Miriam opened her cupboard for some flour and froze. Before her, the biggest spider she had ever seen—multiple glass-bead eyes, and feathery, overlong, jointed limbs—paused in the sudden shaft of light. Miriam’s scream trembled in her throat, suspended between ripping out of her and being gulped fearfully into her stomach.
The spider moved first, its mandibles working. “Be not afraid,” it said, sure and strong. “I bring you great news…”
With a yelp, Miriam raised the wooden bowl in her hand and brought it down hard on the spider. The wet crunching noise it made reminded her of breaking eggs. She shuddered and ran to her front door, shouting for her neighbour.
“Another?” asked Tanit. Miriam nodded, grimacing as her neighbour peeled the angel’s carcass from the cupboard. Already it was beginning to disintegrate and vanish. Tanit stuffed it in a vial containing a purple liquid and stoppered it.
“It’s in a much better condition than the other two,” Miriam said. “You will need to up the payment.”
“You smashed it too hard,” Tanit countered. She counted coins grimly into Miriam’s outstretched palm. “Why do they keep coming to you anyway? What do they want?” Her look was shrewd, suspicious. Angels rarely appeared to people these days, and with the king searching for anyone who got a visitation… well.
Miriam shrugged, avoiding her gaze. The coins went into a pouch at her waist. She soaked a rag and scrubbed at the shimmering blue-green stain with salt until it vanished. Tanit, realising she would get no answer, prepared to leave.
“Remember,” Miriam said, bolting upright. “No word about this. Herod’s men have not stopped looking for whoever gets a visitation. I am lucky to yet be hidden from his seers.”
“If he hears, it won’t be from me,” Tanit grinned and tucked her vial into her sleeves. “I find the fare in my inn much improved by celestial materials. Why risk pauperdom?”
The half-disintegrated angel glowed dimly through her sleeves, though Miriam imagined she only saw the spark because she knew what to seek. She wondered what this angel would do to Tanit’s dishes; the first had been a lobster sort of creature that shimmered with a white-hot light, and when Tanit made it into soup, it caused customers in her tavern to suddenly understand each other, no matter from what region of earth they hailed.
The second had been some sort of orb that hovered just out her reach, speaking softly, fast, filling her spirit with a mighty dread. Miriam had thrown a wet cloth over it and drowned it—surprisingly strong—in a barrel of wine, squeezing it hard between her palms to keep it submerged, it thrashed its death throes, eventually cracking against the wood of the barrel. Tanit had purchased the cheap wine, tutting under breath, amused all the same. It had caused her clientele to have glorious visions of the future. Miriam, despite Tanit’s urging, had tasted not one drop.
“So then,” Tanit said. She adjusted her shawl over her head and stepped into the sunlight.
Miriam crouched, examining her handiwork. She nodded to herself and humming, began to scoop flour into the bowl to make her daily bread.
Chikodili Emelumadu has been twice shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Literature (2017 & 2020), twice nominated for the Nommo Awards (2021 & 2024), has been shortlisted for the Shirley Jackson Awards (2015) among others. Her short stories have been published in Apex,Omenana, Luna Station Quarterly, Eclectica, Granta, and has featured in many anthologies. In 2019, her work beat 3000 plus entries for the Curtis Brown First Novel Prize, netting her representation with the agency. Her novel Dazzling was published in 2023. Chat with her on X: @chemelumadu, and instagram: @chikodiliemelumadu. She hates bios and writing about herself in the third person.
Lola felt like a stranger at her own husband’s funeral reception. Which, she reflected, was probably fair given the circumstances.
Can you even be considered a widow if you had intended to become unwed?
Pondering the question, she finished off her ginger wine while sitting in her husband’s favourite old leather armchair. The law apparently believed so, leaving her now the sole owner of the farmhouse she sat in, with a fifty-percent interest in the land it dwelled on and the fish it cultivated.
Staring into her empty glass, she inhaled the Afrikaans soaking the farmhouse, not understanding a word of it. Looking up into the crowd of mostly strangers, she found Musa staring right back. He who owned the other half of the land and the aquaculture business, complete with a farmhouse of his own.
He raised a bottle of ginger wine and she nodded.
Musa made his way through the crowd with skill a preacher would envy, just the right amounts of self-assurance and gravitas expected for a man who had just lost his business partner.
When he reached her, he topped up her glass, asking, ‘What do you think?’
‘I miss Tequila,’ she responded. ‘How André could ever prefer this to ice wine, I’ll never understand.’
Musa cracked a smile, ‘You’ve always had expensive taste.’
She thought of the bamboo floors in Musa’s home, but rather than bring up his amusing hypocrisy, she said, ‘So that old bottle of whiskey that I’d been saving for your Christmas present…’
‘Will be a pleasure to receive,’ he said, before his glance darted to the left.
Her eyes followed, spotting André’s sisters approaching. ‘Hostia,’ she cursed softly.
‘Go,’ Musa said. ‘I’ll talk to them.’ He said before taking one last swig for strength.
She gave him a grateful nod, before liberating him of the bottle of ginger wine and tucking it under her arm. Snatching up her cane, she fled, straight out the back door, only to be greeted with more people. Men were braaing, children shrieking as they ran around messing up their Sunday best, and women’s heads all gathered closer as they gossiped, as if Lola would have been able to understand them even if they spoke at full volume.
Except one. Elspeth, the local minister’s wife. She who had started the rumours that Lola was running a strip club in the city.
‘Ag, the woman is just old-fashioned,’ André had dismissed.
‘And doesn’t like Catholics,’ Lola had snapped.
André had shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
That you never defend your wife? Sí, it does, Lola had thought. But she hadn’t said it. She wondered if things might have been different if she had.
‘Oh Lola, dear,’ Elspeth said, stretching out a hand, ‘this must be so difficult for you.’
Lola ignored the outreached arm. Everyone knew she didn’t shake hands, but oh, they still tried, preferring to believe she was a germaphobe rather than the truth: that it caused her immense pain and risked subluxations and dislocations. Never mind between the cane, the wine glass, and the bottle tucked under her arm, she didn’t have the limbs to spare.
‘Oh, you know what they say,’ Lola said sweetly, ‘Me cago en todo lo que se mueve,’ and kept on walking, ignoring the perplexed faces that she passed.
As she exited the garden, she wondered if André could hear her from where his spirit now dwelled, and if so, what he thought of her audaciousness, telling a minister’s wife that I shit on everything that moves. Once upon a time, he would have laughed. But with each added year to their marriage, the less amused he’d been of her salty mouth.
The warehouses loomed ahead. With nowhere else to go for privacy, she strode towards them. Stepping into the first one, the fug of catfish enveloped her like an unrelenting bear hug. The high ceilings helped with the air circulation, but nothing erased the heavy odour.
‘TC Boyle, you hijo de perra,’ she muttered, settling down on an abandoned feed crate.
The warehouse was far from luxurious, from a human perspective. It was metal walls, concrete flooring, dim green lighting, and rows and rows of large, blue tanks. Still, it was better than the people out there. Excluding Musa and his family. They were lovely, of course.
A drone buzzed by, with its camera’s large scanning eye hanging from its black belly. She raised her glass to it, ‘Cheers.’
The drone ignored her. She had no idea what it was doing.
Catfish were complicated, despite their simplicity. There were all sorts of things that needed to be monitored to keep them fat and happy: oxygen levels, the water’s pH, and how much feed was required. And while calling TC Boyle a son of a bitch might be deemed harsh, the fact she had to live with them really was all his fault.
‘Listen to this,’ André had said, holding up a copy of Boyle’s novel A Friend of the Earth, ‘in the future, we’re all going to be drinking sake and eating catfish.’
She had wrinkled her nose. ‘Catfish eat pigeons.’
‘Is your head really as soft as you look?’
My body is harder than your dick these days, she did not say. Because that had been during the period when she was trying to maintain peace and be understanding about his dwindling sex drive. Instead, she had gotten up, dug out the book Darwin Comes to Town and showed it to him. ‘See?’ she had said, ‘and this is non-fiction.’
Which André had taken the wrong way, assuming she was putting down his choice of reading material. ‘Maybe if you read more quality fiction,’ he sneered, ‘you’d have more imagination and appreciate the art.’
She’d snorted. As she was both a dancer and a successful club owner, his comment was so ridiculous it had not deserved a proper response. Besides, the world had enough problems, she didn’t need to surround herself with any more depressing tales. Romances had guaranteed happy endings, and non-fiction could provide interesting facts, like how catfish in France had adapted to hunting pigeons over a decade ago.
And that was about the only admirable thing she found about catfish. Because, while yes, André and TC Boyle had been right, catfish were now a major protein source during these complicated, but never boring, times, she detested the creatures.
At least I am not stuck drinking sake every night. Take that, TC Boyle.
‘But fishing is part of your heritage,’ André had said, in response to her lack of enthusiasm.
‘My abuelo fished on a boat,’ she’d replied.
‘Well,’ he’d said, ‘this is easier.’
‘There’s no beauty.’
He’d looked at her, agape, much like a cod, before saying, ‘Where was the beauty in your grandmother working in a fishing cannery until the day she died?’
‘Self-respect,’ she’d said, before storming out.
She could not believe he’d sunk so low as to insult her abuela. A job at a fishing cannery was not glamorous, to be sure, but the woman herself had been strong and generous, working until her late 70s, all while raising her errant daughter’s children, with never a complaint.
‘No, tell me, please, what have you got against catfish?’ André asked the day he and Musa broke ground for the first warehouse.
‘For starters,’ she had said, ‘a fish shouldn’t have a moustache.’
She had been trying to be funny. Then again, it wasn’t a lie. Moustaches were deceptive, desperate, or both. Yet she still smiled at the men in her club who had facial hair on their upper lips. But if a misguided soul ever asked her opinion on the matter, she gave it plainly, ‘Shave it off, señor, or grow it as part of a close-cropped beard.’
André had not been amused by her flippancy. Jabbing his finger at her, he spat, ‘This could be a real change for me. Making real money, hey,’ and the unspoken sat in the air between them hovered his next words: no longer having to borrow funds from you.
Not that she ever considered the money she put in their joint account a loan. He was her husband. She’d gladly shared what was hers. But he had not seen it that way.
She blamed his family, his outdated upbringing.
André, however, had blamed her.
Another drone came by. This one stopped, hovering near her face, lights flickering.
‘Musa?’ she asked, staring straight into the camera’s eye.
Because checking up on her via a drone was something Musa would do. The man would never crowd her space, or anyone else’s, which was probably why he was still happily married to the lovely Bongile. But even in this modern age, traditional roles ran deep, and he felt obliged to look after distressed women. Even those who were not his wife.
The drone did not respond. She took another sip from her glass––okay, okay, a glug, may her clients never know––and tried again. ‘Fernando?’
‘Sí,’ the drone said, over its tinny speaker.
She inwardly sighed. Fernando was not supposed to hijack other machines, but he possessed a rebellious side. His justification for the disrespect was always a matter of fact “For the greater good”.
Clearing her throat, she addressed Fernando through the drone, ‘I could not stand being in the house any longer.’
‘I am worried about you. Please, may I leave my room and meet you here?’
She shook her head. ‘The guests won’t like it.’
‘The guests don’t like you.’
‘Touché,’ she toasted. ‘And the feeling is mutual.’
The drone drew closer, leaving Lola feeling judged, which was probably an accurate assessment of the situation.
