The Horse Of War

By Mame Bougouma Diene

“Hey! Bring that back!” The fish salesman yelled at Neila, as she slipped into the crowd and disappeared from sight.

The young woman ran through some back-alleys and hid inside a torn down church. She pushed aside a large stone and crawled into a dusty alcove, caught her breath and began biting furiously into the raw fish she had just snatched from the vendor. She’d gone hungry for a few days, a nibble here, a bite there…

Her meal done, she stepped back out into Haiti’s fractured capital.

“What’s the news?” she yelled at another scavenger who was pushing a cart full of plastic.

“Transparent bottles go ten cents, dark bottles go five, that’s all the news I need,” he answered without slowing his pace or looking at her.

Something inside the people had changed with the First Caribbean War. There were fewer people now, but they shone brighter. You found more dead poultry on the streets; their necks snapped even where people starved. More prayers graffitied in blood against the walls, and little altars to the Saints flourished on every corner, their candles burning day in and day out lighting the streets more efficiently than street lamps ever had. And in some places – where even the rubble sought shelter – reality was thinner.

The warning sirens rang out weakly across the city. It was a miracle some still worked, even if all they did was announce early deaths. Several people hid behind rubble but the rockets flew overhead and landed somewhere in the outskirts of what was left of the city.

The rockets kept raining but Neila wondered why; most of the hills of Haiti had been flattened in the first salvos. Her family had died in the first few days. Bombing the city now was like stomping on sand after kicking down the sand castle.

The battlefields had moved to the Dominican Republic, and then to Mexico while the minor Caribbean islands were slowly being converted into garrison islands for the fence-riding European powers. Port-au-Prince was merely an afterthought.

Perhaps the war was Rapture and all the better souls had gone to Guinea, leaving the damned behind to their empty incantations.

Neila caressed the small statue of Papa Legba in her pocket and made her way downtown towards the coast for the evening. Staying in the same place for too long wasn’t safe anymore. The possessed wandered the alleys to dissonant drum rolls. Hiding among them were the winos and fiends, their eyes rolled upward and muttering gibberish, until they assaulted you. She had to keep moving.

“Incoming!” A random voiced screamed as the shrill sound of a missile rose above the coastline.  This time, no alarm rang from the few loudspeakers that remained. Perhaps the warning sirens had given their last wail.

In the candle-lit darkness of breathing shadows there was no telling where the rockets would land. Thankfully, Neila knew of a small hideout nearby. She made her way through a cluster of torn-down buildings and down a hole into the foundation of an older building whose solid structure was impervious to the carnage above. She risked being trapped beneath the rubble, but she could die any day, and her luck had held thus far. Her luck, and her pocketknife.

She sensed another presence in the darkness, and lit a candle.

A diminutive woman was hiding behind a pillar, sobbing faintly and mumbling something under her breath.

“Gerard, Gerard poukisa ou te kite?” The woman said, a little louder. If Jerry was the old lady’s husband, he’d left her for a better place – if there was anywhere else to go.

There was always someone hiding somewhere, no matter how improbable; some people would survive a nuclear winter along with the roaches.

Neila approached her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulders. She had needed a place to cry too, once.

“It’s alright. Jerry must be thinking of you,” she said softly.

The old woman flinched and turned, dropping a bottle of rum. Her braided hair was caked with mud and her threadbare red dress was barely holding together, but her eyes were eloquent and deep.  The depth of a sinkhole. There were things buried there, ancient things.

“Padon ti fi, padon,” she apologised, hugging Neila by the waist.

“It’s alright, grandma,” Neila said. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

The old woman picked up the bottle, dusted it off, opened it and proffered it to her.

“Rum? It’s good!”

Neila grabbed the bottle and took a swig. It burned her lips and her tongue, removed the plaque from her teeth and seared her vocal cords. But it sent a halo of warmth from her crown to her toes that momentarily lifted her over the rocky basement. Then the alcohol caught up with her and smacked her back to the ground.

“You have kind eyes and a good heart,” the woman said and gulped down two large swigs without so much as a shiver.

They went tit for tat, each taking a swig, for almost an hour but the bottle never seemed to empty and the old lady never seemed to get drunk. Neila, though, was starting to have visions.

“What’s your name?” Neila slurred. “And what is in that rum?”

The old lady smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.” She pushed a cork into the mouth of the bottle. “I’m Maman Brigitte, and the rum has twenty-one spices to open the Loas to you, child.”

Neila tried to get up, but stumbled against a pillar. Her small statue of Legba fell out of her pocket and rolled to Maman Brigitte’s feet.  The old woman promptly poured some rum on it, kissed it and recited a quick Hail Mary.

“Elegua!” She shouted. “You carry Saint Peter; you carry Elegua, girl. I have to hear your story now; I have to hear your dreams, girl. Come, tell Maman.”

Her voice was making Neila drowsy, it echoed wrong inside her head, or perhaps it was hard for it to fit with all the liquor and herbs sloshing inside her brain.

But the bottle beckoned, and the old woman had found time to draw a chalk circle with some symbols inside of it, and light some candles around it.  Neila tried to make sense of them, but they kept shifting under her eyes, slithering to make new patterns and then change again.

Maman Brigitte handed her the bottle again.

“Have some more, and tell me your tale…”

 “Strike out!”

The umpire waved Neila’s brother Serge off the baseball field after he missed the ball for the third and last time, marking the end of the game and the end of the school year.  He walked away, his head high and a huge grin on his face. His teammates laughed him off and patted him on the back. Win or lose, the holidays had started.

Standing alongside the field with the other teenage girls, Neila looked down from their uphill slum of Ti Rivyé onto the residential heights of Petionville streaming from the city then farther down to Cité Soleil on the coast below.  Oil rigs dotted the sea as far as the horizon, reflecting the sun’s rays into mandalas over the blue-black waters.

Parts of the city were still dotted with thousands of IDP camps dating back to the earthquake 20 years ago. Her sheet metal home was among those in the treeless hills of western Haiti. Yet where others saw only despair, she imagined skyscrapers, sprawling shopping malls and parks, a city sprinkled with cranes around new neighbourhoods, new suburbs and new hopes.  

“Still day-dreaming, huh?” said Serge landing a huge paw on her shoulder. Her older brother was too big for his clothes, too big for his room and generally too big, even for baseball, but he kept her safe. “You won’t get your haute couture just yet.”

He was right: her country striking oil didn’t mean anything to them yet, but she was proud and looking into the shape of things to come she knew things would change for the better. Though she knew he would never admit it, Serge also looked at the gleaming oil rigs lining the horizon with envy, he usually spent his summers pestering tourists in Santo Domingo, but now Haiti had to shoot Dominicans trying to cross its border illegally. The world had changed.

“Dad’s got a surprise for us waiting at home,” he said. “Let’s be out of here.”

Their mother was deep-frying chicken and plantains when they made it home through the meandering alleyways of the slum. Dirty water streamed from under every porch, but the smell of dinner drowned out the neighbourhood’s refuse. Some konpa music, an old Martelli song, was playing on the transistor radio inside.

Their father stood by the door shaking hands with a couple of white men in suits flanked by two bodyguards. He smiled at their backs as the men stepped over the sewer and headed downhill towards another house, and his smile widened as his children walked up to him.

“Hope you didn’t make the pros this year, son!” he joked to Serge.

“As if…” Neila whispered under breath and earned an elephantoid elbow to her ribs for it. Her father laughed.

“Good! Because I just landed you a job working the rigs for the summer. Nothing big, part-time for both of us, mostly relaying tonnage on the coast. But maybe you’ll shed some weight – since running across the Dominican border couldn’t do it!”

“Odoya,” Neila said thanking the Mother Lémanja.

Her father grunted his approval and turned to his son. “Light a candle for John the Baptist before sleeping and ask for strength.”

Her mother appeared by the door and grabbed Neila by the shoulder.

“There you are! You thought you’d have it easy, heh! School is done. Now help me with the food!”

Neila stuck her tongue out at Serge and followed her mother to the mud stove. The music on the radio was suddenly interrupted by a newsflash:

“Dominican warships have rounded Jaragua National Park and are making their way towards Jacmel. The government is calling a state of emergency and an immediate curfew over all urban centres. The United States is sending in aircraft carriers to counter Dominican manoeuvres. All residents are requested to remain indoors and keep their radios on until further notice. … Dominican warships have rounded Jaragua National Park…”

Drums beat and herbs burned through the night. Further up the hill someone was allowing themselves to be possessed.

Neila turned on her small cot, drifting in and out of sleep as smoke made its way over and around the shanties, cloaking them in hauntings from another world. Her father and her brother were spending more time out on the rigs. The stand-off between Haiti and the Dominican Republic had drawn in most of the region; destroyers lined the maritime borders of the Hispaniola, and the rigs desperately pumped crude 24 hours a day.

The ground shook violently under her and a blinding flash broke through the window leaving a flurry of black flecks dancing across her vision. She pushed herself up and ran out of the house in her underwear, her mother on her tail. Every resident in Ti Rivyé who was spry enough to move stood outside starring slack-jawed into the clouds.

An unusually large number of shooting stars bisected the night sky; and in the distance, the oil rigs spurted geysers of burning petroleum under a billow of grey smoke that was spreading towards the city.

The shooting stars didn’t disappear but kept getting closer. Narrowing down towards the city, they revealed themselves as scud missiles. Transfixed, Neila barely felt her mother’s hand shaking her shoulders roughly.

“Girl!” Her mother yelled, her eyes locked with hers. “Run in, grab what you can. We have no time. Hurry!”

“But…Father and Serge…” Neila said looking over her mother’s shoulders. Her mother slapped her across the face.

“There is no time!”

 Shaken, Neila ran back into the house, grabbed one of her brother’s shirts and her mother’s pocket radio, and together they ran as far up the hills and away from the city as they could.

“…And that was that.” Neila finished. “My mother was dead hours later, Serge and my father probably never made it off the rigs. Even if they did, there’s no way they survived the early bombardment.”

The old lady seemed younger under the glow of liquor and spices, she stopped drinking as Neila finished her tale, put the bottle on the ground and wiped her mouth with a dirty sleeve.

“So. You want to stop this madness do you?”

Neila nodded.

“And bring your family back?”

She nodded again.

“Tsk, you can’t bring your family back, girl – unless you’re looking to trade places. And I don’t think anybody can put an end to this,” Maman Brigitte said. “But you were kind to an old woman and others wouldn’t have been. I can help you ask for a favour – that I can. If you’re ready for it.”

The tale had brought something back. For a moment, she had reconnected with who she had once been. Her mother’s radio was all she had left, but none of the voices on the airwaves sounded like her.

Neila nodded vigorously. “I’m ready.”

Maman Brigitte leaned over her ear conspiratorially.

“First you must find an innocent,” she whispered.

The baby screamed and coughed, the lesions on his skin oozing with blood and pus. Each cough rattled his small body and little red flecks appeared on his lips with every raspy breath.

The candle burned slowly in the centre of the small white circle Neila had drawn on the ground. The old lady had left her with a bottle of that foul concoction and it sat next to her along with her knife, and her mother’s pocket radio. She lifted the knife, but found her hand shaking. In fact, her whole body rocked along as the child coughed and cried.

Finding an innocent in the skid row of lower Port-au-Prince had made sense before she’d passed out, but less when she woke up alone with a hangover searing through her brain. Still, the old woman’s words had been unequivocal.

The child had been abandoned in the gutter. If he’d been old enough to think, his mind would have been filled with hate for what had been done to him, but an infant – the true innocent – screams only in pain, hunger and loneliness, without greed or malice. She had picked him up, wiped him off as well as she could and carried him down to the basement where she had met Brigitte the day before.

The child cried in her arms. He didn’t deserve this, but he did not deserve to die chocking on sewage either. Maybe, just maybe, if her favours were granted and she could bring an end to all this, his painful life would not have been in vain.

Neila found her strength and sliced the baby’s throat before death could take him.  She let a few crimson drops hit the ground inside the candlelit circle in front of her. She put the corpse down reverently and closed his eyelids. She wiped her bloody knife on her jeans and pocketed it.

She picked up the bottle of rum, took a hefty swig and sprayed a fine mist in the four cardinal directions. Then she began to chant:

“Papa Legba ouvè baryè a pou mwen, Ago eh!
Papa Legba ouvè baryè a pou mwen,”
Ouvè baryè a pou mwen, Papa, pou mwen pase,

Le’m tounen map remesyè Lwa yo!”

She poured rum out of the bottle three more times, mixing it with the infant’s blood in the circle on the ground. She chanted again:

“Baron Samedi

Brave Gede

My own ancestors! I offer you food and rum.

I offer an innocent

Hear me! And open for me the gates.”

The basement shimmered around her, changing into a field of high grass under the moonlight.  She took a step, and a fingery mist spread around her feet turning the moonlit field into the lurid darkness of a graveyard.  The smell of cigar smoke hit her and footsteps echoed between the graves followed by the grating of a glass bottle being dragged and bumped against the tombstones.

A shape outlined itself against the mist, revealing a tall man wearing a top hat and tuxedo, his face painted like a skull, taking a sip from a bottle.

“So girl? What have you called on me for? A favour or a thrill? My mojo or my manliness? You know how strong both are, yes?” The man asked in a rumbling baritone, chuckling lewdly.

“Baron Samedi?” Neila asked.

“No, little girl, Baron Jeudi Après-midi,” he said sarcastically as he drew on his cigar, coughed up some phlegm and spit it against a grave. “Are you crazy, or have you forgotten the life you took? Ou te pèdi, ti fi?”

“There was a lady – Maman Brigitte, her name was – she said I could ask you for a favour, but not for my family.”

“You met Maman? And she promised you a favour from me, huh? She drinks too much, she does, Maman Brigitte.” He paused, sombre. “Never get married, little girl, it’s only trouble.”

“Can I ask you to stop the killing?” Neila asked quickly.

Samedi threw his head back and laughed, a hearty belly laugh mixed with wheezing giggles. He wiped his eyes and cheeks of tears, smudging the white paint on his face.

“You need higher Gods than me for that favour, little girl, and you cannot find them at the Gates. They require other rituals to make it through – and more sacrifices.” He smiled slyly. “Do you wish to meet their companions? I cannot favour you, I’m afraid, but since Brigitte promised, I can do that much.”

The graveyard disappeared and Neila found herself in a stable amidst an endless series of stalls, but the ceiling was concealed by a fog that occasionally lit up with flashes of lightning. The air smelled like hay and horse droppings. The floor was wooden and covered with straw. Neila followed the old lecher down the aisle for what felt like hours, but the far end of the stable never got any closer.

The Baron turned and smiled at her.

“Don’t worry, little girl, time runs differently on this side.”

They passed a sickly white horse, its skin covered in boils, panting in a stall.

“The Horse of Pestilence,” introduced Samedi, and they marched on.

Then in another stall she saw a thin brown stallion, its ribs showing through its hide, all the muscle on his legs and shoulders long atrophied

“The Horse of Famine,” said Samedi.

Further along, a pale, almost translucent horse neighed in his stall. It had no eyes yet it stared directly at her.

“The Horse of Death.”

Something battered against the wooden doors of a stall further down the corridor. Angry neighing followed each crash of hooves.

A huge stallion, matte black with burning red eyes, huffed and puffed like an enraged bull. It kicked furiously, crashing into walls that should have shattered under such blows. When it saw Samedi and Neila it charged the door with all its might. The impact shook the ground and the other three horses neighed loudly, but the wood held. Neila patted the knife in her pocket for reassurance.

“The Horse of War.”

Unlike Samedi, who seemed as solid a human being, the beasts all seemed ethereal, like creatures out of a dream.

“Are they… real?” Neila asked.

Samedi didn’t turn. He stared into the stall, fascinated by the red-eyed beast’s mad cantering.

“They are and they are not. When the gods ride them they are invincible, otherwise they are transient and ephemeral, like the human soul.”

The Horse of War stood across from her, its burning eyes intent. So that’s the beast, she thought. The beast that thrives on desolation. The beast that makes people tear each other apart limb from limb, the beast who took my family, my dreams, everything… You took everything from me! The horse seemed to gain consistency as if feeding on the anger and pain she felt. She forced herself to calm her mind. The quieter her breath, the slower her heartbeat, the calmer the Horse of War became, until she saw it flinch and the power in its legs begin to weaken.

She took a step back and when the Baron, still distracted by the horse, didn’t turn she took a few more. Then she broke into a run, past Samedi, and leapt over the door into the stall.

She heard Samedi gasp. “Ti fi!” He shouted his deep voice rumbling threateningly across the barn.

The huge beast towered over her, filling her entire field of vision. It shook its head furiously, its man-sized hooves pounding the ground in anticipation of a fight. Neila threw herself between the animal’s legs, pulled out her knife, and sliced the horse’s stomach open. A rain of blood and guts poured over her and she ran towards the wall at the back of the stall. She began to chant:

“Maman Brigitte, Queen of the Dead, beautiful woman, healer of the sick!

Brave Gede, first among Ancestors,

Open for me the gates!”

The Horse of War neighed and grew thinner, the luxuriant black of its coat fading to grey, to white, then it was transparent, and then it was gone.

The barn wall shimmered, the ground turned to grass, and then to the humidity of the Port-au-Prince basement where the candle still burned in the chalk circle. Neila landed on her knees, out of breath and dripping thick droplets of preternatural blood that singed the floor with a sizzle. Maman Brigitte appeared from behind a pillar and dropped her bottle, shattering it on the floor.
“Bondye, ti fi! Kisa ou fé!”

“Relax, it’s not your husband’s blood,” Neila said, getting up. Brigitte backed away from her, slipping on the broken glass and leaving a trail of blood.

Neila ran for the small transistor radio. While Brigitte wept in a corner, she flipped through the frequencies and found a frantic voice:

“…has withdrawn its support for the Dominican Republic. Brazilian warships are retreating from the region. The war is over. I repeat the war is over. Vive Haiti! Vive Haiti!”

Neila breathed a sigh of relief, let herself slide against a pillar, and fell asleep…

She couldn’t recognize the landscape or the city across the hills from her, but she knew it wasn’t Haiti and she knew she would need to reach it before nightfall.

Everywhere around her long blades of grass grew, withered, and grew again in endless cycles of death and rebirth. A little boy appeared on the road beside her. It was her Innocent and he was smiling. He caught her hand and pointed ahead.

 “It’s this way,” he said.

“Where am I going?”

“To Ifé.” The boy responded. “Come.”

She paused.

“In Nigeria?” she asked, surprised “Why am I in Nigeria?”

Something in the young boy’s voice changed, it sounded deeper, angrier.

“The Horsemen want to see you.”

Panic cut through the dream. Neila looked down at the little boy, his eyes were falling from their sockets, his skin bubbling and melting slowly like running paint.

She screamed and turned to run, but he caught her wrist, and started burning through it.

the war horse sketch

 “You are not done,” he said, his fingers cut through her flesh and into her bones. “You owe me. Come to Ifé.”

All around them the hills burst in flames.

 “How? The world is burning!”

The last of the boy’s faced melted and disappeared. “Come to Ifé. Ifé will remain.”

And Neila’s hair caught on fire.  

Neila woke up with a scream, alone in the basement. She checked her wrist for burn marks, but found none. She shook the nightmare off, packed her things and walked out from her hiding place into a Port-au-Prince revelling in the euphoria of peace.


The voice rang inside her head as she made her way through a lunar landscape of slagged hills. The hills from her dream, but this time they stayed dead.

In the three weeks she’d spent inside the tanker making the trip back to Africa across the Atlantic, Neila had tried to close her mind to the voices of the dead. But when she shut her eyes, all she heard was Brigitte’s cackle, Samedi’s suggestive laughter, and saw things fall apart all over again, in blood and dreams denied.

