The Year's Best African Speculative Fiction (2021)

by Oghenechovwe Ekpeki

“If you really are a Zephyr,” I said, “you have to show yourself to the keepers. You need to move to the sanctum.”

  “I can’t. Nobody can know of my shrinking. What I need to do now is leave the house before my father sees me.” She rose and pulled on a tunic that was now twice her size.

  “Your father may know what to do.”

  “My father is the most devoted faithful. If he knows his daughter is of the Order, he’ll be disoriented. He will panic beyond reason, and in the end he’ll feel obligated to reveal me.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. “What do you intend to do?”

  She stared at me for a while. “I do not know.”

  “I know of a place that may help, before you decide.”

  “Where?”

  “There is a forgotten dried-up well beyond the grazing field. It’s not nearly as deep or enclosed as the sanctum, but it can shut out some of the surface wind.”

  “A well?”

  “It’s a suggestion, that I hope makes you rethink and decide on the sanctum.”

  The gentle morning harmattan air had already started streaming through the wide-open windows, every draft a pernicious acid dissolving Esohe’s skin, seeping through all her pores to wear out her bones, the flesh of her insides. She was already unbelievably thin. I imagined each outer layer flaying off.

  I marched to the windows and shut them. “You’re going to the sanctum! I’m telling your father!”

  She pushed the windows open. “Please let me relish the air.”

  “You’re shredding yourself apart.”

  She sat on the bedbeside me and leaned against a bedpost. “The sanctum is not a lasting solution. I’ll still fade out, albeit slower, until my last grain becomes one with the wind. Anyways, it is a comely place, houses a lot of writings that could occupy me till my eyes become too small. But have you ever thought of how the village would react on finding out the disreputable Esohe, infamous thief who was never caught in the act, is of the Order.”

  She glanced at me.

  “I guess right now you’re already thinking the Zephyrs are not that holy after all; it’s all a sham, the worship, the gods. Imagine if everyone harbors such thought. It would only be a little while before they start to worry about the meagre tithe they offer to cater for the Zephyrs. There are not very many places where Zephyrs are accepted. Revealing myself would be disastrous to my kind.”

  “You don’t know that. What is certain is at this rate, you won’t last a week.”

  She rose. “My father has ridden off. Why don’t we start heading for this well. Before the streets become full. I don’t want to be the spectacle of the village.”

  I could barely feel Esohe’s presence beside me while we walked abreast. I tried to avoid faces so no concerned person would enquire if I was helping her to the sickhouse. We traipsed across the area of the field far away from where villagers grazed their horses. After, we continued into the vast uninhabited thickety grove, blades of sere grasses scraping our feet.

  The well was not as deep as I had thought, wouldn’t shut out enough of the wind’s breath, and it was speckled with grass tufts on its wall and bottom. We stood at its edge, peering, and I supposed Esohe, too, was thinking of snakes. We wound a rope round a nearby stump and unfurled it into the well. And slowly we descended in.

  Stooped at the bottom, uprooting the tufts, Esohe said, “I hope I don’t die of a serpent’s venom before I fade into nothingness.”

  “I hope you decide to live in the sanctum before either of those happens.”

  * * *

  Esohe didn’t ask, but I visited her in the well thrice a day, bringing food. She was shrinking at all sides, becoming misshapen, like a weathering termite mound, face receding into a lump, mouth tightening into a tiny pout, hair curling into distinct frills, and I could feel the powder of her skin, as though a mere stare could puff it off. Soon, she couldn’t eat much; could barely finish a scone or cup of gruel and began to prefer only boiled plums.

  “Are you just going to let yourself fade out?”

  “Same way old people let themselves grow old.”

  “If you show yourself now, you can still save some days of your life.”

  “At the expense of invalidating the Zephyrs and those that will come after.”

  “Your father stopped by my house. He’s worried.”

