stories africa hopepunk - omenana

15 STORIES from writers across

AFRICA

HOPEPUNK

Edited by: Mazi Nwonwu and Iquo DianaAbasi

in collaboration with

www . om e n a n a . c om

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omenana.com...speculatively yours.

The Third Eye Manifester – Ishola Abdulwasiu Ayodele 5

King of Spirits – Tardoo Ayua 17

Oyarsu-Terraforming Earth – Dooshima Tsee 28

The Legend of Urgoro – Ephraim Orji 38

Mindscaping the Esheran Liberator, One Hundred Years Later – Uchechukwu Nwaka 49

Agu Uno – Chibueze Ngeneagu 57

Hidden Figures – Plangdi Neple 64

A Ride for the Future – Mwenya S. Chikwa 74

Earth, Fire, Air, Water – Manu Herbstein 88

Neyllo – Naomi Eselojor 100

The Path to the Future – Oghan N’Thanda 111

The Coward of Umustead – Nnamdi Anyadu 122

Jon Menzi – Nos Jondi 129

The Birthing – Queen Nneoma Kanu 139

The Ghosts of the Manhole at Enem Junction – Achalugo Chioma Ilozumba 151

Contents

When Dr Amy Johnson reached out to me and offered the opportunity for Omenana Speculative Fiction Magazine to collaborate with the National Democratic Institute (NDI) on a democracy-themed special issue I didn’t think twice before saying yes.

Beyond the fact that doing the project would avail Omenana the chance to offer contributors a window through which to explore and expand their creativity, it also gave us a chance to pay them for the experience.

Omenana Speculative Fiction Magazine exists to serve writers of speculative fiction from or with roots in Africa, and we would never turn away from a chance to give them a bigger spotlight.

This edition comes as the world continues to be in upheaval, with a war in Europe threatening to change the world order that we know, and economic difficulties occasioned by hyperinflation becoming a commonality for both people in rich and emerging nations.

Now, we have 15 stories, from writers from across Africa and one from South America, that explore the theme of “Positive Visions of Democracy” in ways that excite and upli� and call to hope. During the course of working on this project, we learnt that what we are attempting can actually be captured under the banner of the speculative fiction subgenre: Hope Punk.

Hope Punk is relatively new and has not really been explored by writers of the speculative in Africa. Even in the global north where it was thought up, the landscape of Hope Punk is only being mapped. As such, we are thrilled with the entries we got, especially as many of the stories embodied the optimism that is at the heart of the Hope Punk subgenre.

The beauty of the subgenre is also reflected in the fact that it is genre-bending. As such, the stories in this edition are a mixture of African Futurism, Fantasy, Urban Legend and Magical Realism. Whatever is your pleasure, we do have it here and hope you enjoy reading the stories as much as we did while putting them together.

We also worked with some very talented artists to illustrate these stories and bring the characters to life.

For this special edition, we also brought back our pdf version, for your to download and read at your leisure.

Some of the stories in this special edition will form part of a global anthology edited by Dr Amy Johnson in late 2022. Stories for the anthology will be selected from Omenana and two other great SF magazines from South America (Mafagafo and A Taverna) and an SF magazine based in Asia (Mithila Review).

We called for contributors to let their creativity run wild. That’s what we got.

Editorial

Mazi NwonwuHuman

The Third Eye Manifester

Ishola Abdulwasiu AyodeleISHOLA IS A CREATIVE WRITER, VISUAL ARTIST AND EDUCATIONIST FROM NIGERIA.

A RESIDENCE DIRECTOR AT ARTMOSTERRIFIC AND FICTION MENTOR FOR SPRINNG WRITING FELLOWSHIP, HIS WORKS HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED ON AFRICAN WRITER, SUB-SAHARAN

MAGAZINE, BRITTLE PAPER AND ELSEWHERE.

ART BY SAMUEL ACHEMA

It is either Commander Nkem agrees that two hundred prisoners should be jettisoned to prolong Orun’s life support system span or endanger over two thousand denizens. Councillor Jiya has presented an argument supporting the former, claiming this was

the only way for them to increase their chances of survival, by choosing a lesser evil. Nkem sees more than half of the council nodding as he finishes explaining his perspective. And this terrifies her. Her gaze shifts to Jiya who is opposite her at the oval table around which they all sit. Since he was the one who brought up the idea, she directs her resistance toward him.

“ese are human lives, Jiya. ey have families dreaming of their freedom. And some of them were jailed for light offences.”

“I know it feels barbaric but it is the only way. ey will be collateral for everyone’s else survival,” Jiya says.

“It doesn’t feel barbaric. It is barbaric.”

“So do you prefer that we all die? Commander, in this condition, Orun can’t float two years more in space. Letting them go will give us some additional months.”

“But we are not certain we’ll find a solution within that frame of time.”

“Only that the probability of doing so will increase. is is the best option we have at the moment. Unless you have another?”

e other members of the council stay silent, observing. e two butted heads in almost every meeting they had, so, this isn’t strange.

“No, I don’t.” Nkem sighs.

“en the council should vote and decide our fate,” Jiya says holding Nkem’s gaze.

Nkem looks away and glances at the faces at the table. ere are twelve of them, each a representative of their faction. Nkem knows the majority will favour survival over morality. So as Jiya makes to state a motion, Nkem cuts in.

“Give me three days. ree days and I will present a better option.

Jiya doesn’t hide his glare. “And if you don’t?”

Nkem lets a sheath of confidence glaze over the fear in her eyes. No one must see through her bluff. “en we go with your proposition.”

Later that day, Nkem paces the length of her room while she waddles through a quagmire of thoughts in her mind. She stops and turns to a shelf on her side. e shelf carries her collections: a few rare paper books, a holographic globe displaying earth’s seasons, abstract metal sculptures and a small humanoid music bot with a loose jaw. She flicks a switch at the bot’s nape and its eyes light up and jazzy saxophone sounds pour out from its speaker of a mouth. Nkem walks to the wide window at the end of the room and stares out through its transparent glass at space. She can see on the horizon a glowing nebula, a splash of green-yellow-orange. Normally, jazz plus the wondrous spectacle of outer space is enough to inspire and uplift her. But she still feels weighed down with doubt and dread. e nebula though reminds her of her deceased lover, Wanga. He used to tell her being

Democracy: Issue 22

6

The Third Eye Manifester - Ishola Abdulwasiu Ayodele

around her made his mind into nebulae. With his rich sense of humour and exceptional skill of picking stars out of empty night skies, Wanga would have found a way to make her feel hopeful if he were around. When the pressure of pre-election pandemonium got to her, it was Wanga who reminded her how she had been an award-winning head prefect in college. en he’d click on a classical music bot and they’d sway to an Olaposi or a Beethoven. And Nkem would feel all the weight on her mind dissipate. Nkem had imagined he would stand by her throughout her tenure, cheering her on tough days. But a day before the election, Wanga had rushed into a crumbling faction to save a little girl and got a metal splinter drilled into his side. And life had bled out of Wanga before an ambulance arrived. Nkem’s heart quaked into dust on receiving the news. Winning the election the next day did not move her. Encapsulated in a casket of grief, she sank deep into despair. She had mumbled through her swearing-in ceremony after which she refused to step out of her apartment. Until Jiya visited her with a small basket of fruits.

“Aren’t you tired of garnering pity?” Jiya had said as he sat on a sofa she’d offered him.

Nkem was taken aback as this statement contradicted the fruit basket gesture. She paused and then said, “What?”

“I mean, you have locked yourself up for some time while your office suffers. You’re yet to hold your first council meeting. You should act like you deserve the people’s choice.”

Nkem was spellbound. Of course, she should have seen through the shenanigan. Jiya had been her unrelenting rival and frenemy since college. He wouldn’t change now.

Jiya continued, “Do you know rumours are starting to spread that people had voted for you out of pity because of Wanga’s martyrdom?”

“You should leave, Jiya.” Nkem shot up from her seat.

Jiya sprang up immediately as if he’d expected this reaction. “Orun needs a commander. And I’m–“

“Get out of my home!” Nkem stormed to the door and opened it.

Immediately Jiya stepped out, and Nkem threw the fruit basket after him. And the door slid shut. Nkem caught a cloudy reflection of her face on the door’s sheen. Her long face seemed longer. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her hair dishevelled. She didn’t recoil at this unrecognizable creature she was looking at. Instead, she steeled her demeanour and marched into her bathroom, shaved her head, took a bath and wore a flowing blue gown. at evening, she called for the first council meeting.

A peal jolts Nkem out of her reverie. It comes from the pendant on her chest which also starts flashing red. She touches it and there is silence again and the oval-shaped pendant returns to its usual translucent state. Red colour and a blare mean she is needed in the navigation room. Her anxiety spikes. She wonders if the navigating system has paused

Immediately Jiya stepped out, and Nkem threw the fruit basket after him. And the door slid shut. Nkem caught a cloudy reflection of her face on the door's sheen. “

7

again or if they are encountering the foreshadowed meteor shower. She dashes out of her room just as the music from her music bot crescendoes.

In the navigation room, the head pilot shows Nkem the picture of a ship floating immobile in their path.

“Point the grand telescope at it, Ali. We need more details.”

e head pilot clacks some keys and the object is zoomed into. Embossed lettering of “e ird Eye Manifester” becomes visible on the hull.

Nkem gasps. Orun has been flying through space for centuries with a route, locked in on the navigator system by the ancestral residents. No one knows where to but the council over decades has propagated the narrative that they are headed for an Earth-like planet at the other side of the galaxy. Nkem wonders if this has always been their destination.

When they are close enough to transmit, Nkem speaks into the radio to make contact.

“Hello, ird Eye Manifester. is is Orun. My name is Nkem, the commander. Please introduce yourself.”

After about a dozen transmissions and no reply, it dawns on Nkem that the ship is empty. Nkem then decides to lead a scout to inspect it.

8

Democracy: Issue 22

e scout’s carrier latches onto the ship’s dock with ease. ey alight onto an enclosed platform and march to the door before them. Assuming the ship’s operating system is like theirs, Nkem presses some buttons by the door and is surprised when the double door draws back in a whirr to reveal a fluorescent lamp-lit passage. It is silent as space. Others gather behind her and peer in. One of them asks if they should return to Orun and Nkem answers by crossing over. As she does, a loud beep erupts from somewhere deep inside. Unfazed, she draws out her firearm from her holster, aims forward and advances. Her team follows suit. ey tread through the passage till they find an empty control room, then a vast living quarter with bunkers and blank screens. ey are following the sound and it is getting louder. When they reach another locked door, thicker and wider than all the doors they’ve seen so far, Nkem asks the team to ready their weapons in case they encounter something deadly behind. And this door like others has no password too. On sliding open for them, the beeping stops. In front of them is a massive machine in the shape of an octopus, but with sixteen tentacles. ere are pods at the end of each arm and one at the centre. Nkem reads off one of the arms “URA 444”. Suddenly, a voice blares from the walls, startling. A voice frail with urgency and wistfulness.

“We saw the degradation of Earth coming, from the drastic climate change that led to the nocturnal era to the failed colonization of Mars, to extraterrestrial wars… We found that our only chance was to recreate Earth. So we developed a consciousness-infused technology that could alter reality, the Ultimate Reality Alterer. But we didn’t foresee the potential for the machine to manifest the unconscious too and because of the trauma ingrained in our DNA, we couldn’t successfully recreate Earth. We needed to heal before we could achieve this. So my crew was sent into space to master the URA away from earth’s terrors and return later for recreation. But because of my deep-seated existentialism, I had unconsciously nurtured something that might cause us to fail. And if you are listening to this, it already happened, an unravelling of my imagination that every human vanishes so that suffering will end. It also means my hope that the effect isn’t universal is realized. And you might be humanity’s only chance for continuity. e Ultimate Reality Alterer 444 requires a perfect imaginator at the centre pod. You will find a manual to guide you inside. Please be careful and only allow the purest imaginations.”

As the message ends, Nkem advances towards the head pod, which just like others, looks like a glass cocoon. e curvy door glides in and a swirl of cloudy air wafts out. Nkem registers an almost hypnotizing effect of the scent. ere’s a chair-like gear inside on which sits a semicircular chip. She picks it and just as she whirls, the chamber hums close. Before she orders that they return back to Orun, Nkem makes every officer swear an oath of secrecy about their discovery.

Back on the ship, Nkem calls an emergency meeting to brief the council about the machine. Images of URA 444 and descriptions of its parts are displayed on the oval tabletop. e lighting lights up the awe expanding on everyone’s face. Despite their unparalleled technological knowledge, this looks like magic to them.

On the day, each imaginator enters their assigned pods. They begin inputting their imagination, all continuously overlapping and merging before them to create a floating planet, first with sixteen moons. Then eight, four, two...

“

9


“is is another option for us, we can recreate and teleport to earth.” Nkem swipes an image of Earth onto the oval screen.

Silence.

“How exactly does this thing work?” Councillor Jiya breaks the silence. He is opposite Nkem as usual. His signature large grey turban sits on his head and the gemstones on his many rings sparkle.

“It’s a technology thought to be lost forever. It surfaced around earth’s nocturnal era. As I said, it is based on the quantum quality of the observer altering the observed. What we need now is to start training imaginators towards precision and psychological purity.” ere’s a hint of excitement in Nkem’s voice. She swipes at the tabletop again and new images rush in. ey are spectacles that seem to be made of crystals. Hundreds of them.

“What are these?” the woman beside Nkem asks before leaning forward to try to read some inscriptions on one of the spectacles. Some of her dreadlocks fall over her face.

“ese are Simulatrixes. e manual revealed they can be found in a container on the ship,” Nkem says and points at a single one which rapidly enlarges to take up all the space on the screen. “ey are advanced virtual reality tech used in training for perfect imagination. It’s like a game where you can conjure anything depending on mental graphic capacity. And the quality of the reality created is proportional to the purity of imagination.”

Some eyes are gazing at the image while others follow Nkem’s lips.

“And you think we can just trust this?” Jiya says.

“It’s a better option than killing hundreds of people in order to extend the ship’s lifespan.”

“I don’t trust this tech. No one was even on the ship. at’s just eerie and ominous,” Jiya says.

“I will use the Simulatrix first to ascertain safety! If I survive, then we trust the technology.” Nkem’s voice shoots through the air.

10

Democracy: Issue 22

e man beside Jiya holding a staff starts, “But…”

And Nkem sighs and cuts in, “is is the only way. It’s our only chance.” While her shaved head bows, all the eyes in the room exchange looks, prying one another for agreement.

Finally, Jiya says they will go with the technology after Nkem tries it. “I hope you’re right and it’s safe.”

Nkem scoffs to herself. Jiya does not hope she is right. She’s sure he wishes the simulatrix destroys her mind so that he can take her place.

A voice plunges into Nkem’s mind, “But what do we tell the people about the new ship?”

Nkem does not find out who said it when she raises her head smirking. “We should tell them it’s an abandoned junk ship that we can salvage for spare parts. e truth will be too jarring.”

As no one speaks after her, she calls for adjournment of the meeting.

e next day, Nkem puts on a simulatrix before the council. Jiya first appears in her mind, but with his mountain of turban pressing his head into his neck. en a faint image of Wanga materializes. His pointed nose keeps widening and shrinking. A birthmark shifts from above his right eye to the left and then back. And his eyes are a colour caught between black and brown, almost a blur. Only his spiky hair and dark complexion are stable. Nkem’s breath quickens. It’s only been four years and she’s forgetting Wanga’s image. She imagines his soft-spoken voice, remembering the last words he said to her. “I’m sure you’ll win against Jiya again. It’s only natural.” But he sounds like her instead, like her perpetually strained voice. She jerks off the simulatrix from her head. e council search her face. ey have seen everything projected on the tabletop.

“Wow! Wow! is is unbelievable!” Nkem laughs nervously.

e council members share glances, nodding, except for Jiya whose rigid gaze is fixed on the gadget Nkem is holding.

Nkem trains the recruited imaginators herself. ey study the contents in the chip together and get better at crafting realistic mental images each day. Nkem quickly becomes friends with one of the recruits, Irebawa, a quanta-neurologist with an exceptional understanding of the URA. One afternoon, after training, Irebawa requests a moment with Nkem. ey stay back in the training room which is dimly lit with blue light, each sitting on two of the stretchers in the room.

“I have a suggestion, Commander. It’s been months now and we haven’t attained a hundred per cent imagery clarity,” Irebawa says, then pauses.

“So?”

“My daughter Wuraitan is a wonderful storyteller and she paints the vividest of images. I think we should test her.”

“First, I hope you haven’t shared this project with her or your husband?”

“No, not at all. I’m on oath.”

11


“Okay. I’ve been meaning to ask because you talk a lot about them.” Nkem smiles. “Next, I appreciate your concern. But I can’t allow your daughter participate. She’s still young. You said she’s only thirteen. She might jeopardize the stealthiness of the operation. And I can’t risk that.”

Irebawa nods in agreement. ey go on to chat a while about the technicalities of the Simulatrix before leave the training room together.

A few months later, Nkem declares they are ready to create and jump. She selects sixteen imaginators with clarity above ninety per cent. She has the highest score of ninety-five so she’ll lead the operation. To explain what could happen to the denizens, the council announces that they’d encountered an anomaly in the junk ship which may possess space warping properties for teleportation. And a curfew is imposed for safety.

On the day, each imaginator enters their assigned pods. ey begin inputting their imagination, all continuously overlapping and merging before them to create a floating planet, first with sixteen moons. en eight, four, two… Now they start zooming into the planet, with the aim of reaching the atmosphere where they can conjure the images of the two ships. is is when focus becomes unsteady, as the mental energy of the participants is drained. So before they reach Earth’s lower atmosphere, the ships take form. Feeling the drastic drop in energy, Nkem quickly affirms the manifestation. And she blacks out.

About an hour later, Nkem groans awake. e door to her pod is already opened as that of the others. Still feeling quite disoriented, she comes out and goes round to stir the rest awake. And they all head outside.

When Nkem sees sand on the ground, she manages a chuckle and increases her pace. Other imaginators follow behind more slowly. She puts off her shoes. e sand feels smooth under her feet. ere’s an endless mass of water before her with tides running back and forth the shore. Farther on her side, beyond Orun, is a lush forest. e sky is a vast expanse of blue. e sun feels warmer than the ship’s artificial sun but it doesn’t burn. e light is brighter too, so Nkem shields her eyes with her arm. She turns excitedly to observe her companions and finds some of the imaginators look more feeble than thrilled. Just then, Jiya arrives with a bunch of medics behind him. Rather than the excitement, Nkem had hoped will be on his face, she meets indifference.

“Because the ships manifested too high, we crashed and suffered casualties. irty-three deaths including Councillor Tarfa, and maybe there’s more. I’ve directed the medical team to attend to the gravely injured,” Jiya says.

Nkem’s triumphant demeanour crumbles. e medics rush to help three people who just collapsed behind her.

Within fifteen minutes, the back of Orun is flooded with hundreds of people, each with a small bag flung over their shoulders or on their heads. It's past noon and shadows have begun stretching. The forest lies enticing before them, with navigator vehicles already creating paths inward, clearing shrubs and felling small trees.

“

12

Democracy: Issue 22

“I told you this was dangerous,” Jiya says.

Nkem sighs and mutters, “More would have died had we stayed instead.”

She walks to where the unconscious imaginators are being tested by the medics. “I appreciate that you swiftly sprang up to action, Councilor Jiya. Now, while we cater to the hurt, we shouldn’t waste time testing for potential geo-hazards. According to records, Orun’s ancestral residents left earth unstable, with constantly shifting tectonic plates.”

Another group of people arrives consisting of the remaining councillors and relatives of the imaginators.

“Irebawa!” A man screams, his eyes on one of the bodies the medics are treating. He leaves the wheelchair he’s pushing and darts forward. e girl in the wheelchair starts sobbing. Nkem realises that they are Irebawa’s family. At the same time, a councillor breaks to the front shouting that he can’t find his daughter. Jiya is quick to hold him back as he aims at Nkem.

“We’re going to find her, Councillor Madu,” Nkem says, a slight tremble in her voice threatening to betray her optimism. “Everything is going to be alright.”

By noon, the geo-scientist team returns from their survey with a deadly reading on their Geo-hazard Oracle. A super tsunami is gathering momentum in the belly of the ocean which is predicted to strike at sunset. On hearing the report, Nkem can no longer hide the horror on her face. She waves the geoscientists away from the meeting room so that the council can discuss the next line of action. ey barely reach the entrance before Jiya’s outburst.

“We have to evacuate the ship and go as far into the forest as we can.”

“What if we don’t have enough time? e scale of the tsunami as we’ve heard is terrifying. We can try to use the URA again.” A trickle of sweat rolls down Nkem’s hairless head to her chin.

“e same ird Eye Manifester or whatever brought us here for this calamity and you are asking us to trust it again?

“We even lost a councillor because of it. And no one knows if Councillor Madu’s daughter will wake up. e machine requires blind faith and is not safe. Our consciousness is unreliable as an input means.”

Councillor Madu hits his staff on the floor. “I agree with Councillor Jiya. We must abandon the ships and flee before twilight comes with disaster.”

Many of the councillors nod at this. Nkem is still silent.

“We have the machines to make our path and our military arm will be with us to protect us from beasts,” the councillor with dreadlocks says.

“We can’t leave.” Nkem straightens her hunched back. “With that kind of reading, we will likely not outrun the waves’ reach because we are too many. Plus there are our prisoners too. But with the machine, we might stand a chance.”

13


Madu speaks, his hand gripping his staff so tight that his veins bulge, “What will you do now? Teleport us near an active volcano? Or in the eye of a hurricane? Besides, all your imaginators are exhausted, including yourself. It’s conspicuous in the heaviness of your eyelids you struggle to keep open.”

“We shouldn’t leave,” Nkem says.

“We don’t have time for arguments. We’ll cast a vote and settle this,” Jiya puts his hand on the pendant of his necklace which every one of them has on. “Press your pendant if you agree that we leave,” he says and presses his.

Nkem fixes her eyes on the tabletop where the result is displayed. ere are seven votes out of the eleven Councillors present.

“It is settled. We leave,” Jiya announces.

“I am staying!” Nkem says.

“You cannot overrule the votes, Commander Nkem.” Madu lashes her with his eyes.

“I know. at’s why we’ll let the people decide. We are going to reveal everything to them. Whoever decides to leave can leave afterwards. But I am staying with anyone who understands my reasoning.”

e public address comes immediately after the meeting with every screen on the ship lighting up to show the council meeting room. Nkem, standing in front of the council, reveals the secret of teleportation and how they could use it to prevent the looming danger from the ocean. After which Jiya comes forward to argue that they need to evacuate the shore for the forest. He ends with, “Commander Nkem will allow anyone who wants to join me to leave. So leave your factions’ public hall now, go and get what is essential and gather behind Orun in twenty minutes. e wounded and unconscious will be carried in vehicles. We don’t have time. We should hurry!”

Within fifteen minutes, the back of Orun is flooded with hundreds of people, each with a small bag flung over their shoulders or on their heads. It’s past noon and shadows have begun stretching. e forest lies enticing before them, with navigator vehicles already creating paths inward, clearing shrubs and felling small trees. Jiya praises the people for their bravery and gives a short speech before declaring they can forge ahead. en they pour into the forest.

Behind them is Orun and the junk ship glistening in their brokenness, and the ocean’s deceptive calmness.

Nkem watches Jiya and his followers leave on the council meeting room’s CCTV. If she doesn’t allow this, she will be tagged a tyrant. Jiya has finally got his wish to lead. eir feud of perspectives over the years has fettered into this breakdown in her governorship. She thinks of Wanga. If he were alive, she would feel more courageous than doubtful of the decision she has made.

A man pushes in a wheelchair. e squeaks of the wheels draw Nkem’s attention to the present. She wipes off a streak of tears on her face and turns with a smile.

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Democracy: Issue 22

“You asked for us, Commander,” the man says.

“Yes, yes. I’m very thrilled you didn’t decide to leave.”

“I won’t be able to stay with Irebawa’s body in the vehicle. And our daughter doesn’t want to be crammed into a carrier for the differently abled.”

Nkem walks over to them. She recognizes the girl now from the news years ago. She’s the girl Wanga had saved.

“You must be Baba and Wuraitan. Irebawa told me a lot about you two.”

“Yes, Commander,” Baba says.

Wuraitan looks up at Nkem. “I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I am about Officer Wanga. I’m alive because of him,” she says. “I still remember the soft smile on his face telling me to trust him. I’m alive because I did. And now I trust you.”

“ank you so much. at means a lot to me.” Nkem kneels before her and squeezes her hands gently.

“May I know why you have called us here, Commander?” Baba asks, impatient.

Nkem stands, “Yes. Irebawa once told me about the possibility of Wuraitan being capable of attaining one hundred per cent imagery clarity.”

“I don’t understand you,” Baba pulls back the wheelchair to himself.

Nkem goes to pick a simulatrix from the oval table. “It’s a measure of the purity of imagination. Attaining a hundred percent will make one a perfect imaginator for the URA.”

“Not my daughter too, Commander. Irebawa is already in a coma because of this and now you’re asking my daughter to join you?”

“I just need to confirm if she can do it. is is not the URA. It’s only a simulating device.”

“And if she scores a hundred? What happens next?”

“I—”

Wuraitan cuts in. “Please let me try, Baba.” She looks up at Baba’s stony face pleadingly. “Pleeease.”

“Alright, but only a minute and I’m yanking that thing off your face.”

Nkem puts the simulatrix over Wuraitan’s eyes and asks her to imagine a massive wave at the shore curving towards the ocean. en she goes to the oval table to watch the display. On the screen is a wave rising to the sky, so perfect in composition and detail one won’t believe it’s animated. Nkem quickly checks her score and sees ninety-nine per cent. She gasps looking at Wuraitan. Baba quickly pulls off the simulatrix from Wuraitan’s face.

Nkem runs to kneel before Wuraitan again, breathless. “e ird Eye Manifester requires a perfect imaginator at the centre pod. And you, you attained the highest score yet. You can save us all.”

15


“No, no, no.” Baba shakes his head. “Wuraitan is not going into that weird junk ship.”

e remaining councillors enter the room. e woman in front reports that they’ve brought what’s left of their factions to the central hall. Nkem nods, then shares her discovery with them. Baba is already wheeling Wuraitan out against her wish.

“We will all die if I don’t try Baba!” Baba stands still at the entrance. Wuraitan continues, “e least we can do is try. I’m sure Irebawa would have wanted me to try. You have to believe in me. I’m strong enough.”

Baba exhales deeply and turns back. e council’s eyes are on him, waiting. He nods his consent and Nkem places a palm over her chest in relief.

e sun is sinking on the horizon. Wuraitan is inside the central pod of the URA. Nkem, the seven imaginators left after the crisis and departure and new untrained volunteers take the tentacles. Nkem instructs them to focus on creating a massive wave to counter the force of the coming tsunami, to shatter its impact energy. Everyone else is in the central hall on Orun, hoping, some pacing, some hand-holding. e tsunami comes exactly when expected, a roaring terror. And they are all standing before it, watching its height towering, threatening to devour all in its way. ey collectively create mirror images of the tsunami, which merges and arches to oppose it. A deafening blast thunders through the air. Splashes rain like a deluge on the ships for minutes. No one goes unconscious this time.

When the imaginators come out of the junk ship hours later, the central hall crowd is waiting for them outside, cheering. Nkem gives a speech, praising the people’s faith and valour. Afterwards, she grabs a bottle of wine from the crates people have brought out to celebrate and finds her way to the back of Orun. She takes a swig as she sits. She stares at the forest, wondering how Jiya and his followers are faring at the moment. She gulps down more wine and gazes up at a full moon. Her peripheral sight catches a head with spiky hair, so she glances sideways. But there’s no one else with her. She thinks it must be because she saw an apparition of Wanga in the URA. Now she wonders why that happened for she didn’t even think of him.

en over the cacophonies of celebration from the other side streaming into her ears, she hears, “Congratulations Nkem.” And it’s not in her perpetually strained voice. It is soft-spoken like Wanga’s. She flinches and her eyes scramble about for the source in the deepening darkness. Again there is no one. Somewhere high in the sky, a wisp of cloud shifts to reveal another moon, a thin crescent almost invisible to the eye.

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Democracy: Issue 22

King of Spirits

TARDOO AYUATARDOO AYUA HAS HAD A STRONG INTEREST IN TELLING STORIES, ESPECIALLY OF THE

SPECULATIVE KIND, SINCE HE WAS A CHILD. HE IS A GRADUATE OF LAW FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF ABUJA AND HIS FAVOURITE MEAL IS FRIES. ‘KING OF SPIRITS’ IS HIS

FIRST PUBLISHED STORY.

ART BY ZAYNAB BOBI

voice, calm and soothing, spoke from behind, “Hello Akombo”. He turned and Asaw a snake, green as the vegetation it was coiled in, almost invisible. “Who are you?” Akombo quivered, attempting to back away. Even as he spoke, the young

man was shocked that a dangerous animal like a snake could have the power of speech.

“I am Ikyarem.”

“Oh, Ikyarem … I have heard of you”, he was suddenly relaxed. Ikyarem, according to legend, was a benevolent serpent who saved people in distress. Akombo had always been one to sense the presence of spirits and the forces of the supernatural so it was not all too surprising when the serpent told Akombo that he had been chosen by the spirits for a specific role. However, what he’d been chosen for came as a surprise to him; deciding who the new King of Spirits was going to be.

Tired of all the fighting to claim the title, one of the gods, Esu, suggested a novel way of choosing who the new king would be. Any of the spirits who wanted to become king would declare his intention to all in a gathering and then the rest of the spirits were to choose who they wanted by casting cowry shells. Whoever had the most cowry shells would become the new King. Akombo’s role in this process was to count.

“So, do you accept? You will be greatly rewarded.”

Akombo didn’t dilly-dally about the matter. He thought the spirits were truly wise to come up with this new way of choosing their leader, and he was eager to see how the proceedings would play out. Maybe he could introduce it to his kinsmen when he returned.

“I accept, Ikyarem. It would be an honour. I have one question though, why pick a mortal to count the cowry shells? Couldn’t one of the spirits do it?”

“I suggested that a mortal be the one to count because the spirits squabbled among themselves over who would do the counting. ere is very little trust among us. You will get to see that very soon.”

“Oh ok… When should we depart?”

“Meet me here by twilight and I will take you to the land of the spirits.”

“As you say, Ikyarem.”

e snake slithered into the greenery and vanished.

Akombo went back home, ate, had a bath, and returned to the spot where he’d met the snake, eager for the journey ahead. He saw Ikyarem crawl out from the bushes, a darker green in the waning light of the sun, then it looked up at him and said: “Close your eyes and count to ten, then we will be in the land of the spirits.”

He did as he was told, “One, two, three, four…,” and when he opened his eyes, he was in a strange land. e ground was covered in deep red sand and the trees were much bigger and taller than any he’d seen before. In fact, everything looked much bigger, the moon was a white, fat melon in the night sky and the stars burned brighter than he had ever seen them shine.

Ikyarem crawled forward and Akombo followed, until they got to a roofless, large round structure, with smooth walls like the back of a calabash. He heard chatter coming from within. “is place is called Onokoni, the meeting place of the spirits. You will inform

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Democracy: Issue 22

them of your acceptance of your role in the selection of a new King.”

“I see.” He wondered what the spirits would say.

“Now put me on your shoulder and enter.” Despite Akombo’s misgivings about placing a snake on his shoulder, even if it was one known for its benevolence, he lifted Ikyarem and placed the serpent on his left shoulder where it coiled and balanced.

He entered the building and was introduced by Ikyarem. ey were all here, spirits he had heard about in tales beneath the moonlight, in songs during burials, in chants during births. ere were also others he didn’t recognise. He could see pale humanoid beings, fat scaly creatures, a two-headed, gigantic spirit, a spirit covered in vines with about five different eyeballs in between them, among others.

A human-like spirit was addressing the crowd. It wore a long, striped robe and a hat that went round his head and stretched upwards, neatly divided in the middle by two colours, red on the left and black on the right. is was Esu, the architect of the new selection process.

He turned to Akombo and explained the process, adding that he would do the counting alone, without help from any of the spirits, but he was allowed to make one significant change to the counting process if he so wished. en he introduced the candidates for the position of King of Spirits; Sango, Mami Wata and Kure, the Great Hyena.

Akombo saw Sango, muscular with fiery eyes and a cocky smile, wearing a black loin cloth. His chiselled face bore a rugged handsomeness that exuded charisma and danger. His skin was the rich brown of polished copper and his muscles flexed as he walked. He had a battle axe in his right hand, perhaps to show that he was always ready for a challenge.

Next, Akombo saw a beautiful woman, her skin fair and smooth like a mango just before peak ripeness, soft yet firm. She wore a sparkling green cloth around her breasts and another round her waist. Her waist was also adorned with coral beads, while a huge necklace made of colourful seashells sat on her neck. e most surprising accessory on her though, was the large boa, hanging from her shoulders down to her waist. Its skin was greenish yellow with large black circles. She was beautiful yet terrifying at the same time.

en he saw the third spirit, a huge Hyena-like creature, walking into the centre of the room. this spirit’s fur was brown but adorned with black spots. Its legs were massive and muscular. It was called Kure the Great Hyena; it was the first to speak.

“I greet you all, divine eminences. I come here to declare my interest in becoming the new King of Spirits. I have one complaint, however. e three of us are mighty spirits, and it only goes to show that might is necessary for leadership. I propose that only mighty spirits be allowed to choose who the next King is. I don’t see why a minor spirit, like Ikyarem over there,” he pointed at the serpent, “should be part of the process. ey amount to nothing. It would be laughable for them to have a say.”

e assembly went into an uproar, some spirits agreed while others expressed indignation.

Sango said “Are you worried, Kure, that you will not find any support from the minor spirits, whom you have bullied and hunted before? You are afraid of losing, aren’t you?”

e Hyena growled at the thunder god.

King of Spirits - TARDOO AYUA

19

Mami Wata raised her hands up and said; “Everybody calm down. It is true that the minor spirits are weak but that is no reason why they shouldn’t make their choice. ey outnumber the greater spirits and you should remember, Kure, that there is strength in numbers.”

“Hmmph!”

“So, it is agreed that the minor spirits will also cast their cowries,” Esu said, turning to face Kure.

e Hyena looked at the gathering and could see the anger in the eyes of a lot of the spirits.

“Yes, fine! ey can participate. However, I have another condition. A spirit shall only become king if they get more cowry shells than the other two combined.”

e gathering went into another uproar. Surely this was a ploy. e Hyena knew he couldn’t win because he was not liked by the smaller spirits so he wanted to make sure that nobody won.

“Keep quiet!!! All of you, keep quiet and listen to me! If the winner doesn’t have more supporters than the other two combined, what happens if the losers and their supporters come together and attack the winner?! We will be back to square one, where fighting decides the King!” the Hyena grinned, knowing that he had made a good point.

Sango took his hand to his chin and considered what Kure had said. Mami Wata just looked on with a subtle smile on her face. e spirits murmured among themselves, then an ogbanje raised a hand. “I greet you all, and I have to agree with Kure. e winner must have a greater majority than the other two so that it doesn’t become a battle between all. We can agree that if nobody wins the selection process, another will be conducted.”

Esu addressed the gathering, “do you all agree?”

e majority cry was a resounding “Yes!”

It was decided. e winner had to get more cowries than the other two combined.

Ikyarem spoke:

“ere is one more matter. Akombo has a very important role and it is possible that he will be exposed to danger, he will need to be protected for the period in which he will be here, and also the three spirits must swear not to harm him.”

e Hyena growled.

e god of thunder smiled.

e queen of the waters maintained her expression.

en Sango said “at is a good idea. Who can protect Akombo while he carries out his duties? Whichever spirit is strong enough will be rewarded for protecting the mortal.”