Nothing made sense… For a few months things had gone so well. The world had healed: full unconditional denuclearization was underway, terrorism had disappeared overnight, an all time drop in crime; for the first time a woman could walk around safely without fear of aggression. She’d steered clear of the oilrigs, there was too much pain there yet, but she worked construction, one brick at a time, one building at a time, and she taught.  Teaching one child and soul at a time. Then China declared war on the world.

The world had won the war in less than two months, but there were no transatlantic flights left, or airports to take off from. Anywhere.

When the first rockets had landed the voice had started ringing again. Come. It had been lingering in the back of her mind ever since she’d woken up, but she’d let the clank of machinery and the questions of eager children drown the voice out. Now it came louder than the explosions, drowning out the screams of her new friends, and tugging at her sanity like a compulsion, until – finally – she listened and obeyed.

Gritty radioactive dust slipped into her lungs with every breath. Her eyes watered, but the dust on her sleeves stung her when she tried to dry them. At the centre of the wasteland a city glowed like an old gem in the evening light. Its buildings were intact and its people healthy and celebrating. The boy in her dream had spoken true: Ifé remained untouched and beautiful.

Come. The voice thundered inside her mind. Come.

She entered the city, exhausted and in pain, every person she approached backing away from her in horror and fright.

She let the voice guide her to the centre of the town, where a belfry stood in the middle of a grassy square.

You are here now.

And the world disappeared.

Neila came to in a dark cave, the pain gone.

Four people stood around a stone table staring into a shimmering screen that showed a scene of carnage in a city she didn’t recognise. They were each cloaked and hooded in different material: white, black, red, and a translucent substance that revealed the wearer’s bald head and thin features. The figure in the red hood had its fingers on a glowing ball.

They lifted their hoods, revealing uniformly bald heads and scarred faces, and turned their eyes on her. They all looked exhausted, but the being in the red hood looked ready to tear his face off. Only the being in the translucent hood seemed fully awake, and furious.

“Where am I?” She asked, picking herself up and adjusting to the gloom. “Who are you?”

The being in the white hood spoke first: “You have come a long way under Olokun[1], Daughter. And not a moment to soon.” His tone was even, but anger simmered through his exhaustion. “We have been waiting. You have no place to keep us waiting.”

“So you’re the higher gods Samedi told me about.” Neila stated flatly. “I hope you’re nothing like him.”

“Why is she allowed to speak, Babalu Ayé?” asked the being in the transparent hood in a snarling voice said that turned to a growl. “Silly little girl has no idea what she’s done.”

The being in the black hood raised his hand to silence the speaker. “Calm down, Eshu, we’re just starting with her.” He turned to Neila his eyes burning. “Samedi was much like you, once. Young, defiant…” his eyes narrowed on hers “…and foolish.” His smile turned predatory. “Now he guards the Gates.”

“I was offered a favour for my kindness!” Neila retorted, more forcefully than she would have thought, given there was fear in her spine. “The Baron let me in and told me what the horses were but I killed the Horse of War. I freed us! And everything got better, didn’t it? The people, the world… The war – it stopped!” She remembered the parades, the shell-shocked joy on her countrymen’s faces as they celebrated with a new hope. “Why else would he have let me in? I needed a favour, the world needed a favour and I took it. I–”

“Silly girl!” Eshu interrupted harshly. He pointed at the black-hooded god. “Heed Oxossi’s words, heed them well!”

“Samedi thought that if he let you into the Stables, he would have your soul. He did not expect you to kill the horse. No one has ever tried to kill the horses.” Oxossi, the black-hooded God, shook his head in disbelief and stared at her as one would an infant. “Do you know how many people they tricked before they found you? Did you really believe there was something special about you? Something stronger than the Gods?” His contemptuous laughter bounced around the cave. “You were presumptuous and selfish,” he snarled. “And now you have unleashed War.”

The being in the red hood was looking weaker by the second. He let his hand rest on Eshu’s shoulder.

“See! See what you have done to Ogun?” Eshu said, turning violently on Neila.

“The horse you killed…” Ogun started, his voice tired and shaky. Then he paused as if trying to focus his thoughts. ”The horse you killed was War and bloodshed and every person’s passions… their desires, their greed… and I reined them in. I tamed them and you set them loose.”

“That’s not what I wanted!” Neila said turning to the gods around her. “Not any of it! All I wanted was peace, I wanted to…”

“You cannot kill war without killing peace, Daughter,” said Ogun. “The price of peace is not the death of war. The price of peace is eternal war.”

He paused for breath. His knees buckled, and his three companions lunged to catch him. He managed to stand upright, waving the others off.

“Had we had your soul we could have carved a new horse out of it. But you fled and then you hid, and now the cycles are spiralling out of control. I can no longer tame your passions; I can no longer rein in War.”

Something minute snapped inside Neila’s chest. The ground was solid rock, and yet she felt an abyss open beneath her feet. It was filled with the angry voices of people killed before they could find their peace, of people who had died aching with regret. She hadn’t just killed the horse, she had slit a child’s throat and watched him burn, and yet she hadn’t saved a single soul. She had gotten drunk with a stranger and the world had paid for her hangover. Her head started to spin, tremors rocked her body. She looked into the abyss, but she would not let it swallow her.

“Take it now!” She yelled. “Take my soul now, I beg you. There are still people out there, millions of people who can be saved, millions of lives who shoulder no blame.”

Eshu leaned over and smiled hungrily.

“Not for much longer,” he said. “Soon Ogun shall fade. Then Oxossi will weaken and there will be no crops, and then Babalu Ayé shall weaken and disease will run rampant, and I… I will collect. For I am Eshu, and I am always.”

“When the cycles spin into infinity, the Orishas will withdraw and all will begin anew,” said Ogun. “For the soul you took for the crossing, you shall become the price of peace. You shall become War and I, Ogun, will rise again to tame you.”

The gods hummed. Several screens appeared circling her and the Orishas. In one, a tidal wave washed over hundreds of thousands of refugees; in another, cave dwellers descended into cannibalism over the body of a dead companion; in a third a mass of people looked like a den of cockroaches as they piled and stepped on top of each other, trying desperately to flee some unknown catastrophe. The screens merged into one, tightening, closing in on her and the humming gods, and then snapped shut.

The darkness was, and then it was no more. She was then, she was now, and she would be again. Through the obscurity she sensed something different: a mind with a purpose.

A small band of bipeds were crossing the border of their traditional hunting grounds into unknown territory for the first time. There were only a few tribes roaming the world, and fewer yet that had decided to expand beyond the bushes or rivers that marked their little territories.

She let herself drift over to the band, swirling unseen around their rough animal skin clothes, pricking her finger on their spears. They were fit, they were hungry, and they were nervous.

A few miles away, she sensed another band was also taking its first timid steps into the wider world. The two tribes had lived next to each other for hundreds years but had never met, and now both had depleted their resources.

She probed into the mind of a single deer, bringing it to graze halfway between the two tribes, and waited. They would meet soon and one of the tribes would want that deer more than the other, but which one?

She waited for them to meet.

This would be fun.

[1] Olokun: Orisha of afro-descendants taken into slavery.

Mame Bougouma Diene
Mame Bougouma L.P Diene, is a French-Senegalese American development worker based in Paris with a fondness for progressive metal, tattoos and policy analysis. He is working on his first publications this year (The Horse of War is his first) and blogs for the Times of Israel when he needs to blow some steam.

Story, Story: A tale of mothers and daughters

By Chikodili Emelumadu

In one town like this, not too long ago, lived an enterprising young girl. Ugonwoma, her parents called her, as she was the pride of their lives. She was so rich that she built a house in the village for her retired parents before any of her brothers could say taa! and painted it white so that under the sun it was like staring into the flare from a welder’s torch. People would use the house as a landmark in the village: “Take right until you come to the white house,” which made her parents very happy.

Her mother wore the latest cloth in the market and held her head high, for her daughter was young – had just finished university, in fact – and was doing strong things. Her father bought himself an ozo title; one could hear him laughing kwa-kwa-kwa as he sat with his friends on the veranda of his new house, drinking palm wine and eating bush meat, flicking flies with his horsetail whisk. Yes-men and boy-boys would sing his praise names from the compound below and he would get up to spray naira notes on them like manna. Life was good.

In a little while however, people started to whisper about this young woman and by extension, her family.

Ee-yi,” they said. “They think it is just to have money. Where are her suitors?”

“This one acts as if she is a man. Let us see if wealth will be enough to keep her warm at night.”

“Can wealth compare to children? Will money look after her when she is old?” they asked. Her newlywed mates jiggled their breasts, slapped their newly fleshed-out hips and laughed behind her back.

The young woman heard all this. She tried to ignore them; after all, what was her own? But the gist gathered momentum. Her father could no longer meet her eyes. He grew so taciturn that his jollification friends stopped coming around. He no longer called his daughter Ugonwoma. In fact, he rarely called her anything at all.

Her brothers began to gloat. They knew the oko man could not say anything to their strong sister after he had followed to chop her money so they took up arms on his behalf.

“You won’t go and marry?” they crowed. “Your mates are on their fourth kids and you’re still here, clinging onto your father’s surname!”

“You eat shit,” she retorted. But deep down, the loss of her father’s approval and support wounded her. She gnashed her teeth and said to herself, “He is treating me like an orphan upon I have given him more than all his sons put together.” And she too stopped speaking to her father.

Her mother called her into her room one day and tried to make peace.

“My daughter,” she said. “It’s time to take a husband. Yes, marriage is not beans, but it is like that because the world is not just a playing something. You need someone so that you are not like the lone tree in the path that everyone cleans their machetes on.” She touched her daughter on the arm. “Your father has to be hard or people will think he is encouraging your stubbornness.”

Her daughter scrunched up her face like a latrine newspaper. She took her hand away. “So it’s because of husband that my father refuses to give me mouth?”

The mother rubbed her hands together, pleading. “I have seen things on my knees that you, my daughter, have yet to see standing on your own feet. I am your mother, I will not lead you astray,” she said. “Find someone. If our men are too frightened of your strong chi, there are others. The world was not made yesterday.”

The formerly-young woman picked at her mother’s words like a seed stuck in between her teeth until it was all she could think about. She concluded her mother must be right. One day she went on her usual travels and returned with a foreigner, a man she called “Dalin” whom she said she would marry.

Her mates threw themselves on the floor, laughing. They said “Ewo, this one has gone and bought herself a husband!” But when they saw Dalin; tall as a palm tree, dark, with muscles that resembled tubers of yams, strutting around as if he possessed two penises under his trousers, they ate their words. They were charmed by his open-teeth and the way he spoke English with barely-moving lips as if he was afraid to bruise the words sliding out between them. They envied the way he held his wife’s waist where people could see while their own husbands would only touch them under the cover of darkness. They heard him call her “Honey” without flinching. The woman’s name became Honi to everyone too.

During the igba nkwu, they forgot all the bad things they said about her as they hit spoons on their teeth and swallowed enough fufu to fell a herd of elephants. They drank so much palm wine that even most manly among the men could not find his father’s house afterwards.

Time passed. Honi and Dalin settled down to married life. She still made money by simply pointing at things and he – well, apart from the two-penis matter – nobody seemed to know what he did exactly. It was not important. They were happy.

More time passed and Honi, who had not been so young to begin with, started to worry that she was not pregnant. It would not have worried her so much if she did not know  her husband wanted children; but she knew, and he did, and so she worried.

“Don’t stress,” he said to her. “It’s okay if it is me and you. I love you die.”

Honi still worried and worried and her husband caught her fever, especially when his own mother found Facebook and started harassing him every day in front of everyone.

“Come wife, there is one native doctor like that in my village that gives twins,” he said. And they took a bottle of prayer drink Schnapps and some kolanuts and an envelope of crisp naira notes and went to see him.

The native doctor said “Eat this,” and “Drink this,” and gave her a vial of glittery blackish flakes that turned to powder when she rubbed it between her fingers to take home. “That is the menstrual blood of a woman who has borne seventeen children for her husband. Add it to your bathing water. Make sure the water is hot.”

Her husband smiled and produced the gifts they had brought with a flourish. The native doctor blessed them. Honi pinched her nose as she bathed with the pink water that made her smell of a poultry slaughterhouse. Her husband gingered her up. After a month, it became apparent the native doctor’s blessings were working on someone because Dalin got a job out of state. Nobody seemed to know what exactly. He was gone for one day a week. Then two. Then three.

On a hot afternoon as Honi drove home, a neighbour stopped her by the gate of her compound, clapped her hands and said, “Ee-yi, woman, stay there. You don’t know your husband has left you?” and the woman went into her house and noticed the things that were not there that were supposed to be and her life fell apart.


After the woman walked around her house, noticing the gaps where things used to be, she ended up in the kitchen store. Her husband had taken all the sacks of rice and beans, and all the tubers of yam and plantains. He did not leave behind the cornflakes and coffee, salt and sugar. Even ordinary bottled water, he collected. The woman saw he had been in a hurry. A smashed-open gallon of palm oil lay on its side, pouring out congealing orange blood.

The woman slumped on her nwanyinoduluokwu and put her hand under her chin. “So this man not only left me but wants to starve me as well?” and she wept, tears flowing down her cheeks, hanging from her jawline like glass beads, dropping into the palm oil around her feet. For four market days, the woman sat on the kitchen stool crying because she had been fed excrement first by her father, and then her brothers, and now her husband had put pepper into her eyes. She felt the humiliation of the native doctor keenly. For what, kwanu, had she bathed in another woman’s menses-water? There was no baby to show for her efforts.

The next day, she woke up to a new sound. The congealed oil had vanished from the ground and in its place lay the most beautiful baby girl she had ever seen. The baby was fair, had dark curly hair, and dimples in her knees and her elbows. The woman picked her up, wonder all over her face, and held her to her chest.

The baby grabbed at the woman’s hair in closed fists and the woman  beamed. She knew the gods had shown her mercy. Here was her chance to do things the right way, a baby made from her own tears and her own sweat. A pure baby. She would raise her to be her own person, to never let anyone make her feel inferior.

“No man will pour san-san in my garri ever again,” she vowed.

At first, the woman did not plan to tell anyone about her good fortune. Which mouth would she have used to explain that kind of a thing? She locked herself away, nursing her baby girl who grew lovelier by the day. But soon the woman’s love grew until her stomach could not contain it. She rang her mother and let some of it spill from her lips.

The old woman was only too happy to come. She left the white, merry house in the village that her daughter had built, which by now was neither white nor merry – not since her husband died and his sons and their wives and children moved in, circling her head like vultures in search of carrion.


They named the baby girl Nmazuruahu and the woman became known as Nne Nma because she was her mother.

The girl was full of beauty! The dimples in her elbows and knees transferred themselves to her cheeks and the small of her back. She had a long neck and breasts that jiggled like agidi on her chest. When she smiled at her grandmother, the old woman’s arthritis seemed to vanish for days.

The women handled her delicately like a fresh egg; Nne Nma gave her the best clothes and latest gadgets. Her mother plaited her long, thick hair into different styles and her grandmother cooked her anything she wanted to eat. Nmazuruahu was not allowed to lift a finger. In spite of this, she did not spoil. She was sunny and respectful and if she wondered why she was never allowed to go out she did not voice it. She waved to school children from her third floor window as they trudged past in their chequered blue uniforms, before going downstairs for lessons with her tutor.

“But what story will you tell her when she becomes older?” asked the grandmother, watching the girl bounce downstairs, plaited hair flying.

“When she gets older, we will decide,” said her mother. “I am not letting her out of my sight.”

The grandmother had been going to put her mouth and say that children were like plants who needed tending, yes, but also space to grow. Instead she swallowed her spittle and shuffled away. Her mothering days were behind her and besides, she still felt guilt at the part she played in her daughter’s failed marriage.


The morning of Nmazuruahu’s sixteenth birthday, harmattan winds blew with anger. Dust swallowed the entire house, making the marbled floors treacherous to walk on. The cleaners scuttled about, fighting the onslaught. When they tried to fill the tanks for the daily mopping, the water pump would not start. One look at the well told them the water levels had dropped.

They called around for a water tanker to come up the hill and when Nmazuruahu saw the vehicle, swaying and groaning its way up the hill, she was seized with an unusual excitement. She followed the men with her eyes as they alighted, especially the dark one who scurried up the outside of the tank-tower with the hose wrapped around his torso. As he reached the roof, his eyes caught sight of Nmazuruahu in her bedroom and he stopped dead.

Nmazuruahu was afraid to open her mouth. Her heart jumped about like a rat that had eaten sugar, her feet felt hammered to the floor. She could feel them sweating. The boy stood on the roof looking at her, forgetting everything but what was in front of his face. Because they were busy eating each other up with their eyes, they did not hear when his colleagues started up the pump. The pressure of the water pushed the man off the roof and he fell, crashing through a nearby guava tree and landing on the ground.

Nmazuruahu ran downstairs. She stood on the back porch and watched as the men hauled him away. He had been knocked out and water twinkled in his bushy afro like stars on a dark night. Nmazuruahu saw he was closer to her own age than she first assumed.

By the time her grandmother woke from her nap and came to find her charge it was too late. Nmazuruahu shivered as if from a malarial chill. No amount of sweet treats could tempt her up from bed.

Nmazuruahu, it seemed, had fallen in love.


Even after the well had been re-dug and the tankers were no longer needed, the boy still came to see Nmazuruahu. He would wait in the bushes behind her mother’s compound for the woman to leave for work and once she was gone, he would scale the fence on nimble feet, through the back door and upstairs to her room. Nmazuruahu’s tutor thought about saying something, but what was her own? Nmazuruahu learned faster than she could teach and had not needed lessons for months now. In fact, the girl was so intelligent that she had even finished materials not on the curriculum. The tutor did not want to do anything to jeopardise her bread and butter. She minded her own business.

As for the grandmother, happiness tickled her belly. She told herself that she had not interfered and so had nothing to feel guilty over. The girl had chosen a mate for herself. Who was she to stand in their way?

So the boy came, bearing two waterproof bags of kuli-kuli and tiger nuts and his flute. He would greet the grandmother on his way up, prostrating. She did not understand his language but good manners know no barrier. Grandmother would sit there tapping her feet to music that came from Nmazuruahu’s room, eventually falling asleep. She was always woke up to make sure that the boy left at the right time.

One day as Nne Nma returned home from work, a neighbour stopped her on the street. “Ee-yi woman, stay there. You don’t know that a boy comes to be with your daughter when you are not around?”

And the woman’s world fell apart a second time.


At first Nne Nma had been going to ignore her daughter. Her shock at having a neighbour poke her nose into her carefully-concealed business jarred, but she was prepared to look the other way. However as Nmazuruahu grew even more beautiful and filled out, her mother started to gnash her teeth. She began to mutter whenever her daughter was within earshot.

“If a man is hungrying you, just say so. I will understand. We can hire someone; men are like sand on the earth. Nothing special.”

Nmazuruahu wrinkled her fine nose. “Mummy, that is disgusting.” She left her food untouched that night and every other day after. Still her skin shone and her eyes twinkled.

“You don’t know what tune the gongs are playing,” said her mother. “The song is beyond your years.” She stopped going to work, determined to catch the boy and twist his ears. He did not show up. After a while she returned to work. When she came back, she could tell from her daughter’s open face that the boy had come around.

“You, what are you doing that someone is taking food from my mouth and eating?” she shouted at her mother. “Is this what you came here to do?”

