It’s great to have you back on our exciting adventure into African Speculative fiction. Not much has changed in the world since last December when we brought you our Special South African Edition. The earth still rotates along its axis—although I hear her rotation is somewhat slower these days, AI is about to take over the world—if you don’t agree, go ahead and argue with ChatGPT, there is nothing like global climate change, and Africa is home to countries considered as the greatest economies of all time. You think otherwise? Well… A girl can be allowed to dream in peace. Lol.
For the second year in a row, we brought you 4 issues in a year in 2022. We hope to keep this steam going, providing you stories that excite, educate, tickle and keep you on the edges of your seats. That’s why we are extremely tickled to be bringing you issue 25 with writers from different corners of Africa and America!
For our French stories, we have Les Chemins Ténébreux by Moustapha Mbacke Diop and La Boîte de la Dame Futuriste by Lu Ain Zaila, which is translated from Portuguese.
Sadly, we will be saying goodbye to our French stories for a while as our French language editor and collaborator, Mame Bougouma Diene, will be taking a break after this edition. We are immensely grateful to Mame for his work with the magazine and his passion for speculative fiction from Francophone Africa. Yeah, there will always be a place for him in the Omenana Family.
But… the show must go on.
You know how it is with African Speculative fiction stories; the stranger they come, the harder we fall for them, like the story set in a waterside community with great beaches, islands and The Strange Folk. After reading The Strange Folk, you can enjoy an adventure into The Eye in The Sky. If you’ve ever wondered about the fates and thought of the possibility of writing or rewriting yours and others, then you want to read The Writers Room.
I’ll issue a special invitation to shoe lovers and haters alike; you want to find out what Favourite Shoes has in store for everyone. July 12 is an important date, but we don’t know why, until we read about July 12 Through The Lens. We also have very interesting stories that straddle the physical and other worlds. Other planes holds a twist you won’t see coming until the last page, and when you encounter Madam Shaje’s Catering you just might need to drink some water because it packs some extra spice.
Go on and take several sips; actually, gulp all the juicy stories we have for you.
Je fis le vide autour de moi et dans mon esprit, m’efforçant de rester aussi immobile qu’un cadavre, avant de plonger dans l’Invisible.
Ce n’était jamais aussi facile qu’il ne le paraissait de naviguer les eaux lugubres, en perpétuel mouvement, de la dimension des djinns. Il y régnait une chaleur inouïe ; des murs d’ombres mouvantes se serrèrent contre ma peau moite de sueur. Je m’aventurais, encore une fois, dans les boyaux de l’enfer : une expérience à laquelle je ne m’habituerai jamais.
L’Invisible était tout aussi trompeur et capricieux que les esprits qui l’habitaient. Dangereux, également, vu qu’il m’était plus difficile d’y échapper à leur attention.
J’étais, après tout, l’un des rares humains capables d’y pénétrer de mon plein gré.
— Alors, tu l’as trouvé ?
J’émergeai brutalement de la dimension infernale. Mes oreilles furent noyées de sang alors que je réintégrai violemment mon corps. Pris de nausée et d’irritation, je fusillai mon frère jumeau du regard.
— Combien de fois t’ai-je rappelé de ne pas me brusquer quand je dois y aller ? Tu viens de ruiner ma concentration !
— Ça commençait à durer, et tu avais l’air pâle…
Mansour me jeta un regard contrit, glissant ses locks argentées derrière son oreille. Autour de nous, la nuit était silencieuse, dénuée des bruissements et cris de créatures nocturnes. Sur le sol inégal poussaient de l’herbe enduite de poussière rouge, aussi légère qu’un duvet. Il était adossé contre la vieille Jeep à la peinture blanche et écaillée que nous partagions, m’observant. Sa mâchoire demeurait tendue, ses doigts à quelques centimètres de ma cuisse alors que j’étais assis en tailleur sur le capot de la voiture. Il s’était inquiété, surprotecteur comme à son habitude, et je détestais ça.
— Ecoute, je sais ce que je fais. Ne t’en fais pas pour moi.
— C’est juste… Cette affaire n’est pas comme les autres. Ça me perturbe.
Un soupir lui glissa entre les lèvres. Son appréhension était partagée, même si je ne pouvais l’admettre. Nous étions à Bargny, ce soir-là, où des rapports d’enfants disparus nous étaient parvenus. Etrangement, ces enfants revenaient toujours après quelques jours d’absence, mais il y avait quelque chose qui clochait avec eux. Ils étaient noirs de saleté, sans aucun souvenir de leurs escapades. Des puits de terreur élargissaient leurs pupilles, vestiges d’un traumatisme inconnu. Certains en avaient perdu la parole, d’autres la raison.
— Les gens d’ici sont bien capables de gérer leurs problèmes d’ordre mystique, ajouta Mansour, faisant écho à mes pensées. Ce qui arrive à ces enfants est surnaturel, on le sait bien, mais avec leurs tuur, une possession par un djinn n’est pas au-delà de leurs compétences. Penses-y, Momar. Pourquoi être désespéré au point de nous contacter ?
Il se massa la nuque, ses yeux gris cherchant dans les miens des réponses que je ne possédais pas.
— Peu importe la source de ces enlèvements, nous en viendrons à bout, répondis-je avec une assurance feinte. Ils n’ont pas appelé le meilleur sorcier du coin pour rien, n’est-ce pas ? Et tu ne te débrouilles pas mal en tant que garde du corps.
Me tirant la langue, Mansour se détourna de moi, et en un tourbillon de lumière blanche, se transforma en un lion à la crinière d’argent, presque aussi haut que la voiture. De jeune homme dans la vingtaine, svelte et au teint de nuit, ayant l’air d’avoir la vingtaine alors qu’il en faisait bien moins, il était devenu félin au pelage immaculé. Tout comme nos deux parents, Mansour avait le don de se métamorphoser en lion. Il avait, de par sa nature, rejoint la légion livrant combat aux djinns : ces esprits de feu, malveillants pour beaucoup, s’évertuaient à semer le mal et la terreur parmi les humains. Je n’étais pas métamorphe, non. J’étais le vilain canard, certains diraient-ils, mais j’étais au coude à coude avec ma famille dans ce combat.
J’étais, comme ma mère aimait le dire, leur arme la plus formidable.
Le lion frotta sa tête dans le creux de mon genou, m’arrachant malgré moi un sourire. Sa queue fouetta mes orteils exposés alors qu’il grognait, faisant les cent pas autour moi et le regard alerte.
— Silence, maintenant, dis-je en refermant les yeux, m’efforçant de retourner à cet état de transe qui m’était familier. Je peinais toujours à frôler cette dimension, malgré toutes ces heures passées à m’entraîner, en complète méditation. Il était difficile de saisir ce fil de folie entre ses mains, de tirer afin de défaire le voile me séparant de l’Invisible. Il était tout aussi simple de se perdre dans cette folie, pour quiconque ne pouvant garder son sang-froid à la vue des monstres y sommeillant.
Chaleur et obscurité inondèrent mes sens. J’y étais, enfin. Je naviguais dans les eaux brûlantes à la recherche d’un coupable inconnu. Il ne me fallait pas tirer la queue du mauvais démon, et ce risque me rendait plus nerveux que je ne le laissais paraître.
Ce sont ces mêmes sentiments de nervosité, de malaise, que je concentrai et projetai à travers des doigts invisibles. Tel un sourcier, je les brassai à travers l’obscurité, et c’est à ce moment, enfin, que je trouvai ce que je cherchais.
En début de soirée, sans même avoir échangé un mot, mon frère et moi avions réalisé une chose. Nous étions face à un ennemi nouveau, différent des djinns que nous, ou nos parents, avions combattu. Mansour avait rendu visite aux enfants retrouvés, essayant de traquer l’odeur de ce qui les avait enlevés. Je les avais vus, aussi, mes doigts contre leurs corps fiévreux à la recherche d’une trace énergétique. Sans aucun succès.
Il était clair, cependant, que cet ennemi n’était pas censé marcher sous nos cieux. C’était un être déphasé, à la nature étrangère à ce que nous connaissions.
Ce fut cette faille, ce défaut dans la symétrie des choses, qui allait me permettre de le traquer.
Ou peut-être, susurra une voix mesquine dans ma tête, veut-il que tu le trouves…
J’émergeai de ma transe en haletant, tel un noyé hors de l’eau, et empoignai l’encolure du lion. Nous échangeâmes un regard—ses yeux d’argent scrutant mes yeux bruns. A travers ce lien qui nous unissait, deux fragments d’une même âme, je lui transmis la piste que j’avais repérée, et il me prêta de sa vélocité surhumaine.
Sa voix sombre coula dans mon esprit. Je l’ai.
Ainsi commença la traque.
La dernière fillette que nous avions vue, quelques jours auparavant, était celle qui m’avait le plus hanté. Elle devait avoir sept ans, et était aussi frêle qu’une brindille. Elle n’avait disparu qu’une seule nuit ; pourtant, une empreinte immonde collait à son aura. Ses yeux étaient d’un noir intense, trop grands pour son visage. Ténébreux. Après l’avoir retrouvée, errant dans une ruelle poussiéreuse et criblée de déchets, ses parents avaient remarqué avec effroi qu’elle s’était mise à dévorer des insectes. Cafards, sauterelles alertes, et même ces énormes mouches au corps bleuté qui volaient paresseusement aux heures chaudes, tous finissaient dans sa bouche affamée. La fillette en voulait toujours plus, victime d’un appétit sans fin. Lorsque j’avais passé mes mains à quelques millimètres de sa peau, cherchant la source de cette souillure, le sourire vide et si tordu qu’elle m’avait lancé m’avait refroidi jusqu’à la moelle.
Je pensais ne plus jamais être aussi perturbé. Mais lorsque nous tombâmes sur l’esprit qui avait tant entaché les enfants de Bargny, le monde perdit tout son sens.
En réalité, il n’avait jamais été loin. Nous avions quitté le bosquet et avions traversé la route nationale, nous éloignant des habitations ensommeillées et en cavalant le long de la route de Yenne. La piste nous menait non loin de la nouvelle centrale électrique, dont les limites et les rebuts se rapprochaient dangereusement d’une autre partie habitée de la ville. Nous courions en silence, tout en évitant les phares scrutateurs des quelques camions qui roulaient à cette heure.
L’esprit, lui, n’avait pas pris la peine de se cacher. Je peinais déjà à reprendre mon souffle, épuisé par cette course folle sur les talons d’un métamorphe, mais je fis de mon mieux pour m’approcher en silence de la silhouette sombre.
De lourds nuages, d’un gris sale, avaient obstrué les rayons lunaires. Il se tenait près d’un petit canal, où coulait une eau noire et épaisse. Je dus plisser des yeux pour discerner ses contours, sans y parvenir. Se rajoutant à mon essoufflement, ce sentiment de malaise me submergea. Ma vue, et même mes autres sens, me trahirent au point où je me cramponnai à l’épaule de mon frère jumeau pour retrouver un semblant d’équilibre. Lui s’était arrêté en même temps que moi, mais avait déjà perdu la fine piste que nous avions suivie.
Des relents d’eau ancienne et de déchets âcres me fouettèrent les narines. L’odeur empira alors que l’esprit parut venir à notre rencontre, même si j’aurais pu jurer qu’il n’avait pas bougé d’un cheveu. Mansour, ne parvenant plus à contrôler son inconfort, éternua et secoua sa crinière. Je dus même effleurer d’un doigt l’Invisible, tentant de mieux voir notre ennemi.
Et je le vis.
Ses yeux m’ôtèrent mon sens du soi. Ils avaient la forme de ceux d’un bouc, mais ses pupilles étaient plus longues que larges, totalement noires. Ils étaient creusés dans un visage oblong, presque humain, aux lèvres fines et dénuées d’expression. Son corps était celui d’un lion…
Je secouai la tête, l’odeur me collant à la gorge et me piquant les yeux. Non, son corps était la caricature de celui d’un lion, démesuré, avec des articulations tortueuses et une peau glabre en lieu de crinière.
Mansour tituba sur ses larges pattes. Je faillis ne plus voir l’esprit, même s’il n’avait jamais disparu. Son pelage dégoulinait de cette eau noire et pestilentielle. Ses yeux, cependant, étaient rivés sur moi, dégoulinant de faim et d’autres sentiments si étranges. Un regard identique à celui de la petite dévoreuse d’insectes, réalisai-je.
Les mots m’avaient quitté. Je me retrouvais nez-à-nez avec une créature de cauchemar. Ni entièrement djinn, ni humaine.
Elle était autre.
Je ne vois rien.
La voix de Mansour ne perça pas la brume drapant mon esprit. Au contraire, c’était comme si je l’entendais de très loin, mais son malaise faisait écho au mien. Allons chercher autre part. Cet endroit n’est pas fait pour nous…
Je serrai son épaule encore plus fort. Si j’avais eu des griffes comme les siennes, elles auraient transpercé sa peau et l’auraient ancré comme je l’aurais voulu. Car dès qu’il eût un aperçu de ce que je voyais, Mansour se tint prêt à bondir.
Non !
Sous le choc de l’urgence imprégnant mes mots, Mansour reprit forme humaine. Une tunique blanche avait remplacé son pelage, lui effleurant les chevilles. Mes doigts autour de son coude, je pointai le menton vers l’esprit avant de répondre à sa question silencieuse.
— Regarde le sol autour de lui.
L’esprit se tenait sur ce qui avait été un lit de mauvaises herbes, si robustes qu’elles avaient percé, non sans peine, un sol si pollué. Ce qui était auparavant vert et têtu avait flétri ; les feuilles avaient comme fondu en ce liquide sombre et épais qui commençait à m’effrayer. Mansour frissonna de dégoût, sans doute parvenu aux mêmes conclusions que les miennes.
— Son être entier est poison, souffla Mansour. L’esprit continuait de m’observer, une joie malsaine émanant de son aura. Au lieu de plonger dans l’offensive, il avait préféré attendre une brusque attaque. Il était plus tangible, à présent. Je sentais qu’il aurait voulu que mon frère plante ses crocs dans sa chair, si chair il y avait, et il aurait été ravi d’avoir vaincu un métamorphe sans lever le petit doigt. Le poison aurait dévoré Mansour de l’intérieur.
— Je ne peux pas le combattre, comme avec n’importe quel autre djinn. Mais tu ne peux pas le toucher non plus, ajouta-t-il, faisant référence à mes dons.
Un mélange de frustration et de peur inavouée me serrait la gorge. Aucun entraînement ne nous avait préparé à une telle situation, à cet ennemi qui corrompait l’air, la matière autour de lui. Mansour était un combattant hors pair, et en dehors des sorts banals que je pouvais tisser, mon talent le plus précieux était celui de Réceptacle : en touchant n’importe quelle créature magique, je pouvais absorber ses dons et les rendre miens, ne serait-ce que pour un moment.
Cet esprit, cependant, m’observait dans une expectative fiévreuse, attendant que je le touche, ou que je lance une attaque dans sa direction. Nous savions tous qu’un contact avec son aura me serait fatal.
Je frémis, alors que la créature se rapprochait encore plus de nous. En une bravade stupide, Mansour tenta de se placer entre elle et moi, mais je l’écartai. Je la laissai s’approcher, son semblant de museau frôlant presque le mien alors qu’elle se mettait sur ses pattes arrières. D’aussi près, sa pestilence m’arracha des larmes.
Mon frère essaya de m’éloigner de la créature, aussi terrifié que je l’étais. Je ne laissai pas ma peur, ni ces relents de mort et de corruption, me distraire. Il me fallait regarder le mal en face, m’imprégner de sa puanteur et de son faciès obscène, afin d’en comprendre la nature.
Cette chose ne devrait pas exister, pensai-je, même si je m’adressai en réalité à mon jumeau.
Dans mon esprit défila le paysage que nous avions parcouru pendant notre course folle à travers Bargny. La ville avait autrefois été belle, nourrie et purifiée par la brise, les populations vivant en équilibre avec la nature et ses créatures. Il avait suffi de quelques années, après que différentes usines se soient installées ou aient excédé leurs limites, pour que l’équilibre vole en éclats.
Les nuages de fumée âcre se superposaient aux astres célestes, la pollution rampante qui noircissait la verdure et les eaux, qui avaient sans doute décimé animaux et végétaux. Ces miasmes, qui chassaient les habitants de leurs havres ancestraux, les poussant à reculer et à céder du terrain à l’industrie alors même qu’elle ôtait le poisson et la joie de leur bouche.
Cet esprit en était le fruit. Il avait peut-être été humain, animal ou djinn à l’origine, je n’en savais rien. Mais ces relents de colère, de domination de l’industrie sur ce qui avait été pur, en avaient entaché la nature. Cette même soif de corruption avait probablement conduit l’esprit à souiller les enfants de Bargny. Il ne se contentait plus de cette existence imméritée—il lui fallait répandre le mal.
Et nous devions y mettre un terme.
Prête-moi ta force, mon frère, dis-je sans un mot, ne déviant pas mon regard de la chose qui avait commencé à s’agiter.
Mansour ne réfléchit pas. Il glissa sa main dans la mienne, la serrant avec toute la confiance qu’il pouvait y imprégner. J’avais toujours été téméraire, certes, mais sentir que mon autre moitié était présente à mes côtés, me livrait aveuglément son être entier, fut la seule chose qui me permit de laisser cours à mon idée la plus folle.
Je puisai dans notre lien commun, et l’énergie immaculée me répondit avec ardeur. Nous fûmes tous les deux noyés par un halo si vif qu’il fit reculer l’esprit de plusieurs mètres—ce qui l’enragea.
Avec un cri aussi strident que de l’acier contre le verre, la chose se jeta sur nous, tous jeux abandonnés.
Nous avions beau être issus de parents métamorphes, notre arrière-grand-mère paternelle avait été djinn. Une créature cruelle, selon nos parents, dont les seules préoccupations avaient été sa soif de pouvoir et ses ruses. La Noire aurait même défié la mort pour nuire à sa descendance, et la moindre mention de son nom assombrissait les yeux de mon père.
Ce soir-là, je sondai ma propre aura à la recherche de son héritage de sang. Je creusai de manière effrénée, m’imaginant les ailes noires et le regard écarlate de mon ancêtre, alors que les remugles imprégnant le pelage de la créature perçaient les rayons lumineux.
Une lanière de feu sans fumée m’effleura les doigts, brûlante et fine contre ma peau. C’était peu, mais je m’en saisis comme si ma vie en dépendait, et donnai vie à la magie.
Des dizaines de doubles—reflets identiques de mon frère et moi—apparurent sur toute la surface de la clairière. La température monta, alors que les doubles se jetaient sur la créature rugissante.
— Des illusions, siffla mon frère, son regard brillant d’admiration.
Les djinns en étaient maîtres. Nos doubles, si tangibles qu’ils en semblaient presque réels, allaient me servir de chair à canon, distrayant suffisamment la créature afin que je puisse exécuter mon plan réel.
— J’ai encore besoin de toi, chuchotai-je, déjà à bout de souffle. Entre autres risques, je faisais face à la possibilité de perdre toute mon énergie. Les doubles se faisaient de moins en moins nombreux, brûlés par le contact corrosif de la créature.
Mansour hocha la tête et ferma les yeux. Je fis de même, et je fis cette fois-ci appel à la terre.
Les os ayant sommeillé sous son enveloppe depuis des siècles tendirent l’oreille. J’effleurai les racines des arbres qui suffoquaient sous les déchets et l’eau noire. La terre était blessée, dans cet endroit encore plus que d’autres, et il me fallait donner voix à cette douleur. Alors même que l’esprit décimait les doubles nous séparant de lui, je brandis branches, eaux souterraines et couronnes d’épines en un étau contre lui.
Les éléments jaillirent du sol avec ferveur et s’agglutinèrent autour de l’esprit. Ils étaient un rappel : qu’il était une aberration, que la nature se fraierait toujours un chemin à travers la corruption. J’y croyais avec chaque fibre de mon être, et peu importait ce que cette chose me lancerait à la figure, ma conviction ne flancherait pas.
Lorsque c’en fut trop, l’esprit essaya de fuir à travers l’Invisible—ce que j’avais secrètement espéré. Vacillant sur mes jambes, je déversai encore plus d’énergie dans mon emprise sur les éléments, car lorsque les lanières végétales le suivirent, les djinns s’éveillèrent également.
C’étaient des êtres de petite taille, affiliés aux vestiges de tamarin, de jujube et de nebedaye que j’avais libérés du sol. Autrefois, lorsque les savoirs ancestraux brûlaient toujours dans le cœur des hommes, c’était à ces djinns de la nature que les guérisseurs faisaient des éloges, sollicitant humblement leur autorisation avant de prélever racine, feuille ou fleur de l’arbre à des fins médicinales. Leurs oreilles pointues frétillaient à présent, encadrant des visages déformés par la rage. Ils jaillirent des coins et recoins de l’Invisible, leurs yeux rouges étincelants à la vue de la chose qui ne devait pas exister.
