The air is taut as screams pierce the night, sounds of the wounded and dying cutting through the rainforest like the harmattan from the Sahara. Oyinda puts her fingers over her ears. Her mother, Ireti, is on her knees and sweating, praying to the Old Gods and the New.

“Mummy, would we see daddy again?”

“Quiet, child! Let us live till the morning. It will be fine if we can live till sunlight!”

Outside, it is raining. Echoes of thunder and flashes of Lightning fork through the night sky, illuminating the dead bodies and pools of blood around the gutters. The Valks have ravaged this settlement, attacking while the community slept and ripping through flesh and sinew like the butcher at the Oja Marketplace. In the big wooden closet, Oyinda clutches her Ere, a threadbare doll her father had given her for her 12th birthday.

Ere had been there when the monsters first attacked their house and ate her baby brother. Ere had been there when her father left the house clutching his Dane gun and machete, swearing on Obatala to “Kill Every Last One of THEM!”. Ere had been there when he was brought back on a wooden stretcher, tied neatly in a body bag folded at the edges, his beautiful Nubian face split in half and his right eye missing.

Ere will always be here. Ere will protect me.

Just now, a crash of thunder. The sound is getting closer. This could only mean one thing.

“Mummy, I have to pee!”

“Oyinda, I beg you. Do not make another sound! We may be the last ones alive..”

“But Iya mi…”

Just then, there’s a loud bang as all the windows of their tiny home are blown to bits. Oyinda screams, running out of the closet in utter panic. Just then, a lone figure knocks on the front door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The door creaks and opens.

She clenches her fist, grabbing a broken vase from the ground. Ere in one hand, weapon in the other, she turns around slowly to face the intruder.

It’s pitch-dark and with only occasional flashes of lightning, Oyinda could scarcely make out the silhouette of a man. Or was he?

Right in the center of her living room towered a 7-foot god, arms and torso chiseled like bronze and covered from head to toe in soft, delicate tattoos. He had the longest dreads she had ever seen, flowing graciously from the tip of his oblong head to the small of his back. In his left hand, he held an axe, still dripping with blood. With his right, he beckoned to her.

“Do you know who I am?”

A clash of thunder masks the sounds of two Valks devouring Ireti. A monster howls in the distance. Oyinda cannot breathe.

“I want to see my Daddy.”

The Ere drops from her fingers, a symbol of hope lost. The Lone figure stares at the threadbare doll, adorned with white chalk and tiny markings in Oro, an ancient Yoruba language native to the Ayan healers of the Hidden Hills.

“I am Sango, Son of Obatala, Maker of Rain and God of thunder, yet you do not fear me?”

Oyinda clenches her fist even harder and bites her lower lip, drawing blood.

“You have the blood of the old Gods and the Magun protects you. We shall meet again, Young Oyinda.” And with another flash of lightning, he vanishes into thin air.

Outside, the rain continues to fall. Inside, two Valks share her mother’s remains, totally oblivious to the petrified child still clutching her wooden toy.

The path had been ordained. It was time.

Seni.

In 2019, bloggers and social media carried the tale of the “Drake Curse”, a paranormal event that referenced the hottest artist on the planet.

The allegation was simple: whenever Drake takes a picture with a footballer or in a club’s stadium, they lose their next game or suffer some kind of misfortune in the coming weeks.

It’s true that soccer fans (forgive me, football fans) typically stay loyal to one club and hardly take pictures with other jerseys, but your rules do not apply to Drizzy Drake —that man sure loves to roll in the big leagues.

and my personal favorite…

Even the clubs caught on!

Let’s just say, if it was 2019 and Drake was coming to your city, you’d want to keep him far away from your boyhood club.

Well, there’s a new Drake in town.

annnd the town is the metaverse.

annnd he has long hair.

annnd he’s awesome.

Only one thing - you don’t want to buy an NFT after him.

Florida born but California bred, heir to the Benihana franchise Steve Aoki is an award-winning producer, DJ and recording artiste.

In 2021, Steve told Fortune magazine that he made more money from trading NFT's than the royalties from selling his music!

Aoki noted he made $888,888.88 on the sale of his “hairy” collection. (Reason 400756 reason why you should give a damn about NFTs.)

Since that time, however, the Drake curse — the same modern-day phenomena that had United fans cursing Drake in 2019, seems to have caught on with our man Steve. Apparently, any NFT collection Aoki “apes in” (NFT lingo for purchase) quickly drops in value. Popular blue chip projects like Azuki and Moonbirds are victims of the Aoki curse, falling tremendously once news hit the tweets about a Steve Aoki buy in. Normally, celebrity endorsements are a great indicator of a good project in web3 but not in this case!

Comedians and degens alike have spoken about the curse, posting memes and videos about the subject, including this hilarious one by personal fav Kmoney featuring Steve Aoki himself.

Is Mr. Aoki just buying the top of these NFT projects? Is the urban legend real?

Or is there something else that meets the eye?

I don't care; I'm enjoying this. In my African-fuelled opinion, I think the best way to break metaversal curses is to engage in a gas war on the third night of a blood moon. If that works, Mr Aoki, do send us some ETH 💛

Till the next exorcism,

Seni.