Silence reigned in the hall, as the spirits looked at each other or elsewhere.

“I will do it; I will protect the mortal.” Everyone turned to the source of the voice. It was Egbonkeke, a spirit that looked like a woman. She was tall and muscular, her skin the colour

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Democracy: Issue 22

of loamy soil. She wore a green lacy blouse and a skimpy skirt made entirely of coral beads. Sounds filled the hall as spirits spoke in hushed tones. Akombo asked Ikyarem who she was, and Ikyarem told him that she was a fearsome spirit but to some she was a protector. With her as his protector, he was in safe hands… Probably.

“It is decided then, Egbonkeke will protect the mortal,” Esu announced.

Kure added, “But know this, you must protect him with your life. If he dies and you’re still alive, I will kill you personally and eat your heart. Hahahahaha!”

Sango smiled and said “you are just horrible Kure, but I agree. If Egbonkeke fails to protect the mortal, she will die. at is the only way to make sure she takes the job seriously.”

Mami Wata said nothing.

“I accept to protect him with my life, and I expect my reward to be plentiful.”

“Of course,” Esu said then brought out three kolanuts.

“Each of you must swear not to harm Akombo during his stay in the spirit world. Come, take a kolanut and eat to be bound by your oath.”

Each of them took a kolanut, swore not to harm Akombo and proceeded to eat the nut.

“It is done then; the selection process will be carried out tomorrow night. e gathering has come to an end.”

e spirits left the hall, some flew out, others vanished and the rest walked out. Akombo and Ikyarem also departed, accompanied by Egbonkeke.

I’m sure you’re hungry and tired. We can go to the Feasting Hall and thereafter to the lodgings that have been prepared for you to sleep. No harm will come to you now and you can carry out your duty without fear.”

“at is reassuring, I can’t wait to be a part of it all,” Akombo could hardly contain his excitement as he thought of how each spirit will cast a cowry shell for the one deity they want to become king.

ey were on a red trail that led to a structure which looked like a giant pot that had been turned upside down and affixed into the earth. Its colour was a washed grey, and the surface was designed with rows of shapes and dots, mostly squiggles and arrowheads. is was the Feasting Hall, where spirits often gathered to eat.

Beside the entrance, someone was waiting for them. It was Kure.“Come behind quickly, Akombo.” Egbonkeke ordered and stepped in front of him,

taking a fighter’s pose.

“Relax, my dear Gbon. I just want to have a chat with him. I swore with kola that I would not hurt him so there is nothing to worry about.”

Sango took his hand to his chin and considered what Kure had said. Mami Wata just looked on with a subtle smile on her face. The spirits murmured among themselves, then an ogbanje raised a hand.

“

21


“is is highly irregular Kure, you shouldn’t be meeting with Akombo in such a manner—”

“Shut up worm, just because you brought him from the land of mortals doesn’t mean you suddenly have the power to talk to me in this way. I swore not to harm Akombo but you are a completely different matter. Now mortal, I intend to win the crown, you like meat, right? I know your people love eating meat a lot. Well, if you make me win somehow, I will provide you with all the bush meat you can imagine until the day you die.

“You will have a lifetime supply of all the meat you know and even the ones you don’t know. Antelope, grasscutter, pheasant, hippo, buffalo. I am the Great Hyena and I can bring it all for you. So, is it a deal?”

Akombo was tempted by the magnitude of the hyena’s promise. A lifetime supply of bush meat would certainly make his life easier. He could become a chief in his village, marry many wives, have a lot of property, and gain enormous respect from his peers.

“ank you, but I will have to decline your offer Great Hyena. I am only com—”

“you’re a fool”, Kure said and left. Ikyarem saw him leave and knew he made a mistake. He should have added more conditions for the candidates to abide by. Who knows what other plans they would come up with? Extra care was necessary, going forward because there wouldn’t be any other gathering until the selection process.

ey entered the feasting hall and Akombo saw a lot of enticing delicacies, some were familiar but the vast majority were not. eir strangeness didn’t reduce the desirability of

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Democracy: Issue 22

the meals, the aroma alone was out of this world, literally.

“Don’t eat anything unless I tell you it’s good for you; you understand?”

“I hear you,” Akombo replied.

Egbonkeke went around and came back with a tray of pounded yam and some kind of soup filled with a lot of meat. Akombo stared longingly at the soup, and maybe Egbonkeke interpreted his gaze as suspicion because she said:

“Don’t worry, none of the meat there is human.”

Akombo suddenly bore a shocked expression on his face. Ikyarem assured him that he was in no danger and added “Enjoy the feast. I have some business to attend to.” en he slid down from Akombo’s shoulder and crawled into the crowd of diners. e spirits were animated, talking about the selection process and who they would drop their cowry for. An Orisha said it would vote for Sango because he was strong and confident while an ndem was of the opinion that Mami Wata was the better candidate.

Ikyarem heard them as he slithered between them, getting an idea of who was the popular choice and trying to determine how the results could turn out. Suddenly he was grabbed by an Anjenu who asked him: “tell us Ikyarem, who would you prefer to become the king of spirits?”

He paused a bit then said “In the interest of all spirits I think Mami Wata would be the best. She acknowledged the strength of us minor spirits because we have the greater number. As a result, I believe she will most likely treat us favourably.”

e hall was quiet as spirits mulled over what the serpent said, even the Orisha that had previously indicated support for Sango seemed to be reconsidering its stance. After a moment the hall became lively again with talk of the selection process.

After the meal, they walked out of the hall where they were approached by Sango. “Mortal, it is an honourable thing you are doing. You should be proud of yourself but don’t follow the rules too strictly or you might get enemies you would rather not have. Some may bear a grudge if the outcome of the selection process doesn’t go in their favour. Make a wise choice.”

Was this a subtle threat? It certainly appeared that way and a threat from a spirit, no a god, was not something to take lightly. Akombo thought these things, but said instead, “Great Sango, your words are truly wise, however for the sake of the spirits and as you have said, this is an honourable duty. I must obey the rules fully, whoever is chosen must be made king as the rules dictate.”

e god frowned almost imperceptibly then smiled, “An appropriate answer, mortal. We shall see how things turn out and if you made the right choice.” With that, he turned and left.

e spirits are truly untrustworthy Akombo realised, remembering Ikyarem’s words earlier.

#

Akombo and his companions headed to the place that had been arranged for his slumber. e moon shone brightly above but the trees in the forest they were passing

23


through were tall and grappled with the moonlight, creating an ethereal effect of pale light and shadow. Suddenly, Egbonkeke stopped.

“Is there a problem?” Akombo looked at her.

“We are being followed.”

Akombo turned around but saw nobody, Ikyarem stuck his tongue in the air for a few seconds then said: “you’re right. ere’s three of them, two are by the side and one is directly behind us.”

“Come out! We know you’re there. What do you want?”

From the left, a noise startled them, when they looked, they saw a diminutive humanlike creature, it was covered in black gruel from head to toe. And it was smiling in a childish, mischievous manner. From the right appeared a pale man in tattered clothes, a deadpan expression on his face. And right behind them, a tree creaked, then croaked, and its branches became animated as if they were arms. Its bark cracked open in two places and within the crevices, Akombo saw… eyes?

“ese are our attackers? A bush baby, a dead man and a tree spirit?”

e tree spirit spoke through another, longer fissure beneath the two that served as its eyes: “you don’t want to obey the demands of someone very powerful, and there are consequences for that, mortal. Heeheehee.”

e bush baby vomited the same black goo that covered its body just as Egbonkeke grabbed Akombo and jumped on a tree. e dead man vanished and appeared on one of the branches of the same tree, close to Akombo. He stretched out his hand to grab Akombo but Egbonkeke kicked the branch the dead man was on and he fell. He vanished before he hit the ground and appeared beside the tree spirit.

“Hold onto the tree tightly, I have to go and fight these spirits!”

“Will you be alright alone?” Ikyarem asked.

“I am Egbonkeke the terrifying, you don’t have to worry about me.” She smiled devilishly then jumped down and landed directly in front of the tree spirit. e spirit pulled its roots from the ground, the roots were clumped together in two pillars which served as its legs. e tree took a swing at Egbonkeke but she jumped to dodge it. Almost immediately, the bush baby spat some is its goo on the ground where she was going to land. Her feet fell into the goo and got stuck. e bush baby laughed hysterically.

“Now go and get the mortal, dead man whose touch brings death!” e dead man said nothing but looked at Akombo up in the tree. He vanished again and appeared on another branch just above his quarry.

The spirits looked at Sango and he looked at them, he saw in their eyes the readiness to protect their choice and to protect the process. He grimaced and as his pride was wounded but ultimately, he relented, dissipating the dark clouds.

“

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Democracy: Issue 22

Moaning as if he was hurt, the dead man stretched his hand out to strike but Ikyarem told Akombo to jump and as Akombo did, Ikyarem grew larger in size and acted as a cushion for him. e serpent was as large as a tree now and with Akombo on its back, it slithered away. e dead man looked at them languidly, as if trying to determine how close to them he should appear. e bush baby ran after them. Egbonkeke by now had gotten angry, and it showed. Her muscles flexed, her hair grew longer and became pitch black, swirling on their own like living strings. Her face broadened and her mouth widened, her teeth grew sharp and pointy. With immense force, she yanked one foot out of the goo and placed it on bare soil then did the same to the other.

Now free, she jumped through the air after the bush baby. It turned around too late as she kicked it into a tree with such strength that it became a mass of black goo on the tree trunk. e tree spirit and the dead man stood side by side ready to attack. Ikyarem told Akombo to get down because he would have to fight alongside Egbonkeke if they were to survive the night. Akombo asked him if he could win but the serpent said he had made his choice and that was most important.

Ikyarem slithered towards the tree spirit and coiled around it, binding it in place, the tree spirit dug into his flesh with its branches but Ikyarem tightened the embrace. e dead man appeared before Akombo, ready to strike but Egbonkeke kicked him away. e force of the kick tore the dead man in half but somehow it merged his body back together.

Standing up, the dead man moaned and ran towards them.

“You’re a dead man but you’re still just a mortal who was brought back to life. Do you know how many mortals I have killed?! Tens of thousands!” Akombo looked at Egbonkeke, aghast at her words, she caught his eyes briefly, then looked back at the dead man. “I will show you my true power!”

Her hair shot out towards the dead man and wrapped itself around him, then she stepped forward, nails as long as daggers, and grabbed the dead man’s head. She said some incantations and then crushed his skull. Her hair then let go of the corpse and it fell to the ground with a thud.

Egbonkeke turned her attention to the tree spirit and Ikyarem.

e tree spirit had dealt the snake a lot of blows and it looked like it probably wouldn’t last long. She jumped up to what counted as the tree’s face. Digging her nails into its bark she plunged her hand into the left eye which gushed out sticky brown liquid. e tree spirit screamed and its branches tried to grab Egbonkeke but she kicked at them, jumping off the branches and at a point along Ikyarem’s body. Her target was the other eye.

A branch struck her but she held on to it and from it jumped to the tree’s trunk, digging her long nails into it. She was close to the second eye now and she dug her right hand just beneath the second eye, and then she reached upwards. Again, a stream of sticky brown liquid flowed out, but this time, the tree spirit had been blinded. Ikyarem uncoiled himself from the tree’s writhing body and shrunk back to its regular size.

Egbonkeke picked Ikyarem up and turned away as the tree spirit thrashed about in pain. ey met up with Akombo and continued their journey to where he would spend the night. She advised that Akombo stay in his lodgings till the night of the selection because it was unlikely that he would be attacked there.

e night they were waiting for arrived finally and Egbonkeke escorted Akombo and

25


Ikyarem into the hall. Ikyarem told Akombo that he had a choice to make since he would be the only one in the hall to count, he had the ultimate power to decide what the results would be. Akombo felt the weight of the burden placed on him and was troubled, he had to think of something.

e spirits lined up outside the hall to cast their cowries in either of three calabashes, one had a carving of a fish, the other a hyena and the third, a lightning bolt. Esu announced that the process had begun and the spirits trooped in and out, placing a cowry shell in a calabash of their choice.

In about 3 human hours the casting of the shells was over and time for counting was to begin. Akombo thought hard about how he would use the power he had been given to make a significant change in the counting process. He decided to amend the rule by bringing the three calabashes out to where the spirits were gathered and in full view started to count: one cowry, two cowries, three cowries, four…

All the spirits saw the process of counting and all saw who had won. He made the announcement that Mami Wata had the most cowries and more than those of Kure and Sango combined. She was the new King, no… Queen of Spirits.

“I refuse! I refuse! is calls for war! I’m supposed to be the King!” the protest came from Sango and as he said the words, clouds teeming with flashes of lightning gathered. He was ready for the old ways, for war!

“Hahahaha! You see! at’s why I suggested that extra rule. You supported this new selection process Sango, and now you want to discard it? You want to fight us all because you don’t like the results? You can’t even take me on alone, not to talk of me and Mami Wata combined. Now look at all the spirits ready to defend their choice, how many can you alone fight?! Hahahaha!” the voice of Kure rang through the crowd of spirits.

e spirits looked at Sango and he looked at them, he saw in their eyes the readiness to protect their choice and to protect the process. He grimaced as his pride was wounded but ultimately, he relented, dissipating the dark clouds. e spirits shouted in joy over the success of this new form of selection, it was as if they were in control of their destiny for the first time.

Mami Wata thanked the spirits for choosing her and made her first proclamation as Queen, no spirit was to harm Akombo for as long as he lived. e spirits cheered in support, they respected and applauded Akombo’s forthrightness. Mami Wata also gave him a charm, in the form of a fishbone which could be used to catch any water creature and a pebble which protected him from harm whenever he held it.

“You did a fine job as a counter, mortal,” Egbonkeke said.

“ank you, you also did a good job protecting me,” Akombo replied. She nodded and left.

With his duty done Akombo was taken back to the land of mortals by Ikyarem.

“Count to ten.”

“one, two, three, four…”

And he was back to the spot where he first met Ikyarem, the snake was in front of him and so he asked just before it left: “Ikyarem you risked your life to save me and to make sure

Democracy: Issue 22

26

the process went well. Do you really have that much faith in this new way of selecting your leader?”

“Yes Akombo, I truly believe that this new way is for the best. We minor spirits can finally be recognised by the major ones. And for now, only the major spirits are brave enough to indicate their interests but, someday, maybe even a minor spirit like me can become king.”

“Oh, I see, I hope it happens. Goodbye Ikyarem.”

“Goodbye, Akombo.”

ey parted ways and Akombo walked home with Ikyarem’s words ringing in his head.

THE END.


27

Oyarsu-Terraforming Earth

Dooshima TseeTOSHIMA TSEE WORKS IN THE DEVELOPMENT SECTOR AS A COMMUNICATIONS STRATEGIST.

HE IS AN AWARD-WINNING PHOTOGRAPHER AND WRITES TECHNICAL CONTENT FOR NON-PROFITS. IN HER FREE TIME, SHE LIKES TO GARDEN, START DIY PROJECTS AND READ HIGH FANTASY BOOKS.

DOOSHIMA IS NIGERIAN AND CURRENTLY LIVES AND WORKS IN LUSAKA, ZAMBIA WITH HER VARIED COLLECTION OF HOUSE PLANTS.

ART BY MARTINS DEEP

#

No matter how high the ceilings were, Wuese always felt the weight of more than a hundred thousand tons of earth and stone pressing down on her. It was the beginning of a new day cycle and Wuese was teaching her weekly history class when she felt tremors beneath her feet. Almost fifteen years had passed since the last underquake. Shifts in the earth’s tectonic plates barely registered Overland. However, they wreaked havoc within the carefully constructed tunnels, buildings and the technology that kept them all alive over 400 miles below the earth’s surface. She stopped in the middle of explaining the Kigali Accords to the children. Her wide eyes flew to the terraemometer. It stood stubbornly still. Other than a slight flickering, its display screen showed less than a 7% chance of a quake.

She took several deep breaths and breathed out slowly through her mouth as she mentally counted to ten. At a hundred and four years old, she should know better. Not every tremor meant that the roof was about to cave in on them. she slowly turned back to the children. Barely discernable mists of fine sand floated down from the hundred-foot-high rock ceiling almost constantly. More than sixty years after they came down into the heart of the earth, Wuese’s palms still sweated whenever she felt the tremors. Her shoulders tensed every time the earth shrugged her massive shoulders and settled into a more comfortable position like a gossipy housewife.

e children in the brightly lit classroom had barely looked up from their screens during the tremor. ey were making their way through the latest decision simulation. Wuese leaned over to her right and watched as Denen scrolled through the choices for the dam simulation. He selected the channel option and using the build tool, started to construct a wall over the true-to-scale digital copy of the narrowest part of Oyarsu’s main river. Wuese smiled as she waited for the inevitable collapse. She had done exactly the same thing when she went through the simulation herself. As the pressure built, the wall began to cave outwards. Denen huffed in the way he did when he was annoyed. He hit the pause button and bit his thumb as he stared at the screen. Wuese leaned closer and whispered to him, “ink about your physics lessons. e water needs somewhere to go.”

“I know, GG. But if I make more sluice gates at that point, it will flood the homes in this district further down the river.” He scrolled left and tapped on the screen to show district 14.

“Yes, I know.” Wuese said. She had also tried adding more sluice gates.

“What should I do?” Denen looked at her imploringly.

“I cannot tell you that because I do not know myself. But keep working at it. If no one finds a solution, then that means a dam isn’t in the best interest for everyone.”

“But we need a dam. It’s the only way we can keep the water as the levels drop lower.”

“It seems like the only way, but the obvious way might not be the only way. Especially if it does not benefit everyone, we must find a better way. At the end of the simulation, you can suggest a different way if the dam doesn’t work. Remember the fish farms?”

“Yes!” he smiled and nodded, almost bouncing in his seat. “I can’t wait till they finish building them.”

Wuese smiled and rubbed his shoulder. “Back to finishing the simulation then.” He smiled and bent back to the tablet.

About seventeen children ranging in age from three to eleven sat on colorful mats

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spread across the laboratory floor. Wuese wondered if she had ever been as innocent as the eager faces scanning the screens. She still woke up on odd nights drenched in sweat, remembering the mad flight across the baked sand of the desert. Teaching the children history was one of the few time-blocks she allowed herself outside of creating the technology that has sustained Oyarsu for decades. Many members of the tribe well into their twenties had never ventured upwards from the deepest parts of the territory called Oyarsu. Wuese envied them their ignorance of the chaos that had consumed Overland. She also pitied them. To have never seen the sun, even in its cursed glory, was the saddest thing she could imagine.

Tersoo poked his head around the door. Wuese raised an eyebrow and immediately sat up straighter. Sweat ran down his brow and he was breathing heavily. Except something dire needed her attention, she was hardly ever called away from her classes.

Tersoo jerked his head upwards and her eyes narrowed.

“Denen, Manji. Pass out the colouring pads and crayons to the little ones.” She instructed as she rose to her feet.

“e rest of you, after the time for the decision simulation is done, pull out your workbooks and read the assigned text. Tomorrow we can discuss any issues you want to brainstorm for your simulations. Also, prepare for a test tomorrow about the first decade, constructing Oyarsu and the tunnel collapses.” She ignored the groans and stayed just long enough to make sure the boys were handing out the coloring pads.

e regular teacher was waiting in the small anteroom. Wuese nodded at her and followed Tersoo out into the corridor. He paused only to say, “e council is convening” then he turned right and his long strides ate up the yards as he strode down the corridor.

Wuese frowned. She tried to keep up, but had to stop after less than three minutes. She leaned against the wall, pressed her hand to her left side, and took deep breaths. She rode the pain in her side as she gripped the wall for support. is was one of the older rock corridors. Natural whorls from the original rock were smooth from decades of hands rubbing against them. “GG! What’s wrong?” Tersoo asked. Tersoo never called her the name the younger tribe members had adopted for her. She opened her eyes and tried to smile at him, but she suspected it must look more like a grimace.

“I’m fine.” she gritted through clenched teeth. “You forget that I am old.”

Tersoo’s brow furrowed and he continued to look at her. “But…you’ve never… are you sure you are ok? You don’t look so great.”

e pain was subsiding as it usually did after a few minutes. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe we should go and see the doctor?”

“I said I am fine.” Wuese snapped. She pushed away from the wall and started down the corridor slowly. “Why is the council convening?”

It was a testament to the gravity of the situation that Tersoo immediately let it drop.

He kept pace with her.

“Overlanders want to meet for a discussion.”

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Wuese stopped. “What?!”

“I said…”

“I heard what you said. Who are they? Why do they want to meet? Where are they?”

Tersoo looked away furtively. “ey are on the third level.” He stretched out his hand conciliatorily when Wuese opened her mouth to speak. “One of them is injured. We had to get him to a level outfitted with more than basic first aid.”

As far as Wuese knew, no Overlander had ever gone past level two, about seventy miles below the surface. Level two was technically still Overland territory but was universally accepted as neutral ground where Overlanders and Grounders, as her people were called, could meet. No good ever came of a visit from Overlanders, Wuese thought grimly as she walked with Tersoo to the closest elevator with upward access to level three.

#

“Wuese!” Nanen’s hearty voice echoed through the chamber as she walked into the sickbay on level three. Nanen always tried to cover awkward situations with a laugh and an inappropriate joke.

“Nanen.” Wuese responded evenly and inclined her head at the five other council members. She looked over at the strangers as she half-listened to Nanen talking loudly about the dunes that had moved over several eastern gates. e Overlanders were gathered close to one of the utility tables pushed against the far concrete wall. Blood dripped off the table into several shallow basins placed around the table. Some of the blood was already congealing on the floor. A bloodied Overlander was stretched out on the table. Manasseh, one of the Oyarsu’s healers, was bent over the man. Even from across the room, Wuese could hear low, painfilled moans. e other Overs stared back at her. Two women and five men, counting the man on the table. ey all had the red scaly skin that came from living Overland.

Nanen’s voice died down in the background.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” Wuese asked the Overs. e group looked sidewards at the heavier set of the women and Wuese turned to face her.

e woman met Wuese’s look directly. “We come to you in peace.”

Wuese scoffed inelegantly. “No one who truly comes in peace starts the conversation by declaring it. Why should you not come in peace?”

e other Overs shifted their stance and subtly drew closer to the woman. Wuese allowed a slight smile to touch her lips. “What do you want?”

e woman hesitated and then lifted her chin. In a voice that rang through the hall. “I

Wuese frowned. She tried to keep up, but had to stop after less than three minutes. She leaned against the wall, pressed her hand to her left side, and took deep breaths. She rode the pain in her side as she gripped the wall for support.

“


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am Armbi Hernbila, the Proctor over Libya, and I would like to discuss terms to buy your fusion reactor.”

A startled laugh escaped Wuese’s lips before she could catch herself. She looked towards the council members and they all looked away furtively. So, this is how the land lay, she thought wearily.

She kept her face carefully blank when she turned back to the Proctor. She spread her hands before her as she said, “You are mistaken. We do not have the technology to make a fusion reactor. How will we hide such a massive undertaking?”

e Proctor’s angry red skin stretched taut over her face as she smiled. “Old woman, we know you have either completed or very nearly completed a device that functions like a fusion reactor and is small enough to hold in one hand. We come to peacefully ask that you share the technology for this device with us…” e Proctor’s hand waved towards the roof “…with the rest of the world. It could save humanity. Make our planet habitable again.”

Wuese shook her head and chuckled. “How is your father?” she asked.

e Proctor looked confused. “My father?”

“Or maybe it’s an uncle or even a husband. I can never tell how old you Overlanders are anymore.”

“I see no reason why any of my family would be of importance to…”

“You do not? Well, you wouldn’t. But they are of paramount importance to me.”

Remi, one of the council members cleared his throat and tried to intervene. “Wuese…”

She lifted her hand to silence him. “Hiram Hernbila was Proctor over Libya in 2067, not so? I am curious, do they still have dogs patrol at the border?”

e Proctor’s lips flattened and she clenched her hands at her sides.

“Whatever interaction you had with my father, I assure you that we come to offer you a mutually beneficial partnership. If you would share the technology for the fusion reactor with us. It is in your best interest to work with us.”

“Do not tell me what is in my best interest.” Wuese snapped.

“Your father set dogs on us at your borders when we fled to you from the barren fields of our homeland. I buried a husband and two children at your borders while we waited for asylum that was never granted. I watched your genetically modified dogs tear my sister to pieces with her son in her arms. Do not speak to me of what is in my best interest!”

A keening cry came from the man on the table and the Proctor glanced back. Manasseh was slowly suturing the thigh wound.

“ere are forces at play on the surface that you have very little knowledge of,” e Proctor said.

“You might be surprised to find that there are also forces at play beneath the earth that you have little knowledge of. For decades you Overlanders have worked to poison relations between underground colonies across the world. But just as you make alliances Overland we have found allies underground. So do not presume that Oyarsu is cut off from the other

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Undergrounders across the world.”

at seemed to give the Proctor something to think about. “As abhorrent as you might find it, believe me when I say that our offer, and our method of making it, would be one of the more… peaceful you are likely to receive.

“Are you threatening me? …us?”

e pause was almost imperceptible. “I am not. But trust me, the threat will come and is closer to your doorstep than you think.”

Wuese looked more closely at the Overlanders. eir stretched red skin was dust-covered but in the time while they talked, the humidity had caked the dust and Wuese saw that they all had some injuries. Even the Proctor held her left hand stiffly and the left sleeve of her tunic looked crusted in blood.

“Manasseh, what is the cause of injury?” Wuese asked.

Manasseh’s voice was matter of fact, “Several laser shot wounds on his upper torso and arm. Some blunt force trauma to the head, but the leg wound is the most concerning. It looks like some large animal ravaged his thigh. Compound fracture to the tibia and his arteries are a mess. Lots of blood loss. I’m really not sure he’ll make it.”

She turned back to the Proctor. “Dogs. What have you brought to our gates?!”

e Proctor sighed and sounded almost regretful. “It is at all our gates.”

#

e Overlanders had accommodations for the night on level two. Even Wuese grudgingly let them stay. With the nightly sandstorms raging over the Sahara, there was no way the Proctor and her team would make it back to their closest cities before the night cycle started.

e council was back in the congress room on level seven. e room was at least three stories high. At the far end, a waterfall trickled down the rock face into one of the many water channels that ran throughout each city in Oyarsu.

“Who told them about the fusion reactor?” She asked. None of the council members would meet her eyes as she looked from one to the other.

Tersoo alone did not look away. “I did. But it was the children who agreed that if the fusion reactor could make it possible to terraform the earth, we owed humanity a chance.”

e betrayal was more of a dull ache than the sharp pain in her side. Her own grandson.

“e decision simulation the children played last week wasn’t theory.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Tersoo shook his head.

Wuese looked at him and, ironically in that moment, was so proud of the man he was becoming.

“Tersoo, where is your mother buried?”

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Tersoo sighed and looked away. “At the Libyan border. GG, I understand that evil has been done to us, but this is not even the same generation that did those things.”

“And you think dogs no longer patrol the borders of Libya or Egypt or Morocco or any of the countries under which Oyarsu is built?”

“I hear they use machines with artificial intelligence these days, not dogs.” Remi offered helpfully.

Wuese’s disgusted glance quelled any other helpful information he wanted to share.

“I am one of the last of the original people who started the descent into Oyarsu. I do not expect you to have the same emotional anguish that I have from being hunted like rabbits and seeing your parents and grandparents rent apart by dogs while the soldiers watched and made sport of our efforts to escape. But by God, I had hoped you would at least have retained enough of our history to know that Overlanders cannot be trusted!”

“is is not an issue of trust,” Tersoo said quickly. “It is about doing the right thing. If we save the planet, we all benefit. How long could we live underground knowing that humanity is slowly going extinct on the surface? How long will our species have, even underground, if we do nothing to save the planet.

“Wuese… GG… grandmother,” Tersoo said in a pacifying voice. “e reactor could save the planet. We have discussed this. It will give humanity a chance. We would be able to reclaim land that has turned into boiling landscapes of dust and death.”

Wuese bitterly regretted encouraging her grandson to join the council. His hope and faith would doom them all.

She refused to look at Tersoo as she spoke, “We have thrived under the surface. Without their help! Sometimes in direct opposition to them trying to exterminate us like rats in holes. We owe them nothing.”

Nanen wiped his hand down his face. “It is already done. We have signed a contract with Libya to share the technology for the reactor.”

“Without my endorsement as a member of the council, any agreement is void!” Wuese said through clenched teeth.

e other council members watched as Tersoo stood and turned to face her. “e Future decided. e little ones completed the decision simulations all last week. Some of the questions were in the classes you taught and you agreed with their decisions.”

Wuese thought back over last week’s simulation and bit her lip. She remembered how proud she had been of the children. Even the ones as young as five had understood, to some degree, the complex politics of trade, intellectual property, and patent rights. e problem was the children didn’t know a viable reactor was in the final stages of testing and she had been looking at the theory of it. In the rush of accomplishment after the initial tests succeeded and seeing how the children went through the simulation, she had forgetten

It was astonishing to her that any of them thought they would have any control over how the reactor would be used after the Overlanders get hold of it. “


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that the council was bound to act on every decision from the future.

“at is unfair! To go ahead and act on votes from that simulation without discussing as a council.”

“But grandmother, that was exactly why you pushed for these decision simulations. e children’s vote always carries more weight than whatever the council decides.”

“I know!” she shouted. “I designed the program. I know what we agreed.” She bit her lip and looked away. “But they do not understand the evil the Overlanders are capable of. ey have never encountered anything like that in their lives! A decision like this will have consequences!”

“And we programmed those consequences into the simulation.” Tersoo retorted. “e history of aggression, changing policies and going back on agreements. ose were accounted for in the simulation.”

Wuese sat down heavily and covered her face for a few seconds. ere was no winning. She had designed the system and persuaded all of Oyarsu to embrace it. It worked. She knew it did.

“You understand that they will live with the results of this decision.” She felt a hand on her knee and looked up into Tersoo’s eyes. He knelt beside her chair, and even through her tears, she could see that his eyes were also wet.

“at is why they should be the ones to make this decision. e Overlanders will not stop till they get what they want – however they have to go about getting it.”

“And that does not worry you? e elements that make a reactor that small are only found this deep into the earth. ey will destroy Oyarsu to get to those minerals.”

“It does worry me. But what is the alternative? Of the five countries over Oyarsu, we have the strongest agreement with Libya. is is the best of poor options.”

“Why did you have to even tell them about the reactor?”

Tersoo said gently, “It was inevitable that they would find out eventually. Is it not better that we tell them and set the terms of how the technology is used?”

It was astonishing to her that any of them thought they would have any control over how the reactor would be used after the Overlanders get hold of it.

“We could seal off the gates on the Libya side.”

Even before the other council members shook their heads, she already knew that was not practical.

“After all they have done, you would just hand over what I have worked my whole life to achieve?” Her voice almost broke on the last word.

Tersoo held her hands gently. “Grandmother, of all the wonderful gadgets and machines you made… we made, none are weapons.”

“I will not make weapons.”

“And I would never ask you to. But this reactor is a weapon, not to destroy but

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hopefully to rebuild. Seventeen years since we started making decisions using the decision simulations, and you have always trusted the simulation results. Trust them now.”

Wuese’s communicator chirped with a reminder. Doctor’s appointment in two days. Remember not to consume any food or fluids before you come in on appointment day. She rubbed her side absently as she stared at the screen. She slowly toggled to the rsvp link and clicked cancel. She already had the most important information. Less than six months to live, and she didn’t have it in her to spend her remaining time fighting. e first tears ran down her cheeks as she looked round the table.

“Do what you think is best. I am resigning from the council as of today.”

ey all started to talk at once. Trying to reassure her that they didn’t want her to resign. But Wuese knew it was time to hand over to a generation unburdened by the hate and anger she had carried for so long. Hate and anger she could not put down.

She left them talking in the council room as she walked slowly down the corridor towards the schoolroom. ere was still time before learning hours ended to see how far Denen, or any of the other children, had progressed with the decision simulation for the dam.


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Legend of Urgoro

Ephraim Ndubisi OrjiEPHRAIM, WRITES SHORT STORIES FROM NIGERIA. HIS WORKS HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED IN

EBOQUILLS AND OMENANA MAG. HE WAS SHORTLISTED FOR THE AWELE CREATIVE TRUST AWARD 2020. HE IS A LOVER OF STORIES AND STANS THE WORKS OF THE AMAZING HORROR FICTION GOD CLIVE BARKER. HE IS PRESENTLY A STUDENT OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NIGERIA,

NSUKKA AND WHEN HE IS NOT SCREAMING THE NOTES TO A SONG, HE IS HUNCHED OVER ON HIS SYSTEM OR SMARTPHONE TYPING AWAY THE CHAOTIC WORLD THRASHING WITHIN HIM.

Art by: Charisma Standley

The rocky mountain planes of Nahi� glimmered an obsidian black, beautiful yet unnerving. Underfoot, jagged rocks jutted out of the earth like daggers, making it misery for Yahhan, my father’s beast of burden, to navigate the treacherous path

leading to our destination, the mountain’s summit.

I sat atop the beast’s bulk, feeling sorry for her, yet annoyed that my father had chosen a summot, a creature not far from a regular pig, only ten times larger, with dangerously long tusks shooting from both sides of her snout. Her great size was proof that a summot was not the perfect beast for a journey through the treacherous uneven paths of Nahi�. A seçkan, which was a giant scorpion, was a far more suitable travel beast for such a journey, not just for its lithe gait but also for the protection it provided. Up these mountains, unnervingly black and simmering with heat, who could tell what foulness lurked behind giant boulders and caves. ere was a reason no one ever dared come here, yet we, the elven folk of Bhún, were going through its path for one purpose only; to kill me.

ere were twelve of us, seven elven warriors – including my father, who is also the leader, and four dwarves, all of whom were armed to the teeth and were on high alert for possible threats or danger. As we journeyed in irritant silence, the sun’s glare, blazing and menacing, bounced off the glimmering black rocks, magnifying the already unpleasant humidity. I wiped the beads of sweat that had congregated across my forehead, squinting against the sun as I stared up ahead to see how much further we still had to go. I could barely make out anything besides glimmering rocks and an uneven mountain path. I was thirsty — we rationed water, and I’d already drank two bottles, no way was I going to get another until my father said so. Apparently being a sacrifice to a high goddess was not enough to qualify me for preferential treatment. My muscles ached from exhaustion, and my skull throbbed. I was restless and bored. I tried to fall asleep, but with the sun’s unrelenting glare on my face, it was impossible.

At the beginning of this journey, after Bhún had disappeared behind us, the warriors had chattered, laughed, sang lewd songs that made me giggle with my hands over my mouth so my father would not hear – it was not proper for a priestess to be amused by profanity. But now, hours later, exhausted to the bones, at the mercy of the sun, and uneasy from the obscenity of the mountain, they were all silent, their heads cast down, occasionally grunting in irritation.

I did not blame them; I could only imagine the heat that ate at them from within those ironclad armours they adorned. I did not blame my father either, he was only doing what had been instructed of him by Gaaliee, our almighty goddess of doom, to ensure she found me, the sacrifice, worthy and acceptable. Her instructions regarding the sacrifice had been explicit, down to the very last detail; the chosen must be bestridden on a great beast of burden whose soles shall bleed along the mountain path, its agony shall pave the way, for blood is required to appease the mountain pass. Should the beast not bleed, the mountain will take its share of blood by force. e chosen shall be adorned in white to mark purity, and all who escort her shall labour on foot. ey shall sweat and ache from discomfort, for the path to the peak will have its share of misery.