Je ne fis que maintenir les attaches de verdure en place, extatique devant ses cris de bête égorgée. La créature fut impuissante face à leurs crocs assoiffés—elle était l’incarnation de tout ce qui les avaient tués à petit feu, souillant la terre qui leur avait donné naissance. Par centaines, les djinns la déchiquetèrent, parce qu’elle avait pénétré dans leur monde où elle n’avait plus aucun pouvoir. Ils étaient l’armée de cette nature qu’elle avait opprimée, et je faillis me perdre dans leur multitude, leur colère. Devant tant de furie, le poison auparavant redoutable de la créature devint insignifiant. Elle fut réduite en une mare de boue fétide qui ne remua plus.
Par leur biais, ce fut la Nature elle-même qui défit ce qui n’aurait jamais dû être fait.
— Momar ?
J’ouvris les yeux et le regrettai aussitôt. Une migraine imprégnait mes tempes, comme si un sabar se déchaînait sous ma voûte crânienne, et du sang avait coagulé sous mes narines. Mansour fut si soulagé de me voir éveillé qu’il me donna, bien entendu, un coup de poing solide sur l’épaule.
— Je pensais t’avoir perdu, vieux fou.
Je souris à travers la douleur. Il m’avait allongé contre la roue de la voiture, que nous avions étonnamment regagnée—il avait dû courir en me transportant entre ses bras. Les premières lueurs de l’aube poignaient à l’horizon ; un vent glacial me cinglait le visage tout en me redonnant un peu de vigueur.
— On en a fini avec… la chose ? croassai-je alors qu’il me tendait une tasse d’eau et un comprimé blanc qu’il avait tiré de l’intérieur de la Jeep.
Il hocha la tête, me scrutant d’un regard pensif.
— J’ai eu vraiment peur, cette fois-ci. Tu n’étais pas totalement dans l’Invisible, mais c’était comme si tu étais présent et lointain à la fois.
— Comment as-tu su, alors ?
— Je l’ai entendue crier, répondit-il en frémissant. Parce que tu utilisais une partie de mon énergie, j’ai peut-être eu un aperçu de ce que tu sentais.
Je hochai la tête à mon tour, et fus aussi surpris que lui lorsque j’étendis un bras pour le passer autour de ses épaules. J’avais besoin de le sentir vivant, et je dus admettre que j’avais eu plus peur pour sa sécurité que pour la mienne. Nous restâmes un long moment silencieux, autant en parole qu’en esprit. A une telle distance, elle était invisible à nos yeux, mais nous étions conscients de la présence accablante de l’usine : un tel monstre, qui vomissait tant de poison, ne devait pas exister en ces lieux.
Les habitants de Bargny allaient devoir soigner leurs enfants perdus par leurs propres moyens—nous ne pouvions plus rien y faire. Ils étaient néanmoins robustes, tout comme leurs terres, et je savais qu’ils allaient bien se défendre.
Mais cet endroit continuerait de souffrir, tant que l’industrie sera une passerelle à la cupidité des hommes. J’étais toujours inquiet pour la fillette aux yeux noirs : ne deviendrait-elle pas autre, à l’image de ce que nous venions de combattre ? A présent que la faille avait été ouverte, nous allions devoir garder un œil sur eux, sur le plan visible et invisible.
Je chassai l’air de mes poumons et fermai les yeux. Un léger sourire étira mes lèvres—nous avions remporté une bataille, ce qui nous attendait n’était plus intimidant.
Avec Mansour à mes côtés, j’étais prêt à affronter tout ce qui allait ramper hors de la boue noire.
Fin
Moustapha Mbacke Diop Biography. French : Moustapha Mbacké Diop est un auteur sénégalais, étudiant en cinquième année de médecine et passionné de lectures spéculatives à ses heures perdues. Ses œuvres sont ancrées dans les cultures et mythes africains, publiées en français ainsi qu’en anglais. Il est l’auteur de la trilogie Teranga Chronicles et de la nouvelle A Curse At Midnight, publiée dans le magazine britannique Mythaxis. English : Moustapha Mbacké Diop is a Senegalese author living in Dakar. He is in his fourth year of medical school, and when he’s not stressing about finals or hospital rounds, he reads and writes mainly fantasy. Obsessed with mythology and African folklore, he has published an urban fantasy trilogy written in French, named Teranga Chronicles, and his short story, A curse at Midnight, was published in the British magazine Mythaxis.
Aujourd’hui, cela fait un mois que la dame est partie. Elle était différente des autres et, d’une certaine manière, nous la craignions parce qu’elle insistait pour que l’électronique new age n’entre pas dans sa maison, ce que ma génération trouvait plus effrayant que les discours sur les fantômes et les apparitions dans les aubes du village. Et en plus de cela, elle avait ce truc énigmatique que nous n’avons jamais compris, elle parlait incessamment des Témoins de l’histoire, à cause de cela les villageois ne lui rendaient pas visite parce qu’ils pensaient qu’elle était folle, mais ce n’était pas tout à fait vrai. Lorsqu’ils avaient besoin d’une aide médicale que l’assistance publique n’offrait pas, le petit matin était la couverture parfaite pour ceux qui se tournaient vers cette dame pour obtenir un soulagement à leurs douleurs visibles ou non.
La plupart ne l’ont jamais cru, mais elle prétendait avoir été infirmière à une époque très différente de la nôtre et, à vrai dire, elle était la plus lucide d’entre nous.
« Oh, ma fille, encore toi ? Pourquoi insister si vous n’êtes jamais admise ? »
« Mais cette fois, je veux entrer… »
« Vous le jurez ? Eh bien, je vais vous dire, mademoiselle, vous ne serez plus jamais la même. »
« Je sais, mais je ne sais pas pourquoi je veux tant savoir. »
Cela a fait mouche auprès de la vieille dame à l’époque, une dame à la peau aussi noire que la mienne, aux yeux brouillés à force de voir le monde, mais toujours aussi vibrants, et pour couronner le tout, elle avait ce sourcil droit qui montait en flèche sans que je comprenne comment.
« Hé, Kinah ? Vous m’entendez ? » – a demandé l’employé à distance de l’association des résidents du village par le biais du moniteur de l’araignée de livraison du voisinage. J’ai répondu oui, mais pour moi c’était juste… je ne peux même pas dire. Je sais seulement que recevoir la boîte de la dame, ses affaires, qui m’étaient destinées après son départ était quelque chose que je ne pourrais jamais imaginer. Mais elle était là, la boîte sur le dos de la bête métallique, enveloppée dans un tissu blanc et bien emballée.
La dame s’était préparée pour ce moment, elle avait tout fait pour coïncider avec son dernier jour, ne laissant rien en suspens, sauf ma curiosité devant cette boîte avec le cadenas que seul moi saurais ouvrir, disait la note, mais j’ai hésité pendant tout ce mois à ouvrir la boîte. Je me réveillais, je tombais dessus et je me demandais si c’était le jour ou pas. Et comme je l’ai dit, il m’a fallu du temps pour sentir qu’il était temps d’affronter ce changement définitif, parce que j’étais absolument sûre que c’était ce qu’il y avait dans la boîte, un changement sans retour en arrière, comme le jour où je l’ai rencontrée.
« Voilà, c’est tout… on ne tourne plus autour du pot. Je vais ouvrir cette boîte et résoudre votre dernière énigme pour moi, vieille dame. J’accepte votre défi. », ai-je pensé, avant de faire un demi-sourire, de prendre la boîte et de l’ouvrir.
J’ai enlevé le tissu qui la recouvrait et c’était là, une boîte entièrement fabriquée à la main avec des découpes et des peintures. Je n’avais jamais rien vu de tel, c’était personnel et dédié à moi, très différent de l’emballage standard laid et brillant ou réfléchissant. La boîte à elle seule était un cadeau inégalé dans le monde entier. Mais la dame avait sûrement quelque chose de plus important en tête et j’étais prête à le découvrir.
« Mais qu’est-ce que ça peut être ? » Je me suis demandé, en éliminant déjà l’évidence, la date d’anniversaire, le numéro de la maison. Il devait s’agir d’une chose que moi seule connaissais, tirée de mes rencontres avec elle. Et j’étais prête à être en retard au travail, ça en valait la peine, parce que j’avais quelque chose de mieux en tête.
« Cette serrure a six chiffres. Elle n’a pas dû rendre celle-ci difficile… ça doit être la date à laquelle elle est devenue infirmière. » Je l’ai testé et ça a marché. La boîte bénie s’est ouverte et à l’intérieur il y avait un livret d’instructions sur les plantes qu’elle cultivait au pied de la colline, sur le but de chacune d’entre elles. J’ai aussi trouvé de vieilles photos d’une femme souriante, la dame, très heureuse d’être infirmière. J’ai parcouru l’album image par image et j’ai remarqué quelque chose dans les deux dernières, le visage de cette jeune femme avait changé, il était sérieux, ainsi que ses collègues, tous le poing fermé et levé, mais marqués d’un “x”, sauf elle.
Au moment où j’ai compris ce que cela signifiait, la dame était la dernière personne vivante dans ce groupe, tous étaient partis depuis si longtemps qu’il était possible de penser qu’ils ne vivaient que dans sa mémoire. Et au dos des deux photos, j’ai lu le prénom de chacune de ces personnes et je me suis demandé ce que cela signifiait. Et un détail a attiré mon attention, derrière le groupe, en arrière-plan, j’ai vu de petits et innombrables réflexes rouges, arrondis, reflétant l’éclat de la lumière qui a illuminé cette dernière réunion. Il n’était pas possible de savoir où ils avaient été emmenés, mais il y avait une aura de bravoure en chacun d’eux.
Puis j’ai entendu le deuxième appel, le bien-être réclamait mes bras bon marché qui n’étaient pas encore partis au travail et chaque jour cela me rendait plus angoissée, mais même ce sentiment allait attendre. J’avais quelque chose de mieux à faire, pour comprendre la raison de cet héritage et j’ai cherché à me dépêcher de découvrir l’objet qu’elle voulait et que je trouvais définitivement insolite, la véritable énigme, et j’ai trouvé : une clé. Et la certitude n’a fait qu’augmenter lorsque j’ai réalisé que le dessin était le même que celui sur les uniformes d’elle et de ses collègues sur les vieilles photos.
Pour la troisième et dernière fois, la phrase misérable venant dans le vent m’a averti qu’il était temps de retourner dans ma réalité une fois pour toutes ou qu’il valait mieux être malade ou morte pour ne pas faire l’objet d’une enquête et courir le risque de perdre des choses ou de finir entre les mains des Vigilants pour une conversation, la première, amicale. Je me suis donc empressée de ranger la boîte et de cacher la clé dans la fausse planche du plancher de la cuisine.
J’étais prête à partir quand une pensée m’est venue, cette clé était neuve et était moulée à l’arrière de la maison de la dame, dans le sol bleuté sous l’évier. Je suis allé la chercher. Mais pourquoi me la donnerait-elle ? Je n’ai pas compris jusqu’à ce que je voie le nom d’un secteur recyclable dessus, qui se trouve dans la zone des ruines des Cités oubliées. Et soudain, un désir sincère de retourner les décombres a serré mon cœur, j’ai tout mis en place et j’ai couru, à temps pour voir un exode vide en descente, allant remplir la ville où nous ne vivions pas avec des valeurs qui ne reviendraient pas du tout avec nous.
Le voyage a duré environ une heure et vingt minutes, ils nous jetaient par région et collectaient les citoyens. Entre un événement et l’autre, les moniteurs d’information répétaient : « Faites-nous confiance en tant que source d’information officielle. » et, pour la première fois, j’ai décidé de ne pas être d’accord avec cette vérité avec laquelle cette société a grandi et j’ai commencé à me méfier de la mémoire officielle qui nous a amenés jusqu’à aujourd’hui, car les photos de la dame me racontaient une autre histoire. Les gens y étaient proches, je les ai vus à des tables discuter sans vérifier électroniquement si ce qu’ils disaient coïncidait avec les paroles du gouvernement. Tout était comme ça, le moindre désaccord majeur et vous étiez invité à clarifier où vous aviez obtenu telle information et votre vie pouvait basculer, car il y avait toujours quelqu’un prêt à soutenir la vérité du système sans se soucier de la vérité des gens. Et enfin, nous sommes arrivés.
La fouille s’est faite comme d’habitude et nous avons rejoint les wagons qui nous ont répartis dans les secteurs des anciennes villes. Mon secteur était à deux kilomètres de l’emplacement de la clé et rien que d’y penser, mon cœur bondissait d’angoisse. Je voulais y courir, mais j’avais besoin d’attendre au moins l’entracte, parce que penser que j’avais dans ma botte un objet qui me donnerait accès à quelque chose que quelqu’un a vu, a été témoin, m’a donné le courage pour la première fois de ne pas me soucier des conséquences toujours vantées du gouvernement.
Je pense que c’est la raison pour laquelle la dame n’a pas autorisé l’électronique dans sa maison, car celui qui y entre ferait l’expérience de dépendre de lui-même et de communiquer avec une autre personne, de comparer les faits, de s’enquérir de ce qu’il ne sait pas, de chercher par lui-même les réponses aux lacunes. Et j’étais là, accroupie, triant les matériaux avec cette seule pensée en tête.
Le moment est enfin arrivé, l’heure du déjeuner est annoncée par un vieux camion qui passe devant les groupes de collecteurs et distribue des boîtes à lunch et un gallon d’eau. J’ai glissé mon marqueur d’impulsion sur l’horloge du camion et je suis allée chercher un endroit pour déjeuner.
« Kinah, où déjeunes tu ? Reste ici… »
« Pas question, parce que le gallon d’eau d’hier s’est transformé en pipi juste là et je ne vais pas déjeuner là. Laisse-moi tranquille, je vais manger et dormir. »
J’ai donc réussi à prendre la distance nécessaire pour marcher hors de portée des yeux de quiconque dans le groupe et j’ai attendu prudemment que le camion disparaisse pour m’assurer que personne ne verrait où je vais. Et ayant la confirmation que j’étais seule, j’ai soupiré comme jamais auparavant dans ma vie, la veine de mon front se gonflant de curiosité et de tension, mais je n’avais pas le temps pour cela.
Je me suis donc empressée de prendre la direction de cette clé, de cette histoire de la dame qui n’a pas encore été racontée, et je me suis mise en route prudemment, mais aussi rapidement. Je suis allée sauter par-dessus tous ces morceaux de briques couverts de buissons. Et j’ai beaucoup marché, pendant une heure en dehors de la zone des collectionneurs, jusqu’à ce que j’atteigne ma destination, sans possibilité de retour. Oui, parce que je n’ai aucun moyen de retourner dans le temps et de prétendre que rien n’est arrivé. C’était toujours une rue à sens unique et j’étais là, devant un hôpital ou ce qu’il en restait, le cratère était géant et il n’y avait presque pas de premier étage, mais s’il y avait une clé c’est qu’il y avait encore quelque chose à découvrir et quand j’ai atteint l’arrière du bâtiment j’ai vu le symbole de la clé sur un morceau de mur au sol. J’y suis allée, j’ai poussé, poussé et puis j’ai trouvé une entrée, une porte en fer que l’on pouvait faire glisser, c’était quelque chose de nouveau, donc…
Je suis descendue et j’ai fermé l’entrée, mais en deux pas à l’intérieur, j’ai été frappée sur le front. C’était un sac, je l’ai ouvert et il y avait une torche toute neuve, je l’ai prise, j’ai suivi le couloir plein de choses jetées par terre, et quand j’ai éclairé les murs j’ai réalisé, ce n’était pas un hôpital mais une université. La dame avait été mon professeur.
J’ai donc suivi le couloir et au bout, je suis tombé sur un escalier, il ne semblait pas fiable, mais c’était le seul chemin et je suis resté collé au mur pendant quatre étages jusqu’à ce que j’atteigne un autre couloir avec des montants en métal. De là où j’étais je pouvais voir qu’il y avait une faible lumière dans la pièce en face de moi, j’ai dit bonjour et j’ai entendu la porte grincer, quelqu’un est venu ouvrir et pour ma surprise c’était un robot d’un mètre, blanc et avec le visage arrondi-moniteur avec une manière enfantine, souriant.
Art, Sunny Efemena
« Bonjour mademoiselle, veuillez vous identifier par l’objet qui vous a amené ici. »
J’étais abasourdie, j’ai fouillé dans mes poches, j’ai sorti la clé et le robot l’a allumée, l’a lue, puis a souri et a dit : « Les gars, madame le docteur Zali, vous avez réussi. Kinah est là ! »
À ce moment-là, le petit robot m’a fait signe de le suivre. Je n’ai pas réfléchi, j’ai couru jusqu’à la porte, je l’ai ouverte et j’ai vu beaucoup de robots comme celui-là et aussi des gens qui travaillaient sur des ordinateurs que je n’avais jamais vus auparavant. Ce qui m’a distrait un instant de la joie de tous ceux qui ont commencé à se présenter était l’étonnement de ma présence là comme un bon signe.
Le groupe s’est présenté et m’a expliqué ce qu’ils faisaient : ils étaient la deuxième génération de résistants au gouvernement qui a réécrit l’histoire du pays sans les personnes, c’est-à-dire l’histoire que tout le monde connaît un fait, mais pas les noms des gens qui y ont participé. C’est alors qu’ils m’ont montré une grande photo, celle de Mme Zali, avec ses collègues médecins, scientifiques et éducateurs, sur laquelle ils souriaient tous parce qu’ils gardaient l’espoir de croire qu’ils trouveraient des gens, même au sein du système avec ses menaces, prêts à changer. Et j’étais le dernier pari de la dame.
Une vérité sans témoins et sans rapports doit toujours être considérée comme suspecte, cette phrase était écrite sur tous les murs et ces robots feraient partie d’une nouvelle entreprise. Le groupe a réussi à infiltrer les communautés choisies par le gouvernement pour le contrôle de l’éducation publique. C’était un fait que l’éducation dans les périphéries était différente de celle dispensée dans les centres, non pas en termes de contenu, mais en termes d’applicabilité et de profondeur, et ces robots avaient une double fonction : interférer dans la logique éducative des étudiants de dernière année, envoyés chaque année à des concours éducatifs dans lesquels ils perdent toujours, non seulement l’estime de soi, mais des postes, des places dans l’enseignement supérieur, etc.
L’idée est de les infiltrer l’année prochaine, lors de la précédente sélection des étudiants pour les Jeux méritocratiques, en camouflant dans le profil un second profil, celui des étudiants aptes à participer à une révolution, ceux qui se méfient déjà du système. Et ce faisant, ils souhaitent créer un environnement propice à une autre fonction cruciale, l’infiltration et l’implosion du système qui soutient le régime autoritaire.
Tout le monde est donc anxieux, il ne reste que quelques mois pour tester la double fonction des robots qui permettront de pirater le système des jeux, lâche et inégal. Et pendant que les jeux se déroulent, les robots présents sur place avec les équipes insèrent quelque chose comme des bombes logiques autour du système central qui présente une faille, exposée le jour de la victoire en se connectant à toutes les bases de données, laissant le système de sécurité et la banque historique vulnérables. L’idée est de remplacer et de pulvériser des millions de zirobytes de données et de témoignages de personnes sur l’histoire et les cultures du pays, le coup d’État et tout ce que le système autoritaire croit avoir éteint, mais qui a été sauvé par les chercheurs des premiers robots médicaux de l’époque, cachés dans le sous-sol de l’université avant le chaos.
La jeune femme entend tout et se rend vite compte de l’importance de ce qui se fait là, elle veut rester, mais elle ne peut pas. La dame voulait la voir à sa place, en reprenant la maison, point de rencontre des rebelles, de ces fantômes et des visiteurs aperçus à l’aube dans la communauté. Son retour se fera par l’infirmerie, un food truck avec un allié qui l’attend pour la renvoyer à sa journée de travail sans que personne ne le remarque.
Kinah accepte de prendre la place de la dame et dit au revoir à tout le monde. Et découvre que malheureusement elle ne pourra pas revenir avant la période des jeux. Ce n’est pas ce qu’elle voudrait, mais elle est heureuse.
En quittant le bâtiment, elle a la sensation que le coucher de soleil est différent, annonçant un nouveau jour à l’horizon. De la liberté de savoir d’où elle vient, qui elle est vraiment et de spéculer sur les possibilités de l’avenir comme elle l’imagine et le souhaite. Ce jour viendrait pour d’autres un jour, mais pour Kinah, c’était déjà une réalité sans la moindre chance de revenir à ce qu’elle était avant la dame qui lui a appris à connaître les siens, qui était déjà là, qui est venue, les joies, les peines et, malgré les jours pas faciles à venir, la gratitude dans les mots de tous les siens.
Mukuiu. Motumbá. Kolofé.
Répondez si vous savez d’où vous venez.
Luciene Marcelino Ernesto, better known as Lu Ain-Zaila is an Afro-Brazilian pedagogue and writer of science fiction and fantastic literature. She has a degree in Pedagogy from the State University of Rio de Janeiro, and in 2007 she published her first story, the short story O Caminho Sankofa de Nande in the magazine Eparrei. In 2015, after a visit to the Rio de Janeiro Book Biennial, the author realized that there were no books in which she could be identified, she then decided to create a semi-dystopian science fiction story in the Duology Brazil 2408, composed of the novels (In) Verdades (2016) and (R) Evolução (2017), released independently, the novels tell the story of a black heroine named Ena, who fights against corruption in 25th century Brazil. In 2018, she launched a crowdfunding project on the Benfeitoria website, the book Sankofia: brief Afrofuturist stories, containing short stories ranging from Afrofuturism to Sword and Soul, an Afrocentric variant of the Sword and Sorcery subgenre, starring black characters. In 2022, she launched a crowdfunding campaign on the Catarse website for Sankofia 2.0.
