by Reni K Amayo
Sinai’s thick hair shimmied in the morning wind and her dark sepia skin looked beautiful against the gold walls. Even now, frazzled and dishevelled, this girl looks like she stepped out of the god’s quarter, Ina thought in annoyance.
Ina was not afraid that Sinai would die; in fact, she was far more afraid that the girl would live. For months now, Ina had been fantasising about ways to get rid of the girl that threatened to take everything from her. Now here she was with Sinai’s life resting at the tips of her very own toes.
A series of flashbacks burnt through Ina’s mind: the first time Obi Ife had looked past her to catch glimpses of this girl; or when she had watched him follow Sinai out of the Mmanwu festival, or when Ina had caught him laughing with the girl in the corner of the west courtyard. She had fainted after seeing that; thankfully she had her wits about her and had blamed it on the heat.
Obi Ife, one of the highest lords in the Kingdom of Nri, second only to the Eze himself, belonged to Ina. She had known this since she was a child, and she used to watch him win against the other boys at dambe. As his body grew, so did his power, and Ina’s interest. Until one day he did the impossible: he took a position amongst the high lords whilst he was still a young man. It was unheard of, but the Eze has granted him the position all the same. From that point on, Ina just knew that he was her promise. She knew with every fibre of her being that she was destined to be his first wife, perhaps even his only wife. This was the narrative she’d created for herself, and she was so close to living it. At least, she had been. Over the past few months she had started to feel that promise slipping away like water through her fingers. Obi Ife grew more distant from her with every passing day and Ina grew more frantic. She knew she was pushing him away; she felt him recoil as she grew more and more neurotic. Look at me! Play with me! Love me! He hated it, but she couldn’t stop herself. Some days she thought it would be far easier to claw her own eyes out, than to watch his attention turn increasingly towards Sinai, who grew more beautiful, more alluring, and more interesting.
‘Lebechi,’ Ina said, stepping closer to the window as Sinai attempted fruitlessly to lift herself up. ‘Do you also think we should help the rodent?’
‘I—I—I…’ Lebechi stammered, as Ina pressed a foot against Sinai’s right hand. Sinai let out a blood-curdling scream and Lebechi looked around like a startled goat.
‘Lebechi!?’ Ina demanded.
‘N—no, we don’t have … to save her, I mean … she’s so …’ Lebechi mumbled quietly, her eyes wide with fear.
‘Ina, please,’ Sinai whimpered. Her eyes filled with thick tears and her throat was constrained with sorrow. Sinai didn’t want these to be her last words. She didn’t want to be a subjugated beggar in death. She wanted so desperately to die with dignity. Be strong, she wanted to tell herself; be dignified. But all she could hear was a quiet voice whispering in her head, I just want to live.
‘Shut up, whore!’ Ina snapped in anger. ‘How dare you address me; we all know about the vile disgusting things your kind does to get attention from men who will never wed, never lo—’ she spat furiously, as Ebun nudged at her forearm.
‘Ina,’ Ebun pleaded.
‘What?’ Ina shouted, as she turned towards the frightened girl.
‘People are coming,’ Ebun moaned, lifting her hands towards her head in angst.
Ina paused, taking stock of the shocked and disturbed expressions crossing Ebun and Lebechi’s faces. They had never seen her act this way before; why would they have? Ina spent most of her life striving to maintain composure at all times. Self-control was power, she reminded herself as she stilled her shaking hands. She glanced down at Sinai, taking in her bruised fingers, tearful eyes, and pitiful expression. In that moment, the petrified girl held up a mirror to Ina, and she saw a monster reflected back.
Ina was suddenly overwhelmed with an intense desire to flee. I shouldn’t be here, she thought. I can’t be here.
‘Let’s go,’ she said coldly, before turning to walk away calmly, as if nothing had occurred.
‘Help! Help! Please help!’ Sinai screamed frantically. She tried once more to lift herself up but her arms were too weak. She didn’t want to die like this; there was so much more, more to see, more to discover and learn. That dream, as ridiculous as it was, was a testament to that. She needed to hold on.