‘I will be discreet,’ Fernando said, and before she could reply, the drone drifted off, back to work with its mates above the rows of blue rectangular, tanks.
‘Obstinate android,’ she grumbled, knocking back more ginger wine.
This was the problem with allowing a machine to learn autonomously. With AGI, the android could disobey in ways a traditionally programmed intimacy and companion doll could not. But Fernando was such a dear; a gift from a wealthy Japanese client with access to the most advanced and exclusive technology. The man presented Fernando to her after she had spent the entire evening at the club sitting at the client’s upholstered booth, listening to him pour his heart out over his relationship troubles with his husband while they watched the dancers.
It had been no hardship, lending a listening ear, especially since on that particular evening she had not been able to perform due to yet another injury. So, she listened, full of empathy, observing that despite the different cultures, his relationship issues echoed so much of what she and André were grappling with. Before she wed, she had not understood that marriages didn’t always end due to betrayal. That there was an intangible essence in the relationship that could slowly dissolve, creating challenges in ways she’d never envisioned.
‘It’s as if we are communicating from different operating systems,’ the client had said.
Such an accurate analogy, even if she wasn’t the most clued-in person when it came to tech.
The encounter led to Fernando, named in honour of Fernando Bujones, a brilliant Latino dancer, although his discipline was ballet, not belly dancing.
‘You are not bringing a sex robot into my house!’ André had bellowed.
‘Shh,’ she had said, ‘you’ll hurt Fernando’s feelings. Besides, he’s mostly built for companionship, like having a friend that listens and gives advice.’
‘Ja right, you telling me he doesn’t know how to fuck?’
‘If you are curious, please, you are welcome to ask him, yourself.’
‘He’s a machine. A bunch of bolts, and microchips designed for a woman’s pleasure.’
‘Sí,’ she had said, ‘but most importantly, he can dance.’ Which at the time, meant everything.
For that was one thing André had always refused to do, even at their wedding. It had been she who had danced, alone, for him and their guests.
Back then, she hadn’t minded. But as time moved on, she longed for a partner who would try to participate in something she enjoyed. After all, she had dug deep to muster interest in André’s endeavours, including trying to be a good sport about the catfish.
The warehouse’s heavy metal door slid open with a moan, cutting off her navel-gazing. Fernando’s tall, elegant form stepped into the dim light. He was an exquisite work of art, clearly designed by a man who appreciated the beauty of men. He had the body of a classical dancer, strong, with long lines, slim, toned hands, and high cheekbones. Usually, the only discernible difference between him and a living, breathing, Japanese man was his skin was too perfect; as if he was Photoshopped. But in the warehouse lighting, it gave him a greenish, almost alien pallor.
As Fernando approached, she admired the cut of his well-tailored suit. He could wear it despite the heat, thanks to not having to concern himself with sweat stains.
‘Vete a freír a espárragos,’ she told him, despite secretly being pleased to see him.
Fernando smiled at the insult. At first such phrases confused him. Now, he found it amusing that humans would say things such as, ‘Go fry an asparagus,’ yet mean ‘go fuck yourself’.
Fernando stopped beside her and pulled up another empty feed crate. He studied her face before setting a gentle, comforting hand on her exposed knee, where the hem of her plain black shift dress had ridden up.
‘You are unhappy,’ he stated in a calm, soft voice.
‘Sí, Fernando, I may not have wanted to be married to him any longer, but I certainly didn’t wish him dead. It was those catfish, full of cholesterol.’
He nodded, as if he understood, which maybe he did. He was certainly programmed to behave as such.
Fernando turned his intention to the rest of the warehouse. ‘I was not expecting to find you here, but then I thought about where you could go that other humans would not follow.’
‘Sí,’ she murmured, ‘you were exactly right.’
He gave her knee a reassuring squeeze, as he continued to watch the drones fly over the tanks. Minutes ticked by, as she sipped the ginger wine, in comforting silence. It wasn’t until she topped up her glass that she spoke again.
‘He never understood how much I hated catfish.’
Fernando turned his head to look at her with unhuman grace but said nothing. That was the quality that she most admired in him, how he seemed to instinctively know when no verbal response was required. He just listened.
‘They’re just so American. I did not travel over 9,000 miles, and whatever that is in kilometres-’
‘Fourteen thousand, four hundred, and eighty-four, point naught, nine, six,’ Fernando supplied.
‘Sí, gracias,’ she said, ‘just so I could live surrounded by catfish. I mean, why not pick trout?’
‘South Africa does have a native catfish breed, much like the United States had trout until the water became too warm.’
She glared at Fernando, who blinked back, entirely unaffected.
‘Now you sound like André. He was always going on about water temperatures, too, saying that the cooling required for trout was uneconomical.’
Fernando nodded. ‘I have spoken to Musa at length on the subject. He said that while catfish farming had initially failed in the country at the end of the last century, it was due to poor marketing.’
‘Now advertising,’ she sighed, ‘that I understand.’ She lifted her wine glass and Fernando raised a brow.
‘It’s my husband’s funeral,’ she snapped.
Art by Sunny Efemena
‘I am only concerned that you will be stiff and sore come morning.’ He sent a pointed look at her cane, resting at her feet, which were clad in ridiculous heels. That was the glorious thing about belly dancing, unlike other disciplines such as flamenco, you did it barefoot, and it was easier on the joints.
‘Sí, sí. But I am having a bad day and am not up for a lecture.’
Fernando fell silent, which André had never done when it came to her health.
‘If it hurts so much, stop,’ André would tell her.
‘Dancing is my life, my soul, my everything.’
‘But you are always in pain. Look at you, you’re relying on that cane more and more.’
Which was true. As she aged, the more she needed to utilise braces, kinesiology tape, and walking aids. Although how much she relied on them depended on the day. But what she could never make her husband understand was that rest didn’t make the pain vanish. In fact, it often made it worse, despite the need for it.
‘You must keep moving while you ensure to get plenty of rest,’ all the doctors and physios would tell her. ‘Ehlers-Danlos syndrome means your body needs more muscle tone, not less, with plenty of breaks in between.’
Belly dancing was low impact, graceful, and suited her curvy figure. It flattered her elegantly long neck, while hiding her stocky legs under fabulously flamboyant skirts. Her natural flexibility was a boon, and her ample bust was considered an asset, which was not the case in most other forms of dance. Without the art form in her life, she had nothing to elevate her above the daily toil of living in pain. When she danced, especially on stage, there was an incredible rush. As if, in those moments, she was living a life in an alternative universe, one where her body didn’t feel like a cage.
The warehouse’s door moaned open again , and Fernando rose to his feet with the elegance of a machine that would never know pain.
‘Only me,’ Musa said, stepping inside. ‘I merely wanted to let you know that the last of the guests have departed.’
‘Gracias,’ she said.
‘Bongile and I would like to have you both over for brunch tomorrow.’
Lola smiled, touched both by Musa and his wife’s generosity as well as their inclusion of Fernando. ‘Sí, gracias, we would like that very much.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Fernando said.
‘Good, good,’ Musa said, opening the warehouse door. He paused, before stepping out, ‘Then come by around eleven.’
When all was silent again, Fernando reached out, offering his hand. ‘May I escort you back to the house?’
She nodded, and in the simmering heat of the late afternoon, they made their way back to the farmhouse.
It was empty, as Musa had promised. Clean and tidy, too. She wondered if André’s sisters had done it, or Bongile and her daughters. In any case, she doubted that the men had helped, because some things never change.
It was easier to focus on such cynical thoughts than to confront what she was ignoring.
Fernando, however, had no such qualms. He picked up the urn sitting on the dining table, and thoughtfully examined it. She never understood what went through his computer brain. Was he comparing it to various urns and burial customs throughout history? Taking its dimensions?
He turned his gaze towards her. ‘Have you decided what to do with the ashes?’
‘Musa claims André wanted to be spread across the land,’ she said, sliding into a dining room chair, ‘but his sisters want them, so I don’t know.’
Fernando set the urn down and moved behind her. The moment his hands began to rub her shoulders a tear escaped. It was so unexpected, she almost gasped.
‘What would you like to do with them?’ Fernando asked. His voice was soft, compassionate.
She bit her lip, then stopped, scolding herself for reverting to an old, teenage habit of hers she’d believed she had long ceased. ‘I have no idea.’
Fernando said nothing.
‘I never hated him, even at the absolute worst, there was still a part of me that cared. It was only that we needed different things from each other, things neither of us could give.’
‘You need to say good-bye.’
Another tear escaped. ‘Sí, I know, but I don’t know how.’
A minute passed in quiet, with only Fernando massaging her aching shoulders.
‘What do you believe André first loved about you?’
‘My dancing.’ She didn’t even have to consider the answer. ‘Which was why it always made me so mad when he wanted me to quit. If that’s what he enjoyed most about me, how could he ask me to stop being myself?’
‘Maybe there was something else about you that he loved more, that he was willing to see you never dance again.’
She had never thought of it like that and now it was too late to ask André if this was true.
With an inward sigh, she craned her neck to gaze up at Fernando’s face. He replied with a soft smile, as his thumb moved to trace her cheekbone.
Tender, perfect, it was tempting to simply continue to sit and enjoy his artful touch. Yet, he was correct, she needed to say goodbye to the man she’d once sworn “until death do us part.”
A vow they’d both kept, unintentionally.
Rising out of her chair, she took her cane and kicked off her ridiculous shoes. Moving to an open space of the room, she began to dance. Over the years, she had adapted; the cane had morphed from a prop to being like a limb. Her hips glided as they shimmied, her chest rose and popped, while her belly rolled.
There was no music. But there had not been on the day they met. André had wandered into the club, lost in the city, looking for directions, hours before they were officially open, but the doorman had stepped out for a quick smoke and the farmer had slipped in.
There André had been, in faded blue jeans, a khaki short-sleeve button down and Grasshopper boots, looking woefully out of place as he stood amongst the empty club’s opulent sophistication. But he’d stood in quiet awe as she practised on the stage without an audible note in the air. When she’d finished, he’d bowed.
No applause.
That small difference had meant something to her then.
As it did to this day.
For in that moment, it had felt as if someone was honouring her art, rather than her ability to entertain.
She could still recall the number she’d been practising, even though it had been over seventeen years ago. The choreography ran through her blood, and she gave it new life in the farmhouse, as she danced for her lover of the past and the one in the present. With each flick of the hip, a twist at the waist, a curve of the spine, a lift of the chin, she found the weight she’d been carrying in her bones lightened. It was as if her body knew what her heart had failed to achieve: how to move between a complicated grief and the need to celebrate that she was still alive.
Tiah Marie Beautement is a freelance writer and author of two novels, a slew of YA fiction, and numerous short stories, including the award-winning “Memento Mori.” After being diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and fibromyalgia she took up horse riding and sitting on the back of motorcycles as a thrilling distraction from chronic pain. In her spare time she reads while hanging out with her rescue pets and volunteers at the local animal shelter.
Sue looked to the sky above her. From where she sat, at the tallest point at the edge of everything, the bright blue of the cloudless sky seemed close enough to touch. In class, she had been taught that out there in the big world; the sky was so far above everything that the entire sea reflected its colour. But here, thousands of feet under the sea, all they had was the image of what the sky may have looked like. She had always hated being the one to teach the younger children that. Hated being the one to tell them the truth about their home, the one to tell them that out there somewhere, there may be something more beautiful than this that they would never get to see.
