THE HIDDEN COST OF POWER

The people of Isieke village spoke of many things in whispers, but nothing stirred fear in their bones like the tale of the Midnight Market. Children were told about it before they could even walk; mothers used it to scare stubborn sons into obedience.

“Nwata kụrụ isi ga-efu ụzọ n’ahịa etiti abalị,” the elders warned—“The stubborn child will lose his way in the midnight market.”

It was no ordinary place. They said it appeared only under the swelling gaze of the full moon, when shadows grew long and time itself bent like a crooked yam stick. Men with wrinkled faces and women with voices like cracked gourds claimed they had seen it once in their youth. They spoke of glowing stalls set in the heart of the forest, traders who sold not yams or pepper, but things unseen—laughter bottled in calabashes, shadows tied to ropes, and secrets folded neatly into baskets woven from smoke.

And above all, they warned that the market had no use for cowries or coins. Its price was always the heart.

Most villagers believed, but belief never guaranteed courage. By nightfall, the paths to the forest grew deserted. No one fetched water. No one lingered outside. Even hunters laid down their spears. The village bell tolled, and families drew in like fowls chased by rain.

But not everyone bent to fear.

Ngozi stepped into the clearing, her sandals crunching softly on the sandy earth. As she crossed the invisible threshold, the drums slowed, then faded, replaced by a low murmur—the voices of countless traders haggling in tongues both familiar and strange. Some voices hissed like snakes, some croaked like frogs, some rang like church bells.

Every stall glowed, but none with lanterns. Light seemed to rise from the goods themselves, pulsing faintly as though alive. One gourd throbbed like a heartbeat, another basket exhaled mist, and a pile of beads shimmered as if each was a frozen raindrop.

Ngozi tightened her grip on her father’s machete. Fear pressed on her, but so did wonder. She had come for truth, and here it lay bare.

“Welcome, child of earth,” croaked a voice beside her.

She turned sharply. An old woman stood there, skin dark and folded like ancient leather. Her eyes glowed faintly yellow, her teeth long and sharp. In her hand, she held a tray of small clay pots, each sealed with palm leaves.

“What do you sell?” Ngozi asked, forcing her voice steady.

The woman grinned. “Dreams. Sweet ones, bitter ones, ones that never end. Buy a pot, open it under your pillow, and dream whatever you desire.”

Ngozi shook her head. “I did not come to dream. I came for truth.”

The woman’s grin widened. “Truth is the most expensive dream of all.” She leaned closer. “Be careful what you pay.”

Ngozi stepped away quickly, heart racing. She passed stall after stall:

• A man with goat horns sold shadows that slithered in jars.

• A child with eyes like the night sky offered silence—pure silence, folded into tiny gourds.

• A tall woman whose hair flowed like palm fronds displayed mats that showed the past of anyone who sat upon them.

And everywhere she turned, whispers followed her: “New blood… fresh soul… brave fool…”

Ngozi’s jaw tightened. She would not be cowed.

Then she saw him.

At the farthest stall, beneath a canopy of woven mist, stood a young man. He looked no older than twenty, tall, lean, with skin the color of fresh palm wine and eyes that burned with sorrow. Unlike the others, his stall was nearly bare. Only a single clay bowl sat before him, filled with still water that reflected the moon above.

Their eyes met. For a moment, the market fell silent.

“Why do you stare?” Ngozi asked, stepping closer.

The young man’s voice was soft, yet it carried. “Because you are the first living one to look at me without fear.”

Ngozi’s hand hovered near her machete. “Who are you?”

He smiled faintly, but it did not reach his eyes. “A prisoner, like many here. My name is Chima.”

Her heart stirred. The name was familiar, like a song half-remembered. She glanced at the water bowl. “What do you sell?”

“Memories,” he said simply. “Dip your hand, and you will see your past, your father’s past, even the past of this cursed place. But—” His voice faltered. “Every memory comes at a price.”

Ngozi’s breath caught at the mention of her father. Her feet inched closer, her fingers itching to touch the water. But something in Chima’s eyes—pleading, broken—made her pause.

“What is your price?” she asked.

His jaw tightened. “Not mine. The market’s.” He leaned forward. “Ngozi, do not buy. If you value your soul, walk away.”

She froze. “You know my name?”

Chima’s gaze held hers. “I have seen you in dreams. The spirits whisper of you. The one who dares to break the market.”

Her blood ran cold. “Then it is true. This place feeds on us.”

He looked down, shame shadowing his face. “I was once like you. A boy of the village, full of pride. I came to bargain. I wanted knowledge. They gave it, and in exchange, they bound me here, forever trading what I once valued most.”

“And what was that?”

Chima’s voice broke. “My freedom. My love.”

For a moment, silence pressed around them. The market’s noise seemed to fade, leaving only the throb of Ngozi’s heart.

She stepped closer, her voice low. “Then help me. Help me end it.”

Chima’s eyes widened in fear. “You cannot. The market is eternal. It feeds on desire—greed, lust, ambition. To destroy it, you must destroy the very hunger in men’s hearts.”

Ngozi lifted her chin. “Then I will try.”

A harsh laugh cut through the air.