‘Please,’ she gasped, just as her hands slipped, and she plummeted into pitch black.
THE BIRTH
Alammiri
IN LATER YEARS, the people of Alammiri village would often recount the events of the night when the twins entered the world, but only ever in passing, and with eyes downcast and voices low. Different versions of the same story would be retold routinely. Whispers would spread, like thin golden threads, adding magic to the village’s historical tapestry. People would speak about the night with an air of forced nonchalance, desperate to hide what it truly meant to them. When a villager could no longer resist the urge to discuss their experience on that miraculous night, no one would reply, no one would comment, but neither could anyone interrupt.
On that night, Ijemma looked up to find that the moon was double—no quadruple—its size. She stumbled backwards as she gazed at the large, heavy, pale moon peering through the clouds as if it too was eager to witness the magical birth. Ugo blinked in wonder as she stared up at the stars, so bright that it seemed as though the whole world was coated with sparkling silver. Obi gasped when she had reached the Akwụkwọ Ndụ lake. All her life she had known Akwụkwọ Ndụ to be a deep emerald colour, stained with lush green vegetation. However, when Obi had come for her usual evening swim that night, the lake was as clear as air. So clear, in fact, that for a brief moment, she thought that somehow the green murky water had been drained. She jumped when she saw the lake creatures swimming with frantic excitement.
Ezinne did not scream when she gave birth to those girls. Her smooth, deep skin was dripping with sweat, her eyes were clamped shut, and her teeth clenched. She was in incredible pain and her husband, Chief Obifune, knew it. He sat behind her, holding her trembling body. He shouldn’t have been there. He could hear his father’s gruff voice in his head, telling him that a man had no place in his woman’s childbirth, but Obifune was no ordinary man and Ezinne was far from an ordinary woman.
I need to be there, he thought, as he pressed his face into his wife’s soft, cotton-like hair, as slow tears ran down his cheek. Something is not right.
‘Zy,’ Chief Obifune murmured into her ear. His heart squeezed mercilessly as he called on the lost gods to hear his silent prayers. Zy, please.
He could feel her hot skin shake uncontrollably, and hear her short gasps. The birthing osigwus brushed away their tears and stifled their cries. They knew that his nwunye was dying. They loved her. He loved her more.
Obifune had been strolling with his father to an elders’ meeting the first time he met Ezinne. He had yet to see nine full years, but his little, round face was very serious and etched with a soft frown he had stolen from his father. He knew, even back then, that he was going to be the next chief of his proud people, and that responsibility weighed heavily on his small shoulders.
Ezinne had interrupted that evening’s stroll with the launch of a soft, ripe udara fruit. Obifune had felt it splat on the back of his head, and had swivelled in surprise. Only then had he gasped. Five or so cubits ahead, he’d seen a girl. Obifune had seen many girls before, but none like Ezinne. Her small face had hung upside down from a tree and her thin, black legs dangled from a fragile branch. He still remembered her smile, the same smile that could cause his heart to flutter so many years after. The smile that had beamed as bright as the high sun on that warm dry day.
At first, Ezinne would protest that it had been an accident.
‘The udara just slipped from my hand,’ she would shrug coyly. But after several years and a few glasses of palm wine, she had confessed that it was all a ploy to knock that foul frown from his little face.
&
nbsp; She had been climbing the trees scattered across the village, a hobby she would secretly carry into adulthood. She had seen them approach and watched them curiously for a while, before plucking the udara and throwing it at the small boy.
‘Sorry, little prince,’ she had said that day, after leaping down from the tree, still smiling. She had approached them before crossing her palms across her chest and letting them fall as she greeted him.
‘Ndewo,’ she had murmured. Her large almond eyes had followed him intensely like a feral cat’s. Chief Esomchi had grunted disapprovingly, and his rough tone brought the two children back to reality almost immediately. Ezinne had jumped nervously before bowing deeply to Obifune’s father. The elder chief had paused, taken aback by the small girl’s nerve. He had sneered, causing the girl to run off, leaving a trail of burnt red sand. Obifune had desperately wanted to run after her, but his father’s mutterings told him to stay put.
