Kabu Kabu

by Nnedi Okorafor

  “Geez!” I said, scratching at my itchy sweaty scalp. I planned to dunk my head in a bucket of water to wash my braids tomorrow. “How are we going to sleep in this heat?”

  Zuma shrugged, sitting on the bed, looking miserably at the lit candles.

  “I almost want to dump water on myself, soak my clothes and the bed!” I whined. I held my little battery-powered hand fan to my face. I sat beside her. We crossed our legs on the bed, afraid to touch the floor with our bare feet. “And we’re probably gonna get bitten up by mosquitoes with that open window . . . ”

  “Will you just shut up?” Zuma snapped. “If you want to run to uncle and auntie’s house, go! I’m staying here. What are we supposed to tell mom and dad when we get back? You think this is gonna make dad feel better? That a bunch of his relatives are greedy jerks even when he’s sick? Who cares about mosquitoes, man. This is . . . ”

  Then we heard it and we both shut up.

  Softly, scrape, scrape. Then clunk, like something falling. Then a more continuous scraaaaape.

  It was coming from downstairs.

  “What’s that?” I whispered.

  “Shhh!” she hissed.

  Scrape, scrape. Quiet. Minutes passed. Then more scrape, scrape. It seemed to be moving away from us, toward the front of the house downstairs. We stayed frozen like that all night. Listening. Come morning, we were still in the same position. In the village, there were night-sounds that were normal, like the hoot of an owl, the clicks and chirps of insects, the screech of some animal we couldn’t name. But what we’d heard was in the house and it only stopped at about the same time that the sun rose.

  Someone knocking on the door forced us to leave our room.

  “Hey,” I said, smiling tiredly, as we slowly walked down the stairs. I pointed at one of the ceiling corners. “Looks like those nasty spiders are taking off because of us. The webs aren’t just empty but it looks like the spiders actually cut them down.”

  “Cool,” Zuma said. “I guess they aren’t so stupid. I was gonna ask Tochi to come and crush them all today.”

  “Good morning,” our aunt said when we opened the door. She carried a tray of breakfast: bottles of water, thick pieces of buttered bread, scrambled eggs, and a tin of sardines. She looked extremely relieved to see that we were okay.

  “Good morning,” we both said.

  “How was your night?”

  “Not so great, but we made it,” I said.

  “It was fine,” Zuma said taking the tray. “Thanks for breakfast. It looks great.”

  We quickly ran back upstairs, anxious to eat. Zuma would be the only one eating the sardines, though. Those are nasty. As we walked past the Yoruba Room, I glanced in. Then I stopped.

  “What the heck?” I shouted. “I knew something was missing downstairs!”

  “What?” Zuma asked anxiously. She obviously wanted to eat before doing anything else.

  I ran into the room without answering. “But how?” I said. “How did it get here?”

  “No way,” Zuma said, running up next to me, when she saw the carpet. “Did we lock all the doors?”

  We spent the next several minutes relocking every door in the house and then locking all the rooms that had windows. “Someone snuck in here last night and is trying to mess with our heads by moving our carpet around,” Zuma angrily said as she locked a door. “Not gonna happen again.”

  That night, night number two, we slept a little better. We were exhausted and went to bed at seven p.m. Plus, knowing that the noises were probably made by human beings related to us and that all the doors were locked set our minds at ease. At least until about four a.m. when we heard that scraping sound again. I was terrified, thinking maybe this time the noise was armed robbers or . . . zombies. My sister, she took it all a different way.

  “Dammit,” Zuma hissed angrily. “They’re not gonna drive us out. This is so mean.” She got off the bed, this time not caring that her feet were bare.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered loudly.

  “Gonna see who the hell that is!”

  Next thing I knew, she was opening the door and going into the hallway with the flashlight.

  “Wait!” I whispered, creeping behind her.

  Quietly, we moved down the stairs, toward the scraping sound. My sister peeked around the corning, staying on the last stair. She flashed her flashlight. She gasped. “Shit!”

  “What is it? What do you . . . ”

  She grabbed my hand and we ran up the stairs.