So yes, their walking on foot was not a result of my father’s cruelty or ignorance of their pain, it was Gaaliee, she had instructed this and we had no choice but to do as told or face her wrath.

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Bored, tired, and uncomfortable, I thought of Gaaliee, my impending death, my mother’s reaction after the goddess had pointed those obscenely long taloned fingers at me, my name sounds like a song in a storm as she pronounced it. Of my parents’ six children, Gaaliee had chosen me as the one whose blood she wanted to flow, in order for the truce of peace to remain intact.

I had not trembled or felt any fear even as gasps filtered within the hall where we’d all congregated for the choosing ceremony, instead an aloofness had settled in my gut, backed up by the sigh of relief I had caught my mother releasing, confirming my suspicion over the last fifty years I had lived; my mother did not want me. Gaaliee choosing me as the sacrifice was the perfect excuse she needed to finally rid her perfect little world of an imperfect impure child. My anger and resentment had consumed whatever terror should have gripped my bones at the prospect of death, and over the next couple of days that led to this journey, the resentment had festered and grown into a foul thing that longed to be unleashed.

Even now, I still wasn’t afraid of dying. Of what use was the fear of the inevitable? Besides, from the moment my siblings and I could understand the Bhún tongue, our father had told us a day like this would come when the goddess would demand one of us as a sacrifice. We had been groomed with the knowledge that one of us would one day serve a greater purpose of being offered to Gaaliee. ‘It is the greatest honour one can imagine,’ our father had said.

Nonsense. I was half a century old and still saw no honour in being food for a selfish conceited immortal who relished in the pain of her ignorant worshippers. Perhaps that was why the goddess had chosen me, she must have seen my loathing for her, or maybe it was because she knew my mother had always longed to rid herself of me and was simply doing her a favour, or perhaps she saw that I was one who had not a care in the world; no friends or lovers in Bhún who’d mourn or miss me and my family was not an exception either. My death meant nothing but a sigh of relief for my mother, and the continued favour of Gaaliee upon the elven village of Bhún.

Being born with dark skin, my mother and the rest of Bhún had been both shocked and disgusted by me. In this world, pure elves were meant to be pale skinned, with smooth long silky hair trailing down their backs, sometimes touching the ground. Angular faces held in a perpetual condescending snarl, almond-shaped eyes of an array of colours, and lithe bodies built for stealth.

I had all the above features except my skin was the grotesque blue-black of dark elves. e impure, as my mother liked to call the likes of me. I was a strange occurrence, a repulsive sight to behold. e only explanation why my mother, a pure elven woman who had produced more than fifty children in her lifetime, would bear a blue-black offspring like me was that perhaps, during the Great War of the gods that nearly tore the world of Urgoro apart millennials ago, one of her ancestors or my father’s, must have bred with an impure elf, and the gene had remained dormant in their blood until it finally manifested in me.

ey said my mother had screamed in horror when I’d slipped out of her, the fifth child out of a litter of six. She had almost had me thrown away to the Tibicena; those hellish shadow wolves from the underworld, with bodies made of dark writhing mist, were sometimes seen loitering around the lush forests surrounding Bhún, at night. But the midwives had

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managed to stop her. She had been so horrified; she’d barely had enough strength to push out the last baby. My mother blamed me for that and for every other misfortune that befell us ever since. I was a sign of something foul, and I knew she had prayed for Gaaliee to pick me, rid her of her curse and shame. Well, she got her wish, I was about to be god food.

“How far’d we have terr go,” one of the dwarves grumbled. His name was Zachoth – I knew all their names – and like most dwarves, his patience was as short as he was tall.

I glanced far ahead, seeing only glimmering black rocks jutting out of the mountain and no sign of the mountain’s peak. In truth, Nahi� was rumoured to be a behemoth of a mountain, spanning the height of whole cities. I was to be gutted apart at the top of the mountain where Gaaliee awaited our arrival.

“We been walking fer hours!” Zachoth kept whining.

e other dwarves; Uril, Meneni – the only female amongst them – and Sulzo, grunted their agreement but said nothing otherwise. My father did not so much as glance in their direction. He held on to that distant look he’d had since we began this journey; stoic and seemingly lost in his thoughts. He was not grieved that I, one of his daughters, was to be sacrificed, he had groomed me for this very purpose, and bonus, me being chosen would rid him of the shame of being a ruler who’d fathered an impure.

He looked wary though, his face gaunt, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, shoulders slouched, thin lips cracked and dry. At first, I’d thought he was meditating, staying in tune with Gaaliee, but now that I really looked at him, I suspected something else bothered him, something that drained his very core. I did not care, I was going to die soon, whatever bothered him meant nothing to me.

e other warriors soon began to complain, and it grew the farther we went. My father said nothing. e elven warriors snapped at each other, the dwarves bellowed threats to clubber one another to death. eir voices carried across the mountain, and I entertained myself listening, waiting for someone to get angry enough to land the first blow or better still, draw their weapon. Beneath me the summot also became restless, her strides more laboured, her breathing coming in loud huffs, accompanied by occasional growling as her distress grew. I would have felt bad for riding atop her back, but there was no use feeling such, the mountain was getting what it wanted. Gaaliee had said it would have its share of misery, this was it, they were paying their own sacrifice, which was why my father did not bother with interference. Curse Gaaliee, her foul mountain, and her twisted ways!

Whether out of exhaustion, or perhaps realizing their arguing was of no use, the warriors finally went quiet once again, occasionally darting angry looks at one another, especially at my father. I ignored this, more concerned about the stench of blood that now filled the air. e summot’s hooves were bleeding, leaving a thick trail of blood behind, and she was walking slower from both agony and exhaustion. Either my father did not notice, or he

I had all the above features except my skin was the grotesque blue-black of dark elves. The impure, as my mother liked to call the likes of me. I was a strange occurrence, a repulsive sight to behold.

“


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simply did not care. I cast my gaze up ahead, and still, the mountain top was nowhere in sight. ere was no way this beast would make it, not with the amount of blood she left on the path.

e sun finally began to lower across the horizon, and in its growing absence, a cool breeze wafted through the mountain, kissing our faces, a blissful respite from the heat that had plagued us all day. And with the absence of heat, came enough strength for the warriors to resume talking again, this time without arguing. ey laughed and made jokes, told tales of adventures that I knew were most definitely peppered with lies, and even began to sing one of their many crude songs about elven women and parts of the body that would have made me flush pink had I been light-skinned like them. e setting sun did nothing to ease the summot’s pain, however. e tiny black rocks jutting underfoot bore into her flesh unrelentingly, and I could feel her wobble with each step she took. I thought of telling my father, but I doubt he’d listen. He still carried that lost distant look in his eye—

e shriek split the air like thunder, and the world around me spun as the summot bucked, staggered, and rocked violently. e warriors swung into action, branding their weapons with eyes on me as I struggled to stay atop the shrieking beast. But she was falling sideways, and if I held on any longer, there was a likely chance I’d land hard on those dagger-like rocks jutting from the ground, or she’d roll on top of me and crush me to a mash of meat.

“Jump!” I heard someone yell, and I did. I leapt off her back, anticipating the pain of landing on jagged rocks, it never came. Strong hands snatched me midair.

e summot let out another strangled shriek and only when I turned around, did I see what was really happening.

Her stomach had been torn open from under her, spilling her guts out in heaps of smoking stinking gore. e black hard soil beneath her was moving, churning, and I saw what looked like a thin black rock shooting from the ground, but as more of it tore through the summot, ripping her in half, its full body broke through, spilling shards of obsidian rocks and sand. It stood taller than all of us, black and glimmering, a giant black blade in its hand. Its eyes shimmered a deathly purple, staring at us in fury. Its legs were still buried in the ground and its stomach churned with purple flares of light as though made of glass we could see through. It opened its mouth, revealing jagged black teeth, and unleased a howl that seemed to shake the entire mountain. A wathonga, a small breed of giants, known for their short temper, only, this one seemed to have been bred by whatever foul magic dwelled in this mountain. We had to get away from here.

It unleashed a snort through its large nostrils, purple smoke oozing, and then charged. e warriors scattered in every direction as it swung its giant axe, slicing rocks, sending shards flying. I screamed as the warrior elf who’d caught me took off. e mountain seemed to rumble as the wathonga thundered after the warriors, swinging its axe, roaring in fury. I heard the sickening sound of flesh ripping apart, accompanied by howls of agony, and winced, my bones going cold. I tried to look over the shoulder of the fleeing elf to see what was going on, but he had me in such a grip that prevented me from moving. I needed to find my father; I did not remember seeing him flee. Where was he? Another sound of ripped flesh and a deafening howl tore the sky. Still, the elf ran. It would have been easier to drop me and let me run on foot, but Gaaliee’s instruction had been clear, my feet were not to touch the mountain plains.

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Slowly the sound of chaos began to fade behind us. I squirmed in his grip, and he seemed to sense what I wanted to do. He loosened his hold on me and I peered behind him. e wathonga was a raging menace, though we had put some distance between us and it, the rumble of its feet on the mountain reverberated through my bones. It was locked in a chase with two dwarves, swinging his axe in hope to slice them apart.

I watched as the sharp glimmering black axe lodged itself into one of the dwarves’ head, and he lifted it, dwarf’s body dangling like a ragged doll, as its skull stuck to the axe’s blade. e wathonga whisked it away and charged at the other dwarf. Lying around were bodies, battered and chopped to pieces.

“Look away, Henya!”

I jolted and whirled. I had not noticed my father and a dwarf running beside the warrior elf.

“Your eyes must remain pure for Gaaliee,” my father said.

I did not obey, I stared back at the carnage still unfolding farther down the mountain.

‘Gaaliee,’ I thought, my chest twisting with hate. I glanced at my father once more, and he still bore that distant look in his eyes, unperturbed by the carnage we had just witnessed.

We hurried along, echoes of the foul black thing below rumbling through the mountain. Every now and again, I tossed horrified glances behind us, half expecting to see the giant thunder towards us. It never came, its roar grew distant until we were plunged once more into the howling silence of the wind pouring down the mountain.

I did not realize I was trembling until we ceased running and resumed a silent melancholic trudge up the mountain. Just like that, the warriors were gone, claimed by Nahi� like Gaaliee had said it would. Overhead thunder rumbled and the darkening sky blinked with lightning. e wind picked up, pouring down the mountain in soft howls that grew, raising black dust that assaulted our faces. ere were just four of us left now; my father, the dwarf, the elf, and me. e others were lost forever. Not once did my father’s face betray any concern for his warriors, not once did he acknowledge the constant glower the dwarf shot his way.

Rain began roaring down the mountain, warm against our skin, making the already jagged path even more slippery. My added weight did not make the climb any easier for the elven warrior. He grunted with each laboured step he took and almost slipped a number of times. Flashes of lightning flared across the sky, and this high up the mountain, it felt too close for comfort.

“We are here,” my father yelled over the roaring rain, and I snapped my head up.

Not too far ahead, three large pillars of rocks loomed, glimmering black in the rain. ere were gaps in-between the rocks, and I figured it was behind one of those rocks that I was to be slain for my people. e wind howled with ferocity, thunder rumbled, lightning struck, landing once or twice on a rock, lighting it up in smoking orange, hissing as the rain pattered on it.

In silence we trudged on, the closer we got to the pillars of rocks, the more resilient the


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wind. When we got close enough, I could see a clear path in the soil leading to a large gap between the rocks. We walked down the path, hastening our feet. Lightning flared across the sky, white and blinding, accompanied by deathly rumbles of thunder, and in its wake, a figure materialized between the gap in the rock, obstructing our way.

She was as she’d been the last time I saw her, tall, slender, naked, her skin, white as the moon, her hair black, made of obsidian glass, flowing down her back and around her in waves, and her eyes were ablaze with purple flames. Gaaliee.

She watched us approach, her eyes fixed on me for a few seconds before turning away to stare at my father. Without a word, she stepped aside to let us pass, and reluctantly the elf warrior carried me through.

ere was an altar, made of the same black rocks. ere were three more pillars of rocks surrounding the clearing, creating a sort of enclave. ere were smaller pillars around the altar, four of them, and with Gaaliee’s instruction, the elf placed me on the altar. Only when I was settled did I realize rain did not fall in here, though the sky above still rumbled with lightning and thunder, spitting rain.

“ese are sacred grounds,” Gaaliee said softly as though reading my thoughts. I turned to stare at her, and she smirked, perfect white lips quirking to the side.

Gaaliee, though a manifestation of foul magic, was beautiful. Her slender shape was delicate and lithe, her naked breasts, full and smooth.

“It is sad the others could not make it,” she said, turning to face my father, “Nahi� can sometimes be a tad cruel.”

My father remained silent. en she turned to face me.

Gaaliee stood over me, reality splintering and cracking around the sheer force of her godly presence. Across the sky lightning flared, bathing the space in white for brief seconds before plunging it into darkness once again. is close, Gaaliee’s deathly beauty was almost intoxicating in a way that made me want to get up from the alar and flee. But I could not bring myself to move, her presence brimmed with such power, it pressed down on me. Her eyes, aglow with fire, raging like a purple storm, were fixed on me, unblinking.

Her hair, made of black shards of glass, clinked as they sway in the roaring wind around us. She smirked at me again, and the look was death itself. Prior to this moment, I’d been indifferent to my own death, now, however, staring at this being who’d existed long before Urgoro was formed, fear rocked my bones.

As much as I did not want to, I felt the plea rise to my throat, and the grin on her face widened. Gaaliee was the goddess of pain and misery, she gloried in my terror, she liked that I did not want to beg, yet survival instinct warred against me to do just that.

I did not know how the procedure for the sacrifice went, but I had heard my father whisper about the gruesome way Gaaliee took those sacrificed to her. Images filled my mind and I almost wanted to scream at the goddess to get along with it already.

She ran one of her six long hands over my bare stomach, then raised the top of her fingers to her lips and licked. She smiled, almost dreamlike. It took me a few seconds to realize her


45

seemingly harmless touch had torn my flesh, and she was licking my blood.

“So dark, so deliciously filthy, so impure, so… stained. I knew there was something about you,” she said to me as thunder rumbled overhead. “I knew I’d smelt something foul in your blood. You are not very different from me you know.” she said, then turned sideways, “is that why you did not want to bring her to me, Rufflon?”

I froze. What was she talking about? My father stepped forward, his eyes still holding that look of smug indifference.

“Is that why you had plotted against me in your heart?” She added.

My father bristled slightly, almost unnoticeable, but I saw it in his eyes, in his posture. And Gaaliee’s ever-watchful eyes saw it too. She chuckled.

Have you ever heard a goddess chuckle? It is not a sound you’d wish to hear. “I know not of what you speak, great goddess of Nahi�, I have nothing but love and reverence for the one who has watched over my people ab—”

“Your people?” Gaaliee said, striding towards him now, the air around her splitting as reality tried to flee from her, “not only did you connive within your heart against me, now you call yourself an owner of people, perhaps a god, like… me?”

She said it as though it were a joke, but I could hear the death threat in her tone.

My father remained calm, I could see his hands tremble, his fingers twisting as fear gripped him. Gaaliee loomed over him now, imposing, all her godly presence pressing against his withered form.

“No one is like unto you Gaaliee, no one can and will ever be,”

She barked a bitter laugh. It was like the sound of a thousand children flung about by crashing waves.

“Lies!” She hissed and the space within the rocks crackled with the weight of her power. My skin crawled as seething purple electric essence flared around me.

“You really did think you could outsmart me? Play me? I, who have stepped on the fabric of reality and tore it to shreds many times and over, I, the goddess who has lived so long the first to settle at Buh� had trembled at the sheer mention of my name, and a pesky little thing that you are, with no significance of any sort, had planned to—,”

He flailed as she gripped his head. She squeezed. Skrich. Like a piece of fabric, his head crumpled in her grip, spewing sputters of blood and brain. The dagger burst from her chest, sputters of purple essence leaking out in gushes. Gaaliee jerked, her flaming eyes going wide. She let out a deafening screech that seemed to tear the very air itself.

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“Now!” My father screamed.

e dwarf lunged at her with such speed, he was but a blur. She whirled at the very last second and plucked him from the air in her powerful hand.

He flailed as she gripped his head. She squeezed. Skrich. Like a piece of fabric, his head crumpled in her grip, spewing sputters of blood and brain. e dagger burst from her chest, sputters of purple essence leaking out in gushes. Gaaliee jerked, her flaming eyes going wide. She let out a deafening screech that seemed to tear the very air itself. Reality splintered and tore around her, but the sound got cut off as purple essence burst from her gaping mouth, along with the black shard my father had buried in the back of her neck. She dropped the dwarf, eyes flared with rage, thunder exploding across the sky, the mountain seeming to shriek in fury at the attack on its goddess.

I gaped in horror as the goddess crumble to the mountain floor, sputters of purple blood oozing. A deafening screech tore through the roaring storm and the entire mountain shook.

“Henya!”

I blinked. My father ran towards me, his silver eyes wide with terror. I had never seen such fear in his eyes before, nor the concern for my safety hidden behind that fear.

“We need to get off the moun—,”

Another shriek and the altar upon which I laid cracked beneath me.

I lunged to my feet. e last remaining elven warrior darted past us, fleeing for the gap in the rocks. My father dragged me down the same path, not caring that the jagged floor tore at my bare feet. I cast a quick glance at the fallen goddess one last time to be sure she really was dead. She was there, mangled and still oozing purple blood; dead.

We fled down the mountain as it shrieked, quaked, and spat shards of black rocks into the air like arrows. I still could not believe what had happened, my father had killed a goddess, a being known to be immortal. But how? I wanted to ask him, I had so many questions, so many confused thoughts jumbled in my head. How had he known a shard from her own mountain would kill her. And why? Why had he done it? Was Gaaliee truly dead? Would she suddenly burst from the quaking ground screaming vengeance?

ere was no time to ask, the mountain was wailing, howling, screeching, all sorts of horrid sounds that reverberated around us. e roaring rain did not help either. It blinded us, made the path down slippery. And with jagged rocks flying in every direction, we were at death’s door with each step we took.

e mountain levelled in explosive rumbles that seemed to shake the whole of Urgoro. I screamed and tumbled against the quaking mountain, shards of rocks shooting in every direction. Like the world itself was bent on swallowing the mountain as it sank lower into the ground, becoming level with the forest below.

Shards of rocks sliced into my skin and I screamed. But almost abruptly, the chaos ceased, plunging the world into receding silence. Films of dust hung in the air, whisked away by the wind and roaring rain. Silently my father and I, wounded, bleeding, trembling with fear


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and exhaustion, made our way towards Bhún. e elven warrior was nowhere in sight, but I did not care much for him, my thoughts still raced. I desperately wanted to ask my father tons of questions, but was too shaken and exhausted to speak. What did the death of Gaaliee mean for us now? Were we free from her vicious demands for a yearly sacrifice of anyone she chose? Would she resurface and bleed into reality seeking vengeance? Would other gods learn of her death and come for us?

“Stop thinking about what lies ahead Henya,” my father suddenly said, startling me out of my thoughts.

I took my chance.

“Why did you do it?” I asked, staring sideways at him as we walked.

He scoffed.

“Stop thinking about what lies ahead Henya, sufficient enough is today’s worry,” he said, his stoicism returning.

I frowned, wanting to say more, but reconsidered. ere would be enough time to force answers out of him, until then, I resigned to my thoughts.

What did this really mean for us? Were we free, or did greater horrors lie ahead? ere was no way to know. No way to determine the future, and I guess even my father had no idea what was to come. Sufficient was today’s worry indeed.

In silence and exhaustion, we headed home. I wondered what awaited us there and relished the thought of my mother’s shock when she’d see me, her stained impure elven daughter, alive, howbeit, in a bad shape.

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Mindscaping the Esheran Liberator, One Hundred Years Later

Uchechukwu Nwaka

UCHECHUKWU IS A MEDICAL STUDENT AT THE UNIVERSITY OF IBADAN, NIGERIA. HIS WORKS HAVE APPEARED OR ARE FORTHCOMING IN COSSMASS INFINITIES, HEXAGON,

MYTHAXIS, METASTELLAR, FUSION FRAGMENT AND ELSEWHERE.

Art by: Ijeoma Ossi

Welcome to the Mindscape Department, Museum of Esheran History! Here, we have recreated the thought processes of several important figures of Esheran origin over the last century. Our vision is to preserve the values of our past heroes, so that we never become too complacent in our hard-won peace, and regress into darker times.

To find the Nigerian Ministry of Health’s full certifications, follow this link.

Would you like to try our featured personality for this week? It is none other than the Esheran Liberator, Clanleader Jhavvhuana!

Click here to start.

*

e Humans are holding guns. e barrels are trained on you.

You are Clanleader Jhavvhuana.

A thin trail of smoke curls upwards from the tip of one of the guns. e bullet shell hits the dirty concrete. e blast of the warning shot still rings loudly against your eardrums.

“You have been warned,” growls the man who fired the warning shot. Deep fissures of crow’s feet circle his bloodshot eyes. He’s been drinking. Humans have always been prone to substance dependence. It does not change the fact that these men will riddle you with holes. To them you’re just another green-faced Esheran in a shabby rental Atmospheric Regulating suit.

“is is a strict no-alien zone!” the man yells again, and his fingers flirt with the trigger of his rifle. It’s easy to see the bloodlust in the eyes of his comrades. You feel their perverse grins, even though they’ve tied bandanas over their noses and mouths. ese men are no strangers to asserting their dominance – brute force – on Esheran people, but now their batons have become guns and they are itching to try it.

To make an example – or quick sport – of the foolish Esheran that left the fences without authorization.

is is when you conclude that things must change.

*

at is not completely accurate. Clanleader Jhavvhuana had already reached the conclusion a few hours prior. Even before she neared their fences.

Yet, if you are to understand the motives of the Liberator; those which led to the Esheran Revolution and their bloody battles for a seat in the Human democracy, you will need to go deeper into her psyche. To the singular event that birthed the iconic revolutionary, pariah, saviour.

A note of warning. Full immersion may result in varying side effects, some of which include dissociative personality disorders, albeit temporary. Many others have left the simulation with the righteous indignation of Clanleader Jhavvhuana, especially after experiencing the events of pre-democratic Esheran culture. As stated earlier, these are only

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temporary.

However, if you do experience an alteration of your neuronal exospace, then you will be detained. e Mindscape Department, Museum of Esheran History will not be held liable for the emergence of another Liberator. e times are different now.

Find more information here.

Do you still wish to continue?

*

“MEMORANDUM ON UPDATED COSTS OF HOUSING CELLS IN THE REFUGEE-RESERVED AREAS (RRAs)”

Your eyes scan through the lines of text on the iPad again. e screen pixelates over the spot where your digits squeeze the device as you try to keep your composure.

“Do you not understand the Human-English text?” the skinny man sitting on the opposite end of the table asks. In Human-English. ere’s a cigarette between his chapped black lips, and the narcotic’s foul fumes hang over both your heads in stale clouds of poisonous smoke. It disperses the ugly yellow beams of the lone incandescent bulb on the ceiling, and you wonder whether the CCTV in the corner of the room can even see past the smog.

e ‘room’ itself is a rectangular box. It makes you uneasy.

You are Clanleader Jhavvhuana.

When the summons came to the RRA last night for a meeting with all clan leaders, you suspected the Administration would be sending an actual Human, and not the liaison robot you’ve come to expect in meetings like these.

You, however, were not expecting this.

“You’re increasing rent?” you hiss.

“In summary, yes.”

You take a deep breath of the recycled air behind your helmet before grinding your teeth. is cannot be happening. Your people have already exceeded the carrying capacity of the shared ecosystem… and instead of making more cells, the RRA’s administration chooses to do this?

“at wasn’t the deal my clan agreed to,” you say, straining your vocal cords to match the intonation of the alien language. “Please explain this, Agent Eze.”

Agent Eze rubs his palms together. “As you can well see, the ogas at the top are increasing the cost for each housing cell in Ajègúnlé RRA.” His fingers look bony and sickly, and his dark skin resembles the bark of a withering old tree. Not so different from the hands of the agents who work at the Employment Registry. e ones who count the daily wages of your people by hand, licking their grimy fingertips as they thumb through tattered five-hundred

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and one-thousand naira notes.

One time, when you were younger – and still hopeful about this blasted planet – you had asked Ivvwa why the Humans did not use machines to count the money they paid to the Esherans. You questioned the alien government’s decision to deny your people bank accounts that would properly integrate the Esherans into their economy. e former clan leader smiled as she told you that the aliens think the Esherans will hack their machines. at the neuronal exospace your people communicate with will interfere with their robots’ intelligence.

It sounded like a flimsy excuse to you then. An Esheran would never violate the sacred Mindspace in such a manner. Even if their very lives were on the line.

However, it wasn’t until later that you understood that machine counting and bank accounts make it more difficult for the greedier Humans to pilfer untraceable pieces of one-thousand naira – or two – from each of your people’s ‘chicken-feed’ allowances. en proceed to tell the Esheran workforce that there was an error in processing their wages for the day and they would, regrettably, have to make do with empty pockets and even emptier bellies.

“It’s only temporary, you see.” Agent Eze continues. “With the revenue, the Administration plans to expand the refugee settlements, improving the standards of living.”

“No offence, but that’s what they were planning to do last time.”

You recalled how the administration overseeing Ajègúnlé RRA thought they could just install new atmosphere-purification systems in the tiny ‘face-me-I-slap-you’ cells, using pre-existing gas lines. Cooking gas lines.

“e pure oxygen canisters were defective. e explosions took out three whole blocks! Put most of my clans’ people on the streets,” you say to him.

“Look, Clanleader Jah…Java…”

“Jhavvhuana,” you correct him.

“Right. Surely you can see why that would cause a spike in the cost of available housing?”

“ere was no reimbursement! I live with two partners, an elderly clansman, and four children who lost their caretakers to the explosions. is is a cell that was originally designed to house one Human.”

You don’t add that the entire RRA is just a repurposed slum. Instead, you say:

“e overcrowding is putting a strain on our air, which we have to pay for every

When the summons came to the RRA last night for a meeting with all clan leaders, you suspected the Administration would be sending an actual Human, and not the liaison robot you've come to expect in meetings like these.

“

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month. Which, by the way, becomes more expensive with each day!”

“If you have any complaints regarding that, then direct them to the Registries for Finance or Natural Resources.”

You scream in frustration. To the human, it is a cacophony to his eardrums – a wavelength just slightly higher than his tolerance range. He jerks back on his chair, eyes wide with one gnarled finger pointing threateningly. “ere are rules madam! No Esheran-speak!”

e fear in his eyes speaks volumes; even though you’re clad in an AR suit – that you now rent for four-hundred naira per day, compared to the original one-fifty. Besides, Esherans do not go around mind-controlling people. It’s sacrilegious. I’m just swearing, relax for fuck’s sake.

Ivvwa was right. e aliens treat the Esherans badly because they’re afraid.

“ere must be something you can do.” You try to adjust your tone so that it sounds less belligerent. “Please help us. I was under the impression that an actual human would have some real clout, not those machines and their preprogramed one-liners.”

e man blinks at you once, in obvious surprise at your fluency. When Humans see the green faces of the Esherans behind the helmets, they imagine a planet engulfed in a war too far away for them to care. ey hear your sonorous speech and assume that your kind cannot articulate Human-Language; Human-Igbo, Human-Yoruba, as endlessly diverse as Human-Language is. So unlike the Mindspace that elevates Esheran-speak and communicates feelings that no Human-Language has words for.

Before Ivvwa passed her mantle onto you, she had instructed you to ensure the clan’s survival. Language could not afford to be a barrier.

“I’ve informed the other clan leaders,” Agent Eze says. “ey’ve taken it in stride. My only advice for you is to take the deal on the table as is. ere are enough of you Esherans willing to fill any spaces you fail to remit rent for. It’s up to your clans’ people to raise money or leave.”

His words are almost as toxic to your skin as the atmosphere of this polluted planet. “And how are we to raise that money? e best of us make four-thousand daily! at’s doing 22-hour work! And the inflation seems to affect only Esherans, why?”

“Take that up with the Registry of Finance madam.”

You have to curl your fist to keep from clawing at his pathetic face. “What can you do for fuck’s sake?”

He takes a panicked step back. “Like I said, my ogas have all the power. I’m only a messenger.”

At this rate of decline in the RRA, a riot is inevitable. A sinking feeling curls within your gut at the thought. Could this be intentional? Are the Humans only looking for an excuse to open hostilities on the Esheran clans? e thought terrifies you, but it isn’t beyond reason. Especially not after they confiscated all the Esheran nomadic vessels for ‘study and

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preservation’. ere are already too many of your people in their detention facilities. Troublemakers, as they’ve been labelled. If the clans choose to riot now… no, the Esherans are too defenceless to even fight back.

“So, there was never any room for discussion, was there?” Your tone is now icy.

“I’m afraid not. But if you truly have the interests of your clans’ people at heart, then you have to find a way to make things work.”

It has never been their problem, and it never will be. Ivvwa had repeated those words to you as you took the mantle of leadership from her aged hands. You are the only one who can protect your clan. Your people. One can only turn the other cheek for so long.

But what can I do?

You don’t know how far you’re willing to go.

Or do you?

Your consciousness projects outward in an arc, refined and surgical. You know the Humans have been wearing bio-implants to cancel out the effects of the Esheran Mindspace. What do they know? After all, nobody can really defend against something they have never witnessed.

Slice.

It happens instantly, the imposition of your will against Agent Eze’s mind. You bite the inside of your cheek so suddenly, you draw blood. A cold shiver rakes down your back as the implication takes form in your mind. You are violating the Mindspace. A taboo akin to cold-blooded murder.

Even Ivvwa would never allow this.

But… but Ivvwa is not here to see the injustice your people face every day. To see how far the Esherans have fallen. You have to make the Administration understand! Too many are depending on you.

e human stands there, dazed and completely unaware that you have invaded his cortical pathways. You can do better for your people, but you need to talk to someone with more authority. You need to go deeper into the Registry of Land Administration.

No. You need to go deeper into their government. Esherans are people too. Refugees or not, your kind deserves a say in their governance. If you will become a pariah for trying to make this happen, then so be it.

Agent Eze nods his head once. You swallow the lump in your throat as he pulls out a key card from his pocket and the door behind him slides open.

“ere is someone inside you can talk to,” he gestures. Almost… reverently?

It is for the people, you tell yourself.


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But is the road to hell not paved with good intentions?

Taboo.

No. You neither have the time nor luxury to dissect these conflicting emotions inside your chest. is overwhelming… rush.

Instead, you rise; and follow Agent Eze through the door. Toward the fence.

*

Do you understand now, even just a little?

*

You stand now, in a field of alien corpses, in a pool of their red blood. Agent Eze is appalled. You, not so much.

You bend and pick one of their machines of death. It reeks of fire and iron. “Agent Eze, where are they keeping the detained Esherans?”

“I thought you wanted to see the higher-ups…”

“I do,” you arm the weapon. “But I won’t be going alone.”

*

Hello. Are you okay? Do I need to contact the authorities?

End

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Chibueze Ngeneagu

CHIBUEZE, IS THE AUTHOR OF “Y×12÷X+1”. HE IS A NON-HUMAN RIGHTS ACTIVIST WHO BELIEVES NA MADU ABURỌ CHUKWU AND THAT HUMANS MUST LOVE

THEIR NON-HUMAN NEIGHBORS AS THEY LOVE THEIR HUMAN SELVES.

ART BY SUNNY EFEMENA

Agu Uno�

Adamma leaps the fence into the palace of the Emir of Onitsha. She looks to the left and to the right. It is the inside of the palace n’eziokwu. She looks at her left arm and left leg, then, her right arm and right leg. is is her inside the palace n’eziokwu. i

am impressed at how she leapt over the tall majestic fence, s� ya na onwe ya, without any help. i had underestimated the force of her propulsion when she took the leap from outside. i had planned for her to bounce off the electric fence with one of her feet before landing on the ground inside. i am super-proud of myself as she nods her head like the ngwele that had accomplished the impossible task of climbing up to the highest branch of the guava tree before jumping down unhurt.

“Ada nwa ngwa pekem pekem ya…” i sing to myself as she exaggeratedly wipes off imaginary dust from the red gele on her head, from her masked face, from her shiny, black long hair, and from her yellowish green costume.

“Ada ada iyooo…” i finish singing as she sways her hips and pats the fence.

“Hey! Stop there!” a fierce-sounding male voice shouts behind the masquerade.

Adamma freezes. She is still facing the fence but i can see from the hidden eyes at the back of her head that he is a red-beret guard. His finger is on the trigger of an automatic rifle. i can see that he is about fourteen feet away from her.

“Hands up!” he orders.

Adamma raises her arms in the air slowly.

“Turn around!” he orders again.

Adamma turns as slowly as she can.

“Kneel down!”

Adamma drops her knees to the ground.

It is as if the guard is mimicking the masquerade’s movement because he drops his right knee to the ground and aims his rifle a bit more threateningly.

Adamma is like a trapped mgbada being hunted by a crouching agu in the bush. As the aim of the rifle moves from her chest to her neck, i feel a lump in my throat.

“Who you be?” the guard asks as he aims at the masquerade’s head.

Little does he know that Adamma can’t talk. From his accent, i easily guess that he must be from ugwu-awusa.

“Who send you?” he asks with more irritation at the masquerade’s silence.

He must be wondering if the yamiri inside the female masquerade is deaf and dumb. Adamma tilts her head slowly to the left as she scans his face. His aim follows her head to the left. She straightens her head still slowly. His aim follows. She slowly tilts her head to the

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Agu Uno - Chibueze Ngeneagu

right. His aim follows slowly. She is about to straighten it when…

Vuuu… i hear the buzz of a bee hovering near her ear. i can’t risk putting the life a non-human in danger. So Adamma swings her arms to wave it away.

Gi gi gi… In the split second before the bullets from the guard’s rifle hit Adamma, i realise that what i had thought to be a bee was not a bee but an olobolo ijiji.

Vuururu… e big housefly falls to the ground on its back for about two seconds before it turns around. Adamma has been shot and is lying face down on the ground with her arms spread out. i smile as the olobolo ijiji flies off to safety.

“Shege banza!” the guard curses as he swiftly marches with four wide steps to where the masquerade lies. He kicks its two hands to be sure there are no weapons there.

Gi gi gi… He unloads more bullets into the upper left area of the masquerade’s back. He wants to send the foolish man to the world of the dead with more bullets to serve as a warning to others like him who may be foolish enough to contemplate disguising as masquerades to invade the palace of the Emir of Onitsha in the future.

“Abdullahi! E don do! E don die!” a second guard runs forward to touch him on the shoulder.

“Shege banza!” Abdullahi curses again at the masquerade as he kicks and spits on its body.

e second guard smiles. ‘Abdul would always be Abdul’ he concludes, shaking his head. e smile fades into a frown when he looks down at the masquerade that Abdullahi had gunned down. He can’t see blood on or near the body of the masquerade. He quickly swings his rifle to his back, squats beside the masquerade’s body and tries to push it. It is too heavy so he beckons on Abdullahi for help.

ey both push the masquerade till its body turns faceup with its back to the ground. ere is no blood. ere are no bullet marks anywhere on its head or body. ere is no hole anywhere in its colourful costume.

e two men look at each other, puzzled.

Abdullahi plants his knees on the shoulders of the masquerade and slips his hand to the sides of the mask on its face. He is more puzzled now. What he had thought was a mask, and which surely looked like a polished wooden mask, was attached so tightly to the head that there was no way to pull it off. He grabs the gele on the masquerade’s head, trying to yank it off. e gele too seems tightly attached to its hair and head. Abdullahi drops his buttocks to the ground, using his booted feet to wedge down both shoulders of the masquerade. He grabs the gele and hair with his left hand, hooks his right hand under the jaw of the masquerade and pulls with all his might.

