✦✦✦
Less than a year into her marriage, Enu fulfilled expectations with the birth of a son, whose striking resemblance to our husband was confirmed in his name, Nwanna, his father’s son. On the night of Nwanna’s birth, Queen Ill-fortune’s gleeful laughter rang so loudly in my head I feared I would lose my sanity. But I masked my face with celebratory smiles at the wondrous arrival of our husband’s heir, Nwanna, even as I sensed the malice behind the smiles of the clanswomen, heard the velvet spite behind their solicitous enquiries about my well-being.
However, there was nothing I could do to shield the evidence of my pain, try as I could. My reddened eyes remained puffed with unfinished tears, ready to shed my agony at the slightest excuse. Once, I had known the bliss of holding a child in my arms, suckling his little head on my tender breasts, his skin soft, silky to the touch, his voice beautiful and sweet when he called me “Mami.” I had nothing now, would never know the glory of motherhood again. The same villagers that had once treated me with respect, now scorned me with indifference. Every honour now went to Enu and her new son. Our husband had ceased to know me as a wife from the day my son died. Now he had another wife and son, I had become an outcast of both man and the gods.
✦✦✦
One night, a year to the birth of Nwanna, I awoke to the sound of a child’s cries outside my window. It was mournful and muted, yet at the same time, piercing and insistent. I sat up on my bed, its loose springs squeaking out in protest. The cries stopped—just for a few seconds—then resumed with louder intensity. It sounded like a Bush-Baby, that nocturnal primate with a child’s fingers, which mimics the cries of a newborn baby. It is a cursed creature, sent by enemies to cast evil spells on unsuspecting people. When sent to a woman, it kills all affections the husband has for her, ensuring she’ll never become pregnant and have a child. Tricking unwary women with their infant-like cries, these evil creatures assume the form of wicked goblins, raping the women and biting off their toes after the vile act so that people know what had taken place. Consequently, all future children born by the molested women must be killed and buried at the Ajọ-ọfia to ensure the Bush-Baby curse is destroyed.
I stumbled through the darkness to my window, to make sure the latch was firmly secured before returning to my bed, my heart thudding in unbridled terror. I knew who had sent me the Bush-Baby—Enu, my husband’s second wife. Not content with taking my husband, my bedroom and my status, she now wished to inflict the vilest of all curses on me by having me molested by the goblin Bush-Baby. Oh Holy Mary mother of God! Would my travails never end? I spent the rest of the night in wakeful misery, listening to the incessant cries of that evil abomination till Agu’s prize cockerel crowed in the dawn and the unholy cries finally ceased.
For three more nights, the accursed Bush-Baby outside my window tormented my sleep. On the fourth night, it entered my room.
I awoke to the familiar child-like wails, feeling a terror grip my heart beyond anything I’ve ever felt since the death of my son. The cries ceased as soon as I opened my eyes. Something was wrong, very wrong; bad. The unnatural stillness in my room was heavy with a waiting quality that made the darkness a solid malignant mass. Covered in cold sweat, I fumbled for the box of matches to light my kerosene lantern. In the thin light of the lamp, I picked out a sudden movement near my Adu, the high basket that contained my special clothes, reserved for weddings and Sunday service. Something scuttled to the back of the Adu, something the size of a dog, yet faster in motion than any dog I had ever seen. Then it cried, a sound so piercing and terrible that my heart froze. Bush- Baby! Oh Holy Maria! Jesus! What to do? There was no escape through my door as the Adu stood behind the wooden door on the inside of my bedroom. My eyes darted wildly around the room, looking for something, anything, to defend myself. The gleaming silver of my crucifix on the small table beckoned like an angel’s halo. I reached out my hand to it and felt a sudden chill cover my entire body in goosebumps.
Ebuka, my beautiful, sweet son, stood in front of me; Ebuka, naked as the day he was born, his skin caked in the dirty mud of his unhallowed grave! I wanted to scream…I think I screamed. Then my mind died.
✦✦✦
I awoke, drenched in cold water, surrounded by Enu, our husband, the fat sisters and the house-servants. Enu held an empty bucket in her hand. I figured she must have doused me in cold water to bring me out of my faint. For a few seconds, my shame dulled my memory, especially when I saw the fury in Agu’s eyes. Then recollection returned with terrifying panic.
