🚨The Windy Witch🧓

The roof shook. Windows shattered. Flower pots flew like stones.

Dust, thick and red with earth, stormed into the apartment, covering the floor like the harmattan had come early. But this wind was not natural. It was searching.

Inside, the air turned wild. The wind danced through rooms like it knew the corners, twisting through furniture, knocking over chairs, lifting curtains like skirts. It found baby Loys.

Her cradle shook. Then rose.

Loys wailed, a sharp, high cry that pierced even the storm. The wind curled around her, rocking her in midair. Her mother, Shakky, screamed, clawing through the storm toward her daughter. But the wind pushed back—hard.

The television cords lashed like snakes. The standing fan crashed. A frame of an old ancestor shattered on the ground.

Semmy tried to run to them. The wind chased him instead, wild and angry. He fled to the hallway and slammed the door shut behind him. But the air... it felt familiar. Like the presence of someone who once lived in the home. Or died in it.

Was it the spirit of Semmy’s old mistress? Or something deeper—ájẹ́, from the unseen world?

Loys rose higher, wrapped in wind like a baby on a mother’s back. The roof peeled away. The sky opened. And then—she was gone.

Shakky collapsed, screaming her daughter’s name. Semmy stood still, frozen in shame, guilt, fear—all at once. When the wind quieted, they looked out through the torn roof and saw her: a figure of swirling air and ash, walking out of the compound with their child.

She moved like a woman. But her feet never touched the ground.

The Windy Witch.

Every step she took peeled the earth. Plants were torn from their roots. Sand spun into whirlwinds. A tree branch slammed into a neighbor’s car, shattering the glass. No one could approach.

Neighbors peeked from behind windows, then slowly emerged. Some crossed themselves. Others muttered prayers in Yoruba.

“Who did you offend?”

“Is that child truly yours?”

“Was there no naming ceremony?”

Whispers followed Shakky like flies.

The elders gathered by nightfall. This was no ordinary wind. It had purpose. It had anger.

“She came to take what belonged to her,” one old woman said, clutching her wrapper tightly.

“But who is she?” another asked. “An ájẹ́? A wronged spirit? Or a mother reclaiming her child?”

No one answered. The wind had spoken, but not in any voice they understood.

Shakky wandered the street barefoot, calling out to the sky. Semmy sat in silence, lips pressed shut, haunted by something no one could see.

And the Windy Witch was gone.

But the air still listened.