When we started this journey ten years ago, we had an idea that it would be daunting, but maybe we didn’t realise just how much it would change us and how much it would change the speculative fiction in Africa. The co-founders, Mazi Nwonwu and Chinelo Onwualu, knew they wanted to provide a platform for voices like theirs that were often not given a voice or whose voices were not understood, not appreciated by the big western media. They knew that our people have always told stories of the speculative ilk and they wanted the rest of the world to see us in our full glory, without pandering to some set rules. Omenana has been blessed to share many such stories with you all since 2014, and we have taken pride in watching many of those writers of African Speculative Fiction soar from the pages of Omenana to greatness—this has only brought us joy and pleasant surprise.
Omenana was an experiment that we didn’t know will last this long. Despite the struggle it has been to keep doing this for 10 years, we do believe our worst days are behind us and Omenana will continue to be what it set out to be: a platform for everyone who dares to tell stories that defies normalcy.
The stories we bring to you in this issue gave us a thrill to read and edit, and we hope that you find them exciting too. Did you ever hear that when something is too good to be true, then it probably is? When you read Obera, that saying will become apparent, and maybe like me it will make you wonder how any living creature is supposed to keep faithful watch over bird’s eggs in the height of famine.
Beneath the Water is an interesting take on relations between humans and mermaids/mermen, and it also queries environmental decay—especially as it concerns the different bodies of water on planet earth and human complicity.
We also bring you a bit of a ghost, metaphysical story with Koko’s Body. This piece is more gripping because it is told in the eyes and voice of a child.
New Beginning is our shortest piece this issue. Between trying to decide if we just walked into the exhuming of a murder victim or a hatching, this story brings new meaning to short and spicy! Read it, people!
A little bit of dystopia and a struggle to regain their submerged home is what drives the plot of Things We See Under Water. It does present a thought-provoking view of a futuristic Ijawland many decades away from now.
We are looking back at the last decade, and we are grateful to the many writers who have graced our pages since 2014, and to all our artists and editorial team over the years. Everyone remains a family and we hold all of you very dear to our hearts and love how well everyone has done over the years. While we look forward to doing more creative work in the coming years, we are also considering ways in which Omenana can better serve you, our readers.
We’ve also had the unshaking support of many people over years; however, we have to mention the fact that it would have been impossible for Omenana to remain a paying platform without the support of our Patreon patrons. You can join them by following this link to donate to Omenana and keep the dream of showcasing African and African diaspora speculative fiction to the world.
Mazi Nwonwu, Omenana’s Managing Editor, has also added “published author” to his list of achievements as his collection of speculative fiction stories was published by Narrative Landscape press in Nigeria. Book available here.
And to you, our dear readers, where would we be without all your support in the last ten years? The stories are waiting and ready. Thanks for reading and sharing as you always do!
The only son of thirteen children, Obera was raised oblivious to brutality despite his brawn. His only job was to be paraded around the market as the prize feather in his peacock mother’s plume. His mother was only satisfied when the swoons about his tawny eyes reached the ears of Ruoth’s daughter. Everything else was done for him by one of his sisters. Achiel thatched and cleaned his dala. Ariyo hunted and slaughtered the animals he then presented at village feasts as his triumphs. Adek chopped and collected firewood. Ang’wen cooked for him. Abich nursed him when he fell ill and Auchiel guarded him at all costs.
Experiencing brutality earns you foresight. If Obera had any, he would have heeded Ja’Chien’s warning. On one of the days he strutted around the market, past Ja’Chien, who sat on a three-legged stool rumbling about omens — he should have stopped and listened. The plague struck first, swift and lethal like a bolt of light, leaving behind a carnage that included his entire family. The famine came next, an endless rumbling, that devoured everything, leaving only dust.
Obera sat under the mango tree, waiting to die. The once-lush tree was now bare and decrepit, ready to crumble at a hair’s whisper of the wind. Obera leaned his spine-protruding back against the trunk, melting into it under the smoldering heat. As he gathered the strength to exhale for the last time, he waited to see his mother, just as his sisters Abriyo, Aboro, and Apar had before they passed away. Instead, he saw a mirage in the arid deadlands before him, which had once been an opulence of wheat and corn.
The mirage slithered towards him in a haze. Once in front of Obera, the haze cleared, and a majestic swan emerged from a pool of water. The swan approached him, spreading its left wing and brushing it over the water’s surface. It ruffled its dripping feathers over Obera’s cracked lips, then gestured to the pond.
“Drink.”
Obera scrambled to the water, plunging his whole face into it. The water was sweet, fresh, and cooling. He drank, relishing it as it cascaded down his scratched throat, into his belly, and through his veins. Obera trembled from the new surge of energy as he gathered more water into his cupped hands, slurping and gulping, desperate to quench his thirst as quickly as possible. When he had drunk enough water to bulge his stomach like a taut gourd, he fell back against the tree.
“It’s only a matter of time before the sun claims every drop of my water.”
Obera opened his eyes and lazily gazed at the Swan. It had stretched its graceful neck to the sky, worry gleaming in its eyes. Obera kept his eyes steady on the swan, afraid that if he looked up, he would lose his illusion and everything would disappear, including the water that now made his blood wet again.
“Please, Jatelo. Look after my children. When the waters dry, they will be exposed to the kites lurking in the winds.” The swan opened its right-wing slightly to reveal eight large, smooth, silver eggs.
It began to dawn on Obera that this was not his imagination.
“Jatelo, please look after my children. Keep them safe in your homestead and when the rain arrives nine days from today and my waters are replenished, I shall come and collect them. If you do this for me, I will reward you greatly. I will give you riches beyond that of any other man on this land. Riches that will bring Ruoth’s daughter to your dala.”
Obera perked up at the mention of Ruoth’s daughter, whose beauty was so ethereal not even a plague and a famine could taint it.
“It is a promise. Leave your children with me. I shall take care of them and protect them.”
If only Obera had paid attention to the old lady that sat on a mat in the market telling siganas to the children while she weaved baskets to sell, he would have known to never trust a swan with scarlet under-feathers.
A moonless nightfall settled over his dala like a velvet cloak. Obera went to where Ag’wen had built the kendo and carefully placed the swan eggs in it, covering them with the bits of thatched roof that had loosened and collapsed to the ground. When he was satisfied that the eggs were safe, he realized that he had nothing to eat. It was too dark to scavenge for termites and crickets. Usually, he did his scavenging at dawn before the scouring sun yawned. However, today he had not planned to make it through the day. He caressed his stomach once again. Thinking about the coming rain. Had the Swan said eight days or nine days? He crawled over to what was left of the Cyprus mat Achiko had weaved for him. He drifted to sleep with thoughts of boiled corn and grilled fish wafting through his mind.
The sound of crying stirred Obera awake. His hand reached for the spear under his mat, and as stealthily as he could, Obera slowly turned to the sound. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and outline a form, a human form hunched over the kendo. He tightened his grip on the spear, carefully rising to his knees.
“Mayo-weh, mayo-weh! What is this, my brother Obera? The kendo is cold.”
It was the voice of his sister Ang’wen. She was lighting a fire in the kendo. Obera tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he collapsed. “Ang’wen put out that fire at once!” he cried, his voice still hoarse with sleep and starvation.
Agn’wen had already placed the pan over the heat. “You must eat, Obera. Look at you, you are nothing but bones and skin. How can I rest properly when you are not eating?”
Agn’wen took one of the eggs and before Obera could protest, she cracked it over the pan.
“You must not Ang’wen I made a promise. You must not.”
It was a weak protest. The aroma was filling the little hut, igniting a ravenous growl from the pits of his belly. He crawled over to the pan, grabbing a handful of the sizzling scrambled egg, his calluses preventing the heat from scalding his fingers.
The following morning, Obera woke up to find himself lying by the kendo with the taste of his broken promise still lingering on his tongue. Guilt washed over him. The eggs were unearthed and exposed. He counted and counted again, always arriving at seven remaining eggs. He remembered the promise of riches.
“Ang’wen, that foolish girl. Always trying to fatten you up like a cow for slaughter!”
Obera looked up to see the outline of his mother’s shadow filling the entryway into the hut. “Hae-hae!” she clapped her hands.
“Forbidden fruit is sweet on the eyes but bitter on the tongue, you will learn.”
“What should I do?” Obera pleaded with his mother.
“Take the shards of eggshell and go to the riverbed. The river no longer flows but the spirits still dwell there. Look for where the potter dwells, dig a shallow hole, place the shards in the hole then cover it. You must offer his spirit-fermented nyuka. Once you cover up the eggshell, pour the nyuka over it. When the sun has set completely, you can dig up the egg.”
“Can the potter save the egg?”
His mother kissed her teeth. “Don’t be foolish! What magic can take food you have already digested and return it as it was? It will be nothing but an empty shell.”
“But Mama, where will I get fermented nyuka?”
Obera found the clay pot covered with cow skins behind his father’s dala buried so deep that the soil was still cool beyond the blistering sun, exactly as his mother had told him. The nyuka was beyond fermented. It was rancid, but would a spirit get an upset stomach? Obera balanced the pot over his head as he had seen his sisters do, careful not to let even a drop of it fall on him despite his buckling knees. The riverbank was not far from Obera’s dala. As he made its way there, his mind drifted to the time when the palpating river flowed through it. How the spirits rising at sunset would ire the water, causing it to rage through the village, thrashing about. They were always warned never to go near the river when their shadow was stretched to its fullest or they’d be dragged in by the restless spirits.
Obera found the dwelling place of the potter’s spirit where his mother said it would be, where the sand shimmered like it was hiding crystals. Obera followed his mother’s instructions and waited for the sun to set to unearth the egg. He gasped with awe at the sight of the silver egg. Whole and smooth, just as it was. He gently lifted it, testing its weight on the palm of his hand. It felt full. Obera resisted the urge to crack the egg and see what was inside. He picked up his spear and the remaining pot of nyuka and made his way back home.
That night Obera had a dream of a feast of all his favorites. Coconut fish stew, roasted sweet potato, boiled corn on the cob, sweet ripe guava and mango, roasted peanuts. When he woke up at the crack of dawn, he found himself lying by the kendo, next to a cracked egg.
Every night for the next week Obera had the same dream. Every morning, he woke up beside a cracked egg. Every evening, he replaced the cracked egg with one the potter spirit made. Until all eight eggs had been replaced.
On the ninth day, it rained. Then it poured. The river came back; the grass began to grow and the Swan arrived at Obera’s dala. The Swan seemed oblivious to Obera’s trembling hands and beads of sweat condensed on his forehead despite the cool winds that came with the rain. She unsuspectingly gathered her eggs under her wings and handed Obera eight quail-sized solid gold eggs.
Obera became the wealthiest man in the land. Finally, he was invited to Ruoth’s dala.
Obera was preparing for this visit when the Swan appeared, feathers ruffled with woe.
“My children!” It shrieked, tossing itself around the dala. It snapped its beak at anything it could find. His farming and hunting tools, his spear, his shield, his fence -leaving angry marks and cracks. It threw its neck at his growing corn, uprooting them. It kicked his hen pen, sending the chickens scurrying around the compound. “Where are my children?” The Swan demanded as it crushed their eggs under its talons. “You ate them! You ate my children.” Its voice was shrill with ire, its head lifted to the heavens to call on the gods of vengeance.
Art by Sunny Efemena
Obera stood still, too stunned to say or do anything as the Swan wept.
“One day you will know this pain,” the swan said, her hoarse voice barely above a whisper, and with that, the night swallowed the Swan.
Obera sent harvest and cattle to Ruoth’s house, staying behind himself with an excuse of ailment. He was unable to sit still, pacing up and down, wringing his hands, and mumbling to himself until Achiko materialized before him. He sighed with relief at the sight of his most levelheaded sister.
“Obera, you are stomping on my grave. I cannot even rest.”
Obera relayed his predicament to her. Ochiko listened quietly, her calm demeanor sedating his nerves.
“This Swan appears to you when you are on the brink of dying of starvation. Smells like a mbuta.”
“What should I do?” Obera pleaded.
“Go and see Ja’Chien. He’ll know what to do.”
Obera arrived at Ja’Chein’s dala at the first crow of the rooster.
“Ah, it is a chun-mar-kech,” Ja’Chien rubbed the stub on his jaw as he spoke, having recognized the sort of spirit that had sworn vengeance on Obera.
There was a glint in Ja’Chien’s eye as he asked Obera to describe every little detail about the Swan. After hearing the whole story the old man began to speak.
“They are evil tricksters. Attracted to hunger like flies to meat. They appear before you at your most desperate and trick you so they can devour your children. They give you wealth so you will marry and have children that they can then claim. They appear in many forms and if you take any food or drink from them, you will be cursed by a ravenous hunger that you will not be able to resist.”
Obera covered his face with trembling hands. “What have I done?”
“I know what’s worrying you. I know you were supposed to present yourself as a suitable suitor for Ruoth’s daughter, Asumu. Now you fear you cannot go through a marriage with her.”
Obera gave a weak nod in response.
“Listen, why don’t you marry Awilo, Nyar-Omollo? The plague took her husband before she bore a child. Her husband’s father was your sister’s Adek’s father-in-law. If you took her in as your first wife, everyone will understand that as an act of duty and kindness. She will bear the children for you, and you can take Asumu as your second wife.”
Obera scoffed. “Ruoth would never allow his daughter, his only child, to be the second wife of a homestead.”
Ja’chien’s booming laughter rumbled over the dala. “Asumu cares about three things only. Her beauty, her pride, and her wealth. Do not worry, she will be more than willing.”
