Donpeteranking:
I can't wait for the other animation, guy if there is another word for best it would be ZUBIKE01

Thanks Boss...

Essyprity:
wow! what can I say. u know this should be a great movie someday.

That would be splendid. Thanks.

emarkson:
i taught as much that sango will emerge victorious. I doff my hat for you boss. Pls mention when you start the next part

You were right... Olu Kuso won. Would give you a mention most def.

Heryordele94:
#Ghost mode deactivated, I must simply comment on this great masterpiece, and you can only get better. Eyes have not seen, ear have not heard about your greatest masterpiece. Bigger you bro . P.s mention me in your next story.

Bro, i see your hand.. so you follow for those wey just dey silent since. LOL thanks for commenting happy you loved it.

mynuel:
Chief Zubike i really enjoyed this story. You are one of my best writer here the way you narrated it all the film could not stop finish playing in my head, i look forward your new story. Thanks for sharing with us here God bless.

Amen... Ase, thanks bro... Once the inspiration flow would mention you.

Oyindawealth:
Am so speechless right now.... Mr zubike I don't know d right word to use in qualifying u... U're so good, skilled and Talented.. Weldone!! More wisdom to ur brain and more money in ur account. Btw I'll be so honoured if u remember to mention me in ur next story... WELDONE!!! once again.

Oyindawealth international... I like your wishes for me... more money in my account and things. Thanks for encouraging me.

felsunseg:
Bros, tell me u not also a god. this story is superb, awesome, historical, educating, interesting and wow. you have done more than telling a story bro. what u just did is beyond ordinary. kudos

You like my edutainment... thanks for your kind words.

geezyk:
Can't wait for the next one, it's a befitting end to a masterpiece and a teaser trailer to another one..

Just mention me when Kasala Oju's Revenge starts.

Would do...Regards.

Man, this is a nice story. Don't even know how to express the emotions I felt while reading it. Big ups

Gmekx:
Man, this is a nice story. Don't even know how to express the emotions I felt while reading it. Big ups

Thanks man happy you enjoyed it.

[font=Lucida Sans Unicode]An excerpt OF KASALA THE CURSE.... The book that comes before this. It's available for sale on Amazon and on Okada books so i can't post it all here.


Tunde woke up to behold a beautiful woman staring at him with huge eyes. He smiled. He had always liked that painting. The appearance was wide-eyed and wondering. Though she was naked, it did not matter - all that mattered was what she was looking at.

Her eye seemed to follow the viewer’s face at every angle. It made Tunde feel safe and happy. He ran a hand over his ruggedly handsome face.

His room looked more like an art gallery than the sleeping quarters it actually was. It was brimming with several paintings and artwork. There were clay figures, wood figures, and one or two metal works.

His room was huge; he’d always wanted it that way, and was happy that he could afford it.

He got out of bed and started to straighten the covers, paused when a gun fell out. “Cuddling in bed with a gun, and you’d say you’re normal,” he grumbled to himself.

Tunde picked it up, placed it on the bedside table, then looked in the mirror placed atop. He noticed this bruising on his eye and touched it gingerly.

It smarted a little but, beyond that, it was okay. The injury reminded him of the cause and led him to go for his crown jewel, his prize; the diadem that made it all worth the pain.

He reached under his bed and retrieved a bag. He opened it and pulled out a small metal statue. It was an artifact - THE ARTIFACT!

It was a small figure of a man in native clothing. The metalwork on the figure was exquisite, with a smooth gloss that made it quite attractive.

Tunde rubbed the figure in an absent minded way, polishing; though it needed no polishing. This baby here was his ticket to the big leagues, his final score, his swansong.

Tunde was a thief.

He stole from the rich, and sold to the rich. He was no Robin Hood. He was under no illusions about who he was. He embraced it and basked in his darkness. He specialized in art.

Knowing that ‘a lot of’ art resided in shrines, those were places he raided. Shrines are poorly defended, making them easy prey, certain marks for his spoils. Yet, Tunde often wondered if he might have dared such antics had he been deeply religious.

He had the balls, that was why he loved doing what he kept doing, dotting in his love for art, making the big bucks. He sold his wares to collectors, who mostly resided abroad. They tested the authenticity and age, and Tunde became richer.

Those relics in his room were the ones that did not make it through the vetting process, either due to questionable authenticity or low quality. They reminded him of the futility of wasting energy on needless things – they also made for great décor.

Tunde was no ordinary thief; those were a dime a dozen.

No, he was way more intelligent. He planned, he calculated, he collected data, and he had a fair appreciation for art. That helped him know what pieces to go after and which to leave alone. He never worked with the same crew repeatedly, so no one could trace anything back to him. He was careful; he was meticulous; he was smooth; he was dangerous.

He took out a cigarette, lit it up, took a long draw, then pulled out his mobile phone. He dialed a number and waited a bit; irritated a little that it was taking a while for the other party to pick the call.

“Hello?” said a gravelly voice.

“It’s me,” Tunde retorted. He talked for a couple of minutes before hanging up. Then he looked round his room, happy to see some light cleaning was in order.

When he finished straightening up, he poured himself a small bottle top of gin and knocked it back. He winced as the dry liquid burned down his throat. He was not always like this; believe it or not, he had wanted to be an artist himself. He was certainly talented enough and had even gone to the university to read visual art.

He understood that Nigeria’s artistic heritage had always been an important part of the culture: bronze heads, terracotta heads, wooden masks, statues, and divining boards.

