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When Rain Fell On the Night of the Red Moon

1

By Gbolahan Badmus

We were standing in an empty space, but a force pinned us from floating and sinking, fixing us stable in midair. A white light surrounded us. What I saw was not what I had believed I would find in the place of the newly dead. I had always assumed it would have a foul stench, people with tattered clothes who were hobbling with outspread arms, their mouths dripping blood and speaking sluggishly. So when Padjonsin had instructed me to wear a black gown and high heels, I had thought he was crazy but here they were: the smell of nothing, black suits, black gowns, and black shoes. I could say I blended in, but there was that blank expression they all wore that I could hardly mimic. A quick facial sweep would immediately reveal I wasn’t one of them. But I wasn’t to worry about that. Focus on your goal, Padjonsin had said.

They all stared ahead, waiting. No side talk. No catching up on old times. The silence was brittle, anything would have shattered it. A pin drop would have been thunder. Padjonsin had told me not to be surprised by this. Even people who lived all their years together would be unable to recognise each other after life. Their memories were no longer theirs; it had been taken for examination. After 90 days, their results would be ready, determining their final fate: Rest or Torment.

Who did I know that had died in the past 90 days – apart from Kemi? Maybe seeing a familiar face would give me hope that I would find her, but I quickly killed that thought. All I wanted was to save her, and by my timepiece—handmade by Padjonsin in sync with the life of the red moon—I had 15 minutes left. Fifteen minutes before the rain stopped falling and the redness of the moon faded. Fifteen minutes to leave here with her or else I would become one of them.

#

Lightning flashed, adding a brief blinding brightness to the warm glow of the red moon. Rain kept falling, like pellets shot from the sky, chasing everything with legs indoors. Aluminium rooftops became drums. Potholes pooled with rainwater. Drainages threw up forgotten refuse. The streets were slippery traps, streaming with nylon wrappers, plastic bottles, and cans. Deafening thunder ripped the air.

Inside one of the aluminium roof-toped houses, Alade rolled on his bed, his rumbling thoughts preventing him from settling into sleep. The glow of the moon sifted through his window pane, dousing the darkness in a shade of red. That was when he saw the figure standing by his doorframe. He squinted at the figure; all the while rubbing the left side of his chest like it would slow down the beating of his heart. Could it be her? he thought. Her name hung in his throat. He pushed it out. “Ke-Kemi. Is that you?”

Then the lightning flashed, and his room—green carpet, peach walls—lit up for a brief moment. The figure was slim with a shaved head, in contrast with Kemi’s pudgy frame and plaited hair.

Alade took deep breaths, disappointment calming his nerves. “Yomi, what are you doing there?” He said, suddenly feeling guilty at his disappointment in seeing the expected.

“Daddy, it is the rain. I am afraid. Can I sleep in your room?”

“Come here son.” He adjusted himself on the bed, creating space.

Yomi peeled his frame from the door, shuffled into bed and pulled the blanket to his shoulders. “Where is Mummy?”

“She will join us before the rain stops.”

“Where did she go to?”

“She went out.”

Before Yomi could speak further, thunder blasted from above like an explosion from the sky. Father and son froze, slowly thawing to the music of rainfall drumming and splattering.

“Daddy, please tell me a story.”

Alade fell silent for a while, searching his thoughts, and then he spoke. “Once upon a time, a woman loved her children…”

#

When Rain Fell on the Night of the Red Moon Final

I was the only one moving, looking at faces to pick out Kemi. It was difficult to describe the state of the people here. There was something alive about their dead faces, like if you tap them they would look back and ask you, “what?” It was like being stuck in both worlds, neither here nor there.

Since Kemi had been dead for almost 90 days, I had to keep moving forward. Padjosin had said they arranged themselves according to their time of death, the older ones at the front, and the more recent ones at the back. A new being popped in every few minutes, never filling this empty space. The last one I had seen had suddenly appeared, dripping wet. Fresh scratches were on his skin and he had been missing a head. Then his head emerged from his neck, a flawless brown skin replaced the scratches, and his drenched shirt transformed to a black suit. After that, his expression became blank, and he stared ahead like the others.

I imagined how Kemi would have been on arrival. Did she discover the ease of standing that had evaded her all her life? What about the ease of communicating with words, instead of groans and cries? Did she discover why she got here early or the blankness took over before she could process her memory? Shivers crept down my spine.

I pushed through the cluster of staring beings. I was tempted to shout her name; maybe she would turn and recognise me. But who was I kidding? Without memories, how would she even know what her name was? How I wished there was a faster way to pick her out, but there wasn’t, I had to rely on facial recognition. She was twelve, big eyes, full lips, and about five feet tall. I’d have to take my eyes off the tall ones and target the short ones.

I stood between two women, who happened to be tall and muscular, probably bodyguards or soldiers in their lifetimes. I stood on my toes, braced my hands on their shoulders for support, and lifted myself up so that I had a better view of those at the front. Although, it was still difficult to catch those at the uttermost front, I could see an assembly of heads: grey, black, brown, red— none of them with plaited hair. And that was when I saw her—between a taller man and a child—hair in a puffy afro, with a black gown clinging to her chubby frame. My heart flipped with joy.

I jumped down and began running, stopping myself from screaming her name. Kemi! Kemi! I kept shouting in my mind. Wild with excitement, I pushed through beings, only for them to take their previous position after I passed. I got behind her, and turned her to face me and whispered her name. But the face that met mine had tiny eyes, like she was falling asleep, and thin lips that looked like straight lines.

“No, no, no,” I whispered, trying to catch my breath. The strain of running slammed me and everything around me started spinning. I felt dizzy, like I would throw up or faint, or both. My timepiece said five minutes more. I remembered Padjonsin’s words: Once you have five minutes left, save yourself. But this was no time to succumb. I didn’t get this far to give up. I could still save her, I could still save her. Tears began gathering in my eyes.

#

Before Alade got halfway through the story, he heard his son’s snoring, like a soft brass solo to the melody of rain in the background. Apart from these sounds, his house was quiet. Usually, this was the time he and his wife would eat of the fruits of their privacy, partly freed from the constant monitoring Kemi demanded. It would be just the both of them planning for tomorrows and rediscovering their sensuality, until few months ago when Kemi died.

After her death, his wife hardly got out of bed. He spoke to her but she would only stare at him with indifference, like he was a brick wall. It was the same way she treated all those who came to mourn with her. It was like her sense of recognition had vanished. During those days, she would only speak in inaudible mumblings, then she’d utter a shrill cry for Kemi and begin a frantic search all over the house, looking under the couches, in cupboards, under pillows, inside wardrobes. All he could do was force feed her and ensure she did not step out of the house. He thought with time she would become her old self.

But she never did.

One day during one of her frenzied searches, he took a chance to bring her back.

“Darling, can’t you see?” He hesitated, considering the weight of his next statement, and then he said it.

She turned to look at him. Her hair had locked into rebellious dreads. Bags had settled underneath her eyes, and trails of dried tears traced her cheeks. “What did you just say?”

“Can’t you see you’re free?” he asked. At her silence, he pushed further: “You are free from all the carrying, cleaning, and monitoring. Now we can focus on Yomi.”

He didn’t know what she would do or say, but he hadn’t expected her to get up quietly and leave the house. “Don’t follow me,” was all she said.

Yomi had appeared from the bedroom then and took his hand, leaning into him. Alade had put his hand around Yomi shoulders as they watched her shut the door.

After she had left, he began regretting all he had said. Maybe he had been harsh. Maybe he sounded like he didn’t love his child. Yes, it was true that he was relieved of the shame he felt when she would shit herself, even in the presence of visitors. How those visitors would view them with pity, like they were asking what offence he had committed to be afflicted with such a burden. But he had loved his daughter.

He missed the way she smiled when she was full, how she laughed at the sound of her own farts, and then would begin crying once she caught wind of the smell. He even missed her constant calls for attention that made him feel like a father even though her cries would demand attention when sleep was at its sweetest, leading to scuffles between him and his wife about who should attend to her next.

He had loved his daughter but he could not let his wife continue to hurt herself in mourning, starving their surviving child of the care he deserved.

After two days, his wife came back. He wrapped her in an embrace, apologised for his words and promised to always be by her side. She also apologised for leaving. He didn’t ask where she had been, he feared it would push her back to insanity. But he had always suspected there was a catch to her sudden change, because after she came back, she would whistle happy songs and would always have a smile ready, like a woman who had not just lost a child. She proved him right a week later.

“Remember when we were children and our parents told us not to do bad things or else Padjonsin will carry us away?” She asked one morning.

Alade smiled and nodded. “Which child wasn’t afraid of him? Back then, I would see him walking, mumbling to himself, and I would hide behind my mother.”

“That man has been around for a long time,” she agreed. “Anyway, he told me I can bring Kemi back, not only that, he said I can bring her back whole.” Then she told him everything, rushing out the words like if she paused, her courage would flee.

His first response was to reprove her for having anything to do with Padjonsin, but the thought of bringing back Kemi, free from the pity and disgust she evoked from onlookers made him smile, then the smile faded immediately. What if it failed and his wife relapsed into madness or, worse still, he lost his wife in the process? So he carefully pushed her away from that thought.

But she had seen his smile, and it was this she used as an entry point, moving and prodding, until he finally succumbed.

Yomi’s snores suddenly became louder, lifting him out of his thoughts. Had the snores become louder or was the rain receding? He peeped through the window. The red moon was slowly draining of its colour, merging back to silver. Quietly, he slipped out of his room and stepped out of the house.

#

I threw away all concern and began shouting her name. The only response I got was silence. But still, I ran past these statues of flesh, blindly pushing forward.

My husband would never understand this need to save our daughter, saying I should let her go. He would never understand that the umbilical cord linking a mother to her child doesn’t get cut off at birth; it still remained, even after death. That was why Kemi, dressed in glowing white, had appeared to me after her death. When she disappeared, I would search for her everywhere. Now I was here, still searching. But coming here to bring back Kemi was beyond the umbilical link, it was much more than that.

After discovering Kemi’s shortcomings, I had to close down my market stall to give her the full care she needed. There were selected foods she had to eat, a particular way we had to position her after eating, the periodic adjustment of her body while she slept, and many others. My husband assisted at night, while I bore the daytime duties alone. Even naming our next child Oluwayomi: “The Lord has saved me,” did not save us from the hardship of catering for Kemi.

The care drained my youth, or rather what was left of it, faster than time could. The sides of my hair sprouted grey. Wrinkles marked my face. My cheek bones popped out. My steps slowed to the dragging of feet, worsened by back pain that visited as frequently as the rising sun. It was during this period that my husband started going on business trips. If it wasn’t trips, then work would suddenly become so hectic that he had to stay the night in the office. I was bearing the hardship all alone. Any time Kemi laughed, it seemed like mockery; any time she cried, I blocked my ears. Sometimes, I cursed myself for pushing someone like that out of me. When she became too troublesome, I calmed her with sleeping pills. Then one day I fell sick and needed rest, and so she wouldn’t disturb me, I made her sleep – perhaps for too long.