I think it is because they bled blue blood and not red like ours that they were the objects of such heinous actions. Or perhaps it is because they had wings for scapulars, and tails for buttocks. Or maybe it was those marble eyes that reflected the stars beneath the sky at night or their humility and strength that made them easy targets. Is it because they didn’t look like us? Perhaps that was enough for them to be beaten senselessly and mercilessly into pulps. I watched their blood drip onto the ground. It mixed with the soil and transformed into a blue-black hue that all together formed a newer, unfamiliar material of sand. It was then that I became aware of the power of these humanoids that had sprouted out of mushrooms, wandering around every yard, confused and limber, before subtly marking and making their place into our township.
#
Pretoria Department of Defence: July 30th
“So young man I believe you were there when it all happened,” Lieutenant Roland Motau says in his deep commanding voice, sitting on the station’s metallic table and crossing his muscular arms over his broad chest.
“Yes sir,” the young man on the chair in front of the Lieutenant nods.
“And you say it was like some Terminator stuff?” the Lieutenant asks, staring into the young man’s rounded double lens spectacles.
“Well, I didn’t put it like that,” the young man says, speaking from the pinnacle of his nostrils as if the words are bridged there. “It was surreal,” he adds.
Lieutenant Motau examines him quietly; his full head of afro, his bespectacled eyes, his tiny body and his nauseating accent in which every word is well articulated and poise, reminiscent of an ancient British play, and not at all what the Lieutenant expects a young man from the township to sound like. Then he turns to his partner, Lieutenant Lucia Visagie, who stands in the corner of the room huffing and puffing on a cigarette, listening in on the conversation.
“It’s all in the pictures,” the young man replies nervously at the Lieutenant before eyeing the collage of photographs scattered on the metallic table.
“Rudzani, right?” Lieutenant Visagie finally speaks, throws her cigarette bud on the ground, crushes it with her boot and walks toward the table. Rudzani nods.
“You took all these pictures?” she asks.
“Yes ma’am, I’m a photographer, a freelance photojournalist for a local publication,” Rudzani explains, suddenly no longer proud to call out his profession.
“So, since you’re a journalist of some sort, you can give us a full report on the events of July 12th?” Lieutenant Visagie says. The two lieutenants are people of the law after all, and Rudzani fears people of the law more than criminals themselves. Their singular arms are bigger than his scrawny body, their faces are cold and show no emotion, the bass in their voices make Rudzani’s heart tremble and when their big boots touch the ground they form potholes in his soul. Their presence alone, the simple act of breathing, is intimidating to Rudzani, hence he follows any order given to him.
He adjusts his glasses steadily on his eyes and nose; wipes sweat from his forehead and prepares to take his mind back to the days he never thought he’d relive so soon, the days that lead to July 12th.
#
It had been raining for a week. One week turned into two, then three. It rained like the sun would no longer be; sometimes it rained softly but most times heavily. I tried to remember if the people had angered the water deities again like they had done a year before in the Vaal area when those five men went scavenging for snakes in the dam to sell in the black market. They searched on the ground for the cold-blooded reptiles, poked sticks into the sand and made funny hissing sounds with their tongues, to lure them into their direction, but their search was futile.
So they moved their scavenge to the water, threw stones into the lake, made funny noises with their tongues again and when the water began to move aggressively, almost dragging them into its deep end they wrestled with the current until they pulled a python, larger and heavier than the five of them, out onto dry ground.
They wrestled and ran, returned and poked at it with pangas and bricks and axes till at last, after an hour of fighting back, it lay lifeless on the ground. The men were seen parading in the Vaal township of Sebokeng with the creature on their shoulders. Boastful and proud of what they’d done, they sold its skin to the black market and supposedly blew the money on alcohol and meat during the weekend.
The Vaal dam went dry that year, it ceased to rain, and whenever it did, it was never enough to fill the taps and quench the residents’ thirsts. The deities were steadily washing us away, but people did so much bad in the presence of nature that I couldn’t pinpoint which bad was responsible for the heavy rains. I was terrified. The thought of drowning made my mind uneasy. When newsrooms reported that other parts of the country like Kwazulu Natal were ravaged by the heavy rains and flooding, I waited for my town to be next. But it wasn’t rain or floods that ravaged Kwa-Thema, but a peculiar species of mushroom that began to blossom after the rain.
In every home, on open ground, this particular species of mushroom grew varying in colour from the darkest brown to a deep charcoal black. It was much like a family of fairy rings and death caps; one could tell only by their colours that they were not, in fact, fairy rings and death caps but a newly formed species. These mushrooms were too grotesque for people’s liking and as with any other thing that was too grotesque or too unique to the people of Kwa-Thema, the mushrooms were ignored, dug out, chopped off or burned into odious ashes. Little did we know that these mushrooms had lives of their own; they lived and breathed the air we breathed. They did not take kindly to being removed, so they grew back and when they grew back, they multiplied, becoming an uncontrollable infestation in the township.
“These are the signs of the end of days” the devoted Christians in our community would preach.
“We have to pray harder”
The harder they prayed, the bigger the mushrooms grew as if they fed on the words of prayer, their undeterred faith, their hymns and loud Amen’s’. They grew taller than the tallest cannabis tree, taller than our brick fences and faster than the speed of light.
“These can’t be normal mushrooms,” I said to my mama one night while we washed the dishes and peeped out the window, staring at the species growing in the yard outside our kitchen window.
“Mmm, this is completely abnormal. They just don’t die,” Mama said, wiping an already dry plate.
“Is that one moving?” she pointed outside, grabbing my attention.
For a moment, we watched in silence as the mushrooms moved again.
“Just a moment,” I said and by then I had hurried to grab my camera, which always lay fully charged on my bed, ready for action. By the time mama called me out again, I had slid out of the bedroom.
“Rudzani!” she yelled as I poured into the kitchen, capturing the bursting mushrooms through my lens, splitting open like cocoons, revealing what looked like human feet.
“Oh my,” Mama exclaimed when what looked like spines curved like C’s followed. Spines that stretched themselves until they stood upright, exposing the naked flesh of a human being.
The flesh was the same colours as the mushrooms, dark brown like cocoa nibs and a deep black like charcoal. When these humanoids moved, their bodies were limber-like elastic bands, with joints loose as if lacking bone.
They had eyes like marbles, black and glass-like, and when they moved it was as if they were dancing a sacred dance. Mama and I concluded that although they looked like us in some ways, in many ways, they were not human. But when we saw their full head of dreadlocks, the woollen antennae facing the sky; we had a change of mind and concluded that indeed they were human, a special kind of human.
“My god, Rudzani, they have tails,” Mama spoke in astonishment.
“And wings,” I added, puzzled by the unusual appearance and no longer knowing what to call them.
I captured several pictures of the humanoids; pictures that I had no intention of publishing from the moment they slid out of the mushrooms to the moment they wandered in our yard. Every moment lived in my lens. Mama and I were in awe, rather than scared. Somehow we knew that the people of Kwa-Thema would not react like us, and we did not have to wait long because soon, we heard them scream. They cursed at the humanoids, threw stones which hit their neighbours’ windows, hid in their houses and locked all doors, and from their locked houses they screamed, shouted, and yelled profanities.
“In Jesus’s name! I rebuke!” the older women yelled “Rebuke!” they cried.
It was then that our lives changed, for Jesus didn’t come to save us as they often preached that he would, neither did he warn even the most devoted and prophetically gifted of them all, of the coming of these peculiar humanoid species.
#
“What’s this?” Lieutenant Visagie points at a picture of Rudzani standing shoulder to shoulder with the humanoids.
“You’re friends with them?” She asks. Rudzani nods.
“Elizu,” he smiles and points. “She’s a special friend I made”
”She’s very kind and knowledgeable, especially on plants. She loves gardening and yellow lilies. She taught me that when I plant seeds into the ground, I have to speak to them and ask them to grow abundantly,” he adds, then chuckles.
“I taught her how to say my name”
His eyes light up when he expresses his experience with the humanoids, but the light illuminates brighter when he mentions Elizu’s name. There is passion in his voice. Though softly spoken, it is filled with warmth.
“They’re worth getting to know,” he continues. “They’re good companions, nurturing and… powerful,” he says.
“Powerful? How?” Lieutenant Visagie asks.
“They can pick up just about anything, even a baobab tree. They can do things too, magical things like heal and read minds and speak to the people on the other side of life,” Rudzani adds. The Lieutenants look at each other and consider his former statement some sort of mind play or sick joke. They would have laughed at him if they could, but they cannot, because they’ve been taught to suppress joy.
“What did you talk about?” Lieutenant Visagie asks.
“They can’t really talk, they groan and mumble mostly, but their actions usually speak louder than words,” Rudzani continues.
“Sometimes,” he pauses. “Sometimes I think that they are the future of this earth”
“Bullshit, then what will become of us?” Visagie asks. “Are they going to eat us alive or at least kill us first?”
“No,” Rudzani replies. “In a space close to two years some of our people have gone on to reproduce with them so I highly doubt that they’ll kill us” he points to a picture of a baby girl with skin like cocoa and eyes like marble and a head full of curly black hair.
“They’ve gone on to create a species of ugly mutants,” Lieutenant Motau snarls at the picture.
“Ugly is subjective, sir,” Rudzani interjects. “Maybe your definitions of it will make the world a better place.” He avoids the lieutenant’s eyes for fear of getting smacked across the face.
Instead, Lieutenant Motau throws a picture of a group of men and women dressed in bright yellow t-shirts in Rudzani’s face and gestures with his finger for him to speak.
“The people,” Rudzani responds. “They’re the reason why July 12th happened”
#
When the humanoids blossomed into the township, we thought their invasion would be temporary and something odd that we’d record into history books. But the year flew by, then came the festive season. It passed too and before we knew it, we had ventured into the New Year, halfway through it, and still they remained. It became clear; if hadn’t been before, that they hadn’t blossomed onto to earth to be mere visitors, they were occupants, and just like us had marked their place on earth and would only be separated from it through death.
The men and women of Kwa-Thema, both young and old, lived in fear of the humanoids. The children didn’t make fun of them, as they often did with other unfamiliar things, and the adults didn’t gossip loudly about them in public spaces, as they often did about other odd things. Neither of us knew what their purpose was on earth or why they had chosen to land in our community because nothing astounding ever happens in Kwa-Thema. We did not know what they were – people or extraterrestrial beings – although, we often considered them Extraterrestrial, so people chose to call them Hooms, a derivative of humans and mushrooms. The Hooms lived among us, but unlike us, they cultivated a life of sustainable living as well as good morals and deeds, and they had hearts like water, pure and free. They were well versed in herbal medicine and plant life and could heal just about any sickness known to humankind. They spoke with rocks and stones and stars and the rocks and stones and stars spoke back to them. I grew fond of them, spent a large portion of my time with Elizu and her family, eating their food, drinking their drinks and teaching them my language.
It was clear, at least to me, that they had no ill intentions toward the people, and that they came to earth on a greater mission, one that I was prepared to uncover and indeed one worth uncovering still. But because they were hard to look at, with those elastic bodies and marble eyes, and because they came into our town mysteriously, people chose to turn a blind eye and instead confused their hatred as fear.
Such hateful individuals were our community leaders, made up of Pfarofero my father, Teenage our neighbour and my father’s drinking partner, and Aus’ Angie, a local tavern owner. They took it upon themselves to take the community’s grievances about Hooms to our ward councillor, Cynthia Ndlophe, but when they discovered that she had moved to the suburbs, far from Kwa-Thema, they were agitated and unsettled that she had run away from the people she vowed to serve. My father, Teenage and Aus’ Angie knocked on the doors of the most prestige people in government, but they were too afraid to visit our township. So the disgruntled community leaders took matters into their own hands and formed the association known as The People.
It was no shocker to me or Mama that The People grew rapidly in numbers and reputation. My father was a force in the community; one who protested like he came out of the womb with his fists and legs kicking in the air. He lived for strikes and shutdowns and loved the smell of burning tyres more than he did mama’s cooking. Teenage and Aus’ Angie were great alike. Self-proclaimed comrades, they loved the idea of unrest just as much as my father. These three had protested themselves into pillars of the community, therefore anything and everything they said, whether just or unjust, people heard and followed no questions asked.
The People held their meetings in community and school halls; they spoke at the top of their lungs calling for the removal of Hooms. They announced that their lives and the reputation of the township were in danger, that human reproduction was in danger and that these marble-eyed mutants were going to destroy humanity if we were not careful enough. They all agreed that they were going to do what the government always failed to do, and that was to act for the betterment of the people. So as a demonstration of taking action, the People began to harass the Hooms in public spaces, by spitting where they walked or passed by, they banned them from mingling with human beings and spat at any human being who refused to separate themselves from them. They yelled out profanities at their marble-eyed children. But the more they harassed, the faster the Hooms multiplied, causing an untouchable rage within the people.
“Sadly, these Hooms only seem to multiply the more we speak,” my father said to mama one night at our dinner table.
“We are left with no other choice as concerned citizens but to attack,” he said. Mama looked at me, worried, and I looked away, pitiful that I shared the same blood with that man.
“Rudzani, you’re so quiet. I need you by my side,” my father commanded.
“You need to put that toy down for once and be a man,” he added.
“Did you not play enough with toys as a child?” he continued, shoving a medium rare steak into his mouth before waiting for me to speak. I looked at Mama, worried. It showed through my eyelids, wincing at fast irregular intervals, one immediately after the other.
“I’m going to wash the dishes,” I said instead, got up from the table and moved away.
“Weak boy,” my father said. He proceeded to yell at mama and I, promising to get rid of the Hooms even if it killed him.
#
“And then what?” Lieutenant Visagie asks seeming now more immersed in the story.
“Then July 12th happened,” Rudzani replies.
He looks at a picture of the night of July 12 and he shakes his head with pity and sorrow. He then looks at the Lieutenants, Motau’s eyes are dead cold, while Visagie’s remain glued on the pictures, for a moment it seems as if she’s taking in the pain depicted in them, but then she throws the photo onto the table, glances at her partner, then at Rudzani.
“You guys just shoot first and ask later, huh?” he asks. Visagie and Motau do not flinch, panic or shake in their big boots as if they’ve heard this question too many times before.
“July 12th boy,” Lieutenant Motau commands in his deep muscular voice. Rudzani hesitates, but then again, he wants to get out of this stuffy room.
#
I woke up at 3 AM on July 12th to the sounds of angry protesters singing struggle songs of their great grandparent’s struggles. There were many voices cascading over each other, each trying to out-sing the next, so I knew that a majority of the township was up and joined forces with The People. They knocked violently on doors, as you soldiers do. They banged on hard wood with their bare knuckles and pulled us out of our houses and then proceeded to tell us to go join ‘the war’. The people searched every house in pursuit of Hooms, and a few to loot our houses. When they found them lying in their wooden beds with their spouses and children by their sides, they pulled them out and threw them outside like bags of rubbish.
Kwa-Thema was painted yellow, like a picture of riots in the sun. The Hooms were harassed and asked to leave the township and go back to space, where they came from. They tried, with fury in their marble eyes, to pull away from the tight grips of The People’s hands and hard fingernails. I squeezed and pushed my way through the angry crowd, hoping to spot Elizu and keep her closer to me, away from danger.
“Elizu!” I yelled, my voice drowning in the chanting and stomping of feet.
I heard a woman grunt for help and realized that it was Elizu, caught in the rough hands of self-proclaimed comrade, Pfarofero, my father, with a revolver in his hand.
“Elizu!” I ran, pushing and squeezing through the crowd, dodging swinging arms and stones, jumping over Hoom children crawling on the ground in search of their parents.
“Baba let her go,” I said softly, not loud enough for my father to hear me.
Elizu’s eyes met mine as I was squeezing my way toward her. She found courage when she saw me approaching and slid out of my father’s rough hands and ran.
“Shoot her!” people demanded, and a loud bang made us drop to our knees. A bullet pierced into Elizu’s hard chest, settling in her thumping heart, and banging her body onto the ground. The crowd was silent, and so was my father, his finger still held on to the trigger, waiting for Elizu to get up.
Blue blood oozed from her chest, poured like a fountain and dripped into the soil, turning it blue-black. At first, her chest was still, then it began moving up and down, breathing heavily, she opened her eyes, got up and dusted herself off. My father’s hands shook. He was still pointing the gun towards her, his finger still tightly curled around the trigger.
It was then that the dark sky transformed, becoming darker than it was, transforming into blue-black and then into violet, illuminated by the blinding stars. It began to turn like a slow wheel shaking the ground until hard concrete, grass and sandy areas began to split open exposing a hollow hole in the middle of the town, a hungry hole that waited to be fed. The limber bodies of the Hooms glowed under the violet sky, their marble eyes rolled in their sockets like actual marbles on the ground and the strength they had kept within broke out. My father did say that the more they tried to get rid of the Hooms, they only seemed to multiply and multiply they did.
Wings spread out from the scapulars of the Hooms; they flew across the township like Eagles in search of the ones in the yellow. Men and women ran, but when they ran the Hooms flew and when they hid in corners they stumbled on marble eyes. They screamed and shouted and were dragged like dolls, their legs dangling in the air, into the gigantic hole.
For the first time since the inception of The People, there was a scarcity of yellow t-shirts. The Hooms invaded Kwa-Thema and they were not hard to see for they glowed under the sky. I found shelter behind a pine tree. My hands shook, but I learned in photography class, that no matter how close to death’s door you are, you should never let go of the camera. So I aimed it at the town and documented what I was seeing.
I captured the comical image of Teenage, running until he tripped on a stone smaller than his hands. He rolled onto the ground trying to escape approaching Hooms, crawling on his elbows and screaming like a baby as his body dangled in the air and was tossed into the hole.
“Oh! Forgive us please,” an elderly woman pleaded, kneeling on the ground on her crooked knees. “Oh! Forgive us for our ungodly actions” she begged and placed her hands in front of her chest like in prayer. The Hooms moaned and groaned, and surrounded the elderly woman.
Those who had survived joined her. They raised their hands in the air to surrender, pleading that they were too young to die and too afraid of the unknown, but many were afraid of what would remain of Kwa-Thema once all of its people were wiped out. The Hooms moaned and groaned and the fury in their spinning eyes died down.
#
“And that is when you guys arrived and started shooting with your big guns, dropping Hooms everywhere,” Rudzani says fuming, yet trying at the same time to contain his anger.
“What did you expect us to do?” Lieutenant Motau says. “Do you think those things are capable of forgiveness?” he adds. Rudzani nods subtly.
“If that is what you think then you’re just as delusional and as dumb as you look,” he continues.
“You shot at unarmed Hooms. They were the victims,” Rudzani says, sitting on the edge of his seat.
“They were never here with ill intentions, but you shot them anyway, meanwhile my father still roams the streets a free man. He had deserted his comrades and returned three days after the incident, storming into the house, clothed in an old black Uzzi t-shirt, blood dripping on his arms, with red sores on the soles of his feet. Mama and I were startled to see him alive; he tossed himself onto the sofa and avoided my eyes. ‘Petronella,’ he said, ‘Make me some coffee, would you?”
“We were only following the orders of our superiors,” Lieutenant Motau says casually.
“Orders?” Rudzani asks.
“These Hooms are a threat to society, our resources and especially to the government,” Lieutenant Motau says. “We have no choice but to remove each and every one of them, starting at the roots from which they arose,” he continues.
“Is that a threat?” Rudzani asks with tears in his eyes.
“Oh no, that is a promise, boy,” Lieutenant Motau replies.
Rudzani pauses. He shakes his head. And then he pauses again.
“You can’t do that,” he mumbles, touching his pounding head, closing his eyes and listening to the ache. Suddenly, the veins on his arms, hands and legs protrude out of his umber skin. From his scapulars emerge two large brown wings that tear through his t-shirt.
“Oh shit, he’s one of them!” Lieutenant Visagie curses and runs to the door. It shuts in her face, hitting the tip of her nose.
Rudzani gets up from his chair growling like a wild animal, he drops to his knees, each growl louder, deafening. A long black tail pierces through his jeans, and the bones on his arms, fingers and legs crackle and pop until limber like elastic. His brown eyes become marble black. He looks directly into the cold, now frightened eyes of the Lieutenants who now have their guns aimed at him.
“Shoot!” Lieutenant Visagie commands and at Rudzani they shoot, every bullet piercing into his skin and settling in his body.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, his voice becoming deeper, huskier, reverberating across the room. The nauseating accent is no more. The black sky outside turns into violet, illuminated by stars, the ground begins to rumble.
“Rudzani, calm down,” Lieutenant Visagie says. “We are only following orders,” she continues, gripping onto her weapon.
Rudzani looks at the Lieutenants, their fingers steadily reaching for the trigger. He looks at the door; he can make a run for it. But Motau is quick and a pro with the gun. He shoots at Rudzani, and misses, punching a hole into the wall.
Rudzani spreads his wings like those of an Eagle takes one last sad look at the Lieutenants and flies out the window into the dark violet sky illuminated with stars.
