Chapter 1: Blood on the Clay

The air in the village hung heavy, thick with the stench of rotting fish and the sour tang of fear. The sun bled red across the horizon, staining the stagnant waters of Bayelsa State, where wooden shacks teetered on stilts above the swamp. Children wailed in the distance, their cries mingling with the buzz of flies and the rhythmic thud of a drum. In the heart of the settlement, beneath a canopy of gnarled mangroves, the community gathered in a tight circle. Their faces etched with sweat and dread reflected the flickering torchlight as they stared at the boy in the center.

Waribugo stood motionless, his bare feet sinking into the damp earth, his skin so dark it seemed to drink the shadows. At ten years old, he was already taller than most boys his age, his frame lean yet regal, his features striking high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and eyes like pools of blood, glowing faintly in the dusk. Those red eyes unsettled the villagers, a mark they whispered was unnatural for their kind, a sign of something divine or cursed. He wore nothing but a loincloth, his chest painted with white clay in swirling patterns, and his expression was serene, almost gentle, as if he were above the world around him.

Before him knelt Ogbunabali, his father, the chief priest of the village. The man's broad shoulders glistened with sweat, his hands stained with the blood of a freshly slaughtered goat, its carcass splayed on a stone altar nearby. Ogbunabali's voice boomed over the crowd, deep and commanding, as he raised a ceremonial knife carved from bone. "This land is ours!" he roared, his eyes wild with conviction. "The ancestors gave it to us, and we will not let these foreigners—these oil men steal it. Waribugo, my son, will rise as our living idol, a vessel of their will!"

The villagers murmured, some nodding, others shifting uneasily. Chief Tamuno, the head of the community, stood at the edge of the circle, his fingers twitching around a pouch of coins he'd hidden beneath his wrapper. He'd taken Shell's company money days ago, whispering Ogbunabali's location to their enforcers—black men in service to white masters, eager to silence the priest who armed the militants with juju and guns. Tamuno's stomach churned now, watching the ritual unfold, knowing what was coming.

Ogbunabali turned to Waribugo, his gaze softening for a moment. "You are my creation," he said quietly, pressing a blood-smeared hand to the boy's forehead. "I molded you from clay and my own blood. You are not like them. You are a god." Waribugo met his father's eyes, his lips parting in a faint, soft smile—a smile that carried no trace of fear, only acceptance.

The drumbeat quickened as Ogbunabali raised the knife higher. The villagers stepped forward, one by one, each wielding a leather whip. They struck Waribugo's back, the lashes cracking against his flesh, tearing skin and drawing rivulets of blood that dripped onto the earth. His body trembled with each blow, but he did not scream. His red eyes remained fixed ahead, unblinking, as if the pain were a distant echo he could ignore. The crowd watched in awe and horror, some weeping, others whispering prayers to the ancestors.

Then came the final act. Ogbunabali knelt before his son, the knife poised above Waribugo's groin. "This is your transcendence," he said, his voice steady. The blade descended, swift and sure, severing flesh in a single stroke. Blood gushed forth, soaking the ground, a dark pool spreading beneath Waribugo's feet. The boy's breath hitched, his body swaying, but still, he made no sound. His face remained calm, almost beautiful in its stillness, as if the gore and agony were offerings to his divinity. The villagers gasped, some turning away, others falling to their knees, convinced they'd witnessed the birth of something sacred.

Tamuno wiped sweat from his brow, his heart pounding. He's just a boy, he told himself, but the lie felt hollow. He'd betrayed Ogbunabali for a few thousand naira, and now the priest's words—his warnings about the oil men—rang in his ears.

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Days later, the retribution came. The swamp trembled with the roar of engines as armed men stormed the village—not police, but local enforcers hired by Shell, their faces familiar yet hardened by greed. They dragged Ogbunabali from his hut, his charms and powders useless against their rifles. Waribugo hid in the shadows of the shrine, peering through a slit in the wooden wall as his father fought. Ogbunabali cursed them, spitting blood and venom, until a bullet tore through his chest. He collapsed, his body crumpling onto the clay idols he'd crafted, his life seeping into the earth he'd died to protect.

The men ransacked the hut, searching for Waribugo, but he stayed silent, his red eyes glinting in the dark.