The guilt and grief almost killed me, till I met Padjonsin. It was after I left the house, wanting to be as far from it as possible. Walking down a narrow path, he loomed over me, blocking sunlight; his gaze like a knife piercing my skin. I wanted to run, but fear held me to the ground as tears dripped to my feet. He lifted my chin and asked what was wrong, his voice like a slow massage calming my nerves. I told him of Kemi’s death. He asked of the date of death. I told him. He said there was a way out, that I should follow him. My head kept telling me to run away, but my legs refused and found their way to his home.

He told me that when rain fell on a night of a red moon, it opened a rift between the place of the newly dead and the world of the living. And it was then that a living being could go in to bring back the dead. He said the next occurrence would be in two weeks time, but to prepare me for the journey, I would first need the blood of the one who fathered the child. When I got home, I convinced my husband to give in. What I didn’t tell him was if I failed to bring back Kemi, all the years I have lived on earth would belong to Padjonsin.

With this in mind, I turned their heads forcefully not caring if their necks snapped, but no match. Two more minutes. Maybe I should save myself and get out? No, let me give myself a minute more—

#

Alade was out on the deserted street. He stumbled, fell, and rose, screaming his wife’s name. Confusion directed him to different paths until he finally succumbed to helplessness, kneeling down in the middle of the street. The rain water soaked his trousers, cold on his knees, and calves. He hardly felt the droplets on his skin. He looked up; the moon was mostly silver with only a faint red crescent.

Then he fell flat to the ground, his tears merging with the wetness of rain.

#

She suddenly remembered her husband, the joy they had felt at the birth of Kemi, one of theirs in this world, a proof they would live beyond their death. Kemi, her name meant “care for me,” and they tried to. She pitied Yomi, who had always been eclipsed by Kemi, his wholeness an excuse used to ignore him. She hoped her husband would do a better job alone than they had together. She held on to these memories and thoughts till they became too heavy and painful, like a migraine. Then the migraine faded, and all she felt was relief.

 

 

Gb Badmus
Gbolahan Badmus currently lives in Akwa Ibom, Nigeria. His works have been published in Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, Africanwriters.com, The Guardian Newspaper, and elsewhere online. He contributed poems to the anthology titled, ‘Sandstorms in June’, and he was also a participant in the 2015 Writivism Creative Writing Workshop. He hopes to work on a collection of short stories soon.

 

 

 

The Encounter

9

By Nnamdi Anyadu

If you play at Hoplus’ trench, the chance you’d find yourself breaking a sacred rule on some occasion is high. Higher than if you play at Arjin or Kowi, for instance. The girls here are wild and mother warns me every time to be wary of their company, though she knows she cannot stop me from coming here – Hoplus is the closest play-area for teenagers around our home – so she constantly reminds me of why the rules are in place. For safety and balance. I nod every time, saying I understand, but it does not stop her from repeating herself the next day.

I know the Sacred Seven like the end of my own caudal fin. Never shed a tear. Never perform dishonesty. Never travel to any of the other tribes without the chief’s blessing. Never swim to shore or contact a surfacer. Never wield your gift for destruction. Never take the life of a fellow sea creature. Beware the halls of Tada; never venture there.

Mother does not know, but my closest friends – Kaumi, Jauni and Pkeni – and I have broken one, or is it two of the Sacred Seven? Thanks to Pkeni’s temper. It was she who got angry after she’d lost a race to Jauni and picked up a rock and smashed the head of a crab with it. We watched the poor crab twitch till it stopped moving. Perhaps we considered the crab’s life of little importance because it is crustacean; if it had been a fish and had bled blood, I’m sure we would have acted differently. So we performed dishonesty and did not report the incident to an elder. Instead we focused on cheering Pkeni up and told her that she was faster than all of us and that it was only because she had had a heavy breakfast that she had been slowed down this time.

* * *

Right now, Kaumi is speaking of adventure as we twirl about Hoplus. She is the oldest of the four of us, the leader of our little clique, if you will. Most times, she decides what games we play.

She is saying her cousin, Sorai, has given her information about something we should all go see. She is claiming that far away at the beach, a shoal of young surfacers are having a jubilation. I do not see how this is our business. I do not see why we should all go see it.

‘Are you afraid?’ Jauni asks me when they all realise I am not showing any signs of enthusiasm at this unnecessary escapade.

‘I’m not. But it’s dangerous. And we will be breaking a Sacred,’ I say.

‘Since when do we care about the rules?’ Pkeni says, frowning.

Only she can say this. The rules mean nothing to her. Or maybe they do, but her constant anger never lets her think straight.

Everything within me is telling me to stand my ground, but you see I was not here at the trench yesterday; I was busy with Mother. Kaumi, Jauni and Pkeni teased a shark. They say it chased them for about half a mile. I missed all of that action.

‘Okay, but we won’t stay long. We’ll come back soon, yes?’ I say.

‘Of course we will.’ Kaumi says.

‘Sure,’ Jauni says.

Pkeni does not say anything. She just smiles and licks her lower lip. I know in her heart she is thinking me a coward.

* * *

As we swim toward the beach, I notice the current of the water lessen and I feel myself move faster.

‘Stop. We’re here,’ Kaumi says.

We bob our heads against expiring waves to survey the beach and behold, there they are: a school of young surfacers, drinking from red things resembling shells. Behind them are tall trees and funny-looking structures. They are moving their bodies in an awkward fashion and hollering like demented souls. This all seems so disorganised, and their music is loud and nonsensical.

The encounter

‘We should leave,’ I say to Kaumi.

‘Leave? We just got here,’ Jauni says.

I see the glint of excitement in her eyes. She is clearly fascinated by these odd beings.

‘We’ve seen them,’ I argue. ‘Now, let’s go before someone notices our absence back home.’

‘Sssh,’ Pkeni says.

Only she can shush a person when they are making sense.

‘Don’t tell me to be quiet,’ I say and Pkeni quickly places a finger over my mouth, pointing to my left.

A few yards away from us, a surfacer-man and a surfacer-woman are entering into the water. Surfacers look so weird. They don’t have gills on their necks. They don’t have scales over their bodies. How do they even stay warm? They have arms in the lower parts of their bodies and they move with it. Four arms? What is a person doing with four arms? Ugh.

The surfacer-man and surfacer-woman are swimming toward us now. They seem to be performing some kind of play. The male has his forearms all over the female. And the female seems to be enjoying it for she is smiling a soft smile.

She is the first to see us.

‘Jesus! Jesus!! Jesus!!! Aaahhhh!!!!’ The surfacer-woman screams.

Jesus must be the name of all the other surfacers, because as she screams this, the jubilant company on the beach begins to run in our direction.

‘Wetin?’

‘What’s that?’ I hear them say as they approach.

‘Mammy-water,’ the surfacer-man says, pulling the screaming female out of the water.

A surfacer throws a handful of sand at our heads. Another throws a stone. This is our cue. We turn around and make for home. Some pursue, diving into the water. Others throw things at us. Something hits my left shoulder. Another hits my waist. I dive into the water. I swim for dear life. Into the deep, I go. When I am certain I am away from their reach, I turn. Pkeni is before me, Jauni beside me. I do not see Kaumi.

‘Where is Kaumi?’ I ask.

Jauni looks this way and that. Pkeni stares at me. I swim upward, break the surface and look at the beach. The surfacers have Kaumi. They are beating her with clubs. She is trying to break free but the surfacers are way too many. One stamps his feet into her face. Others imitate him. I scream.

Jauni is beside me now. She is shaking uncontrollably. In the distance Kaumi looks lifeless. She isn’t struggling anymore. More surfacers are appearing on the beach and pointing towards the ocean. I cannot even tell when it started, but I am crying and wailing now.

nnamdi

Nnamdi Anyadu writes short fiction and poetry. His works has appeared on the Nwokike Literary Journal, Brittlepaper and several blogs. He is currently working on a novel.

 

 

Sweet Like Pawpaw

5

By Rafeeat Aliyu

“There are demons living amongst us,” The Prophetess informed her audience, her voice was low but filled with so much strength that it carried through the room even without a microphone. “These demons are walking in our midst. They wear human skins to deceive the foolish, but those of us who are blessed can see through their falsehood.”

The assembly seated on white plastic chairs before her shuddered as one. All who came here knew of the Prophetess’ campaign to make Nigeria free of all demons. She was a survivor of many supernatural battles and they itched to hear her stories. The Prophetess knew how to hold a crowd even in a place of worship that was nothing more than a rented canopy, open on all four sides.

“My recent encounter…” the Prophetess’s voice caught as she recalled the events of the previous week. She swayed as she shared her combat with the people. She was a master orator and as she wove the tale, those who followed her every word could picture it clearly. They saw her spotting a woman who for all appearances was a mother of three, and were with her as she followed this woman through the crowded open-air market. The audience saw The Prophetess engage in a spiritual battle with the woman, they witnessed every psychic blow and counterblow until finally the Prophetess emerged victorious while the demons burst through the woman’s human disguise revealing her true form.

The Prophetess had only really started sensing the evil that existed in the world around her after most of her immediate family had died and the blame had been pinned on her. She had emerged victorious in that first battle and learned to more effectively track down that evil, to eliminate it and create a safer world. The Prophetess never knew their true forms. She only sensed them and could track them down. At first she would catch them by surprise but more and more they seemed to be on the lookout for her. Of course they rarely expected that the person who was responsible for sending them back to the darkness they had crawled from was a heavyset woman in her early forties who walked with a limp.

“It was a mere puddle of water that had been spiritually fortified through rituals and other evil acts of human sacrifice,” the Prophetess explained to her congregation. Actually, she had almost drowned in that diabolical lake.

Afterwards, she led them in a prayer that would cleanse their souls and act as a shield around them when they returned to their homes. As the audience petered out into the night, the Prophetess made her way out of the canopy. A few people came up to her wanting more details of her spiritual adventures, others offered her gifts of cash stuffed in bulging envelopes, but the Prophetess always declined them. She had no interest in worldly things and only accepted their spoken gratitude.

The Prophetess took an okada back home to her two-storey house. It was a relic of decades past which she had inherited from her grandmother. Everything about her home was faded, the roof was rusted and the walls were dull and brown, having long ago lost their colour.. The Prophetess earned a bit of money renting out some of the rooms, but kept the rooms upstairs free for those who came to her in need of shelter.

After unlocking the door and retreating to her room, the Prophetess sat on her sturdy bed. Midnight was fast approaching and she was ready to sleep. She was also ready for another spiritual battle; it had been over a week since her last one. Reaching under the bed, she grasped a plastic bottle and brought it to the light. Studying the bottle and the murky brown liquid it contained, the Prophetess surmised that there was enough holy water for her to track and destroy just one more demon. After that, she would have to visit to the woman she hated to get more; it was not something the Prophetess particularly looked forward to.

Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she took two long swallows of the water. As the liquid went down her throat she shut her eyes against its bitterness. Then the Prophetess lay on the bed and waited for the special brew to do its work. The answers always came to her in dreams, and this time what she saw as she slept was as bizarre as they came.

The Prophetess saw a skimpily-dressed young girl who ought to be facing her school books. Instead, the girl held a microphone and lip-synched to a song blaring loudly in the background. The Prophetess knew that the song was this girl’s property. She owned each rhythm in her stance and pride gleamed in her soulless eyes. A throng of people swayed before her, hanging on her every move. They screamed in approval as she turned and bent over, shaking her buttocks in an obscene manner.

