The bells do not toll at all in Owuro, but if one could think figuratively, you would say it was so on this Sunday, which didn’t feel like a Sunday at all. The Police Station was alive with tension by half-past seven. Different phones rang constantly as officers barked into their phones. There was confusion. And me? I was still running on the fumes of a sleepless night and a head filled with too many questions.
I’d been at Owuro Comprehensive just hours ago, part of the police backup summoned after what could only be described as a public exorcism. The Reverend, yes, a real man of the cloth, had taken the stage to accuse, condemn, and execute a woman in front of schoolchildren. His target? A so-called witch.
They say everyone carries a breaking point, and I believe that Owuro might have found its own.
I went straight to Constable Otun’s office. He was pacing, a phone glued to his ear, bandages wrapping his shoulder and chest. The Reverend had left him bloodied in the scuffle the night before. Councillor Leke Adio sat nearby, clean-shaven and well-dressed, but visibly shaken. He hung up as I entered.
“Ogundiya,” Otun said, his voice hoarse.
“Morning, sir.”
“The town is on fire,” he said. “The chairman just called. Everyone wants answers, why a known reverend is out here executing women in public. There were children in that hall, Saheed. People are terrified.”
Adio looked up. “The Vice Chair of Council, Sadiat is breathing down my neck! She just sent her assistant to warn me. Didn’t even call me herself o. If Julius keeps pulling stunts like this, the whole town is going to find out…”
“About the witches,” I said.
Otun grunted. “And if that happens, we lose control of the narrative.”
It was more than a narrative. It was a lid on a boiling pot. The Reverend, Julius Bose, was hunting women he believed were witches. Only, he wasn’t crazy. They existed. And some of us, those who knew, called ourselves the Enlightened.
But try explaining that to the townspeople. Owuro was a place rooted deep in doctrine. Here, witches weren’t figures of myth but threats prayed against from the pulpits and minarets. If the truth broke the surface, there would be blood. And not just from Julius’s blade. It was that war we were all hoping against with all our breaths.
“We need a story,” Adio said. “Something the people can swallow. Tell them he’s just a lunatic. A serial killer with religious delusions.”
“With respect,” I said, “that won’t calm anyone.”
“It’s better than telling them witches are real. If the public finds out, they’ll burn this town to the ground.”
He wasn’t wrong. As a man of faith, even I had wrestled with it. But since the day I was Enlightened, I’d seen the truth. It wasn’t the witches killing people. It was us, humans. Julius was the worst of us.
“We need to think like him,” I said. “He’s trained, former military, maybe. He’s three steps ahead.”
“He nearly killed me,” Otun said. “And Sandra too. The man’s not just dangerous. He’s surgical.”
There was a pause. Then Adio added, “We can’t let it become public knowledge that he kidnapped Dr Jadesola’s daughter. Not after what he did to Cynthia. Another dead girl and the town will implode.”
“We’re searching for her,” Otun said. “We’ll find Kehinde.”
I nodded and left them in their whispered panic. Down the stairs, I found Sandra waiting. Her eyes were sharp.
“What’s going on, Saheed?”
“We’re still trying to piece it together,” I started.
She cut me off. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie. The man who tried to kill me, he murdered Rose Ore. And I gave him her name. I gave it to save myself. And now she’s dead.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s targeting witches, isn’t he?”
I didn’t answer.
She stepped closer. “You know what this is. You’ve been keeping me out ever since that night. Since that investigation you went on without me. You found something. Something bigger than we expected.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” she snapped. “You and Otun, you think you’re the only ones who can carry secrets? I used to be your partner.”
I couldn’t look her in the eye. Not when I was doing exactly what she accused me of, hiding the truth. Not out of malice, but out of protection. Sandra had already been hurt once. If she knew about the supernatural, she’d become a target. Again. She turned to leave.
“Sandra…”
She faced me once more, eyes filled with something between pain and betrayal. “Whatever this is, I’ll figure it out. You can tell me, or I’ll find it myself.”
And just like that, she was gone. And I knew we wouldn’t be able to keep her in the dark much longer.
That evening, I retreated to The Peak, a quiet, classy Irish bar I’d recently taken to. It was my thinking place. Wood-panelled walls, chandeliers glowing gold, soft music threading through the clink of glassware. I sat at the bar and downed a gin and tonic. As the warmth settled in my chest, I glanced to my right and saw a familiar figure, Demola Kilani, who was nursing a drink alone. He was a noted witch, and a member of the Kilani coven. I moved closer.
“Demola,” I said.
He looked up. “Detective Saheed.”
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“My family owns the place,” he said with a tight smile. “What about you?”
“Just clearing my head.”
He nodded. “Kehinde, the girl Julius took, she’s close to my family. If he harms her…” His voice cracked, and his grip on the glass tightened.
“We’ll find her,” I assured him. “Search teams are everywhere.”
He looked me dead in the eye. “Let us handle him. We witches can deal with our own.”
I said nothing. Julius needed to be stopped. If it was by arrest or something more final. At this point, I didn’t care.
Demola stood, finished his drink in a single swig. “Leave the hunter to us.”
He patted my shoulder and turned to the bartender. “His drinks are on the house.”
And just like that, he vanished into the warm light of the bar, like the whisper of a breath.
Michael Olugbenga Olobadola is a Nigerian writer whose work explores the intersection of culture, belief, and the hidden lives of everyday people. He is the author of Owuro Rising, a fantasy novella.
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