Dominion

by Nicole Givens Kurtz

  My heart froze. My speech ceased. My head began to swell and expand, and my breathing hung. All sounds stopped, vanished, as if cocked inside a sound-proof bottle. The noisy insects that had accompanied us through the night, the barking dogs, the hooting owls, all ceased their clamour. Even the very air seemed to succumb to the stillness of the desolate and chilling landscape. In the unnatural silence, I heard the thudding of my heart like the beating of the drums of the masquerade dancers. I heard the harshness of my breathing and the roaring in my ears.

  Then I saw them…oh Jesus, Mary Mother of God…I saw them all, the soulless inhabitants of the accursed land, Ajọ-ọfia, the doomed outcasts of the gods and men, the unclean! Gathered in a silent, waiting crowd, hollowed eyes dripping blood as black as tar, each posed in the manner of their demise, they impaled me to the ground by their appalling visage.

  A young mother with a rotten foetus dangling between her wide thighs; a large man with a rope tight against his impossibly- angled neck; an albino that glowed inhumanly white beneath the brightness of the moon, his body bloated and battered from the beating that caused his demise; a tiny baby wailing and writhing on the ground, his wide mouth exposing a full set of upper teeth—they were the abominations of nature and the rejects of men.

  Amongst them was my son, my beautiful, sweet Ebuka, standing silently in the midst of the other small spectres, each doomed for dying before their parents or being born with abominations such as a set of teeth, an extra finger, a single testicle. One second, Ebuka was by my side, his tiny hand gripped firmly in my right hand. Then in a blink, he was gone, gone without a sound, without me seeing his departure, only to appear amongst the ghoulish gathering of the damned, the cursed inhabitants of the unhallowed grounds of Ajọ-ọfia.

  The sound of my hoe hitting the ground resonated like a thousand footsteps in the awful silence of the burial ground. It also released the voices of the apparitions, who started to howl in an unearthly cacophony that chilled the marrow in my bones. My voice joined their discordance, terror and panic cloaking my screams. Prayers spilled from my lips, babbles, the distinct sounds of supreme lunacy. Inside my head, Queen Ill-fortune shrieked in glee, her cackle as manic as my screams. Above us, the moon grew fatter and brighter, revealing the ghoulish figures in all their undead horror.

  I tried to run, turned to flee, feeling the hot piss of terror flood my thighs. I stumbled against a mask…no…the mask rose against my feet as if flung by an invisible hand. Then all the other white masks joined the attack like a sea of skulls, hurling themselves against my face, battering my body and my head till I fell onto a soft grave, feeling the mud cover my face and fill my screaming mouth. It was the same mud that clung to my son, the vile grave-mud of the unhallowed ground I’d tried in vain to wash off my son.

  My fall stilled the masks. They fell to the ground with muffled thumps. From the corner of my eyes, I saw them scuttle away, countless white masks, like the crabs on the beach of River Niger, each returning to the grave-mound they guarded, their hollowed eyes watchful, dark and terrifying. In the sudden stillness, I heard another sound, a noise like the roar of the winds.

  And suddenly, they were everywhere, the ghosts of the damned, in front of me, behind me, at my right side and left side. And when the light of the moon dimmed above us, I glanced up to see the flying ones, Amosu, witch night-flyers who had carried on their nefarious art even to the grave. I felt their hands on me; cold hands, clammy hands, pus-wet hands, peeling hands, skeletal hands. Reeking bodies swamped me, seeking the warmth of my blood, the light of my humanity, my very soul. I tried to push, to crawl to safety on hands and knees, to be free of the repulsive touch of the foul undead. But I was but a woman, a weak and foolish human who should have known better than to challenge the might of the queen of malignancy on her most potent night.

  But desperation was never a person of caution or reason. Desperation would dare the gates of hell and the wrath of Queen Ill-fortune to fulfil its goals. Desperation gave me the voice to scream out my son’s name, to call for his aid and his intercession. Desperation fuelled my garbled explanations, my pleas for their forgiveness, my supplications for their help in finding my son’s grave amongst the hundreds of unmarked mounds that grew in that accursed farm of corpses.

