The Easter curse

Lugard had always been the sort of man who thought the world owed him something. He walked with a swagger, not of confidence, but of arrogance. The kind that stunk up the room before he even spoke. In the town of Alaroko, everyone knew him—not for kindness or charm, but for his cruelty. If he wasn’t mocking someone’s looks, he was criticising their efforts, throwing insults like confetti at a parade. And the worst part? He didn’t care. Not one bit.

It was the year of the grand Easter carnival at the Alaroko community center. A festive three-day event meant to celebrate unity, resurrection, and renewal. Families came out in their best clothes. Music, food, laughter—it was a slice of joy. But for Lugard, it was just another excuse to ridicule.

The first evening was particularly special. An old woman, Mama Nkechi, stood on the open stage, dressed in bright Ankara with a touch of gold thread in her hair. Her voice trembled at first but then grew in strength as she sang a song about Easter, about forgiveness, and the burden of the cross. The crowd clapped. Children danced. Even elders nodded in rhythm.

Except Lugard.

“Someone tell this old hag to join her ancestors already!” he barked, laughing loudly. “She’s out here doing karaoke with ghosts!”

The crowd hushed. Gasps cut through the air. But Mama Nkechi didn’t flinch. She finished her song, bowed, and walked off the stage with grace.

Lugard kept laughing, throwing more jabs. “Bet her bones are held together with cobwebs.”

Still, the woman said nothing.

Later that evening, as the crowd dispersed, Lugard strolled to the car park, smirking like he’d won a prize for cruelty. But something stopped him in his tracks. There she was—Mama Nkechi—unlocking the door to an exotic black sedan that looked like it didn’t belong in their modest town.

“Oh wow,” Lugard scoffed. “Did you steal that from a museum? Or are you doing Uber for ghosts now?”

Mama Nkechi slowly stepped out of the car. There was a quiet grace to her, something ancient and unsettling. She squared her shoulders, eyes glowing not with age, but purpose.

She looked straight into Lugard’s mocking eyes and said in a voice louder than thunder yet clearer than crystal, “Your eyes will see blood.”

And with that, she entered her car and drove off, leaving behind a silence that wrapped itself around Lugard like a cold chain.

For the first time in his life, Lugard felt something new: fear. Real fear.

He brushed it off. Told himself she was just an old woman throwing empty threats. After all, he was Lugard—the storm in other people’s skies.

The festival continued, but Mama Nkechi never returned.

A year later, on Good Friday, Lugard woke up to a red pillow. His eyes stung like fire. Panicked, he rushed to the mirror and was met with a sight so grotesque it nearly knocked him out—his eyes were bloodshot, and thin trails of blood slid down his cheeks like tears.

Hospitals couldn’t explain it. Doctors scratched their heads. It hurt terribly for three days. Then, just like that, it stopped on Easter Sunday. He chalked it up to stress. Coincidence. But the next year? It happened again.

By the third year, it became a terrifying pattern. Every Good Friday, blood. Pain. Fear. Shame. It didn’t take long for his friend Desmond to remind him, “Lugard… don’t you remember what that old woman said?”

His stomach turned.

Five years passed and the blood never failed to come. Each year was worse than the last. Vision blurred. Screams in his sleep. Isolation.

Lugard changed. Life humbled him. He no longer mocked people. He helped his neighbors. He kept quiet. He worked with his hands. He became a man no one thought he could be. But still, the blood came. He knew the only hope was to find Mama Nkechi and beg for forgiveness. But she was gone. Moved away. No one knew where. Or perhaps they did, but kept it from him.

Desperate, Lugard combed old footage of the carnival, clipped her performance, and posted it online with captions begging anyone who recognised her to reach out. It took a year, but he finally got a letter.

Mama Nkechi’s daughter responded. She was dead. Had died five years ago.

Lugard was shattered.

He couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. He paced the floor like a prisoner. Suicidal thoughts crept in, but he wasn’t brave enough to follow through.

Then, one day, he gave food to a homeless man on the street. As he turned to walk away, the man called him back and said, “Just apologise. Just say you’re sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Lugard asked. But the man simply smiled and disappeared into the crowd. The words haunted him.

He knew what he had to do.

He wrote to Mama Nkechi’s daughter again. Begged. Pleaded. Promised he wasn’t trying to paint her mother as a witch—just that he needed to say sorry.

Months later, she agreed. But not without precautions. She brought security, mistrust heavy in her eyes. She pointed to the grave in a quiet cemetery far from home.

Lugard walked to the grave, knees trembling. He stood still for a long time. Then the dam broke. He wept. He fell to his knees. His life, like a movie reel, played in his mind. The mockery, the spitting, the cruel names, the laughter at her Easter song—all of it hit him like blows.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The air changed. It grew lighter. The pain he had carried in his chest for years lifted. For the first time in nearly a decade, he felt peace.

That night, he slept like a child. Good Friday came. No blood. No pain. No tears. He was free.

Before returning home, Mama Nkechi’s daughter asked to meet him. She looked at him with a mixture of sorrow and understanding.

“My mother wasn’t a witch,” she said. “She wasn’t the kind to curse anyone. She forgave too easily. I don’t know what happened that day. Maybe… maybe someone wanted you to learn a lesson.”

Lugard nodded, thankful. It didn’t fully make sense, but he didn’t question it.

Years later, Lugard stood at the funeral of his best friend Desmond.

A strange group arrived to conduct the rites—robes, chants, an unfamiliar air about them. Whispers floated through the funeral crowd.

Desmond had belonged to a secret sect. One that believed in karma and spiritual justice. One that believed in teaching life lessons… the hard way.

And then Lugard heard it:

“It wasn’t the old woman who cursed you. It was Desmond. He gave her words life. To teach you what you refused to learn.” Lugard couldn’t believe it.

His best friend had put him through hell—so he could become a better man.

And strangely enough, he didn’t hate him for it.