Here, on this platform that she wasn’t supposed to know about, she pressed her back into the solid wall of the false sky and touched the layers and layers of metal and glass that protected them from horrors at the bottom of the sea. The wall was warm, though by all standards it wasn’t supposed to be. It was built to ensure they would be safe in the depths, built to survive millennia, if it had to. A commune. Now a mass grave.
The hands holding onto Sue’s arms were shaking, and she began to remember that there was someone with her. Sue turned to look at May. Her lips were moving and she was speaking, but all Sue could hear was muffled static, as if she was underwater- ha.
She looked at her best friend, really looked at her. At the nose piercing she got on a dare when they were fourteen, at the dark skin that never, ever broke out, which had made Sue hate her a little when they were fifteen, the mole by her left eye, the blue braids she put in when they were six and learned about the sea they lived in. Blue for unity, because when they looked up at the blue of this false sky, someone above was looking at a blue sea, if there was anyone left above. Even when they were older and learned that the sea around them was not just one shade of blue, she refused to take the braids out, only removing them to clean her hair and then putting them right back.
“We need to tell somebody,” Sue cut into whatever May was saying. “We need to tell everybody.”
“Sue, we can’t,” Her head was shaking even before May finished speaking, “Listen to me, please.”
May let go of her arm to toy with her braids, and Sue tracked the movement. The beads at the bottom of the braids clinked together.
The sound was as familiar as everything she knew, but she’d never known anything, had she?
“We can’t. We really, really can’t.” Her hands came around Sue’s shoulders again. But this time, they felt stifling, like a cage, like their home, their prison.
“Why can’t we tell anyone? People are going to die! You’re our leader, you’re in charge of everyone here including the council, if you say that people need to know, then they need to know.” Sue implored her friend, the woman who she and others like her trusted to speak for them on the council.
“That’s the point, Sue. People are going to die, one way or another. No one can leave, and no one can come to get us. You know there may not be anyone left above. There is nothing that can be done! Everyone who can check has checked.” May went quiet for a minute, loosening her hold on Sue’s arms.
“It’s kinder if people don’t know.”
Sue retorted, “Kinder how? Kinder to who? And how do you know nothing can be done? There has to be a way to fix this. People have been living here for 350 years. You can’t tell me no one has thought to fix whatever is wrong. Maybe if everyone knew, we could find a solution.”
“They tried Sue! The first signs that something was wrong happened nearly a century ago and even now, no one knows what’s wrong with the air! They tried to figure it out, they tried to fix it, then they decided someone smarter would come around to save us and they hid everything and they built this fucking platform so they could wash the sky of evidence of the bad air!”
“Then they should have tried harder!” Sue yelled.
“I know Sue!” May yelled right back, pressing down on Sue’s arms before letting go to run her hands through her hair. She pointed down to the council building, the great gray spire visible even from up on the walkway they sat on.
“I spent six hours stuck in that room hearing every single excuse they could come up with of why they didn’t tell people.” May let out a bitter laugh, shoulders slumping.
“Do you know what it all boiled down to? They didn’t want to cause unrest. Because if the council told the people, that would mean what happened above would happen here all over again. There’ll be unrest. People will die, and their deaths will accomplish nothing.” She let out another bitter laugh, then ran her hands through her braids.
“They ran down here and now we have nowhere left to run. There’s nowhere to go, and there’s nothing to do.” May’s voice cracked and tears started coming down her face, but she continued speaking.
“It has been 350 years, and it has been a hundred since they figured out we were on a clock too. There hasn’t been anyone who could fix it in all that time. And yes, they should have said so earlier. Everyone should have known earlier and maybe then we would have found something. But right now, there’s nothing.”
Sue could barely see May through her tears.
“But if we all gave it our time, someone would be able to figure… no, stop looking at me like that. People deserve to know. They deserve a chance to try.”
The beads in May’s braids clunked together as she shook her head. She was still crying.
“There’s nothing, Sue. I don’t think it’s anything anyone can fix. I’m sorry. There is no time, there is no future for any of us to try and save. The youngest all have problems with their breathing because there isn’t enough clean oxygen. It’s not normal for every child to spend their first month isolated on Oxygen. There won’t be enough good oxygen for any children under two in the next three months, or adults in the next six. We’ll all die within twelve months.”
“There has to be a way,” May was shaking her head even before Sue finished speaking.
“The only other way they found… was killing 75% of the population.”
“What?” Sue’s voice cracked at the thought, “May, you cannot…”
“They can’t. They won’t.” May said, “The entire council voted against it. But that’s mostly because it creates more problems than it solves. The air will still be bad. The cremators we have can only handle maybe fifteen bodies a day. We can’t handle over 5,000. And at least half of the population is needed to keep this place running.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?” Sue sneered.
“Nothing makes it better. But that is the truth of the situation. Now you see why we’re not telling people. You see what good the truth does, how much comfort it brings!”
“So you want to kill us all?” Sue asked and started to stand. May’s hand held her legs in place.
“I don’t WANT to kill anybody!”
Sue finally looked straight into May’s familiar eyes. In them, she could see frustration and, even worse, resignation.
“This isn’t my choice, or my fault, or my decision.” May said, voice flat. “Everyone else, the rest of the council, still thinks this place, our whole lives, has been some great experiment and they want us all to die for science. I don’t. But there’s nothing I can do. I checked, Sue.”
Sue tried to look away, but May didn’t let her. She held Sue’s face between her hands and spoke, voice still flat.
Art by Sunny Efemena
“The powers that be decided everyone will die at once, then maybe everything we are will be preserved in its natural state, instead of whatever the panic will turn us into. There’s nothing I can do or say that will change that. The council thinks that’s the best option. I don’t think it is, but the kindest option that’s left is to give everyone peace as they go. They’ll simply fall asleep and not wake up. I’m sorry.”
Sue held on to the hands on her face. May’s face was blurry through her tears, but it was still there. It was still May, the May who she knew and the May who she loved. And that voice, she thought she knew and understood helplessness, but what she heard in May’s voice was the real thing. The realization calmed the feeling that had been growing in Sue’s chest. Was it rage? Was it helplessness? Whatever it was that was growing within her left all at once.
May sat down beside her, back against the dome that was the only world they had ever known. Two days ago, was it only two days ago? They had been here debating adding rails to the walkway. May said it beat the point of having a camouflaged walkway if the rails disturbed the illusion of a horizon built into it. Sue said safety needed to come first.
The tears were still coming, but they sat quietly beside each other.
They were meant to be an experiment, weren’t they? But they grew and loved, generations were born and buried here. They had thrived. The research Sue and May had found years ago in the great library had surmised that their society wouldn’t even live long enough to endure a catastrophic failure. But they had.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” May said from beside her, “but it’s… how could I not say goodbye? It was selfish, but I needed to. I needed someone to know that there was nothing I could do.” May wrapped her arms around her knees, tucking them in close to her.
Sue grabbed May’s hand. She looked down at the view, at the life and civilization that was built for them, and that they had built. It stretched and stretched as far as the eyes could see. When they had run out of space to build, they started to build high, with designs of old civilizations that had died long before this place was even the seed of an idea in people’s minds.
It was with love that they had grown. May had assured her that the problem wasn’t because of their population growing, but even if it was, Sue didn’t think she would mind that fact. Life is meant to make more life, to grow. And it was kinder, wasn’t it? To fall asleep and not wake up rather than know everything they had built was always going to be destroyed.
She looked until she could not stand it when the night sky took over from the day sky. Somewhere above, above even the billions of tonnes of water that kept them from the rest of the world, the real sun was setting. The literature said it set at different times above, but here, the sun set at the same time year around, and everyone was home when it happened. It was a tenet set in stone here, once the sun set, you went home to your loved ones.
“May?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me a story.”
All around, a quiet ringing started up. The signal something was wrong, and everyone should go inside and barricade their houses. Sue’s hand gripped May’s tighter. She hadn’t thought it would happen so soon.
May squeezed the hand, and though her breath was shaky, she spoke.
“About what?”
“The story you used to tell me. The happy one about the world.”
May laughed and squeezed Sue’s hand tighter. They were both crying, but May took a breath and began.
“Once upon a time, there was a great nothingness. But in that nothingness, in the dark, a tiny spark dared to live.”
Sue closed her eyes, though she knew she probably shouldn’t. And she listened to May tell her the story of how the earth, the real earth, began.
Lynn Nyaera Onywere is a Kenyan writer of both fiction and nonfiction. Her works have appeared in the James Currey Anthology, The Sociological Review, The Shallow Tales Review, Akéwì Magazine, as well as other publications. She has been on the Longlist for the 2024 Commonwealth Short Story prize and the 2023 and 2024 Kikwetu Longlist.
When we started this journey ten years ago, we had an idea that it would be daunting, but maybe we didn’t realise just how much it would change us and how much it would change the speculative fiction in Africa. The co-founders, Mazi Nwonwu and Chinelo Onwualu, knew they wanted to provide a platform for voices like theirs that were often not given a voice or whose voices were not understood, not appreciated by the big western media. They knew that our people have always told stories of the speculative ilk and they wanted the rest of the world to see us in our full glory, without pandering to some set rules. Omenana has been blessed to share many such stories with you all since 2014, and we have taken pride in watching many of those writers of African Speculative Fiction soar from the pages of Omenana to greatness—this has only brought us joy and pleasant surprise.
Omenana was an experiment that we didn’t know will last this long. Despite the struggle it has been to keep doing this for 10 years, we do believe our worst days are behind us and Omenana will continue to be what it set out to be: a platform for everyone who dares to tell stories that defies normalcy.
The stories we bring to you in this issue gave us a thrill to read and edit, and we hope that you find them exciting too. Did you ever hear that when something is too good to be true, then it probably is? When you read Obera, that saying will become apparent, and maybe like me it will make you wonder how any living creature is supposed to keep faithful watch over bird’s eggs in the height of famine.
Beneath the Water is an interesting take on relations between humans and mermaids/mermen, and it also queries environmental decay—especially as it concerns the different bodies of water on planet earth and human complicity.
We also bring you a bit of a ghost, metaphysical story with Koko’s Body. This piece is more gripping because it is told in the eyes and voice of a child.
New Beginning is our shortest piece this issue. Between trying to decide if we just walked into the exhuming of a murder victim or a hatching, this story brings new meaning to short and spicy! Read it, people!
A little bit of dystopia and a struggle to regain their submerged home is what drives the plot of Things We See Under Water. It does present a thought-provoking view of a futuristic Ijawland many decades away from now.
We are looking back at the last decade, and we are grateful to the many writers who have graced our pages since 2014, and to all our artists and editorial team over the years. Everyone remains a family and we hold all of you very dear to our hearts and love how well everyone has done over the years. While we look forward to doing more creative work in the coming years, we are also considering ways in which Omenana can better serve you, our readers.
We’ve also had the unshaking support of many people over years; however, we have to mention the fact that it would have been impossible for Omenana to remain a paying platform without the support of our Patreon patrons. You can join them by following this link to donate to Omenana and keep the dream of showcasing African and African diaspora speculative fiction to the world.
Mazi Nwonwu, Omenana’s Managing Editor, has also added “published author” to his list of achievements as his collection of speculative fiction stories was published by Narrative Landscape press in Nigeria. Book available here.
And to you, our dear readers, where would we be without all your support in the last ten years? The stories are waiting and ready. Thanks for reading and sharing as you always do!