Authentic examples of this art were in high demand, desperately wanted by collectors overseas. They paid exorbitantly for them, accounting for the repeated thefts of sacred objects from shrines and museums in Nigeria.

He had read about one such collectors, a man named Klaus Perls; a New York-based art connoisseur, who was said to have developed an interest in art from the Benin Empire of Nigeria. In 1991, Perls had donated 153 pieces of this art to the Metropolitan Museum.

The collection included carved-ivory royal figures, bronze heads and masks, musical instruments, and jewels. In all curiosity, Tunde wondered how a foreigner laid his hands on so much prehistoric African art.

After school, Tunde had tried going into carving full time, but this didn’t work out quite well for him because, truth be told, in Nigeria, artworks are not really valued financially.

He had to compete with thousands of uneducated artists, who were equally talented. He was getting frustrated until he met a man who was a lover of art. They would sit down and have friendly chats about different art cultures in Nigeria.

One day, the man brought a statue to Tunde and told him to make a replica, which he did. However, the man noticed slight differences and complained, urging him to perfect it or he would not pay.

Out of curiosity, Tunde tried something different; he created two replicas of the image.

When the man came, he handed one over to him. The man looked at it, smiled and told Tunde he had done a perfect job. He then requested for the original. Tunde handed over the second replica and was stunned by the man’s reaction.

He grabbed Tunde by the neck, knocking the wind out of his lungs, as he demanded for the original.

Tunde broke the grip and stepped back in amazement, wondering: what on earth would make a man act so violently over a mere statue?

Tunde stay calm, always cool and collected, he furthered the ruse by lying, saying he had lost the original. The man pleaded, almost crying, he reeled out sacred facts, the statue was an ancestral model of his revered great-grandmother.

Tunde remained unmoved? What was the worst this man could do?

He had sized him up from the word go and Tunde figured he could probably take him one-on-ne. This man didn’t seem like someone that did his own dirty work himself.

Even if he called thugs on him, Tunde had enough street savvy and hardcore credibility to emerge tops, unscathed and unharmed.

Surprisingly, though, the man promised to give him the sum of two-hundred thousand naira if he returned the statue.

Tunde laughed, this had to be a bluff! His sixth sense took a double somersault; he sensed booty in the air. Again, cool, calm and collected, Tunde stalled. He humored the man and told him to return the next day. The man then left with one replica.

The next day, the man arrived on time, and Tunde gave him the original. The man inspected it and smiled, the glint in his eyes showed greed.

Tunde reminded him about his promise, but the man laughed and swiftly walked away. Tunde was incensed, half a mind to go after him, grab him by the neck and rough him up.

He hesitated, considered that he had indeed tried to rip the man off to begin with. He was going to forget the incident.

Two weeks later, the man visited Tunde, collected the second replica, and handed him two hundred thousand naira. Tunde was stunned.

Surprise rolled into shock when the man confessed that he had stolen the original piece, an item of high sentimental value to the real owner. He replaced it with the replica, after which he sold the original for a fortune to a foreign collector who knew the financial value of such ancient objects and was able to test its authenticity. He urged Tunde to join him in his trade.

Tunde didn’t need further prompting, not a second thought, he accepted.

It began by merely exchanging original icons with forgeries, then graduated to breaking and entering.

As the stakes got higher, Tunde and his initiator progressed into armed robbery, furthering into anything that had to be done to achieve their end.

While Tunde did most of the dirty work, the man did most of the planning, providing information, locating authentic artifacts. He was the brain, Tunde provided the brawn.

They had a lopsided agreement; 70% for the man, 30% for Tunde. Yet Tunde admired the man and his knowledge of art and culture. The protégé often wondered how his mentor knew all choice locations of lofty artifacts.

According to the man, the particular artifact Tunde was in possession of was worth more than any they had sold. The man promised that this time they would split the proceeds differently; he would get 30% while 70% goes to Tunde.

Tunde was skeptical, but it appeared to be the Real McCoy. The man had assured Tunde that it would be the big pay day to elevate his status for all time; with this money, he can start life afresh in America.

Tunde liked the sound of America. God’s Own Country! How enchanting it would be to become Uncle Sam’s next ambitious guest…

He was in a hurry. The meet will go down in a little while and he had to be there on time. Keeping a customer waiting was never good for business. He didn’t have enough time for a stake out, no minutes to spare in scouting the spot ahead of the rendezvous.

Not to worry, he really doubted there would be any danger; no hanky-panky, nothing to worry about, no need to fear over that sort.

He quickly grabbed his things, then stopped short in his stride. He reflected, loaded his gun, gave it a tender pat, one could never be too sure. He gave his room a once over gaze at the door, then headed out.

Time to get his biggest score - or so he thought…

***

KASALA THE CURSE .....preview continued.
***
“Do we use it now?” asked the smallest amongst them

“Yes. We must find him as soon as possible. This slight cannot be overlooked. The thief must pay!”

They were in a room, there were five of them and they all looked determined. Anger radiated from every pore of their skin. They were the guards of the artifact Tunde stole. They were here to collect. It was pay-back day.

Not only get the artifact back, also make an example of Tunde so that other potential thieves would think twice.

They were all large and well built; they knew where to find Tunde. All they needed was a clay pot filled with water and incantations and they would track whoever dared to cross their path. They always believe they can unearth anyone they thought about, spoke about, worried about. Especially after one of them had got a good look at Tunde.

He described the thief, explained what he looked like, and the others were confident anyone could locate Tunde now and capture him.

Bayo, their leader, who stood over six feet tall and carried about a hundred pounds of muscle to back it all up, smiled sinisterly. The thief was going to pay, they would make him suffer.

