In the small village of Ndera, no one dared to go near the thicket known as Isaso. Children were warned, travelers avoided it, and even the wind seemed to whisper warnings when it passed through the trees. They said an old woman lived in there—one with skin like bark, eyes like burning coal, and a voice that could freeze your blood.
Her name was Nyirabuzimu, which meant "Mother of the Dead."
Long ago, she had been a healer, a respected elder who spoke to the spirits. But after her only son was taken by disease and the villagers refused to help her bury him, something in her broke. She cursed the village and walked into the bush, never to return. After that, people began to disappear.
It started with animals. Chickens, goats—gone without a trace. Then a child went missing. Then another. The villagers whispered that Nyirabuzimu had made a pact with dark spirits, trading her soul for the power to stay alive forever—and to make the village suffer.
No one saw her, but everyone felt her.
At night, eerie lights would flicker between the trees. Sometimes a scream would echo out from the bush—sometimes high like a woman, sometimes low like a beast. Once, a hunter returned with hair turned completely white, saying he saw her hunched over a deer, eating it raw.
He died two days later, whispering, "She sees through the trees."
One day, a skeptical young man named Mugisha came to Ndera. He laughed at the tales. "There is no such thing as witches," he said. "Only fear and darkness." So, to prove them wrong, he took a machete and a lantern and walked into Isaso alone.
The villagers gathered at the edge of the bush and watched him disappear into the green.
Hours passed. Then night. Then two days. On the third evening, just as the sun dipped below the hills, Mugisha walked out.
But he was not the same.
His skin was pale, his eyes glassy. He didn't speak. He just stared ahead, trembling, mumbling the same phrase over and over:
"She feeds on voices… and she has mine."
That night, every dog in the village howled. The trees in Isaso rustled though there was no wind. And from the darkness, came the sound of laughter—cracked, rasping, and far too close.
From that day on, no one dared to speak her name again.
But if you pass through Ndera, and you hear whispering in the leaves, don't stop.
Don't look.
And whatever you do, don't answer.
Because Nyirabuzimu is still there…Watching.Waiting.Hungry.