‘Atu, where have you been?’ Okemmou asked me once he saw me in my raffia costume strutting into the facility. I didn’t reply.
‘You’re now growing wings, eh. I have been scanning for your frequency but you never pick my calls.’
I looked around the place where Okemmou, my handler, was camping inside the steel company and saw that the firewood was in proper combustion mode, steaming an aluminium pan of herbs and exuding the thickest of smells.
Before I climbed into the boiling concoction spilling green bubbles over and into the fire, I shook my waist and the beads straddled around it created a clattering noise, signalling spiritual prowess. My morale was incredibly high. Okemmou looked at me with alcohol-ridden eyes through his self-styled mask, painted red with a chicken’s blood. I was always reminded of that toxic thick smell of burning iron ores nearby. I jumped around, teasing the cultural experiment. I did the traditional dance, vibrating my waist all the while. The fire reddened on, grazing my gaze.
My eyes went to the almanacs clasping the steel walls and then settled on the array of ceremonial masks on the vertical surfaces, each carved differently by Okemmou himself.
‘Stop taunting this procedure, Atu. Until Mr. Oblack makes it into town with his electrical upgrading procedures, this is the only option available. Who knows, he may be present at the market. We will stick with this method until we get a better substitute. You wouldn’t be where you are today without it anyway, so, show some respect and get in there now’.
Uneasy, I approached the brimming potion. The aluminium pan had turned red. I placed my left foot in first, then put my right foot afterwards. The thickness and quality of my raffia costume repelled the encroaching heat. Then, Okemmou came through, holding a fresh palm frond laced with tens of talisman and sacred objects.
‘We have to be well-prepared for these people because we don’t know who is who when we are out there. We can’t tell who is coming to the exhibition with a different kind of magic. People can be wicked. The first step is that we will heat you for at least two hours just to tighten things, eh. We don’t want screwups, do we?’
I endured the steam, in lucid waves, it penetrated the thick folds of the raffia and began to get to my own skin. The pain made me skip into a rare frequency and I lost touch with nature. Okemmou dazzled with his incantations, landing combinations and combinations, spewing the words out from his thick black lips. He blew a special dust onto my wooden masked face and I tried not to cough as the dust particles made their way into my lungs, seizing control of my being, influencing the properties of a secret ritual. He forced me to breathe everything in as I couldn’t keep it together any longer. The itching pain vanished after that. He made sure to circle the talisman over my head in seven complete cycles; protection was found in casting spells. One had to pass through water and fire and poison before one earned the precious Odeshi symbol: skin impenetrable. To finalize the fortification, Okemmou wrapped me again with fresh layers of raffia, then unleashed several tiny moulded earthenware pots with spell-active incense. He circled around me as he smashed seven of them on my head like raw eggs and with that, he shoved me out of the wide pan. I fell out like a log of timber and the chemicals spilled all over the place. His charms made sure my costume was unharmed as usual and that it wouldn’t harm my skin, but there was no denying the presence of the green steam that slowly crept out of my body like I was freshly-prepared leather, hardened and thickened.
‘Your powers are very strong, Okemmou’, I commended him, and got to my feet slowly, like a child just learning to walk. The spells were still manifesting. ‘What time does your shift on the engines begin’? I asked Okemmou
‘When you move your body out of this storeroom and begin to practice those moves you haven’t mastered yet,’ he replied, showing me the door of iron bars with indications of anti rust paint glossed all over.
‘There’ll be no presentation tomorrow if we don’t finish memorizing those moves’, he warned.
I wasn’t really sure what to expect when the day finally arrived, but I had faith. I polished my rustling hair and my wooden mask and my raffia costume and somehow managed to make every part of me shine. I could see children of the computer generation who were present at the exhibition, snapping photos with their fancy devices. I was heavy-hearted with light dreams circulating through my eyes, and many more rapidly intruding. There were controlled sounds from selected speakers mounted at core areas of the market where the festival was to hold, all of which would make the festival go as planned. My fingertips drooled of a new potent potion that Okemmou had put there before we left the steel company hours earlier. The plan was to flick the potion onto the earth where I would stand before I kicked off my presentation. I scanned the audience to see if Mr. Oblack was among the spectators. I crashed against Okemmou’s attention and saw him give me a nod. Signifying the starting point, restoring the accurate connection between the earth and the known spirits; names which I recited for the sake of additional protection because everyone knows how wise the gods are: Amadioha, Njoku, Ani, Uwara.
Everything was working systematically when the drums cried out loud, the whole arena glittered of charms weaved into fresh yellow palms knotted to the trees, to the canopies, to the drummers’ wrists and their ankles, to my wrists and ankles as well, and to the apexes of red caps which stood out as they occupied their positions on the heads of local chieftains and elders who were in attendance.
