Better Never Than Late

by Chika Unigwe

  Ada, who had been fortifying herself with prayers and a passage from the “Search the Scriptures” pamphlet in her room, came out with a leather belt, screaming ‘Confess! Confess! Confess witch!’ She began to speak in tongues, interrupting it only with shouts of ‘Confess! Confess!’ while she lashed out at Ijeoma with the belt. ‘You witch! Confess! Raba dabba Confess!’ Kambi had heard Ada speak in tongues many times, but today, there was a forcefulness to the tongues that made Ada almost unrecognizable. It was as if she was in a trance. She looked like Pastor Okeke did whenever he heard God’s voice. Nothing could break the trance until God finished speaking.

  ‘I haven’t done anything oooo! Mama m ooo! Anwukwa m ooo!’

  Thwack! Kambi landed her another lash across her breasts. She continued to speak in tongues.

  ‘I’m not a witch ooo!’

  Thwack!

  ‘Anty, you’ll kill me oo.’

  ‘Confess!’ Thwack! One across the head from Ada. ‘Rabbi shaddai graam graam.’

  ‘Anwukwa m oooo! What have I done?’

  Thwack! ‘You can deny it all you want but I know!’ Kambi shouted.

  Ada had warned her that Ijeoma would deny everything. ‘She will swear that she knows nothing about witchcraft but believe me, by the time we’re through with her, she’ll tell us the truth, eziokwu. That’s how witches are when they are caught. They’ll deny, deny.’

  ‘What have I done?’

  Thwack!

  ‘Anty, is this because I didn’t give you the change when I came back from shopping the other day?’

  Kambi looked at Ada. Surely, her cousin knew that Ijeoma was to hand over every bit of change to her, Kambi. She was Ijeoma’s boss, not Ada. Why would she ask Ijeoma for the money?

  Ada cried, ‘The witch is trying to frame me! Which change? Which money? Ramesh ramidiii Jehovah Jire dada gram gram. Confess!’ Thwack!

  The buckle of Ada’s belt must have cut Ijeoma because she started bleeding under one eye. Kambi thought maybe they had gone too far. Ijeoma was a child after all. She said, ‘Ada, ozugo. Stop.’ But Ada, lost in her trance did not hear her. She lifted her head again at the same time as Ijeoma touched the blood under her eye, looked at it and started screaming, ‘Yes, Yes. I’m a witch please stop hitting me. Yes! I am. I am sorry. Please, stop!’

  Kambi could not believe it. What had she not done for Ijeoma? This girl who had come into her house with one pair of underwear, no bra (even though her breasts had begun to sprout) and two dresses. In the two years she had been with Kambi, her wardrobe had increased, with Kambi’s old scarves and hand-me-downs. She even had three pairs of shoes. Leather shoes, not those colourful plastic shoes many maids wore. Kambi, thinking of the fifteen-year-old’s future, had wanted her to learn a trade, something that would equip her for life later. She had even started making enquires with Obioma the tailor on how Ijeoma could be apprenticed to him. All that and yet Ijeoma had been fighting her on a spiritual level, slipping witchcraft into the food she served her mistress, whispering spells over her as she slept.

  ‘What have I ever done to deserve that?’ Kambi had asked Ada the night before.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ada assured her. ‘She is eating up your luck to empower herself. You have done nothing!’

  The two women sat Ijeoma down in the middle of the sitting room, her back against the centre table.

  ‘How long have you been a witch?’ Kambi could no longer shout. A tiredness had settled on her, seeping into every part of her, locking her jaws so that speaking was an effort.

  ‘Eh?’ Ijeoma sounded confused. Snot ran down her nose. She wiped it off with the back of a palm. She looked at Ada as if appealing to her to say something but Ada raised the leather belt above her head. Before she could bring it down, Ijeoma shouted, ‘A long time!’

  ‘When do you go for meetings with your fellow witches?’ Ada asked, picking up the Bible which always lay on the centre table and waving it in Ijeoma’s face. There was a wild fire in her eyes. Her voice was loud as if the person she was talking to was in another room.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Eh what? Am I talking with water in my mouth? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I am talking about, or I’ll bring out the belt again.’

  ‘At night. I fly out of my body. I fly high-high. Please, don’t hit me again. Please, let me go back to my mother.’

