It has been a long long time. And I have grown old and weary, but the story to be told, must now be told. The truth to be spoken,must now be let loose upon the land. It has been a long long time, and the Creator has seen it fit to let this retelling fall upon you. Come, young mortal, sit by the ever-burning calabash with me and let the fires of Ifa illuminate you.

YaY! Redmosquito is back! I'm your biggest fan boss...

I am here

Mah God! Redmoss is back! Following..

VanTee20:
Mah God! Redmoss is back! Following..

when will you too come back and continue your story

oga redbloodsucker welcome back, literature section miss your legendary touch

*****************
O Evil Bird!! Bird of the Night!!
O Evil Bird!! Wings of Oshoronga!!
Deliver our Enemies unto us, O Evil Bird!!
O Evil Bird of Darkness, Devour our Enemies!!
-Yoruba Curse Song (Translations from Koto Aiye)


A thing approaches our world, cutting through its path like knife in the bark of cocoyam stem. It comes from another realm, an other-worldly place. It approaches, silent and swift, burning through the blackness of space, crashing through our atmosphere of Ozone. Something approaches our world, it comes with blackness and rage, bringing death and sorrow, it comes with wrath unknown. And as it comes upon us, the darkness swirls and swells, for the evil ones are watching, young mortal. Be wary, for the evil eye now laughs.

**
In Washington DC, NASA space monitoring base, nine o’clock pm,
Computer keyboards fervently click away, the room is dimly lit, filled with over twenty faces illuminated by their individual desktop screens, the air is heavy with noise and a dozen chatter, everyone is excited or disturbed, both emotions are difficult to differentiate in such an atmosphere.

And suddenly a man walks into the poorly lit room, donned in a black suite, about fifty years of age, six feet in height, no moustache, no beards, early gray hair on his shrivelled scalp, a cold stare on his face. As soon as he steps foot in the room, all turn to face him, going silent in the process. He looks about at the troubled faces behind the computer screens.

“Major General Scott, Chief Commanding officer, US Military Extraterrestrial Division”, he announces, to no-one in particular but to them all.

He looks around after speaking and meets the still-baffled stares of the computer operators.

“When stuff falls from space, I’m the one they call to shoot it down. Your bosses called, I hear you have a bit of a problem”

“A problem? No no no no no!?”, a young man raps from behind his computer desk, “What we have here is no problem at all, it is a treasure! It’s a discovery of a life time!?”, he adds as he pushes himself out from his cubicle. He’s not so tall, about 5ft 4inches, glasses on his nose, fleshy face, round nose, he plops out of the cubicle, roundish, like a ball of groundnut liberated from a cup of Garri.

He walks up to the Major-General, “I knew it! I was afraid of it, but still I knew. I knew they’d send you, the US Government plans to welcome aliens with bullets!?”

“No! Not lead! Lead won’t do sh!t to aliens! We use high definition radiation lasers, that’s what we do!?” the Major replies, gritting his teeth in the process, “So what do you have here??”

The young man ignores the bellicosity of the Major’s words and continues to recount.

“Two hours ago, it was just another tiny asteroid flying past earth, not really big, as big as a small house, nothing special about it, y’know, we have them flying all over all the time. But this one, it was special, particularly so, it changed direction unprovoked, all by itself, mid-air?..it made a sort of U-turn” , the geek says grinning from ear to ear, “It suddenly went off course, as if manned”

“What do you mean by off-course??”

“It was moving towards the moon but it changed direction. Now it coming towards us!”, the young man raps excitedly, with this weird smirk across his face, his hands plastered across his chest as if to say the object was coming directly into his own garage back at home.

"Look! Look!! Watch it move!" he says, as he points childishly at a one of the monitors, the Major turns, following the line of his index finger, to look up at the tiny dot, which he took to represent the falling body, plotting a dash-line graph on the dark background of the screen.

“TWENTY SECONDS TO LANDING!! UNIDENTIFIED OBJECT ACCELERATING!!”, a mechanical voice bursts out of the speakers, cutting sharply into the dry air.

“What? It cannot possibly be that fast!?”, the young man shouts from where he stood, beside the General, rushing away back into his cubicle, like a bush-rat returning to it’s hole in the ground.

“It’s accelerating and changing course rapidly in the atmosphere”, another voice replies from behind a screen.

“Five seconds to landing”.

The atmosphere becomes tense once again, everyone ignores the General and goes back to the computers. Keyboards click away as fingers pound energetically, plotting the trajectory and trying to foresee what will happen next, like the guiding hands of Ifa.

The Major grabs one of the young men and asks, almost threateningly.

“Where is it landing? Tell me! Where??”

Update oh...