The Prophetess’s eyes popped open to a dark room. She clicked her fingers over her head to ward off evil then rolled off the bed and fell on her knees where she launched into a lengthy prayer. Already her feet and palms itched, a compass in her pointing north. It couldn’t be too far because the Prophetess knew she could reach the place where the girl was within a few hours. As the day broke, she poured the last of her holy water into a smaller plastic bottle that was easier to transport and prepared to head to the scene of her next spiritual battle. By tonight there would be one less demon consuming the souls of Nigerians.

#

Oyin dashed through the thick darkness of the woodland. Even as she jumped over shrubs, Oyin knew there was no escape. They should have given her more time.

Still, the least she could do was make it difficult for whoever was now after her. As she came to a stop, crouching below a tree that was very similar to the one that had borne her, Oyin fervently wished she had been blessed with the power to teleport. She could be in another city or state, country even, far away from this current mess. Instead she sought respite in her element, surrounded by thick foliage.

Whoever tracked her had followed her into the bush and was now close enough for Oyin to sense. This person was like her in a way, yet very different. Spirits confined in human skin, those like Oyin, had a certain smell – often saccharine – only noticed by others like them. This scent was all over her hunter but it overlaid another odour. Oyin chewed her lip trying to figure out who it was. It struck Oyin that the disparity might be because whoever they had sent after her was wholly human just as Aunty Taiye appeared in the clearing.

Oyin groaned as the petite woman crossed her arms under her breasts, left foot tapping, and eyed her gravely. It was pitch dark in the forest but Oyin had never needed light or eyes to see, and it seemed neither did Aunty Taiye. Oyin wondered if anyone could remain totally human after cavorting with her kind for as long as Aunty Taiye had.

“I am not going back.” Oyin announced resolutely.

She had imagined someone lower on the food chain would come after her, not number one-and-a-half. The scent of Leader Bitch-Witch, the person who was actively trying to ruin her life, was all over Aunty Taiye.

“My Zanottis are ruined thanks to you.” Aunty Taiye said looking down at her mud-splattered shoes. Oyin counted that victory in her favour.

“You can buy new ones when you return to Abuja,” Oyin said. Then added, “Without me.”

Aunty Taiye frowned pinching her features close.

“You know what? I don’t understand why we have to beg you to stay alive.”

Oyin rose to her feet, she did not like that Aunty Taiye was looking down at her when she was the taller one.

“You are human so I do not expect you to understand.” Oyin smoothed the sides of her skinny jeans.

At this Aunty Taiye kissed her teeth in a long drawn out hiss. “The land and water divide? Seriously? Is that the reason you don’t want to stay with Lila in Abuja?”

Oyin’s face grew heated instantly. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

“Explain it to me then,” Aunty Taiye’s tone was mocking. “I am listening.”

“From the start of time we land spirits have never gotten along with the water spirits. Do you know how many of my sisters lost homes because of the wily nature of one water spirit?” with each word Oyin’s voice rose. “And to top it off, even before we took human skins, those from the water have been pompous. Whether it is due to their popularity among humans, I don’t know. It is always Mammy Wata this, mermaids that…”

At that point Aunty Taiye interrupted, “No one is talking about the nymphs and tree spirits, right? So this is a popularity contest?”

Oyin pursed her lips and refused to dignify that question with a response.

“I just wonder why the other land spirits in Abuja aren’t objecting to Lila’s offer.”

“I am not like the rest of them,” Oyin spat. “They are boring and do not have anything going on in their lives. Aunty Lila cost me a feature with Burna Boy.”

It still pained Oyin; she had been charming her way through the music industry when Lila and her cohorts had invited her to come to live in Abuja. It was an offer for protection in the face of increased attacks on their kind, spirits in human disguise, but had cost Oyin a lot, especially after Lila frightened off her manager.  That was the final straw for Oyin, it was all nice being kept safe from shadowy villains, but she had a life to live too. Oh, but Aunty Taiye knew how to launch her ammunition.

“Didn’t you hear about the mysterious lake that appeared overnight in Enugu, and dried up the next day? Do you want to be reduced to nothing but seeds?” Aunty Taiye asked.

Oyin’s anger evaporated. Ever since leaving the protection Abuja offered, Oyin had been following news sites with a fervour that was nothing less than religious. She understood that there was danger, that was why she opted to lay low here instead of returning to Lagos, and she needed to be informed. The sort of news stories that mattered to her and her kind could not be found within the pages of The Guardian. Instead, they were in gossip papers tucked between headlines like: Woman gives birth to tuft of hair and How I was kept in a bottle by my wife – Husband tells all.

Oyin had seen the story: Mystery lake appears in community – locals claim waters are blessed. The article had quoted an elder in the village who held that decades ago a huge body of water existed in the exact same spot where the lake reappeared. The elder explained that the original lake had dried up a few years ago. Even though she had never been to that part of the country, or known the lake intimately, Oyin recognised that the lake had been like her: A spirit that had found refuge in disguising itself as human. Now, due to The Search, the lake had reverted to its original state and was ultimately destroyed. Oyin felt nauseous at the memory.

Aunty Taiye’s tone softened, but only slightly. “Whoever is hunting your kind is merciless, and Lila only wants to make sure you are not eliminated.”

She moved closer and made to place both hands on Oyin’s quivering shoulders, but then she let her hands drop. “There is safety in numbers.”

It was just as well that Aunty Taiye had not touched her because Oyin would have shrugged her hands off. Before she had allowed herself to be breathed into this human form, some emotions had been completely foreign to Oyin. One of them was fear. Now, her heart tap-danced in her chest and her stomach felt as hard as diamond. Sometimes she hated how much emotions affected her physically. Her attempts at calming breaths did nothing to stop the shaking in her hands. Oyin thought she had evaded oblivion when she had been successfully transferred to this human body. Now she had to worry about the mysterious group intent on riding the world of her kind one by one. At least an elder had remembered the lake; no one would care about the pawpaw tree she had been.

sweet like paw paw

“I can’t be away from my fans,” she mumbled, she clenched her hands at her sides and turned away from the woman in front of her.

Aunty Taiye scoffed, “You have fans here?”

That stung Oyin deeply. It was true that few people in this quite commune a few kilometres north of Lagos knew her personality as Miz Honey. They had probably never heard her hit single, even though it was still being played at parties and in clubs in Lagos and Abuja. Still, Oyin needed to eat and the thought of her honeypot gave some strength.

Every one of their kind needed to feed on their allotted poison and, as Oyin feed on veneration, the larger the crowd the better. They were what she called her honeypot.  When she initially arrived here, she was nervous that someone would be sent from Abuja to look for her. As days passed and she built her honeypot, she grew comfortable.

The reverence from fans who loved her music always drove Oyin to euphoria, but in the absence of that she settled on the few who gathered around her in this place. It was a different flavour, but food was food, Aunty Taiye had no right to judge.

“I would rather be here than stuck in Abuja where no one cares about me.”

“You sound like a spoiled child.” Aunty Taiye snapped.

Oyin wanted to remind Aunty Taiye that she had spent many more years on this earth as a tree-nymph than she had. The only thing young about Oyin were the years of inexperience that came with trying to be human. All she really wanted was the freedom to explore this new reality but what Aunty Taiye offered was strict regulation.

“It is interesting that you say no one cares about you,” Aunty Taiye said. “You do realise that with your celeb status you are the key to your kind being accepted by humans? Even Lila believes it.”

“If she thinks it’s a great idea to reveal our existence to NigeriaShe must be very smart indeed,” Oyin said sarcastically.

“I don’t think you understand, Oyin,” Aunty Taiye said. “People already know you exist and they have labelled all of you as evil. Why else do you think your kind are being attacked?”

#

 

As most of her honeypot were corpers teaching in the only government secondary school in the area, Oyin headed to the school. It was past midday when Oyin got to the school’s administrative block and found the schoolyard was empty. She called out to her honeypot, sending a message to the Whatsapp conversation group she had created for them shortly after she arrived here. Choosing to wait for them outside, Oyin sought shade under a flowering tree near the football field. She played games on her mobile phone to while away time. It was not exactly exciting but Oyin was glad to be out of the house.

She did not have to wait long. Soon her honeypots flocked towards her, settling themselves around her. Someone brought benches so they sat enjoying the shade of the tree and the soft breeze that blew through the field. They complained to her about the long day they’d had at school and the ridiculous bureaucracy of the system. Oyin pretended to listen while she gulped up their attention. It was not long before she grew dizzy with satisfaction. She made them sing along with her and was so taken with the scene that she did not see the old woman dressed in a faded ankara iro and buba until she spoke.

“Leave this place,” she said in Yoruba. Then she repeated herself in Pidgin English, “Make una comot.”

The old woman wore a brown veil wrapped around her shoulders and a small black purse poked out from under her left armpit. She had a  set of tribal marks deeply engraved on each cheek.

“I said leave this place,” she ordered impatiently. “Can you not see you’re seduced by a demon?”

Even though some of them turned to look at the woman, regarding her as if she was sick in the head, no one in Oyin’s honeypot moved an inch. The situation was almost comical to Oyin.

She waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the old woman. “As you were saying Chinedu…”

The old woman stepped closer to Oyin. The movement brought a whiff of something foul to Oyin’s nostrils. Everything about the old woman was off, even when she had been a tree spirit Oyin had never felt such aversion towards her. Humans either loved her or were indifferent to her, and with indifference all Oyin had to do was show them her spirit and they eventually turned to adoration. Even Aunty Taiye, who always adopted a brusque manner towards her, did not hold such negative feelings for her. This woman hated her strongly and to Oyin, who was used to adoration, it felt it like something rotten in her mouth.

“Don’t let her come any closer,” she called out to the most physically fit of her honeypots. “Hassan, stop her.”

The words had barely left her mouth before Hassan leapt to his feet. He grabbed the old woman’s arm firmly.

“Mama what is your own now?” he demanded.

“You don’t understand,” The old woman said looking up at Hassan. “This girl isn’t what she seems…”

“Hassan, take her out of here,” Oyin commanded, her heartbeat increasing by the second. “Drag her on the ground if you have to.”

Hassan made to pull the woman away, but she resisted. Oyin watched in amazement as the old woman easily pushed Hassan off her. For the second time in her long life, Oyin felt fear. She needed to remain calm, to keep her hold on her honeypot, yet she started yelling at them.

“Why are you people sitting down? Is this old woman stronger than you? Get her out of my sight!”

The others rose and gathered round the old woman. Eleven young people formed a wall between Oyin and the stranger but the old woman was fighting back, pushing and shoving as her honeypot closed in. The struggle was useless as they eventually lifted her up, carrying her away as if she was a crowd-surfing rockstar.

But as far as powerful speech went, the Prophetess had a few in her arsenal as well. She stopped resisting and let the crowd carry her while under her breath she recited a verse and with it a commanding word.

Oju asa kii ribi. Oju awodi kii roran…”

As if waking from a dream, the crowd stopped moving. They lowered the Prophetess till she was on her feet.

“I see you are awake now.” The Prophetess smiled at their stunned faces. “Go home my children, leave this place.”

