by Reni K Amayo
‘It’s not real,’ Meekulu interrupted.
‘What?!’ Sinai choked.
‘The ọbara oath and the resulting death and all that nonsense are not real,’ the old woman noted, as she walked over to the same cabinet that she had gone to months ago.
‘It’s not real …?’ Sinai repeated in a daze.
‘Of course not!’ Meekulu said, as she dug out the pearl box and opened it. She took a pinch of the red powder and put it on her tongue.
‘See, it’s just simple cayenne pepper,’ she said, as she handed Sinai the box. ‘Great for making stews, not so much for cursing! To be honest, I was insulted that you would believe that I would do such things. I have not, and do not, dabble in the ọbara magic, and you better be glad for it. Honestly, child, you are a terrible onye nyocha; you didn’t find one good piece of information on the Eze. You should be more careful when swearing willy-nilly to oaths that you know nothing about. You would surely be dead by now if that oath had actually been enacted!’
‘But why pretend to do so?’ Sinai asked, still focused on the fact that very thing she had stressed over for weeks was simple seasoning.
‘Well, it worked, didn’t it?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I have no clue what it is,’ Sinai cried out in frustration.
‘You have seen the Mother—a mighty gift in its own right, but the it you are referring to, is also a lesson into who you are.’
‘It is?’
‘Of course! As with most things in life … answer me this: how is it that you were able to see that premonition? How were you able to stand in the past and the present at the same time?’
‘I didn’t stand in the past and present—’
‘You saw a vision of the god’s war; was that not in the past?’
‘Yeaas, but I was—I am here?’
‘Exactly, the past and the present,’ Meekulu said firmly.
‘Well … that … it must be a strange side effect of touching the crystal?’
‘Many people have touched the crystal, but only you have seen the Mother. Only you have been given a mark in the forgotten tongue.’
‘I was not marked.’
‘Really? What is that then?’ Meekulu asked, taking the girl’s right hand and turning it. Sinai gasped when she saw symbols that she had never seen before, written on her skin. They stood out, bold and unnerving in a gold ink that shimmered in the sunlight. They resembled the fletching of an arrow overlaid with a cross and a smooth bending line. The symbols were similar to Nsibidi script, yet somehow different, familiar and unrecognisable at the same time. A deep black spark flashed through the markings and Sinai dropped her hand in shock.
‘It—I’m sure that it can all be explained, logically. I’m sure the marking is … and perhaps the conditions were simply optimal for this sort of thing to happen? The stars? Alignment? The moon? You should know,’ Sinai replied; she felt apprehensive about where this conversation was going.
‘Or perhaps you are an mmo,’ Meekulu replied, leaving Sinai speechless.
‘It’s not possible,’ she finally said after a long pause. ‘The mmo are gone—all of them gone—they are no longer in this world.’
‘Aren’t you the same person who, less than an hour ago, believed the Eze saved us from the Mother’s wrath?’
The old woman believed what she was saying! She believed that Sinai belonged to the lost mystical folk. She believed that Sinai was a mmo, a spirit that could bend the earth and air elements.
‘You are lying,’ Sinai whispered.
Meekulu turned up her nose in disgust. ‘Why would I do something so weak?’ she retorted.
‘You just said that you lied about the ọbara oath! Who knows what you could be lying about now?’ Sinai replied indignantly.
‘Biko—you’d better relax that tone. I will not tolerate any disrespect in my own kitchen.’
‘Sorry,’ Sinai said earnestly. ‘I didn’t mean any disrespect … it’s just … well, there is simply no way. It’s crazy that we are even having this conversation. I have never used any kind of magic. I have not—I’m not a-a-a—I’m just … me,’ Sinai tried to explain.
She knew exactly who she was; she had always known. Sinai was unimportant, and she liked that more than she could ever explain. There was a sublime comfort in being unimportant. Sinai enjoyed staying in the background, because it meant that she could watch or dream up extraordinary things without the pressure and pain that came with being involved. Being a mmo, a group of beings that made the Obis—the Eze even—seem obsolete … well, there was nothing unimportant about that.
