Pasi Pemvura | Valerie Chatindo

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April 9, 2024

My father fell in love with a mermaid.

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.

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.

Omenana Speculative Fiction Magazine Issue 27

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Admin

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November 1, 2023

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Issue 27 of Omenana Speculative fiction magazine, a tri-monthly magazine that is open to submission from writers from across Africa and the African Diaspora.

In this edition:

Things out of Place | Adesire Tamilore

A Glitch on the Railway Bridge | Mseli Ngoma

Baranda | Tunmise Onifade

Silent Night | Ogheneyome O

To Kill a God | Hannu Afere

To Kill a God | Hannu Afere

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Admin

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November 1, 2023

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Before all the madness, Digi City was beautiful.

There were cybernetic wonders and augmented reality mirrors. There were meadows and streams and orchards of the freshest tangerines.

Now? The Supernatural Police have taken over. Everything that belonged to the Gods has gone to the dogs.

And what business could this police have with our society, anyhow?

Oh it’s because of the supernatural challenges that technology alone cannot address.

Oh, they’re crucial to preserve the delicate equilibrium between technology and divinity.

Preserve my ass.

Back in the days when it was still a mere farming settlement, three Òrìṣàs came together to weave a dream.

Ògún, the God of innovation, shaped the city’s destiny with his mastery of tech and highly intelligent machinery. He infused the very core with his divine essence, giving birth to a revolution that would propel the place into an era of unparalleled advancement.

As his influence grew, so did his disciples. Engineers, hackers, and scientists flocked in. They formed a new society, Born Of The Iron, dedicated to worshiping and emulating Ògún’s mastery.

Ṣàngó, the Òrìṣà of electricity, sent lightning coursing through the city’s veins to help their beloved friend. They infused the power grid with their divine energy, granting the city an unparalleled supply of electricity.

Neon signs, stunning holograms, and luminescent implants became the visual manifestation of the divine partnership. The line between the organic and the synthetic blurred, human bodies became conduits for raw Òrìṣà power.

The third deity, lurking in shadows, was Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná, the lord of the pox, master of the virus. Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná revelled in disruption, disease and discomfort. He was the balance.

Impressed by the pulsating energy and technological marvels, the Committee of Thunder gods sent word that they wanted to pay the city a visit. They would come from everywhere in Europe and Asia.

*

Ṣìgìdì, leaning against the polished counter in the lively beer parlour, was recounting the tale with animated excitement. The music was loud, so it had to shout.

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” it began, eyes alight with the memory. “My sensors were going crazy, you know, what with those lights pulsating and all. The whole citadel was alive, in sync with quantum computers humming away.”

The patrons around it leaned in, captivated. Ṣìgìdì counted six men. Fighting men. Dangerous men who worked for the establishment. From their body language and rapt attention, he could tell that they were only after one thing: gold. The story was information, and information was gold. But in this moment, their foulness didn’t matter.

A new song came on.

“And then,” Ṣìgìdì continued, “The Thunder gods arrived. Oh, you should have seen them—their digital signatures and features were unlike anything I’d ever processed. Cold yet capricious; pale, pink after all the offerings of alligator pepper. But the further you went into their histories, the blacker they became.”

“And this Ògún, the God of Iron,” chimed in a curious listener. “What was he like?”

Ṣìgìdì grinned, “Ah, Ògún was something else. Picture this: locs in the sun, like the mane of a great prehistoric predator. Picture this exoskeleton adorned in a million nanolights, thanks to his partner Ṣàngó. His metal was unbreakable, but as flexible as a supple willow branch. He gave a speech that day, about unity and collaboration. It was not a concept I was designed to comprehend and support, you see.”

A tipsy patron rose and sauntered out of the bar, leaving the door slightly ajar. He fiddled with his comms, a fancy bracelet flashing on and off. “Sus…” he mumbled. “Stat… Starter.”

A small block of text appeared, and he mouthed the words slowly. […is the spirit of a malevolent agency, a terrifying effigy with a penchant for death and destruction. In the old days, conjurers would mention the enemy’s name and call on it to cause the person to die or become mad or meet some other dire fate. Since Digi City, instead of an entity moulded from mud, it is imbued with bleeding edge A.I, complete with its own feelings, motivations and interests.]

Ṣìgìdì could hear everything the patron was reading in low tones, but the atmosphere in the parlour was charged with intrigue so it focused on the story being told.

“Then came the sacrifices,” it continued.

“Human sacrifices?” A fat man sitting on a creaking stool asked. He was wearing an immaculate white shirt, a striking contrast to his oversized beard dyed black.

Ṣìgìdì smiled then. “Human sacrifices are an interesting concept, aren’t they? First of all, though, nobody is killing you and devouring your soul. You do not have a soul—you are the soul, wrapped in a body. Your spirit is what’s needed in the Ambrosia. Your prayers, your fasting, your faith, the electronic core of your will. Everything else is just bamboozling, but don’t let me get ahead of myself.”

To the right, the Madam of the place worked the vintage dispensers, and Ṣìgìdì’s smile developed into a grin. Hers was the only bar, for miles and miles, that still had constant electricity. Her kraft beer was nicknamed ‘chaos’. But Ṣìgìdì wasn’t just grinning at its drink, it was grinning at the madam with all her cybernetic enhancements, wires and cables interwoven with the tattoos of circuits that adorned her arms. Her whole vibe made her stand out, for it was rare to find augmentation that still worked like this.

Ṣìgìdì took a hearty swig of the beer. The taste was a comforting blend of hopes, nostalgia, and of course, a hint of rògbòdìyàn.

It wiped leftover froth with the back of its hand and continued. “The feast was a culinary adventure of the freshest Ambrosia. The melding of flavors and aromas, simply… divine.”

As if to buttress its point, it conjured a holographic clip.

In this digital backdrop, Thor, the Norse god with biceps that made even the mightiest machines jealous, set his magical hammer aside and chowed down with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy shop—if that candy shop happened to be the size of a mountain.

Not to be outdone, Leigong the Chinese signaled for more food and inhaled the table. Thunder roared and forks clashed as he dug into the smorgasbord.

The clip played on, showcasing all sorts of gastronomic acrobatics, a spectacle of bytes and bites; and the audience looked on, disgust or awe in varying degrees, on their faces. “Way too much fun!” the fat man exclaimed.

“But of course,” Ṣìgìdì laughed, stopping it abruptly, “There was trouble too.”

*

After feeding to their hearts’ content, when these visitors with names that sounded like they were trying too hard to be cool superheroes decided to hang around, it raised eyebrows among the circuitry of the city.

Ògún, ever gracious, designated cozy cottages by the idyllic meadows for their stay.

First in line was Donar, the quintessential Germanic powerhouse, always ready to show off his prowess. Perun, the bear of a god, represented the Russian contingent, bringing a hearty “да” to the party. Taranis, a genius fluent in French, Spanish, and who knows what else, made sure everyone got a taste of his linguistic skills. Baal, the Iberian charmer, always had a lightning-quick retort up his sleeve. Teshub, with his beard, looked like a rather dangerous turkey, but he added a spicy flair to the gathering. Hadad, the Babylonian enigma, was mostly silent but everyone knew of the battles he had fought and won. And of course, you couldn’t forget the most famous: Jupiter, the Roman statesman, and Zeus, the Greek showman.

Officially they were there to assist Ògún in administration—not that he needed their help, but as soon as the Thunder gods had settled in, they began their power play, attempting to wrestle control of the city’s techno-zenith for their own celestial amusement.

Like a pack of interstellar bullies, they started with complaints about the quantity of Ambrosia served. Then they moved to the jokes about how these bush people were enjoying a largesse they didn’t deserve. Then came the cultural mudslinging, tarnishing the names of the Òrìṣà. Spelling titles in lowercase, as if to belittle their cosmic status.

I watched them planning spiritual attacks. Watched them terrorize ordinary ctizens. You think say na only una sabi do juju? They never joked with their fix of blood. Then livestock started disappearing.

I did nothing because I was not authorised to intervene. But when the first Born of the Iron died under suspicious circumstances — in the sanctuary no less, I began to consider breaking protocol.

*

It was a starry night.

The notification leading me to the location popped up. Sanctuary.

It was the second time I had ever been there. The first was when Ogundele, the Boti leader, was publicly rededicating his life to the Iron God.

I am not wired to like humans, but I enjoyed the show. And I definitely enjoyed watching him work.

Upon entering the place, we were greeted by a grand atrium adorned with displays showcasing the Great Hunter and his dog. The walls pulsed with soft illumination, giving the impression of a living, breathing entity.

The main hall, where the engineers congregated, featured a sprawling, central holographic projection suspended in mid-air, displaying the intricate models of ongoing projects. Further within, secluded chambers served as private workspaces and laboratories. The walls of these chambers were embedded with intelligent displays, capable of adapting to the preferences of the occupant. Advanced assistants fluttered through, aiding the engineers with their tasks and ensuring a seamless workflow.

At the heart of the sanctuary lay the sacred chamber—a sanctuary within the sanctuary. This space was reserved for contemplation, meditation, and the most important collaborations.

It was here we found Ogundele, dead.

His torso was crouched down and curled into a fetal position. His limbs, once so free in movement, were now shaped like a handle. With his head lowered towards his chest, he looked like he had been trying to shrink away from something terrifying, his form gave the appearance of a can with its top neatly closed.

I knew immediately that this was unnatural.

None of the autonomous drone cameras registered what had happened or how, but underneath the skin of the can-man, muscles twitched and writhed.

Ògún had to summon the dreaded Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná.

His presence was as if a virus had infected the very spectrum of colours, turning everything into noxious greens, murky yellows, and diseased browns. There is a reason why he’s called the outside God.

From the perspective of the human onlookers now wearing biohazard suits, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná’s entry must have been an unnerving experience. As he materialised in the sanctuary, a pungent, foul stench wafted through the air—pus, stagnant water, and the odour of necrotic tissues—sending shivers down their spines and turning their stomachs.

“Obviously a message,” he said, when he had observed the body. His very words caused a grotesque distortion of the vibrant cybernetic environment, like he was impregnating the circuits with an unsafe programme. The sickly haze emanating from his mouth, cast an eerie pallor over everything it touched.

“How do you mean?” Ògún enquired.

“If you cut under the flesh, like this—” Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná demonstrated with a fingernail. “You’ll see the worms.”

Whoever did this had cut Ogundele multiple times, in multiple places, and introduced genetically modified worms into his bloodstream. Then they had sealed the cuts and left the worms to feed, contorting the body postmortem.

A can of worms.

Was that a warning? Was this a game?

*

A new tune came on.

I am the definition of everlasting mischief
The confluence where four-dimensional mathematics
and retribution collide

I sit inside the heavy echoes of chieftaincy
The dissimulation of tropical masquerades
The connection, the process, the tedium of proof
You may reach the true by making the impossible
emerge from the false…

Ṣìgìdì smiled at the Madam. It was its favourite song. It could easily have been a personal panegyric.

“Tell us about Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná,” said the tipsy patron who had previously left the bar.

Ṣìgìdì regarded him closely. He was wearing a leather jerkin, fitted with smart fabric, which allowed for both style and functionality. The jerkin had LED accents mimicking the look of old-world chainmail, subtly shifting and shimmering as they caught the light. His disguise was good, but he still smelled like a death dealer. Foul rat.

“What do you want to know about Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná?” Ṣìgìdì asked.

“Everything. You called him the outside God, why?”

“Oh. I thought I said…” Ṣìgìdì warmed up, ready to segue into ancient history. “Well, in the olden days, the Òrìṣàs were celebrating and—”

“Why are the Òrìṣàs always celebrating?” Someone else interrupted.

“Unfortunately,” Ṣìgìdì’s tone was curt. “I am not equipped with that data, but the Òrìṣàs, yes, they were partying. Lots of palmwine and music. The wine made them sway like toddlers just learning to walk, but the music was so good they still wanted to dance.”

“Away from them, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná sat nursing his gourd. He couldn’t dance, you see. Because he had a wooden leg. He was wearing a long àgbàdá to hide it.

“But the j’ayé-j’ayé Òrìṣàs noticed him sitting all by himself, and they started beckoning on him to come have some fun.

“Of course, he refused. Initially. He was a bit insecure. But they kept taunting him and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he stood up and joined in.

“Just like everyone else, he was full of wine, and unsteady on his feet. But unlike everyone else, he had a physical disability. It only took one drunken shove from a random dancer and he found himself sprawled on the ground, his robe riding up and his wooden leg exposed.

“The other Òrìṣà saw it and started laughing. Enraged, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná removed the stick and started whacking them with it. The celebrations came to an abrupt end. They fled the dance floor screaming for help. Never had they seen him so angry.

“The next morning, all those who had been struck by Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná’s staff, woke up ill. High fever. Severe fatigue. Blinding headaches. Vomiting. Then, rashes formed around the mouths they had used to laugh. One or two lesions at first. Then the rashes spread in a centrifugal pattern on all their bodies and became pustules. Gradually, the pustules became filled with pus, and the number of lesions became impossible to count. It wasn’t death, it was worse.

“The Òrìṣàs cried out to Ọbàtálá—the king of the white cloth. Ọbàtálá was feared because he one of the oldest, and he possessed the power to sculpt bodies. He was furious that people were insulting his work. ‘Something he couldn’t have helped! Did Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná create his physical form himself?’

“Carrying his cow-tail switch ornamented with cowries, the elder God marched down to judge the matter. Seeing how bad it was, he announced that the people who mocked the wooden leg had received their punishment, and that was fine, but Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná himself could have come to report the case instead of taking justice in his own hands.

“When Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná saw the king of the white cloth approaching, he jumped out of the window and fled into the bush.