Awilo was a small woman who barely came up to Obera’s chest. She was not tall like Asumu who could lay her head on his shoulder. Everything was wrong with Awilo. Her eyes were uncomfortably large on her small face, and it reminded him of a Tarsier. Her soft, husky voice did not fit well with her petite frame. She smiled readily unlike Asumu. Awilo’s beauty was shy and would only reveal itself when she thought no one was watching. Her gaze when she daydreamed under the mango tree. The tilt of her head when she was unsure. The hum of her song when she was in a good mood. It began to seep into Obera, soaking him with her essence, and sinking him into a pool of love.
“I’m with child,” Awilo whispered. It was a year after they had gotten married. The moon was high in the sky and Obera held her so close to him he felt the steady rhythm of her breath. He turned her to face him and kissed her softly.
“It will be a daughter,” he declared.
“It will be a son,” she countered as she placed her hand over her belly possessively.
“I had twelve sisters. It will be a girl,” he assured her, playfully shooing her hand off her belly and replacing it with his own.
“I had five brothers. It will be a boy.” Awilo looked up at her husband as she spoke, narrowing her eyes in feigned protest.
They laughed, then kissed, then laughed again. After all, did it really matter? Obera had every intention of giving his firstborn plenty of brothers and sisters.
Obera would not allow his wife to do anything but rest and eat. He followed her around the house, taking the sisal broom to clean, the jembe to go and farm, the firewood to get the kendo going and cook. Whatever she craved, he would go and hunt for it. Whatever she needed from the market, he would run and get it. His sisters no longer came to see him, but he knew they must be cackling at him from beyond.
It was a boy. A boy with Awilo’s large eyes and Obera’s broad smile.
Awilo had placed the boy on a mat under the mango tree and went inside the hut. Obera, who had been harvesting, took a break to watch the child till his wife came back out. A shadow cast over Obera, He looked down to see the outline of a wingspan, and his eyes shot up to see a crimson bird rapidly descending towards his son. Obera ran with all his might, shouting desperately at the bird. The bird reached the child and swooped it up. And with their beloved son caged between its talons, the bird disappeared into the haze of the rising sun.
Their second child, a son, was taken at the market and their third child, a daughter was grabbed from Awilo’s arms.
“I am with child,” Awilo said, her voice dead from the exhaustion that comes after grief. Obera nudged her to turn and face him when she did not, he pulled her closer to him and kissed the back of her head. “Nothing will happen this time. I promise.”
“We cannot lose another child; it will break my wife.” Obera pleaded. He had come to see Ja’Chien, his third such visit. He had come after his first child was taken but Ja’Chein was traveling. When he came again after his second child was taken Ja’Chien was still away.
Ja’Chein rubbed the stub on his jaw. He reached into his snake-skin bag and retrieved a wooden, carved doll.
“I have traveled very far and encountered many tribulations to get my hands on this. Obera, you must be ready to compensate me well for my troubles. It is a doll carved from a dead hollow tree, a tree that harbored the souls of innocence.”
Ja’Chien filled a clay pot with water and added three drops of Obera’s blood. He then placed the carved doll in the pot and covered it.
Awilo gave birth to their fourth child, a daughter. Ja’Chien had sent a midwife to take care of Awilo. Awilo refused to have her daughter out of her sight for even a second. She didn’t trust anyone and made sure the child was always attached to her hip.
The bird came for the child in the dead of the night. Awilo woke up to find the arms that had cradled her child the night before were now empty. Her scream was gut-wrenching.
Obera rushed over to Ja’Chien’s house. On his way there he spotted The Chun-mar-ketch heaving and choking by the river. The spirit gargled, sputtered then fell to the ground dead. Obera watched as it disintegrated into the air, leaving behind the half-devoured wooden doll.
Ja’ Chien handed the child to Obera. A girl with Awilo’s round eyes and tender smile. He ran over to his dala. By the time Obera arrived, ready to show Awilo that he had kept his promise, that he had saved their child and their future children, he realized that his wife had long since breathed her last.
Florence Onyango is a Kenyan writer based in Nairobi. Her short story Nyar Nam was published in the 2015 Short Story Day Water Anthology and Submersion was short-listed and published in Kikwetu Journal’s 8th issue 2022.
Dormitories were only available to undergraduates, not Masters students. So, I rented a room from a fellow Jamaican immigrant.
An alcove studio with lots of natural light, in an old house close to Campus.
The studio was fine — during the day. From daybreak until evening, children squealed, birds chirped, and car horns bleated outside the bay window. It was almost like my rural district back home. At night, however, sunshine peeled off the red brick like flayed skin, and the apartment’s vibrations were unmasked in the silent darkness.
On one occasion, I heard, or imagined that I heard, moaning. More frequently, it was just irregular tapping or creaking. I blamed it on old pipes—or maybe rodents.
But one cold morning between Halloween and Thanksgiving, I heard a wail. Naked, and on the way to the bathroom, I froze. Flicking on the violent fluorescent lights, racing around the tiny space, scanning every corner, I saw nothing. Not a living soul.
Wide emptiness bulged against the walls of the pale room. I pushed the incident out of my mind, not wanting to be that little girl from twenty years ago who hid under the bed in fear of duppies and rolling calves.
That night, as I did every night, I ate seasoned rice with a spoon and listened to my neighbor ranting. Through the flimsy wall, I heard Sean’s every epithet and every detail of his argument with an English professor. Patrick, Sean’s hot roommate, made perfunctory soothing remarks. In the pregnant pauses tucked between fits of yelling, a stomach gurgled. The low-pitched digestive noises were brief but loud. Clear. I caressed my abdomen but knew that the sound didn’t come from me. Nor had it come from Sean and Pat’s place. The direction was wrong; it had been closer.
I pivoted and stood, seeing nothing. The air, as always, was heavy and wet, as if the bay drifted in around the silhouette of the old window. But there was no odor, no movement, and no further sounds. The silence mocked me, questioning my sanity. Noticing the time, I sighed and hurried to the library for study group.
Later — my head swimming with water filtration techniques and blueprints of Angolan desalination infrastructure — I stared at the desolate white walls. A few framed posters were still in a box under the sofa bed. I hung images of Caribbean waterfalls, winged insects, and wild animals. These would be portals of escape, fuel for my daydreams.
I ran my fingers over the pink-gray legs of an ostrich, but they refused to lie flat. A bulge in the paint prevented the thick paper from relaxing against the wall. I placed my hand on the irregularity and felt staccato flurries beating under my palm.
Equal parts curious and afraid, I plucked utensils from a drawer—paring, steak, and butter knives. Sitting on a folding chair, I tapped, then waited, then got to work… Recruiting a cuticle clipper and screwdriver, I dug into the mound under the paint. By midnight, the wall was ruined. A jagged opening gaped like pursed lips.
Glancing at the knoll of drywall chunks and paint scrapings, I rebuffed worries about my security deposit.
Coughing out dust, I slipped into a nightgown, and made tea, calling on the hibiscus to bring me calm.
Clack! A loud noise erupted from the hole. The plastic mug leaped from my hand and slid across the ceramic floor when I jumped.
Pulse throbbing, I grabbed the meat hammer and everything else that I could find to widen the opening in the wall. Probing with my right hand, I touched clumps of gypsum and plastic wood. As the perimeter of the hole splayed, my fingertips penetrated deeper and met something fibrous. I cried out, leaped away, and fell to the floor. It was hair!
I screamed. Then the wall screamed. The sound was muffled but unmistakable. I sat for a few minutes. Then, trembling, my fingers pulled out wiry black strands. Twisting and probing, I encountered something firm and domed. A skull. Rocking and rotating the head gently, debris fell away.
I unearthed eyes, nostrils, and mouth. Full lips parted, and a female voice spoke in English.
“Thank you. I couldn’t get out.”
I fell again, cutting my elbow on a sharp fragment from the destroyed wall. Seated and shaking, I reached up to brush the dust from her eyelashes and brows, avoiding the gaze of the dilated pupils and cocoa-colored irises.
“I will get you out, and help you get justice,” I said. “Who killed you?! Who put you here?”
Her black eyebrows, grey from the powder, raised. She coughed and looked at me. I gathered the courage to look into her eyes, drawing from my grandmother’s brave strength and my mother’s perpetual calm.
Her voice was barely more than a whisper when she said, “I’m not dead.”
“Of course you’re dead, I replied. “You’re a ghost.”
Brushing debris from her neck, I saw that her face was plain but vibrant, and young. She tried to shake her head in the confined space and dust fell around her.
“No,” she said. “Not dead. Hatching!”
The author is a Jamaican of African descent, with primarily Nigerian ancestry. She works as a pediatrician, but has been writing since childhood. Recently, she has published work in Blink, The Ocotillo Review, The Saltbrush Review, and The Poetry of the Southwest.
The story you have asked me to tell you does not begin with bravery. It, in fact, begins with our naivety, and then loss. I am Navi, and this is my story as an Ijaw boy. In those days, the creeks of the Delta was our home. When we swam, our bodies waded through the water and sand; our faces whitening under the livid gloom of the sea. We children would hurl bushels of soap to ourselves in the water, and wait till the lather got into our noses, just so we would sneeze. That was before we helped ourselves to pieces of smoked fish on the raft after a long period of fishing and swimming. I used to think water was everything—our fortress, and our saviour, but today, water has become our doom.
We saw the clouds break into a kraken-esque cast. Suddenly, water began pouring into places you wouldn’t even believe. The water rose to our heads and covered the entire mass of land. No, this was no flood, this wasn’t a cascading outburst, or a storm. This was a new phenomenon we were unaccustomed to. In a bid to save ourselves from the scourge, we hid under rocks, and thankfully, since we were Ijaw, we could swim our way to protection—away from floating cars and houses, because by now, the water had gotten to sky-level.
Their coming was almost unheralded, the alien invaders of our land, who went by the name Cryonoid. A tribe of cryogenic people, who looked somewhat like half fish, half men. We had never seen anything like them before. Something like a wintry flake kept edging from the sun; but winter wasn’t supposed to happen in Nigeria. Some people said they fell from the sky, others said they came from underneath the earth, accursed creatures forgotten by the gods. Away from the speculations, what we understood from everything going on was that they were water creatures, who could only breathe and swim underwater, and their acqui-dome, which stood like an artificial moon, was responsible for the water all over our lands. Their plan was to inhabit our earth, but the only way they could do this was by thriving. So, they initiated a project called C.B or the Cryogenic Bath, where water would cover the expanse of the earth, up to sky level, to enable them to breathe, while causing us, Ijaw, to die. You may ask how I knew all of this, but it’s pretty easy when you know your mother has been taken by enemy pods and placed in their acqui-dome. That is why I am here. That is why we all are here, to get to the root of this invasion and rescue our families. They think we won’t fight. They think we don’t have the capacity to, but we will try.
*
“…2-1-4 13-1-14!” Came the voices of the Cryonoid soldiers on their water-perambulators, submerged in the water. From where we hid, we could see them hitting a man and stuffing his mouth with their cryogenic-bugs. These bugs, when ingested, drained the blood of any human, which the Cryonoids in turn, ingested from the bugs as cold gas. This was an endless water cycle, which, for some reason, gave them strength and replenished their energy. After they were done, they tore the man’s limbs with their casers, their laser-shooting casers. This rare technology was carried out through crystal amplification by simulated emission of radiation. In short, it shot ice-crystals.
“What did they say, Navi?” My cousin Taidos’ voice came from the hollow rock we hid in. The Cryonoids spoke a language which I understood to be codified, because they spoke in numeric codes in place of our regular alphabet. For example, the letter ‘A’ was number ‘1’, so when they said, “1-20-20-1-3-11!” I knew it meant “attack!”
“They said ‘bad man’ before they killed him,” I replied absent-mindedly.
“What shall we do?” Asked Pere, a rather stout boy who had the face of a chameleon.
“We stick to the plan. We capture one of them and steal their perambulator—we can’t swim high up the acqui-dome, we won’t last long, the turbulence and pressure will kill us if we do. That is our only chance,” I said.
What eluded me wasn’t the thought of going up to the acqui-dome. Some people claimed that they had been there before, and that it was somewhat like a theophanic encounter with the gods, but I don’t believe them. What eluded me was how we were going to catch a water-perambulator, without alerting the other soldiers. The water-perambulators were faster than Teslas and worked with some sort of telepathic wave. Yes, the darned fish-creatures created a device which only they could control with their minds! I had seen them shoot water-bombs, which ravaged our houses, huts, and malls, through the nozzle of the device, but what was most incredible, and what was even more scary was that the device was fueled by their DNAs.
“Let’s go back to meet the others in the camp, Navi,” said Taidos, “my breathing weed is wilting away, slowly.”
Although we could swim and move from one place to the other in the water, we couldn’t last very long, so my father and some elders put their heads together to create swimming masks from seaweeds. This could only last for approximately two hours, because the frigid nature of the water affected the weed in certain temperature.
“All right,” I said, resigned. “Let’s go.”
As we swam through the flowing seabed, we noticed something, or somebody, prop up from underneath a mass of sea shells.
“Boo!” He said, startling us a bit.
“What do you want Ekpeki?” we asked, as we stifled a laugh amidst our seriousness.
“Yes, what do you want, Fishman?” Added Pere.
“Take that back, now!” He said, pointing directly to Pere, revealing a set of scaly fingers in the clear reflection of light from the acqui-dome.