Ngozi turned. At the center of the market stood a figure taller than any man, cloaked in shadows that writhed like snakes. His face was hidden, but his eyes burned red as embers. When he spoke, the air trembled.

“Another mortal come to spit on our trade,” the figure boomed. “Child, do you think you can unmake what your kind have built with their own cravings? We do not steal. We sell. It is your people who buy.”

Ngozi’s grip tightened on the machete. “You trick them. You take more than you give.”

The figure’s laughter shook the ground. “And yet they keep coming. Fathers, mothers, lovers—they trade willingly. Even your own blood walked here once. His pride was the coin. His soul, the price.”

Ngozi’s throat constricted. “My father.”

“Yes,” the spirit lord hissed. “He came boasting of his courage. He thought to leave untouched. He did not. His voice is ours now. His shadow dances here.”

Ngozi’s vision blurred with rage. The machete gleamed as she raised it. “Then tonight, I will end you.”

The market erupted in howls and laughter, traders pounding their stalls, shadows leaping like flames. Chima leapt forward, seizing her arm.

“No! If you fight here, you fight on their ground. The market itself will swallow you!”

But Ngozi’s fire could not be doused. She wrenched free, her voice ringing across the clearing. “I am my father’s daughter! I am Isieke’s child! And I will not bow!”

The spirit lord’s red eyes flared. The stalls dimmed, the air thickened, and the ground beneath her feet quaked.

The battle for the Midnight Market had begun.

Ngozi’s lungs burned with every breath. The market trembled around her, as if alive and aware of her defiance. Traders recoiled, their glowing wares dimming in fear, shadows curling tightly in their jars. And at the center, the spirit lord loomed, taller than any human should be, his eyes coals of rage and amusement at once.

“You think a mortal girl can unmake centuries of desire?” His voice cracked the night. “You are nothing.”

Ngozi raised her father’s machete, the metal gleaming with moonlight. “I am my father’s daughter, and I carry the courage he left behind. I will not let you prey on the living any longer!”

The ground shook as the spirit lord stepped closer. Dark tendrils of shadow slithered toward her, twisting like living snakes. Her hands trembled but did not release the weapon. She remembered Chima’s words: “To destroy the market, you must destroy the hunger in men’s hearts.”

The whispers of the traders turned into a cacophony, mocking, pleading, threatening. But Ngozi blocked them out. She pictured the faces of her village: children, elders, mothers and fathers who lived under the shadow of fear. And she felt the fire that had burned in her since she was twelve.

With a roar that echoed through the clearing, she lunged.

The machete struck, but it met not flesh or wood, but a wall of shadow. Pain flared in her arms as tendrils lashed at her. Yet she did not falter. She swung again, imagining the market as her father’s prison and Chima’s cage combined. Her strikes were precise, fueled by ambition and love, by anger and sorrow, by every story the elders had told her that had made her afraid yet unyielding.

The spirit lord laughed again, a sound like thunder breaking stone. “Child, you cannot win. The market feeds on desire. You carry desire in your very heart!”

Ngozi’s breath shook. He was right—her ambition, her need to defeat the market, even her love for Chima, all burned inside her. She realized then: she could not simply fight with strength alone. She had to sacrifice, to give up something she cherished most to break their hold.

Her eyes darted to Chima. He stood frozen, trapped by invisible chains, watching her. Love had been her strength, but now it was also the key.

“I am ready,” she whispered. “Take it all… but leave them free.”

A brilliant flash of light burst from her heart. The machete hummed, vibrating in her hands as if alive. Shadows screamed and twisted violently, the market’s eerie glow faltering. Ngozi’s vision blurred with pain, but her resolve did not. She closed her eyes and let her soul pour into the strike.

The spirit lord shrieked, recoiling. His towering form shivered, then began to shrink, twisting into the shape of a simple man, ordinary and mortal. The traders wavered, some dissolving into mist, others fleeing into the darkness beyond the clearing.

Chima ran to her, breaking the invisible chains that held him. He touched her face, trembling. “Ngozi… you did it. You freed us.”

Ngozi fell to her knees, exhausted, her strength nearly spent. Around her, the market had vanished. The clearing was now silent and still, bathed in the pale moonlight. Only the faint shimmer of residual magic lingered in the air.

“You… saved us all,” Chima whispered.

Ngozi smiled weakly. “Not just us. The village, the people who never dared… everyone.”

Chima took her hand. “And what of you? You gave everything to end it. What remains for you?”

She looked up at the moon, breathing heavily. “Love remains. Courage remains. And perhaps… wisdom.”

By dawn, Ngozi and Chima returned to Isieke. The village lay quiet, unaware of the battle that had raged in the forest. The elders would whisper again of strange things, but now with a different tone—a cautious respect for the girl who dared.

Some nights, she would hear the faint echo of the drums, softer now, almost mournful. She smiled. The Midnight Market had lost its hold. And she had learned that courage, love, and sacrifice could bend even the most ancient of powers.

“The one who bargains with spirits must be ready to pay with more than money, for courage and love are the coin of the brave.”

And so, the Midnight Market remained a legend, but its power was broken. A young woman’s fire had pierced the darkness, and her story would be told for generations—a tale of ambition, love, and the courage to face the shadows.

THE END