Weekend Titbits by Boma Nwuke
This is not a myth. It is not one of those moonlight tales elders spin to frighten stubborn children into obedience. It is a story I witnessed with my own eyes—at least to the extent that a little girl, old enough to see, hear, and remember, could comprehend.
It happened many years ago in the kingdom of Okrika, at a time when life flowed gently with the tide, when neighbours knew one another by name, and when the creek was both a source of livelihood and mystery .Like many riverine communities, Okrika has its share of stories that blur the lines between folklore, belief, and lived experience.
I was still a child, at that tender age when fear and curiosity wrestle endlessly in the heart.
That afternoon, a few of my friends and relations were playing in our compound. Our laughter filled the air, mingling with the salty breeze from the creek. Suddenly, the mood shifted. News broke like wildfire: a crocodile had swum through the creek and berthed close to land.
In a riverine community, such news is never ordinary.
Men abandoned their workshops, women left their stalls in the market, and children scampered behind adults, propelled by excitement and dread. My elder siblings ran out immediately. I followed, crying—not out of bravery but fear. As a child, I imagined other crocodiles lurking behind walls or beneath wooden walkways, ready to pounce.
My sister scooped me into her arms, and together we joined the growing crowd heading towards the spot known as Okolo, around” Igukiri” where fishermen often anchored their canoes.
There it was.
A massive crocodile lay close to the bank, gasping for breath. It did not behave like the crocodiles we had heard about—swift, vicious, and territorial. This one appeared confused, restless, almost desperate. Its eyes darted around as though searching for something invisible to the rest of us.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“This doesn’t look like a real crocodile,” someone said.
“There is something wrong with it,” another added.
The unease was palpable.
Not satisfied with speculation, the elders decided to summon a native doctor—Akrika, as we children called him then. In those days, such men were not merely spiritual figures; they were custodians of communal balance, interpreters of the unseen.
When Akrika arrived, the crowd fell into an expectant silence. He studied the crocodile carefully, circled it, muttered words under his breath, and finally declared:
“This is not an animal. It is human.”
The crowd erupted.
How could a crocodile be human? How could flesh and scales conceal a man?
I tugged at my sister’s wrapper and whispered the question. She shook her head gently. “I don’t know,” she replied, just as confused.
Akrika then proposed a test. If the crocodile was truly human, someone would be missing. He asked that families take a headcount—who was present, who had gone fishing, and who had not returned.
The exercise began.
Before long, one name echoed repeatedly. A fisherman was missing. A man known for paddling the creeks with a close friend, harvesting fish in abundance, more than most others.
The truth, slowly and painfully, unraveled.
According to whispers that soon solidified into confession, the missing man and his friend possessed charms and amulets that enabled them to transform into crocodiles. In that form, they could fish effortlessly, returning with bountiful harvests that raised eyebrows but attracted little scrutiny until envy crept in.
On that fateful day, greed entered the equation.
The man, later known as Seki, went fishing alone. He paddled into the creek, anchored his canoe securely, and used his charms to transform into a giant crocodile. Unbeknownst to him, his friend followed discreetly. From a distance, he watched where Seki hid the charms and amulets.
When Seki swam far into the creek in search of fish, his friend seized the opportunity. He took the charms, leaving behind only the anchored canoe and paddle.
Seki returned from his hunt heavy with fish—but trapped.
Unable to transform back into human form, panic set in. The tide was strong. With no charms, no paddle, and no canoe to reclaim, he had only one option: swim.
Driven by desperation, he navigated the tidal waves, meandering through the creeks until he reached Okolo, where fishermen usually gathered. By then, exhaustion had overtaken him. That was where we found him—gasping, restless, and exposed.
Back in the crowd, a woman stepped forward. She told Akrika that her brother had gone fishing and had not returned. She also mentioned that his usual fishing companion was home that day.
Akrika wasted no time. He summoned the man.
Confronted by spiritual authority and communal scrutiny, the man broke down and confessed. He narrated everything—how they fished together, how envy grew in his heart, and how he betrayed his friend.
He was ordered to produce the charms.
When the items were brought forth, Akrika performed incantations. The air felt heavy. Silence engulfed the crowd. Before our eyes, the crocodile transformed into a human being.
Seki had returned—but not as a victor.
In a community built on honesty and restraint, the incident became a permanent stain. People avoided Seki, his friend, and their families. Neighbours crossed the road to avoid them. Traders fled at the sight of their approach. Trust evaporated overnight.
As a child, I did not fully understand the gravity of what I witnessed. It remained a puzzling memory—frightening, mysterious, unresolved.
But today, in an era obsessed with sudden wealth, shortcuts, and outcomes without process, the story makes chilling sense.
Today, the creeks have grown quieter, but the hunger that drove Seki into the water has only changed its shape. Men no longer paddle into rivers to become crocodiles; they log into screens, cut corners, betray trust, and gamble their names for sudden wealth. Yet the end is often the same—exposure, isolation, and a life lived in quiet shame. The story of the man who went fishing and returned as a crocodile endures because it is not really about magic, but about choice. It reminds us that when greed strips a person of conscience, society will eventually strip that person of belonging. Some lessons, like stubborn tides, return again and again until we finally learn to swim against them.
Attention:This story carries multiple layered morals, which is why it endures.
- Greed Is a Self-Inflicted Trap
Seki’s transformation was not the tragedy—his desire for excessive gain was. Greed often promises abundance but ends in exposure and loss. - Betrayal Is Worse Than Failure
The friend’s envy destroyed not just Seki but himself. Betrayal corrodes trust and isolates entire families, not just individuals. - Shortcuts Demand Heavy Payment
Whether mystical or modern—ritual money, cybercrime, corruption—the price of dishonest gain is social exile, fear, and shame. - Communal Values Are Society’s Real Wealth
The community’s reaction showed that wealth without integrity earns rejection, not respect. - Stories Survive Because They Warn
Some stories refuse to die because each generation finds itself reenacting them—only with different tools.
Weekend Titbits is published by The Port Harcourt Telegraph Newspaper authored by the Managing Editor
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