There is another dog in my Baálẹ̀'s compound
Sorrows, sorrows, prayers.
(No animal or creature was harmed in the making of this film.)
I'm sorry to say this is not one of those stories.
Hi, my name is Fareedah, for those who don't know and I live in a small community in Asero, Abeokuta (feel free to visit). Recently, there’s been yet another dog in the neighbourhood. Not my Baálẹ̀’s1 dog this time, it actually belongs to another neighbour. But somehow, everything that happens around here always finds its way back to my Baálẹ̀’s house.
My Baálẹ̀ is a very nice man, funny, down to earth, and, if I must add, very traditional. He lives in one of those houses without a fence, the kind where anybody and everybody is welcome. There’s always a long wooden bench outside, where elders sit and talk while children play around their feet. And there’s a tree that stands just in front of the house, not very tall, but a tree that matters.
I remember once, when I was little, coming home late from madrasah. My mum was waiting outside, her wrapper twisted, anger visibly written on her face, her legs fidgeting. I knew I was in trouble. She started questioning me, as I am the eldest of two at the time, why I came back late, whether I stopped anywhere else, all of that. As my answers were coming out short and slurred, she reached for the tree to cut a switch.
You know Nigerian parents na.
But before she could, one of baálẹ̀'s wives stopped her.
She said, “You can’t. That tree is sacred.”
In my head, I went, "sacred how? Aren't they all?" I didn’t pay much attention back then, because I still got my ass whooped. But over time, I learned.
There came a time when there was a dog in my baálẹ̀'s compound.
These weren’t the usual kind of local dogs, not the ones that bark endlessly or bare their teeth at shadows. These ones were gentle. Quiet. They just wanted to follow you around mindlessly. They were nice dogs. Soft-hearted dogs. And one day, I found out that their heads always ended up on the tree.
It was such a shock to me that day. My mum explained that it was part of a tradition, that they slaughtered the dog on the tree and drained its blood upon it, as sacrifice for the Ògún2 deity. To seek the god's blessing for protection, prosperity and victory. They would offer gin to Ògún, whisper prayers, and feast. I had learned about Ògún in Yoruba class, even the chants, but I never imagined that was how it was celebrated. I kept thinking about that dog, about how its eyes used to follow me when I passed, how it wagged its tail like it understood kindness.
The next morning, the compound was quiet. Too quiet. The bench was empty, the elders nowhere to be found. Only the tree stood there, looking fuller somehow, greener even, like it had fed on something heavy.
For days after that, I couldn’t bring myself to walk too close to it. The children still played around, chasing one another, their laughter loud enough to cover anything sacred or strange. But every time I looked at the bark, I swore I could see a stain that hadn’t been there before. It’s funny how you grow up thinking you understand the people around you, until tradition shows its teeth. My baálẹ̀ would still laugh loudly in the evenings, call out greetings to passersby, share his palm wine with anyone who stopped to talk. Life went on as if nothing had happened. But for me, something had changed.
I started to look at things differently.
At the women humming songs that sounded older than the village itself.
At the men gathered by the tree, their laughter a little too forced.
At the dogs that came after, still gentle, still trusting, like they didn’t know what fate awaited them.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible for something to be both beautiful and terrifying at once. Because that’s what tradition is, isn’t it? A soft voice wrapped around a sharp truth.
Writing this reminded me of Tomi Adeyemi’s Legacy of Orïsha trilogy, the way she writes about gods, blood, and power feels almost too familiar, like echoes of home. If you haven’t read it yet, please do. It’s one of those stories that makes you see magic and tradition in a new light.
What about you? Is there a tradition where you are from, something old, sacred and strange that you still find beautiful in its own way?
Your anonymous bestie
Ree🤍
Baálẹ̀: In pre-colonial Yoruba society, the head or ruler of a small village or a town.
Ògún: In Yoruba, "Ògún" refers to the Orisha (deity) of war, iron, metal, and technology, and also to the concept of "war" or "weapon" itself