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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/darkenigmatales on 2024-10-23 19:58:34+00:00.

In the heart of Africa, among its great rivers and hidden coves, there are tales older than time itself. Stories passed down through generations, whispered under the stars, sung in quiet hymns. One such story is about Mami Wata, the water spirit, a mysterious creature that some call a mermaid, while others say she is something far older and far darker. Her name sends shivers down the spines of elders and children alike, and the more they tell her tale, the more fear seeps into their words.

This is not just a story about her. This is a story about the night I met her.

My name is Olumide, though everyone calls me Lumi. I grew up in a small village in southern Nigeria, not far from the banks of the Ogun River. My mother used to tell me stories of the river spirits, specifically about Mami Wata. At first, the tales seemed like nothing more than bedtime stories, warnings to keep us children away from the water’s edge. But the older I grew, the more I realized that my mother’s fear wasn’t an act.

One summer, just after my sixteenth birthday, something strange happened in our village. A drought like no other took hold. The river, once the lifeblood of our community, began to shrink. The fish disappeared, the crops withered, and the elders convened, muttering about forgotten traditions and angry spirits. There was a tension in the air, thick as the heat that pressed down on us. The river wasn’t just a source of water; it was home to powers older than anyone alive could remember.

The drought stretched on for months. Desperation began to creep into every corner of the village. People whispered that Mami Wata was angry, that we had forgotten our place, our reverence for the river and the spirits that lived in it. My mother, a devout woman, began performing rituals she hadn’t done since I was a child—leaving offerings of kola nuts and fresh water at the river’s edge, pleading with the unseen forces for mercy.

But nothing changed. The river kept drying up. And then the disappearances began.

It was my friend Ade, the first to go missing. He was like a brother to me, always daring and full of life. We’d grown up together, sharing the same dusty roads and riverbanks. Ade had been restless during the drought, and when the elders forbade us from going near the river after dark, he only laughed.

“These are just stories, Lumi,” he said one evening as the sun set, casting long shadows over the parched land. “Mami Wata, river spirits… it’s all nonsense. You really believe in that?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, uneasy. “But something doesn’t feel right.”

Ade grinned, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Let’s go find out then.”

I should have said no. I should have told him to stay away from the water, to respect the warnings of the elders, but there was something in his voice—something that made me curious, too. That night, under the cover of darkness, we snuck out of our homes and made our way to the riverbank.

The water was low, almost a trickle, but the moonlight made it shimmer like silver. We sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind rustling through the reeds. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, and for the first time, I noticed how quiet it was. No frogs croaking, no crickets chirping—just an eerie stillness that made my skin crawl.

“See? Nothing,” Ade said, standing up and tossing a rock into the water. It made a hollow splash. “Mami Wata… just stories.”

But then I heard it.

A song.

Soft at first, barely audible over the wind. But it grew, a lilting melody that seemed to rise from the very heart of the river. It was beautiful, hypnotic, and it wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, pulling me in. Ade heard it too. His smile faltered, and he looked toward the water with wide eyes.

“What… what is that?” he whispered.

Before I could answer, something moved in the water. A shape—slender, graceful—rising from the depths. I wanted to run, to scream, but I couldn’t move. My feet felt rooted to the earth, my body frozen in place. The song grew louder, more haunting, and the figure became clearer.

She was beautiful, with skin the color of ebony, glistening in the moonlight. Her hair flowed like the river itself, dark and wild. But her eyes… they were hollow, empty pools that seemed to pull you in, drowning you in their depths.

“Mami Wata,” Ade whispered, his voice trembling.

She smiled then, revealing sharp teeth that glistened like pearls. The song grew louder still, and before I could react, Ade took a step forward.

“No!” I yelled, but my voice was swallowed by the wind. He moved as if in a trance, walking straight into the water, towards her. She reached out a hand, long fingers curling around his arm, pulling him into an embrace. For a moment, they stood there, chest-deep in the water, the song swirling around them.

And then they were gone. Just like that. The water swallowed them both, leaving nothing but ripples in its wake.

I don’t remember how I got home that night. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bed, drenched in sweat. I tried to tell my mother what had happened, but the words wouldn’t come. She knew something was wrong, though. She could see it in my eyes. When Ade’s family came looking for him, I stayed silent. What could I say? That a river spirit had taken him?

The elders searched for days, but no trace of him was ever found.

Ade was the first, but not the last. Over the next few weeks, more people vanished. Young men, mostly, those who dared to go near the river after dark. Each time, the villagers would hear the same thing: a song, drifting through the air, calling them to the water.

The drought worsened, and fear gripped the village. My mother, once calm and collected, began to unravel. She started having nightmares, waking in the middle of the night, screaming about Mami Wata. She said the spirit was angry, that we had disrespected her, and now she was taking what she was owed.

The elders tried to perform a cleansing ritual, offering sacrifices of animals and food, but nothing worked. The disappearances continued, and the river kept shrinking.

I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit by and watch as more of my friends disappeared into the night. So one evening, I went back to the riverbank, alone this time. I sat by the water, waiting, listening.

And then I heard it again. The song.

It was just as beautiful, just as haunting, but this time I was ready. I gripped the charm my mother had given me—a small amulet carved from wood, blessed by the village priest—and held it tight as the figure of Mami Wata rose from the water.

She looked just as she had that night with Ade, her eyes dark and endless, her smile sharp and inviting.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

Her smile widened, and the song stopped. For the first time, she spoke, her voice like the rustling of leaves in the wind.

“They belong to me now,” she said, her words sending a chill down my spine. “You have forgotten the old ways. The river was once worshipped, respected. But now, you take and take without giving back. I am the guardian of these waters, and I demand what is owed.”

“What do you want?” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “A sacrifice. A life for the river.”

I felt a surge of anger then, stronger than my fear. “We’ve given you enough!” I shouted. “You’ve taken so many already!”

She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Not enough. Not yet.”

Before I could say anything else, she lunged at me, her hands reaching for my throat. I stumbled back, raising the amulet in front of me. She hissed, recoiling from the charm, her face twisting in rage.

“You cannot stop me, child,” she snarled, her voice dripping with malice. “The river will run dry, and your people will perish. Unless…”

“Unless what?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Unless you offer yourself.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I felt my blood turn to ice. Was that what it had come to? My life in exchange for the village’s survival?

I thought of my mother, my friends, the people who had already been taken. I knew what I had to do.

Slowly, I stepped forward, lowering the amulet. Mami Wata’s eyes gleamed with triumph as she extended her hand, waiting for me to take it.

But just as my fingers brushed hers, I heard a voice—a voice that wasn’t hers.

“Lumi, stop!”

I turned to see my mother standing at the edge of the river, her face pale and drawn. She held a bowl in her hands, filled with something dark and thick.

“Don’t listen to her,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “She’s lying.”

Mami Wata hissed, her eyes narrowing. “You dare interfere?”

My mother ignored her, stepping closer to me. “This is what she wants,” she said, holding out the bowl. “A proper offering. A life, yes, but not yours.”

I stared at the bowl, the thick liquid swirling inside it. Blood. Animal blood, from the sacrifice the elders had performed days ago.

Mami Wata screeched in fury as my mother poured the blood into the river. The water churned and bubbled, and for a moment, I thought it would explode. But then, slowly, the churning stopped. The river calmed.

Mami Wata vanished, disappearing beneath the surface without another word.

The next morning, the drought ended. Rain fell for the first time in months, filling the river and reviving the land. The disappearances stopped, and life in the village slo…

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