“Ọbàtálá declared then, that that would be his punishment. From that time on, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná remained in the bush by himself. But he was still feared and till today, people refuse to call him by his name, preferring to use euphemisms like, The Outside God. Hot Ground. Owner of the public. He who feasts with the father of the household but strikes down the son in the doorway.

“You know,” Ṣìgìdì said, belching loudly and pushing its empty beer mug away. “Smallpox was introduced to the New World by the Spanish and Portuguese conquistadors. The disease decimated the local population and was instrumental in the fall of the empires of the Aztecs and the Incas. Guess whose bush they got it from?”

“They’d steal anything.” The madam of the bar scoffed. “Soul, silver or smallpox.”

The guy in the jerkin kept fiddling with his bracelet.”Sus… Stat… Starter,” he mumbled.

Ṣìgìdì knew exactly what it meant. Suspect. Status. Starter. It was a death dealer’s code for “I’ve got what you’ve been looking for.” Whoever was on the other end of the line must be the big bad.

Ṣìgìdì excused itself, as a good AI simulating the side effects of downing too much chaos. It needed a piss.

*

The story continued.

In the city center, the Committee of Thunder gods—now the Supernatural Police—were gathered where the humans could see.

Thor, the leader of the force, spoke first, “Has Ògún forsaken his own disciples? The murder of one of his brightest leaves us questioning his ability to protect even his closest allies.”

Leigong, with his eagle face, added fuel to the flames. “Could it be that Ògún, once a beacon of progress, has turned to a diabolical path? Whispers suggest he’s feeding on souls, consuming the essence of his disciples for unholy power.”

Perun, known for his cynicism, muttered darkly, “He has always done this. He just hasn’t been caught yet.”

Gasps rippled through the gathering, showing disbelief and fear. The accusation struck at the very core of their beliefs and trust.

When Ògún approached, he simply took stock of his people; his metallic visage betraying no emotion, even though his heart was a tempest.

Choosing his words carefully, he addressed the crowd. “I stand accused, but I am innocent. My purpose has always been to nurture and innovate, not to harm… except in the face of injustice.”

Ṣàngó in their beautiful cornrows, stepped forward. “Let us not be blinded by fear and suspicion,” they said.

“Of course, you’ll support your fuck mate,” Taranis snarled. Then he turned to face the onlookers. “Oh, you people didn’t know?”

His accusation sent yet another ripple of shocked gasps through the crowd.

“Haha.” That last was Teshub the Turk. “Why do you think Iron brings fire, and fire melts iron?”

“Accusations without evidence are hollow and unjust!” Ṣàngó shouted, trying to project his thunder over the din.

But doubts had taken root, the damage had been done. The engineers who once looked up to Ògún now questioned the very foundation of their beliefs.

No God-bullet was more effective. To kill a God, you must first kill his reputation. Spam the minds of the impressionable with nonsensical data and axioms. Sow distrust.

To finally destroy the Òrìṣà, they insisted on taking over the most important bits of technology he had installed in the city. If you have nothing to hide, give us access to all the Satellite links and nanoscale InsectEye cams!

Your Integrated quantum encryption module for secure data transmission. Your Nanosensors for precise light detection and advanced image stabilization. Your Neural AI for automated camouflage pattern adjustment… “Guilty!’ they cried.

It was like blaming a chef for not giving away all his secret ingredients. Ògún had every right to protect his kingdom, and they had every right to be jealous. After all, who wouldn’t want a piece of the action?

But Ògún was no fool. He saw through their ploys, their schemes, and their desires for unbridled power. These gods were a rapacious bunch, ready to gobble up anything that stood in their way.

He understood the stakes, oh boy, he understood them well. Handing over his technological marvels would be akin to giving a toddler a sledgehammer. The world as they knew it would crumble and crash faster than the count between Sàngó’s lightning and his thunder.

He knew their kind— insatiable, like the legendary Ìjàpá the tortoise. Once they had a taste of power, they wouldn’t stop. They’d push boundaries, break limits, and wreak havoc across the globe. It would be like trying to rein in a wildfire with a water gun.

Ògún had seen the signs. Handing them the keys to his kingdom would be a one-way ticket to chaos-ville. They’d rewrite the code, reboot the system, and all hell would break loose.

There was only one way this showdown was ever going to play out.

And it went down on a sweltering evening. Fitting. The city felt like a convection oven, the air heavy and oppressive against skin. Even the advanced climate control systems struggled to alleviate the discomfort, leaving the denizens yearning for a respite.

The Supernatural Police, seething with envy and anger, bore down on Ògún and Ṣàngó.

Ògún, as the God of war, stepped forward, his grip firm on his enhanced blade, sparks flying as it dragged on the pavement behind him.

“They won’t back down easily,” Ṣàngó warned, they had appeared from nowhere; hair freshly oiled, eyes lined with codes for infernos.

“I know,” Ògún smiled, gaze fixed on the approaching enemy. “But progress can’t be stifled.”

Thor laughed then, his eyes burning with resentment, “Your so-called progress threatens our ways, Ògún!”

The Iron God shook his head. “Our ways have evolved. Embrace innovation. We can’t cling to the past forever. You want lifeblood, go and kill your own children.”

“The insolence!” That last was Baal. “How dare you?”

“You think your gadgets can replace centuries of tradition?” The Turk sneered.

“If our tech offends you so much, why do you stay still?” Ògún replied calmly.

“Enough talk!” Leigong commanded, raising his weapon, a chisel.

Ògún glanced at Ṣàngó. There was no need for words. They nodded, electricity crackling at their fingertips. “Ready when you are.”

“ARGH!!”

Colossal forms loomed over the cityscape, dwarfed buildings into mere playthings. The primal force, the wrath, the determination. Rain clouds converged into a single ominous mass, swirling and coalescing directly over the battlefield. A darkness that felt sentient, crackled with pent-up energy; raindrops danced on the edge of release, and the sky trembled.

It was sheer ozone and adrenaline.

With an otherworldly roar, Ògún swung his blade to meet Jupiter’s mighty bolt. The cosmic collision sent shockwaves in all directions. The Òrìṣà’s sinews strained against the Roman’s force.

It wasn’t an honourable one-on-one fight. He still had to worry about being ambushed by Leigong or Baal or Zeus. Or all three at once. But opposite him, Ṣàngó was holding his own against half a dozen thunder gods. How was he doing it?

Summoning a reserve of impossible strength, Ògún pushed forward, twisting his blade, and using Jupiter’s own force against him. The power surged through, tenfold.

Yelling ‘I AM HE!’, he redirected the trajectory, sending Jupiter flying like a comet.

Jupiter didn’t even have time to register what was happening. The skyline loomed closer and closer as he hurtled towards a tower of mirrors. The impact was cataclysmic.

Shards of glass rained down like a broken dream. The God of War, red-eyed, but more saddened than enraged, stood amidst the chaos.

The battle was far from over, but knocking Jupiter out made the others pause.

What they didn’t know was that this was merely a diversion—a brilliantly orchestrated ruse. For, while the city seemed to burn in the clash, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná, the silent strategist, went undetected, infiltrating the quantum computers that underpinned the city’s functioning.

The initial shock soon cleared, and as the supernatural police descended upon him, Ògún spun to face them.

Zeus lunged first, with a triad of bolts streaking through the sky. Ògún’s reflexes kicked in, allowing him to skillfully evade the onslaught, every movement calculated, every movement measured. He parried the Olympian’s strikes and kicked at Baal who was charging in with the fury of weaponized raindrops.

WOOSH!

The kick left his midsection unprotected and that’s where Leigong targeted, hurling his chisel. It hurt like hell, but undeterred, Ògún conjured an electromagnetic shield to deflect the rest of the tempestuous assault.

Everything else was mechanical now. Ògún adapted to their attacks, finding gaps in their offense. Elbow to the face, knee to the crotch. Ichor everywhere. Despite being outnumbered, the God of Iron held his own.

Within the towering edifices guarding the city’s energy core, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná worked with a frantic urgency. His fingers moved like a blur upon the keys, injecting the code of blessed malware into the city’s very circuitry.

It was a race against the clock, Ṣọ̀pọ̀ná knew that his partners would not last very long against the malice of the supernatural police.

He urged the virus on, a digital prayer of disruption. And when he was sure it was coursing fast enough through the city’s vital systems, he triggered the alarm.

The notification screamed through the motherboard, a beacon of urgency in the vast digital expanse, alerting Ògún.

Sensing the moment had come, Ṣàngó nodded at their dear friend. Then, with a roar that echoed through the heavens, they linked hands and unleashed a sonic blast.

BOOOOM!

It hit their assailants with precision, sending them tumbling backward, breaking their momentum.

In the precious moments that followed, the God of tech acted swiftly, breaking down his own essence, fragmenting it into streams of power that flowed through the circuitry of all Born of the Iron, each devotee receiving a part of Ògún—the courage to never back down, the gift of the hunt, the spirit of innovation and progress.

A certain trusty AI who was observing the whole thing received a concentrated amount, if it was previously a vengeful tool, it became ten times more lethal and without any code for tethering.

As Ògún’s form began to fade into the ether, the supernatural police cheered.

It was a pyrrhic victory, but they revelled in it until the city’s lights began to dim and flicker.

The blessed malware spread through the arteries of machinery everywhere, bypassing firewalls and encryption, targeting critical points of control.

One by one, everything went off.

The effects were felt instantly, and on a massive scale. Factories ground to a halt, leaving assembly lines silent and production stagnant. Communication networks faltered, cutting off the flow of information and causing confusion among executives and workers alike. Transportation systems experienced crippling failures, leading to logistical nightmares and widespread disruption.

The economic impact was profound. Companies found themselves paralyzed. The sudden loss of productivity sent shockwaves through global markets, shaking the foundations of the gods’ influence and triggering panic among those who depended on the industrial complex for their livelihoods.

*

But after a while, the world would roll on like nothing happened. The city would adapt to a half-life, surviving companies operating only at 30% capacity. The harmattan would give way to the rainy season, the grass would grow, the tangerine trees would flourish, becoming bigger homes for birds to nest in—no one to hunt them. The earth would not colour itself sepia or grey. The world would roll on.

But not Ṣìgìdì.

Presently, it re-entered the bar and found the fat man lying on the ground, impaled by one leg of his own stool. His white shirt was crimson now, and his mouth hung open, like he had just witnessed some great abomination. The tipsy guy was hanging upside down from the ceiling, with his intestines falling out. His bracelet on the floor, was crushed to bits, never again to beep.

Ṣìgìdì scratched its processor in confusion.

It had only just stepped out for a piss. But where were the other bodies?

The madam of the place purred and pointed at the back room. Four other death dealers were slumped over each other there. She had moved them out of the way and left the first two only as decoration. God, her efficiency was so seductive.

Ṣìgìdì grinned at her for the umpteenth time that day. And it wasn’t because of her Kraft beer.

~

Hannu Afere is an author, animator and artiste whose work has appeared in several publications in Nigeria, India, China, Canada and the US. He co-authored the critically acclaimed graphic novel Trinity: Red October in 2018 and in 2019, his debut collection of short stories GrimGrin: WTF was published. His novella Dog Days of Rain was published in 2020 during the COVID-19 pandemic, and in 2021, he wrote the screenplay to The Adventures of Captain Blud, an animated series with the Nobel Laureate Professor Wole Soyinka. In 2022, his short story Dogz of War published by Omenana magazine was nominated for the British Science Fiction Awards. Presently, he is the Editor-in-chief of the Anthology of West African Literature (8th House Publishing, Montréal), and is collaborating with the Poet Laureate Bryan Thao Worra on a book of poems titled Laos N Lagos. When he’s not creating or collecting art, he can be found spending quality time with his partner Didi, and their canine companions, Rain and Roulette. He writes from Iboopa.

Silent Night | Ogheneyome O

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Admin

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November 1, 2023

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Uzoma was born into a family of women with strong voices, rich and sonorous. It was a gift, passed down from one woman to the next. Her great, great, great-grandmother, sometime in the early years no one seems to remember, had been wandering deep in the forest of her hometown in southern Nigeria and found a cave that echoed humanlike sounds. She wondered what it was at first, who the voices belonged to. At first, she thought it to be lost people, calling for help. But when she searched and saw nothing, she thought they must have been ghosts looking for bodies to inhabit, filling the empty breeze and shaking trees. She stood still, lingered to listen and heard the sounds call to her. They held her soft fingers and drew her in. They whispered promises in her ear: ‘We will sing you heavenly melodies, infuse our gifts in your vocal cords, give our voice a home in the walls of your mouth and blunt edges of your teeth.’ They called to her, and she answered them.

Uzoma’s great great great-grandmother, the first woman, walked into the cave, her feet kissing the wet ground, as her toes slowly met the lake in the cave. Uzoma’s mother, Oluchi, tells her that the cave was dark as night, illuminated by the lake’s reflection on its walls. She tells her that the water had the colour of a puddle made of rain and wet clay. She tells her that rocks, hard as human skulls, floated on the surface. She tells her that the water’s opaqueness protects its secrets underneath from the naked human eye. She tells her these things, just as her own mother had told her.

The women in her family tell the story of the first woman accurately. How she was pulled down by a force the minute her lower body was submerged in the cold body of water. How she felt strong delicate hands hold her ankles tight, pulling her through wild torrents of thick water. How the force was so great it felt as though her head would detach from her body, yet she did not struggle to breathe. How she came out of a second body of water in a cave within the cave. How this second cave had its own light reflecting from its walls, a dull muddy brown, faintly resembling bronze and fading gold. How the colours made the stones that formed the cave look stained, unclean. The water in this cave was clear as a blue sky with cotton white cloud, it looked as though it could wash away the unrighteousness of sinful men, cleanse the rusting appearance of its home.

