Nwanyi Mmiri: Burn That Shrine Down

Keywords: Nwanyi Mmiri, Shrine, mami wata, Eke Nnukwu, Reverend Ifeanyi, Beatrice, snake, priestess, fear, goddess, altar, village, Free short story, Drama, Horror, Religion, African Mythology, Shrine, Enjoy this story

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the village as women made their way home from the bustling market and farmers trudged back from their fields. Agadi Nwanyi, the venerable matriarch of the clan, took her place on a weathered stone beneath the sprawling orange tree that stood sentinel beside the sacred shrine of Nwanyi Mmiri, also known as Idemili, the powerful goddess whose presence dominated the heart of the community, her shrine nestled strategically beside the bustling village square. That morning, the goddess had been appeased, and the remnants of the ritual were still fresh—a smear of drying blood traced down her altar, pooling over a tray of corals, glass beads, and a bowl of rich camwood dye. The shrine was draped in crimson and white cloth, its walls adorned with intricate uli art. At its innermost sanctum stood a commanding mbari statue of Nwanyi Mmiri, a majestic python coiled around her waist, its head resting protectively between her breasts as she gazed out over the village with an air of quiet omnipotence.

The children, having finished their chores, gathered eagerly in front of the orange tree. Some were fortunate enough to find seats on the fallen logs and exposed roots, while others sat cross-legged on the earth. Behind them stood the teenagers, freshly relieved from their age-grade duties, their lower bodies modestly covered—girls in skirts and boys in loincloths or shorts, all with bare chests. The older girls wore beads around their ankles, a sign of their age, and more beads adorned their waists, wrists, and necks, their hairstyles exuberant with youth and vitality.

It was time for another tales by moonlight. Agadi Nwanyi was revered as one of the finest storytellers in the land, her tales so captivating that even the stoic warriors—men who would never admit to once suckling at a woman’s breast—lingered nearby under the pretense of guarding the children, just to lose themselves in her words. Today, she spun the tale of Eke the Python—not the one that slithered into their beds or coiled itself among their cooking pots, but Eke Nnukwu, the Great Python, and the fierce retribution it exacted for Nwanyi Mmiri.

At the same time, Reverend Ifeanyi stood on the precipice of his own spiritual battle. Once an Osu—an outcast—his life had changed irrevocably when he encountered the white man and embraced his God. Though he believed he had shed the shackles of his past, the bitterness lingered, a sour taste that rose unbidden whenever he recalled the life he had been forced to leave behind. His resentment toward those who had ostracized him was a silent, simmering fury, one he dared not voice. Yet, he found solace in his newfound superiority, convinced that his conversion had elevated him above the pagans. Now in his mid-thirties, he had become a man of unshakable resolve, his decisions no longer his own but divinely guided. Today, he led a dozen fervent followers in prayer, girding themselves for the battle ahead.

Earlier that day, Reverend Ifeanyi and his band of evangelists, including the devout Sister Beatrice, had ventured deep into the heart of Idemili, determined to spread their gospel. They had stumbled upon the shrine of Nwanyi Mmiri, just as the priestess had sacrificed a chicken, its headless body still convulsing atop the altar. Disgust twisted his features as he shook his head, the sight only deepening his conviction. “These souls are ensnared in darkness,” he declared, as they advanced toward the shrine, their voices rising in a fervent chorus of prayer and song, prepared to confront the forces they believed held the village in thrall.

The priestess stood like a living embodiment of the statue she revered. Thin lines of charcoal traced around her eyes, sharpening her gaze, while her face gleamed with a mix of camwood, white clay, and charcoal designs that adorned her flawless, bare skin. Glass beads covered her womanhood, shimmering with each movement, and a small snake coiled around her wrist, its flickering tongue a silent testament to her power. She was in the midst of hanging the severed head of a chicken from the shrine’s roof when she caught sight of the men in white approaching.

