Egbere: Keeping The Mat ( Bush Baby )

Keywords: Egbere, Bush Baby, Mat, Kola, Keeping The Mat, African mythology, Nigerian myth, Yoruba myth, bush baby, Free short story, thriller, horror (maybe), adventure, free short story

“Nwe! Nwe! Nwe!” The child’s cries pierced the stillness of the night, echoing through the dense forest, a desperate wail that would tug at the heart of any passerby. A sound so raw, so innocent, that it should have sent someone—anyone—rushing to rescue the helpless baby left to die. But no one came. No one ever came for Egbere.

Abandoned by a mother too poor to feed herself, let alone a child—especially one like him, cursed with a hunchback and a twisted, gnome-like face—Egbere’s fate was sealed from the moment he was born. His father had denied him, and his mother wept at the sight of him. She could not stomach the thought of the malformed creature nursing from her breast, and its relentless cries gnawed at her sanity. So, one night, she crept into the forest, a lantern flickering in her trembling hand, and carried the child far into its depths. She reached a tree, the one that stood alone at the forest’s heart, and laid him down, still wrapped in the mat that served as his only comfort.

“You are ugly,” she whispered, her voice brittle with exhaustion and despair. “You eat too much, and you cry too much. You are nothing but bad luck.” She stared into his pleading eyes, and when his cries swelled once more, she took it as confirmation that she was doing the right thing. Without another word, she turned her back on him, leaving the baby, the lantern, and the mat behind.

Seven days later, her body was discovered at the edge of the forest, her face clawed beyond recognition by a wild cat.

Kola was having the kind of day that made him question everything. As a worker for a garbage disposal company, he lived knee-deep in filth—picking up other people’s waste, enduring the sickening stench of rotting food and used sanitary pads, and worse, feeling maggots wriggle across his skin. His nose mask did little to shield him from the odours, and no matter how many showers he took, he could never scrub the filth from his mind. Life was no kinder at home—if you could call it that. His apartment in a crumbling three-story building was little more than a box with a leaking roof, and the rent had just gone up. His stingy landlord saw to that. And then there was Bukky—his girlfriend of two years—who had left him for a wealthier Igbo trader. He had proposed, foolishly believing she might say yes, but she rejected him coldly, pointing out that he had no future.

With his heart and mind heavy, Kola considered ending it all with rat poison. But first, he walked. He didn’t know where he was going, nor did he care. His feet took him toward the forest, where the sound of a child crying broke through his dark thoughts. At first, he ignored it, but the cry grew louder, more insistent until he couldn’t take it anymore. Against his better judgment, he plunged into the woods, searching for the source.

There, on a mat next to a flickering lantern, was a child—no more than two years old—its back hunched, its ears pointed, and its face… ancient. The memory of the legend hit him like a punch to the gut: Egbere, the cursed Bush Baby. Fear and disgust surged through him. Without hesitation, he lunged at the creature, landing a fist to its grotesque face. Blood spurted from its mouth, and with a few more vicious blows, Kola lifted the baby and hurled it as far as his anger could throw. Then he snatched the mat and ran.

Egbere wasn’t surprised. The humans always attacked it, always tried to steal its mat. But they never understood the curse that came with it. They would keep the mat for six days, and in those six days, they would lose their minds. Then, Egbere would take its revenge. And still, they never learned.

Not too long ago, a hunter had tried to cheat death. He shot the creature and stole its mat, thinking he’d outsmarted the legend. Five days later, he returned it, trembling, begging the bush baby to take it back. But it was too late. Egbere’s claws sprouted, slicing through the air, and it shredded the man’s skin like paper. It pulled his face to the back of his head and fed on his organs. Now, Kola was next.

Kola locked his doors. Then the windows. The room felt like a tomb—stuffy, dark, suffocating. He rushed to his bed, clutching the mat tightly, huddled in a corner. He knew the stories well: Bush Baby couldn’t enter without an invitation. He was safe.