“I am old, my daughter, I see no one. You know my eyes… and which leg will I use to pursue if there was such a person?” she raised up her wrapper to reveal knees swollen from the arthritis.

story story

Nne Nma huffed. She lay in bed and plotted to send Nmazuruahu away, but to whom? Nowhere was safe from the greedy men with their long throats and big eyes. Nmazuruahu was not only stunning, but smart and clever. She would also be very rich when her mother died. Where on this earth would she be safe? In the end she decided she must send her own mother back to the white house in the village and start a new life somewhere else with Nmazuruahu. She would drug the girl and steal away in the middle of the night, somewhere far, perhaps Hausaland.

“After all, my chi is awake. I can always start afresh elsewhere.” She started to make plans.

But the grandmother knew her own daughter. When extra bags of this and that started to appear in the house she said to herself: “She wants to send me to the village to go and die by myself.” She knew there was a chance she might never see her beloved granddaughter again in this life, so she called her.

“You have to run away, you and that boy. Your mother means to have me out of the way so she can do him harm.”

“But my mother would never do that,” said Nmazuruahu, biting her lips. She began to doubt all she knew. If it had been someone else saying this to her she would have laughed, but her mother’s mother? Perhaps she was right.

“I am only talking my own as your grandmother,” said the old woman, rubbing her hands together. “I want a chance to see my granddaughter happy with the man she loves; I want to live to see my great-grandchildren. If I go back to the village, my daughters-in-law will bury me before I am dead.”

Nmazuruahu was sick with love. She could not imagine being parted from the boy. She started to gather her things a little at a time. But she had no experience with deception and her mother suspected what she was doing when money started to vanish from her handbags. She entered Nmazuruahu’s room as the girl slept, searched her phone and found the proof she needed lurking in Whatsapp, signed with the childish code they too had used in their youth:

3 la4va2 ya45.

3 la4va2 ya45 ta44.

So, this foolish boy is trying to steal my daughter right from under my nose? Nne Nma thought. He thinks he loves my daughter more than I do? She modified her plans.

Nne Nma waited until the morning of the lovers’ rendezvous, went to the police station and bought as many uniforms as her money could buy – which was a lot. Even the ones she did not call followed her for the price of beer.

 They swarmed the house like a dark cloud and waited all day in the bushes for the boy to climb back over the fence.

Late in the afternoon, the boy’s bushy head appeared first. He had spread a jute sack on the spikes of the fence so that he would not cut himself. He turned and helped Nmazuruahu up. The woman looked at him. She watched his muscles bunch as he leaned over. They were like cocoyams under his skin. He was darker than night. Even sitting she could see he was tall and carried himself as if he knew all the secrets of the world’s creation. The woman put her hands between her teeth. Her stomach filled with rage.

“Shoot him,” she hissed to the corporal by her right. “You can see him stealing from my house. He is an armed robber.”

The corporal shrugged, took out his gun. They say the corporal had been exhausted from standing all day in the hot sun collecting dash. Some say he had already washed a bottle or two, nobody knows for sure. He took aim, he fired and the bullet flew into Nmazuruahu’s stomach. She tumbled off the wall.

“Nmazuruahu!” her mother shouted. The boy took one look at the policemen emerging from the bushes and picked race. Some policemen gave chase. Others drew slowly away from the scene in front of them. The corporal who fired his gun left behind only his boot prints to show he had been there.

Blood poured out of the girl’s wound. The light from the setting sun pierced through the bushes, turning it the orange of palm oil.

Nobody knows what happened to the woman or the grandmother. Some say she went berserk after her second loss, that you can sometimes find her talking to palm trees, trying to tempt them into giving her some of their juicy nuts. Others say she went ahead with her plan and moved, leaving her house to revert to farmland. But everyone knows where her daughter is.

On the spot where she died a flame tree grew, tipped with blazing orange and red flowers, a thing of such beauty that many forget themselves admiring it.

She stands there till this day waiting in the path that cuts through the bush, her crimson flowers a blanket of colour on the ground.

And whenever labourers finish their work, they wipe their machetes on her trunk.

Photo B&W

Chikodili Emelumadu is a Nigerian writer, journalist and broadcaster living in London. She turned down a possible glittering career in medicine for one involving words and penury. She has been published in Luna Station Quarterly, Eclectica and Apex magazines, and the now defunct Running Out of Ink magazine. Check out more of her work (and ramblings)on her blog,

Speculative fiction in Nigeria: A new Journey begins

By Mazi Nwonwu

I was perhaps eight or nine years old when my father told us the story of his encounter with a mythical being. What people in my part of Enugu State, Nigeria, call Oku Ikpa. The word Oku Ikpa translates loosely as ‘wild fire’ and the creature would correlate somewhat with the phoenix of European mythology.  I don’t know why, but that story, told to me when we lived in the northern city of Kaduna — thousands of miles away from the place of incidence and on an afternoon of telling ghost stories — stuck with me.

I don’t know if my father’s encounter was true or if he was just making things up, but I don’t need to close my eyes to see him bowed before that ball of fire on a lonely hill road, emptying his pockets to find something that would appease it, his RoadMaster motorcycle forgotten where it lay. Perhaps I was fascinated by the mystery: What exactly is the Oku Ikpa? Where does it go to when day breaks? Why, when a hunter once fired at it (as the stories say), did pieces of broken clay and calabash cutlery appear at the spot he shot?

I am not sure these questions led me to science fiction, horror and fantasy, but I recall thinking that many of the supposedly strange stories I read from JRR Tolkien, Anne Rice, Stephen King or Philip Jose Farmer didn’t appear at all otherworldly. I soon recognised that a copious amount of material for fantasy and science fiction existed around me. It was then that the urge to take a pen and put to paper stories about the fabled dwarfs who are supposed to grant wealth, or about Ananmuo where spirits travel from when they come to rule the night. I yearned to weave fables set in unfamiliar and unheard of scenes and to have an Emeka walk across the Martian pole. These yearnings, in time, became too great to bear.

I think it was in early 2010 that I came across a call for entries for a science fiction writing workshop in Lagos. I was elated, for at that time I had already written some fantasy and science fiction shorts and was itching to get some training to help me with my writing. I can’t recall what story I sent in as an entry, but I was over the moon when I got an email informing me I had qualified for the workshop.  That workshop birthed what is Nigeria’s first science fiction anthology, Lagos 2060, edited by Ayo Arigbabu.

Lagos 2060 was supposed to be Africa’s first science fiction anthology but it lost that pride of place to Ivor Hartmann’s AfroSF because of publication delays. For it, I submitted a story titled ‘Annihilation’ that imagined what Lagos would be like 50 years into the future. Written in 2010, it was my second attempt at writing science fiction and, until last year, my longest short story.

Science fiction is still very new in Nigeria, but while we could barely find 10 people to contribute to the anthology in 2010, there are now hundreds of writers who will readily try their hand at the genre. Just as I did, more writers are recognising that we have a copious amount of material for speculative fiction here in Nigeria. That means we need platforms where these stories can be anchored. To help this along, Chinelo Onwualu and I present Omenana, a bimonthly speculative fiction e-publication.

Mazi Nwonwu is a Lagos based writer and journalist with a bias for speculative fiction written primarily for Africans and from an African perspective.


A Winter in Lagos

By Saratu Abiola

The sky closed its eyes on Lagos at two in the afternoon, and in the cloudiness the wind howled fervently from Ikeja Market to Somolu, from Mafoluku to Isolo, from Bourdillon to Ibeju. Street hawkers ran to wherever it is they run to when it rains – rickety barbershop shacks, deserted buildings, under bare roofing sheets that covered roadside canteens. Reckless drivers tore their way down pothole-ridden streets, competing with the motorcycle taxis to get to their offices, their shops, their homes. Anywhere, as long as it was not on the street. Business-owners and bankers watched the darkening day behind glass windows, sipping from hot cups of tea and hoping the sky would clear up before they had to go home. Hairdressers looked through the windows of their salons and sighed, knowing not to expect too many customers if the weather kept up. Market women reluctantly cleared tables of items displayed outside their stalls. Owners of small roadside boutiques took their mannequins inside.

But there was no rain. Not a single drop.

When the sky turned dark in the afternoon for the fifth day running, people knew not to fear a downpour. They carried on with their business, casting wary glances at the sky as though it were a fearsome overlord. The weather was noticeably colder, much colder than normal.

Two weeks in, the weather became just one more thing that there was no point in bemoaning, like corrupt policemen and street thugs. While huddled into bars after work or visiting friends on weekends, people masked their discomfort in jokes. They knew Nigeria would become more like London one day, they laughed, but certainly not like this! Maybe the strangeness of the weather was God’s way of granting Nigeria passage into the higher echelons of world economic superpowers. One just needed to dress warmer until God worked the weather out. Nothing more.


After almost a month, the weather was taking its toll. The market was all business, more so than ever. Customers who usually stayed to chat were now quicker about getting their goods and heading to their cars. Impatient men in markets were desperate to put their hands back into their pockets after handing over bags of suya or giving customers change. Those who could afford to sent their maids or drivers to go shopping for them. People got used to chattering teeth on the other end of brief phone conversations.

Beggars crammed their way into the spicy, sticky warmth of the large indoor markets, fearing the unexpected cold and the numbness in their ears, fingers and toes that awaited them in the streets. They were shooed from one stall to another, then out of the market completely to huddle in uncompleted buildings whose hard, cold cement walls offered barely any warmth. The police, always so eager to clear the streets of diseased old men and children, saw the cold air do the work for them and thus leaned against their dark blue cars and trucks, smoking, laughing, or taking shelter like everyone else.

Those who had never been outside Nigeria found members of their families from whom to borrow a sweater, a scarf, gloves, a thick jacket. Nobody wanted to buy a heavy jacket, if they could help it. This was Nigeria, after all. Those who wanted to buy winter jackets could not find one just yet, in any case. People in Tejuosho and other major markets were still watching, still disbelieving, unsure if this was a passing chill. They didn’t want to risk buying tons of winter jackets from Kilburn High Street or Finsbury Park only for the weather to warm again when the goods finally shipped. Thermal underwear, though, they could risk, since it was fairly cheap. So they put out their long-sleeved shirts, denim jackets and socks, and smiled gap-toothed smiles at customers and extolled the virtues of layering.

By the third month, daytime temperatures had slipped to an average of twelve degrees. Offices with internal thermostats let the temperatures stay in the late 30s, something they’d never had any reason to do. In the evenings, when many returned home from work, most gave up on their air conditioning. God’s AC, people called it as they opened their windows a crack to let the cool air in. God’s AC.


When it was clear that the cool weather was going to stay for a long while yet, the crime rates at used clothing shops in markets soared. People would steal shoes, then a shirt, then another shirt, then a pair of trousers for those who only had shorts. Every day, a new thief would be chased through the obstacle course of makeshift stalls of fruit and fresh meat and plastic containers and open gutters with warm clothing cradled in his arms. The lucky ones were merely beaten, their stolen goods retrieved from them. Unluckier ones were killed. Police were not as available as they should have been to stop these killings, of course. Nobody wanted to be out in the cold if they could help it.

Newspapers urged the Lagos State government to act, and they did, getting police officers to do more patrols and see to it that the thieves were apprehended and taken to jail, not bound with tires and doused in kerosene and burned in the middle of the street. The officers returned to the streets; one here, two in a corner there, most huddled in their cars, wearing thick jackets.

By the fourth month, average daytime temperatures had slipped to eight. On a night with a low of two degrees, it rained. The sky above stayed blue-grey and indifferent. The wind howled violently against walls and cars, leaving windows, front doors and metal gates icy-cold to the touch. When the rain poured, it did so harshly, almost horizontally, before turning into hail. No one dared go outside.

Many small supermarkets closed. The cost of transport climbed. Already exorbitant taxi prices climbed even further, and the already cramped danfos and long government-issued buses could not keep up with demand. Bus conductors and passengers fought over daily fare charges until crowds formed in bus stops and the police had to intervene. Street hawkers jostled for space underneath bridges, causing even more fights among traders. They began to band together along ethnic lines: all Igbos, all Yorubas, all Hausas, forming their own clusters of makeshift stalls, each lit by kerosene lamps. Markets, already facing thinning crowds, saw their customers drop to a steady trickle of people. But market women soldiered on, braving the cold to catch even just a few of their customers. Wanting to avoid the rising cost of transport, many lobbied the government to let them sleep in the markets, but even that proved dangerous. Newspapers reported a spate of robberies of market women along the road in Somolu and Yaba and on Lagos Island. After a meeting among iyaloja, market women resolved to start their days around one in the afternoon to fend off the worst of the cold in the mornings, and leave at six in the evening, just before the temperature dropped and the icy wind howled in their faces like an impatient driver.


 The rate of attendance at night vigils in churches and mosques, asking the Lord to bring out the sun, increased. Iyaloja from markets all over Lagos and iyalode from various local governments led the movement, meeting with religious leaders and holding weekly meetings in major mosques and churches to pray. The Lagos chapter of the National Labor Congress joined them, and held conferences in each Nigerian geopolitical zone in solidarity. Newspapers called it the Call Out the Sun Movement. TV cameras captured the scene – traders and labour officials sitting in crowded halls on Lagos mainland, fanning themselves with their hands but grateful for the warmth; dignitaries on the high table with bottles of water and packets of fruit juice; politicians taking the floor to applaud the workers and the “mothers of the nation” for their steadfastness and faith in God. When the news cameras stopped rolling, they passed around bundles of crisp N1,000 notes to the gathered crowd as a token of their appreciation of their strength. “Grease to their elbows,” they called it. By the third of such meetings, some traders and labour officials had broken from the larger prayer group and attracted their own media attention from the political leaders in their senatorial districts. These groups cleverly inflated the amount of money to rival political leaders to make them compete for the groups’ political loyalty. Each political party thought they had succeeded. Everyone left happy.

At four degrees and six months later, Rev. Ezekiel Majekodunmi took to the radio stations and his television program to proclaim that God had spoken to him in his dream about Lagos’s weather. Majekodunmi was a soft-spoken but charismatic pastor of average height with salt-and-pepper hair and a penchant for wearing old-fashioned tweed jackets with elbow patches. He was the General Overseer of a 600-member church called The Love Nation Ministries with two branches in Ikorodu and Ilupeju. The country was being tested, he said, and urged as many people as could hear his voice to pray and fast for two weeks, lest God bring forth a heavy downpour that would swamp the city and kill all the people in it. But, according to him, all was not lost. His voice was sombre in his weekly radio address when he asked all Bible-believing Christians to join him in what he called “a most necessary fasting period every day until the day of this massive downpour.” For the good of their very lives, he said, expressing the belief that the Lord would hear their cries.

Not everybody believed any of this, of course. Some pastors took to their podiums before the most ardent members of their congregations to address Rev. Majekodunmi’s radio message. Pastor Ebun Iyinoluwa in his televised sermon the following Sunday titled “Arrogance and Leadership,” declared arrogance in leadership a breach of trust, and spoke of some pastors who “ran errands that the Most High God did not send them on.” Pastor David Asemota in his own televised sermon that same Sunday titled “Leading the Flock Aright,” reminded all present that “many are called but few are chosen,” and warned all “false prophets” not to “joke with the matter of the Lord’s anointing.” In a television interview on the popular Christianity Today, U.S.-born Nigerian pastor Rev. Wale Sowemimo spoke pointedly about how Christians — but truly all Nigerians — should be wary of “snake-oil salesmen who would try to make hay out of our collective despair.”

Others were more direct in their criticisms. Rev. Olaniyi George, in an interview with The Sun, admonished Pastor Majekodunmi by calling him, “a small-time pastor trying too hard to be relevant with his devilish premonitions.” In an introductory segment on his radio show, Rev. Majekodunmi retorted by warning him to “watch his tongue concerning visions revealed unto others.” He noted that “John the Baptist was not given the same work as Jeremiah,” concluding that “You cannot do what I was called on earth to do, nor reveal what the Lord has given me to reveal.”

Rev. George was the kind of pastor who it seemed nobody but his congregation liked. He was known for his outbursts on Nigeria’s corrupt politicians and what he had once called, in a well-attended Christian convention, “the unfortunate Nigerian impulse to spend, spend, spend on flashy cars and big houses.” None of this constrained him from accepting gifts of cars and vacations from said politicians, nor repelled him from the owners of flashy cars who made up a sizeable number of his 2,344 registered church members. Controversial though he was, his strong and passionate followership meant that fellow pastors felt compelled to invite him to their prayer conventions, even if only to give him the shortest amount of time on the podium.

Art by David Motutu
Art by David Motutu

The Christian Association of Nigeria’s leadership tried to quell the rift, but could not. Several white-garment church pastors and their congregations had already aligned with Rev. Majekodunmi. Even within the congregations of churches that did not buy into the End of Lagos idea many talked about it so much that junior pastors and chief overseers found themselves trying desperately to maintain equanimity. Those Christians who already believed Rev. Majekodunmi began preparing themselves to leave the city. Some Muslims began holding nightly vigils, even though they had no directive from their chief imams. On the matter of Lagos’s impending doom, the Mosque was conspicuously silent.


 Fewer people used the expressway the cooler the weather got. The weather had now gotten cold enough for the ground to be slippery with ice. After a night with temperatures at five degrees, a woman’s body was found on the highway. It was twisted at an awkward angle, her once-yellow and red wrapper loose and parted, showing a slip, barely concealing her thick, dark thighs. Her hair was a wild, bloody mess. The slippers she wore were splayed some five feet from her outstretched arms, her mouth gaping. It is unclear how her body had gone unnoticed; doctors say she had been dead for three days.

Lagosians saw photos of the woman’s body on the front page of every major newspaper that dreary morning. Street hawkers, the first to have seen the body, talked to each other about the ice on her body, their eyes wide with morbid fascination. She had been in a hit-and-run accident, the doctors told news reporters. She had probably been unconscious for a long time and would not have felt her legs before she died. Hypothermia had as much a hand in her death perhaps as much as her getting hit by a car.

On the nightly news, doctors talked about the effect that exposure to cold weather could have on the skin and the need to dress warmly. The Lagos State Government sent out public service announcements urging drivers to drive slowly at the recommended speed of 20 mph, pedestrians to use pedestrian bridges and be wary of puddles of ice when walking on the roads.

Days got progressively colder. People would wake up to ice in their driveways, on their windowpanes, on their windshield wipers, filling potholes, forming on garbage heaps, freezing the wood on street sellers’ shacks. People slipped and fell constantly, cursing the icy ground beneath their feet. Some street hawkers braved the cold to sell phone credit and bootleg DVDs, but even they relented when they saw how loathe people were to linger on the streets; they stood outside gates of offices and gated estates instead.

Used to recklessly whipping past, Lagos drivers now had to worry about poor visibility, ice filled pot-holes and car heaters that ate up weak car batteries. Lagosians did not know their car cooling systems needed a water-coolant mix, or that their batteries might need changing, or that their cheap tires were beginning to show their worth. More cars began to break down, leaving their owners who would never fill up their tanks to save money, stuck shivering in their cars in the middle of the highway. The Lagos State Government set up mechanic shelters on major highways alongside the highway ambulances and put their contact numbers on billboards. Smart mechanics figured out the cold’s impact on tire pressure and the need to flush out and service radiators regularly, but that was it. Most people’s cars still struggled to start every morning.

A young customs officer and businessman Bayo Adigun started to import portable block heaters that one could plug in one’s home and then put in the car to warm up the engine quicker. It worked, but only for those who would afford it.

The International Association of World Meteorologists sent out a missive saying that they were expecting the first snowstorm in Lagos’s history on the 23rd of the month. Journalists and observers from around the world filled all the flights entering Lagos. They covered stories on the dismal effect of the weather on the banking sector, transportation, the informal economy. The Lagos State Government flew in weather scientists and climate change experts from around the world in a hurriedly slapped-together conference to weigh expert opinions against the city’s reality. All that was clear was that there was nothing Lagos could do but wait.

