A typical sub-modern Nigerian village in the early 2010s. The village is a mix of old and new: mud houses with thatched roofs sit alongside concrete buildings with corrugated iron sheets. The air smells of wood smoke, fried plantains, and the earthy scent of the nearby river. The sound of children playing, goats bleating, and the rhythmic pounding of yams fills the air. It's a place where tradition and modernity coexist uneasily, and where the old stories still hold power.
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Amina, 17, is outside her family's compound, pounding yams in a large wooden mortar. The rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* of the pestle echoes in the evening air. Her mother, a stern but loving woman, calls from inside the house, "Amina, hurry up! It's getting dark. Come inside before the spirits start wandering." Amina rolls her eyes but quickens her pace. She doesn't believe in spirits or old wives' tales. She's a modern girl, after all.
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As she pounds the yams, a child runs past her, barefoot and laughing. He greets her in the local dialect, "Amina, good evening!" before darting into the road. Suddenly, there's a screech of tires, a loud *thud*, and a scream. Amina drops the pestle and runs to the road, her heart pounding. But instead of a child, she finds a cat lying lifeless on the asphalt, its body twisted unnaturally. Confused, she looks around, calling for the child, but there's no sign of him. Just then, she hears laughter from the woods behind her. She turns and sees the child running into the trees, his small figure disappearing into the shadows.
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Amina hesitates for a moment, then follows, calling out, "Wait! Where are you going? It's not safe!" The child doesn't stop. He weaves through the trees with unnatural speed, his laughter echoing eerily. Amina runs faster, her breath coming in short gasps, but the child is always just out of reach. Finally, she sees him duck behind a large tree. She runs to it, but when she rounds the trunk, he's gone. The forest is silent, save for the sound of her own breathing.
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As she stands there, confused and frightened, she hears it—a song. It's soft at first, almost a whisper, but it grows louder, more insistent. The voice is hauntingly beautiful, melodic and hypnotic. It sings in a language she doesn't understand, but the words resonate deep within her:
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*"My beautiful Amina, come to me, come to me,
Troubled by the problems of the world, come to me, come to me,
Bound to mortal beauty, come to me, come to me,
Quench my thirst, and I will quench yours."*
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As Amina steps closer to the river, the song wraps around her mind like a silken thread, pulling her deeper into its spell. Her feet move almost of their own accord, each step bringing her closer to the water's edge. The rational part of her screams to stop, to turn back, but the song drowns out her thoughts. It's as if her body no longer belongs to her. She can see the river clearly now—swollen from recent rains, its dark waters rushing swiftly, carrying leaves and debris in its current. The air is thick with the scent of wet earth and decaying vegetation.
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Then she sees her. Mami Wata rises from the water, her form shimmering like liquid silver under the moonlight. Her beauty is otherworldly—her skin glows with an ethereal light, her eyes are deep pools of darkness that seem to hold the secrets of the ages. Her hair flows around her like a living thing, blending with the river's currents. She smiles, and it's both inviting and terrifying. Her voice, soft and melodic, continues to sing, weaving a spell that makes Amina's heart ache with longing.
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*"Come to me, my beautiful Amina. Leave your troubles behind. I will give you what you desire."*
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Amina feels the first touch of Mami Wata's tentacles—smooth and cool, wrapping around her ankles like silk ribbons. They pull gently but insistently, drawing her into the water. Amina's mind screams in protest, but her body betrays her. She takes another step, the water now lapping at her feet, then her calves. The river is cold, but the chill doesn't register. All she can feel is the pull, the promise of something she can't name but desperately wants.
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Unbeknownst to Amina, the wine tapper, **Ezekiel**, had been perched high in a palm tree, collecting palm wine. From his vantage point, he had seen her wandering toward the river, her movements unnaturally slow and deliberate. At first, he thought she was just a foolish girl going to fetch water, but something about her demeanor made him pause. When he saw her stop at the river's edge and step into the water, his blood ran cold. He knew the stories. He knew what happened to those who answered the call of Mami Wata.
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Without hesitation, Ezekiel shimmied down the tree, his machete swinging at his side. He moved quickly but quietly, not wanting to startle her. As he approached, he saw the tentacles—glistening and sinuous—wrapped around her legs, pulling her deeper. He heard the song too, faint but unmistakable, and it sent a shiver down his spine. But Ezekiel was a practical man, hardened by years of labor and survival. He didn't believe in spirits, but he believed in danger.
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"Amina!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the hypnotic melody like a knife. He grabbed her arm, his grip firm and unyielding. For a moment, she resisted, her eyes glazed and distant, but Ezekiel shook her hard. "Wake up, girl! Do you want to die?"
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Amina blinked, the spell breaking like a shattered mirror. She looked around, disoriented, as if waking from a dream. The river was just a river again, the song silent, and Mami Wata gone. The tentacles that had gripped her were nowhere to be seen, though her ankles bore faint, red marks that stung slightly.
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"What... what happened?" she stammered, her voice trembling.
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Ezekiel didn't answer immediately. He pulled her away from the water, his eyes scanning the river warily. "You were about to drown yourself, that's what happened," he said gruffly. "Come on, let's get you home before your mother starts worrying."
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As they walked back to the village, Ezekiel kept a firm grip on her arm, as if afraid she might bolt back to the river. Amina glanced over her shoulder once, her heart still racing. She thought she saw a flash of silver in the water, a ripple that didn't belong, but she said nothing. The memory of the song lingered in her mind, faint but persistent, like a whisper she couldn't quite shake.
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