Chapter 1
Yesterday, our rich in-law, Bongo, brought a horse to my uncle Gabriel’s house. It was a pre-wedding gift for my cousin, Keziah, who was soon to become his wife. The horse was a truly impressive creature, big, black, and powerful. It stood the height of two grown men and the girth of five fat women. Its white-streaked mane was long and thick, just like its sleek neck and bushy tail. The muscles in its torso rippled when it neighed, and its hooves kicked with manic frenzy, keeping all away from its vicinity. Everybody that saw it said that Bongo had done well, that he had given his in-laws a gift fit for a king. They also agreed it was a good thing the horse would be killed for the wedding feast. It had certainly earned the butcher’s knife and the soup pots with its unruly behaviour.
From the time it was dragged into my uncle’s compound and tethered to the mango tree, the black horse neighed with incessant panic. It screamed and groaned so much that we all were forced to abandon it and its mesmerising beauty in order to save our eardrums. Even we village children, normally used to extreme ruckus, found ourselves unable to withstand the terrifying screams of that great horse.
And its cries were truly chilling. It was an eerie whine that was shrouded with human anguish and terror. In my ten years of existence, I had heard the voices of countless creatures, from the chirpy songs of birds to the raging howls of rabid dogs. Yet nothing prepared me for the unearthly sounds of raw terror coming from the gaping mouth of the black horse. Even from the modest distance of my father’s compound, its piercing shrieks filled our ears and chilled our hearts. My skin involuntarily gave birth to little, hard rashes that came in shuddering waves as the black horse screamed through the endless hours of the morning and afternoon.
“I swear, that horse must be infected with madness,” my stepmother, Ọla, complained later that evening as the deafening din continued. “Its screams can be heard across all the compounds in this village. Someone should do something about it.”
“Perhaps it’s been bitten by a snake and is in a lot of pain,” my mother suggested, her eyes filled with the habitual compassion that made her a target of my stepmother’s manipulations. I could hardly recall a time when it wasn’t my mother feeding my three half-brothers. Ọla was always too busy with one thing or the other to care for her triplets, and Mama never complained about being taken advantage of by her.
“We can’t let the poor children starve,” Mama would always say whenever my big sister, Ada, complained about my stepmother’s laziness and non-existent maternal skills. “It’s not their fault that their mother is a Pancake-Face rather than a nurturing mother. After all, that’s one of the reasons your father married her: to appreciate her beauty rather than her cooking skills. At least she’s done what she was brought in to do, and has given your father three sons in just one pregnancy. What else can we ask of her?”
‘Pancake-Face’ was the term used to describe a well-powdered and made-up face. It was a beauty practice peculiar to beautiful women in our village. They would coat their faces with thick powder several shades paler than their skin, slap bright blue eye shadow on their lids, and colour red circles into their cheeks with lipstick. My stepmother was one of the biggest practitioners of that beauty regime and there was no denying that she was beautiful. With her tall slenderness, smooth ebony skin, and striking features, Ọla was a sight to dazzle every eye in our village—men, women, and children. Despite her not being my blood-mother, my dream was to be as beautiful as Ọla when I grew up.
Ọla pushed her glamorous, beaded braids away from her face, frowning in irritation as the black horse continued to groan. Its screams were getting louder and more terrifying as the night drew closer, and my heart continued to thud in involuntary panic.
“I heard that horses know when they’re going to die and will cry and mourn their impending death till the minute the butcher’s knife slices their throat,” my big sister Ada said, cracking her knuckles absent-mindedly as was her habit.
“Who told you such evil?” Ọla shivered delicately, shaking her head reproachfully. “This girl! I’ve never seen anyone that tells more outlandish tales than yourself. That’s how you convinced us that Keziah’s period was stolen by a witch, only for us to discover she was pregnant, hence this speedy marriage tomorrow, huh!” Ọla screwed up her beautiful face in disgust.
“I’m not lying, this woman,” Ada retorted. “Go ask Papa if you don’t believe me. I heard Papa telling Uncle Gabriel that horses can sense their death and will kick and bite anyone that comes near them, as well as cry non-stop until they’re killed. And I wasn’t lying about Keziah’s period, either. She told me herself that a witch had stolen her period; that’s why she didn’t even know she was pregnant till her tummy started swelling.” Ada’s voice was as fiery as her eyes. My big sister was known across the clans to have a temper that rivalled the fury-wind itself.