“Nwe! Nwe! Nwe!” The crying started outside his window. Kola flinched. He was on the third floor—how could it be up here? He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, the cries grew louder. And when he finally drifted off, Egbere invaded his dreams, its haunting wail demanding the return of its mat.

By morning, Kola had made a decision. He called his office and quit. There was no way he could go back to work now—someone might see the mat, and if they stole it, he would be doomed. His father’s warning echoed in his mind: *Never let the mat out of your sight. Not even for a second. Egbere will come for it. And then it will come for you.*

He took stock of his supplies: a nylon bag of garri, two sachets of coffee, and four bags of water. *This will be enough,* he thought, convincing himself he could last the seven-day trial.

But day one was a battle he hadn’t anticipated. Sleep was impossible. Egbere appeared in every dream, its cry embedded in his mind, a relentless echo that haunted him even when he was awake. Night fell, day broke—he had survived the first 24 hours. *Six more days,* he told himself. *Five more nights.*

The second day crawled by. The hours felt like slow death. By nightfall, the crying became unbearable, louder than ever. He hadn’t left his room, and hadn’t eaten much. His buckets had become makeshift toilets, and the stench was thick in the air. His mind was fraying, unravelling with every passing minute. But he was determined to survive.

Somehow, by sheer willpower, Kola made it to day six. His room smelled like a decaying body. He had just one bag of water left. His garri was gone, his buckets were full, and he hadn’t bathed since locking himself in. His body ached, his spirit was broken, and his mind teetered on the edge of insanity. But the voices in his head—the ones he could no longer distinguish from Egbere’s cry—kept urging him on. *You crossed into madness the moment you stole Egbere’s mat. If you stop now, you’ll die for nothing.*

Desperate, he poured the last two sachets of coffee straight into his mouth. He’d been saving them for this final day. *Just one more night.*

Then, a knock on the door.

“Kola? Are you there?” The voice sounded muffled, and distorted, like it was coming from miles away.

“Who are you?” he croaked, barely recognizing his own voice.

“It’s your landlord. Are you okay in there?”

“Yes… I’m fine.” But his words felt strange, detached from reality.

“Are you sure? You haven’t come out in days. Your room smells like your job. Is this about Bukky? I heard her new boyfriend dumped her.”

Bukky? The name rang a bell, but in his delirium, it seemed distant, unfamiliar. He could barely think straight. Everything sounded like it was falling from the sky, the landlord’s voice blending with the cries of Egbere.

“Open the door, Kola!”

But Kola just sat there, gripping the cursed mat, waiting for the final night to end.

“Leave me alone!” Kola shouted, his voice hoarse, barely human.

“I can’t leave you alone,” the landlord replied, frustration dripping from every word. “Everyone’s worried about you. They’ve been knocking, calling, and you don’t open the door. Your friends came by, and all you do is scream at them to get lost. If you don’t open this door, I swear, come morning, I’m calling the police!”

Kola said nothing. The landlord pounded on the door a few more times, then gave up with a muttered curse.

But the crying—Bush Baby’s relentless wail—never stopped. It was a sound that clawed at your nerves, refusing to become background noise no matter how long it persisted.

At dawn on the seventh day, Kola made his move. He needed to leave before the landlord called the police. He emptied his Ghana Must Go bag, tossing aside the few clothes he owned, and stuffed the cursed mat inside. Without a backward glance, he unlocked his door and bolted from the building, running as fast as his legs could carry him. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, his skin pale, and he reeked of decay. But he ran, desperate to find sanctuary in the only place that made sense—the garbage dumping site.

The guards at the dump recognized him despite his disheveled appearance. He gave them a feeble excuse, claiming he was searching for his house key. They let him in, though their suspicious eyes followed him as he walked deeper into the mountains of rotting waste.

To Kola, everything was changing. The garbage seemed alive—maggots were smiling at him, bigger than they should be, grinning from ear to ear. He sped up, but every time he saw a happy maggot, his pace faltered, and he couldn’t help but stare. When he reached the farthest corner of the dump, he sat down on a patch of clean earth. His stomach growled, a hunger gnawing at him from deep inside. That’s when he noticed food everywhere—rotting, decayed, but irresistible. He dug in without hesitation, his mind far too gone to care, savoring each bite, even the maggots tasting like roasted chicken.