At that same time, the second guard is using his hands to search the masquerade’s body. His hands slowly search the arms, the breasts, the belly, the hips, the laps down to its legs

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and feet. Its body feels human, to touch. However, the strangest thing is that the costume of this masquerade is stuck to its body as if it is its skin. When he tries to pull off its white gloves, it is stuck to its hands. When he tries to pull off its black socks, it is stuck to its feet.

e two men look at each other again. ‘What kind of masquerade is this?’ Both men wonder. ey both rise up to grab its limbs. Abdullahi grabs its arms while the second guard grabs its legs. It is too heavy to be lifted off the ground. So the second guard lets go of its legs and moves beside Abdullahi. Abdullahi lets go of the masquerade’s right arm, leaving it for the second guard to hold with his two hands while he holds its left arm with his own two hands. ey both drag the dead masquerade with its buttocks and legs grazing the ground. It takes great effort for them to drag it to the side of their security post where they dump it. en they alert the other guards to come.

Two guards rush to meet them there. One is a heavily built man. He is the oldest amongst the four. e other is a slender young woman – the only female amongst them. Abdullahi and the second guard point to the body of the masquerade on the ground while they quickly narrate their observations to them.

Vuuu… Vuuu… e olobolo ijiji is buzzing near Adamma’s ear again. It perches on Adamma’s nose.

“Ginwa �z�kwa?” i giggle as i make Adamma shoo it away from her face with a wave of her hands, then play dead again.

Abdullahi, the second guard, the oldest guard and the female guard watch the masquerade with their mouths hanging open in shock.

“Na juju!” the oldest guard explains to the others. “Make we use sand!” he orders.

ey all quickly rush to the side of the fence to pick a handful of sand in their hands. en, they all rub the sand on the muzzles of their rifles.

“Fire!” he orders.

Gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi… ey all shoot the masquerade.

“Odeshi!” i shout as the bullets bounce off Adamma’s body. She lies in a more carefree manner with her hands behind her head. i am laughing, thoroughly enjoying myself.

e oldest guard winks at the female guard and the other men give her a knowing look.

She smiles in understanding. She immediately turns her back to the male guards. She loosens her belt, dips her hand into her underwear and sticks her fingers into her privates. She shuts her eyes and wills urine out of her bladder. en she pulls out her slightly cupped fingers and rubs the urine on the muzzle of her rifle. She also rubs the same hand on the muzzles of the other three rifles before they all march closer to the masquerade where it now lies with its face up.

Gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi gi… e guards shoot at it pointblank till they almost exhaust


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the bullets in their cartridges.

e masquerade raises its head sharply, spreads out it arms violently and collapses finally.

“Alhamdulilahi!” the oldest guard shouts with glee. While celebrating, they get a whiff of a strange smell around them. It smells like…

ey all lose consciousness and slump to the ground.

“Odeshi nwanne!” i shout, laughing long and hard.

Adamma sits up as she looks at the guards sprawled on the ground around her. She gets on all fours with her hands directly below her shoulders and her knees directly below her hips. She begins to move her back up and down in a dance. She continues her dance as she lifts her hands off the ground and sits on her heels. She keeps dancing as she slowly rises to her feet. i know that the cameras are focused on her. i ignore the dummy CCTV cameras mounted on the walls and turn her face towards one of the real hidden cameras.

i make her tilt her head left and right as she looks into all three hidden cameras. i am putting up this show for the police and all the other security agents who are watching. A ch�r� m ka ha malu that the masquerade knows that they are watching. A ch�r� m ka ha malu that the masquerade wants them to watch.

Adamma dances as she bends over the female guard and picks up her rifle. She dances to the male guards and picks up all their rifles too. She removes all their magazines, drops them on the ground before flinging the rifles away. She suddenly glides away from the security post to the main house, her feet moving as if she is skating on rollerblades.

i make her glide so fast that it appears to the hidden cameras as if she disappeared from the security post and reappeared at the door of the main building of the palace. She runs up the stairs with the same neck-breaking speed and arrives at the study of the Emir himself. It has an automated bulletproof door without a handle. She places her hand on its fingerprint scanner.

e Emir looks wide-eyed in shock as the door to his study slides open. He doesn’t know whether he should be shocked that somebody other than him has unlocked his automated bulletproof door, or whether he should be more shocked that that somebody is a funny-looking female masquerade.

“Ewooo!” he jumps off his chair to the floor facedown. He isn’t sure if this is real or an aj� nl�. He can’t tell if this masquerade is human or an aj� mm��. is is his private space. Not even his favourite wife can gain access into this study. is study is soundproof and windowless. Not even the air could blow into this room without his permission.

i make Adamma dance-walk to the spot where the Emir lies shaking. i make her look down at him and bend to pat his head as if he is a scared little boy and not a man of forty-eight.

‘� nyu� mam�r� �ku o!’ i say to myself in wild laughter as i see urine spreading under his

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crotch area on the floor.

Adamma dance-walks towards the corner of the study where the walls meet. ere is a terrarium the size of a microwave oven fixed into the corner there. She carefully lifts the terrarium and hugs it to her chest. e wall-gecko inside is wagging its tail. It is clearly feeling threatened. i make Adamma rock the terrarium like a baby as she dances slowly with it out of the room.

As soon as she gets back outside the main building, i make her glide with speed to the security post, drop the terrarium slowly to the ground near the wall, carefully lift off its cover and dip her hand into it. As expected, the wall-gecko avoids her hand and crawls quickly up the glass and out of the terrarium for the first time since it was locked up inside there two years ago.

“Agu-un� bye-bye!” i say, with tears of joy filling my eyes.

i make Adamma wave at the wall-gecko as it crawls up the wall and disappears into a hole.

i make Adamma dance an ancient dance; she swings her arms till the back of her hands land on her lower back then she begins to move her elbows frontwards and backwards.

She keeps dancing that way from the security post to the fence before she looks up and leaps out of the palace of the Emir of Onitsha the same way she had come in.


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Plangdi Neple

PLANGDI, IS A NIGERIAN AUTHOR WHOSE WORK HAS APPEARED IN AFRITONDO, LUNARIS REVIEW, AND AFRICAN WRITER MAGAZINE. HE CAN BE FOUND ON TWITTER

AND INSTAGRAM AS PLANGDI NEPLE. WHEN NOT READING OR WRITING, HE CAN BE FOUND WATCHING OLD MOVIES OR SLEEPING.

ART BY WURAOLA KAYODE

Hidden Figures

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anja stood atop the summit of the gods and surveyed the dusty plains of the world he Sbelonged to. His eyes took in all its arid beauty, curbing his impatience with the habitual lateness of his peers. His mind saw visions of the world to come, mired in

uncertainty and repeated disappointment.

And the weight of the safety of the people of that world rested on the shoulders of a man who had once been a god.

“You’re late.”

He turned to face the goddess whose presence brought forth thoughts of a cool, rainy day. Her hair hung down her back in thick black braids, and her golden dress shimmered with godly luminescence, as did her dewy ebony skin.

“I didn’t know we too were bound by the concept of time,” ��̀ un said, her lips pulling up in a teasing smile.

Sanja felt his cheeks heat up, and he smiled back. “I am living proof that we are. Especially now, when the lives of our worshippers are at stake.”

Her light laughter sounded like birdsong. “Don’t be so moody. It’s not like there’s a war coming.”

Sanja remained mute and watched as her bare feet moved toward him in a manner she knew was distracting and had worked many times before. Despite knowing his dark cheeks could not expose his arousal, he ducked his head. She pressed her lithe body along his slim one, letting her breasts brush his chest lightly.

“Your husband will be here soon,” he said.

She scoffed and walked ahead of him to the edge of the cliff. “at fat man? He’s not going anywhere, not when he and Oya are enjoying each other’s bodies.”

Sanja chuckled under his breath. All the gods knew of the eternal struggle between Sango’s two wives. He now understood why she was early and trying to seduce him. It was a ploy to soothe her bruised ego, which was visible in the tightness of her shoulders and the slight sheen of sweat on her neck.

But this was no place to placate a hurt goddess or pander to her whims, as was emphasized by the appearance of four other deities. e air crackled with power, and Sanja breathed in deep, wishing a thousandth time for the electric smell that would tickle his senses were he still a god. And to think, he had taken it for granted, when all he had now was the smell of wet mud and fresh grass to fill his nose.

“It is not every day an insect summons a lion,” one of the deities said as he tossed the edge of his dark wrapper to the side and tucked the corner in at his waist.

Sanja levelled an unimpressed look at the spider god.

“My age or standing does not make me less useful, and you know it. All it takes is one widespread thought, and the stories would say I killed you and took all your wives for myself.”

Hidden Figures - PLANGDI NEPLE

Anansi laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder with his slim fingers. A brown spider came out of his long locs and regarded Sanja with unblinking eyes. Sanja returned his friend’s wide-toothed smile with one of his own and petted the spider as his eyes moved over the other deities who had appeared.

ere was Egun, the thickset goddess from the south whose shaved head reflected the knowledge and wisdom she bestowed on her people, the same wisdom that had saved Sanja when the other deities had ordered his death to protect their secrets.

Her plump arms were held onto by a Djinn who Sanja had only met in passing during his divine days. He’d recognized the supernatural glow emanating from the Djinn’s fair skin while attending a moonlight festival. ey’d acknowledged one another with a simple nod.

e lack of familiarity didn’t stop them from stepping forward and greeting Sanja with a chaste kiss.

“When I saw the summons, I was only too glad to know its purpose,” they said with a straight face and a twinkle in their pupil-less eyes. eir lean frame was covered in a long white tunic Sanja did not see the practicality in as the mountaintop was chilly.

en he remembered, and a bolt of pain went through him. ey were gods; he wasn’t.

“Yes,” another god with hulking muscles and many piercings said. “Your message was… interesting.”

“Strange as it may have sounded,” Sanja said, shaking out his robe to make it look like he cared less about the cold. “You still came.”

“is isn’t even a proper council,” the war god muttered.

“Why?” ��̀un asked in a mocking tone, “Because you do not have any Elder to hold your hand?”

e god narrowed his eyes, and Sanja could see the beginnings of an argument they didn’t need, but one he would undoubtedly enjoy.

“As long as we’re here,” he said. “It’s a council.”

“Is that why neither Olorun nor any of the other òrì�àare here?” Egun asked.

A tense silence fell. ey all knew how eager the western gods had been to accept the new gods and their people, along with the insinuation that their way of life was the best.

“ey made their choice,” Sanja said. “And now we must make ours.”

e air crackled again, and this time, Sanja wished he could disappear back into his mother’s womb from centuries before.

“I should have known you would be the leader of this mutiny,” Amadioha said, thunder crackling in his beard and white eyes.

Sanja felt a spark of anger in his chest. How dare he accuse him of being an upstart? Sanja had nothing to gain from being here, except perhaps a tryst with ��̀un. But she always knew where to find him anyway, and him her.

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“It’s not mutiny, and you know it. What I’m proposing is in all our best interests.”

“Ha!” the thunder god exclaimed. “You forget you are not a god anymore. We don’t care about you.”

��̀ un winced, and Sanja’s fists balled of their own volition. e other deities watched with contemplative expressions.

“And,” Amadioha continued, uncaring. “What you are suggesting will require more work from us than we have ever done.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sanja saw ��̀ un roll her eyes. “Lazy goat,” she muttered.

A sneer painted Amadioha’s mouth, and he pointed at ��̀ un. “I do not need your whore to speak for you.”

Rage filled Sanja, and he saw red, growling and taking a step forward before a hand on his chest stopped him.

“Enough,” Anansi’s fourth companion said. Her voice was quiet and raspy, powerful enough to silence them all. She turned her petite frame on the angry thunder god.

“You come here and pass judgment on what we have only speculated. I myself may not be inclined to agree with him. But let us hear what he has to say first.”

Sanja watched with bated breath as the sparks around Amadioha’s face lessened and the god went silent. Relieved, he looked carefully at each divine face surrounding him to gauge their moods and how willing they were to listen to him.

And suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to have Amadioha screaming again. Because if he was, it meant less attention on Sanja, less pressure. Nobody could save him now.

“e òrì�à have betrayed us.”

Never before had Sanja been so grateful to hear ��̀un’s voice, not even in the throes of their passion.

“Is that not too harsh?” Anansi said, checking his reflection in a mirror he pulled from thin air.

“It is not.” Sanja finally found his voice. “If it is left to them and the other Elders, the rest of us would fade from existence, forgotten as only they are remembered.”

“And yet, I am here,” Amadioha said with barely concealed contempt, “among all of you.”

Hostility filled Sanja at the insult, and he saw the same anger reflected on the war god’s tawny face. To the thunder god, the slur was a way for Amadioha to keep him underfoot. To Sanja, it was a reminder of what he now was: powerless.

“If I am able to convince you who are as stubborn as the calf of the woman from which he was born,” he said, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat from the posturing, “everyone else would listen and see reason.”

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Amadioha was silent, his face pensive. e pelt across his shoulders constantly shifted, from tiger to deer to panther, the mark of kings. Sanja knew his flattery had worked when the pelt stopped changing and the god’s shoulders relaxed. A large throne materialized behind him, precious jewels glinting in the bone frame.

“Alright. I will listen.” He sat on the throne and conjured up roasting corn, its sweet smell drawing Anansi and the small goddess’s fingers and mouths.

Sanja inclined his head respectfully and tried not to let the smoke bother him.

“Something is happening across the heavens, something that will reduce you to nothing if you are not careful. e foreigners in our land care for little else but power and control.”

“Eh, it’s the same for humans everywhere,” Egun interrupted with a wave of her jewelled fingers. “We knew this already.”

ere were murmurs of agreement, and Sanja forced his irritation down and spoke through gritted teeth.

“ey care for it at our—your—expense. To them, you are too much, as many as the grains of sand in one’s palm. ey would rather you be forgotten, condensed in favour of the gods they perceive as superior.”

“But even in our humans’ minds,” the quiet goddess said, clapping her hands to remove flecks of corn. “Are we not the lesser?”

“We are no less important,” Anansi said, saving Sanja from an outburst.

“Don’t be a fool,” Amadioha said, crossing his legs. He looked almost happy. “We are a creation of human thoughts and their need for a sovereign being to believe in. What agency do we have over our perceived existence, let alone the hierarchy of our importance?”

Sanja blinked and felt his anger slowly creeping back, turning his body rigid and forcing him to cause his fingers to vibrate.

“So, you would rather we have our identities erased? ose pale foreigners would rather forget us because we are too much for them to remember to control.”

Sanja thanked the skies he had not forgotten to invite Egun. e goddess could not stand stupidity. at very moment, her eyes glinted in anger, her arms folded across her heaving bosom.

Amadioha only smiled, making Sanja’s heart sink.

“See his face now,” ��̀ un said with derision. “He knows if all the other minor deities fade from existence, he will not. E wori e bi igo epa.”

“Do not pretend to speak for those deities,” Amadioha said, wagging a finger at the goddess. He pointed at all the gods assembled, none of whom could look him in the eye. “You are all hypocrites. If you truly cared for the other gods, they would be here, deciding their own fate.”

e words were a blow to Sanja’s conscience, and he nearly staggered. Judging from Amadioha’s smirk, he did not hide his misstep well enough. Heat suffused Sanja’s cheeks,


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and he turned away from the gods and goddesses, his feet moving to the mountain’s edge, his mind wondering how Amadioha had come and managed to tear everything apart.

“What is it?” ��̀un asked quietly. e other deities talked about mundane things behind them, Amadioha presiding over them on his throne.

Sanja didn’t reply immediately. He stared out at the plains, at the few people gathering herbs for their evening meal. Intermittently, they approached the mountain base, picking a few plants and genuflecting before moving away. e scene made Sanja smile. ey must have seen the peculiar plant which grew wherever there was a gathering of gods. His hand quivered beside him, and he made a tight fist against the ground, the little rocks digging into his knuckles.

“He’s not supposed to be right,” he mumbled, looking into his lap. “He wasn’t even supposed to be here. And he just made me look like a fool.”

“You’re a god who became human,” ��̀ un said, rubbing his back. “You’ll always look like a fool to the rest of us.”

Sanja smiled a little at her bluntness. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? I’m the biggest hypocrite of all; not a god, not even a minor deity, just a man.”

Using a finger under his chin, she tilted his head up, looking straight into his eyes. “is is bigger than you or your pride. Just because Amadioha doesn’t care what happens doesn’t mean he can’t see the solution. Listen to him.”

Sanja shook his head.

“I saw it,” he replied in a whisper. “It just felt like too much, too much for a human to do. To gather that number of deities?” he hung his head and screwed his eyes shut.

��̀ un made a low sound in her throat. “And you did not want another reminder of your humanity.”

Sanja had nothing to say, and they stayed that way for a long time, the sweet smell of roasting corn comforting them. A few thoughts went through Sanja’s head. e first was gratefulness for the humans who had immortalized him as a god hundreds of years ago, followed by resentment for those same humans. For if not for them, he would have died peacefully as a renowned king, instead of now being a deity who had been dethroned to flesh and blood when his worshippers’ cult died out.

Deeper resentment burned for the race he was trying to save, who would not even know his name or what he did for them. He would only be a footnote in an epic that did not exist.

“You have forgotten how to be human,” a voice said behind them, startling them out of their brooding. “And that is your problem.”

Sanja turned to find Egun pinning him with a disapproving look, her head shining in the light of the setting sun.

“What do you mean?” he asked with a frown.

“When was the last time you prayed?”

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Bile rose up in Sanja’s throat and he abruptly spun his head back towards the plains. at was the one thing he would not do. He was the one that should be prayed to. He was the one incense should rise for. To pray would be to give up every ounce of pride he had left. It would be to admit that he was what he feared: nothing.

“You think prayer makes you weak,” Egun said, ignoring his stubbornness. “But you forget it is merely mortals asking us to do things for them.”

Sanja stubbornly remained silent. Logic didn’t matter. Nothing could make him pray. He could feel ��̀un’s eyes on him, making his skin prickle with awareness.

“Sanja—”

“Don’t,” he bit out. He turned to face ��̀un and her beautiful pleading face. “If you say anything else, you’ll never see me again.”

Her face fell in disappointment. “So, you would condemn hundreds of gods and thousands of humans just to salvage your pride. You are no different from Amadioha.”

She stood and walked back to the gathering with Egun, leaving Sanja reeling in shock. To be compared to that…that…inconsiderate buffoon, and know the comparison to be true filled him with more shame than one person should ever have to feel.

With tears running down his face, he bid farewell to the last hold he had on his divinity, rose from his seated position to his knees, put his forehead to the ground, and prayed for the first time in a hundred years.

“Please, if you can hear me, come.”

His tears fell to the rocks beneath his face, hissing where they met the ground, their salty scent, a heady incense to deities far and wide. Power pressed against his skin as he felt them appear in their droves, extending far beyond the top of the mountain into the air around it, their magnitude blocking out the sun and their luminescence providing enough light to penetrate Sanja’s eyelids.

Sanja waited for the tears to cease before getting to his feet and opening his eyes to look at the crowd of beings he had summoned. e air bubbled with the amount of power emanating from them. ere were those he knew personally, those he’d had dalliances with or once kept as friends. ere were Bòòríí, Arusi, and the Vodun deities. ere were even gods that he didn’t know existed.

e knowledge that he, an ordinary mortal, had summoned them all here set him reeling, though he knew some were filled with glee at his shattered pride. Amadioha and the other gods gaped at their number while Egun smiled at him, proud. Still, he could not find his voice.

“Why have you brought us here?”

Several tongues spoke at once and coalesced into one clear voice in Sanja’s head.

Sanja thought of what he could say, every flowery word that would make him sound like an orator of the gods. But there was nothing pretentious left in him anymore, nothing but the


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bare, honest truth.

“You are all on the verge of death,” he said.

A ripple of confusion passed through them, and whispers of “Die? How?” popped up from every corner.

“A time is coming when most if not all of you will be swallowed up by history and forgotten, left to become mortals and live out eternity powerless.”

Fear and pity showed on their faces. ey all knew how he’d been forgotten and condemned to live as an immortal human. And none of them wanted to be him.

“You need to come together and fight for yourselves,” he continued.

“Have you seen the new people?” a voice in the multitude asked, and others murmured their agreement. “ey have weapons and knowledge we have never seen.”

“at does not give them the right to erase us or what we stand for.”

Sanja could see how his words affected different factions. Faces closed off; those who believed the newcomers were better and would gladly serve under them. Eyes burned with pride and anger; those that would fight till their dying breath to preserve their land. And still, some were undecided, whose ambivalence would keep them too busy to care about what mattered.

“So, what do you suggest, o wise one?” a lilting, mocking voice asked. Sanja could see the speaker was a small creature with eagle wings and ram horns and a baby’s body covered in white tattoos. He reflexively forced his hand to twitch to dispel the anger building in him and turned from the creature.

He prayed a second time and opened his mouth after taking a deep breath.

“You need to remind your people that you still exist.”

“How?” e same lilting voice asked. “We are nothing but a manifestation of their thoughts.”

Sanja felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Anansi step forward out of the corner of his eye.

“oughts recur,” the spider god said, “and they evolve. Let the colourless foreigners see only the few, big strong gods they want, and let us be left in the darkness of their minds while at the forefront of our people’s, growing just as their minds and thoughts do.

“A day is coming when our people will need to fight back for our freedom and everything we want. Will they win with what they are allowed to know, with the little they are spoon-fed by those invaders, or will they win with this?”

He indicated their sheer number which was enough to block out even the sun. Sanja felt a prick of satisfaction as he saw understanding dawn on the faces of the deities. Anansi’s words had painted a better picture than he ever would have done.

Hours passed, which felt like a drop in the pool of eternity as the deities spoke among themselves and deliberated the merits of remaining unseen but influential forces of

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nature. He could see the faces of those who wore their jealousy like their burnished naked skins. ey wanted — hungered for — the global recognition Anansi and his brothers and sisters were soon to receive.

But what gave him hope were the gods and creatures that began to disappear from the gathering — letting in pricks of moonlight and starlight — and the memories of gods old and new, whispering at the back of his mind.

Never forget.

A single tear rolled down Sanja’s cheek, and he turned and began to make his way down the mountain.


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Mwenya S. ChikwaMWENYA, WAS BORN IN THE MINING TOWN OF KALULUSHI LOCATED ON THE VIBRANT CREATIVE CAULDRON THAT IS THE COPPERBELT PROVINCE, ZAMBIA. BORN THIRD IN A TIGHT WILD PACK OF FOUR TO TWO LOVING REALISTS, IT’S ONLY NATURAL HE WAS BORN DREAMING OF RESHAPING

CLOUDS. WHILE WAITING ON THAT, HE WROTE WORDS ON PAPER WHICH TURNED OUT TO BE AN ART MORE VERSATILE AND INTERESTING INSTEAD. WHEN HE IS NOT THINKING OF WRITING THE

ZAMBIAN VERSION OF THE FIFTH SEASON – WHICH IS CONSTANTLY, HE IS WITH FAMILY, RENEWING THE SILENT FULFILLING AGREEMENT OF ETERNAL COMPANIONSHIP

THROUGH THE GREAT SURVIVING CALLED EXISTENCE.

Art by Sunny Efemena

A Ride for the Future

he night’s chill prickled Chibesa Kalota’s skin bumpy. She glanced at the Tunexpected passenger behind her, his small soft hands wrapped tight around her waist, warm in her bomber jacket while she froze. is should have

annoyed her but it only made her smile.

“Are you sure about this?” He screamed over the zooming wind rushing past. “Ba mbuya said this was pointless.”

She didn’t care about what their grandmother said. She would do this. e old woman wasn’t always right despite her impeccable attempts to appear so.

“Do you want to go back?” She asked Chanda, her younger brother, while they could still see the husk of the crushed derelict alien vessel marking the village’s edge.

“No.” He gripped her tighter.

She smiled to herself, looked at the GPS on the bike’s dashboard. Too many kilometres left to make it at the current speed. Her left hand hovered reluctantly over a long black switch on the dash. e experimental feature could just as much blow the engine and render their night flight out of the house moot.

You shouldn’t be doing this, a voice inside her took on the scolding tone of her grandmother.

Out of spite, she flipped the black switch.

e engine coughed and burped black smoke, then exploded.

ey zoomed away, the bike zipping off the ground with the unstable agility of a frightened grasshopper. Behind them, a trail of blue dust lingered, the end product of the burning gems inside.

“It worked.” She said with excited surprise after she stabilised the jerking vehicle.

en the bike burped, causing her to worry. It held but continued to jerk dangerously. She knew it would not hold for long.

“Come on girl. You have to make it.” She adjusted the engine’s power using the bike’s gears.

As if responding to the words, but more likely to her tinkering, the bike stilled again, and her attention returned to the screen GPS that now displayed a different arrival time.

“Close. But it will have to do.”

#

Chibesa’s one miscalculation was trusting tech that had never seen land it dared describe. e GPS showed the river as a stream, and it probably was – most of the year, but a strange five-day torrential rain storm had turned it into a river. e belated outpouring, a result of a seemingly more common erratic climate, had hindered the hospitalised man whose duty she now had to complete in his stead.

Lucky for Chibesa she found help.

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“Two children shouldn’t be out so late.” e pontoon man showed them the time on his small phone running old embedded software. “Go home. I’m sure your parents are worried.”

e fingers holding the phone, greatly gnarled by time were all she focused on, she knew the time already, and this feature reminded her of another elder though not as old, who had tried to block her path.

“Chimene, across the river is our home.” She lied, face pleading. “Can you help us cross?”

“You lie.” e man said, his tone calm. “I work this river. And I did not see you pass. For only through me can you travel in and out of Chimene.”

“Our bike floats over land and water.” She said, effortlessly tying truth with a lie. “We floated before. Now the engine noises make us wary of crossing as we did before.”

e man’s face hung unchanged in disbelief.

“Tell me another story.”

Another glance at the racing time incited a panic within. So, she told the truth. With the dust from the war with the Visitors finally settling, it was time to rebuild the disintegrated government, this time from the bottom-up. For that, each district needed a representative. e vote would begin in a few hours.

e man gave her a long scrutinising look, digesting her story, and when she thought he would die a stature in silence, he said:

“is is no task fit for children.”

“Yet we are here and intend to do it,” She said.

Chanda contributed a full-toothed smile to her argument, finally drawing enough courage to wiggle his face from behind her.

e man conceded. ey crossed.

#

“You see what I did?” Chanda was saying excitedly on the other side of the watery barrier. “No one can resist my smile.”

Chibesa tried the bike again and it still refused to start. She sighed, “My secret

When they reached Chimene Village, Chibesa found herself missing the engine's wild explosive farts as the megaphones stable sound waves failed to reassure her fears that the pre-recorded message she carried would reach the sleeping residents.

“

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weapon.”

She was about to open the bike up again when Chanda pointed to the blue fluid leaking out the canister holding the combustion gems.

She moaned a silent curse. A combustion engine she understood, the experimental second one jamming up her power was her grandmother’s domain, and she ruled it in solitude; not out of selfish control but protection. When the engine was complete, she suspected the information would be forced into her whether she liked it or not.

Standing in the dark with the cold biting into her bones, the pontoon man’s watchful gaze trained on her – sharp and hawk-eyed, waiting for her to admit defeat, she wondered if the old woman was right about her efforts.

No.

“Hey, Cracker,” She gave Chanda the screwdriver. “Can you crack this code?”

He bared his teeth sheepishly. Pretence, an attempt at playing humble. If anyone could break the blue engine’s mechanisms it would be him. He hung about Ba mbuya like a tick, absorbing both knowledge and mannerisms; good and bad.

“Can’t?” She dangled the tool in his face. “Guess we just have to go back home. Failures.”

“Fail.” His eyes popped as if he had just bit into raw electricity.

He took the tool and rushed for the canister. He worked like she meant to throw him into the river if he failed. He cracked the vessel open, revealing a complex nest of sparkling blue gems inside. e pontoon man took an involuntary step back, the gems’ unpredictable explosive properties inspiring memories of gruesome news stories. Chibesa knew them too but believed these ones were stable. Chanda crunched into each, glared into a few like a prospector and threw out half. He re-engineered the remaining few into the canister and closed it up again.

“Try it.”

He wore frantic eyes and they sent a sharp needle into her heart. e look was becoming more common on him and it unsettled her, a gift from his grandmother. She had hoped the ride would give him the relief and peace absent at home under their grandmother’s full-time homeschooling.

“Come on, try it.” He pulled her hand to the handles.

It took one burst and the bike rumbled fiercely into the night.

She smiled and rubbed his wild overgrown afro. “My secret weapon.”

e words almost made her cry, though she did not understand why.

With the bike fixed, they continued their seeming unending ride into Chimene.

#

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When they reached Chimene Village, Chibesa found herself missing the engine’s wild explosive farts as the megaphone’s stable sound waves failed to reassure her fears that the pre-recorded message she carried would reach the sleeping residents.

After one slow ride across the village’s main arteries of travel, she came to a stop, at what looked like the main market. Wooden stands and temporary stores made of scrap metal and threaded sacks were a beacon she could recognise anywhere.

“Help me set up the Quick info drones.” She told Chanda.

Her brother had not talked much since repairing the engine and wore a distant gaze, though he obeyed her without fuss. She talked him through evaluating the drones’ responses to the five major languages of the nation.

As she worked, she doubted she had made it in time, Chimene’s voice would likely go unheard, and from the previous messenger’s injuries, she wondered if that was the point. e wild thought was sparked by hearsay and rumours surrounding the man’s sudden hospitalisation during the rainstorm. It was all everyone talked about after emerging out of their forced five-day isolation. Her aunt, the local clinical officer, had said he was found unconscious on the clinic doorstep one chilly rainy morning. Her father pinned it on a drunken brawl, her mother had suggested an unwelcome excursion into a fractured marriage, and her grandmother had simply shrugged and called the cause irrelevant. All the old woman cared about was repairing the emergency vehicle meant to carry the injured man to the central provincial hospital. When that time came, Chibesa still struggled to match the casual smiling face she had sold bottled munkoyo to a week earlier, with the limp figure on the stretcher the local clinic staff had loaded into the off-road SUV her mbuya had just repaired. Any semblance of familiarity on the invalid was lost, hidden under bloodstained bandages and swollen flesh. Although she couldn’t recognise his face, she remembered his motorbike, even as it lay a wreck awaiting repair in mbuya’s garage. In the fleeting memory, she remembered him taking her noise pollution joke well. He had laughed and comforted her with news that he would be leaving for Chimene the next day. e rains came that evening and news of his bloodied body soon followed.

“Done.” Chanda pulled her out of her thoughts before they could spiral down a rabbit hole of pointless speculation. With such an understaffed police force, the how, to the man’s injuries would probably go unanswered, and that made Chibesa more uncomfortable than she wanted to admit.

“Same.” She nodded solemnly to Chanda, a little disappointed as she let the rectangular cube float off her palms and into the air.

As if sensing her bubbling displeasure, Chanda said. “We can do another pass. No point rushing home.”

She pinched his cheek for the insolent remark, and when he threatened to wail she stuffed a spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes into his mouth. He grabbed and gulped the tea himself to wash it down.

“


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She smiled, not looking forward to the punishment awaiting them at home. “Might as well earn our beatings.”

#

Back on the pontoon, floating back home under the slowly brightening sky, Chibesa’s stomach bubbled. ey had done two more runs than intended yet she still felt unsatisfied, surely a side effect of her grandmother’s perfectionist demands that she had endured since her first steps. Her eyes settled on Chanda sitting across her, drinking a cup of water, and her heart pulsed. She realised then the true root of her anxiety.

“You don’t always have to do what she says,” she said. Chanda paused, blue plastic cup halfway to his lips. “If you don’t like it, that is.”

His eyes shimmered understanding. e war in his eyes reminded her of her own silent pains when she once held her grandmother’s full attention. robbing eyes from late hours in the garage, splitting headaches from early mornings spent in thick university-level alien text that bled into evenings of impossible tests. It was a no-lifer mode of existence, so singular in its focus that it made every reprimand for the smallest error feel like a sharp razor to the skin. If her skin could show the wounds, there would be nothing left of her to recognise. e thought made her lower lip ache, unconsciously biting into it as she imagined the same wounds on Chanda. Her little brother.

“It’s your choice what you become.” She told him.

He stared at her for some time, then his lips parted to speak but before he could, the shore loomed ahead and on it stood a titan of a woman wearing a fierce expectant gaze that sent Chanda retreating into himself. eir grandmother, sturdy as the proud mukulu tree despite her age, stood and at either side of her were their parents.

“Pointless.” She sighed in defeat.

#

Once on shore, the pontoon man watched the tense Kalota family reunion with the unease of a perched crow ready to move at the slightest sound. Chibesa didn’t need any saving, a boldness born from the anger inside refused to dissipate despite her parents’ angry unflinching scrutiny.

Now you’re angry? Seriously! Not when your son cries at the dinner table in silent pain, unable to eat because he can’t understand the heavy alien tome he is forced to read every day.

oughts bounced in her head. Each bounce increased the thoughts’ heat and poison until all that remained inside was righteous rage.

“What was this nonsense?” Mbuya Kalota scolded.

Of course, she spoke first, she was the true head of the family, the rest were just nodding heads, and the same was expected of her.

“Something important.” She kept her answer short to prevent the rage from escaping into her tongue.

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“Ahh,” Mbuya Kalota swatted at her ear as if her words carried the annoying whine of a mosquito. “Frivolous nonsense. A machine that can only take and yields nothing is pointless.”

“Well, this wasn’t about a machine.”

“Iye!” Mbuya Kalota’s voice carried pain as if Chibesa had slapped her. “Wemwishikulu,” she pointed a wrinkled finger into her granddaughter’s face. “We have not reached that level yet. If you think you can talk back, why don’t you just undress me and throw me into the river right now.”

Chibesa’s shoulders dropped in defeat at the old woman’s exaggeration. “Ba mbuya naimwe, I didn’t mean it like that—”

But the old woman wouldn’t hear it.

“Continue with your nonsense alone,” Mbuya Kalota dismissed, “Give me my grandchild so I can leave.” She reached out a hand to Chanda, standing behind Chibesa. “He has already missed his morning session because of your budding madness.”

Chanda sheepishly walked toward the woman. Chibesa stretched out a hand and stopped Chanda by the shoulder. An instinctual thing beyond conscious thought, she couldn’t stop herself. From the look on her grandmother, a stinging slap was the only logical next step, but it never came. e woman never hit them near the head for fear of turning them simple, she suspected that was the matriarch’s worst fear. Mbuya Kalota turned to Chanda instead and said:

“Come on cracker, don’t let your sister’s laziness and wild distractions keep you from your destiny.” She goaded him with praise like she used to do to her. e once sweet words now felt like sand in her ears as the manipulation inside them was laid bare.

Chanda hesitated. His eyes latched on her, expectant, but Chibesa couldn’t think of anything to say and the boy went to their mbuya.

“Good boy,” She rubbed his dirty face with a cotton cloth. “is is why you will be the best Kalota ever. Better than your great great grandmother.”

Better than a woman whose self-taught work ended a half-century war?

It took all of Chibesa’s will not to scoff and wrestle her little brother from the woman’s hands. e boy didn’t need any more invisible weight to carry.

Angry and full of impotent rage, she stomped to her bike, pushing her father’s compassionate arm away along the way when he tried to stop her. An act instantly regretted, but she could not take it back. A beating would come but not now. Ashamed, she slumped on the bike handles struggling to start the machine.

“Troublesome child.” Her grandmother spat into the water, talking loudly to her parents. “She begins to leak blood and thinks herself an adult…” She spat again, choking on her anger. “I don’t know where she gets this stubbornness from.”

at set her off.


