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In the heart of Ekiti, where the hills whisper secrets and masquerades guard ancient truths, a fire smouldered—one that was never meant to burn.
Kikelomo was born of rhythm. Her feet knew the drumbeat before she ever heard it. By age ten, she was already the lead dancer of the Ogun Festival. Her beauty was legendary: skin the colour of midnight, eyes that glittered like stars, and legs that moved like the wind. She was a daughter of the soil, bound to tradition.
Aanuoluwapo—Aanu—was the opposite. A fine artist from Ibadan, he came to the village on a cultural grant to sketch the sacred dances of the Yoruba people. Quiet, observant, and curious, Aanu carried a sketchpad and a camera. But he didn’t come to Ekiti for love. He came for art.
Until he saw her.
It was during rehearsals for the Fire Dance of Ogun—Kike in red wrappers, ankles laced with bells, body glistening with palm oil. Her movements were fierce, fluid, holy. Aanu's pencil froze. His camera dropped. Time stilled.
Their eyes met.
It should’ve ended there.
Because Kike was not just any dancer—she was Oríkì Olójó, the one chosen by the Oracle to lead the sacred fire dance. She was consecrated to Ogun, forbidden to marry, forbidden to lie with any man. Her body was the vessel of the god’s flame.
But the heart, foolish and bold, does not care for rules.
They met in secret. At the back of the shrine, in the old yam barn, under the sacred Iroko tree where lovers once made pacts of blood. He would draw her; she would dance for him. No words were needed. Their bodies spoke in rhythm and strokes, their silence loud with desire.
Soon, the whispers began.
The fire priestess noticed Kike’s stumbles during rehearsal. The masquerades grew restless. The flames on the sacred torch began flickering during rites. The gods were watching—and they were not pleased.
When the villagers found Aanu’s sketchpad—filled with drawings of Kike in forbidden poses—they dragged him before the Council. “He has defiled our goddess,” the high priest thundered. “He must be cleansed by fire!”
But Kike stepped forward.
“I loved him,” she said, voice shaking. “And he loved me not as a goddess, but as a woman.”
The crowd gasped.
To love the chosen of Ogun was sacrilege. To touch her was death. But to confess it openly? Unheard of.
The punishment was swift: Aanu was to be tied to the Flame Post at the centre of the square and purified by fire. Kike was to be stripped of her beads and never dance again.
On the night of the burning, the village gathered. Drums thundered, the wind howled, and the torch was lit.
Aanu stood tall, flames rising.
But before the fire could touch him, Kike broke from the crowd. She ran barefoot, red cloth flying behind her, and leapt into the flames.
Gasps echoed. The fire exploded—not in destruction, but in a whirlwind of red and gold. The flames did not consume them.
They danced.
Together.
In the middle of the fire.
Kike and Aanu danced like gods—wild, divine, unstoppable. Sparks flew around them like blessings. The fire bent to their rhythm, circling their bodies but never touching their skin. The drums slowed. The people fell silent.
And then… silence.
The fire died out.
They were gone.
Some say they vanished into the wind. Others believe Ogun spared them, turning them into spirits of flame and love.
Today, every year, when the festival returns and the fire is lit, the villagers say that if you look closely into the flames, you will see two silhouettes dancing—one with red wrappers, the other with a sketchpad in his hand.
They call it The Dance of Forbidden Flames.
And in every spark, love lives on.
