The Market Nobody Talks About

By McOjo 'Deolu

The Market Nobody Talks About

Kunle felt that the only way he could have financial success was to resort to the ancient diabolical means practiced by few and closely guarded – human sacrifice. How would he source and get the part he needed to achieve his goal? This is an intricate prying into the sprawling underground market and the lives shattered and built by its operations.

 

MONEY RITUAL IS REAL!!!

The notion that one can use human blood and body parts for money ritual may seem outlandish to people especially those living in America, Europe and some parts of Asia, but for Africans, especially people that live in sub-Sahara Africa, it is real. Many kids and adults had been kidnaped to be sacrificed in the woods or some secluded places. Some lucky ones escaped to tell the rest of us the gory unbelievable tales.

 

The story in the following pages is about the esoteric money ritual as practiced in Nigeria, and perhaps many climes in Africa under dark voodoo or black magic. This is a true-life story. Many of the events occurred under different circumstances and in different places from what you have in the story.  The story was inspired from an event I read in a newspaper about a girl who was butchered by her boyfriend and his friend and sold to a money ritualist. In 2020, another ritual killing was also reported in the news. Here is the BBC account of this.  Nigerian Girl killed for 'witchcraft rituals'.

 

So, this is not a fairy tale. Money ritual is real in Nigeria. There have been stories of kids using their parents for these rituals, husbands using their wives, wives using their men, and parents using their own children. Most kidnappings were connected to this trade too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lovetons Media
• Release date: Mar 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393637417

McOjo 'Deolu

About the Author ‘Deolu, is a Privacy Attorney and Cybersecurity consultant based in Maryland. He studied at the University of Lagos, Nigeria, and University of Baltimore Law School in Maryland. He has written a lot of unpublished Poetry and other books. ‘Deolu is also a public speaker. [e-mail] 

Book preview

Copyright 2020 © McOjo ‘Deolu

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or stored in any retrieval system by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by: Lovetons Media, Baltimore MD, P. O Box, 215 Abingdon MD, 21009.

Lagos, Abuja, Accra, Johannesburg, Baltimore, London, Hong-Kong  Singapore, New York 

Direct all inquiries about the book, Author, or Publisher to: [e-mail], [e-mail]

Phone: [phone]

Please visit us at www.lovetonsmedia.com

DISCLAIMER

This book is a work of fiction. Therefore, all characters, places, and events in the novel are spawns of imagination only and are in no way connected to any living person or any event. Any resemblance to any person, an event, or any entity is purely coincidental.

This book is sold, therefore, on the condition that neither the publisher nor the author can be legally held responsible for the consequences of any error or omission or assumption there may be.

Proofread and Critique by Mercy Solomon Ganiyu [e-mail]

Cover Design by Adekunle Deborah Adeola [e-mail]

Published and Printed in the United States of America

MONEY RITUAL IS REAL!!!

THE NOTION THAT ONE can use human blood and body parts for money ritual may seem outlandish to people, especially those living in America, Europe, and some parts of Asia, but for Africans, especially people that live in sub-Saharan Africa, it is real. Many kids and adults had been kidnaped to be sacrificed in the woods or some secluded places. Some lucky ones escaped to tell the rest of us the gory unbelievable tales of people chained like goats and slaughtered like rams.

The story in the following pages is about the esoteric money ritual as practiced in Nigeria and perhaps many climes in Africa under dark voodoo or black magic. This is a true-life story. Many of the events occurred under different circumstances and in different places. The story was inspired by an event I read in a newspaper about a girl who was butchered by her boyfriend and his friend and sold to a money ritualist. She had followed her boyfriend to what became her death. I wrote this story in 2003 – 2004. I have revised it ever since, just like the rest of my yet to be published works.

In 2020, another ritual killing was also reported in the news. Here is the BBC headline of this account,

Nigerian girl killed for witchcraft rituals.

So, this is not a fairy tale. Money ritual is real in Nigeria. There have been stories of kids using their parents for these rituals, husbands using their wives, wives using their men, and parents using their own children. Most kidnappings were connected to this trade too.

Please, enter the life of Kunle in, The Market Nobody Talks About.

Appetizer

The voodoo man said something in a whisper. Kunle snapped away in fear as one yanks his finger from a live wire.

You see yourself, lazy bone. I told you. You can’t do it. You are not brave enough.

He-e, my life is ruined. How do I get that? Ha-ha-ha. He further flinched away from the old man.

Then consider yourself impotent and a beggar for life, Baba said as a matter of fact.

Please baba. You must help me. Please help me. I must have money. Is there no other way? Is there no other thing I can do? He shook his head. He looked very miserable.

Young man, I still have people that want to see me. When you are ready, call me, and I will tell you when to see me. You have to be quick about it; otherwise, time will lapse on the redemption of your manhood. Baba turned his gaze away to the spirits roaming invisibly on the shrine. Kunle felt lost.

Dedication

To all the Victims of those who are in haste to get quick riches.

Chapter One

KUNLE SAT ON HIS BED, which was placed on the floor. His back was to the wall, while both palms covered his face as if he was ashamed of looking at someone. That, someone, was Kunle himself. He felt that he had nothing to show for taking some space on earth. He was not proud of himself. As he sat on the bed, he was engrossed in thoughts. That was the main job he had been doing lately.