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“Ooo!” Chibesa got off the bike. “e fruit never falls far from the tree.”

Her grandmother’s entire face wrinkled enraged. “If that were true you wouldn’t squander your time so recklessly.”

“Reckless?” She was screaming and didn’t know how to stop. Which in her grandmother’s eyes meant she had nothing important to say. “What happened to, ‘if you can, do what you can for your bleeding country.’ Huh?”

“Exactly. See, you weren’t listening.”

“No, you didn’t understand.” She refused to be dismissed. “It’s what I can, not you. And what I can, goes beyond tinkering with engines and lubricating parts in the garage.”

“So…” e old woman shook her head vehemently and Chibesa’s mother had to support her to prevent a sudden coughing fit from sending her to the ground. When their mbuya regained balance, Chibesa’s voice had died in worry. “I am fine.” She refused the help. “Pity the dead, I’m still alive.”

ey all fell silent until Chibesa’s father spoke. “It’s best we went home.”

“No.” Mbuya Kalota objected. “Let the petulant child speak, so I know what to whip out once we’re at home.”

“I am not scared.” She was; just thinking about it made her want to run away and live off in the surrounding wildness. “Whip me all you like but you won’t make me your robot.”

“All boldness and noise.” She scolded. “Childish ideals filling you up like a balloon, forgetting that you have an elastic limit. When it blows, you will see.”

e old woman ended the conversation and took Chanda on her own bike, leaving everyone else behind like refuse no longer needed. She had her prodigy who would supposedly solve equations the highly advanced empire of sky Visitors couldn’t solve themselves. If not, he would be thrown away like his petulant sister and branded a thick stubborn kawayawaya not worthy of carrying the Kalota name.

Chibesa glared at her parents as if that would lead to anything before her mother pointed a scolding finger that sent her staring at the wet ground.

#

For all her infuriating condescending talk at the lake, the old woman’s words came true when late in the evening with the poles close to closing, Chibesa saw no faces

The old woman dug meticulously through the alien pile and picked out a cylindrical canister with two short tubes sticking out on opposite ends. She blew one end and faint blue dust ejected out the other; just like the dust trail she left the other night when she turned a half-day-journey into a single hour's trip.

“

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emerging from the Chimene route into town. Some hope still lingered inside as she continued to watch the near-empty gravel road to the library, which had been turned into a polling station for the election until a hand tapped on her shoulder. She turned and stared into the familiar face of despair sitting comfortably on the pontoon man’s face.

“You still in one piece I see.” e old man greeted, three holes accentuating the joy in his toothy smile.

“What are you doing here?” She was too shaken to be polite.

He showed her his blue-painted thumbnail. “Voting.”

“Who will help the people cross the river?”

“My son.” He said, his tone soft and compassionate.

ere was no one to blame or any excuses to be made. She wondered if she had sneaked out earlier maybe… or perhaps she should have done another run around Chimene village, maybe then…

e man put a hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t know about this election before you told me.” Disappointment settled in his eyes when he noticed the words meant little. “You do what you can.”

He let the words settle before leaving her to digest them.

e lack of attendance felt like a slap in the face, one so brazen it left her bewildered and frozen to the spot. Unsure of herself, she tiptoed for what seemed like eternity until the library doors closed.

With all hope dead, she left.

#

“Ba mbuya wants to talk to you.” Chanda said.

Chibesa found her little brother, doodling alien script on a large piece of paper as dying insects flinging themselves into the light bulb above fell around him. On it, she saw a drawing that resembled the canister full of blue gems that had powered their flight into the night.

“e blue engine.”

He looked up at her, nodded and continued painting what to her resembled a hybrid of mathematical symbols born of another distant planet. She knew enough of them to know it had something to do with power conversion, resistance and material conductivity.

“Have you eaten?” She asked.

He pointed to a bowl full of groundnut shells, their inviting earthy smell lost to the now fading heat of the fading sun; it was their snack before lunch.

“I’ll make some tea.” She said and entered the house through the front door that led to a kitchen stacked with plates and dishes reaching the roof.


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Inside, there was a cold meal waiting on the kitchen table and a warm brazier in the corner bleeding warmth into the room, ready for use. She put on a small pot, grabbed some leftover boiled sweet potatoes and smashed them to mash in a bowl while waiting for the water to boil. After a silent, patient wait she prepared two mugs and served them outside.

“Break time.” She said, and when he grumbled, she added. “Periodic rest increases productivity.”

“For the weak maybe.”

She pinched his cheek for the insolent remark, and when he threatened to wail she stuffed a spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes into his mouth. He grabbed and gulped the tea himself to wash it down.

“You could have killed me.” He moaned. “is is a choking hazard.”

“en don’t make me repeat myself.”

e boy whined and complained but obeyed. As they sat on their veranda enjoying the meal, she told him what had happened at the library, he listened patiently, eating slowly to match her cadence, and only opened his mouth to speak once she was done.

“As Ba mbuya says, wins and losses.” He said, not fazed by the situation. “Try again, better…”

Mbuya Kalota emerged from the right side of the house, the whites of her hand greasy black and full of grime, and walked to the veranda. She stopped and looked at them with indifferent eyes.

“What did I tell you?”

Chibesa’s heart sank even though the question was not aimed at her.

“It must have slipped my mind,” Chanda whined. He then turned to face Chibesa. “Ba mbuya wants to see you. Alone.”

He put on his brightest smile.

“Well tell her I’m eating.” She decided to be stubborn, not wanting to hear the old woman gloat.

Chanda turned to face the old woman and parroted her words. His secretary act drew a smile from the old woman and that made Chibesa smile, because she loved to see her grandmother smile.

“After she’s done then. I’ll be in the garage.” Mbuya Kalota turned back and left.

#

e garage was a black funeral tent hung above two tall poles on one side and tied to three trees on the other. Inside lay the graveyard of all manner and types of motorcycles mbuya Kalota was paid to rebuild and fix. In the middle of the mechanical carcasses lay a special pile of scrap bought from scavengers that mined the alien vessel at the edge of town.

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Chibesa saw her grandmother sitting near the pile of alien scrap, tuning the makeshift quad bike Chibesa had once thought genius enough to create. e end product was a noisy and frustrating monstrosity best left locked away in the dark.

She took a deep breath.

“You called.” She announced, ready for anything.

“Grab a spanner, I need your help.”

e unexpected words disarmed her and in the absence of active conflict, she fell back to her default programming as a dutiful granddaughter.

“What are you doing?” She asked taking her place beside the old mechanic.

“Some rich fool came by and wanted a toy for his visiting niece.”

“So, how much am I getting?”

“Ten thousand Kwacha,” Chibesa’s eyes popped at the mention of the amount. “Straight to your university fund.”

She frowned. “Of course.”

An amiable silence settled between them as they worked. It lasted long enough for Chibesa to remember how much she loved working with her mbuya, and how she could never see a future apart from the old woman. Despite all their differences she could never deny that her grandmother always believed in her and had given her the stairs needed to reach further than she ever could alone. But then again, their arguments were never about the lack of belief but the pressure born from its excess. e moon can’t become a sun no matter how brightly it shines, but a place in the night sky always awaits.

“You were right.” Chibesa said.

“What’s new.” e woman exuded nonchalance and it infuriated her.

“Doesn’t mean I was wrong either.”

Mbuya Kalota gave her a long scrutinising look. “If you say so.”

“So only you can be right?”

Mbuya Kalota took her time before answering. “No.”

More silence followed until the old woman broke it. “Your problem was making a choice without taking in all the data.”

Chibesa puffed her cheeks defiant.

“It’s June, cold season. Most of the people in Chimene live off the maize they farm. When is harvest season?”

Part of the information wasn’t new, but what was, pieced together a situation she had not thought of.


85

“You asked them to pick a face on paper over survival.”

“It was important.”

“ey haven’t had a government for the past five decades and they’re still alive. Experience tells them they don’t need one now. Experience usually wins out over ideals, even if it ruins us in the end.”

Chibesa frowned. “But—”

“Nothing. Choice is good and all on paper, but it needs practicality to mean anything.”

Chibesa couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Wemwishikulu of mine,” e old woman looked at her with patient eyes. “Do you understand why it was pointless? As much as you answered one question, there was another completely overlooked.” She pointed her eyes to the improvised vehicle before them. “So now that you understand the heart of the question. How will you answer?”

“I did my part. I’m done. It’s not like I have anything to do with this. I only went because it didn’t seem fair.”

“If you say so.” e old woman teased and walked to the scrap of defunct alien parts.

“Even if I tried again. Like you said they would still go to harvest. at won’t change.”

e old woman dug meticulously through the alien pile and picked out a cylindrical canister with two short tubes sticking out on opposite ends. She blew one end and faint blue dust ejected out the other; just like the dust trail, she left the other night when she turned a half-day journey into a single hour’s trip.

“A lot can change in five years.” e old woman had the twinkle of youth in her eyes. “So, my little groundnut, will you remain as rigid as your shell?”

e invitation to return to her side was clear. A return to the old days, where she was the obedient student and her mbuya was the faultless benevolent gifter of unending knowledge. Her heart ached with yearning just thinking about it…

e old days happened before she woke up early one night and found her little brother shoving needles into his arms for failing one of their grandmother’s test questions.

“You were right,” Chibesa said. “Choice is impractical if it means losing more than you can gain.”

She excused herself and left to take her place on the veranda, watching the boy that was already the greatest Kalota in her eyes, because he had the brightest smile. A smile she would protect from anyone who would try to take it away, either be it the million dozen-eyed Visitors orbiting the planet or two-eyed family members that would use him to fight the silent war for power to come. If that meant remaining rigid then, for her brother’s sake she would become the uncrackable nut, stronger than diamond.

“So?” Chanda turned to look at her with glittering eyes, reflecting an image of her more potent than a diamond-studded young woman walking on water.

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A part of Chibesa still considered Chimene’s voice in the elections a communal failure, one that everyone else seemed too willing to accept. She felt uneasy about accepting such a situation without trying to change it but found the feelings hard to articulate. Unable to pretend that she was alright with it, her mind was already churning out ideas on the future possibilities of how to tackle the issue.

ough difficult to admit, she was truly her grandmother’s granddaughter, and the old woman’s scolding words filled her mind ceaselessly.

Try again, better.

Mbuyu would be mistaken if she thought her granddaughter couldn’t do it without her. Chibesa stared at Chanda, already done solving the blue engine’s alien hybrid mathematics, and couldn’t help the confident smile that crept onto her lips.

“Cracker,” She drew him into a warm, protective, loose embrace and whispered into his ear. “My secret weapon, are you up for a five-year puzzle?”

He giggled in excitement.

e End.


87

Manu HerbsteinMANU, WAS BORN NEAR CAPE TOWN IN 1936. HE LEFT SOUTH AFRICA IN 1959. HE LIVED AND

WORKED AS A CIVIL ENGINEER IN ENGLAND, NIGERIA, GHANA, INDIA, ZAMBIA AND SCOTLAND. HE HAS LIVED IN GHANA SINCE 1970. HIS FIRST NOVEL, AMA, A STORY OF THE ATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE, WON THE 2002 COMMONWEALTH WRITERS PRIZE FOR THE BEST FIRST BOOK. TWO OF HIS NOVELS WON BURT AWARDS FOR AFRICAN LITERATURE IN GHANA. THE BOY WHO SPAT IN SARGRENTI’S EYE RECEIVED THE 2016 CREATIVE BOOK OF THE YEAR AWARD OF THE AFRICAN

LITERATURE ASSOCIATION.

Art by Amina Aileru

Earth, Fire, Air, Water

ood afternoon. is is the second of three lectures marking the sixtieth Ganniversary of the end of the old world.

Let me start with a persistent memory of a portent of things to come.

e night before, I had a nightmare. A salvo of missiles swept down through the darkness with fiery tails like those of comets. As they struck their target, Table Mountain exploded into a million fragments, sending a barrage of blazing molten shards up into the night sky and down into the bay. I woke to the dying echoes of my own screams, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding.

Some nightmares recur. is one didn’t; and yet I have recalled it practically every morning of the past sixty years. Rising from my bed I went to the window and looked up at the mountain, in bad weather a looming presence, on a sunny day, an old friend with a familiar wrinkled face. at nightmare came back to me and I gave thanks that it was no more than a bad dream.

And yet, what happened that first day was far worse; and what was yet to come was worse still.

Allow me to recap my first lecture. In it, I painted a picture of the world I lived in as a young man. It was a world of nations, rich nations and poor nations. Each nation was ruled by its own small rich and powerful elite, driven by greed and sustained by hubris. e nations had their differences with one another which sometimes led to war but, in essence, the rich of all nations controlled the world and its resources. e larger nations and also a few of the smaller ones had developed weapons of enormous destructive capacity called nuclear bombs. ere were some four thousand of these, primed and ready to launch. e systems which were designed to control them were vulnerable to error and sabotage.

I showed you images and samples of the technology that enabled the rich to maintain their grip on power, including intercontinental ballistic missiles, the international space station and other satellites, aeroplanes, personal computers, television, smartphones, paper money, antibiotics and other drugs; and condoms. All of these became obsolete when the old world passed away.

Using maps I showed you what our part of the world looked like in those days. It was called the Cape Peninsula.

I lived in that old world for the first nineteen years of my life, so some of what I told you in my first lecture was based on memory; though not all. We did inherit at least one thing of value from the old world: the book. Books lived in libraries. Many libraries were destroyed but ours, where we are meeting today, survived. So, in preparing my first lecture, I was able to refresh and supplement my memory by referring to books.

My story this afternoon needs no books. It is based entirely upon my recollection of what happened sixty years ago this week, and in the months that followed.

at first morning I was sitting watching a soccer match on television.

My father was a professor of physics at this university. He was also the warden of a new ten-storey students’ hall of residence, Sol Plaatje Hall. It was well built. It is still standing

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down there, with two or three storeys exposed, depending on the tide.

We lived in an apartment on the top floor.

My father was in the conference room chairing a meeting of the hall staff, preparing for the return of the students after the summer vacation.

My mother came out of the kitchen and handed me her smartphone. She was also a professor. Her subject was geography.

“Yaw,” my mother said. “I’ve been trying to get Akosua all morning. No luck. Please try.”

Akosua was my elder sister. ere were three of us, Akosua, Adwoa and me, Yaw. ose are Ghanaian names. My father and mother were both Ghanaians but the three of us were all born here. I grew up speaking English, but I can get by in Afrikaans and isiXhosa. Akosua was 24. She had finished a Masters degree and gone to London for a year to get some work experience and, I suppose, to have some fun. Adwoa was 22 and I was nearly 20.

e soccer match was at an exciting stage. I tried to reach Akosua but there was no reply. I guessed that she had switched her phone off or that her battery had run down.

Suddenly the television screen went blank and then the familiar face of a news announcer appeared. I groaned. I wanted to see the end of the match.

“We interrupt this broadcast with a breaking story. Reports are coming in of a series of major explosions at cities all over Europe and the United States. We’ll let you know as soon as we receive further news,” she said.

I paid no attention. Television in those days was full of violent events: terrorist attacks, wars and revolutions. My parents were interested in all that stuff, particularly my father, but I preferred sports.

e soccer match resumed, but a minute later the announcer was there again. I mouthed a silent curse.

“We interrupt this broadcast,” she said, “with live video footage which we are receiving direct from the International Space Station.”

e camera was aimed at North Africa and Europe. e image was clear; there were few clouds. Much of Europe was covered in snow. When we have our summer, they have their winter. Superimposed on the brilliant white background were five dark circular shapes, growing. Just then another appeared, quite suddenly, with a flash of fire.

ey must have switched cameras. We now had an oblique view. Each object had a

As we entered the apartment he spoke to my mother in Twi. That was their language. I could understand a little but I never learned to speak it. When it was just the two of them, that is what they spoke. There was more than a hint of anger in his voice.

“

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long stalk and a fluffy, cloudlike expanding head. e shape was familiar. I knew what they were, but the visual evidence was difficult to believe.

“Ma,” I called.

She came into the living room, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“What is it?” she asked.

en she saw the image on the screen.

“My god!” she said and sat down next to me.

My mother was a church-goer. It wasn’t often that profanity escaped her lips. She pointed.

“Moscow! Warsaw!! Berlin!!! Rome!!!! Paris!!!!!”

Remember: I told you that her subject was geography.

en: “London! London!! Akosua!!!”

She bowed her head, covered her eyes and began to sob. I couldn’t remember ever having seen her cry like that before.

“Ma, it’s alright,” I said and put my arm around her shoulder and hugged her.

91

Stupid. Of course, it wasn’t alright. But I was just a boy of nineteen. Still a teenager. Not yet twenty.

She wiped her eyes.

“Yaw,” she said. “Go and call your father.”

I called him. He wasn’t pleased. He said he’d be five minutes. I said no, he should come at once. at was the first time I’d ever contradicted him and I’d done so in front of his staff. His eyes narrowed. But he must have seen that I was close to tears, so he came.

As we entered the apartment he spoke to my mother in Twi. at was their language. I could understand a little but I never learned to speak it. When it was just the two of them, that is what they spoke. ere was more than a hint of anger in his voice.

“Ade� b�n?”

She didn’t reply, just pointed at the television screen.

“Holy Jesus!” he said.

My father poured libation to his ancestors but beyond that, he had no religion. He knew the bible well. But he regarded it as just a collection of stories; great stories some of them, but just stories. He was a scientist. He called himself a rationalist and a humanist. He rarely swore. His father, my grandfather whom I never met, was a Presbyterian minister. If my father had uttered a swear word when he was a child, he would have had his mouth washed out with soap.

“Christ!” he said.

“Akosua,” my mother said. “She told me she was going to spend the morning at the Tate Gallery, looking at paintings and sculptures.”

He took out his smartphone.

“It’s no use,” she said. “I’ve been trying for the past hour. Yaw too.”

en she got down on her knees facing the sofa on which she had been sitting. As if to pray. But she didn’t pray, at least not aloud. She just beat the cushions again and again. I still remember the look of anguish on her face. en my father got down on his knees, next to her, put his arm around her shoulders and held her tight.

Turning to me he said, “Yaw. Go to the conference room and tell them to wait. Tell them I’ll be with them in five or ten minutes.”

ere were eight or ten of them sitting around the conference table. My Dad’s chair, of

The sun disappeared behind Devils Peak and the shadow moved out across the Flats. The sea was calm. Robben Island was there, no doubt, awaiting its nemesis. Behind us, the steps were packed. The floodlights came on, illuminating the monument.

“

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course, was empty. I knew them all, or, at least, they all knew me.

“Yaw, is everything alright?” asked Sarah Fortuin, Dad’s deputy, the one who actually ran the hall while he was busy teaching and researching.

What could I say? Clearly, everything wasn’t alright. ey usually switched off their smartphones during a meeting, so as not to be disturbed by calls. As I was leaving, I heard Derek, the driver, say, “Heh, look at this.” I didn’t stop to learn what he had found on his small screen.

Dad and Mom were sitting on the couch.

“Yaw, switch on the recorder,” Dad said.

“Now come and sit down.”

e screen showed a new bomb site, an island off the northwest coast of Africa, one of the Canaries.

“La Palma?” I asked.

Dad nodded.

We had been there, on holiday, just a year before. La Palma was a volcano rising from the ocean floor, 4000 metres down, to a height of 2400 metres above sea level. A tourist guide had taken us to see part of a four-kilometre-long crack in the ground surface caused by a recent earthquake. He said that geologists predicted that the next earthquake would slice a huge chunk off the island and send it plunging down into the depths. is would generate a mighty wave—he called it a mega-tsunami—racing at eight hundred kilometres per hour towards all the cities on the rim of the Atlantic. As it hit land, the guide said, the wave might be as much as sixty metres high. Frightening! He delivered his well-rehearsed spiel with melodramatic pizzazz, laying it on real thick. We gaped. Dad gave him a generous tip.

Dad and Mom researched this afterwards and discovered that no serious geologist supported the story. We all had a good laugh at the way we had been conned. But now we had to think again.

We hadn’t begun to consider who or what might be responsible for the pandemic of exploding nuclear bombs. Truth to tell, we still don’t know. Some religious fanatic or crazy politician or soldier might have had some twisted motive for destroying one major city or even several, but why should this tiny island, with a population of less than a hundred thousand, be a target? It could only be because the evil genius responsible hoped to trigger that mega-tsunami, wiping out all the Atlantic coastal cities in one single economical blow.

Mom was still slowly, very slowly, coming to terms with the loss of her eldest child, my dear sister Akosua. But Dad’s thoughts had been diverted by the La Palma bomb.

“It’s ten,” he said. “e distance to La Palma is about 8000 kilometres. If the wave moves at 800 kilometres per hour, it will hit us at about eight this evening.”

Just then the announcer appeared on the screen.


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“All major communication links with Europe and America have failed,” she said. “e President has issued a statement calling for calm. He says the government is in full control and no one should panic. We will share any further news with you as we receive it.”

“Idiots,” said my father.

en he said, “e tsunami will destroy the City and sweep across the Cape Flats. We need to give the alarm.”

He paced the length of the living room, deep in thought.

“Kwaku,” said my mother, wiping her tears. “Slow down. ink. If there’s no tsunami you’ll look a complete fool.”

“You’re right. As always. But what’s the alternative? Do you remember the difficulty we had in getting to La Palma, via Accra and Dakar? It’s not a favoured holiday destination. We may be the only ones aware of the potential danger. If we say nothing and there is a tsunami, the death of thousands will be on our heads.”

When he returned from the conference room, he told us what had transpired.

“I set the scene for them,” he said, “and asked them for their advice. ey all took the danger seriously. ose who live down on the Flats are going to bring their families to higher ground, just in case. ey’re all busy phoning.

“Yaw, I want you to go to the supermarkets with Derek. Stuff the big van with whatever we might need, rice, canned foods, candles, matches, soap. Nothing perishable. Don’t bring it here. Derek will fill the van’s tank and then take the van with supplies to the upper campus. You come back here.

“I’m going to pass the buck. I’ll phone the vice-chancellor and ask him to call an urgent meeting of all the academic staff who are on campus.”

en he said, “Adwoa. Where’s Adwoa?”

“She said she was going to meet a friend at the Waterfront,” I told him.

We tried to reach her on her smartphone but there was no answer.

“I guess she’s gone to see a movie and switched off,” I told them.

I was heading for the supermarkets. My father was going to see the vice-chancellor. My mother was on the edge of hysteria. Sarah came and sat with her. e images on the television were disturbing so we switched it off. ere was one more essential job to do before we left. Dad called Accra. I heard his relief as his mother’s phone rang. Mom pulled herself together and spoke to her brother.

“Don’t waste a moment. Get in your car and head for the hills.”

I guess that many lives were lost in Accra that day. I hope that as a result of our calls our extended family there survived. But I don’t know. We never did hear from them again.

Events moved quickly. e vice-chancellor called the mayor. e mayor called provincial and national leaders. e police and the army and the radio and TV stations

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were mobilized. Soon there were long queues at banks and supermarket checkouts. Service stations began to run out of fuel. ere were massive traffic jams as crammed cars made for higher ground. It was almost like a public holiday. Some sensible spirits drove to the Boland but many more made for UCT and Kirstenbosch. At UCT families spread rugs on the sports fields and when those were full the late-comers spilled onto what space was left on the campus roads. We made our temporary home in Dad’s office in the Physics Department. Adwoa found us there in mid-afternoon and took charge of Mom. Mom continued to try to reach Akosua even though we knew that there was no hope of ever seeing her again. Dad was busy, busy, busy, sitting in on meetings, planning, organizing. e satellite station continued to beam its pictures but they contained less and less information: the clouds from the individual explosions had coalesced, concealing the devastation below.

Our weather that day was perfect, clear sky, light south-easter. A day for the beach.

Dad sent me up to Rhodes Memorial with our cine camera. I was just in time to find a place at the low wall overlooking the Flats. Two wedding parties had come to be photographed but the crowd was too much for the photographer. I kept in touch with Dad and Mom and Adwoa, sending them pictures and videos over my cell phone. I scanned the Flats with my telephoto lens, picking out stragglers and looters. By this time everyone had seen the TV images. Strangers talked to one another. Some, like us, had lost family. All were deeply upset. A big guy next to me wondered aloud whether once the bombers had destroyed all the cities in the northern hemisphere, they would turn their attention to us. But there were sceptics too.

“is is a joke,” one loudmouth proclaimed. “is tsunami story is a ploy, invented by our corrupt leaders.”

e atmosphere was strange. We were waiting nervously for the opening of a performance which might or might not begin.

e sun disappeared behind Devil’s Peak and the shadow moved out across the Flats. e sea was calm. Robben Island was there, no doubt, awaiting its nemesis. Behind us, the steps were packed. e floodlights came on, illuminating the monument. en almost at once, they went off. e crowd groaned in unison. But this was not the common power cut we had become accustomed to. Screams and shouts reached us from the mountainside. en we saw it too. e great wave which was the tsunami came sweeping down from the north. It had struck the Koeberg nuclear power station, which supplied practically all the city’s electricity. at power cut was a portent of the dark future awaiting us. Having submerged Robben Island, the wave swept onto the City. ere were shrieks as it passed through the Flats, destroying all in its path. Anguished voices cried out the names of suburbs: Milnerton, Maitland, Pinelands, Langa, Athlone, Hanover Park, Manenberg, Philippi. ere was a mighty backwash and then the first wave was followed by another and yet another, not as high, not as strong.

For as long as I could remember, the Flats at night had been bathed in a sea of sparkling light; now there was nothing. Darkness descended upon our world.

I spoke to my father on my phone.

“Stay on,” he said. “Wait for the moon to rise and film what you can see.”


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I ran the video I had taken on the camera’s screen. My neighbours gathered around. Our minds were numb. en Christians began to sing hymns. I remember some lines from one of them.

“Away with our sorrow and fear!

We soon shall recover our home,

e city of saints shall appear,

e day of eternity come.”

Muslims cleared a space in the car park and performed a special, unscheduled salat.

“Allahu Akbar,” they called.

I had been chatting to the big guy beside me.

“I suppose that, for believers, religion is a comfort in a time like this,” I said to him. “What I don’t understand is how they can absolve the god they worship from responsibility for what we have just seen.”

at was a mistake. I learned then never to raise a religious issue with a stranger.

“What are you, an atheist?” he asked me. “is is the work of man, not God. God gave us free will and wicked men have abused it.”

He was bigger than me and older. I beat a retreat, choosing silence, just nodding my head as if I understood and agreed.

e moon came up revealing a scene of utter desolation. I shot my film and slipped away. e others were settling down for the night. ey had nowhere else to go.

I stumbled down the mountain path, over the stile and into the UCT campus. My father had a large office. He had shunted his desk into a corner. My mother lay on the sofa, Dad on a camp bed and Adwoa on an inflatable mattress. e room was lit by two flickering candles. Mom made me an omelette on a small gas cooker. As I ate, I told them what I’d seen and showed them the video clips. en I just lay down on a rug on the floor fully clothed and fell asleep… It had been a long day.

We woke at dawn to a new world. e campus was crowded with refugees. Leaving their families behind some set off on foot to see if anything remained of their homes. Others

During the time of darkness my sister Adwoa and I had become good friends. On our first morning out, we decided to go up to Rhodes Memorial. It was a shock. The trees were naked and the shrubs and bushes and wild grass had all died in the darkness. This captured out attention and it was not until we reached the Memorial that we looked out over the Flats. Try to imagine our astonishment.

“

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came to Jammy to join professors in a meeting called to assess the situation and formulate plans. e government and its agents, the police and army, were nowhere to be seen.

My father sent me with Derek to report on the condition of the South Peninsula. It was another glorious day. ere was little traffic. e drive down through Constantia was as beautiful as I had always known it. It was easy to imagine that the events of the previous night were just a bad dream, like my nightmare. en, as we reached Tokai there were patches of standing water where none had been before. Pollsmoor and the golf course below Steenberg were flooded. On the pavement of Boyes Drive cars were parked bumper to bumper. e tarmac was packed with families, camping. We parked the bakkie and walked. e night before I had seen the devastation of the northern suburbs by moonlight. is was worse. I knew Muizenberg quite well. I used to go there at weekends to surf. It had just one multi-storey building, an ugly block of flats. at eyesore was no more, not even an identifiable pile of rubble. e suburbs where all these people had had their homes had been wiped from the face of the earth. You might have heard your grandparents mention their names: Marina da Gama, Vrygrond, Lavender Hill, Retreat, Grassy Park, Montagu’s Gift.

A young man heard our astonished exchanges.

“Where have you guys come from?” he asked.

I told him.

“Did the tsunami come right through here from Table Bay?” I asked.

“No man,” he said. “We had our very own tsunami. Imported from Indonesia, I reckon, like our ancestors. It came late, two, three in the morning, after the moon had gone down. It was only when the sun came up that we saw the full damage. Take a look with your binoculars. Total destruction, all the way to Mitchells Plain, Khayelitsha, Strandfontein, the Strand, Gordon’s Bay and miles inland. Man, tell me, what are we going to do? We brought food with us, just enough for a few days. And then?”

His wife or girlfriend came up and took his hand in hers. She was pretty. After sixty years I can still see her face, the tears in her eyes. I could have fallen in love with her if she hadn’t been taken already. She didn’t say a word, just shook her head again and again, as if she couldn’t believe what had happened.

I tried to imagine the scene in the early hours of the morning. ere would have been no warning. is “Indonesian” tsunami must have wreaked havoc on its way to us: Maputo, Durban, East London, P.E, Knysna, Mossel Bay. e mouth of False Bay would have acted as a funnel concentrating its force. East of Muizenberg, nothing would have stopped it in its path across the Flats. But to the west, the all but irresistible tsunami must have met its match in the immovable mountain and bounced right back into the sea. e scene below told the story. e lower half of Jacobs Ladder at St. James was no more. e fancy houses of the rich on the upper slopes above the high water mark had survived unscathed. But they were now inaccessible from the Main Road which, together with the railway line, had been washed into the bay.

Yet now all was peaceful. e sea had no memory of what had taken hold of it only hours before. e lines of surf rolled in and broke on the rocks along the shore. Somehow,


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the tidal pools at St. James and Kalk Bay and the walls of the fishing harbour had survived; but the boats were gone.

We got back to UCT after dark, tired, hungry and depressed. Adwoa had been to town. She reported that the wave had destroyed the Gardens, flooding Parliament and ruining the contents of the National Library.

e next morning dawned fine again but my father explained that we were working to an unknown dark deadline. Winds in the upper atmosphere, he predicted, would soon distribute the nuclear cloud. e earth would soon be wrapped in an opaque radioactive cocoon. We had to move the folk camped out on the sports fields indoors before that happened.

It wasn’t easy. e communications on which we had depended were no more: no TV, no radio, no smartphones. We had to adapt. And quickly. e campus was a hive of activity. Jammy was the nerve centre. ere were committees to allocate accommodation and fuel and plan the distribution of water and food. A trauma centre started giving advice and support to the many who needed it. e dead had to be identified, if that were possible and then quickly buried. So much to do, so little time. But there were many willing hands.

On the third night, I sat in the dark on the Jammy steps with Adwoa, remembering Akosua and chatting about the events of the past three days. Above us, Orion and the Southern Cross were bright and clear.

e next morning the sun failed to rise. at’s not true, of course. It must have risen, but to us it was invisible. A dark impenetrable cloud had enveloped the earth. While my father had power from the solar cells on the roof, he’d used it to print thousands of fliers with advice about the dangers of radiation. e darkness would pass, he promised, but until it did, no one should go outside. In every building, a responsible person should lock the outer doors and hide the keys.

In his lab, my father had two heavy anti-radiation suits, complete with hoods and gloves and boots. He put one on each morning and went for a walk with an instrument called a Geiger counter which, when switched on outside, emitted a series of rapid pings. When the pings slowed down, he told us, it would be safe to go out.

Picture us on this campus, thousands of refugees, all locked up in our separate buildings, in total darkness. Although it was still summer, it was bitterly cold. ere were bound to be emergencies, a shortage of candles, a blocked pipe, an ill child, and a death. Once a day a messenger did the rounds, collecting and delivering urgent messages. at messenger was often me, wearing one of Dad’s suits. And if someone, a doctor or a plumber, had to move from one building to another, I would deliver the spare suit to him.

At least that made a change from the tedium. ere was little to do. Until the bottled gas ran out, cooking consisted of warming tinned food. Water was reserved for drinking and washing hands. For two months we didn’t wash our clothes. We stank! e main problem was to keep our minds occupied. Candles were strictly rationed, so we couldn’t read. Dad organized lectures and storytelling sessions and debates. ose two months brought out the best and worst in us. Some were afflicted with anger or despair; others discovered skills as leaders and healers. Outside, black rain fell, loaded with radioactive dust. After a rainstorm the Geiger counter pinged and pinged.

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At long last, the cloud thinned and a hazy sun appeared. e solar cells on the roof began to charge our batteries and we had light at night. Dad announced that we might go outside for an hour a day.

During the time of darkness, my sister Adwoa and I had become good friends. On our first morning out, we decided to go up to Rhodes Memorial. It was a shock. e trees were naked and the shrubs and bushes and wild grass had all died in the darkness. is captured our attention and it was not until we reached the Memorial that we looked out over the Flats. Try to imagine our astonishment. Table Bay and False Bay had joined in marriage. Judging from the buildings protruding from the water, the sea level must have risen ten metres. And that was the least of it. Both bays were full of icebergs, thousands of them, as far as the eye could see.

“What on earth?” was all I could say.

Adwoa, a scientist like our parents, had the answer.

“My guess is that some of the bombs were directed to the Antarctic Ice Shelf. It must have broken away. is is the result.”

In the two years that followed, those icebergs became smaller and smaller and fewer and fewer and eventually disappeared. ey just melted into the ocean and as they did so, the sea level rose and rose. What had once been the Cape Peninsula became what we all know well, the two islands we call Hoerikwaggo and Autshumao.

at seems an appropriate point to bring this lecture to a close. In my last lecture, I shall tell you something about the years after this disaster, a period which started with no government, no police, no fuel, no salaries, no banks, no money, little food, bad water. It was on that shaky basis that we set out to build a new society, different from that of the old world, a society based not on greed and concentrated power but rather on fellowship and mutual help, a society in which today we all have work and in which we all share the rewards of our labour.

Now: any questions?

END


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Naomi Eselojor

NAOMI, ENJOYS WRITING FAST-PACED, GRIPPING TALES IN THE SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY GENRE. SHE HAS BEEN PUBLISHED AT 365 TOMORROWS AND TREE AND STONE MAGAZINE. HER

WORKS ARE FORTHCOMING AT IMPROBABLE PRESS AND HEXAGON MAGAZINE. NAOMI IS A STUDENT OF THE UNIVERSITY OF LAGOS AND RESIDES IN LAGOS, NIGERIA WITH HER FAMILY. YOU CAN FIND

HER ON TWITTER AS NESELOJOR OR INSTAGRAM AS NAOMIESELOJOR.

Art by Jema Byamugisha

NEYLLO

I am Neyllo, the last of my kind, transported to earth after my world was destroyed five years ago.

I recall lying in my nest when my planet shook. Another earthquake had swallowed the Zemonians in the western sector. Fifteen dead and forty injured. Split into twelve clans, Zemon was home to a species of clever and reserved herbivores. e abundance of nitrogen allowed our plants to thrive so much that less than one percent did not contain trees. Each day began with the rise of the red sun, a celestial beauty that more than half my people worshiped but millions of years after, our sun started to fail. One of my progenitors believed more in technology than in the red sun, believed more in intergalactic travel than forest hunts.