The guards watched from a distance, shaking their heads. Kola, the quiet, hardworking man they knew, had clearly lost his mind. They wasted no time calling Aro, the mental institution, knowing he was beyond saving on his own. There was no need to restrain him—he wasn’t going anywhere.

By 7 p.m., the Aro workers arrived with their van, ready to take him in. But when Kola saw them, something snapped. He bolted, trying to escape. It took ten men to catch him, to tie him down, and even after they sedated him, he clung to the mat like it was his lifeline.

When Kola awoke, it was morning, and the green walls of a padded room surrounded him. He wasn’t alone. Around him were other patients, each one chained to their beds, their eyes hollow and defeated.

Panic hit him like a freight train. He groped around, his heart racing. The mat—it was gone.

“My mat! My mat, o!” he screamed, thrashing in his restraints. His cries echoed through the ward, rousing the others from their stupor.

A nurse rushed in. “You’re awake,” she said, her tone neutral, used to such outbursts.

“Where is my mat?” Kola demanded, his eyes wild with fear.

“There is no mat,” the nurse replied, her voice calm but firm.

“It was in my bag!” Kola insisted, his voice rising in desperation.

The nurse frowned and left the room. A few moments later, she returned with his bag, already opened. She rifled through it and held it out for him to see. “There’s no mat here.”

Kola’s face drained of color. “Yekpa! I am dead o! Dead!” He wailed, his body trembling. “I was this close! Egbere will kill me now!”

A week later, Kola was released from the hospital. His landlord had vouched for him, claiming he’d take Kola in, hoping to repair his reputation after the press had latched onto the story. *”Financial Woes Drive Man Mad: Claims He Lost Egbere’s Mat,”*. No landlord wanted to be painted as the villain responsible for pushing a tenant over the edge, especially with reporters sniffing around for more.

That night, as Kola made his way home from Aro, the air was unnaturally cold. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and a strange force tugged at him, pulling him toward the dark edges of the forest. He fought the pull at first, but his feet moved of their own accord, dragging him closer to the place he had vowed never to return.

At the forest’s edge, Bush Baby waited. Its lantern swung lazily in its right hand, casting long shadows, and in its left, it held the mat—the very object that had driven Kola mad. As Kola neared, he froze, every instinct screaming at him to run, but his body betrayed him, rooted in place. Egbere moved forward, its steps deliberate, until it reached him. Without a word, it dropped the mat at Kola’s feet, then turned and disappeared back into the woods, its lantern light fading with every step. Kola’s seven-day trial was over, and Egbere had taken the mat from his bag as if to protect him from any other foolish human endeavour that might make his suffering for naught. It had grown fond of him.

Seven years passed. Kola’s life had transformed. Now, he woke in the soft sheets of his luxurious mansion, nestled deep within a sprawling estate. The sound of birds outside the window greeted him, sunlight filtering through the curtains. Beside him lay a beautiful woman, still fast asleep. On the bedside table, a thick wad of one-thousand-naira notes rested casually, like loose change.

Kola smiled, reaching for the money and tucking it into his safe. His days were golden—he had wealth, comfort, and everything he’d ever dreamed of. He lived this life for many years, until the day he died peacefully at the age of 89.

And on that final day, when the last breath left his body, Egbere returned. Not with malice, not with anger—but to reclaim its mat.

All rights reserved Fablingverse

A big thank you to Emeka Ifeanyi, Adeniyi Lawal, Nanna Xander Gbemi, and Gbenle Maverick for giving me information on Egbere and Bush Baby. And another round of Thanks to Blueman Eddie Agbator for sending a helpful link

Did you enjoy reading Egbere: Keeping the Mat (Bush Baby)? Need a longer story with humour? Try our web novel: Kidnapping Father Christmas