“Let’s get ready,” he thundered.

They all cocked their guns in rhapsodic succession, flexed their muscles, and brandished menacing machetes. Nothing will stand in their way.

They had a letter from a high-ranking law enforcement officer; exempting them from those annoying searches by police at toll-collecting check points. They couldn’t fail this mission. Failure would spell the end for them. Not that it would make any difference; they would unabatedly take their own lives if they failed, anyway.

This thief has picked the wrong sanctuary to steal from, the most assiduous and vehement of all guards were coming after him. They could easily pick a needle out of a haystack; they were experts, they were deadly…

***

The corrupt police officer was having a good day. He had been at this checkpoint for two days and it was proving to be a goldmine. He nodded at his partner.

His partner was smiling; they would celebrate tonight. He could already imagine the girl’s hot thighs rubbing against his, her flesh flapping against him. The officer mentally framed the fun to come, and shuddered with pleasure at the thought of it.

He had been collecting tips all day, but the last set of people he had extorted did trouble him a bit. They were a group of five men. They were all heavily built and dangerous looking. He was certain they were up to no good.

He accosted them, but they had a note from his superiors. He had bluffed them by questioning the authenticity of their covering note, but they paid handsomely, without a word.

The police officer was happy with the money they gave him, but he had an unsettling numbness in the pit of his stomach.

He looked into the distance, perusing the direction in which the car had gone; they were long gone, too far by now. He shook his head, once the girl’s hot thighs were on his, he would forget this. He smiled. Everything was going to be alright.

***
Iya snapped awake, reacting spontaneously to the sound of screams.

She glanced around in alarm. There came the screams again. She felt angry, then calmed down. She had thought for a second it was the spirits, but it was just humans.

Iya was an old woman with the wrinkles. She looked older than her age; she knew it was an occupational hazard. She struggled out of bed. She was a faith healer and herbalist; night visits from people who needed help were not unusual. But, this was really late and it sounded urgent.

It was rumored that her father came from a lineage of great witch doctors. He didn’t have a heir to pass on his power, because he had committed a grievous sin against his profession. This was his punishment.

No one knew what his sin was. They said he tried to attain immortality, some said he had tried to resurrect a dead person; it was all shrouded in mystery.

He was reluctant to pass on his power to Iya, for he feared it would block her womb and prevent her from having children. But, with tears in her eyes, a young Iya begged him.

He pleaded with her to learn the trade as an herbalist and forget about the other aspect - the darker side. He warned her she would be plagued with poverty and denied offspring, a seed of the womb; but she was insistent.

She admired the way people rushed to her father seeking his help. She wanted the same power, the relevance, being the centre of all attention.

So, he gave her half of it (the power) and saved the rest in a jar, which he warned her never to touch.

After his death, she noticed there were spells she could not cast, incantations that did not work for her. She searched the house inside out; looking for new ingredients to spice up a magic potion and she stumbled upon her father’s concealed power.

One stare at it made her thirst for it, she coveted it; but little did she know he had separated the power to curse from the power to bless. He had given her the power to bless but now, out of her own greed, every word she utters against someone in anger manifests and casts a curse on them.

She had to live with this for years and afterwards, as penance, always careful to be nice to people. She hardly charged for her services, but grateful patrons always wanted to give her something.

She had lived well so far, she was well regarded in the community and she had many children; though not her real children. She had sometimes wondered if she would have fared better with her own biological children, but she was happy - as happy as someone in her occupation and station might be. She was helping people, that was the most important thing for her.

There was another scream, then a thunderous knock.

“Mo nbo o,” Iya called out in Yoruba, telling whoever was at the door that she was coming.

She opened the door and found an elderly woman with a convulsing child in her arms. The woman looked in distress.

“Iya o! Egbami! Egbami o!” the woman wailed in Yoruba, asking for help.

Iya felt the woman’s pain, but she had to stay calm.

“Bring him in,” she said tightly “Hurry!” she added, when the woman seemed like she would buckle under her grief, set to wail more.

She had already done enough to wake others up. People peeked outside their doors to see what was happening. The woman summoned strength from sources unknown and carried the child over the threshold.

Iya set to work at once. She wrapped the boy in a blanket and, while hobbling as quickly as her age-worn limbs would allow her, went over to the cabinet, looking round for something.

She found what she was searching for and brought it over. She forced a strange liquid down the boy’s throat. She waits apprehensively, as nothing happens. The woman is staring intently at the boy’s face, as if that would in itself bring him back. There was silence, pin drop silence.

Was he dead?

Then the boy sputtered, opened his eyes, and Iya released a deep-gutted breath; one she had not been aware of. Iya did not realize she had been holding an abated breath in apprehension.

Iya relaxed, the woman wailed in joy.

“Eseun! Eseun gaan, mo dupe o,” she said, expressing thanks in Yoruba. She was kissing the boy’s face. Iya was worried, this woman could smother the kid, excessive joy could be deadly.

She managed to speak; “It’s nothing. It was good you brought him quickly. If you had delayed any longer, there would have been nothing I possibly could have done."

“Ha, Iya I’m grateful, I’m so grateful. My name is Yinka, I sell vegetables at the market," the woman interjected.

“It’s no problem, Yinka,”

“Iya what can I pay you?”

“Nothing, my dear, a child’s life is precious; there can be no price attached to it."

“He’s my grandson… my only grandson."

Iya smiled, she always found bonds of true love fascinating.

“Take him home, take care of him," she added.