He foresaw the destruction of my planet and entrusted me with a Tridel – a seed that decoded the genetic makeup of my race.

On the planet’s last day, I was taken to the escape pod. Balls of flame rained down the atmosphere, setting our plants and our people on fire. Our strongest woven thorns served as shields, but they didn’t last. My progenitors bade me an agonizing farewell because they couldn’t come. ey had a duty to protect Zemon or rather, to try and protect what was left of it.

On the 18th of March, 2244, my escape pod landed at Wazobia forest in Lagos, Nigeria.

After a few months of battling with illnesses, I found a spot to plant the Tridel, an inconspicuous location where no human would think to look. For many days, I nurtured the plant and envisioned the fierce joy I would feel when the embryos would form. Day and night, I watered it, groomed it, and watched it; sometimes, I simply basked in its sharp musk because it reminded me of home.

en one day, a helicopter landed in the forest. From it emerged a plumpish human in a voluptuous attire; a man of power, I presumed, because he had a platoon of soldiers escorting him. Pointing around, they explored the forest, their hands widening in a gesture that suggested they were planning or measuring something.

I snuck closer to where they stood, using my chromatophore skin to camouflage myself in the leaves, when I heard: “is is perfect. In five days, we will begin deforestation.”

#

Back on Zemon, my progenitors would have me sit around a white flame and we’d discuss life in other galaxies. I missed them, missed the wild thorns we spun for shelter, the taste of grub and the three moons and red sun that gave light to the cities.

e destruction of my planet ripped me apart but there was hope since I had the Tridel. Now, the tree was blossoming and, in a few weeks, the embryos would emerge. Uprooting it would ensure the eradication of my kind. I trembled at the thought of it.

I needed help to save my Tridel, but there were only two humans that knew I existed and I needed to travel to see them.

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I wove thick vines, roped them to solid sticks, and thrust those sticks into the ground to create a fence around the Tridel. At least until I came back, it would be safe.

e night train to Lekki was a smooth transit. Every passenger had their minuscule corner that warranted no outside disturbance and I enjoyed watching Channels TV updates. One of the headlines was “Urbanisation in Wazobia Forest – e future of Opulent housing.”

Hidden behind a cloak, I alighted from the train and sauntered through the streets of Ikoyi, sticking to the shadows like a cockroach. My form was similar to a human’s, modified by an earthling scientist to adapt to Earth’s climate. I had two arms, two legs, a nose and a face and since I was female, I had the semblance of a girl’s curves, and the thinness of a girl’s waist. My skin was green, like the colour of leaves, and I had no hair. A child looked my way, eyes narrowing as he tried to make out what I was, but I hurried away, slipping into an alley before he could draw attention. I wasn’t ready to be seen. Not yet.

e gates of the Ojiofor residence were twice my height, wrought iron strips woven in a criss-crossed Lattice. As I stepped forward, a machine ran a horizontal red beam through me. A voice spoke, ‘Identity unknown’.

“Tell Chinaza that Neyllo is here!”

In three minutes, the gates swung open.

“Follow the cobblestones to the backyard,” the voice said. “ere, you will find Chinaza in the rose garden.”

I followed the directions and found Chinaza sniffing some roses. I had met her two years ago, right after my escape pod had landed. She was twenty-six years old, a slim, dark-skinned girl, with thick, curly tresses dangling from her head. Around her neck was a golden chain, attached to a diamond encrusted pendant, a symbol of her family’s wealth.

Chinaza regarded me with a warm smile as we sat under a tree to discuss.

“e future of my people is at risk.” I began. “I have learnt of a pending project, the urbanisation of the forest I reside in, but the Tridel needs more time to develop, Chinaza. ey cannot cut down that tree.”

Chinaza nodded and squeezed my shoulder.

“Oh, Neyllo. I understand your plight but there’s nothing I can do. e project was approved by the Minister of Housing. e government has a hand in it. Contractors have been assigned, funds have been disbursed.”

Just then, her phone rang and she pulled it from her pocket. e face of a man appeared on the screen and my eyes widened in shock. She picked the call and her face broke into a wide smile.

“I got you the purse you’ve always wanted,” a muffled voice spoke from the device. Chinaza told the caller she would talk to him later and hung up.

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I met her eyes.

“e Minister; the one who assigned the project, is your father, isn’t he?”

Chinaza’s face tightened.

“ere’s nothing I can do, Neyllo.”

I shook my head.

“Of course there’s something you can do. You can talk to him, explain what is at risk.”

“is is more important than a tree, Neyllo. Lagos is overpopulated, we need more land to build houses, and more room to expand.”

“But what about my legacy?”

Chinaza shrugged. “I don’t know, Neyllo. You’re going to have to figure that out on your own. Just remember, the lands were never yours to begin with, they belonged to the government. So don’t expect them to prioritise your needs at the detriment of my people”.

At this time, Chinaza stood up.

“I helped you once, Neyllo but I cannot help you this time.”

She left me speechless and made her way into the house.

#

I remembered it like it was yesterday. In the first week of my arrival, I struggled to survive. My skin cracked and my chest tightened with every lungful of air. Despite my planet’s similarities to Earth, I had a hard time adapting. It was then I met Chinaza, camping in the woods. She offered to help, found me a scientist and donated a fortune to get me body modifications. I understood her reasons for refusing to help me. Nothing was more important than family.

I made my way to a smart apartment in Ikoyi which housed one of the most brilliant minds in Lagos.

“Neyllo!” Mayen screamed, taking me into her arms. She was about Chinaza’s age, vibrant, bespectacled and passionate about science. Her room was a clutter of textbooks and gizmos, small, compared to Chinaza’s mansion but it was in a way, cozy.

She poured me a cup of water.

“Do you have any issues with your body?”

I shook my head.

“No, you did a decent job on me.”

Mayen raised the cup, a smile forming on her oblong face.

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“Why then did you come?”

I helped myself to a chair and narrated my ordeal.

“Chinaza has disappointed me once too,” Mayen said. “Back when we were students of Unilag, she promised to attend my party but backed out at the last minute. Like my father always says, never put your trust in man.”

“I need a plan, Mayen. Time is not on my side. What if I speak to Chinaza’s father? Maybe I can convince him to spare the forest.

Mayen stroked her chin.

“at could work but I do not think he will buy into your belief of a safe haven for your kind. Telling him that you’re nursing a tree that would produce alien species might come off as a threat. Like you’re trying to take over the country.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. Zemonians are mild, introverted people. We couldn’t hurt any creature.”

Mayen laughed.

“I know this, Neyllo, but the minister doesn’t.”

“Let me try to talk to him. You can help me, can you?”

Mayen’s smile disappeared. She settled in her swivel chair and slid towards her computer.

“It will be difficult to bypass the Minister’s security. To get to him, you’d have to be creative.”

I turned to meet her eyes.

“Show me.”

#

Minister Ojiofor rested in his car with his back arched slightly backwards. If a bed could fit in the SUV, he would have gotten one. For most of the day, he was trapped in a leather chair, issuing documents to contractors and reviewing costs for building projects. e SUV glided through the streets of Lagos and Minister Ojiofor’s phone vibrated.

“Your daughter is requesting a video call, sir,” the AI said.

“Put her on the big screen.”

It was then I met Chinaza, camping in the woods. She offered to help, found me a scientist and donated a fortune to get me body modifications. I understood her reasons for refusing to help me. Nothing was more important than family.

“


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Sound-proof curtains circled him as a monitor emerged from the back of the front seats. Ojiofor straightened himself to see his daughter, only that it wasn’t his daughter he saw.

“Good afternoon, Minister,” the strange creature said with a female voice.

Ojiofor’s face turned white with fear.

“Please, do not panic. I am not here to hurt you,” she continued

“Who are you? What have you done with my daughter?”

“I am Neyllo, of the race of Zemon. Your daughter is safe. Be rest assured I am not a hostile creature; I only need your assistance.”

Neyllo spoke about the Tridel as her legacy, the last chance of survival for her race, and how the urbanisation project would put the lives of the embryos at risk, and he listened in shock.

“Is this some kind of joke, a prank put up by some jobless teenager?”

“No, Minister. is is real. I am real. Do not destroy our Tridel, please!” Her voice quivered as she pleaded.

“My daughter, where is she?”

“Minister, I–”

“I demand to see my daughter, now!”

ere was a break in transmission and the video glitched. A tiny screech emitted from the device and soon, Chinaza’s voice surfaced.

“Hello, dad. I lost you for a minute. How was work? Dad….?”

#

Mayen chewed a slice of vanilla cake as she typed on the keyboard.

“Chinaza called me. She said you nearly gave her father a heart attack.”

I sighed. Seconds of watching the digital clock blink resembled hours. ree days felt like three years and the sound of Mayen’s chewing was making my ear twitch.

“Don’t worry,” Mayen continued. “I didn’t tell her you were with me, or that I had a hand in it.”

I jolted from the cushion.

“What if I can speak to the president?”

“Really, Neyllo? Didn’t you learn from the incident with the minister? Do you know how many federal security organizations tried to trace you with that one call?”

“What then can I do?”

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“I’ve been thinking. e whole urbanization project was set up to cater for the needs of the masses. Lagos is an overcrowded state, it is only logical they wish to expand. e only way we can stop this, is for Nigerians to support your cause, make them sign a petition against the project.”

My eyes widened.

“at could work?”

“Sure, but we need to get as many people on your side as possible – like hundreds of thousands, or millions of people.”

“How will we do that?”

“e same way you market a product or service. You set up a website and a lead magnet, something free and captivating, to get the attention of people. en you lure them to the website to read about your plight. ere will also be a short video of you, speaking to us, telling your story. Before anyone leaves the site, a pop-up icon would request they sign the petition.”

I had no idea what most of her words meant but I understood the logic behind it. We began immediately and it took a few minutes to turn Mayen’s room into a studio.

“Are you ready?” Mayen asked, her eyes glued to the computer screen.

My core pranced and I nodded. Before now, only three humans knew of my existence. It was scary, showing myself to the world, not knowing what would happen afterwards. Our chromatophore skin allowed us to hide, to blend into the environment and disappear. It was ironic that after so much hiding, we were about to be made public.

“We will record in ten seconds.”

I sat in front of a white background, hands quivering as I waited for the signal. A LED bulb emitted a blinding light that made me squint.

“Focus on the camera, Neyllo. Breathe. It’s going to be fine. We will record in three, two…”

For a minute, I froze, until the teleprompter reminded me what to say.

“Good afternoon, Nigerian citizens, my name is Neyllo …

#

“Tsunami, give me the numbers,” Mayen said to her AI.

My core pranced and I nodded. Before now, only three humans knew of my existence. It was scary, showing myself to the world, not knowing what would happen afterwards. Our chromatophore skin allowed us to hide, to blend into the environment and disappear.

“


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Number of views – 700,000.

“Number of clicks to the petition?”

About two thousand.

I sank to my knees, devastated. at was barely enough to get the government’s attention. e project would commence in twenty-four hours and there was still no luck. Mayen tried to comfort me but I waved her off and burst out the door.

On my way to the train station, torrents lashed down the city and the gusty wind carried down the earthy smell of rain. Pedestrians without covering hurried through the city, seeking shelter in shops and restaurants. I allowed the cold to engulf me as the wind tugged at my cloak. A minivan swerved by, splashing filthy water my way but I didn’t mind. I felt crippled by my failures, overwhelmed by my inability to save my legacy. Imagining a life where I was the last Zemonian survivor was excruciating. I wanted to have my people around, to experience the wonders of this planet. My willpower dissolved and all that was left of me, drifted in the boisterous wind. Perhaps, I would take out my core, allow myself to die. Since the humans were not willing to offer us a home, then, we might as well all die, and let them be.

e wind intensified, nearly whisking me away, but I planted my feet on the road. Screams broke from every angle as wigs, fabrics and plastic chairs floated in the air. One of the cries alerted me.

“My son! Where’s my son?”

I caught a glimpse of a boy grasping a tree with his body, hoisted like a flag. e wind wrestled him but he clutched the branches, desperate to survive.

I turned to his direction, battling through the storm, dodging floating umbrellas and spiralling clothing. I extended my arm. e boy took it without hesitation, chest swelling as he wrapped his arms and feet around me. His mother’s gaze trailed me from a spot beside a streetlight, gratitude and astonishment in the glaze of her eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief when she hugged her son.

“I don’t know what you are,” she said, “but thank you.”

I nodded.

Turning to leave, I noticed the glint of smart phones, the clicking sounds of the camera shutters, the collective gasps of bedazzled Nigerians.

Sirens blared and tyres screeched as patrol cars halted at the entrance of the restaurant. But by the time the police burst through the crowd, I had already fled.

#

Channels TV Headlines

A tremendous Hurricane passes through Ikoyi.

Mysterious green alien saves a five-year-old boy.

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Urbanisation project will commence in twenty-four hours.

#

Minister Ojiofor called for maximum security, so the forest was edged with barricade tapes and armoured trucks. Reinforced with surveillance drones, the Nigerian army swept through the woods, searching for any form of resistance to the day’s operations. News vans lingered around, pointing their cameras and scuttling to get the best view of the incident.

e automated bulldozers revved their engines loud, I quivered at the ostentatious display of strength. Leaves rustled and the military came close, close to the Tridel, close to me. I was shrouded in the leaves and so one had to be observant to find me. ey were a hair’s breadth away when one of them spoke to his watch. “ere’s no one here.”

“Wait!”

Another soldier edged towards the fence, regarding it with a persistent gaze. He took out a laser pen and was about to cut it open when I ambushed him. I lunged towards him, like a mother, protecting her brood. He grunted, falling on the ground with a thud

“Get your hands off the Tridel!” I screamed, my veins pumping in an unfamiliar feeling of rage.

ey hesitated, alarmed by my appearance in the woods but it was not long before they drew their weapons. I was surrounded by heavily-trained soldiers and menacing drones. I couldn’t win, not like this.

“Begin the project.” One of them said, while I was being handcuffed.

e bulldozer began grating the soil and, in my trepidation, I yelled.

While the deforestation was ongoing, I was in the armoured truck, listening.

“You will pay for attacking a soldier and trying to harm the Minister’s daughter,” the soldier beside me spat. His wrinkles deepened as he stared at me in contempt. At this point, with the forest coming down, I was ready to withstand whatever punishment. It was only a matter of time before they destroyed the Tridel.

ere was a television in the truck and in it, a reporter narrated the events of the day.

“e alien has been detained and the bulldozers are in motion. Rumours state that she is charged with identity theft and attempted kidnapping of a five-year-old, and may be in military custody for a long time.”

e reporter pressed a device in her ear and paused.

“Hold on…I’m getting reports from Lagos island where there seems to be a protest…” Her voice took on an animated, surprised tone. “I don’t believe it… Nigerians are protesting against the alien’s imprisonment.”


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e scene changed to show a crowd chanting and holding placards. Mayen was beside a male reporter who pushed a microphone to her lips.

“She was just trying to protect her legacy,” Mayen said.

“But she attacked the Minister’s daughter.”

“No, she didn’t and I have footage that proves her innocence. Neyllo would never hurt anyone.”

“It’s true.” I recognized the woman whose son I saved. “She saved my baby. Neyllo and her people should be given a chance at life, just like the rest of us. As of now, we have gotten the attention of the vice president. We just pray it’s not too late.”

Hope surged through my veins. Just then, the soldier beside me listened to his watch.

“Are you sure, sir?”

He looked at me.

“I have orders to release you.”

His countenance softened as he unlocked the door. I stumbled out of the truck and hastened towards the mother tree until suddenly, my legs failed me. I was connected to the Tridel, and if anything went wrong with her, I would feel it. My core thumped, slowly, painfully. Purple fluid seeped through my nose as I struggled to heave myself up. I was too late. My head spun and I felt myself slip to the foliage on the ground. e reporters gathered around me, handing me their microphones. I saw their lips move but I heard no sound. Time seemed to slow down as I closed my eyes.

#

Channels TV updates

Alien collapses.

Protesters gain the attention of the president.

Government approves the rejuvenation of Wazobia Forest for the aliens’ habitation.

Aliens given a second chance, ordered to sign a treaty to endorse their peaceful coexistence, but where is Neyllo?

#

I sat by the forest and watched the Tridel grow again. ey had cut off her branches and were about to uproot the stump when the call came in. ankfully, it could grow again. Two years would pass by quickly and I was optimistic. I inhaled the sweet smell of musk as I watched the embryos form.

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Oghan N’Thanda

OGHAN, IS A WRITER AND SCREENWRITER, CONSIDERED THE FIRST STEAMPUNK AUTHOR IN BRAZIL, HE HAS PUBLISHED MORE THAN 10 BOOKS IN PORTUGUESE AND ENGLISH,

AMONG THEM STAR OF HOPE, THE BARONY OF SHOAH, HOW DID I GET ON WATTPAD AND THE DREAM SPEAKERS.

Art by Charisma Standley

The Path to the future

Now.

e rain came down so hard that he couldn’t see the other side of the river, nor the houses that were beyond the bridge. e beam from the lighthouse made the rain project itself in a dump full of charm.

Wamai Ndumbo emerged from the river with the fishing net, laughing as he walked.

“I’m not going to drown today.” Wamai entered the lighthouse, passed his dark hand over the tattoos on his arm and took a deep breath. Heavy rain was becoming a constant in the Moya Buya Kamina community and, every month, it became more difficult to go further into the territory and find the other peoples of Alkebalan.

“Are the cliffs going to collapse?” Wamai turned his head when he heard a noise above the rain and a landslide happened on the opposite side of the river, right where the road that brought the caravans to the village and the natural labyrinth of earth protected his people from invaders.

In fact, the last invasion happened so long ago that no one remembered them anymore, and the caravans had disappeared into history, along with the quilombo ships that abandoned Alkebalan. But in any case, the watchtowers remained in the same place where they were erected by the ancestors before the Diaspora.

In general, the cliffs were easy to cross, but in some places, they were so labyrinthine that only the locals memorized their passages. Something curious about them was that whenever they collapsed in the storm, they changed shape and created new passages without anyone knowing how this happened or how they reached the same height.

e first floor of the tower had the reception room and the kitchen, where Wamai left the fish. On the second floor was his bedroom, with a bed and a desk, and on the third floor was the lighthouse with the system of reflecting mirrors that projected light across the river.

“ey’re stubborn, really.” Wamai whistled in surprise beneath the storm, watching a small boat wade through the rough waters of the river to get to where he was. e lightning crossed the skies, showing the faces of the navigators, most of them were standing, unafraid of the rain and waves, with their arms towards the skies. It was impossible to hear their voices, but Wamai knew what they were doing.

ey were going to vote.

*

Almost two years in the past, when Wamai was still not an adult.

Wamai Ndumbo’s skin was dark as a veteran soldier’s shield. But when the bamboo needle pierced her, she bled hot and thick as a baby’s skin. e process hurt less than he’d imagined it would, but he pretended to hold back tears so he wouldn’t show the elders that he was worthy of their mark. A feigned show of humility that he was tired of sustaining.

“e old man is coming, coming slowly, leaning on his staff, coming and helping us.” e women hummed around the tattoo artist and the boy, their voices low, their tone moderate, very different from what they adopted during tours.

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“Atoto,” Amai, Wamai’s mother, spoke a tone above the group, putting the house to silence. Her voice brought Wamai out of his reverie. She carried a short reddish candle in her hands and the women around her held matching candles.

e tattoo started on Wamai’s left shoulder, spiralled up to hisforearm, ending at his wrist, just next to the back of his palm in a complicated circle of jagged lines. ere were two lines, one representing the father’s family, the other the mother’s family. As Wamai grew up and his deeds became important to the people, he would earn more marks of honour.

Despite the chant in honour of the orisha healer, Wamai had little connection with the strength of this specific orisha. He never identified much with his mother’s line, nor with his father’s line, made up of hunter guides. His inner strength was fairer, centered, based on the balance of everything that existed.

“May the waves guide your spirit, child of the jungle and the sea,” Linolen, the eldest of the crones, intoned. e tattoos on the left side of her body were so many that they filled her arm, chest, belly and leg. Wamai always visualized a heron on her back.

e foreign name sounded funny to Wamai, Linolen had arrived on a boat in the village many years ago, when his parents were still children. Soon, she was adopted by everyone, as was the custom among the children of the river: there were no orphans in this civilization, since every child was the responsibility of every adult, regardless of their paternity. Mother and father, of course, had strict social duties in rituals and ceremonies, of responsibility and care – but if they weren’t present for some reason, any adult could take their place.

Amai whispered softly.

“May your name not be forgotten.”

Wamai fixed his eyes on his mother’s tattoo, an octopus between her breasts, whose tentacles spread across her body. He could never quite count, but he believed there were nine tentacles; two snaked to the back through the shoulders; two for the spiral arms; two circled the breasts and ended at the nipples and two went down the legs, passing through the thighs and ending in the shins. e last snaked into the belly.

“e time has come for the waters to heal you,” said the women. Wamai couldn’t hide the sarcastic smile at the corner of his mouth, luckily it went unnoticed by the adults.

Amai held her son’s arm and dripped the candle’s wax into his tattoos. According to the traditions, sacred energy the colour of straw would cover the marks and heal the needle holes, but the energy that emerged was a dark and strong blue. ere was a murmur of surprise among the people, still, the ritual continued.

“May you never get lost in the woods, never get hurt for no reason, never be alone

But when the bamboo needle pierced her, she bled hot and thick as a baby's skin. The process hurt less than he'd imagined it would, but he pretended to hold back tears so he wouldn't show the elders that he was worthy of their mark.

“

The Path to the future - Oghan N’Thanda

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without your brothers,” Linolen finished the litany, disconcerted by the change. Out of respect for Amai, no one commented on what happened.

ere should have been pride in the priestess’s voice, but there was a tone of disbelief that was hard to disguise. She stared at Wamai for a long time, before looking away with some discomfort.

“Who will bless this boy?” Amai asked the priestess.

“Only time will tell,” Linolen replied, still with her head turned away from the family and watching the lighthouse on the edge of the village.

�

A Short While after the Ritual

ere was a moment of silence, when the adults realized that time had passed and Wamai had not awakened any skills in the community. Whenever, whenever they got the tattoos, something awakened in them, no matter how small: some set fire to things with their eyes, others floated, some could read minds and even talk to animals.

Wamai did nothing.

“What could the orishas have in store for you?” Amai provoked, one day. She was with him looking to the great river that cut the community in two parts, where the small boats travelled in tranquillity.

“I don’t know either,” Wamai, dry as the earth, stared at an isolated raft. Above him a man and a woman were praying to heaven. Next to them, immersed in the river, two men were talking to the waters. “What are they doing?”

“Talking to the orishas,” Amai replied with the same serenity as always. “Soon, we will have to vote on who will be the patrons of the community, have you chosen yours yet?”

“I don’t like politics; I see no reason to be a part of it.”

“Wamai, politics is important and so is democracy, we need to be part of the process, to understand where we want to go as a society,” Amai turned a serious face to her son “When I was young, we elected the sun and rain to be our patrons for the next five years, this was very important for the crops of the next harvests and it was what saved us from hunger.”

“Why not leave them there, then?” Wamai kicked a pebble against the river.

“Because the needs of the past are not the same needs of the future, and change is what makes us grow. Democracies are born from the choice, freedom and voice of the people who make it up.” Amai’s class was quick, but enough for her son to withdraw into a quiet thoughtfulness.

Silence hung between them, until Amai broke it with a question.

“Have you spoken to your grandfather?”

“Aghatis?” e crazy old man holed up in that lighthouse so long ago that everyone had forgotten about him. Wamai laughed.


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“You two have more in common than you might think.” As soon as Amai spoke, they heard a splash in the water, followed by a scream.

“Son, son!” from the shore, a woman screamed in desperation.

Wamai saw the boy’s body sinking and didn’t think twice, he ran along the river bank at full speed without taking his eyes off the child and jumped right next to where he was. e waters embraced Wamai like a child, his body followed the current naturally and Wamai took advantage of the momentum to sink deeper and deeper, passing under the child and catching him from behind so that her desperate slaps didn’t reach his face. Wamai climbed with him so fast that he was amazed at his own speed. He jumped high out of the water with the boy in his arms.

Wamai landed on the ground, the child was spitting water and whimpering. Before the desperate mother took her son in her arms, Amai stretched her hands towards him to wield healing energies, as soon as she did that, she realized that Wamai himself was already healing the child.

“How did you do it?” Amai walked away with her son, smiling at the woman with the child in her arms and the crowd that gathered around her.

“I have no idea,” Wamai said, and then stopped to check the people starting the arrangements for the voting.

“We both know that Wamai is not a child of the forest, like your husband. e voice of Aghatis, Amai’s father, came from behind them. “And he’s not a child of heaven, like you, little girl.”

Mother and child turned to the tall, thin man who was staring at them. Aghatis was dark, not only because of his natural skin colour, but because of the constant sun he took in, tending the river. Like few others, he had water-related skills such as swimming, breathing, and high empathy.

“Oh, it had to be your thing, didn’t it, Father?” Amai grumbled.

“What thing?” Aghatis flashed a gigantic smile.

“is.” Amai gestured to her father, then to her son. “What you do, which isn’t forest or sky… it’s sea and moon, it’s fishing and all that!”

“Every community needs a judge.” Aghatis pointed at the earth formation. “Or are you, like the others, still afraid of them?”

“It was the judges who decided to leave when the quilombo ships arrived,” Amai

Aghatis let the waters of the river cover his feet, then he bent forward and scooped up a little by cupping his hands. Then he concentrated until the waters turned into a miniature of the community, with the river, the cliffs and the lighthouse.

“

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refused a hug from her father, exchanged glances with her son and walked away. “Don’t expect my approval on that.”

“It’s not you who should approve what I do, it’s the orishas!” Aghatis shouted to his daughter, but she was already far away and the noise of the river swallowed her voice.

“Why is she so angry?” Wamai felt like a dwarf next to his grandfather, the man was really big and his flowing blue clothes made his body look even bigger, almost a giant among the people.

“Bah, it’ll be over soon! Your mother wanted you to be a child of the skies, like her… or a child of the forest, a hunter like your father. It’s been that way for generations in families, except for me.” Aghatis embraced his grandson affectionately.

“And whose son are you, grandfather?”

“Ógún Lákkáaye.” Aghatis replied in the ancient language of the realm, lost when the ships departed, leaving his people in Alkebulan.

�

Later that day.

Wamai and Aghatis walked along the riverbank, greeting the residents and soaking their feet in the water. Wamai noticed a large metal plate protruding from the earth, a remnant of the ships that crossed the planet’s skies years ago.

“Does your house have light?” Aghatis brought it up, knowing the answer.

“Every house has light, grandpa.” Wamai bit back a laugh, knowing they were both uncomfortable with the silence. He already wore the blue clothes of the judges, and had gained better understanding that his origin was from those who brought laws, order, justice and struggle.

“ere is no light at the lighthouse.”

“Grandpa, it’s a lighthouse, of course it has light!” Wamai laughed. “I never asked you, but why do we have a lighthouse? e sea is past the cliffs and the river is not big enough for us to need one.”

Aghatis let the waters of the river cover his feet, then he bent forward and scooped up a little by cupping his hands. He then concentrated until the waters turned into a miniature of the community, with the river, the cliffs and the lighthouse.

“Long ago, when my grandfather was born, our community was a route for merchants, but as they couldn’t cross the cliffs without help, we ended up missing good trading opportunities.” In the hands of Aghatis appeared miniature wagons, trucks and cars pulled by nanorobots. “So, my grandfather decided to build the lighthouse so that the merchant ships could find us too.”

“Interesting,” Wamai was impressed both by the story and by his grandfather’s skill with the water.

“When the Empire disappeared, our ancestors decided to go to the stars and they


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summoned the judges of the region to decide whether we would go with them. e village was divided into two groups, those who stayed on the right side of the river stayed in Alkebalan, those who went to the left, went to the Star Quilombos.”

“I’ve never seen the beam of the lighthouse off, now that you mention it.” Wamai followed in his grandfather’s footsteps

“And you won’t even see it.” Aghatis took a few more steps, they could see the white tower of the lighthouse, with the beam high above, turning and turning. “We have a responsibility in the community, we must keep the lighthouse lit, whatever the cost, because it is a symbol of our ancestry and the only hope that others will find their way back.”

�

One year after the meeting with Agathis.

e lighthouse was very different from what Wamai thought; the external structure was a long cylinder equipped with an optical device at the top, from which the light was projected. Its first floor was very pretty, with a sort of reception room filled with high-quality furniture, a table, a shelf with some books and technological odds and ends, as well as a small computer with a holographic projector. e spiral staircase climbed the walls to the second floor, where Aghatis’ room was, with a bed, chest, wardrobe, and a long table. Only from the inside was it possible to see that this floor was all made of glass and, no matter where you were, you could see the whole community, the cliffs, the river and the opposite bank.

“I thought the lighthouse was ugly on the inside too.” Wamai laughed as they climbed to the top floor.

“Our family has lived here for generations, only your father and mother left.” Homesick, Aghatis explained “See the marks on the floor? ey are nembo, the sacred symbols of our family. If you pay attention, each family here in Moya Buya Kamina has some similar symbols with different meanings, like courage or wisdom.

Agathis continued explaining.

“Your uncle Sahel had built a harbour there, your aunt Binthu also had a house here, further into the forest.”

“What happened to make them walk away?” Wamai remembered having more contact with his cousins and aunts when he was a child, but as if by magic, they all moved.

“Constant fights, that family stuff.” Aghatis stopped at the door that gave access to the third floor, before opening it, he handed a copy of the key to Wamai. “Now those who live on the other side of the river are the opposition and are always against the ideas of those who

The crowd looked at each other in embarrassment, some people apologized to each other, there were hugs and tears, Wamai's uncles and parents approached and smiled, for the first time since he was a child.

“

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live on this side. And they don’t speak anymore with each other.”

“Why are you giving me this key? Wamai, curious, clasped the object in his hands as if it was a gift from his entire family, capable of bringing them close to his heart.

“With your birth as the new judge, my mission here is over,” Aghatis opened the door to the top floor of the lighthouse.

“I will teach you everything I know about being a guide to those far away, then I will go on a pilgrimage around the world, there is still much to see in Alkebalan.”

‘But you can’t go!’ Wamai protested “What if I make a mistake?”

“If you make a mistake, you will learn.” Aghatis smiled, climbed up and disappeared.

�

e light from the lighthouse flickered.

It was a quick, unsteady flutter, so brief that people didn’t notice.

But Wamai was watching.

e rain had been coming back hard in the last few days and, according to his parents, Wamai was the one who should decide when the elections would take place, after all, he was the new judge and had the sacred power of the orishas to call the election. More than that, it was a social power handed over as a gesture of trust by both sides of the river since time immemorial – but it was the first time that someone so young had taken the job.

“How shall we do?” Linolen insisted.

“Do you already have the candidates of the year?” Wamai, surrounded by elders, hunters, healers, children and warriors, remained impassive, observing the objects that each group brought to represent their desires and wishes. e entire community converged close to a large house by the river. From there they could all see the lighthouse and the cliffs.

e hunters, led by his father, brought a kind of headdress made of the most colourful feathers he had found and attached to a very beautiful leather strap with natural ornaments, such as pebbles, leaves and bones.

e children brought a table of sweets, all delighted with its purity and joy. e children’s presence was more a game than a serious vote: they still did not have the power to vote in the community, but they were part of the elections to learn to respect the democratic process and the symbols of the community.

e healers came with herbs, powders and a white cloak, symbolizing death. At the centre of their table they placed a clay amphora with water from the river, part of the energy of the orisha that governed her powers: Oshun.

e people across the river brought their offerings, but set them apart from their countrymen, so divided you could see they didn’t want to talk. Wamai saw it with great sadness, mainly because his uncles didn’t even look in the direction of his parents.


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e pilgrims also came, putting chicken, cachaça and grains in clay bowls, right in the corner of the house where the elections took place. ey said nothing, but they smiled a lot under their wide hats.

e female warriors placed two spears near the door, one wooden, one steel, both with golden tips representing the sun, plus the head of a buffalo painted red.

Finally, all faces turned towards Wamai, waiting for him to also present his offerings to the orishas. Poor Wamai was at a loss as to what to do, groping in his clothes for something he could improvise.

“is judge is very weak!” one of the pilgrims laughed, making the rest of the community laugh as well.

“One moment…” Wamai had an idea, left the house and was accompanied by the curious population, who followed him to the lighthouse. en he reached into his pocket and pressed a button on the light control, which he always carried with him. A surprised cry erupted from the crowd when they saw the lights go out, right on the spot.

“What is this?” Zaki, Wamai’s father, protested.

“It’s the lighthouse,” Wamai, as his grandfather had taught him, was calm.

“e lighthouse light is out, what madness is this, Wamai?” is time it was Amai’s turn to lose her temper. “Was this your grandfather’s idea?”

“It was my idea.” Wamai interrupted her with a gesture, taking a few more steps to distance himself from the crowd and have room to speak, looking each of them straight in the eye, staring at their fear, their anger, and their distrust of each other’s plans.

“Explain, Wamai,” Even Linolen was nervous.

“I’ve been following the light of the lighthouse for years, it has always been here for us and for those who are lost beyond the cliffs. e vast majority of people don’t know what it’s like to exist in the village without the presence or light of the lighthouse.” Wamai explained, pacing back and forth, tapping his staff on the dirt floor with each sentence.

“But without the light of the lighthouse many can get lost,” Amai commented.

“It’s true, just as we’ve been lost since a part of the community moved across the river. No matter the light of the lighthouse, because our uncles, parents, brothers and sisters, no longer cross the waters to share with us.” Saddened, Wamai looked at the family. “We only meet every five years, bringing offerings to the orishas, but what offerings do we bring to ourselves? How much respect do we give to democracy and the ritual of voting? How can we expect higher forces to respect us if we don’t respect ourselves in flesh or spirit?”

“at judge is very smart.” said the same pilgrim who had doubted Wamai earlier.

e crowd looked at each other in embarrassment, some people apologized to each other, there were hugs and tears, Wamai’s uncles and parents approached and smiled, for the first time since he was a child.

“You, what’s your name?” Wamai pointed to a little girl on the front lines.

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“Luena.” She introduced herself with bright eyes and beautiful braids on her head.

“Do you want to light the lighthouse?” Wamai passed the lighthouse remote control to the child, next to him he heard the same pilgrim speaking.

“Báàtínrín, okùnòtít� ́kì í já; bíir� ́ tóìrókò, wíwóní � wó.”

“Even if it is thin, the real thread never breaks; even if the lie is as big as an Iroko tree, it will surely fall.” Wamai turned to face the pilgrim, but he was gone. With a smile, he indicated to the girl which button to press and both sides of the community lit up with the beams of the lighthouse.

“May this be the first year of our meeting, may the beacon of democracy guide us to the paths of the future and may each of our voices be part of the transformation we wish to bring about in our community,” Wamai’s voice grew louder and louder until it rumbled like thunder.

“en let the lighthouse be our offering this year and for the next five years!” Linolen squealed excitedly, with approval coming from all the gleeful laughter from the community.

And that’s how Wamai Ndumbo became the first judge of the Moya Buya Kamina community.


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Nnamdi Anyadu

NNAMDI’S WORK EXPLORES HUMAN RELATIONSHIPS WITHIN THE TEXTURE OF FUTURIST POSSIBILITIES AND RE-IMAGINATIONS OF THE PRESENT. AN ALUMNUS OF BOTH THE AKE FICTION

MASTERCLASS AND THE FARAFINA WORKSHOP, HE IS A JOINT-WINNER OF THE INAUGURAL EDITION OF THE REIMAGINED FOLKTALES PRIZE. HIS WORKS HAVE APPEARED ON OMENANA, ISKANCHI,

AKE REVIEW, AND DOWN RIVER ROAD. HIS SHORT STORY, THE MASK AND THE WOMAN, WAS LONGLISTED FOR THE AFRITONDO PRIZE IN 2020 AND PUBLISHED IN THE PRIZE’S ANTHOLOGY

UNDER THE BOOK TITLE, ‘YELLOW MEANS STAY’.