We called him “Fishman” because he was considered a discordant and an outcast in our tribe. He was the one who first made the discovery of the “healing shit” as we called it, or “regenerative excreta.” This was the waste passed by the Cryonoids in the sea. Little did we know that this excrement had healing properties, it wasn’t until one day, when Ekpeki saw how one of the floating excrement lodged on the root of a wilting sea-weed, and within seconds, this weed blossomed and grew like it never even withered. Ekpeki, who was limp from an attack by the Cryonoids on his home, said he received some sort of entelechy, and this prompted him to apply the excrement on his broken leg. He was healed instantaneously. He came to the camp, happy and excited, and showed everyone the miracle of this mysterious shit he had discovered. The people in excitement felt they had an edge over the Cryonoids, and a meeting was held, saying that the next morning, each family should reconvene their injured, and sick, to the hollow rock where we hid, just so Ekpeki could apply his enigmatic herb for all to be healed. This miracle was short-lived, however. When Ekpeki awoke the next morning, his leg had turned power-white, like those of the Cryonoids, and he had developed dorsal fins and claw-like legs, just like the enemy. This caused a huge commotion within the tribe and led to his banishment.
“Take it back, I say!” He screamed under his voice, which let out a whaley-sirenic echo.
“Or what?” Snapped Pere. “You will eat me?” He scoffed.
Just as Ekpeki tried to charge towards him, something seized him from the water. Claw-like legs, gills, humanoid physique—it was a Cryonoid soldier. Quickly, I and the boys swam as fast as we could to safety, while Ekpeki struggled with the soldier. Little did he know that his sirenic scream aimed at Pere had created a psionic wave pattern which had signaled the nearest Cryonoid soldier into a mating call.
Ekpeki refused to yield, and the soldier ejected his caser to full thrust and aimed it at him. The crystal blast caught Ekpeki in his leg, and the weight of the heavy ice tugged him deep into the seabed.
We were about to leave the scene when I remembered that just as much as I hated Ekpeki and his stupid fish face; he was once one of us; we Ijaw folks were one, and I couldn’t leave him to that demise. I charged back to the scene, with Pere and Taidos calling after me. God knows I didn’t have the slightest clue of what I’d do when I got to the scene. There wasn’t really a manual on how to stop a humanoid-fish from maiming your friend. I just swam.
*
“Look! It left its water-perambulator!” Taidos Pointed to a mercurial object floating in clear fluid.
This was our chance. If we had any clear shot at killing one of the Cryonoids, it had to be with their own weapon, since ours wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as theirs. Swiftly, I swam in the direction of the water-perambulator. All three of us gathered round the shining thing. It had silvery blades carved like talons, and two nozzles propped out like exhaust pipes just beneath its metallic sheet. We saw no engine. No gas pipe. No wires. No chips or screws, just a floorboard, lidded with protoplasmic blood DNAs. This was really advanced technology.
“I am going to try something stupid now,” I said.
The others looked at the disintegrating Ekpeki, and then reverted their gaze to me in a haste.
“What is it?”
I placed my right hand on the pointy edge of the talon blade and swiped it gently. The cut was bloodletting, and in that pang of painful sensation, I attached my hand to the DNA scan and logged in my blood sample. Automatically granting me access to the device. While the other boys celebrated this win, the Cryonoid soldier discovered the override in his suit’s telepathic database, and quickly swam towards us—me, in particular. Not thinking clearly, the only thing which prodded my mind was to drive the talon blade, which tore my hand into our attacker’s body; and this I did. When we opened our eyes, we saw the silvery mercurial edge of a blade grow out of the body of the Cryonoid soldier. His blood, inky blue, suffused with the water, and we just couldn’t believe our eyes.
Art by Sunny Efemena
We swam gently, pulling the currents of the water past us as we searched for the remains of Ekpeki in the ice-rubbles. But that was all there was to him; ice-rubbles flung and scattered about in the water.
“Quick, we must leave. It’s only a matter of time before the others notice that one of their comrades is missing,” suggested Pere.
“My weed is withered also. We must go, Navi,” said Taidos as he pulled me by the arm.
*
We were looking at caudal fins, dorsal fins, pectoral fins, pelvic fins, scales, maxilla, opercle, on the body of the dead Cryonoid we had taken with us back to the camp. The elders and my father had asked us to recount the story over and over to them, which we did with a hint of breathtaking drama and an obvious obfuscation of reality.
“Is this thing true?” Asked my father, still bewildered.
“Yes, father.” I said.
“Hmmm… Then we must prepare, because they will come for this one,” he said, pointing to the slab where we had laid the dead Cryonoid.
“Sir, we have discovered something about this specimen brought to us by your son and his friends,” said a group of the elderly scientists, who had critically examined the creature to determine what aided its whole existence.
“What is it?”
“Its eyes. They are limpid, even when there are no traces of life in its cell. This changes all we know about the creature.”
“Continue…” my father urged.
“We thought the water they brought with them was some kind of clear fluid which aided their sense of sight, even at night, whereas the water is just what oxygen is to us. Their eyes are microscopic, and they still work, even when dead. They are just dormant.”
“So, take away water and oxygen, and they are dead?”
“Not exactly. The acqui-dome is what powers them all, their technology, down to their eyes, even their bloodstream; if we can take down the acqui-dome, we can take down a whole lot of them, and even the water.”
“That’s why their cryogenic-bugs suck out blood from us?”
“Yes, the blood is evaporated, and then the gas is supplied to the acqui-dome, they need our blood to survive, and to even do anything. That’s why they attack and take some of us away.”
“That’s why they took my mother!” I bellowed.
“Son, we must calm down if we mean to get to the root cause of this,” said my father, holding me by the shoulder.
“To get our homes back, we Ijaws must work together in peace and unity. I heard what you tried to do for Ekpeki. That is the true spirit of the Ijaw,” my father continued. “Just as the Cryonoids strive to make our home their universe, we must strive and fight back for what is ours, as we now have an edge over them. With your expertise on how these fish-creatures operate, will you spearhead this fight, my boy?”
This sounded like a plan, and I could already map it out in my head. We had everything we wanted which could aid the reconquering of our homeland. With our discovery of how they breathed, and the DNA samples which helped power their perambulators, we stood a chance, and were one step ahead of getting back what was ours. First, we will find out what the talon blades were made of and then we will attempt to replicate the metal and fabricate it for battle. Next, we will channel every resource we can find in making the acqui-dome penetrable; the group of elderly scientists were examining the casers which the invaders possessed and were hoping to make a refined sample that could cut through their dome. Only when all of these have been executed can our victory be guaranteed.
“Yes, sir,” I said, taking a deep breath, while I envisioned the great task ahead as we both stared into the watery horizon.
Prosper C. Ìféányí writes from Lagos, Nigeria. A 2023 SprinNG Fellow and alum of Khoreo Magazine, his works are featured or forthcoming in Strange Horizons, The Offing, Obsidian Literature, Nat.Brut Magazine, Black Warrior Review, and elsewhere.
I was named after my great-grandmother Mma Agnes, a matriarch who predicted her death. “I will not die when the rains fall. Who will attend my funeral then?” She had said, “I will die in Harmattan. By then, the earth will be dry and there will be no rain.”
We are similar in many ways.
I summon death with ease. I once stared at my childhood friend for longer than was comfortable and said “YOU! Why are you alive? You should be dead.” Three weeks later, Mary’s body was found dangling from the mango tree in front of her father’s compound. The squeezed handwritten note on her bed suggested that a voice told her to do it. She was ten. Nobody knew what I’d done, but I did – it scared me.
My mother fondly called me Kokomma, for the name I shared with her grandmother. I was born old – I was two before I was one. In my dreams, I saw all my lives, entangled so much that I could not differentiate them. I had an identical twin sister; everyone mistook me for her but never the other way around. It was like, at first glance, they’d assume I was her but quickly dismiss the thought because I didn’t quite measure up.
I was seven when she took me to the stream. Our parents had forbidden us from going there without adult supervision, but we were children; we found rebellion irresistible. Well, she did.
I followed her to the deep end. I didn’t want to, but she called me a sparrow. A frightened, spineless sparrow. I kept walking on the soft sand bed of the stream as the water climbed to my little waist, and then to my chest. I knew something was wrong when I wasn’t walking anymore. I was sinking. My sister was an excellent swimmer. She was watching me drown, smirking. The rage fueled my little body and I grabbed her neck. She was stronger and soon I was underwater. I held on to her hands, and her legs. Then there was nothing.
I would wake up from these dreams crying, my lungs on fire as I struggled to hold in the air that I knew was all around me. My parents only started to worry about me when I started talking in my sleep — no actual words, just the sounds of a drowning person. I would point at nothing, choke on my spit, and forget how to breathe. My mother had to watch me every night to make sure I did not die in my sleep. When it became too much, they took me to the Lord in prayer. Then it became worse; I started to call my father Aniekpeno, a name he had forgotten he had, so he sought help.
I do not have a twin sister. At least not one that survived. My mother was pregnant with twins. In the second trimester, one of the babies wrapped her umbilical cord around the other’s neck, choking her to death. “If I do not have a twin sister, why do I remember her?” I asked my mother, “Why do I remember the stream?”
The psychologist had no answers for me. He gave me pills though; clozapine, fluoxetine, and some vitamins to help my brain heal. The drugs meant I needed other drugs to help me sleep. When I stayed on my meds, they helped; the voices were still there but now I heard them as though they were on the other side of a wall. I wish I could see her face, the face of the person who’d made me will my friend’s death, who had made me do things to make the physical pain block out the emotional.
“Agnes, you need to eat something,” my mother said, during dinner a week before my tenth birthday.”
“Kill her, say it and it will be so.”
I did not want to kill my mother, so these urges were easy to ignore. I told her I’d try to eat and thanked her. As I climbed up the stairs to my room, I spoke to myself, “If you promise to leave my mother alone, I will find someone.”
“Fine.” The voice says “Until then, tell me a story”
My great-grandmother was a renowned storyteller. She would weave an incredible mental tapestry of kings, warriors, lovers, families, and gods. My father told me that once every week, Mma would invite her children and grandchildren to her home and tell them stories. Some weeks, she’d repeat the same stories, but they’d have a different feel to them. She’d focus on a minor character and give them depth. On other weeks, she’d repeat the story exactly as she told it before. Her children summed it up to old age, but I knew it was deliberate. We have that in common. We love stories. We love to hear them and tell them. We love to rehash our work and watch for a reaction. Who missed the changes? Who complained about the repetition? We like to know. The knowledge itself was powerful.
I told the voice about my cousin Ijeoma, who was mean to me in school. “Koko,if she’s mean, why do you call her your friend?” The voice had become gentler in the last three years. I feel like I’m getting better. My doctor thought so too, and he started tapering off my medication. “Who knows,” he’d said during our last session, in a few months you might not need them at all.”
“She’s my cousin na. She’s only mean because her father beats her mother,” I replied. “She told me and made me swear never to tell anyone.”
“I’m not anyone. I’m you”
“So your name is Agnes?” I asked.
The voice paused before replying. “No, my name is Cecilia.” Suddenly I could see her – full-haired, with a face that looked exactly like the pictures of my great-grandmother when she was young.
I never met Mma Agnes, but I have known her my entire life. “I’ve seen her before,” I said when a picture was shown to me. Faded in the way that time and water fade images, the face of the figure in the picture was blurred, but I could see her. I know her. “No sweetie, she died around the time I became pregnant with you.” My mother had said.
I wanted to tell her I could see my great-grandmother’s life in its entirety as if I was watching it on a DVD player, but I did not want to scare my mother and end up in my doctor’s office again.
“Do you want to name Ijeoma’s father? He’s a bad man.”
I agreed.
A month later, he was found dead, his throat slit by an unknown assailant as he returned home. I asked Cece how she did it and she smiled at me, now visible through the wall, “I would explain, but I cannot,” she says. This month, I’m done with my medications finally. I sleep soundly and have a night devoid of dreams.
♦
She was named after her great-grandmother, and for that, I want to erase Agnes the way victors erase history to suit them. She told stories to her family; I will tell stories to the world. She lived in a time cruel to women. I am here now, in a time that is insidious in its cruelty, but I will win. She predicted her death; I predict deaths more accurately than she ever did.
She killed me when I was seven, and for eighty years I have roamed, waiting for the perfect vessel. I watched her live out her fulfilled life; be a matriarch to a whole generation, loved by her daughters and her daughter’s children. It was not until Kokomma was born; A child who killed her twin, that I could return to this plane. They named her Agnes, and by that singular act, I was sealed within her body.
I understood what I needed to do; After trying to break Koko’s mind for many years, I spoke, luring her in, and earning her trust. I made peace and let her mind heal; the drugs helped her maintain control of her body, save when she gave a name.
Art by Sunny Efemena
As our wills aligned over the next few nights after the naming, I took over our body and executed. Finally, she was off her medication; her mind was weakened, and I was free. All of this; hanging Mary, haunting Koko, slitting Papa Ijeoma’s throat. All in a bid to get me here: a family funeral.
They buried Ijeoma’s father in December, and as the harmattan winds whipped around us, I held Koko’s mother’s clammy hands. The woman was crying, even more than the widow, but Ijeoma’s mother was most likely relieved that her husband was dead; She would never be beaten again. As they mourned and sang the hymns, I watched quietly, plotting.
The crowd headed back to the family house when the funeral was over. I slept in a room with Kokomma’s other female cousins. As night fell, I waited till the festivities were concluded and all of Agnes’ progeny were gathered and asleep in the house. Agnes and her husband had built the original house sixty years ago and, with its many rooms, it housed the whole family.
I padded silently to the kitchen and unscrewed all the gas cylinders, letting the gas flow through the house. The explosion would end the entire line in one go, Kokomma with them. Maybe finally I would find rest; I could leave this world knowing I had executed/carried out my revenge.
I stood in the middle of the parlour, waiting till I felt the gas had spread enough to blow the building up. I breathed in deeply, enjoying my last breaths; I was not long for this world.