“Thank you, Iya, thank you very much," the woman said, while also genuflecting.

Iya watched as the woman retreated and smiled again. There were perks to being a medicine woman – not pecuniary, but panegyric.

Several hours later, Yinka waited in line for hours as Iya attended to people in her house. She had all the ingredients that were needed for her grandson.

Iya soon appeared, looking weary and worn out. She asked for calm and disclosed that she wanted to have lunch. The proclamation was greeted with grumblings from the crowd.

Yinka felt it was odd. Here was a woman who was helping most of the people here free, or charging ridiculously low rates, but they still grumble.

Yinka admired Iya’s restraint; if she had been in the old lady’s shoes she most likely would have left and not returned, just to teach them a lesson.

Just then Iya passed close by and noticed her.

“Ha! Why are you here? You can’t be standing in line like this," Iya stated with amazement.

“I just brought all the things you asked for," Yinka returned.

“Alright, let’s go in and I’ll mix them for you."

“Ah! No o, you have to eat,” said Yinka, but Iya waved a dismissive hand. “It’ll be ready in no time,” she stressed.

Yinka felt bad receiving Iya’s generosity, but she really wanted to get this over with and if the nice woman was offering…

“Ese gaan, ma,” she said, thanking Iya.

Yinka followed the old woman and could swear that the looks she received from the people on queue were like piercing arrows, literally reducing her lifespan. She sensed a pang of guilt; but she pushed it aside. She needed this. If only they understood.

Iya made quick work of the mixing and gave it to Yinka, who thanked her profusely, believing her grandson was saved. She smiled.

Yinka went home, put her grandson to sleep, and headed out with her sack of goods. She was hoping for a good day at the market, if she could sell her stock today it would be good, she’d be able to buy that nice school bag for her grandson. His eyes had sparkled when he saw it and Yinka had been pained that she couldn’t buy it for him, but now, just maybe.

She walked towards the market.

***

Onikaluku jeje ewure,
Ewure, ewure..
Onikaluku jeje aguntan,
Aguntan bolojo…
Oluronbi jeje omo re,
Omo re apon bi epo,
Oluronbi O!
Jo’in jo’in,
Iroko Jo’in jo’in;
Oluronbi O!
Jo’in jo’in,
Iroko,
Jo’in jo’in…


Everyone pledged to offer a goat,
Goat, goat…
Everyone pledged to offer a sheep,
A fat sheep…
Oluronbi pledged to offer her child,
Her child, who's skin is fair like as palm oil,
Oluronbi O!
Make it up,
Iroko,
Make that up;
Oluronbi O!
Make it up,
Iroko (a large hardwood tree from West Africa)
Make that up!

“You sing so beautifully, why don’t I hear you do so more often."

The King looked at his daughter mournfully.

She was so beautiful and the song she had just sang brought tears to his eyes. Why didn’t he spend more time with her, he wondered.

“You’ve never asked father,” said Adeshola, his princess, his pride, and joy. Daddy’s little girl.

The song she sang is part of an old folk tale, which was used to teach children the dangers of being desperate and promising what you cannot fulfill.

The story has different versions, but they all agree on a certain plot and have uniformity of points.

The gist of it is…

Oluronbi, a woman who was having problems in selling her wares, promised her daughter to the Iroko tree god in exchange for success in her trade. Afterwards, she was extremely successful, and she was jubilant, but as with all debts, soon it was time to pay.

She offered animals, cloth and food as appeasements to the Iroko tree god, hoping it would spare her daughter, but it was not to be denied the spoil of a promise.

So, one day, on her way to the stream with her beautiful daughter, Oluronbi walked past the Iroko tree, thinking that perhaps it must have forgotten the vow she made.

Legend has it that her daughter was then taken captive by the tree as payment for the promise Oluronbi had made. She began to cry, and on hearing that, the villagers gathered round her and began to sing the song.

As her father lounged, Adeshola stood beside him, bending slightly and smiling like an angel as she looked down on his weathered face.

“I think I’ll fire the court musicians,” the king said with a straight face.

His daughter looked at him, unsure whether he was joking or not. Her father was unpredictable at times.

“Why?” she asked

“Because you’re just too good! I’ll just hire you instead.”

The princess laughed. “And when I get married?”

“You’ll just keep singing,” her father said with a shrug. “Your husband will move in, or better still, he can learn the talking drum, and you can be a double act and sing for me.”

The princess grinned. Her father didn’t always show this side of himself in public. He was only seen as the no-nonsense, deadpan Oba of Oshogbo, the capital city of Osun State, situated in the south-western part of Nigeria.

It is close to Ile-Ife, the spiritual capital of the Yoruba people.

Oshogbo is also considered the father of Yoruba native art and, in the last thirty years, had produced some astonishing experimental art; the best of creativity from Oshogbo and the neighboring village of Ife. They were considered among the most important art colonies in Africa, something the king was keen to protect.

Talking of art, the king produced a beautiful necklace crafted by the town artisans and handed it to his daughter. She looked at the beautifully crafted necklace; handling it reverently, tenderly, as if afraid she might harm it.

“My Oba… this is… this is lovely. Thank you!”

“I should have given you something like this for a while now. I have just been holding back.”

“You’re being really sweet today, father,” said the princess with narrowed eyes.

“You’re saying I’m not nice?” mocked her father.

Adeshola laughed pleasantly. “No father, not at all.” Her father laughed with her. “Is anything the matter?” asked Adeshola

He smiled genially at her.

“When a man’s clock begins to tick, he quickly realizes that he has given too much time to duty, neglecting other things that really matter.”