Soon after that day, Ezinne and Obifune would discover that they were best friends. Her fiery passion was beautifully balanced with his cool tranquillity. Almost a decade after this, they would discover that they were lovers.
Eventually, after a series of tear-filled protests and high strong threats, they took sacred vows before their village. It had been a miraculous day. The village had collectively breathed a sigh of relief when the ceremony had ended, and erupted into an infectious excitement.
Ezinne and Obifune’s love was so delightfully pure that no one could bear the thought of them being apart. Even Chief Esomchi’s public disapproval held little weight; after all, Ezinne was the daughter of an equally prestigious family from their sister tribe, and Obifune had sworn he would neither marry nor bed any other woman. It was an abomination, but Chief Esomchi could not afford to gamble his legacy; he had seen the way the boy looked at that girl.
The world was silent when the first twin, Esinaala, was born. Esinaala broke this silence with one shrill scream, high and sharp, and with an echo that seemed to resonate through the village. Ezinne gasped as she brought the second twin, Sinaikuku, into the world. The little princesses cried loudly as they were taken away from their mother. Their wrinkly tiny fists punched the air in protest. They still longed for the safety of their mother’s womb. The osigwus inspected their small bodies before taking a step back, stunned. The girls were beautiful and strange. Twins were a rare sight in the village; healthy twins were an even greater rarity. But these twins looked up at them with such purity, such innocence, such desperation to live, one might forget that they were already marked for death by the Eze’s law.
Obifune looked at his two healthy daughters, and broke into a short laugh as his eyes filled with tears of joy. He then looked down at his beautiful wife and her soft smile made his heart leap to his throat, but something in her eyes made it sink back down to his feet.
‘Zy,’ he murmured, his voice cracking with tears. But nothing could be done. Ezinne was dead.
The Eze’s law was clear: any woman that bore twins in Nri would be stoned; the children slaughtered within the first week of their birth. Their remains were to be sent to the palace for spiritual cleansing. Then, and only then, could the village be free of the inevitable curse that such an unnatural birth would bring about. Breaching the law would result in the death of every man, woman, and child in the village that those twins called their home. Alammiri was far away from the city. So far that the Eze and his obscure laws seemed as distant as the forgotten tales of the gods. However, the army’s routine visits and crippling taxes were all too real. The Eze may have seemed like a fable, but the consequence of defying his orders was anything but. Stories of villages burnt to the ground for refusing orders had filtered through to Alammiri and no one wanted to test the mysterious Eze.
However, the people of Alammiri were overcome with grief; they had lost their beautiful queen.
Ezinne’s burial service was held seven days after the twins were born and no one dared to mention the cruel law. Instead, they allowed it to drift over them like a small grey cloud against a clear blue sky. The Eze was the ruler of the kingdom. He oversaw the workings of every village, and if the gods had not abandoned the earth, he would have been the liaison between them and the people. His law was unshakeable. But Obifune was their beloved chief. He held their hearts. The villagers had seen him grow into a kind and fair leader. They had witnessed as his love for Ezinne flourished. They had placed so much hope into their relationship, and the life it would yield. With Ezinne gone, how could they destroy the only remnants of their profound love?
So they didn’t. The seventh day passed, and then the eighth and ninth… until one day Obifune awoke to find his girls were gone. Snatched in the middle of the night. The village woke one morning to Obifune’s cries. Those girls were the only thing he had left of Ezinne; without them he was broken. He died not too long after. It was an uneventful night and he had not fallen ill. He simply went to sleep and did not wake up.
THE NAMIBIAN COOK AND THE EFUỌLA GIRL
CITY OF NRI
SINAI FELT the light before she saw it. Suddenly her world was bright yellow. A dull pain hit the middle of her head, and she grimaced and tried to reach for it, but found that every inch of her body throbbed with pain.
