats refused to sleep.
The song carried.
Sweet.
Powerful.
The mountain trembled.
Ohiuze screamed. “Stop it! STOP THAT!”
But the souls he trapped began to awaken fully.
One by one, the masked soldiers fell to their knees.
Their masks shattered.
Their eyes cleared.
And from them, light poured into Ohunene’s hand her weapon now forged from memory, pain, and the justice of the forgotten.
With one step forward, she launched the energy at Ohiuze.
> A storm of soul-light.
It hit him square in the chest.
His scream echoed through ten hills.
His form cracked.
And shattered.
Gone.
Silence After the Storm
Nothing moved.
No one spoke.
Then Inda Oiza, covered in soot and holding a half-broken gourd of palmwine, whispered:
> “My people, we don win.”
They erupted in cheers.
Uzomi tackled Ohunene in a hug.
oh-gara sat on the ground and wept a prophet’s cry of joy.
And Ohunene…
She just stood there.
Tears rolling.
Not because she was sad.
But because it was finally over.
The Return to Okene
Days later, the people of Okene lined the roads.
They sang.
They danced.
Some rolled on the floor.
Some fainted, woke up, fainted again.
“Our Queen!” they chanted.
“The Storm! The Savior! The Daughter of Adavudi!”
She stepped forward.
Raised her sword.
Then slowly lowered it into the earth.
“I will rule,” she said, “but never above the people. Only with them.”
From that day, she built not just a palace, but a council where warriors, farmers, traders, and even oracles sat together to guide the land.
Peace returned.
Not just ordinary peace the type that let people sleep with their doors open and pots of soup outside.
Chapter Eighteen:
The Dust Settles, the Story Rises
The winds of Okene changed.
The mountain of Ikutu-Agbahu had stopped breathing fire. The skies above it were calm now, like a mother after childbirth.
In the royal courtyard, the people gathered not for war, not for mourning but for celebration.
Ohunene sat on a carved throne of red wood and iron, no longer a warrior soaked in blood, but a queen radiant with grace. Her black skin gleamed in the sun, wrapped in white and gold. Her eyes, once sharpened by vengeance, now held the calm power of a rising river.
The people of Okene chanted:
> “Ohunene! Daughter of Storm! The Coolness after Rain!”
Children ran barefoot. Drums rolled like thunder made sweet. Goats bleated in confusion. Even palm trees danced gently in the breeze.
The Council of New Beginnings
Ohunene had called the first Great Council in over fifty years.
The courtyard was filled with a strange but beautiful mix: warriors, farmers, hunters, fishers, weavers, drummers, griots, and yes even stubborn palmwine tappers who couldn’t sit still without a calabash in hand.
> “Okene shall not be ruled by sword alone,” Ohunene declared.
“But by sense, service, and soup.”
They all clapped.
Uzomi whispered, “Soup dey important sha.”
oh-gara, now Chief Advisor, stood beside her with a scroll longer than Inda Oiza’s drinking history. “My Queen,” he said, “Shall we begin with the issue of taxation on snail sellers?”
She held up her hand. “Later. Let them dance first. After all, even the snail needs time to move.”
Laughter burst like fireworks.
The land was healing.
The Surprise Return
Later that evening, as fires were lit and dancers took the floor, a hooded figure arrived at the gates.
Guards rushed to stop him.
Until they saw the face.
Until Ohunene’s mouth fell open.
> “Onimisi?!”
Yes oh! The one she thought dead!
He stood there, a little burnt, a little thin, but very much alive, holding a calabash and smelling like the inside of a shrine.
> “Your Highness,” he said, smiling,
“Death no gree catch me. I told them you’d finish what we started.”
She ran to him not like a queen but like a girl who had lost and found her heart.
They embraced.
People screamed. Some women fainted again. Inda Oiza cried and then asked if Onimisi still owed him 30 cowries.
Peace had returned.
So had love.
A New Era
A year passed.
Ohunene ruled not just with might, but with wisdom.
She opened schools. She trained girls in swordplay and boys in weaving (yes oh, balance is key). She built markets that overflowed with goods, and roads that carried laughter across villages.
Uzomi became head of the Queen’s Guard, terrifying criminals and toasters alike.
oh-gara built an archive where the old stories were kept and the new ones written.
And Inda Oiza? He finally married three wives, two goats, and one monkey later. Let’s not talk about the monkey.
As for Ohunene and Onimisi they ruled together. Not just as lovers, not just as leaders, but as legends.
And So, the Legend Lives On…
It’s said that on quiet nights, when the wind whispers through the hills of Okene, children still hear her name in the rustling grass.
Old women tell stories of her around the fire.
Young warriors train with her name on their lips.
And elders look to the mountain and nod, knowing the day the sky cracked open, it was Ohunene who stood at the center unshaken.
Not just a queen.
Not just a warrior.
All
But a storm wrapped in grace.
LAnd that’s how the land of Okene rose from ashes to glory.
All because one girl beautiful, dark, slim, curvy, and deadly like an ogede with a razor inside refused to kneel.
The end
