Go and make MONEY LIKE OTHER MEN. You fool. Feed me. Feed me and all riches will be yours. You her. What would you give to escape poverty? Your sleep, your peace, or even your marriage? They say the ocean hides secrets no man should uncover. Obi thought he had found the answer when a mermaid promised him wealth.
What she offered him sounded like a blessing, but the price was a curse. His life changed forever. This is Folktales by Chisum. Through African tales of love, greed, and destiny. Sit tight. The story begins now. In the bustling heart of Yaba, Lagos, where the streets never slept and the call of tradors blended with the constant honking of Danfu buses lived Obi.
To anyone passing by his cluttered repair shop, he was just another hustler. Sleeves rolled, brow wet with sweat, hands greasy from fixing broken radios and cracked phones. But beneath his smile and polite greetings, Obie’s heart was drowning in despair. His shop was failing. The Chinese tech gadgets flooding the market made his skills feel useless.
Customers no longer trusted his repairs when they could simply buy a new phone. Every evening, Obie closed his shop with only a handful of naira, barely enough to buy guri, soup ingredients, and pay his apprentice boy Chik. At home, in their cramped one- room apartment, his wife Claraara did her best to shield the children from the tension.
She prepared watery beans and rice with a forced smile, humming old Igbo lulabis as she served the meal. Their two young children, Amara, just 7 years old, and little Nonso, barely four, never complained, though their tiny frames told the story of hunger louder than words could.
Obie often lay awake at night, staring at the cracked ceiling. Claraara’s breathing beside him was soft and steady. Yet his mind was a battlefield. God, how long will I suffer like this? Am I cursed? Will my children inherit the same poverty? One hot Thursday afternoon, after losing a customer who laughed in his face, saying, “Why repair this when I can buy new for half the price?” Obi walked away from his shop, leaving the shutters down.
His legs carried him without direction until he reached the crowded CMS bus park. On impulse, he entered a bus heading toward Leki Aja. Hours later, when the crowd had thinned and the air grew salty with the seab breeze, Obi found himself wandering toward Elco Beach, that old stretch of sand whispered to be sacred.
Elders told stories of a stream hidden beyond the rocks, a place where sacrifices once spoke louder than prayers. That evening, with the sun sinking like a golden coin into the Atlantic, Obie stumbled upon it. The stream shimmering like liquid glass, quiet and untouched by the city’s chaos.
Something about it called to him. Exhausted, he sank to his knees by the water, his voice breaking. Chinke, is this my life? Am I destined to struggle forever? My wife deserves better. My children deserve better. Help me. His tears fell into the stream, rippling across its surface.
And then the water stirred. At first he thought it was the wind, but then a shape rose, delicate and terrifying. A woman, no, something more. Her hair floated like black silk in the current. Her eyes gleamed like silver moons. She wore no ornaments, yet her beauty was sharp enough to wound. Obie’s breath caught.
He wanted to run, but his body froze. The woman’s voice was low, melodic, and unsettling. Obi, I have been waiting for you. His name, she knew his name. His heart pounded in his chest. Who? Who are you? his stammed. Her smile was as chilling as it was enchanting. I am Ephe, the guardian of this dream, the one your father spoke of but dared not seek.
You came here with questions, with tears. I have answers and wealth beyond your dreams. The waves whispered around her as though the entire sea leaned in to listen. Obie’s lips trembled. Wealth? What do you mean? Ephe stepped closer, though her body seemed half submerged in water, half floating in air.
I can lift you from poverty. I can place Legos at your feet. Techubs, money, power, all yours. But nothing comes free. Obi, you must feed me. The night deepened. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean crashed. But all Obi could hear was her voice. And in that moment, as fear and desperation tangled in his chest, Obi realized his life was about to change forever.
The moon had risen high, casting a silver glow over the quiet stream. The world felt far away as if Yaba’s chaos and legos traffic no longer existed. Obi stood frozen, staring at the woman. This other worldly presence whose eyes seemed to pierce through his very soul.
“Feed me,” she had said. The words echoed in his skull. His voice cracked as he whispered back. “Feed you? With what? If his laugh was soft like bells underwater, not what you think, not goats or chickens like the shrines of men. I require more refined tastes. Every Friday you will bring me a feast, foods fit for the rich you long to become.
The water rippled, and before Ob’s eyes a vision shimmerred across the surface. trays of golden rice, bottles of imported wine, fruit glistening like jewels and sweets wrapped in silver foil. Then he saw something stranger, an opened bottle of Fanta, its liquid glowing faintly gold. His mouth fell open.