Outside, in the skies, a large flock of Hooms were waiting for his arrival. Together they will take flight, disappearing further and further into the infinite sky. When the storms ravage the earth again, and they surely will, the Hooms will emerge in another town, stronger and eager to continue their mission. They will transform another group of humans into their own, transporting them through the hollow hole, into its infinite bottom, until at last a species of Hooms emerges, greater than Kwa-Thema, greater than the continent. They are, in Rudzani’s words, the future after all.
The End.
Lerato has always been intrigued by stories and made-up worlds. A Media Practices graduate from Boston Media House, she’s an avid reader of books, short stories, essays and poems, which have opened up dimensions to the literary and imaginary world she immerses in. Her love for words and storytelling is unconditional, which is whyshe is working on carving her name into the literary spaces. An emerging writer from Witbank, Mpumalanga, Lerato has work published in Isele Magazine and BrittlePaper and was winner of the 2022 Polofields writing competition, and received third place in the Writers2000 writing competition in 2022.
From all indicators, this seemed like a dream, one that had the potential to turn into a nightmare if she did not wake up.
Amana opened her eyes to the same meadow. Purple flowers to her right that stretched out as far as the eye can see. A stream, maybe a small river, could be heard flowing nearby. She was barefoot. She glanced around, looking for someone, perhaps something. She took a step to have a better view, and almost instantly felt the vines from beneath her feet coming to life. They tickled. She hated them. Startled, her hands flailed in the air, attempting to jump as high as she could, but it was too late. The vines were already wrapped around her ankles, anchoring her to the ground. She is trapped.
Amana had been having these ‘waking dreams’ for quite a few months now. She had also learned how to snap herself out of them somehow. She couldn’t explain it, but she always did – except this time, everything she tried failed. Several prior attempts to loosen the tangled vines from her calves had proved futile: the more she tried the tighter they got. The skin on her ankle and calf was now so painfully tender. She massaged her calf as she made another desperate attempt at yanking the vines off.
‘They have a life of their own,’ she muttered to herself, trying not to panic.
‘Why can’t I wake up from this nightmare?’ She wondered.
Her fingers sought out anything they could hold on to, and using her right hand, she dug painfully between the vines, causing friction on her skin. Her eyes began to water. Desperation had etched its way into every crease in her body. ‘This is definitely not what dreams are made of?’
She yanked one of the vines that was halfway through her thighs.
‘Not what dreams are made of,’ a dry, sarcastic chuckle emanated from the bushes behind the baobab tree. From where she was standing, she could see his silhouette. It was moving towards her.
‘Wake Up, Amana’ She desperately whispered under her breath, but it was too late. The 6-foot man was already past the baobab tree. The vines were still very much intact. In fact, they seemed to have fattened since the booming voice from a few seconds ago.
‘Don’t come any closer’ There was a tremor in her voice. She stood there, too overwhelmed to move. Her breathing became deeper and more rapid, and her heart stumbling over its own rhythm.
‘Or you’ll… what?’ He fired back. ‘I don’t eat girls, especially teenage girls. I prefer Adults.That’s an acquired taste.’ He stopped to look at Amana. Her eyes darted around maniacally, looking for escape. The horror on her face made him regret his statement.
‘I was joking. Please don’t cry,’ He paused, ‘Also don’t try to run, you’ll only hurt yourself even more,’ He added, pushing his cloak back from his forehead. He made an attempt to hold her hand but stopped himself. He noticed Amana’s eyes were still transfixed on him with terror, unable to look away.
‘I swear, I mean you no harm,’ He insisted, raising his arms in surrender. ‘I promise I only want to help. Besides, it seems like you need an extra pair of hands if you’re to escape this nightmare.’
Silence. An uncomfortable, unnerving silence that echoed through the forest.
‘So? Can I help?’ He said this with a grin. He had one of those rare reassuring smiles.
‘Sure, what choice do I have?’ Amana thought as she shrugged her shoulders in resignation.
#
Amana was an only girl out of 8 siblings. Her 7 brothers, all specialists in their crafts, ranged from fishmongers to blacksmiths, therefore her family never lacked.
Her parents seemed to get along just fine for their time. She lived in were simpler times: standards were lower and everyone seemed a lot happier. Her mother, Amali, was a midwife. When she was not busy bringing life into the world, she was breathing life into their home. She came from a village just over the ridge. She married the weaver at the age of 19 after her husband was killed during a cattle raid.
‘I have never seen anyone more beautiful,’ Amana’s father would often tell his friends in his drunken stupor.
Her father, Akida, a weaver by trade, could always be found with sisal fibres on one hand, a tobacco pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, and a bottle of cheap liquor at arm’s reach. Amana considered all these three items his tools of trade. Even with his concerning drinking habits, rivalled only by their village chief, Beka, he was the best father a daughter could ever ask for. Despite all his shortcomings, he truly loved the two most important women in his life.
Amali is a small and delicate-featured woman. She is pretty in an imperfect, approachable sense. She is not the type of woman who would stop you in your tracks, but you would certainly love to know her. Her apparent vulnerability hides a strength that she herself is unaware of. There is a warm understanding relationship between them, undemonstrative in their companionship, but really crazy about each other.
Amali went on to have 4 children with her husband. He, a widower himself, had four kids from his previous wife, who died during childbirth. He would often say to Amali, ‘Perhaps if even half the midwives in this village were as good as you my love, maybe my Siti would be here,’ and almost instantly, as if realising what those words do to a woman, he’d add, ‘but then I’d have never met you my darling. Life really is fickle, my dear Amali.’ He would say this through a barrage of hiccups. Amana always had a theory that it was grief that bonded her parents. They both understood what it meant to care for someone and lose them. Although her mother never talked much about her ex-husband, Amana reckoned he was a good man who did not deserve such a violent death.
Amali had found her husband’s body a few days after the cattle raid, his face trampled up by cow hooves with deep cuts to his side and leg. His body curled in a foetal position; he looked so peaceful in the puddle he was laying in. It wasn’t clear what, between the animal stampede and the masked raiders, had killed him.
#
The dream man glided over the thick vines. His heavy cloak settled over the bed of the weeds, bending them to the point of uprooting, only to snap back up once he passed. His aura was firm yet comforting, confident yet gentle. He had a way of making her feel at peace even though she had just met him.
Time passed quite fast in dreamland; bringing a new meaning to ‘split second’. Somehow, it always seemed like she had covered more distance than she should have in a very short amount of time. Time transitioned very quickly, too quickly.
While trying to decipher time, it occurred to her that she had not asked where they were headed. They were in the middle of the lavender field, all blooming amidst the grass, her bare feet enjoying the carpeted ground and the smell of morning dew.
‘Delphiniums?’ she thought. Those were Jelani’s favourite flowers.
‘No, they aren’t Delphiniums,’ He responded. ‘Yes, I can hear thoughts,’ he added, pre-empting her next question
The lavenders brought back a memory of herself and Jelani, her step-brother walking through the mountains on their way to visit their late grandmother’s grave – whom she was named after – a few years back. Jelani would often stop to pick a delphinium on their path and give unnecessary details about them, including what times of the year they were in bloom. Everything he knew about flowers came from their grandmother. Jelani often spoke very fondly of her.
‘She was a force of nature. Passionate in her likes and dislikes,’ he’d often say.
He described her as awfully strong for her age. She was known for her vivid imagination when telling her stories and the insanely huge amount of time she spent sleeping. Nostalgia was always the theme when they trekked that path across the mountain. Amana still didn’t get the obsession they both had with nature, but she didn’t mind it because she loved being in her brother’s company.
‘Don’t you find it a little intrusive listening to people’s thoughts?’ She snapped out of her memory.
‘Uuum, no. That’s all I know. It’s normal for me. It would be too quiet if I didn’t.’
‘Damn, he’s good,’ She thought
He smirked under his cloak at the thought. ‘You need to pick up the pace’
‘Yes, about that. Where are we going?’ She asked. One could not tell if she was concerned or just curious.
‘Huh? Oh, just up ahead. There’s something I want you to see before you go back home.’
‘Okay. But what is this place?’
‘We call it ‘The Writers’ Room’’
‘Do you think we’ll be there before dawn?
‘You have somewhere else you need to be?’
They held each other’s gaze for a moment and continued towards the dimly lit house on the edge.
‘What do you write there?’
‘Fate.’
‘Fate?’ She stops and stares at him as if awaiting an explanation
‘Fate.’
‘You’re serious?’ She stops and stares at him as if awaiting an explanation. ‘Whose fate?’ She continues. ‘Why fate? Wait, you mean fate is written? Isn’t that a universe thing? Like stars aligning and things like that?’
‘I will answer all your questions as soon as we get there.’
‘Why do you need me there?’
‘To write.’
‘Write my fate? Isn’t that, I don’t know, a little counterintuitive? Anticlimactic, at the very least. Well, for me at least.’
‘No, your fate was written a long time ago. Now you write somebody else’s.’
‘Who wrote that I should be born from a drunk and a widow? That’s just sad,’ she said dismissively.
‘Your grandmother. She was a lovely woman. Sad that her story had to end the way it did.
#
Amali watched the shallow breathing of her sleeping beauty. Like all children, untainted by the world around them, Amana looked so peaceful when she slept. She admired her innocence of the world and how unaware she was of its cruelty. Amali always hoped that her daughter would have a better life than hers. She prayed every night for the universe to conspire in her favour.
‘May she never know pain,’ She’d often whisper to the wind always. Amali stretched over her sleeping daughter and picked up a quilt from the opposite chair, being very careful not to startle her. This moment reminded her of baby Amana, always fussy, even in her sleep. The slightest movement and she would spend the entire afternoon comforting and begging her to sleep.
She’s lost in this memory, only brought back to reality by Amana trying to get more comfortable. She drapes the quilt over her like an important artefact and steps away, looking back at her one more time as she steps outside in the afternoon sun, heading to the market.
#
‘You come from a very long line of writers, Amana.’ The cloaked man breaks their silence.
‘Fate Writers, you mean.’
‘Exactly. Your grandmother, before you, was with us in this very building. So was her mother before her.’
‘You mentioned, my fate was written by my grandmother. Can I know what it is?’
‘Yes, you can. As soon as you finish your writing.’
‘But how can I know the fate of people I don’t even know?’
‘You’ll just know. Write whatever comes to mind.’
Amana couldn’t believe that the fate of the universe was written in some poorly lit house in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t seem fair that wars have been declared, battles won, people murdered, villages wiped out by diseases just by a stroke of the pen and even worse by unknown and ordinary people like herself.
This must be what it means to have the weight of the world on your shoulders, she thought to herself.
This must be how it feels to be the village chief, so much power, yet so helpless. No wonder Beka can never quit drinking. This situation made her pity their village chief. Or maybe that’s what it feels like to be head of the family, like her father. When everybody is dependent on you, the stakes are higher. There’s no margin for error and even when you err, no one gives you the grace or understanding that you need. Maybe that’s why he finds solace at the bottom of a bottle. If solutions cannot be found while sober, perhaps being drunk will make picking the wrong choice less daunting.
#
Amana had been writing for hours now. Everybody around her was busy writing. She imagined that like her; they were all writers of ‘fate’. She wondered what kind of stories they were writing. Who gets married to who? Who achieves all their childhood dreams? Who never goes through the feeling of inadequacy, depression and self-pity?
Most importantly, who snaps out of it all and goes on to live a fulfilling life? How many people get the happy ending they had hoped for or even better? Whose mother gets to see her son back from war? So many questions went through her mind. The faceless people they were writing about. Perhaps they also made up their faces like she was or perhaps the faces she thought she was making up were, in fact, the real people.
Nothing in this room seemed real anymore. It all seemed like a fantasy. Some sort of alternate universe where highlights of everyone’s lives were on full display.
‘Who writes the ugly parts then?’ She brings her beautiful thoughts to a halt. The divorce, the abuse, the sexual assault, the suicides, tortures, depression, psychotic breaks, deaths, burying one’s children, incurable diseases.
Who gets to write the not so coveted parts of people’s lives?’ she wondered.
‘That would be the people in that room,’ the cloaked man answered almost instantly. He seemed to always be around whenever you needed him and never a moment earlier, ever the mystery.
‘Why are they secluded? Why do they get the best views too?’
‘Because writing of bloodshed takes a toll on anyone.’ He said, as he adjusted his cloak to get up from his desk at the corner of the room.
‘With all the carnage they write about,’ he continues, ‘The least they can have is the view of a blooming garden. It makes up for everything.’
‘Is it that they’re doomed to write the ugly parts of history and the future?’
‘Not exactly!’
As she opened the door to the doomsday room, she could feel the air of despair, hatred and fear – the dark cloud hanging over each one of them; the blood spilling from their pens, the misery on the arch of their backs and the suicidal thoughts reflecting on their foreheads. Then, almost in a flash, it all washed away when the seasons changed in the blooming garden and order seemed to be restored again.
‘Shouldn’t I be awake by now?’
‘Well, it’s only been an hour in the outside world. Your mother hasn’t returned just yet but if you wish to leave, you can. I can show you the grounds if that’s something you’re open to.’
There was an awkward silence between them. Amana couldn’t understand how he managed to say and see so many heavy things and yet like, a good host, he still performed his duty.
‘You told me I can read my fate…’
‘Oh yes, right this way,’ ushering her to a door with a plaque written in bold: Amana (I)
Amana was startled for a minute then remembered she was named after her grandmother. From the stories she had heard, she knew Mama Amali was a feisty one.
‘The most jovial woman who ever walked the land,’ her mother would say. She did not remember much about her except for her traditional face tattoos. Her book had a blooming rose on it, her favourite flower, with her name etched onto the stalk. Although she knew what her childhood was like, she was still impressed by how accurate her grandmother was in narrating it in writing.
Buried deep within its contents, the cloaked man’s only way of getting her attention was to force her onto a chair he pulled up while she was engrossed. She read of her stepbrother’s death, her favourite of the seven.
‘But he’s just too young,’ she whispered as she fights back tears. He dies by drowning in just a few years from the present day. The years following Jelani’s death, her mother fell into depression, her father’s drinking worsened. Losing a child can break anyone. Her other brothers left home and never return until five years later to bury their mother.
Grief consumed Amali, and her health slowly deteriorated over the years. Amana watched as her mother grew older by the day, the light in her eyes dimming. The weight of grief started to show in her fragile frame. New-borns no longer excited her. She did not hum to her favourite tune in the bathroom while bathing. Jelani’s death took everything from her and then some.
The anticipatory grief of losing her mother now controlled Amana’s life. She could see all the signs. Her father seemed oblivious to his wife’s health. Both of them lost in their own worlds. Grief was now a permanent resident in their home, always sitting in the corner, waiting to be of service whenever needed.
For Amana’s father, losing his wife was the final straw. Amana found his lifeless body one morning cradling his wife’s favourite scarf. Death was in their home one more time. Only this time, it seemed to have been summoned and not dropped by. He died by a potion from the local alchemist. Amana’s father had begged the alchemist to help him end his misery. The two had been friends since they were young. They got circumcised together. There’s nothing they haven’t shared with each other.
‘What you’re asking me for is not cough syrup, Akida. It will kill you,’ The Alchemist told Amana’s father.
‘I know what it does, Asani, but I can’t keep living like this…’
‘You think this will help?’ The Alchemist interrupted him, ‘C’mon, we’ve been through this before.’
‘You haven’t known grief until you have watched the people you love die in your arms.’ Amana’s father looked down, unable to maintain eye contact anymore.
‘I keep replaying the day Amali died like it was yesterday. Her peaceful face was so calm, it seemed unfair she couldn’t show it to the world anymore. How much do you think one man can take before he accepts defeat? Before it all overwhelms him to the point of no return. Aren’t you tired? Can’t we stop this and give our hearts a rest?’
‘I am not crazy Asani,’ He continued, ‘I have thought this through. This is my solution. It hurts so much; I can’t even begin to explain it.’
The Alchemist looked at his friend, desperately trying to convince him of the unthinkable. He couldn’t believe he was convinced. He could see how his eyes glistened with unshed tears. It was the way they dropped that gave away the sadness he otherwise masterfully hid. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist as he pulled the last of his stash and offered it to his oldest friend. He understood exactly how he felt because he too was battling his own demons.
#
‘Why are you letting me read this?’ She asked as she wipes her tears.
‘You asked, Amana. I’m not one to stifle curiosity.’
Amana lowered herself until she was sitting on her haunches, trying to make herself as small as possible, then, almost in a whisper, she asked, ‘But you know this will stay with me for a very long time. Why give me this burden?’ As she rocked gently back and forth, not even aware she was doing it. ‘It is sad I know, that’s why nobody can know their fate. It’s not advisable.’
‘But you let me know.’ The more she talked, the more her voice cracked.
‘That’s because you won’t remember ever being to this place when you wake up. You’ll only wake up feeling rejuvenated. With more zeal for-’
‘You mean you wipe my memory?’
‘I would never be able to do that. You just won’t remember once you are past the veil. This reality cannot exist in your timeline. Should you remember, it will disrupt the balance of things and tough decisions have to be made.’
‘Has someone who’s been here ever remembered?’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘What happens if I start remembering?’
‘They send me to restore order’
‘How do you do that exactly?’
‘Restoring order?’
‘Yes’
‘Oh, it means you die.’
‘I die or you kill me?’
‘What will make you feel better?’
Amana began thinking of a way to remember this mystical land, to love her mother ferociously, and for her father to reciprocate his love. How to strengthen the bonds between herself and her brothers. She wanted to remember to check in with Jelani, and hug him a little tighter. Study his facial features and memorise the sound of his voice. She wanted to remember her mother with a smile on her face, and a bounce in her step. She wanted it all, but didn’t know how to have it.
‘You can never have it all. You can have options but never everything you wished for,’ the cloaked man interrupted her thoughts.
“Are you telling me there’s a way to remember this?’
‘Yes, you can remember,’ he paused, ‘By staying back here, but that means we erase you from existence. Nobody will remember ever knowing you. It however doesn’t change their fate and that of their generation. You will be at liberty to visit them in their dreams but you can never go back.’
‘That doesn’t sound like an option at all!’ She retorted.
‘Everything has a price, Amana’
‘So, I go back and never remember any of this. I won’t remember the things to come, the famine, the hunger, the injustices, poverty or even the love I want to give, intentionally or otherwise, or I stay and they forget about me?’
‘You are a good person, Amana.’
‘I’ll try and remember that.’
They both chuckle at that unwarranted joke and head for the fields. They both knew that she won’t remember this conversation once she crosses over.
‘Will I ever see you again, cloaked man?’
‘Perhaps in your dreams, I’ll try and visit whenever I can.’
‘It’s now time for you to wake up. Amali should be back by now.’
‘A whole day?’
‘It’s only just been a little over an hour. Also, your brother wants to pour a bucket of cold water on you. If I were you, I’d wake up.’
Amana woke up from her sleep to the sound of kids playing outside and Jelani’s mischievous face staring down at her. She wriggled herself free from the quilt, kicking it as she tried to find her slippers from under the couch. Her knuckles brushed against something cold and unfamiliar, which jerked her more fully awake.
Epilogue
The Cloaked man noticed grey clouds on the horizon, a weather condition he hadn’t seen in a Millenia. Through the veil, he could see Amana trying to stop Jelani from going fishing that afternoon. Their father, drunk and oblivious in the stall next to them, is focused on how to weave together the prettiest basket for his wife. Their fights don’t seem to faze him anymore.
‘You tell me why I can’t go and I will sit here with you and Baba until you tell me when to leave,’ Jelani said.
‘But I can’t tell you why. I don’t even know why. It’s just a feeling,’ Amana responded, now frustrated because she wasn’t winning this argument.
‘Well, then I have to go because we are having fish for supper and I am the fisherman of the family.’
Jelani did have solid points, so she stood there as she watched her brother disappear towards the river. Amana was left there feeling heavy and rooted to the ground. She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the afternoon light, and thought, ‘This is it.’
She snapped back to reality after his father called out for her. She threw on a smile, blinking away her tears as she went to see what he wanted.
‘She’s remembering!’ The Cloaked man says, tripping over his cloak, rushing towards the ‘Doomsday’ writers’ room. Amana’s story had to be rewritten.
Chao Shete is a trained journalist who now works in Corporate Communication. When she is not looking for homes for her essays and fiction work. She is writing on her personal blog, which she has been running on and off for over five years.
Golibe rode Nkem, her amoosu into the ground floor of Ejim Business Complex. She tugged on his mane, Nkem lowered his forelegs, and she climbed off. “Stay,” she thought, and Nkem fitted himself in a space between two airtaxis. Satisfied, she made for the bank of lifts at one edge of the parking lot. All eleven lifts were available, but she called for the third, just because she considered three an auspicious number.
Inside, an automated voice accompanied by the brilliant tune of Ndidi Okoye’s “Akwaugo,” greeted her and announced the temperature. Between the buttons labelled North and South on the touchpad screen on the left partition of the lift, she hit South and then, when a new set of buttons appeared, she hit the one labeled G. The lift whisked her twenty-eight floors subterranean and opened onto a large arena. The same voice bid her to enjoy the rest of her morning.
“I definitely will,” she said to herself. She hoped to play outdoor holo beach volley with Anyanwụ before the sun rose.