  “What? What?” I shouted. “What?”

  She pushed me into the room, slammed the door and locked it. Then she shut the window.

  “Okay,” Zuma said, calming down, sinking to the floor. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. Oh my God, I wish we’d have . . . no, not really. Just . . . man. Alright.”

  “What?” I sobbed, sitting next to her with my heart pounding. She didn’t answer. For minutes, we both just sat there, quiet and listening and sweating. The scraping had stopped.

  “What was it?” I finally asked again.

  My sister turned to look at me with red-rimmed eyes.

  “A snake, a big black snake.”

  We spent most of the next day outside with our cousins. We didn’t tell anyone about the snake. After sitting there feeling tired and scared and confused, we had both silently thought about dad and decided to spend the last night in the house. One more night. And then the wildlife in the house could do whatever it wanted . . . until people were hired to clean the place up.

  Zuma said that the snake was over four feet in length and thick in body. That it was a dusty black and had yellow eyes. We assumed it was poisonous and that it had probably been prowling the house at night searching for rats or mice or whatever else lived in the house.

  Our cousins took us for a walk down to a nearby lagoon and for hours after that we sat and played cards and forgot about our troubles. But eventually we had to return to the house. And that night was the most disturbing of them all. We’d locked the door as always and then we listened for the snake to start its foraging. Around three a.m., it started.

  “Let’s go see,” I said. It was our last night in the house and, of course, I was scared, but something in me wanted to see that snake. If only to be able to talk about it when we got back to Chicago.

  At first Zuma looked at me like I was crazy. It was a similar look to the one I had given the crazy Junk Man back in that Abuja market. Then she smiled. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  We crept out the room with our flashlight and tiptoed to the staircase, but we didn’t go down. We didn’t get to see the snake either. Why? Because the carpet was on the stairs. No, it wasn’t just on the stairs, it was creeping up the stairs. It moved like some giant stingray. We stumbled back as it glided by, hovering about an inch or two off the floor as it swam through the air. Zuma followed it with the flashlight.

  Once it disappeared around the corner with a flick of a golden tassel, we both made a run for it to our room and shut the door. Then we just sat on the bed, speechless. I thought about the Junk Man. He would have laughed hard at the two of us trembling in our room like that. Shocked and shivering and mentally shifted. Shit.

  “Did you see . . . ”

  “Shhh,” my sister said as we sat there.

  “It was a flying carpet!”

  “Shhh,” my sister snapped. “Don’t talk or something. What if it hears us?”

  “Well, we’ve been here how many days. I think it’s probably safe to say . . . ”

  “Mukoso, shut up!” she said. “And it wasn’t a flying carpet; it kinda just crept over the floor and stuff.”

  “Whatever, man. A carpet isn’t supposed to move!”

  “No, really?”

  What we both agreed on was that neither of us was leaving the room again that night. Not with snakes and carpets and shit creeping and fluttering around the house. Danger abounded. So we stayed there and went to sleep. For the first time, we slept through what remaine
d of the night. Be it from shock, mental fatigue, or just common sense, it didn’t matter.

  We woke up hours after sunrise, around eight in the morning. We dressed and washed in silence. And when our aunt came with breakfast, we didn’t say a word. Instead we went and sat on the floor in the Yoruba Room and ate.

  As we sat there with the empty plates, my sister nibbling on a sardine, I said, “Let’s go find it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” I said. “We’re leaving today . . . plus, it doesn’t move during the day, at least thus far. I . . . don’t . . . think, at least.” I shook my head. “Come on, let’s go see it.”

  “I . . . I dunno,” she said. “Let’s just get outta here and act like . . . ”

  “But it did!” I said with wide eyes. “We saw it, man.”

  We found it in the kitchen.

  “Hello?” I said loudly.

  Zuma frowned.

  I shrugged. “Just making sure,” I said.

  Even as we looked at it, neither of us was dumb enough to start doubting what we’d seen last night. Sure, it was dark, yes, we were tired, and we were scared. But we’d seen what we saw; this periwinkle carpet with black thread designs and golden tassels was alive. And maybe now it was asleep. Who knew?