  Suddenly, I was free—free of hands, of bodies, of voices, of the pulsating hate that had engulfed me and left me cowering on the cold hard soil of Ajọ-ọfia. Once again, my son was by my side, his little hands filled with an impossible strength, raising me to my feet, his face sad, oh Jesu, so very sad.

  I wanted to die and lie with him in that bad bush for eternity. How can any mother bear to see her child abandoned in such a desolate and terrible place? How could I ever sleep in the warmth of my room when my only child wandered in the dark wilderness of these cursed grounds? How could I walk amongst the living when I knew that my son walked amongst the damned, the restless and angry souls of the accursed? As if he read my thoughts, Ebuka pointed to a small grave barely the size of a yam-tuber mound in a flourishing farm. It was guarded by a repulsive white mask that resembled a leering goblin. I shuddered as my eyes encountered that accursed object, reluctant to bring my person within its malignant reach. My heart still quaked with the recent memory of the white masks’ vicious attack on me.

  My son motioned me to dig, his small hands holding up my discarded hoe. Once again, my resolve was re-ignited as I stumbled my way to the small mound and started to dig. Through that moonlit night, I dug till the sweat lay on my body like a bucketful of water, till my palms went raw and bloody, till my joints ached as one crushed by a palm-tree, till my eyes ceased to see anything but brown hard soil, till my breath rushed in staggered gasps through open mouth and nostrils clogged by dirt.

  Till….till I finally struck the brittle bones of my poor, poor son, dumped in that terrible grave without the dignity of a coffin.

  I began to howl.

  I slumped on the dirt floor of the grave and wailed—keened—mourning my dead son all over again as if he had died anew. The pain was as raw as the day the evil viper, Echieteka, stole him from me. My heart burnt with anger and pain, fury at the callous way they had discarded my son’s body and a hurting pain that threatened to steal what was left of my sanity.

  I felt the presence of the ghosts, felt their compassion surround me as I tore the hair from my scalp, knocked my forehead on my hunched knees, beat the ground with clenched fists and bawled my pain into the cold dark grave of my son. I felt his little hands on my face, stroking my wet cheeks, his small cold body nestling against me, his thin arms around my neck. I held him close, so tight, I would have squeezed the life force from his body if there was any left to destroy.

  “I’m so sorry, my son,” I choked between sobs. “I’m so sorry. Forgive your poor Mami for not protecting you, for letting them do this to you.”

  “Don’t cry, Mami,” his voice was muffled against my chest. “Don’t cry, please Mami. Look, my hair is still here, see?” Ebuka pointed to his tiny skeleton which indeed still harboured a long bush of hair. That was the day I realised that hair was immortal. And it finally made sense why Ogbunigwe had demanded that particular item. Only immortality could confer life. My son’s immortal hair would reincarnate him back to life. Nwanna’s living hair would link the bloodline, ensuring a successful reincarnation.

  I did not need a pair of scissors. The hair left my son’s skull in an easy clump, filling my hand with its kinky soft texture.

  “You have to go now, Mami, before the sun rises or there will be no one to show you the way back to Ukari. We have to sleep when the morning dawns. Come, let me take you back now.”

  I allowed my son to lead me out of that terrible place, my eyes filled with tears, my heart breaking with sorrow at the tragic plight of those pathetic souls that haunted the grounds of Ajọ-ọfia. I knew some of them were guilty of the crimes that had consigned them to the bad-bush. But most of them were innocent, like my son, like thos
e poor teethed babies. Yet, all of them were equally damned for eternity. But not my son, not my sweet innocent baby. By Amadioha and all the gods, I’ll free him from that terrible curse and return him to the loving fold of his family.

  I now had the final and most precious item demanded by Ogbunigwe, the great witchdoctor. Ebuka’s hair would be the final piece in the charms that would secure the affections of our husband once again and germinate my womb with my son’s reincarnated foetus.