I introduced myself with the black receiver in my hand. ‘I am Atu of Okonko Society Masquerade Union., The title of my presentation is the Honourable Dance and Display of a Masquerade.’
My introduction garnered attention, and applause drifted my way from the audience.
But before I finally commenced, I reached into the deep folds of my pocket made of cotton and pulled out a tiny flask of palm wine. I soaked my dry lips and made them glitter, sour ethanol flowed into me, causing me to showcase some of my introductory moves. I hit the levels of my act, almost wanting to evaporate and become one with the atmosphere and multiple frequencies scattered around the entire scene. Suddenly, I leapt up and let the drumming and the piping and the gong beats surge through my veins.
I used my athletic prowess to walk on vertical bamboo sticks, twelve feet above ground. I danced to the melodious numbers coordinated by the cultural drummers and talented praise singers. They called this the Sacred Orchestra, music spinning through all things at the same time. And all this while, Okemmou urged me on with his red painted eyes which never left my form. And when he received a pre-agreed signal from me, he stepped out of the crowd in all glory and attacked the stage dramatically with a Dane gun. I understood what was to follow. We had rehearsed it so many times. I increased the speed of my feet, purposely vibrating the stationed sound machines around while doing so, in wait, for action births action or inaction depending on the particular mood. He knelt down a few meters away from me and pointed the Dane gun at my chest, red fabrics on the nozzles, eyeing me, blood thirsty, catastrophe and magic, loading. And the moment I heard the gunshot, the crowd almost scattered. I felt the pressure, combustibles, and an accumulation of forces bumped against my chest and nearly pushed me down. But my fortification and sacred upgrading spell worked and I recovered almost immediately, reigniting my moves. Smoke flew off my raffia chest. I danced on splendidly like nothing happened, pending the second shot which, when Okemmou released it, came and met me balancing my feet. I tried to absorb the energy just like I had done the former, but a scar had ripped open along my chest. I let the rest of the force take me down. The drumming stopped, almost simultaneously with my fall. My mood automatically changed as if it was a gearbox but tethered in drastic emotions, and fever rushed into my rib cages and slowly squeezed the life out of me as I saw the evening sun fading away. The wind blew through me like I was mere paper, thin length and possibly transparent. One thing was clear: the bullet which shouldn’t have hurt me had in fact done some major damage. Okemmou dramatically tossed the gun to the side as if he had made a terrible mistake and frantically searched and brought forward a spherical stainless jar from his bag of secrets. The bag held the most astonishing kind of power, and charges, and light like high energy in a local solar system where these spectators were floating meteorites. I lay motionless, watching him facilitating the procedures and said nothing. I was not frightened. I believed in Okenmou and I knew he wouldn’t let me die. I saw his thick uncut nails dig into the spherical instrument and begin to bend it into me, absolutely feeding and shocking me with new energies all the way in.
‘Breathe,’ I heard him mumble in dramatic tears ‘Inhale and exhale boy.’
The sounds he made came out refracted. He managed to perspire and healed me of my mortal wounds. I felt myself again, against the hardened, untarred floor. The gunshot wound on my chest had healed and sealed. I gave him my hand and he raised me up. The crowd fell under an enchantment, silently inactive like major constants of an equation. I saw pride glow in Okemmou’s eyes at the conjured miracle and without wasting more time, he retreated into the crowd, shaking his body to an unknown rhythm. I suspected that he was hurrying back to the steel company. I noticed the characteristics of my spectators for the very first time, spellbound, spiralling silence all through. I shrugged the damage and dust away from my skin. I made out mechanic workers branding greasy palms, and market women with baskets on their heads, children behind their backs operating modern devices, yelling for more action. But there was nothing left in me to unleash.
I cast my eyes on something peculiar away from the spectators. A fancy video recorder was being handled by a man dressed in a black suit. His eyes were covered with the darkest of shades. Two miniature men were strategically positioned on both his sides for protection – a very weird being I perceived. I proceeded towards them only for alignment, based on sufficient comprehension. He towered above me like a haunted house with hidden secrets, then bent down in respect to chant a familiar poem only masquerades and their handlers should know. I instantly knew he had some experience in my game and acts and let him speak his mind.
‘Let us be civil,’ he stated. ‘Please call me Mr. Oblack. Ehm, me and my boys heard about your performance on the radio, channel 004 and decided to come see for ourselves, that’s why we came with our tools and accessories, if you don’t mind. We have been in contact with your handler, Okemmou. He must have told you about us,’ I didn’t mind.
‘What can you say about my dance?’ I asked him, staring at his lips and his body language, hoping for the right message.
