Zahrah the Windseeker

by Nnedi Okorafor

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Dear Reader

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Text copyright © 2005 by Nnedi Okorafor-Mbachu

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from

  this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue

  South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

  Illustrations by Stephanie Cooper.

  The text of this book was set in Cochin.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Okorafor-Mbachu, Nnedi.

  Zahrah the Windseeker / Nnedi Okorafor-Mbachu.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Zahrah, a timid thirteen-year-old girl, undertakes a dangerous quest

  into the Forbidden Greeny Jungle to seek the antidote for her best friend after he is

  bitten by a snake, and finds knowledge, courage, and hidden powers along the way.

  ISBN 0-618-34090-4

  [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Coming of age—Fiction. 3. Flight—

  Fiction. 4. Best friends—Fiction. 5. Jungles—Fiction. 6. Fantasy.] I. Title.

  PZ7.O4157Zah 2005

  [Fic]—dc22 2004015783

  ISBN-13: 978-0618-34090-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  MP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A World of Our Own by Tom Springfield © 1965 (Renewed) Springfield-Music, Ltd.

  (ASCAP)All Rights Administered By Chappell Music Ltd.

  All Rights Reserved

  Used by Permission

  Warner Brothers Publications, U.S. Inc.,Miami, Florida 33014

  To the late Virginia Hamilton,

  who showed me that people could fly,

  and my father and mother, who gave me the means to soar

  The eyes of eagles see far

  Dear Reader,

  My name is Zahrah Tsami. This is my story. As many of you may know (and some of you may not, for who knows how far this book has come), I decided to write this book because of the stupid photos published in the Ooni Inquirer. Anyone who would stalk two innocent teenagers, hide in a tree, and take pictures of them really needs to question his or her job. That's not journalism. Yes, it was Dari and me in those photos. Yes, I can fly. No, I am not a witch, a jinni, or a ghost posing as my living self. I am a Windseeker. My story will tell you what really happened. And no matter where you're from, I want you to understand it well.

  Sincerely,

  Zahrah Tsami

  Prologue

  My World

  When I was born, my mother took one look at me and laughed.

  "She's ... dada," said the doctor, looking surprised.

  "I can see that," my mother replied with a smile. She took me in her arms and gently touched one of the thick clumps of hair growing from my little head. I had dadalocks, and woven inside each one of those clumps was a skinny, light green vine. Contrary to what a lot of people think, these vines didn't sprout directly from my head. Instead, they were more like plants that had attached themselves to my hair as I grew inside my mother's womb. Imagine that! To be born with vines growing in your hair! But that's the nature of dada people, like myself.

  "Look, she's smiling," my father said. "As if she already knows she's dada."

  To many, to be dada meant you were born with strange powers. That you could walk into a room and a mysterious wind would knock things over or clocks would automatically stop; that your mere presence would cause flowers to grow underneath the soil instead of above. That you caused things to rebel or that you would grow up to be rebellious yourself! And what made things even worse was that I was a girl, and only boys and men were supposed to be rebellious. Girls were supposed to be soft, quiet, and pleasant.

  Thankfully, when I was born, my parents were open-minded, well educated, and familiar with some of the older stories about dada people. These stories said that the dada-born were destined to be wise beings, not necessarily rebels. As a result, my parents didn't cut my hair, and they weren't scared by it either. Instead they let it grow and, as I got older, made sure I understood that being dada was not a curse. In fact, it was a blessing, because it was a part of me, they said. Of course I didn't feel this way when I was old enough to go to school and my classmates called me names.

  Now I'm fourteen and my dada hair has grown way down my back. Also, the vines inside are thicker and dark green. Sometimes all this hair is heavy, but I'm used to it. My mother says it forces me to hold my head up higher.

  ***

  A large part of the culture in the northern Ooni Kingdom where I live is to look "civilized." That's northern slang for stylish. There's no way the typical northerner would go outside without wearing his or her most civilized clothes and looking clean and nice. Not even for a second.

  We all carry mirrors in our pockets, and we take them out every so often to inspect our reflection and make sure we look good. On top of that, our clothes click with tiny style mirrors embedded into the collars and hems. They're really lovely. I have a dress with style mirrors sewn all over it. Sometimes when I'm alone I like to put it on and dance in the sunlight. The reflections from the little mirrors look like white insects dancing along with me.

  My people love to use mirrors everywhere, actually. If you go to the downtown area of the great city of Ile-Ife, you'll understand what I'm talking about. Downtown, many giant plant towers reach high into the sky. In my history class, I learned that every year, the ten tallest plant towers grow ten inches higher and five inches wider and that they're thousands of years old.

  At one time, long ago, they weren't even inhabited by human beings, as they are now. There were no elevators or computer networks or offices or living spaces inside. They were just big big plants! The Ooni Palace Tower is the tallest (standing 4,188 feet high) and oldest of them all. That's where the chief of Ooni and his council reside. The top of the building blooms into a giant blue flower with purple petals. My father told me that this flower serves as a netevision transmitter for most of the Ooni Kingdom. Even this far north in Kirki, it's a beautiful sight, especially at night.