Adeshola hugged her father.

“You’ve never neglected me, father. You’ve given me everything I’ve asked for. I have lacked nothing.”

“I should have done more. I should have set aside time to have a chat with you every day, instead of lavishing you with vanities to conceal my neglect,” he insisted.

Adeshola was a little worried, her father wasn’t one to speak so wistfully.

“You sure you’re okay, father?”

“Aduke,” this time he used her oriki, a traditional pet name, which meant “The one people would fight over for the privilege of caring for.”

The princess blushed. She remembered asking her father when she was younger why her grandmother called her Aduke, as opposed to Princess Adeshola, her given name.

Her father had smiled and explained to her that Aduke is her oriki. She looked puzzled and asked her father the meaning of oriki. He had explained to her that oriki are praise names given to children by their parents. These names linked them to their ancestors and described the nature of their birth.

Parents used the oriki when their child did them proud or when trying to bring to mind honorable characteristics they exhibit; such as bravery, fortitude, or perseverance.

They were also used to sing praises, motivate generosity, or to calm the individual who owned the name when he or she gets angry. When the child grew into adulthood, the name was still used for him or her, especially for honorable introduction during ceremonies.

Father and daughter clasped hands, and the king brought his lips to his princess’s knuckles.

“I love you, always remember that.” The compliment brought a tear to the princess’s eye.

“I won’t father, I won’t.”

Not too long after, she went to the house of her lover, Ogunshola. He looked unhappy. “What’s wrong?” asked Adeshola.

She was hurt. She went into his arms. All she wanted was to be held by him, kissed by him.

She wanted to be looked after like she was the only thing in the world, the sole purpose to his happiness, joy that couldn’t be shaken. But that was not the look she was getting now! There was pain here.

Ogunshola was hurting, and that traumatized Adeshola. She would do anything for this man, and all she wanted was for him to be happy. She did not care that he was not of royal blood.

His family was one of the richest in the entire town, and even richer than most city folk. But, that was not her motivation, all she cared about was him, and the agony in his eyes as she looked at him caused her pangs of pain too. She tried to kiss him, but he broke away.

“Shola, talk to me, my darling,” said Adeshola.

They called each other Shola. It was a coincidence, yet cheesy and cute that they had the same name, somewhat.

He took a while before responding. “I have to go on a mission. The village needs me to do it. It’s risky. I might die.”

“No!” she heard herself shout before she could stop.

“But I have to, Shola”

“You’re not the only man in this village. Let them send someone else.”

“And that person doesn’t have a family? Or no people that care for him too?”

Adeshola faltered, but she pressed on. “They’re not you. I can’t have anything happen to you. I don’t think I can handle it if anything happened to you.”

Ogunshola softened. He loved her and was touched that she was worried about him, but he was a sworn guard. He could not, must not neglect his duty.

“I have to go.”

“I can talk to my father,” she said suddenly. Ogunshola stiffened.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said a little harsher than he intended. He sighed. “Shola, I have to do this. I don’t have a choice.”

He sighed again. “I have to go now. I want to go for prayers, but never fear, I will return … for you.”

Adeshola was in tears.

“No, darling, please, don’t cry,” Ogunshola said, producing a white handkerchief. He wiped her tears with it. He looked her in the eyes, turned away with a whimper and kept the handkerchief.

“I have to go now,” he concluded.

“No, please,” she said, attempting to hold on to his clothes. He gently pulled away and left.

She cried all the way back to the palace and went to shut herself up in her room. She must have been there for an eternity, or so it seemed.

Someone stepped in soon enough.

“My daughter, what’s wrong? Please talk to me.” It was the Queen. She sat beside a disconsolate Adeshola.

The Queen was troubled; she hated seeing her daughter sad. Adeshola was an only child and the queen was determined to make everything go well for her. She had been castigated in some quarters for not having a male child. She hoped those archaic beliefs would have gone away by now, but here they were in the 21st century still standing against female children.

She was grateful that her husband, the king, was progressive in his thinking and did not mind that he had only one female child. He loved Adeshola in a way the queen was not sure he would have loved a boy. The queen also loved her daughter fiercely.

Adeshola was so beautiful, smart, caring and pure of heart. It was impossible to hate the princess and everyone always seemed to warm up to her. She was nice to all, old or young, rich or penniless. She was a true princess.

To see Adeshola in pain gnawed at the Queen, the gentle sobbing and heaving hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Talk to me dear,” said the Queen.

In response, Adeshola turned away from her mother and faced the wall. The Queen had a feeling that she knew what this was about, but she had no idea how to console the princess.

She knew the village had a mission to be accomplished. She also knew there was a high chance that Ogunshola would not return; he could very well fail the mission and his life would be in forfeit.

With a heavy sigh, the Queen got up and glanced at her daughter, with an air of finality about her.

She said: “You can come and talk to me anytime, dear. You know I’m always there for you.”

The Queen proceeded to leave the room. She could not trust herself to avoid crying. Adeshola had always preferred her father, but there were times the princess would still come to her mother for support and advice.

The Queen often missed that moment of togetherness with her daughter. She sighed heavily again and left.

***
Ogunshola arrived at the Babalawo’s place and gave him a white handkerchief, the shell of a tortoise, a kola nut with four splits, and a stone.

The Babalawo collected them and dipped them in a very large pot, which sat on top unlit firewood.

He said to Ogunshola: “What about the last item?”

“Awo, I will get it, sir,” Ogunshola replied.

The Babalawo said to him, “Do that on time, so we can finish. You know this is an urgent matter.”