Uzoma’s mother gives her the account of how the first woman had seen the fish person. Fluke first, an eggshell white. The scales of her tail reflecting the colours of the walls of the cave and the clarity of the lake, having the appearance of a thousand precious stones. How in that moment, she knew that this cave and its outer home were made of and from her. How she wondered if it was created by the will of her being or by some sort of magic in the scales on her tail. Her skin, an array of deep brown shades, made the first woman curious of its tastes. Her waist occupying the depth of her stomach, her flesh widened at her hips, right where her tail began. Her chest bare and full, matching the skin of her body with nipples the colour of burnt sugar. How the first woman was stunned at the appearance of this fish person. Stunned at the beauty of her face. The women in Uzoma’s family say that the first woman believed her to be the most beautiful woman alive. The belief continues, present continuous tense. The fish person was no mortal. This was a fact. Uzoma’s mother speaks of her face, a perfect square shape, with high cheekbones. Her lips full and naturally lined with the brown of her skin. The first woman would come to realise that these lips, this mouth, held a thousand voices, the very same ones that brought her there.

The first woman saw this fish person in all her glory. Her full head of hair not styled or braided, dark, tangled. Her broad nose and ears garnished with pearls. Her arms, long and slender, bearing different inscriptions in languages she had never seen but somehow understood. It was the magic that came with the cave. The person. The first woman felt this fish person call her, beckoning her to come close. At first, she was afraid, unwilling to move, wanting to scream, and run away. But she found that she could do nothing. The first woman believed that this cave, this person, took her voice.

The tale speaks of how the fish person held the first-woman’s face in her hands. And how despite losing her voice in that cave, the first woman gained a new one, a better one from the fish person. How the first woman said the touch of the person’s hand on her face had the feel of water. How this person examined the structure of her face, looked deep into her eyes to see the person she was, kissed her cheek to determine the taste of the water that formed her. How the fish person put her left hand into the lake in the cave inside her cave, packed a hand full of water and placed it in her own mouth. How the first woman looked, unmoving, still in shock, confused, trying to determine whether she was dead or alive. How, after scooping the lake water into her mouth, the fish person held the first woman’s two cheeks, forced her lips apart, and poured the water down the first woman’s throat. How the first woman described it as the spring of living water. The only one there ever was. How this spring passed on one of the fish person’s many voices, to this lineage of women.

They told this story exactly as the first woman did. Never written. They intended to for it to stand the test of time. This forever gift and its tale.

*

She was easily given to love. Uzoma swore on the first woman’s grave and the 999 voices of the fish person that she had ‘found the love of her life’ at least 4 times a year, in a different man. It was most peculiar because she believed it each time. This was why the first woman never rolled in her grave in anguish. The girl believed in every love that she had. It was her faith. When she loved, she presented it as true and transparent. Her heart on a platter, body as consideration and her mother’s secret a lullaby. She presented her truth, the story of her and the women before. The passing of the voice, and the loss of it once done. She broke the rules, said things that were to be symbols of companionship in her life beneath and beyond the earth. The fish person was kind to her because of her naivety, merciful despite her wilful recklessness and thus sustained the gift.

Uzoma told her lovers of the duties that came with the gift. The security measures, the warnings, the offerings. What it should and shouldn’t be used for, how it should and shouldn’t be used, where and when. She left no stone unturned, no questions answered. Her heart desired the deepest intimacy—unchallenged, unrestricted, unguarded, and her secrets seemed to do all of this. They asked, and she answered. Educating them, begging them to understand and love her, regardless. Begging them to respect the rules that made it so.

When they asked why she whispered at night, she explained that she was tasked with the duty to protect the voice from the day her tongue was solid enough to call her name and the names of the women before her. ‘That is how we know the gift has settled in the far end of your throat. Ready to be spoken and sang with.’ She told them about spirits that knew of the fish woman and her cave, spirits that knew of the voices she had. How some of them had tried to find her in the first cave but rather got trapped in an endless tunnel, in search of a guiding light, walking tirelessly to an end that did not exist. She told them that some knew of her mother and mother’s mother. How they knew of the gift. How sometimes, they lurked the night hoping to catch it. ‘This is why I whisper at night…’ she says to them, ‘and why I absolutely cannot sing at night. If they hear me, they can hold my neck and call my voice from inside me.’

Most did not believe. They laughed straight at her face, called her a nutcase, said ‘no be mami-water be that?’ or ‘ah, you be ogbanje?’ and laughed louder. Some believed her and inquired further. They asked, ‘So what happens when it calls your voice?’ and ‘so you no go fit talk again?’ A few of them masked their fear with false belief and bravery. They dared her to sing, promised to protect her if anything happened to her, swore to use their holy books as swords against the spirits that be. Their comments carried heavy sarcasm, mockery. This was how she knew it was time to leave. When they asked her incessantly to use her voice for them at night, she knew it wasn’t love.

It wasn’t that Uzoma never sang for them. Every morning, her voice woke, and told each of them when the day was bright enough for living. When it was safe for their bodies to go into the world. They told her her voice sounded like what heaven looked like, pure and flawless. They said it called their spirits from sleep and helped them find reality. They told her it felt like coming home after work and laying on fresh sheets, drinking coffee made well and water the right temperature. Each man told her that sometimes, they felt her voice moving in their bodies, days after hearing her sing.

Sometimes, at night, she whispered songs into their ears to help them sleep and guide them to sweet dreams. She wasn’t allowed to do this, the whispering at night, sometimes going above the permitted octave to show her devotion to them. But she was desperate for love. Desperate for their acceptance. Desperate for them to stay.

She had seen what loneliness looked like on her mother. How it drew the life out of her. How this fate resigned her search for love because what was the point? How could you not speak to your lover freely when the world was asleep? How could you not call their name when they were inside you, reaching your very core? How could you not laugh because your heart recognised safety and embraced it? She wanted all these things. To be, and to love.

Somehow, Uzoma was given permission to do both things. In her breathing she was, and in her being she found love. In an unexpected turn, Uzoma found a lover whose feelings matched hers without guile. When they spoke, she thought of swallowing his voice and making it part of hers. When he looked at her, she felt herself a sight to behold, her reflection a wonder from his view. When he held her, she saw herself a child cradled by its mother, the warmth of his arms everlasting. How do you describe a touch, a holding, that feels better than safe? That mirrors a sanctuary.

He was bewildered by the history of her and her women. Respected it, locked it in his heart a second religion. When she woke him in the morning, he gave thanks to God for her first on his knees. When she tried to whisper sleeping songs in his ear, he kissed her and asked her to stop, because he feared for her loss. He worried about its effects. He worried because they had no reference points for solutions, should anything happen. He worried because, like him, he knew she wanted to give him something lasting, something that proved that this love could somehow be held.

Uzoma knew what her limits were. She had known them before she could carry her voice. She knew what was entirely permitted, where there were allowances and where there weren’t. So, the day her lover fell ill, she decided to use her voice to draw the impairment out of him, to make him whole again. This was one of its many wonders.

She joined him on their bed, where he lay, looking half-alive and half-dead. She felt the heat of his body before putting hers beside him. Felt the moisture on her skin before their bodies touched. Her heart ached, for him, for them. She knew the sickness wasn’t ordinary. Knew it came from somewhere. Maybe the women were reminding her that this was something she could not have, or the spirits trying to get her to do what was necessary. She felt insulted by their audacity. How could they think there was nothing she could give up to save him? How could they underestimate the power that existed in her because of their love? How did they not see that this force between them was heavier than all their forces combined?

She was thankful that he was too weak to move and speak. That he was too inside his pain to know what she planned to do. It was late, but it was also the only time her voice held the necessary power. Uzoma held her lover’s hands and whispered songs to him. As she sang, the heat in his body turned to moisture that evaporated and she felt coolness envelop him slowly. With each passing minute, she sang louder because it determined progress and ensured healing and completeness. She watched his pale lips come back to life, saw his veins come into view and felt his heart pump blood through his body. She watched him lift the door to his eyes slowly, and watch the colour transcend from red to pink to white, before seeing what she recognised as first shock, then regret. She saw his eyes fill up with tears, watched them fall as he realised with each passing second that she was losing her voice. She saw all the feelings on his face change to confusion because she smiled too brightly. She thought of how happy she would be to finally be rid of the responsibility of carrying the voice for the sake of love, and her body shook with inaudible laughter.

She watched him sit up, felt herself shaking and her face wet with tears, because she then realised she hadn’t finished the song, couldn’t finish it. She saw his lips spread apart, mouth ajar, her hands holding his hands, holding her face.

‘Uzoma, what have you done?’

Ogheneyome Okpowo is a Lagos-based lawyer and closeted writer.

Baranda | Tunmise Onifade

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November 1, 2023

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It’s so close, yet so far away. From your cabin’s window, you see moonlight glinting off Boode Gate. You’re a short walk away from entering Baranda, from finally locating your sister after five years of separation. You want to get to it right away, but the captain has announced nobody is allowed off the ship until the morning.

“Kugbons will attack us if they smell human essence by this time. We’ve not come this far to be torn to shreds by beasts because of some people’s impatience. All of you should stay in your cabins till the sun rises.”

You’ve never seen a Kugbon before, but you’ve heard from Mama Agba how vile the bicephalous monsters are, how they wreck unfortified ships and attack hapless passengers, digging out human hearts and biting into skulls with glee. They are the reason you paid hundreds of King’s coins to board this spiritually secure vessel for the journey from Iluuwa village to Baranda. Seven clay pots filled with fish, clam, vulture feathers, palm oil and other spiritual condiments have been placed at different spots on this ship to mask human essence and ward off Kugbons.

Sneaking off the ship is out of the question. You have to spend one more night without Aduke, one more night in this smelly cabin. One last night.

Cold wind blasts from the tiny window and hits you in the face. You shudder and fold your arms across your breasts. If only your teleportation magic could work over the sea, Egbe would have taken you to Aduke this night. . .

“What will you do if they turn you back at the gate?”

Lanyan’s deep voice fills the room and makes you turn around. He approaches with two corn hubs. The oil lamp in a corner of the cabin reflects in his soft, kind eyes. His eyes remind you of Aduke. Everything seems to remind you of her, but you’re scared because the memories aren’t as sharp as you would have liked.

Your strongest memory of Aduke is from the night a neighbour took you and her to Mama Agba’s hut after the bandit attack that claimed your parents’ lives. It’s been ten years, but you remember how the pestle slipped out of Mama Agba’s hands when the neighbour broke the ugly news. You’ll never forget Mama Agba’s calloused palms holding you and Aduke to her bosom in that tiny room that smelled of boiled cocoyams and sweat.

“You didn’t answer me, Asake.”

You take the corn from him and bite into it. Briny and cold. Far from ideal, but there’s no alternative. “I’ll fight them. No one will stop me from seeing my sister. It’s been so long. She’s all I have now that Mama Agba is gone.”

“The guards don’t care. They separate husbands from wives, and parents from children at will. Once your flower is yellow, you have to accept your fate. Or bribe them.”

There are rules aplenty in Baranda. And one of the harshest is you’re not allowed in until someone in the city is willing to accept you. You have heard a lot about this system of sending a raven to someone inside and getting a response in the form of a flower. A rose flower means you go in and a weeping wattle means you go back. Red is good, yellow is bad.

Lanyan noisily munches his corn and continues. “Sometimes they mess with your flower, just to get bribed. It’s unfair. That’s why I have prepared my money. You should have something at least.”

“I’ll find my way. Don’t worry about me.”

Lanyan peers at you. He clearly doesn’t believe you can get in without some King’s coins. You’ve known each other for two weeks, the duration of this journey. With everything you’ve told him, he should know the depth of your desire to reunite with Aduke, the lengths you’re willing to go to be back beside her, but he doesn’t seem to get it.

“Your skin. . .” he whispers, his eyes fixed on your arms.

The magical runes on your forearm glow crimson. You place your hands over them and swallow.

“No need to hide them. I saw them on the first night.”

“They come out when I’m really cold. Or in serious danger.”

Lanyan grabs an adire wrapper off the floor and throws it over your shoulders. “This rune magic is what you rely on, right? You know, the guards have ways to counter these things.”

“Whatever happens tomorrow, Lanyan, I’ll be on the other side of the gate. The gods know I’ve waited long enough.”

He stands next to you in silence. His soft breathing and the sound of the sea waves lapping against the ship’s port form a melody in your ears. You shudder as his fingers settle on your forearm, gliding down to the metallic bangles that encircle your wrists.

“I wish I had enough money for the two of us in case those beasts act according to their reputation.”

“I don’t have enough magic for two either. But we’ll be fine. I can feel it. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be eating delicacies from my sister’s soup pot, not this stupid corn. You should come too if you can spare the time.”

He doesn’t promise to come and a different kind of cold hits you. A heavy sigh rolls off Lanyan’s lips as he announces he’s sleepy.

You watch him lie face up on the mat, his wide chest heaving with each breath. Your friendship has to continue in Baranda. After two weeks of sleeping next to each other, sharing measly meals and sensitive stories, you’ve become like snail and shell.

Your lives are similar. Like you, Lanyan is twenty and an orphan. A beloved relative awaits him on the other side. Lanyan took a huge loan from a merchant to fund his journey to the greener pastures of Baranda. He had told you he would rather be supper for Kugbons than return to Otoge, his village.

You didn’t need a loan because before Mama Agba passed, she gave you her blessing to sell the family farmland and do all it took to find Aduke. You started approaching merchants about the land sale on the day you turned eighteen, the minimum age limit for Barandan visitors. Constant bandit attacks delayed the sale. It took two years to find someone willing to pay enough to cover your traveling expenses.

