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    Daughter of Albino: Vicious Voodoo
    Daughter of Albino: Vicious Voodoo
    Daughter of Albino: Vicious Voodoo
    Ebook72 pages1 hour

    Daughter of Albino: Vicious Voodoo

    By N. S. Momodu

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    About this ebook

    This anthology of nine horror stories deal with the following themes: witchcraft, barbaric traditions; relationships, envy, mystery and the abuse of religious and social powers. The Concorde - Mowiza (12yrs old) relates his experiences in the witches' world. Equianneh - the Goddess of Catharsis - exposes a witch for all to see. Daughter of Albino - a marginalised maiden forms a pact with a devil with some adverse consequences. The Leeches - A wife's plan to brand her co-wife and her daughter as witches back fares on her. The Jinx - Bonboi's elder brother, a Minister of God, turns out to be the one bewitching her. The Imposter - a 10 yr old girl is conscripted into witchcraft, she's captured and her cult destroyed. She's later released and made to witch no more. The Kondo Ceremony - A young girl exposes her mum as her initiator into witchcraft. Unable to withstand the shame of exposure, the mother commits suicide. The Stone People - An ordinary stone turns out to be a city of witches, and the chiefs, responsible for destroying the stone, turn out to be the witches. The tail - a ghost of a dog returns to his old master's house to avenge its death. Will it succeed?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLegend Press
    Release dateOct 30, 2015
    ISBN9781785076473
    Daughter of Albino: Vicious Voodoo

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      Book preview

      Daughter of Albino - N. S. Momodu

      you.

      The Concorde

      It could have easily passed for a plastic toy plane, but it wasn’t, because I could neither rev its engines with my puffed jaws nor use the tip of my fingers to fly it like the paper planes of my childhood. It wasn’t as flat as the concordes in the picture books of my primary school days but tangible and still. Yet, unlike the concordes that revved and swiftly took off on websites, in cinemas and at the Lungi international airport, this one was solely fuelled by spells. Furthermore, the night concorde had certain peculiarities: for a start, at least in daylight, it passed itself off as a typical article that the ordinary eye could see, except that its nightly functionality and other intricate details were beyond the ordinary eye. To men with two eyes, it was a mere, useless shell, but to those with four eyes, it was one of an array of supersonic planes tucked away in the world of the dark. Then it occurred to me, that there was no need to spy on it through an eyepiece. Zooming in and out of the telescope in the hope of magnifying this world of the concorde was futile, because it took a face with dark, hollowed sockets for eyes and some serious incantations to clearly see it.

      Later on, I learned that for all its ubiquity, it was unattainable by the most powerful; for all its cheapness, it was unaffordable to the richest, the uninitiated. It was one amongst a magnificent fleet sprawled in hangers in the remotest part of the African jungle, some three hundred miles from the revs of the nearest car engine. It didn’t need a modern airport complete with a marked and lit runway, cosy restaurants and arrivals and departures lounges manned by assistants with plastic smiles. Frankly, each aircraft needed roughly an inch or so of space to land and take off. This was how I came upon one of them...

      December 1980. I was twelve when papa finally came up with a plan credible enough to persuade me to go to his village.

      ‘I’ve got grand plans for the village, to dig out manholes, use them as toilet peats...’

      According to him, they weren’t going to be flush toilets like the ones we used in the city, but at least I would have a toilet and not have to go in a bush. I was going to be the chairman of the project, ‘a life saver’ as he called me, because if the people didn’t use the bushes and the streams as toilets, then they wouldn’t die so early of tape and luke worms.

      I agreed.

      A half day’s trek on a laterite path in the dense jungles of Africa and under the cover of darkness dotted with night flies, the wheeze of mites and croak of frogs brought us to Peyimanday village, in Sandoh Chiefdom. Papa had a key to the front room of his house. He unlocked the door and we staggered in, dropped our bags, shuffled into our nightclothes and rolled into bed.

      Early in the morning, in one eager sweep, I took in the entire village: some twenty mud brick houses with thatched rafters ringed the village square, which was a flat, sandy concourse dotted by the thatched canopy called the Barrie in one section of the village and a mosque in the middle of the other section. We’d lodged in the only zinc-roofed house and from its veranda I amused myself with the bleat of goats, the defensive skittering of hens with their brood, children’s ditties drifting in the air and the inevitable swirling of grey smoke from the cooking cinders behind each of the houses. Every so often, the relentless pounding of pestle in mortar carried through the village, like the news of papa’s arrival.

      Soon my veranda was packed with men, women and their barefoot children. They had all come to pay respects to their industrious son from Koidu city. Meanwhile one topless child with a large and hard stomach sat up close and whispered in my ears.

      ‘Is it true,’ he said, ‘that the city houses were as tall as a palm tree?’

      I nodded and he gasped.

      Then the questions tumbled out: were city roads made of tar? Did the tyres of cars and bicycles run on them? I nodded again and as before there was a chorus of gasps. Were there toilets in the houses? Was the city mosque three times the size of this village? Did ships carry enough food to feed one country?

      Each time I nodded their lips dropped in wonder; perhaps it was their voices that drew an elderly man to the gathering. He was clad in a brown cotton cloth, a brown cap and matching baggy trousers. Resting on his stick, he steadied his grey head and all the youngsters rallied up and sidled off the veranda.

      He gave me his wrinkled, grubby hand, but because he had scared my guests, I took it reluctantly.

      ‘Bonsu,’ his wheezing voice coaxed me, ‘won’t you greet me, come on Mowiza, and greet your great uncle.’

      His rusty eyes held my gaze, while his mottled lips spluttered some arcane words that were beyond my age.

      ‘I heard all the wondrous things that you’ve shared with the children.’ He coughed and his breath reeked of tobacco and cola

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