The only son of thirteen children, Obera was raised oblivious to brutality despite his brawn. His only job was to be paraded around the market as the prize feather in his peacock mother’s plume. His mother was only satisfied when the swoons about his tawny eyes reached the ears of Ruoth’s daughter. Everything else was done for him by one of his sisters. Achiel thatched and cleaned his dala. Ariyo hunted and slaughtered the animals he then presented at village feasts as his triumphs. Adek chopped and collected firewood. Ang’wen cooked for him. Abich nursed him when he fell ill and Auchiel guarded him at all costs.
Experiencing brutality earns you foresight. If Obera had any, he would have heeded Ja’Chien’s warning. On one of the days he strutted around the market, past Ja’Chien, who sat on a three-legged stool rumbling about omens — he should have stopped and listened. The plague struck first, swift and lethal like a bolt of light, leaving behind a carnage that included his entire family. The famine came next, an endless rumbling, that devoured everything, leaving only dust.
Obera sat under the mango tree, waiting to die. The once-lush tree was now bare and decrepit, ready to crumble at a hair’s whisper of the wind. Obera leaned his spine-protruding back against the trunk, melting into it under the smoldering heat. As he gathered the strength to exhale for the last time, he waited to see his mother, just as his sisters Abriyo, Aboro, and Apar had before they passed away. Instead, he saw a mirage in the arid deadlands before him, which had once been an opulence of wheat and corn.
The mirage slithered towards him in a haze. Once in front of Obera, the haze cleared, and a majestic swan emerged from a pool of water. The swan approached him, spreading its left wing and brushing it over the water’s surface. It ruffled its dripping feathers over Obera’s cracked lips, then gestured to the pond.
“Drink.”
Obera scrambled to the water, plunging his whole face into it. The water was sweet, fresh, and cooling. He drank, relishing it as it cascaded down his scratched throat, into his belly, and through his veins. Obera trembled from the new surge of energy as he gathered more water into his cupped hands, slurping and gulping, desperate to quench his thirst as quickly as possible. When he had drunk enough water to bulge his stomach like a taut gourd, he fell back against the tree.
“It’s only a matter of time before the sun claims every drop of my water.”
Obera opened his eyes and lazily gazed at the Swan. It had stretched its graceful neck to the sky, worry gleaming in its eyes. Obera kept his eyes steady on the swan, afraid that if he looked up, he would lose his illusion and everything would disappear, including the water that now made his blood wet again.
“Please, Jatelo. Look after my children. When the waters dry, they will be exposed to the kites lurking in the winds.” The swan opened its right-wing slightly to reveal eight large, smooth, silver eggs.
It began to dawn on Obera that this was not his imagination.
“Jatelo, please look after my children. Keep them safe in your homestead and when the rain arrives nine days from today and my waters are replenished, I shall come and collect them. If you do this for me, I will reward you greatly. I will give you riches beyond that of any other man on this land. Riches that will bring Ruoth’s daughter to your dala.”
Obera perked up at the mention of Ruoth’s daughter, whose beauty was so ethereal not even a plague and a famine could taint it.
“It is a promise. Leave your children with me. I shall take care of them and protect them.”
If only Obera had paid attention to the old lady that sat on a mat in the market telling siganas to the children while she weaved baskets to sell, he would have known to never trust a swan with scarlet under-feathers.
A moonless nightfall settled over his dala like a velvet cloak. Obera went to where Ag’wen had built the kendo and carefully placed the swan eggs in it, covering them with the bits of thatched roof that had loosened and collapsed to the ground. When he was satisfied that the eggs were safe, he realized that he had nothing to eat. It was too dark to scavenge for termites and crickets. Usually, he did his scavenging at dawn before the scouring sun yawned. However, today he had not planned to make it through the day. He caressed his stomach once again. Thinking about the coming rain. Had the Swan said eight days or nine days? He crawled over to what was left of the Cyprus mat Achiko had weaved for him. He drifted to sleep with thoughts of boiled corn and grilled fish wafting through his mind.
The sound of crying stirred Obera awake. His hand reached for the spear under his mat, and as stealthily as he could, Obera slowly turned to the sound. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and outline a form, a human form hunched over the kendo. He tightened his grip on the spear, carefully rising to his knees.
“Mayo-weh, mayo-weh! What is this, my brother Obera? The kendo is cold.”
It was the voice of his sister Ang’wen. She was lighting a fire in the kendo. Obera tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he collapsed. “Ang’wen put out that fire at once!” he cried, his voice still hoarse with sleep and starvation.
Agn’wen had already placed the pan over the heat. “You must eat, Obera. Look at you, you are nothing but bones and skin. How can I rest properly when you are not eating?”
Agn’wen took one of the eggs and before Obera could protest, she cracked it over the pan.
“You must not Ang’wen I made a promise. You must not.”
It was a weak protest. The aroma was filling the little hut, igniting a ravenous growl from the pits of his belly. He crawled over to the pan, grabbing a handful of the sizzling scrambled egg, his calluses preventing the heat from scalding his fingers.
The following morning, Obera woke up to find himself lying by the kendo with the taste of his broken promise still lingering on his tongue. Guilt washed over him. The eggs were unearthed and exposed. He counted and counted again, always arriving at seven remaining eggs. He remembered the promise of riches.
“Ang’wen, that foolish girl. Always trying to fatten you up like a cow for slaughter!”
Obera looked up to see the outline of his mother’s shadow filling the entryway into the hut. “Hae-hae!” she clapped her hands.
“Forbidden fruit is sweet on the eyes but bitter on the tongue, you will learn.”
“What should I do?” Obera pleaded with his mother.
“Take the shards of eggshell and go to the riverbed. The river no longer flows but the spirits still dwell there. Look for where the potter dwells, dig a shallow hole, place the shards in the hole then cover it. You must offer his spirit-fermented nyuka. Once you cover up the eggshell, pour the nyuka over it. When the sun has set completely, you can dig up the egg.”
“Can the potter save the egg?”
His mother kissed her teeth. “Don’t be foolish! What magic can take food you have already digested and return it as it was? It will be nothing but an empty shell.”
“But Mama, where will I get fermented nyuka?”
Obera found the clay pot covered with cow skins behind his father’s dala buried so deep that the soil was still cool beyond the blistering sun, exactly as his mother had told him. The nyuka was beyond fermented. It was rancid, but would a spirit get an upset stomach? Obera balanced the pot over his head as he had seen his sisters do, careful not to let even a drop of it fall on him despite his buckling knees. The riverbank was not far from Obera’s dala. As he made its way there, his mind drifted to the time when the palpating river flowed through it. How the spirits rising at sunset would ire the water, causing it to rage through the village, thrashing about. They were always warned never to go near the river when their shadow was stretched to its fullest or they’d be dragged in by the restless spirits.
Obera found the dwelling place of the potter’s spirit where his mother said it would be, where the sand shimmered like it was hiding crystals. Obera followed his mother’s instructions and waited for the sun to set to unearth the egg. He gasped with awe at the sight of the silver egg. Whole and smooth, just as it was. He gently lifted it, testing its weight on the palm of his hand. It felt full. Obera resisted the urge to crack the egg and see what was inside. He picked up his spear and the remaining pot of nyuka and made his way back home.
That night Obera had a dream of a feast of all his favorites. Coconut fish stew, roasted sweet potato, boiled corn on the cob, sweet ripe guava and mango, roasted peanuts. When he woke up at the crack of dawn, he found himself lying by the kendo, next to a cracked egg.
Every night for the next week Obera had the same dream. Every morning, he woke up beside a cracked egg. Every evening, he replaced the cracked egg with one the potter spirit made. Until all eight eggs had been replaced.
On the ninth day, it rained. Then it poured. The river came back; the grass began to grow and the Swan arrived at Obera’s dala. The Swan seemed oblivious to Obera’s trembling hands and beads of sweat condensed on his forehead despite the cool winds that came with the rain. She unsuspectingly gathered her eggs under her wings and handed Obera eight quail-sized solid gold eggs.
Obera became the wealthiest man in the land. Finally, he was invited to Ruoth’s dala.
Obera was preparing for this visit when the Swan appeared, feathers ruffled with woe.
“My children!” It shrieked, tossing itself around the dala. It snapped its beak at anything it could find. His farming and hunting tools, his spear, his shield, his fence -leaving angry marks and cracks. It threw its neck at his growing corn, uprooting them. It kicked his hen pen, sending the chickens scurrying around the compound. “Where are my children?” The Swan demanded as it crushed their eggs under its talons. “You ate them! You ate my children.” Its voice was shrill with ire, its head lifted to the heavens to call on the gods of vengeance.
Art by Sunny Efemena
Obera stood still, too stunned to say or do anything as the Swan wept.
“One day you will know this pain,” the swan said, her hoarse voice barely above a whisper, and with that, the night swallowed the Swan.
Obera sent harvest and cattle to Ruoth’s house, staying behind himself with an excuse of ailment. He was unable to sit still, pacing up and down, wringing his hands, and mumbling to himself until Achiko materialized before him. He sighed with relief at the sight of his most levelheaded sister.
“Obera, you are stomping on my grave. I cannot even rest.”
Obera relayed his predicament to her. Ochiko listened quietly, her calm demeanor sedating his nerves.
“This Swan appears to you when you are on the brink of dying of starvation. Smells like a mbuta.”
“What should I do?” Obera pleaded.
“Go and see Ja’Chien. He’ll know what to do.”
Obera arrived at Ja’Chein’s dala at the first crow of the rooster.
“Ah, it is a chun-mar-kech,” Ja’Chien rubbed the stub on his jaw as he spoke, having recognized the sort of spirit that had sworn vengeance on Obera.
There was a glint in Ja’Chien’s eye as he asked Obera to describe every little detail about the Swan. After hearing the whole story the old man began to speak.
“They are evil tricksters. Attracted to hunger like flies to meat. They appear before you at your most desperate and trick you so they can devour your children. They give you wealth so you will marry and have children that they can then claim. They appear in many forms and if you take any food or drink from them, you will be cursed by a ravenous hunger that you will not be able to resist.”
Obera covered his face with trembling hands. “What have I done?”
“I know what’s worrying you. I know you were supposed to present yourself as a suitable suitor for Ruoth’s daughter, Asumu. Now you fear you cannot go through a marriage with her.”
Obera gave a weak nod in response.
“Listen, why don’t you marry Awilo, Nyar-Omollo? The plague took her husband before she bore a child. Her husband’s father was your sister’s Adek’s father-in-law. If you took her in as your first wife, everyone will understand that as an act of duty and kindness. She will bear the children for you, and you can take Asumu as your second wife.”
Obera scoffed. “Ruoth would never allow his daughter, his only child, to be the second wife of a homestead.”
Ja’chien’s booming laughter rumbled over the dala. “Asumu cares about three things only. Her beauty, her pride, and her wealth. Do not worry, she will be more than willing.”
Awilo was a small woman who barely came up to Obera’s chest. She was not tall like Asumu who could lay her head on his shoulder. Everything was wrong with Awilo. Her eyes were uncomfortably large on her small face, and it reminded him of a Tarsier. Her soft, husky voice did not fit well with her petite frame. She smiled readily unlike Asumu. Awilo’s beauty was shy and would only reveal itself when she thought no one was watching. Her gaze when she daydreamed under the mango tree. The tilt of her head when she was unsure. The hum of her song when she was in a good mood. It began to seep into Obera, soaking him with her essence, and sinking him into a pool of love.
“I’m with child,” Awilo whispered. It was a year after they had gotten married. The moon was high in the sky and Obera held her so close to him he felt the steady rhythm of her breath. He turned her to face him and kissed her softly.