“Ebbbbbuka!” I stuttered, struggling to speak through the terror that still held my heart in its grip. I cast wild looks around my room as I struggled to my feet, my wet cloths clinging to my skin, bringing shivers to my entire body. “Ebuka… Where’s Ebuka? He’s here…he’s back…”
“Chei! Tufia! Heaven forbid evil! The woman is crazy again!” Enu shouted, snapping her fingers to ward off being infected by my lunacy, a cold smirk on her face. “Onye-ishi, when are you going to get rid of this mad woman, eh? It’s not fair that our peace is ruined by her. Your son, Nwanna, needs his sleep, which this crazy woman won’t let him have. I think…”
Agu raised his hand, cutting off Enu’s tirade with that single gesture. At the same time, he waved away his sisters and the wide-eyed house-helps, his cold eyes fixed on me all the while.
“Return to your room,” he said to Enu without taking his eyes from me. I saw a look of rebellion flash across Enu’s eyes as she hesitated. “Go! Now!” Agu barked. Enu didn’t need a second warning. Despite her mammoth size, I’ve heard her loud yelps on a few occasions, as a result of Agu’s fists. I’ll say it for our husband, he was indiscriminate in his violence, even if I got the lion share.
As the door slammed behind her, Agu approached me, his steps silent, deliberate. I huddled closer to the bedpost, pulling my pillow close, anything to ward off the blows I knew were coming my way.
“So…your son returned to you, did he?” Agu’s voice was soft, dangerous. “You dare mock me with a name that should never be mentioned in my house! You stupid, stupid woman.”
My pillow was useless, as were my cries for mercy. Agu rained his fury on my body, my head, my face, leaving me a bloody, crumbled wreck on the floor when he was done.
The next night, when my son returned to me, I knew better than to scream or faint. I fought my terror and spoke to my son. By the time we were done talking, all my former fears had disappeared. The following night, I had a basin of clean water and new clothes waiting in my room, together with his tiny red shoes I had saved since his death.
I washed the grave-mud and death odour off him, oiled his body with palm-kernel oil, combed his thick hair and dressed him up with his new clothes and the red shoes, which still fitted perfectly. Then I carried him in my arms and rocked him till sleep came to me.
When I awoke the next morning, Ebuka was gone and his clothes and little red shoes lay abandoned on my bed. I felt the tears choke my throat at my new loss, a loss now magnified by the brief bliss of motherhood I had experienced in the night. Suddenly, the pain from Agu’s brutality on my body returned with throbbing intensity. I had felt nothing since my son returned to me and his disappearance re-awakened all my dormant pains, both mental and physical. For the first time, I contemplated suicide. Surely, death was better than this earthly torment!
The next night when my son came back to me, naked, again caked in filthy mud from his unhallowed grave, with that foul smell of decay still clinging to him despite all my scrubbing and washing, I welcomed him into my arms with indescribable joy. I again carried out the loving chore of cleansing and dressing him, secure in the knowledge that he would be back the following night, till my love held him back for good and he lost the urge to go back to Ajọ-ọfia.
So began my second phase of motherhood. I nursed and loved my dead baby who neither ate nor stayed beyond the light of dawn. No matter what delicacies I offered him, Ebuka would never take a
single bite nor drink a sip of water. His eyes remained open through the night and his cold little body would never soak the warmth from my cradling arms. But he was happy to be together with his loving Mami again.
And me? My steps grew lighter and my face glowed with ecstasy. I noticed the suspicious looks of the household, the whispers—It’s the madness… she’s too far gone now for help! What did I care? I had my son again. But I wasn’t enough for Ebuka, though. He started asking me to bring him back for good. He was lonely and sad in Ajo-ofia. The cursed soil kept coughing up his corpse, rejecting his body as the humans had rejected it. It had taken him years to find his way back to our house, a miracle in itself, considering the remoteness of his gravesite. He missed me desperately and wanted to remain with me, but he could not return for good till he was reincarnated back to us. I knew Ebuka’s only chance of reincarnation lay with me getting pregnant, enabling him to return through my new birth. But how could I make that happen when our husband no longer touched me as a wife?