“Whatever.” Ọla waved a dismissive hand laden with sparkling rings. “I just wish someone would stuff something into that vile horse’s mouth, so we can get some rest. I don’t know how we’re expected to sleep tonight with all that din.” She leaned down and turned up the volume of the small transistor radio by her feet. My stepmother never went anywhere without her transistor radio and Mills & Boon book.
Instantly, the familiar happy lyrics of the FESTAC ’77 song filled the air: “Festac ’77, 77 is here; Festac ’77, 77 is here!” Over and over, the song repeated the joyful chorus in a never-ending loop.
“I’m sick of this useless song,” Ada bit out viciously, glowering at the radio. “That’s all they ever play these days, wretched ‘FESTAC ’77’ non-stop, as if there’s no other song in this world.”
“What is FESTAC ’77?” I asked from my mat. Ọla looked down at me and patted the empty space beside her. I quickly scrambled from the floor to sit next to her on the wooden bench.
“FESTAC ’77 is the festival of arts and culture currently taking place in the big city of Lagos,” Ọla said with that wistful tone of voice she had whenever she spoke of her beloved Lagos City, our country’s capital. “Every famous African from the world is taking part, even Miriam Makeba; you remember Miriam Makeba, don’t you?”
I nodded eagerly. “She’s the one that sang ‘The Naughty Little Flea’.”
“Exactly! She’s in Lagos City even as we speak. Heaven knows I’d give an arm and a leg to visit Lagos City again for this festival and—”
“What will you do there when you visit, eh?” Ada cut in with a voice dripping with mockery and spite. “Perhaps you’ll dazzle them with your Pancake-Face and read them a stupid story from your precious books, eh?”
Ọla gave her a withering look of disdain and coolly returned her attention to me.
“Bata, I told you I schooled in Lagos City before I married your father, didn’t I?” My stepmother smiled at me. I nodded enthusiastically again. I couldn’t recall the number of times Ọla had drooled about Lagos City to me and everybody that cared to listen. “Lagos City is like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Ọla continued, her eyes glowing dreamily. “The houses are so big and tall they cover the skyline. As for the roads, they’re so wide that ten cars can drive on them and still have space to spare. And come see the cars, Jesus Almighty! You’ll think you’re in New York in America. Everywhere you look are white people and rich people.” Ọla sighed wistfully.
“What’s the big deal about white people, eh?” Ada snapped. “If I want to see a white person all I have to do is wait for Christmas when Engineer Tip-Toe returns with his German wife and almost-white son,” she hissed loudly, cracking her knuckles angrily.
Engineer Tip-Toe was the only man in our village who had visited the white man’s country and got a university degree under the government’s sponsorship for gifted students. Since his return from Germany with his white wife and little son, he had been working in Lagos City and rumoured to be almost as rich as our village chief. He owned the second storey-building in our village, with the first one belonging to our chief.
In the background, Uncle Gabriel’s black horse released another chilling screech, instantly drowning out the FESTAC ’77 song.
“That’s it! I’m done with this blasted horse. I’m going to complain to Our-Husband right now about it.” Ọla stood up from the bench and sauntered away with her trademark slow and swaying walk. She left a heady scent of her perfume behind.
My stepmother was the only woman in the entire village that used perfume. It was in a bottle hidden inside a pale blue package with the bold title of ‘Charlie’. She told me that it was how white women smelled and that only the rich African women living in Lagos City used that powerful scent. I had once sneaked my way close enough to Engineer Tip-Toe’s German wife to smell her body, but she smelled nothing like Ọla’s perfume. She just smelled of breastmilk. When I told Ọla my observations, she explained that the African hot weather had likely drained the scent from her. It seemed every white woman that came to our country soon sweated away their natural perfumed odour. This discovery created a natural pity for Engineer Tip-Toe’s German wife in my heart. If only she knew what would happen to her, maybe she wouldn’t have followed Engineer Tip-Toe back to our village after all. I promised myself that as soon as I became educated and rich like my stepmother, I would acquire the white women’s body scent in its special Charlie bottle.
I watched Ọla head over to Papa’s parlour. I wanted to follow her to see what Papa might do, but I knew I would get a scolding from both my big sister and my mother, not to mention my father.