‘Yes, you are you, and you are Sinaikuku, the mmo. Simple as that.’
‘That’s not my name.’
‘Of course it is. What do you think Sinai is short for?’
‘It is not short for anything … it …’ Sinai tried to protest but her argument crumbled mid-sentence. Sinai had never known what her name was short for, or what it even meant; she had never cared to ask.
‘Mhmm,’ Meekulu muttered, as she peered closely at the perplexed girl. ‘And one more thing: you have most certainly used magic before.’
‘I have not, I—’
‘Do you ever use that thing in your brain?’ Meekulu sighed, as she pointed vigorously at her own head. ‘How many people do you know that survive the mighty fall that you ended up walking away from?’
‘But you said the sheets, the fur linen, on afọ, you said the cleaners, they …’
‘I know what I said. I also know what happened! You fell and Sergeant Olu saw you. He ran to inspect the body, but rather than seeing a mangled corpse that he expected, he was met with a bruised and damaged, albeit alive, girl. He brought you to me immediately.’
Sinai slowly took a seat.
‘That can’t be! You said that everyone saw! They would have reported me if they saw. And also, what happened to lying only being for the weak? Apparently you’ve lied about everything …’ Sinai’s voice trailed off as she became increasingly worried about seeming disrespectful again. ‘Meekulu …’ she added, in the hope that it would soften her words.
Meekulu gave a small smile before swinging her long braids to the side.
‘I’m too old to abide by rules, dear, even my own. And yes, everyone saw—they saw exactly what I wanted them to see. Do you know which dish I prefer to cook the most?’
‘Which one?’ Sinai replied tiredly. She had learnt early on that conversations with Meekulu, particularly the serious ones, were bound to be filled with a number of bizarre and unusual diversions. After a series of trials and errors, Sinai now fully understood that it was almost completely futile to try and get the old woman back on track. Meekulu loved to divert and turn about the conversation, so the quickest way to get to the old woman’s point was to wait for her to do so.
‘Pounded yam! Yes! I love to make the pounded yam; some women say it tires them out, or it is boring, but for me it is fun. Pounding and pounding, you feel like you’ve really done something,’ Meekulu said excitedly, as she squared up to emphasise her strength. ‘And the result, the pounded yam—so fluffy and sweet and beautiful—well, it is just like the thing locked in your head … your brain. It is so pliable. You can reshape it to whatever you want it to be, if you have the time and skill.’
‘Okay…’ Sinai said, as her interest piqued. She suspected that the old woman may be nearing her point.
‘The people who witnessed your fall saw something, perhaps a dark spot, tumbling down against the bright sun or maybe they heard a scream. They would have squinted at the sun, and blinked as Sergeant Olu emerged from the scene with you in his arms. He rushed off to find me before he could answer any questions, and soon enough stories began to circle around about the fur linen.’
The folds at the corner of the old woman’s eyes deepened with her smile.
‘Why did he go to you?’ Sinai pondered out loud. ‘Why not report me to the Eze?’
It was not against the law to be a mmo. As
Sinai understood it, mmo were neither bad nor good; they were simply skilled. That said, an apparent sighting of a mmo, the first one in decades, centuries even—well, that would have been a remarkable event, one that the head of the kingdom would surely need to know about.
‘All the soldiers know to come to me for wounds that are beyond the scope of the palace doctors, for ailments that attack the mind or soul. He knew I would be able to help you, whereas they would have most certainly failed.’
‘But … but I’m not a soldier. I have no connection to him at all. He had no reason to bring me to you, particularly because his duty was to report me.’
‘Duty … hmm. Would you have gone to the Eze? Knowing what you know now?’ Meekulu asked. ‘If you had witnessed what Olu had seen, would you have taken the girl to the Eze or to me?’