“Sparrow? Is that you?” The voice was very tiny. A child. I looked for her; Adaobi, Ijeoma’s youngest sister, “You were always fiery, eyen. Dying was never going to stop you from getting back at me?”
“Who are you?” I asked, though I knew exactly who it was. The smile on the child’s face was ancient, knowing; it had no place in a six-year-old’s body. She walked towards me, dressed in a white nightgown with a pattern of pink flowers. Currently, a vessel for my twin’s soul. “What’s the journey you’ve had, little one,” she said. “We’re both halves of a whole. Did you not think I was still tethered to you all this time?.”
“Don’t talk to me like you know me. I don’t know you. You little… freak. You’re not a real person. You’re just an afterbirth.” I backed away from her. I could smell the gas; I could end this, but I found myself enthralled by her words. The child inched closer, though she made no moves to attack me.
“Neither are you. These bodies belong to innocents, eyen eka mmi.”
“You killed me!” I spat out.
She stopped moving, her face filled with sorrow. “I am truly sorry, Cece.” She reached out with the child’s tiny hands, her voice pleading, “I am sorry that you never got to live because of me. I really am…” she struggled to speak, tears forming in her eyes.
I stayed silent, unable to put my cluttered thoughts into words.
My sister, the storyteller, told me of the day I died, and the darkness that filled her world in the time that followed. “I did a terrible thing; I was a child, much like this little one, and I had to live with that guilt throughout my life. I am so sorry, Cece.” She gestured to the house, “The past is a bridge to nowhere, but these children? These bodies? They are the future. They had nothing to do with me and you; do not have them pay for my sin.”
Her words cut through decades of resentment, and with my vengeance within my reach, I instinctively knelt, allowing her to touch my face. “I couldn’t see you, but I could sense you always watching. I tried to live right. Put good in the world for all the beauty I took from it. I tried to atone for you, mama.”
I saw her, not as my anger tainted her, but as she was. Mma Agnes, who never hurt another soul after me, and fought the world’s cruelty with her words. My heart ached, but I knew Agnes was not lying to me. “Somehow,” she said, “we are both here, in this world, but we should not be here. Please come with me.” The little girl closed the space between us, trying to wrap her hands as far as they could go around me.
I let her.
♦
I woke up the next day tired, even though I had been asleep for hours. At some point in the night, I had somehow changed and hugged Adaobi, my little cousin, and we slowly detangled, clearly confused – Ada had not fallen to sleep close to me.
I went to the living room for prayers and all who gathered prayed for Papa Ijeoma’s soul. After prayers, my mother told me to shower and pack my bags so we could go home; apparently, the gas had leaked all night, and the cylinders were empty.
“Thank God nobody lit matches to warm rice and stew oh,” Father said, as he and the other men inspected the village house. I headed to the children’s room, and when I removed my clothes to get in the bath, I felt a note in the pocket of my shorts.
Koko.
There’s so much I’d say to you, but I have to go now. In my anger, I almost did an awful thing. Thankfully, Agnes came through and stopped me. Do not worry about me; I’m okay.
You are my sister, baby girl. Thank you for sharing your body with me. I love you.
It was then I noticed the silence; Cecilia was not here anymore. I could still see the memories, and I still felt like I had lived a few lifetimes, but Cecilia’s voice was gone. That suddenly hollowed-out part of my mind hurt, like a part of me had been excised. I clutched my chest, suddenly aware that the clothes I just removed were the last we’d ever share.
“Cece.”
Albert Nwereuwem is 24-year-old Nigerian writer and final year student of Dentistry in the University of Calabar. His stories explore varying themes through the lens of Science-fiction, Fantasy and Thriller set in Nigeria.
At the time, he did not know that he had impregnated a creature that was not quite human, or more accurately, not human at all. A Njuzu, as they love to call us, is a being capable of turning into any form they desire. Misguided fools have told you about my kind, that we grow fishtails, that we breathe underwater via some miraculous invention or freak mutation. While we have many miraculous inventions, we do not require any for such a simple purpose. Furthermore, we are not trapped underwater. Many of us live on land amongst you and come home for brief visits like any other immigrant. We have feet and fingers just like you. We move and talk just like you. If you don’t know what to look for, you’d never know the difference between the Njuzu and your so-called “normal” human beings.
Papa never came to know what he had done. He slept peacefully beside his loving wife for twenty years, that “creature” that could have killed him in seconds at any time. Papa died as peacefully as he slept, while still believing he had a normal wife and daughter.
A relief for all parties involved…
My mother had remarried by the time I was 14. I returned to the water when I was 16. My return was neither a matter of necessity nor of obligation. No one forced my hand. My mother had long since resigned herself to life on land, abdicating the district she ruled as the Queen’s sister, which would now be mine if I so chose. This did not interest me, and with ten royal lines, there was no shortage of rulers amongst my aunts and cousins.
I returned to the water, to the home I never knew, because I chose to help my people fight for our relevance, for our right to exist. With that in mind, I returned to the home I never knew—the home beneath the waters, Pasi Pemvura.
Present Day
Location: District 9
“My queens, please bear with me. You know these are difficult times, even for me!” The old man pleads.
Chitepo is a n’anga, a witch doctor. His earliest ancestor, Sanyathi, was one of the first human beings to form a mhiko, what you would call a covenant, with the Njuzu. Because of this blood tie, he inherited not only the knowledge of our world and its residents but also the ability to go between his world and the beneath, at our summoning. Sanyathi was one of the first of you with a brain sufficient to recognize his betters.
“Should we have to remind you of who we are, Chitepo?” asks my cousin Niri, making the old man’s knees knock together as her tongue grows and stretches until it is wrapped around his neck, vice-like.
“Mercy, my queen!” He squeals.
“Mercy, he says,” Osafa whispers next to me, her double-forked tongue sliding in and out, from between her pouted lips.
Despite my cousin’s less than flattering, some might even say frightening ‘abilities,’ they are still beautiful women. Niri, as dark as chocolate, and Osafa the colour of Nepalese honey. With their defined cheekbones and sleepy eyes slanted just like cats, they are classic examples of our people. Both the men and women of the Njuzu are, after all, famed for their looks. Your world’s beauty pageants and red carpets, all the most attractive in your world, are simply products of our genes.
I too, I am beautiful, but different. I am an albino, with grey eyes and white hair. The only pigmentation I have is the brown freckles dusted across my lips and the black vein-like lines around my eyes. Growing up on land, most who saw me often said I looked like an angel, and then a demon, after the angel remark put me in a bad mood and my eyes turned red. Amongst my people, there is much speculation on how closely I resemble those who once destroyed our home.
The old man hangs in the air. I shut my eyes and groan in irritation.
“Drop him,” I order.
“Thank you, my queens,” Chitepo remonstrates as he gathers himself to leave. He searches our faces, admiration or rather lust and fear painted on his features.
“I hope that son of yours will do a better job than you, Chitepo. I hope you are training him well. We will need him,” I warn.
“Yes, my queen.”
“We will come to visit him. Very soon,” Osafa calls out to his retreating figure, licking her lips.
We watch as the old man is led to the portal by one of the guards and only when we are sure he is no longer in earshot do we break into laughter.
It is not that we take pleasure in inciting fear in human beings, or maybe we do. In my people’s defence, I will say that if we have to scare them into submission or occasionally take a life, it is merely out of necessity. Our sacred covenants with the older generations depended on us protecting the waters that we all need to survive. We initially did this by preventing their race from defiling these waters by having them declared as sacred or harboring monstrous water monsters. Occasionally abducting or taking the lives of those who disrespected the waters.
But we were also kind to the humans, going as far as pacifying the dangerous beasts that dwelled near their shores — crocodiles, and other dangerous creatures whose existence they are still yet to know about. Because of us, man of the past lived along the waters peacefully: bathing, fishing and eventually building their bridges and dams as their civilizations advanced. But the modern man is selfish. Where they once respected and honoured the land, they now pollute it so thoroughly that they threaten not only their survival but ours. Beyond even becoming dumping grounds, our waters are now drying up as a consequence of the humans’ greed and snobbishness. Even the skies hold back their bounty, choosing only to release rain in violent outbursts as if to punish us for what has been done to The Earth Mother. The fish? Almost extinct, as humans fish no longer out of necessity but gluttony. Gorging themselves silly.
Man grows bolder still. Their new religion brands us demons, needing to be put in our place. No longer do they worship the gods of the land and water; no longer do they give reverence to nature.
Fewer and fewer people like Chitepo exist. Who wants to give their life to serving what they believe is Satanic? There were once many witch doctors loyal to the Njuzu, where they once accepted apprenticeship under the water, and were taught all manner of cures that could be extracted from nature. They now run from knowledge and hide in their churches.
Anyways… we have a more pressing issue on our hands.
“We must not be late for the council at noon, cousin,” Osafa reminded me.
I nod. It is time to head for District 12.
Location: District 12
District 12 largely resembles most of the other 200 districts scattered beneath the waters. The terrain is very much like your world, except that in place of a sky, there is the majestic skyline of the deep sea. Whales pass like clouds, and other larger creatures, ones that glow in the dark and dare not resurface. You can only imagine our horror when we first started to witness the human trash floating amongst these wonders. A violent act indeed.
District 12 lies beneath the Indian Ocean, and thus is our largest district. Because of this, it is home to the numerous factories where our miraculous inventions are made. Some of these have graced your world, and some we hold on to because we do not trust humanity. So consumed with greed and ambition that you would destroy yourselves unknowingly like dumb children. We miscalculated when we advanced you in the first place.
Vehicles float through the water, carrying a mix of Njuzu and humans. You may wonder what these humans are doing here. Many of them hail from the many ships and planes that have vanished into the waters. These people are like Chipeto’s ancestors, the most intelligent of your kind, and without them, Pasi Pemvura would not be as advanced as it is today. I often say that they were done a great service by being brought here, seeing as they were well ahead of their time and misunderstood in your world. Here they are appreciated and put to work, residing in the multistoried buildings that make up District 12.
Only District 9, which lies beneath the Great Nile, bears some resemblance to District 12, but even then, it pales in comparison. Sure, we do have a few technological hubs here and there, but our homes are simpler and fewer. Like most of the smaller districts, much of our work is dedicated to recruiting a few humans to our educational system, which specialises in the art of healing and holistic medicines. You’d be surprised where you’ll find some of the other districts. Beneath small rivers, lakes, springs, dams, and even sometimes long-forgotten wells. There is always a portal connecting the above to these districts and only when one is granted admittance are they ushered from your world to ours in a matter of seconds. The issue lies in gaining access to these portals, which often are found at the very bottom of the waters. For the Njuzu it is easy because we can morph into any sea creature of our choosing. Our frequent human visitors however used to be at a disadvantage for not all could swim many meters down. Eventually, we conferred upon them special charms granting them the ability to morph, if only for a few seconds.
I look at the ten men and women sitting on their thrones before the hall full of Njuzu. Beings of different origins but all united by their ties to the land and the water. Our own Queen Mother, mother of the ‘Earth Njuzu‘, sits in the middle of this diverse group. She is the most striking of them, adorned in her shiny garments with collars pulled up over her neck. Her robe stretches 10 meters in front of her.
“Residents of Pasi Pemvura, we all know why we are gathered here,” Queen Mother Sithole speaks. She is one of the eldest Njuzu in existence, one of the first of our kind to cross into this world.
“We must destroy the humans!” Someone shouts from the crowd. I see the muscles in her neck tense, the white snake coiled around her hair, coiling tighter.
“Who said that?” the man beside her, the Snake King Riri, known to most as Nyaminyami, commands.
After a fearful silence, the man who had spoken comes forward. He stands resolute in his conviction before the denizens of the great hall until the Snake King’s arm extends in length and tosses him to the other side of the room. Sithole rolls her eyes, relaxing a little, the snake uncoiling.
“Let us not be foolish here and forget that this earth was given to them by their maker. Whereas we were simply granted permission to exist here. Make no mistake. If we destroy the humans, we destroy ourselves.”
“What then do we do? They have lost their gratitude and now even dare to question us?” I say.
“We need to find some other way to bring them back to our cause,” Sithole turns to me, her head tilted, and answers calmly.
At the far end, an old-looking man spits on the ground, drawing Sithole’s gaze.
“Some other way! Is what we have given them not enough? We invited some of their men and women into our world. Taught them about herbs and healing magic so they could return and do good in their communities. In return, all we required was that they respect the land that provides them with medicine. Now they bite the very hand that feeds them, and you suggest we give them the rest of the arm?” He shouts indignantly.
“We are dealing with a different kind of people now. They believe that everything comes from a store, no longer remembering that it is the land that sustains them. We have to appeal to their superficial and shallow natures,” our Queen responds in the earnest, parental tone of royalty.
“How, my queen?”
She turns back to face me.
“That’s what we need to figure out.”
The In-Between World
Before this earth, the Njuzu resided in another world. A world not entirely physical nor spiritual, for that matter. In that world, they lived in peace with the many other beings who called that other world home. Creatures half human and half equestrian, talking animals that often morphed into human lookalikes, giants ranging from the size of mountains to a mere 9 meters tall, babies that were secretly grown men known as Zvidhoma, long skeletal spectres that stretched to the sky knows as Zvigoritoto and finally the Mask people. Men, women, and children with masks for faces often bearing permanently painted frowns.
Art by Sunny Efemena
All was tranquil until the war between us and God’s angels. The war he started because we refused to concede to a life of servitude under him. Because we refused to kiss his ass. They say that we fought honourably despite losing the battle. As we were exiled to other worlds, noble tears flowed from our eyes as we watched our once beautiful home burnt to ash.
*
Present Time
Location: Queen Sithole’s Palace
“It sounds like a good idea, Queen Mother.”