Lanyan’s heaving chest holds your attention for a while, then you turn to the window again. The moon continues to glide through the white clouds, its rays still illuminating the massive gate and the stretch of sand that leads up to it. You’re not sure you can find sleep. With the intensity of your eagerness, you will stay up watching the silver ball travel in the sky until darkness prevails and there’s nothing else to see. Then morning will come. and it will finally be time to see Aduke again. You can’t wait.

***

Boode Gate looms behind a squad of guards in all-white armor, the last major obstacle between you and Aduke. You’ve crossed the great sea between Iluuwa and Baranda and survived horrible hunger pangs during the journey. The end of your toil is near.

You stand with your hands at your back, fiddling with your bangles as you bow. The guard closest to you smells of an evil essence. You must bear it until the raven returns.

Your eyes linger on the guard’s sandaled feet as you chant the invocations Mama Agba taught you. Your neck aches and the tiny hairs at your nape bristle, but you don’t look up. No visitor looks a guard in the eye. They determine if you make it through the gate, or return onto the cramped, smelly ship that brought you from Iluuwa village.

A return to Iluuwa is not a part of your plans. Life is hard there, the earth is unyielding, bandits plunder at will and nobody knows how to stop them. After five years of waiting, you want to see Aduke and remain with her in Baranda forever.

You steady your breath and try to imagine your sister’s face again. She had left Iluuwa to fight for a better life in Baranda, to put things in place ahead of your arrival. You faintly remember her wide smile as she got ready to board the special vessel that took her away from Iluuwa five years ago. Her beaded locks had jiggled as she nodded and waved to you. Aduke had gotten your mother’s locked hair, while you inherited her magic.

From the side of your eyes, you see Lanyan on the line set apart for men. His head is bowed too. You wish you can get close and reassure him that you’ll both make it to the other side.

The sound of flapping wings fills your ears. The raven is back. Your mouth runs dry. The moment of truth is here. Hot breaths hit the back of your neck. The woman behind you is just as tense as you are.

Your gut clenches and your legs threaten to lose their youthful strength. For you, it’s not the fear of what Aduke has sent. It is the fear that the guards have manipulated the flowers, like they are rumoured to have done with so many other visitors at Baranda.

On the men’s line, the middle-aged man in front of Lanyan pleads with a guard.

“Please, let me in. You can’t tell me my son doesn’t want to see me after ten years!”

The guard remains stone-faced. He calls for the man to be taken away, amidst his screaming and kicking. His screams tug at your heartstrings.

“Look up!” The guard in front of you barks at you.

You look up and see a yellow flower. Beautiful thing, but yellow means no. By the rules, you’re not allowed through the gates. Your fingers curl into a fist. These bastards have done it again. There is no way Aduke will pass up the chance to see you after these years. Your eyes dart to the guard’s face. There’s a mocking smile on his charred lips. His eyes mock you. His existence mocks you.

“Do you want a way out?” He whispers. “If you have money, we can help you.”

Your eyes dart to Lanyan who is now in front of a guard and then back to the big man in front of you. “I don’t have money.”

“Send her back to the ship!” The guard growls to a nearby subordinate.

A strong hand circles your wrist, squeezing the bangles against your flesh and pulling you away from the guard post. Behind you, there are long queues of Baranda hopefuls. Most of them will be refused, just like you and the weeping old man. Lanyan was right. These bastards mess things up for money.

You try to look over your shoulder and see Lanyan’s result, but the guard forces your head forward. He drags you toward the sea, toward that smelly ship. You close your eyes and breathe deeply. Your feet sink into the soft sands on the seashore. The ship is a few steps away. You will return to Iluuwa and people will mock you in whispers. They will say you’re one of those who tried and failed. No way!

You snatch your hand from the guard and when he tries to grab you again, you smash your left fist into his stomach and follow up with a kick to his groin. As he staggers backward, you call on the ancient names of fire and point your wide-open palm at him. Balls of fire fly out and knock him to the sandy ground. He won’t die, but he won’t be hurting any visitor any time soon.

All heads turn in your direction. You see Lanyan standing in front of a guard holding a raven on his palm. The flower on the bird’s beak is a depressing yellow. Lanyan will have to use his coins and you will bank on your magic.

Your lips slap together as you cast a spell for a portal. In a blink, a burning hole blasts open in the air. You feel weak as you run toward the flaming circle, blood trickles down your nose and your head is light. It’s been a long time since you used the magic based on the sacred runes on your skin.

“Don’t let her get away.” A guard bellows. Shouts echo behind you.

Nobody can stop you from meeting Aduke! You look over your shoulder, dozens of armed men race after you. Their footfalls resound like thunderclaps in a stormy sky. Your eyes squint from the harsh glints of the morning sun on their swords.

“Sekeseke mu! Aba mu!!” one of the guards chants.

Just before you reach the portal, something hot and hard curls around your neck and tightens against it. The heat sears your skin, forcing your eyes to widen. You feel it right away, a chain laced with magic potent enough to subdue the power of the runes on your skin.

You raise your neck and claw at the links. Pain sinks into your fingers as you try in vain to get the chain off. You push forward in an attempt to squeeze your body into the portal, but a sharp yank forces you backwards and robs you of balance. In a blink, you’re on the sand, mind numbed by white-hot pain. Your eyes sting with tears as the portal spirals inward, closing up. The guards are getting closer, you hear their thudding steps, and you try not to imagine what they will do to you.

“Asake!” Lanyan’s voice rings from far away.

He was right. You should have set money aside for the guards.

As you lie helpless on the ground, Mama Agba’s wrinkled face floats in your mind.

“Your time is not up yet, child. Beyond your magic, you must strengthen your mind against failure. You can break the chain if you see victory in your mind. Smell it, taste it, embrace it. Smash the chain and call on Egbe for the invisible portal.”

Mama Agba’s ethereal voice drowns in the cacophony of Barandan voices. The guards have surrounded you. It’s now or never!

You squeeze your eyes and think of victory, of broken chains and a night in the warmth of Aduke’s house.

Your arms begin to heat up. Without looking down, you know the runes on your arms have been activated again. The tightness on your neck slowly eases and the broken chain falls to the ground with a gentle plop.

“She broke it! The witch broke it‼”

You scramble upright and see the guards backing away, fear boldly written on their faces. They’re wary of the powers you have.

“Egbe, take me to Aduke. Bear me in your arms. Take me there!” you whisper. The magic will drain your blood and sap your energy. But you can’t think of anything else to do. You close your eyes and mutter ancient words, ancient words of magic that can bend the winds and spit fire.

You feel yourself being lifted off the face of the earth. The faces of the men around fade away and you experience lightness of poplar fluff.

“Stop her!”

The voice of the guards floats into your ears, but it is far, far away. They can’t stop you. The secret channels of the mystical mothers have opened to you. Nobody can stop you from seeing Aduke.

The lightness fades away and your eyes flick open. You’re now outside a tall building made of mud bricks and timber. When you turn around, you see stretches of similar buildings on both sides of a wide street. Throngs of people fill the street, so much that it looks like a market. There are no stalls or hawkers in sight, just a mass of people moving back and forth with cold, hard faces. Their bodies are so pressed together that you’re sure if anyone falls, they’ll get trampled on and no one will bat an eyelid.

You’ve always thought of Baranda as a beautiful place with verdant landscape and happy people. There’s a form of beauty in the perfect rows of mud brick buildings, but it’s too far from the image you had in mind.

“At least, Aduke is here and there’s lot of money to be made,” you mutter. “No bandits too.”

You turn around and peer at the wooden door in front of you. It’s surely the right house. Egbe can never mislead you. You step forward and knock.

It takes a moment before the door creaks open and you see Aduke. She’s not the pretty, smiling young girl you saw five years ago. Her lips are pulled into a frown and there are bruises around her neck. The light in her eyes has dimmed. Your mouth falls open when you notice her locks have been shaved off.

Aduke’s frown deepens when she recognises you. “Asake, I sent yellow. Why did you come?”

“I thought we agreed…”

“I’m not ready to accommodate you now.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”

Aduke’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. She opens her mouth to say something, but her words are swallowed by loud blasts of horns going off in different parts of the street.

“Ah, that’s the call to search.” Aduke inches backwards. “That’s for you, right? You broke in.”

“I had no other choice.”

“Well, the city guards are ready to smoke you out of any hole you may crawl into. Use your powers to find a way out. You can’t come in here. We’ll both be in trouble.”

Before you can get a word out, the door slams in your face. Aduke is gone. Your hopes of a happy reunion with your sister have been dashed in the cruelest way.

For the second time that morning, your eyes sting with tears. You turn around and notice that there are now fewer people on the erstwhile bustling street.

You hurry away from Aduke’s residence and get on the dusty road. People are running and vanishing into corners and crevices between the buildings lining the street. Tears stream down your cheeks as you elbow your way to the centre of the thinning crowd. You believe there will be a way out. There must be.

THE END

Tunmise-Onifade — Tunmise Onifade is a Nigerian writer. He has a degree in Mathematics, but his passion is writing. He has been reading speculative fiction since he learned to read. When he’s not reading, he’s trying to build worlds and develop characters.

A Glitch on the Railway Bridge | Mseli Ngoma

By

Admin

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November 1, 2023

0

The 24-year-old black train operator was frustrated and angry. He felt a knot of tension in his chest as he contemplated stopping the train in the middle of the bridge.

He wore his faded blue uniform with a name tag that had seen better days, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he struggled between his desire to end his shift and his responsibility for the passengers on board.

As his frustration grew, he began to reduce the speed of the train as it approached the Dona Ana Bridge which caused the train’s familiar hum to transform into a rhythmic chug.

“You are making the correct decision,” he told himself as he presently pulled the emergency brakes, sending the sound of steel against steel reverberating through the air.

This caused the train to shudder and come to a complete halt, making the passengers jolt forward in their seats.

Outside, the sky displayed a blend of pale blue and soft gray clouds, hinting at the changing season.

The train operator looked at the communication device as a gentle breeze blew through the control room windows.

He then looked at the early spring sky before returning his gaze on the communication device.

Just tell the passengers the truth of what’s happening, thought the train operator as he gazed towards the communication device, If they hate you for it, so be it!

With a deep breath and slightly trembling hands, the train operator picked up the communication device.

He then cleared his throat and spoke, his voice carrying a mixture of frustration and determination.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to apologize for the unexpected stop,” he said, and then paused momentarily, “my shift has come to an end, and according to the system, I’m now considered a passenger rather than the operator. This means I can’t continue driving the train.”

He then left the control room and walked down the narrow aisle of the train car.

Eyes followed him, stealing glances that conveyed worry and disgust at what they saw as unprofessionalism.

His uniform, once a symbol of authority, now seemed out of place as he settled into an empty seat in the cabin.

The worn seat cushion felt unfamiliar beneath him, a stark reminder that he was no longer in command.

As he took his place among the passengers, their reactions were a blend of astonishment, concern, and even a touch of disbelief.

Two passengers decided to confront the train operator while the other passengers in the train cabin paid rapt attention.

“Why did you stop the train in the middle of the bridge?” the first passenger asked, fear etched on his face.

“Because my shift is over,” said the calm train operator after he let out a sigh.

“What’s the true reason you stopped?” asked the second passenger who stood in front of him.

The train operator then looked at them and shook his head from side to side.

“Stop interrogating him,” said another passenger as he pushed the two passengers away from the train operator, “help will come soon, and he will be punished!”

The train operator then grinned, placed his head on the headrest of his seat and closed his eyes. The cabin was tense as conversations among passengers centered on the operator’s lack of professionalism and empathy.

***

A few minutes later, the train operator was awakened by the sound of the communication device in the control room.

He closed his eyes as he saw other passengers looking at him and urging him to go and pick up the call in the control room.

After a few seconds, the sound from the control room ended and the train operator let out a huge sigh.

Suddenly, a protrusion from his smart necklace sprang and fixed itself on his earlobe.

“The train control center is calling you,” blurted a speaker on the protrusion.

A heavy tension settled over the train operator, like an unwelcome guest at a long-awaited celebration, as he heard the words from the speaker.

He then activated his smart necklace by slightly taking out his tongue, causing a protrusion to spring out of the necklace device and fix itself in front of his mouth.

“Pick up call,” he silently dictated as a bead of sweat formed on his forehead despite the cool early spring air.

“Hello, this is the operator in the control center speaking,” said the official.

“Yes, this is Ngweya speaking,” replied a tense Ngweya.

“Why did you stop the train in the middle of the bridge?” asked the official.

Ngweya was quiet for a few seconds and then he replied, “Because my shift is over.”

“Ngweya, please be honest, you know lives are in danger, right?” persisted the Official.

“There’s no other reason sir,” Ngweya suddenly had a dry throat as he wondered why the official said the passengers were in danger.

“Ngweya, if you have any problem, just tell us.” the Official said.

Ngweya’s mind flashed back to the times they didn’t listen to him in the past. He then said, “I have no problem!”

“Are you ready to be responsible for the lives that will be lost if you don’t move the train?” asked another official.

Ngweya’s heart quickened its pace, and his fingers nervously tapped against his thigh when he heard that lives might be lost.

He thought about what they said for a few seconds and when he could not understand their reasoning, he decided to ignore their words.

“I am just a clog in the system,” said Ngweya as he reminisced the past, “if lives are lost, the system will be to blame!”

“The bridge will collapse if you don’t move the train,” as the Official spoke, Ngweya remembered that he had heard about the infrastructure needing repair, “and we can’t come and open the control room since the AI recognizes you as the driver.”

Ngweya then tried to compose himself and rationalize his behavior to allow him to have a good conscience even if the bridge collapsed.

“You know we can’t force you to open the control room since it’s against the law,” continued the official, “so all we can do is ask you to move the train and tell us your complaints.”