“It will be a daughter,” he declared.
“It will be a son,” she countered as she placed her hand over her belly possessively.
“I had twelve sisters. It will be a girl,” he assured her, playfully shooing her hand off her belly and replacing it with his own.
“I had five brothers. It will be a boy.” Awilo looked up at her husband as she spoke, narrowing her eyes in feigned protest.
They laughed, then kissed, then laughed again. After all, did it really matter? Obera had every intention of giving his firstborn plenty of brothers and sisters.
Obera would not allow his wife to do anything but rest and eat. He followed her around the house, taking the sisal broom to clean, the jembe to go and farm, the firewood to get the kendo going and cook. Whatever she craved, he would go and hunt for it. Whatever she needed from the market, he would run and get it. His sisters no longer came to see him, but he knew they must be cackling at him from beyond.
It was a boy. A boy with Awilo’s large eyes and Obera’s broad smile.
Awilo had placed the boy on a mat under the mango tree and went inside the hut. Obera, who had been harvesting, took a break to watch the child till his wife came back out. A shadow cast over Obera, He looked down to see the outline of a wingspan, and his eyes shot up to see a crimson bird rapidly descending towards his son. Obera ran with all his might, shouting desperately at the bird. The bird reached the child and swooped it up. And with their beloved son caged between its talons, the bird disappeared into the haze of the rising sun.
Their second child, a son, was taken at the market and their third child, a daughter was grabbed from Awilo’s arms.
“I am with child,” Awilo said, her voice dead from the exhaustion that comes after grief. Obera nudged her to turn and face him when she did not, he pulled her closer to him and kissed the back of her head. “Nothing will happen this time. I promise.”
“We cannot lose another child; it will break my wife.” Obera pleaded. He had come to see Ja’Chien, his third such visit. He had come after his first child was taken but Ja’Chein was traveling. When he came again after his second child was taken Ja’Chien was still away.
Ja’Chein rubbed the stub on his jaw. He reached into his snake-skin bag and retrieved a wooden, carved doll.
“I have traveled very far and encountered many tribulations to get my hands on this. Obera, you must be ready to compensate me well for my troubles. It is a doll carved from a dead hollow tree, a tree that harbored the souls of innocence.”
Ja’Chien filled a clay pot with water and added three drops of Obera’s blood. He then placed the carved doll in the pot and covered it.
Awilo gave birth to their fourth child, a daughter. Ja’Chien had sent a midwife to take care of Awilo. Awilo refused to have her daughter out of her sight for even a second. She didn’t trust anyone and made sure the child was always attached to her hip.
The bird came for the child in the dead of the night. Awilo woke up to find the arms that had cradled her child the night before were now empty. Her scream was gut-wrenching.
Obera rushed over to Ja’Chien’s house. On his way there he spotted The Chun-mar-ketch heaving and choking by the river. The spirit gargled, sputtered then fell to the ground dead. Obera watched as it disintegrated into the air, leaving behind the half-devoured wooden doll.
Ja’ Chien handed the child to Obera. A girl with Awilo’s round eyes and tender smile. He ran over to his dala. By the time Obera arrived, ready to show Awilo that he had kept his promise, that he had saved their child and their future children, he realized that his wife had long since breathed her last.
Florence Onyango is a Kenyan writer based in Nairobi. Her short story Nyar Nam was published in the 2015 Short Story Day Water Anthology and Submersion was short-listed and published in Kikwetu Journal’s 8th issue 2022.
Dormitories were only available to undergraduates, not Masters students. So, I rented a room from a fellow Jamaican immigrant.
An alcove studio with lots of natural light, in an old house close to Campus.
The studio was fine — during the day. From daybreak until evening, children squealed, birds chirped, and car horns bleated outside the bay window. It was almost like my rural district back home. At night, however, sunshine peeled off the red brick like flayed skin, and the apartment’s vibrations were unmasked in the silent darkness.
On one occasion, I heard, or imagined that I heard, moaning. More frequently, it was just irregular tapping or creaking. I blamed it on old pipes—or maybe rodents.
But one cold morning between Halloween and Thanksgiving, I heard a wail. Naked, and on the way to the bathroom, I froze. Flicking on the violent fluorescent lights, racing around the tiny space, scanning every corner, I saw nothing. Not a living soul.
Wide emptiness bulged against the walls of the pale room. I pushed the incident out of my mind, not wanting to be that little girl from twenty years ago who hid under the bed in fear of duppies and rolling calves.
That night, as I did every night, I ate seasoned rice with a spoon and listened to my neighbor ranting. Through the flimsy wall, I heard Sean’s every epithet and every detail of his argument with an English professor. Patrick, Sean’s hot roommate, made perfunctory soothing remarks. In the pregnant pauses tucked between fits of yelling, a stomach gurgled. The low-pitched digestive noises were brief but loud. Clear. I caressed my abdomen but knew that the sound didn’t come from me. Nor had it come from Sean and Pat’s place. The direction was wrong; it had been closer.
I pivoted and stood, seeing nothing. The air, as always, was heavy and wet, as if the bay drifted in around the silhouette of the old window. But there was no odor, no movement, and no further sounds. The silence mocked me, questioning my sanity. Noticing the time, I sighed and hurried to the library for study group.
Later — my head swimming with water filtration techniques and blueprints of Angolan desalination infrastructure — I stared at the desolate white walls. A few framed posters were still in a box under the sofa bed. I hung images of Caribbean waterfalls, winged insects, and wild animals. These would be portals of escape, fuel for my daydreams.
I ran my fingers over the pink-gray legs of an ostrich, but they refused to lie flat. A bulge in the paint prevented the thick paper from relaxing against the wall. I placed my hand on the irregularity and felt staccato flurries beating under my palm.
Equal parts curious and afraid, I plucked utensils from a drawer—paring, steak, and butter knives. Sitting on a folding chair, I tapped, then waited, then got to work… Recruiting a cuticle clipper and screwdriver, I dug into the mound under the paint. By midnight, the wall was ruined. A jagged opening gaped like pursed lips.
Glancing at the knoll of drywall chunks and paint scrapings, I rebuffed worries about my security deposit.
Coughing out dust, I slipped into a nightgown, and made tea, calling on the hibiscus to bring me calm.
Clack! A loud noise erupted from the hole. The plastic mug leaped from my hand and slid across the ceramic floor when I jumped.
Pulse throbbing, I grabbed the meat hammer and everything else that I could find to widen the opening in the wall. Probing with my right hand, I touched clumps of gypsum and plastic wood. As the perimeter of the hole splayed, my fingertips penetrated deeper and met something fibrous. I cried out, leaped away, and fell to the floor. It was hair!
I screamed. Then the wall screamed. The sound was muffled but unmistakable. I sat for a few minutes. Then, trembling, my fingers pulled out wiry black strands. Twisting and probing, I encountered something firm and domed. A skull. Rocking and rotating the head gently, debris fell away.
I unearthed eyes, nostrils, and mouth. Full lips parted, and a female voice spoke in English.
“Thank you. I couldn’t get out.”
I fell again, cutting my elbow on a sharp fragment from the destroyed wall. Seated and shaking, I reached up to brush the dust from her eyelashes and brows, avoiding the gaze of the dilated pupils and cocoa-colored irises.
“I will get you out, and help you get justice,” I said. “Who killed you?! Who put you here?”
Her black eyebrows, grey from the powder, raised. She coughed and looked at me. I gathered the courage to look into her eyes, drawing from my grandmother’s brave strength and my mother’s perpetual calm.
Her voice was barely more than a whisper when she said, “I’m not dead.”
“Of course you’re dead, I replied. “You’re a ghost.”
Brushing debris from her neck, I saw that her face was plain but vibrant, and young. She tried to shake her head in the confined space and dust fell around her.
“No,” she said. “Not dead. Hatching!”
The author is a Jamaican of African descent, with primarily Nigerian ancestry. She works as a pediatrician, but has been writing since childhood. Recently, she has published work in Blink, The Ocotillo Review, The Saltbrush Review, and The Poetry of the Southwest.
The story you have asked me to tell you does not begin with bravery. It, in fact, begins with our naivety, and then loss. I am Navi, and this is my story as an Ijaw boy. In those days, the creeks of the Delta was our home. When we swam, our bodies waded through the water and sand; our faces whitening under the livid gloom of the sea. We children would hurl bushels of soap to ourselves in the water, and wait till the lather got into our noses, just so we would sneeze. That was before we helped ourselves to pieces of smoked fish on the raft after a long period of fishing and swimming. I used to think water was everything—our fortress, and our saviour, but today, water has become our doom.
We saw the clouds break into a kraken-esque cast. Suddenly, water began pouring into places you wouldn’t even believe. The water rose to our heads and covered the entire mass of land. No, this was no flood, this wasn’t a cascading outburst, or a storm. This was a new phenomenon we were unaccustomed to. In a bid to save ourselves from the scourge, we hid under rocks, and thankfully, since we were Ijaw, we could swim our way to protection—away from floating cars and houses, because by now, the water had gotten to sky-level.
Their coming was almost unheralded, the alien invaders of our land, who went by the name Cryonoid. A tribe of cryogenic people, who looked somewhat like half fish, half men. We had never seen anything like them before. Something like a wintry flake kept edging from the sun; but winter wasn’t supposed to happen in Nigeria. Some people said they fell from the sky, others said they came from underneath the earth, accursed creatures forgotten by the gods. Away from the speculations, what we understood from everything going on was that they were water creatures, who could only breathe and swim underwater, and their acqui-dome, which stood like an artificial moon, was responsible for the water all over our lands. Their plan was to inhabit our earth, but the only way they could do this was by thriving. So, they initiated a project called C.B or the Cryogenic Bath, where water would cover the expanse of the earth, up to sky level, to enable them to breathe, while causing us, Ijaw, to die. You may ask how I knew all of this, but it’s pretty easy when you know your mother has been taken by enemy pods and placed in their acqui-dome. That is why I am here. That is why we all are here, to get to the root of this invasion and rescue our families. They think we won’t fight. They think we don’t have the capacity to, but we will try.
*
“…2-1-4 13-1-14!” Came the voices of the Cryonoid soldiers on their water-perambulators, submerged in the water. From where we hid, we could see them hitting a man and stuffing his mouth with their cryogenic-bugs. These bugs, when ingested, drained the blood of any human, which the Cryonoids in turn, ingested from the bugs as cold gas. This was an endless water cycle, which, for some reason, gave them strength and replenished their energy. After they were done, they tore the man’s limbs with their casers, their laser-shooting casers. This rare technology was carried out through crystal amplification by simulated emission of radiation. In short, it shot ice-crystals.
“What did they say, Navi?” My cousin Taidos’ voice came from the hollow rock we hid in. The Cryonoids spoke a language which I understood to be codified, because they spoke in numeric codes in place of our regular alphabet. For example, the letter ‘A’ was number ‘1’, so when they said, “1-20-20-1-3-11!” I knew it meant “attack!”
“They said ‘bad man’ before they killed him,” I replied absent-mindedly.
“What shall we do?” Asked Pere, a rather stout boy who had the face of a chameleon.
“We stick to the plan. We capture one of them and steal their perambulator—we can’t swim high up the acqui-dome, we won’t last long, the turbulence and pressure will kill us if we do. That is our only chance,” I said.