The several male and female witch doctors we have summoned speak in almost unison, equally fearful to be the last or first to speak.
“They are greedy so they will buy into it very easily. They dedicate their lives to serving the Njuzu and in turn are granted material worth. Especially now when times are tough and they are lazier and more impatient than ever,” Gogo Boity, the youngest of them says, nodding to her peers.
Sithole nods.
“Then we will do that. All we simply demand is that they respect us once more and stay clear of these waters. You come up with whatever rites of passage you see fit. I’m not one for ceremony, but it’s the only way to make them believe. But serve us they will under the Manjuzu covenant”
“But to what end, my queen, how far do you plan on taking this?” Chitepo asks
“You are dismissed,” my aunt says, visibly annoyed.
One by one they bow and leave, Chitepo looking back inquisitively. He is becoming a little too bold, I think to myself. I’ll deal with him later.
“To what end aunty? How far do you plan on taking this?” I ask her later when it is just the two of us.
She smiles as she cradles my head between her palms.
“Until they all worship us, until we have mixed our bloodlines with theirs to the extent that there is no distinction between us and them. I was there when he sent his army of war dogs to destroy our home. They killed and violated us in manners I cannot even speak of. And after he was done, he made us beg for our lives just to further humiliate us. We vowed vengeance on the day. Though we conceded and bent the knee. We vowed vengeance.” As she speaks her words come out almost in hisses.
She relents her hold on my white hair which she has been fixated on and kisses my forehead before walking towards the window and staring down at the fifty floors below.
“I am so proud that you chose to come back to us, to take up our cause. But I don’t blame your mother for staying away. There are things she suffered during that time. Things that she can never forget.” Once more she is fixated on my hair before her eyes meet mine and she looks away.
“Ramonda my love. We have created a good life here, but ultimately, we still live like animals, sentenced to this dark abyss where we hardly see the light except that of our making. We deserve to come into the light!”
A man rushes into the room panting.
“I’m sorry my queens but I’ve been sent to summon you to the land.”
“By who, and what for at this hour of the night?” She demands.
He holds his breath in anticipation before he says it.
“The probes have returned.”
2 am
Location: The shores of Namibia
The trumpet blowers are assembled and are putting out a tune of welcome as the entirety of the Royal lines and their families and guards are gathered along the shore. The winds are growing stronger and stronger, and garments are blown in various directions. All of a sudden, we see what some may confuse for lightning, lighting up the sky in a beautiful kaleidoscope. Whirlpools form in the water until there are five huge gaping holes. One by one, five ships the size of the Titanic descend from the sky before they are swallowed up into the holes, all of this with the accompaniment of the cheering crowd. When it’s all over, the waters are once more still, the wind gone, and the shore abandoned.
We were not here.
*
8 am
Location: The Counsel Hall
Unlike the large numbers that congregated here a few days ago, this time only a small fraction stand. Unable to sit still, many of them pace up and down restlessly. Even the Royal Counsel of ten are unable to calm themselves.
“I said get off me!” Chiguru, the old man, rebukes when his female servants fuss over him. Despite almost stooping to the ground, he insists on walking on his own.
The tension is evident and when the doors finally open, the feeling of suspense grows even thicker.
I watch him as he enters. The leader of the Probes, the select group of twenty beings who were sent out into the universe to search for life and other habitable planets. The swagger in his step conveys easy confidence, perhaps even a slight arrogance. I feel the goosebumps grow on my skin as he passes me. He smiles. I look away, pretending not to notice, but my cousins pinch me teasingly. It is Inedu after all, tall and with dreadlocks down to his waist, green eyes, and dark skin. Most would not know it, but we were in love once. I watch as he runs a muscled arm through his hair, remembering how that arm felt once upon a time as it danced across my body. My eyes even wander from his thick baby lips to his crotch and by the time his eyes find mine again, I huff and look aside.
“My Queen,” he begins.
“My Elders,” he finishes bowing to the royals.
“Proceed,” Riri the Snake King orders.
He nods and lifts himself, eyes meeting mine once more.
“As you all know, we set off to find the existence of life amongst the endless galaxies that make up the universe almost five years ago. It was not an easy task and one that required us to leave everything we loved behind. Not an easy sacrifice,” he says, eyes lingering on me.
I clear my throat and he pulls his eyes away from me.
“My elders, my people…” he words trails out into a sigh and he bows his head once more, shaking it slowly from side to side.
Chiguru, who is frothing at the corners of his mouth, almost screams,
“Tell us, what is it? Don’t keep us in suspense any longer. What did you find?”
Inedu raises his head, laughing and smiling all at once in that way of his, which somehow makes him even more beautiful. He looks towards the royals and raises his arms like a showman that had managed to draw out a performance for an audience that’s eagerly awaiting the climax.
“My Elders. We have found life.”
Valerie Tendai Chatindo is a biochemistry graduate from the University of Zimbabwe, writer and sexual health&awareness educator. Her work has appeared in The Kalahari Review, Enthuse Magazine, PinkDisco Magazine, Povo Afrika, Creepy Pod, Agbowo and Literary Yard. Her short story ‘Sheba’, was shortlisted for the African Cradle, ‘African Heroines’, literary prize. The twenty-eight-year-old resides in Harare, Zimbabwe with her grey tabby, Muffins. She runs her own Literary Platform, Shumba Literary Magazine, as well as blogs on her personal platform.
There were cybernetic wonders and augmented reality mirrors. There were meadows and streams and orchards of the freshest tangerines.
Now? The Supernatural Police have taken over. Everything that belonged to the Gods has gone to the dogs.
And what business could this police have with our society, anyhow?
Oh it’s because of the supernatural challenges that technology alone cannot address.
Oh, they’re crucial to preserve the delicate equilibrium between technology and divinity.
Preserve my ass.
Back in the days when it was still a mere farming settlement, three Òrìṣàs came together to weave a dream.
Ògún, the God of innovation, shaped the city’s destiny with his mastery of tech and highly intelligent machinery. He infused the very core with his divine essence, giving birth to a revolution that would propel the place into an era of unparalleled advancement.
As his influence grew, so did his disciples. Engineers, hackers, and scientists flocked in. They formed a new society, Born Of The Iron, dedicated to worshiping and emulating Ògún’s mastery.
Ṣàngó, the Òrìṣà of electricity, sent lightning coursing through the city’s veins to help their beloved friend. They infused the power grid with their divine energy, granting the city an unparalleled supply of electricity.
Neon signs, stunning holograms, and luminescent implants became the visual manifestation of the divine partnership. The line between the organic and the synthetic blurred, human bodies became conduits for raw Òrìṣà power.
The third deity, lurking in shadows, was Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná, the lord of the pox, master of the virus. Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná revelled in disruption, disease and discomfort. He was the balance.
Impressed by the pulsating energy and technological marvels, the Committee of Thunder gods sent word that they wanted to pay the city a visit. They would come from everywhere in Europe and Asia.
*
Ṣìgìdì, leaning against the polished counter in the lively beer parlour, was recounting the tale with animated excitement. The music was loud, so it had to shout.
“I remember it like it was yesterday,” it began, eyes alight with the memory. “My sensors were going crazy, you know, what with those lights pulsating and all. The whole citadel was alive, in sync with quantum computers humming away.”
The patrons around it leaned in, captivated. Ṣìgìdì counted six men. Fighting men. Dangerous men who worked for the establishment. From their body language and rapt attention, he could tell that they were only after one thing: gold. The story was information, and information was gold. But in this moment, their foulness didn’t matter.
A new song came on.
“And then,” Ṣìgìdì continued, “The Thunder gods arrived. Oh, you should have seen them—their digital signatures and features were unlike anything I’d ever processed. Cold yet capricious; pale, pink after all the offerings of alligator pepper. But the further you went into their histories, the blacker they became.”
“And this Ògún, the God of Iron,” chimed in a curious listener. “What was he like?”
Ṣìgìdì grinned, “Ah, Ògún was something else. Picture this: locs in the sun, like the mane of a great prehistoric predator. Picture this exoskeleton adorned in a million nanolights, thanks to his partner Ṣàngó. His metal was unbreakable, but as flexible as a supple willow branch. He gave a speech that day, about unity and collaboration. It was not a concept I was designed to comprehend and support, you see.”
A tipsy patron rose and sauntered out of the bar, leaving the door slightly ajar. He fiddled with his comms, a fancy bracelet flashing on and off. “Sus…” he mumbled. “Stat… Starter.”
A small block of text appeared, and he mouthed the words slowly. […is the spirit of a malevolent agency, a terrifying effigy with a penchant for death and destruction. In the old days, conjurers would mention the enemy’s name and call on it to cause the person to die or become mad or meet some other dire fate. Since Digi City, instead of an entity moulded from mud, it is imbued with bleeding edge A.I, complete with its own feelings, motivations and interests.]
Ṣìgìdì could hear everything the patron was reading in low tones, but the atmosphere in the parlour was charged with intrigue so it focused on the story being told.
“Then came the sacrifices,” it continued.
“Human sacrifices?” A fat man sitting on a creaking stool asked. He was wearing an immaculate white shirt, a striking contrast to his oversized beard dyed black.
Ṣìgìdì smiled then. “Human sacrifices are an interesting concept, aren’t they? First of all, though, nobody is killing you and devouring your soul. You do not have a soul—you are the soul, wrapped in a body. Your spirit is what’s needed in the Ambrosia. Your prayers, your fasting, your faith, the electronic core of your will. Everything else is just bamboozling, but don’t let me get ahead of myself.”
To the right, the Madam of the place worked the vintage dispensers, and Ṣìgìdì’s smile developed into a grin. Hers was the only bar, for miles and miles, that still had constant electricity. Her kraft beer was nicknamed ‘chaos’. But Ṣìgìdì wasn’t just grinning at its drink, it was grinning at the madam with all her cybernetic enhancements, wires and cables interwoven with the tattoos of circuits that adorned her arms. Her whole vibe made her stand out, for it was rare to find augmentation that still worked like this.
Ṣìgìdì took a hearty swig of the beer. The taste was a comforting blend of hopes, nostalgia, and of course, a hint of rògbòdìyàn.
It wiped leftover froth with the back of its hand and continued. “The feast was a culinary adventure of the freshest Ambrosia. The melding of flavors and aromas, simply… divine.”
As if to buttress its point, it conjured a holographic clip.
In this digital backdrop, Thor, the Norse god with biceps that made even the mightiest machines jealous, set his magical hammer aside and chowed down with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy shop—if that candy shop happened to be the size of a mountain.
Not to be outdone, Leigong the Chinese signaled for more food and inhaled the table. Thunder roared and forks clashed as he dug into the smorgasbord.
The clip played on, showcasing all sorts of gastronomic acrobatics, a spectacle of bytes and bites; and the audience looked on, disgust or awe in varying degrees, on their faces. “Way too much fun!” the fat man exclaimed.
“But of course,” Ṣìgìdì laughed, stopping it abruptly, “There was trouble too.”
*
After feeding to their hearts’ content, when these visitors with names that sounded like they were trying too hard to be cool superheroes decided to hang around, it raised eyebrows among the circuitry of the city.
Ògún, ever gracious, designated cozy cottages by the idyllic meadows for their stay.
First in line was Donar, the quintessential Germanic powerhouse, always ready to show off his prowess. Perun, the bear of a god, represented the Russian contingent, bringing a hearty “да” to the party. Taranis, a genius fluent in French, Spanish, and who knows what else, made sure everyone got a taste of his linguistic skills. Baal, the Iberian charmer, always had a lightning-quick retort up his sleeve. Teshub, with his beard, looked like a rather dangerous turkey, but he added a spicy flair to the gathering. Hadad, the Babylonian enigma, was mostly silent but everyone knew of the battles he had fought and won. And of course, you couldn’t forget the most famous: Jupiter, the Roman statesman, and Zeus, the Greek showman.
Officially they were there to assist Ògún in administration—not that he needed their help, but as soon as the Thunder gods had settled in, they began their power play, attempting to wrestle control of the city’s techno-zenith for their own celestial amusement.
Like a pack of interstellar bullies, they started with complaints about the quantity of Ambrosia served. Then they moved to the jokes about how these bush people were enjoying a largesse they didn’t deserve. Then came the cultural mudslinging, tarnishing the names of the Òrìṣà. Spelling titles in lowercase, as if to belittle their cosmic status.
I watched them planning spiritual attacks. Watched them terrorize ordinary ctizens. You think say na only una sabi do juju? They never joked with their fix of blood. Then livestock started disappearing.
I did nothing because I was not authorised to intervene. But when the first Born of the Iron died under suspicious circumstances — in the sanctuary no less, I began to consider breaking protocol.
*
It was a starry night.
The notification leading me to the location popped up. Sanctuary.
It was the second time I had ever been there. The first was when Ogundele, the Boti leader, was publicly rededicating his life to the Iron God.
I am not wired to like humans, but I enjoyed the show. And I definitely enjoyed watching him work.
Upon entering the place, we were greeted by a grand atrium adorned with displays showcasing the Great Hunter and his dog. The walls pulsed with soft illumination, giving the impression of a living, breathing entity.
The main hall, where the engineers congregated, featured a sprawling, central holographic projection suspended in mid-air, displaying the intricate models of ongoing projects. Further within, secluded chambers served as private workspaces and laboratories. The walls of these chambers were embedded with intelligent displays, capable of adapting to the preferences of the occupant. Advanced assistants fluttered through, aiding the engineers with their tasks and ensuring a seamless workflow.
At the heart of the sanctuary lay the sacred chamber—a sanctuary within the sanctuary. This space was reserved for contemplation, meditation, and the most important collaborations.
