Akata Witch: A Novel

by Nnedi Okorafor

  “On the other side of that booth,” Chichi said, pointing.

  She got up before Chichi could say anything about coming with her. She needed a moment alone. There was a long line. She tried to hold back tears. Still, a few harmless tears were better than picking a fight or destroying things. She walked past the bathroom and came to an open field of dry grass. After making sure no one was around, she broke down sobbing.

  “Excuse me, are you all right?” someone asked in strangely accented English.

  When she looked to the side, she started. Then she wanted to cry some more. More strangeness. The man wasn’t just tall; he was like a human tree. He had to be over seven feet. He wore a long yellow caftan with a heavily embroidered neckline and yellow pants. He was dark black-skinned like some of the yam farmers back home who worked in the sun all day.

  She just stared at him. Instead of getting annoyed, he smiled. It was the brightest, warmest smile she’d ever seen, and she couldn’t help smiling back. He handed her a yellow handkerchief. “Thanks,” she said, looking at it. “Are you sure, I—”

  He gave her the beautiful smile again and said, “My gift to you.”

  She blew her nose into it and looked up at him. She figured she owed him some sort of explanation, but all she could say was, “I—I’m a free agent.” She felt so stupid.

  “Oh, I see,” he said, understandingly. He put his arms behind his back and looked at the field. She followed his eyes, straightening up and putting her hands behind her back, too. He just had this aura about him that said, “Whatever I do is good.”

  “I found out only months ago,” she said. “My teacher brought me here with my other, um, classmates.”

  “Who’s your teacher?” he asked.

  “Anatov,” she said. “The Defender of Frogs and All Things Natural.”

  “He still uses that title?” He laughed. “Brother Anatov earned it years ago when he first came to Nigeria from America. The man went on and on about being a vegetarian and how frogs were the thermometers of the Earth. I know him well. Good man,” he said. “You’re from Leopard Knocks, then.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, let me tell you this,” he said. “You’re neck-deep in Leopard society right now. The good thing is that it doesn’t get any deeper than this. Sometimes it’s best to just jump in. Then, after that first shock, you can handle anything.”

  “Yeah,” she said, wiping her eyes again. “I—I got my juju knife today, too.”

  “That’s wonderful,” he said. He looked down at her. “Use it well and true. There are more valuable things in life than safety and comfort. Learn. You owe it to yourself. All this”—he motioned around them—“you’ll get used to in time.”

  He patted her on the head and walked away. She held the handkerchief to her chest. Only when she turned around did she realize a crowd had gathered to watch them.

  They had really good seats for the match.

  Within the hour, the open field was filled with rows and rows of folding chairs. There was a large area in the center for the match. Within minutes, the chairs were all taken. It looked like everyone at the festival was here.

  They sat in a special section in the left front specifically for the scholars and their chosen students. On the way to their seats, Anatov introduced them to Madame Koto. He had described her perfectly. In height, she easily rivaled the man that she’d spoken with. But where he was stick-thin, Madame Koto was very, very fat. She was surrounded by three very attractive men, each wearing an expensive designer suit and a smug smile. They treated Madame Koto like their queen.

  Madame Koto looked down at the four of them and haughtily said, “It’s good to meet you.” Then she made for her seat with her three men in tow. Two boys and two girls, presumably her students, also followed. They looked at Sunny, Chichi, Sasha, and Orlu with great interest, but Madame Koto didn’t introduce them.

  Sugar Cream was there, too, sitting with a group of very old men near the back of the special section. They were having an animated discussion and didn’t seem interested in the wrestling match at all. They stopped talking when Anatov brought Sunny, Chichi, Sasha, and Orlu to say, “Hi.” The old men didn’t return the greeting, instead staring at the four of them like they had sprouted wings.

  Today Sugar Cream wore a long, silky, European-style cream-colored dress and several cream-colored bangles that clacked whenever she moved her arms. “Chichi, Sasha, Orlu. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” She only gave Sunny a stern look before moving on. Sunny felt like a dirty dishrag.

