BY PATRICK MGBODO
Meeting of The Gods
Along the mighty Niger River, where the waters whisper ancient secrets, a goddess reigns supreme. Onishe, draped in the blinding purity of her Akwa-Ocha, sits upon her sacred cliffs, her sagging breasts heavy with the milk of compassion. Her silver hair cascades like moonlight, and her fair skin glows beneath the fierce embrace of the afternoon sun. This is her throne, where she listens—ever patient, ever just—to the endless supplications of her human children, her favoured pastime.
But on one ill-fated afternoon, the serenity of her dominion was interrupted. Onishe, with her characteristic grace and an unmatched candour that made even the boldest of gods tread carefully, took her place among the celestial assembly. It was a gathering of deities, a council where the fate of mortals was spun like fine threads of destiny. The meeting, spirited and alive, pulsed with the grandeur of the supernatural—until the feast was served.
From the ether, delicate-winged attendants emerged, bearing steaming pots of Ogbono soup, its aroma weaving through the air like an enchantment. The broth shimmered, thick with indulgence, enriched by the finest cuts of meat; succulent and divine. The gods, exhausted from deliberations, surrendered to the temptation, their divine restraint melting like wax before the fire of hunger. They dipped their fingers into the dark richness, savouring the essence of the mortal world made holy by celestial hands.
Onishe hesitated, watching, her instincts whispering caution. But hunger is a great equalizer, so, with a reluctant sigh, she washed her hands, dipped her fingers into the waiting pot, and gathered a generous lump between her fingers. The taste was intoxicating, a symphony of flavours crafted with the care of mortal devotion. She reached again, and again, her fingers plunging deep into the silken depths of the broth, unaware of the quiet betrayal unfolding with each touch.
Defiling Purity
From across her seat, the gods watched in solemn silence as the dark, viscous trails of Ogbono clung to her pristine Akwa-Ocha, marking it with stains of defilement. A single thread of ochre, then another, until the purity of her garment was marred beyond redemption. The whispers began, low and knowing. Onishe, the untouchable, the revered, had been claimed by the meal—a goddess now marked by the very indulgence she had once held at arm’s length.
And in that moment, the winds of fate shifted. A hush fell over the assembly as the goddess of purity and grace gazed down at her once-pristine Akwa-Ocha, now blemished by the dark, stubborn smears of Ogbono.
The silence was heavy, laden with the weight of an unspoken truth. She had been marked—her divinity, in that instant, challenged by the menace of a single meal.
Asaba, her beloved land, would bear the consequences. From that day forth, Ogbono was banished; a recluse unworthy of a home. The soup that had once graced divine tables, thick and rich with promise, became a forbidden relic.
No pot in Asaba would bubble with its essence, no market stall would dare display its seeds. The kitchens that once sang with its aroma fell silent, its memory reduced to whispers and cautionary tales passed down from mother to daughter.
Had Ogbono shown remorse, had she humbled herself before the goddess and begged forgiveness, perhaps mercy would have found her. But arrogance sealed her fate. She refused to bear the blame, insisting the fault was not hers—that it was Onishe’s own doing. It was this defiance, this audacious denial that earned her not just exile but eternal rejection—both in the celestial realms and in the world of men. And so, Ogbono, once beloved, slipped away into oblivion, carrying with her the shame of defiling a goddess.
The Revelation
The tale would resurface, carried on the lips of those who kept the old ways alive. The Pointer, in search of the roots of this ancient taboo, found answers in the wisdom of the chief priest, Ohene.
Fresh from leading the All Mighty God and Great Queen Mother Onishe Sons and Daughters Global in their annual Thanksgiving to the revered goddess on March 16, 2025, Ogbueshi Felix Ijeh, custodian of the sacred traditions of Onishe, spoke of her power, her mercy, and her wrath.
It was Onishe, he said, who had watched over Asaba through the ages, ensuring the well-being and sustenance of her people. Her presence was not mere myth but an enduring force, woven into the very fabric of their survival. And when war came—when the Nigerian armada descended upon the town during the civil conflict of 1967 to 1970—her fury had risen like a tempest.
Narrating his divine selection, Ogbueshi Ijeh’s voice took on a solemn tone, his words heavy with the weight of destiny. “In 2008, while I was still in Abuja, eking out my daily bread, the dreams began,” he intoned, his gaze distant as if peering into the past. “A man, clothed in the sacred Ohene regalia, would appear to me night after night, asking me to return to Asaba’’.
