Metempsukhōsis | Chiemeka Akaigwe

Motorists come to a begrudging halt at the traffic stop. A sense of harried anticipation grows as the numbers count down. Like zoo animals set free, the cars zoom off in different directions once the light changes, each setting off a cacophony of horns, yells and curse words.

In all the hubris and confusion, a driver narrowly misses a young woman dashing across the street.

“You dey craze? Abi na for my hand you wan kpai?”

His unkind remarks have no effect on the intended. She is oblivious to the eyes following her mad dash into a side street. Her only goal is to reach her destination.

The destination turns out to be a three-storey building. She runs into the flat downstairs and locks the door. The house is poorly lit, a sharp contrast to the sunny outdoors. She runs into a bedroom and once again locks herself inside. In the bathroom, she slumps to the floor, eyes closed, chest heaving beneath her multi-coloured bubu. She is safe here, she will not be found.

She nearly misses the footsteps, as her erratic heartbeat thunders in her ears. Her eyes fly open, and she stumbles to her feet with uncertain movements. The footsteps are louder now. She hears the door open. Someone enters the room. A gust of wind flows in as the bathroom door opens. She looks at the mirror in front of her and screams.

*

For heaven’s sake. Enough is enough.

This is the fourth time she has woken up this week, drenched in sweat, chest heaving from a nightmare.

She leaps from her mattress.

“Ouch! FUCCCKKKK!”

She has forgotten about the bowl of sage burning beside her all night and has now stepped on the bowl, sending it flying across the room. Creating a mess she doesn’t have the strength to clean. Thank God she lives alone.

“It is not like you were useful. Useless piece of shit.” 

This is what she gets for buying herbs from an Instagram vendor. Who buys sage from an account named Crystals by Mistys? A desperate woman, that’s who.

Queen Igbokwe, or @whimsyquimsy, as she is known on the internet, is nothing if not desperate. She has collected healing anointing oil, rubbed balm of Gilead cleansing balm, slept with several religious ornaments around her neck. Nothing has worked. Each night, for the past month, her sleep has been taken with a vengeance.

Maybe @duhitzseffiii, the account she dragged on Tiktok last month, made good on her threats and took her picture to a Babalawo. Either way, she is tired. Worse, she is terrified. 

Since she received the BIG news that is going to change her life for good, she has lost sleep. Is this a sign from the universe telling her this is the wrong move? Or are her jealous haters up and active?

Whatever this madness is, nothing will stop her from meeting her glory. On God.

She falls back on the bed and reaches for her phone. The time is 7:39; she glares at the screen until time moves a minute more. She goes straight to Twitter and checks the trend table; she’s still trending. Is God not good?

She taps her name on the trend page and laughs while she reads tweets.

Everything I know about this Quimsy babe is against my will. 

God Abeg! Get this nuisance off my tl.

I know I’m following the right people since nobody has retweeted that Quimsy video. 

I’m a simple gal, I see a Quimsy video; I scroll past immediately.

Feeling cheeky, she makes a tweet.

Wednesday morning talking bout moi while I’m making mulaa. Heath.

Almost immediately, her phone is buzzing. Her fans are retweeting immediately and liking her tweet.

Period.

Quimsy the standard!

Quimsy doesn’t chase clout, Quimsy is clout! Period!

The video of her and actress Tope Salami ‘arguing’ at her movie premiere yesterday has made rounds all over social media, especially the video of her yelling curses while being thrown out by four security guards.

She is being dragged by netizens while her fans are fighting fire for fire. Nothing new. People are buying movie tickets to encourage Tope, who is happily milking the attention with an emotional Instagram live on the lack of support in the industry. Most importantly, her payment is chilling in her account, a generous contribution to the one-bedroom apartment she’s been eyeing at Ikate.

She doesn’t have time for internet drama, she has a life-changing event to prepare for.

After bathing, she shoots a GRWM video. She uncharacteristically mixes up brand names and has to reshoot three times. NEPA takes the light, and she hisses for the fourth time that morning. She has to switch to the inverter to complete the video and then send to Caleb, her video editor, to work his magic.