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Death catches the hunter with pain.
Eshu catches the herbalist in a sack.
Shonponna is the snake that dies
And carries its children away.
Shonponna uses the invisible calabash
To kill two hundred people.
Eshu hands the invisible calabash to Shonponna.
The black soil of the earth is on the farm.
The red soil of heaven is in the grave.
You my child,
Oludande, you born-to-die,
Return from the red soil of heaven,
Come and eat the black soil of this world.

from Black Orpheus 22 (1967)



In Lagos, Nigeria one o’clock am.

The darkness swirls and stirs over the land. Nothing special really, the darkness swirls here often, NEPA makes sure of that.

And in the dark heart of this Metropolis, in a tiny room in a violent surburb, a figure lays in his bed, a man , half-nude with the arms of a woman draped across his chest like snake over the forbidden fruit. And they both snore lightly, taken by an heavy slumber.

This is the abode of the one they call Rashidi, vagabond child of no father. In civilised circles of business and the sanity of everyday life, he is known as Rashidi the Cheat, Rashidi the Tout, Rashidi the Womaniser, the Drunk, the Violent One. But in the dark spiritual circles, he is known by another name, Kukoyi they call him, for it means, death rejects this one, and the history of the name goes much deeper that even the roots of the Iroko.

He sleeps in his one room apartment, his singlet brown and old, his room dark and reeking of cheap gin, the kind that can turn the liver of a weaker man to jelly. Nepa has been so kind as to withhold electricity from him this night, but they still let him keep the wires. Mosquitoes buzz in his hear and all around, he ignores them and snores on, exhausted by his adventures with the lady-of-the-night by his side.

The only source of illumination in this forsaken squalid place is the moonlight, rays of which scatter into the room, like forks of light caught in an heathen place. It’s a full moon tonight.

Rashidi scratches his belly some more and turns a little.

The nightmare still holds onto him, he rolls on the rat-devoured mattress, the dream still reigns. And then he gasps awake with the full force of a Dangote truck.

He remains sitting in bed, wide-eyed, beady sweat glistening on his forehead like minuscule sachets of pure water, his heart pounding in his ribcage like Kirikiri inmates at the sight of a damsel. Still trying to gather his thoughts, a ray of moonlight suddenly bathes his face, chalking his caramel skin, his shy pretty nose, eyes a little too large for his oval head, but still well set in their sockets, with beautiful long dark lashes, light stubble on his strong chin, with a soft fine mustache, hair, dark and trimmed, he holds strong cheekbones, that overlie fine plump lips. On a normal day, he is described as a good-looking young man, but not tonight, as he came forth disheveled and tangled.

“It is impossible!”, he mutters to himself, “Impossible! I can't believe this!"

And with one slow gentle move, he disentangles himself from his bed-mate, swiftly rising onto his feet in one smooth motion, and navigates his way to a luggage box with the aid of naught but the sharp forks of moonlight. He swings open the box, revealing a neatly folded white cloth. He wipes his hands on his trousers in a bid to clean them, as if the trousers are cleaner than the hands.

And then he carries the folded white cloth gently from its resting place and places it on the only clean patch of floor in this filthy room.
He sits beside the white cloth, unfolding it to reveal a bunch of cowries.

As he picks the cowries, beginning to render praises to an unknown being, his face directed to the moon as he panegyrizes to this deity.

“Ifa ooo! Ifa!! Ifa! Bearer of truth! Lies have no place in the words of Ifa! Ifa! Knower of all! Ifa! Tell me the secrets! Tell me what I need to know!”, he says before throwing the cowries down to the white cloth

CLASH!!

The cowries tumble and roll on the cloth, before settling down in a constellation that hides meaning, meaning known only to Rashidi.

He looks at the cowries, his eyes widen, he pushes one hand against his face and wipes vigorously for some few seconds, before staring down at the cowries once again, brows furrowed with worry.

He shakes his head and smiles a sarcastic smile to himself.
“Only two bottles of Alomo! Or was it five? I must be seeing things!”, he says to himself in self-denial, as he packs the cowries again in his hands and further renders panegyrizes to his deity of divinity

“Ifa oooooo! Ifa! The one that seats underground and plots the movement of the stars! Ifa ooooo! Ifa! The one that says East is North and the compass agrees. Ifa! Show me the secret behind the dark cloud! If it is silver lining of tornado!” and then he throws the cowries onto the cloth again.

BLASH!!

They scatter about on the fabric and fall into place again. Bearing the same constellation as before, indistinguishable so.

This time Rashidi gasps, drawing away from the cloth in astonishment and bafflement, propped up on his fingers beneath him.

“How? How? Its ..its ..its..”, he stammers

“It is not……impossible! It is the truth!” a voice says from behind the cover of darkness, in the shadows untouched by moonlight, a voice that was neither male nor female, but was old as if riddled with time and tattered from age.

Rashidi turns to the source of the voice, squinting into the blackness.