She stepped off the lift onto the arena and her feet sank into trimmed grass, the greenest she had ever seen anywhere. She took a minute to breathe in the fresh air and admire the life the space offered. The arena didn’t look like it had witnessed—even for a day—the drought that had ravaged Kalamalu for two years. The greenness stretched all over the arena, far into the distances where the sky touched the ground. The field held no structure at all and no sign of inhabitants. Golibe knew the land wasn’t what it appeared to be. It was enchanted land and it bent only to the wishes of its master, appearing to her the way its master commanded it to.
“Take off your shoes,” A voice—soft but firm—blew with the wind in front of her.
Golibe went on one knee and removed one sandal, then the other.
“Come,” the voice came again.
She looked up and discovered in front of her a tree stump housing a shrine. An arm’s length away from the stump was a shelter built out of palm fronds and draped with silk the colour of dusty ash. She hung her sandals on the forefinger of her right hand and approached the shelter.
At the entrance, she called out, “Great one.”
“Enter.”
Despite the invitation, Golibe knocked three times before she bent her head and entered. The shelter was dark and didn’t have the look or eerie feeling of a dibia’s workshop. The floor was covered with dark brown sand instead of the green grass outside. It was empty except for Ejim, the small woman with gray hair who sat cross-legged on the floor. She wore a silver gown that started from her neck and pooled around her feet like water.
She stretched out her hands towards Golibe and said, “Come, I have long been expecting you. Welcome Golibe, daughter of Mma.”
Golibe rolled her eyes skywards. She knew the dibịa had a little gift of sight which she often used to her own amusement. She replied, “Thank you.”
“The journey ahead of you isn’t long.” Ejim continued. “Sit,” The dibịa ordered and Golibe found herself moving closer to her and then, lowering to the ground. “Give me your hand.”
Golibe stared hard at Ejim’s filmed eyes. She realized she hadn’t seen the dibịa blink since she entered the shelter. Perhaps, the woman had isi-eke yet, she had a feeling Ejim could see her clearly. She covered the fear that had begun to creep into her heart with a laugh.
“No,” She told Ejim, “I’m not here for a divining.” She had come in Anyanwu’s stead—to fetch a crate of vulture’s eggs, an essential ingredient her friend would use in concocting a spell to dispel the ones his neighbour had cast on his farm machines. And she told the dibịa as much. She touched a finger to her wristband and a holographic image appeared. “Here’s proof of payment,” she thrust her wrist under Ejim’s nose.
The dibịa took a hold of the wrist and traced the palm with her forefinger. “A short road indeed.” Her grip on Golibe’s wrist tightened and her voice deepened, roughened, “You must find the Isle of Creation.”
“Excuse me?” Golibe attempted to take back her hand. She glanced back up and confronted Ejim’s widened eyes dominating her face which had turned ashy, like the draperies of her shrine. And discovered Ejim was dead serious. She concluded that the woman was mad. The Isle of Creation was a myth, a mere story told to children at bedtime and during moonlight play.
“Myths are born out of truths. Listen to me, Child. The reason for the drought is because the Eye in the Sky has lost its water. You must return water to it.”
Golibe snatched her hand from Ejim’s grip and hurried to the entrance of the shelter. Almost out of the door, she found Ejim waiting for her outside.
“You’ve a need to help your friend, that’s why you run some of his errands. It is why you’re here. The way I’ll tell you is the only lasting help you can offer.”
Golibe watched Ejim. The dibịa was taller than her, and slightly bigger, but she felt age was at her advantage and she could take her if she wanted. “I’ll listen.”
“You have to find the Isle of Creation. Pluck a Tear of Life, from the ones offered. Take it to the place where Ala is upside down, on the day Kalamalu comes between the sun and the moon. When the moon is completely obscured and the Eye appears in the sky, place the Tear in it. You’ll know you’ve succeeded when neither the sun nor the moon claims the sky afterwards.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Ala has chosen you to bring life back to her.”
Golibe was aware Ejim wasn’t a priest of Ala. How would she know the mind of a goddess she didn’t serve? “This is a mistake,” she told Ejim.
“The Earth goddess doesn’t make mistakes. You will know what I speak is true when you set your eyes upon the winged cat. And again when you see the eye of the sun beside the winged cat. And a third time, when you decide to find the Isle.”
“Why me?”
Ejim didn’t reply. She waved her left hand, the illusion dissolved and the arena became a scorching desert brewing a sandstorm.
The sandstorm made for Golibe in a furious swirl and she fled, into the waiting lift. The lift closed and started up without her issuing a command. As she watched the numbers decrease, she reached with her mind and summoned her amoosu. “Nkem, I have a need for speed. Get ready, we need to run.”
Nkem was waiting for her in front of the lift. He had taken the form of a winged cheetah. Golibe scrutinized him, the lithe body, the webbed wings with talons at their bends, the soulful brown eyes that never changed and always lit up at the sight of her. And the words of the dibịa—all of them—rushed back to flood her ears. Her heart began to beat fast as she bent to buckle her sandal straps. Then, she swung onto Nkem’s back and guided him out of the parking lot.
Outside, the traffic jam had increased as people were determined to get away from the open before twelve o’clock. Golibe urged Nkem above the—ground and air—traffic into the sky where he bounded through the clouds.
#
“You didn’t bring the eggs?” Anyanwụ asked Golibe, his tone annoyed. He was slouched against one of his hexed machines, his legs crossed at the ankles. A part of his farm, dusty and almost bare of crops , was stretched out behind him. Golibe thought they made quite a picture, the farmer and his farm.
“No,” She answered. She rubbed Nkem’s neck to calm him and herself down. Despite her effort, his muscles throbbed and her heart raced still.
“No? What do you mean no? Simple errand!” Anyanwụ tsked. He straightened from his relaxed pose to reveal a rangy frame made tall by long legs. “Did you not find the place?”
“I did.”
“Then, what happened?”
“Ejim scared me,” she snapped. “And I ran.”
Anyanwụ hurried to her side and peered at her face. “Golibe, did she hurt you? I admit she’s a little mad, but I thought she was harmless.”
“She didn’t hurt me, but she spooked me.” Golibe stepped away from him, pacing to shake off the nerves.
“She didn’t hurt you.” He closed his eyes and sighed.
She turned and found him and Nkem standing side by side watching her. Anyanwụ, the eye of the sun and the winged cat, she recalled. She decided to tell him. “Ejim said I can stop the drought by returning water to the Eye in the Sky.”
“Wait. She said you?”
“Yes.”
Anyanwụ stared at her, honey brown orbs searching stormy ones. “She said something else, didn’t she?”
Golibe opened her mouth and everything the dibịa said to her spilled out, word-for-word. But before Anyanwụ could say anything in return, a shrill sound rent through the air.
She gasped, “Eleven-fifty.”
“Run, Golibe.”
Anyanwụ ran into the farm shelter fifteen seconds before Golibe and Nkem. He pulled a lever adjacent the entrance of the shelter and two transparent covers treated to withstand ultraviolet radiations extracted from their metal seams and met in the middle to cover all of Anyanwụ’s land from the burning glare of the sun.
The sound of the alarm cut off as abruptly as it had begun when the clock struck twelve. They both looked to the horizon to watch the sun appear, a fiery ball primed to engage the sky in a dance. It painted the sky a beautiful orange colour that made Golibe so wistful she wondered how a thing so beautiful could be equally dangerous.
Golibe cut her gaze to the farm, at the expanse of nothingness. Once it had boasted of healthy plantain, cucumber, pineapple and pepper plants, the best in the whole of Kalamalu. Now, it was a wasteland and produced barely enough for sales. She was beginning to forget what the farm had looked like before the drought. The farm had been her haven—a place far removed from her parents’ house—since she and Anyanwụ became friends in nursery school. “The farm is dying.”
Anyanwụ nodded, “More with each rise of the sun. I have started to dip into the irrigation water to run the machine. At this rate, we won’t have enough water to last three months. We can’t afford the fortune the government charges for daily rations.”
“I have asked you to let me help. I can bring you two gallons of water each day from my parents’ dam.”
“And have your mother send a squad of armed men to apprehend me.”
“I can’t believe I’m thinking about doing this. This is all your neighbour’s fault. His foolishness took me to Ejim’s place in the first place. Why don’t we kill him in his sleep?”
Anyanwụ chuckled. “Jide was a good man, neighbourly. Remember, he babysat us and at each New Yam Festival before the drought, treated us to a feast. My family never had any problems with him until the drought. He’s only bitter he has no crops on his land while we do.”
“This is the twelfth time he’s hexed your machines, and each time, he comes to your face to brag about it. I say we smother him in his sleep.”
“Or, we can do as Ejim said. Stop the drought entirely.”
“What do a couple fifteen-year-olds know about finding a mythical island?”
“We can try to find answers.” Anyanwụ’s gaze shifted to Golibe’s leg. “Let me get that.” He pointed to her calf where grains of sand shades darker than her oak complexion were settled against her skin. He bent to dust the grains off. The moment he touched her, a vision gripped him.
It took him to his knees, snapped his head back and turned his eyes opaque. When he spoke, his voice echoed thrice: “You owe Ala the very life you have.”
Golibe lowered herself so she could be at eye level with Anyanwụ and did what she always did when his visions came, listened carefully.
“You were born sick. Except for the beat of your heart, you appeared unalive. You didn’t cry or open your eyes. No one could tell what was wrong with you despite series of tests. Finally, your father consulted an afa priest who told him that you wouldn’t live to the day of your naming and there was nothing to be done.
“But the dibịa seeing how desperate your father was told him of an ancient practice. Sickly newborns were buried in Earth or immersed in water or suspended in air and left alone for a whole night. In the morning when they are retrieved, they’re either dead or fully healthy. Your father thought Earth the safest element, so he covered you up to your neck in the soil in your mother’s garden. In the morning, your wails woke him.
“Ala saved you then, now, you’ll let her guide you. Heed the words of the folk song, ‘When the World.’”
The vision released Anyanwụ. He fell to the floor and laid down staring at the ceiling. As always, it left him weary. Golibe had seen his visions come enough times to know to let him be immediately after. She sat on her haunches beside him and clasped his hand.
Finally, Anyanwụ spoke, incredulity evident in his voice. “Your parents lied.”
Golibe bobbed her head. The new information shocked her too. She was aware that she had been born sick. Her father always told her—during his tantrums, and subsequent lectures about her dreads or her intended major in school, or her friendship with Anyanwụ who apparently was below her status or anything else—that it was his foresight and quick action that had saved her life after her birth. “They never told me how Papa’s so-called foresight and quick action achieved this feat of saving my life.”
She refused to dwell on it. She asked, “Anyanwụ, how are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“The words of ‘When the World’ says,
“When the world starts to die.
And all hope is lost.
Take the path of the East road.
Travel until you can’t anymore.
The Earth python will find you.
Gift it a palm fruit.
And it will take you to
Mother Nature who will help.”
“Anyanwụ, what are you going to do about the farm?” She asked.
“My parents will manage it until we return. What are you going to tell your parents?”
“I’ll text them that I’m staying at yours. Then, I’ll turn off my cell,” she finished, dismissing the matter with a wave of her hand. “The eclipse is in five days. We have only that long to find the Isle of Creation. Take a tear to the place where Ala is upside down – wherever that is. And put water back in the Eye.”
“There’s only one place I can think of where Ala is upside down.”
“Where?”
“In the home of the Sky Sandwich in Nkịtị forest. I have been there once with Father to collect sand from the land. They say that if you sprinkle the sand from there on your farmland, you harvest will be bountiful. It isn’t true.”
#
It was past seven o’clock in the evening when Anyanwụ bids his parents farewell, lifted his backpack, swiped the key to his mother’s camper off the living room’s table and headed out. Golibe stayed to receive Anyanwụ’s mother’s kisses and his father’s pat on the head before she lifted her own bag and headed out too.
Outside, natural light still ruled the sky. Guided by them, Anyanwụ walked to the vehicle. Inside, the camper was the size of a very narrow and short passage. It had a driver’s compartment, a kitchen area which had been closed off since the drought, solar power, A/C vents, two beds placed against the windows opposite each other, two cupboards above each bed and one toilet with a sink at the rear.
Anyanwụ dropped his bag on one of the beds and went about looking over the things he considered necessities. He checked the camper’s water gauge, the extra supply of water for the camper, their supply of drinking water and the foils of food, change of clothes his mother had packed. And most importantly, a can of palm fruits and a glass jar for the Tear.
Golibe and Nkem—who at that moment was a kitten, his natural form—joined Anyanwụ and settled in the passenger seat and the space between the two beds respectively. He started the engine and drove away pretending not to see his parents standing at the door, waving.
Well away from his home, he pushed the button for self-drive and a screen lit up on the dash. A droid’s face, with its plastic beauty, appeared and greeted, “Good evening. What can I do for you, sir?”
He let go of the steering and retreated to the back of the vehicle. He reached into his bag and pulled out his personal computer and logged into a scrabble game. Turning back to Golibe with the device raised to his face, he asked, “Do you want to play?”
Golibe nodded and went into the back of the camper. She sat cross-legged on the bed facing Anyanwụ. Her nerves still left her a wreck. She imagined thinking up words would help settle them. She took the computer and placed it between them. “I’ll start,” she said and spelt out “Quest” as her first word.
Thinking of words indeed settled her. Soon, the near-silence that had ruled the air between them evaporated and she was chatting with Anyanwu.
“Last night, I told my parents I wanted to take a gap year,” she confided.
“What did they say?”
“They thought it was your idea and threatened to nullify your scholarship.”
Anyanwụ bobbed his head, “Okay.”
They talked until morning. When the sun rose, they shared two foils of meal and water with Nkem and then climbed into their beds and slept.
As Elo took them due East, past residential areas, abandoned industries, dried-up rivers, empty dams, into miles and miles of empty land that Golibe wasn’t even sure was part of Kalamalu, their routine revolved mostly around eating, drinking, playing games, reading and sleeping.
On the third day, while Nkem dozed on her bed and they laid on the floor with their heads touching at their crowns, sleep heavy on their lids, Golibe nudged Anyanwụ’s head, “Did you know Ejim is blind?”
“Yes. She was born with isi-eke.”
#
“Obstacle! Eight miles away!” Elo’s voice woke Golibe.
Disoriented, she sat until her head cleared. She looked at her wristband and discovered it was past three in the afternoon.
“Obstacle! Six miles away!” Elo said.
“Go over it.” She rose and went to the toilet.
“It’s solid material and it goes way into the sky. There’s no way over,” Elo replied.
As she sanitized her hands, she heard Anyanwụ rise from his bed and shuffle to the driver’s seat.
“Golibe, there’s no way over it,” Anyanwụ called. “Maybe, this is it. Or we can try to go around and then continue East.”
She came up behind and peered around him. “There’s nothing there.”
“Impact with obstacle,” Elo said, before the camper collided with something and stopped.
Anyanwụ turned to her, his eyes wide. “Are you saying you can’t see the mountain in front of us?”
“I don’t see any obstacles, Anyanwụ,” Golibe answered, her eyes questioning.
“We’ll check it out when the sun sets.”
“If I had ignored you and gotten at least one protective suit from my parents’, we wouldn’t have to wait until sunset.”
He bared his teeth at her. “Not even you can stop your mother from making me sleep in jail for a night.”
After the sun disappeared from the sky, he opened the door a bit and held his food wrapper out of the camper with a skewer. When the sun didn’t fry it, he smiled at her, “We are a go.”
Golibe shoved the door open and went outside with Anyanwụ and Nkem on her trail. She ran with her right hand stretched out in front of her. She encountered the obstacle within moments, she felt the matter rearrange and allow her hand go through it. She withdrew her hand, “This is it. Let’s grab our things,” she said but didn’t step away from the obstacle. She bent down to examine the camper and breathed out a sigh when she realized it had only sustained damage to its fender.
Anyanwụ hissed and went back to the vehicle. He returned with both their bags on his shoulders. Golibe already had Nkem in the crook of her arm. She grabbed his hand and led him, headfirst, into the obstacle. Inside, it was pitch-black, Golibe had to rely on her other senses to keep going in a straight line. She tightened her grip on Anyanwụ as they waded through the darkness until they fell into sudden light.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the brightness, her mouth opened wider and she merely stared.
Anyanwụ, overwhelmed by the beauty of the place breathed deep, “Goodness gracious.”
The sun was in the sky, round and red, right on the horizon and its feel on the skin didn’t burn, rather it warmed. It watched over a grove adorned with beautiful trees and colourful birds and moonbeams. A small pond, the size of the mouth of a big bucket with colour as blue as the sky opposite it was nestled in the middle of the grove.
Golibe echoed Anyanwụ’s words in her mind.
A python with yellow and black stripes was wrapped around the thick branch of a guava tree watching them with unblinking eyes. The python reminded Golibe of Ejim and her unblinking stare.
They both approached it. Anyanwụ knelt on the ground, rummaged through his bag until he located the can of palm fruit. He chose the choicest fruit, a red robust ball and offered it to the python, but it ignored him.
Golibe passed Nkem to Anyanwụ and relieved him of the fruit. She offered it by herself. The python uncoiled and moved toward her. She had to dig her heels into the ground so she wouldn’t retreat. The python reached with its head and plucked the fruit from her palm. Then, it turned away and slithered under the tree, into a hole just big enough to pass an adult.
They followed the python down the hole and fell into an island through another hole. The Island, greener than the leaves of a mango tree, sat in an azure ocean. At one part of the Island, a huge figure of a woman formed from Earth sat on a stool with her hands held palms up at her stomach as if in offering. Tears, in fat balls, dropped from her eyes to gather in her cupped palms, then down her body to pool at her feet and flow into the ocean.
The Isle was the beginning of all living things. It was in it Chukwu Okike, the creator dwelt when she first came to Earth to breathe life onto it. And even centuries after her departure, her essence remained, nourishing her creations.
Golibe stood from the ground, her gaze fixed on the figure. “The one offered,” she recalled. She took one Tear, a crystal ball the size of a child’s fist from the figure’s palms and put it in the jar Anyanwụ held open for her. She plucked a second teardrop, but it liquefied in her hand. She plucked a third and it dissolved too.
Anyanwụ plucked one himself. The Tear dissolved the same time a hiss came from the snake which had remained silent at the mouth of the hole watching them.
Wide-eyed, Golibe looked around. Seeing that no part of the island collapsed, she heaved a sigh. “It seems we can only take one. Now, let’s return to Kalamalu and head to Nkịtị forest.”
#
At the mouth of what was once Nkịtị forest, Golibe fed Nkem water from their gallon. Afterwards, she sat down on the sand beside Anyanwụ and tilted her head onto his right shoulder. They shared the last of their water and silence while staring at the vast desert.
A little over two years before, Nkịtị had been a rainforest, the greatest in Kalamalu, with rainfall year-round. But the drought came and swept through Nkịtị first leaving it barren even before it affected the rest of Kalamalu.
It had been over three hours since the sun disappeared from the sky, yet Golibe and Anyanwụ lingered. They waited for the moon to come because the home of the Sky Sandwich could only be revealed under the glow cast by a full moon.
The moon finally came, full, bigger, and closer to land than usual, Anyanwụ got up and dragged Golibe to her feet. They watched a mound appear in the distance where there had previously been desert sand.
Suddenly, he turned to face Golibe, took back her hand and gifted her a beautiful smile. “Golibe, I have a good feeling we’re almost at a fitting end.”
Golibe watched his entire face lighten up and returned his smile. She knew Anyanwụ’s intuition was as sharp as his visions were true. She wished they had started before two years ago, then perhaps, he would have known the drought was coming.
She scratched Nkem behind his ears, spoke to him in her mind, then said out loud to Anyanwụ. “Nkem doesn’t have enough water in him to fly us there.”
“He can take us however he can manage.”
She spoke to Nkem again and shifted away. In a wink, the kitten imploded and, in its place, a two-humped camel emerged.
“Oh, no,” Anyanwụ scrubbed his face with his palm. “I forgot Nkem can only carry one.”
Golibe smiled. “Well, I discovered that just like Nkem has nine lives, he also has nine alter egos,” She finished and waved her hand at Nkem.
Another Nkem stepped out of the original one.
“Wow. Since when could he multiply?”
“Since the night before we set out.”
“Cool,” Anyanwụ went to the second Nkem, buried his face in his neck and breathed. “Well, let do this and go home.”
They both mounted and rode side-by-side into Nkịtị. The air was hot and dry, and irritated her nose. Golibe took a blouse out of her bag and tied it over her nose. They were halfway to where the mound appeared to be when a shadow started to crawl over the moon.
Anyanwụ gasped as he stared at the moon now settled directly above the mound. “Faster, Golibe.”
Golibe’s heart drummed in her chest. She urged Nkem to go faster but the amoosu ignored her.
The shadow continued to slide over the surface of the moon. It covered a quarter of it and still Nkem kept at the same pace. Only one-eighth of the moon remained uncovered when they arrived at the steps to the mound. Golibe dismounted and ran all the way up to the entrance of the mound with Anyanwụ on her heels.
She went on her knees and crawled inside the mound. “Come on,” she told Nkem who blinked back to a kitten and followed her.