“Huh! Let’s see what the foolish woman will achieve,” Ada muttered, eyeing my stepmother’s departing back with icy malevolence. It was no secret that my stepmother and my big sister heartily despised each other. “Does she expect Papa to tell Uncle Gabriel to kill the horse before tomorrow’s wedding, eh? Well, she’ll soon find out that this is one time her beauty can’t perform miracles for
her, huh!”
“Ada, watch your mouth,” Mama admonished gently, eyeing my three half-brothers as she spoke.
Not that Mama needed to bother. The three little hogs were too busy stuffing their faces with boiled corn and coconuts to notice either their mother’s departure or my big sister’s insults. Even at their tender age of five, the triplets, or Ejima as they were collectively called, had already built a fearsome reputation in the village for unrivalled gluttony. The clanswomen knew to stuff their faces to get them to behave, and Mama never let them leave her presence with empty stomachs, as rare as it was to encounter them with non-protruding tummies.
I knew Ejima once had individual names, but I was sure neither they nor their mother remembered those names. They were called Ejima from birth, meaning twins or triplets. Much worse, they were so identical that it was impossible to tell one from the other. They even managed to confuse their own mother at times. When they heard their name called out, they would answer with uniform synchronicity, knowing that whatever occasioned the call related uniformly to them, be it a new shirt, a sweet treat, a warm bath, or bedtime stories. Being their constant playmate, I was the only one they couldn’t trick in the entire village. There was a special glint in their individual eyes that revealed their very soul to me, coupled with the tone of their voices. Ejima-Three cried constantly while Ejima-Two giggled with irrepressible mischief. The big bully, Ejima-One, the oldest of the triplets, already walked with the puffed-arms swagger of a midget dictator, as if he ruled the entire world and heaven.
We waited for several minutes for Ọla to return to the communal space where the family was gathered for our usual evening meal. I didn’t really expect her to come back anytime soon, as Papa was known to enjoy her company to the exclusion of all else, save Ejima’s. So, we were all pleasantly surprised when Ọla returned within the space of minutes.
“So, what did Papa say?” Ada asked before Ọla could sit down. “Did he get rid of the horse? I swear, I can still hear the horse’s screams, can’t you, Bata?” She turned to me for confirmation, her eyes brimming with malevolent humour.
I quickly nodded, before turning to Mama for affirmation. I figured Ọla wouldn’t be displeased with me if Mama agreed with my sister and me. Despite her gentle nature, Mama was still Papa’s first wife and Ọla owed her respect, especially when Ada was around. Ada would kill anyone that disrespected our mother in her presence.
“Your father is a fool,” Ọla muttered with uncharacteristic viciousness.
“Don’t call my father a fool, you stupid woman,” Ada raged, squaring up to Ọla. Mama got hurriedly to her feet too. She placed herself between Ada and Ọla, as ever determined to prevent another fight between her first daughter and her sister-wife.
“Our-Wife, watch your words around the children,” Mama admonished, shaking her head at Ọla. “How can you insult their father in their
presence, eh?”
“I wasn’t insulting him,” Ọla snapped. “I was only speaking the truth. Where his big brother, Gabriel, is involved, that man will never see reason. Anything Gabriel wants, Gabriel gets. And now that his daughter is marrying into wealth, he expects the world to bow down to him; not minding she’s marrying a man old enough to be her father, and even worse, a man whose two wives died funny deaths. You know I speak the truth, Our-First.”
Ọla hissed loudly, her red lips pursed in vexation. “Now, Our-Husband has asked us to go and spend the night in Gabriel’s compound, to help with the wedding preparations. I don’t know about you, Our-First, but I’m telling you now, I’ll only spend an hour there before coming back to my own bed.” Ọla kissed her teeth as she motioned her sons over. “You three pigs, come along now. Time to sleep, and don’t you dare ask me for anything else to eat tonight. I’m too tired for your nonsense, so be warned.” Ọla turned back to Mama. “Our-First, will you ask Ada to keep her eyes on Ejima and Bata while we’re gone?”
Mama nodded. “Of course she will.” She turned to me. “Bata, follow your brothers to bed and don’t give your big sister any trouble tonight, alright?” There was a significant tone in her voice which I recognised with a sinking heart. “We’ll be back very soon from your uncle’s house.”