‘To you,’ Sinai replied quietly. She didn’t feel as though she necessarily knew anything concrete, but what she did know left her apprehensive and uneasy about the man that they called a hero. After her vision of the Mother, Sinai was certain that something about the history she had been told was wrong.
‘Sergeant Olu is a good man that has been led down a very troubled path. He came to me years ago seeking absolution; all I could give him was something to settle his mind, and yet he has been eternally grateful. He trusts my counsel and my judgement. He, like me, seeks change, and so when the opportunity for change came about, it was hardly a surprise that he came to me to help carry it out.’
‘And … I … I am the opportunity for change?’ Sinai asked cautiously, unsure as to whether she wanted to hear the answer.
Any trace of the smile that was typically on Meekulu’s face, disappeared.
‘You are my hope, a fragment of the old real magic—not anwansi that is merely dusty remnants of the vibrant magic that once flowed through the lands. Not ọbara, that synthetic disease, bred by greedy men who could never take the time to understand the importance of balance, and instead opt to drain blood, drain life, in exchange for morsels of energy. You are an example of real magic and real magic can only be god-given. The one and only, beginning and end: Chukwu. Chukwu has several different names and forms. Some people see Chukwu as the one overseer of the universe, others see Chukwu as several gods with different personalities and functions. Some see him as a Holy Trinity, and some as a force behind the smallest particles within our universe. Either way it is all the same: Chukwu is the reason for it all. The ultimate creator, and the one who brought forth Ala, the Earth Mother. She created a balance within nature and birthed an array of life, from the lost gods to the surviving humans and to the tiny insects that crawl on the ground. We all exist within a system that was created, and not too long ago, managed by the Mother,’ Meekulu said, drawing up a stool to sit on, and gesturing at Sinai to do the same.
‘Over a hundred years ago, Amadioha, the god of thunder and justice, sought to steal the Mother’s power. You see, Amadioha had always been a strange god. He was powerful, very powerful indeed, but whereas most gods influence human behaviour, Amadioha was influenced by humans. Our wants and needs, our never-quenching thirst for power, our self-destructive greed—we poisoned him. Justice, the core of Amadioha’s power, is and will always be the collective will of the people. The concept started off so pure and genuine, as did its god, but soon the will of the people turned rotten, and with it Amadioha became new.
‘The people wanted power, and soon he wanted to deliver that power to them. His poisoned mind led him to believe that the people themselves should dictate nature, and have full control over their lives and deaths. This created a divide amongst the gods and the people, between those that sided with the Mother, and those that sided with Amadioha. Amadioha fought cruelly, using his army to spread death and destruction in his pursuit for the Mother’s power. She and her loyal children fought to protect and defend; if she had attacked, just once, the war would have ended right then and there. Instead, the war ended when one of the humans working for Amadioha stole the Ndụ crystal.’
‘The Eze,’ Sinai muttered, as Meekulu nodded solemnly.
‘After he stole the heart, the Mother, the gods and the mmo on both sides of the war vanished. The system that the Mother built has kept us going, but our connection to nature, to Chukwu, to meaningful life, is broken. Instead, injustice and negativity flow through every waking day—and they are growing day by day.’
‘Can I help? Can I do something somehow? If I am what you say, if I am a mmo, can I help right this wrong?’ Sinai asked, as Meekulu’s story ended.
‘Now that you know the right question to ask,’ Meekulu replied with a gleam in her eyes. ‘We can seek the answer.’
ASHES TO ASHES
Udi
NAALA AND MADI re-joined the procession without saying a word to one another. They kept their heads lowered as they walked slowly among the cheerful crowd. The energy that had propelled them to the front of the procession earlier that day had deserted them, and soon enough they found themselves trailing at the back of the long line. Sounds of the deep-based drums, grainy shekeres, and windy algaitas danced vigorously through the warm air as the procession drew closer to the famous site.
Naala looked cautiously at Madi. She was desperate to discuss next steps, but her concern for both Madi’s grief, and the threat of being overheard, had kept her quiet.