Oyin squealed at the incredulous scene playing out before her. The crowd she had had firm control over was running away in several directions, leaving her alone. Had her hold on them been so weak? Were all the things Leader Bitch-Witch said about her inexperience true? Who exactly was this old woman who was now moving towards her with such determination? Shakily, Oyin rose to her feet and scurried backwards until she hit the tree behind her. Oyin trembled but made no move to run away like her honeypot had, in fact her feet remained rooted to the dusty earth. As the Prophetess placed an unyielding hand on Oyin’s shoulder, it dawned on her that she had been caught.

Oyin fell to her knees with a painful thud. She had been so careless. The Prophetess murmured something under her breath, so low that Oyin could not pick out any distinct words. With one hand holding Oyin down, the Prophetess somehow manoeuvred her other hand into her purse and brought out a small bottle. When the Prophetess flipped open the cap, a strong acidic smell permeated the air. Oyin’s essence immediately recognised it as dangerous and she recoiled shrieking, yet her human shell was paralysed.

As though her core had separated from her body, Oyin saw the Prophetess tip the contents of the bottle down, directing it to a spot on her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut and when the impact took too long to reach, Oyin reluctantly opened one eye. The first thing she noticed were a pair of hands hovering above her face, cupped to save her from the burning liquid. Then the light scent of Jimmy Choo perfume wafted to Oyin’s nostrils. Oyin had never been so relieved to see Aunty Taiye.

 

#

 

The Prophetess was confused. A second demoness had appeared out of the blue and this one seemed to be immune to her holy water. Manipulating a crowd of mentally chained humans was one thing but facing down two demons was another. It was a law in the spirit world that when one encountered a higher power, one had to submit.

The Prophetess flung the bottle at the two hellish creatures and ran as fast as her age and frame could carry her. She had reached the main road when it struck her that she was not being chased. She paused by a sign warning residents against dumping waste in the area and struggled to catch her breath. The Prophetess was angry and scared at the same time. That the holy water had not worked on them meant that the demons were evolving. Demonic spirits were independent and moved alone, the thought of them forming alliances raised bile to the Prophetess’ throat. The game had changed entirely.

As her breath stabilised, she felt tormented. The thing that pinched at the Prophetess the most was that she would have no new story to tell next week.

#

A few acidic drops had landed on Oyin’s face, despite Aunty Taiye’s shield. The liquid ate through her skin and Oyin screamed as she felt part of her human shell eroding. It was like she was being cracked open. With one cupped hand holding the foul liquid, Aunty Taiye fetched the bottle the Prophetess had discarded. Carefully, Aunty Taiye transferred the liquid in her cupped palm into the bottle. What remained was insignificant, but it would be enough to examine.

Meanwhile Oyin was writhing in pain.

Aunty Taiye disappeared and when she reappeared she held a plastic bag of pure water in her hand. She ripped open the bag with her teeth and rinsed her hands with the water. She then rinsed the plastic bottle, holding it with the tips of her manicured nails. Next, she pointed the plastic bag at Oyin and squirted the water that remained in it directly on Oyin’s face. Oyin flinched at the contact, and closed her eyes. The coolness was a relief that she accepted grudgingly. The relief was fleeting; it was quickly followed by the horror of knowing that she was now forever indebted to Aunty Taiye. Oyin felt something crawl upwards and lodge in her throat. She heaved and choked till she vomited a stream of pawpaw seeds. The pain receded after that.

“Now that you’ve stopped screaming your head off,” Aunty Taiye tossed the empty bag away. She observed Oyin from the corners of her eyes, extended by the dark wings of her eyeliner, and managed to look offended. “Are you ready to come to Abuja?”

Oyin remained seated on the ground. She stared at her hands, which were stained orange, studying the stringy bits of pawpaw fruit under her nails. She was scared to imagine the kind of damage that had been done to her face. Yet, Oyin’s borrowed heart would not still its painful throbbing. This was fear, and as much as she longed to be around adoring humans whom she could control, Oyin had to be reasonable. She gave Aunty Taiye a curt nod.

Rafeeat Aliyu
Office worker by day, writer by day and night. Rafeeat is a huge history need who enjoys cooking from recipes, horror movies and the feeling of waking up in a foreign country.

Editorial: Better Late than Never

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Better Late than Never

This edition of Omenana is late, over a month late.

It is our intention to publish a high-quality quarterly magazine, however, everything that could delay the production, did. It’s been a crazy four months, but we are happy that Omenana 7 is here now.

In the time between the last edition of Omenana and this one, we were reminded why it is of great importance to continue producing this magazine. Through it, we encourage more writers to look to the extensive materials we have on the continent called Africa for speculative fiction.

I was interviewed by a Nigerian newspaper not long ago and I used the opportunity to dwell on why we are doing this, and how far we intend to take it. You can read that interview here (Speculative fiction is the natural state of storytelling). I also published a science fiction piece titled Family Meeting on the fast-growing literature site, Brittle Paper.

This month, we are happy to introduce stories from new voices and established writers of the speculative on the continent. We hope their stories speak to you as they did us.Also, we are spotlighting Sunny Efemena, who illustrated this edition and has worked on other editions in the past.This edition of Omenana closes with an essay on African sci-fi and literature and its impact on technological advancement on the continent by my co-editor, Chinelo Onwualu.

Meanwhile, we are very happy to announce the start of a partnership with Okadabooks.com, an online publishing portal. All editions of Omenana will now be available on Okadabooks.com, where you can access and download various formats of the magazine. No fear, Omenana remains free, and will remain that way for as long as we can manage.

Enjoy,

Mazi Nwonwu

Omenana Speculative Fiction Magazine Issue 6

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Click here to download pdf version of issue 6 – Go here to read on Issuu

Editorial

An Impossible Love – By Relme Divingu

At the Speed of Life – By Alexis Teyie

Dream-Hunter –  Nick Wood

The Dreams We Never Remember – By Denise Kavuma

The Marriage PlotTendai Huchu

Why Africa Needs To Create More Science Fiction – By Wole Talabi

The Dreams We Never Remember

1

By Denise Kavuma

I’ve never been one of those bright-eyed and bushy tailed people early in the morning, but there’s something about coming round to a completely white room that will wake you the heck up. It’s difficult to describe the place I found myself in, room is the best I can do… If a room could be kilometers long and completely featureless.

I was standing in the middle of the white expanse – not lying down or seated – nothing to show that I had previously been asleep. Yet, I was still in the same thick and unconventional clothes I normally wear to bed, and I remember going to sleep in my messy bedroom – turning off the lights and fading away as images of that hunky new guy at work played about in my head. Coming to in such a manner gave me the unsettling feeling that I might have been wandering around aimlessly, without even realizing it, for what could have been hours. My eyes kept trying to fixate on something, anything; a door perhaps, or a clear distinction between the firm white ground I was walking on and the white horizon before me, but there was nothing.

What if I was dead? If I was dead, good Lord, they’d find my body in my messy room, wearing those old makeshift pajamas and no knickers! What about the pile of dirty dishes in the sink? They’d know, know that I was not tidy and proper. Would Mr. HunkyWorkGuy find out what a sloth I’d been while I was alive? What about the debts I’d never paid off? Would my parents inherit them? But if I was already dead and that’s how I ended up in the expanse, then there was no reason why I would be worried about death. Perhaps I was waiting to be ushered into heaven.

I was a mess and the ridiculous thoughts racing through my mind were not helping. However, I recalled an article about lucid dreaming and how the dreamscape can sometimes be completely featureless unless the dreamer makes it otherwise. The “otherwise” part would need prolonged training, they’d said, and so I didn’t strain myself trying to imagine trees and hills around me.

Perhaps I was going mad and my brain was stuck on the last moment I remembered as a sane person? If I were trapped in a white cell somewhere in a psychiatric unit, it would make sense that I would dream of white, featureless expanses. Besides, it was much more comforting fixating on the idea that I was dreaming rather than that I might be trapped in some experimentation lab with my brain hooked up to some machines.

Yeah, when I panic, I really go to town.

With that, I set off… er… “exploring.” At first, I was running, and then walking after I got tired, and finally trudging along.  I found no walls, no doors, not even a raised bit of ground that I could stumble on. It was hard to tell how much time had passed; as I trudged along I felt a weariness start to seep into my very being, like what I imagine my soul being sucked out slowly would feel. I was too frustrated and preoccupied with my thoughts to notice anything changing around me. When a voice sounded behind me, I promptly screamed in fear…to my endless shame.

I whipped around as fast as I could and found myself looking at a petite woman wearing a yellow sundress and sunhat, her face rather impassive except for one raised eyebrow that gave her dark eyes a rather irritated glint. The yellow stood out brilliantly against the bland background and I found that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her form.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Her voice was warm as honey, even though her eyes were narrowed slightly in exasperation with me, and I realized that she’d asked a question that I was yet to answer. I felt embarrassment flood my system and I opened my mouth to respond but my tongue suddenly felt like I was made from lead.

“Y-yeah. Um, s-sorry, what did you say?” I hadn’t stuttered since I was a child.

This was all quite bizarre; I mean, how do you respond to a stranger walking up behind you in a featureless, white room? Had she even walked up to me; I couldn’t tell. She might as well have just materialized out of thin air.

Her eyes locked onto mine as she sighed and I knew, I just knew that she had seen my thoughts. I didn’t think the situation could get any freakier.

“Look, I mean you no harm but considering how paranoid you can sometimes become, Justine, I’ll leave the decision-making to you. You can either co-operate and find out why you’re here, or I could just leave you to go back to your ridiculous panicking: your choice.”

Her warm voice did not match the irritation that was clear in her words and I opened my mouth to speak, only to be startled silent as another figure appeared before us. I staggered back in surprise as my heart started pounding in my chest.

No poofs, or smoke, or dramatic sounds; one second there was the white endless horizon and the next, a man stood before my eyes. He wasn’t what you’d call a looker – but not ugly either – with dark skin, brown eyes, flat nose, and an unremarkable physique. He was wearing black slacks and a blue button-down shirt that hung loose on his frame, with regular-issue black shoes. Average in all aspects except for the fact that, much like the woman who had appeared earlier, the colors of his clothes stood out richly and brilliantly against the bland white I’d grown used to and his eyes held a knowing look that made me shift uncomfortably.

“Oh good, you’re finally here,” the woman spoke, her eyes still locked on my face.

She hadn’t even flinched or looked away from me for a second; it’s like she knew he was going to appear exactly when he did.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

My voice didn’t come out in the strong tone I wanted it to and instead I sounded breathy and scared. They glanced at each other before turning to look back at me.

“I guess we better start with it then,” the man said with a sigh and a wave of his hand.

There was a flicker and suddenly I was standing in a boardroom, just like that, complete with a long imposing table and a bunch of chairs. Large windows at one end let in sunlight and a rather impressive view of Kampala city. The change was sudden and I felt nausea begin to build up in my system; I looked down, trying to take in deep, steadying breaths.

“Always so formal, Jonathan. Try something a little more calming,” I heard the woman say in her honeyed voice.