  ✦✦✦

  When the door of my bedroom swung open a couple of weeks later and Agu stepped into my room, I knew that Ogbunigwe had lived up to his reputation. Even before he began stripping off his clothes, I knew from Agu’s face that he had not come to inflict violence on my body. From the minute I covered my face with the foul-smelling oil given me by Ogbunigwe, I noticed a growing look of desire on Agu’s face. And when he unexpectedly called me by the long-forgotten endearment, “Nkem,” I knew that he finally belonged to me, at least in body, if not soul. Already, a cup of palm-wine laced with the cloudy liquid the medicine man had given me to feed our husband stood by my bedside, a drink which also had to be spiked with the residue of his semen before he drank it.

  Afterwards, when Agu had drunk the charmed wine and once again mounted me, I noticed a difference in his Amu. It looked and felt double its original size and remained solidly erect even after his release. I saw the look of baffled pleasure on Agu’s face as he observed his enlarged and turgid organ. It was the look of a young boy discovering his first tuft of manly beard.

  Over the following weeks, Agu continued to visit my room every night. His desire was insatiable, and my body soon grew weary of the incessant demands made on it, coupled with the fact that his visits were affecting my son’s. Ebuka had not paid me a single visit from that terrible night he led me to his grave to collect his hair from the skeletal husk that lay beneath the shallow grave at Ajọ-ọfia. Holy Mary! Jesus our Saviour! I still shudder, still wake up in sweats, still glance behind me in unspeakable terror at the memory of that dreadful night.

  ✦✦✦

  As the weeks turned into months, Agu’s nightly visits gradually increased to afternoon and evening visits. The intimate name, Nkem, never left his lips when he addressed me, even in front of strangers. Soon, malicious tongues began to wag, fuelled by Enu’s spite. The words “Witch” and “Mami-water” cropped up once again in reference to me. They were tags I hadn’t heard since my son’s death gave birth to new names, “Akula,” Mad woman.

  But this time, their insults left me cold. Despite the element of truth in their accusations, I felt none of the guilt and shame I’d felt in the days I was falsely accused. What did I care about their feelings as long as I brought back my son to life? The Holy Virgin knew I was paying my own heavy price, enduring the rough and incessant attentions of our husband to achieve my goal. My secret place was raw from the persistent demands made on it by our husband.

  And yet, despite the passing months and the increased frequency of Agu’s carnal visits, my belly refused to germinate with the seeds of fertility. Nothing grew inside my soured womb. But something began to grow on our husband.

  ✦✦✦

  The first mole appeared on Agu’s Amuon a Sunday afternoon. I know the precise time and date because I remember being dragged into my room as soon as I returned from Sunday Mass and mounted before I could even undo my Enigogoro head-scarf. After the act was over, I noticed Agu starring at his Amu, which as always, jutted up towards the low ceiling of my room, bloated with useless seeds that could not fertilize my womb. I instantly noticed the spot on his organ, a spot more like a giant mole than anything else I could imagine. It formed a solid round mass at the tip of his Amu, its reddish hue contrasting starkly with the blackness of that organ.

  Chickenpox! That was my first thought; Agu has chickenpox! Trust the wretched man to do everything differently. Other people got the pox on their faces but not Agu. Oh no! He had to go get it on his blighted Amu. By the next day, four more moles appeared and within a week, the entire length of his Amu was covered with the unsightly red moles. It was about this time that I noticed a difference in his possession of me. It felt as if he performed the act for reasons other than desire, as if something else was driving his frenzied thrusts, an itch perhaps, an uncontrollable urge to scratch, relieve the irritation in his skin. But why use me? Why wouldn’t he keep away from me till his pox or whatever it was ailing his organ was cured?

  Because of Ogbunigwe’s charms, you fool! The mocking voice in my head was as nasty as Queen Ill-fortune’s laughter. I’d asked for our husband to be enslaved by desire and I had my wish. Something else told me those wretched charmed drinks I had fed him over the course of several weeks were equally responsible for the disgusting moles that were fast turning his Amu into a twisted grotesque appendage. Conjugal exercises had never been pleasant with our husband, even at the best of times. Now, they were just awful, terrible acts of torture that tore up the tender skin of my circumcised womanhood and left me dreading the simple act of weeing or washing. My days were now lived in terror of those hurried footsteps headed to my room, knowing that my objections would be quashed by violent hands and thrusting hips. He would not discuss the state of his Amu with me. In fact, he seemed determined to ignore the ghastly thing, despite the fact that other alien bits had joined the moles, long spiky hairs and worm-like welts.