✦✦✦
I visited Ogbunigwe’s hut at midnight of the next full moon. He would only see supplicants at that specific time. Ogbunigwe was as fierce-faced as his reputation, tall, marble-featured, coal-skinned and bloody of eyes. His body was knife-carved with intricate Nsibidi designs too mysterious for me to decipher. His voice when he spoke to me, was deep, yet raspy, full of authority and ancient knowledge. The aura of menace about him terrified me even more than the macabre place he lived, set deep in the forest and littered with numerous human skulls and animal carcasses. The metallic smell of blood was strong, overpowering, coupled with another strange odour I could not fathom. The great medicine man was dressed in nothing but a loin-cloth and multiple amulets and charms.
As I stepped through the low door of his hut, I noticed that the cement flooring of the room was polished with blood. Briefly, the thought flickered in my mind—What will Father O’Keefe think of me if he knew where I was? I couldn’t believe that I, Desdemona, once an aspiring teacher and a devout Catholic, had now descended to this level of fetishness. I waved the thought away. We are all what our Chi decides for us. Who can say what is right and what is wrong? After all, didn’t King Saul himself visit the Witch of Endor in the Bible and spoke to God’s prophet, Samuel?
I bowed my head and fell to my knees before the great Juju-man.
“Great One, please, hear the pleas of your handmaiden.” I could neither control the tremor in my voice nor the quake in my body. “My husband no longer touches me as a wife, and I am a woman without a child. My childbearing years are shortening, and my departed son is now a restless dead. He cannot reincarnate back to his clan without a pregnancy in my belly. Help me, great and wise One. Give me the pregnancy I seek. Give me back my son. Chain my husband to my side, so that my belly may once more swell with the seeds of a child and the bloodline is preserved.” My tears flowed unchecked as I beat my chest repeatedly with my fists.
Ogbunigwe was silent for several minutes, staring down at me from his great height, his face inscrutable, like the jagged rocks surrounding his abode.
“Are you prepared to pay the price?” His voice was low, deep, terrible.
“I have saved enough money,” I said, reaching to the lumpy knot at the edge of my wrapper, where my folded Naira notes were hidden.
“Foolish woman! Keep your money,” his hand waved away my offering with disdain. “Listen with your ears and pay heed to my words. I repeat, are you prepared to pay the price?”
Then I knew. And yet I did not know. I suddenly recalled another saying of my people—never dine with the devil without a very long spoon, in case you need to make a speedy escape. A favour from the devil always came with a price in blood. But whose blood? Whose death? I could already sense the presence of Queen Ill-fortune at my side, mocking me, laughing at my dilemma. Her glee decided me. I was done with being the plaything of the Queen of Misery.
“I am ready, Great One,” my voice was resolute, with no signs of its earlier tremor. “I am ready to pay the price.”
“On your head be it. Before the gods, I wash my hands of any guilt and blame. I am but a messenger of the spirits. Your contract is with them, not me. You have entered this agreement of your own free will and so shall it be. There is no turning back now. Give me your hand.”
With a swift flicker, Ogbunigwe pierced the skin of my thumb with a blade, drawing the blood in a thick spurt. I saw the red drops hit the floor of his shrine with a hiss that had me almost bolting from the room. From nowhere, smoke suddenly filled the room, as if a thick fog had descended from the skies. The smell of blood was overpowering. My head was swimming, my eyes watering. My breath came out in short gasps. I saw movements in the fog, quick darting motions of figures I could not decipher. They seemed human, pale and ghastly, yet, too insubstantial to the sight. And surely, no human could move with such speed, even faster than hurricane. What on Amadioha’s earth were they?
Ogbunigwe gave me a list of items I needed to bring to him for the preparation of the charms. When I heard the list, my blood almost froze in my veins. They included the hair from my dead child’s skull, our husband’s under-garment, a vial of my menstrual blood, the blood from a week-old baby boy and several other animal and human parts and herbs too numerous to recount. He also wanted hair from Nwanna’s head—Nwanna, our husband’s new son.