With news of the snowstorm, the image of the dead woman in people’s minds and Rev. Majekodunmi’s predictions, Lagos saw a mass exodus. People who could afford to flew out to Abuja or Port Harcourt, Accra or Dakar, London or Dubai. Ticket prices out of the city soared by an average of 25 percent.  With ice on the roads leading out of the city, those who imported car parts assisted in the exodus by equipping their own cars with ice protectors and then charging up to N20,000 per seat in their heated buses.

But most people could not afford to go anywhere. Lagos was full of people from somewhere else. It was a place where you belonged to simply because you were not from there, could not ever be from there. Lagos was not home and because of that, Lagos felt more like home than anywhere else. So, even in the event of impending disaster, with no one forcing them to go, most Lagosians stayed.


On the 23rd, the day of the storm, daytime temperatures hit freezing point. The Lagos State Government sent a public service announcement on all major radio stations and on television encouraging all Lagos citizens to stay calm, admonishing all to stay indoors i for fear of frostbite and hypothermia and promising that government services would be up and running within days of the snowstorm.

The cold owned the city that day, blowing down empty roads, freezing to stillness the blue-green slime in the open gutters, chilling the air beneath bridges and past the Marina, stripping the trees by the university in Akoka. The Atlantic Ocean below the Carter and Third Mainland Bridges turned icy and shone in the gloom of the day.

The storm was to hit at 4:30 in the afternoon. White garment church members, almost effervescent in their silky robes, gathered barefoot beneath wooden shacks on street corners and rang their golden bells for prayer. Non-denominational churches, like Rev. Majekodunmi’s congregation, also formed groups in their neighbourhoods from Ikotun to Ikorodu, from Ipaja to Apapa, from Okokomaiko to Ketu. Some few thousand gathered on the icy-cold streets to raise their voices in praise-songs and prayer while the wind picked up speed and the snow began to fall.

The snow fell lightly, at first, barely spotting the roads before it picked up in intensity, falling in sheets over cars and buildings and open dustbins and over abandoned wooden shacks. The harder the snow fell, the more the wind sent the snow’s downward fall in all directions until all one could see outside was a white haze.

Rev. Majekodunmi himself led a group of thirty churchgoers in Ilupeju prayers under a wooden shack. They stayed outside through the snowfall, reaching ungloved hands into the cold air, praying against destruction and for strength. They stayed below the wooden shacks that held no warmth and barely any comfort while the weather dropped deep into the negative digits. The wind bit like an animal into their skin and made a mockery of their layered clothing. The icy wind numbed their raised arms and froze their feet in their shoes. Many among the praying crowd lost their nerve and their numbers thinned. But the pastor made no move to leave. He let them go, oblivious as they turned to look at him; his back turned towards them was as accusatory as the harshest words could have been. An hour into the storm, when the snow turned to hail and the hail to icy rain, only 65 remained outside across different Lagos neighbourhoods. They shivered frighteningly with their hands turning blue and numb.

After an hour and a half outside, even the most adamant of the prayer group members relented. Even indoors, wrapped in blankets with feet immersed in hot water and noses rubbed with Heatol and Robb and plied with cups of hot tea, they continued to shiver for hours afterwards. Their feet, ears and noses continued to tingle. The longer they stayed indoors, the more their arms and legs burned. Blisters formed all over their skin. They did not know that these were the symptoms of frostbite and hypothermia. All they knew was that something was wrong but that the hospital was out of the question, at least until the storm passed.

Rev. Majekodunmi prayed so fervently that he did not realise that his group of thirty had dissipated and that he was all alone. When he opened his eyes, he saw no one around him, but a figure stood at a distance, mere feet or further he could not tell – it was hard to gauge distance with all that snow and the weather so obscured his vision. This figure wore dark clothing and seemed to be staring straight at him. Barely feeling the numbness in his toes or the cold hitting his skin like pain, he tried to call out to the figure, but the wind swallowed his words. He screamed again, but the figure walked away slowly, gracefully, as though his feet were barely touching the floor, Rev. Majekodunmi found that he could barely keep up. He tried running, but slipped and fell against a car parked outside a house painted brown with a green roof. The hail was slowly turning into a harsh, thunderous, icy rain. The figure was gone. Rev. Majekodunmi screamed. His heart beat faster than he had ever felt it before. He did not know when the members of his church, worried after going back to the shack and not seeing him, set out in raincoats and flashlights to look for him in the rain. When they found him, half his body was buried beneath a car. He was muttering to himself with lips turned a dark shade of blue. His skin was paler than normal. His skin felt icy, like a frozen fish.

The storm lasted ten hours. When it was over, people took tentative steps wearing sneakers and leather shoes out to their balconies or their front gates to survey the street, careful not to slip on the ice. A wintry mix of snow and hail and icy water filled gutters and potholes, and blocks of ice froze the already-clogged drainage system. People were afraid to venture beyond their residential areas, afraid to see what the storm had wrought on major roads. Despite the announcement from the government, nobody believed the workers would clear them in time. It was entirely possible that many of them would stay virtually unusable for days, if not weeks, to come. Phones were down. Electricity was down. Nobody knew when to expect them to return, but Lagos stood.

Lagos still stood.

Saratu Abiola is a writer based in Abuja.
Saratu Abiola is a writer based in Abuja.

Mami Water: Calm Waters

By Kelsey Arrington

“That neverending nurturing you need, the sea has it.” – Nayyirah Waheed

Mami Wata is a water spirit celebrated throughout Africa and the Diaspora.

Believed to be the bringer of good and bad fortune, a healer of the sick and nurturing mother, Mami Wata is a complex representation of good vs evil.

Photo: Kelsey Arrington
Photo: Kelsey Arrington


Often portrayed as snake charmer or mermaid, Mami Wata is described as a woman of excessive beauty.

Taking the form of a mermaid, Mami Wata can be seen splashing in the waters at the end of a rainbow after a heavy storm before descending into the magical realm in which she resides…a whimsical world of unrestrained fancy.

Kelsey Arrington is a photographic and mixed media artist working in  Detroit MI (USA). Kelsey will graduate from the College for Creative  Studies with a BFA in Photography in May 2015. Kelsey's work explores  the intersections of cultural and philosophical ideas about dreams and  identity. Her concepts often involve elements of afrofuturism, magic  realism and the African Diaspora.
Kelsey Arrington is a photographic and mixed media artist working in  Detroit MI (USA). Kelsey will graduate from the College for Creative Studies with a BFA in Photography in May 2015. Kelsey’s work explores the intersections of cultural and philosophical ideas about dreams and identity. Her concepts often involve elements of afrofuturism, magic realism and the African Diaspora.

The Unbearable Solitude of Being an African Fan Girl

By Chinelo Onwualu

Being an African fan girl is a strange, liminal thing. You’re never quite sure that you exist, you see. A part of you is rooted in your culture and its expectations for how a woman ought to behave – church, family, school – but another is flying off into the stars carrying a samurai sword and a machete. Not one thing or another, you’re both at the same time.

It doesn’t help that you’re invisible. In all the representations of geek culture, in all the arguments for inclusion, it doesn’t seem like your voice can be heard. After all, shows like The Big Bang Theory which are supposed to be modern representations of geeks and their culture seem entirely populated by white people with plenty of free time and disposable income. If you don’t look like that, don’t have that kind of money or time, are you still a geek? If a tree falls in the forest… Even in the niches that have been carved for ourselves on the continent, you are still a strange, semi-mythical beast – the only woman at Lagos Comicon who wasn’t working or attending with her significant other.

And what of those pop culture representations that have given you your identity? The books, movies, television shows and comics that formed the language of your childhood and helped you understand notions of heroism and virtue? Even in them your reflection is distorted.

The mutant Storm who you discovered in middle school is an African woman, certainly. But her tribe is made up. And remember that episode of the cartoon that took us back to her childhood in her village? Remember how you noted that her snow white hair was straight even then and you wondered where on earth she had found the time and money to relax her hair? And don’t forget your horror when you rewatched Conan the Destroyer and realised that Grace Jones’ Amazon, whom you’d long cherished for her fierceness, her beauty and her strength, was a racist stereotype.

You look on in anger and despair as the black female characters on your favourite shows are too often written as stereotypical or one-dimensional. They aren’t allowed to grow or learn and are too quickly dispatched to make way for someone or something deemed more interesting. Their bodies – and by implication yours – are the site for the unconscious racism and sexism of the writers and their fans. You wonder: “If people hate Tara from True Blood, or Gwen from Merlin, and Martha from Dr. Who – black women who are smarter, more beautiful, and far more interesting than I am – so much, then how much more will they hate me?”

You watch as your entire continent is reduced to a black man yodelling nonsense and white children dressed in feathers and face paint in an “Africanised” version of a popular song and you seethe. Quietly, for among your people it is not seemly for a woman to make too much noise.

You understand that geek culture is supposed to be the refuge of the misunderstood. All of us were at one point the kid who stayed inside during recess reading in the library rather than playing with the others. We were the ones pretending to have lightsaber battles when the other kids were playing soccer. Your Barbie dolls never played house; they were too busy exploring the alien landscapes of your bedroom floor and befriending the monsters under you bed. None of us fit into the easy boxes of our societies – you know this. But when you see that the self-appointed gatekeepers of the world you claimed before you knew they existed have erected wall to keep out members of your sex and race, it can’t fail to hurt.

So you turn away.

After all, you have always existed in isolation. Your favourite books were not ones you could discuss with your friends who always gave those puzzled, pitying looks when you mentioned them. You watched your favourite shows in your bedroom, laughing into the silence while your family avidly discussed the latest Nollywood film in the next room. You go to see your favourite superhero summer blockbusters by yourself, aware that you may be the only woman in the audience who has actually read the comic book that the movie is loosely based on.

You make sure to defend your beloved characters when they are denigrated, but you do so in your heart. You don’t have the unlimited bandwidth that your peers in richer countries do and in the empty spaces of the internet you’re never quite sure anyone is listening anyway. You pore over pictures of conventions far away, admiring cosplays you can’t afford to imitate and reading recaps of panels that you wish you could have attended. There are no libraries from which you can borrow the sci-fi and fantasy books being written today and you can’t really afford the few online portals which will accept transactions from your country and deliver to it, so you trawl e-zines for short stories. And in the eerie quiet of the early morning, you write your own stories. Worlds browner than the ones on screen, filled with women just like you who are torn between two identities.

You know you are not alone. There are thousands of women just like you all over the continent. They have fought to forge their unique identities outside of the prescribed roles they were expected to fill. They have kept that childhood sense of wonder and aren’t ashamed to squeal like schoolgirls when they get excited. They run when they are in a hurry and they take the stairs two at a time. Like you, they are still curious and aren’t afraid to ask questions, but they scattered like magic beans across a vast farm. They are growing into their own twisted shapes and no one around them can understand why.

So you call to them. You ask them to come and pour their hearts and stories into this space you’ve helped to create. You assure them that they are not alone, that in the vast spaces on the worldwide web, there are others like them. Like a song in the darkness you have put out your own story and you hope that they recognise its notes, and that they respond. For you may not have any answers; you may not have any original insights. But you know your own experience and you hope that that’s enough.

 Chinelo is  a writer, editor, journalist and dog person living in Abuja, Nigeria. She is a graduate of the 2014 Clarion West Writers Workshop which she attended as the recipient of the Octavia E. Butler Scholarship. Her writing has appeared in several places, including the Kalahari Review, Saraba Magazine, Sentinel Nigeria Magazine, Jungle Jim Magazine and the anthologies AfroSF: African Science Fiction by African Writers and Mothership: Tales of Afrofuturism and Beyond. She runs Sylvia Fairchild Editorial Services, a consultancy providing writing, research and editing services to individuals and organisations. For more of Her work, check out her now-defunct blog: or follow her on twitter via @chineloonwualu

The 4:15 Appointment

By Rafeeat Aliyu

Olachi’s head popped through the back door startling Taiye. “Your 4:15 massage is here!”

Taiye pressed the red button, cutting short the heated conversation she had been engaged in. Work was calling, village matters would have to wait. She tried calming herself down as she followed Olachi into the building that housed the elite spa they both worked in.

“What were you doing there?” Olachi frowned. “Your client has been waiting for a while now. Better pray Madam doesn’t come in.”

What was on Taiye’s mind far outweighed Madam’s wrath. Her brother needed money for a new laptop since his old one had been stolen, her younger sisters needed money for their school fees, the monthly allowance she sent to her mother was behind schedule…this did not even include the distant aunt who had called just now to demand why Taiye was yet to send the money she promised her into her account, a day had already passed since she had asked. Taiye dragged her hand across her face; at this rate she would be unable to pay the rent.

“This is the woman who will attend to you,” Olachi’s words dispersed her thoughts in four different directions. Taiye looked up to find her client seated on one of the sofas in the waiting area.

The woman’s skin was as yellow as a bar of soap. She wore an incredibly short skirt and a flimsy top that exposed a curved shoulder, her eyebrows were perfectly arched, eyeliner wings steady and lips zobo-red. The air around her screamed affluence and sophistication, she was probably one of those young women running around Abuja being sponsored by their sugar daddies, Taiye thought maliciously. The woman’s lips quirked, one corner lifted up slightly as she stared back at Taiye studying her. The slight movement made Taiye pause; she was suddenly assailed with the uncomfortable thought that the woman could read her mind. Impossible.

“Good evening ma.” she played subservient as Madam said the clients expected. Then came the introduction, “My name is Taiye,” and the apology, “I apologise for the wait. Kindly follow me.”

“I trust this room is to your taste.” Taiye shut the door to the dim room behind them. The scent of sandalwood along with the soft sounds of a gentle rain from the music player surrounded them. “You wanted the shea butter massage, ma?”

“Yes, and I hope it is good.” She dropped her bag on the floor. “I am already unimpressed with your services. It is just unfortunate that my usual spa is closed, I wouldn’t even consider coming here…”

Taiye blocked out her words and commenced preparing the shea butter, warming it up so that it melted and adding a few drops of calming lavender essential oil to it.

“I apologise, ma.” She said finally. “I will give you some privacy now, please take off your clothes and lie face up on the table.”

Taiye stepped out; her hands itched from wanting to slap that woman. It must be nice not to have any problems in one’s life apart from when and where to have a massage. They looked about the same age yet life had clearly dealt Taiye the heavier burden. She walked to the extreme end of the corridor and leaned towards an open window dragging in the dust-laden air deeply. Focus Taiye, she told herself. Five minutes later she was back in the room where her client waited. Shortly after, she started her work first stretching her client’s muscles. As she applied pressure on her client’s stomach, she admired the little ring that adorned her belly button. Taiye worked, kneading at the muscles and imagining how many men must be chasing after this woman, how she must entrance them.

She asked the woman to turn over, that was when things got strange. Taiye rubbed more shea butter on her hands and looked down on the smooth expanse of her client’s back in preparation. Just below the woman’s left shoulder blade was what looked like a painful bump, the kind that Taiye associated with being hit badly. Before Taiye’s eyes, the swelling shifted under skin and disappeared. A sharp pain pierced Taiye’s chest as she stood rooted to the spot, her hands unwilling to continue the massage. The bump appeared again, lengthened so it resembled a snake and slithered across her client’s back.

“Is anything the matter?” Her client’s lulled voice was a testament to her calmed state.

“No,” Taiye breathed. Then she shook her head so her voice came out stronger when she repeated, “No”.

She had to maintain her professionalism in the face of hallucinations. Taiye pressed her hands onto the woman’s shoulders; she slid them down her back and stared in horror as her hands sunk through the woman’s skin. She lurched, moving her hands back and forth but all she felt was lightness and all she saw were her wrists. Crying out her horror, Taiye jumped back pulling her hands with her. The woman lifted herself up on her elbows and regarded Taiye.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” Her demand was harsh but a lopsided smile occupied half of her face.

“I am sorry madam,” Taiye ignored the heaviness in her stomach.

“You seem distracted,” the woman continued. “Is everything all right with you? At home?”

She looked into the woman’s eyes; they seemed to change colour from black to a light hazel. At that moment Taiye thought the woman knew all about her.

“I don’t have all day,” the woman said. When Taiye did not reply, the woman lay back down on her stomach.

Taiye had never seen anything like this before – outside her dreams which, when she had them, always veered into the weird. She was definitely not asleep now. Taiye reluctantly approached her client’s prone form and tentatively touched her shoulder. Her skin was soft but not soft enough for her hand to be submerged in it, Taiye resumed the massage. By the end of the day, she had convinced herself that it had all been an illusion. A peculiar illusion drawn from the horror movie her boyfriend had forced her to watch last week.

She must have looked over her shoulder a hundred times as she walked down the dark street to her one-room home. The prayers she said before sleeping that night were more fervent than usual. They were ultimately useless because when she slept, all she saw was her 4:15 client.


 The only business Taiye could do and excel in was in her trade. On her day off, she kept herself busy by borrowing clients from Madam’s spa, offering them home treatments at rates that were just slightly lower than the standard home-service rates dictated by Madam. She not only borrowed clients, but equipment as well and had her boyfriend drop her when she needed to make things happen.

That day Taiye found herself stranded outside the gates of a high-class estate tucked away in Maitama with a folded table to her left and a box of aromatic oils and butters in her right hand. She tapped her right foot; Gregory had promised to pick her up and he was already fifteen minutes late. Taiye knew intimately how the guards at this estate enjoyed mistreating anyone who they regarded as poor, Nigerian and local, she did not want to give them a chance to embarrass her. The guards had already given her a tough time when she had entered the estate and were shooting daggers at her from their post five feet away. Taiye wiped her sweaty palm on her side and observed a fancy Mercedes SUV drive past her. She admired the dark red colour of the car and thought she recognised the person driving it, which was out of the question; no one she knew personally could afford such luxury. There was a loud screech as the driver pressed on the brake and shifted the car into reverse. When the car stopped before her, Taiye remembered where she had met the driver.

A month must have passed since that fateful day, yet standing in such close proximity to the woman, it felt like only yesterday. In some ways it was only yesterday considering the nightmares that had plagued Taiye since then. Taiye never recalled the dreams in detail beyond the strong impression that this woman had been in them. She had grown convinced that the woman was involved in some kind of occult activity, and that the woman wanted to initiate her – if she had not already. There was no other reason for her to be dreaming about someone she had only spent an hour and thirty minutes with.

“Taiye!” the driver called her as if they were friends. “Imagine seeing you here. How are you?”

“I am fine,” Taiye dared not to look at her. She did not even know this lady’s name.

“How come you’re just standing here?” The woman eyed Taiye. “Come on, let me give you a lift.”

“I don’t think you’re going my way,” Taiye pointed in the opposite direction of the gilded main gate.

“Come on, I can drop you off afterwards.” The front door slammed behind her as she exited the car. “How much longer do you intend to stand under the sun; those look heavy.”

If this woman was engaged in evil, would she be so eager to carry the folded table and deposit it in her car in such a carefree manner? There was always the option to run away, to find protection between any hallowed walls. Then there was the option to succumb, especially if it meant Taiye would be sitting behind the driver’s seat of a car like this Mercedes. There was also the possibility that Taiye’s imagination had run wild. Taiye chewed on her bottom lip and decided: she would only put up the least resistance. She settled into the plush leather passenger seat and reached for the seatbelt.

“I’m Lila.” The car was filled with a strong heady fragrance as she closed the door with too much force.

“Nice to meet you,” Taiye replied.