  The old men finally broke out of their staring trance and introduced themselves. Sugar Cream had to translate. They were from the Ivory Coast and Liberia.

  “How many languages does Sugar Cream speak?” Sasha asked Anatov as they sat down.

  “At least ten,” Anatov said. “Probably more.”

  “What about you?”

  “Who knows?” Anatov said. “Who’s counting?”

  “Where are Taiwo and Kehinde?” Sunny asked.

  “Home, of course,” Anatov said. “Someone had to hold down the fort.”

  There were several other students with their teachers, some Sunny’s age, most older. One boy, the student of a scholar from Ghana, knew Chichi and Orlu.

  “Long time,” he said.

  “Not long enough,” Chichi said.

  “I’ll best you tonight,” the boy said, pointing at her.

  “You’ll have to try, you know. Talking’s nothing,” Chichi said playfully, but Sunny detected a real threat behind her words. “Oh. These are my new classmates, Sunny and Sasha. You know Orlu. Sunny, Sasha—this, unfortunately, is Yao.”

  Yao and Sasha looked each other up and down. Instant tension there, Sunny thought. “Isn’t Sasha a girl’s name?” Yao asked with a smirk.

  “Do I know you?” Sasha asked. “Because you obviously don’t know me.”

  “Ah, American,” Yao said.

  “Can’t you tell, jackass?” Sasha said.

  “All right, enough of that,” Anatov said, pushing Yao toward his teacher. “Save that for the social tonight.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Sasha asked Chichi, still shocked at Yao’s nerve.

  “He’s the one I told you about,” Chichi said. “You know what we discussed.”

  “Oh, I see,” Sasha said. “A’ight, later then.” Chichi nodded.

  “What’d you guys discuss?” Orlu asked. Chichi and Sasha just laughed. “Ugh. This is going to get crazy. I can feel it.”

  A regal woman briskly walked onto the field. She brought out her juju knife and Sunny nearly screamed with horror as she dragged it across her throat. Then she remembered where she was. There was no blood, not even a cut.

  “My name is Mballa and I will be your commentator this fine day,” the woman said in a highly amplified voice. “Welcome to the two hundred and forty-sixth annual Zuma International Wrestling Finals. Make sure to note our sponsors, who have worked sponsorship jujus on your seats. Remember their names when you go to our vendors to ease that mysterious craving. Special thanks, of course, to Abuja’s own Madame Koto and Ibrahim Ahmed for making all this happen.

  “Now we all know that this year’s finalists have come a long way to get here. Fifty undefeated victories each, and both have passed the seven Obi Library tasks. These are two truly gifted men, o!”

  The entire audience recited the next thing she said. “This is the final test of brains and brawn, so let them show and prove!” Everyone burst into applause, howls, and cheers. People stamped their feet and pumped their fists in the air. Then the drumming began. Sunny looked around. She didn’t see anyone with drums.

  “These two warriors are the greatest West Africa has to offer,” Mballa said dramatically. “Kind, generous, loving, loyal, both of these men would give their lives for Africa without a thought. Both of these men know when one must stand up and fight. They are what Western society fears most.

  “On this side, from the country of Burkina
Faso, comes Saaaaaayé!”

  The crowd burst into noise as Sayé, a brawny brownskinned man of about forty, jogged and bounced around the arena. Orlu leaned toward Sunny’s ear and said, “You see that leather sleeve he’s wearing?”

  She nodded.

  “When he was young, he was hit by a car and his arm had to be amputated.”

  “So his arm is fake?” she asked.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Orlu said. “He was born with this . . . weird ability that was only discovered when the accident happened.”

  “On this side,” the commentator continued, “from the country of Mali, comes Miiiikniiiikstiiiic!”

  The crowd shouted again as a very, very tall black man ran in. Sunny recognized him—he was the man she’d talked to an hour ago. No wonder a crowd had been gathering!