Gold leaf Fanta, saffron dishes, chocolate powders, roasted meats dusted with spices from far lands. That is what I eat,” if he said, her tone both playful and commanding. “Bring them to this stream every Friday night. Do it without fail, and your rise will begin.” Obie swallowed hard. He thought of Clara.
He thought of his children. For years he had begged God to send a miracle. Was this it or was this madness? His stomach twisted. As though sensing his doubt, Ephe drifted closer. Her face now inches from his. Her beauty was unsettling. The kind that belonged more to dreams than reality. I will give you one more condition, Obi.
A vow that will test the strength of your desire. Obie’s chest tightened. What vow? The water stilled, silent as a grave. If his eyes gleamed, you will not touch your wife nor any woman for 5 years. No intimacy, no passion. For 5 years, you belong to me. Only in your dreams where I will come to you. That is the price.
The words struck him like thunder. His knees went weak. He muttered. 5 years. That is impossible. Clara is my wife. She will not understand. If he tilted her head, smiling faintly. Then choose, Obey. Stay with Claraara in poverty watching your children eat hunger each night. Or hold fast for 5 years and emerge a man whose name the whole of Legagos will know.
Wealth requires sacrifice. The night air grew heavier. Obi’s mind was a storm. Poverty had already stolen so much from him. He remembered Amara’s thin arms. Nonso’s hunga cries. He remembered Clara weeping quietly when he thought he was asleep. Could he endure 5 years of distance if it meant saving them? If extended her hand and in her palm a stone appeared, iridescent, glowing faintly like a rainbow captured in crystal.
“This will guide you,” she said. “Carry it always. It will bind you to our pact. Keep the vow and your riches will multiply. Break it and you will lose more than money. Her words sank into his bones like ice. He reached out with trembling fingers, taking the stone. The moment it touched his skin, a Shiva shot through him.
Images flashed in his mind. shiny office buildings with his name emlazed cars a mansion in Leki his children dressed in the best school’s uniforms and then the images shifted fire water Claraara’s face twisted in grief gasped but a vision vanished as quickly as it came if a smile deepened you have accepted the vow is sealed Obie’s voice broke.
Wait, what if Clara asks? What if she suspects? Lie if you must. Say illness. Say exhaustion. She cannot know of me. This is between you and the waters. The current swirled, pulling her back. Her last words floated on the night air. Remember, Obey. Feed me and keep yourself pure or everything you love will drown.
The stream grew calm again, reflecting only the moonlight. Obie staggered back, clutching the glowing stone in his fist. His world had just shifted, but whether it was towards salvation or damnation, he could not yet tell. Morning came with the sound of Legos hustlers, street hawkers yelling gala, pure water, and the endless honking of buses at UAB.
But for Obi, the world felt different. The iridescent stone lay warm in his pocket, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. He had woken in their cramped apartment. Claraara already at the firewood stove fanning flames to cook watery pop for the children. Everything looked the same.
But inside him something had shifted. That Friday night, heart hammering in his chest, Obi carried his first offering to Alco Beach. He had borrowed money from a neighbor spinning a lie about buying shop materials, but instead spent it on the strangest, most extravagant meal he had ever assembled.
Golden fried rice, roasted chicken dripping with spice, imported wine in a cracked glass bottle, even a slice of cake bought from a bakery at Leki. When he laid the food at the stream’s edge, the water rippled violently. A cold wind rose, carrying the faint sound of laughter. Then the offerings were gone, swallowed by unseen hand.
In that moment, he knew his pact had begun. Within two months, Obie’s life changed. A friend of a friend introduced him to a contact at a new Lego startup desperate for affordable repair services for their faulty imported devices. Obi fixed one, then two, then 20.
His hands moving as if guided by a force beyond his own. By the third month, investors came knocking. By the sixth tech stream was born. A hub of electronics with branches springing up in a sur and a Obi once mocked as the man of failed repairs was now held as the tech guru of Lagos.
Newspapers carried his face. NTA invited him for an interview. At home, life blossomed. Claraara no longer had to boil beans with fear in her eyes. The children wore new clothes and eked rich meals and Claraara’s laughter once buried returned like sunshine after Hamatan. They moved into a spacious duplex in Leki phase 1 with glass windows that sparkled in the sun and rooms big enough for the children to run in circles.
But even as wealth poured in, the vow sat like a stone between them. Clara noticed it first in the little things. Obi kissed her forehead, held her hand, bought her jewelry, even whispered, “I love you.” every night. But when she reached for him, when she tried to remind him of the intimacy they once shared, he pulled away gently. “Clara, I’m exhausted.