In due time, the latter was becoming increasingly obsolete as the music grew louder and the distance between the two of them and the crowd grew further and further apart.
‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ Naala said quietly, once the last two people in the crowd—a brawny boy who carried an elderly man, presumably his grandfather, on his back—were now far ahead of them. Madi looked at her briefly.
‘Don’t be sorry. He died with honour. He is well,’ Madi replied stiffly, as he allowed a small smile to form on his lips.
‘He did. Yes, he did,’ Naala replied, unsure of what to say next. After a brief pause she added carefully, ‘I’m really happy that you got to hear that. I wasn’t too sure if you had fully appreciated what the soldiers said … it still feels as though you have a lot of pain hanging over you.’
Naala was wary about overstepping her boundaries. She was also not entirely comfortable about delving into a conversation about senseless murders, with the memories of her village still resting heavily on her soul. But Madi was in pain, and she felt he was the type of person that benefited from such conversations.
‘No, I’m not in pain.’ He stopped for a moment, loudly clearing his throat. ‘It would have been nice to see him once again—alive, that is—but he suffered … he suffered in his life, and so I can only be happy that he found peace and honour in death. He is fine now. Who am I to be upset?’
‘You’re his elder brother and a lot has happened, to you and your family,’ Naala replied softly. ‘It is okay to be upset, even if you’re happy for him.’ Emeka might have died honourably, but not in the sense that Madi was accustomed to. For the most part, dying honourably in Mkpabo meant closing your eyes to sleep in old age after using your body to protect, love, and nurture your family. On a rare occasion it meant protecting your village in a war or from a wild beast, and it would be followed by stories of love and admiration from those who witnessed or recorded the death. Instead, all Madi had were hushed words from pitying soldiers working against the harsh words from the general. It was hardly a cause for a celebration.
‘My concern now is with that necklace around that serpent’s neck,’ Madi’s face soured.
‘You still want to get the key?’ Naala gasped.
‘You don’t?’ Madi replied.
‘I do, no. I do—I just thought, given that Emeka is no longer with us, we would …’ Naala trailed off, as she searched Madi’s face. For Naala, the mission had become impossible the moment Emeka’s death was revealed. How could they steal the head general’s key? Even with their disguises, they were still outsiders.
‘We would do what?’ Madi replied. ‘Go bac
k? Back to where?’
‘Not back,’ Naala murmured. It was the first time she had truly considered what their next steps were. ‘I’m just not too sure what forward looks like. I don’t see how we could get close to the general as we are,’ Naala said, gesturing to her attire. As elegant as it was, there was no way that they could receive clearance to get near the head general of the Eze’s army.
‘We were pretty close to him just a few minutes ago.’
‘Yes, but I couldn’t have reached out to grab that key from his neck, and I’m guessing neither could you.’
‘Well, couldn’t we do what we did before? Put pellets in his food, then grab it at night?’
‘He is the head general of the Eze’s army, not some plush royal. He has been trained since he was a child to catch those antics before we can even think of them.’
‘What about Enwe?’ Madi asked suddenly.
‘What about him?’ Naala replied, unnerved. She didn’t want to discuss further plans; she could see where Madi was going with this and she do not like it at all. She wanted Enwe to be left out of all of this. Madi’s eyes narrowed with frustration.
‘He could grab the key,’ he replied with emphasis, throwing his arms wide.
Naala looked around cautiously to see if anyone had been drawn into their conversation by Madi’s outburst. He also had a quick look around before taking a step closer to Naala.
‘He could grab the key,’ he repeated in a quieter voice.
‘He … can’t; he’s just …’ Naala answered doubtfully.
‘I have seen him snatch many things for you, and it is not by chance. I know you use gestures—he can certainly steal a key.’
‘No. Sorry, Madi, I just … I don’t think this will work,’ Naala replied tightly. ‘He steals the key, hands it over to me and then what? I get trampled on by the army?’
That’s a lie, she admitted to herself, you taught him how to hide away items for later when you were spying on the group.