Art by Chijioke Orji

The Coward of Umustead

duma be him who be called coward. At fourteen, neither riding a solarbike over UHangman’s Cliff, nor jumping off Ideora Falls, we boys of Square call him so. Odd one him be, true talk. Jagged afro and jaggeder combats. Ever shirt on, even when

sun be burning so bright, so hot, that mamas leave breasts bare, sit out, drink citric drink, and curse these skies for letting it shine so harshly.

Uduma be he own best friend to self. Boy be preferring to sit and watch; you get? To just sit under giant mango tree and watch we other boys. Watch we play hoverball. Watch we share rabbit kills. Watch we fight play fight. Watch we fight real fight. Ever not talking to anybody. Just sitting and watching. Yet, ever, never failing to show up at Square, like lizard to pavement; like spy of we papas and mamas. Maybe this be who him be. Maybe. Who fit know?

One time, Mbadi knocked this crazed hoverball outside play, onto giant mango tree this goddamn thing went, and dropped next to Uduma leg, gbam! Boy did not move. Not even to pick up hoverball and throw back to field of play. Me glided there, and spat near him foot as me picked up the damn hoverball. Boy did not move, still. Like a goddamn statue thing.

Many times, while we chatty-chatty, the topic to kick this docile laddie out of Square come up among we other boys. I champion most. Him presence irrelevant. Some of we affirm this. Some of we disaffirm. e ones not agreeing be reminding we all of Umustead code, which itself be the blood pumping up and down in these hearts; through these veins. Kin be kin, them say. We be grudgingly accepting. Hencing, we be dismissing this proposition of banishment.

*

All of Umustead, all of Confederacy, know of Uduma papa. Man be legend of old; hero past.

Our papas call he the Greatest Warrior of the Great War. em say him been created an elite unit, the Edoziuno Echo Grey, which employed ancestors’ magic against the battalions of Mornanian aliens during the war for we planet one century and fifteen years far back. Uduma papa unit been conquered the alien base and returned the Earth to we humans, them say. em swear on Mother Terra that he efforts been ushered the peace we enjoy this very today.

Our mamas affirm this. em talk also of the time before the Great War. em tell of the reign of Mornanians, when humankind been shut off cities and towns, been segregated against, been lost collective sense of self. em say the Edoziuno Echo Grey been reminded we of our Ancient Past. em swear on Mother Terra that Uduma papa unit been teach people the old ways, been bring back odinani which we enjoy this very today.

You confuse, yes? How Uduma just fourteen if he papa run battle one century and fifteen years far back? No frown face. is be the tale: toughman Captain leaved he sperm inside a medical tube that been handed over to the Confederacy. Now, fifteen years far back, on the 100th anniversary of victory over the aliens in the Great War, Uduma mama, genius person, designed this tercationator, possibilized teleportation and earned a patent. To commemorate this landmark achievement, the Government been handed over Uduma papa sperm tube to Uduma mama.

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e thinking be this: brilliant soldierman plus brilliant scientist be bringing forth best of brilliant pikin.

You see why Uduma be big disappointment?

Uduma, opposite to he papa; opposite to he mama. Uduma unremarkable and forgetful.

Instead of force of action, instead of creation ingenuity, boy’s a watcher. A damn docile watcher. Watching we other boys play hoverball, share rabbit kills, fight play fight, fight real fight. Watching. Never doing. Just watching. A fuckity!

*

Mbadi own birthday soon come. As be Square tradition, we raise talk on running celebration. e sky hazy this day, ungood for hoverball. Hencing, we congregate under giant mango tree, next to where Uduma sit and stare alltime, and raise talk.

Gwurudi first suggestate. ‘We fit swim up and down Ideora,’ him opine. ‘Invite them girls too.’

‘at be how we run me own celebration four months far back. You forgots?’ Ojih ask, snapping fingers up and behind he head.

Gwurudi widen eyes, ‘Oh.’

‘True talk,’ Mbadi say, ‘Plus, me not too like swimming.’ Him shrug, like obdurate child been offered vegetables for mealtime.

‘So, what we do?’ Ikuku ask, folding hand.

‘We fit go get you the new Hov-85 II Prime,’ Ajah-ani suggestate, pointing Mbadi.

Ojih burst laugh. Me join in. Gwurudi hold mouth. Ikuku shake head.

‘We talking jokes now?’ Ojih ask. Him bend head go one side.

‘How we do this?’ Me ask Ajah-ani, me mouth still overflowing chuckles.

‘We burgle Atom Hut.’ Ajah-ani say.

Now, for sake of clarity, the new Hov-85 II Prime be the baddest, wickedest hoverglider, from the Prime fleet of Fechi Hover Automobiles. It sleek, slender and goddamn sexy. It the latest, fastest hoverglider in country and only yet used by professional hoverballers in the Confederational Hoverball League. em say the magnetism between boots and glider be so firm that it be felt within bone of rider. em say its response so swift, you reckon it be reading your goddamn mind. is be what Ajah-ani suggestate we burgle. And from where? Atom Hut, number two biggest sports shop in city! No idea madder!!

‘You joke,’ Me say.

‘True talk,’ Mbadi say, yet he voice not overly firm, and me deduce him thinking it.

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Instead of force of action, instead of creation ingenuity, boy's a watcher. A damn docile watcher. Watching we other boys play hoverball, share rabbit kills, fight play fight, fight real fight. Watching. Never doing. Just watching. A fuckity!

“

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‘I no joke,’ Ajah-ani say. ‘ink it. We achieve perfect gift for you. We achieve best thrill for we.’

‘Sense in this o,’ Gwurudi say, swinging from close branch of tree.

Me pause. Me look round. Everybody pondering it. We wild. We rugged. We breathe adventures. Yet, a heist attempt; that, we been never do. It madness. ese boys wan kill me.

‘And about Atom Hut security robots who themselves stand watch when shop closed?’ Me ask.

Ajah-ani look me. Me look Gwurudi. Gwurudi look Ojih. Ojih look Ikuku. Ikuku look Mbadi.

‘Me fit do look-out,’ we hearing a voice say. It not a voice we know.

is be the first time we hearing Uduma say pim. For like five seconds straight, we all just quiet.

‘You?’ Me ask and break silence.

‘Yes, Keneanyi,’ Uduma say, standing up.

I shock him talk this. I further shock him bold enough to say me name.

‘Good, good,’ Ajah-ani say.

‘Good, good,’ Ikuku say.

Gwurudi nod head, like old man flashing wisdom.

Ojih smile.

‘We running this,’ Mbadi declarate. I taste he excitement in tone.

Birthday boy getting best birthday thrill. Everybody keen to do this. em, majority. Me, minority. Kinpower be a true thing. And, of course, kin be kin. So, me nod.

*

Atom Hut be inside Umustead’s Central District of Business. Off from Square like six, one-quarter kilodistances. We meet up at Square on nine o’clock, every laddie on he hoverglider. Me not know about the others, but me surprised Coward Uduma been owning a hoverglider and him daring enough to sneak out from house, like we, deceiving parents. Ajah-ani give everybody this plastic clown masks him bring. is criminal laddie long been fantasizing this shit. Ikuku hold a lock destabilizer and declarate that it fit fuck up them locks at Atom Hut. Gwurudi run small late, and give a hundred apologies when him finally come. Ojih say a prayer. We hold hands and nod heads as him call on spirits of ancestors for guiding. We do this every time we adventure-going, never minding even if – like now – the

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adventure be against the law.

We move on ten minutes bringing ten o’clock. We glide quietly, finding shadows and being away from streetlights. Fact be: there be hardly thieving in Umustead, so much so, guard be down on perpetuality; we not even having police to investigate if thieving be occurring. Approaching Atom Hut, Mbadi signal we glide upward. We shoot up! Clown masks protect eyes against rushing air. Reaching hundred difometric fenifeets, him signal again and we shoot down into shop complex.

e compound bare, save the shop building at center. We congregate on rear door and Ikuku start working the lock destabilizer. Me tap Uduma, point me eyes and point around this perimeter. Uduma nod and glide from we. Ikuku fuck up them locks and we move in.

Of holy fucks, Atom Hut bearing a resemblance to what en’igwe fit be. True talk! Piropet sneakers. Hydrostop solarbikes. Sonic starcatchers. Mountain-range exerquishers. Myriadums of sporting wears. And of course, thousand plus one hovergliders. Of every making. Fechi. Emudiamen. TimiUmar. Mention only.

Not meaning it, yet doing it, we stare for counting minutes. Just stare at gear glory, up till Mbadi call we to order. Him point at a Hov-85 II Prime, stacked in a showglass. It glistening. Mbadi pick it.

‘Carry only one thing, and not let it be big,’ Mbadi say.

We nod. We pick things. I selectate a TimiUmar sonic starcatcher.

Coming out, we find a scene not one of we been prepared to visage. ere, by same door we enter through, be Uduma, over three security robots. em machines twitching, broken, battered. Uduma hand inside the metal head of one.

‘Have to take out them memory disks,’ him say.

We just look him, struck with dumbness.

Finding it, him yank. ‘We go now.’

Me have so many questions. Pretty sure other boys be having them, too. Yet, here and now not appropriate, so we glide away, off from Atom Hut.

*

Now, we be understanding that Uduma not docile, not timid, not weak. Uduma simply holding back. Uduma papa fire pump up and down him heart, run up and down him veins. If not, how him bold enough to take on them robots in Atom Hut compound? Uduma mama smarticity stay in him brain, sharpening him senses.

“

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It be appearing that while we dumbstruck inside of Atom Hut, them security robots who otherwise at shop’s main gate entrance, run routine perimeter inspection. em begun whirring up and down the compound. Noticing exit door ajar, them proceeded to it. Uduma fitn’t allow that happen. And he fitn’t call up to us just yet. So, what him do? Well, boy swung upon action against said robots. True talk. Actual kpisha kpisha. It turn out that Uduma fit fucking combatate. Jabs, punches and flipkicks unto steel robots. Man!

We other boys learn this, not sake of say Uduma tell us, but sake of say Ikuku read them collected memory disks on him instrosmart drive. e hologram film play before we very eyes and everybody goddamn shock; our mouths agaping as we watch this glorious action thing in neon holocolour.

You think Uduma chatty-chatty after this? You think him proud and raise shoulder? No! Him still sit alone under giant mango tree and watch. Ever not talking to anybody. Ever, never joining our play. Not even when offered lead position on hoverball team. Not even when Mbadi offered he the Hov-85 II Prime. Not even when we gossipate on new adventure-going to him hearing. Him just sit alone and watch alltime.

We other boys desist calling he coward after the Atom Hut heist. Uduma earn we respect, in unequivocal totality. Now, we be understanding that Uduma not docile, not timid, not weak. Uduma simply holding back. Uduma papa fire pump up and down him heart, run up and down him veins. If not, how him bold enough to take on them robots in Atom Hut compound? Uduma mama smarticity stay in him brain, sharpening him senses. If not, how him be knowing where to jab them robots to be causing technical malfunction? Uduma quiet alltime for Square, because Uduma hold back. Maybe if him let go, him win every game and we other boys begin hating he even more. We talk this amongst ourselves and we see reason.

So, we let he hold back. Let he sit and watch we in the quietness that he is liking. Sometimes, we stop play and go sit next to he under giant mango tree. Even then, Uduma not speak. We respect this. We respect he. Every boy sit in silence at this time. is be what Uduma enjoy: the silence of being still. So, now, we play what we like, and play what him like, too. Kin be kin.

END

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Nos JondiNOS JONDI/PETER-PAUL NDYANI WAS BORN IN 1982 IN THE REPUBLIC OF MALAWI. HE WAS SELECTED AS MENTEE FOR THE 2017 WRITIVISM MENTORING PROGRAM, AND HIS SHORT STORY ‘IN THE BEATING

OF THE STORM’, APPEARS IN THE 2017 WRITIVISM MENTORING ANTHOLOGY, ‘TRANSCENDING THE FLAME’ AVAILABLE AT WWW.BLACKLETTERM.COM. HIS SHORT STORY ‘PRESENT DARKNESS’ WON HONOURABLE MENTION AT THE ROSWELL AWARD FOR SHORT STORY SCI-FI 2017 IN PASADENA,

CALIFORNIA. HE HAS PUBLISHED A MILITARY SCI-FI/FANTASY TRILOGY WITH SILVER EMPIRE PUBLISHERS (HUNTINGTON, ALABAMA, USA)(NOW DEFUNCT) ENTITLED SANCTUM: BOOK I

– BLOOD BROTHERS, BOOK II – A QUIET WAR, BOOK III – ANNIHILATION.

Art by: Emmanuel Sonde

Jon Menzi

THE PROPHET JON

e light of the day was dying fast, like a beast in the field at the end of its life, struggling through the louvres, spotlighting the layer of dust that caked the glass panes. I stood, towards the end of the wall, peering out at the world beyond. Shadows slanted in all directions, differing shapes and sizes, various tints and grades of black and grey, infecting the world, dragging everything in it deeper into the oncoming darkness. Soon there would be nothing to see, imagination playing a part in what might be, memory recounting what actually was. Leaves rustled on the ground as an evening breeze riddled through the long grass, moving everything around in tight little swirls.

My eyes shifted back to the window panes, then to the wire mesh in front of them. Insects buzzed across it, frustrated at their failure to access the lights on in the room behind me. I took a deep breath but all I smelt was dust and earth, the smells carried listlessly by the continuing breeze outside. I turned my head, looking over my shoulder at the seats filling up. Today people were earlier, encouraged by the drop in temperature that day to seek warmth before the cold outside worked its way into their bones. e heaters were on, a fire burning steadily in the fireplace directly behind me. Tea, coffee, sandwiches and biscuits sat on a table at the back of the room. But no one had touched anything, their hands were empty. For they had not come for the bread offered by man but for the words of the Prophet. For man does not live on bread and crumpets alone but from each and every word that proceeds from the mouth and mind of the Prophet Jon.

ere had been more than one prophet though. at’s a problem you have when you’re a clone and everyone is as well. You all talk the same, sound the same because you generally come from the same primordial soup. Now there was only one, me. I was the one true prophet. e false ones were dead and buried, out in unmarked graves so no homage could be paid to them by their followers, scattered to the winds like cockroaches when the lights come on. I abhorred violence but the culling was a consequence of a natural sequence of events that had played out for the past thirty years. e first prophet appeared when I was ten and one every year after that. I appeared in the fifth year of the prophets and as time went on my predictions and visions proved to be stronger than all the other prophets combined. It didn’t take long after a prophet’s appearance to attract a following and just like a celebrity, the position came with status. I never had to ask for anything again, it was given to me without asking. My disciples made sure to lay the world at my feet, without me having to say a single word. As my ‘utterings’ increased in frequency and accuracy, so did my following. It triggered a negative reaction in the others, both those before and after me. eir power decreased in direct proportion to my gaining in strength. is led to accusations of devil’s magic on my part, accusations of me stealing their power and gifts through blood pacts with fallen angels. Nonsense of course, but not to them, how else could they explain what was happening to them and to me, especially since I was clearly the one benefitting from their loss?

ey must decrease while I must increase. I carried the world on my shoulders. I told them this (a poor choice of words, I admit in retrospect, but it was an uttering and something I had no control over). e truth was no one knew where the power we had to say the things we said came from. Like singing, you could or you couldn’t. e utterings were like the urge to pee. You did it. Period. No option, no choice about any of it. You could keep it to yourself, talk to walls but that only made the urge worse, building up like a mental geyser in your mind until you were babbling non-stop. at’s how everyone else knew you

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had the gift of prophecy. It seized you when you least expected. We knew things about the world that weren’t in books, things that we would have had to wander beyond our present stations in life to know and learn. Prophet is a misnomer; while prophecy was part of the gift, we could more accurately be described as teachers, custodians of knowledge, soothsayers and keepers of the secrets the Universe was ready to give up. at was power and power was addictive, something none of the other Prophets wanted to give up. at’s when the fighting started, different factions facing off in a bid to regain what they had lost. ey had come to believe that if they killed me, the power that I had siphoned off for myself would somehow disburse and return to them. It was a theory that would never be proved because I saw it coming and I had the tools and means to defend myself. My following was the biggest in the city, not bigger than the rest of the other prophets’ groupings combined, but still a force to be reckoned with. We had the knowledge to outmatch and outclass the others. e war dragged on for three years, intense sporadic skirmishes all clumped into one tight mess, but in the end, we were victorious. e remaining prophets were all executed, a mere handful by the time the war ended, to discourage any future and potential rebellions. I had wanted a peaceful resolution but I had no power over blood that begins to boil in the veins of men, in need of periodic release. It was a dark part of me, us, that could not be tamed and that I had come to accept. In the end, there could be no challenge to established truths. All falsehood and attempts are the same, needed to be wiped out and erased, covered in sand and stones where time would assign them to oblivion and they’d eventually be forgotten, even by memory.

e seats were almost full, wooden pews carved in the shape of half-moons and arranged in a radial pattern. I put a hand to the wall and pushed, moving backwards towards the gathering. It was a large room, but not large enough for all my disciples. ese were the ones closest to me. ey would take my teachings and teach them to the rest as gospel truth. My eyes fell over the crowd, taking in all the faces, my face, repeated over and over. I knew that we were clones, that there was a ‘first’ us from whom we all descended but this was never really a concern for anyone except me. Trying for an answer to the question was like peering into a dark room, bad lighting all around and seeing nothing but objects cloaked in obscurity. e answer never came no matter how long I yelled or squinted.

e room settled, faces turned towards the teacher, waiting earnestly for that evening’s lesson.

“I am going away,” I began slowly. e reaction was as I had expected. Eyes widened, mouths dropped, hands squeezed together, feet shuffled forward, then back again.

“Where are you going, Teacher?” A disciple on my left asked.

“Somewhere I can’t tell you because I honestly don’t know.”

I put a hand to the wall and pushed, moving backwards towards the gathering. It was a large room, but not large enough for all my disciples. These were the ones closest to me. They would take my teachings and teach them to the rest as gospel truth. My eyes fell over the crowd, taking in all the faces, my face, repeated over and over.

“

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Brows creased, confusion setting in.

“But how is this so, Teacher?” another disciple from the back of the pews asked. “Don’t you know all things?”

“Most things are not all things. And how does one know that things one claims to know are all things, when one can never really know how much there is to ever truly know?”

Heads nodded, small smiles here and there. I had just dropped another pearl of convoluted wisdom they would mull over repeatedly in the days to come.

“Will you come back?” another asked.

“Yes, I will,” I lied.

“Can we come with you?”

“You cannot come where I am going. ose who I go to will not let you come.”

One disciple shot to his feet, hand in the air, shaking it in a tight fist.

“We’ll kill anyone who dares lay their hands on you!” he yelled. Others rose to their feet, clamouring their support. I held up my hands, the expression on my face sombre.

“ere has been enough blood spilled. He who comes is greater than I am. He has amassed more knowledge. We would not survive.”

Hands dropped, the lines of confusion deeper this time.

“Is he a prophet like yourself?”

I shook my head.

“He is something greater. He is something more, there before any of us ever were. When the time is right, he will reveal himself. He must increase, so I must decrease. en the scales will fall from all our eyes and we shall have a deep understanding of things I can barely explain now.” A sadness I could feel like fabric against my skin, descended over the gathering.

“But take heart and do not despair,” I said smiling, walking forward, shaking hands that had begun to tremble, raising my hand to eyes that had started to tear and to lips that had started to quiver. “I have seen a great light in the valley. We are going towards the state of being I have preached countless times over the year. Be steady and stay true to that faith.”

e smiles returned and I raised my arms, wrapping them around two of my disciples and guiding them towards the table laden with drinks and snacks at the back of the room, everyone gathering around, laughing and smiling. e fear had passed but I knew it was far from over. I’d had only one vision the entire week, simply rehashing past messages to allay fears that I had lost the gift. All I could see when I closed my eyes was darkness spread across an empty horizon. e light was nowhere to be found.


133

JON 316

I can smell coffee and fresh bread in the air, although I am standing in a field of ankle high grass, the grass beginning to pollinate. Snow white butterflies float through this field and I am mesmerized for a few seconds, admiring their inborn will to be free, not asking anyone for permission to enjoy that freedom. I look up at the fading sky, almost three hours until the sun is swallowed up by the horizon. Maybe less. e days are shorter this time of the year and I know that the Prophet Jon is preparing for his daily teaching. I don’t know what he is going to tell his disciples, only he has the power of foresight. I’m sure it will be grand. Something to convince them that he is the one to fall on their swords for, the only true one remaining after the false ones were removed. I close my eyes and remember those days turning into night with the chaos that reigned. People were willing to kill for the truth, others died because of the lies. I know this because I saw it happen and then I saw the field, one thing after the other. Objects cannot occupy the same space and time even something as seemingly intangible as memory. I had to unlearn a long time ago, that time is not linear, rather a vibrating circle, the past, present and future occurring one after the other, like ripples on the surface of water caused by a stone, bouncing back and forth through the physical limitations of our state of being.

Now I can perceive the burnt smell of carcasses, the acrid smell of bombs, their vibrations as they fall to the ground, opening it up and wounding it over and over again. I have seen this all before, in the past and the future that came attached to it. I’ve never questioned these events, they must occur so that there is room for more perhaps, but that answer is never satisfactory because I know it is half the truth and maybe just all lies. I have lived here for many years, visiting the towns and communities in the surrounding areas, where the Communities of Jon live. ese places are not like where the Prophet lives, they are more peaceful, more grounded, more in touch with a sense of purpose. ey farm the land, work the mines, establish industries as they are needed and pay homage to the Creator, the primary consciousness of us all. I’ve lost count of how many there have been over the years but their end is close at hand too. I have seen the future attached to the present memory. ey will die peacefully; Jon the Creator will grant them that. ey will be swallowed up by clouds of fire and turned to ash. And after the great crushing, it will start all over again. I frown; a memory of trees growing tall and strong amidst the blood and bones laid to rest in a killing field. e grass has given way to forest, the sound of people laughing and singing but they look different. eir clothes are different, the times are different. But they have happened before. Time is a spot one keeps running on over again, a state of being that moves neither left nor right but back and forth. Energy thrown out into the Universe only to come back again like a boomerang, only to be thrown out again to come back again… I’m not sure how many ripples I have gone through but what I do know is that they become shorter when the Condensation is about to occur. e Condensation is what I call the moment the ripples finally stop. at’s when the skies turn black. And the ground red, soaked through and through with the blood of us.

I wouldn't try to remember how long ago that was. Either 2nd Jon or Jon III would know but I couldn't be bothered to ask. It wasn't important. “

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FIRST JON

e sky below me rumbles; flashes of lightning to the far east, followed by a huge flock of birds fleeing the oncoming storm. My hands are folded across my chest, my head bent slightly. ere isn’t much to look at this high up, what one generation of Jons called my ‘blinkering tower of arrogant ivory’. I wouldn’t try to remember how long ago that was. Either 2nd Jon or Jon III would know but I couldn’t be bothered to ask. It wasn’t important. What was important was that this timeline was wrapped up and the next one began without a hitch. at was all that mattered. It was why I had come here in the first place.

e moon and Mars had been successfully colonized when I left Earth. I didn’t want any part in those oddball projects. Wastes of time. I mean, who spends millions of taxpayers’ money trying to terraform two planet sized dustbowls? Exoplanets had been discovered; habitable worlds were a dime a dozen. Life on Earth was not a fluke after all. It was everywhere and anywhere one turned their telescope. I was stationed out on Mars when I got the idea. Build a spaceship and find my own spot in the stars. Simple enough. Easier said than done but when you’re a software engineer, getting hardware to do what you want isn’t half as hard. I had to work in secret obviously and it was slow at first. I spent the rest of my entire first life putting my ship together, making sure it got to where I had picked out. Sure, there were expeditions carried out by the International Space Administration but those were light years from successful planetary exploration or colonization. Budget cuts. I wasn’t going to wait for that. A trip for one would be just fine.

I died a few months before my ship landed on a small moon just beyond Pluto. My clone emerged from its pod and set about adapting to the environment. I won’t go into details but let’s just say creation is a lengthy and messy business. Steering evolution in a direction you want is mind bending, back-breaking, gut-wrenching and ball-busting work, and not all can do it. You need to be brilliant like I was. How did I do it? e answer lay with my cloning machine. I simply cloned myself over and over again; brilliance all around.

Everything reaches a point of diminishing returns, the point where peak performance butts heads with inefficiency and counter-productivity sets in. Each cloning cycle could only produce thirty–three clones at a time before the ‘dumbing down’ effect set in. low IQs ran rampant, with those way below sixty becoming the norm. I had to supplement and complement my workforce with replicator technology, careful not to create a situation where a machine singularity occurred. I had no intention of making it that far only to become a slave to machines of my own creation.

e planet was home to a variety of animals, nothing remotely approaching intelligent life on a human level. If natural history had taught us anything, it was that everything had its time. I catalogued every single life form, studied them all and determined those that could pose a potential threat in terms of achieving dominance. None have risen to the challenge. What I didn’t realize at the time, was that the greatest threat and challenge to my self-rule would be me.

I established towns every five hundred kilometers, in different environments, forcing myself in all my forms to adapt. is would, I believed, make me more formidable, pushing my evolution further along faster. e possibility of what I would become was exhilarating. Whenever a clone died, its consciousness was filtered through the primary consciousness.


135

e first clone was based on my original self but divided into three. is way there was more room for the uploads upon death. To avoid data saturation, similar experiences across time and space were deleted. Only that deemed consolidating was kept.

One would think that because one has made oneself in their exact image, then the replicas would agree with everything the primary would say. I learned the hard way that was a lie. ey may look like you, but in essence, every clone is eventually a different version of you. Like having a child, one cannot control what it will become during its life, be it long or short. Differences were going to arise, that they would do things at odds with the primary conscious.

e first rebellion started in Settlement 143, a warm climate town. I had edited sexual urges from my DNA, in a bid to free myself from having to deal with them, a burden on my time I could not afford. e thought of pleasuring myself with ‘myself’ was not what I had in mind for my future. I had been raised Catholic and firmly taught that all self-pleasure was in fact self-abuse. I was at present asexual, had been for a long time. Settlement 143 demanded that they be allowed to override this, they had the mental impulses but they failed to actually materialize in the flesh. I told them that they were me and I was them, and as the Creator, they could not question decisions made by me for me. ey refused to accept this and reverse engineered their tech to become fighting machines, bombing other towns into submission; those that would not take up their cause were annihilated into oblivion. I put them down eventually, their living memories shredded and trashed. It set me back a couple of decades but it was an invaluable learning curve. Laws were created, the Book of Jon codified and written in stone pillars in each settlement, placed in the town hall and the allegiance to the Creator grafted into their DNA.

Inducing allegiance at a cellular level had its limitations too. You could only do that for a certain number of generations before it had a dumbing down effect as well, the clones becoming mindless slaves who did everything they were told without question. I didn’t need robot versions of me. I needed beautiful minds that mirrored my innovation and genius. Zombies would not do.

A movement on my left. Jon the 2nd wiped his nose, his handkerchief held tightly in both hands. I made a face.

“What?” he said. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re acting like you’ve never had a cold before. I am you and you are me. You like to forget that.”

“anks for the snotty reminder,” I said. “But you won’t catch me holding on to it like a Dear John letter after I’ve just used it. You want to spread that booger everywhere, is that it?”

“And you’re a dramatic prick,” he said. He nodded at the window. “Getting antsy at things to come?”

Idiosyncrasies aside, they were still all me. The three of us, me, Jon the 2nd and Jon III would be semi-conscious over the next three weeks as memories uploaded, sifted and sorted. After it was over, all three of us would have ascended to higher plains of existence.

“

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“Killing people in their hundreds isn’t something I want to get used to,” I said. “It’s not good for the soul or the mind. It’s how psychopaths are born.” Jon III appeared from a side room. He was carrying a tablet in his one hand, the other stuffed into his trouser pocket. He raised the tablet.

“We determined that killing off generations at regular intervals eliminated the problems we encountered at the beginning. I doubt we came all this way to create another Earth, with all its wars and woes.”

“e desire for autonomous rule is inherent in every human,” Jon the 2nd said after another hefty sneeze. “Whatever put us here must have met with the same problem and left us to our own devices. Humans still don’t know what to do with that desire, and they’ve still not figured out the best way to use freedom when they’re finally granted it. Too much of anything is a bad thing. Checks and balances are necessary, even if they come in the form of broken skulls.”

“You can’t say you won’t control people and rule over them at the same time,” I said. “A contradiction of terms if there ever was one. I’ve never believed in that kind of thing. People don’t know what they are, who they are or where they want to go. Societies are moving parts of a whole, pulling and pushing in every direction all at once. at’s not progress, that’s stumbling about. By guiding this world, we provide it with a singular purpose, all geared towards the advancement of our ideals. Heaven or even the road that leads to it is not a democracy.”

“A theocracy has been defined as dictatorship simply wrapped up in religious edicts,” Jon III said, swiping at his tablet.

“We’re not gods yet but we’re slowly getting there,” I said. “I was able to conduct terraforming on the Abyssinian Plains yesterday by merely looking at drone footage.”

Both Jons were clearly impressed.

“I can create some shift in weather patterns but not much,” Jon the 2nd said. “Work in progress.”

“We’re all works in progress,” Jon III said. “Prophet Jon is ready for extraction and Jon 316 is safely in his bunker. e drones are on stand-by. I’m running last minute diagnostics.”

I nodded, a heaviness weighing down on my chest. In the next couple of days, a lot of people were going to die. Parts of me. Over and over again. Idiosyncrasies aside, they were still all me. e three of us, me, Jon the 2nd and Jon III would be semi-conscious over the next three weeks as memories uploaded, sifted and sorted. After it was over, all three of us would have ascended to higher plains of existence. Certain things would make sense, changes would be made wherever changes needed to occur. And the new Jons that would be created out of the ashes of the old world below would discover that freedom came at a price. It was something they would never forget, part of their collective memory. Settlements 143 and others like it served as examples for subsequent generations. ere would always be anomalies, I accepted that, rogue parts of me running amok, trying to challenge my established authority. But they were part of the bigger picture too, they


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served an important function. Sowing seeds of death so life anew could be reaped thereafter. A king was no king without his subjects, loyal or treacherous and every kingdom was built on blood and bones. Utopia didn’t exist simply because you wanted it too. You had to make it, brick by brick. Body by body. Yes, freedom came with a price, all paid for in blood.

Another rumble of thunder and the sky darkened as a stack of rain clouds broiled through my field of vision.

“Diagnostics done,” Jon III announced. “Machines are set and ready to go. Primary mainframe online, cerebral banks on stand-by.”

I nodded.

“Proceed.”

He swiped at his tablet again. A few seconds later, iridescent explosions flashed beneath the clouds below.

It had begun.

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Queen Nneoma KanuQUEEN IS A PHD STUDENT OF AFRICANA STUDIES. HER RESEARCH INVOLVES AFRICAN(A) FICTION

THAT EXPLORES THE AFRICAN EXPERIENCE BOTH WITHIN THE MOTHERLAND AND IN THE DIASPORA. HER SHORT STORY “SIXTY-ONE” HAS APPEARED IN CONSCIOFICTION MAGAZINE. HER SHORT STORY

“TAFFETA” WAS LONGLISTED FOR THE AFRITONDO PRIZE FOR SHORT STORY 2021 AND ANTHOLOGIZED IN THE HOPE, THE PRAYER, THE ANTHEM IN 2021.

Art by Isabelle Irabor

The Birthing

e birthing began with the nwankpa demanding the shiny thing on the ekwu. Nwanyioma knew not to give in to such. Her duty was to her staff of power but she was obliged by law to tolerate the nwankpa – the rights of the foetus must be protected. Having thus garnered this knowledge, the nwankpa sifted through Nwanyioma’s mind again, insisting that he be accorded the same rights as the umuada permitted to wield the speculum. Nwanyioma wished she had kept the nwankpa from seeing the speculum because she would need every scrap of will she possessed to resist the urge to give in to its demands. If the nwankpa pinched her, she would pinch it back.

No nwankpa had ever demanded for the speculum – it was sacred to the midwife who used it to dilate the canal between the worlds of ala mmuo and ala mmadu. It gave passage for the mother to receive her child; welcomed new life and paid homage to life departed. is foetus wouldn’t need it. e chosen ones did not.

Nwanyioma ignored the nwankpa and pirouetted to the corner of the birthing hut where an oil lamp burned. e foetus too, seeing that Nwanyioma paid it no mind, stopped lashing out from within its mother and retreated, bidding its return. Its breath soon faded into its mother’s womb until Nwanyioma could no longer tell the breath of the mother from that of the child.

She settled her curved length into a small wooden chair, her bole and limbs drooping on the sides. is style of wooden chair was quite common in birthing huts, it denied the midwife rest, one Nwanyioma needed at the moment. She leaned back against the mud-plastered wall to maintain her balance. e last birthing had been a peaceful one. e child had been born, freely and fairly, into the lowest order of the hierarchy; a kamharida. Her breath caught in her chest at the thought of the battle that lay ahead with this one. e chosen one. Each puff of breath she took felt like she was struggling for air.

e nwankpa returned again as suddenly as it had left, with nothing but mischief. As it appeared and disappeared over and over again, the membrane enclosing it bobbed up and down the in-between place of Urenna, its mother. Nwanyioma was not pleased with the progress of the birthing and the milky sap of agony running down the side of Urenna’s face was a testament to her angst.

No nwankpa had ever demanded anything of her that was beyond her power. She frowned, wondering why any of the nwankpa thought they had the right to demand anything before making their entrance into the Rip�blik. After all, ala mmuo where they came from was a place of order. She sucked her teeth at the thought of the divide between the spirit world and the human world, that place called the Unknown. at place where the nwankpa transitioned from was rife with tricksters; and those wily figures were to blame for her present situation.

In her years of midwifery, Nwanyioma had come across many an nwankpa who had made attempts to usurp power in the Rip�blik before their birthing. e nwankpa made their demands quite alright; but they soon learned that in the Rip�blik, territorial hierarchy had to be established. Just as in the other territories around them, the nwankpa must not be allowed to infringe on the authority of the Rip�blik that they were born to govern. A child should never be above the authority of its father.

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In that moment, she reminded herself to accept that the nwankpa sometimes failed to realise that various privileges were bestowed upon them as rulers of the Rip�blik. Why, she thought, as she shifted her frame on the chair, even her own son had been born a kamharida; his father had absconded when Nwanyioma announced to him that she was with child. It was unfortunate that her son’s eriri uwa, his link to its mother, had registered its father’s hesitation and its greed for power sprouted from a thirst to avenge Nwanyioma’s broken heart. In seeking revenge against his father, he had pushed his own demands to the point that threatened to bring anarchy into the Rip�blik.

She’d been in the Rip�blik for a long time, and had learnt that the seed mothers, the mpkulu who visited her birthing hut, did not know many things. It was the duty of young maidens to prepare themselves for motherhood under the tutelage of the umuada. ey were expected to plant their feet firmly and be ready to serve the Rip�blik when the time came.

