Mama Koko and the Night Market
A West African Magical Tale
In the quiet village of Nkembe, where the evenings smelled of roasted yam and palm oil, there lived an old woman named Mama Koko. Her back was bent, her wrapper always faded, and her lips forever chewing kola nut. To the villagers, she was just another elder with too many stories and too few teeth.But the children whispered otherwise.They said Mama Koko walked without making a sound.
That her shadow sometimes moved faster than her feet.
And that on full-moon nights, she disappeared into the forest holding a calabash that glowed like fireflies trapped in a gourd.
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The Journey into the Forest
Mama Koko stepped into the forest as quietly as a feather. The children—Ayo, Temi, and little Idiris—trailed behind, careful not to snap a twig.The deeper they went, the stranger the forest became. Trees leaned in as if listening. Owls blinked twice but did not hoot. The air thickened with the smell of hibiscus and something older… something ancient.Then the children heard drums.Soft at first, like fingers tapping on a calabash lid.
Then louder.Then many—joining, weaving, summoning.Mama Koko stopped at a clearing. She placed her glowing calabash on the ground and whispered: “Let those who walk by moonlight enter.”The earth trembled.The trees shifted.
And suddenly, a market appeared—bright as day, noisy as Lagos traffic, yet strange enough to freeze the children’s breath.