Kunle was a young man in his early thirties. He had no wife but had two children by two different ladies who didn’t live with him. They were what you could call his baby mamas. He had no regular job and no ready in demand marketable skill. Therefore, he had a lot of things in their absence, or you could say he was bereft of many common things, a fancy way of saying he was very poor, like the church rats of the nineteen-eighties.

Kunle used to have a job; a regular eight am to four pm job. He was employed as a labor in a manufacturing company that made plastic products in Lagos. He had to leave the job. The reason being that the amount he was making from the job was the amount he was spending to transport himself to and from work. At the end of the day, he had little or nothing left to justify going to work. At the beginning of taking the job, he commuted to work by bus but trekked back so that he could save some money. You can imagine how tired he was on getting home after walking several miles. He usually slept like a monument, constructed on the back of prisoners. This continued for months until he met Cynthia.

Cynthia picked him in the morning and drove him to work, and brought him back home in the evening at the close of the day, out of pity. Kunle was able to save a lot of money through this arrangement. However, something led to another, as they say. Kunle and Cynthia began a romantic affair. As days passed by, Cynthia was so much in love with Kunle, or infatuated, depending on your interpretation of this concept. These two lovebirds almost became inseparable. Cynthia was a married woman with two kids. Her husband had no idea what was going on or her involvement with Kunle. After dropping Kunle off, she would spend some time with him in his ramshackle room before heading off to her home. She updated the room to her taste as time went on. It became their love nest.

One day after about three years, Cynthia told Kunle that she had to end the affair. It was all over. That was the worst news for Kunle that year.

I can’t see you no more, Kunle. She had said with teary eyes.

What do you mean? Kunle asked? Cynthia was behind the wheel of her red Honda Accord. The car was the latest gift from her husband on her last birthday, which was two months ago. Kunle was in the passenger seat. She had parked the car by the side of the road at the junction she had always picked him. Cynthia stared at the windshield as if she was communicating with someone in front of the car by telepathy.

Is there anything I did wrong? Is there anything you want me to do? Is there a way I can fix this? Did I lie to you? Did I offend you? Did you hear anything about me? Kunle asked, repeatedly and with anxiety.

No, said Cynthia, shaking her head. Her hands were clutching the steering wheel.

This was not about you. It has nothing to do with what you did or didn’t do. This was not about you; she repeated the statement. It's about me. You haven't done anything wrong. In fact, you've done everything perfectly. I have realized that what we have been doing is wrong. I'm going to rekindle my love for my husband. I was drawn to you at first because he's not always home, and I felt he didn’t have time for me. I didn’t mean for this to happen. It kind of took off... she sobbed a little and pulled herself together. In reality, she didn’t want to let go of Kunle. She enjoyed every moment she had with him, but now, a change was taking place in her heart. Something was repelling that relationship.

When did you decide to cut off with me? Kunle interrupted her. He had become used to what he was getting from her both in terms of physical enjoyment and economic handouts.

Cynthia looked at Kunle and breathed deeply. She couldn’t look at this face. The pain was too much.

Someone invited me to church two nights ago, and for the first time in my life, I went to the altar and prayed. You may not understand, but I felt different. Something just made me hate myself and my way of life. After the prayer, I just knew that what we had was wrong. An extramarital affair is wrong, and I want to stop doing it. She looked at Kunle for understanding, but Kunle looked away.

I’m ashamed of the affair even though I enjoyed it. I did, but I don't want to do it anymore. I know I loved you. But I can't keep doing this. God hates it. I don't want to continue this anymore. So Kunle, I'm so sorry we can’t see each other after today. I won’t help you henceforth because I don’t want to fall back into my vomit...

Kunle wasn’t listening to her supposed rambling anymore. He wasn't sure he heard what she just said correctly.

"You mean you are joining those born againsts? Is that what you're telling me? He was tensed. His body was rising as he used to do after work in the evenings because she was close to him. These fanatics, religious bigots who think they are the only ones heading for heaven?" He said inaudibly.

Born agains, she corrected him.

"Whether born again or burned against, I don’t give a damn." He retorted under his breath. He didn’t want to offend her further.

Well, you may not feel the way I do, but this is my life. And this is the way I want to live it. I don't want to continue living like this. I want to live my life in a way that brings glory to God. I have thought about this. Please take this. Jesus can change you too. He can make ways for you. She dipped her hand into her handbag and handed Kunle some cash. He didn’t take it. She placed it on his lap.

Okay. Let’s have a sendoff party. Let’s get to my place, he said cheerfully and thinking fast at the same time.

Hope that move works? He said with clenched teeth silently.

If only I could get her to my house again and take her on the journey of euphoria, that will knock off this born-againism out of her, he thought.

No. No. I am not following you to your place. I will never go there again.

Never, you mean never again, Cynthia? he asked, looking at her full in the face. He felt she was unbelievable.

You heard me, Kunle, I mean it.

Are you serious, Cynthia? Kunle was still processing all this. His body that was getting excited on the hope that she might follow him to his house had weakened now, like a deflated wheel. He was afraid he was losing her very fast.

Curse those born-againsts that got across to Cynthia, he mumbled under his breath. He was silent and looking at the girl seated beside him.