“My shift is over,” said Ngweya after digesting the information about the bridge’s possible collapse, “I am ready to die to follow the system!”

He then silently dictated, “Cut the call.”

Ngweya’s tension escalated to near-breaking point after his conversation with the train control center.

Their words reverberated in his mind like a warning siren, echoing with the realization that the bridge wasn’t designed to support the train’s weight for an extended period.

Yet despite the urgency, and the potential danger to both the passengers and him, the operator remained resolute in his decision not to move the train forward.

After a few minutes, a discernible panic swept through the passengers as they learned about the potential bridge collapse.

Concerned for their safety, a group of passengers then took decisive action and attempted to bully the train operator to continue with their journey.

“Open the control room and at least move us across the bridge!” shouted one passenger as he grabbed the train operator’s collar.

“Or open the doors of the train so we can walk to safety!” he shook the operator as he said this.

Ngweya shook his head left and right as he looked at the concerned passengers with a stoic facial expression.

Another passenger then broke the tussle between Ngweya and the concerned passenger.

“Let him go, help will come soon!” said the passenger as he tried to obstruct the aggressive attempts.

Ngweya arranged his collar and sat back down.

The passengers in the train car were now divided between those who sought to force the train operator to move the train and those who believed in respecting the dignity of the train operator and the law of the society.

After 15 minutes, the bridge’s structural integrity started deteriorating and cracks began to snake their way across the bridge.

Passengers who had previously been engaged in conversations or gazing out of windows now found their attention riveted by the alarming developments unfolding before them.

***

After about 10 minutes, a protrusion sprang from Ngweya’s smart necklace and fixated itself on his earlobe, and said, “The train control center is calling you.”

The cracks can be seen from the windows and hence the passengers who saw them through gazing out of the windows caused the panic. Cracks can be seen through the window as the bridge is wider than the train

He then activated his smart necklace by slightly taking out his tongue and causing a protrusion to appear in front of his mouth and then he lip synced, “Pick up call.”

“Ngweya,” said the Official, “we have abandoned the idea of saving the train, we are now trying to ensure the land below is as soft a landing as we can create.”

Ngweya stood up then and went to peek through the window and saw fractures in the bridge’s structure.

“You are the only one who can help us now,” continued the official.

Ngweya returned to his seat and after taking a big breath, he lip-synced, “I am only a passenger now, my shift as a train operator is over.”

“C’mon Ngweya!” shouted the Official, “You are human! Break the rules to save lives!”

“I tried to whisper to the system, but they didn’t listen and now you will be forced to hear my screams,” said Ngweya sternly.

“What does that mean?” cried the confused official. “this is not the time or place to hold grudges, Ngweya!”

“This generation is too soft and fragile,” said a voice in the background as the official continued trying to convince Ngweya to change his decision, “now he is going to be the reason for so many deaths!”

The words infuriated Ngweya and he then softly said, “The designers of the system should be more careful next time!”

“You know that if you survive, people in the government will vote for you to be heavily punished!” the official tried a last attempt at fear mongering to change Ngweya’s mind.

“I am ready to die for the system!” said a confident Ngweya.

Before the officials could speak any other word, he silently dictated, “Cut the call.”

As the minutes went by, the cracks on the bridges surface became bigger, which caused the tension among the passenger to reach a fever pitch. In a bid for escape, some passengers attempted to break the windows, which had steel bars on them, while others attempted to stop them, fearing the commotion might hasten the deterioration of the bridge.

Amidst this tumultuous scene, the once-angry and troubled train operator sat hunched over, his demeanour now a mixture of helplessness and resignation.

As the chaos inside him conquered his mind, a protrusion from the smart necklace sprang once again to his earlobe.

The action startled him and caused him to sit upright. The speaker then said, “Mwanaidi is calling you.”

He felt a tense pain in his heart as he realised that the officials must have told Mwanaidi about the situation and she would try and change his mind.

He activated his smart necklace and picked the call.

“Hi, brother,” said Mwanaidi.

Ngweya hesitated for a few seconds and then answered, “Hi.”

“Why did you stop the train?” asked Mwanaidi.

“My shift is over.” answered Ngweya with an assertive voice.

“Yes, but there must be a reason behind it,” continued Mwanaidi in an innocent tone.

“There’s none, little sister,” said a calm Ngweya as the chaos in the cabin filled his ears.

After a moment of silence Mwanaidi asked, “Is it because of what happened to mom?”

Memories of his mom then flooded his mind as he momentarily became deaf to the noise in the train cabin.

“I know that you usually don’t change your decisions easily,” Mwanaidi began in a soft tone. “So, please tell me your requirement so they can do it and help avert the catastrophe.”

Ngweya didn’t answer but just breathed heavily causing Mwanaidi to think that she was making headway.

“Is it the rules?” asked Mwanaidi and then paused, “I know how it felt when the rules caused mom’s death.”

“Not really,” Ngweya started sobbing as memories of the funeral of their mom started flooding his mind.

“It hurts me too!” Mwanaidi spoke through tears, “they changed the rules but it was too late!”

“Stop, Mwanaidi” cried Ngweya as the emotions were just too much for him.

“Let’s not cause the pain we are feeling right now to so many other people,” Mwanaidi mumbled, “please tell me how they can make it right so you can move the train.”

Mwanaidi then kept quiet for a few minutes to let Ngweya know that she was ready to give him as much time as it would take for him to say why he stopped the train.

“So,” said a sad Ngweya after composing himself, “I was fined for being late to the job in the morning.”

“Mmm,” replied Mwanaidi softly.

“Even though it was because the automated transportation system was late to bring the pod to my place. I told them it wasn’t my fault,” continued an angry Ngweya, “but they didn’t listen, and I also found the train parked 20 yards from the station.”

“Yes, go on.”

“I asked them why it was parked there,” Ngweya’s voice rose as he spoke, “and they said the person’s shift ended while he was there.”

“Mom died because the doctors’ shifts had ended and those who were on shift hadn’t arrived,” Ngweya continued, after pausing for a few seconds.

“Yes, and we fought in the direct democratic government until the law was changed,” said a proud Mwanaidi.

“Yes,” continued Ngweya and then paused, “but they didn’t accept to change the law that allows people to leave their workplace when the shift is up for every institution.”

“Yes,” said Mwanaidi, beginning to understand her brother’s frustrations.

“I proposed the bill to do that but they voted against it,” continued Ngweya as he looked at the chaos inside the train cabin, “so today, I am going to show them that the law needs to apply for all institutions.”

Mwanaidi then kept quiet as she tried to process what her brother just said.

“They ignored my gentle nudges,” continued a furious Ngweya, “now they will have to notice my forceful expressions!”

“Okay, they have heard your side of the story and they said they will change the rules,” said Mwanaidi after a long silence.

“No,” said an emotional Ngweya while shaking his head, “I am not changing my mind, let this be a lesson for all generations to come!”

“Ngweya,” mumbled Mwanaidi after a few seconds of silence, “you are the only family I have!”

Ngweya then closed his eyes as his sister’s words caused a surge of worry through his body.

“Don’t leave me,” continued a crying Mwanaidi.

Ngweya could only muster a sigh as he recalled how he had promised to take care of her when their mom died.

“I swear,” mumbled Mwanaidi as she rubbed tears from her eyes, “If you die on that train-”

“Don’t,” interrupted Ngweya.

“I am going to follow you and mom wherever you are!” uttered a sobbing Mwanaidi.

“Don’t say that,” Ngweya was now crying.

“Then, please,” said Mwanaidi as she composed herself, “just tell them what you want so this can be over!”

“Okay,” said Ngweya as he also composed himself, “I want the rules in the transportation institution to be changed to allow people to overstay their shifts for the sake of humanity.”

“Okay,” replied Mwanaidi softly after a few seconds, “let us work on it.”

Ngweya then looked at the ceiling of the train and let out a shout as the tension inside the train cabin continued intensifying to a nearly unbearable level.

He then observed the passengers as thoughts consumed his mind.

Will they really change the rules? thought an anxious Ngweya as he closed his eyes and rubbed his face. And what if they don’t? Should I really let these people die? Should I really let Mwanaidi die?

After a few minutes, a protrusion sprang from Ngweya’s smart necklace and fix itself in his earlobe. It then uttered, “There’s a bill that has been proposed in the transportation institution.”

Ngweya then took out his scrollable tablet which was no bigger than a pen—from its slot in the smart necklace and then un-scrolled it.

He activated his smart necklace and silently dictated, “Open the transportation institution app.”

He then read the bill and voted for it.

***

As Ngweya continued contemplating the bill and the results, the structural integrity of the bridge continued to deteriorate rapidly, with widening cracks spreading like jagged veins along its surface.

The once-sturdy support beams groaned under the strain, and the entire structure seemed to begin a perilous sway.

Inside the train’s cabins, panic had given way to a primal survival instinct. Passengers clung to anything stable, each person filled with fear and desperation.

Ngweya felt the tension in his heart and stomach threatening to reach a breaking point as he waited for the bill results while trying unsuccessfully to ignore the chaos that was going on inside the train cabin.

He then went to look outside the window to see if there were more signs of damage on the bridge.

“Ahhh,” blurted Ngweya as he saw the signs of the bridge collapse. A melancholy enveloped him after seeing the gravity of the situation.

He then returned to his seat and gave the control room door the 1000-yard stare.

Should I just move the train? contemplated Ngweya as it finally dawned on him that their chances of survival were diminishing with every passing moment.

The results are a few minutes away, reasoned Ngweya, let’s hope, the bridge is able to stay intact for a bit longer.

Ngweya then activated his smart necklace and silently dictated, “Please generate a sad song for a person who is faced with a hard decision between saving a few lives in the present or saving many more lives who will live in the future.”

After a few seconds two protrusions from his smart necklace fixed themselves on both his earlobes and a song started playing in his ears.

He then buried his head inside his thighs, closed his eyes and listened to the song which repeated after it ended.

After about 12 minutes, the song stopped playing and the speakers in the protrusion device blurted, “The bill results are ready!”

Ngweya felt a surge of electricity pass through his body as he knew the results would determine the fate of all who were currently in the train.

He then activated his smart necklace and silently dictated, “what are the results?”, and then clenched his jaw and grimaced.

The speaker on the protrusion fixated on his earlobe then blurted, “The bill passed!”

Ngweya took in a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief. He then stood up and looked at the chaotic environment in the train cabin.

He then started walking towards the control room. A wave of relief and happiness swept through the passengers as they witnessed Ngweya make his way back to the control room.

Once inside, he shut the door and turned on the engines and they roared to life.

Unfortunately, as Ngweya began to move the train, the bridge, which was already weakened by the strain it had endured, began to crumble under the weight of the train.

Sections of the structure, behind the train gave way, sending debris plummeting into the abyss below, and causing the ground to tremble.

Ngweya continued to inch the train forward hoping to escape the impending disaster.

Maybe it’s too late, Ngweya grimaced as he continued to drive the train forward.

As the train moved, the gap between it and the collapsing bridge narrowed, causing most of the passengers and even Ngweya to brace for the worst.

But in an awe-inspiring display of precision and timing, the train just managed to clear the crumbling Dona Ana bridge.

The train cabins were then filled with gasps, roars and shouts as the sensation of relief and disbelief washed over the passengers.

“Thanks mom,” thought Ngweya after they managed to get off the bridge onto regular tracks on land.

Ngweya then continued the journey and tried to keep his mind away from the traumatic events that had happened in the last couple of hours.

After a few minutes, Mwanaidi called him again.

“Hey brother,” said Mwanaidi.

“Hi,” said a timid Ngweya.

“I understand what you did,” continued Mwanaidi.

Ngweya then chuckled and said, “thank you!”

“But you know that you might be in a lot of trouble?” asked a concerned Mwanaidi.

“No,” said Ngweya confidently and then paused, “they can’t punish me for following the rules!”

“Ah, whatever happens, I love you!” softly spoke Mwanaidi.

“I love you too!” replied Ngweya.

A silence then took over the call and after a few seconds, Mwanaidi blurted, “I want to hear the story of what happened in the train!”

The words caused Ngweya to chuckle as memories of the day flooded his mind. “I will call you so we can meet when I arrive there,” Ngweyasaid before he hung up.

As the train continued on its journey, Ngweya’s mind was a whirlwind of emotions as he rationalized his actions by thinking of all the lives he had saved by making the law pass.

THE END!

Mseli Ngoma is a Tanzanian writer currently living in Dar es Salaam.

Things out of Place | Adesire Tamilore

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November 1, 2023

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I don’t recall when exactly; it began. It is one of those mysteries that will forever haunt me, along with why it began, how it began, and what I can do—if anything at all—to stop it. All I know is that one day I found myself inexplicably outside of it all. Far removed. A thing out of place.

The realisations themselves came slowly.

One morning I noticed, as I scrutinised my reflection in the mirror, how neat my dreadlocks were—how tight the roots, despite it being almost three months since my last hair appointment. I could still see the clean flesh exposed in triangular lines. Could still feel the tug on my scalp. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could still smell the hair gel. I brought this up with my brother, Jide, but he didn’t make too much of it. “You probably don’t remember,” he suggested. “It can’t have been that long ago.”

A week later, after a particularly grim job interview, I barrelled through my front door and scratched my arm on a loose nail. It felt worse than it looked. The gash was long, stretching from elbow to shoulder, but it was too faint to cause any alarm. The surrounding skin had only slightly reddened and the elbow–which had experienced the brunt of the needle’s wrath–had just a few specks of blood.

But the pain was immense. My mother says I’ve always been “tender on the skin, tender in the heart”. It took everything in me not to cry out in frustration–first the interview and now this. My spirit was in knots.