  Anyway, from up in any of the plant towers, you can see the north with all its mirrors shining like a giant galaxy, especially on sunny days. Our homes and buildings are encrusted with thousands of mirrors, inside and out. And there's always sand in the streets from those messy trucks transporting the grains to the factories to make even more mirrors.

  Some like to say that northerners are arrogant and vain. But it's just our culture. And look at the four other ethnic groups of the Ooni Kingdom. They have unique customs, too. I just find them interesting, as opposed to wrong.

  The northwesterners cook all day and most of the night! Over there you can practically eat the air, and everyone is gloriously fat! The peopl
e of the southwest are as obsessed with beads as we northerners are with mirrors. People wear them everywhere: around their ankles, arms, necks, on their clothes. The people of the southeast make all things metal. I've never been there, but I hear that the people always have soot on their faces and the air is not fresh because of all the metalwork.

  And northeasterners are masters of architecture and botany, the study of plants. All the best books about plants are written by northeasterners, be they about pruning your office building or growing and maintaining the perfect personal computer from CPU seed to adult PC.

  But despite all our diverse knowledge and progress here in Ooni, my dada nature and hair will never be truly accepted, not here in the north or anywhere else in Ooni. During the past two weeks, I've been doing some research, and now I'm starting to understand the reason for this prejudiced attitude.

  It's not just the northern culture that made people react badly to my dada hair. It's a general fear of the unknown that plagues the entire society of the Ooni Kingdom, a discomfort with things that may have been forgotten. And maybe my hair gives people a glimpse of memories they can't quite remember. Have you ever tried to recall something but couldn't and it was right on the tip of your tongue? It's not a good feeling, is it? It's irritating, and sometimes you'd rather not remember anything at all. That's how it is here in Ooni, with the past, I think.

  ***

  Our planet, Ginen, is a world of vegetation; there isn't one part of it that's not touched by plants, trees, vines, grasses, or bushes. At least this is what explorers who claim to have traveled all the way around the world say. Cutting down trees or attempting to clear plots of land is a waste of energy. Within days, things will creep back in. But the people of Ooni don't bother to fight nature. Instead, they try to team up with it. This is one of the old ways that the people of Ooni have not forgotten.

  However, there are times when people avoid nature at all costs. My small town of Kirki is right on the border of the Forbidden Greeny Jungle, a vast untamed wilderness that covers thousands of miles. No one ever thinks of venturing there. It's full of the most savage madness. As the old saying goes, "You go into the forbidden jungle and even your ghost won't come out."

  In Kirki, where fear of the unknown was strong and where so much of the past had been pushed aside and forgotten, my dada hair was like a big red badge on my forehead that said, "I don't fit in and never will." It kind of made me like the forbidden jungle.

  Several months ago, I'd given up on being accepted and just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to blend in so I wouldn't be noticed. But my hair wouldn't let me. Little did I know that there was so much more in store for me. It might have started with my hair, but it certainly didn't end there.

  Chapter 1

  Papa Grip

  "Blend in?! Bah, you should never wish for things you'll never have!" Papa Grip told me not long before it all started. Papa Grip was the village chief and my grandfather's best friend. And since the day Grandfather died, he vowed to keep an eye on his best friend's family.

  My parents had both tried to talk to me, and their words did help like always, but I was still upset at all the kids' teasing and taunting. When Papa Grip stopped by to invite my mother to speak at the next city council meeting (my mother was the head of the Kirki chapter of the Market Women's Association), my father called me down to say hello.

  When I refused to come out of my room, my parents explained to Papa Grip that a bad day at school was currently making me a little ... antisocial. Papa Grip, always nosy, insisted on coming to my room to speak with me.

  "Ah, how people have forgotten the old ways," he said, his voice growing dreamy and soft. "Some of our old ways are better forgotten, but not all of them."

  I sat on my bed, refusing to remove the covers from my head. I was pretty upset and just wanted to hide. I hadn't moved since he came in.

  That day, I'd finally had enough and walked out of school before classes were over. My parents had come home to several netmessages from my teachers only to find me still in my room sulking under the covers. Why do they always have to single me out? I thought. Especially that ignorant Ciwanke girl. Ugh, why does she have to be so mean?

  Ciwanke, who had the roundest Afro and the greatest number of friends in my entire grade, would gather many of those friends at least twice a week, track me down in the hallway, and lead a chant. "Vine head, vine head, how long will it grooo-oooow!" That day Ciwanke had laughed loudly after their little song and shouted, "Go live in the trees, since your hair grows like their leaves, all wild and dirty! Hee-hee! That way, you won't be around us, causing all that bad luck!"