The business drains me,” he would say. “Doctor said I should rest. You know, stress is too much.” He lied. At first she believed him, but as months turned into a year, her suspicion grew. Other wealthy men in Leki flaunted their mistresses. Was Obie one of them now? Nights became heavy. She lay awake, staring at his back, feeling a gulf open between them.
While Clara tossed in confusion, Obie’s nights were not peaceful either. Ephe came to him in dreams closed in silver light. At first she spoke gently, reminding him of the vow, caressing his face like a lover. But as the months passed, the dreams grew more sensual, more consuming. Her hands, her lips, her whispers left him trembling.
He woke drenched in sweat, his body aching with both pleasure and guilt. Claraara would stir beside him, but he turned away, too ashamed to meet her gaze. The stone glowed faintly on his nightstand, pulsing whenever Ephe visited. Each time Obi reminded himself, “It is for the children. It is for the future.” But his soul felt split in two.
Half the loving husband and father, half the bound servant of a spirit. Three years passed. Stretch had become a giant, expanding beyond Lagos into Abuja and Potakot. Obi was invited to international conferences where men in sharp suits bowed before him. Yet one evening after returning from a meeting, he found Ephe waiting in his dreams, not smiling, not seductive, but cold.
Her eyes burned like storm clouds. Eair, you are straying, she hissed. I can feel your hunger for her. Do not test me. The vow is not broken yet, but your thoughts are dangerous. If you touch Clara, everything will burn. Her voice cracked like thunder. He woke gasping, his chest heaving. And when he checked his phone the next morning, the news hit.
A major stream tech deal worth millions of naira had collapsed overnight, sabotaged by unknown forces. Obi staggered, sweat dripping down his face. The warning was clear. If he broke the vow, if’s wrath would not be subtle. Obi looked at Claraara, who was humming softly as she folded laundry, unaware of the storm raging within her husband’s heart. His lips trembled. He loved her.
He longed for her. But he also knew Ephair was watching. wealth had remade their lives. The duplex in Leki phase 1 was filled with the laughter of children polished marble floors and servants who bowed at Claraara’s slightest command. She drove a gleaming black Pradu shopped in the finest boutiques at IA and her children attended one of the best schools in Lagos.
From the outside, Claraara’s life was perfect. People envied her. Women whispered at weddings, “See Claraara, she’s enjoying all her husband loves her. No cheating scandal, just pure blessings.” But inside the marriage, Claraara’s heart was breaking. It wasn’t the wealth. It wasn’t the comfort. It was OB. He was everything a woman could ask for. Kind, generous, respectful.
He never shouted, never embarrassed her. But when her hand brushed his thigh, he froze. When she leaned in for intimacy, he gently turned away. At first, she told herself it was stress, but as months became years, it gnawed at her. One night, lying in their vast bed, she whispered, “Obie, do you still love me?” He turned to her, his face full of sincerity.
Claraara, of course I do. You are everything. She smiled weakly, but tears burned her eyes. Love without touch felt like punishment. By the fourth year of his vow, Claraara could no longer silence the voice in her head. He must be with someone else. He must have a mistress. He must have Claraara began to watch him closely.
Every Friday evening, Obi dressed quietly, claiming he had late business meetings. He returned late at night, smelling faintly of the seab breeze. Her heart twisted. Ley wives whispered about mistresses hidden in Victoria Island flats, about secret shrine visits, about ritual women. Could Obi, her gentle Obi, be one of those men? the thought to her.
Finally, she decided she would find out. Through a discrete friend, Claraara contacted a private investigator, a wiry man named Kunle, who had once been a police officer. “Meet him in a quiet cafe in Surui. She slid an envelope across the table.” “Follow my husband,” she whispered. every Friday night. Tell me where he goes, who he meets, everything.
” Kun nodded, pocketing the cash. “Madame, leave them for me. Within 2 weeks, you go no truth.” That Friday, Kunle tailed Ob’s sleek black SUV as it left Leki phase 1, weaving through Aja traffic and eventually into the darkness toward Alco Beach. Hiding at the distance, Kunlay followed Obi on foot as he carried a box wrapped in cloth.
The night was heavy. The sound of the waves crashing in the distance. Kunlay crouched behind the tree, snapping photos with his small camera. What he saw left him puzzled. Obese sat down the box at the edge of his stream. He knelt, head bowed, murmuring words he couldn’t hear. The box opened.