I felt my resolve falter at that last item. Why Nwanna’s hair? Why not hair from any other child? I voiced my thoughts, but the great medicine-man hushed my words with a glare that put the terror in my heart. I wanted to flee from the skull-littered shrine, to hide away from the terrible visage of the witchdoctor. But I recalled his words, “There is no turning back now.” I also remembered the melancholy face of my son, Ebuka and the arrogant swagger of Enu. I knew then what I had to do.
“It shall be done, Great One,” I bowed my head again, stooping to kiss the ringed toes of Ogbunigwe’s bare feet. “It shall be done.”
✦✦✦
Ogbunigwe’s list was daunting and almost impossible to secure. But as our people say, there is nothing the eyes will see that will cause them to shed blood-tears. A desperate need will always find a miracle. My will to bring back my son was as strong as an elephant’s charge. I found my miracle in my wonderful sister, Gono, who had gone ahead to become a successful headteacher at a top secondary school, one of the handful of female head-teachers from our country, rubbing shoulders with the white Irish nuns who ran our education institutions.
As my father had long dreaded, Gono had indeed refused to give him a befitting son-in-law and dowry, preferring to earn and keep her own money instead. She had become a very wealthy and respected woman who some people predicted would have a successful political career in the new political climate that had won us our independence from the Queen of England. Men were now seeing the hidden beauty in my sister which our father had failed to recognise on account of her dark skin. But Gono had my wretched marriage as a constant reminder of what that vile institution harboured for women. She vowed never to relinquish her freedom and wealth to any man.
Gono gave me the exorbitant sum I requested for the purchase of most of the items demanded by the medicine man, Ogbunigwe. She neither asked, nor did I volunteer the reason for my need. As always, she was happy in my happiness and I again thanked Our Virgin Mary for blessing me with such a loving sister, whose kindness I did not deserve.
Afterwards, for several days and nights, I agonised over the terrifying trip I had to make to Ajọ-ọfia to obtain a palmful of my dead child’s hair. It was a trip which I had always lacked the courage to attempt, a journey I could not avoid, a visit that had been waiting to be made since the day they dumped my son’s little body in the unhallowed grounds of Ajọ-ọfia. It was a trip now inevitable in order to bring my son back to life.
For three nights in a row, I attempted to cut the hair off Ebuka’s head when he visited me. I used a small scissors to cut off a generous amount of his h
air, which remained thick and lush despite the ravages of the grave. Yet, every morning when I awoke, the hair, just like my son, were gone, leaving me with nothing but the little red shoes that remained as new as the day I bought them. My son told me that I must go to Ajọ-ọfia to get his hair. He said he would lead me to his grave. He told me that his grave was a shallow grave, barely an arm-length in depth, as was the way with all unhallowed graves. Accursed corpses required no respect or protocol. I could easily dig open his grave with nothing more than my farming hoe. He said it was a job I could complete in the course of a single night.
Ebuka knew why I needed his hair and the knowledge made him happier than I’d ever seen since he returned to me. It was strange, the contradiction in his age and demeanour. In size, he had not aged a day beyond the three years he was when he died. Yet, his speech and reasoning were that of an Ozo, a wise and titled old peer of the clan. He calmly informed me that he would not come back to me until the day I became filled with the seeds of his reincarnation.
“But my son, how will you know when I get pregnant if you don’t visit your poor Mami?” I asked, my eyes pleading, my voice cajoling.
“I will know, Mami,” was all he said. “I will know.”
On a moonlit night of still air and sleepless insects, I made my stealthy journey to Ajọ-ọfia accompanied only by my son and my farming hoe. I started off just after midnight. I soon developed the vision of the night bat and the agility of the forest monkey as the journey progressed. I engaged in lively conversation with my son to rein in my terror. Ebuka was as surefooted as the bush antelope as he navigated through wild vines and erosion gullies, leading me further away from Ukari village and deeper into the forest. The night seemed to go on forever till, suddenly, I found myself in a desert-like landscape populated with nothing but giant anthills and uncountable mounds that housed the corpses of the damned. Like a macabre farm, the mounds grew ghastly white masks, each fortified with charms and potions to chain in the evil dead within the confines of the bad bush. A foul smell pervaded the corpse-farm, an odour of badness and decay; a vile smell that I’d tried in vain to wash off from my son’s body.
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