  All the other girls burst out laughing, and Ciwanke slapped hands with each of them. Then they walked away, leaving me humiliated. Of course, through the whole thing I was silent. What could I say without sounding silly and pathetic? I wasn't good at hurling insults, even to defend myself.

  "Vine head," "snake lady," "swamp witch," and "freak" were names I heard almost every day. Though I knew I shouldn't have cared, the words still hurt like pinches. And pinches can be very painful when done in the same place many times in a row. The classmates who didn't make fun of me didn't defend me, either. Except my best friend, Dari. My only friend.

  "Why can't they just leave me alone?" I whispered from under the covers.

  "Why should it matter?" Papa Grip asked. Good question, I thought. It shouldn't, but it does. I heard him stand up. "Let me take those sheets off your head, so we can talk face to face."

  I sighed but let him. I loved Papa Grip. Everyone did. Aside from being like a grandfather to me, he was the reason Kirki didn't have any armed robbers, murderers, or untidy streets. Papa Grip knew how to mediate between groups. He knew how to organize and make sure everyone was happy. He wove peace and understanding with his bare hands.

  "Look at these things," Papa Grip said, taking one of my locks in his hand. "Look strange, no?"

  I nodded.

  "Like the vines that grow in the trees. Like dangerous serpents! Wild and rebellious," he shouted, dramatically flinging his hands in the air. He took a deep breath and smiled broadly at me, his wrinkly dark brown skin bunching around his cheeks. "Look, child, they're a part of you. Accept them. Mark my words: there's nothing wrong with being different."

  He stood up.

  "Look at me, I am the chief of Kirki, but I like to wear hot pink caftans!" he exclaimed, dancing over to the large mirror that spanned my bedroom wall. He danced in a circle, his bright pink clothing billowing out as he twirled.

  I giggled despite my sadness. Papa Grip was funny. He was the only man I or anyone knew who loved to wear hot pink. And Papa Grip was a great dancer. Even though he was old, he was the one at the party who never left the dance floor until the night was over. I envied him because I was too shy to go out there and dance for even five minutes.

  "You were born dada. Embrace it," he said. "There aren't many of you in Ooni. You're the first ever born in this town! Be proud. Didn't your parents tell you that anyone born dada is destined to be a wise man or woman?"

  "People say that I make things go wrong."

  "Nonsense!" he said. "Silly superstition. There's nothing wrong with you. Wisdom is sprouting in your heart. That's obvious. You have lots to look forward to, young woman."

  I didn't feel wise at all. And I definitely wasn't a woman. I was only thirteen years old. And regardless of what Papa Grip said, my hair would still make me the laughingstock at school.

  "Look at yourself in that mirror," Papa Grip said. "What does your mind tell you?"

  I glanced at my image in the large mirror on my bedroom wall. I looked away, focusing on the brown-green wall, and pouted. "I dunno. I see ... me."

  Just looking at myself made me think of all the horrible names.

  "You barely looked," said Papa Grip. "Get up, come stand next to me, and really look."

  I slowly got up and stood next to Papa Grip.

  "Do you look like this so-called mon
ster so many of your classmates seem to think you are?"

  I stared at the long coarse ropes of hair on my head that I'd had since I was born. The hair that made my mother smile the day I was born. The hair that was so different from everyone else's. I looked at my feet and shrugged.

  "I look OK, I guess," I mumbled. "I just don't understand why other people think I don't."

  "Come on, dada girl, you want to cut your hair? Because we can arrange that if you like, " Papa Grip said with a smirk.

  "No!" I exclaimed before I could stop myself. It was a knee-jerk response. I didn't quite know why, but the idea of cutting my hair always bothered me. "I mean ... I..."

  "You don't have to explain." Papa Grip chuckled. "It's OK to care about what other people think, but you should give a little more weight to what you, yourself, think."

  I sat considering this as Papa Grip got up to leave.

  "The habit of thinking is the habit of gaining strength," he said as he closed the door behind him. "You're stronger than you believe."

  When I was sure he was gone, I put the cover back over my head and sighed. If only life were really so easy and made that kind of sense, I thought. Under the cover I batted one of my locks out of my face.

  Chapter 2

  Dari

  "That Ciwanke girl can kiss my backside," my friend Dari said. "Want me to tell her that?"

  I smiled, looking straight ahead.

  "No," I said, though I wasn't quite sure. I knew Dari would do it.

  Dari was a joker and one of the more popular kids at school. But he was also my guardian in some ways. If other students made fun of me when he was around, he always jumped to my side to defend me. I really appreciated that.

  In general, I was a pretty quiet girl. I preferred to sit and think about things rather than talk to people about them. Except when it came to Dari.

  Dari and I had met on the playground when we were both seven years old. I was sitting by myself on a bench looking at the Forbidden Greeny Jungle in the distance. From where I sat, I could see the last building of Kirki and then the looming dense wall of palm, iroko, mahogany, and eke trees and goodness knew what others.