He lit a cigar before answering, then exhaled the words’ essence to my face in a cloud of menthol smoke. He enjoyed the show. He said he had an excellent proposition for me. I scratched my thick mask and asked him for a stick of cigar. Then I burnt it down like fire in a single whiff and exhaled the smoke through my ears and my eyes and my nose, subsequently impressing Mr. Oblack. Behind him, I could still make out the midget forms of his men constantly eyeing me. They still had their long umbrellas swaying high above them according to the wind’s random directions. He dipped his hand into his monkey suit and swiped out a red template written in the language and codes of the Okonko society. Stating it simply, it was an invitation, some scientific upgrade into a new astounding circle far away in the city unlike the local upgrade and makeover practised by my handler that nearly cost me my life.
I asked him. ‘Are you a monster or a freedom fighter?’
‘I am not hiding anything from you,’ he replied. ‘You may think of me as your new sponsor or investor. I have also spoken with Okemmou about this. This experience will change your life forever, you will see it when you see it. The only thing left now is your approval,’ he promised.
Tempting. He called it the Reaping Season, only if I had the mind to take risks just like I had proved to.
I was ready for anything. So, I radioed Okemmou and he promised to be right behind me when I briefly communicated my new route.
Immediately, we hit the road on foot then at a junction boarded one of the popular yellow electric vehicles, which were mainly for public service. There was no wasting time. I radioed Okemmou again with my long-distance mode turned on but hit a firewall. I tried again and again until a connection registered, trying my best to shield any external influence that would severe our communication before we were done talking. Outside the windows as the transport system sped on, I saw hibiscus flowers, little beautiful blossoms along the paths. I was thinking dreams, rebuking nightmares. I clung my receiver tight to my ears as Okemmou expressed once more his profound joy at the news of a scientific upgrade. Finally, his croaky voice tore the channel apart, leaving nothing but a buffering sequence – an empty connection nonetheless. I thought about the steel company I was leaving behind and hoped Okemmou jumped on the road to get to me as quickly as possible. Our dreams were coming true.
The transport system pulled into an avenue padded with concrete. The driver overreacted, shining the headlamps once the electric car swerved into a wide warehouse. I saw obsolete designs of circuit boxes lying about, cobwebs and dust coated their bodies. As I took in this new location, it immediately dawned on me that whatever went wrong henceforth, there was no one around to help me like the last time, unless Okemmou made it to the location in time. There were several doors. But the particular one Mr. Oblack went for, produced tens of unknown macho hands that scuffled for a piece of me, my head, my hands and my legs, until I lost balance. I felt weightless when they stormed into the warehouse, with me on their heads, locating a room with an outrageous collection of electric wires of various codes straddled from nook to cranny, from partition to partition not even illuminated. I saw that It was a special room when the lights came on. I made out the shapes of fat cables, ripped apart to show glinting teeth. As my eyes scanned the place, in order to register the various implements, a mad technician’s workshop came to mind.
‘Do you plan to electrocute me?’ I screamed at the top of my voice, as it dawned on me. ‘Why did you really bring me here? I shook fiercely, spreading waves of indignation. I felt as if I was in total rage, like an enhanced character basking in full energy that could explode in a matter of seconds.
‘Atu, quench your anger, please. We are only here for an upgrade and nothing more,’ Mr. Oblack said in a bid to reassure me.
‘I need Okemmou around me now,’ I pleaded.
‘‘He’ll soon get here, Atu. Relax,’
‘But what kind of upgrade is this going to be? I have seen circuit breakers sparking silently, white flashes that want to bounce off fuse points and burn this whole place to the ground.’
‘Like I said,’ he continued, ‘this upgrade demands total concentration on your part and total adaptability from my system – magnetic fields and electric fields in conjunction with one another, totalling an increased amount of power that will surge through you once we are done. Believe the process, especially this systematic movement.’
Ending there, he pointed to an electroplated board with numerous coloured wires intertwined in zigzags, like random junctions and pathways of intercepting currents flowing before my static eyes that couldn’t express any more anxiety. I accidentally launched myself forward towards the naked wires; there would have been a disaster if the charges were not drastically reduced. The power in my receiver had depleted and it was no longer in my thick, sweaty palms.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Mr. Oblack said, ‘watch the mishaps that may occur, Atu. Spirit or human, electric shock is electric shock and that is part of our own method of upgrading, not charcoal and fire as your handler normally uses. We are in a new age, and you will see it for yourself.’