Inside were dishes of exotic food, roasted meats, bottles of foreign drinks. He arranged them carefully, almost reverently before stepping back. Minutes passed. Then the strangest thing before Kunley’s eyes, the food vanished. No hands touched it, no animals came. One moment it was there, the next it was gone. Kunlay’s blood ran cold.
He snapped photo after photo, his hands trembling. Then Obi stood, dusted his capan, and walked back toward his car as though nothing strange had happened. Kunlay didn’t wait. He ran. The following week, Kunlay returned with photos. Claraara sat in her living room, her hands trembling as she flipped through them.
Obi kneeling by his stream. Obi laying food. Obi alone, but the food disappearing into nothingness. Madame, I know no wedding day happened there, but your husband did do something strange. Oh, this no be ordinary meeting. Claraara’s heart pounded. At first, anger surged. So, it wasn’t another woman. Relief mixed with confusion.
Then what? Rituals, sacrifices. That night, she confronted Obi. He had just returned from a business dinner when she cornered him in their bedroom. Obi, tell me the truth, she demanded, holding up the photos with shaking hands. What is this? What are you hiding from me? Who are you serving? Obi froze. His face went pale, the stone in his pocket burning like fire.
Claraara, you don’t understand. Then make me understand, she cried. Tears streaming down her face. Four years, Obie. Four years without touching me, without holding me. I thought you were cheating. But this this is worse. Tell me the truth or I will walk out of this house tonight. Obie’s knees buckled.
The weight of his vow, the fear of Ephe, the love for his wife, all clashed inside him. He fell to the floor, clutching her hands, and the words tumbled out. Claraara, it’s not another woman. It’s her, the mermaid. Ephe, she gave me all this. The house, the cars, the business, but the price, the price was you. Claraara staggered back, her hand covering her mouth.
For a moment, silence hung like smoke. Then her voice cracked with fury. Do you expect me to believe this? A mermaid? Obie, do you think I’m a fool? You starved me of love for 4 years, and now you bring me tales of water spirits. Obese tears fell. It is the truth. I swear it. She visits me in dreams. If I break the vow, everything will burn.
But Clara only saw betrayal, not protection. To her, it was the most elaborate excuse she had ever heard. And that night, as she turned away from him in bed, Obi knew the vow was trembling on the edge of breaking. The silence between Obie and Claraara stretched for weeks like an open wound.
She moved through their home as though he were a stranger, speaking only when necessary. When she smiled, it was for the children. When she laughed, it was hollow. At night, she turned her back to him, arms folded, eyes wet with tears. Obie tried everything. flowers, jewelry, late night talks, but none of it touched the pain in her eyes.
His confession had done the opposite of what he hoped. Instead of saving his marriage, it shattered it further. One evening, Clara broke. They had just returned from a family friend’s wedding. Claraara had watched couples dance, watched wives lean into their husband’s arms, watched intimacy flow like wine across the hall. She smiled through it, but the envy cut her soul.
When they got home, she shut the bedroom door and turned on Obie with blazing fury. Obie, I am your wife, not a stranger you met on the road. Four years, Obie. Four years of excuses, lies, and pain. You claim you love me, but touch me like I am cursed. Her voice rose, trembling with rage. What kind of love denies the very thing that binds us? If it is truly a spirit, then what kind of man lets another woman, dream or not, take his place in his marriage bed? Obie’s chest heaved.
He tried to reach for her, but Claraara shoved him away. If you cannot love me fully, Obie, then what am I doing here? The children stirred in the next room, and her voice broke into sobs. Obie’s heart cracked. He had borne poverty, humiliation, even hunger. But this, losing Claraara, watching her slip through his fingers, it was unbearable.
That night, as the rain hammered against their windows, Claraara wept openly beside him. Her sobs were raw, tearing at the walls of his soul. Obi stared at the glowing stone on his nightstand, pulsing faintly with Ephé’s unseen presence. Her warning echoed in his head. “If you touch her, everything will burn.” But Claraara’s tears cut deeper than fear.
He turned to her, his voice shaking. Claraara, I can’t lose you. If this is my curse, then let it fall. I would rather face ruin than see you believe I don’t want you. And for the first time in almost 5 years, Obi reached for her. Claraara, trembling and desperate, clung to him.
Their embrace was filled with love and defiance, a desperate claiming of what had been denied them for so long. The vow shattered in that instant. The moment their lips touched, the iridescent stone on the nightstand cracked with a sharp chilling sound. Obi froze, pulling back just in time to see it split into glowing shards. Light spilling across the room like liquid fire. The air grew heavy.
