THE MYSTERIOUS CHICKEN SELLER
The Secret of Daniel’s Chicken
No one in Ober Village could figure out Daniel’s secret. His roasted chicken was so fat, soft, and juicy that people flocked to his market stall every single day. From morning till night, the smell of spice and firewood from his big iron grill traveled far, drawing customers from nearby villages. Daniel, a tall and muscular man, was an image of success, his heavy voice shouting, “Come and buy soft roasted chicken, tender and sweet!” His price never changed, even when chicken got expensive elsewhere.
Rumors followed him like smoke. Some joked he planted money; others whispered of Juju—but hunger and taste were stronger than any rumor. Daniel seemed to have it all: money, customers, and joy. But hidden under his apron was a secret that was both his treasure and his curse.
The Rising Pain
Daniel’s success drew the envy of other sellers, particularly Mama Joy, whose sales had plummeted. “How can one man sell so cheap and still grow rich?” she grumbled. Her curiosity—and that of the whole village—deepened when Daniel proudly announced he had purchased a house. How could selling roasted chicken bring such wealth so quickly?
Soon after, a small, persistent pain began in Daniel’s right leg. He tied a cloth around it and kept roasting, but the pain grew stronger. Sometimes, he’d stop turning the meat to press his leg, and flies would gather quickly when he shifted his wrapper.
One evening, as customers lined up, Daniel’s leg failed him. He sat back heavily, sweat pouring down his face, the fire in his leg hotter than the coals in his grill. When a customer asked if he was well, Daniel quickly forced a smile: “I am fine. It is the fire that makes me sweat.” No one questioned the hand that seasoned such delicious food.
The Price of Riches
Lying in the dark, Daniel remembered the night years ago that changed everything.
He was a thin young man in Lagos, working at a dusty spare parts shop in Ladipo Market. He watched the rich men, the Chief Bensons of the world, arrive in big jeeps, their gold chains flashing, their laughter echoing the wealth he craved. His bitterness—fueled by poverty and desire—grew into a burning obsession.
One day, Daniel stepped forward and asked Chief Benson, “Please, show me the way. I don’t want to die poor.” The Chief, intrigued by Daniel’s desperate boldness, told him to come that night. “If your heart is strong, we shall talk like men.”
Chief Benson drove Daniel to a small mud house where a thin man with a long white beard, the Babalawo, waited. The Babalawo spoke of the road to wealth, but Chief Benson offered the chilling demonstration. He rolled up his trousers, revealing a deep, dark wound on his calf—the size of a man’s fist. White worms crawled in and out.
“This is my bank,” Chief Benson said calmly. “The more these worms grow, the more money flows to me. But they must be fed to the living. When people eat food that carries them, wealth follows me like a shadow.”
The Babalawo offered the bargain: “If you want riches that never dry, you must accept a wound like this. Every night you will gather the creatures it breeds and feed them to food for others to eat.”
Greed drowned every warning in Daniel’s heart. “I accept,” he said quickly. “Do it for me tonight.”
With a swift cut from a clay object, the Babalawo slashed deep into Daniel’s right leg. Hot pain shot up, followed by a crawling sensation as if something alive had entered his flesh. The Babalawo gave the final instruction: “Leave Lagos. Find a quiet place… Begin a business where people must eat everyday. Do not fail, or the blessing will turn to hunger and eat you first.”
The Nightly Harvest
Daniel traveled until he reached Ober Village. He started a chicken farm, raising the birds in a wide pen.
At night, behind locked doors, his real business began. He would loosen the thick cloth on his leg, revealing the deep, wet wound. Pain pulsed through it, but Daniel bore it in silence. He held a clean calabash beneath the sore and waited. When the “harvest” was ready, he poured the strange contents into the chicken feed. He would then rewrap the wound, whispering his nightly comfort: “Small pain for big money. Tomorrow the queue will be long.”
The chickens, fed by this dark source, grew fat and lively. Soon, Daniel’s roasted chicken made him famous. Money filled his bag faster than he could count.
The Debt Comes Due
Seasons passed, and the business flourished, but the secret work took its toll. The wound throbbed harder, the smell grew sharper, and the pain stretched up his calf and tugged at his thigh. He limped more each day, yet he was too deep in greed to stop.
One dusty morning, the fire in his leg became unbearable. He lay sweating, unable to walk even to the chicken pen. For four days, his grill stayed cold, and a thick, sour stench drifted from his compound.
One stormy night, a tearing pain ripped through his leg. The wound burst open with a wet crack, and something began to move—fast and many. In the lantern light, he saw white shapes pushing through the wound—first a few, then hundreds, then thousands—spilling onto the mat with a sound like dry leaves.
Daniel tried to rise, but his body wouldn’t obey. He felt the movement inside him, under the skin of his belly, along his arms. Thousands of worms crawled out, covering his legs, chest, and face. He opened his mouth to scream, and more poured out, thick, white, and endless.
By dawn, Ober Village was silent. When the neighbors finally pushed open Daniel’s door, they stepped back in horror. The stall was never touched again.
The elders now tell the story by firelight, ending with the same heavy words: “Greed does not fill a man; it finishes him. What you feed for wealth will one day feed on you.” Daniel, once the pride of the market, became only a caution in village memory.
Moral of the Story
Greed is a fire that never satisfies. Daniel thought he had found an easy way to riches, but every coin carried a hidden cost. He fed his chickens from a secret wound to make others crave his food, but the same wound finally consumed him. Wealth gained through hidden darkness is never a blessing; it is a debt waiting to be collected.