  She had begun to lose her voice. I was seated on the well’s bottom, just beside her, yet her words eluded me. The lemon oil I had sprinkled in the well could scarcely dwarf the underlying stench. But Esohe said she could barely smell a whiff; she was gradually losing that too.

  “My father will have to conclude me missing.”

  “It won’t be easy for him.”

  “I know.”

  After a while, she said, “The more I shrink, the more her voice becomes clearer; the wind, no longer a misty bluster.”

  “I wish I could hear too.”

  “Yes, I wish you could. It’s distinct, beautiful.” She smiled, a little stretch of her pout. “The wind’s thanking you. The departed Zephyrs, they wish there was a way to repay the favor.”

  “The air I breathe is enough. Tell the wind that.”

  “I think she heard you.”

  She asked me to take her to the surface to spend a moment; that even the Zephyrs in the sanctum came outside once a month, on the first Sabbath. She urged, but I tenaciously refused. The Zephyrs were almost a hundred feet below ground and she was scarcely over twenty, still savoring a good portion of the wind’s breath daily.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Here, I’m your keeper; it’s my duty to make you last as long as possible. A moment on the surface will cost you much. Very soon you’ll have all the air you can get.”

  * * *

  Esohe was never much loved on the surface, so her absence was not felt. Only her father made noise, knocked on doors, questioned every villager walking on the street, beckoned neighbors to join him in a search, and I imagined them weaving out intricate excuses to decline. He continued stopping by my house. People claimed they saw the two of us walking together, he said. Yes, I affirmed, but I left her at the field.

  I was Esohe’s only friend; I had to join her father in the search. The two of us scoured the grazing field and beyond until we had to conclude she couldn’t be anywhere near; of course, there was no place to be beyond the field. But whenever he glanced at me, I saw suspicion spread over his face: what in the gods name have you led my daughter into?

  I began to carefully watch my path when going to visit Esohe in the well. I visited only once per day, with little food that would last her. I would nestle her to myself to shield her of the scarce yet poisonous air and tell her of the latest happenings in the village, not sure if she could hear. I told her Mudia was worried and sometimes joined her father and me in the vain search. I sang in low tunes to her and moved my body with hers. Some days, I spent the full day with her. The well quickly became dark, the nights were longer, and so we constantly lived under the golden hue of lamplight. I read to her, scoured for all the books I could find, and would read aloud. But in my alone time, I read records on the lives of Zephyrs, searched for what could make them last longer. There was no other way; only the sanctum.

  One night, when I was caressing her with olive balm so that the white-brown of her fading skin shone like metal, I brought her close to my ears and said, “No one deserves to spend her last days in a well.”

  I pressed her closer to my ears, yearning to hear her speak, but she said nothing.

  “I can take you out of this well. I can take you to the Sanctum, I don’t care who sees us. No one would recognize you. I’ll tell the keepers I saw you near the borders.”

  I felt her vibrations against my face, her gentle spasms, but I wasn’t sure if that was an approval.

  “Everyone should spend her last days with her kind,” I said “in a becalming comfort.”

  I pressed her to my face and breathed her in, tried to fill up myself with her,
to absorb her aura, render it everlasting.

  “Who is your kind?” She spoke, her voice a gentle breath against my cheeks.

  I held her closer to my cheeks, and she muttered again: “Who is your kind?”

  “One who is like you.”

  Later, after a long quiet, I said, “One with whom you share love.”

  “Yes,” she muttered.

  I continued caressing her floury skin with my balm, watching her sparkle in the dimming light.

  “Please take me out of here.”

  I stroked her face and for a moment saw flashes of her former features; the subtle contours of her face before the wind had consumed her flesh. When the jar of balm was empty, I tucked her in my cushioned goatskin bag, and together, we climbed out of the well.

  On the surface, the night was far gone and tranquil. We rode together on my mare, and I trotted with prudent thuds. It was a long and raucous journey through the grove, but soon after, my clip-clopping became the only sound of the village.