  I tried not to look at that monstrosity. Jesus knows just how much I tried to keep my eyes away from it. But the eye is the master of curiosity. It will look where it should not and seek where it is forbidden. So, my eyes followed the gradual distortion of that organ, observing the festering malignancy of that benighted appendage as crusted pus was replaced by fresh eruptions and I wished…. dear Lord…how I wished I could sever that evil with a sharp knife and free us both from our nightmare.

  We were now the talk of the whole village. Agu no longer stepped out of the house, seeing as he could not wear anything save the loose wrapper he kept secured around his waist. His visit to his Dibia had not cured his ailment, neither had all the ointments and antibiotics prescribed by the doctors at Park Lane Hospital. Enu and the three fat sisters shouted to all who would listen that I had chained our husband with witchcraft, that he had lost his mind as I had lost mine. His business was failing, and his workers were running lawless. Enu was pregnant with yet another child and our husband ignored that fact and provided little for her comfort. The news of Enu’s pregnancy almost drove me wild with jealousy. Why should she have all the luck, a living son and another easy pregnancy, when I had been going through months of torture to achieve the same fate without success? Clearly, the blasted woman was born under a very good Chi despite her meanness.

  Except she wasn’t after all.

  On a dark rainy night, Nwanna got the runs. All night, I heard the sound of the housemaids rushing up and down the stairs as they emptied the child’s potty. Enu burst into my room a couple of hours later, rousing our husband from his deep sleep in my bed.

  “Your son is dying, and you lie here like an idiot,” she shouted at Agu. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair dishevelled.

  “What’s wrong with Nwanna? Can I help?” I asked. I felt a sudden pity for the woman. Despite everything, she was still a mother, experiencing a mother’s hurt at her child’s suffering.

  “Keep away from my child, you witch,” Enu snarled, dousing my goodwill with her spite. I shrugged and turned away, feigning disinterest. Agu dragged himself up from my bed, waving Enu away.

  “I’ll be with you soon,” he said. “Send for the driver to take him to Park Lane hospital.”

  Enu stalked out of my room, slamming the door behind her.

  “Nkem, I’ll be back soon, ok?” Agu said, looking apologetic and guilty at the same time, as if he were committing a crime by attending to his sick son instead of spending time with me. Ogbunigwe’s charms had really done the works on him, I thought with regret as I watched him hob
ble out of my room. I had not spiked his drinks in months, yet his Amu refused to heal and his slavish devotion to me refused to wan. If only I could convert that attachment to a pregnancy.

  ✦✦✦

  Nwanna died that same night. Even the white doctors at Park Lane hospital could not perform their usual miracles. They said it was cholera, the deadly sickness of the intestines. Enu said it was witchcraft. I had finally killed her son with evil juju, as I had long intended since his birth. The accusation chilled my bones, filling my heart with terror. Oh Holy Mary! Don’t let Nwanna’s death have anything to do with my visit to Ogbunigwe and that tiny quantity of hair I’d taken from Nwanna’s comb!

  For several days following Nwanna’s death I paced around my room, enduring sleepless night after sleepless night. How could I live with myself if I had a hand in that innocent child’s death? How could I possibly forgive myself if I had been instrumental in sending that poor child to join my son at Ajọ-ọfia, the dreadful corpse-farm of the doomed? I derived no pleasure at the thought that Enu’s child now shared the same fate as my son, having died of a deadly disease before his parents. What mother would wish the same torture on a fellow mother?

  Enu’s incessant wails and howls gave me no peace, just as my troubled thoughts gave me no sleep. The charm was not supposed to harm the child in any way and soon, I found my way to Ogbunigwe’s hut for the final time. From the resigned look in his eyes when he saw me, I knew he had been expecting me.

  “Nothing was supposed to happen to the child,” I screamed at him, tears pouring down my cheeks. “You told me his hair was only needed to link my son’s return to his bloodline.”