Another flicker and I found myself looking at a field of grass as a cool breeze wafted around me and the sounds of birds chirping and trees swaying drifted to me. My body’s response was almost immediate: the nausea began to subside as I breathed in the fresh air. I hadn’t realized it before, but there had been no currents of air, or natural sounds, in the white expanse; perhaps that’s why I’d felt so trapped.

“See? Sometimes a woman knows,” the honeyed tone came again.

“You’re as much a woman as I am a man, Doreen,” the man…er, Jonathan said before I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Come, Justine, sit down.”

With the change in scenery, I felt almost euphoric and so I let Jonathan lead me to some garden chairs arranged around a marble table, with a jug of juice and some glasses on it. A giggle escaped me at the absurdity of the situation and I saw Jonathan look at the woman, exchanging a knowing look with her. Ignoring them, I sat down and took a deep steadying breath before I began my barrage of questions.

Jonathan, however, beat me to it.

“I’m sorry about this, Justine,” he began, eyes locked with mine, his expression sympathetic as he pulled a chair for himself opposite me. “I know you must be feeling overwhelmed.”

He paused, as if uncertain of how to continue.

“Perhaps before we begin, we should introduce ourselves. I am Jonathan,” he said with a small smile.

“I’m Doreen,” the woman said as she settled in a chair next to him. “We’ve been watching you for a while, my dear.”

“OK, that’s creepy,” I spoke, finally. My mind has a way of being inappropriate whenever I’m feeling uncomfortable. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

They stared at me for a few seconds before exchanging another look. This was really beginning to irk me.

“We’re… celestial entities put in place to enforce specific, predetermined sequences,” Doreen said, smiling as if that was explanation enough.

“So, like aliens then,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady and flat.

I knew it!

“Goodness no,” she responded with a tinkling laugh, her teeth white and perfect. “Nothing like that; though I know that’s what you’ve been imagining since you got here.”

“We exist outside your universe and its laws,” Jonathan started before pausing. He looked around with a small frown on his face as if searching for inspiration before he continued. “We simply are, Justine. Birth and death don’t apply to us. Those are experiences tied to your reality, which is what we monitor. When I say ‘your’, I don’t mean you specifically, mind you, just the world… er… universe… reality which you come from.”

“So… not aliens, but like higher dimensional beings?” I suggested.

“Yes!” Jonathan said in excitement, clapping and grinning before he caught himself, and forced his face back to being impassive. “Not quite like that, but you’re getting the idea.”

“Well, if it’s not like that, then what is it like?” I asked irritably.

“Look, let’s not get hung up on the specifics otherwise we’ll be here for a while,” Doreen spoke up. “Like last time,” she added with a glance at Jonathan.

“Last time?” I asked, perking up.

“Right, we’ll get to that in a bit,” Jonathan said. “Let’s just say that we’re here to help you get your life back on track, Justine.”

“Excuse me? There’s nothing wrong with my life!” I couldn’t help the indignation in my tone.

The very nerve! I am a physiotherapist at a private hospital in Kampala and a damn good one at that. My work is often fulfilling and I enjoy it so where does this-

“He didn’t mean it like that, Justine,” Doreen spoke up, her warm voice interrupting my thoughts. “It’s just that you’ve been through a lot in the past few years and it has changed your outlook on life… changed what should have been and many people are going to suffer for that.”

Her words felt like a spear going through my chest. This was quickly turning into the kind of talk I didn’t want to be a part of.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice was back to betraying me again, coming out weakly.

“You’ve become more nihilistic and uncaring… Cold,” Jonathan spoke up.

The Dreams We Never Remember

“That’s… That’s ridiculous. Where do you come off saying something like that?” I asked in indignation. “Even if that were the case – which it isn’t – my attitude affects only me. No one else suffers from it.”

“Except that’s not the case at all,” he responded, voice resolute and irking me further. “It has never been the case with anyone. Who you choose to be and what you do affects everyone around you and this is doubly the case with you.”

The discomfort within me was rising to a crescendo.

“I don’t think so.”

Yes, well, you’re wrong,” Jonathan said, not giving me a chance to utter anything else. “And you know that you are wrong. People look up to you, your fellow workmates value you highly, and your friends are always eager for your opinion. You’re a leader amongst your peers, Justine. Surely you know that.”

The rising discomfort coupled with the tone Jonathan was using, as if he was speaking with a petulant child, made me want to throw out a few curse words at him in anger. He hadn’t said anything antagonizing, not really anyway, yet there I was, wanting to punch him in his sympathetic face. Doreen took my right hand in both of hers, refusing to let it go when I tried to yank it back.

“We know this isn’t easy for you, Justine, but please, hear us out,” she cooed with an encouraging smile. “Your outlook on life has far-reaching consequences and that’s what we’d like to show you today.”

I forcefully extricated my hand from hers and glared at both of them.

“Fine, say what you want to say. It’s not like I have a choice anyway.”

They exchanged another look and I tried my best to not let it incense me further. I failed.

“You’ve grown up smart and talented… logical. That’s why you chose physiotherapy instead of going into math, because of the stability and versatility it granted you in Kampala, right?” Jonathan asked, looking at me with raised eyebrows like he expected an answer even though I could tell that he knew what I was going to say.

“Yeah. I didn’t want to become a teacher and I wanted time to work on my music,” I grumbled.

“Exactly, and that’s fine but I think that’s where the problem started – if I’m not wrong.” He hesitated. “Help me out here, Doreen.”

“Yes, you’re right, Jonathan. That’s where the problem began:  With the idea that you couldn’t get all you wanted in life, that you had to compromise your deepest desires so that you could be happy.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I sputtered in shock. “It was the logical choice to make and look where I am, I like my work and I’m good at it. I’ve also had enough time to compose some songs I really like. There’s no problem with that!”

“The problem isn’t that you chose the medical route but rather, why you chose it, Justine,” Doreen continued, her voice as warm and honeyed as ever. “It was a simple idea at the time but you fed it and it grew into this ugly notion you have that you can’t have anything nice unless you sacrifice something important to you.”

“But that’s the way life works. There’s no guarantee that-”

“There are guarantees, sweetie, we make sure of that. Just like we’re here today trying to make sure that thousands of people don’t suffer simply because you don’t believe in yourself!” Doreen interrupted her tone sharper than it had been before. Her words burned a hole in my heart.

“You’re selling yourself piece by piece and allowing the hopeful, helpful, and human part of yourself to freeze into stone,” Jonathan said, his voice quiet.

“Look at the fiasco of a relationship you had with Bernard,” Doreen continued.

That got my attention.

“What do you mean ‘fiasco’? He is a nice guy and I pushed him away. Of course he had no choice but to break up with me and-”

That relationship was never meant to happen,” Doreen said; her voice sharp again. “You had several unserious relationships and by the time Bernard came around, you just wanted to be loved. But there was something off. You could feel it and yet you ignored it – believing that you could never deserve more than him. Now look – look at how that relationship damaged you.”

Her words were tearing into me. All my secret thoughts spoken out loud and thrown back at me until I felt like my heart was bursting with the pain.

“You realize it now, don’t you? That he never really loved you? That he couldn’t love you the way you deserved to be, even if he tried. But he didn’t try, did he? Did he?!”

She was yelling at that point and my body responded the way it always did when these thoughts confronted me. I burst into tears.

“He did; HE DID!” I screamed; wanting to block her voice out. “He tried but I just wasn’t good enough… I just didn’t love him back enough! I’m just not good enough…”

I broke off sobbing. All the memories I’d tried to bury in the past eight months coming back fresh, tearing their way out of the boxes I’d packaged them in.

“He beat you!”

Flashes of him kicking me until I got a bruised spleen.

He was just frustrated with work and I had no right to deny him that night, no matter how tired I was. Also, he apologized for months after that and never hit me again.

“He stole from you!”

Flashes of the ATM telling me my funds aren’t sufficient.

He apologized and said he wanted the investment to be a surprise; that made sense.

“He manipulated you, Justine, for how long are you going to deny the truth?!”

At that point and I could barely see through the tears blurring my vision, but I heard Jonathan speak.

“Doreen, you’re taking it too far,” he admonished.

“Not far enough, Jonathan!” she snapped. “How many times do you want to steal her away at night as we try to convince her of the same thing over and over again? It’s time to try a new tactic!”

I saw Doreen’s form getting up and Jonathan yelled in warning, startling me for a second before I felt a hand close around my eyes as a sharp pain pierced into my head. I was sure I screamed in agony but I heard no sound and the pain disappeared as suddenly as it came. That’s when the images started flashing.

Hundreds of thousands of people with connections to each other and all of them leading back to me. People suffering because of actions I assumed were innocuous, all of which had their roots planted in my low self-esteem, or my inability to hope for the best. Life after life, flashing by me; some cut short before their time and others yanked from the paths they would have otherwise taken because I ignited some sort of self-destructive chain reaction.

Me refusing to apply for the promotion I knew was meant for me and someone without the right experience was promoted instead. Several clients suffered and the hospital got sued twice, as a result. Sheila, the nursing assistant in the surgical OPD. I’d had lunch with her almost every day, but didn’t think it was my place to comment on her depression until she attempted suicide but miscalculated the wrong dosage, and after having to live with severe kidney damage for a few months, died anyway. Natasha. She had been dealing with years worth of molestation as a child and alcohol had been her go-to pain relief. All the sexual jokes she kept making weren’t jokes at all but an attempt to depersonalize her fears. Oh God, and I’d practically yelled at her over her standoffish and unprofessional attitude at work. We’d even exchanged some unsavory words.

It was too much and it didn’t let up for a long while. I was not surprised that when the hand was finally lifted from my face, my cheeks were wet with tears and snot was freely running from my nose.

Jonathan cleared his throat and produced a handkerchief out of nowhere, handing it to me as he glared at Doreen. She, in turn, just walked back to her seat as if she hadn’t just completely devastated me. I worked at gulping in large breaths of air while Jonathan handed me a glass of juice which I took gratefully. They looked at me as I drank the juice, watching as tears occasionally slid down my face, and refusing to glance away. By the time the glass was empty, my nerves were frayed.

“What do I need to do?” I asked, my voice low and shaky.

“For starters, patch things over with Natasha. It’s important,” Doreen said, her tone back to being warm.

“She won’t resist, trust us,” Jonathan added with a small smile.

I nodded silently as another tear slid down my cheek.

“And be open to George.”

“Who?” I asked, frowning slightly at Doreen.

“You know who I’m talking about. You’ve seen him.” The image of hunky work guy entered my head.

“We just want you to be happy,” Jonathan said.

“I… I don’t think I can do that,” I began, my voice gaining some strength. “I understand what you’re saying but… I can be happy without a man, and you suggesting otherwise seems like the very opposite of everything you’ve just said to me.”

“He didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that there are certain paths that you ought to take, and well, George is one of them.”

It was hard to believe that the warm woman before me was the very same one who’d just devastated my world.

“No, thank you. What’s the worst that could possibly happen if I refuse him?”

I could feel irritation starting to rise again and Jonathan’s quiet chuckles weren’t helping at all.

“I’d really like to see you try and reject him. He was made for you and you were made for him,” he said.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Actually, it’s not,” Doreen said, looking at me thoughtfully. “Situations like that are few but it’s true, you two were made for each other. He’s got massive game where you’re concerned.”