Outside, the heap had the look of a mound formed by soldier ants, only so much bigger, but inside, it was like a cratered cave. In the middle was a pale-blue sky housing only a single cloud, land stretched out under it forming a part of the floor of the mound and above it, forming its roof. A splinter of light came from where there was a crack in the mound and bathed the sky.
“There’s no eye,” Golibe cried and turned to settle frightened eyes on Anyanwụ.
Anyanwụ rushed to the entrance of the mound, laid on his back, thrust his head out. “The shadow is just now covering the moon entirely.”
Golibe saw The Eye, a pale gray and almond shaped orb, appear in the sky. It was missing a pupil. “I can see it now,” she informed Anyanwụ. She took the Tear from its container and place it carefully in the hole in the middle of the iris.
The Eye blinked and disappeared. Globe imagined the shadow had begun shifting from the moon. She smelt the rain, the throat-tickling scent of brown dust mixed with water, before she saw the single cloud darken and release rain to hit both the land under and above it. She heard water beating the ground outside. She whirled around and wrapped her arm around Anyanwụ’s neck. Then, she put Nkem down and crawled out of the mound before Anyanwụ. They laid on the sand of Nkịtị and allowed the rain to drench them.
When they both felt their skin couldn’t absorb any more water, they waited inside the mound for the rain to abate before they returned to the camper. It didn’t and Nkem had to sail them out of Nkiti. It rained all through their way home. And even after they had returned home, it continued raining that neither the sun nor the moon graced the sky for days.
Marycynthia Chinwe Okafor is a Nigerian writer of Igbo descent who lives in Enugu. She loves reading and particularly enjoy disappearing, at whim, into worlds of her own creation. Her works have been published or are forthcoming on Omenana, Writers Space Africa, Brittle Paper and Kalahari Review. Her short story Chronicle of Anaoma was longlisted for 2020 K and L Short Story Prize and 2021 Nommo Awards. She can be reached via Twitter .@Marycynthia600.
To work for a master is to be thrust deep into a bloating, never-ending present of chores; to wake up busy and to have no recollection of having slept; to have no past or future; a living aneurysm in the walls of time itself; a life in morse, abbreviated to barest minimums. When I joined the workforce at Madam Shaje’s Catering Company plc, I was maybe twelve, I had been passed through a catalog of masters like a two-naira whore paying a debt. I had been in dingy, low-roof, face-me-I-face-you apartments as a cheap nanny or babysitter; and also in mansions, as a houseboy, sticking out like a wart in all that opulence, scrubbing floors and washing cars.
I had a handler in those days. Her name was Aunty Bashira, a towering entity who took ninety percent of my cut, the remaining ten going to parents whose faces I could not even remember. I remember, though, a time before all the work, a sliver of airy, joyous childhood, of playing on a farm with my siblings and swimming in rivers; a time of quiet, real rural quiet, interrupted only by the chirping of crickets or the crowing of cocks; a time before Aunty Bashira’s shadow darkened my parents’ door and her forked tongue tickled my parents’ ears with promises of money and a better life for their children just across the border, in that country called the giant of Africa, where oil gushed if you tapped the earth with your heel.
I had many masters, but none were as memorable as Madam Shaje. She was a caterer and a damn good one because she was never without work. She catered to birthdays, burials, weddings, annual general meetings, the whole owambe shebang. She was an Isale-eko woman, through and through, who worked with the fury of one pursued by poverty and who continued even when poverty was far behind in the dust. She was very tall, and now that I think of her, she must have been about six foot two. She was never married but had an estranged son. When I served with other caterers, I had seen Madam Shaje a couple of times, she was the caterer that others talked about. Never to be out dressed by the partygoers she catered to, Madam Shaje always wore glittering lace, and an assortment of violent damask geles of geometric shapes and sharp, pointy ends. If Madam Shaje was a peacock, her gele was her fanned tail. She also had a square face and a strong jaw, the face of a man pretending to be a woman’s.
My first day with Madam Shaje started on the sixth floor of a government secondary school. A statesman’s burial. The bereaved had rented the school grounds midweek, and endless canopies flapped on the school field; cars parked on the side of the road stretched as far as the eyes could see, and six different caterers, contracted for the party, worked feverishly on separate floors of the empty classrooms. Madam Shaje’s catering company plc was on the sixth floor. I was quickly seated with other children and tasked with peeling boiled eggs. The other boys were perpetual servants like me, locums, their malnourished arms and box-like heads a dead giveaway. The one who sat across from me looked like he’d killed before, he had soulless eyes rimmed with tiro, and a flash of pearly whites. When no one was looking, he pushed whole eggs into his mouth and without difficulty, swallowed them. Another boy, whose jaundiced eyes were the deepest yellow, the yellow of danfo buses, and whose arms were covered with a rash of scabies, attempted the trick. It was during a brief period of busyness when no one was looking. The Alases, contracted cooks, were preoccupied with scooping steaming, hot pounded yam or black-as-midnight Amala into Santana nylons; Madam Shaje, had her back turned, hot on her phone as she argued another contract… The boy cast furtive glances at Madam Shaje’s broad back and pushed the egg into his mouth. He tried to swallow. It filled his throat, and promptly stayed there. His eyes rolled up in their sockets as he tried to force it down, but he gagged, a choking noise, and the egg reappeared in his hand, covered in slime. Before he could put it back on the pile of flawless, white eggs, Madam Shaje was on him like a frog on a leaf. She grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and flung him over the railings. Six stories. She continued to make arrangements over the phone without missing a beat.
“Elo le ma san, Chairman,” she bantered. “Ati ju gbobo yen lo now.” She stepped up to each one of us, grabbed us by the throat, and looked down our open mouths. Her fingers felt like a vice, like the clamp we used at the vulcanisers to separate tyre rims from rubber, and when she looked down my throat, her gaze was long and piercing, an endoscope that travelled down my gullet and saw all the way, past the bubbling acids of my empty stomach.
On the ground, the boy was sitting up, a trickle of blood down his nose. We, the infinite servants, were resilient like that. We were like lizards. Ever seen a lizard hurt from falling six floors? He picked up his egg, which we’ll agree he’d now earned, from the ground next to him and ate it, taking small dainty bites that were like the kisses of a considerate lover, his teeth unravelling the egg whites first, saving the yolk for last. As he ate, he trained his yellow eyes on our floor, ready to leap in case a basin of hot water or some other arsenal came after him.
*
On that first day, I picked a record number of eggs, balanced baaffs of water on my head up the flight of stairs and fanned the firewood with air from my own lungs. I had learned to impress masters, to appear as a diligent, hard worker, more value for the paltry but hard-earned sums they parted with. And Madam Shaje noticed me. At the end of the night, when the last of the drunken guests had tottered off, and the beggars had slunk in like hyaenas for the leftovers, Madam Shaje regarded me and asked: “Omo tani e?”
“Aunty Bashira.” I said, putting the rest of her charger plates into the back of her bus, where her dutiful cooks also sat in the dark, silent, their eyes glowing like dull atukpas.
“Ah, Bashira,” she said, picking up her phone and dialing my handler. “Ello?”
I waited, both hands behind me, my head bowed in deference. In the distance, two beggars fought over a half-empty bottle of coke like animals.
“Bashira dear. Mo ti mu eleyi na, maa sanwo ori e,” she said without pleasantries. I heard Aunty Bashira’s tinny entreaties: ahh, nooo, egbon, he’s one of my best, he’s priceless.
“How much?” She cut her off, getting into the driver seat of the bus and directing me into the passenger side, where I sat, my head at the same level with the dashboard. Aunty Bashira gave a number.
“Put it on my tab.” Madam Shaje said and tossed the phone. I was now her property. She drove the bus like a danfo driver: bare feet, jerky stops and close shaves. She crossed red lights and drove against designated one-way lanes, navigating Lagos with the internal google map of one whose ancestors laid the very road network. An omo-onile. A daughter of the soil.
Mariwo tu yeri yeri Agan tu yeri yeri Awori omo akesan, omo oloko ni ilu Isheri
On the road in those days there were two types of drivers. The ones who insulted and the ones who replied. She was both an aggressor and a replier.
“Woo! Weere!” said a driver whose car she’d just scraped. “Waa Jegbese!”
“Iwo,” she’d reply, chuckling, spinning the steering wheel with one bangled hand like a Formula One racer. “Baba e la jegbese.”
Her home was deep inside Lagos Island, the bus travelling through a series of progressively narrow roads, and excruciatingly worsening poverty. Stalls and shops in such obscurity that it was no wonder they were so poor. Who would come this deep to buy noodles? I wondered. But these were her people and Madam Shaje would slow down when she saw someone, anyone, and call them by name. They’d reply “Mama oo!” Both fists in the air above their heads, black panther style. And she’d hand out wads of cash from a bag she kept under her seat, jocularly teasing them with insults: “Ehh, Elebi. Elenu pelebe bii bata teacher.” And they loved her for it.
Finally, we reached her house, a mansion sequestered in all that poverty like a pearl in the jaws of an oyster, like a foreign body trapped in a keloid. It was a white alabaster edifice, lit by electric lights and surrounded by a fence with electric wires running on them. It sat perched on a cliff overlooking a deep gorge of refuse. She tapped her horn once and the gate opened, pushed by a blind old man I would come to know as Baba Lagbaja. I jumped down from the bus, eager to work, eager to please, as we parked alongside a fleet of identical vehicles. I was in the home of my new master. Chop, chop! I hurried to the back and opened the double doors, expecting the Alases to emerge. But there was no one at the back. Only the pots and pans, charger plates, bags of raw food, atubers of yam. I did not remember them dropping off anywhere and by God, they had been in the back, three women, quiet as mice, eyes like atukpa flames.
“Leave the pots, we’ll wash them tomorrow,” she said. “Baba Lagbaja will show you your room.”
The gateman’s hand on my shoulder was cold as a corpse’s.
*
The three women were there in the morning like they never left, washing the pots and pans and chatting excitedly as Alase women usually did. They’d worked together for years, it seemed, cooking for Madam Shaje and had between them an easy friendship borne of proximity. Try as I could, though, I couldn’t understand a word they said. It was Yoruba, all right, which I understood perfectly and spoke so fluently you wouldn’t guess I was an illegal Togolese migrant. They weren’t speaking a dialect either. I understood most of the dialects and even the distant languages on the Yoruba lexical tree, but I could make neither heads nor tails from their conversation. It rose and fell with the cadences of normal speech, interjected with laughter and backslapping and wrapper swishing, but they were for all intents and purposes unintelligible. To me, at least. Madam Shaje understood them perfectly. When I went around the back looking for a broom to sweep the compound, one of them cornered me. She was the youngest of the three, with two tribal marks on her cheeks like exclamation marks, her hair up in shuku braids.
“Boy,” she whispered. In Yoruba. And I had a feeling she was expending considerable energy to bring understanding to me.
“What are you doing in this place?”
“Na work carry me come here, Ma.”
She looked at me as if I had gone mad, and then pirouetted and returned to the company of her fellow cooks. I swept the compound and then mopped it before it was noon. My new Madam had not given me explicit orders, and I was restless. I was not comfortable with idleness—in my little experience, it was usually followed with scolding or fists. Soon, I edged to the main house. I had not been invited, but I needed to ask if she wanted me to sweep the floors in there, lay the beds, polish the windows – anything. Masters always needed something done. I knocked on the brown mahogany door and waited. I noticed there was an elaborate design carved on every inch of the door like words in Arabic, like the whole sutras of some holy book interjected with little recognisable shapes: cattle, dogs, vehicles. Hieroglyphs. I knocked again and when there was no answer, opened the door and stepped into the cool interior.
Madam Shaje was standing in the foyer as if waiting for me. It was eerie. She was standing in the hallway, just staring. It was my first time seeing her without her elaborate lace dress and gele. She wore simple house clothes, and I noticed she had soft-looking, grey, low-cut hair, like the wool from an old pillow. She had not noticed me even though I had opened her door and come into her presence. She was lost in thought and one eye had drifted a little outwards.
“Ma-madam,” I stuttered.
She blinked slowly, eyes shutting for a few seconds, and then looked down at me, “I called, and you came,” she said, smiling. She had those teeth, the ones with gaps between them like a picket fence. “That’s good.” She said and walked into the dark interior of the house. I followed.
She led me into her parlour. It was old school Yoruba woman parlour: out-of-fashion sofas, a dining table, and black and white family pictures on the wall, of probably, long dead relatives. On the rectangular center table, I could see she had been working. A pair of glasses, account books with numbers, a bowl of orogbo, kola nut, and a worn Casio calculator stood there. She sat and pulled out a roll of paper.
“I always give my staff a contract,” she began. “I’m not like these other employers that do things anyhow. Sho ma sign?”
I nodded. No one had offered me a contract before and my little heart was thudding in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I could be free of Aunty Bashira. Maybe I could get health insurance, annual leave, go home, visit my family, see my siblings sometime. My baby sister had been five when I left home. I was desperate to see her again, see how much she had grown or changed. Maybe I could finally save my own money.
A bank account! Me? I was elated. At my last employment, payment was the roof over my head and the food I was eating (save the money paid to Aunty Bashira).
“I will sign ma,” I said, hoping she didn’t change her mind. She opened up the contract on the table and offered me an old, knotty dip pen with a sharp pointed tip. I couldn’t read for shit, but even if I could…
I had never signed my signature before, so I quickly formed one, knelt at the table and signed over the dotted lines. It was a dip pen with no ink and my signature came out as an indentation on the paper.
“No ink, ma?” I asked.
“Kosi ink.” She said without missing a beat, as if it was a prepared answer. She looked at me square in the face. “Sho ma sign abi oo sign?”
I nodded, frantic, confused.
She held my right hand, the one with the pen. Her touch was oh so cold – mortuary standard cold. She directed the pen to the palm of my left and pushed its sharp tip into my skin.
“Ye!” I yelped. My skin broke and a bubble of blood surfaced. She twisted the pen, soaking its tip in my blood, and pointed at the dotted lines again. Let’s just agree that I couldn’t turn back at this juncture. I bent over the contract and signed.
Afterwards, I sucked on my bleeding palm and walked down the hallway to the large mahogany door, a bittersweet feeling nestled in my stomach like a swarm of wasps.
“Ma beru,” Madam Shaje said behind me. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The door creaked open. She put one considerate palm on the small of my neck. “Okunrin nie, you’re a man.” She said and eased me out of her house. The words sounded like what you would tell a traveler who’d arrived from faraway to meet the corpse of his mother.
Outside, a tableau of shrieks and screams was waiting for me. I fell to my knees and covered my ears but it was of no use. The sky was overcast. And the women, my God, the women…
*
The women were as I had seen them in the morning, talking, laughing, appearing happy. Layered atop that reality, however, the women were different. They were in hellish agony, shrieking and screaming. Two states at once. Their faces were gaunt, hollow, decaying, like walking corpses. They flung themselves at the mahogany door in a clatter of bones:
“Please Madam, release us!” They cried.
“You bastard witch!”
“You will never know peace!”
They were dead women conscripted into an eternal service in Madam Shaje’s catering business. And, alas!—I looked at my bleeding palm—I had become one of them. Baba Lagbaja, the gateman, was the worst. He was a slithering mass of decaying flesh pulling himself across the ground, a wail rising from his open mouth, his hand held up entreatingly. I turned to the door but there was no handle and I felt a repelling force that seemed to come from the inscriptions, which now glowed with a sickly yellow light. A warding spell. I did what anyone in my shoes would in those circumstances. I ran. As the saying went, I had not come to Lagos to look at bridges; let alone be tied to an eternal bondage. Jesus!
I pushed past these carrions in my path and fled to the gate. I did not care for the electric wires running on them; I knew most houses only had them for show. Even electrocution seemed better than this, if it came to that. In two parkour leaps, I was on top of the gate, and over the electric wire. I thought about the community. Were they in on this? I did not trust that I would not be caught and brought back into the house. All my Madam needed to do was make a phone call to the hoodlums I had seen sauntering around the other night. I went around the fence, through a clump of bushes, and found myself on the tottering edge of the cliff. I scampered down the steep incline into a mountain of refuse. I crossed a river of sewage and climbed up the other side and found myself on the Lagos Island expressway. I crossed the road, caring less for speeding cars, and entered another village, where women still had their wares out. I walked fast lest anyone mistook me for a running thief, putting as much distance as I could between myself and Madam Shaje and her cohort of dead people. After a couple of hours, I found an empty stall and crawled onto the belly of an overturned bench. In a distance, local vigilantes blew their whistles and a night guard, even farther off, banged on his gong.
Fitfully, I slept.
*
I woke up to movement. I opened my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the dark. I recognised charger plates, tubers of yam, sacs of uncooked rice. I was at the back of Madam Shaje’s bus! I looked around and saw the three women looking at me with pity. I tried to scream but couldn’t make the sound.
“It is no use,” the youngest said. I could see her molars through a gaping hole in her cheek. “There is no escape unless Madam release you. You will work, even if you no wan work. Shebi you sign contract?”
“Please, I need comot this place,” I begged. “How I take come back here?”
The other two women rocked in their seats, resignedly, paying no heed to me.
“Abi I don die?” I asked.
“No, not yet,” she said. “It is only a matter of time.”
The bus drew to a stop, and the doors swung open. Madam Shaje was standing there in her full regalia: a beautiful glittering lace and her trademark gele.
“Oya, alele!” She barked, pulling garish red lipstick across her black lips. And like clockwork, we got into action, compelled by incredible force. We leaped down from the bus and started setting up at the location. I swept the place, arranged the wood and set the fire. The women carried the food and fetched the water. Soon we were pounding yam, rolling amala in huge ikoko irin pots, removing the spines of moi-moi leaves. The women were still pleading and screaming but no one heard them. All people saw were hardworking Alases, the best in town. And they came for seconds because the food cooked by the dead could be nothing but delicious.
At the end of the day, we piled into the back of the bus with the rest of the equipment, exhausted. I had worked to the very inch of my life, manipulated by invisible strings like a marionette. I looked at the women and wondered who they were. Did they have children somewhere searching for them? Mourning them? How did they come to be employed by our madam? How long had they been in servitude? As our Madam drove home, the women began a mournful song.
Ejigbo ye o. Ma ma ri mama, Ejigbo!
Ejigbo ye o. Ma ma ri mama, Ejigbo!
Oseme nuwa, o ye o ri mama, Ejigbo!
And as they sang, they faded away, like wisps of candle smoke into nothingness, leaving me with their harrowing voices echoing in my head.
*
Madam Shaje looked exhausted when she opened the doors of the bus, one sinewy hand massaging the pulsating arteries on her temples. In a roundabout way, I felt her distress. To listen to the pain of the enslaved daily like the incessant wailing of infants must not be pleasant. I jumped out of the bus and added to it, kneeling and clutching the helm of her starched lace.
“Madam, abeg! I take God beg you! No be the kind work I find come be this. Abeg!”
She snatched her lace. “The reward for hard work is more work. Hear me so?” She said. “Abi you think say me sef no wan rest? Ko shi danu.” And with that pithy homily, she vanished into the safety of her house, protected by the warding spell. I saw that she was like us too, enslaved by whatever forces compelled her to keep working. This jailer was as much a prisoner as the jailed. I needed to know her story. It was the only place to start if I wanted to escape. I went looking for the gateman.
“You no get time, my child,” Baba Lagbaja said when I accosted him in the shed and asked him about our madam. For my sake, he appeared in the most humane form—blind, bent, but recognisably human.
“How long you don dey work here?” I whispered, afraid she could hear our gossip.
“I no fit remember,” he said, tears condensing on his lashes. “I know my grandchildren go don old, don die go. I don dey here since before independence.”
I did not know much of the country’s history but I knew that independence was 1960!
“Madam dey very powerful,” he warned. “She no be person. She no be human being.”
“Help me sir,” I said. “How I go fit comot this hell?”
“If you fit enter house,” he advised, “find your contract, burn am.”
I thanked him and ran around the compound, examining the windows. At each window, I felt the repelling force of the warding spell and when I looked closely, I could see the hieroglyphs beautifully etched on the frames and sills. There was no way in. I remembered that when I once worked for a roofer, some houses had skylights. As a roofer’s apprentice, I had learned to climb pipes like a palm wine tapper, all the way to the roofs of the buildings we worked on. I quickly found a robust sewage pipe and started shimmying up the house. At the top, I pulled myself onto the roof and laid down, listening, my heart pattering in my chest like a little trapped mouse.
The wind was extraordinary at that height and I could see the entire village, shanties looking like the lego toys of some giant toddler. The roof creaked loudly when I moved, so I laid on my belly to distribute my weight and moved only an inch at a time. I was searching for a skylight that was not protected by a warding spell.
*
I was lucky. I imagine there would have been no tale to tell if there was no skylight window on that roof, that I would probably still, at this moment, be in the employ of Madam Shaje’s catering service. That I would never have found my adoptive parents or gone to school or married or had children of my own. I would have been like Baba Lagbaja and the three women, dead and alive, working without health insurance or possibility of retirement or pension.
There were no markings on the skylight window and it opened noiselessly into a small, dark, cobwebby attic where mannequins lay fallen over one another. I landed on the wooden floor and kept my eyes on the mannequins. No, they looked really scary. If Madam Shaje could animate the dead, I was sure mannequins were only a minor feat. Oddly, they stayed put, staring at me through glassy, inanimate eyes. I opened the door into a landing area. The entire house was dark, quiet, brooding with secrets. I needed to move fast. I found my way to the stairs and hurried to the parlour-office where I had signed the contract. I hoped she trusted in her spells enough that she didn’t see the need to keep my contract under her bed or pillow.