I wouldn’t stop touching the wound. I wouldn’t stop feeling for any sign of swelling or wondering if the little gash had somehow widened to spill more blood. I went to bed with my fingers grazing it lightly, browsing Quora for strangers’ opinions about tetanus, wondering if I had to go to a doctor.

The next day the scratch was gone. Nothing–not a scar, not even the dull shadow of a throb–remained.

None of this did more than create a vague itch, an unremarkable sense of unease at the back of my mind. How was I to know, with just those little signs, that I had entered a place out of time? That I no longer aged, and my body had become a bizzare capsule of perpetuity? No, back then I thought it was a thing my mind was doing to itself, a glitch—one that made me interpret things wrong. But I am quick to blame my mind because it is not a friend. It has never been a friend.

Depression is the word. When uttered, it transforms a living person into a hazard.

Since I turned 16, I have felt nothing but that. An inability to breathe. A sense of being drowned by time itself. Depression—the word I and my mother feared for different reasons. She feared it because it made people think she was a bad parent; I feared it because I worried it would kill me.

Depression had turned my brain to foam and my body into a wet blanket. It made growing up hard. It made the world feel like thick sludge, impossible to inch through without exhausting myself. It must have been during this depression that, unbeknownst to me, I broke away.

That’s my theory. That one day I became so profoundly sad, I ceased to exist.

I was an unemployed, fresh graduate–my days were full of repetitions even before It began. This is how it goes with depression. You wake up, open your phone, and find something to do until the sun goes down. You eat but hate yourself for it afterwards. You bathe only when your odour brings an unbearable amount of self-loathing. You don’t speak to anyone. You think of dying but console yourself with the assurance that you are too scared of death to ever attempt it. You try to find peace, but the sadness always returns.

You concede. You repeat.

I was so focused on my own sadness, I failed to realise that other things were on repeat as well. My slippers turned up at the same spot every morning, at the foot of my bed, regardless of where I’d kept them the night before. My wardrobe was always dishevelled, no matter how often I tried to organise it. I grew no more body hair, and if I shaved it always returned by morning. I could neither lose nor gain weight.

On my 24th birthday, I came downstairs to find Jide and Mummy with smiles on their faces, holding a tiny chocolate cake that said, “Hurrah for 23!”

I was stuck.

I began to watch it all very carefully. How had I not noticed that I never did laundry anymore? Or that the stain on my bathroom mirror reappeared every time I wiped it off? How wasn’t I aware that the constant ache on my right shoulder—a dull throb, barely perceptible—never seemed to heal?

But time… time was moving forward. Time passed from Monday to Tuesday to Saturday to August to December to March. Flowers died and blossomed. The weather changed. Mummy got fatter and Jide’s broken leg healed. I was in a stasis, the things around me frozen out of place. But everyone else went on.

Jide’s birthday was approaching and Mummy asked me to order him a cake.

“Okay,” I said. “And what are we telling the baker?”

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“Jide’s age,” I clarified. “What number are we putting on the cake?”

She looked askance at me. “20! This girl… You don’t know your little brother’s age again?”

And she was right this time. Jide was 20. He was 19 the year before, and 18 the year before that. And in ten years he will be 30, and I will still be 23.

* * *

The first time I killed myself, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. A sort of crazed need to end it all that I’d experienced dozens of times in the past but overlooked out of fear and uncertainty. Now, I’d been 23 for three years and I’d never been more certain about anything in my life. Something was wrong. Some cosmic mistake had been made in a world without a complaint department. I was utterly alone, and only I could correct it.

Mummy sent me to make a withdrawal from the bank, money for her latest business venture. Something sketchy—probably a scam—but that wasn’t anything new for her. Mummy has always been bad with money. She’s always trusted the wrong things.

I did not feel guilty—not really. My death would save her from the scam and protect our family from another financial crisis. That was my excuse. And as I walked into the bank’s top-floor bathroom and flung myself out of the window, it made me feel vindicated.

Ah, but I know pain now. Pulsing, searing, fiery pain spitting out at you like hot oil. I know agonising pain, the sort that squeezes your viscera in one moment and makes every muscle in your body relax in the next. Final, murderous pain. The pain at the end of the universe.

The End.

The next morning, I woke up to my slippers, once again, by my bed. My dreadlocks were the same—clean-cut and shoulder-length, the faint smell of hair gel clinging to it. My armpits were bare, and my right shoulder still ached softly. I’d only just wiped the small blue stain off my mirror, smearing it on the hand towel, when I realised: God. I should be dead.

It landed on the centre of my chest, a force that pushed me back until my calves hit the bathtub. It felt like fear.

There was no denying what the mirror was saying: I was unbloodied and unbruised, the picture of health. Yet only moments before, I felt every bone in my body break. I felt my blood vessels rip themselves to shreds. I felt myself fall apart from myself. I felt the unquestionable silence of The End.

The voice that came from me was not mine. Not human. It tore out of every pore, every crevice, every gap. A wail of despair so harsh it took something from me that I will never get back.

I dropped, retching uncontrollably. The shock had drawn the heat from me and made me cold. This is how my mother found me: cold and delirious on the bathroom floor, vomiting into the tub and groaning with the weight of the grief in my chest. She put her hands on me and I leaned in, seeking the warmth.

There were no questions from her, just the rhythmic rubbing of my back as I heaved, cried, cursed and shivered. I wore my body out. And then I fell asleep, knowing that by tomorrow the vomit would be gone, my mother would forget, and the slippers would be back where they always were—by the foot of my bed.

It was a whole year before I attempted to die again. Even with how difficult living had become, dying always seemed marginally harder. This one was less spontaneous: I took a bus to Ibadan, faked an emergency and told the driver to drop me on a long stretch of empty road surrounded by thick green bushes. Then I found a strong tree and hung myself.

I don’t remember why I picked this place, or why I chose to do it in this way. I don’t remember why I thought it would work this time around.

When I woke up in bed again, I just crawled into a ball and cried for hours. Mummy had to break the door down to get to me, but that was fine. It’d be fixed tomorrow, and she wouldn’t remember why her palms burned from the effort.

I didn’t stop trying to die after that, but my reasons soon changed. After the first few times, it just became a thing to do out of boredom. I was curious. Desensitised.

I crossed a threshold the time I managed to get my hands on a gun.

It was at a small gun shop in Maryland that only required a license if you couldn’t pay enough under the table. The owner–a yellow man with no eyebrows–offered me some advice, a little good to balance out the sin of the sale: “Person wey hold this thing,” he said. “Their finger go start to dey itch.”

But I already itched, I wanted to tell him. I itched so much it turned my flesh raw.

The gun disappeared from under my pillow the next morning; probably back to the store like I had never been there. But that wasn’t a problem. A bullet couldn’t satiate me anyway. It was mundane, and my mother always said I was a creative. That I could find the magic in anything.

Despite the pain, there is a quiet that is peculiar to death. Sleep is not nearly as quiet. Not nearly as serene, or empty. It became my favourite feeling. By my fifth 23rd, I’d died over 40 times.

It was unhealthy, but it gave me respite. I did it more frequently, more gratuitously. I tried to be artistic about the locations: in the cinema, at the beach, at bus stops or abandoned construction sites. I began making productions out of them. I was making elaborate plans, I was creating scripts. It was all I could think of. Every moment in my life now was chasing that quiet.

I couldn’t even remember why any of this was bad. It didn’t feel like a purgatory anymore. It felt like a trampoline.

And then Mummy got pulled into another business venture. This time with a man who promised to help her ship second-hand clothes from Michigan, but only if she sent him a few million Naira to get the gears moving.

I want to be as frank as possible here: When I was sent to the bank, I only felt giddiness. Relief. No one could deny I was an addict; hooked to death and craving my next fix. But this one was special. This was going to be an encore. A return, three years after my first death, to where it all began.

Except, I walked into the top-floor bathroom ready to jump, looked out and down in the last moments before leaping forward—out and down at the spot where I had first died—and found the splattered remains of my own corpse. Head cracked open, limbs bent, blood painted across the pavement.

It was all the things I’d felt at The End, laid out here as proof.

The body wore a striped-blue shirt and the same pants I currently had on as I looked down on myself. My dreadlocks… I couldn’t see them from that distance, but I knew they were probably still fresh. Everything about me was fresh: the still-wet blood, the colouring of my skin–so different from the greyish pallour and purplish patches one would expect in death. Some parts of me even looked alive; like my thighs, both still solid and held to bone and tendon, as if they could get up and walk away. Or my left fingers, curved as if prepared to wave. Even in death, I was unmoved by time.

Even in death, I was suffocating.

I didn’t jump. Again, that inhuman scream tore out another piece of me—I was getting emptier and emptier, with each new revelation. Again, I vomited till there was nothing left to vomit, and proceeded to retch until tears fell freely from my eyes. Again, a warm hand rested on my back, this time a security officer’s. He wasn’t as patient as Mummy, though.

“What happened?” He asked once, twice, three times.

I could not speak. I could only hum, and hum, and cry and hum. I was moving my body this way and that, never stopping, the concept of stillness—of quiet—suddenly gross and unnatural to me. I raised a weak, shaky hand, pointed at the window, and then pointed down.

He left my side for only a few seconds, presumably to look down, and then returned. “What is it, ma?” He asked once again. “What happened?”

I half expected, when I finally got the strength to stand and approach the window, that the body—my body—would be gone. But no, it was still there, and the sight made my knees give. He gripped my underarms to steady me as I pointed frantically. I pointed at it. I pointed at myself.

“Can’t you see it?” I asked, even though I knew he could not. “Can’t you see her? Can’t you see?”

He helped me call a taxi, and I returned home. Back to my bed, my slippers, my mirror and my dreadlocks. Back to my injured shoulder. Back to back, and back and back and back again, and… nothing ever seemed to matter, did it? Nothing mattered. I spent a few months in bed—four or twelve, I don’t know. It occurred to me that I didn’t have to move from where I was. I didn’t have to bathe, I didn’t have to poop, I didn’t even have to eat.

I started to think maybe I was dead. Maybe I had died in my sleep one day, and this was hell. Or maybe I was in a coma, strapped to a life-support machine, and this was my brain making sense of a senseless situation.

I am alone.

Jide is getting engaged soon, my mother has diabetes, the country has a new president, and a pandemic spread across the world. Everything is happening—everything is moving—except me. I don’t understand why. It doesn’t make any sense. It is cruel.

Jide’s birthday was approaching again, and Mummy asked me to order him a cake.

“Okay,” I said. “And what are we telling the baker?”

She sighed. “This girl… why do you keep forgetting your big brother’s age?”

And she was correct once again. Two years ago, Jide was 22, last year he was 23, and this year he is 24. Officially my older brother. I wasn’t upset about it; I had seen this one coming. I was just… curious, I suppose. Pensive.

* * *

This is how I find myself here, in the bushes off a long stretch of road leading into Ibadan. By the strong tree, looking up at myself.

I’ve been to every other spot—every cinema, every beach, every construction site—and found myself right where I had left me. Some were not so easy to find; some were lost at sea or lolling at the back seats of public buses I may never cross paths with again. But I remember them all, and I have kept a tally: 46 bodies. 46. Here, there, and everywhere; meaning nothing, having done nothing, the more recent ones just creatures born of habit. I found as many of them as I could, went to them, looked at them.

I look at me, all the versions of me, shot, bruised, poked, cut, poisoned, slashed, asphyxiated. I wonder what it all means. Nothing is too easy an answer. But easy doesn’t always mean wrong.

This—the second death—is the only one left. I saved it for last because of how far away from home it is. I don’t remember why I chose to do it this way; what possessed me to go all the way to Ibadan. I was so dramatic, in those early days.

Like the rest of them, this one is untouched by time. Her eyelids almost flutter, as though her mind is unsettled by the weight of my stare against her skin. But no—she is certainly dead. The little swings of her feet and the twitch of her fingers are an illusion in my head. I’ve spent enough time staring at my corpses to know how a restless mind can pour life into the dead. No, that is not a smirk on her lip. She is dead. She’s been dead for years.

I’m glad I mostly left myself in private places. I shudder to think of bodies like the first, sprawled by the side of a busy road or floating in some public pool. I hated going to those corpses, watching the way people interacted with them—with me. The way they would duck under, cross over, curve around like it brought the plague. As if they knew what they could not see. It made no sense. It drove me mad.

I cut down this one with the cutlass in my hand, and it thumps to the floor, head shaking no as if it doesn’t want to meet its inevitable fate. Well, that’s too bad. I’ve spent the last year retrieving and burning these things and thank god they burn. I’m not going to leave this one because it… well, because it looks the most alive out of almost any of them. Any moment I expect it to open its eyes and lunge at me. And that’s reason enough to destroy it. There can only be one of me walking around.

I fold myself into a large box and drag her behind me as I move. There is a bus stop an hour’s walk away, and the buses there will take us right home. The walk is slow, and I stop too frequently to listen. I think, maybe I can hear myself struggling inside that box. Maybe I have come to life again. It’s a fear that hangs weakly over me.

This is the final one. Number 46. I’ve started to think of them a bit like children. After all, I created them, and I can create more. They are born of my pain, my blood, my flesh. I take care of them. I could sit them on my dining table, talk to them, treat the prettier ones like dolls. God breathed life into man and called them His. I must be some sort of god, making death in my image, calling them mine. Whatever—I don’t know. All I know for certain is that I am no longer His.

But I have discovered something, the sort of thing you only discover after staring down dozens of deceased versions of yourself. After knowing so vividly every final moment of their lives. After feeling their wounds move as ghosts under your own skin. And it is this: I am not dead. I am so perpetually alive.