The warriors, both male and female, had been watching the intruders with growing suspicion. As the strangers drew closer, their strange dance and foreign words echoing through the air, the warriors silently assembled, weapons at the ready, poised to defend their sacred ground. But before they could act, the priestess picked up her sword and stepped forward, her presence commanding enough to hold them at bay.

Reverend Ifeanyi paused his fervent prayer, eyes narrowing as he observed the scene. “They do not yet understand that we have come to save them,” he said, his voice tinged with both pity and righteousness. Then, speaking in tongues, he turned to Sister Beatrice. “This is your village, Sister.”

“Yes, Reverend, but I am no longer one of them,” she replied, her voice steady.

“Oh, Sister Beatrice, you are right. The Lord has brought you into His family, and you are no longer one of them,” he affirmed, his tone softening. “But you speak their language. Now, you shall serve the Lord by interpreting His word to these pagans.”

With a nod, Sister Beatrice stepped forward, her resolve unbroken. The priestess recognized her instantly, her expression hardening as she spat on the ground. “You have brought shame and pain upon your parents, Nwanyinaza,” she spoke in Igbo, a sharp hiss following her words.

Once, she had been Nwanyinaza, “the woman of the sea answers,” but that name belonged to another life. Now, she was Sister Beatrice, and she refused to acknowledge the priestess’s taunt, instead waiting for Reverend Ifeanyi’s next command.

“People of Idemili,” the Reverend began, his voice booming with authority, “fear not, for we have come to free you from the bondage of this powerless and false deity.” His words were firm, and as Sister Beatrice translated, her tone carried the same conviction. They spoke of a new God, telling the villagers that they had been deceived, worshiping what they called the devil—an idea foreign to the Igbo, who knew Ekwensu not as evil, but as the deity of mischief, war, wealth, and strength.

An elder, known as Mbe for his cunning ways, stepped forward. His eyes glinted with the wisdom of ages as he addressed Sister Beatrice, his voice calm yet edged with irony. “Nwanyinaza, tell your friends that in our village, we do not challenge the gods in the daylight. If they wish to fight our God, they should return at night, when it is awake.”

Sister Beatrice turned to Reverend Ifeanyi, relaying the elder’s words with precise neutrality. The Reverend’s stern expression softened, and then he laughed—a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the tense silence.

“A god who sleeps during the day,” Reverend Ifeanyi scoffed as he stepped toward the shrine, his eyes gleaming with contempt. But his advance was halted by the priestess’s blade, its sharp point pressed against his chest, daring him to come closer.

“We will be back,” he laughed, the sound hollow and cold. “By morning, when you awake, your shrine will be nothing but ashes, and you will bow to the one true God.” Sister Beatrice translated his words, and the people of Idemili nodded in agreement, their faces betraying no fear.

As Agadi Nwanyi spun her tales of the fearsome Eke to the gathered children, the priestess silently picked up the tray of sacrificial ornaments and placed it atop her head. With deliberate steps, she made her way down to the river.

When she reached the riverbank, she raised the tray over the still waters and cried out, her voice echoing through the quiet night. “Nwanyi Mmiri! Idemili!! I come not just to appease you today, but to plead for your wrath! Your shrine was disrespected today. They claimed you are not real, and they threatened to burn your sanctuary. Show them your power! Wipe them out for their arrogance, so that none like them may ever return.” With that, she emptied the tray into the river and turned back to the shrine, the tray still balanced on her head. As she walked away, a large green snake slithered silently into the water, vanishing beneath the surface.

As night fell, a warning spread through the village like wildfire: no one was to leave their compound, no lights were to be lit, and every door was to be locked tight.