Three months ago, she would have gone through the arduous process of painstakingly watching every scene, nit-picking for faults and any errors, struggling through Canva and Capcut tutorials to get a good video. Now she has an agent, all that is someone else’s headache. 

The Uber arrives at 11:30. The gods of Lagos traffic are smiling at her and it takes about twenty-five minutes from Badore, where she lives, to Victoria Island. Throughout the drive, her mind is swirling with vivid pictures from her dreams. Four nightmares in a row would spook anyone, but she has good reason to be terrified. Her dreams are never ordinary; they come to pass.

At just three years old, a nightmare about a burning house had jolted her awake. She was greeted by thick clouds of smoke, then passed out, only to wake up in the hospital as the only survivor of a house fire.

When she begged Uncle Okey not to travel because she dreamt about an accident, he laughed and shook his head. The look her aunt gave her when the news of the accident reached their doorstep was forever entrenched in her head. She was passed from one house to another, an unwanted, unloved burden nobody wanted but was scared to reject. There were tales of the uncle who delivered a sound beating, then woke up with a swollen right arm which gradually withered away. There were deliverance sessions with various men of God which involved her enduring multiple beatings, and swallowing gallons of oil till she passed out. By age sixteen, she was on her own, surviving on her wits and charm.

If going ahead with this deal means some unfortunate lives may be lost, so be it. She survived her childhood. There is nothing on this planet she cannot endure. Besides, it is too late to back out now.

Queen is tired of being an Internet nuisance. For goodness’ sake, she has been in content creation for five years! It is high time Nollywood took her seriously. 

She did what she had to do. Representation from Belev changed her game. Belev represents international celebrities, the kind of people who win Oscars and Grammys – not her standard. The internet had raged for days, and her followers tripled. Brands were reaching out, almost desperately. Haters were hating, potatoes were potatoing, it didn’t matter. She was a hotcake. She had arrived.

Now, she is the envy of other influencers; a day doesn’t pass without her hearing how lucky she is. Frequently, she gets jabs and accusations of sleeping with her agent, Gbenga Adebiyi, to get representation. She believes it is Gbenga’s truth to tell, not hers.

When he told her about the offer, she had promptly ended the call and then launched around her room in a series of excited quacks and jumps. Of all the models, actresses or even beauty influencers, one of the largest skincare brands in the world had chosen her to headline their Africa campaign and given her a brand ambassadorial deal.

Queen arrives at the swanky hotel in VI where she and Gbenga are meeting brand representatives to finalize her contract. The meeting is a formality, just to create some media buzz and do a photoshoot. She spots Gbenga’s car surrounded by some of their media crew and walks towards them. 

Gbenga—all 5’5 of him—is barking orders at the media crew. He is dressed in his characteristic grey suit, complete with waistcoat and bowtie. Queen often wonders how the man survives in Lagos. His office and car are always cold, mortuary standard, Caleb jokes behind his back. His face is scrunched; the familiar white handkerchief nestles in his left palm, ready to dab any sign of perspiration.

He answers her cheery greeting with a scowl. “You’re late.”

“Queens are never late. Y’all are just too early.”

He shakes his head, still scowling, rising to his full height. Queen knows how uncomfortable their height difference makes him and makes sure to look down on him at any given opportunity. 

He gives her a one-over. “You look parched.”

“Trust me, some of us are feeling the Lagos heat.”

He motions to one of the men. “Give her a drink.”

“Awwn. How sweet.” She accepts the cup of iced coffee gratefully. Her stomach is empty save for the half apple she swallowed before leaving home. The cold drink is sweet and cools her nerves.

“Be fast so we can start shooting and start the meeting. Time is going.” He turns away immediately.

In public, Gbenga and Queen have the perfect manager-client relationship. He is a paternal figure and concerned manager, while she is a respectful, grateful client to the man changing her life. Only her team knows of the sarcastic comments, scathing jabs and curses they both throw at each other. 

The next hour is spent shooting videos of her ‘arriving’ at the hotel in a Mercedes Benz, walking around the hotel, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans. Normally, she is bright. She genuinely loves showbiz and the whole shebang that comes with it. Right now, she feels the wrath of a month of sleepless nights. 