It was here we found Ogundele, dead.
His torso was crouched down and curled into a fetal position. His limbs, once so free in movement, were now shaped like a handle. With his head lowered towards his chest, he looked like he had been trying to shrink away from something terrifying, his form gave the appearance of a can with its top neatly closed.
I knew immediately that this was unnatural.
None of the autonomous drone cameras registered what had happened or how, but underneath the skin of the can-man, muscles twitched and writhed.
Ògún had to summon the dreaded Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná.
His presence was as if a virus had infected the very spectrum of colours, turning everything into noxious greens, murky yellows, and diseased browns. There is a reason why he’s called the outside God.
From the perspective of the human onlookers now wearing biohazard suits, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná’s entry must have been an unnerving experience. As he materialised in the sanctuary, a pungent, foul stench wafted through the air—pus, stagnant water, and the odour of necrotic tissues—sending shivers down their spines and turning their stomachs.
“Obviously a message,” he said, when he had observed the body. His very words caused a grotesque distortion of the vibrant cybernetic environment, like he was impregnating the circuits with an unsafe programme. The sickly haze emanating from his mouth, cast an eerie pallor over everything it touched.
“How do you mean?” Ògún enquired.
“If you cut under the flesh, like this—” Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná demonstrated with a fingernail. “You’ll see the worms.”
Whoever did this had cut Ogundele multiple times, in multiple places, and introduced genetically modified worms into his bloodstream. Then they had sealed the cuts and left the worms to feed, contorting the body postmortem.
A can of worms.
Was that a warning? Was this a game?
*
A new tune came on.
I am the definition of everlasting mischief The confluence where four-dimensional mathematics and retribution collide
I sit inside the heavy echoes of chieftaincy The dissimulation of tropical masquerades The connection, the process, the tedium of proof You may reach the true by making the impossible emerge from the false…
Ṣìgìdì smiled at the Madam. It was its favourite song. It could easily have been a personal panegyric.
“Tell us about Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná,” said the tipsy patron who had previously left the bar.
Ṣìgìdì regarded him closely. He was wearing a leather jerkin, fitted with smart fabric, which allowed for both style and functionality. The jerkin had LED accents mimicking the look of old-world chainmail, subtly shifting and shimmering as they caught the light. His disguise was good, but he still smelled like a death dealer. Foul rat.
“What do you want to know about Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná?” Ṣìgìdì asked.
“Everything. You called him the outside God, why?”
“Oh. I thought I said…” Ṣìgìdì warmed up, ready to segue into ancient history. “Well, in the olden days, the Òrìṣàs were celebrating and—”
“Why are the Òrìṣàs always celebrating?” Someone else interrupted.
“Unfortunately,” Ṣìgìdì’s tone was curt. “I am not equipped with that data, but the Òrìṣàs, yes, they were partying. Lots of palmwine and music. The wine made them sway like toddlers just learning to walk, but the music was so good they still wanted to dance.”
“Away from them, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná sat nursing his gourd. He couldn’t dance, you see. Because he had a wooden leg. He was wearing a long àgbàdá to hide it.
“But the j’ayé-j’ayé Òrìṣàs noticed him sitting all by himself, and they started beckoning on him to come have some fun.
“Of course, he refused. Initially. He was a bit insecure. But they kept taunting him and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he stood up and joined in.
“Just like everyone else, he was full of wine, and unsteady on his feet. But unlike everyone else, he had a physical disability. It only took one drunken shove from a random dancer and he found himself sprawled on the ground, his robe riding up and his wooden leg exposed.
“The other Òrìṣà saw it and started laughing. Enraged, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná removed the stick and started whacking them with it. The celebrations came to an abrupt end. They fled the dance floor screaming for help. Never had they seen him so angry.
“The next morning, all those who had been struck by Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná’s staff, woke up ill. High fever. Severe fatigue. Blinding headaches. Vomiting. Then, rashes formed around the mouths they had used to laugh. One or two lesions at first. Then the rashes spread in a centrifugal pattern on all their bodies and became pustules. Gradually, the pustules became filled with pus, and the number of lesions became impossible to count. It wasn’t death, it was worse.
“The Òrìṣàs cried out to Ọbàtálá—the king of the white cloth. Ọbàtálá was feared because he one of the oldest, and he possessed the power to sculpt bodies. He was furious that people were insulting his work. ‘Something he couldn’t have helped! Did Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná create his physical form himself?’
“Carrying his cow-tail switch ornamented with cowries, the elder God marched down to judge the matter. Seeing how bad it was, he announced that the people who mocked the wooden leg had received their punishment, and that was fine, but Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná himself could have come to report the case instead of taking justice in his own hands.
“When Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná saw the king of the white cloth approaching, he jumped out of the window and fled into the bush.
“Ọbàtálá declared then, that that would be his punishment. From that time on, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná remained in the bush by himself. But he was still feared and till today, people refuse to call him by his name, preferring to use euphemisms like, The Outside God. Hot Ground. Owner of the public. He who feasts with the father of the household but strikes down the son in the doorway.
“You know,” Ṣìgìdì said, belching loudly and pushing its empty beer mug away. “Smallpox was introduced to the New World by the Spanish and Portuguese conquistadors. The disease decimated the local population and was instrumental in the fall of the empires of the Aztecs and the Incas. Guess whose bush they got it from?”
“They’d steal anything.” The madam of the bar scoffed. “Soul, silver or smallpox.”
The guy in the jerkin kept fiddling with his bracelet.”Sus… Stat… Starter,” he mumbled.
Ṣìgìdì knew exactly what it meant. Suspect. Status. Starter. It was a death dealer’s code for “I’ve got what you’ve been looking for.” Whoever was on the other end of the line must be the big bad.
Ṣìgìdì excused itself, as a good AI simulating the side effects of downing too much chaos. It needed a piss.
*
The story continued.
In the city center, the Committee of Thunder gods—now the Supernatural Police—were gathered where the humans could see.
Thor, the leader of the force, spoke first, “Has Ògún forsaken his own disciples? The murder of one of his brightest leaves us questioning his ability to protect even his closest allies.”
Leigong, with his eagle face, added fuel to the flames. “Could it be that Ògún, once a beacon of progress, has turned to a diabolical path? Whispers suggest he’s feeding on souls, consuming the essence of his disciples for unholy power.”
Perun, known for his cynicism, muttered darkly, “He has always done this. He just hasn’t been caught yet.”
Gasps rippled through the gathering, showing disbelief and fear. The accusation struck at the very core of their beliefs and trust.
When Ògún approached, he simply took stock of his people; his metallic visage betraying no emotion, even though his heart was a tempest.
Choosing his words carefully, he addressed the crowd. “I stand accused, but I am innocent. My purpose has always been to nurture and innovate, not to harm… except in the face of injustice.”
Ṣàngó in their beautiful cornrows, stepped forward. “Let us not be blinded by fear and suspicion,” they said.
“Of course, you’ll support your fuck mate,” Taranis snarled. Then he turned to face the onlookers. “Oh, you people didn’t know?”
His accusation sent yet another ripple of shocked gasps through the crowd.
“Haha.” That last was Teshub the Turk. “Why do you think Iron brings fire, and fire melts iron?”
“Accusations without evidence are hollow and unjust!” Ṣàngó shouted, trying to project his thunder over the din.
But doubts had taken root, the damage had been done. The engineers who once looked up to Ògún now questioned the very foundation of their beliefs.
No God-bullet was more effective. To kill a God, you must first kill his reputation. Spam the minds of the impressionable with nonsensical data and axioms. Sow distrust.
To finally destroy the Òrìṣà, they insisted on taking over the most important bits of technology he had installed in the city. If you have nothing to hide, give us access to all the Satellite links and nanoscale InsectEye cams!
Your Integrated quantum encryption module for secure data transmission. Your Nanosensors for precise light detection and advanced image stabilization. Your Neural AI for automated camouflage pattern adjustment… “Guilty!’ they cried.
It was like blaming a chef for not giving away all his secret ingredients. Ògún had every right to protect his kingdom, and they had every right to be jealous. After all, who wouldn’t want a piece of the action?
But Ògún was no fool. He saw through their ploys, their schemes, and their desires for unbridled power. These gods were a rapacious bunch, ready to gobble up anything that stood in their way.
He understood the stakes, oh boy, he understood them well. Handing over his technological marvels would be akin to giving a toddler a sledgehammer. The world as they knew it would crumble and crash faster than the count between Sàngó’s lightning and his thunder.
He knew their kind— insatiable, like the legendary Ìjàpá the tortoise. Once they had a taste of power, they wouldn’t stop. They’d push boundaries, break limits, and wreak havoc across the globe. It would be like trying to rein in a wildfire with a water gun.
Ògún had seen the signs. Handing them the keys to his kingdom would be a one-way ticket to chaos-ville. They’d rewrite the code, reboot the system, and all hell would break loose.
There was only one way this showdown was ever going to play out.
And it went down on a sweltering evening. Fitting. The city felt like a convection oven, the air heavy and oppressive against skin. Even the advanced climate control systems struggled to alleviate the discomfort, leaving the denizens yearning for a respite.
The Supernatural Police, seething with envy and anger, bore down on Ògún and Ṣàngó.
Ògún, as the God of war, stepped forward, his grip firm on his enhanced blade, sparks flying as it dragged on the pavement behind him.
“They won’t back down easily,” Ṣàngó warned, they had appeared from nowhere; hair freshly oiled, eyes lined with codes for infernos.
“I know,” Ògún smiled, gaze fixed on the approaching enemy. “But progress can’t be stifled.”
Thor laughed then, his eyes burning with resentment, “Your so-called progress threatens our ways, Ògún!”
The Iron God shook his head. “Our ways have evolved. Embrace innovation. We can’t cling to the past forever. You want lifeblood, go and kill your own children.”
“The insolence!” That last was Baal. “How dare you?”
“You think your gadgets can replace centuries of tradition?” The Turk sneered.
“If our tech offends you so much, why do you stay still?” Ògún replied calmly.
“Enough talk!” Leigong commanded, raising his weapon, a chisel.
Ògún glanced at Ṣàngó. There was no need for words. They nodded, electricity crackling at their fingertips. “Ready when you are.”
“ARGH!!”
Colossal forms loomed over the cityscape, dwarfed buildings into mere playthings. The primal force, the wrath, the determination. Rain clouds converged into a single ominous mass, swirling and coalescing directly over the battlefield. A darkness that felt sentient, crackled with pent-up energy; raindrops danced on the edge of release, and the sky trembled.
It was sheer ozone and adrenaline.
With an otherworldly roar, Ògún swung his blade to meet Jupiter’s mighty bolt. The cosmic collision sent shockwaves in all directions. The Òrìṣà’s sinews strained against the Roman’s force.
It wasn’t an honourable one-on-one fight. He still had to worry about being ambushed by Leigong or Baal or Zeus. Or all three at once. But opposite him, Ṣàngó was holding his own against half a dozen thunder gods. How was he doing it?
Summoning a reserve of impossible strength, Ògún pushed forward, twisting his blade, and using Jupiter’s own force against him. The power surged through, tenfold.
Yelling ‘I AM HE!’, he redirected the trajectory, sending Jupiter flying like a comet.
Jupiter didn’t even have time to register what was happening. The skyline loomed closer and closer as he hurtled towards a tower of mirrors. The impact was cataclysmic.
Shards of glass rained down like a broken dream. The God of War, red-eyed, but more saddened than enraged, stood amidst the chaos.
The battle was far from over, but knocking Jupiter out made the others pause.
What they didn’t know was that this was merely a diversion—a brilliantly orchestrated ruse. For, while the city seemed to burn in the clash, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná, the silent strategist, went undetected, infiltrating the quantum computers that underpinned the city’s functioning.
The initial shock soon cleared, and as the supernatural police descended upon him, Ògún spun to face them.
Zeus lunged first, with a triad of bolts streaking through the sky. Ògún’s reflexes kicked in, allowing him to skillfully evade the onslaught, every movement calculated, every movement measured. He parried the Olympian’s strikes and kicked at Baal who was charging in with the fury of weaponized raindrops.
WOOSH!
The kick left his midsection unprotected and that’s where Leigong targeted, hurling his chisel. It hurt like hell, but undeterred, Ògún conjured an electromagnetic shield to deflect the rest of the tempestuous assault.
Everything else was mechanical now. Ògún adapted to their attacks, finding gaps in their offense. Elbow to the face, knee to the crotch. Ichor everywhere. Despite being outnumbered, the God of Iron held his own.
Within the towering edifices guarding the city’s energy core, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná worked with a frantic urgency. His fingers moved like a blur upon the keys, injecting the code of blessed malware into the city’s very circuitry.
It was a race against the clock, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná knew that his partners would not last very long against the malice of the supernatural police.
He urged the virus on, a digital prayer of disruption. And when he was sure it was coursing fast enough through the city’s vital systems, he triggered the alarm.
The notification screamed through the motherboard, a beacon of urgency in the vast digital expanse, alerting Ògún.
Sensing the moment had come, Ṣàngó nodded at their dear friend. Then, with a roar that echoed through the heavens, they linked hands and unleashed a sonic blast.
BOOOOM!
It hit their assailants with precision, sending them tumbling backward, breaking their momentum.
In the precious moments that followed, the God of tech acted swiftly, breaking down his own essence, fragmenting it into streams of power that flowed through the circuitry of all Born of the Iron, each devotee receiving a part of Ògún—the courage to never back down, the gift of the hunt, the spirit of innovation and progress.
A certain trusty AI who was observing the whole thing received a concentrated amount, if it was previously a vengeful tool, it became ten times more lethal and without any code for tethering.