What eluded me wasn’t the thought of going up to the acqui-dome. Some people claimed that they had been there before, and that it was somewhat like a theophanic encounter with the gods, but I don’t believe them. What eluded me was how we were going to catch a water-perambulator, without alerting the other soldiers. The water-perambulators were faster than Teslas and worked with some sort of telepathic wave. Yes, the darned fish-creatures created a device which only they could control with their minds! I had seen them shoot water-bombs, which ravaged our houses, huts, and malls, through the nozzle of the device, but what was most incredible, and what was even more scary was that the device was fueled by their DNAs.
“Let’s go back to meet the others in the camp, Navi,” said Taidos, “my breathing weed is wilting away, slowly.”
Although we could swim and move from one place to the other in the water, we couldn’t last very long, so my father and some elders put their heads together to create swimming masks from seaweeds. This could only last for approximately two hours, because the frigid nature of the water affected the weed in certain temperature.
“All right,” I said, resigned. “Let’s go.”
As we swam through the flowing seabed, we noticed something, or somebody, prop up from underneath a mass of sea shells.
“Boo!” He said, startling us a bit.
“What do you want Ekpeki?” we asked, as we stifled a laugh amidst our seriousness.
“Yes, what do you want, Fishman?” Added Pere.
“Take that back, now!” He said, pointing directly to Pere, revealing a set of scaly fingers in the clear reflection of light from the acqui-dome.
We called him “Fishman” because he was considered a discordant and an outcast in our tribe. He was the one who first made the discovery of the “healing shit” as we called it, or “regenerative excreta.” This was the waste passed by the Cryonoids in the sea. Little did we know that this excrement had healing properties, it wasn’t until one day, when Ekpeki saw how one of the floating excrement lodged on the root of a wilting sea-weed, and within seconds, this weed blossomed and grew like it never even withered. Ekpeki, who was limp from an attack by the Cryonoids on his home, said he received some sort of entelechy, and this prompted him to apply the excrement on his broken leg. He was healed instantaneously. He came to the camp, happy and excited, and showed everyone the miracle of this mysterious shit he had discovered. The people in excitement felt they had an edge over the Cryonoids, and a meeting was held, saying that the next morning, each family should reconvene their injured, and sick, to the hollow rock where we hid, just so Ekpeki could apply his enigmatic herb for all to be healed. This miracle was short-lived, however. When Ekpeki awoke the next morning, his leg had turned power-white, like those of the Cryonoids, and he had developed dorsal fins and claw-like legs, just like the enemy. This caused a huge commotion within the tribe and led to his banishment.
“Take it back, I say!” He screamed under his voice, which let out a whaley-sirenic echo.
“Or what?” Snapped Pere. “You will eat me?” He scoffed.
Just as Ekpeki tried to charge towards him, something seized him from the water. Claw-like legs, gills, humanoid physique—it was a Cryonoid soldier. Quickly, I and the boys swam as fast as we could to safety, while Ekpeki struggled with the soldier. Little did he know that his sirenic scream aimed at Pere had created a psionic wave pattern which had signaled the nearest Cryonoid soldier into a mating call.
Ekpeki refused to yield, and the soldier ejected his caser to full thrust and aimed it at him. The crystal blast caught Ekpeki in his leg, and the weight of the heavy ice tugged him deep into the seabed.
We were about to leave the scene when I remembered that just as much as I hated Ekpeki and his stupid fish face; he was once one of us; we Ijaw folks were one, and I couldn’t leave him to that demise. I charged back to the scene, with Pere and Taidos calling after me. God knows I didn’t have the slightest clue of what I’d do when I got to the scene. There wasn’t really a manual on how to stop a humanoid-fish from maiming your friend. I just swam.
*
“Look! It left its water-perambulator!” Taidos Pointed to a mercurial object floating in clear fluid.
This was our chance. If we had any clear shot at killing one of the Cryonoids, it had to be with their own weapon, since ours wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as theirs. Swiftly, I swam in the direction of the water-perambulator. All three of us gathered round the shining thing. It had silvery blades carved like talons, and two nozzles propped out like exhaust pipes just beneath its metallic sheet. We saw no engine. No gas pipe. No wires. No chips or screws, just a floorboard, lidded with protoplasmic blood DNAs. This was really advanced technology.
“I am going to try something stupid now,” I said.
The others looked at the disintegrating Ekpeki, and then reverted their gaze to me in a haste.
“What is it?”
I placed my right hand on the pointy edge of the talon blade and swiped it gently. The cut was bloodletting, and in that pang of painful sensation, I attached my hand to the DNA scan and logged in my blood sample. Automatically granting me access to the device. While the other boys celebrated this win, the Cryonoid soldier discovered the override in his suit’s telepathic database, and quickly swam towards us—me, in particular. Not thinking clearly, the only thing which prodded my mind was to drive the talon blade, which tore my hand into our attacker’s body; and this I did. When we opened our eyes, we saw the silvery mercurial edge of a blade grow out of the body of the Cryonoid soldier. His blood, inky blue, suffused with the water, and we just couldn’t believe our eyes.
Art by Sunny Efemena
We swam gently, pulling the currents of the water past us as we searched for the remains of Ekpeki in the ice-rubbles. But that was all there was to him; ice-rubbles flung and scattered about in the water.
“Quick, we must leave. It’s only a matter of time before the others notice that one of their comrades is missing,” suggested Pere.
“My weed is withered also. We must go, Navi,” said Taidos as he pulled me by the arm.
*
We were looking at caudal fins, dorsal fins, pectoral fins, pelvic fins, scales, maxilla, opercle, on the body of the dead Cryonoid we had taken with us back to the camp. The elders and my father had asked us to recount the story over and over to them, which we did with a hint of breathtaking drama and an obvious obfuscation of reality.
“Is this thing true?” Asked my father, still bewildered.
“Yes, father.” I said.
“Hmmm… Then we must prepare, because they will come for this one,” he said, pointing to the slab where we had laid the dead Cryonoid.
“Sir, we have discovered something about this specimen brought to us by your son and his friends,” said a group of the elderly scientists, who had critically examined the creature to determine what aided its whole existence.
“What is it?”
“Its eyes. They are limpid, even when there are no traces of life in its cell. This changes all we know about the creature.”
“Continue…” my father urged.
“We thought the water they brought with them was some kind of clear fluid which aided their sense of sight, even at night, whereas the water is just what oxygen is to us. Their eyes are microscopic, and they still work, even when dead. They are just dormant.”
“So, take away water and oxygen, and they are dead?”
“Not exactly. The acqui-dome is what powers them all, their technology, down to their eyes, even their bloodstream; if we can take down the acqui-dome, we can take down a whole lot of them, and even the water.”
“That’s why their cryogenic-bugs suck out blood from us?”
“Yes, the blood is evaporated, and then the gas is supplied to the acqui-dome, they need our blood to survive, and to even do anything. That’s why they attack and take some of us away.”
“That’s why they took my mother!” I bellowed.
“Son, we must calm down if we mean to get to the root cause of this,” said my father, holding me by the shoulder.
“To get our homes back, we Ijaws must work together in peace and unity. I heard what you tried to do for Ekpeki. That is the true spirit of the Ijaw,” my father continued. “Just as the Cryonoids strive to make our home their universe, we must strive and fight back for what is ours, as we now have an edge over them. With your expertise on how these fish-creatures operate, will you spearhead this fight, my boy?”
This sounded like a plan, and I could already map it out in my head. We had everything we wanted which could aid the reconquering of our homeland. With our discovery of how they breathed, and the DNA samples which helped power their perambulators, we stood a chance, and were one step ahead of getting back what was ours. First, we will find out what the talon blades were made of and then we will attempt to replicate the metal and fabricate it for battle. Next, we will channel every resource we can find in making the acqui-dome penetrable; the group of elderly scientists were examining the casers which the invaders possessed and were hoping to make a refined sample that could cut through their dome. Only when all of these have been executed can our victory be guaranteed.
“Yes, sir,” I said, taking a deep breath, while I envisioned the great task ahead as we both stared into the watery horizon.
Prosper C. Ìféányí writes from Lagos, Nigeria. A 2023 SprinNG Fellow and alum of Khoreo Magazine, his works are featured or forthcoming in Strange Horizons, The Offing, Obsidian Literature, Nat.Brut Magazine, Black Warrior Review, and elsewhere.
I was named after my great-grandmother Mma Agnes, a matriarch who predicted her death. “I will not die when the rains fall. Who will attend my funeral then?” She had said, “I will die in Harmattan. By then, the earth will be dry and there will be no rain.”
We are similar in many ways.
I summon death with ease. I once stared at my childhood friend for longer than was comfortable and said “YOU! Why are you alive? You should be dead.” Three weeks later, Mary’s body was found dangling from the mango tree in front of her father’s compound. The squeezed handwritten note on her bed suggested that a voice told her to do it. She was ten. Nobody knew what I’d done, but I did – it scared me.
My mother fondly called me Kokomma, for the name I shared with her grandmother. I was born old – I was two before I was one. In my dreams, I saw all my lives, entangled so much that I could not differentiate them. I had an identical twin sister; everyone mistook me for her but never the other way around. It was like, at first glance, they’d assume I was her but quickly dismiss the thought because I didn’t quite measure up.
I was seven when she took me to the stream. Our parents had forbidden us from going there without adult supervision, but we were children; we found rebellion irresistible. Well, she did.
I followed her to the deep end. I didn’t want to, but she called me a sparrow. A frightened, spineless sparrow. I kept walking on the soft sand bed of the stream as the water climbed to my little waist, and then to my chest. I knew something was wrong when I wasn’t walking anymore. I was sinking. My sister was an excellent swimmer. She was watching me drown, smirking. The rage fueled my little body and I grabbed her neck. She was stronger and soon I was underwater. I held on to her hands, and her legs. Then there was nothing.
I would wake up from these dreams crying, my lungs on fire as I struggled to hold in the air that I knew was all around me. My parents only started to worry about me when I started talking in my sleep — no actual words, just the sounds of a drowning person. I would point at nothing, choke on my spit, and forget how to breathe. My mother had to watch me every night to make sure I did not die in my sleep. When it became too much, they took me to the Lord in prayer. Then it became worse; I started to call my father Aniekpeno, a name he had forgotten he had, so he sought help.
I do not have a twin sister. At least not one that survived. My mother was pregnant with twins. In the second trimester, one of the babies wrapped her umbilical cord around the other’s neck, choking her to death. “If I do not have a twin sister, why do I remember her?” I asked my mother, “Why do I remember the stream?”
The psychologist had no answers for me. He gave me pills though; clozapine, fluoxetine, and some vitamins to help my brain heal. The drugs meant I needed other drugs to help me sleep. When I stayed on my meds, they helped; the voices were still there but now I heard them as though they were on the other side of a wall. I wish I could see her face, the face of the person who’d made me will my friend’s death, who had made me do things to make the physical pain block out the emotional.
“Agnes, you need to eat something,” my mother said, during dinner a week before my tenth birthday.”
“Kill her, say it and it will be so.”
I did not want to kill my mother, so these urges were easy to ignore. I told her I’d try to eat and thanked her. As I climbed up the stairs to my room, I spoke to myself, “If you promise to leave my mother alone, I will find someone.”
“Fine.” The voice says “Until then, tell me a story”
My great-grandmother was a renowned storyteller. She would weave an incredible mental tapestry of kings, warriors, lovers, families, and gods. My father told me that once every week, Mma would invite her children and grandchildren to her home and tell them stories. Some weeks, she’d repeat the same stories, but they’d have a different feel to them. She’d focus on a minor character and give them depth. On other weeks, she’d repeat the story exactly as she told it before. Her children summed it up to old age, but I knew it was deliberate. We have that in common. We love stories. We love to hear them and tell them. We love to rehash our work and watch for a reaction. Who missed the changes? Who complained about the repetition? We like to know. The knowledge itself was powerful.