“What does it mean??”, he asks the formless voice.

“He has arrived!” , is the only reply

this one pass the power of all the gods in the Yoruba folklore...OLUWA HAS TO BE INVOLVED... surely, He must be involved..comman see ooo redmosquito is back

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JESUS IS LORD OOO TRUE TRUE

Reeeddddddddd

Welcome back, bro. We all missed you.

I've read a lot about you here, sir, but this is the first story of yours I'll be reading and, already, I fully agree that your art has not been exaggerated at all. Please let this ride continue!

Error

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Jakuta, son of Aganju,
Violent ruler, grandson of Oduduwa;
Who rescued Alaafin Ajaka
He who screams with thunderbolt.
He who kills but is not killed.
The dragon that consumes other dragons with fire.
Sango, yes he is Sango!
Sango, the third Alaafin of Oyo.
Beat him Omele, you are in trouble,
Beat him Iya-ilu, you are doomed;
He who waves his double-headed axe;
The king did not hang,
He killed the stubborn Gbonka with his ferocious fire.

by Aremu Adams Adebisi
University of Ilorin
Ilorin, Kwara state.


Somewhere in Ajegunle one o’clock am, at the exact same hour the spirits summon Rashidi from his slumber, another spirit makes his mark upon the earth. A fiery ball streaks across the sky, like the tail of a comet, like red-hot akara in the sauce-pan that is the night sky.

KRAAKOOOMMM!!!

The ball strikes the earth, disintegrating into a pillar of black and red smoke, to reveal a form atop the ruins, a form of what is a man.

He crouches, his skin black as tar, black as burnt yams, eyes red and fierce, like those of a castrated dog, hair long and woolly, lips plump and juicy red, those of a true African man. His arms bulge strong, all tendon and muscle ripped, his form is evidence of strength, pure strength, he breathes and turns as though every action is a battle to be won. He is clad in white and red skin cloth that runs from shoulder to knee. A huge double-edged axe balances in his right hand.

He rises from where he fell, dust and smoke still simmering from his skin, he looks up at the sky from whence he came. He sees the shacks and ghettoes that surround him. It’s been a long long time since he last came upon this world, and the world has changed, looking nothing like the home it once was to him, an entirely different world it had become altogether, a concrete jungle adorned with utter waste. He growls and walks forward, into the ghetto, towards the sound of men.

Men drink and jolly in the make-shift ogogoro joint, Alomo, Chelsea, spirit and all is being served by the female bartenders.

That is when he walks in, the being that fell from the sky, that is when he walks into the bar.
Sauntering like a god, Ax balanced in hand, loincloth swinging in the midnight breeze.

He looks around at the drunks and breathes in the warm scent of their Alcohol.

“TANA KUNA KUNTANIA!”, he shouts out to the men, he speaks a strange language, a tongue long forgotten by man, a language not of this world.

The drinking men look to one another at first, confused.

“You dey mad? Guy! Stop making noise jare!”, one of the drunk spits back at him before proceeding to put his cup back to lips, filling up himself with the black alcohol, the vile fluid drooling from the side of his lips as he slurps it up.

The stranger frowns, his eyelids narrow to dangerous slits, the air gets slightly electrified. And then he points at the man that spoke back at him, taking a step in his direction.

“TANA KUNA KUNTANIA!”, he shouts again, this time to the drunk that spoke, index finger pointing like a dagger.

The drunk puts down the alcohol away from his mouth, raises above his head the glassware from which he drank, quickly whipping his hand back and forth, in the process bathing the strange being with all of its content. After which he looks around and smiles with the rest of the drunken comrades, as though expecting some sort of praise for what he just committed. They all reward him with a boisterous laugh, deep and hearty, croaking from the bottom of their alcohol-soaked souls.

The strange sneers down at himself, wet with this vile drink of mortals, he looks back at them all, his face distorted into a terrible scowl and then he growls, the same empty growl.

The drunks burst out in laughter once again at this growling strangely-dressed fellow.

“Mr man! Are you just coming from the farm?”, one jeers, causing the others to further erupt in yet another round of laughter, “Or you must be hunting antelopes?”, he adds, fuelling their drunken buffoonery.

The man reddens, it began from his index finger, the little sparks, like the sparks from a wrongly-assembled electric unit, and then his eyes, the eyeballs burning off to reveal balls of flames sitting in his sockets , black smoke escapes his tightly pursed lips, the liquid spilled upon him boils off his skin.

They all fall silent and afraid, they have awoken the monster in him, they have awoken something. This being, he is not a man, he is something far worse.

As Igbos would say, ńǹọ̀ ọ́!!!!

When is the Hades and Minion update coming up?

na starting redmos get, to finish go come be problem. Oga we don old pass all this things oh..... been a while though