Goosebumps prickled Beatrice’s skin, and she shivered despite the warm night air. She considered retreating to the safety of the church, but the need to prove herself to Reverend Ifeanyi kept her rooted in place. After their return from Idemili earlier that evening, he had accused her of wavering in her faith, of clinging to her pagan roots, and had urged her to banish any lingering doubts. She had run away from home nearly a year ago after the reverend sought her hand in marriage, only to be rejected by her community, who saw him as an outcast. She had expected him to take her into his chambers, to claim her as his wife, but instead, he had draped a cloth over her shoulder and preached to her, urging her to accept his God as her savior. Since then, she had stayed by his side, desperate to prove that she had shed her old self, that she was Christian enough to be his wife.

As they walked down the forest path, Reverend Ifeanyi prayed and sang in a loud voice, his tone one of fervor and defiance. Beatrice assumed he was trying to scare away any wild animals that might be lurking in the dark. The other men joined in, their voices rising to match his, the cacophony unsettling in the stillness of the night. But something felt off. The village was too quiet, the air thick with an eerie, familiar presence—one she hadn’t sensed since she was thirteen, swimming in the Idemili River. A thin string of glass beads floated toward her in the water back then, and the moment she had put it around her neck, she had felt that same presence she was sensing now. Instinctively, her hand reached up to touch the necklace hidden beneath her gown.

The group finally arrived at the shrine, and without hesitation, Reverend Ifeanyi set it ablaze. The fire roared to life, devouring the sacred structure, and he threw his head back in laughter, mocking the goddess as the flames danced higher, casting long shadows into the night.

“Ifeanyi,” Beatrice whispered, her voice trembling.

“I have told you to call me Reverend Ifeanyi,” he snapped, spinning around to face her, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a man who believed he’d just delivered divine retribution.

“Reverend Ifeanyi,” she corrected, her voice steadier now, “Nwanyi Mmiri’s shrine… it’s not burning.” She could feel it—the presence growing stronger, as if unseen eyes were watching their every move.

Reverend Ifeanyi’s confident smirk faltered as he turned back to the shrine. His grip on the lamp slackened, and the men around him fell silent, their bravado evaporating in the chilling air. Then, cutting through the stillness, a woman’s laughter rang out, light and mocking.

She appeared before them, naked and unashamed, her body painted a deep red with camwood. Her eyes, lined with charcoal, had pupils that gleamed a sickly yellow, slitted like a serpent’s. A long, sinuous snake coiled around her waist, draped over her shoulder, its head nestled between her breasts. She was tall, her hourglass figure both mesmerizing and terrifying, and as she moved, she seemed to slither rather than walk, gliding effortlessly across the ground.

“You should see the look on your face,” she teased, her tone almost playful. But then her voice hardened, her demeanour shifting as swiftly as a storm cloud darkening the sky. “Who are you?”

Reverend Ifeanyi hesitated, his bravado slipping away like sand through his fingers. “I… I am Ifeanyi. I am Reverend Ifeanyi!” he stammered, trying to muster courage that he no longer felt.

“Why have you come to burn my shrine?” she asked, her eyes wide and pleading, yet the air around her vibrated with an aura of dread that made his blood run cold.

“Because… because you are not real. You are a demon, and these people need to be liberated from you,” he stuttered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.

Her eyes narrowed, her presence swelling to fill the space around them, suffocating and relentless. “And on whose authority do you come to burn down my shrine, stranger?” Her voice, though soft, cut through him like a blade. “Have my people done anything to harm you, that you must wage war against their God? Have they asked you to free them from me?” She leaned closer, her expression shifting between calm and fury, like the ever-changing tides of the ocean. “Stranger! I ask you again, on whose authority have you come?”

Beatrice’s heart pounded in her chest. She had heard the tales—whispers of the goddess’s wrath, of Eke and his brothers, and what they did to those who crossed them. She knew she had to flee. But as she turned to run, a blood-curdling scream froze her in place. Paul, the newest convert, once known as Maduka, was caught in the coils of a massive python. The snake, its scales gleaming in the firelight, tightened its grip around him. As if waiting for the perfect moment, it unhinged its jaw and swallowed him whole, his terrified cries cut off in an instant.