My eyes had adjusted to the gloom and I could make out her Casio calculator, account book and dip pen on the table. And thank Jesus, my contract was there, rolled up on the table like the certificate of some prestigious university. The eyes of her relatives in the black-and-white picture frames followed me as I grabbed the document. When I opened it up, I noticed it was evolving. It did not feel like paper anymore but like pig skin, and it writhed with peristaltic motions in my hands like a loop of intestine. It was alive, this contract that bore my signature in blood; a living, breathing document. I couldn’t rip it even if I tried.
I rushed to the kitchen and opened the drawers as quietly as I could. I found a box of matches. I lit one stick and held it to the edge of the document. At first, it curled up like a sleeping baby disturbed and then the fire caught on and blazed. Believe you me, it started writhing in pain; I tossed it on the tiled kitchen floor; a mouth emerged from its fleshy face and a shrill, piercing scream came forth.
I heard a bedroom door crash open upstairs followed by heavy, rapid footfalls down the stairs, like the galloping of hooves. Madam Shaje appeared at the door, panting, her eyes bulging, looking in different directions. She caught on to me standing in her kitchen, saw the contract burnt beyond recognition, and let out a maniacal shriek. Her shadow grew as she shed her human form and became a thing of bat-like wings and uncountable arms and feet. A teratoma. Something between a giant spider, a host of bats, and a millipede. She filled the door to bursting and a spray of faeces exploded from her orifices.
“IWO!!!” she boomed from many mouths. “How dare you?”
I stood, transfixed, waiting for the end, for one of her serrated limbs to sweep across and dismember me. I counted four small, symbiotic, fleshy creatures, latched onto what looked like teats on her skin, suckling like hungry neonates; flappy looking things that looked like what my contract would have developed into. They ran around the surface of the beast with pseudopodia, chittering like children.
Madam Shaje hovered over me for a long minute, her rancid breath hot on my face. I remained frozen, unable to look away from the monster before me. There was no escape. The thing that was formerly Madam Shaje filled the kitchen from floor to ceiling. She smelled like sewage, her many eyes blinking asynchronously, and surprisingly normal-looking teeth—incisors—in her many mouths chattered in a kind of suppressed anger. Slowly, she started regressing into herself, numerous limbs folding and disappearing, her little beasties vanishing into crevices. Leathery, bat-like wings folded into her back like the roof of a convertible. Soon, Madam Shaje was standing in the doorway in her human form, looking ashamed at all the mess she’d made, at having lost her cool. She pulled her tattered gown across her body and wiped a tear from her cheek. She looked at me one more long moment before stepping aside.
“Odabo,” she said, as one would to a dear friend or relative. I hesitated but she nodded her approval, gesturing to the door. Go. I walked past her, trying my best not to slip on the pool of brown fluids she had released. She was a woman of principle, of contracts like a proper employer. I knew now she wouldn’t touch a hair on my head, not without a binding contract. The warding spell no longer had an effect on me and I opened the mahogany door without difficulty. The night air was cool and refreshing.
Baba Lagbaja was standing outside the door, a smile on his old, wrinkled face. He could sense I was free, and he started singing and clapping and dancing,
Eni a ori mu
Eni a ori so de’ru
Eni a ori sheleya.
I looked back as the door closed behind me, at Madam Shaje in the dark. A lonesome woman. One of her creatures emerged in the crook of her arm and she caressed it. I felt the pain of our broken bond and my freedom was a bittersweet feeling.
“Go!” Baba Lagbaja cried.
“Bye-Bye Ma.” I said to Madam Shaje and waved.
She nodded.
Adelehin’s short stories have appeared in The Best of Everyday Fiction, Takahe, On the Premises, The Tiny Globule, Page and Spine, Pandemic publications, Omenana, Sub-saharan Magazine, The Naked Convos, Kalahari Review, Canary Press, Our Move Next anthology and Fiyah. He was nominated for the Commonwealth short story award in 2014 and, more recently, was on the Nommos award long list for speculative fiction. He also made the Locus recommended reading list in 2020 with a story published in Omenana, and is one of the co-creators of the Sauutiverse, a sci-fi fantasy shared world. (First anthology is being published by Android press). Links to his stories can be found at www.adeijasan.com.
Not for any recollection of things gone by but for the remembrance of how my hometown was founded, of the priests who led my ancestors from the interior and the creatures who lurk in the depths of the ocean my hometown is coiled next to.
Sundays are for the retelling of the bond between Mother Ocean and the town. Sundays are for reinforcing lies.
Ebo is talking about Afia’s Island again; he is warning my brother off it. My uncle is the only one in town who talks about the floating isle this way. Everyone else speaks about Mother Ocean’s servants who walk the island with reverence—we call them the Strange Folk—and the treasure they guard.
“Turbulent waters which can crush any ship,” Ebo says in a low voice. He makes a gushing sound and my brother lets out a laugh. “It is the last line of defence. You will stay away, right?” My brother nods vigorously. Fiifi looks like a bobblehead going back and forth like that.
“Last line of defence against what exactly?” I ask, knowing full well Ebo won’t answer. I have asked this question before.
“The other side,” Fiifi says. “All the people who die at sea end up there.”
Ebo raises an eyebrow. “No, where did you hear that?”
When my brother points out it was our father who told him, Ebo lets out a chuckle. “For a fisherman, it’s outstanding how little your father knows of the sea.”
Disappointed that Ebo doesn’t agree with his answer, Fiifi brings up his shell collection. He tends to do that when he is not sure how to react in a given situation. It’s a security blanket which has taken up an entire wall in his bedroom.
“It’s the Strange Folk.” I blurt. My uncle’s lips flatten into a thin line.
“No, it’s not them either.”
“How do you know that?” I am tired of his stories, his lies. There is no ocean spirit and Afia’s Island doesn’t really move around the coast; it’s an optical illusion. All I want to know is why the island disturbs Ebo so much. I am tired of being bullshitted. “No one has ever seen one of them,” I say to him and think: but people say they take the shapes of animals; mostly turtles—it’s why their nests are not disturbed.
Ebo grimaces. Suddenly, he looks almost sixty even though he is forty and his brown skin is shrunken as though he had been wading in water too long.
“The things on that island and the Strange Folk are two different entities. The things on that island have twisted themselves into something unnatural, abominations. They only serve themselves.” There is a hard edge to my uncle’s voice.
“Monsters?” Fiifi asks, his voice trembling.
“They can’t get to you,” Ebo says as he puts an arm around my brother. “Not on my watch.”
I suck my teeth in irritation, lift myself out of the sofa and head outside. I can hear the ocean but it’s too dark to see where the island is. Could there really be monsters wandering its forests? I hate that Ebo is able to do this; that he can pique my interest in his stories despite my best efforts to leave them in my childhood.
#
Benada
It is Tuesday and Tuesdays are for Mother Ocean.
No swimming, no fishing; most people avoid the beach on this day, I am not one of those people. Fiifi is next to me on the hot sand, trying to dig a hole with his feet. We’ve been told to go home several times even though technically we aren’t breaking the taboo.
Tuesdays instil so much fear in my hometown, it’s quite disturbing at times. My university too, stands in a coastal town but it doesn’t come to a standstill because it’s the third day of the week. Tuesdays are for upholding the status quo of my hometown.
The sun sits high in the sky, the fluffiest clouds I’ve ever seen, floating around it. The water is a dark blue, glittering as the waves wash the shore. I watch the things around me, the things allowed on the beach because it’s Mother Ocean’s feast day. The fishermen sing while they mend their nets; it’s their way of honouring her. I spot my father and Ebo amongst them.
My eyes follow Afia’s Island, it looks closer to the coast than it was on Dwowda. I wonder what the monsters are like. Ebo says they have body parts in the wrong place, mouths in armpits, eyeballs for mouths.
“Are you thinking of going to find the treasure?” My brother asks. I turn to look down at him. “If I had the treasure guess what I would do.”
“Buy lots of toffees?”
He flashes me a toothy grin and I chuckle. Eight year olds are so easy to please.
“Can I tell you a secret?” His voice is barely a whisper as he fidgets with the hem of his tee-shirt, curling his toes further into the sand.
“You can tell me anything.”
“They want to throw Uncle Ebo out. I heard them talking about it, Mama says he is cursed.”
I sigh. Not this shit again. What happened is almost a decade old. It wasn’t Ebo’s fault people followed his foolish precedent in breaking the taboo. It is not his fault for some reason Mother Ocean did not claim him. They have to stop blaming him for the things that don’t go right in our family.
“Uncle is not cursed.”
“But Mama said—”
“It will be fine. He won’t go anywhere, too stubborn for that.”
Seemingly satisfied our uncle won’t be evicted Fiifi demands to know what I will do with the treasure. I want to think I will do practical things with sacks of gold: buy treasure bills, get stocks, invest in startups; anything to bring me more money.
“Get a ship,” I extend my arms forward as though they are on the wheel of a ship and put on my best imitation of a pirate. “Pillage the nearby islands for more gold,” I lower my head towards my brother’s ears. “And meet some ladies.”
That makes him laugh.
“We can sail the world, go to all the places in my encyclopaedia. We will be the Pirate Brothers, think of all the adventures we could have,” Fiifi says as he jumps to his feet, swishes an arm in front of himself as if he is in a sword fight then brings his face level with mine. “Then you don’t have to go back to uni.”
“Sure it will be.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I do, but I have to go back to school. I will always come back to spend time with you. We will be the Pirate Brothers when I am here.”
My brother looks at me as if he is pondering whether to accept my response or throw a tantrum. “Alright then, when you are here we can go swimming and eat so many toffees our teeth fall out.”
“Would any self-respecting pirate have teeth?” Fiifi shakes his head, laughing and I let out a chuckle.
We decide to build a sandcastle before the tide comes in; since we can’t get water from the ocean, we buy a bag of sachet water from one of the few open kiosks, so many sachets are sacrificed in the name of a moat and two towers. The castle even has a gate made of pieces of a twig. It’s a shame it will be gone in a few hours. We take a picture of us next to it.
“Look,” my brother exclaims, pointing to something near the shore. A conch, a big white one, half buried in the sand. “I don’t have anything like it. It will probably take up half a shelf. I am going to get it.”
“You will do no such thing.” My voice is harsher than I intend. “It will be here tomorrow with some luck.”
“But what if it’s not here?”
“Better luck next time?” I reply with a shrug.
“The water is not even touching. I won’t be breaking the rule.” Fiifi whines.
“Yes it is. Let’s head home.”
Fiifi ignores me. He sprints towards the conch. A chill descends upon me. My chest hurts. I am not going to have a brother soon. I scream for him to turn back as I chase him down. Fiifi picks up the conch, turns it over in his hands and lets out a laugh of delight. I stare in horror. Fiifi is ankle deep in the water.
His peals of laughter slowly morph into cries for help as the calm waters suddenly turn violent, crashing against the shore and spitting wood on the beach. I watch as the waves engulf my brother’s body. Thunder booms in the skies and lightning strikes beach sand into sculptures. The fishermen’s songs of reverence are barely audible. My mouth is full of bile and the rain is coming down in torrents.
My brother belongs to the ocean now.
I stare at the conch lying in the sand. The fisherfolk are scurrying towards safety from the tumbling trees. My uncle and father are trying to drag me along with them. The conch is mocking me. A better brother would have tried to save Fiifi but that’s not me. I am only a coward.
“Kwame,” Ebo grabs me by the shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
“Fiifi…Fiifi…”
“Don’t tell me he is in the… oh gods!” Ebo’s eyes narrow into a pained stare. Come on, you have to get to safety. Fiifi will be fine. I promise.”
My father is screaming at me for not taking better care of my brother. Does he think I don’t know this? Fiifi is dead and it’s all my fault. I was the one who brought him to the beach. Something breaks inside me; my brother might be dead but the ocean cannot have his body. I will not allow it. Fiifi deserves a proper burial and a tombstone I can visit; a place I can tell him of our many adventures as the Pirate Brothers. I break free of my uncle’s hold and dive into the raging ocean.
It’s not as dark under the sea as it is above. It looks like it is illuminated by hundreds of lightbulbs. It takes a while before I catch a glimpse of Fiifi. His eyes are shut, limbs akimbo and surrounded by turtles.
Turtles? The Strange Folk?
I swim closer, trying not to bump into any of the turtles. Gathering my brother into my arms I make my way towards the surface. I am running out of air faster than expected.
There is a hissing sound. Out of the seabed tentacles rush at me, jabbing and prodding till they pry Fiifi out of my hands. Another tentacle wraps itself around my neck and holds on tight. It is sticky and slimy, and I am one coil away from being strangled. It grows quiet for a moment, even the schools of fish darting about seem to still, then the seabed opens its eyes.
Sixteen. It has sixteen red eyes and they are all focused on me. Its voice is reminiscent of an orchestra. It is speaking Fante.
“He belongs to me,” the seabed says. “So do you, but for now you may go.”
That means what exactly?
The tentacle around my neck loosens its grip and I swim towards my brother. Another tentacle stops me. My air is almost depleted. I can barely keep my eyes open . My throat feels swollen and my chest is caving in on itself.
Something is swimming towards me. Something mostly human. There are flippers where feet should be and fins along its arms. I know I am seeing things because of the lack of air. The thing is glowing neon yellow. My mind is slipping. I couldn’t save my brother. We are both going to die in the clutches of Mother Ocean.
Why does the creature have my uncle’s face?
#
People in town claim before you die there are two options available: end up as an ancestor or return to your family home to negotiate with your ancestors for a longer life. This is not what happens to me. I see Mother Ocean’s eyes. I see masses of flesh with teeth and hair growing out of them. Masses of flesh with too many limbs, all in the wrong place, crawling across the beach sand, ensnaring sailors with sultry voices. I see Afia’s Island for what it truly is.
When I open my eyes, I am in more pain than I remember ever being in. My father is looking down at me, a sneer mars his face. I try to talk, but my throat hurts. Next to me is Fiifi; looking at him is hard, his skin is discoloured, his lips cracked. He looks vacant.
I did it? I did it.
“Is he… is he okay?” This time I manage to get my words out.
“No. He is barely alive, but he will be gone soon enough,” my father says.
“Ignore him,” Ebo says, shooting a glare in my father’s direction. His clothes are drenched, but there is a joking tone to his voice as though two people didn’t almost just die. “That was a brave thing you did. Always knew the taboo was rubbish.”
“Rubbish?” my father barks. “Things are ordered in a certain way for a reason. He brought back a curse.”
“Oh, shut up! One would think you would be happy your children aren’t dead.”
“It would be better if they died. The only reason he thought this was sensible was because of you. I should never have let you stay with us. Useless man.”
“Blame me if that will help you cope better, but useless? You would be at the bottom of the ocean if it wasn’t for me,” I have never seen my uncle fight back. He always brushes his brother’s insults aside with a joke or a smile. It’s unsettling. “Or did you forget who I broke the taboo for?”
My father’s lips flatten into a thin line. “That was a long time ago.” I look between them. Ebo is cracking his knuckles. How have I never heard this part of the story before?
The ocean is calm again and it’s silent between us. I think we all believe Fiifi is dead. It’s probably why they didn’t bother to take him to a hospital. I want to believe my brother will wake up. Miracles like that always happen in Ebo’s stories.
And Fiifi does wake up. But when he does, I don’t think it’s a miracle, I think I am hallucinating. His eyes are open but they are looking at nothing in particular. His eyes are glassy. My brother looks incredibly frail.
“Please don’t ever leave me. I am not ready to be an only child again.”
#
Memenda
It is Saturday, and Saturdays are for the wind.
The nets of all the fishermen in my hometown have come up empty since Tuesday. They blame my father and have punched holes in his canoe. My uncle isn’t allowed in our house anymore.
And on Fida, the baby turtles began their journey towards the ocean. On that Friday, Fiifi threw out his shell collection.
Saturdays are for the unknown. If you want to talk to god speak to the wind and they will speak back. Saturdays are for dealing with the supernatural.
I am on the beach, knees tucked under my chin. I’ve always liked the ocean but now there is something constantly beckoning me towards the water. Sometimes, I hear Mother Ocean when I am in the shower, I stand with eyes closed and let the water run down my body till someone—usually my mother—bangs on the bathroom door to tell me to stop wasting water. Mother Ocean keeps pestering me to visit. Other times, I hear snarls and low growls. I know they are from Afia’s Island.
The baby turtles are still making their journey. I want to join them and never leave the ocean, but for now, it’s enough for the seawater to wash my feet.
Ebo is the only one who doesn’t question me coming out here. He tends to come along with me. I think about telling Ebo about the noises I keep hearing, but I am not sure whether or not he is the creature I saw. I look at him, laying with his head on the sand, sunglasses over his eyes. He hasn’t uttered a word in two hours.
“What happened when you broke the taboo?” I ask.
He sits up. “What did she show you?”
It is unnerving hearing all those disembodied voices and screeches, but it is comforting in an odd way to know the experience is not unique to me.
“Masses of flesh,” I reply. “Some of them look like regular people but I can tell there is something off about them. And now I keep hearing all these voices around town.”
Ebo’s lips flatten into a thin line. “You will learn to ignore the voices. I didn’t see bodies. Just blood, the town drenched in blood.”
“So, what I saw is what exists on Afia’s Island?”
“Yes, though next time your vision of the island won’t be in your head, you will be standing on it.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Why?”
“I swear you never listen when I speak,” Ebo says. “The island keeps floating towards the coast for a reason. Mother Ocean can barely hold it back at this point. She’s a lot weaker than she was in the past.”
I look out to the ocean and realize Afia’s Island is closer than it has been my entire life, soon enough there won’t be a need for a canoe to get to it.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I am getting to it,” Ebo replies. “Sometimes, when people break the taboo Mother Ocean creates bonds between those people like she has with the town. The people who belong to her are meant to help keep Afia’s Island at bay.”
“It’s an island,” My frustration leaks into my voice. “How is anything we do going to affect it?”
“Well, it involves a bit of lunar magic and sailing out to the island to slaughter a few monsters.”
“This has to be one of your tales.”
“It’s not a lie just because it’s a story.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I didn’t ask to be a part of it. Who cares what the island does?”
My uncle pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. “The story of how we came from the interior that gets told around town is not complete. There was a civil war not long after, some of the elders wanted to turn Mother Ocean into a weapon and they went to great lengths to attain it,”
My toes curl in the sand.
“Blood magic has terrible consequences and you saw what became of them,” Ebo says, his voice flat. “They were thrown on the island which used to be so far out you couldn’t see it from the shore. Afia’s Island is a corruption of the island’s original name, you know? The town used to call it Efiase. Do you know what that means?”
My eyes widen. All his warnings keep making more and more sense.
“Prison,” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. “So, the thing down there with the tentacles? That is Mother Ocean?”
Ebo nods.
“She looks like the monsters you’ve been describing.”
“The ocean spirit didn’t always look like that. Whatever blood magic was used misshaped her too.”
“And the things on the island are the Strange Folk?”
Ebo lets out a laugh before rising then dives into the ocean. It takes a moment before his head shoots above the waves. “Come on in,”
“No,”
“The worst thing that could possibly happen has already occurred.”
A part of me knows nothing terrible will happen. Ebo won’t let it happen but I am wary of touching the seabed. It seems disrespectful. I find the creature from Tuesday swimming around when I dive beneath the waves. I didn’t hallucinate it. It does have Ebo’s face.
“Uncle?” I ask, before clamping a hand over my mouth. That’s when I realise I can breathe properly.
I look down at my body. It looks like Ebo’s except my fins and scales are a gleaming orange. What am I? Panicking, I swim towards the surface and hurl myself onto the hot sand.
“No, no,” I scream. I pull my legs into my chest, so glad to see them return. “What did you do to me? Why is this happening to me?”
“Calm down, you were going to find out eventually. Your brother will take this better than you are taking it, and he is a child.”
Those words only serve to escalate my fear. “Fiifi is like this? What even is this?”
“We are the Strange Folk.”
Nana Afadua Ofori-Atta is a Ghanaian writer and poet from Takoradi and an avid tennis fan. Her writing has appeared in Lolwe, Fantasy Magazine, Crow & Cross Keys, AFREADA, the Lumiere Review and elsewhere. She can be found on twitter @afaduawrites
You’ve been here before; this house with the black gate that has gold details and sharp spikes shooting up at the top. This house with the pink bougainvillaeas that have taken over the brick fence, so much that the cement barely peaks through. You know that the owners of the house have a pretty, white dog with a purple collar. You remember how amused you were that night when the tiny thing barked at you until a greying man clinging to a black robe came to shout at it.
“What are you barking at?!” the man had yelled before he switched on a torch and searched the premises. He couldn’t see anyone, so he hissed and picked up the dog, chastising it on his way to the door.
You are still looking at the gate when it opens, and the dog and the man emerge from behind it.
#
You never realized how rare it was to have dreams as vivid and controlled as yours until you saw a man on TikTok joke about the randomness of his. Curious, you began to ask your classmates what their dreams were like. It was an odd question, but the answers were amusing: being naked in school; kissing a crush; a lot of falling, too.
