In the heart of a small African village named Umuoko, where red earth roads wound through thick bush paths, lived a doctor named Dr. Dogo. He was respected, loved, and even feared in some ways. His clinic was the only one within a 10-mile radius. Mothers brought their children to him. Elders came to him for their pains. Even the herbalists respected him, calling him "Dogo the Wise."
But something wasn't right.
Over the years, people began to whisper. Patients would come to the clinic for simple issues - malaria, a fever, body pain - but some never returned. Dr. Dogo would claim complications. He'd say, "It was God's will."
But nobody dared question him. After all, he gave free treatments to the poor, sponsored school children, and even donated to the church roof. He was a pillar of the community, yet something felt off. No one ever saw his wife. No one entered his private quarters. Even his staff were restricted from entering a certain room at the back of the clinic.
Behind his calm smile, though, was a man consumed by darkness. Dr. Dogo was not healing. He was harvesting.
In a small room behind his clinic, one that even his nurses were not allowed to enter, he kept records - blood samples, strange symbols on the walls, jars with organs soaked in red liquid. The room had a foul smell no air freshener could hide. The door was always locked, and the key never left his pocket.
Villagers lived on, unaware. Life went on with births, deaths, and traditions. But slowly, a pattern was forming. It was so subtle, it took years for someone to notice it.
Then came Nurse Nene.
Nene was young, fresh out of nursing school, and eager to help her people. She believed in care, compassion, and truth. She had grown up in a neighboring village and had heard stories of Dr. Dogo's miracles. She felt proud to be working under him.
But it didn't take long for her to start noticing strange things. The clinic had a high mortality rate. Too high. Children who came in for a simple cough would suddenly deteriorate. Adults would complain of dizziness, then go into cardiac arrest.
The doctor always had an explanation - weak immune system, late diagnosis, natural complications. He signed death certificates quickly and often discouraged autopsies. He comforted the families, cried with them even.
Yet Nene couldn't shake the feeling. One day, she noticed a peculiar thing: a boy's name, Sodiq, had appeared in a file marked with a red sticker. When she opened it, she saw strange hand-drawn symbols and an old paper that looked like it had been stained with blood.
She asked about it. Dr. Dogo smiled and said it was an old file, nothing important. But she knew he was lying. Something inside her screamed it.
So she started paying closer attention. She stayed late, observed quietly, and began recording patterns. And soon, what she discovered would haunt her forever.