Ogunshola nodded. He wouldn’t fail

***


https://www.okadabooks.com/search?term=azubike+ahubelem

bykalamo@gmail.com




Lexxyla, Nostradamus, felsunseg, tahir0, Jasmine4, priestchurch, joyberry, supizino, FakoMaybach1, MightyFortress, Chukwudozzie, cuteesthy, Olu317, donkelz, stephenGee12, Temmason, olumanja, rasiyorum, Danpersie31, Peppergroove, Kassia, joyberry, Oyindawealth, obafemylegacy, Maymac, Essyprity, Tuhndhay, richiearmany14, geezyk, emarkson, donpeteranking, mynuel

I no be Yoruba person... but this write up is emitting godly essence... oh my God! I read everything right from the beginning to the end at a go.. damn ! more ink to ur pen, more essence to your . I don't know how to explain I hope u understand......

I love the oriki,the proverbs, name it ... let me check if my ancestors were of Yoruba origin...cuz I just can't explain this feeling owey ooh!

kingjomezy:
I no be Yoruba person... but this write up is emitting godly essence... oh my God! I read everything right from the beginning to the end at a go.. damn ! more ink to ur pen, more essence to your . I don't know how to explain I hope u understand......

I love the oriki,the proverbs, name it ... let me check if my ancestors were of Yoruba origin...cuz I just can't explain this feeling owey ooh!

I understand what you mean.The story took you to a spiritual place of bliss, you don't have to part of a culture to appreciate its beauty. Happy you enjoyed it. Regards

zubike01:



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dplQURhSJBs

What is what doing is what doing well, if you want to do an audio version of the story, why not use a recording studio or use your phone to record with good African ascent instead of using a computer generated system that sounds very unreal.

I would have loved to read but as I saw DELETED by OP I come weak, I can't read half stories, it kills my reasoning and imagination powers.

zubike01:
[color=#006600]***

Onikaluku jeje ewure,
Ewure, ewure..
Onikaluku jeje aguntan,
Aguntan bolojo…
Oluronbi jeje omo re,
Omo re apon bi epo,
Oluronbi O!
Jo’in jo’in,
Iroko Jo’in jo’in;
Oluronbi O!
Jo’in jo’in,
Iroko,
Jo’in jo’in…


Everyone pledged to offer a goat,
Goat, goat…
Everyone pledged to offer a sheep,
A fat sheep…
Oluronbi pledged to offer her child,
Her child, who's skin is fair like as palm oil,
Oluronbi O!
Make it up,
Iroko,
Make that up;
Oluronbi O!
Make it up,
Iroko (a large hardwood tree from West Africa)
Make that up!

Dyoungstar:
I would have loved to read but as I saw DELETED by OP I come weak, I can't read half stories, it kills my reasoning and imagination powers.

I guess you came too late.... good luck.

zubike01:
***

Onikaluku jeje ewure,
Ewure, ewure..
Onikaluku jeje aguntan,
Aguntan bolojo…
Oluronbi jeje omo re,
Omo re apon bi epo,
Oluronbi O!
Jo’in jo’in,
Iroko Jo’in jo’in;
Oluronbi O!
Jo’in jo’in,
Iroko,
Jo’in jo’in…


Everyone pledged to offer a goat,
Goat, goat…
Everyone pledged to offer a sheep,
A fat sheep…
Oluronbi pledged to offer her child,
Her child, who's skin is fair like as palm oil,
Oluronbi O!
Make it up,
Iroko,
Make that up;
Oluronbi O!
Make it up,
Iroko (a large hardwood tree from West Africa)
Make that up!

“You sing so beautifully, why don’t I hear you do so more often."

The King looked at his daughter mournfully.

She was so beautiful and the song she had just sang brought tears to his eyes. Why didn’t he spend more time with her, he wondered.

“You’ve never asked father,” said Adeshola, his princess, his pride, and joy. Daddy’s little girl.

The song she sang is part of an old folk tale, which was used to teach children the dangers of being desperate and promising what you cannot fulfill.

The story has different versions, but they all agree on a certain plot and have uniformity of points.

The gist of it is…

Oluronbi, a woman who was having problems in selling her wares, promised her daughter to the Iroko tree god in exchange for success in her trade. Afterwards, she was extremely successful, and she was jubilant, but as with all debts, soon it was time to pay.

She offered animals, cloth and food as appeasements to the Iroko tree god, hoping it would spare her daughter, but it was not to be denied the spoil of a promise.

So, one day, on her way to the stream with her beautiful daughter, Oluronbi walked past the Iroko tree, thinking that perhaps it must have forgotten the vow she made.

Legend has it that her daughter was then taken captive by the tree as payment for the promise Oluronbi had made. She began to cry, and on hearing that, the villagers gathered round her and began to sing the song.

As her father lounged, Adeshola stood beside him, bending slightly and smiling like an angel as she looked down on his weathered face.

“I think I’ll fire the court musicians,” the king said with a straight face.

His daughter looked at him, unsure whether he was joking or not. Her father was unpredictable at times.

“Why?” she asked

“Because you’re just too good! I’ll just hire you instead.”

The princess laughed. “And when I get married?”

“You’ll just keep singing,” her father said with a shrug. “Your husband will move in, or better still, he can learn the talking drum, and you can be a double act and sing for me.”

The princess grinned. Her father didn’t always show this side of himself in public. He was only seen as the no-nonsense, deadpan Oba of Oshogbo, the capital city of Osun State, situated in the south-western part of Nigeria.