  “Miknikstic can see into the near future,” Orlu said into her ear. “About five seconds ahead. So he’ll know all of Sayé’s moves before he makes them! They’re as evenly matched as I’ve ever seen.”

  “But if these two guys are so great, why are they fighting each other?” she asked. Orlu just shushed her. “It’s an old West African Leopard tradition,” was all he said. She sat back. At least she knew who she was rooting for.

  The opponents stepped up to each other and warmly shook hands.

  “Rules,” Mballa said. She spoke more to the audience than the competitors. “One. Stay in the arena at all times. The arena ends twenty feet above the ground. Two. You can only use your natural abilities—no powders, dusts, juju knives, et cetera. Three. This is hand-to-hand. Whatever your ability, the fight must remain so. No mental or spiritual manipulation is to be used against your opponent. The powers who watch over you will decide what the winner wins. Good luck and may Allah help you.” She threw down what looked like a flat black stone and quickly left the arena. She took a seat in the front, two rows away from them.

  The two men circled each other, Miknikstic crouching low and Sayé moving sideways. The drums beat a steady rhythm. The men ran at each other. When their bodies collided, the crowd shouted, “Wah!”

  They grasped each other’s shoulders, their muscles flexing as they tried to throw each other down. But, as Orlu had said, they were evenly matched. They grabbed each other, let go, and grabbed again. Sayé’s leather sleeve bulged more and more as the fight intensified. Miknikstic pushed Sayé back. Sayé paused, then grabbed the zipper of his sleeve. He pulled.

  “Now they start!” Mballa announced. “Miknikstic crouches low as Sayé prepares to give him the worst.”

  The zipper caught a little on Sayé’s sleeve and he looked down, but even before this, Miknikstic was in motion, quickly moving to the side and lunging at Sayé. Sayé had barely ripped the sleeve off when Miknikstic threw a hard punch at his head.

  “Wah!” the audience shouted.

  “Look at that!” Sasha screamed, standing up.

  Sunny wanted to close her eyes. But she didn’t. She knew that no matter what she did, the fight would continue.

  Sayé staggered several steps and fell. Everyone in the crowd stood up and started shouting.

  “Get up, o!”

  “Brilliant!”

  “Chineke!”

  “Why did I bet on that man?”

  “Allah will protect you! But only if you get up!”

  “Use your ghost arm, you idiot!”

  Miknikstic didn’t prance about talking trash as Muhammad Ali did in old TV footage. Nor did he spit on Sayé, gesticulate, taunt, beat his chest, or laugh, as they did in pro wrestling. Instead, Miknikstic stood over Sayé, looking down at him, waiting for him to get up or call it a match.

  Sayé slowly got up. Miknikstic was ready. He must have seen what was coming next because he did everything he could to block it.

  “Oh my goodness!” Sunny shouted when she saw Sayé’s right arm. It seemed to be made of a blue substance somewhere between water and mist. At first it was shaped like an arm, but as Sayé rushed at Miknikstic, it shifted and morphed.

  Miknikstic held his arms up to block it, but it kept changing shape. It split in two. Miknikstic threw himself to the side. Sayé’s arm missed Miknikstic’s head by a fraction of an inch. Miknikstic tumbled and then quickly got up.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Sunny muttered. She’d just spoken to Miknikstic, and now he was out there fighting for his life. He’d been so kind to her.

  Sayé landed a punch, sending Miknikstic flying and the crowd to its feet again. Sunny pressed her hands to the sides of her face. “No, no, no!”

  “That was a heavy blow. Is he dead?” the commentator asked. “No. He still moves. Miknikstic is getting up. He spits out a tooth. Brushes himself off.”

  Sunny shut her eyes and jammed her index fingers into her ears to block out the commentator’s gleeful descriptions. She sat like this for minutes, listening to herself breathe and the muffled sound of the crowd.

  “Okay,” she finally said to herself. Her voice was loud with her ears plugged. “We’ll be going home after this, so—take it in. Even if it hurts. Miknikstic would be proud.”