  Ada looked at her cousin triumphantly. ‘See? See? See? Ekwuro m ya ekwu? Did I not tell you? Where is your coven? Is it that mango tree behind Obioma’s house?’ She held the belt over Ijeoma’s head, dangling it like a tail growing out of her hand.

  ‘Yes. yes,’ Ijeoma said, trying to stem the bleeding with a palm. ‘I want to go home. Biko nu. Let me go home. Ka m naa uno. Ehhhhh! Ehhh!’ She was crying hysterically now, drawing out the ehhhh of her cries.

  ‘Shut up, you amosu! You want to go where?’ Ada shouted. ‘I told you, Kambi. I told you. She wants to go home so that she can recover her power and finish you off. Go and call the pastor. Now. Call him kita kita, this minute. No wasting time!’

  Kambi’s hands shook so much as she dialled that her mobile phone slipped out of her hand. She had never seen a witch, let alone lived with one in a house. She had trusted this girl and Ijeoma had spat on that trust. When the pastor answered he said it was a good thing she called as he was about to call her. He had answered at the first ring because he had his phone in his hand ready to call her. Ada had told him all about it. It had already been revealed to him that a member of his congregation had a witch in her house, and that her life was in danger. Ada’s call had confirmed it.

  ‘Praise God that you’ve got it under control now,’ the pastor said, ‘and that you have a strong sister like Ada to pray for you. On Sunday, we shall bind the spirit of witchcraft in your maid forever.’ Kambi got a list of what to bring: a piece of white cloth, a small sack of salt and a bottle of olive oil. Ada offered to do the shopping. She knew where to get everything, and she knew the quality required. ‘With things of the Lord, one must not be stingy,’ she told Kambi as she pocketed the bundle of notes Kambi handed over to her, picking up some that had fallen from Kambi’s shaking hands. Ada held her cousin’s hands until they stopped trembling. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said to Kambi. ‘The pastor will get the spirit out of her.’

  ‘Sistas and Brodas! Today we have a very special request!’ Pastor Moses Elijah Samuel Okeke’s voice boomed through and the speaking in tongues and clapping and dancing stopped. Ijeoma was dragged out by two assistant pastors, from the Inner Sanctuary where the demon-possessed were kept until they were cleansed. She wore nothing but the white cloth Ada had bought, tied under her arms and reaching down to her knees. Her hair was mala shaven, so clean the lights bounced off it. Maybe it was the shaven head, but she looked smaller. There was a welt where Ada’s belt had cut under her eye. Kambi caught herself feeling sorry for Ijeoma. What if there had been a mistake? The girl looked harmless. She turned to Ada and before she had even said a word, Ada said, ‘See how her wild eyes are. Ask the blood of Jesus to cover you from her evil.’ Ijeoma’s eyes were indeed wild, Kambi saw now. They darted over the hushed congregation. When they landed on Kambi, Kambi shut her eyes and said a prayer, asking Jesus to cover her with His blood, to ward off any evil the girl might still be capable of.

  ‘Brodas and Sistas! This here is a witch!’

  The congregation gasped as if they were being shown some exotic creature, even though this scene was not new to many of them, certainly not the older members of the church. Before Kambi joined, Ada had told her, the pastor had done at least three exorcisms. One was of a widowed woman whom her brother-in-law had caught walking around the house at night, mewing like a cat. The pastor had revealed that she was responsible for her husband’s death. The cirrhosis of the liver was just a symptom of the woman’s sorcery. Like Ijeoma, she had denied it, but confessed during the exorcism. The second one had been of a teenage boy with the spirit of shoplifting. His family was wealthy but no matter h
ow much they gave him, he would still be caught stealing from supermarkets in their neighbourhood. After the exorcism, his parents had bought the pastor a brand new car. The third was a three-year-old whose father’s business began to fail the moment he was born and whose mother’s womb could not hold a baby after him. Kambi, disturbed by the thought of a toddler being accused of sorcery, asked Ada if the man’s business picked up after his son’s exorcism. Ada said that if it did not, it was because his faith in the pastor was not strong enough. Kambi might be book-smart, Ada said, but in matters of faith, she was obviously still a learner. ‘Today, we are going to cast the spirit in her and send it back to the pits of hell! We are going to reclaim this girl’s life for the one true and ever-living Father in heaven. Let me hear Hallelujah!’