It is close to Ile-Ife, the spiritual capital of the Yoruba people.

Oshogbo is also considered the father of Yoruba native art and, in the last thirty years, had produced some astonishing experimental art; the best of creativity from Oshogbo and the neighboring village of Ife. They were considered among the most important art colonies in Africa, something the king was keen to protect.

Talking of art, the king produced a beautiful necklace crafted by the town artisans and handed it to his daughter. She looked at the beautifully crafted necklace; handling it reverently, tenderly, as if afraid she might harm it.

“My Oba… this is… this is lovely. Thank you!”

“I should have given you something like this for a while now. I have just been holding back.”

“You’re being really sweet today, father,” said the princess with narrowed eyes.

“You’re saying I’m not nice?” mocked her father.

Adeshola laughed pleasantly. “No father, not at all.” Her father laughed with her. “Is anything the matter?” asked Adeshola

He smiled genially at her.

“When a man’s clock begins to tick, he quickly realizes that he has given too much time to duty, neglecting other things that really matter.”

Adeshola hugged her father.

“You’ve never neglected me, father. You’ve given me everything I’ve asked for. I have lacked nothing.”

“I should have done more. I should have set aside time to have a chat with you every day, instead of lavishing you with vanities to conceal my neglect,” he insisted.

Adeshola was a little worried, her father wasn’t one to speak so wistfully.

“You sure you’re okay, father?”

“Aduke,” this time he used her oriki, a traditional pet name, which meant “The one people would fight over for the privilege of caring for.”

The princess blushed. She remembered asking her father when she was younger why her grandmother called her Aduke, as opposed to Princess Adeshola, her given name.

Her father had smiled and explained to her that Aduke is her oriki. She looked puzzled and asked her father the meaning of oriki. He had explained to her that oriki are praise names given to children by their parents. These names linked them to their ancestors and described the nature of their birth.

Parents used the oriki when their child did them proud or when trying to bring to mind honorable characteristics they exhibit; such as bravery, fortitude, or perseverance.

They were also used to sing praises, motivate generosity, or to calm the individual who owned the name when he or she gets angry. When the child grew into adulthood, the name was still used for him or her, especially for honorable introduction during ceremonies.

Father and daughter clasped hands, and the king brought his lips to his princess’s knuckles.

“I love you, always remember that.” The compliment brought a tear to the princess’s eye.

“I won’t father, I won’t.”

Not too long after, she went to the house of her lover, Ogunshola. He looked unhappy. “What’s wrong?” asked Adeshola.

She was hurt. She went into his arms. All she wanted was to be held by him, kissed by him.

She wanted to be looked after like she was the only thing in the world, the sole purpose to his happiness, joy that couldn’t be shaken. But that was not the look she was getting now! There was pain here.

Ogunshola was hurting, and that traumatized Adeshola. She would do anything for this man, and all she wanted was for him to be happy. She did not care that he was not of royal blood.

His family was one of the richest in the entire town, and even richer than most city folk. But, that was not her motivation, all she cared about was him, and the agony in his eyes as she looked at him caused her pangs of pain too. She tried to kiss him, but he broke away.

“Shola, talk to me, my darling,” said Adeshola.

They called each other Shola. It was a coincidence, yet cheesy and cute that they had the same name, somewhat.

He took a while before responding. “I have to go on a mission. The village needs me to do it. It’s risky. I might die.”

“No!” she heard herself shout before she could stop.

“But I have to, Shola”

“You’re not the only man in this village. Let them send someone else.”

“And that person doesn’t have a family? Or no people that care for him too?”

Adeshola faltered, but she pressed on. “They’re not you. I can’t have anything happen to you. I don’t think I can handle it if anything happened to you.”

Ogunshola softened. He loved her and was touched that she was worried about him, but he was a sworn guard. He could not, must not neglect his duty.

“I have to go.”

“I can talk to my father,” she said suddenly. Ogunshola stiffened.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said a little harsher than he intended. He sighed. “Shola, I have to do this. I don’t have a choice.”

He sighed again. “I have to go now. I want to go for prayers, but never fear, I will return … for you.”

Adeshola was in tears.

“No, darling, please, don’t cry,” Ogunshola said, producing a white handkerchief. He wiped her tears with it. He looked her in the eyes, turned away with a whimper and kept the handkerchief.

“I have to go now,” he concluded.

“No, please,” she said, attempting to hold on to his clothes. He gently pulled away and left.

She cried all the way back to the palace and went to shut herself up in her room. She must have been there for an eternity, or so it seemed.

Someone stepped in soon enough.

“My daughter, what’s wrong? Please talk to me.” It was the Queen. She sat beside a disconsolate Adeshola.

The Queen was troubled; she hated seeing her daughter sad. Adeshola was an only child and the queen was determined to make everything go well for her. She had been castigated in some quarters for not having a male child. She hoped those archaic beliefs would have gone away by now, but here they were in the 21st century still standing against female children.

She was grateful that her husband, the king, was progressive in his thinking and did not mind that he had only one female child. He loved Adeshola in a way the queen was not sure he would have loved a boy. The queen also loved her daughter fiercely.

Adeshola was so beautiful, smart, caring and pure of heart. It was impossible to hate the princess and everyone always seemed to warm up to her. She was nice to all, old or young, rich or penniless. She was a true princess.

To see Adeshola in pain gnawed at the Queen, the gentle sobbing and heaving hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Talk to me dear,” said the Queen.

In response, Adeshola turned away from her mother and faced the wall. The Queen had a feeling that she knew what this was about, but she had no idea how to console the princess.

