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This podcast brings to you a collection of scary stories from all over Africa. Are they real or just myth? You'll have to ask the scared student, the passer-by or even the crying child who all swear by what they saw #reallifemeetsfiction
In Lagos, children grow up with cautionary tales.I was never one to believe in superstitions, but growing up in Nigeria, they were hard to ignore. My grandmother had plenty of warnings to offer—don’t whistle at night, avoid crossroads after dark, and, above all, never eat food in your dreams. “Eating in a dream means someone is trying to take something from you,” she’d say, her face solemn. “You don’t want to owe a witch anything. Never accept food in the spirit world, once you do, you’re bound to the one who fed you.”
It was one of those things I’d laugh about, only half-listening. As I grew older, I dismissed her warnings as folklore, whispers from a bygone age. But all that changed last month.
I’d had a long day—three classes, a lab, and a late night working on my thesis in the library. By the time I got home, I was exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I drifted off, expecting nothing but a solid night’s rest.
That night, I had the most vivid dream. I was sitting at my auntie’s dining table, surrounded by family. The table was covered with our favourite dishes—egusi soup, jollof rice, and fried plantains. The air was thick with the smell of spices, rich and comforting.
A bowl of jollof rice sat in front of me, steam rising in fragrant curls. I felt an overwhelming hunger, stronger than I’d ever known. Without thinking, I began eating, savouring each bite as the familiar faces watched in silence.
But I noticed there was something off. My family was quiet, their faces strangely blurred, their movements slow, as though we were underwater.
When I woke the next morning, I felt a little off, a strange heaviness lingering in my chest. I brushed it off, telling myself it was just a vivid dream. But as I went about my day, I found myself struggling to remember small things—my colleague’s name, the pin code for my phone, my bus stop. They were just minor lapses, but they left me uneasy.
The next night, I had the same dream. This time, I was handed a plate of akara, crisp and hot. The people around the table remained silent, their faces blurred and indistinct. As I took a bite, I felt a growing chill, creeping over my skin. When I awoke, the taste lingered in my mouth, a faint metallic flavour I couldn’t shake.
Over the following days, the strange lapses in memory grew worse. I would be halfway through my commute and suddenly forget where I was headed. I couldn’t recall the conversations I’d had the previous day or the faces of people I spoke to. Every day, I woke up feeling weaker, a little more drained.
My friends began to notice. “You alright, Tolu?” one of them asked over lunch. “You’ve been kind of… out of it lately.”
I tried to laugh it off, blaming it on stress, but deep down, I knew something was wrong. My grandmother’s warnings floated back into my mind. I tried to convince myself it was all nonsense, yet the dreams persisted, each night more vivid, more consuming.
In one dream, I was given a steaming bowl of pepper soup. As I ate, I felt as though the world around me was collapsing inward, everything narrowing to a single, suffocating point. I could hear faint whispers, growing louder, closer, echoing in a language I couldn’t understand. When I woke, my hands were trembling, and a strange pressure weighed on my chest.
By the end of the second week, I’d become desperate. I went to see a doctor, who ran a battery of tests but found nothing unusual. “Are you sure it isn’t just stress?” he asked, eyeing me with mild concern. “These last few months of school are brutal. Maybe you need a break.”
I wanted to believe him, but deep down, I knew this was something different. The dreams, the hunger, the shadows creeping in the corners of my vision—there was a connection.
The dreams had become nightly, each one more intense, more chilling. Every night, the table felt a little more real, the faces around me a little clearer. The people around the table were no longer quiet; they whispered to one another, and I could sense them watching me, their eyes following every bite, silent and still. The food I ate in these dreams tasted increasingly bitter, almost rotten, but I couldn’t stop myself from eating.
One morning, desperate for answers, I called my grandmother. She listened in silence as I explained, her breathing slow and heavy.
“Did I not warn you, Tolu?” she whispered. “You’ve eaten from the witch’s table. She has taken something from you each time.”
“What can I do?” I asked, panic creeping into my voice.
“There may be a way to stop her,” she said. “Tonight, before you sleep, take salt and pour it around your bed in a circle. Salt weakens spirits, keeps them from crossing over. And whatever you do, do not eat if she offers you food again.”
That night, I followed her instructions, spreading salt in a thin circle around my bed. I lay down, hoping that the ritual would end the nightmares, and drifted off.
I was back at the table. The faces around me were clearer now. They looked like my family but didnt at the same time. I don’t know how to explain it. A plate of food was set before me, the smell intoxicating, but I remembered my grandmother’s words. I pushed the plate away, feeling a surge of strength as I resisted.
A chill settled over the room, and the whispers grew into a single, sharp voice.
“You won’t eat, Tolu?” It was the woman at the head of the table whom I had thought was my aunty, her face finally clear, sharp eyes glinting with rage. “You have already eaten from my table. You’re already mine.”
I forced myself to shake my head, to look away from the food. The woman’s face twisted in fury, and the shadows around me thickened, pressing closer. I could feel the weight of her gaze, the anger in her silence, but I held my ground.
The figures screamed, their faces contorting, and suddenly, I was back in my bed, gasping for breath. The salt around me had turned black, a faint smoke rising from it.
In the days that followed, my memory began to return. The strange dreams stopped, and I started to feel like myself again. I knew I’d escaped something dark, something that wanted to take me piece by piece.
Now, I take my grandmother’s stories to heart, her warnings are no longer just cautionary tales. And now to you listening to me right now, If you ever find yourself in a dream with food offered, remember—some invitations are best left unanswered.