A Yoruba Fantasy Comedy

By Sami

Long ago, before the world learned to mind its business, there was a quiet little village named Apetu, tucked between two stubborn hills and one very judgmental river. Life was peaceful, predictable, almost too calm.

And in a place like that, trouble always has a way of finding the door.

That trouble’s name was Èṣù.

One dry Harmattan morning, a playful whirlwind spun into the village square. It hopped, twisted, and burst into the shape of a tall figure wearing a red hat and a smile full of mischief.

“Mo ti dé o!” Èṣù announced.

I have arrived!

The villagers froze.

The Baale stepped forward.

“Èṣù, what do you want?”

“I am here to help,” Èṣù replied proudly. “Apetu has problems. I have solutions.”

This was the exact sentence every Yoruba villager feared most.

Mama Risi was famous for only one thing: her mouth refused to mind its business.

The villagers begged Èṣù to help her stop gossiping.

Èṣù touched her forehead, whispered a charm, and smiled.

The next day, when Mama Risi tried to gossip, she opened her mouth and

“A river that forgets its source will be drinking sand soon!”

“Huh?” everyone asked.

She tried again.

“When the lizard nods, it is greeting its shadow!”

From morning till night, she spoke only long, confusing Yoruba proverbs.

No one understood her. People started avoiding her. Even goats changed direction when they saw her.

Èṣù had “fixed” the problem.

Sort of.

Baba Tapa loved yam more than he loved all his children combined. He complained that his harvest was too small.

Èṣù, always eager for mischief, blessed the barn.

The next morning, Baba Tapa found the barn full of yam.

Wonderful.

Except every yam…

had grown legs.

And they refused to stay put.

By sunrise, villagers were chasing yams sprinting through the streets like marathon runners. Children tried to ride them like horses. Hunters attempted to shoot them. One stubborn yam even kicked the Baale into a pile of palm fronds.

“Èṣù!” Baba Tapa cried. “I wanted MORE yam, not MOBILE yam!”

Èṣù only shrugged.

“You were not specific.”

Leke complained that girls never noticed him.

“Make me handsome,” he begged.

Èṣù snapped his fingers.

Leke woke up so stunningly beautiful that the entire village started chasing him, not just girls, but men, women, elders, even the masquerade.

Everybody wanted to admire him.

Some wanted to adopt him.

Palm-wine tappers wanted to carve his face on their gourds.

Leke spent the whole day hiding behind trees, panting for breath.

“Èṣù,” he cried, “reduce my beauty”

“Beauty is trouble,” Èṣù answered. “Now you know.”

After three days of pure madness, the villagers gathered.

They approached Èṣù carefully, nobody wants to offend the king of trouble.

“Oh great Èṣù,” the Baale said, bowing nervously, “thank you for your… help. But we are fine now. Very fine. Extremely fine.”

“No more fixing” the villagers shouted.

Èṣù sighed dramatically.

“You people don’t appreciate creativity. Fine. I will leave. For now.”

He spun back into a whirlwind and vanished over the hills.

Just before he disappeared completely, his voice echoed:

“I will return when you miss me!”

“No we won’t” the whole village yelled.

Èṣù only laughed.

Apetu slowly returned to normal:

Mama Risi finally stopped speaking in riddles.

Baba Tapa’s yams stopped running, after three days of chasing.

Leke tied a scarf over his face to avoid fans.

And every evening, when the wind made a certain playful whistle, someone would whisper:

“Is Èṣù coming back?”

No one knew.

But one thing was sure

Where peace lasts too long, Èṣù cannot resist a visit.