Sep 22, 2026 · 39 min · 10 segments
As famine hits southwestern Nigeria, a family is forced to battle not only hunger and disease, but an insistent curse. *Content warnings: Death, non-graphic body horror* Copyright © 2026 khōréō…
as she sees her only daughter, Amaride, vomiting by the tangerine tree next to the gate.
One moment, Amaride was sweeping the yard, clouds of dust rushing forward and collapsing in waves.
The next, Amaride was doubled over, hand against peeling bark, ridding her stomach of the early morning oji and akara she'd eaten reluctantly under her mother's watchful eye.
Mama Amorite stood in the shadow of the doorway, saying nothing.
The day was still young.
Her suspicions could still be proven wrong.
They were not.
The sky continued to yawn brightly as lone skinny clouds drifted across.
And then the land cooled, and a gentle chill came on the breath of the evening breeze.
Through it all, Mama Amorite's eyes followed her daughter.
The girl darted to the farm behind the house as soon as she had emptied Eru onto a tray and placed it in the sun to dry.
She walked around the compound, huffing and puffing, holding her lower back, complaining that it was sore from harvesting yams the day before.
By nightfall, Mama Amarai knew what must happen.
To understand Mama Amaride's decision, you must first understand that success is not free.
I myself dabble in the trade, and I can tell you to have something, you must lose something.
It is a simple law of nature.
Death fertilizes the soil from which all new things sprout.
Mama Amaride understood this well.
When she was a very young girl, she ran from Ife to Elysia, leaving her family behind in exchange for her independence.
Then she left Elysia for Aramoko many years later, a child wrapped against her back, because she realized independence was as useful as cow shit in the desert if you didn't have your own money.
When she arrived in Aramoco, she visited a very powerful man, one whose power demanded whispers and bowed heads, one who I am very familiar with.
I want to be wealthy, she said.
I want my daughter to inherit my wealth.
The man nodded.
He arranged cowries on a red cloth.
as she sees her only daughter, Amaride, vomiting by the tangerine tree next to the gate.
One moment, Amaride was sweeping the yard, clouds of dust rushing forward and collapsing in waves.
The next, Amaride was doubled over, hand against peeling bark, ridding her stomach of the early morning oji and akara she'd eaten reluctantly under her mother's watchful eye.
Mama Amorite stood in the shadow of the doorway, saying nothing.
The day was still young.
Her suspicions could still be proven wrong.
They were not.
The sky continued to yawn brightly as lone skinny clouds drifted across.
And then the land cooled, and a gentle chill came on the breath of the evening breeze.
Through it all, Mama Amorite's eyes followed her daughter.
The girl darted to the farm behind the house as soon as she had emptied Eru onto a tray and placed it in the sun to dry.
She walked around the compound, huffing and puffing, holding her lower back, complaining that it was sore from harvesting yams the day before.
By nightfall, Mama Amarai knew what must happen.
To understand Mama Amaride's decision, you must first understand that success is not free.
I myself dabble in the trade, and I can tell you to have something, you must lose something.
It is a simple law of nature.
Death fertilizes the soil from which all new things sprout.
Mama Amaride understood this well.
When she was a very young girl, she ran from Ife to Elysia, leaving her family behind in exchange for her independence.
Then she left Elysia for Aramoko many years later, a child wrapped against her back, because she realized independence was as useful as cow shit in the desert if you didn't have your own money.
When she arrived in Aramoco, she visited a very powerful man, one whose power demanded whispers and bowed heads, one who I am very familiar with.
I want to be wealthy, she said.
I want my daughter to inherit my wealth.
The man nodded.
He arranged cowries on a red cloth.
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