The company representatives are already waiting in the conference room. Her exhaustion affects her nerves, her ability to charm on the spot. Luckily, Gbenga takes over the small talk. She tries to keep up with the conversation until she gives up.

She closes her eyes momentarily. She can hear the discussion happening around her, laughter echoes around her, calm and collected, then rises gradually, sounding more sinister. 

She opens her eyes and looks to her left, confused. She jumps in her seat. The woman was not here earlier. She is bleeding from cuts all over her face. One eye is gone. Her once pretty face is marred with slashes and cuts. Her neck is mutilated; Queen can see the tendons and bones jutting out.

She turns her face anticlockwise and looks Queen in the eye.

“You’re next.”  

Queen can only leave her mouth open in shock, which the lady takes as an invitation to burst into mocking peals of laughter, shaking in her bubu now stained with blood and dirt.

A cold finger taps her shoulder; she looks back to see a young girl of about ten. She is in a long, oversized gown flowing to her ankles. Her eyes are sad, hair cropped short. She shakes her head mournfully. “You’re next.”

Suddenly the room is full of women and girls talking to and above each other. They all have wounds and cuts on them, all wearing shorn clothing. 

“I was going to leave him. I didn’t know he would come that early.”

“It was an accident. He didn’t mean it.”

Queen jumps to her feet, swaying in her six-inch heels. The women surround her, bony fingers reaching out. 

“Get away from me. All of you.”

“You’re next. You’re next.” They continue their frenzied chanting. Queen fights them off, throwing jabs and punches as she races out of the room. She totters on her heels and stops to take them off. Then she continues running. She has no destination in mind, only knows she must get away from there.

In the midst of the dark hallway, she sees a dim light. She follows it; the light growing brighter as she comes nearer. 

She must have stumbled into one of the hotel rooms. An expensive one nonetheless. The gold carvings and ornaments look real. The carpet is plush under her feet. She stumbles to the bed and sinks in. So soft. And that beautiful humming sound, coming from … the front of the room?

There is a lady at the window. A gold wrapper is tied across her chest, under her armpits. Her hair is artfully decorated in elaborate plaits twisted into a crown, fashioned together with golden beads. The lady turns to face her. They both gasp.

Ethereal. There are no words to describe such unearthly beauty. Her eyes are the colour of the sun setting after a long day. The cheekbones so sharp they could slice metal. Her bronzed skin sparkles, giving off a luminous glow. The two women stare in silence till they both speak at once.

“Who are you?”

“I remember.” Her voice is hesitant, as if afraid to be used, a voice accustomed to silence.

“I can’t believe it, after all these years.” The lady shakes her head. “I can see clearly now. I remember.”

“I want to see clearly too. Who are you? What do they mean by I’m next?”

The woman looks up, muttering to herself. She is still distracted.

“Tell me what is going on?” Queen is at the window now, grabbing the lady by her shoulders.

The woman sighs. “Your life is in danger, my dear.”

Queen barely registers her hands falling limply to her sides, and her vision getting blurry as she sinks to the ground.

*

She is on the floor, in the hotel lobby. Furious hands are shaking her awake. She blinks and hears the sound of lights flashing. Camera lights.

“Queen, what is wrong with you? Are you on drugs?”

“Is this one of your stupid skits? Do you have any idea of the damage you have done?”

If Gbenga had a lighter skin tone, he would be red in the face. Right now, his left cheek shows angry claw marks. Queen is too frantic with fear to listen to his ranting. She pushes him away and walks towards the exit. Eyes and clicks follow her un-triumphant exit as she limps away, chanting under her breath. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Gbenga marches after her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Who are you leaving this mess for?”

“Get the hell away from me.” She grinds out. Maybe it’s the tone of her voice, but he stops.

The crowd is more persistent, chasing after her. “Quimsy, you don craze?” 

She turns toward the voice in a fury. “Na your mama dey craze. Bastard.”

She knows she should ignore them; that’s what all the media training was for. She does not care. It does not matter; she has lost her career anyway. Her head hurts. Every fibre of her being is holding her up, trying not to fall apart, not to shatter uncontrollably. Not to roll on the floor screaming.

