5 Horror Tales from Africa
1. Aisha, 34, Nigeria – The Spirit in the Baobab Tree
Profile: Aisha is a teacher from Kano, northern Nigeria. She grew up in a small village where oral folklore shaped much of her childhood. Her family is devoutly Muslim, and she’s always leaned on her faith to guide her decisions. Aisha has a deep love for storytelling and often shares tales with her students to keep local traditions alive.
It was a cool evening when the harmattan winds began sweeping through Kano. I had just finished grading papers and decided to visit my childhood home. Near our village, there stood an ancient baobab tree. As children, we were warned never to linger near it after sundown. Elders claimed the tree was home to a djinn, a restless spirit that thrived on human curiosity.
I had dismissed those stories as bedtime scare tactics. That was until one fateful evening.
I visited the tree to retrieve a soccer ball my nephew had kicked into its branches. The moment I stepped near, an unnatural silence engulfed the area. The usual chirping of birds and rustling leaves was absent. It was as if the tree commanded everything around it to hold its breath.
As I reached for the ball tangled in low-hanging branches, a shadow darted across my peripheral vision. I turned, expecting a mischievous child or a passing animal. But there was no one.
Then, I heard it—a whisper. “Aisha,” it called. My name, spoken in a voice that was neither male nor female, echoed in the stillness. The chill that ran down my spine felt like ice in my veins. The whispers became persistent, growing louder with each passing moment. It felt as though invisible hands were brushing against my arms, urging me to leave.
I bolted, clutching the ball and not daring to look back. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The whispers haunted my dreams, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. I avoided mirrors and reflective surfaces, fearing I’d see something unnatural staring back at me.
The next day, I confided in my grandmother. She nodded gravely and recited verses from the Quran. “You’ve disturbed the djinn. Pray for forgiveness, child,” she warned. She prepared a small pouch filled with herbs and holy verses to protect me. I was instructed to avoid the tree and to never venture near it alone.
For weeks, the atmosphere around me felt heavy. Doors would creak open on their own, and I constantly felt as though I was being watched. It wasn’t until I performed a series of prayers and sought blessings from the village imam that the disturbances stopped. The whispers eventually faded, but the memory of that night lingers.
Even now, as an adult, I refuse to pass by the baobab tree. It stands as a reminder of the unseen world and the warnings of my elders. Some stories, I’ve learned, aren’t just meant to scare—they’re meant to protect.
2. Themba, 42, South Africa – The Sangoma’s Warning
Profile: Themba is a businessman from Johannesburg. Growing up in Soweto, he’d always heard stories about the spiritual power of sangomas (traditional healers), but he never believed in them. A practical man, Themba focuses on logic and success, often brushing off tales of the supernatural.
I was in Limpopo Province for a property deal. A local sangoma approached me, her face etched with concern. “You’re walking on cursed land,” she warned. I laughed, brushing her off as a superstitious elder.
That night, strange things began to happen. The wind howled like it carried voices, and the shadows in my hotel room seemed to move on their own. At 2 a.m., I awoke to the sound of drums beating outside. But when I peeked through the curtains, there was nothing—only darkness.
The next morning, I felt uneasy but brushed it off as exhaustion. However, my business partner abruptly pulled out of the deal, claiming he had vivid nightmares of being buried alive. I was frustrated but decided to proceed alone.
The third night, I was jolted awake by an intense pressure on my chest. It felt like an unseen force was holding me down. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The room was freezing, and the air felt thick, making it hard to breathe. When the pressure finally lifted, I sat up, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
The following day, I sought out a sangoma in Soweto. Her hut was filled with herbs, animal bones, and charms. She listened intently as I recounted my experiences. “You’ve offended the ancestors of this land,” she said. “A cleansing ritual must be performed.”
She lit a fire and began chanting, throwing herbs and powders into the flames. The air grew heavy, and I felt a warmth spread through me. As the ritual ended, she handed me a small amulet for protection.
That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept peacefully. The nightmares ceased, and the oppressive weight lifted. I’ve since learned to respect the unseen forces that protect the land. Some warnings, I realized, are given for a reason.
3. Fatima, 28, Sudan – The Shadow at the Nile’s Edge
Profile: Fatima is a journalist from Khartoum, Sudan. Known for her rational mind, she often debunks superstitions in her articles. She’s passionate about uncovering the truth and has a reputation for fearlessly tackling controversial topics.
I was covering a story in a remote village near the Nile, where people spoke of a “cursed” water spirit. Villagers claimed that those who ventured near the riverbank after dusk often disappeared.
I decided to investigate. As the sun dipped below the horizon, I set up my camera by the water. The river’s gentle flow masked an eerie silence that had fallen over the area.
Out of nowhere, I saw a figure—a woman in white, standing waist-deep in the water. Her back was to me, and her long hair floated unnaturally, as if moved by an unseen current.
“Hello?” I called, but she didn’t respond. I moved closer, and she turned. Her face… or what should have been her face, was a void of darkness. I stumbled back, tripping over rocks as a guttural sound filled the air.
The villagers found me the next morning, unconscious near the riverbank. My equipment was gone, and the elders sternly warned me never to return after sunset. I still don’t know what I saw, but I’ve never doubted the villagers’ stories since.
4. Kofi, 36, Ghana – The Witch Doctor’s Revenge
Profile: Kofi is a cocoa farmer from Kumasi, Ghana. He lives a modest life, skeptical of the supernatural, until a feud with a local witch doctor changed everything.
I argued with a witch doctor over a piece of land that had belonged to my family for generations. She warned me, “You will regret your greed.” I dismissed her as an old woman trying to scare me.
That night, strange things began happening. My livestock grew sick, and my children complained of nightmares. Doors slammed shut on their own, and an unrelenting stench of decay filled our home.
One night, I woke to find a shadowy figure standing at the foot of my bed. Its glowing red eyes burned into mine as it whispered, “Leave the land.”
I sought help from another spiritual healer, who performed a protection ritual. Slowly, the disturbances ceased. I returned the land to the community, and the witch doctor’s curse seemed to lift. But I’ll never forget the terror of that shadowy figure.
5. Leila, 22, Morocco – The Djinn of the Hammam
Profile: Leila is a university student from Marrakech, Morocco. She grew up hearing stories of djinn but always considered them part of folklore—until she encountered one herself.
During a visit to an old hammam (bathhouse) in the Medina, I ignored the attendant’s warning not to stay too long in the steam room. Alone, I began to hear whispers, though the room was empty.
The whispers grew louder, transforming into a guttural chant. Then, the steam seemed to thicken, forming the silhouette of a tall, menacing figure. My heart pounded as the figure moved closer, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
Panicked, I bolted out of the hammam. The attendants found me trembling and drenched in sweat. They said I had angered a djinn by staying too long in its domain.
I’ve since avoided hammams, and I now carry protective charms wherever I go. The experience taught me that some places are better left undisturbed.