Am I dead? she thought curiously, but before she could answer, she was distracted by an overwhelming sensation. She knew this place. She recognised the smell, the air, the sounds, but she could not put it all together. Sinai shifted her head to the right, and the yellow light dimmed. She cautiously opened her eyes, but clamped them shut and groaned. Her head spun.
She didn’t know where she was or how she’d got there. All she could remember was the intense fear coursing through her body as she fell. That, and Ina’s cruel eyes.
Sinai had never understood Ina. The girl was smart, beautiful, and could navigate the complicated political scene in Nri with an appearance of ease and calm that Sinai could only dream of emulating. There were even rumours that Obi Ife, by far the most accomplished of any of the senior lords, was set to propose. Ina’s life was perfect; it had always been perfect. She strolled through it effortlessly, given endless compliments, opportunities, and admiration. Yet, for as long as Sinai could remember, every time she was in Ina’s vicinity she would feel the girl’s eyes burning furiously into the back of her head. Ina would even, at times, peel off her subdued persona and openly sneer and mock Sinai.
When they were younger, Sinai had thought Ina’s hatred stemmed from the fact that Sinai was illegitimate. Sinai had never known her parents; she was one of the unclaimed efuọla children. It was likely that her parent’s union was impure, this being one of the few logical explanations as to why they would discard her when she only a few weeks old, if that.
Sinai repeatedly told herself that she was fortunate, particularly when the sneers and mistreatment stemming from the shame of her illegitimacy became almost too heavy a burden to bear. She was lucky, she would say to herself; after all, her parents could have left her for dead, or sent her to a squalid slum where no further questions would be asked. Instead, they’d sent her to the City of Nri, wrapped in fine clothes and with a parchment pleading for the council of elders to determine her fate, and sealed with insignia reserved for royalty.
Fortunately, the elders declared that Sinai’s blood was far too noble for her to be anywhere other than amongst the members of high society. So she remained within the palace at Nri, placed grudgingly in communal care alongside the other noble children. She was blessed with rich food, comfortable quarters, and beautiful clothes. She was free to attend festivals, and school with the legitimate children and, when she came of age, she was likely to marry a low-ranking noble. Sinai was blessed to live amongst the highest in society, but she felt cursed to never belong. She spent most of her time alone, with most parents reprimanding their children for getting too close to the efuọla girl, less the shame of her illegitimacy rub off on them. Her life was so strikingly different to that of Ina, who belonged to an envia
ble family, had a herd of loyal friends enamoured by her very presence, and a future brighter than Lolo Obioma’s largest jewels. Sinai never understood why a girl who had everything would bother wasting so much energy on a girl who spent most days struggling to stay afloat.
Ina’s seething face flashed in Sinai’s mind once again, and she was suddenly overcome with weariness. She wanted nothing more than to get away from that bloodthirsty girl.
Sinai lifted her eyelids again, bracing for the painful bright light. She blinked a few times before seeing that she was in a small room, narrowed by rows of cabinets against three of its walls. Sinai was positioned on the fourth wall, by a little window, her body slumped across what seemed to be a small wooden akwa nest. Sinai noticed sets of pestle and mortars scattered across the room; some were as large as a child, and some were as small as an apple.
I must be in the kitchen area, she thought incredulously. Or perhaps in a storage room, or maybe one where the cooks would rest between preparing extravagant meals for the nobles in the palace.
‘So you’re awake, I see,’ a low voice at the far end of the room murmured.
Sinai ignored her pounding head, and peered in the direction of the voice. An old woman stood in the doorway, her eyes magnified by the dusty transparent glass circles she wore on her face. They sat in thick wooden frames, giving her the appearance of a beetle bug.
Meekulu Kaurandua? Sinai thought.
Meekulu was the head cook of the palace. She oversaw all the major festivals, and, most importantly, she cooked directly for the Eze and his wife. Meekulu’s near-perfect meals and extravagant character preceded her. The old woman did not originate from Nri and insisted that this fact be known throughout the kingdom. Her title, Meekulu, was a term of respect used for elderly women in Namibia, her birthplace. All the nobles knew of her, but very few had been in her presence.