She takes an Uber home. She covers her eyes with dark shades and doesn’t say a word to the driver. When she gets home, she strips off her clothes, tearing the mesh of her top. It doesn’t matter; none of it matters. Her career is dead. If the women from her dream are correct, she will soon be dead too.  

The cry that leaves her throat is akin to that of a wounded animal. Crying all the while, she reaches across her room and flings anything her hand touches to the ground. 

She is so tired. Tired from the day, tired from her fears, tired from chasing after dreams that were never within her reach. After a futile fight with exhaustion, she is asleep again.

“You’re back.” 

She is back in the beautiful room with the lady from earlier. 

“Who are you? And what do you want from me?” Queen is tired of it all.

“I am … my name is Adaku.” She rolls the name on her tongue, as if unsure.

There is a silence as Queen waits for more information. Sensing none coming, she sighs impatiently. 

“I am going to need more than that. What did they mean by I’m next? Am I going to die?”  

“Earlier you said you wanted to see. You will see now. Close your eyes, then open them.”

She is still in the room but hidden behind a potted plant. Adaku is on the bed staring morosely. The door opens and a man walks in. He is handsome, dreadlocks flowing to the middle of his back. His eyes are a shocking orange, like blazing flames. His only item of clothing is a loincloth tied artfully around his waist and through the middle of his legs. The rest of his body is dotted with intricate tattoos and scars. His steps are gentle, yet each step towards Adaku fills Queen with a sense of dread. He reaches for Adaku and she stands shaking. His hands cover her shoulders and wrap around her. It appears to be a loving embrace, but his arms are tight, cutting off circulation. She is shaking, sobbing in his arms, while he looks at her in ecstasy.

Then she is on a bus. She sees the young girl who tapped her at the meeting. She remembers her now, from another dream.  This girl has suffered a lot in her few years; the sudden death of her parents, being branded a witch by her community, starved and beaten. Her village believes she has cursed them; is responsible for the drought they have faced for months. She has been rescued by missionary sisters. She is leaving the village to start her new life overseas with her new family. One of the sisters turn to smile at the girl. That is the last thing she sees before the screech of metal, the terrified screams as the world spins, the heat, and then her eyes close. 

She is in a shabby apartment watching a woman pack her bags. Pack, does not describe the frenzied throwing of clothes. She needs to leave before her husband gets back. Five years of enduring his fists have aged her beyond her years; she cannot take anymore. The door flies open and the thick stench of alcohol fills the room. The pot-bellied man takes one look at the woman and the bags and flies into a mad rage. The beer bottle in his hand is smashed on her body, jagged pieces plunged into her neck. The last thing the woman sees is the fiery glow in his eyes before hers close.

Queen is back in the room with Adaku. A trail of goosebumps erupts from her shoulder down to her fingers. 

“Who is the man with orange eyes?”

“Anieriobi. My husband.”

Queen gets up and begins pacing the room. 

“It is obvious I do not come from your world, is it not?” Adaku speaks softly. “Things are a bit different where I come from. Time moves faster. Our bodies don’t age or wither. Such a beautiful place.” She sighs. “So unfortunate that I had to flee.”

“Anieriobi was perfect, at least I thought so. It wasn’t until we were married that I saw him for the monster he is. I refused to spend eternity with him. I begged my goddess Ala to help me. She hid me down here, to be forever reborn as a child on earth.”

“Ani found out. He was furious I had gotten away. He could not bring me back, but he could still make me suffer. He cursed me. Every life I lived would be marked by a childhood of sorrow. Despite it all, I would overcome the odds. 

“But just at the pinnacle of success, or a breakthrough, I would die. Horribly. Reborn with no memories of my past lives, and the cycle continues.”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?” Queen steps right in front of her. 

She continues, “So I’m what? You in the future? How does any of this even make sense?”

As much as she wants to deny it, Queen knows not a word Adaku has said is false. Her dreams confirm it. Overall, Queen feels a kinship deeper than she has had with any family with this woman in front of her. They are connected.

“Never in so long a time have my wits been so clear.” Adaku looks at her in awe. “I don’t know how you did it, but they spoke to us. In dreams.”

Queen starts to speak, but Adaku cuts her off. “Listen! He will come for you soon. He won’t expect me to remember. This time, I will be ready. We will be ready.”