I told the voice about my cousin Ijeoma, who was mean to me in school. “Koko,if she’s mean, why do you call her your friend?” The voice had become gentler in the last three years. I feel like I’m getting better. My doctor thought so too, and he started tapering off my medication. “Who knows,” he’d said during our last session, in a few months you might not need them at all.”
“She’s my cousin na. She’s only mean because her father beats her mother,” I replied. “She told me and made me swear never to tell anyone.”
“I’m not anyone. I’m you”
“So your name is Agnes?” I asked.
The voice paused before replying. “No, my name is Cecilia.” Suddenly I could see her – full-haired, with a face that looked exactly like the pictures of my great-grandmother when she was young.
I never met Mma Agnes, but I have known her my entire life. “I’ve seen her before,” I said when a picture was shown to me. Faded in the way that time and water fade images, the face of the figure in the picture was blurred, but I could see her. I know her. “No sweetie, she died around the time I became pregnant with you.” My mother had said.
I wanted to tell her I could see my great-grandmother’s life in its entirety as if I was watching it on a DVD player, but I did not want to scare my mother and end up in my doctor’s office again.
“Do you want to name Ijeoma’s father? He’s a bad man.”
I agreed.
A month later, he was found dead, his throat slit by an unknown assailant as he returned home. I asked Cece how she did it and she smiled at me, now visible through the wall, “I would explain, but I cannot,” she says. This month, I’m done with my medications finally. I sleep soundly and have a night devoid of dreams.
♦
She was named after her great-grandmother, and for that, I want to erase Agnes the way victors erase history to suit them. She told stories to her family; I will tell stories to the world. She lived in a time cruel to women. I am here now, in a time that is insidious in its cruelty, but I will win. She predicted her death; I predict deaths more accurately than she ever did.
She killed me when I was seven, and for eighty years I have roamed, waiting for the perfect vessel. I watched her live out her fulfilled life; be a matriarch to a whole generation, loved by her daughters and her daughter’s children. It was not until Kokomma was born; A child who killed her twin, that I could return to this plane. They named her Agnes, and by that singular act, I was sealed within her body.
I understood what I needed to do; After trying to break Koko’s mind for many years, I spoke, luring her in, and earning her trust. I made peace and let her mind heal; the drugs helped her maintain control of her body, save when she gave a name.
Art by Sunny Efemena
As our wills aligned over the next few nights after the naming, I took over our body and executed. Finally, she was off her medication; her mind was weakened, and I was free. All of this; hanging Mary, haunting Koko, slitting Papa Ijeoma’s throat. All in a bid to get me here: a family funeral.
They buried Ijeoma’s father in December, and as the harmattan winds whipped around us, I held Koko’s mother’s clammy hands. The woman was crying, even more than the widow, but Ijeoma’s mother was most likely relieved that her husband was dead; She would never be beaten again. As they mourned and sang the hymns, I watched quietly, plotting.
The crowd headed back to the family house when the funeral was over. I slept in a room with Kokomma’s other female cousins. As night fell, I waited till the festivities were concluded and all of Agnes’ progeny were gathered and asleep in the house. Agnes and her husband had built the original house sixty years ago and, with its many rooms, it housed the whole family.
I padded silently to the kitchen and unscrewed all the gas cylinders, letting the gas flow through the house. The explosion would end the entire line in one go, Kokomma with them. Maybe finally I would find rest; I could leave this world knowing I had executed/carried out my revenge.
I stood in the middle of the parlour, waiting till I felt the gas had spread enough to blow the building up. I breathed in deeply, enjoying my last breaths; I was not long for this world.
“Sparrow? Is that you?” The voice was very tiny. A child. I looked for her; Adaobi, Ijeoma’s youngest sister, “You were always fiery, eyen. Dying was never going to stop you from getting back at me?”
“Who are you?” I asked, though I knew exactly who it was. The smile on the child’s face was ancient, knowing; it had no place in a six-year-old’s body. She walked towards me, dressed in a white nightgown with a pattern of pink flowers. Currently, a vessel for my twin’s soul. “What’s the journey you’ve had, little one,” she said. “We’re both halves of a whole. Did you not think I was still tethered to you all this time?.”
“Don’t talk to me like you know me. I don’t know you. You little… freak. You’re not a real person. You’re just an afterbirth.” I backed away from her. I could smell the gas; I could end this, but I found myself enthralled by her words. The child inched closer, though she made no moves to attack me.
“Neither are you. These bodies belong to innocents, eyen eka mmi.”
“You killed me!” I spat out.
She stopped moving, her face filled with sorrow. “I am truly sorry, Cece.” She reached out with the child’s tiny hands, her voice pleading, “I am sorry that you never got to live because of me. I really am…” she struggled to speak, tears forming in her eyes.
I stayed silent, unable to put my cluttered thoughts into words.
My sister, the storyteller, told me of the day I died, and the darkness that filled her world in the time that followed. “I did a terrible thing; I was a child, much like this little one, and I had to live with that guilt throughout my life. I am so sorry, Cece.” She gestured to the house, “The past is a bridge to nowhere, but these children? These bodies? They are the future. They had nothing to do with me and you; do not have them pay for my sin.”
Her words cut through decades of resentment, and with my vengeance within my reach, I instinctively knelt, allowing her to touch my face. “I couldn’t see you, but I could sense you always watching. I tried to live right. Put good in the world for all the beauty I took from it. I tried to atone for you, mama.”
I saw her, not as my anger tainted her, but as she was. Mma Agnes, who never hurt another soul after me, and fought the world’s cruelty with her words. My heart ached, but I knew Agnes was not lying to me. “Somehow,” she said, “we are both here, in this world, but we should not be here. Please come with me.” The little girl closed the space between us, trying to wrap her hands as far as they could go around me.
I let her.
♦
I woke up the next day tired, even though I had been asleep for hours. At some point in the night, I had somehow changed and hugged Adaobi, my little cousin, and we slowly detangled, clearly confused – Ada had not fallen to sleep close to me.
I went to the living room for prayers and all who gathered prayed for Papa Ijeoma’s soul. After prayers, my mother told me to shower and pack my bags so we could go home; apparently, the gas had leaked all night, and the cylinders were empty.
“Thank God nobody lit matches to warm rice and stew oh,” Father said, as he and the other men inspected the village house. I headed to the children’s room, and when I removed my clothes to get in the bath, I felt a note in the pocket of my shorts.
Koko.
There’s so much I’d say to you, but I have to go now. In my anger, I almost did an awful thing. Thankfully, Agnes came through and stopped me. Do not worry about me; I’m okay.
You are my sister, baby girl. Thank you for sharing your body with me. I love you.
It was then I noticed the silence; Cecilia was not here anymore. I could still see the memories, and I still felt like I had lived a few lifetimes, but Cecilia’s voice was gone. That suddenly hollowed-out part of my mind hurt, like a part of me had been excised. I clutched my chest, suddenly aware that the clothes I just removed were the last we’d ever share.
“Cece.”
Albert Nkereuwem is a Nigerian writer whose work explores varying themes through the lens of afro-mysticism, thriller, and fantasy. His story “The House of Old Marian”, published in Fiyah Magazine #30, won the 2023 Dream Foundry Prize for Emerging Writers.
At the time, he did not know that he had impregnated a creature that was not quite human, or more accurately, not human at all. A Njuzu, as they love to call us, is a being capable of turning into any form they desire. Misguided fools have told you about my kind, that we grow fishtails, that we breathe underwater via some miraculous invention or freak mutation. While we have many miraculous inventions, we do not require any for such a simple purpose. Furthermore, we are not trapped underwater. Many of us live on land amongst you and come home for brief visits like any other immigrant. We have feet and fingers just like you. We move and talk just like you. If you don’t know what to look for, you’d never know the difference between the Njuzu and your so-called “normal” human beings.
Papa never came to know what he had done. He slept peacefully beside his loving wife for twenty years, that “creature” that could have killed him in seconds at any time. Papa died as peacefully as he slept, while still believing he had a normal wife and daughter.
A relief for all parties involved…
My mother had remarried by the time I was 14. I returned to the water when I was 16. My return was neither a matter of necessity nor of obligation. No one forced my hand. My mother had long since resigned herself to life on land, abdicating the district she ruled as the Queen’s sister, which would now be mine if I so chose. This did not interest me, and with ten royal lines, there was no shortage of rulers amongst my aunts and cousins.
I returned to the water, to the home I never knew, because I chose to help my people fight for our relevance, for our right to exist. With that in mind, I returned to the home I never knew—the home beneath the waters, Pasi Pemvura.
Present Day
Location: District 9
“My queens, please bear with me. You know these are difficult times, even for me!” The old man pleads.
Chitepo is a n’anga, a witch doctor. His earliest ancestor, Sanyathi, was one of the first human beings to form a mhiko, what you would call a covenant, with the Njuzu. Because of this blood tie, he inherited not only the knowledge of our world and its residents but also the ability to go between his world and the beneath, at our summoning. Sanyathi was one of the first of you with a brain sufficient to recognize his betters.
“Should we have to remind you of who we are, Chitepo?” asks my cousin Niri, making the old man’s knees knock together as her tongue grows and stretches until it is wrapped around his neck, vice-like.
“Mercy, my queen!” He squeals.
“Mercy, he says,” Osafa whispers next to me, her double-forked tongue sliding in and out, from between her pouted lips.
Despite my cousin’s less than flattering, some might even say frightening ‘abilities,’ they are still beautiful women. Niri, as dark as chocolate, and Osafa the colour of Nepalese honey. With their defined cheekbones and sleepy eyes slanted just like cats, they are classic examples of our people. Both the men and women of the Njuzu are, after all, famed for their looks. Your world’s beauty pageants and red carpets, all the most attractive in your world, are simply products of our genes.
I too, I am beautiful, but different. I am an albino, with grey eyes and white hair. The only pigmentation I have is the brown freckles dusted across my lips and the black vein-like lines around my eyes. Growing up on land, most who saw me often said I looked like an angel, and then a demon, after the angel remark put me in a bad mood and my eyes turned red. Amongst my people, there is much speculation on how closely I resemble those who once destroyed our home.
The old man hangs in the air. I shut my eyes and groan in irritation.
“Drop him,” I order.
“Thank you, my queens,” Chitepo remonstrates as he gathers himself to leave. He searches our faces, admiration or rather lust and fear painted on his features.
“I hope that son of yours will do a better job than you, Chitepo. I hope you are training him well. We will need him,” I warn.
“Yes, my queen.”
“We will come to visit him. Very soon,” Osafa calls out to his retreating figure, licking her lips.
We watch as the old man is led to the portal by one of the guards and only when we are sure he is no longer in earshot do we break into laughter.
It is not that we take pleasure in inciting fear in human beings, or maybe we do. In my people’s defence, I will say that if we have to scare them into submission or occasionally take a life, it is merely out of necessity. Our sacred covenants with the older generations depended on us protecting the waters that we all need to survive. We initially did this by preventing their race from defiling these waters by having them declared as sacred or harboring monstrous water monsters. Occasionally abducting or taking the lives of those who disrespected the waters.