She knew the village had a mission to be accomplished. She also knew there was a high chance that Ogunshola would not return; he could very well fail the mission and his life would be in forfeit.

With a heavy sigh, the Queen got up and glanced at her daughter, with an air of finality about her.

She said: “You can come and talk to me anytime, dear. You know I’m always there for you.”

The Queen proceeded to leave the room. She could not trust herself to avoid crying. Adeshola had always preferred her father, but there were times the princess would still come to her mother for support and advice.

The Queen often missed that moment of togetherness with her daughter. She sighed heavily again and left.

***
Ogunshola arrived at the Babalawo’s place and gave him a white handkerchief, the shell of a tortoise, a kola nut with four splits, and a stone.

The Babalawo collected them and dipped them in a very large pot, which sat on top unlit firewood.

He said to Ogunshola: “What about the last item?”

“Awo, I will get it, sir,” Ogunshola replied.

The Babalawo said to him, “Do that on time, so we can finish. You know this is an urgent matter.”

Ogunshola nodded. He wouldn’t fail

***


https://www.okadabooks.com/search?term=azubike+ahubelem

bykalamo@gmail.com




Lexxyla, Nostradamus, felsunseg, tahir0, Jasmine4, priestchurch, joyberry, supizino, FakoMaybach1, MightyFortress, Chukwudozzie, cuteesthy, Olu317, donkelz, stephenGee12, Temmason, olumanja, rasiyorum, Danpersie31, Peppergroove, Kassia, joyberry, Oyindawealth, obafemylegacy, Maymac, Essyprity, Tuhndhay, richiearmany14, geezyk, emarkson, donpeteranking, mynuel

Adorable piece of storyline.

Thanks boss.... warm regards.

I was well educated and entertained by this master piece! Great writing skills & i would like to know if you are yoruba. I wouldnt mind having a hard copy of this book in my library. I would love for my kids to read this lets forget Thor & Zeus 4 a while

DzTzl:
I was well educated and entertained by this master piece! Great writing skills & i would like to know if you are yoruba. I wouldnt mind having a hard copy of this book in my library. I would love for my kids to read this lets forget Thor & Zeus 4 a while

Happy you loved it... warm regards.

DzTzl:
I was well educated and entertained by this master piece! Great writing skills & i would like to know if you are yoruba. I wouldnt mind having a hard copy of this book in my library. I would love for my kids to read this lets forget Thor & Zeus 4 a while

I am Igbo but my mum is Yoruba.

joyberry:
Wonderful story, I love stories about our heritage. Keep it up and coming

hi... Still expecting your call though

pls do mention me when the third book is out

Wow wow wow What A Story ... Cant Help Bur To Voice Out .. Ur Good I swear ..
I Can't Help But To Commend
This Amazing Story
Is It About The Way U Showed Ur Prowess In Writing And Explaining
To My Understanding
Or The Way U Merge Physic And Co Subject In Writing This Beautiful Piece ...
I Am Just Speechless
Words Are Failing Me Walahi
'
As In The Story Na Top Notch
E Too Balm
E Too Make Brain
E Set E Plum
'
You Even Helped Indirectly Giving Me An Insight About These gods And Their Mythology
'
My Elder Bruh Had To Join Nairaland Just To Read This
Story Cuz He Was Like ' Lil Bruh What U Reading All Night LONG aNd Not Sleeping 'I be Like 'see This' Showed Him The First Page And Boom He's On NL.
'

I Pray More Ink To Ur Pen
May Ur Source Of Inspiration Never Run Dry More Grease To Ur Elbow
'
Can't Wait To Read MORE Of Ur Article(s) Plus How Do I Get The
Full Story
'
Uhmmm Mr Azubike I Hope I Am Permitted To Share With
My Friends
All Credits Will Be To U
'
(Pleading)

Holakizzo:
Wow wow wow What A Story ... Cant Help Bur To Voice Out .. Ur Good I swear ..
I Can't Help But To Commend
This Amazing Story
Is It About The Way U Showed Ur Prowess In Writing And Explaining
To My Understanding
Or The Way U Merge Physic And Co Subject In Writing This Beautiful Piece ...
I Am Just Speechless
Words Are Failing Me Walahi
'
As In The Story Na Top Notch
E Too Balm
E Too Make Brain
E Set E Plum
'
You Even Helped Indirectly Giving Me An Insight About These gods And Their Mythology
'
My Elder Bruh Had To Join Nairaland Just To Read This
Story Cuz He Was Like ' Lil Bruh What U Reading All Night LONG aNd Not Sleeping 'I be Like 'see This' Showed Him The First Page And Boom He's On NL.
'

I Pray More Ink To Ur Pen
May Ur Source Of Inspiration Never Run Dry More Grease To Ur Elbow
'
Can't Wait To Read MORE Of Ur Article(s) Plus How Do I Get The
Full Story
'
Uhmmm Mr Azubike I Hope I Am Permitted To Share With
My Friends
All Credits Will Be To U
'
(Pleading)

Happy you enjoyed it. What do you mean by share with friends, are you sending the link or do you want to paste it on a blog or something.

zubike01:


Happy you enjoyed it. What do you mean by share with friends, are you sending the link or do you want to paste it on a blog or something.

I mean the link that they can use to get the direct entry to read from A-Z

Holakizzo:



I mean the link that they can use to get the direct entry to read from A-Z

It’s on OkadaBooks Amazon or Bambooks but no shaking follow me on Instagram @azubikeahubelem and dm me telling me you are from here . I would give you a free ebook.