As Ògún’s form began to fade into the ether, the supernatural police cheered.
It was a pyrrhic victory, but they revelled in it until the city’s lights began to dim and flicker.
The blessed malware spread through the arteries of machinery everywhere, bypassing firewalls and encryption, targeting critical points of control.
One by one, everything went off.
The effects were felt instantly, and on a massive scale. Factories ground to a halt, leaving assembly lines silent and production stagnant. Communication networks faltered, cutting off the flow of information and causing confusion among executives and workers alike. Transportation systems experienced crippling failures, leading to logistical nightmares and widespread disruption.
The economic impact was profound. Companies found themselves paralyzed. The sudden loss of productivity sent shockwaves through global markets, shaking the foundations of the gods’ influence and triggering panic among those who depended on the industrial complex for their livelihoods.
*
But after a while, the world would roll on like nothing happened. The city would adapt to a half-life, surviving companies operating only at 30% capacity. The harmattan would give way to the rainy season, the grass would grow, the tangerine trees would flourish, becoming bigger homes for birds to nest in—no one to hunt them. The earth would not colour itself sepia or grey. The world would roll on.
But not Ṣìgìdì.
Presently, it re-entered the bar and found the fat man lying on the ground, impaled by one leg of his own stool. His white shirt was crimson now, and his mouth hung open, like he had just witnessed some great abomination. The tipsy guy was hanging upside down from the ceiling, with his intestines falling out. His bracelet on the floor, was crushed to bits, never again to beep.
Ṣìgìdì scratched its processor in confusion.
It had only just stepped out for a piss. But where were the other bodies?
The madam of the place purred and pointed at the back room. Four other death dealers were slumped over each other there. She had moved them out of the way and left the first two only as decoration. God, her efficiency was so seductive.
Ṣìgìdì grinned at her for the umpteenth time that day. And it wasn’t because of her Kraft beer.
~
Hannu Afere is an author, animator and artiste whose work has appeared in several publications in Nigeria, India, China, Canada and the US.
He co-authored the critically acclaimed graphic novel Trinity: Red October in 2018 and in 2019, his debut collection of short stories GrimGrin: WTF was published. His novella Dog Days of Rain was published in 2020 during the COVID-19 pandemic, and in 2021, he wrote the screenplay to The Adventures of Captain Blud, an animated series with the Nobel Laureate Professor Wole Soyinka. In 2022, his short story Dogz of War published by Omenana magazine was nominated for the British Science Fiction Awards.
Presently, he is the Editor-in-chief of the Anthology of West African Literature (8th House Publishing, Montréal), and is collaborating with the Poet Laureate Bryan Thao Worra on a book of poems titled Laos N Lagos. When he’s not creating or collecting art, he can be found spending quality time with his partner Didi, and their canine companions, Rain and Roulette. He writes from Iboopa.
Uzoma was born into a family of women with strong voices, rich and sonorous. It was a gift, passed down from one woman to the next. Her great, great, great-grandmother, sometime in the early years no one seems to remember, had been wandering deep in the forest of her hometown in southern Nigeria and found a cave that echoed humanlike sounds. She wondered what it was at first, who the voices belonged to. At first, she thought it to be lost people, calling for help. But when she searched and saw nothing, she thought they must have been ghosts looking for bodies to inhabit, filling the empty breeze and shaking trees. She stood still, lingered to listen and heard the sounds call to her. They held her soft fingers and drew her in. They whispered promises in her ear: ‘We will sing you heavenly melodies, infuse our gifts in your vocal cords, give our voice a home in the walls of your mouth and blunt edges of your teeth.’ They called to her, and she answered them.
Uzoma’s great great great-grandmother, the first woman, walked into the cave, her feet kissing the wet ground, as her toes slowly met the lake in the cave. Uzoma’s mother, Oluchi, tells her that the cave was dark as night, illuminated by the lake’s reflection on its walls. She tells her that the water had the colour of a puddle made of rain and wet clay. She tells her that rocks, hard as human skulls, floated on the surface. She tells her that the water’s opaqueness protects its secrets underneath from the naked human eye. She tells her these things, just as her own mother had told her.
The women in her family tell the story of the first woman accurately. How she was pulled down by a force the minute her lower body was submerged in the cold body of water. How she felt strong delicate hands hold her ankles tight, pulling her through wild torrents of thick water. How the force was so great it felt as though her head would detach from her body, yet she did not struggle to breathe. How she came out of a second body of water in a cave within the cave. How this second cave had its own light reflecting from its walls, a dull muddy brown, faintly resembling bronze and fading gold. How the colours made the stones that formed the cave look stained, unclean. The water in this cave was clear as a blue sky with cotton white cloud, it looked as though it could wash away the unrighteousness of sinful men, cleanse the rusting appearance of its home.
Uzoma’s mother gives her the account of how the first woman had seen the fish person. Fluke first, an eggshell white. The scales of her tail reflecting the colours of the walls of the cave and the clarity of the lake, having the appearance of a thousand precious stones. How in that moment, she knew that this cave and its outer home were made of and from her. How she wondered if it was created by the will of her being or by some sort of magic in the scales on her tail. Her skin, an array of deep brown shades, made the first woman curious of its tastes. Her waist occupying the depth of her stomach, her flesh widened at her hips, right where her tail began. Her chest bare and full, matching the skin of her body with nipples the colour of burnt sugar. How the first woman was stunned at the appearance of this fish person. Stunned at the beauty of her face. The women in Uzoma’s family say that the first woman believed her to be the most beautiful woman alive. The belief continues, present continuous tense. The fish person was no mortal. This was a fact. Uzoma’s mother speaks of her face, a perfect square shape, with high cheekbones. Her lips full and naturally lined with the brown of her skin. The first woman would come to realise that these lips, this mouth, held a thousand voices, the very same ones that brought her there.
The first woman saw this fish person in all her glory. Her full head of hair not styled or braided, dark, tangled. Her broad nose and ears garnished with pearls. Her arms, long and slender, bearing different inscriptions in languages she had never seen but somehow understood. It was the magic that came with the cave. The person. The first woman felt this fish person call her, beckoning her to come close. At first, she was afraid, unwilling to move, wanting to scream, and run away. But she found that she could do nothing. The first woman believed that this cave, this person, took her voice.
The tale speaks of how the fish person held the first-woman’s face in her hands. And how despite losing her voice in that cave, the first woman gained a new one, a better one from the fish person. How the first woman said the touch of the person’s hand on her face had the feel of water. How this person examined the structure of her face, looked deep into her eyes to see the person she was, kissed her cheek to determine the taste of the water that formed her. How the fish person put her left hand into the lake in the cave inside her cave, packed a hand full of water and placed it in her own mouth. How the first woman looked, unmoving, still in shock, confused, trying to determine whether she was dead or alive. How, after scooping the lake water into her mouth, the fish person held the first woman’s two cheeks, forced her lips apart, and poured the water down the first woman’s throat. How the first woman described it as the spring of living water. The only one there ever was. How this spring passed on one of the fish person’s many voices, to this lineage of women.
They told this story exactly as the first woman did. Never written. They intended to for it to stand the test of time. This forever gift and its tale.
*
She was easily given to love. Uzoma swore on the first woman’s grave and the 999 voices of the fish person that she had ‘found the love of her life’ at least 4 times a year, in a different man. It was most peculiar because she believed it each time. This was why the first woman never rolled in her grave in anguish. The girl believed in every love that she had. It was her faith. When she loved, she presented it as true and transparent. Her heart on a platter, body as consideration and her mother’s secret a lullaby. She presented her truth, the story of her and the women before. The passing of the voice, and the loss of it once done. She broke the rules, said things that were to be symbols of companionship in her life beneath and beyond the earth. The fish person was kind to her because of her naivety, merciful despite her wilful recklessness and thus sustained the gift.
Uzoma told her lovers of the duties that came with the gift. The security measures, the warnings, the offerings. What it should and shouldn’t be used for, how it should and shouldn’t be used, where and when. She left no stone unturned, no questions answered. Her heart desired the deepest intimacy—unchallenged, unrestricted, unguarded, and her secrets seemed to do all of this. They asked, and she answered. Educating them, begging them to understand and love her, regardless. Begging them to respect the rules that made it so.
When they asked why she whispered at night, she explained that she was tasked with the duty to protect the voice from the day her tongue was solid enough to call her name and the names of the women before her. ‘That is how we know the gift has settled in the far end of your throat. Ready to be spoken and sang with.’ She told them about spirits that knew of the fish woman and her cave, spirits that knew of the voices she had. How some of them had tried to find her in the first cave but rather got trapped in an endless tunnel, in search of a guiding light, walking tirelessly to an end that did not exist. She told them that some knew of her mother and mother’s mother. How they knew of the gift. How sometimes, they lurked the night hoping to catch it. ‘This is why I whisper at night…’ she says to them, ‘and why I absolutely cannot sing at night. If they hear me, they can hold my neck and call my voice from inside me.’
Most did not believe. They laughed straight at her face, called her a nutcase, said ‘no be mami-water be that?’ or ‘ah, you be ogbanje?’ and laughed louder. Some believed her and inquired further. They asked, ‘So what happens when it calls your voice?’ and ‘so you no go fit talk again?’ A few of them masked their fear with false belief and bravery. They dared her to sing, promised to protect her if anything happened to her, swore to use their holy books as swords against the spirits that be. Their comments carried heavy sarcasm, mockery. This was how she knew it was time to leave. When they asked her incessantly to use her voice for them at night, she knew it wasn’t love.
It wasn’t that Uzoma never sang for them. Every morning, her voice woke, and told each of them when the day was bright enough for living. When it was safe for their bodies to go into the world. They told her her voice sounded like what heaven looked like, pure and flawless. They said it called their spirits from sleep and helped them find reality. They told her it felt like coming home after work and laying on fresh sheets, drinking coffee made well and water the right temperature. Each man told her that sometimes, they felt her voice moving in their bodies, days after hearing her sing.
Sometimes, at night, she whispered songs into their ears to help them sleep and guide them to sweet dreams. She wasn’t allowed to do this, the whispering at night, sometimes going above the permitted octave to show her devotion to them. But she was desperate for love. Desperate for their acceptance. Desperate for them to stay.
She had seen what loneliness looked like on her mother. How it drew the life out of her. How this fate resigned her search for love because what was the point? How could you not speak to your lover freely when the world was asleep? How could you not call their name when they were inside you, reaching your very core? How could you not laugh because your heart recognised safety and embraced it? She wanted all these things. To be, and to love.
Somehow, Uzoma was given permission to do both things. In her breathing she was, and in her being she found love. In an unexpected turn, Uzoma found a lover whose feelings matched hers without guile. When they spoke, she thought of swallowing his voice and making it part of hers. When he looked at her, she felt herself a sight to behold, her reflection a wonder from his view. When he held her, she saw herself a child cradled by its mother, the warmth of his arms everlasting. How do you describe a touch, a holding, that feels better than safe? That mirrors a sanctuary.
He was bewildered by the history of her and her women. Respected it, locked it in his heart a second religion. When she woke him in the morning, he gave thanks to God for her first on his knees. When she tried to whisper sleeping songs in his ear, he kissed her and asked her to stop, because he feared for her loss. He worried about its effects. He worried because they had no reference points for solutions, should anything happen. He worried because, like him, he knew she wanted to give him something lasting, something that proved that this love could somehow be held.
Uzoma knew what her limits were. She had known them before she could carry her voice. She knew what was entirely permitted, where there were allowances and where there weren’t. So, the day her lover fell ill, she decided to use her voice to draw the impairment out of him, to make him whole again. This was one of its many wonders.
She joined him on their bed, where he lay, looking half-alive and half-dead. She felt the heat of his body before putting hers beside him. Felt the moisture on her skin before their bodies touched. Her heart ached, for him, for them. She knew the sickness wasn’t ordinary. Knew it came from somewhere. Maybe the women were reminding her that this was something she could not have, or the spirits trying to get her to do what was necessary. She felt insulted by their audacity. How could they think there was nothing she could give up to save him? How could they underestimate the power that existed in her because of their love? How did they not see that this force between them was heavier than all their forces combined?
She was thankful that he was too weak to move and speak. That he was too inside his pain to know what she planned to do. It was late, but it was also the only time her voice held the necessary power. Uzoma held her lover’s hands and whispered songs to him. As she sang, the heat in his body turned to moisture that evaporated and she felt coolness envelop him slowly. With each passing minute, she sang louder because it determined progress and ensured healing and completeness. She watched his pale lips come back to life, saw his veins come into view and felt his heart pump blood through his body. She watched him lift the door to his eyes slowly, and watch the colour transcend from red to pink to white, before seeing what she recognised as first shock, then regret. She saw his eyes fill up with tears, watched them fall as he realised with each passing second that she was losing her voice. She saw all the feelings on his face change to confusion because she smiled too brightly. She thought of how happy she would be to finally be rid of the responsibility of carrying the voice for the sake of love, and her body shook with inaudible laughter.
She watched him sit up, felt herself shaking and her face wet with tears, because she then realised she hadn’t finished the song, couldn’t finish it. She saw his lips spread apart, mouth ajar, her hands holding his hands, holding her face.
‘Uzoma, what have you done?’
Ogheneyome Okpowo is a Lagos-based lawyer and closeted writer.
It’s so close, yet so far away. From your cabin’s window, you see moonlight glinting off Boode Gate. You’re a short walk away from entering Baranda, from finally locating your sister after five years of separation. You want to get to it right away, but the captain has announced nobody is allowed off the ship until the morning.
“Kugbons will attack us if they smell human essence by this time. We’ve not come this far to be torn to shreds by beasts because of some people’s impatience. All of you should stay in your cabins till the sun rises.”