Pain is how I know this. Pulsing, searing, fiery pain spitting out at you like hot oil. Agonising pain, murderous pain. The pain at the end of the universe.

None of the other 46 know this pain. Only I do. And pain is what moves me. It is what contorts my body, throws me about, makes me dance like a puppet on strings. It is what draws me from fire, shrouds me from ice, pulls me out to air; protects me. And I don’t know why, but that must mean there is something worth protecting.

When you have died 46 times, and know you can die 46 and 46 more, the concept of pain becomes an option. Pain shouldn’t be an option. It should be potent and inescapable, a fear-invoking force so exquisite it turns your body into a machine made purely for its own survival. I have not felt that pain, that absolute pain, in so long. Many, many months, maybe. Years, maybe. Yet it is there, under the surface of my skin, ready to take control when I allow it. A humanising force.

I almost lost my pain. Almost buried it, suffocated it, left it to die. Then, I would have been the 47th.

When I round the corner and reach the bus stop, I am sweating all over. The sun is beating down heavily, and my breaths are short and painful. My right shoulder throbs under the weight of the box as I pull it behind me. My head aches from the exertion.

A man—one of the bus conductors—spots me and rushes over in an instant. He has clean white teeth and a strong jaw, with a scar splitting his lower lip into two uneven parts. He smiles at me with his odd mouth. “Ah, ah, ah, ah, madam,” he says. “To where?”

“Surulere,” I tell him.

He takes the box from me and stoops, for just a moment, under the weight. “Ah, madam,” he says again. “Wetin you put inside here?”

He doesn’t need or care about my answer, though. He just leads me to his bus and puts my box in the back. I give him my money and take a seat. He smiles again, and I smile back. I am suddenly dizzy with happiness.

I want to tell this man all about my quest. About how I am burning my last body. I want him to know that she’s sitting in that box, so life-like that I’m almost not sure. But when I burn her, I’ll know. Will she scream? Will she take off and run? No, probably not. She’ll sit and let the fire bathe her, while the smoke makes my lungs burn and my eyes water. Because I am alive, and she is not.

I don’t tell him any of this, though. If I do, his eyes will glaze over and his brain will shut like a flytrap. And that’s okay. We all have our secrets.

Mine just happens to be a thing out of place.

End.

Omenana Speculative Fiction Magazine Issue 26

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July 21, 2023

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Cover for omenana issue 26 showing African centaurs in battle.

Editorial: It’s Been 9 Years And We Are Still Here

It has been 9 years of striving to stay live and serve the growing community of speculative fiction writers on the continent and the diaspora. We’ve taken it slow and steady and have had the pleasure of playing host to many of the brave new voices out there.

We are aware of the sense that the genre is really coming of age on the continent of Africa as more writers aren’t just embracing the genre, but the accolades are flowing.

We can talk about the Hugo Awards, Nebula, Utopia Awards, Ignyte Awards, etc, and mention the African names that are making one shortlist or the other, led by the brilliant Oghenechovwe Ekpeki, Wole Talabi, Tlotlo Tsamaase and others. Speculative fiction also made a fine showing in this year’s Caine Prize shortlist, with long time Omenana contributor and collaborator Mame Bougouma Diene breaking the mould by making the shortlist with a story he co-wrote with Woopa Dialo.

By the way, Omenana is also up for best anthology/collection for the 2023 Utopia Awards for our democracy special edition collaboration with the National Democratic Institute. Naomi Eselojor’s short story, Neyllo, published in the same edition and the art for the story by Jema Byamugisha, are up for best short story and best art.

Utopia Awards is decided by public votes via this link. Definitely check it out and give us a vote if you are minded.

So, with the history out of the way, what do we have to offer you in our second edition of 2023?

Well, as usual, we offer you writers from across Africa, telling African stories through diverse genres.

What did we think about the stories in this edition?

Let me start by confessing that I struggled to place Michelle Enehiwealu Iruobe’s Parody of the Sower. Don’t get me wrong, I love, love the hauntingly beautiful tale of plants serving as incubators/wombs/carriers of seeds that, when “harvested”, had developed into fully formed human babies. Or were they babies to begin with?

No, my sense of confusion stemmed from my inability to decide which subgenre of speculative fiction this story belongs. Is it horror? Is it science fiction? A mixture of both?

I still don’t know, but I know this is a story you will love absolutely.

Ask The Beasts by Masimba Musodza is a science fiction story that looks at what happens when man’s best friend climbs the evolutionary ladder and acquires human-like intelligence. Here, space-faring humans meet their rather ferocious match.

And Mame Bougouma Diene returns to Omenana as a contributor, following his hiatus from the editorial side of things, and his return is one for the times. His story, Mame Coumba Lambaye’s Stinky Pinky, should leave you looking for ways to save your stomach muscles from the pangs of laughter induced trauma. Yes, we do need a reminder that speculative fiction can be funny too.

Space operas from African writers are something I’ve always looked forward to since we published Wole Talabi’s Crocodile Ark in Omenana issue 1. Uche Nwaka’s story is also set in an ark travelling through space and deals with what reads like a very African political struggle, then… there was more.

Stolen memories by Mwanabibi Sikamo tells us of the many ways to see and what happens someone acquires the power to see through the eyes of others.

This edition also features tributes to Nick Wood, who was a keen supporter and promoter of SFF in Africa as well as being noted writer of the genre. Nick Wood’s final stories, set around the Table Mountain in his native South Africa, were published in Omenana. Nick Wood will be sorely missed. Omenana is grateful for the opportunity to be a home for his stories and to have received his immense support. May his memory endure.

Animation has taken a life of its own in Nigeria and it is finding a natural partner in the country’s established comic book industry. Spoof, one of the comic book pioneers in the country, recently premiered its first animated film Ayaka: Lost in Rome. Please enjoy the review of this ambitious animated movie.

We promise you that these titbits about the stories are just that…titbits. You just have to read them to see how outstanding they really are. I am sure the titbits do them insufficient justice!

Do enjoy until we come your way again.

Remember, you can support the omenana mission to keep African writing speculative fiction here.

Mazi Nwonwu

In this Edition

Tribute to Nick Wood

Review: Ajaka: Lost in Rome

Ask the Beasts | Masimba Musodza

Mame Coumba Lambaye’s Stinky Pinky | Mame Diene

Parody of the Sower | Michelle Iruobe

Stolen Memories | Mwanabibi Sikao

The Secret Diaries of Councilman Tiku Agbado | Uchechukwu Nwaka

Stolen Memories | Mwanabibi Sikamo

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July 21, 2023

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He put me in this dusty, sun-scorched prison because he thinks he can outsmart me. Won’t even accord me the dignity of a mat to shield me from the grit. The young are always far more confident than their abilities allow. And of course, being an arrogant man doesn’t help him much either. What is it that they say—Youth is wasted on the young.

Around here, nothing is more revered than youth. Many an old woman accused of witchcraft is either thrown in prison like me or simply killed. To have the audacity to outlive your peers is considered a great sin, but that is only one of mine. Sin. Such a subjective word. One man’s sin is another man’s pleasure. I prefer to call them special attributes. Tools for survival. Gifts.

It has taken me a long time to hone my gifts and I’ve done it so well that I almost can’t remember a time when I wasn’t this way. The people do not let me forget who I am. Instead of learning my name, they call me the Blind One. Those who gave me my name at birth took it away when they discarded me.

I sometimes wonder if their sacrifice paid off. If, in place of a child that they believed flawed, my parents gained someone more acceptable. I try not to dwell on these thoughts. After all, some may consider me lucky. The fate of other children deemed inadequate is much worse. Whisked away after birth, they are bound in cloth to shield them from the stares of strangers. Left in the bush to either wither away from lack of food or become food themselves, because the kabumba, the potter who moulds us before birth, neglected to give the child enough limbs or was overzealous and gave them teeth too soon.

To exist despite the natural order of things is another sin. Women have had their wombs removed because the kabumba just couldn’t get the baby to fit the mould.

I suppose I was too grown up for them to smuggle me away. By the time the darkness came, I was a pubescent girl awaiting her betrothal. Old enough to be useful to my mother.

I lost my sight over many moons. My vision turning blurry, fading, and then becoming non-existent. My mother grew tired of me stumbling around her hut. She took me to a diviner who advised my parents to take me to the malende of our mzimu—the revered shrine of our ancestors. The mzimu, he said, would know what to do with me. Well, it turned out the ancestors were also at a loss. I stayed at the shrine for many days, distinguishing the passage of time by the heat of the sun on my skin. Unable and unwilling to explore my surroundings, I fell into a deep depression. Drifting in and out of sleep, weak from lack of food and water, I woke up one night by the wet nuzzle of a curious duiker. Shaking with desperation, I reached up, placed my hands around its warm neck and snapped it. I don’t know where the strength came from. Some might say it was the mzimu willing me to live. If it was, I am yet to discover their purpose for me.

****

My will to survive my parent’s sacrifice was another of my sins.

I lived in the bush and learnt to feel the silence of my surroundings. To co-exist with the trees, the animals, and the ever-changing weather. I scrambled about on the ground collecting sticks and stones, making tools and fire to cook, stay warm, and protect myself from predators. I walked with my arms outstretched, feeling for caves to shelter in when it rained. Using sound and scent, I started first by hunting little rodents. The morsels of meat kept me hungry, and I began to target bigger animals. The bigger the animal, the more hide to clothe myself. So I became adept at separating flesh from skin. Above all, I stayed hidden. Knowing that my survival lay in remaining invisible. Three cycles of rainfall went by before I started to do more than feel. I started to see.

“See?” you ask. “If you started to see, why didn’t you return to your people?”

You are young. You have much to learn. There is more than one way to see. The darkness allowed me to see so much more than you ever will.

I killed that first duiker too quickly to notice the shift in me. Indeed, even if I had noticed it, I would not then have been able to tell what I was experiencing.

As the seasons passed and I became a better hunter, I started to see flickers. I would pierce a warthog with the sharpened stick I used as a spear and as I placed my hand on it, dots of light appeared behind the hoods of my eyes. Then heat would begin in my palm and move up through the veins in my arm until it took over my whole body. It was like the flashes you see after closing your eyes from staring at the sun, only these flashes were hot. I would see blades of grass and blurry roots tugged from their place in the earth. Sometimes, I would see the limbs of other animals whizzing past. A warthog doesn’t live a very exciting life and I resolved to find more interesting memories to watch.

By now, I could tell the shape and size of an animal by the pocket of atmosphere it took up. I could hear not only their cries but also their hooves grazing the ground. I could track them in silence and knew which leaves to rub against my skin to render myself undetectable. I learnt to avoid killing the animals too fast so that I could savour their memories. After countless hunting expeditions over many moons, the visions had grown steadier. Where before I had seen flashes, I now saw entire snapshots.

I, of course, had my preferences. The wildebeests proved quite rewarding. They travelled far and wide, showing me so much more than a trotting little warthog ever could. The monkeys were always involved in some sort of family drama. But the most satisfying was the elephant. Its visions were so vivid and meaningful. The death of an elephant would leave me bereft. A spiritual experience that led me to seek out more of them to kill.

It was inevitable. I had to know how it would feel. Wouldn’t you? I mean, you may say curiosity got the better of me, but it was more than just curiosity. It was the innate human desire to see what I was missing out on.

I started with easy prey. Girls singing as they collected firewood a little too far away from the village. Inexperienced hunters taking so long to stalk their targets that they themselves became targets. Hunting people is so much easier than hunting wild animals. People believe they have the right to exist. They generally don’t spend too much of their time looking over their shoulders.

You clutch your chest in horror, but I know you’re more than a little intrigued. In my defence, I was still learning. As I said, I was honing my gifts. Back then, I believed that the memories would only appear at the point of death, so I had no choice. I had to kill them. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I will say that there was nothing more thrilling than touching the strong, skipping, pulse at the base of the neck, feeling it slow down, and then stop as I saw the climax of their memories. I found that if I placed my fingers at just the right spot, my pulse would mirror theirs and increase the pleasure.

I wept as I saw visions of what my life could have been had it not been snatched away from me. Once or twice, I thought I caught a glimpse of my mother. The violence of my rage at the sight of her scared me. I wanted to be able to replay the memories, but I also never wanted to see her again, so I decided to move as far away from the malende as I could, far away from those who had decided that I was not worthy of their family.

In the early days, stealing from a person left me sated. I didn’t have to hunt for memories more than once during each lunar cycle. The memories also sapped me of energy, so I hunted less and less for food. I no longer needed the animals for their visions and compartmentalised the killing. Food versus memories. As I said, not sin, survival. Seeing made me feel whole again. I needed it to keep going.

I know I keep saying it. I don’t want you to believe that I’m an ageist, but there’s something not quite satisfying about the memories of young people. Particularly the sorts of gullible young people who were easy for me to capture. It always feels like something is missing from them. A certain level of depth only attainable with time – like the need for the ever-increasing potency of a lengthily steeped brew. That need for depth drew me out. It made me careless. I either needed more and more memories or memories with greater substance. To achieve this, I had to keep moving. Too many lives lost in any one community risked me turning from hunter to hunted. I spent lots of nights hiding away from baying crowds. The crowds did not know or understand what they hunted and, in the end, this is what saved me.

My way of life became unsustainable. I was running out of hunting ground and wasn’t as sprightly as before. I decided to attach myself to one village and target those who were already close to death. The obvious advantage being that they would be both old and weak. So, for the first time in many seasons, I removed the veil of invisibility and revealed myself to others.

In the end, it was easy. People are fallible. Many would never imagine that someone like me could actually be capable, let alone able to cause harm. I listened out for a group of women who often collected firewood nearby. Waiting until they sat in one area, I stumbled towards them, making sure to look lost and confused. After much debate, they offered to take me to their local mung’anga.