His words convinced me and made me crave the process, even though I was still somewhat nervous about the new experiment. The macho men began to work on me. They connected sharpened cables to my costume which I still had on, and they had the long cables wrung tight about my entire body. Then, they placed me against the electroplated board and I heard a switch click. Voltages surged, bending my mood, my dreams piled up through my eyes and were disentangled once I felt an overload in high currents. Massive, almost atomic in nature on my costume, and my head was the destination. Possible explosion and disruption were in view. I felt the pull of visible gigantic magnets. They were hung mid-air, as the magnetic force acted on me. I felt so small. The electric bulbs that had been installed flickered noisily as they went on sparking an outburst, shattering and displacing particles all around the place, exhausting gaseous steam or smoke or both simultaneously. In twos and in folds, the coordinated charges coursed mildly through my brain and created some loopholes which would never be filled up. As I received the mildest shock of my life, I saw Mr. Oblack’s fingers on an infrasound machine, optimizing the mechanisms and building a great uncountable frequency, ranging high, then low, then almost imperceptible if measured by a sound level meter. And time. Demobilized. Even destabilized as the process was in progress. As a weird smile curved Mr. Oblack’s lips I chose to believe it was a sign of progress. He was preparing me for a rare attachment.
Although a renowned masquerade, maintaining my composure in the astounding presence of the glancing eyes of the spectators all monitoring the progress of my electrical upgrade became hard and impossible, because sometimes they seemed like mirrors reflecting my pain in their expressions. When the process graduated, my internal energies temporarily leaped out from my thick raffia costume, hovering, from one electrical unit to another, blowing up fuses and distorting fabricated circuits until the entire area reduced in temperature and I could see my spectators breathing out moisture as if there was a new presence in the room in form of a semi-stagnant fog.
By this time, there was an intoxicating draining ongoing, currents dispatching themselves to an unknown core located somewhere. This electric shock had its own effects. The faces that were watching the transference adjusted their goggles as if they were recording everything. And that was the last picture I could recall as the last of my negative energy was drained by metallic terminals.
‘Atu, you better hold your breath for a second!’ Mr. Oblack’s voice burst in then drifted away as soon as it had come.
‘And keep your emotions in check, okay?’ Another voice chided. I did. I recalled Okemmou had a voice just like that. But before I ascertained if it was really his voice, I forced myself not to swallow saliva as air went out from my lungs, a mild controlled electrocution. That was it. Like condensation, I continued to feel the energies speeding through tiny metallic wires. The wires were cold, mind altering as my energy circulated the system like a projectile, vicious in its passage along the line such that even to shake my body proved to be a difficult thing.
Just like Mr. Oblack had said, I was now one with the system, body and soul.
My mind went to a certain microcircuit made up of panels and micro transmitters recently installed.
‘These panels,’ Mr. Oblack said, ‘will aid in the remaking and reconstruction of a new costume unlike this one you have on. As we all saw during the just concluded exhibition how obsolete it now is.
‘What exactly will this upgrade achieve?’
Okemmou! He got here so fast. I relaxed some more.
‘Perfection,’ Mr. Oblack replied. ‘I understand your concern. You’re worried Atu might get electrocuted, but trust me, the electrical charge is controlled not to exhibit such heightened effect on the subject but to only cause a mild sensation to the subject, and reduce the strength of the raffia costume. I paid close attention to the costume design. I saw the rubber insulators inside the costume that will reduce the effects of the current. I also saw your performance. The failure you had to correct, exposing the jar of allotrope in the open market, and putting it and Atu at risk.
‘With my technology, Atu won’t have to face such humiliation in an exhibition again. In fact, I will guarantee that this uncompromised process will beat the one practised by Okonko society, hands down.’
Mr. Oblack, got rid of my raffia costume, layer after layer, until the last remnant of it was gone, revealing my true form. The currents from the wires had reduced the strength of the raffia costume and made it easy to pull off, thus weakening Okemmou’s spells.
Through a special wet-spinning method meant for fibrous materials, he steadily weaved a material which he called graphene. It was in several sheets, measured and tailored to suit my size like a glove. The material was induced with certain electronic properties to form a particular kind of carbon nanotube that can closely and comfortably encircle a body in a particular kind of way.
‘Do you know what this is?’ I Overheard him asking Okemmou who had since fallen silent.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied.
‘This is also considered an allotrope of carbon. You see how it looks like a honeycomb for starters, but don’t let its presumed frailty fool you. This material after sequences of research and refining can absorb and diversify projectile impacts on a particular surface. It can perform better than fiberglass, steel and other bulletproof materials out there, clearly more bulletproof than your sacred upgrading version. To cut this long story short, it can withstand projectiles ten times faster than your Dane gun, Okemmou!’ I felt my body being padded with more graphene nanotubes than I could count, sewn masterfully into each other like a spider’s web, over and over again until Mr. Oblack made a signal to stop the process and proceed to seal the joints with soldering equipment plugged to one of the energy sources. All the angles of my new costume were glued and sealed. I was mechanically transformed into something new, according to Okemmou’s remarks afterwards. I was a new kind of modern masquerade, and no man born of a woman could harm me.