Lila’s laugh was high-pitched. “Why are you so formal? See you.” She slapped her hand on the wheel. “Sha, don’t start calling me ‘ma’, this is not the spa.”

As the car lurched forward, Taiye was suddenly assaulted by a memory that could only have come from one of those nightmares she had had recently. Lila standing still and nude; Taiye recognised her even though her face was distorted, as if she was wearing a mask. Her eyebrows seemed bushier, her eyes bigger, her mouth wider and higher on her face and her chin long and pointed, curved outward. Despite her grotesque appearance, Taiye recalled shamelessly lamenting to the Lila in her dreams. Her issues with her family and her need for money poured out of her mouth like water from a kettle’s spout. It was always about money, right until she would find herself wrist deep in Lila again but this time Lila’s body took her arms, then her torso and her head. Worst of all, it had felt good. Heat flooded through her, but Lila was saying something and Taiye was not listening.

“…so I will just branch by my place and pick up a few things.” Lila finished.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I needed to pick something from my house, I live in this estate.” Lila snickered. “Or did you think I was here to meet my sugar daddy?”

Taiye squirmed in her seat; luckily Lila did not even wait for her to reply.

“We’re there already. See.” She swerved right and pressed on the car horn in a long and protracted way until the gate shifted.

The black gate was pushed back by an old woman almost bent double. The elder looked like she was going to fall over at any moment yet she continued until the gate was wide enough for Lila to drive through. Taiye’s eyes met the old woman’s sombre ones; surely there was a limit to who should be doing the work of a housegirl. Taiye sat still while Lila jumped out of the car.

“Mama!” Lila screamed at the old woman. “We have a guest.”

Taiye’s mouth fell open. She looked from Lila with her curly weave-on and shiny nail tips to the old woman modestly dressed in an old worn blouse and a faded wrapper around her waist, its dull print suggesting it was as old as the woman. The door to the passenger’s side jerked open.

“Don’t tell me you plan on sitting here, the windows are rolled up, you could die!” Lila laughed. “Abi you’re scared? Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” She winked.

The entire episode was too strange. Knees throbbing, Taiye looked at the gate that the so-called Mama was sliding shut. She could still run away. Then she mentally slapped herself; why, this was an opportunity! Even if there were no occult activities or initiation involved, there must be some goodness that would come her way from rubbing shoulders with someone like Lila. If she looked on the bright side, soon Taiye would cease her lamentations of poverty. She slid out of the SUV. The house was two stories high, and looked too grand for just one person, Taiye could not picture a family behind the bewildering Lila. Inside the mansion, everything looked new. There was no helping it, Taiye thought back to where she lived, her one room with the mattress she slept on in one corner and the stove she cooked on in another. It was a huge stroke of luck that she had her own bathroom.

Lila led her straight to her bedroom on the upper floor with its queen-sized bed overflowing with stuffed pillows.

“I just needed to change…but I’m sweaty, I should have a bath too.” Lila peeled off her jeans while Taiye averted her gaze. “I hope you don’t mind. Mama will bring something for you to eat.” She shouted the last sentence, as if she wanted Mama to hear her from downstairs.

Taiye found herself alone, her feet sunk into the plush carpet as she looked around. There were no personal effects at all; no photos on the walls, in fact apart from what looked like wallpaper the walls were bare. The door opened and Mama entered in carrying a tray of juice and small chops, she set the goodies on a low table beside the bed. Mama’s head cocked as she regarded Taiye.

“You are one of the ugliest that witch has brought home.” Her whisper was harsh and her English was peppered with an accent that suggested some time spent abroad, it completely contrasted with her image.

Taiye frowned as Mama fired on. “You should see yourself, standing and gaping like a poverty-stricken idiot. You must be a fool for choosing the company of that harlot.”

“Mama…” Heat flooded Taiye’s face.

“Don’t you dare call me Mama, do I look like your mother?” She kissed her teeth viciously. “You idiot.”

Taiye flinched at being berated by an elder for no apparent reason. The woman words cut like a knife and she fired on so Taiye had to block her out. She sipped at the juice and marvelled at the smoothness of the mango. Despite her best efforts as she nibbled on a samosa, words like “worthless” and “mumu” passed through her mental wall. She must have really looked like the fool Mama thought she was perched at the edge of the bed, eating quietly while being insulted when Lila emerged from the bathroom with a wrapper tied over her chest.

“Mama is that really necessary?” Lila stood akimbo. “You know better than this, go feed on someone else.”

Taiye watched as Mama shrunk visibly, and despite her harshness she felt sorry for the elder.

“Mama, you’ve grown horns to be insulting my guest in such a manner.” Lila pushed open the door to the closet. “Sometimes it is like your forget it is a blessing that you’re even alive.”

“I have done nothing wrong.” Mama’s eyes followed Lila’s movements, hands clutched to her chest. “I have not eaten in days and you forbade…”

“Will you get out of this room!” Lila eyes were white in rage. “In fact get out of this house, of this estate! Go back there and see what will happen to you. And if I hear that you fed without my permission…”

Lila’s glance fell on Taiye and softened.

“Leave this place, Mama.” Rolling her shoulders, she inhaled deeply. Two sets of eyes watched the old woman as she scurried away. Lila smiled at Taiye, her smile was so wide it reached her eyes.

“I am sorry about that.” She turned her attention back to the closet stuffed with clothes. “Mama can be unseasoned.”

“But should you…” Taiye’s voice broke, she pushed herself to continue. “Should you be talking to your mother in that manner?”

Art by David Motutu
Art by David Motutu


“I shouldn’t, right?” Lila extracted a red top. “But I give her all the respect she deserves by calling her Mama and providing a roof over her head. How did you feel when she was talking to you?”

“I…I felt bad.” Taiye lowered her gaze as Lila lowered her wrapper.

“Imagine, I grew up with that every day. That woman feeds on negativity.” Lila said. “She has not one loving bone in her body.”

Lila had mentioned her mother feeding but it seemed she meant it figuratively.

“Help me zip up, Taiye.” Lila showed Taiye her back. What Taiye had mistaken for a top turned out to be a dress. “Tell me, how do I look?”

She twirled round playfully. Taiye took in her bare feet and let her gaze travel up to the curls she had packed in a bun. She looked stunning. Taiye knew such a look would never befit her.

“You look great.” Taiye breathed. Such skimpy clothes would look horrible on her; there was no need to even imagine herself decked in such a daring fashion.

“Would you like to try something on?” Lila read Taiye’s mind. “Actually I have a dress that would look excellent on you.”

Taiye had to decline. “I have overstayed…”

“Nonsense.” Lila held a green flimsy thing in her hands. “Today is your day off Taiye, let me take you out.”

“The truth is my boyfriend is waiting for me.” Taiye swallowed.

Lila advanced until she stood in front of her. “Forget Gregory.” Reaching for Taiye’s hands, she pulled her up.

“I did not…” Taiye stammered. “How do you know his name?”

“I think you know.” Lila’s fingers were on the buttons of Taiye’s shirt, undoing them one by one. “At the very least you should have an idea. Now, are you coming out with me or not?”

Taiye held her shirt closed with both hands, nodded her consent and slipped into the bathroom.


“Taiye, you look gorgeous.” Lila remarked. “Your skin tone complements this colour.”

This was the first time anyone had complimented her on her skin tone, no one had teased her, but no one had offered her honeyed words for her sepia tone either. It felt akin to sacrilege to put a designer dress on her dirty sweaty body. Her dimpled thighs should not be exposed, and her father would roll in his grave if he saw her wearing a dress that revealed her back. But Lila had called her gorgeous. Taiye stared at herself in the mirror; she looked wild, like an alluring temptress. Was it possible that one dress and a bit of makeup could have this effect? Or was Lila’s aura rubbing on her already?

“Thank you.” She wanted to pinch herself, there was a longing in her voice; she did not want to give up this dream.

“You look delicious.” Lila’s head appeared beside her own in the mirror, her chin burrowed into Taiye’s shoulder. “Are you ready to join me for an adventure?”

Downstairs there was someone waiting before the front door, from the distance Taiye could make out a slim figure shrouded in a green caftan

“Olokunfemi,” the woman in the caftan cautiously turned to face them. “You’re going out to eat and won’t even show the slightest mercy to Mama.”

“Before you start accusing me sister, I have a guest.” Lila stooped to slip on her high heels. “Taiye, this is my sister Yazmin.”

As Taiye greeted her, she noticed Yazmin’s eyes were murky, unseeing. Nonetheless Yazmin was as beautiful as her sister, though plainly dressed in a caftan and without makeup.

“We will have this discussion when you come back.” A frown marred Yazmin’s brow as her blind gaze moved over the wall near Taiye. “I did not notice you had company.”

“That’s rare of you.” Lila let her bought hair down from its bun and dragged her fingers through its mass. “Before you disappear at least come and open the gate for me.”

Taiye would not ask questions. Her nails dug into her palms as her phone vibrated in the bejewelled clutch bag Lila had lent her. She would not ask why her sister had called her by that name, nor would she demand to know the sense behind sending a blind woman on such an errand.

“I can open the gate.” Taiye offered. Lila shrugged and headed for her car.

“Taiye,” Yazmin called out as Taiye followed Lila’s footsteps. “You should know that anyone you meet in this house is more than you can possibly imagine.”

Her hands stilled on the doorknob. “I don’t understand.”

“That is the least you should know if you are going to be hanging around my sister.” A blaring horn startled Taiye into action. She was out the door before Yazmin had the chance to say anything else.

As the SUV wound through the streets of Abuja, Taiye studied her phone. Eleven missed calls, most of them from Gregory. She turned off her phone; if she wasn’t here she would be at home preparing efo-riro for the dinner she would share with Gregory. At that moment Taiye decided she much rather preferred Lila’s company. It must have been the years of repression, the years of taking responsibility for her siblings as the first daughter, the years of looking for work so that money could be sent home after her father had passed away, it must have been a culmination of all her experiences that made Taiye this eager to give herself over to temptation unheeding. As night drew closer, Lila drove them to a inconspicuous-looking house. Past the gates and behind the multi-storied building, a party was in full swing in the backyard. Taiye kept her head down, ignoring most of the crowd as Lila wove her way through it.

“Ah there is Chairman.” Lila reached for Taiye’s hand and walked towards the short man decked in a pricey suit. She introduced him as the owner of a successful supermarket chain in Abuja and Kaduna. To the Chairman Taiye was “my friend.”

The three of them settled down on lawn chairs and as the evening progressed, Taiye felt more out of place. Her two companions were discussing things that were foreign to her, like the benefits in importing used cars from South Korea as opposed to China. There were servers carrying trays of colourful drinks that exploded in Taiye’s head making her groggy. When the Chairman rose to his feet and Lila with him, Taiye mirrored their movements. It was not long before she found herself in a room with the two of them, the intention of the Chairman clear as day.

The penthouse suite of D-Suites in Maitama was a muted affair. It was not exactly how Taiye would have pictured the most expensive room of such an establishment. She barely had time to scrutinise the brown and gold décor of the sitting room when Lila took her hand and dragged her through to the bedroom behind the Chairman. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling and the two lamps on each side of the bed were lit, all of them highlighting the queen bed in the centre of the room.

The Chairman lay on his back on the wide bed, Lila straddling him. It seemed normal enough when Lila lowered her head to kiss him. Taiye had to look at something else other than those two. The colourful clock on the wall by her left was a good enough distraction; it was frozen at five minutes past seven. Even with her gaze somewhere else Taiye could hear them; the wetness of two lips meshing, soft groans and low moans. Then there was a faint gurgling sound like the last of water going down a drain. The strange sound drew Taiye to tilt her head slightly in the direction of the bed in the hopes of catching a glimpse. She blinked. From where Taiye stood she could clearly see what looked like water spilling out from the side of Lila’s mouth, which was glued to the Chairman’s. Lila’s hands were flat on the Chairman’s chest and below her the prone man struggled. Someone as slight as Lila was, compared to the Chairman’s broad frame, should not have been able to hold the grappling man down, yet Lila did not loose her grip on the Chairman until his movements stilled.

“Finally!” Lila gasped, flinging her head back. She turned to smile at Taiye who shook in her shoes. “Taiye help me with this.” She was pulling at Chairman’s tie. When it loosened, Lila’s deft fingers were slipping buttons out of their holes exposing a hairy chest and a slightly paunchy stomach. The sound of her own breathing was heavy in Taiye’s ears. She should leave.

“There’s no way you can leave now Taiye.” Lila placed both hands on the Chairman’s still chest. “Sit down.”

There was a magnet in the lone chair situated near the bed and it drew Taiye’s behind. She sat on it just in time to see Lila’s hand sink through the Chairman’s skin. Lila moved her hands, drawing them apart and down, opening the Chairman up. Taiye tasted blood in her mouth; her teeth had gnawed at her inner cheek. She had seen this before, back at the spa and then again in those nightmares. Instead of guts and gore, a grey light spilled out from inside the Chairman. Lila leaned over breathed in this glow, inhaling the grey through her wide nostrils she moaned.

“Absolutely delectable.” Lila shifted off  the Chairman, kicking off her heels she stood on the bed. “Taiye, see you soon.”

With those parting words Lila stepped into the glow, slipped her foot into the open stomach and sunk into Chairman’s body. The gaping hole sealed behind her. Taiye stared at the bed unseeingly, persistent quivers racked her frame.


Despite it all, Taiye slept. She awakened to the sun on her face, she was lying tummy down on the bed. She was not aware of the exact time, but years of habit told her that she was late for work. It took two breaths for the events of the previous night to slam into her. Taiye jerked off the bed and was surprised to find it empty. The white covers on the bed, the marbled floor and the mahogany bedside desk let her know that she was still in the guesthouse they had driven to the previous night. There was no deadly stiff Chairman lying beside her, Lila too was nowhere to be seen. Taiye’s hand reached for her throat, last night definitely happened. She did not conjure it up. Something so unnatural was beyond her scope of originality.

The loud gurgle of a toilet flushing told Taiye that she was not alone. The door to the bathroom swung open and in its frame stood the Chairman, naked as the day he was born. The sight of his nudity caused Taiye’s mouth to fall open, panic to flood Taiye’s veins. Had something sexual happened between her and the Chairman? But she was fully dressed…

“Calm down, Taiye.” The Chairman’s mouth moved but it was Lila’s voice. “That did not happen, but it can if you want it to.”

The laughter was undoubtedly Lila’s. Flabbergasted, Taiye’s eyes followed the Chairman – no it was Lila that leapt across the room in a movement that would be considered strange on a pot-bellied man like the Chairman. Standing in front of a full-length mirror the Chairman looked at himself.

“No matter how many times I do this,” a hand reached between his legs. “I can’t get over it.”

“What…” Taiye’s voice croaked, she cleared her throat. “What is going on?”

“Haba, you should know Taiye. I thought you were perceptive.” The hand stroked and a light giggle burst forth from the Chairman’s lips. “I am borrowing Chairman’s body. Tell me Taiye would you let the Chairman fuck you?”

“No!” Taiye recoiled. “What are you?”

The Chairman pouted. “You’re no fun.” He stepped away from the mirror.

“Why involve me in this?” Taiye hugged herself bringing her arms across her midriff.

“Because I like you, Taiye…plus it always pays to have a human sidekick.” The Chairman pulled on his boxers but the eyes that were trained on Taiye belonged to Lila. “You knew there was something off about me yet you still came along with me. Now that is sexy and I shall reward you immensely.”

Her ears perked at “reward.”

“You’re not going to eat me, or use me as sacrifice…”

“We only eat emotions.” The Chairman laughed, high and feminine as he slipped on a shirt. “I like lust, Mama eats shame, Yazmin fear – although the goody-two-shoes likes to fast.”

“Do they borrow bodies too?” Taiye felt the knot between her shoulders loosen.

“That’s my speciality.” The Chairman knotted his tie. “I thought it was useless before I discovered that this is the least stressful way to learn personal information like account numbers, PINs and the like.”

Her knees did not feel wobbly; Taiye lifted herself up from the bed. “This is all to steal people’s information?” She helped the Chairman put on his suit jacket.

“At its core.” The Chairman smoothed the silver jacket. “You have no idea how nice this is. You should let me borrow your body.”

Taiye shook her head. “Haven’t you already?” At the Chairman’s raised eyebrow she continued. “I mean in my dreams, you…we…”

“That wasn’t me!” The Chairman dissolved into laughter, bending over and slapping his knees. He sighed. “I said you were perceptive, but could someone have been warning you about me?” he stroked his chin.

“This is not funny.” Taiye began to feel unsure again, just when she had gained some confidence.

“Okay Taiye,” the Chairman pouted. “We’ll investigate that later, now need to go to the bank to effect some transfers.” He winked. “Coming along?”

There were still questions that needed answering: What would happen when Lila posing as Chairman walked into the bank? What kind of reward would Lila give her? Taiye’s fingers dug into her palms, she nodded her consent.

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


By Tendai Huchu


Arrows in front of my eyes tell me where to go ↑ along a busy market street lined with immigrants selling cheap wares from makeshift stalls. It’s awash with colour, purple and blue saris and Kashmiri scarfs, red apples, green grapes, and the smells of freshly caught fish, cooked corn, herbs and spices – paprika, cumin, ground chilli – sold by the pound. Loud voices call out random prices and bargains as I (and I am still I) turn → into a narrow alleyway with puddles of water from last night’s rain, full up trash cans and cardboard stacks from the shops inside.

←. Sat-homing means I see where I’m going, feel the experience, but it’s more of a sleepwalk. It’s like doing something by instinct, the same way your leg kicks out when the doctor taps your knee with a plexor. My muscles move, I feel the ground beneath my feet, taste the salty air from the sea close by, and feel the chilly wind; I’m here and not here. ↑.


Destination Reached

Deactivate Sat-homing

Status Green: Y/N – Y

Prepare For Symbiosis

5, 4, 3, 2, 1

A ton of force presses down the top of my head, crushing me. Everything from the top of my cranium moves down like my skull is travelling down my neck into my oesophagus. It feels like I’m eating my own head, swallowing it down to my gut, can’t breathe, a wave of nausea overcomes me and I’d gag if  a big lump wasn’t obstructing my throat. It’s like being ripped out of your skin and having everything shredded and crushed, leaving only that, the largest organ in your body, hollow, while a new skeleton ent…

i’m at the beach again, look at it, so beautiful. If only the sky wasn’t covered by those grey clouds. Never mind. Best birthday present ever! Is that? – no, it can’t be.

‘Hey dad, you in there?’ Holy crap.

‘Joe, is it really you?’ i ask. ‘i can’t believe it.’

‘We’re all here for you,’ he replies and sweeps his hand to show the rest of the family behind him.

my sister Ethel’s in a blue frock, covered up with a cardigan. Her hair is so grey, all those wrinkles on her face, the moustache on her lip. i hug her tightly, haven’t seen that face in over ten years; not since my eyes gave out. Joe’s wife, Natalie, holds a big box with bright pink ribbons on it, the smile on her face warms me up. We embrace, just like we did on their wedding day. Happiest day of my life. The grandkids, the tall one must be Darren and the little one, blonde hair, Craig. On the beach with my family again, it’s a miracle.

‘That’s not Grandpa,’ says Craig, taking a step back behind his brother.

‘Craig, what did I tell you? Don’t spoil this for everyone,’ Joe replies curtly.

‘It’s me, don’t be afraid. It really is me.’ i go over to the boy, pick him up and tickle his belly like i used to, he squirms and pulls away.

‘You’re not Grandpa,’ he says, and walks off towards the white pier in the distance. i make to follow, but Joe grabs my arm.

‘Let him go, we’ve only got an hour. He’ll be alright.’

