In a quiet village settled between rolling hills and whispering trees, the night unfurled its dark cloak, pierced only by the silvery glow of a full moon hanging heavy in the sky. Shadows danced across the earth, cast by the flickering light of a small fire that crackled just in front of an old hut. The hut, red, weathered and sturdy, stood at the center of the village, its thatched roof glowing faintly under the lunar sheen.
On a woven mat spread carefully outside the hut sat Mama Ajike, the village's eldest member, a storyteller she was. Her frail frame was draped in a faded cloth, its colors softened by years of wear, and her silver hair, once as dark as the night itself, gleamed like the moon. Around her, a circle of children sat cross-legged, their eyes wide with anticipation, their small bodies huddled close to fend off the cool night air. The scent of roasted yams and spiced stew wafted through the village, mingling with the earthy aroma of the fire, as the wives worked together near a cluster of cooking pots. Their laughter and chatter blended into a soft buzz. Beyond them, the husbands gathered under a sprawling baobab tree, passing around a calabash of palm wine, their voices rising and falling in animated bursts.
This was the way of the village on every full moon, a tradition almost as old as the village itself. The children waited, breathless, for Mama Ajike to begin her tale, the one she told each time the moon swelled to its fullest. Her stories were woven from threads of myths and magic, tales of talking animals, and sagas of greedy kings. However, tonight would be quite different. She raised a gnarled hand, silencing the restless whispers among the children, and her voice, though soft and weathered, carried the weight of years.
"Listen well, my little ones," she began, her eyes glinting in the firelight, "for the moon is watching, and she loves a good story as much as you do." The children leaned in, the night wrapping around them like a blanket, as Mama Ajike words started to spin the familiar web of her moonlight tale.
"More than a thousand years ago, before the new gods, there were the old gods. They were called The Primordials. They, powerful and wise, ruled the earth. Mortals were their subjects. Not even kings dared to stand before them. They had powerful juju, magic so strong it could bend the rivers and silence the winds. But unfortunately, with power comes corruption."
The children leaned closer, their eyes wide as Mama Ajike's voice dipped low, threading the story with a shiver of dread. "The Primordials were not kind to their mortal subjects. Like the way man treats ants, they treated the humans. They murdered, enslaved, and did all manner of vile things just because they could. A man might wake to find his fields burned to ash for no reason but a Primordial's whim. A mother might weep as her child was taken to serve in their golden halls, never to return. The earth trembled beneath their steps, and the people lived in fear, for the Primordials saw mortals as little more than playthings.
"But," she said, her eyes glinting with the flicker of the flames, "amongst the Primordials, one was different. He was called Akami. He loved and cherished the mortals. He taught them how to make fire, and how to hunt. He showed them how to brew wines from the fruits of the earth and how to tame the wild dogs that roamed the forests. To him, the mortals were not ants but kin, worthy of care and knowledge. Yet, there was little he could do against his siblings' vileness toward them, for there was a standing covenant among the Primordials, they must not turn their blades against one another."
Mama Ajike paused, letting the weight of Akami's plight settle over her audience. A few children shifted on the ground, their eyes never leaving her face. "So," she continued, "he came up with an idea. He gathered a thousand mortals—men and women, all above eighteen but below forty. He took them up to Isare Hill, located at the west of the Agoni kingdom, a place where the wind sang through the stones and the earth held secrets of its own. For five long years, he trained these mortals in the ways of battle and survival. He taught them to wield spears and dodge blows, to track prey through the wild, and to endure the harshest of nights."
Her hands moved again, mimicking the thrust of a spear or the arc of an arrow. "Some of the Primordials, curious about his activities, paid visits. In the first few years, it became a sort of entertainment to them, watching these mortals sweat and stumble, their fragile bodies hardening under Akami's guidance. But the novelty faded, as it always did with the Primordials, and soon Akami and his mortals were forgotten, left alone on that windswept hill."
Mama Ajike's voice dropped low, almost a whisper, drawing the children closer. "On the last night of the fifth year, the moon was dyed red, and the earth grew quiet. It was a blood moon, a night when the sky itself seemed to hold its breath. The thousand mortals were gathered in front of Akami, standing still in anticipation. The Primordial god sat on a stone slab, his presence towering yet gentle, a large barrel beside him. The air was thick with purpose, and the mortals—now warriors—watched him with eyes that had seen hardship and hope in equal measure."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice carrying a hint of mystery. "What Akami had planned, none could have foreseen, not his siblings, nor the mortals themselves. For under that crimson moon, something was about to change forever." The children held their breath, the night alive with the promise of what was to come.
Mama Ajike's gaze drifted upward, as if seeing the crimson moon of the story itself. "Akami greeted and congratulated the mortals," she said, her tone warm yet tinged with gravity. "They had come far from being ordinary. Once weak, now strong, they had been tested through days and nights, their bodies forged in the fires of endurance. He pulled open the barrel, and a swirling red liquid poured out into several calabashes. He called for them one by one to drink. This was Akami's final gift—his blood."
A murmur rippled through the children, their faces a mix of awe and unease. Mama Ajike pressed on, her voice steady. "The mortals, excited, jumped at the opportunity. Although none of them knew what could come out of drinking the blood of a god, they were enticed regardless. A thousand mortals drank, and then the ritual began. Akami pulled out rare herbs, their scent sharp and strange, and burned them in a fire that flared with unnatural hues. Then, he cast juju, and the clouds above Isare Hill gathered, dark and heavy, as if the sky itself bore witness."
Her hands gestured toward the unseen hill, and the children leaned in, caught in the rising tension.
"It was then hell descended upon the mortals. Pain, beyond what they had ever felt, invaded their bodies. Screams and groans filled the air as they whipped and lashed out. Their eyes were red with craze, and their nails bled as they scratched against the earth, desperate for relief. Akami had underestimated the potency of his blood. He had meant it as a blessing, a way to share his strength, but it was too much for mortal flesh to bear. He wished to stop, even though this was the reason he had trained their bodies for the past five years. Unfortunately, the ritual had started, and he could only watch now."
Mama Ajike's voice grew heavy, her eyes distant. "One by one, to his horror, some of the mortals could not hold on and succumbed to their pains. Their bodies fell still on the rocky ground, the life drained from them under that blood-red moon. The night was long—endless, it seemed, and the hill echoed with the cries of the suffering. By the time the sun showed its face, painting the sky with streaks of gold, only a hundred and twenty-three mortals out of a thousand had survived."
She paused, letting the silence settle over the group like a shroud. The children exchanged glances, some clutching each other's hands, the weight of the survivors' ordeal sinking in. Mama Ajike's expression softened, though her voice retained its quiet power. "But those who lived," she added, a faint spark returning to her tone, "were no longer the mortals they had been. Something new had begun to stir within them, born of blood and fire and a god's desperate hope."