  I periodically felt my bag to know if she was still in there, but I never looked into it. After a continuous ride without halting, the thoroughfare leading to my cabin became visible. I rode until I was at my door. The house was empty and humid. Mudia was at the mines.

  Esohe was almost half her size since we had left the well and could easily nestle in my hands. I laid her on the bed and swaddled her with my fleecy shawl but felt her resistant spasms. I uncovered her, left her bare, unclothed, and lay beside.

  All through the night, I felt her morph against me, into grains, into noiseless air, nothingness. I breathed in and let the rest of her fill the space of the room. I listened for the moans of the escaping winds.

  * * *

  On the next Sabbath, I worshiped in the temple. I went before dawn so that I could stand just before the pedestal of the Zephyrs and have a complete view. The Zephyrs were more alike than I thought, the same shapeless features, many of them having the same heights, and I had to squint to see some of them. I focused on the indistinguishably minute ones all through my worshipping, those who resembled the last phase, who would barely last a day if left on the surface.

  When Mudia and I were riding back home, we sighted three men standing by our door. Tax collectors, I feared. As we got nearer to our cabin, the ravenlike judicial signet clipped to the collars of two of the men became visible. The third man was Nata.

  The night before, Nata had stopped by and directly asked me: where is my daughter? I couldn’t tell him where Esohe was. I didn’t know, she could be anywhere in the Sahara.

  “What are they doing here?” Mudia asked.

  The two judicial men strode to us before we could dismount. “Obehi Ehichoya, we have orders from the court to place you in custody.”

  They let me dismount. Nata blankly stared at me from a distance. What arrest-worthy evidence could he have given the court, to prove my involvement in his daughter’s disappearance?

  “What has she done?” Mudia was screaming. “This is absurd! She has nothing to do with Esohe’s disappearance!” I wished he would stop. Neighbors were already assembling.

  The men ignored him and manacled my wrists with cold metal and led me to their carriage beside the house.

  * * *

  The aridness of the harmattan didn’t reach into my cell. Its stone walls were edged with fungus. It was dank at night and fusty during the day but always reeked nauseatingly like old moist hay. There were two other women in the cell, who were older and less interested in conversation than I was. I did not recognize them and deemed them foreign prisoners apprehended in the village.

  They didn’t stay long. They were led out four days later, the same day I was informed of my trial. It was scheduled for the first week of the following month. I imagined now that the news of how I was involved in Esohe’s disappearance must have pervaded the village; her only friend, how pitiable.

  I spent most of the time mapping out how to defend myself in court, what could her father have said against me. Perhaps he had enough corroborators who claimed to have seen me with Esohe beyond the grazing field, contradicting my claim. If that was all, then I could easily defend myself before the tribunal. But the intuition that there was a greater evidence kept gnawing on me; the court wouldn’t issue an arrest on a fragile foundation. Most nights, I didn’t sleep; I retraced my steps, searched for loopholes.

  * * *

  The seven chiefs were present for my trial, hatted and seated on plush armchairs behind the king’s hand, who had a red left eye. Beside the king’s hand sat his clerk, already holding his quill, and at the door stood the staid custodian. At the left end of the court was seated Esohe’s father, Nata, his face grim as ever, staring straight at the blank wall opposite him. I, surrounded by nothing, stood at the middle of the court, a small distance away from the king’s hand. I was still trying to find a loophole and concoct a matching defense.

  After acknowledging the chiefs, the king’s hand looked at me and then lowered his head to the papers on his table. “Obehi Ehichoya, you have been accused with burgling the inner sanctum of the Order of Zephyrs on the first Sabbath of the past month. How do you plea?”

  The sanctum. The charge kept resounding in my head. Treason against the gods. I’d be sent to the gallows. I stared at the king’s hand. My legs began failing me.

  “How do you plea?” he asked again.

  “I do not wish to contend.”

  After the spectacle of me at the gallows, Mudia would certainly be sent away from the mines, and he might not find any other work to do. I wished I had told him of the gold buried in the garden; he might have been able to find a buyer at another village where no one would suspect the gold’s origin.