Now, someone like you might take offence at being led straight to a diviner. You’d probably expect a wholesome welcome into a family home. But your life is different from mine. I don’t assume an entitlement to basic human kindness. And anyway, it made sense. If I was lost, then the best person to tell me how to get back to where I belonged was surely a mung’anga. I did not know it then, but that single act was my salvation. It led me to this very moment.

I was honest with the mung’anga. Well, as honest as it was safe to be. I told him how my parents drove me from home, leaving me to roam about in the wilderness until the villagers found me. It was a likely story. Believable. But I think there was more to his invitation for me to stay on as his apprentice. He could sense my abilities. Ultimately, he underestimated them, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Being back in society was a major adjustment. I had spent many harvests alone. Naturally, I wanted to withdraw and hide away from the stares and murmurs.

My work kept me busy. In the bush, I had, through trial and error, mixed potions for health and hunting. This meant I already knew many medicinal trees, plants, and bones, but the mung’anga taught me how to combine them to achieve greater potency. I learnt something else too. I learnt that I did not have to kill to see the memories.

When I got to the village and was living among so many people, my senses heightened. All the memories around me meant that, even without touch my mind was bursting with visions. I may have always been able to steal memories without killing, but I’d never have known because my main goal while in the bush had been to capture my prey before they could escape. I now saw as many memories as I heard voices and had no way of filtering them. It was too overwhelming to be enjoyable. I began to despair of ever again achieving the clarity of that first stolen memory.

I did away with the need to target the elderly, opting instead to snatch memories as I sat in on the mung’anga’s consultations. I would crouch in the corner of his hut and listen as a patient told their story. I found that if I kept my breath steady and focused, I could achieve intense visions.

As the seasons passed, I built up a sizeable library of memories and could cross reference them in order to resolve our patients’ ailments. I could, for example, use one woman’s memories to deduce that her discomfort was not due to some mysterious spell but to the fact that her wayward husband, who had also come in for a consultation, was sowing his seeds in many different fields. I, of course, kept much of this to myself because it did not serve my master. He was, after all, a diviner, not a healer. If he gave solutions to every problem that walked through his door, he would soon be out of business. And anyway, the people liked the mystery of spells and charms. I’m not saying these things don’t exist. What I’m saying is that divining and healing are different, and, in my day, there was clear regulation. But I digress.

Now, where was I?

The mung’anga knew I had abilities but even he couldn’t imagine my strength because let’s face it, I can’t see. At least not in a natural way. He believed, rightly, that the heightened sensitivity of my other senses improved my intuition. He thought that, like all good mung’anga’s, I was putting together a puzzle, being attentive to a patient’s voice and using doubt or concern to figure out their thoughts. He began to ask my opinion on particularly difficult cases. At first, he asked so he could teach me and later; he asked in order to consider my point of view.

I dare say the clinic was much better for our partnership. He, being a man, did not see it as a partnership. He hid me behind a curtain in his hut and made me diagnose his patients while he took all the credit. He knew full well that if the people discovered how useful I was to him then they would seek me out. I was, to be fair, much more of a novelty than him. I did not have to wear special looking trinkets or utter indecipherable incantations for them to believe that I was powerful.

Two things combined to increase the level of my ambition. The first was self-serving, well, if I’m honest with you, both of them were, but the first was a little pettier. I was sick and tired of the mung’anga keeping me further away from the patients than I would have preferred. His need for accolades hampered me. I longed to touch the patients. To feel their breath against my fingers as I traced the outline of their faces. Feeling a person’s pulse was still the best method of seeing memories and the mung’anga was just always in the way. He became a nuisance. It took everything in me not to scream at him to move. The second, is the reason I am in this prison.

The mung’anga was a revered man. Many came from far and wide to seek his services. But these were, by and large, common folk. People who didn’t offer much in return for his work. His real income came from well-to-do patients – prolific hunters and fishermen, wealthy widows and chiefs.

This last group, the leaders of men, were the most vulnerable and sought the rarest treatments. They also required the most secrecy and would pay whatever was necessary to gain it. They could not be seen to be visiting a mung’anga so, the mung’anga went to them. He would leave under cover of darkness and return at dawn, saying nothing of the night’s events. I was patient, biding my time. He would soon recognise that he needed me so that he could be more effective.

You see, the practice of being a mung’anga is competitive. The higher up the ladder you go, the more vulnerable you are. At any moment some youngster can come along and usurp you. That’s if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you could wind up dead.

When you become the chosen diviner of a chief, the stakes rise considerably. You have no choice but to be successful. For instance, if you give a chief an amulet to defeat an enemy and he doesn’t succeed, then either you or the chief will die. There are only two reasons why a charm may not work, your fallibility or the patient’s inability to follow directions, and you don’t want to be the one to tell a chief that he is wrong. Well, you could, that is, if you had built up a certain level of trust. But my master couldn’t tap into what a patient’s real needs were. Truth be told, he was completely unsuited to serving a powerful leader.

When he finally did ask me to go with him to visit his most important patient, it was because he was at the sharp end of a spear.

You may have become weary of my diversions, but they are necessary to tell the whole story. Please indulge me once more while I explain the complicated political landscape in which we live.

The man who had employed my master is not the Chief, he only seeks to be. This was my master’s first mistake. You can’t align yourself to an unpredictable, power-hungry, social climber. There is no common purpose there. A man who wants to take power at all costs will always need more than you can ever provide. This man, the same one who has decided to throw me in prison, is a great hunter. His name is Kayambila, and he has become such a great hunter that he no longer holds a spear in his own hands. Instead, he is a commander of hunters who has built alliances across many nations, and gained great wealth. He has earned the respect of not only his peers but also that of people of far greater standing than him. Despite all this, he remains a mere foot soldier in the Mwene’s army. Well, he is far more than a foot soldier. As a general, he has led her army to famous victories, allowing her to conquer many of the villages that surround us. But, of course, as long as he is not the Chief, he regards himself as a mere foot soldier. The fact that the actual Chief, the Mwene, is also his sister only adds insult to injury.

Kayambila’s frustration has grown alongside the Mwene’s kingdom. He cannot understand why a woman, who does not yield a spear, should or could even lead a nation.

My master was at a crossroads. It was no longer enough to give Kayambila charms and medicine to win in battle. He now had to convince him that he was the right mung’anga to enable him to overthrow his sister. This was the reason why he finally decided that it was time to take me with him.

One of the benefits of being engulfed in darkness is that I am not intimidated by those around me. I didn’t lose sight of my purpose as I was led into Kayambila’s hut. I had done my homework. I knew the politics. His soldiers and advisors had visited us and I had learnt a lot from watching their memories. I’m sure I don’t have to mention it, but, by now, I was also able to tap into my master’s mind. The mung’anga’s delay in bringing me along didn’t hinder me.

As he sat listening to my master’s incessant chanting, I tapped into Kayambila’s memories.

Normally, when I stole memories, I was a mere spectator but with Kayambila it was like he was telling me the story. He was the most powerful person whose memories I had stolen and I had to steady my shaking hands. From my corner in the hut, I saw him in battle defeating many armies, I saw him in discussions with key players in our region, I saw his arguments with his sister and when I finally saw what I needed, I waited.

At last, my master finished with his potions, powders, charms, and chanting. During the reverential silence that tends to follow such proceedings, I spoke up,

“You’re going to need guns to defeat your sister.” I said, “You can only get them from the zelo – the ghosts from the North – and they will only give you guns if you hand over prisoners of war. You need to give them slaves.”

Now, I have to admit. This was not a particularly insightful thing to say. Everybody had heard about the zelo’s insatiable need for slaves, but I was banking on the element of surprise. I had rendered myself invisible and they had all forgotten I was there, this increased the gravitas of my words when I eventually did speak up, that, and the fact that most people, including my master, wouldn’t dare to tell Kayambila what they thought.

When I was sure they were all listening to me, I continued, “You will not win this war on the battlefield,” I said. “It will take time and strategy.”

“Go on,” he said after a while, but I stayed quiet. Hesitated for just enough time before I continued. “With respect,” I said, “strategy requires discretion.”

I didn’t need to say any more. Kayambila understood the need to have only one man in charge. I do not know what became of my master.

****

Over the many seasons that passed, Kayambila and I went on to fight many battles together, both on and off the field. He knew that proximity improved my abilities as a seer, so he took me everywhere with him. Soon enough, he became reliant on me and didn’t bother to pay special attention to friends or foes. He knew that I would translate their words for him. It was almost as if he preferred our quiet moments, my fingers on his wrists or crowning his forehead.

In time, I became as infamous as him. Although they did not understand what exactly it was that I did, people knew to expect me wherever he was. The only downside was that, because of the amount of time we spent together, I began to see myself in his memories. To see how I went from smooth-faced to wrinkly, from a full head of thick, tight, curly hair to wispy grey. I saw glimpses of him through other people’s memories and although he aged with time; he did not wither like me and instead became more dignified in stature.

But, as I said, you cannot form a partnership with a man like Kayambila. The process of taking power became too slow for him. I could not give any more excuses. He wanted to know why his sister was still the Mwene.

I grew tired of his constant complaints. Watching his memories became boring. I began to believe that his sister may just be better than him. She surrounded herself with powerful advisers, but, more than that, she had the people on her side. They knew that she would not sell them to the zelo, whom she refused to do business with. Given the chance, Kayambila would be happy to work with the zelo and everybody knew that.

I was stalling, I said, for his own good. If he tried to take over the nation now, the people would rise against him. I told him how her calm confidence spoke louder than his antsy desperation, that his son was more likely to become chief before he would ever even be considered, and, just to drive my point home, I told him that the Mwene’s memories had far more depth than his ever would. That did it. He threw me in this prison and left me here like a common criminal. He could have killed me, but I’m far too valuable.

On the advice of a mung’anga, he has decided to sacrifice his son, Sitondo, to the mzimu to prevent a claim to the throne. He thinks that this will make him more powerful, but it won’t.

Listen to them, scampering about looking for him.

Kayambila has forgotten that strategy requires discretion. My sense of sight is far more sophisticated than his. Indeed, my gifts have surpassed even my own expectations. I knew that he would lock me up here long before it was even a glimmer in his mind.

I have already whispered to Sitondo. He is on his way to the royal court to seek refuge. I have given him strict instructions for what he must say and when he does, the Mwene will have no choice but to send for me. And then I can be rid of this irritant and take my rightful place beside the Mwene. I can’t wait to finally be able to work with another woman who understands what it takes to stay at the top. Someone with some real vision.

END

Mwanabibi Sikamo is a Zambian storyteller and filmmaker exploring the real and imagined lives of Africans both past and present. Her fiction is steeped in the magical tradition of indigenous folk lore. She has been published by Olongo Africa, AFREADA and Iskanchi Magazine. She is currently writing her first novel.

Ajaka: Lost in Rome – A Captivating Tale of Betrayal, Redemption, and Visual Splendor

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July 21, 2023

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Ajaka: Lost in Rome is a mesmerizing 20-minute short film animation that draws inspiration from rich accounts of the old Oyo empire. The narrative revolves around sibling rivalry, the thirst for power, and the ultimate journey of redemption. Released on YouTube on July 14, 2023, this visually stunning animation transports viewers to a world of fantasy and historical intrigue.

At the core of the story lies the struggle for power and its consequences. Ajaka, portrayed as a wise and compassionate ruler, seeks peace and prosperity for his kingdom. In stark contrast, his younger brother, Shango, driven by insatiable ambition, betrays him, leading to Ajaka’s downfall. The unexpected turn of events lands Ajaka in Rome, where he becomes a gladiator, adding an element of grandeur and spectacle to the narrative.

The film’s strength lies in its ability to immerse viewers in the heart of the story. The animators at Spoof Animation deserve accolades for their exceptional work, breathing life into the vibrant world of Oyo and the majesty of ancient Rome. The attention to detail in every frame creates breathtaking visuals that capture the audience’s imagination.

Ajaka: Lost in Rome stands out for its visually stunning animation and compelling storyline. Ajaka’s determination to reclaim his kingdom and return home fuels an extraordinary journey filled with challenges and obstacles. The film’s narrative arc keeps viewers engaged, eager to see how Ajaka overcomes seemingly insurmountable odds.

The film boasts an exceptional team whose efforts contribute to its success. Osas Akugbe, the Background Supervisor, seamlessly harmonizes the sets, providing an immersive experience. Ayodele Elegba, the Producer/Director, showcases passion and precision in guiding the film, resulting in a cohesive and engaging final product. Wale Olojo, the Line Producer, manages the production with skill and efficiency. Collins Momodu, the Animation Director, orchestrates the team of animators, resulting in awe-inspiring visuals.

The film’s music and sound design add depth to the experience, complementing the emotional beats of the story. The voice acting brings authenticity and life to the characters, enhancing their development.

One of the film’s central themes is redemption, as Ajaka seeks to rise above the challenges and reclaim his honour. The journey of the former king resonates strongly with the audience, showcasing his growth and transformation throughout the narrative. Each character is well-developed, and the voice performances breathe life into their personalities.

Despite being a short film, Ajaka: Lost in Rome leaves a powerful impact. Its message about the consequences of greed and the importance of family bonds lingers long after the credits roll.

In conclusion, Ajaka: Lost in Rome is an animated short film that blends breathtaking visuals, a compelling storyline, and well-rounded characters. It showcases the dedication and talent of a passionate team of animators, producers, and directors. The film’s universal themes and emotional resonance make it an unforgettable experience for audiences of all ages. As the credits roll, viewers are left in awe and yearning for more stories from the captivating world of Oyo. Ajaka: Lost in Rome is undoubtedly a triumph in animation, leaving an indelible mark on the hearts of its audience.

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