A woman in a yellow mini walks past with her dog and i feel a yearning inside me i haven’t felt for years. This isn’t the time. It’s family time. There are strollers in beach shorts, a couple having breakfast on a towel near the changing rooms, sanitation workers taking away litter from the car park up ahead. And the wind is just glorious, i close my eyes and try to inhale every atom of air i can.

i hit Darren on the shoulder – ‘Tag you’re it’ – and begin to run on the beach. That’s right, I’m running, the sand underneath me, giving way and crunching as I go, seaweed washed ashore, and, boy, am i running like a pro-athlete. i slow down to allow Darren to tag me and off i go after him. My grandson can run like a gazelle, but it only takes a few strides, i catch up, grab him by the waist and lift him high in the air. Joe and Natalie laugh, Ethel laughs, we’re all so happy. Best birthday ever.

We walk on the sand, checking out sailing boats in the distance. A few folks stare at us for a bit, but i suppose that’s normal given the circumstances. i’ve not felt this strong in years. Even as we walk, i’m holding back because i just want to run. It was on this very beach that i proposed to Lenore fifty years ago. Wish she was still here with us to hear the seagulls circling above, squawking.

Joe calls Craig over and we sit round a table. It’s a bit nippy, but we order ice-cream anyway. The taste of it is just divine, so sweet, so sharp, like every nerve ending in my body is awake and it’s every bit as great as I remember from the rations during the war. Vivid flavours explode in my mouth.

5 Mins

i feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow and loss at the thought of leaving all this behind. It’s like being given the power of a god for a day and having it taken away the same way Phaethon was hurled off Apollo’s chariot by Zeus’ thunderbolt.

‘i suppose it’s time for me to say goodbye again,’ i mumble.

‘I’m sorry, if we’d had more money, we could have bought more time,’ Natalie says, her eyes welling up. ‘Maybe we could…I’ve heard of charities that buy time for people in special circumstances.’

‘Don’t bother yourself; you have kids to look after. i’ll remember this day forever. It’s been wonderful.’

1 min

i get up to hug them, each in turn, and this time Craig lets me. He feels like dough in my arms, soft, yeasty, full of goodness and potential, young and invincible, as though I’m touching the future right now. There’s a joy in my heart that can’t be compared to…

Prepare To Disengage From HostBod

SyncCorp Hopes You Had A Pleasant Experience

Please Come Again

5, 4, 3, 2, 1



I arrive at a warehouse in Mullhill, the east side of the city, near the industrial zone. There’s no sign on the diamond fence around the perimeter. HGV trucks laden with goods from the factories around run up and down the road towards the city and beyond. The noise of the mills is a sonnet to the plumes of smoke that pour from the coal powered station in the centre of the perfect grid of intersecting streets. The air is acrid and full of unknowable particulates. Men in overalls and hard hats walk in rows carrying little backpacks to their various factories.

There’s no guard as I walk past the boom gate into a desolate car park. I take a deep breath and follow the arrows. I have no choice. Some bods have been used in criminal enterprises before and it’s a growing problem. But not with SyncCorp, the leading bod provider in the western hemisphere.

A HostBod walks towards me. Hard sculpted cheeks, fair lips, flat east Baltic head, another immigrant. His blue t-shirt tells me he’s from RentaBod, cheap eastern European bods usually. He’s in Sat-homing and manages to turn his head a fraction to acknowledge me with his dead blue eyes. I blink, a moment of brotherhood that lasts a microsecond.

I walk into the bare warehouse and my Sat-homing is deactivated. I’m in loiter mode until the uplink command is sent. The warehouse is a bare shell, high windows, floors caked in pigeon droppings. At the far end is a red door which I walk through, into a waiting area in which two other bods sit in injection moulded chairs.

‘What’s this about?’ I say taking the seat nearest the exit.

‘I don’t know,’ replies the bod opposite me in a South American, maybe Brazilian accent. He’s caramel skinned and bald headed. Every bod has their head shaved for the implants.

‘Some kind of test,’ says the other one sitting nearest the second door.

Their yellow t-shirts tell me they are both assets from PleasureBodInc, usually procured for the M2M industry. The florescent light above makes a slight humming noise. It flickers at intervals. The room seems to have been set up recently, with new fixtures that smell of plastic.

‘How long have you been in business?’ the Brazilian asks.

‘Four years, nine months,’ I reply.

‘Wow, without a burnout? Amazing! I’ve only been here six months.’

‘Good luck,’ is all I can say. And that’s what this game is, Russian roulette, you spin the barrel until you don’t hear the empty click of the chamber anymore.

He’s called in by a curly haired man wearing a white coat and holding a notepad. The scent of disinfectant wafts into the waiting room. The Brazilian follows him in and the door shuts behind him.

Half an hour later, the Brazilian walks out and I’m called in before the other PleasureBodInc bod. I get up and walk into the next room. The man in a white coat asks me to sit on what looks like a pink dentist’s plinth. I comply.

Status Green: Y/N – Y

Prepare For Symbiosis

5, 4, 3, 2, 1


‘What do you think of this one, Doctor Cranmer?’

‘Near the end of service which means it’s stable. It’s the oldest one we’ve got. As you know, they usually break down around the twenty-four month mark. Only a special few last this long.’

‘i don’t know. The features…’

‘Will take some getting used to, I admit. But race is the least of your worries, sir. Stability is all important.’

‘Let’s take it through its paces, shall we?’

I’m not supposed to be here, to see or hear any of this. It’s as if I’m a child hiding in a dark closet, looking into a room through a keyhole. HostBods are not supposed to be conscious during symbiosis and the Corp would reconfigure me if they knew. But I’ve been in this closet, hiding away for two years. The doctor instructs me/him to open my/his mouth, shines a light down my/his throat. Then he draws some blood, runs me/him through an x-ray machine – Doctor Cranmer can’t use the MRI because of the electrodes – but he takes my/his blood pressure, resting pulse and performs lung function tests. He puts me/him on a treadmill at high speed for three minutes and then repeats the test. I/he is moved to a large hanger where I/he does something that resembles a football fitness test, some sort of biomechanical assessment looking at endurance, speed, strength, agility and power. I watch it all from my closet, not daring to breathe or move.

1 Min

‘How old is he, doc?’

‘Just coming up to 21. Prime specimen right here.’

‘I’m not sure about this.’

‘Look at these stats, he’s 99.25% compatible, that’s 5 percentage points over anything else we’ve got. He’s perfect.’

‘I need time to think it over.’

‘We’ve got a few more to look at, so don’t worry, but the sooner we make a move the better.’

Prepare To Disengage From HostBod

SyncCorp Hopes You Had A Pleasant Experience

Please Come Again

5, 4, 3, 2, 1


↑ ↑ → ←↑ ↑ ↑ ↓ ↑ ↑ ↑ ↑ → ↑


Destination Reached

Deactivate Sat-homing

Status Green: Y/N – Y

Prepare For Symbiosis

5, 4, 3, 2, 1


No rest for the fucking wicked. Stan calls me up, wants me to raise 40 mill for some shit-arsed indie flick. Who watches that crap? Must be shagging the director, that’s what. Still, who’s gonna pony up 40 mill for some piece of cunt? Okay, relax, chill out. Only get this shit one day a week. 40 mill. Forget it. Forget about work for two minutes. It’s her. Is this shit even legal?

There she is, look at that, fucking curves on that. Phwoar, even forget she nearly sixteen sometimes. Check out those blonde locks, how they bounce around on her head and those tits, dear God, those motherfucking tits. i ain’t doing badly for an old fart. i mean how many blokes my age actually get the balls to hit it with their daughter’s best mate, hehe. Pure fantasy shit. That’s why i gotta cover me tracks. Put her arse in a HostBod and shit’s supposedly legal – at least that’s what me lawyer tells me. Grey area, he calls it.

‘Ello darling, come ere to daddy.’

Feel those tits pressing against me chest as i hug her.

‘How’s school and everything?’ Gotta seem like the caring, reasonable old man, hehe.

‘It’s alright. I missed you,’ she says. Hear that – if me missus only said it once or twice a month i wouldn’t be up to no good. Swear it on me mother’s fucking grave.

‘i missed you too, darling. Give daddy a lil kiss.’

Feel those sweet teenage lips, wow. Wouldn’t be able to handle this sort of action if i was in me own body. Check out me lump, proper Mandingo going on here.

i push her back a mo just so I can check out the view, see the curves. i like that lil shade of brown pub that lingers just above them lil panties. Wow, wow, what the fuck? Who’s this? Fucking Chinese woman appears in front of me outta nowhere.

‘What’s wrong, daddy?’

‘You, you’ve fucking turned Chinese!’


‘You’re Chinese, honest to God. Look at you, all bald with some metal wire shit all over your head, the skin, everything. Oh, my fucking God!’

‘I think it’s like the visuals that’s gone bust on your bod, coz I can see you just fine.’

‘What the fuck am i supposed to do?’

“Call the company and have them fix it.’

And that’s how i spend the one afternoon of peace i get a week, down the phone speaking to some call centre trying to get this drone to remote patch me visuals. Little girl’s sitting on the bed, staring at me out of her fifty-something year old chinky fucking eyes. Total mindfuck coz she’s talking like her out of this bod and it’s doing me head in.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve fixed the fucking visuals because all i can see in front of me is a fucking Chinese bird, alright? i pay top dollar for this shit, i expect service. You even know what that word means?’ i’m screaming down the fucking phone, would have had a heart attack by now if i was in me own body. ‘Fine, i’ll take a full refund and a free session next week, sounds freaking fine by me. i should be suing your incompetent arses.’

i hang up and turn back to the girl:

‘Looks like this week’s fucked. We’ll hook up next time, okay love? Come here, give daddy a kiss… on second thoughts, don’t.’


I’m back in Sat-homing mode. I’m not supposed to know the last assignment was a complete dud, that I’m, in effect, malfunctioning. Visuals need to get reset. I’ve been sent back to base early, my next assignments have been cancelled. So I’m free – sort of.

Funny thing happens when I sync up, I seem to store some of their memories in me. This isn’t supposed to happen, none of the other bods report anything similar, but it’s like I know stuff I’m not even supposed to know.

Passing by City Square, the giant advertorial screens above, the Coke-red next to the Pepsi-blue, the giant golden arc, Papa Chicks, Massa Space outfits, people walking around, bodies pressed against each other, sub 20Hz speakers blaring out subliminal advertising, shops spraying lab manufactured pheromones to lure consumers. I adjust my hoodie, doing my best to cover my temples even though this is one of the safer parts of the city for a bod to pass. The poorer and rougher western neighbourhoods like Westlea and Pilmerton are a different matter altogether. I walk by The Stock Xchange. When I first came here I didn’t understand any of it, the arrows going up and down, the numbers sprinting across the top and bottom of the screen. But a few sessions synced with Brad Madison, and I know it all as well as any broker. Viviset stocks have been fluctuating, but they’re still overpriced, best time to sell and get out before it comes crashing down. I’d buy Tanganda now and sell it next week. ↑ Can’t stop to look at the rest in this mode, but I’ll check out the markets online when I get back to base.

Silver space blanket puffs seem to be the fashion of the week for ladies under 30. Then again, when you’ve been synced with a famous fashion designer… Wish they’d get me on the underground for the journey back. My feet are killing me. That’s the problem with Corp, they’ll squeeze every penny in savings if they can. Truth be told, knowing what I know now, that’s the same thing I’d do especially when staff turnover isn’t a factor.

Base is a huge building which used to be a budget hotel in the east side, near the space&airport. You can see planes and shuttles taking off and landing, going to exotic destinations around the world or to orbit. It’s noisy as hell, but it’s home. Our conditions here, I hear, are much better than the dormitory set-up other bods get elsewhere. Retinal scanner lets me in.

Deactivate Sat-homing

Art by David Motutu
Art by David Motutu

‘You’re home early 4401,’ says Marlon on the security desk.

‘Malfunction,’ I reply.

‘You’ll be seeing Dr Song then,’ he replies. ‘Go up to your room. I’ll call you when it’s time.’

‘Thanks Marlon,’ I say and then I remember, ‘hey, is it okay for me to call home?’

‘I’ll give you access. ten minutes max per day.’

‘Come on Marlon,’ I say in my best whinny voice.

‘Fifteen, and that’s the best I can do. Now get outta here before I change my mind.’

‘You’re a legend,’ I say and give him the thumbs up.

The door to my room is unlocked. We have a toilet cubicle to the left, a bunk bed on either side of the wall, and a desk with a small computer/TV at the far wall. There are no mirrors in any of the rooms. Raj6623 is asleep or in hibernation mode. He usually starts up at 22:00 and returns the next afternoon. He’s a fightbod and gets a full eight hours’ sleep plus practice time. For most bods it’s 20 hours work with four hours sleep as standard.

‘4401 authorised call to rec-number Harare,’ I say to the computer.

It kicks up with a whirr and then I hear a dial tone. Half a minute later mama’s face appears on screen. A sad smile cracks on her mouth like a running fissure when she sees me. At the right angle, all she can see is my face, bald head and the two electrodes implanted through my temples into my frontal lobe. They’re titanium and shiny, but at least she can’t see the full device. The other implants are at the back of my skull and are drilled into the amygdala, so the sync takes place in the oldest and newest brain, the primitive and the conscious part for full immersiveness. We talk about home, my little brother with Westhuizen’s Syndrome, which is the reason I’m here. The money I make goes straight towards his medication. I’ll get a bonus after completion and after that, I’ll have to either sign up again – no one’s ever done that – or find a new way to make money for his drugs. Either way, this job is the only thing keeping him alive. He pops up on screen, nine years old, handsome as a teddy bear, braces in his mouth, and smiles. I wave. He tells me about school, his friends, games, all the things any nine year old should be doing. This makes it worthwhile. Mama’s just sitting there, slightly off screen, watching her boys. I’m sure she’s proud. I get a beep, time’s nearly up, say, ‘Good-bye, I love you guys so much,’ blow a kiss and log off.

I’ve just slid into my lower bunk when Marlon buzzes via the computer and tells me to go see the doc. I get up and leave Raj6623 snoozing, go into the corridor and squirt some alcohol gel on my hands and round my temples. The corridor is bare, just blue vinyl flooring, perfect white walls, directional signs every couple of meters and a purple strip that runs in the middle of the wall as a sort of decoration. I go round a few turns and into the infirmary, just in time to see a new bod leave. I nod my head and stroll in.

Doctor Song is a small Korean man, barely reaches my chest even with the Cuban heels he wears to give himself an extra inch or so. He’s typing notes into his computer and points to a chair. The keys go tap, tap, tap under his furious little fingers.

‘4401, why you tell Marlon you have malfunction? How did you know?’ he says. I should have known better.

‘My assignment ended early, you called me home and cancelled the rest of my day, that can only mean one thing,’ I reply coolly.

‘You doctor now?’

‘You’re the doctor, Doctor Song.’

‘You waking?’


‘Uplink scan has been showing spikes in your wave function post sync.’ I blink like I don’t understand what he’s saying. Doc likes that sort of thing, but I know what he’s going to say next before he even says it. ‘Don’t worry it’s not the most reliable instrument anyway.’

That’s code for I’mtoolazytofollowupandyourcontract’snearlydonesoIdon’tcare. I nod along like an ignoramus.

‘You’ve been taking your antibiotics?’ he asks.

‘On time, every time,’ I reply. We have to take long term, prophylactic, broad-spectrum antibiotics because of the risk of infection at the insertion points. You don’t wanna mess with meningitis or encephalitis.

‘Corp has new job for you. Contract nearly over so easy work. You go Hillside in North, single user for last three months. Congratulations,’ he says, looking at me for once.

‘Thanks Doctor Song,’ I reply with a smile, though every instinct in my body is screaming out, alarm bells ringing, spider senses tingling.

‘Good. Go into next room. I test and remodulate vis configuration,’ he says and grabs a white helmet with flashing green and blue lights at the fore. It’s the user’s uplink device. It works by reading the wearers brainwaves and transmitting low level radiation to tune the user into the HostBod. Nowhere near as invasive as the electrodes bods must wear because their own consciousness must be suppressed in sync, which can only be done surgically. The electrodes not only transmit electric impulses but also carry neurotransmitters direct into the brain structure. I got this off syncing with Doctor Song himself and he doesn’t even know that.

We can’t be in the same room during sync because of the infinity loop problem which tech has failed to overcome. That’s why, for safety reasons, user and HostBod only interface via remote transmission.  He marches me back and forth, I squat, pinch myself, stick my tongue out, and do a dozen other psychomotor and spatial awareness exercises before he signs me off.

I walk back to my room and find Raj6623 standing at the door.

‘They came to get your gear. Looks like you’re shipping out,’ he says. The scar that runs across his face moves as he speaks.

‘I got lucky,’ I say.

‘Stay alive,’ he replies and crushes me with a bear hug. 12 months we’ve been here together and this is the most intimate we’ve been.

‘Say bye to the others for me,’ I say, knowing full well he won’t bother.


A woman with vibrant red hair, the sort that can only come from a bottle, stands at the reception desk next to a guy in a chauffer’s outfit with a bag at his side. She has milky white skin, almost matching the shade of the walls, and from a distance all I see is hair, eyebrows and blood red lipstick where her mouth is. She wears a retro ivory silk slip covering one shoulder, revealing a large ruby choker around her neck. It’s like she’s ephemeral, a wisp of an image from another dimension.

‘So this is father’s new toy,’ she purrs.

‘That’s him, Ms Stubbs,’ says Marlon ingratiatingly. ‘Here’s your papers, 4401. Follow this lady and the gentleman. Good luck.’

I shake his hand and follow my new employer into a black limousine waiting in the car park. The chauffer opens the door, she walks in. I wait to be invited. She beckons me with her index finger. The chauffer closes the door as I sit with my back to the driver, facing her. The cabin smells of freshly polished leather. She pours a glass of champagne for herself and a finger of whisky in another, which she slowly hands to me.

‘We’re not allowed,’ I say.

‘Don’t be a pussy, drink it,’ she replies, rolling her eyes melodramatically. I take the drink and hold it. ‘What’s your name?’


‘Your real name, idiot.’


‘That’s what I thought. I saw you in those hospital garments you call clothes and said to myself, there’s a Simon alright.’ The lady is a little tipsy, but not drunk, the intoxication of someone who’s used to consuming a lot of alcohol all hours of the day.

The Limo cruises onto the 105 which takes us past Marlborough and Bury, skirting round the rough neighbourhoods. We go past gleaming skyscrapers, the glass reflecting the orange glow of the setting sun, images of clouds cast on windows, the city glistening like a thousand orange diamonds. She says nothing to me for the rest of the journey, only eyeing me like a predator stalking her prey. A lump sits at the top of my throat; I swallow hard.


Initiating Protocol Transfer To

Username: Howard J Stubbs

SyncCorp Wishes You A Happy And

Prosperous Symbiosis

0% – – – – – – – – – – – – 100%


That’s me wired up to the Stubbs’ MF now, which means they own me, which means I wasn’t hired but they bought out the rest of my contract. It happens from time to time, bods get passed around between different companies, usually traded down. Stubbs must be pretty loaded to afford this. No shit, Sherlock, is that your deduction or it’s the 200 year old southern plantation style mansion in front you? Kind of looks like a wanna be White House, only bigger. The wheels of the limo crunch on the gravel driveway. A Roman style fountain with mirthful nymphs squirts water high into the air. So much woodland around; it feels like we’re in the country. Light pouring out of every window in the mansion illuminates the lawn as we park near the front door.

‘Come on, I’m sure Father is just dying to meet you,’ she says, dragging out the word dying.

‘We don’t usually meet users.’

‘Things are different here,’ she replies as we walk into the mansion.