They were both grinning at that point and I felt a little unsettled. They couldn’t possibly be right.

“This is the most agreeable you’ve been all month,” Jonathan remarked after a short silence.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“We’ve been at this for almost a month now, trying to convince you that you needed to change certain aspects of your life and now… Well… Thanks to Doreen’s unconventional methods, you seem more agreeable.”

“But I don’t recall any of that,” I spoke up in confusion.

“Yes, well, our aim is to affect the convictions you have deep within, not change your mind for you. So we never really leave you with the memories of these discussions,” he responded.

“Then I won’t remember this when I wake up?”

“No…but if we’ve succeeded, you’ll instinctively know what to do,” Doreen said. “I’m feeling good about our chances this time though…”

She faded off and I frowned, wondering if I was going deaf. Perhaps I am passing out, I thought, as my vision began to darken and I felt like I was falling into an abyss.

***

I jerked awake at the sound of my alarm clock and quickly turned it off. Oh God, it was 6 a.m. already? Damn! I scrambled out of bed; I had about 40 minutes before the city’s traffic jammed up and made me late for work. I’d had another one of those strange dreams that I couldn’t remember. But where I would normally wrack my brain trying to remember even a single scene from the dreams, I now found that it didn’t bother me much anymore. Plus, I really wanted to talk to Natasha, and I wanted to send her a text before I chickened out again.

Moving quickly, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and found the email icon flashing. I looked at my notifications and opened the one from work, quickly reading the body about the meeting we were having that day. There would be a short discussion about the new patient registration system the hospital had just installed, led by its creator, George…

My heart started pounding. The email barely registered as apprehension took a hold of me and I started feeling uneasy. Perhaps… perhaps I could call in sick for the day.

An Impossible Love

1

By Relme Divingu

Somewhere in Africa, in 2115.

Twenty-five-year-old Ngentsa looked at her parents straight in eyes and said:

― I am in love with Nidji!

― Nidjiiiiiii? Are you sure? Her mother, Oula, asked.

Ngentsa nodded.

― But… He is a robot! Exclaimed her father, Amasingue. Ngentsa, have you gone crazy? Oula, you see? You see? I told you to watch your daughter. Now, note for yourself; she’s in love with a robot!

Her mother began screaming and clapping her hands. Soon, she added frantic bouncing and shaking.

― Have we not been able to teach her the right way? God, please, come and help us! Oula shouted.

― I love him, papa. Ngentsa whispered. I love him, this is all I know.

― Ngentsa, Amasingue said. What people call love is a question of life and death, not a game. There are so many handsome, smart and kind human men in this country and you did not find one to become your husband, only this Nidji? You cannot even have kids. Think of what the entire family will say about your mother and me when they will hear about that…

An Impossible Love

― Is Nidji different from all these other men, papa?

― He is… He is–You know what I mean!

Her father lowered his face and stared guiltily at the handmade Tunisian carpet.

― A machine! This is what you think, isn’t it? Oh God, my father is a machinist! Is that how you see me also?

When she was a young girl Ngentsa lost control of her flying bicycle, hit a tree and fell headfirst to the ground from a height of six feet. Her parents were wealthy; they could afford to pay for cybernetic organ replacements, and Ngentsa survived. She now had an artificial eye, liver and right leg.

Her father looked at her with loving eyes.

― You know that it’s not the same thing. He is totally artificial, he has no soul…

― Dad! Please, stop! I don’t want to listen to any more.

Ngentsa left the house angrily. She needed some fresh air. She thought that her parents would understand. Her father was an intellectual, the scientist who had found the vaccine for the Hepatitis L Virus (HLV) which had affected a large part of the worldwide population, while her mother was a university professor of literature. But they reacted in totally the opposite way.

What was wrong with her choice? Ngentsa wondered. Suddenly her inner phone device tickled her ear. It was a call from Nidji.

― Hullo! She said faking a happy voice.

― Hi, my sweet! How are you? Nidji asked.

― I am fine, thanks. She feigned a little laugh, but actually tears were flowing silently down her cheeks.

― Have you told your parents about us?

― Not yet.

― I am so excited. Your parents are so understanding.

― Nidji, don’t be so enthusiastic, my parents are not perfect.

Her tears stained her blue shirt.

― Ok, I don’t have much phone credit. I will call you back. I love you.

― I love you too.

Ngentsa looked at the moon. It was shining brilliantly, full of peace like an angel. Only its soft light could soothe her pain now.

At the Speed of Life

1

By Alexis Teyie

It might have been a day like any of those that preceded it, except I decided not to wear a bra. This was not a radical choice – just a small change. Yet I have come to believe it completely altered the tenor of that week, and with this, the history of my entire planet. What might have led to that seemingly trivial wardrobe choice? Perhaps it was the heat. And, if anyone had asked, I would have told them I only cared to carry breasts on Sunday afternoons. All my nice bras were unwashed. I wore a sweater to work on Tuesdays. The breasts themselves are rather negligible. There are certainly multiple maybes, perhaps, and if-this-then-thats we might attach to the version of me that did not wear a bra and altered history.

The only maybe of significance is this one: I woke up before the sun rose on Tuesday and the dark was a shimmering one, a dark that can only confer grandeur. And it was behind the lashes of this voluptuous dark that my daffodil revealed itself to me as the most expansive thing on the planet – so generous was it with its magnificence that I mounted my window sill and nearly fell out the open window inhaling its splendour. The daffodil in question was so flattered that it preened in response, which charmed me even more so I leaned in closer, and it plumed prettily, and I was even further bewitched, and Daffodil responded, as did I and on and on we continued, my flower and I.

Our delicate ballet was eventually interrupted by the national call to attention. Shaken out of my reverie, I ran out of my room and stood outside the door, waiting for the daily duties to be called out by the spokesperson of our section. My allotment for that Tuesday was delivering rations to each room for the single meal we ate each week. I couldn’t be bothered to list the benefits of a streamlined diet that day as I did my task; everything reached me through the veil of daffodil’s clean wonder. The very universe itself opened up before me, and its secrets lingered on my tongue long after the initial shock of understanding.

It became clear to me that womanhood is not a vocation to which I am called. Initially, I was not particularly sure how to put this insight to use. Of course, I would have to report to the Ministry of Genitals, stop by the local chapter of the National Wardrobe Committee, and change my gender details at the Statistics & Surveillance Bureau. This was all fairly straightforward, but really, I hadn’t inhaled enough of Daffodil to decide which gender captured all the versions of myself that I bore within me. And what does one do, when one finds oneself in the wrong body? I imagined one should take a lover maybe and, if necessary, take up arms because that’s what people did in the history files. Beyond that, I wasn’t certain.

I decided to seek counsel at the National Confusion Centre.

“Welcome to the National Confusion Centre. Sponsored by the Allied Lands of Africa – we think so you don’t have to.”

“I’m confused-”

“Yes.”

“Well-”

“I see.”

“I’m not a woman.”

“Which of the genders are you?”

“That’s the confusion.”

“You have none?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“We have a chart.”

“But you can’t-”

“And a scientific test.”

“There’s no such -”

“We can also fix you into one, if you’re determined.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Well, for registration and tax purposes, you must have one.”

“Daffodil wouldn’t agree.”

“Isn’t your number 59013? What is Daffodil?”

“Nothing. Can I just leave?”

2 16“Actually, I need to update the records. So, please pick one.”

“Won’t it take a few years to change?”

“No, we’re efficient. Allied Lands of Africa – we move at the speed of light!”

I tried to tell the automated counsellor about my encounter with Daffodil, about the secrets of the universe which were revealed to me. That, no, I didn’t need to move at the speed of light, just to bloom, gently and quietly like Daffodil. At the speed of life, if possible. It was this dangerous turn in my overall temper that marked the beginning of it all.

“59013? 59013! Are you malfunctioning?”

“Yes, yes. I mean, no, no.”

“Good. The Patrollers are overworked this time of day.”

“I think I’ll leave now.”

“That will not be possible. I suggest you take on animorphous.”

“No.”

“It’s a crowd favourite. Really.”

“Like I said, no.”

“Oh. Well-”

“Thank you, then.”

“Actually, 59013! Where are you going? No. Do stop. Please? 59013!”

They would send the Patrollers after me, of course, but I wouldn’t look back. And so I ran, genderless, my nipples nearly boring through my sweater with all the tension. It might have been the sight of my nipples, those impertinent little things, or the desperation with which I called for Daffodil that drove a crowd to form behind me, repeating, like a chant in monotone: Daffodil. Daffodil. Daffodil.

Alexis Teyie is a Kenyan poet and feminist. She also writes speculative fiction. Her work is included in the Jalada Afrofuture(s) and Language issues. She has also featured in Q-zine, This is Africa, African Youth Journals, and Black Girl Seeks. Upcoming fiction is in two anthologies Water and Imagine Africa 500.
Alexis Teyie is a Kenyan poet and feminist. She also writes speculative fiction. Her work is included in the Jalada Afrofuture(s) and Language issues. She has also featured in Q-zine, This is Africa, African Youth Journals, and Black Girl Seeks. Upcoming fiction is in two anthologies Water and Imagine Africa 500.

The Marriage Plot

7

By Tendai Huchu

“For God’s sake, whatever you do, do-not-marry-that-woman!”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I am your future self. You remember that idea you had for a time machine? Well, it worked, it’s going to work – gotta get my tenses right – and I’m here to tell you… to tell me, not to marry that woman.”

“You look more like my dad.”

“I was also going to say lay off the beers a bit and count your damn calories. And while you’re at it, a bit of exercise every now and again wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if you can be arsed.”

“No way you’re me, hombre.”

“Do you want me to show you the mole on my left butt cheek, or maybe we can discuss your rather disgusting habit of jerking off to Chantal Biya pictures?”

“Jesus!”

The Marriage Plot

“I’m talking quickly because we’ve only got four minutes before I’m sucked back through the vortex to my own timeline, and, because of the parallax-duplicity problem, I can never come back to this exact moment again. Are you going to do as I say and leave that woman?”

“Why?”

“Because she’s no good for you. She’ll bring you untold misery and grief. Spare yourself, spare me, by cutting off all links with that woman. I can’t explain everything, but you have to trust me, trust us. Think of me as the gut instinct you never had, moron. It will hurt now, but – trust me – it will save you from so much pain, grief and anguish in the future, like an injection. Consider this a prophylaxis, a pre-emptive strike of the Gulf War II kind. Please, I am begging you from the bottom of our sclerotic heart.”

“Hmmm…”

“Motherf—”

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

(Five minutes later)

“I need to talk to you urgently. This is a matter of the utmost importance.”

“What happened to your teeth?”

“Excuse me?”

“We went through this five minutes ago, remember?”

“Ha? I’ve only just gotten here. Look, I’ve come to save you, my boy. There’s no time, you just have to trust me on this. I need you to get over whatever’s been bugging you and marry her. Forget these second thoughts you’re having.”

“Uh…”

“You absolutely must propose tonight! Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through in order to come back here – across the fourth dimension – to save you from yourself? If you have any regard for what’s holy, then you absolutely must marry her.”