Reverend Ifeanyi’s lamp slipped from his grasp, crashing to the ground. His legs gave way, and a warm, wet trickle ran down his thighs as the liquid terror seeped through him.

“You,” the goddess’s voice cut through the night like a blade, “I’m still speaking to you. On whose authority have you come?”

“I—I—I am here on the authority of Jesus,” Ifeanyi stammered, his voice quaking with fear.

“Louder!” Her command echoed, rattling his very soul.

He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. His throat was dry, choked by terror.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked, her tone laced with dark amusement.

The snake beside her, now satiated after swallowing the last of Paul, settled in to watch the scene unfold. Beatrice’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew this serpent wasn’t Eke Nnukwu; the true Eke was far larger, a creature of mythic proportions that no mortal had ever seen and lived to speak of—save for the priestess, who was scarcely human herself.

“You know what?” Nwanyi Mmiri’s voice softened, almost to a whisper. “I’ll show you mercy, Ifeanyi—Reverend Ifeanyi.” She let the title drip from her tongue like poison. “Give me that woman with you, and I will let you and your men leave here alive.”

“Take her.” He didn’t hesitate, the words spilling from his lips without a second thought.

Nwanyi Mmiri and Beatrice stared at him, shocked, their mouths agape. The goddess’s gaze turned to Beatrice, and a gust of wind pushed her toward the deity.

“Shh, don’t struggle, my child,” Nwanyi Mmiri cooed. “The man you gave yourself to has offered you to me. Your life belongs to me. It always has. I gave you to your mother, and yet you left—left for this man, this weak man who would sacrifice you without a blink!” Beatrice’s tears flowed freely now. “Run,” Nwanyi Mmiri commanded softly, “before I change my mind.”

Reverend Ifeanyi didn’t wait. He turned and fled, not daring to look back. But as he dashed through the forest, a scream tore through the air—one of his followers, caught in the coils of another snake, being devoured alive. Ifeanyi pushed himself harder, desperate to escape the cursed village, knowing the goddess’s wrath wouldn’t be so easily sated.

His breath caught in his throat as he skidded to a halt. Something massive and dark loomed before him, blocking his path. Eke Nnukwu, the Great Python, towered over him—seven feet wide and nearly twelve feet tall in its half-raised posture. Even in the darkness, its green scales glowed with an eerie light. The python’s red eyes bore into Ifeanyi, paralyzing him with terror.

All around, the forest came alive with the sounds of death. Snakes dropped from the trees, wrapping themselves around the fleeing evangelists, their powerful bodies constricting with every breath until bones cracked and screams were silenced. And then, as if in a macabre dance, the snakes opened their jaws and swallowed their prey whole. Eke Nnukwu, its gaze never leaving Ifeanyi, bent its massive head and opened its mouth wide, descending upon him.

Morning came, and the people gathered around the shrine, astonished to find it still standing. The only evidence of the night’s battle were the discarded clothes of the strangers, strewn across the altar. In front of the shrine’s entrance lay the dead skin of Eke Nnukwu, stretched out like a verdant carpet.

Nwanyi Mmiri emerged, radiant in the dawn light, with a naked Beatrice at her side. The priestess followed closely, her eyes lowered in reverence. For the first time, the villagers beheld their goddess, and she was more beautiful than any woman they had ever seen, more ethereal even than the priestess.

The goddess turned to Beatrice, her lips curving into a gentle smile. Then, without a word, she leaned in and kissed her.

Beatrice understood. She walked to the altar, lay down, and closed her eyes, her breath steady as she awaited her fate. The priestess, solemn and resolute, picked up her sword.

“Today, my daughter, you will return to my side,” Nwanyi Mmiri murmured, her voice tender as she reassured Beatrice with a final smile.

Beatrice exhaled softly, embracing the peace that washed over her, and waited for the swift blow that would send her head rolling down the altar, reuniting her with the goddess.

THE END

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