There’s a vulgar mix of paintings lining the walls. Expensive paintings: a Picasso here, a Van Gogh there, Pollock next to Gauguin with a Palin underneath. It’s clear that this is a nouveau riche acquisition with little acquiescence to aesthetics. I find this somewhat disturbing as I walk on the dark hardwood flooring polished to within an inch of its life.

Ms Stubbs leads me up a winding staircase to the bedrooms. An oak drawer along the wall has a Chinese vase (I reckon Qing but can’t be sure) on top with geometric patterns in bright shades of blue and a bunch of chrysanthemums set inside. I can’t help but smile behind her back. We enter a large bedroom in the centre of which is a poster bed. An old man sits underneath layers of quilts with his back propped up by a bunch of pillows. The oxygen tank on his left hisses away.

‘Go to him,’ says Ms Stubbs.

I walk over and kneel beside the old man. From this close I can smell his decrepitude, malodours churning under the quilts and from the catheter that dangles at the bedside. I notice he has an electrode transference device just like mine, complete with implants boring through his skull into his brain. I’ve never heard of a user having to go through this before. The device looks like a giant tarantula resting on top of his skull. ‘Hello,’ I say. He reaches out with his left hand and touches my face. It feels bony and rough against my forehead and cheeks. He takes a deep breath and whispers in a raspy voice:

‘Make yourself at home, boy.’


I’m in my room in loiter mode. The chauffer left my bag with my few clothes and possessions which I unpack into the drawers. The window gives me a view down the hill past the silhouette of trees to the brightly lit city in the distance.

I go over to the bed, slide into the soft cotton sheets and for the first time in a year, I’m allowed to sleep for more than four hours even though the dreams I have are still not my own.


I wake up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. Can’t believe I slept for so long. The sun pours into my room because I forgot to close the curtains. It’s been too long since I had a window in my room. I wash my face in the basin in the corner and spray alcohol gel around my implants. There are real clothes in the closet, just my size too, so I wear those instead of the Corp crap. I grab a red hoodie to cover my head in case I’m taken outside. I walk past Mr Stubbs bedroom and down the stairs into one of the rooms where a breakfast buffet is laid out. It smells great.

Ms Stubbs is at the opposite end of the table, listening to the news and eating toast. The day’s barely started and she looks stunning in a crimson gown, an eye mask on her forehead.

‘Morning,’ I say.

‘You can have anything you like,’ she replies.


I bring out my feeding pack of Soylent and pour myself a glass of water. This is how bods start the day, you can’t fill yourself up because a lot of users like to go out for meals, so it’s important to keep the stomach as empty as possible. I drink from my pack, it tastes like dough with grainy bits in it. After a while, you get used to it.

‘Can I call home?’ I ask.

‘Nope,’ she replies without even raising her head to look at me.

‘We had 30 minute privileges per day at Corp,’ I say.

‘Firstly, it was ten minutes and, secondly, this ain’t Corp.’

Status Green: Y/N – Y

Prepare For Symbiosis

5, 4, 3, 2, 1


‘Morning Lesley,’ i say. What is that weird taste in my mouth? Quick, grab a coffee to rinse it out.

‘Morning Father. You started the day early. Who was that?’ she replies, nonchalant. i wonder what she’s scheming.

‘Just the lawyer first thing before dawn and Doctor Cranmer should be here any minute now. Justin makes the finest coffee. He deserves a raise.’

‘What did you want with the lawyer?’

‘A bit of business, nothing you should worry your pretty little head about. i’m not a cabbage up there you know.’ i point to the second floor where the bedrooms are. She raises a single eyebrow and gets back to her food.

i leave her to it. So much to do, so little time. i could get used to this, yes. Stop beside the mirror, look at the face: bold, square jaw, angular, very manly. Yes, i could definitely get used to this. Cranmer is in the foyer already.

‘Good morning, doctor,’ i sound a little too jovial.

‘Mr Stubbs?’

‘It’s too nice a day to talk indoors. Shall we go out into the grounds for a walk?’

‘I need to see the… the other body.’

‘You can do that later, come, let’s go outside.’ i take him by the elbow and lead him out. Sweet sunshine hits my face. ‘Nothing like the scent of freshly mowed grass.’

‘I came to check if you wanted to see this thing through. You must understand the tech is experimental. I’ve only done one other procedure so we don’t yet know what the long term effects are,’ Doctor Cranmer says.

‘Run it by me one more time.’

‘When user and bod are comparable, you can put them in sync and then transfer consciousness through the process of quantum entanglement. Essentially we are just reversing the quantum states in the brain, no matter is moved between A and B, so theoretically there’s a zero chance of post-op rejection. It’s not a brain transplant, it’s a consciousness transfer. Post-procedure we isolate the bod, who is now the user, to prevent attempts at reacquisition. That’s the long and short of it.’

‘Okay, first thing tomorrow morning. i have nothing to lose, but i only have one proviso, doctor.’ i stop near the gazebo and look him in the eye. ‘If the procedure fails, the bod dies too.’

‘That can be arranged.’


Loiter mode. Fuck me royally. I need to get out of here right now. Only getting out doesn’t solve the problem because I can be Sat-homed back easily. Gotta find the mainframe, disable it, no, destroy it completely. I’ll look around the house, nah, that’s crazy, who keeps a fucking mainframe in the family home? Swear to God, I’m going insane. This ain’t what I signed up for.

I need to call mama, my little brother. Won’t even get a chance to say good bye. Okay, think, for a minute, just think.

I once saw a bod who committed suicide in the most spectacular fashion. It was my first year with Corp and I was passing through the main reception area. This guy just stood cold staring at the guards. And then he casually brought his hands up to his electrodes and just started pulling. The guards were screaming ‘stop’ or something like that but this guy just goes on pulling and blood squirts out. Out came these grey chunks of brain matter. He just pulls the tarantula off the top of his head and leaks water, blood, brainy goo down his sides. He stood there for a minute or two before he keeled over. It was horrific.

I could fight my way out. Face it, the law frowns on bods anyway. A rich guy like Stubbs, forget it. I need to think.


I’m terrified, can’t sleep all night, my mind racing through different options, adrenalin and cortisol coursing through my blood stream at toxic levels. That drink from the limo would have come in handy right about now.

The door opens, she walks in like a ghost floating through. Her white nightdress hangs off her frame and swoops as it follows her graceful movements. ‘Shhh.’ Her finger is on her lips as she crawls into my bed.

She moves like a python, slow, seductive, and sensuous, as if she hasn’t a single bone in her body. Her skin feels warm against mine. She straddles me, pulls my pants down with one hand and then all I feel is her wetness and heat on me. It’s the most exquisite feeling in the world.

‘Your dad’s going to kill me,’ I say.


This moment, I’m in her, it feels as though nothing else matters as she carries me like a leaf in the ocean and takes me to places I never knew…

Prepare For Symbiosis


‘Get off, your dad’s syncing with me,’ I call out in panic.

‘Oh, what a spoil sport,’ she says, pulling off and gliding out of the room

5, 4, 3, 2, 1


Well, this feels a bit strange. i couldn’t sleep, can’t wait for the morning so i thought i’d sync up. Get up, out of bed, my bottom half naked and walk out of the bedroom. Lesley is in the corridor.

‘Have you been playing with my toy, Lesley?’

‘Hello Father, isn’t it a little too late for your old ass to be out and about?’ she replies. Has the same stubborn, bitchy traits her mum had. She’s up to something and must be stopped. You don’t get to where i got in life without the instincts of a croc. i grab her by the shoulders.

‘i think we should lock you in your room for a little while,’ i say. ‘For your own good.’

She struggles and squirms. The little bitch is strong, but i’m stronger. She breaks my grip and runs towards my bedroom. Now i know what she’s up to. Got to stop her.

‘Don’t be pathetic. You really think you can stop me, Lesley? Come here!’ i sprint after her. The floor is polished and slippery but in this bod i can do anything. i grab her flailing nightdress, pull her and slam her against the wall. ‘i’m not your enemy, i’m your father.’

She scratches my face, i slap her with the back of my hand which fells her to the floor. i bend over, pick her up and lift her in the air, feet dangling, her mouth wide open, a scream caught in her throat. i put her back down and slap her again. ‘You’re going to bed, young lady.’ i see a quick movement, a leg twitch, then i’m on the floor, both hands cupping my balls, they are on fire. It winds me for a moment and she runs into my room. Got to stop her. Ignore the pain in my groin and stagger after her. i burst into the room.

‘Stop it, Lesley.’

She’s covering my face with a pillow. The oxygen mask is on the floor, hissing away. i run to her, grab her around the neck, put her in a choke hold. i’m gonna kill this bitch. i lift her up, her head against my chest and squeeze. She gags, coughs, splatters, kicks, but I’m too strong. And then I look at me looking at me

me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at

Only takes a second to realise i’m trapped in an infinity loop. i should have stopped her before she came in here. my head feels like it’s cracking. The pain is blistering hot. i scream and grab my head in both hands to stop it from exploding. The scream is magnified and bounces around like a million echoes in the loop. Everything in here is a cave of infinity mirrors, reflecting everything back to itself. Only i am the image and the mirror and each iteration of both. Subject and object. i fall to the floor. Oh, the pain. As i convulse on the floor, i see, through the corner of my eye, Lesley cover my face with a pillow.

White hot supernova, synapses breaking, an explosion, the universe tearing apart.


I wake up and she’s beside me in bed, we’re both naked. My head feels like I have the mother of all hangovers, as if I drank all the tequilas in the world. She rests her head on my chest.

‘Did you sleep well?’ she asks as if nothing happened.

‘Have you got any Vicodin?’ I sit up and the world is spinning around me.

‘Get dressed and follow me.’

The world shatters into tiny pieces floating around my bed. I shake my head and tiny fractals swim in and out of focus. It takes a minute or two before the pictures coalesce into one coherent world. It feels good to be back. I’m so thirsty and I drink straight from the pitcher beside me.

I find her in the corridor and follow her to her father’s room. I can barely stay upright. Doctor Cranmer sits on the bed, a stethoscope around his neck. There’s a shiny aluminium suitcase on the floor before him. He looks at Ms Stubbs.

‘Morning doctor,’ she says.

‘It’s not a very good morning. It appears your father is dead,’ he replies in an even voice.

‘What a pity,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Old people, hey.’

‘I find it rather curious that his oxygen mask is on the floor.’

The doctor stands up and walks towards Ms Stubbs. He looks at her then at me. I pretend as though I don’t remember him from our first encounter. I act like a good little bod.

‘I suppose my services are no longer needed here,’ says Doctor Cranmer.

‘You served my father well. I don’t see any reason this association should end. Because of my gratitude, as his sole heir I will double your monthly retainer for life and hope to keep your services,’ she says, her face neutral and cold.

‘It is always a pleasure to serve the Stubbs. If you will excuse me, I have to record this death by natural causes.’ He bows slightly and walks to the door, dragging his aluminium case behind.

We’re left staring at her father’s body on the bed. His eyes are wide open in shock.

‘One more thing, doctor, since you work for me now,’ she says.

‘Anything,’ he replies.

‘This.’ She points to the electrode transference device on my head.

‘I can remove it straight away,’ Doctor Cranmer says, stepping back into the room.

‘On second thoughts, I think I’ll keep it. It looks rather nice, don’t you agree, Simon?’

The doctor sighs and turns to leave once more. It’s at this moment I realise that she owns me now. Certain secrets will come out, like how the old man changed his will yesterday to include HostBod4401 as the sole heir and beneficiary to his estate. Lesley doesn’t know it yet, but there’s going to be a battle for that money. For now, all I have to do is to stay alive.

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

Crocodile Ark

By Oluwole Talabi

Before my mother died, she used to tell me old Yoruba folktales while we huddled around the lower platform heating vents or waited in line for rations. As with all good African stories, they were always garnished with proverbs. That’s the unique thing about our stories, isn’t it? The proverbs. Well, that and the tortoises. But there is more. Even though as everyone who as ever read Achebe knows, proverbs are the palm oil with which words are eaten, sometimes it’s the palm oil that stains your clothes that stays with you long after the hunger had passed. My point is, many of those proverbs stuck with me long after I forgot the stories she told me. Some even stuck with me long after she died. But one of them will probably stay with me forever. It goes; Ọ̀nì ní ojú máa ńti òun láti gé nǹkan j, tóun bá sì ti gée j, ojú máa ńti òun láti fi síl̀.Ọ̀nì ní ojú máa ńti òun láti gé nǹkan j, tóun bá sì ti gée j, ojú máa ńti òun láti fi síl. What that all means, once you manage to translate it, is something like this; “The crocodile always says it is shy to bite, but once it has bitten, it is shy to let go.”

And that was exactly what happened to me. Not that I’m saying I’m a literal or metaphorical crocodile or any sort of crocodile really. It’s just a proverb. Actually, maybe I am a crocodile and maybe, just maybe crocodile nature is human nature too. But I’m not being clear. I suppose if I’m going to tell you this story, then I have to have to tell you about Ariannamaka.


By the time I met Ariannamaka in person, she was twenty-one and we’d already been friends for two years.

Our first encounter was online, in a government sanctioned voidspace chatroom. Her family was rich; they lived up in the Chancel, where gravity had been artificially adjusted to original Earth levels for the deacons, the ushers, the committee of saints and of course, those who gave the greatest offering to the Prophet. Her profile avatar was beautiful but grim. In it, she wore a crop-top, and lay in a plush, purple-sheeted bed, unsmiling. I’d seen it before, that look, it was common with the girls in the Chancel, the ones brave or bored enough to surf the open voidspace anyway. But there was something uniquely fiery and intangible about her that fascinated me in the bizarre way that fires fascinate moths.

I gazed at her avatar on my portapod for a few minutes, twiddling my thumbs, and then I swiped right on her profile and sent her a private virtual reality message.

[Hi], I said.

It only took her three minutes to reply.

[Hey there], She said. The voice and image that projected into my mind were so clear, I knew immediately that she was using a full VR resolution portapod model that most people down on the platform would kill me for having, assuming I could ever afford it. She was short at about five and a half feet; with wide, sensual hips visible behind the flowing silver gown she wore in her VR avatar. She had a mane of wild natural hair that looked like bunched-up brambles and her eyes were oak brown. My portapod model was a cheap second-hand so I probably just looked like a nondescript, boxy and angular stock character wearing platform rags in her mind.

[What’s it like, living up in the skydome, with the blessed richfolk, saints and the Prophet?] I asked, trying for sharp charm since I could obviously not impress her with my looks.

[Boring. That’s why I’m in here, chatting with lowly platformers like you]. The sarcasm slid smoothly off her high resolution tongue, and into the virtual reality we were sharing.

I laughed, and we exchanged a few more VRM’s about what it meant to be the last ones left, to be the future of the human race. Once she sensed that I shared some of her own sentiments, she ported me into a shielded virtual reality sharespace that she and her friends had written out of the government base voidspace network. It was only later that I realised she had been looking specifically for someone like me.

Everyone there was of varying resolutions, standing awkwardly in that dark corner of electronic shared reality. They remained silent as Ariannamaka introduced me to them one by one and when she was done, the messages started to come. Cautiously at first, then in a flurry as I echoed them as my thoughts too. Finally, Ariannamaka told me what they were planning to do and how they planned to do it. I was intrigued. I was excited. They encouraged me to join them; they said that they would need my help when the time came.

[This Ark is a corrupt, elitist system, and we have the chance to change it,] Elegebde said to me, gesturing energetically with his hands. His avatar presented a high resolution, big, bulky and solid fellow with broad shoulders, brown hair just verging on black, and the kind of face I was sure people would describe as intimidating if they saw it in reality. He did most of the talking after I ported in. [But we will need someone from the lower platforms to set things in motion. Someone the people of the platform will listen to, follow.]

[The kind of person we can make you if you join us.] Ariannamaka added.

Her voice was soft and pleading in spite of the harsh warping effect of the electronic VR filter convincing the Prophet’s eavesdropping spies that all we said was benign.

I asked to be given a moment and thought myself out of the shielded voidspace, back into the reality of my platform bunk. I took in the dark, cramped monochromatic space; a dilapidated old metal board on the door bearing an efficiently ugly poster that reminded us that “2077 IS OUR YEAR OF DIVINE DIRECTION”. Above it, the ubiquitous image of Prophet and Prophet Mrs smiled down on our, squalid and overcrowded quarters. The other twelve people I shared Ark platform sector A-589 with were also all plugged into their own portapods, killing time until ration distribution. They were probably chatting up random girls on the voidspace chatrooms or worshipping in one of the prophets many VR centres and praying that they would be chosen this year in the annual ‘blessing of the twelve’ ceremony where one twelve platformers would be declared saints and asked to go up into the Chancel and serve the prophet, helping to find a new home for our species and leaving this meaninglessness behind. And make no mistake that was what it was, meaningless. I looked back down at portapod, shook my head and thought myself back into the shielded voidspace.

[Fuck yeah. Count me in], I said.

I know now that it was a mistake, but I was sixteen. I was an orphan. I was a lower platformer. I was bored and my life had no purpose. I didn’t know what I was getting into. But even though all those things are true, now that I’ve had time to think about it, I think the real reason I agreed to their insane plan was that Ariannamaka was just beautiful and interesting enough for me to be that stupid.


Ariannamaka told me she loved me on the day we took the Ark. The same day, she also told me she was the Prophet’s daughter and that Earth was still standing; that it had never been destroyed. It also happened to be the first day that we met in person.

We were in the bright electronic embrace of the Sanctum – the Ark’s Control Bridge – and she had plugged her external mod disk into the Ark’s central control systems. The centrifugal artificial gravity generators, the air and water processing units, the Prophet’s central voidspace network – we were taking control of it all, and once the override was complete and the people of the Ark heard my voice, we would control them too. Outside, Elegbede and the others stood guard, they had killed a path to the Sanctum for us and were defending it while we jacked into the system and took over.

I had prepared meticulously for the day. I had read books; studied revolutionary histories of old earth; wormed my way into the right circles; seeded dissent in the hearts of the Prophet’s lackeys and even become Youth Leader of the lower Ark Church with the help of Ariannamaka and her rebel friends. I was primed to topple the government. Expose the prophet and his coterie. So you can imagine that being told that the earth was still standing and that my handler and best friend was both in love with me and the daughter of the man I had learned to loathe, especially at such an inopportune time, threw my mind into something of a tailspin.

“No,” I said, because it was the only thing I could think to say. I loved her, I always had but how could she be the prophet’s daughter? And why was she telling me then? Everything in my head was hazy, woolly and unsubstantial.

Arriannamaka made a strange, confused noise that sounded like, “Hoin?!”

So I repeated my own confused objection, “No, Ariannamaka, no. Not like this,” I said. “Not now.”

Her words seemed stuck in her throat for a moment like a fluid behind a pipe constriction and then, when enough pressure had built up, they exploded out of her, “I’m sorry. It just came out of me. It’s all just coming now. I mean, it’s been two years, and today when I saw you, really saw you, it made everything real. I really want real. I don’t care about taking control of the Ark anymore; I want to go back to earth, to have a real, normal life with you.”

I grunted in confusion. “What? Earth is gone. What are you talking about?”

She quickly flicked her eyes from me to her black mod disk plugged into the central control panel and the motion of her eyes pulled mine with them. I looked at the panel and we both saw we had six minutes and thirteen seconds before the program completed the override. Around us, the electric datascape blinked streams of binary rainbows. She turned back to me.

“Hasn’t it ever bothered you?” She started to explain with a question, such a uniquely Nigerian thing to do. “That all the survivors of the Earth’s destruction happened to be members of the same Church?” She pronounced the word ‘survivors’ as though it was not the appropriate word for what we were.