At first, he dismissed them, brushing them off as mere figments of an overworked mind. But sleep soon became a torment. The dreams persisted, creeping into his nights with relentless urgency. What started as a whisper became an echo, a summons he could no longer ignore. The once-proud graduate of The Ibadan Polytechnic found himself teetering on the edge of sanity, his waking hours consumed by the visions that haunted his nights.
Then, on what seemed a fateful day, a call came. Someone on the other end of the line spoke of a contract he had bid for at the Asaba International Airport. Hope surged within him like a tide and without hesitation, Ogbueshi Ijeh set off for Asaba, his mind racing with possibilities. But fate had played its hand.
The moment he arrived, the call that had beckoned him vanished like mist in the morning sun. He redialed, again and again, yet each attempt yielded the same chilling response—the number did not exist. Confused but undeterred, he sought out Mr. Lee, the man overseeing the runway construction.
“There was no such call,” Mr. Lee told him, shaking his head. Disillusioned but resigned, Ogbueshi Ijeh decided to return to Abuja the following day. But as he stepped into his home that afternoon, the air shifted. A presence filled his compound, unseen yet undeniable. And then—he saw it.
A hand, pale as freshly fallen snow, reached for him. Before he could recoil, it lifted him effortlessly, defying the laws of man and gravity. He was airborne, weightless, as an overwhelming force seized his body.
In that moment, he saw his bone emerge, pushing through flesh, reshaping his form. Pain and revelation fused into one terrifying instant. ‘’That was how I became crippled’’.
“I was on crutches for eight months” Ogbueshi Felix Ijeh recalls, his voice a mixture of resignation and reverence. “In all that time, I refused to yield. I dismissed the whispers and ignored the signs. Even when she—Onishe—reached out to me, I turned away.”
She had gone to Aboh, he said, and from there, sent a woman to him. A messenger. But he waved her off, scoffing at what he deemed mere superstition. “I was a man of the modern age,” he mused.
“How could I give credence to such tales in this era of information and enlightenment?”
Yet the weight of destiny pressed upon him. Desperate for answers, he called his mother, seeking to understand the meaning of Ohene. Her response was swift, sharp, and heavy with unspoken warnings.
“None of your great-grandfather’s children who was an Ohene ever became a President or a Governor,” she rebuked.
It was a bitter truth. To serve Onishe was to walk a path carved not by ambition, but by duty. By then, the walls were closing in. Once a man of means, Ijeh from Umuonaje Quarters, Asaba found himself undone.
His wealth, all N17 million of it, had drained away in a futile attempt to heal his crippled leg. From a man who had once held fortunes, he had become one who begged for N10 just to eat.
Still, defiance burned in his heart. He devised a plan—to serve her in name only, a hollow allegiance, just enough to appease the goddess while he plotted his return to Abuja. But the gods do not take kindly to deceit.
Another message came. She sent a man—Cho-Cho—bearing greetings from the deity of the land. A final warning. Yet, still, he refused. Then she came herself. “I saw her,” he whispered. “Not in a dream, not in a vision. She stood before me, her presence vast, consuming.”
From a palm tree, she plucked a mushroom, holding it out to him as if offering fate itself. Her voice, low and commanding, spoke of a boy—one she would send to him, a child meant for a miracle. She instructed him on how to use the mushroom, and how to perform the task she had chosen him for.
Desperation battled disbelief. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely above a breath. And then, before his eyes, she spun—graceful, fluid, and impossibly fast. The air crackled with energy, and when she stilled, she was no longer as he had first seen her.
A woman now stood in her place, her presence both terrifying and divine. Her hair was white as foam upon the river, her skin radiant, her sagging breasts heavy with the milk of creation. She looked upon him, her gaze endless as the tides. “I am Onishe,” she declared, her voice resonating through his very bones. “The mother of Ahaba.”
Ogbueshi Ijeh insists, with unwavering conviction, that Onishe is no mere legend, no relic of ancient folklore spun to awe the gullible.
She exists—eternal, watchful, and preoccupied with her divine duty to bless Asaba and all her disciples, no matter how far across the globe they may be scattered. He revealed that the goddess continues to speak to him up to this day.