“You really think we can stop him?” Queen scoffs.

“Yes.” Adaku stands. 

Queen lets out a shaky breath. “Okay then. After this, it’s all over, right? I get my career back? No more nightmares.”

“I … I don’t know. I… haven’t thought that far ahead.” 

Queen looks at Adaku for a long minute then sighs. “So if I help you, chances are we defeat this bastard, if I don’t, I die anyway. Not like I have much of an option.”

“I’m sorry.” Adaku’s tone rings with sincerity.

Gently, Queen holds her hands; “Make sure we win. Or else I’ll haunt you forever.”

She continues, “By the way; you could have chosen a LESS dramatic way to reach me.”

“That was not me. That was the person who drugged you. I only took the opening I saw.”

It is almost midnight. The Lekki-Epe expressway is traffic free, a rarity. The few cars on the road pay no heed to traffic lights in their bid to get home. A black sedan makes a left under Jubilee Bridge and drives into Badore. He continues, muttering to himself until he parks a street away from the apartment building he is heading to. He avoids the streetlights, walking around them, face downwards, completely covered in a black hoodie. On the street, a church is running a vigil, he knows this from their social media handle. The blast of singing and instrumentals is loud enough to mask the sound of the gate opening. He glances around and slips inside.

Gbenga is not a bad person, although his colleagues think he is too stuck up. His superiors say he is efficient, gets the job done. The congregation at St. Andrews, where he serves as Vicar’s warden, sees him as a role model. He has never laid a finger or raised his voice to his wife or children. He doesn’t fuss about food offered to him, never casts a wandering eye on a maid. He even helps with the baby sometimes, if he’s asked nicely. So you see, he’s not a bad person. He is just a man with a lot to lose, which is just as dangerous.

Three months earlier, Gbenga sat at his desk, filtering through emails when he noticed one particular mail from a funny account name, isockballs@gmail.com.

He thought it must be an impractical joke, or spam mail. He still opened it. The email had no subject, just a link and a phone number.

He had heard of phishing mails; yet premonition moved him to click the link.

It took him to a video of him, half-naked, fully erect penis pulsing deep into that boy whose name he had forgotten by the next morning. 

He closed the link and dialled the number. As Queen’s cheery voice listed her demands, the normally cool and collected man felt the red-hot flames of anger wash over him. Growing stronger till this day.

It wasn’t hard to get a copy of her house keys. He took them from her bag during a shoot, duplicated and returned them with her none the wiser. The girl needed to learn to be more careful, especially as she liked to threaten people.

It infuriated him; why would this trashy internet nuisance have the guts to blackmail him? Signing her to the agency raised a lot of eyebrows. If he had to explain her potential to one more person, he would lose it. The worst part, everybody thinks he is fucking the bitch. As if he would ever defile himself with something so nasty.

Her apartment door slips open. He is in. The bottle of Sniper is in his jacket. Beside it is the suicide note. In the other pocket is a plastic bag containing drugs that will be found in her apartment. That and what he put in her drinks that morning came from the same source. Her death will be good for business. A win-win, he tells himself. 

The house is dark. He moves quietly, feeling the walls with his woollen gloves. He opens the bedroom door quietly; he can make out the silhouette on the bed. As he approaches, a strange sense of rage fills him, almost like a burning fire. Like a man possessed, he makes unsteady movements, all he sees is red.

He doesn’t notice the figure in gold appearing behind him. He is fixated on the figure on the bed, his eyes burning brighter. He reaches out to grab hold of her and touches… nothing. She is gone in a puff of smoke.

Adaku speaks behind him. “Anieriobi. It’s been a while. Come out of him. This is our fight.”

Gbenga drops to the floor as the deity steps out of his body. Ani stares at the body for a few minutes then kicks it away. He turns slowly to face Adaku, a snarl on his face. 

“You should never have left.” His voice is husky and deep. “I had to punish your disobedience. None of this would have happened if you had stayed.”

She shakes her head. “This ends now.”

“Yes, it does. I have found a way to bring you back for good. Return with me; I knew you would eventually come to your senses.”

She laughs. “I came to my senses the day I left.”

