A long time ago, a young man lived in the village of Abule Igba. He was the only son of the village’s most revered hunter, Baba Ogunbiyi, who had tamed lions, wrestled leopards, and never returned from the wild without a kill. Adejumo, his son, had inherited his father’s strength, his mother’s wisdom, and something else, an unusual level of boldness that bordered on recklessness.
From dawn until dusk, Adejumo worked hard. He fetched water from the deepest streams, climbed the tallest palm trees, and hunted even in heavy rains. The villagers respected his bravery but feared something else about him, his defiance of sacred traditions.
In Abule Igba, a strict law governed the village: no one was to be seen outside after midnight. It wasn’t merely a rule; it was a protective covenant. The elders said that when the village drumbeat faded into silence at night, evil spirits began their procession. No man or woman had dared the consequences and survived to tell the tale.
But Adejumo... he broke this law often.
He would come home in the dead of night, carrying rabbits or antelope on his shoulders, brushing aside warnings like dry leaves. His parents, especially Baba Ogunbiyi, scolded him again and again.
“The night belongs to powers greater than man, my son,” Baba Ogunbiyi would say, the firelight dancing in his tired eyes. “Do not dare them.”
But Adejumo, with the arrogance of the young, would respond with a shrug and say, “If danger walks in the night, then I shall walk with it.”
The village vigilantes, old men with spears and white chalk on their foreheads, confronted him many times. They cited the village code and reminded him of what befell those who tested fate. Still, he paid them no mind.
Now, in the heart of Abule Igba, there lay a forest spoken of only in hushed tones-Igbo Eewo, the Forbidden Forest. The stories about it were thick like the trees themselves. They said the forest was alive, not with animals, but with spirits of vengeance, lost warriors, and creatures that fed on the pride of men. No hunter, not even Baba Ogunbiyi, had ever dared its borders.
But one day, while returning from the hunt, Adejumo overheard a conversation between two old herbalists by the village square.
“The Forbidden Forest holds secrets,” one said.
“And deaths,” the other added quickly.
That night, Adejumo sat by his fire and stared at the moon. A strange itch had taken root in his soul, curiosity mixed with rebellion. If no one had entered and come out, how could anyone know what truly existed there?
“Perhaps it is all a tale to keep us weak,” he muttered to himself.
By dawn, he had made up his mind. He would go, not just to walk near the forest, but to enter it.
His mother begged him not to. She knelt, weeping, clutching the charm-laced wristband she had made for his protection. But Adejumo only embraced her, smiling, and said:
“I will return, Mother. And when I do, the village will know the truth.”
He carried a cutlass, a horn of palm wine, and a charm Baba Ogunbiyi had used in battle long ago. That morning, he walked past the last hut in Abule Igba, past the whispering elders, and toward the towering shadow of Igbo Eewo (Forbidden Forest).
As he stepped into the forest, silence greeted him. Not the silence of peace, but of anticipation.
The trees were darker than any he had seen, the air was thicker. Vines hung like nooses, and strange eyes blinked from within hollow trunks. Yet he pressed on, heart steady, breath calm.
Hours passed.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind him, but when he turned, there was no one. The forest had shifted. The path he came from had vanished.
“Just tricks of the mind,” he told himself. “I am not afraid.”
Then he saw it.
A shrine stood in a clearing, ancient and moss-covered. A black pot steamed on an invisible fire, and around it danced shadows with no bodies, only shadows.
Adejumo stood frozen. The charm on his wrist grew hot, then crumbled into ash.
He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. The shadows circled him now. Then came a voice, not from a mouth, but from the forest itself:
“Why do you come, child of defiance?”
Adejumo dropped to one knee. Sweat poured from his face. “I came... to know the truth.”
“And now you shall,” the voice replied. “The truth is that some doors are closed for a reason.”
There was a flash, not of light, but of memory. In a blink, Adejumo saw the faces of every villager who had vanished over the years. They were here, eyes hollow, mouths open in eternal screams. He tried to run, but the forest closed in. Roots wrapped around his legs, pulling him down into the soil.
“You wanted to walk with danger,” the voice whispered, “now you shall sleep with it.”
And just like that… Adejumo was gone.
The people of Abule Igba waited for his return.
One day passed.
Then a week passed. The villagers gathered at the forest's edge, their faces a mixture of fear and hope. They shared stories of Adejumo's bravery, but as the days turned into weeks, a heavy silence settled over the community, replacing their whispered prayers with an unshakeable dread.
Then a full moon.
Baba Ogunbiyi stood at the edge of the village, staring at the forest that had taken his son. He said nothing. He only dropped his hunting spear at the forest’s edge, never to hunt again.
To this day, mothers in Abule Igba hold their children close and tell them the tale of the bold boy who defied the night and dared the spirits.
“Adejumo went into the Forbidden Forest... and never returned.”
And from that day forward, not even the bravest in the village would walk after midnight.