You’ve never seen a Kugbon before, but you’ve heard from Mama Agba how vile the bicephalous monsters are, how they wreck unfortified ships and attack hapless passengers, digging out human hearts and biting into skulls with glee. They are the reason you paid hundreds of King’s coins to board this spiritually secure vessel for the journey from Iluuwa village to Baranda. Seven clay pots filled with fish, clam, vulture feathers, palm oil and other spiritual condiments have been placed at different spots on this ship to mask human essence and ward off Kugbons.
Sneaking off the ship is out of the question. You have to spend one more night without Aduke, one more night in this smelly cabin. One last night.
Cold wind blasts from the tiny window and hits you in the face. You shudder and fold your arms across your breasts. If only your teleportation magic could work over the sea, Egbe would have taken you to Aduke this night. . .
“What will you do if they turn you back at the gate?”
Lanyan’s deep voice fills the room and makes you turn around. He approaches with two corn hubs. The oil lamp in a corner of the cabin reflects in his soft, kind eyes. His eyes remind you of Aduke. Everything seems to remind you of her, but you’re scared because the memories aren’t as sharp as you would have liked.
Your strongest memory of Aduke is from the night a neighbour took you and her to Mama Agba’s hut after the bandit attack that claimed your parents’ lives. It’s been ten years, but you remember how the pestle slipped out of Mama Agba’s hands when the neighbour broke the ugly news. You’ll never forget Mama Agba’s calloused palms holding you and Aduke to her bosom in that tiny room that smelled of boiled cocoyams and sweat.
“You didn’t answer me, Asake.”
You take the corn from him and bite into it. Briny and cold. Far from ideal, but there’s no alternative. “I’ll fight them. No one will stop me from seeing my sister. It’s been so long. She’s all I have now that Mama Agba is gone.”
“The guards don’t care. They separate husbands from wives, and parents from children at will. Once your flower is yellow, you have to accept your fate. Or bribe them.”
There are rules aplenty in Baranda. And one of the harshest is you’re not allowed in until someone in the city is willing to accept you. You have heard a lot about this system of sending a raven to someone inside and getting a response in the form of a flower. A rose flower means you go in and a weeping wattle means you go back. Red is good, yellow is bad.
Lanyan noisily munches his corn and continues. “Sometimes they mess with your flower, just to get bribed. It’s unfair. That’s why I have prepared my money. You should have something at least.”
“I’ll find my way. Don’t worry about me.”
Lanyan peers at you. He clearly doesn’t believe you can get in without some King’s coins. You’ve known each other for two weeks, the duration of this journey. With everything you’ve told him, he should know the depth of your desire to reunite with Aduke, the lengths you’re willing to go to be back beside her, but he doesn’t seem to get it.
“Your skin. . .” he whispers, his eyes fixed on your arms.
The magical runes on your forearm glow crimson. You place your hands over them and swallow.
“No need to hide them. I saw them on the first night.”
“They come out when I’m really cold. Or in serious danger.”
Lanyan grabs an adire wrapper off the floor and throws it over your shoulders. “This rune magic is what you rely on, right? You know, the guards have ways to counter these things.”
“Whatever happens tomorrow, Lanyan, I’ll be on the other side of the gate. The gods know I’ve waited long enough.”
He stands next to you in silence. His soft breathing and the sound of the sea waves lapping against the ship’s port form a melody in your ears. You shudder as his fingers settle on your forearm, gliding down to the metallic bangles that encircle your wrists.
“I wish I had enough money for the two of us in case those beasts act according to their reputation.”
“I don’t have enough magic for two either. But we’ll be fine. I can feel it. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be eating delicacies from my sister’s soup pot, not this stupid corn. You should come too if you can spare the time.”
He doesn’t promise to come and a different kind of cold hits you. A heavy sigh rolls off Lanyan’s lips as he announces he’s sleepy.
You watch him lie face up on the mat, his wide chest heaving with each breath. Your friendship has to continue in Baranda. After two weeks of sleeping next to each other, sharing measly meals and sensitive stories, you’ve become like snail and shell.
Your lives are similar. Like you, Lanyan is twenty and an orphan. A beloved relative awaits him on the other side. Lanyan took a huge loan from a merchant to fund his journey to the greener pastures of Baranda. He had told you he would rather be supper for Kugbons than return to Otoge, his village.
You didn’t need a loan because before Mama Agba passed, she gave you her blessing to sell the family farmland and do all it took to find Aduke. You started approaching merchants about the land sale on the day you turned eighteen, the minimum age limit for Barandan visitors. Constant bandit attacks delayed the sale. It took two years to find someone willing to pay enough to cover your traveling expenses.
Lanyan’s heaving chest holds your attention for a while, then you turn to the window again. The moon continues to glide through the white clouds, its rays still illuminating the massive gate and the stretch of sand that leads up to it. You’re not sure you can find sleep. With the intensity of your eagerness, you will stay up watching the silver ball travel in the sky until darkness prevails and there’s nothing else to see. Then morning will come. and it will finally be time to see Aduke again. You can’t wait.
***
Boode Gate looms behind a squad of guards in all-white armor, the last major obstacle between you and Aduke. You’ve crossed the great sea between Iluuwa and Baranda and survived horrible hunger pangs during the journey. The end of your toil is near.
You stand with your hands at your back, fiddling with your bangles as you bow. The guard closest to you smells of an evil essence. You must bear it until the raven returns.
Your eyes linger on the guard’s sandaled feet as you chant the invocations Mama Agba taught you. Your neck aches and the tiny hairs at your nape bristle, but you don’t look up. No visitor looks a guard in the eye. They determine if you make it through the gate, or return onto the cramped, smelly ship that brought you from Iluuwa village.
A return to Iluuwa is not a part of your plans. Life is hard there, the earth is unyielding, bandits plunder at will and nobody knows how to stop them. After five years of waiting, you want to see Aduke and remain with her in Baranda forever.
You steady your breath and try to imagine your sister’s face again. She had left Iluuwa to fight for a better life in Baranda, to put things in place ahead of your arrival. You faintly remember her wide smile as she got ready to board the special vessel that took her away from Iluuwa five years ago. Her beaded locks had jiggled as she nodded and waved to you. Aduke had gotten your mother’s locked hair, while you inherited her magic.
From the side of your eyes, you see Lanyan on the line set apart for men. His head is bowed too. You wish you can get close and reassure him that you’ll both make it to the other side.
The sound of flapping wings fills your ears. The raven is back. Your mouth runs dry. The moment of truth is here. Hot breaths hit the back of your neck. The woman behind you is just as tense as you are.
Your gut clenches and your legs threaten to lose their youthful strength. For you, it’s not the fear of what Aduke has sent. It is the fear that the guards have manipulated the flowers, like they are rumoured to have done with so many other visitors at Baranda.
On the men’s line, the middle-aged man in front of Lanyan pleads with a guard.
“Please, let me in. You can’t tell me my son doesn’t want to see me after ten years!”
The guard remains stone-faced. He calls for the man to be taken away, amidst his screaming and kicking. His screams tug at your heartstrings.
“Look up!” The guard in front of you barks at you.
You look up and see a yellow flower. Beautiful thing, but yellow means no. By the rules, you’re not allowed through the gates. Your fingers curl into a fist. These bastards have done it again. There is no way Aduke will pass up the chance to see you after these years. Your eyes dart to the guard’s face. There’s a mocking smile on his charred lips. His eyes mock you. His existence mocks you.
“Do you want a way out?” He whispers. “If you have money, we can help you.”
Your eyes dart to Lanyan who is now in front of a guard and then back to the big man in front of you. “I don’t have money.”
“Send her back to the ship!” The guard growls to a nearby subordinate.
A strong hand circles your wrist, squeezing the bangles against your flesh and pulling you away from the guard post. Behind you, there are long queues of Baranda hopefuls. Most of them will be refused, just like you and the weeping old man. Lanyan was right. These bastards mess things up for money.
You try to look over your shoulder and see Lanyan’s result, but the guard forces your head forward. He drags you toward the sea, toward that smelly ship. You close your eyes and breathe deeply. Your feet sink into the soft sands on the seashore. The ship is a few steps away. You will return to Iluuwa and people will mock you in whispers. They will say you’re one of those who tried and failed. No way!
You snatch your hand from the guard and when he tries to grab you again, you smash your left fist into his stomach and follow up with a kick to his groin. As he staggers backward, you call on the ancient names of fire and point your wide-open palm at him. Balls of fire fly out and knock him to the sandy ground. He won’t die, but he won’t be hurting any visitor any time soon.
All heads turn in your direction. You see Lanyan standing in front of a guard holding a raven on his palm. The flower on the bird’s beak is a depressing yellow. Lanyan will have to use his coins and you will bank on your magic.
Your lips slap together as you cast a spell for a portal. In a blink, a burning hole blasts open in the air. You feel weak as you run toward the flaming circle, blood trickles down your nose and your head is light. It’s been a long time since you used the magic based on the sacred runes on your skin.
“Don’t let her get away.” A guard bellows. Shouts echo behind you.
Nobody can stop you from meeting Aduke! You look over your shoulder, dozens of armed men race after you. Their footfalls resound like thunderclaps in a stormy sky. Your eyes squint from the harsh glints of the morning sun on their swords.
“Sekeseke mu! Aba mu!!” one of the guards chants.
Just before you reach the portal, something hot and hard curls around your neck and tightens against it. The heat sears your skin, forcing your eyes to widen. You feel it right away, a chain laced with magic potent enough to subdue the power of the runes on your skin.
You raise your neck and claw at the links. Pain sinks into your fingers as you try in vain to get the chain off. You push forward in an attempt to squeeze your body into the portal, but a sharp yank forces you backwards and robs you of balance. In a blink, you’re on the sand, mind numbed by white-hot pain. Your eyes sting with tears as the portal spirals inward, closing up. The guards are getting closer, you hear their thudding steps, and you try not to imagine what they will do to you.
“Asake!” Lanyan’s voice rings from far away.
He was right. You should have set money aside for the guards.
As you lie helpless on the ground, Mama Agba’s wrinkled face floats in your mind.
“Your time is not up yet, child. Beyond your magic, you must strengthen your mind against failure. You can break the chain if you see victory in your mind. Smell it, taste it, embrace it. Smash the chain and call on Egbe for the invisible portal.”
Mama Agba’s ethereal voice drowns in the cacophony of Barandan voices. The guards have surrounded you. It’s now or never!
You squeeze your eyes and think of victory, of broken chains and a night in the warmth of Aduke’s house.
Your arms begin to heat up. Without looking down, you know the runes on your arms have been activated again. The tightness on your neck slowly eases and the broken chain falls to the ground with a gentle plop.
“She broke it! The witch broke it‼”
You scramble upright and see the guards backing away, fear boldly written on their faces. They’re wary of the powers you have.
“Egbe, take me to Aduke. Bear me in your arms. Take me there!” you whisper. The magic will drain your blood and sap your energy. But you can’t think of anything else to do. You close your eyes and mutter ancient words, ancient words of magic that can bend the winds and spit fire.
You feel yourself being lifted off the face of the earth. The faces of the men around fade away and you experience lightness of poplar fluff.
“Stop her!”
The voice of the guards floats into your ears, but it is far, far away. They can’t stop you. The secret channels of the mystical mothers have opened to you. Nobody can stop you from seeing Aduke.
The lightness fades away and your eyes flick open. You’re now outside a tall building made of mud bricks and timber. When you turn around, you see stretches of similar buildings on both sides of a wide street. Throngs of people fill the street, so much that it looks like a market. There are no stalls or hawkers in sight, just a mass of people moving back and forth with cold, hard faces. Their bodies are so pressed together that you’re sure if anyone falls, they’ll get trampled on and no one will bat an eyelid.
You’ve always thought of Baranda as a beautiful place with verdant landscape and happy people. There’s a form of beauty in the perfect rows of mud brick buildings, but it’s too far from the image you had in mind.
“At least, Aduke is here and there’s lot of money to be made,” you mutter. “No bandits too.”
You turn around and peer at the wooden door in front of you. It’s surely the right house. Egbe can never mislead you. You step forward and knock.
It takes a moment before the door creaks open and you see Aduke. She’s not the pretty, smiling young girl you saw five years ago. Her lips are pulled into a frown and there are bruises around her neck. The light in her eyes has dimmed. Your mouth falls open when you notice her locks have been shaved off.
Aduke’s frown deepens when she recognises you. “Asake, I sent yellow. Why did you come?”
“I thought we agreed…”
“I’m not ready to accommodate you now.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
Aduke’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. She opens her mouth to say something, but her words are swallowed by loud blasts of horns going off in different parts of the street.
“Ah, that’s the call to search.” Aduke inches backwards. “That’s for you, right? You broke in.”
“I had no other choice.”
“Well, the city guards are ready to smoke you out of any hole you may crawl into. Use your powers to find a way out. You can’t come in here. We’ll both be in trouble.”
Before you can get a word out, the door slams in your face. Aduke is gone. Your hopes of a happy reunion with your sister have been dashed in the cruelest way.
For the second time that morning, your eyes sting with tears. You turn around and notice that there are now fewer people on the erstwhile bustling street.
You hurry away from Aduke’s residence and get on the dusty road. People are running and vanishing into corners and crevices between the buildings lining the street. Tears stream down your cheeks as you elbow your way to the centre of the thinning crowd. You believe there will be a way out. There must be.
THE END
Tunmise Onifade is a Nigerian writer. He has a degree in Mathematics, but his passion is writing. He has been reading speculative fiction since he learned to read. When he’s not reading, he’s trying to build worlds and develop characters.
