In the ancient town of Ado-Ekiti, there was a hill no one dared to climb after sunset. They said Iya Alawo, the witch of the hill, lived there. Her hut was made of red clay, surrounded by whispering trees and strange birds that never flew during the day.
Farmers who wandered too close claimed to see goats speaking Yoruba, or hear drums echoing through the ground. Children said she could turn into a cat with flaming eyes.
But Iya Alawo was no monster. She had once been a powerful healer, until jealous chiefs accused her of witchcraft and exiled her.
Years later, when a deadly fever swept through the town, the chiefs begged her for help. She agreed—but only if they let her return without shame.
She came down the hill with a calabash of steaming herbs. People watched in silence as she healed dozens within days.
Since then, every year during the Harmattan, a clay pot filled with food is left at the base of Ado Hill—an offering to the witch who saved them.
2. The Market Witch of Calabar
In Calabar, people speak of Mama Ite, an old woman who sold herbs and smoked fish in the market. She always had change. Her fish never smelled. Her eyes? Pale like river stones.
No one knew where she lived.
One day, a young thief tried to steal from her stall. The moment he touched her goods, he froze—right in the middle of the market, arms outstretched, eyes wide.
Mama Ite walked over, whispered something in Efik, and the boy screamed as a flock of crows burst from his mouth.
After that, her stall was never disturbed.
Some say she was a witch, others say she was an Ekong, a spiritual warrior. But one thing was clear: Calabar’s witches don’t wear pointed hats—they sell peppers and protect their own.
3. The Twin Witch of Igbo-Ukwu
In Igbo-Ukwu, there was a pair of twins—Chika and Chika. Yes, both were named the same. They moved and spoke in unison, always finishing each other’s sentences.
Their mother was a midwife. Their grandmother had been called Nwanyi Ogwu, the woman of magic. But people only began to whisper when goats began to give birth to rabbits, and yam plants grew overnight.
The twins were blamed.
When a chief’s son fell sick, he claimed he saw them in his dreams, pouring fire into his mouth.
The town gathered to drive them away. But when the twins walked to the town square, thunder cracked overhead and the sky turned red.
“You banish us,” they said together, “but the land listens.”
By morning, the river had dried up, the crops withered, and the chief’s son was gone.
No one saw the twins again. But every few years, people say they return—two girls, identical, humming the same song, just passing through.