I nodded slowly, rising from the floor where I’d been sitting eating boiled corncobs and coconuts. Ada looked mutinous, but there was nothing she could do about her new responsibilities. At sixteen years, she was the oldest child in the family and the one usually lumped with the childcare duties whenever both Mama and our stepmother were simultaneously absent.
“Before I forget, make sure Bata doesn’t sleep with her head towards the door,” Mama said to Ada, before turning to look at me pointedly. “We don’t want you having more nightmares and waking up everybody when we’re gone, do we?”
I lowered my head in embarrassment. My nightmares were legendary in our family. Rarely did a night go by without my waking our household with my screams. I would start off sleeping on my thin mattress on the floor, and end up outside our L-shaped bungalow, shouting and gasping for air, my face drenched in terror-sweats. No matter how much Mama prodded, I could never recall my dreams in detail. All I was left with was the impression of a thick forest shrouded in mist, and chalk-coloured women who smelled horribly, ghastly in their unearthly paleness,
chasing after me with unbelievable speed. They sprinted on all fours like dangerous beasts of prey, shrieking rage into my ears as they drew nearer, reaching for me with their white claws… closer… closer…
I would stumble into wakefulness, screeching and running like somebody chased by a pride of lions. It was the same dream night after night, and all the rosaries Mama placed around my neck before I slept failed to keep away my sleep tormentors.
Mama said the nightmares arrived on the day I survived the fall into the deep ravine along the route to the village stream at the age of five years. According to the witnesses, I stopped breathing for so long they were convinced I had died from my head injuries. I woke up just as they arrived back to our compound, bearing my prone body in readiness for a burial. Save for a slight grogginess, I seemed to be just fine, speaking normally and recognising faces. And apart from the bump on my head and some small cuts and bruises, there were no other visible signs of my terrible accident. In no time, I was back to my boisterous play.
My recovery was declared a miracle from God, and Mama purchased several candles for thanksgiving prayers at our local Catholic church.
Her gratitude was short-lived.
That same night, I experienced the first attack of the nightmares that would go on to blight my life and the tranquillity of our home.
When I was six years old, just slightly older than Ejima were now, Papa took me to the shrine of the village medicine-man, Dibia, to cure my nightmares. That was after our local priest, Father David, had exhausted all his holy water and novenas on me following Mama’s entreaties. Papa, who wasn’t a believer of the Christian faith, dragged me to the medicine-man’s shrine after one particularly bad week of shrieking and sleep disruption.
Dibia had discarded Mama’s rosaries with a contemptuous snort and replaced them with a string of charmed cowrie beads. He also prescribed that I lie on my mattress with my head facing the wall instead of the bedroom door.
“If the child sleeps with her head facing the door, she will absorb the negative auras of all the wandering supernatural entities that walk the roads at night while the rest of humanity sleep,” Dibia said, massaging powerful oils and herbs into my head. “However, if she sleeps with her legs facing the door, it’ll allow her to run, and even fly, should her dreaming-self encounter other itinerant spectres with malevolent intentions.”
Papa and I left the medicine-man’s shrine with little hope and great anxiety. After all, we had tried every other remedy possible to no avail. There was no certainty that Dibia’s juju would work.
The same night following the visit to the medicine-man, I slept with my feet facing the door as instructed. And for the first time in my life, the pale spectres did not torment my sleep. Mama was so happy that she prepared a celebratory feast for the family and even took baskets of food gifts in secret to Dibia to avoid offending Father David. For several weeks afterwards, I continued to sleep peacefully with my feet facing the door, while the rest of our household enjoyed untroubled slumber as a result.
My respite expired three months following the visit to Dibia’s shrine. I went to sleep with no thoughts of my erstwhile ghostly tormentors. Halfway through the night, I woke up shrieking, running, and flailing my arms wildly as if to push away something unwholesome and terrifying. Once again, our household was in turmoil and Papa was threatening again to send me away as a domestic servant in a big city, a dire fate normally reserved for difficult children such as myself.
The older I grew, the worse my symptoms became. With each attack, Papa’s irritation with me increased till the previous tender indulgence he had for me vanished, gradually replaced with frowning impatience. Save for my stepmother’s intervention, Papa would have surely carried out his dire threat. Thankfully, Ọla needed my errand-girl and playmate duties for her triplets. So, she used her Pancake-Face magic on Papa, thereby ensuring my salvation from expulsion. In gratitude, I redoubled my efforts to keep Ejima busy with all types of games and foodstuff, ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