  ‘Hallelujah! Amen!’ Kambi imagined Ijeoma after the exorcism, freed from witchcraft. She might take her back. She would send her to school, help her live a normal life. She could not help the sense of pride that came over her. She was saving a life! Reclaiming a life for God.

  ‘Hallelujah?’ The pastor’s voice boomed.

  ‘Hallelujah!’

  There was a sporadic outbreak of speaking in tongues. The pastor raised one hand, the gold ring on his finger gleaming like the life Kambi imagined would soon be hers, and a hush fell over the congregation again. He closed his eyes, mumbled a prayer and slowly started to sing, his voice deep and sonorous.

  My hands are blessed

  My hands are blessed

  Blessings from the Father, Son and Spirit

  Anyone I touch gets their blessing

  Any illness in them I cast out in the name of the Father, Son and Spirit

  And as he sang, he walked up and down the podium. He started the song a second time, dragging the words out as he made his way to Ijeoma. Two men held her, one at each side, keeping her arms outstretched as if for a crucifixion.

  My hands are blessed

  My hands are blessed

  He rubbed her bald head as if her were rubbing Aladdin’s magic lamp to release the genie trapped in it.

  Anyone I touch…

  He touched her face, traced her lips with a finger.

  …gets their blessing

  He trailed a hand down her throat.

  Any illness in them…

  He touched her chest and ran his palm down her front. Each time he touched her, Ijeoma jerked and tried to free her hands from the men holding her, but she was powerless against their strength. Done with singing and the blessing, the pastor said, ‘Sister Kambi, come forth with the salt and olive oil.’ Ada nudged her, Kambi whispered a prayer and, with all eyes on her, walked to the front, clutching the paper bag of salt and bottle olive oil a little tighter than normal. She could feel Ada’s encouraging smile urging her on but something stayed her feet.

  The pastor took the bag of salt from her, tore it open and poured some on Ijeoma’s head. Then he took a pinch and forced it into the girl’s mouth. Ijeoma pulled a face and when it looked like she might spit it out, the pastor gripped her by the chin and threw her head back until he was satisfied she had swallowed it.

  He faced the congregation. ‘This sister might be young,’ he said, ‘but the spirit in her is as massive as this house, brethren!’ There were pockets of nervous laughter as if he had told a good joke. He rubbed olive oil onto his palms and massaged Ijeoma’s head so that it shone with an unearthly luminescence.

  ‘Bind her Father shabba rabba Jehovah Niissi.’

  ‘Amen!’ the congregation thundered as one.

  ‘Bind her father! Grabba ramidishi wey Jehovah M’kadseh! Take this spirit from her and send it down to the bottomless pit to burn forever and ever.’

  ‘Amen!’

  ‘Let it burn until there is nothing left Father Almighty!’

  ‘Amen!

  ‘Ah! Ranisha dab ah Jehovah rabba ooooo Father free thy servant! Make her thine! Subdue this spirit within her.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Subdue it, tear it out, throw it down into the deepest, hottest part of hell.’

  ‘Amen!’

  The pastor shook, from his hand holding the microphone to his legs in their silk trousers. Every part of him trembled.

  ‘Send down your angels, Father. I need strength! Send me an army of angels oh Lord. I am but thy humble servant. Send me an army of angels Father! Jehovah Jire! Jehovah Shammah! Jehovah Rapha! Heal her!’

  ‘Amen!’

  ‘Heal her!’

  ‘Amen!’

  ‘Angels Father! Heavenly armour!’

  ‘Amen!’

  Kambi pounded her fists and prayed along with the pastor. She tried to match Ada, praying beside her, in fervour. She closed her eyes and imagined all the angels fighting this battle alongside her pastor; angels in white dresses, flapping feathery wings like huge birds, flying above the pastor to fortify him.

  ‘She’s stubborn Father! Make her worthy to wear white like your angels! Shabba dai rabba hallelujah Addonai! Addonai!’ He walked off to the side of the podium, reached down and picked up a koboko.