  We stepped into the room, staying close together. Then slowly, we walked up to it. Still, it didn’t move. It was spread out flat, taking up about a third of the kitchen’s floor. There were a few lumps in it.

  I squatted down and touched one of the rug’s golden tassels. Then quickly before I changed my mind I lifted and threw the rug back over itself. We both jumped back. What we saw underneath still haunts me to this day. There was a big pile of those huge spiders, black, crushed, and dead. There were also several large dead rats and the brown black body of a smashed scorpion, too! To top it off, there was the black snake. I got to see it for myself after all. Coiled up, scaly black-skinned, and dead as all the other creatures under the carpet.

  As we stood there, the carpet rippled and began to turn itself over and flatten itself out. Then it floated away from us a bit; later I would think it did this almost shyly. We didn’t wait to see anymore. That was enough. We ran upstairs, packed our things, and dragged them down the stairs, trying not to look toward the kitchen. We spent the remaining hours in our aunt and uncle’s house. I could almost hear the Junk Man laughing his giggly laugh.

  As the airplane took off, flying us back to the United States, I couldn’t help but think about the next time we’d visit. I had a feeling that the flying carpet that lived in our house was one piece of furniture our relatives would not steal.

  “You think it’ll be there when we go back?” I asked Zuma.

  Zuma looked at me, then we both started laughing. We laughed and laughed until we looked out the window. Then I nearly screamed and Zuma just stared.

  Do I need to say what we saw?

  Icon

  Journal Entry

  This is going to be a good story. African rebels with the audacity and ability to cripple America’s crude oil supply. Priceless. I am the smartest man alive. “Heart of Darkness,” my ass. Feels so good to be back on the continent. The moment this plane touches the ground, the adventure begins. Watch me win a Pulitzer for this shit. Got to prepare notes and questions now. More journaling when I return from the swamp . . .

  The mangrove trees looked like frozen many-legged beasts staring at something about to happen. The boatmen had the same looks of frightened anticipation as they rowed the small boat through the quiet waters. Thankfully the sun was on its way up.

  Richard and Nancy wore jeans and long sleeve shirts despite the heat. They’d doused themselves with pungent-smelling insect repellent, too. The two boatmen, muscular men in their twenties, wore nothing but shorts. Nonetheless it was Richard and Nancy who were getting bitten up by mosquitoes and gnats. The swamp creatures obviously had a preference. Richard couldn’t even feel the stealth insects bite. He tried to ignore his thoughts of malaria. Not a disease he wanted to catch again.

  Even this early in the morning, the heat was thick and tangible. It settled on him like a heavy blanket and baked and stewed his skin. Even after a good shower, he still felt dirty. Couple all this with his super peppery, palm-oily breakfast of egg stew, fried plantain, and yam and it was no wonder he felt all around goddamn itchy and hot as hell.

  “Fuck!” Nancy said, slapping the side of her face. Her hand left a red print.

  “Almost there,” one of the boatmen said. He pointed ahead. “See?”

  Amongst the mangrove trees, dense bushes, and leafy palm trees, the village was a mere cluster of thatch roofed huts. Scrawny chickens strutted boldly about and a goat baa-ed from beside a hut. Richard could see people starting their day. Mainly women. They wore old rapas, t-shirts, and cheap plastic flip-flops. The air smelled of cooking fires and heated palm oil. The women swept floors, carried buckets of water on their heads, and chatted. Some stopped and shielded their eyes as they watched the approaching boat.

  From somewhere, a boom box played Erykah Badu’s “I Want You.” Richard smiled to himself as he scratched a mosquito bite on his back. He loved that song. Nice to know it traveled far. They passed the village and moved slowly to a small bank a few yards beyond the last hut.

  “Doesn’t look so bad,” Nancy said as Richard climbed out of the boat into the knee deep brackish water. He tried not to look down, afraid he might see a snake or some other biting venomous creature swimming around his boots. He’d already spotted a huge water bug. And something large and white rolled to the water’s surface and disappeared a few feet away.

