That evening, the air changed.
Birds vanished from the sky. Leaves turned black. Even the wind stopped blowing—as though the village was holding its breath for death.
The villagers locked their doors even earlier. I saw fear in their eyes. But this time, it wasn’t just fear of the usual nightfall.
It was fear of something far worse.
Mama Chinyere stood at her shrine, looking up at the sky. I asked her what was coming.
“Tonight is her night of hunger,” she said. “The night when she doesn’t take one… she takes many.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because no one gave her a heart last moon cycle. And now… she rains blood.”
At 5:59PM, the sky turned red—not like a sunset, but like fresh blood being squeezed across the heavens.
And at exactly 6PM, it began:
A rain of blood poured from the skies.
Thick. Warm. Stinking of iron and rot.
It soaked rooftops. Poured into clay pots. Flooded the roads.
The earth hissed beneath it—re