They say the gods of the old forests never died. They simply changed names—and addresses.
The town of Oke-Ira, tucked in the dense green of southwestern Nigeria, was a place that had long been at war with silence. The trees murmured, the wind whispered, and the birds never sang. Locals said it was because the crows carried the voices of the witches. And at night, if you heard them chant your name, it was already too late.
This was where Ifeanyi came when his grandmother died.
She had raised him in Lagos, never once letting him visit Oke-Ira. Said it wasn't safe. Said the forest remembered.
But now he was the last living heir, and the house—her old shrine tucked between mango trees and riddled with bone charms—was his.
He arrived during the Harmattan, dust choking the sky, red and dry. At first, the villagers welcomed him with a strange politeness, all smiles and glances over shoulders. But no one offered him food. And no one said her name.
They called her Olori Ajẹ. Queen Witch.
---
The house smelled of camphor and iron. Her altar was intact—cowries, feathers, a gourd sealed with wax and tied with black string. Ifeanyi didn't touch it.
He unpacked. Slept. Dreamed.
In the dream, his grandmother stood at the foot of his bed, hair braided like snakes, eyes solid white.
"You opened the wrong door," she hissed. "You brought your shadow with you."
He woke sweating. A crow stared at him from the window.
---
Things worsened quickly. He heard scratching in the walls. Water boiled on its own. Mirrors showed faces behind him that weren't there.
Then, one morning, he found a mark burned into his wooden floor—a circle of ash, with three black feathers at its center.
He asked a local herbalist, Mama Udu, what it meant.
She refused to speak at first. Then, quietly: "She marked you. You must finish what she started, or the forest will take you."
"What did she start?" he asked.
Mama Udu just wept.
---
The next day, he followed a trail of feathers into the bush. It led him to a clearing with an old stone circle, covered in moss and bones. In the center stood a girl—barefoot, in a white wrapper, eyes gleaming.
"I've been waiting," she said. "We all have."
Her name was Adesua. She told him the truth: his grandmother had bound an ancient spirit inside herself—a god of rot and hunger, known as Egbere. But when she died, it needed a new vessel. A blood heir.
"You're not cursed," she said. "You're crowned."
Ifeanyi laughed. Then cried.
---
That night, the crows returned in droves. Covered the roof. Scratched at the doors. Their eyes glowed red.
He ran to the altar. Opened the sealed gourd.
Inside was a single human tooth. Still wet.
He screamed.
Adesua appeared, holding a black candle. "We must perform the binding. Or the god will feast."
They chanted in the tongue of the Orisha, drawing symbols in ash and palm oil. The forest shook. Something rose from beneath the floor.
It had no face. Just a hole where breath should be.
Egbere.
Adesua held the candle to Ifeanyi's chest. "You must burn your name. Only then will it obey."
He pressed the flame to his skin. Screamed as the name IFEANYI etched itself in fire.
The creature stopped. Bowed.
Then disappeared into him.
---
Weeks passed.
The town grew quieter. No more scratching. No more crows.
Ifeanyi became a man of respect, feared and revered. They called him Ọmọ Ajẹ. Son of the Witch.
Sometimes, he walks into the forest and returns with knowledge he shouldn't have. Or with eyes that aren't his own.
But Oke-Ira prospers now.
And the trees… the trees have learned to sing again.