The Wicked King of Mosafewa

Chapter One: The Day the Sky Turned Dark I was just a boy—ten years old—when everything changed in Mosafewa. At that age, I knew little about politics or power. All I knew was that our king, Oduro the Gentle, had a warm smile and always shared groundnuts with children during festivals. He smelled of shea butter and always prayed under the big Iroko tree before speaking to the people. Under him, the land was peaceful. The harvests were good. Our goats birthed twins. The streams never dried. But one strange morning, we woke up, and the sky looked sick. It was not yet rainy season, but the clouds were thick and dark like charcoal smoke. The sun was hiding—or maybe it had fled. Birds flew in confused circles. The air felt cold and heavy, even though it was supposed to be hot at that time of year. My mother said, “Ah, something is wrong with the world today.” We went to the farm, but the yams looked like they were shrinking into the earth. The goats refused to eat. My father looked at the sky and shook his head. At noon, we heard the drums—short, panicked beats. “Boom! Boom! Boom!” People ran toward the village square. I ran with my mother. I remember the way her fingers dug into my wrist. Her grip was strong and trembling. The royal messengers came running into the crowd. Their faces were pale like chalk. “King Oduro is dead!” one of them cried. “He passed in his sleep!” A loud gasp ran through the people like a wave. Women screamed. Men fell to their knees. The children held their breath. “How can he die just like that?” someone shouted. “He was healthy yesterday!” another wept. “They’ve killed him!” an old woman near me whispered. No one had proof, but many believed it. The king’s younger brother, Agbako, had always been hungry for power. He had left the village years ago to travel in the deep forest, studying strange spirits and forbidden things. He came back different—taller, darker, and full of secrets. Three nights before Oduro died, someone had seen Agbako enter the palace, wearing a robe stitched with bones. He left before dawn. Nobody questioned him. Nobody dared. Now Oduro was dead. And the sun refused to shine. That day was only the beginning. The darkness stayed. The sun did not rise for three days. It wasn’t just clouds anymore. The sky itself was like black cloth pulled over the land. Chickens stopped laying eggs. The river water turned bitter. The wind was too quiet. People prayed. The elders sacrificed goats, then rams, then cows—but nothing changed. On the third day, something terrible happened. A woman named Yejide—one of the palace cooks—was found hanging from the sacred tree near the stream. Her eyes were gone. Her mouth was wide open, as if she had died screaming. Carved into her chest were the words: “THE NEW KING RISES.” That night, the elders gathered in secret. They came out pale and silent. The next morning, the sun returned. But it did not bring light. It brought Agbako. He was crowned in a strange ceremony. No drummers. No dancing. No praise singers. No blessings from the priest. He had just appeared in the village square, walking ahead of two masked men who beat metal gongs with a slow, dreadful rhythm. Clang. Clang. Clang. The crowd parted without being told. Agbako wore the crown of his dead brother. But he also wore something else—a necklace of teeth. Human teeth. I counted them. Twelve. His robe was made of black goat skin stitched with dried leaves and bones. His face was cold and unreadable. His eyes did not blink. He raised one hand, and everyone fell silent. “I am King Agbako,” he said. I do not need your songs. I do not need your drums. I do not need your gods. I am power. I am law. And I will reign until the ground swallows me.” Then he smiled. That smile is something I wish I could forget. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t kindness. It was hunger. That night, the palace gates shut and never opened again. The guards were replaced by tall men in red masks who didn’t speak. Some said they weren’t men at all, but forest spirits trapped in flesh. They didn’t blink. They didn’t sleep. They just stood there like trees. From that day forward, Mosafewa changed. No more village meetings. No more harvest festivals. No more storytelling by the fireside. People whispered only in corners, and even then, they spoke with their heads bowed. Every full moon, someone disappeared. A child. A farmer. A widow. Always someone innocent. They said the king fed on dreams. That if you dreamt of freedom, he would find you in your sleep and silence you forever. And yet, no one could stop him. He ruled Mosafewa for twenty years. Twenty long, bloody, silent years.