The Native Doctor’s Blood

Everyone feared Ajànàkú.

His shrine sat at the edge of the village where the forest thickened and the air smelled of burnt herbs and old secrets. People came to him for protection, power, luck—and revenge. He never failed them, and that was the problem. Power had made his heart dry.

When Kunle, a trader from a neighboring town, visited Ajànàkú to test his famous protection charm, the native doctor laughed.

“My medicine cannot kill,” Ajànàkú boasted. “It only obeys me.”

Kunle smiled. “Words are easy. Proof is better.”

Ajànàkú’s eyes darkened. Pride burned hotter than wisdom. To prove his power, he prepared a meal inside the shrine—yam mixed with herbs, poison hidden like a whisper. He called his young son, Sẹ̀gun, and sat him beside Kunle.

They would eat from the same plate.

“If my son eats it,” Ajànàkú said, “how can you fear?”

The drums were silent as they ate.

Minutes passed. Sweat formed on Sẹ̀gun’s face. His hands began to shake. Kunle felt nothing—no pain, no fire in his chest. Then Sẹ̀gun collapsed, foam at his mouth, eyes wide with confusion.

Ajànàkú screamed.

The poison had obeyed—but not the way he promised.

The villagers rushed in. Ajànàkú tried to chant, tried to reverse the spell, but the shrine stayed quiet. His son died on the cold earth where sacrifices were usually made.

Kunle stood up.

That was when the truth broke open.

“The medicine didn’t spare me because it’s safe,” Kunle said calmly. “It spared me because it was never meant for outsiders.”

He revealed what Ajànàkú had hidden for years: the shrine fed on bloodline power. The herbs worked only when mixed with the life of his own family—sons, daughters, ancestors. Every ritual had cost him a piece of his blood.

The protection people bought was paid for by his children.

The villagers froze.

Ajànàkú fell to the ground, clawing at the soil. His greed had finally demanded a price too high. That night, the shrine lost its voice. The herbs turned useless. The forest rejected him.

By morning, the villagers burned the shrine.

Ajànàkú was left alive—but powerless, carrying the weight of his son’s blood on his hands. Kunle left without a word.

In the end, the shrine did not kill Ajànàkú.

Karma did something worse.

It made him live.

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