“But you said—”

“Life without her is cold and bleak and… It’s unlife. Four billion women on the planet and she’s the only one for you. She completes you, she completes us. I’ve searched everywhere, you’ve searched; we’ve spent the last thirty years of our life searching, and no one can replace her. That feeling called love, it’s in your heart right now, and you will never feel it again if you don’t marry her. Instead all you’ll have is bitterness, envy and loneliness. You will go through the rest of your life alone, comrade. At your age, you’re thinking bollocks, but trust me, there’s nothing worse in the whole, entire universe. Imagine the pain of having your teeth and fingernails pulled out over and over and over and over again. Please, I beg you…”

“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll marry her. Fuck.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now listen, a few days after I’m gone, you will not remember having seen me, but the decision you’ve made right now will linger in your subconscious and take effect. Trust that instinct.”

(Five minutes later)

“Thank God you’re here. You may not know me, but I absolutely must speak with you.”

“You again? What happened to your nose?”

“I’ve only just gotten here. Anyway, there’s no time. It’s about that woman! Listen to me very carefully. Whatever you do, you-must-not—”

“Are you kidding me? The only thing I’m not going to do is build that bloody time machine. You hear me? No. More. Time…”

Tendai Huchu is the author of The Hairdresser of Harare. His short fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The Manchester Review, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Gutter, AfroSF, Wasafiri, Warscapes, The Africa Report, The Zimbabwean, Kwani? and numerous other publications. His next novel will be The Maestro, The Magistrate, & The Mathematician.
Tendai Huchu is the author of The Hairdresser of Harare. His short fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The Manchester Review, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Gutter, AfroSF, Wasafiri, Warscapes, The Africa Report, The Zimbabwean, Kwani? and numerous other publications. His next novel will be The Maestro, The Magistrate, & The Mathematician.

Dream-Hunter

2

By Nick Wood

Dream-Hunter.

That is, indeed, what they call me.

And what is it I search for?

The heart of evil and truth –- and, just sometimes, a little bit of madness and lies.

Today, though, I might get the entire shitload.

I choke back unexpected dread as I prepare for immersion in my pod, the Doc wiring my scalp to the monstrous man lying comatose beside me. Out of the corner of my right eye I can sense his slumbering bulk, rising and falling with a slow and menacing snore.

Sledgehammer Jones.

No, Sledgehammer fucking Jones.

I wince as the Doc pulls on the scalp electrodes, stinging my right parietal area.

She gives me a slap on my exposed arm, “Stop being a baby.”

Like she’s the one going into the head of a brutal killer.

Straining against the head strap, I lift my head a few inches and turn to the right. Jones is a mountain of a man swelling under those blue sheets, a pale white egg-domed head laced with cables feeding the machine between us. A big man indeed, and with a temper to match, I’d heard.

Not that I’ve always been on the side of the angels myself. But then, my father had always taught me to be assertive, modelling it forcefully to me whenever he suspected I had lied to them.

Until mamma would step in, a protective pillow against his punches.

I lean back again, to avoid my eyes spilling.

Mother…!

Focus on the job ahead.

We go back a few years, Doc Lizzie Abasi and I – 27 missions in all – and I have a 96% hit rate – the best fucking Rider in the world.

Bar none.

But you probably know that, I’m all over the Wiki pages.

Dream Hunter One, they call me.

It’s almost countdown time now, I can smell the acidic, cabbage-like stink of the REM-inducing drip the doc is preparing and suck in my breath, readying to both fall and soar into Dream-Space.

“Hey Doc,” I call, “Give me some decent music to work to this time, none of your funny Irish shit.”

Doc smiles over me, the purple bag of Stim swishing in her gloved hands: “I’m not Irish, remember – and you put up with what I choose to play, Peter John Scott.”

Always, she uses my full name – and yes I know, she’s Peckham born and bred, third generation ex-Nigeria, so where does the yen for Irish music come from?

Fuck it, who knows where anything comes from, especially our nocturnal dreams seaming our lives with images that seldom cohere? And faces. Old women, vaguely recognizable, wrinkled, and dark – darker hued than me, dual heritage man that I am. Always staring at me, willing something from me.

Tip of my brain stuff, never quite named.

Focus, Scott, forget the phantom crones.

I groan, “So what’s it to be this time, Lizzie?”

She’s busy with the Loom™ – the machine that locks brains together, the drip already hanging between Sledgehammer Jones and me. This is always the point where my shivering increases and words start to freeze in my mouth.

My fifteenth year at this game and it only gets harder.

I hear the large man alongside me catch his breath, as if not fully asleep.

Dread deepens.

“‘Let’s Remember 1848’, by The Literal Leprechauns,” Lizzie says, moving onto my least favourite part, the needle in the arm. Her brightly beaded cornrows tickle my right cheek.

“Wh-Why?” I ask, looking up at her face instead, forcing words out, unable to hide their quiver, “That’s a f-f-fucking long time ago.”

Lizzie half-smiles – as if she doesn’t notice – and signals to me with a drop of her right palm; I’m going under soon. She tilts her head, squinting at me over her smart-specs with those brown eyes of hers. It’s as if there are still things she likes to look at directly, without hearing the verbal comments that attach like buzzing flies to her smart goggle visuals.

Or perhaps she just doesn’t like to hear what the Face-Rec sites continually say about me.

I’m not really that arrogant: I really do have me some damn fine parietal lobes. Perhaps I have my dead English dad to thank for my skills; I was raised on tales of his lucid breakfast dreams, but my Zulu mamma’s daily putu-pap and peanut butter toast always satisfied my stomach.

So it was that I learned to straddle both God and Nkulunkulu: science and myth, dream and reality.

I have not seen my mum since my divorce, more than ten years ago now.

She’d gotten on well with Shireen, my ex-wife.

Perhaps too well?

Mamma told me I’d turned into ‘him’ and then left me, going back to the other family I hardly knew in South Africa.

‘Him’ – my father with fists. Surely not, mother?

Surely, surely not?

“We need to know our past, in order to understand where we are going,” Lizzie says slowly.

“But neither of us are fucking Irish,” I say, the quiver in my voice gone, as my hurt and fear fades into the groggy, initial rush of the Stim.

Sledgehammer Jones is waiting, so I hold back from the pull of the dream, thinking thickly, focusing my gaze into the pulsating light overhead.

I have my plan ready, but know that means little sometimes, given the inherent surrealism of the domain. They never give me an easy ride either – I’ve had some mega-whacked out dream partners over the years. Those who refuse to talk – or who deny their crimes – have seriously fucked up dreams.

I get the choice picks, the hardest of the hard. As befits the best of the best, I guess.

My head sinks back and I watch the screen above the far wall struggling to make visual sense of Jones’s Imago-EEG, a cloudy and murky grey, he’s still some way short of REM state.

Time to let go. I slip into the barely charted space between waking and dreams and hover in hypnagogic flux, pulsing a Door to be walked through – but…

What – the – fuck?

The screen flickers, fuzzes and sharpens. A man stands: slim and sharply-suited in grey, a svelte version of the nude man lying on the medical trolley next to me. This thinner, virtual Sledgehammer Jones is ignoring the glowing green door behind him – avoiding my usually unfailing initial lure.

Instead, he seems to be peering out at me – and, and he, he’s fucking waving?

“What’s, uh, – what’s his status?” I ask, my voice fading distant, crashing. My vocal cords constrict as I start to slowly sink.

I can still sense Sledgehammer’s body alongside me — seemingly sedated by a drip infusion.

“Dream status reached,” Lizzie says, a vague shape now, floating between us. “He’s deep in REM sleep.”

How – the – fuck – is this – possible? I’m one of only a small batch of people in the world who have learned how to tread and weave the borders of dream and waking. We’re starting to knit together at the brainwave level, and it’s me who’s supposed to be holding the fucking threads — yet, somehow, this bastard is waving at me while dreaming, grinning like a skinny snake.

The pull into sleep is an intolerable tug at my being, but I focus on pushing my frontal lobes for just that little bit longer.

Is this just a hypnagogic hallucination?

“Up his sedation,” I grind out slowly; REM sleep locks the body muscles, to stop you doing daft things while you dream, like killing someone.

I see Lizzie’s shape swing towards the screen — and freeze.

Forever.

And for no time at all.

She spins around again and hovers over him; I’m guessing she’s opening his Stim drip even wider.

On the screen, Jones has turned and opened my green door, blowing it red with a breath.

Red.

The Sledgehammer’s favourite colour.

He steps through.

As for me, I lose my grip to the torrent of sleep.

I am disembodied, a vague flash of fish in a raging unconscious river. Then I am there; gasping, wet and shivering, in a muted and pale cream bathroom. I have all the props ready, waiting – a bathroom, a bath, and several…implements.

The man himself is not yet here. I have time to strengthen this dream, to sculpt the images from many visits and forensic holograms – I sense Jones looping along my corridor just outside.

I twitch and tweak his synapses with fused will. There’s a part of the hippocampus where the memories beneath the dreams can be unlocked – with the right training and expertise.

He will enter soon, filling the bath with someone he knows and re-enact a scene from his unconscious that he has – until now – always consciously denied.

(Flowers and broken glass make a green rabbit jump.)

I breathe slowly to clear the crazy images and re-orient myself, even though I have no need to breathe. Then, with familiar dexterity, I climb the wall like Spiderman, sticking myself to the ceiling and making myself invisible.

The scene below starts to shiver and splinter into a myriad of dream fragments, a confused chaotic collage, disorienting me for eternal moments.

I forget…no, I …remember, I am Peter, Peter Scott, Rider. This is my dream. Reassert command; take control… With practiced ease, I re-clarify the bathroom walls, with matte beige paint and maroon horizontal stripes at chest height, as per forensic record.

Jones must be coming – and he is powerful. But he seems scattered and shattered in his dreaming thoughts. I only hope he is now fully immersed in my dream.

Distantly, I hear bathwater tinkling and I buzz myself back into being, hanging from a burning hot bulb on the ceiling, invisible spider-like legs scalding. Sledgehammer Jones must be disturbing the strands of this scene.

Steam and coconut scented bath salts saturate my nose from the water below; my eyes water with the sharp tang surging through my sinuses. Spiders don’t have sinuses, do they?

Focus, Scott. Stay alert — and watch out for the bursting of any irrational anomalies from Jones’s unconscious.

The dream steadies, seaming itself thicker, lacing itself with the richest of sensorial detail – and I sense Jones’s excitement as his dream throbs ahead of him, moving into the bathroom like a palpable, gloating force, ready to shake and shape events.

Here we fucking go, then. I ready myself too.

It is then that I see her. She is in the bath. Thickened and greying slightly with the approach of late middle years, she is bending forward, water dripping off her back as she scrubs her toenails with deft concentration.

Jones himself enters, and I am relieved to see he is in a red bathrobe that reveals his real, blossoming bulk – no longer able, then, to conjure a lucid and ideal dream-self; he is finally absorbed into the fabric of our mutual dreaming. She – his wife, Alice – hesitates and half turns to Jones.

“I’ve almost finished,” she says, covering her breasts with her arms.

“So am I,” Jones says, smiling.

Slowly, she looks up, and her sadness wafts up to me. A drop of water spools off her left cheek. I wonder, for the briefest of moments, if it is salty.

“Why, Alice?” Jones asks, standing squarely, stolid in his growing anger.