  He focused on the village. Nancy was right. It didn’t look like the hideout of rebels with nothing to lose. He frowned. For the first time since leaving New York, he felt a tiny pinch of doubt.

  A month earlier, Richard had written a story for Newsweek about a “pirate” attack off the Nigerian coastline. They’d come in broad daylight firing AK-47s at a fishing trawler. They shot the ship’s chef before the eyes of the crew. The poor man had bled out as the pirates stripped the ship of its valuables and causally ate the meal the chef had been preparing. Then they made their escape. But not before being spotted by three police patrol boats.

  “I saw the whole chase,” a fisherman told Richard. “The police were right behind them, three big speedboats! Brrrt! Brrrt! They blasted away at the tiny speedboat. How did they get away? Only the Blessed Father knows.”

  The story was significant because the culprits were from the NDPM, the Niger Delta People’s Movement, a Nigerian terrorist organization bent on sabotaging and destroying any efforts Shell and other oil companies made to extract oil from this strip of the Niger Delta. Pirating was one of their ways to make money and gather supplies, the others being email fraud and kidnapping.

  Richard spoke with three other witnesses and it was the same perplexed story. Somehow, though the police were in close pursuit and shooting like crazy, not one of the rebels was hit. Then the small boat entered the place where the police could not follow, the swamp’s waterways. Only the locals could safely navigate them. It was excellent stuff. Richard wanted more. But when he tried to set up a meeting with these elusive rebels, he was coldly dismissed. Until now.

  Mud squished under his boots as he made for the bank, a mosquito buzzed in his ear, something hissed and moved in the bushes to his left. He almost slipped and dropped his laptop bag in the water. “Shit,” he hissed. When he looked up, he jumped back as fifteen AK-47-toting men came striding up the path. They wore dark green camouflage and black face masks with fresh green leaves stuck through the sides of the mouth and eye holes. They were all barefoot except for a few wearing flip flops and one who wore boots.

  They had chains of bullets around their shoulders and necks. It was a grand show, Richard had to admit. One of the barefoot men also had a machete sheathed at each hip. From what Richard could see, they were all grown men, except two or three who were closer to ten years old.

>   He looked back. “N . . . Nancy, hurry up,” he said.

  She clambered out of the boat and fumbled with her bag as she tried to get one of her cameras out. “Come on,” she muttered to herself.

  “No pictures yet,” one of the men demanded in a low imposing voice.

  “Who are you?” the one with the machetes asked. He was not the tallest but he was tall and had a chest like defined steel, accentuated by the fact that he wore no shirt under his open, sleeveless fatigue vest. His chest was covered with symbols that looked drawn with a red marker. Richard could also glimpse a bit of a large elaborate red green dragon head tattooed on the left side of his chest. It probably extended over his shoulder down his back.

  “We’re the journalists who wish to interview members of the NDPM,” Richard said, working to sound brave.

  “Names?”

  “Richard Banks.”

  “Nancy Armond.”

  The machete- and gun-toting man looked at Nancy, his head cocked. A cell phone rang from somewhere. The ring tone reminded Richard of the sound Tinker Bell made in the Disney Peter Pan movie. He bit his lip as the thought took him to the face of his five-year-old daughter. Another pinch of doubt.

  The machete and gun-toting man reached into his pocket, brought out and answered his phone. “They’re here,” he said. He glanced at Richard and then Nancy. “A black American with short Bob Marley and a fat white woman named after almonds. She carries many camera, like flowers in a bouquet.”

  A few of the others snickered. He looked at Richard and Nancy as he listened. Though Richard couldn’t see his face, he thought the man’s eyes looked feral; this guy was definitely capable of doing some really crazy shit. The madman folded his phone and said, “Come with me.” He turned to two of his men. “Obi, Effong, make sure their boat stays.” He pointed at the two boatmen. “I know who all your wives are.”

  The boatmen looked terrified but nodded. “We stay here, sir,” one of them meekly said. “No wahala, sir. No wahala.”

  “We have more things on the boat,” Richard said.