  The king’s hand ordered Nata to speak.

  Nata rose. “It’s no news of my missing daughter, Esohe. After searching the village with no result, I opted to check inside my house. My daughter is a lover of the pen; she writes everything down on her papers. I ruffled through her papers in hope for a clue, and I happened upon a heartbreaking discovery, which I cannot keep to myself or I would suffer the ire of the gods. In my daughter’s papers, I found the layout and writings of how she intended to steal the key of the sanctum and sneak in on the first Sabbath of the past month. I have handed the papers to the court. Obehi Ehichoya, I know, is my daughter’s closest companion and cohort.”

  “Obehi Ehichoya,” the king’s hand said, “several villagers have been consulted, and a few who were not at the temple testified to have seen you riding with Esohe Okhah on the first Sabbath of the previous month. Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  “To where were you headed?”

  “I rode with Esohe to the sanctum, but I left with empty hands, took nothing.”

  The custodian strode to the clerk and whispered in his ear and returned to the door. The clerk leaned nearer to the king’s hand and muttered to him; they conferred for a while and turned heads to the door. The king’s hand nodded at the custodian.

  The pounding of my head heightened. The chiefs stared at me with gathered eyes as though they wished to impale me with their gaze and spare the hangman of his duty.

  Shadows loomed at the door. A jacketed man dark as tar strode in, cradling an open oaken box. The custodian directed him to a chair beside Nata. He held to himself the box, which must of course contain the loot. I had buried the gold deep enough, but it wouldn’t be hard for a determined seeker to find.

  The king’s hand ordered the jacketed man to speak.

  The man rose and held the box to his chest. “I am thankful for the unplanned reception. I am a keeper of the sanctum”—only now did I notice the moon-shaped signet on his collar. “I am here to speak for one of the Order, who is here with me.” He dug into his box and gently brought out what could have been a shapeless bough wrapped in wool, but though mostly immobile, it could manage few noticeable jerks. It was a Zephyr, looking so holy. I instantly peered at it, searching for familiar features, anything to mat
ch my last memory of Esohe, any familiar spasms. Its woolen garment made it look much less shrunk than the Esohe who perfectly fitted in my bag.

  The keeper continued. “I will speak out the words of the Zephyr to the hearing of the tribunal.” He gently raised the Zephyr to his ear.

  The keeper held the Zephyr to his ear for a long while, then began. “The Zephyr, on behalf of the Order, expresses discontent on how they were not apprised or consulted of a case that relates to the sanctum, their dwelling. Had the matter not slipped from the mouths of conversing keepers, such a case would have continued without the Order’s knowledge.”

  “It was agreed upon to leave the Order undisturbed,” the king’s hand said. “They need not hear of such a profane act.”

  The keeper listened again to the Zephyr, now for an overstretched period, during which the atmosphere grew denser. My legs were wobbling. I was standing in empty air. There was nothing to wedge myself against.

  “On the first Sabbath of the previous month, the Zephyr chose not to go to the temple. A while after the others had left, two young women appeared in the inner sanctum, for reasons unknown at first. But on further study, it became clear to the Zephyr that they had come to revere the dwelling of the Order.”

  The chiefs turned their heads to me and I held their gaze. I prayed within. I’d never thought of praying since my arrest, not to the gods, not to the Zephyrs.

  “Perhaps, out of overzealous faithfulness,” the keeper continued, “believing their worship and petitions were more acceptable if presented from the sanctum rather than the temple. The lengths to which some faithfuls can go to secure the favor of the gods can be as unimaginable or absurd as illicitly entering the sanctum to worship. It should be the temple’s duty to address the villagers, advise them of the limits, so they don’t go overboard with their faith.”

  I peered at the Zephyr, wishing I could hold it to my ears, thank it for the freedom, hear its voice, if it would be similar to Esohe’s, ask it about Esohe: can she be possibly here? Is she still living, in the winds? Is she happy? Does she have any words for me?