“Yes, it’s a bit odd but that is just because god revealed to the Prophet the coming of the asteroid in a vision back when his heart was still clean, before all this bullshit.” I crossed my arms. “Why are you asking me anyway? This is basic Sunday school shit, you are his daughter.”

She shook her head and her hair shook with it.

“My father has never had a clean heart. He has never spoken to god. This Ark is not just unjust, it is a lie. There was no asteroid. Well, not really.” She stared straight ahead and spoke efficiently, forcefully, as if the words had to come out of her then and there or they would explode inside her, the way one blurts out things that have been kept secret for too long.

“Asteroids used to hit Earth all the time, like maybe once a century or so, everyone knew it, and every few centuries, a massive asteroid would come by the planet and plop down harmlessly in an ocean or some artic wasteland. Sometimes scientists only spotted these asteroids like maybe days or a week before they made their close approaches to Earth.” She paused for breath, glanced behind me, and pressed on, “My father knew all this, so when a really fucking big one was spotted near Pluto, on a trajectory towards earth and no one was sure how close it would come to us, he started all this shit about god ending the world and he being some modern day Noah. He rallied his followers with massive offering collections, built the Ark and brought us all into orbit here, around Mars. He wasn’t the only one you know. Some governments did it too. Hedging their bets. But the asteroid just passed by Earth. It was a biosphere-altering event for sure but it didn’t destroy anything. Everyone went back once it passed but my father? He just did not want to admit that he had been wrong to his followers. That his god had been wrong. So he made up the stories you heard and created the faked recordings you have seen of the Earths destruction.”

“Hian!” The exclamation snuck its way out of me and made Ariannamaka jump; I turned around hyperventilating and saw that we had only one minute and forty seconds before the full override completed. I tried to say something but found I was only gasping until I said it again.


“It’s true.” She assured me.

“No.” I repeated, the word, letting it explode like bomb in front of me. “No.” Another explosion. “No. No. No.” A chain reaction. I was shaking. I reached out and leaned on a Sanctum wall. The cool, smooth flow of the datascape passing through my hands in front of the metal panelling. My head was spinning. I understood then why my mother had given up everything she had to the prophet as offering just to be allowed a place on the Ark. She was pregnant at the time. But… Earth. It was there. We had been stuck on a metal tube in space because one man refused to admit he had been wrong about his divine delusions? My mother had died because of his lie? It was all too much.

“I will show you. Once the override is done, you will see.”

“How did you know the truth?” I said, turning back to her.

“I overheard him speaking about it with the deacons three years ago. That was when I joined the movement.”

“And you chose to keep it from me. From us.” I stopped. “Why?”

Art by David Motutu
Art by David Motutu

She advanced on me with arms slightly spread, ambient light caressing her figure. She stopped an inch from my nose. There was a rush of warm blood through my ears, my heartbeat rattled despite my shock and fear. “I love you,” she said, and it seemed to be a little bit of a declaration and a little bit of an apology but not quite either. “I just want to live a normal life. On Earth. With you.”

I stared down at her, breathing hard, until it occurred to me that I did not even know if I wanted this thing, whatever it was she was proposing, promising. Earth was a myth, an Eden from a genesis story, a folktale told by the first ones in the belly of the lower platforms by the heating vents to children. It was green, it was wet, it was paradise, they said and I had read. But in my mind, it might as well have been Oduduwa’s Ile-Ife or Plato’s Atlantis. I had no qualia for it. No sense of reference. And that scared me. I had been born on the Ark. Raised and orphaned on the platforms. Even if Ariannamaka was speaking the truth, what waited for us back on Earth? I had no idea. I had not been afraid to die taking the Ark but when I thought about this Earth that had been dead to me and was now risen again; I felt fear like a living creature claw its way from my belly to my heart and squeeze tight.

I pushed away from her and blinked rapidly, realising the mod device would soon finalize its override.  I asked her, “Who else knows about Earth?”

Her brow furrowed briefly and then she said, “No one, just my father, his wife and three deacons. Maybe a few of the older saints. My mother is in the choir but she doesn’t know anything.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way,” I said quickly, the fear and the countdown forcing the words from me. “Don’t tell anyone anything; we can go back to Earth once we have control.” I said. But not all of us, I didn’t say.

We were seconds away from taking over the Ark. Seconds away from being able to take everything that made up our unjust world and make it pure. I had a devoted following of people from the lower platform who believed in the visions I had sold them. There would be a revolt. That much was certain. What came after was less clear. But I did not want Ariannamaka to know that so I kissed her eagerly enough for her to think all was well and set my mind back to the revolution.

Behind me, the timer ran down to zero. The flowing rivers of data in the sanctum halted around us, then exploded in a kaleidoscope of numbers and logic, green and yellow and blue and white and silver and orange, the colours flickering and flaring in fanciful fits as they first separated from and then merged back into one another to reconstitute the river of data and logic that controlled the ark, their new commands in place. I pulled away from Ariannamaka and spoke into the vocaphone, slowly, with what I imagined to be stately voice that propagated throughout the Ark, piercing into ears and virtual realities alike, through portapods and inline earphones, throwing revolution and uncertainty into the prophet’s carefully constructed world of lies.


Our revolution lasted all of thirteen minutes. I guess the Prophet had grown complacent with his security, his control. Once we took control of the Ark, his lackeys surrendered without even as much as a good fight. Perhaps he had begun to believe in his own myth, his own lie and thought no one would ever usurp him. Perhaps he’d started to think he really was our god. Perhaps we had planned the entire thing perfectly, if such a thing can be said of any coup. Perhaps we were just lucky, I don’t know.

He cursed us all, of course, before we turned off his private vocapohone and killed him. He said that we were children of the devil, that Satan had sent us to destroy and confuse what was left of humanity. He called upon all his people in the Chancel and implored those on the platforms to rise up and smite us. To pray that god would show them our true forms. The platformers were too busy eating the in vitro steak we’d sent to them from the Chancel biotech kitchen labs to listen. We killed him in his own bed, choked him with his own collar under a blood-proof sheet.

Thirteen minutes to take the Ark. Another hour or so to quell the minor prophet-loyalists and the opportunists. Two hours after Ariannamaka told me she loved me, I was holding her hand in the Sanctum and speaking into my portapod with Elegbede and the rest of our movement. I told them what she’d told me about Earth. I did not tell them that she wanted to go back, but I asked if it was possible anyway.

[Does anyone know how disengage from orbit and pilot this thing?] I asked the voidspace full of high resolution avatars that controlled the Ark.

[I think I do,] Bamidele, the youngest one of our group said, with unusual seriousness. Raluchukwu who was overseeing the food labs for now and knew him from when they were just spoiled kids living in the Chancel, nodded sharply, a quick shake of her head to indicate she thought so too. She seemed nervous, even in virtual reality. I think they all were.

Elegbede spoke up, [Good. As long as someone has some idea, we will do it. We will go back to Earth. We will take our people home. No more of this foolish, delusional Israelite journey in space. E don do abeg.]

No one said anything. Everyone waited for me to speak. I knew it. I had watched the balance of power in our group shift as they taught me what I needed to know to become a figure of myth and reverence down on the platforms while they plotted and planned up in the Chancel. They had watched as the fabric of my personality had slowly been straightened, dyed and embroidered with knowledge, power and self-awareness. They knew that the people of the platform would heed no one but me, believe no one but me. And without me, there would be chaos. The problem was, I knew it too. I had taken my first few bites. I knew the taste of power.

[This is a democracy now, Legbe,] I said, [We will take a vote.]

[But Earth…] Arianamaka started suddenly before stopping herself. I did not look at her but I noted the other voices, especially Bamidele’s, murmuring. I pressed on.

[Earth is home to the prophet. To our parents. To the people that created this corrupt system we risked everything to change. Not to me and not to you. Not to us. I have never seen its sky or touched its soil. Neither have more than three-quarters of the people on this Ark. Why do we want to give up this world we now have the power to remake into something wonderful for an uncertain one we have no power over?]

Elegbede chuckled, [You’ve been reading and watching too many histories, friend. What makes you think anyone will want to stay here when they know that all of humanity awaits us? That we are not the last of our kind? Eh?]

With that statement, and question, he’d showed his bourgeoisie, and that was his mistake. The others knew it was a mistake too, I think, even if they didn’t know exactly why. So I pressed the issue and eventually, they agreed that a vote was the democratic thing to do. I knew they would, they believed in freedom and democracy and all that shit and that was why they’d risked everything for revolution. We agreed we would reveal the information to our people on the Ark, and let them make their decision. We would vote to decide if we wanted to go back to Earth.

I just made sure that Elegbede agreed to be the one to make the announcement; he was our leader after all, I insisted. Of course, he agreed without thinking it through all the way to the end. He always did enjoy talking, hearing the sound of his own voice. Although, I suspected Ariannamaka knew what I was trying to do by the way she unclasped her hand from mine during the discussion.

Although most of them thought the vote could go either way, I already knew what would happen. I was a lower platformer, when it came down to it. Born and raised, you understand? And I had felt that exact same fear that I knew would squeeze their hearts the moment they were told about the unknown. The same fear that had kept them, us, believing in the prophet and enduring his faith of deprivation in spite of our squalor.

Fear. It was like a shadow to a platformer. And I knew it well.

In the end, when we went to a vote, of course no one believed. No one wanted to. I’d spent two years slowly convincing them to stop bathing in the rain of lies and unfairness coming down from the Chancel. There was no way they wold believe Elegbede. It was the wrong message. At the wrong time. From the wrong messenger.


It all came back to Ariannamaka in the end. She forced my hand. They forced my hand.

I only did what had to be done.

To quote another of my mother’s memorable proverbs from a story, “Ìbẹ̀rẹ̀ kọ́ l’onísẹ́, à fi ẹni tó bá fi orí tì í d’ópin.” Which, I think means, “Starting a thing is not as crucial as seeing it through to completion.” I think it came from a story she told me about the tortoise, the squirrel and the leopard. Of course, in the story, the tortoise tricked the other animals. But at the end of the story the tortoise’s mother dies.

Arriannamaka, Elegbede and three others convinced Raluchukwu to try to sneak into the Sanctum, free us from Mars’s gravitational embrace and set course for Earth. If not for Bamidele’s quick thinking, and timely warning, they might have even succeeded. They had tried to subvert the will of the people. I had to have them killed. And have it done publicly. What else was I to do?

I did not turn away at her execution. We had equalized the gravity in the entire Ark so that from Chancel to platform, everyone had to adjust but we had the gravity in the central Chancel area reset back to earth levels for the execution to prevent any possible blood globules leaking out of the dioxide helmets and floating up and into crevices between the panelling.

The five convicted of treason were made to kneel in the centre of a circle that included many of their friends and comrades in the lavish Chancel central area where the Prophet used to bless and ordain his selected ‘saints’. It was a blue and brown room at the apogee of the Chancel with retractable rows of silver panel seats that was not unfamiliar with power theatre although I don’t think anyone had ever been executed there. I made a speech. It was a good speech, I think. There was much cheering. In this speech I proclaimed the importance of the will of the people over the will of any individual, over love, over everything, over even life itself.

“The prophet took away our right to decide our own fates for decades,” I said, “We will not have it taken again. By anyone!”

“Never again!” Came the chanting response of the circle, “Never again! Never again!! Never again!!!”

It went on until the crowd and the entire Ark was worked up to a red, pulsing frenzy.

Elegbede spat but said nothing. Sometimes I wonder what he was thinking in those moments before the dioxide helmet went over his head. Arianamaka’s thoughts were clearly written in her eyes like program logic in a flowing datascape. She hated me.

Perhaps it was for spurning her love. Of course, there was some of that but I doubt there had been much love there to begin with. Besides, there were rumours she had given herself to Elegbede before they made their attempt. I think she wanted to go to Earth more than she wanted anything else and she had betrayed first her father with me and then me with Elegbede for the chance. She probably thought I was an opportunist who had used her to gain power and maybe she was right. In a way. But I did not set upon this path with the intention of having things turn out the way they did. It’s just that there is no predicting the results when you court chaos, is there? And she did most of the courting. Everything changed in the Sanctum on the day we took the Ark. Maybe too many things changed at the same time. I don’t know. But I do know this: we had begun with one purpose – equality and fairness for the people of the Ark. A classless system of what we believed was left of humanity in space and an end to the Prophet’s elitism and dictatorship. I had committed to it hastily, yes; driven primarily by youthful exuberance and Arianamaka’s beauty, yes. But I had committed to it completely, even if my commitment was partly corrupted in the end by greed and fear.

Still, the hate almost burned my eyes as she gazed at me from her place on the intricately patterned floor panelling of the Chancel, at the centre of one of its silver whorls. Bamidele had volunteered to be the executioner. He placed the dioxide helmet over her head last and then he turned on the carbon dioxide recirculation tube. Hypercapnia first caressed, and then seized her. She didn’t even try to call out my name as she choked and coughed, her lungs begging for oxygen. I watched the fire in her eyes dim and die and I felt something in me die with it but I did not look away until all the embers were gone.

I could not show weakness. I still cannot.

The same fear that keeps me here even after seeing the Prophets records and realising that all Arianamaka said about Earth was true, keeps me up at night. Fear, and that first bite. I have seen how Bamidele looks at me. I have seen how he speaks to the same set of people that had initially tried to counter our revolution all the time in their own voidspace chatrooms. I know he always volunteers to work the rations distribution and he likes to talk, make himself heard and seen. He makes the people like him. That’s exactly why I have to get rid of him now. I have read enough histories of old Earth to know what comes next so I also know what must be done.

There was always only one tortoise in every one of my mother’s stories; there can be only one crocodile on this Ark.

Wole Talabi is a full-time engineer, part-time writer and some-time editor with a fondness for science fiction and fantasy. He lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. His stories have appeared in the Kalahari Review, Klorofyl Magazine and others. He recently edited the These Words Expose Us anthology (2014) to which he also contributed the story A Certain Sort of Warm Magic.
Wole Talabi is a full-time engineer, part-time writer and some-time editor with a fondness for science fiction and fantasy. He lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. His stories have appeared in the Kalahari Review, Klorofyl Magazine and others. He recently edited the These Words Expose Us anthology (2014) to which he also contributed the story A Certain Sort of Warm Magic.

Interview: The World According to Ibrahim Ganiyu

Tell us a little bit about your background.

My name is Ibrahim Adeola Abidemi Ganiyu, (AKA Sir GAI). I’m a creative person by birth, graphic designer by education, illustrator by choice, animator by design and an all round artist by everything else. I was born in Ojota, Lagos on November 28. I am the second child in a family of three boys and two girls.

I’m a graduate of graphic design from the Yaba College of Technology, Lagos, and presently run a creative products and services company called Imperial Creations Studios Limited (ICStudios). I am also a partner at Playfactor Games Limited and have worked with and consulted for companies in product design and development, video production, advertising and TV content development.

My core strength is my creative mind channelled through my illustrations, animations and, most importantly, through my comics. I also lecture at Orange Academy and Graig Phillips College of Technology, both in Lagos.

I am an entrepreneur and creativity coach. I believe in creativity as a channel for human growth, development and societal advancement. I believe in creativity without limits.

I am married and have three boys, two of them are twins. I enjoy drawing, creating, developing ideas, reading, watching a good movie, playing video games, travelling and cooking.

What comics or characters inspired you to be an artist and illustrator when you were growing up and why?

Hmm … I would say the first major comic character who influenced me was Superman, though I had come across Spiderman earlier. Superman just embodied the ideals of heroism to my young mind. I was greatly influenced by the art as much as the stories then. I got a lot of artistic influence from the works of artists like Bart Sears, John Byrne, Brian Bolland, John Romita Senior and later Junior, Jim Lee and others.

My greatest artistic (and creative) influence and drive came from Leonardo Da Vinci. When I came across the name in early secondary school, I was struck by his passion/thirst for knowledge and his continuous creativity. Even when he had no way of immediately actualising his ideas he would still draw them. The man’s thoughts, zeal for knowledge, exploration, diverse skill-set and style have remained constant sources of inspiration. Da Vinci remains my number one mentor.

What is the most challenging aspect of being a comic book artist in Nigeria?

The most challenging part of doing comics in Nigeria is hard to pin point to a single thing. It’s a composition of things: Creative excellence on the part of contractors (often arising from limited knowledge of the comic book business), the unavailability of good hands in story writing, art and graphics, and of course distribution remains a headache. Print production is still a game of chance. In all, these challenges are being confronted and I can see a break happening. We are creative people after all; we’ll find a way to change the situation!

You’re involved in a lot of other projects outside your regular job. Can you tell us which ones you’re currently most excited about?

I am quite excited about our new games development partnership and the projects we are working on. We have a fighting game set in a bus garage tagged GARAGE KOMBAT. We also have one loosely based on Chief Duro Ladipo’s work tagged FOREST OF A THOUSAND DEMONS in the works.

On other fronts, I am enjoying my integration into the Nigerian literary circle as I am seeing great opportunities for comic book production and partnerships. Our contact marketing arm EMPERATA is looking more into that. Also, our flagship comic book title DARK EDGE is coming up with some exciting stuff! We are looking at a short movie early next year as well as a stage adaptation of the DARK EDGE story. Our work on the INDOMITABLES Indomie Noodles advertising campaign also has me giggling with excitement. The brand is growing and a lot of stuff will be coming out from them soon!

We just also set up SYRUP COMICS, an entry-level, creator-owned comic book imprint that’s getting lots of young guys to create and draw some amazing new stories, characters and concepts. In fact there’s so much I am excited about!

What strategies do you use to carve out time for sketching?

Drawing is my therapy. I use drawing as my stress relief and I always find an excuse to do it. My sketches are only therapeutic when I’m not doing client’s work.

Sometime in 1997 I drew an Igbo lady dancing in a trance pose and this morphed into the first sword carrying woman I drew in 2001, and by 2003 I had started my collection of Angel drawings who were women representing various emotions: rage, love; ecstasy, love, etc. and usually carrying some bad weapons! (The whole Angels idea is now developing into a comic book and a novel graphic book – not a graphics novel).

I try to squeeze in at least 48 hours of free sketching time per week – snuck in between meetings, during lunch, on the BRT heading to a meeting, at home at night after the kids have gone to bed, as a time-out when work gets too tense and even in the bathroom! The trick is to know that the sketches are your life blood and for me I think best when I am drawing.

What are the most exciting comic books on the Nigerian market right now?

Well for me, comic books excite me based on content, concept and public reaction. Without mentioning own my stuff like JUNE XII and DARK EDGE (I just mentioned them didn’t I?), It’ll have to be GUARDIAN PRIME, UHURU, STRIKE GUARD and ERU.

What was the most discouraging time in your career and how did you overcome it?

Hmm … I guess the first one came when we had to close our second office at Onipan in 2003 due to Zenith Bank acquiring the building when we had not gotten enough strength to start out. It looked like a reset back then and that was the good thing about it. It was an opportunity to reset the business, check the model and reassess the structure of our operations so that when we finally rented an office in 2006, I knew what we had to do differently. And we did it.

The second was in 2009 when the company, ICStudios, practically folded up due to the global financial crisis. The company was in debt to the tune of N3 million and my staff all had to move on. Only my admin manager, Taiwo Lawal, stayed on and together we worked to get things back on track. It taught me about making hard decisions and it was during that period that I realised that if you’ve never ever have to question what you are doing then you may be in the wrong business. Also I knew that was the time to test if we had a solid business model or not. Thankfully we did and the waves passed. Determination, willingness to learn and grow and a large dose of creativity got us out of that crazy period and it’s kept us out of it since.


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