“It must be madness you came to. Where did you get the nerve to speak to me like that?” His voice takes on a deeper, more menacing tone.

“How many innocent women have you killed? In your bid to harm me?”

“Being in this world has made you soft. When did we start to care for mortals?” He scoffs. “They would have enjoyed their lives if you never left me. You did this. If you feel any remorse for their deaths, know it is in your hands. You killed them.” 

Adaku gasps. “I … I didn’t. This is on you, and your desire to control me.”

“I have had enough of this conversation. I am going back. With you,” He reaches for her and she steps back.

“No.”

Ani laughs. “You think you have a choice in this matter.”

His voice becomes softer as he steps closer to her. “You think you can stop me?”

“I may not. But WE can.”

Adaku breathes in deeply and closes her eyes. She plants her feet to the ground and calls on Ala. She calls on her selves by name, asks for their help.

Ani laughs. “What is this nonsense?” Suddenly he feels a shift in the atmosphere. A storm is brewing, energy fuelled by the rage of women scorned. Women who left too soon, died too horribly. He tries to move but discovers he is stuck to one spot. Captive.

For the first time, Ani is unsure. He snorts and yells, tries to set himself free but is held by a force greater than him.  

Adaku walks to him, chanting under her breath, her eyes glowing. She holds a dagger in her hand outstretched. Anieriobi stares at her with a horrified expression on his face.

“How did you get that? Listen to me. You don’t want to do this.”

Adaku hesitates, just a fraction of a second, but it is enough for him to go on.

“I have spent a millennium searching all corners of the earth to find you … “

“To kill innocent women. To harm me. It all ends now.” 

“I will always find you. You will always be mine. Always.”

She plunges the dagger deep into his chest. “I was never yours.” 

*

The sound of a phone ringing jolts Queen awake. She gets up groggily, feeling around the bed.

She pauses suddenly. That is not her phone’s ringtone. Whose is it?

She turns in the direction of the sound and her eyes widen at the sight of the body on the floor.

Fully awake now, Queen jumps out of bed and is beside the body in a flash. She frowns, confused.

What is Gbenga doing in her house?

She kneels beside him and checks his wrist for a pulse. Still alive. 

Like a dam unlocked, the events of yesterday come flooding in.

“Oh my God! It wasn’t a dream.”

Gbenga’s phone rings again, startling her. She reaches into his jacket pocket. As she does so, some other items fall out.

“Blood of Jesus!” 

A quick glance shows his eyes are still shut.

The phone stops ringing as she calmly digests the contents of the letter. She looks down at Gbenga, then up to the sky. 

“Adaku, thank you.” She whispers.

She finds her bag flung into a corner of the room. As noiselessly as she can, she fishes out her phone, takes photos of the letter and contents of the bag. After she returns the contents to his pockets, she takes more pictures and videos. 

Satisfied with her handwork, she opens all her windows and begins to scream for help.

*

Oreva wakes up gasping, right hand clutching her chest.

“What is the matter? Another nightmare?” Her husband Bala is awake.

Unable to speak, she nods.

“Sorry, my love.” He holds her tight. Too tight, but she needs it. She is safe.

“You need to lay off those horror movies.” 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” He prods.

She nearly spills, but part of her is holding back.  

It has been three years of waking up with no memories. All she knows is that she is married. To Bala. 

As much as she tries, she cannot remember the previous years of her life. These dreams, are they glimpses of her past? Did she really kill that man? 

She eyes her husband warily. Bala’s eyes are a beautiful brown, not orange like the man in the dream. Still, she cannot help the dread and confusion flooding her as she looks at him.

He kisses her forehead. At once, a feeling of calm enters her. She is being ridiculous; how can she be in danger from the man who saved her life? He has the scars on his chest to prove it.

“Go back to sleep dear.” 

“If you want, I can stay awake with you.” He continues.

“I’m alright. Good night sweetheart.”

He gives another forehead kiss and she smiles at him.

Bala waits until her breathing is even before the smile leaves his face. He runs his hands softly through her hair, staring at her. His eyes, brightening until they are a fiery orange.

“I told you, you belong to me,” he whispers softly. “Forever and always.”