A full moon ago, Nwadi, an mpkulu whose child had been born a kamharida, indulged her long-throat for the choicest foods, engaged in the baby-mama dance and made sure to extort exorbitant gifts from well-wishers who surrounded her. Despite all the ceremonies and rituals to herald the child’s birthing, Nwadi had not taken out time to thoroughly sieve through the thoughts in her head before coming to Nwanyioma. Her long-held fear of suffering a ruptured womb before it was time for the birthing made its presence known as Nwanyioma aided her in bringing her seed into the world. Nwanyioma negotiated as best as she could with the child, but its mother’s fear had already palpated tension in her membranes that travelled through the eriri uwa to the foetus. e damage was done, and it was too late. He was a kamharida.

Nwadi had failed to guard herself from her fear-filled ruminations; and her lack of accountability to her child had nearly thwarted the umuada’s efforts in reworking the state. e Rip�blik had been in dire need of a new leader, and not only had Nwadi failed herself, she had also failed the umuada as well as the will and wishes of the people that elected them. e birthing of a merije was solely dependent on the mkpulu; and this was why the title, Nneka, Mother is Supreme, was so sacred that an mkpulu had to work hard to birth a worthy leader to earn the title.

Nwanyioma stretched out of her wooden chair, went to Urenna and turned her from side to side to ease her pain. Nwanyioma recalled when she was a young girl sleeping against her mother’s breasts in her chambers, and how her mother had told her the vision the umuada had for their people. e umuada was another arm of the settlement’s lineage and had fought alongside the umunna, their male counterpart, to replace the former separatist organisation; the State Union. Led by Ekenma, the umuada bore a dream to establish a new order in the Mba. In the new order, the Mba which would be made up of the umunna and umuada who would take turns to report the affairs of the settlement to the executive Council of Elders. is system would be based on a lottocracy where each legislative armwas chosen randomly each year. And although the umuada had been allies with their male counterparts, the umunna for thousands of years, the impact of their influence in the governance of the settlement was not felt as it should have been. ings changed when some of the umuada, led by Ekenma, protested against the lottocracy that excluded them. ey migrated to the land of the Mirrored Ones in the 2030s, their exodus precipitated by how deep the ambitions of the Council of Elders ran among its own

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members. eir settlement was in chaos and the umuada sought to fix it. For years, they lived in the land of the Mirrored Ones in a bid to learn their ways of government.

Many, many years later, long after Ekenma and most of the umuada who started the revolution had passed away, their land carried the sorrow of Ala who wept for her children lost far away. e Council of Elders gathered, and a retinue of titled men along with some women whose mothers had remained in the settlement after the departure of the umuada, pleaded with them to return home. e return of the umuada to the settlement, again swept away the existing order when theypresented a new totem, a measuring scale, to the executive Council of Elders. is time, they used the totem to measure out an equal amount of power that would go round each arm of the government in the Rip�blik. It was now impossible for power and authority to rest only in one group while the others groaned under the weighty influence of absolute power. is new democratic settlement, called the Rip�blik by the Mirrored Ones, the population with pale skin that once colonised them, was suggested by the umuada and adopted by the Council of Elders.

#

When the Council of Elders was formed by Chukwu, his intention was for sovereignty, not inordinate ambition, to rest with every member of the community. In order to establish this divine mandate, the umuada chose the best selection from Ala’s children, the nwankpa. e birthing, relating to the nwankpa, from which the next ruling class of the merije would emerge, was greatly revered by the Rip�blik. And because of this, the merije was ranked above the kamharida who could not be leaders.

I e kamharidas had a longer lifespan and outlived the merijes; the merijes lifespan of forty had been decided by their foremothers as a reward for their strength and leadership; followers were in abundance but leaders were few. It was an honour, Nwanyioma’s mother had said, that the umuada were chosen to birth the number of merije decreed to exert power. It was an honour, Nwanyioma thought, as the last stage of birthing eclipsed over Urenna, that she was chosen to deliver the child of an mkpulumma, a well-bred seed like Urenna.

“Your son is one of the Chosen,” Nwanyioma said to Urenna, who smiled for the first time since the previous night when she had been brought in. Reassured, Nwanyioma probed her midsection.

“Your firstborn child is almost here. He shall be crowned merije and we will name him Ahamefula, for his name shall never be lost”. She plucked a young leaf from her crown, pried open Urenna’s midsection and planted the leaf that would blossom till the fortieth year of the life cycle of Ahamefula. is signalled the traditional recording of the birth.

“Ahamefula is still so far away…”, Urenna agonised.

Ahamefula belched from the recess. The potion to ease the pain of the birthing mother was beginning to wear off. There was only so much the midwife could give to Urenna before it seeped into the foetus’s bloodstream. She’d already given her too much.

“

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The spiritual task of birthing was far greater than the secular roles of settlement which the women leaders of the umuada council carried out among their fellow women and the community at large.

“


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“Taaaaa!” Nwanyioma cautioned her sharply. is was no place for nso ala. at would be a taboo.

She lifted Urenna’s upper body off the birthing mat while the woman supported herself with her elbow. Urenna, in between grunts, kept her gaze on Nwanyioma as she bore pressure on her lower body. Her eyes, sharp brown slits barely visible through the shock of hair plastered on her forehead, never lost sight of Nwanyioma. Nwanyioma too, kept her eyes on Urenna, never looking away, shaken, but hopeful.

“Nma! I would like one look at the shiny thing”, the nwankpa broke into Nwanyioma’s thoughts from within its mother’s womb as Urenna, exhausted,rested on her side.

“Hush!” Nwanyioma cautioned. Her words pried into the core of Ahamefula’s ego and kept him quiet. She continued speaking, her words kneading Ahamefula’s ego until it swelled and burst.

“e speculum is for birthing the kamharida, for the ones who pray not to fall, those mere earthlings. Do you not know that your enterprise is higher than theirs?”

“May I fall then!” Ahamefuna spat out the words from the depth of Urenna’s belly.

“May you not fall!” Nwanyioma countered. Her heart raced and her breath came quickly. She left Urenna’s side and paced to and fro to calm her troubled heart before turning to the corner of the room. She walked over and stooped to pick up the speculum off the ekwu, and examined the silvery tool with its distinct blade and handle. e tang and the finger ring were a bluish metal; the colour of the skies above and the river underneath in Chukwu’s dynasty. She ran her gnarled fingers over the smoothness of the tool before placing it carefully into the nkata she wove for her trade tools and charms.

At that moment, she heard the birthing drums rumble in the distance. In a public meeting held earlier between the Council and the Elders, the umunna had been informed about the expected arrival of the nwankpa. It was the duty of the umunna to welcome the nwankpa. e Council of Elders too had gathered at the mbari, Ala’s shrine, the smoke wafting above the rafters of the hut signalled their arrival.

“Nothing happened.”

“You did not speak to ajo chi, did you?” Nwanyioma questioned. She now had reason to suspect that an ajo chi had a hand in Ahamefula’s ambition and could not help but wonder if Ahamefula understood how deep ambition could destroy the pillars of the Rip�blik.

Ahamefula became irritated at the mention of his notorious personal god. He burst out in anger. “You will not speak to me in that manner, Nwanyioma! You have no understanding. You are the keeper of the realm, not a merije. Do you care how we feel? Perhaps you do. You, like us, are only capable of one thing. I understand that one thing – fear. I smell it here. I also hear the igba drums in the distance. Do you hear the stomping on the earth, the drumming thumping in frenzy to signal my birth? You fear that you will let

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them down.”

“But your mother—” Nwanyioma pleaded, exhausted.

“Taaaaa, she has the strength of Ala, the totem of the python. Ala is with me. I am like the crescent moon that peeks at mere mortals from the skies. I shall make my arrival as merije when I want.”

“What have you become, eh Ahamefula?” Nwanyioma taunted. “An earthling?”

Ahamefula rumbled from within. “No!” he thundered. “Earthlings have ceased to interest me, and I will exhaust all possibilities not to return as one. No power in being an underling, a mere thing in the hands of the Council of Elders. I live for the power. Just as you, Nwanyioma. Tell me the power that you have does not go into your head.”

“Taaaaa! May you not fall!” Nwanyioma rebuked Ahamefula.

“We shall have our own Rip�blik, you and I”, said Ahamefula in response. “I shall be most pleased to have you in my Council.”

“May you not fall!” Nwanyioma rebuked, this time, she stomped her lower limbs on the red earth for emphasis and walked away from Ahamefula.

Ahamefula belched from the recess. e potion to ease the pain of the birthing mother was beginning to wear off. ere was only so much the midwife could give to Urenna before it seeped into the foetus’s bloodstream. She’d already given her too much. at was probably why Ahamefula was rambling like a cock who had lost its head. It was a period of trial for her too, she had to stay strong in order to ward off temptation. If she could resist the foetus’s demands, then she had in turn produced a good seed. But if she gave in, then the Rip�blik was at the risk of annihilation.

“Chukwu made gods out of men,” Ahamefula puffed. “With the help of Our Mother Ala, they made us Igwes, Ozo title holders, okparas. Everything the eye sees, they made. But the jealousy and greed of man took away that power from us. But you and I know the story beyond that. Because it was the foolishness of man that caused Chukwu to wipe out the first generation. We threatened his universe and with the interference of some notorious beings, we destroyed what He created. I have been here before, once as an earthling a long time ago. I was born into the Igwe’s palace, not as royalty, but the illegitimate child of the king’s poor mistress. My mother hid me in the crevices of her hut, and seeing that my father paid me no mind, I took my leave of this world. en when the Rip�blik came, I tried to return, but seeing it was your mother, a former mkpulu, tainted by the blood of one with pale skin, I retreated, again. I have waited and waited but you have refused to make the journey on the crossroads. It would be impossible for me to rule unless you bring me into the world.”

“It is time,” Nwanyioma said and returned to the birthing mat.

“Upon this day, and with the powers bestowed upon me by Chukwu and with approval of the Council, I welcome you. You have passed your test, therefore, you will not develop greed for the glittering things of this world. You will be able to tame your ego as a


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leader, it will not grow big enough that you will seek to usurp power. Your lineage will continue in our peaceful settlement. Iseee.”

Ahamefula suddenly fell into a deep sleep. He snored so loudly that Nwanyioma suspected that the cord had wrapped itself around the foetus’s neck. Ahamefula had moved too much during his testing. She knew she had to act quickly. Nwanyioma fed Urenna the last gulp from the birthing juice that hung from the vines above them. She shook the broad leaves above and more liquid escaped into a small calabash. She would fill Urenna up with the juice and make the delivery before the potion got to the foetus.

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e sweet herb water turned bitter as soon as another contraction caught Urenna midway between drinking. Nwanyioma grabbed some herb twigs from above and snapped them into smaller bits, set it over the ekwu, the smouldering mass within burning the fragrant wood. e incense would ease some of Urenna’s pain.

“Take some more juice,” Nwanyioma cajoled. “We do not have all night to bring Ahamefula to us. If the foetus was female, I would have said she was wearing her adornment, rubbing ori and decorating her body with uli”. She hoped her light banter would relieve Urenna as she made it through the travails of childbirth.

Nwanyioma also bore the burden of the birthing. e spiritual task of birthing was far greater than the secular roles of settlement which the women leaders of the umuada council carried out among their fellow women and the community at large. When their foremothers had made the pact with Chukwu to establish the Rip�blik, there was the agreement that none of the merije would live beyond forty years. is was because the tenets of the Rip�blik required each merije to live through the full life cycle of forty years before they were stripped of their power, knowledge and essence. en began the samsara, the cycle of birth and death for the merije which accompanied them until they transitioned to the great beyond. In that way, the umuada made sure the seven pillars of the Rip�blik stood strong. Nwanyioma had lived long enough to see how the limitation of life expectancy made the merije take their responsibility as leaders of the Rip�blik seriously.

Nwanyioma lifted her hands to the skies in gratitude. “Urenna, brace yourself for what is to come,” she said before prying into her womb to see the nwankpa that stubbornly remained hidden inside. Ahamefuna’s birthing had exhausted her. Nothing good comes easy, her mother used to say. Her bones ached as she eased Ahamefuna into the world. She called on Ala to give her strength.

She watched as the sac within Urenna ballooned out in a perfect circle. In the hazy fluid within, she saw Ahamefula. He had presented himself feet first. She sucked her teeth in anger. She probed the membrane to turn him around, but Ahamefula sank into the murky waters of his habitation and continued snoring. Ahamefula’s destiny presented itself as a lucky one, Chukwu had given him the seven divinities, but his personal will was weak.

A short time passed.

en Nwanyioma recognized a different voice floating into the birthing hut. It most

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certainly was coming from Ala Oma, the hut next door. It was the Good Land, the place where the merije transitioned to the other realm. She told the mkpulu that the decision to take away their children was never an easy one, but it had to be done to maintain the Rip�blik. It also warded off their warring neighbours because the soldiers from the Rip�blik were always young and hot-blooded men. Ready to defend. Ready to fight. Ready to lead.

Nwanyioma wiped the corner of her eyes. She leaned towards the carved door and listened again. She cracked the door open. e roll of drumming and accompanied singing that floated in from the small gathering outside was neither a farewell nor welcome song.

Ijeoma, the guardian of Ala Oma, stood at the door. In one hand he held a gourd of akpuru achia, and with the other hand, he dug his staff into the red earth. Behind him, the gentle throbbing of the igba drums urged the child to come to the Rip�blik because it was a sweet place, flowing with oil and good meat.

“Are you clean?” Nwanyioma asked in her capacity as custodian of Ala’s omenala, the laws and customs that governed all their institutions. e guardian of Ala Oma who was not in good standing was not allowed close to new life within any of the four market days of the week. Not until the end of the Great Afor market day.

“Yes, I have not seen any army ants.”

Nwanyioma sensed a different urgency as Ijeoma leaned closer and whispered his foul gin words. “e merije in my custody has not passed to the land of our fathers. Have you welcomed the nwankpa yet? I need the newborn’s caul.”

Nwanyioma looked back into the hut. Urenna kept well. She shook her head and let the visitor in. e chorus outside faded as she shut the door.

Ijeoma raised his gourd to the rafters of the hut after he peered into Urenna’s midsection. Nwanyioma was obviously having a difficult time with this one from what he saw.

“Take a sip and laugh”, he said, handing her the gourd. Nwanyioma took a swig. Her mouth had been so dry that the drink burned her tongue. e drink didn’t live up to its name. Akpuru achia indeed.She spat on the red earth and wiped her mouth. Ijeoma laid his staff on the floor, away from the birthing mat. ey both had work to do.

“Nwanyioma, it is time.”

Nwanyioma would have wanted to keep any other mkpulu as calm as possible while the merije passed away in Ijeoma’s chambers. But Urenna was strong, this was not the first time she would hear the death drums. She probed the membrane again and Urenna’s backache intensified as Ahamefula floated away from Nwanyioma’s prying hands. She grabbed Urenna’s sides to ease the weight of the child as another wave of contraction coiled around her waist like the limbless aju-ala when it wrapped itself around its prey. Urenna lay back on the mat as the wave of pain passed. She felt like she was suffocating as the sounds of the death drums in the distance turned into a tangible presence in the room.

Nwanyioma approached Urenna.


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“Urenna, you can hear the death drums. ey have played for too long. e merije must now join his brothers and fathers long gone. But he needs you.”

“You must understand the urgency,” Ijeoma said to Urenna. “You must agree to help the merije, he is having trouble with his transition. We need you to bring forth this baby, else…”

“His name is Ahamefula—” Nwanyioma snapped. She wanted him gone.

“You need to bring forth Ahamefula, he holds the key into the next world,” he said, then quietly retreated to a dark corner of the room as though he had read Nwanyioma’s thoughts.

“Urenna, you must do the needful now, so the waiting merije can journey well. He is impatient to leave. Do not think of rest just yet.”

Nwanyioma wiped the corners of her eyes. Something caught in her throat and she swallowed painfully. e akpuru achia was indeed beginning to take over her common sense.

Urenna, her body wracked by pain, began to pray as her birth pangs progressed. “Oh Ala, mother of all children, help your son to return to the land of our fathers in the great beyond. His task is done. Let him go, and if it is his destiny to return, may he make the journey when his generation is long gone. I praise you. I thank you”.

Just then, Urenna’s birth pangs seemed to deepen and her moaning increased, urging Nwanyioma to take to delivering the child. is time, she was hopeful that the child would cooperate.

“e caul, we need the membrane,” Ijeoma called out to Nwanyioma from the recess. At that moment, Nwanyioma dug her hands into the groaning woman and pulled out the membrane. e entity looked like a universe of its own – the veins that criss-crossed all over, red and green, like the blood in their veins, the produce of their farms. It was shaped like an egg, made more visible to the eye as Ahamefula’s weight thinned out the sac.

Ijeoma rushed to Nwanyioma who turned away from Urenna to hand him Ahamefula’s membranous lining. Outside, he raised it to the skies then ran to Ala Oma where the merije waited for his transition.

Nwanyioma opened the birthing sac with all her devotion and attention. ere lay the most innocent of children, his arms raised in front of his face. A loud cry from Ahamefula pierced through as the cold air swept over him. She separated the cord between the merije and his mother with the blade of an mk̀ pà.

Once she had ascertained that his breathing was normal, Nwanyioma wrapped the child with a large strip of fresh banana leaves and laid him on the birthing mat to tend to Urenna as her body eased out the placenta. In a later ritual, Urenna would bury the placenta where other seed mothers would squat over and urinate on it, to ward off infertility.

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On one arm, Nwanyioma carried Ahamefula to her wooden stool, and with the other, she set a calabash before her. She filled it with warm water from the herb pot before soaking in a sponge made from dried coconut husks until it softened enough to be used on the newborn. Next, she made a herbal bath in the calabash, adding a broth of medicine that smelled like the earth. She kept a cup closeby, it was filled with ude-aki, the black crude kernel oil that would provide relief for the coldness and discomfort associated with a night birth.

Urenna looked up joyfully when Nwanyioma brought Ahamefula to her and nodded her approval when Nwanyioma told her it was time to present the merije to the Rip�blik. Ahamefula was e Chosen. Not only was he a merije, he was also a caul bearer. His foetal abode had become the bridge that would aid his predecessor’s transition. It was uncommon for it to happen, but it did.

Nwanyioma, with the confidence of a guardian, swung the wooden door of the birthing hut open and cried to the waiting crowd:

Onye nuru akwa nwa

Me ngwa ngwa eeeee

obughi otuonye nwe nwa

Whoever hears the cry of a baby

should hasten up eeee

Not only one individual owns a child.

Nwanyioma received a few shakes on her shoulder in salutation for returning from the journey between life and death. She went to the mbari and presented Ahamefula to the Council of Elders before returning to the crowd. e people prevailed because Nwanyioma had prevailed. But amidst the drumming that had stopped abruptly and the celebration that followed, Nwanyioma’s attention was turned to Ala Oma. She had birthed the departing merije; his birth had been like that of an earthling, quick and without negotiations. For a fleeting second, she wished she could go and bid him farewell.

In the nearby hut, Ijeoma looked at the merije laid out on the pallet. e long lashes no longer fluttered and its mouth, once hidden by a thick moustache, slacked open in one corner. His cord with the Rip�blik had been severed. Ijeoma ordered his porters to carry the merije out for the crowd to see. e terrible groan that rose from Nwanyioma’s bosom when she saw the departed merije was soon replaced with the joyous song of the crowd as they welcomed Ahamefula:

Onye nuru akwa nwa

Me ngwa ngwa eeeee

obughi otuonye nwe nwa


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Whoever hears the cry of a baby

should hasten up eeee

Not only one individual owns a child.

#

Nwanyioma watches the child as he peeks around the mud walls of her hut. Usually, children spied on her because legend went that she was their mother and that they were born from the udara tree in her compound. It was said that when she sucked on the fruit, she swallowed its large seeds. Each fruit had five seeds. After a few moons, the seeds grew and at night, while the moon howled, she regurgitated and filled the village with children.

e child approaches her. e nwankpa looks familiar – the sharp angles of its shoulders, the dimpled place on its head. But she had delivered too many of them to remember. She leans forward to get a better look at the child. en suddenly, the child rushes up to her. She is taken aback, and with her last strength, she springs up from her chair. He grabs her arm with a force that is bigger than his size and leads her to the bush behind her house. ere he points to the herbaceous vines of yams, the seed crop of Ala. She glances at where he points to among the foliage. e plant flourishes among other tree roots. is plant is about twice his size.

Harvest time is near.

“Is that mine?” he asks.

“Who are you?” She questions, more out of incredulity at the audacious child than curiosity.

“I am Ahamefula. And you … are my mother.”

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Achalugo Chioma Ilozumba

ACHALUGO IS A LEGAL PRACTITIONER AND AN ACCOMPLISHED NOVELIST, PLAYWRIGHT AND SCREENWRITER. HER DEBUT NOVEL; MMIRINZO, WAS FIRST RUNNER UP FOR THE 2022 SPRING PRIZE FOR WOMEN AUTHORS. HER STAGE PLAY, DAUGHTERS OF THE EAST, MADE HER THE FIRST FEMALE

WINNER OF THE BEETA PRIZE FOR PLAYWRITING AFTER IT WON IN 2020. SHE HAS ALSO WON PRIZES IN DRAMA FROM THE ASSOCIATION OF NIGERIAN AUTHORS (ANA), AND THE QURAMO PRIZE FOR FICTION.

SHE WAS ONE OF THE SIX PLAYWRIGHTS CHOSEN TO PARTICIPATE IN THE 2021 PLAYWRIGHTS LAB ORGANIZED BY THE NATIONAL THEATRE OF WALES, IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE LAGOS THEATRE

FESTIVAL AND THE BRITISH COUNCIL.

Art by Chigozie Amadi

The Ghosts of the Manhole At Enem Junction

A child fell down the manhole and died.

It is a notorious manhole, at a notorious junction.

Granted, in Lagos, everywhere is notorious, that place is a city that never sleeps, the residents have no peace, and joy eludes them. ey are always upset about something, trust me, do not judge them by how they look or dress. A man will own houses and shops and be dressed in a plain Tee, shorts, worn-out flip-flops and carry a leather purse under his armpit. Do not be fooled, that leather purse is full of wads of local and foreign currency.

Another could be driving in the latest Mercedes car, and you hit them from behind. Ahhh! You are finished. ey open the door and out flies the crazy, they may pull their shoes to fight, and if you do not stop them in time, the wig goes off –that is when you are completely finished.

But you see that that junction called Enem Junction? It is most notorious.

It is an orita-merin, important to man, as well as spirit.

You would think the manhole would be a problem because of this, but the problem is more man than spirit.

“Enough is Enough!” I shout to my fellow ghosts at the meeting.

When I say fellow, I mean it only in how we share one thing in common – dying in the manhole of Enem junction. Here, you were younger than a two-year-old who got here before you, even if you lived to eighty before you died.

“Yet another child?” Annette screams in agony from her position on the fifth row. Annette is a kind ghost; the type I wish I had as a friend in my lifetime.

We are thirty-three at this meeting, thirty sitting in ten rows of threes each, on the floor at the junction, unseen to the naked human eye. e ones who can see us bow in acknowledgement and move on, saying nothing, because they know not to.

It is not 9.00 a.m. yet, and Enem junction is already in chaos, gridlocked.

e drivers disregard the traffic light, cussing each other, including the ones blasting gospel music from their music players.

“Annette…”, one of us whispers.

We are surprised, those in front turn their heads, the whisper is from the middle of the seventh row.

Barbara Ufedo.

She hardly speaks and has spent all her time here making visits to places she had lived back on earth. She had been walking home one evening after heavy rains, and in the darkness, tried to walk across the junction. ere was a flood, and the water masked the death trap. Barbara never made it to the other side of the junction, and her body was found a few days later at a drainage exit.

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Her parents wailed and wailed, blaming evil spirits because Barbara’s wedding was the next week.

Enem junction is important to spirit and man, I have said this already. But I repeat, the problem with it, is man.

Some rogues go at night and steal the manhole covers, so they can sell it as scrap metal, leaving the manhole open, and unsuspecting people – like me, walk into their death.

Barbara had hovered for one year around her Fiancé, only stopping now that he had moved on with another woman.

Closures mean different things to everyone. But today, at this meeting, we all want one closure – the end of deaths through the manhole at Enem junction.

“Annette, how old was the child?” Barbara continues.

“Eight,” Annette replies.

“What time was it?”

“4.00 p.m.”

“Where was she going to?”

“She was walking home from school.”

“What of her parents?”

“ey say she walked home every day because her house was just a street away from the school.”

“e manhole is close to the school gate, why was it left open again?”

“ey said the school authorities had written repeatedly to the Government to do something about it.”

“Did the Government do anything?”

“Yes, they replaced it.”

“And?”

ere was silence.

Barbara repeats herself, “And?”

I bring my hands to my upper chest and gesture downwards, stopping at my abdomen. I do this repeatedly until the blue flames die out.“

The Ghosts of the Manhole At Enem Junction - Achalugo Chioma Ilozumba

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ere is more silence.

e new ghost of Enem junction begins to sob. She is lithe, with her hair braided in suku.

She is lost.

“I want to go home.” She wails even louder.

Annette moves over to her and carries her, cooing, “You are home now, my dear.”

Gregory stands to his feet, I see the rage flow through him, it is the colour of flames from a gas cooker, blue.

“Barbara, you know the answer, it was stolen – again! Stolen!”

Gregory was a twenty-eight-year-old man returning from work the day he had died in the manhole. He had been murdered, pushed down intentionally by some hoodlums who waylaid him, stole his phone and laptop, and shoved him down the hole.

He continues, his voice, a mini thunder, “is will be the last time! e last time!”

“Yes!”, comes the chorus response.

I see sparks of blue flames across twenty-nine of them, Annette is incapable of anger.

I don’t like blue flames. I do not want this meeting riddled with tempers.

“Ghosts of Enem junction,” I cajole, “Calm, calm, please.” I bring my hands to my upper chest and gesture downwards, stopping at my abdomen. I do this repeatedly until the blue flames die out.

“We need our anger, but not yet.” I say to the gathering.

e madness at the junction is worse, the weather reads 39 degrees Celsius, it is not noon yet, but it is hot enough for the hawkers who have brought in their life-saving combo of Gala and La Casera.

ere is a bus with school children, can you imagine that? ey had surely missed morning assembly, and with the way the young ones are all sleeping, they certainly didn’t get the requisite hours of sleep. Some of them were probably woken up as early as 4.00 a.m., to meet up with their school buses.

Why?

Please do not ask me why, it can take you two hours to get to the street beside your own, trust me.

Why do they still live there?

You cannot keep asking me these things, we like our Lagos like that. Okay, Okay, they, not we, I am here now, so, they. ey like their Lagos like that.

e Ghosts who flank me come and whisper into my ear, Janet, after Kubirat. I


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give Kubirat permission to speak because she will lead whatever solution we come up with. She and Kubirat are in charge of whatever required physical combat with humans.

Janet has an athletic build; she jokes often about how she could have run at the Olympics if she hadn’t gone down the manhole at Enem junction. She is one of the oldest here because she died ten years ago.

“e plan is threefold; we will need the manhole supervised by a group of us, round the clock. We will need a group of us to bring the thief to his knees, and the last group will pin the thief down until morning.”

Barbara stands up, I see blue flames course through her form again.

“Tell me what to do.” She announces.

“And me too.” Gregory joins her on his feet.

“And me too,”

“And me too.”

e thirty-three ghosts of Enem junction approve the plan, the decision to act is unanimous.

*

It takes the Government three days to replace the manhole cover, and another week until someone attempts to steal it again. We are all at different places when the five ghosts keeping watch send out signals.

It is an eerily dark night, I don’t have a wristwatch, but perhaps, it is almost the witching hour. I guess so because some humans are trooping with small bowls and calabashes. ey place bowls of Akara and other things at Enem junction, the spirits they are meant to appease are out, debating intentions and weighing the sacrifices and atonements. We say nothing to them, they say nothing to us, an Orita-merin belongs to everybody.

ere is an even greater number of humans who can see us, but they go about their business. Some of them look worried, seeing thirty-three of us assembled around the manhole, they know it is an impending catastrophe. But they say nothing, do nothing, they don’t dare.

One of them keeps staring at us, refusing to lower or take away her gaze.

I see blue flames rise through Kubirat. Kubirat jokingly told me one day, that where she was from – while she was alive, they ate homage for breakfast, lunch and

He looks afraid. The girl whose body Kubirat borrowed is younger than him, and he can beat her up if he wants to. Yet he remains on the floor because they say that a chicken that begins to chase you may have grown teeth overnight.

“

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dinner, and abhorred whatever looked like disrespect.

is girl, staring at Kubirat, eyeball to eyeball, is looking for trouble.

We return our attention to the thief, he is a scrawny looking, middle-aged man. He is dressed in grey trousers and a shirt that smells like a five-day-old deposit of sweat from an undeodorised armpit. He has some tools in his hand and bends down to his dishonest work of unscrewing the cover.

e plan is simple: we allow him to finish, and then grab him and pin him to the manhole in whatever position we like.

We have decided to do this to the next five manhole thieves, and soon, word will spread, that the manhole cover at Enem junction is no longer thievable.

“ere has been a change in plan,” Kubirat announces.

Her frame is blue, from the crown of her head to the sole of her feet.

“Kubirat, there is rage in you.” Janet points out, worried.

Kubirat’s eyes are fixed on the girl, the rest of us watch her watch Kubirat.

Kubirat begins to smile, and I recognise it – mischief.

“What is your name?” She asks the young girl.

“Baira” the girl replies.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“I came out to work.”

“Who is training you?”

Ba mi.”, she retorts, pointing to her father, who is busy with the prayers he is offering.

“Didn’t Ba mi teach you the ways of the night?”

e girl shrugs nonchalantly.

“Alright, Baira, I see you are uninterested in paying attention to what your father is doing.” Kubirat smiles wistfully, “I have work for you.”

e flash is swift, and the breeze she leaves in her wake is the type you find around the sea on stormy nights.

Baira falls from the impact of the invasion, and then slowly rises to her feet, clasping her head in her hands. She staggers for a moment before she lets go of her head, and regains her balance.

Some dogs begin to howl some distance away.

I shake my head.


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“Kubirat, what is this about?”

“A little fun.” She laughs.

Her laughter is too rambunctious for Baira’s body, even though the latter is a somewhat plump girl.

Kubirat walks to the thief.

“Oga, why you wan comot dat tin, na your papa buy am?”

e thief looks up, unimpressed.

Kubirat hands him a vicious slap that sends him reeling over.

“You dey crase?” he enquires, still on the floor.

He looks afraid. e girl whose body Kubirat borrowed is younger than him, and he can beat her up if he wants to. Yet he remains on the floor because they say that a chicken that begins to chase you may have grown teeth overnight.

Annette comes up to me.

“Ebby…” she begins, calling me fondly in a way that I had begged her to stop because it makes me sad and reminds me of my mother who endlessly grieves my passing.

“What is it, Annette?”

Annette is in her mid-50s, but I am the lead ghost of Enem Junction, also, we are fine with first names.

“Ebieya”, she continues, “tell Kubirat to come out, I want the girl’s body.”

A murmur passes through the thirty-three ghosts of Enem junction, the plan is going out of order.

“Trust me, please.” She begs.

“No!” Kubirat bellows, turning in the direction of Annette’s voice.

e thief sees the young girl turn to speak to someone he cannot see and he hears the anger in her voice, he looks a tiny bit afraid.

At dawn, the thief will be found inside the manhole, but only halfway in, with his upper body exposed to mosquitoes, and his lower body, a banquet for the rodents of the manhole. He will be alive, but with scars that tell the tales found on our bodies when they were retrieved.

“

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“Why, Annette?” I ask.

“I want to talk to him.”

“Why?” Gregory asks.

“Please, just five minutes.”

Barbara is unimpressed too, and she stands by Gregory,

“If everyone uses her body, what will be left of her? Besides, this whole debacle is unnecessary drama. Let us go back to the plan.”

“Please Barbara and Gregory, I only want to hear his side of the story, two minutes.”

ey both shrug.

I turn to Kubirat.

“Come out.”

“No, I am lead for tonight.”

“Kubirat, come out, please. She wants only a few minutes; besides I am the Overall lead and you have done this without my consent.”

Kubirat grunts, and steps out.

e girl collapses to the ground and Annette goes in.

Annette is gentle, the girl recovers quicker than she did with Kubirat.

“Oga, why you dey do dis tin na? E no good.” Annette reprimands.

e man is taken aback by the now gentle tone of the young girl.

He does not reply.

“Oga, na you I dey follow talk.”

He stands to his feet and resumes unscrewing the manhole.

“You no know say dem dey sell am as scrap iron?”

Annette shakes her head in disappointment.

“How much?”

“N10,000.”

Annette heaves a heavy sigh.

“So because of N10,000 you dey kill people?”

e man stops for a while, looks up at her and waves dismissively.


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“Na just Iron I comot, I no kill person.”

“Wetin you think say go happen when you comot am?”

e man throws his head back in laughter.

“Guffmen go put anoda one na.”

“Before then, if person fall inside nko?”

e thief was sweating, big, fat drops of sweat, he was nearly done.

“If dem fall inside, dem go bring am out na!”

Annette goes to sit down on the kerb.

“So, what now?”, Kubirat demanded.

“We watch, let him finish.” Annette smiles.

e thief is puzzled.

“Auntie, who you dey follow talk?”

Annette continues to smile.

e manhole cover is out now.

Annette stands up and walks to him.

“I wan show you something.” She points down the hole, “look.”

e thief is hesitant.

“Look.”, her voice is curt now, it is an order.

He walks back to the hole and looks in, its mouth, now hungry for another death. He stares down the hole.

“Ewwweeee!” he exclaims in shock, “e deep o! is one fit swallow full human being.”

I see the blue rage through the forms of the other ghosts, expectedly, it is a reminder of their painful end.

“So why not cover it back?” Annette smiles, her motherly smile.

e man picks the manhole cover and places it underneath his armpit.

“Auntie, I no fit. Money wey I wan use buy melecin for my pikin?”

“You no get any other way to get money?”

“Auntie! Wey work!? Work no dey, you think say na clear eye pesin go use comot house for midnight come tiff scrap iron? When Guffmen no dey take kia of im citizens nko?”

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“e Government is doing their best, and we must play our own part as citizens…”

Kubirat has lost the last of her patience.

“Ghosts of Enem junction! e time has come, let us do as we have agreed.”

Annette turns to Kubirat, “Oh please, let us hear him out.”

e thief packs his tools and makes to leave.

“I, Kubirat, have no patience for that, everything is not a Montessori class, Annette! If you miss teaching so much why not reincarnate and continue?”

“No personal attacks, Kubirat,” I warn.

Kubirat swings in anger, “A thief like this is the reason my children are motherless! Suffering the loss of their mother, I have no time for pity, none!”

She begins to exude a grey colour – sadness, a colour I do not think anyone has seen her exude.

Janet, Kubirat’s second-in-command speaks for the first time this night.

“Let us not get above ourselves.” ere is quiet.

Janet’s voice is like that, alluring and commanding at the same time. She continues, “Annette and Kubirat, you have both stepped out of order tonight. Annette, please return the girl’s body, her father is nearly done with his work, Kubirat, you need time out, I’ll take over from here – with your permission, Ebieya.”

“Permission granted.”

Annette walks away from us to the other side of the junction where the young girl stood before she caught Kubirat’s fancy.

e thief begins to walk away, with his trophy and tools, a satisfied smile on his face.

Janet grabs him and flings him to the floor, Gregory snatches the manhole cover.

At dawn, the thief will be found inside the manhole, but only halfway in, with his upper body exposed to mosquitoes, and his lower body, a banquet for the rodents of the manhole. He will be alive, but with scars that tell the tales found on our bodies when they were retrieved.

is is how we will get them, one thief at a time.

His screams rent the air.

I stand by, cradling in my arms, as grey sweeps through her form, the reason for the call to action; the youngest, saddest and newest ghost of Enem junction.


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