You learned about lucid dreaming during your computer time one Saturday night. So lost in articles about this seemingly special ability, you didn’t notice the minute hand slipping past your bedtime until your father’s hand struck your cheek so hard, causing a ringing in your ears that kept you up all night.
It is that sensation that you’re thinking about now, barely ten minutes left till your bedtime, as you read about what your internet search has taken you to: astral projection.
“Is this what you’re using your computer time to do!?” you hear, before your father’s hand collides with your face.
“This is the type of thing that killed your mother! These occultist acts! You want to join her abi?”
You want to ask him what he means, but between the stinging sensation on your cheeks, and the intensity of his voice as he continues to narrate the dangers of astral travel, you decide that it’s not the best time.
#
You can finally project again tonight because it is Friday and your father is at an all-night prayer meeting for the deacons. Aunty Lolade, his sister and your guardian for the night is a kinder version of him, so she lets you have two hours of computer time instead of one and laughs at your father’s instruction to make sure you’re not “roaming the spirit realm” in your sleep.
“How am I supposed to do that one abeg?” She says to you later, an amused smile on her face. “Will I come to your room and be shouting, ‘I hope your spirit is at home o!’?”
You remember the joke before you fall asleep and laugh.
“No, it is not,” you think to yourself.
When you finally fall asleep, you pull yourself out of your lucid dream, and into the astral plane, you are astonished by the weirdness of it; how the ground beneath you looks like shimmery water; how you sink into it to appear at a new location every time; how strange the beings are here, with faces and bodies that your human mind cannot comprehend. There are tails and horns and fish fins and fur and multiple hands and multiple eyes—all of varying colours. You are astonished.
What is even stranger, however, is that you can understand these beings: you do not know the language they speak and cannot compare it to anything you’ve ever heard on earth. But when you speak to them, and they respond, you know exactly what they’re saying.
You’re not going to be projecting into the physical realm anytime soon.
#
You meet your mother on your fourth trip. Your internet searches have already taught you that there are other beings in the astral realm. You know to avoid the entities that radiate negative energy. You know the ones that are approachable for help. You know that some of the humans here are not “awake” enough to be conscious of their presence here, so you no longer feel like they’re simply being arrogant when they ignore you. Honestly, you don’t care for the beings anyway. You’re simply here for the experience; to explore the cities that your human mind cannot fathom; to experience the fluidity of time and space, moving you from one destination to another in seconds. You’re here to escape your reality. Yet, here is your three years’ late mother; a woman who had taken her life with her own hands, leaving you in those of a man you both despised. A woman who you found red-eyed that early Sunday morning—when your father asked you to see why she was not yet ready for church—dangling from a rope tied to a hook in the ceiling, with her tongue protruding from her mouth, where saliva was starting to foam. When her paling body suddenly started to jerk, hope overwhelmed you with its promises, but reality wasn’t kind enough to allow you time to bring your mother down. Her body stopped.
It’s the jerking you remember when you see her; how it played in your mind; hour after hour; day after day; month after month; till gradually, it sank into the deepest, darkest parts of your brain, merely resurfacing to torment you at your lowest times. Next, you remembered the hollowness; the cruelty of it, how it banished you to extended periods of sleep to forget its presence, only to crawl back into you when you woke up and remembered your loss and began to cry until sleep found you again. You thought your father felt hollow too. He started drinking—something you never expected your overly righteous old man to indulge in — and muttered regularly about how your mother’s “demonic affiliations” were to blame. You found the accusation of invisible demons odd. Her only demonic affiliation was him.
#
The second time you meet your mother’s ghost it is almost magical. You find that you’re drawn to it—her. It’s as if you’re called by her. And it is a call you can’t resist; you don’t want to resist. She hugs you. You hug her as tightly as you can and wish you could cry; many emotions are swirling through you at this very moment.
“I’ve missed you so much my love,” she starts, but you can only nod a response.
You have so much to tell her about: the milestones she’s missed; the low moments when she wasn’t present to comfort you; the abuse that she wasn’t around to shield you from. But you do not talk about any of these things.
“Why did you do this to yourself?” you ask instead, and then start to question the appropriateness of the question as soon as it leaves your mouth.
She looks away from you first, and her body slides forward so that she’s holding her face in her palms.
“I didn’t want to burden you and your father,” she says after a dramatic sigh.
“Burden?” you ask, incredulous. “You were not a burden. If anything, the only burden in our family is still alive and well!”
“The doctor told me I had cancer,” she replies, and your eyes widen, but she doesn’t give you the chance to talk. “Pancreatic cancer. Late-stage. The longer we talked about my treatment, the more I realised that the financial burden of helping me get better would only put a strain on our family. God, the tests alone put a strain on me.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone, mummy?” you question her, looking straight into her eyes. Many thoughts are dancing in your brain about the revelation, but this is the most important one. “Aunty Lolade, grandma, grandpa, your siblings, even daddy, they would have pulled funds together. They would have found a way.”
“And for what? Ask google about the life expectancy for late-stage cancer. Imagine asking my family to spend all that money, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be able to survive for more than a year? I had to consider these things.”
“But you couldn’t consider the effect that seeing you dangling from the ceiling would leave,” you mutter.
Suddenly, you are hit by a bit of realisation—maybe your mother was not aware of the gravity of her actions when she carried them out.
“I didn’t think it through,” she starts to explain, but you don’t want to hear it.
“You didn’t think about what seeing you in that state would do to us? You didn’t think about what daddy would become after seeing you go like that?”
“I know your father. And I know that if there’s one thing he despises in life, it’s having a financial load thrown at him out of nowhere. He would do the right thing and contribute to my treatment, but he’d despise me for it till I died, the whole time, complaining to anyone who’d listen, that it was my ‘demonic affiliations’ that made me so ill”. After which his anger would be the fact that he spent all that money, only for me to die in the end.”
“Despite everything you’ve said, I still can’t find the reason that you did it,” you tell her, but she continues like nobody said anything.
“It is exactly what happened after his mother died. You might not have been there to experience it, but I was.”
“So, leaving me with him was the only option?!” You ask. You don’t realise how angry her response makes you until you hear yourself.
“You left me with him!” You continue. “Did you consider what would happen to me?! Did you think about how much I’d miss you?! Did you—”
“It was rash, I can’t lie,” she interrupts you. “But I need you to know that it wasn’t my intention to leave you behind. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I only did what I thought was best for you. I just didn’t have the resources or support to do it the right way and I’m sorry my love. I really am.”
Her voice breaks, and you feel bad for taking the conversation this way. But you have every right to be upset, you think. You’re stuck between missing your mother and detesting the fact she took herself from you.
“How did you learn this?” she asks, changing the topic. “Did you come here to see me? I can’t imagine your father would have allowed you to learn about astral travel.”
“He didn’t,” you say, and you laugh a little to yourself.
You tell her about how he caught you searching up projection on the internet and the hyper-vigilance of your sleep that followed. You tell her about how you started, about the dog that could see you even though his owner could not.
“I always knew I passed something down to you. Makes up for how much you resemble your father instead of me,” she says, laughing softly. You join in. You’ve missed laughing with your mother.
“He thinks it’s all evil,” you say.
“Oh. There’s definitely evil here. The funny part is, I already knew this before I came. But being here for so long—as the soul of a person that took their own life, it truly throws the evil at your face.”
“Is it different?” You ask. “For the people that didn’t commit suicide?”
“They go to heaven. Straight. Or hell,” she says, stretching a hand up then down for emphasis. “The rest of us? The universe doesn’t even give us the chance.”
She talks about the memories that followed her death; how she saw the other souls shoot up like fireworks, while she sank deeper, and deeper into the other planes. She talks about the weariness that hit her when she arrived, as if the place had wrapped her up in a cloak of unquenchable fatigue.
“I would give anything to have a body again. This place changes you. I’m not the mother you lost, my love. I am a destroyed version of her.”
“You’re not destroyed to me,” you try to comfort her, and place an arm around her waist. She only sighs.
“Sometimes,” she starts, “when it gets too lonely or I’ve had to fight off yet another lower vibrational being, I wish I had let your father do the work for me.”
#
“You need to stop coming here so often,” your mother solemnly advises you.
You don’t know how many visits you’ve made here since you first met her because you’ve stopped counting. You’ve figured out how to jump back into your body as soon as your father touches it, so it looks like you are merely asleep; another act your mother warned you about.
“You need to understand that it’s not good for your physical body to be left empty so often,” she continues. “And coming here too much will negatively affect your brain. Your reality is not here. It is on the physical plane. Constant visits will disrupt your perception—”
“Daddy is in the room,” you interrupt her.
“Let’s go,” she tells you, holding you tightly.
Within milliseconds, your body is in front of you. Your father is tapping you to wake up, but that is not what holds your attention.
There are three shadows in the room: dark entities with red eyes, a muscular human build, heads like birds and tails like lions. They turn to you and your mother as soon as you arrive. Your father cannot see them.
“Go to your body,” your mother starts to mumble to you. “I’ll try and keep them from it.”
You nod and proceed to the corner of the room as calmly as you can. In the centre of your room, your bed is already surrounded by figures, so it’s too early to approach it. You have no idea what they’re capable of. They look at you as you walk away from your mother. Red eyes glow ferociously as they follow your every move. You realise that you’re not shaking because you’re not in your body. The human body would quake at the sight of these entities. It would sweat, cry, and probably pee itself. It would run away too. You think about these things and you are wistful. A longing for the body that you’ve been leaving every night sets in. You crave the reality you’ve been running away from; a reality where you’d never have to face such beings. You are terrified.
Your father is oblivious to the scene unfolding in his presence. Frustrated with trying to wake you up, he leaves your body and returns to his room, promising to “deal with you” when he gets back.
Your mother runs to the bed, effectively distracting the beings, and you take the chance to enter your body. Your plan fails. A shadowy hand slaps you to the wall like you are nothing but an annoying insect. You collide with your pink, cloud-patterned wallpaper before your astral form touches the ground. It cannot feel pain. What it feels instead, is an overwhelming weakness. You are almost paralysed. It is up to your mother to save you now.
You can hear her fighting the beasts. You hear her voice: high pitched and fragile, against the deep, mumbled grunts of the beasts, and you worry that her weakened form is not strong enough to fight them all off. A feeling of defeat starts to set in. It is further intensified by the absolute silence that engulfs the room, and the sharp, tugging sensation that climbs your astral form. Your body has been occupied.
You’ve read about beings like this. How they roam the earth, looking to occupy the bodies of the ones who have travelled to the astral realm. You have never read about how these bodies are recovered.
You want to mourn your loss. You want to scream. To wail and roll on the floor. But you cannot move. Instead, your mother’s advice rings in your mind, calling you a fool in the way that only a mother’s “I told you so” can. Now, you will be able to live with her for eternity. To see your mother again. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
“Mummy,” you struggle to word out.
You have no idea where she is, but you can only hope that the last of her strength has not been knocked out of her.
At the sound of your voice, the beasts march to the corner of the room where your astral form lies, one after the other, until all three of them are looking down at you.
“Three. Three?” you wonder to yourself.
They proceed to pick you up.
“Wait,” you hear your voice.
Your body glides towards you. There is something familiar about the rhythm of the footsteps that you hear, but you don’t want to accept the realisation that is sneaking up on you.
“My darling,” it starts.
“I can’t believe you did this!” you try to yell, but it comes out like a loud whisper. “Why did you do this?!”
“I told you. I am not the mother you lost.”
Ebere Obua is a medical student with way too many side interests. Her work has been published in Olongo Africa, Preachy, The Roadrunner Review and Sylvia Magazine
Kifa sat on the stairs in her black dress, staring at her dead husband’s shoes. Pastor Waters was conversing with Vdekja and Tod, the small gathering of friends eating the food Heriotza had brought. The reverend had led a great service, but appeared uncomfortable still wearing her garments, tugging at the sleeves alternately and smiling beatifically as Kifa’s brother droned on.
“The way I see, Life and Death are two sides of the same coin or maybe the reverse of each other,” Tod said. “Life is always laborin’ away, deliverin’ new life like some sorta short order cook and all Death wants to do is blend all that life up and drink it down as easy and as quick as it can. No appreciation for how beautiful a life is, or how complex.” Tod paused long enough to take a sip from his plastic cup. “Life is always givething this wonderful spread, y’see—” He popped a meatball in his mouth. “Death is always takething away.” He munched away as he rolled the toothpick between his thumb and index. “From the moment after birth, Death is always sippin’ away what Life just got through pouring in.”
“But what is that supposed to even mean?” Vdekja said, cartoonishly shrugging his shoulders. “Death is something we all know. What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.” Tod shrugged. “Maybe Mort was even tastier than most of us. Maybe his straw went a little closer to the bottom. Don’t look at me. I’m not an expert.”
Tod always had a way of stinging with his words. He was Kifa’s younger brother, so Vdekja and Pastor Waters were inclined to give him leeway, but she saw her friend’s shift of discomfort and the faltering of the reverend’s smile.
It was another of those temporary inconveniences that would soon be forgotten, the only remnant the lingering discomfort of every person within earshot.
Pastor Waters’ sermon had been passionate, personal, polite. She had captured as much of the essence of her husband as Kifa could have expected. The reverend’s silence now, in respect of Kifa’s brother’s gaffe, was for her. He should have developed a condiment to go along with the foot he was always sticking in his mouth. His blunders were as common as shoes on feet.
Speaking of shoes…
Kifa sat upright, her eyes again returning to what she’d failed to actually see since they’d returned from the cemetery. She hadn’t seen the shoes for several months now.
They were right there, on the bottom rack like they’d always been whenever they hadn’t been on her husband’s feet. He’d been sick so long…he’d been in bed so long before finally surrendering.
“Are you okay, my dear?” Heriotza asked, suddenly next to her. “It’s a ridiculous question and I’m sorry, but I saw your face just now.”
“No. I’m sorry. I just—” Kifa sighed, pointing with her eyes to the pair of shoes on the rack. “Those are Mort’s shoes.” The other woman turned and looked. “His favorite shoes. Whenever he left the house, those are the ones he wore. No matter the occasion. Birthdays, graduations, funerals—except for his own, anyway.”
She bit her lip as if she could chew up her next words rather than say them. “I hate those shoes.” Kifa laughed and Heriotza joined in. “You know what the worst thing is?”
Her friend grabbed her hand, apparently sensing the next sentence or so was difficult to say.
“I don’t feel bad. I mean, I do. I love him and I miss him. But I don’t feel bad he’s finally gone.”
“My sweet. He was suffering. You’re only relieved it’s over.” She folded both hands over Kifa’s and gave her a gentle squeeze.
Tears had begun streaming down her face. “I feel bad because I don’t feel bad. Does that make some kind of sense?”
“My Kifa—you are a good woman. A loving woman. Mort was a good man. He knows your heart and he knows it was broken well before he passed. The pieces don’t have to fit together like they used to for you to let it heal.”
Heriotza was a good friend, but Kifa wasn’t looking for advice. Kifa realised she needed to feel what she felt on her own. She felt vulnerable and alone and needed to cut herself on those broken pieces.
The sickness that had grown inside him had bided its time over nine months. It had begged her to look and dared her to look away. Had it been sudden, there would have been a break in her grief and a definite point from which she would have been able to heal. Instead, the plasticity of her misery had laid across her soul like a band-aid; each memory of Mort, either in sickness or in health like a barb as she peeled that bandage away.
“Hey, sis, you alright?” Tod came over with a fistful of tissues. He was good for what he was good for, and she took a few with gratitude to dab her eyes.
“I’m good. I just saw…I just saw something that reminded me of Mort.” She blew her nose, then folded her arms, a chill slipping through her. “I think I need to lay down.”
“Almont and I will clean up and I will send him home,” Heriotza said. “I saw a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge. You and I will have a girl’s night.”
Kifa didn’t think she was up to having a guest but didn’t have the strength to withstand the disappointment in her best friend’s eyes. Her brother kissed her cheek and hugged her before she headed upstairs.
Kifa turned back, dashing down the stairs and scooping up her husband’s favorite shoes and hugging them to her chest.
“You all have a good night,” she said. “And thank you for coming.”
Their bedroom was to the left at the top of the stairs. Kifa crossed the threshold and laid in her black dress across the bed she’d shared with Mort for many years, shoes still in the crook of her arm.
They had never had children—her biggest regret was that there wasn’t a part of him still left in the world. She was an unwilling stone rooted in the wake of his loss. And despite Heriotza being here for her at every turn, she was alone.
Mort should have been buried with these shoes.
Kifa didn’t know how she’d missed them so long. Maybe she’d become immune to their presence like signs on oft-traveled roads. Their invisibility had probably been a kind of balm. The shoes of the man who literally walked everywhere in them and then suddenly couldn’t even walk from his own bed to the bathroom.
Seeing them a moment ago had been like a scoring across her heart worse than the last few days of her husband’s life.
She spread herself across their bed, covering as much of his territory as she could, reaffirming her claim against what had taken Mort away from her.
She cried into his shoes until she fell asleep.
Kifa became aware of coming awake. The heavy curtains had been drawn, but it felt like there should be daylight out still, despite the dark of the room.
“Hello?” she said, the quaver in her voice the only indicator she was afraid. “Is anyone still here?” Kifa had no reason to be afraid, but there was something that flagged her sense of danger. Heriotza should have been here unless she’d changed her mind and left. Before she’d come up, Kifa had wanted nothing more than to be alone, now she hoped her best friend hadn’t left.
She slid off the bed and reached for the bedroom door.
–SKRRP-
Something was in the house. That wasn’t a sound like any person she’d ever had in her home, and it sounded more…organic and less like the shift of an unbalanced washing machine or the metallic clanging of a starting furnace. Floorboards creaked and popped downstairs as something moved freely about.
She wrapped her hand around the knob and turned it as slowly as she could. The whispered whine as the metal innards slid across, around, or between each other—Kifa had no idea how such a thing worked—echoed up her bones from her hand to her mouth and she clenched her teeth to stifle the miniscule scream that would declare that she was here.
Rationality monologued that whomever she heard downstairs could only be Heriotza. Kifa mouthed the words to reassure herself as she drew the door inward and peeked into the pronounced dark of the hallway.
–SKRRP-
Kifa jerked her head back, a gasp of air crawling into her mouth. The first sound had been somewhere downstairs. Maybe in the kitchen, maybe in the dining room, or maybe by the front entrance. But the second one was definitely closer, accompanied by the squeaky rhythm of feet ascending the stairs.
She needed to call the police. Her cell phone wasn’t on the end table where she left it every night. In her distress before coming upstairs, she’d probably left it in the living room. They hadn’t had a landline in almost a decade, leaving her the only option to hide.
Kifa only had the two cliched spaces to hide. Under the bed had several shoe boxes and pulling them out would only underline exactly where she was. The closet door was slightly open and it was big. Maybe she might be overlooked.
She pushed her way inside, the door creaking slightly as she crossed the threshold.
-SKRRP-
It was outside of her bedroom, scraping away at the rock of her sense of security. Kifa found a spot near the back of the walk-in and sat, huddling her legs up to her and drawing her arms around her knees. Then she realized she was still holding Mort’s shoes. She wanted to hold onto them, like an anchor rooting her to a notion of calm. But she put them down on the floor so she could have both hands free to pull her dress down over her bare feet. Maybe if she were mistaken for a pile of clothes she could be missed.
The extended gait of feet dragging across the floor was just inside the bedroom. They went around the bed and paused—perhaps it was looking under the bed. She briefly wondered why she thought of whatever was in her bedroom as an it and not a person. Maybe because it was an undefined thing, that she hadn’t seen a face to make it a whole person.
Kifa squeezed her hand around her mouth, ready to crush any errant sound she might make against her will.
–skrrp-
It was by the closet. Hinges that had never wanted for oil groaned and she wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t groaned with them. She could make out gradations of black and saw the motion of indistinct shapes, despite the lack of discernible light. As it came closer, Kifa willed herself to be a part of the wall, for her flesh to be the cotton-polyester blend of her dress and her breathing to be the trickle of air coming through the vent high up on the wall.
Kifa was emotionally and physically unarmed, seeing the long, thin bones of index and middle fingers, split like an upside-down peace sign. But they weren’t reaching for her, instead hooking the tongues of Mort’s shoes. This visitor had been in her home before, although the last time was for her husband’s unconditional surrender.
As Mort’s shoes were lifted out of sight, dragging feet moved away. Something trailed behind it and Kifa thought she could have reached out and touched the hem of its garment, but she was still too afraid to move. It retreated quickly, the previously pregnant air contracting into a less humid, breathable thinness. A long moment passed before Kifa crawled on her hands and knees, padding back into her bedroom.
They had never met officially and she hoped not to appear on its ledger for a long time. Kifa felt a wash of unexpected relief as her husband’s courier took him his shoes.
But when her hand grazed the lid of a shoe box on the carpeted floor, she paused. Kifa felt around until she found the box that had been beneath the bed before. Then she reached inside the box.
Her favorite stilettos that had been in here were gone.
Gerald Dean Rice has several short stories and a few books under his belt, including Absolute Garbage, Total Nonsense, and Utter Ridiculousness. He has a BA in English from Oakland University and lives in Metro Detroit.