She seems unaware, shrugging with resignation and a hint of despair. “Barry does care for me, you know. And you haven’t really been here for a few years now,” she says, “Always — working?”

“Yes!” Jones shouts. “Working, fucking working – while you – you fucked!”

Shit, flashes of a bedroom scene intrude, another man with Alice, their limbs sprawled together, elsewhere. Take us back, back to my scene. There… I re-plaster the bathroom vignette, focusing intently on bringing back all pieces, including the implements.

Especially the implements.

Jones’s wife has her hands lifted, covering her eyes and, I’m now sure the leaking water dripping through her fingers is salty. Her shoulders are heaving and her voice is muffled, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t- didn’t mean to hurt you.”

But Jones has already picked it up.

One of the three implements in the bathroom at the time – toilet brush, hand vac and… a small sledgehammer. Propped behind the toilet bowl, it had been mistakenly left some few days past by builders completing the wall renovation.  It was neither easily nor automatically available. And yet the man has stepped around the toilet to heft it, moving back to the bath and his wife, readying himself, hammer over head.

Alice drops her hands to the side of the bath and only gulps with a frightened rasping wheeze. Her pinkish eyes are dilated, huge, staring us down.

Eventually, her voice comes, raspy with fear: “John, what – what are you- what?”

He swings the hammer down onto his wife’s head.

Despite myself, I close my eyes.

She screams — and screams — and screams?

I look.

Ngibambe Ngesandla (Dream Hunter)

She is thrashing in the water, desperately, frenzied in panic. The bath water is… clear, foaming with her surging activity, but clear.

The large man stands, head down, hammer in both hands. He has stopped the swing just inches from his wife’s head.

But… in reality, he had not.

Dream-jacking always gets to the truth. Defences down, dreamers re-enact events – given the right steer, the right props from an expert Rider — and there are none better than I.

My prompts always spark a replay of actual events, dream or no dream.

Uh-uh, focus, Scott…

Sledgehammer Jones straightens and looks up then.

Straight at me.

“So. How much are the Crown Prosecution paying you for this?”

Shit.

Fucking shit.

Jones’s wife is standing now. Water streams down her body, over her breasts, down her belly and thighs.

Jones looks back at her, but keeps speaking to me. “My name’s John. Just John Jones. I loved this woman dearly. I want to set her free.”

“What?” I whisper from the ceiling.

He looks up at me again. “I’m going to put the hammer down and let her go, so she can join Barry, like she always hoped.”

“But… that’s not what happened.”

“No,” he says, “But it’s what should have happened.”

I’ve never faced this dilemma before. What to do? If I just let him take hold of the dream, I have no doubt they will fire me. They get paid by the conviction – as do I.

John Jones puts the sledgehammer down. His wife has stepped out of the bath and is drying herself on a large white towel – she wraps it around her body and ties it over her left shoulder like a toga.

“I loved you, John,” she says.

She does not look at either of us; it’s as if she is no longer aware of us.

I can make the hammer larger, more enticing, red both in colour and nature – and wait for Jones’s hippocampal cognitive rehearsal to kick in with irresistible compulsion.

…But would this make me an accomplice? Will I then be guilty of murder too?

Alice hovers uncertainly by the door and Jones looks up at me again.

Fuck it; mamma had always told me to do the ‘right’ thing.

(Until she left me.)

“Okay,” I say, dropping down from the ceiling and fleshing myself. “Let her go, then, if that’s what you really want to do.”

Alice stays, though: frozen, immobile, her face contorting with the effort to move.

I turn to Jones. His face is dripping with sweaty exertion: “I can’t free her,” he says. “Help me, please.”

But, try as I might, I have no point of contact with her – she is not my dream imago to shift. I turn to shrug helplessly, but Jones has already picked up the hammer, now swollen and red, again.

“My name is John,” he says, “Just John Jones. Get that? Guilty – I’m guilty.”

He hesitates for a moment and then hands the hammer over to his wife. He bends forward submissively. “Do it,” he says.

I open my mouth, but I’m unable to scream.

“Do it!” he shouts.

“Lizzie?” I croak.

Alice Jones raises the hammer over her head and brings it crashing down on the large man’s head.  The hammer bounces off his skull with a crackling, crunching sound, spraying a flash of blood across the room.

The blood laces my tongue – metallic, salty, explosive. I am falling sideways, grunting, winded, as I land on a crumpled and broken body.

John Jones’s wife looks down at me; the bath is empty and dry.

But she is not Alice anymore – she is Shireen, my ex-wife, whom I’d lost patience with -but only once or twice, I swear, mamma – until she left me.

This time though, Shireen is the one holding the hammer. She smiles, dark hair swishing across her face.

Shit, there is no dream-breath from this body beneath me. Jones’s head looks misshapen – splayed at an odd and bloody angle on the floor.

Shireen lifts the hammer over her head.

“Fuck it, Lizzie!” I scream, “Get me out of here.”

Shireen swings the hammer.

The bathroom walls start to shift externally, crumbling, roaring, as if an empty storm is sucking them inexorably outwards.

The bathroom cabinet and a wall explode and beyond, all I can see is a vast and complete emptiness. No sound, no shape, no colour.

No dreaming.

Just …

Nothing.

“Li-zzie!”

And then I start falling sideways, sucked and stretched into the black hole beyond. I catch a flicker of images flashing past me – Old Man, Hero, Trickster, a flash of bleeding Jungian archetypes. Then dead-eyed animals, increasingly bizarre, mostly mute and long extinct.

I hurtle helplessly towards the empty hole at the heart of it all.

An old woman watches me from a place where everything has gone out. I think I know her, her hollow eyes are like burnt out planets.

“Mamma?” I call in desperation, flailing to stay away from the blackness above and beneath me.

Her head tilts, as if turning towards me – her face is creased with concern, brown eyes focusing on my face.

She holds her right hand out at me, clawed, but tendon-etched strong. “Ngibambe ngesandla,” she says.

“What?” I say, wondering if I should give in to the sucking darkness.

“Have you learned nothing of where’re you’re from, Peter – hold my fucking hand!”

But she smiles as she says it and I realise it is the only thing that might just save me. I scrabble at her, but miss.

The darkness desiccates words, drowning everything.

Something grips my arm and yanks me sideways.

Two hands are huge on either side of my cheeks. The woman seems to be holding my face up.

I recognize her and start to cry.

“Lizzie, thank God…”

“I’m here,” the Doc says. Her voice is warm and reassuring.

I continue to see hints of – fractured images and beasts, drifting in nothing with a vast void behind, the nothing that fudges the boundaries and certitude of everything I can now see — or perhaps it’s just that my eyes keep leaking, smearing my sight and sense of surety?

Leaking…

Jones’s words – were they meant for him – or me?

Guilty.

I’d certainly… hurt Shireen.

Twice.

Perhaps more?

And yes, I remember mamma had told me, when I was still a teenager at secondary school, that even once was too much.

Lizzie holds me against herself; her shoulders are bony, but warm. “It’s okay, Peter,” she says.

“What- what the hell happened to Jones?” I choke.

And how can I turn this fucking face tap off?

“He’s dead,” she says. “Jesus, they’re going to crucify me for overdosing him on sedatives.”

“But,” I say and stop, unable to find words; it’s all I can do to focus on the warmth of her body and the strength in her hands, still cradling my shoulders and head.

Then she leans back and moves away, starting to decouple electrodes and tubes from the large, still body lying alongside me.

Exhausted, I lie back on the pillow and watch her, unable to move. She switches off the Loom™. The Doc is decoupling me with smooth professionalism and I can see her show of warmth and compassion is past.

My tears stop and dry, prickling my cheeks.

We had a legitimate court order to dream-jack him, but John Jones had already decided to face his guilt head on – and, unable to free his wife, had preferred to die.

Still, where the hell does that leave us?

I look across at Sledgehammer.

There is just the barest hint of a smile at the corner of the dead man’s lips.

The bastard had left me with my ex-wife and the hammer.

My body is starting to warm up, just the teeniest little bit, and words free up inside me. “Listen Lizzie, I will testify that Jones chose to die. They will see that for themselves too.”

They.

Dream Justice, Inc. – that part of the privatised English Crown judiciary.

I pull the sheet off and stand up, my body – now well on the pudgy side of thirty, and sagging in readiness for forty – crackling stiffly in its jumpsuit. I stretch upwards, my blood needling harshly through arteries and veins again. Every year, my stretches get harder and harder.

Lizzie has covered Sledgehammer Jones’s torso and looks up at me with a smile. “Thank you – that may just help, Peter, a devastating nocebo effect, perhaps…”

I wipe my face with a forearm as I stiffly step across to the body next to my bed.

“I’m sorry… John,” I say. Given proper training and circumstance, it is clear that he would have been the greatest Dream-Rider in the world, not me.

Funny thing is; it suddenly didn’t matter to me anymore.

I’d made my own share of mistakes too – and I was no longer the best anything.

Dream-Hunter Two? Not quite the same ring to it.

More, I’d caught a glimpse of what lies behind both dreams and waking.

I open the door to leave and hesitate, “Bye, Lizzie.”

“Bye, Peter,” she does not look round.

“No,” I say, “I mean bye.”

She pivots slowly in her chair and looks at me again. Her eyes are a deep and penetrating brown. “You’re quitting, Peter?”

I nod. “Don’t think I can Ride again on the criminal justice system.”

“Bye Peter,” she does not get up.

“Did you see…her, at the end?” I ask.

“Who? I just saw you rising out of the darkness – as if dragged by hope.”

I close the door behind me.

***

Hope lives by the name of Precious Msimang; she has claimed back her old clan name, I remember.

I have forgotten her number but it takes my smart-watch only two seconds to patch me through.

The old woman from my dreams stares at me with apparent disbelief.

“Mamma!” is all I can manage.

“Peter,” she says – and then the line freezes.

I know why – she always hated to cry in front of me – especially after…he – had hit her.

It flickers on again – mamma looks old and worn, but with the faintest of smiles, watching me closely. “Why have you called now, what do you want?”

“To visit,” I say, “…and to talk about you and the family, and South Africa.”

“A good place, now that Rhodes Has Fallen,” she says. “This is my place to die.”

“Let’s not talk about death,” I say, “Ngibambe ngesandla, mamma.” (This time it is me who freezes the screen.)

I lie back and stare up at the numb white ceiling of my small flat.

I have taken women for granted, including the one who carried and birthed me, with both pain and love.

Guilty as charged.

It is time to start my redemption.

It will be a long, long flight home, to a place I hardly know.

Still, time to live a new dream.

Dream-Hunter, they call me.

But my name is just Peter John Scott Msimang.

Nick Wood
Nick Wood is a South African clinical psychologist, with over a dozen short stories previously published in Interzone, Infinity Plus, PostScripts, Redstone Science Fiction, Fierce Family, AfroSF and upcoming in the How to Live Amongst Aliens (2015) anthology, amongst others. He has also had a YA speculative fiction book published in South Africa entitled ‘The Stone Chameleon’. Nick has completed an MA in Creative Writing (SF & Fantasy) through Middlesex University, London and is currently teaching mental health at the University of East London. He can be found: @nick45wood or http://nickwood.frogwrite.co.nz/