  ‘That’s his special exorcism whip.’ Ada whispered to Kambi. ‘It’s authentic cowhide.’ He brought it down on Ijeoma with a crack. Kambi flinched. Ijeoma let out a cry, drowned by the stamping of feet and the praying around her but Kambi heard that cry as if Ijeoma were a bird perched on her shoulder. Ijeoma twisted, but could not free herself. When the pastor brought the koboko down again across Ijeoma’s calves, Kambi felt as if she herself were being flogged. She could no longer bear to look as the pastor flogged Ijeoma without pausing. On her bare feet. Her skinny ankles. Each time the whip connected with her body, she hopped as if she was treading on hot coals. He flogged her frantically, his arm rising and falling so quickly that the koboko blurred.

  The praying and the clapping and the stamping continued. Kambi stood in place, her arms crossed across her chest as if protecting something precious, ignoring Ada’s nudges that she clap too. The pastor flogged Ijeoma until the evil spirit in her was defeated and the weight of the exorcism bowed her head and shut her eyes and she no longer resisted. It was only then that the assistant pastors let go of her and she fell like a heap of laundry at the pastor’s feet, the white cloth bunched up to expose her thighs.

  Then a song of thanksgiving began.

  Deep in her heart, where relief should have been a river flowing, Kambi discovered instead that a heartburn had lodged itself, holding her around her neck, so that when she opened her mouth to sing, she could only whisper, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!’

  Cunny Man Die, Cunny Man Bury Am

  ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,’ Godwin shouted into Agu and Prosperous’s sitting room one January evening. Godwin was small, new in town, and struggling. Prosperous did not know his story. Not entirely. But she could tell that he was a hustler. He had the recognisable tired look in his eyes, the high-pitched tone when he spoke, as if he wanted to convince everyone of his optimism, his certainty that he would achieve whatever it was he had come to Europe for. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!

  And what a man had to do apparently was marry a Belgian woman. Four months later, Godwin came to visit with his fiancée. Tine was round and soft. She was the colour of dough. She looked like she had the consistency of dough too, like she would dent wherever you touched her, pockmarked by curious fingers pressing her skin.

  ‘She took time finding,’ Agu told Prosperous later. Certainly longer than Godwin had anticipated. ‘He thought it would be easy. He thought white women were lining up waiting for ndi oji to fall for and marry.’

  ‘That’s what they hear back home,’ Prosperous said. ‘Oyibo women want black men. I remember years ago, our neighbours’ son came back from America with tales of how he had to fight off white women. He said that every time he went out, he had to fend off the legion of oyibo women wanting a piece of his black ass. We all believed him.’ She laughed at the memory, Agu laughing along.

  ‘Yes, the irresistibility
of the black man. Another myth about this place,’ Agu said through his laughter. Folded into the edges of his voice, even as he laughed, was the familiar bitterness that Prosperous had learnt to ignore. After all, Agu was not the only one who had to live with failed dreams.

  ‘This is Tine!’ Godwin shouted into the room when Prosperous let them in. His smile was too wide, his small frame dwarfed by the woman beside him. His tired eyes gleamed as if they had been polished. Tine smiled a nervous smile and said, ‘Hello!’ She began to hold out a hand but she also leaned forward as if to offer a cheek, unsure whether to give the traditional three kisses on the cheek or shake hands. In the end she did neither. Godwin held her around her waist and even when they sat down would not let go of her hand. It was as if he were afraid of her slipping away.

  ‘Love nwanti nti,’ Agu teased. ‘No wound me with your love ooo!’

  Godwin snorted and said in Igbo, ‘Nwoke ma-ife o naeme.’ A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  Tine had large wooden earrings. The sort of earrings that would be described as African because they did not fit anywhere else and Africa was the continent of woods, was it not?

  That night, after Tine and Godwin had left and Prosperous was lying beside Agu in bed, he said, ‘Ah, that Godwin woman na room and parlour sha,’ as if the thought of Tine’s corpulence had just occurred to him. ‘Not his usual type but Godwin knows what he’s after.’

  Prosperous said, ‘And so what if she is fat?’ She thought Tine seemed too eager to please, too eager to belong. She insisted on eating the poundo with her fingers even though Prosperous had offered her cutlery.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Tine said. ‘I’ve eaten poundo before. Godwin showed me how.’ Her earrings jiggled as she spoke. Prosperous could not tell which animal shape they represented.

  ‘Ah, Tine is African woman oo!’ Godwin said. ‘She’s my African queen! She eats fufu well-well.’