A low rumble filled the house as though the ocean itself had risen to their doorstep. Claraara screamed as the walls shuddered. Then came the call. Obie’s phone buzzed violently on the table. With shaking hands, he answered. It was his warehouse manager in Easia. His voice frantic. Oga, fire. The whole Stream Tech warehouse is burning.
We can’t stop it. The goods, the machines, everything is gone. Obi dropped the phone. His skin turned cold. He ran to the window, but the storm outside seemed to laugh at him. Lightning splitting the sky like a curse delivered. Clara clutched him, terrified. Obi, what is happening? But Obi couldn’t answer. He knew the vow was broken.
Ephes’s wrath had begun. By dawn, the warehouse was nothing but twisted steel and ash. News spread like wildfire across Lagos. Stream Tech’s flagship warehouse destroyed in mysterious blaze. Journalists speculated about insurance fraud. Competitors whispered of sabotage. Investors called demanding answers. Contracts dissolved overnight.
But it was not just the business. Each night after Obie lay awake, haunted by the feeling that the water was watching him. Every shadow in the house seemed to drip with her presence. And though Claraara lay beside him, finally whole in love, he could not shake the dread that Ephes’s punishment had only just begun.
Obi barely slept after the fire. Each night the shadows in his mansion seemed alive, the air thick with the scent of brine and smoke. The stone, once his talisman, now lay in shattered pieces on his dresser, lifeless. Clara tried to comfort him, though her heart still wrestled with disbelief. Maybe it was just bad luck, Obi.
We can rebuild, she whispered. But Obi knew better. Ephair had promised wealth, but she had also promised ruin. And now ruin was here. It was on a Sunday evening when Ephair came. The family had just returned from church. Clara singing hymns softly as she cooked stew in their vast kitchen. Obie sat in the living room, staring blankly at the television.
Then the lights flickered. The air turned icy cold. From the reflection in the TV screen, Obie saw her emerging from the shadows, her hair dripping with unseen water, her silver eyes gleaming with fury. He spun around, but Clara and the children noticed nothing. They carried on as though nothing had changed. You broke the vow, Obi.
You touched her. You chose desire over destiny. Now the tide must take its due. Obie fell to his knees. Please epheair, spare me. Take the money, take the cars, take everything, but not my family. Her laugh was cold, slicing through him. Fool, I never wanted your riches. I wanted your loyalty. And now you will taste what betrayal brings.
The next morning, panic stroke. The driver arrived home in tears. Uga, I don’t know how it happened. The children, the boss, they vanish. We reached Todd Melan Bridge. I look back. Amara and Nonso. No day again. The man wailed, swearing he had only looked away for a second. Police searched the bridge. Divers combed the waters, but no trace of the children was found.
Clara collapsed, her screams shattering the air. My children, Obi, where are they? But Obi already knew. His blood ran cold. Epher had taken them. The news of the fire spread further. Contracts dissolved. Accounts froze. Investors fled. The newspapers that once hailed Obi as a genius now plastered his downfall across their covers.
Stream tech billionaire faces mysterious ruin screamed the headlines. Rumors spread. Whispers of fraud. Whispers of rituals. Some say the fire was insurance fraud. Others say Obi had bargained with spirits. Through it all, Clara drifted further from him. her grief, a gulf he could not cross. One night she whispered through her tears.
“You brought a curse into this house,” Obie, and now it has taken everything. By morning, she was gone, her clothes packed, her ring left on the nightstand. Months later, Obi was back in Yaba. The duplex in Lakey was sold, the cars gone, stream tech a memory. His old shop reopened, the sign board faded, the tools rusty.
Every Friday night he returned to a Leo beach. He carried food, rice, wine, roasted chicken, placing it by the stream. But Ephair never appeared again. The water remained calm, mocking him with silence. One night, as he set down the food, he whispered into the wind. I kept your vow until love broke me. Was that my sin? Was love my crime? The waves crashed in reply, cold and indifferent.
Obi aged quickly, his hair grayed, his shoulders stooped. On his counter in Yaba, the broken pieces of the iridescent stone lay in a small dish, a relic of his rise and fall. Children passing by sometimes asked him, “Uncle Lobi, tell a story how you once became rich.” He would smile sadly and reply, “If a spirit promises you the world, count the cost.
For every blessing carries a chain, love, family, peace. These are worth more than all the gold of Lagos.” And with that, he would return to his quiet repairs. A man who had once touched wealth beyond imagination but lost everything that mattered. Moral lesson. Quick wealth through forbidden bargains carries hidden chains. Desire unchecked leads to ruin even when clothed as love.
True wealth lies not in riches, but in peace, love, and
