African Magic

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Sir William Ashcroft was a very ruthless Portuguese slave merchant, who dominated the African coasts. He dispatched raiding parties into the interior part of the lands to capture the villagers, both young and old, boys and girls, and even children. He terrorized the neighbouring villages as well, and captured many young maiden on their way to the streams, the young men on their way to the farms. This continued unabated and anyone who dared to challenge him was either gunned down or made to go through the most inhuman treatment ever conceived, and thereafter shipped off to faraway lands.

The arrival of European merchants offering guns, mirrors, gin, and other exotic goods in exchange for humans massively increased demand, leading the Natives to kidnap others and sell them.
Of course, no one blamed the West only, for the plunder of the villages, because everyone knew that white traders couldn’t have made an inroad into the remote places or loaded their ships without help from Africans.

No village had ever dared to resist Sir Ashcroft.

Until he set foot in Eziama.

A little village sitting on a hilly top, and facing the rising sun. It had been noised abroad that in many villages, young men had had to flee their homes to avoid being kidnapped by Sir Ashcroft or his men.

But the village elders had long foreseen his arrival. The stories of his cruelty had reached them, and they knew that they could not stop him from doing whatever he wanted to do by brute force, they were powerless against him, so they sought the counsel of the White Witches of Eziama, guardians of the land’s ancient magic.

“We will not fight him with the same swords or guns that he wields,” said Okonma, the eldest witch. “We will fight him with the help of the spirits of our land.”

The White Witches of Eziama were believed to have acquired their spiritual powers or African magic from the shrine of a deity named Okoama, which enabled them to wield great influence over anything. It was the diety that protected their land.

When Ashcroft arrived, he was met at the market square, the whole community were gathered there in eerie silence. They all stood still, watching him, their expressions unreadable.

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"Bow before your master now, you wretched things." He barked, his voice echoing through the market square. His men laughed, their muskets ready.

But no one moved.

Then, suddenly, Ashcroft screamed.

A sharp, unbearable pain like he had never known shot through his body. He looked down, and to his horror, boils—large, red, festering, pus-filled—began to sprout all over his arms, legs, and face. His men gasped and stepped back at the strange sight before them. Within seconds, the once-powerful slave merchant was reduced to a writhing, groaning mess on the ground.

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The villagers watched in silence as Okonma stepped forward, a smirk playing around her lips. As she spoke, she urged one of his men to interpret in the language of the White man.

“You take our people against their will, you do with them as you please." She said, her voice calm but filled with power. “Now, your body will rot like the many lives you have destroyed.”

Ashcroft wailed, his arrogance shattered. “Please!” he cried, his British tongue thick with pain. “Make it stop, make the pain go away!”

Okonma’s eyes glowed. “You must eat the humble pie, white man.”

“What—what do you want? Gold? Guns? Rum?” he stammered.

“No,” she said. “Kneel, go down on your knees, in reverence to the people of Eziama.”

Ashcroft hesitated. His pride battled with his agony. But as another wave of unbearable pain swept through him, he fell to his knees in the red Eziama soil.

“NOW SAY IT!” Okonma commanded.

“I swear!” he sobbed loudly. “I will never return to Eziama! Never!”

The witches exchanged knowing glances. With a whispered chant, they revoked the curse—but not completely. The scars of his boils remained, ugly and permanent, a reminder of his defeat.

Ashcroft fled that night, his body broken, his spirit shattered.

Eziama Stands Free

From that day on, no slaver dared to enter Eziama. The story of the white man who was cursed by the witches spread across the land and beyond the seas.

As for Sir Williams Ashcroft? Once the most feared slave merchant on the West African coast, returns to Portugal a broken man.

He never spoke of Eziama again. But for the rest of his life, whenever he looked in the mirror and saw the twisted scars on his skin, he remembered:

Africa has black magic, not to be toyed with.

Thank you for reading.