But we were also kind to the humans, going as far as pacifying the dangerous beasts that dwelled near their shores — crocodiles, and other dangerous creatures whose existence they are still yet to know about. Because of us, man of the past lived along the waters peacefully: bathing, fishing and eventually building their bridges and dams as their civilizations advanced. But the modern man is selfish. Where they once respected and honoured the land, they now pollute it so thoroughly that they threaten not only their survival but ours. Beyond even becoming dumping grounds, our waters are now drying up as a consequence of the humans’ greed and snobbishness. Even the skies hold back their bounty, choosing only to release rain in violent outbursts as if to punish us for what has been done to The Earth Mother. The fish? Almost extinct, as humans fish no longer out of necessity but gluttony. Gorging themselves silly.
Man grows bolder still. Their new religion brands us demons, needing to be put in our place. No longer do they worship the gods of the land and water; no longer do they give reverence to nature.
Fewer and fewer people like Chitepo exist. Who wants to give their life to serving what they believe is Satanic? There were once many witch doctors loyal to the Njuzu, where they once accepted apprenticeship under the water, and were taught all manner of cures that could be extracted from nature. They now run from knowledge and hide in their churches.
Anyways… we have a more pressing issue on our hands.
“We must not be late for the council at noon, cousin,” Osafa reminded me.
I nod. It is time to head for District 12.
Location: District 12
District 12 largely resembles most of the other 200 districts scattered beneath the waters. The terrain is very much like your world, except that in place of a sky, there is the majestic skyline of the deep sea. Whales pass like clouds, and other larger creatures, ones that glow in the dark and dare not resurface. You can only imagine our horror when we first started to witness the human trash floating amongst these wonders. A violent act indeed.
District 12 lies beneath the Indian Ocean, and thus is our largest district. Because of this, it is home to the numerous factories where our miraculous inventions are made. Some of these have graced your world, and some we hold on to because we do not trust humanity. So consumed with greed and ambition that you would destroy yourselves unknowingly like dumb children. We miscalculated when we advanced you in the first place.
Vehicles float through the water, carrying a mix of Njuzu and humans. You may wonder what these humans are doing here. Many of them hail from the many ships and planes that have vanished into the waters. These people are like Chipeto’s ancestors, the most intelligent of your kind, and without them, Pasi Pemvura would not be as advanced as it is today. I often say that they were done a great service by being brought here, seeing as they were well ahead of their time and misunderstood in your world. Here they are appreciated and put to work, residing in the multistoried buildings that make up District 12.
Only District 9, which lies beneath the Great Nile, bears some resemblance to District 12, but even then, it pales in comparison. Sure, we do have a few technological hubs here and there, but our homes are simpler and fewer. Like most of the smaller districts, much of our work is dedicated to recruiting a few humans to our educational system, which specialises in the art of healing and holistic medicines. You’d be surprised where you’ll find some of the other districts. Beneath small rivers, lakes, springs, dams, and even sometimes long-forgotten wells. There is always a portal connecting the above to these districts and only when one is granted admittance are they ushered from your world to ours in a matter of seconds. The issue lies in gaining access to these portals, which often are found at the very bottom of the waters. For the Njuzu it is easy because we can morph into any sea creature of our choosing. Our frequent human visitors however used to be at a disadvantage for not all could swim many meters down. Eventually, we conferred upon them special charms granting them the ability to morph, if only for a few seconds.
I look at the ten men and women sitting on their thrones before the hall full of Njuzu. Beings of different origins but all united by their ties to the land and the water. Our own Queen Mother, mother of the ‘Earth Njuzu‘, sits in the middle of this diverse group. She is the most striking of them, adorned in her shiny garments with collars pulled up over her neck. Her robe stretches 10 meters in front of her.
“Residents of Pasi Pemvura, we all know why we are gathered here,” Queen Mother Sithole speaks. She is one of the eldest Njuzu in existence, one of the first of our kind to cross into this world.
“We must destroy the humans!” Someone shouts from the crowd. I see the muscles in her neck tense, the white snake coiled around her hair, coiling tighter.
“Who said that?” the man beside her, the Snake King Riri, known to most as Nyaminyami, commands.
After a fearful silence, the man who had spoken comes forward. He stands resolute in his conviction before the denizens of the great hall until the Snake King’s arm extends in length and tosses him to the other side of the room. Sithole rolls her eyes, relaxing a little, the snake uncoiling.
“Let us not be foolish here and forget that this earth was given to them by their maker. Whereas we were simply granted permission to exist here. Make no mistake. If we destroy the humans, we destroy ourselves.”
“What then do we do? They have lost their gratitude and now even dare to question us?” I say.
“We need to find some other way to bring them back to our cause,” Sithole turns to me, her head tilted, and answers calmly.
At the far end, an old-looking man spits on the ground, drawing Sithole’s gaze.
“Some other way! Is what we have given them not enough? We invited some of their men and women into our world. Taught them about herbs and healing magic so they could return and do good in their communities. In return, all we required was that they respect the land that provides them with medicine. Now they bite the very hand that feeds them, and you suggest we give them the rest of the arm?” He shouts indignantly.
“We are dealing with a different kind of people now. They believe that everything comes from a store, no longer remembering that it is the land that sustains them. We have to appeal to their superficial and shallow natures,” our Queen responds in the earnest, parental tone of royalty.
“How, my queen?”
She turns back to face me.
“That’s what we need to figure out.”
The In-Between World
Before this earth, the Njuzu resided in another world. A world not entirely physical nor spiritual, for that matter. In that world, they lived in peace with the many other beings who called that other world home. Creatures half human and half equestrian, talking animals that often morphed into human lookalikes, giants ranging from the size of mountains to a mere 9 meters tall, babies that were secretly grown men known as Zvidhoma, long skeletal spectres that stretched to the sky knows as Zvigoritoto and finally the Mask people. Men, women, and children with masks for faces often bearing permanently painted frowns.
Art by Sunny Efemena
All was tranquil until the war between us and God’s angels. The war he started because we refused to concede to a life of servitude under him. Because we refused to kiss his ass. They say that we fought honourably despite losing the battle. As we were exiled to other worlds, noble tears flowed from our eyes as we watched our once beautiful home burnt to ash.
*
Present Time
Location: Queen Sithole’s Palace
“It sounds like a good idea, Queen Mother.”
The several male and female witch doctors we have summoned speak in almost unison, equally fearful to be the last or first to speak.
“They are greedy so they will buy into it very easily. They dedicate their lives to serving the Njuzu and in turn are granted material worth. Especially now when times are tough and they are lazier and more impatient than ever,” Gogo Boity, the youngest of them says, nodding to her peers.
Sithole nods.
“Then we will do that. All we simply demand is that they respect us once more and stay clear of these waters. You come up with whatever rites of passage you see fit. I’m not one for ceremony, but it’s the only way to make them believe. But serve us they will under the Manjuzu covenant”
“But to what end, my queen, how far do you plan on taking this?” Chitepo asks
“You are dismissed,” my aunt says, visibly annoyed.
One by one they bow and leave, Chitepo looking back inquisitively. He is becoming a little too bold, I think to myself. I’ll deal with him later.
“To what end aunty? How far do you plan on taking this?” I ask her later when it is just the two of us.
She smiles as she cradles my head between her palms.
“Until they all worship us, until we have mixed our bloodlines with theirs to the extent that there is no distinction between us and them. I was there when he sent his army of war dogs to destroy our home. They killed and violated us in manners I cannot even speak of. And after he was done, he made us beg for our lives just to further humiliate us. We vowed vengeance on the day. Though we conceded and bent the knee. We vowed vengeance.” As she speaks her words come out almost in hisses.
She relents her hold on my white hair which she has been fixated on and kisses my forehead before walking towards the window and staring down at the fifty floors below.
“I am so proud that you chose to come back to us, to take up our cause. But I don’t blame your mother for staying away. There are things she suffered during that time. Things that she can never forget.” Once more she is fixated on my hair before her eyes meet mine and she looks away.
“Ramonda my love. We have created a good life here, but ultimately, we still live like animals, sentenced to this dark abyss where we hardly see the light except that of our making. We deserve to come into the light!”
A man rushes into the room panting.
“I’m sorry my queens but I’ve been sent to summon you to the land.”
“By who, and what for at this hour of the night?” She demands.
He holds his breath in anticipation before he says it.
“The probes have returned.”
2 am
Location: The shores of Namibia
The trumpet blowers are assembled and are putting out a tune of welcome as the entirety of the Royal lines and their families and guards are gathered along the shore. The winds are growing stronger and stronger, and garments are blown in various directions. All of a sudden, we see what some may confuse for lightning, lighting up the sky in a beautiful kaleidoscope. Whirlpools form in the water until there are five huge gaping holes. One by one, five ships the size of the Titanic descend from the sky before they are swallowed up into the holes, all of this with the accompaniment of the cheering crowd. When it’s all over, the waters are once more still, the wind gone, and the shore abandoned.
We were not here.
*
8 am
Location: The Counsel Hall
Unlike the large numbers that congregated here a few days ago, this time only a small fraction stand. Unable to sit still, many of them pace up and down restlessly. Even the Royal Counsel of ten are unable to calm themselves.
“I said get off me!” Chiguru, the old man, rebukes when his female servants fuss over him. Despite almost stooping to the ground, he insists on walking on his own.
The tension is evident and when the doors finally open, the feeling of suspense grows even thicker.
I watch him as he enters. The leader of the Probes, the select group of twenty beings who were sent out into the universe to search for life and other habitable planets. The swagger in his step conveys easy confidence, perhaps even a slight arrogance. I feel the goosebumps grow on my skin as he passes me. He smiles. I look away, pretending not to notice, but my cousins pinch me teasingly. It is Inedu after all, tall and with dreadlocks down to his waist, green eyes, and dark skin. Most would not know it, but we were in love once. I watch as he runs a muscled arm through his hair, remembering how that arm felt once upon a time as it danced across my body. My eyes even wander from his thick baby lips to his crotch and by the time his eyes find mine again, I huff and look aside.
“My Queen,” he begins.
“My Elders,” he finishes bowing to the royals.
“Proceed,” Riri the Snake King orders.
He nods and lifts himself, eyes meeting mine once more.
“As you all know, we set off to find the existence of life amongst the endless galaxies that make up the universe almost five years ago. It was not an easy task and one that required us to leave everything we loved behind. Not an easy sacrifice,” he says, eyes lingering on me.
I clear my throat and he pulls his eyes away from me.
“My elders, my people…” he words trails out into a sigh and he bows his head once more, shaking it slowly from side to side.
Chiguru, who is frothing at the corners of his mouth, almost screams,
“Tell us, what is it? Don’t keep us in suspense any longer. What did you find?”
Inedu raises his head, laughing and smiling all at once in that way of his, which somehow makes him even more beautiful. He looks towards the royals and raises his arms like a showman that had managed to draw out a performance for an audience that’s eagerly awaiting the climax.
“My Elders. We have found life.”
Valerie Tendai Chatindo is a biochemistry graduate from the University of Zimbabwe, writer and sexual health&awareness educator. Her work has appeared in The Kalahari Review, Enthuse Magazine, PinkDisco Magazine, Povo Afrika, Creepy Pod, Agbowo and Literary Yard. Her short story ‘Sheba’, was shortlisted for the African Cradle, ‘African Heroines’, literary prize. The twenty-eight-year-old resides in Harare, Zimbabwe with her grey tabby, Muffins. She runs her own Literary Platform, Shumba Literary Magazine, as well as blogs on her personal platform.