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. When she saw the two opponents, her vision blurred with tears. They were bleeding profusely, and neither would give up. She looked around at everyone. It was as if they’d become actual leopards, leopards who smelled blood. They were shouting and laughing and encouraging—nostrils, mouths, and eyes wide, trying to take it all in in as many ways as possible.

  The only people who seemed calm were the scholars, who sat stiffly and clapped once in a while. Anatov had stopped getting up whenever Sayé or Miknikstic fell. His face was unsmiling and stern. Sunny, Sasha, Orlu, and Chichi were the only students who had stopped enjoying the spectacle. Chichi was frowning. Orlu had a stunned, blank look on his face. Sasha looked angry and glared at the commentator whenever one of the competitors fell, as if waiting for her to put a stop to it.

  Miknikstic was wrestling with Sayé’s ghost arm, which kept escaping his grasp. A part of it extended away from Miknikstic. It threw a punch at Miknikstic’s chest. Miknikstic doubled over but didn’t fall. He wiped the blood from his face. Sayé took the moment to spit out a tooth.

  Suddenly, Miknikstic’s face undulated.

  “What the hell?” was all Sunny could say.

  His face had become a wooden square mask. It looked like a robot—if a robot were made of wood. The crowd gasped in shock.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Chichi said, looking away.

  Sayé brought forth his spirit face, too—a gray stone face of a lion.

  “And now they are down to it,” Mballa said. “The blood is flowing and the true selves emerge. Don’t turn away, people. Truly these two are noble and selfless men, o.”

  They went at each other again. This time, their spirit selves took the lead. Miknikstic lumbered forward, and Sayé leaped. Miknikstic dodged Sayé, rolled around him, and grabbed his arm. He yanked. There was a loud crack, and Sayé’s good arm was dislocated from its socket. Sayé gave a mighty roar, rolled over Miknikstic, and drove his ghost hand right through Miknikstic’s chest.

  A silence fell over the crowd. Sunny clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Miknikstic fell to his knees, gushing blood. Sunny whimpered, tears rushing into her eyes. She wiped them away.

  He whispered something to Sayé, and then fell to the ground. He was dead.

  It started raining chittim on the field. As they fell, Sayé straightened out Miknikstic’s body. Not one chittim hit either of them. Sunny would never forget the metallic clacking. When the chittim stopped, Mballa the commentator found her voice. It cracked as she said, “Bow down to this year’s Zuma International Wrestling Cha—”

  Miknikstic suddenly got up. He gazed up at the sky as brown feathered wings unfurled from his back. He crouched down and then leaped, shooting into the sky like a rocket.

  “Oh, praise Allah! What a fight this was tonight!” Mballa shouted. “We have witnessed yet another fallen wrestl
ing competitor become a guardian angel! People give our new champion, Sayé, and Saint Miknikstic a hand! Oh, this is just amazing! Amazing! Ah-ah!” She started clapping. The whole crowd could hear her soft sobs because she’d forgotten her voice was still amplified.

  “I want to go home!” Sunny shouted, getting up. Anatov reached over his chair and grabbed her by the collar. “Let go! I hate this, I hate all of this! You people are crazy!”

  Chichi stared at her feet. Sasha was furious. Orlu took Sunny’s hand. Anatov let go. Orlu pulled Sunny to him into a tight hug, and she sobbed into his chest.

  “Keep her there,” Anatov said. “I have to go with the other scholars.”

  Still holding on to Orlu, Sunny watched as Anatov joined the scholars walking into the arena. A woman ran in screaming. Another tall woman with long dreadlocks slowly followed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, meet Sankara, wife of Sayé and architect of the Leopard Town of Zerbo—and meet Kadiatou, wife of Saint Miknikstic and warrior of the Women of the Cliffs,” Mballa said. “Please give them a round of applause.”

  The crowd thundered with applause as Sankara threw her arms around Sayé, wiping his bloody face with her garments. Kadiatou, Miknikstic’s wife, just stood there in the middle of the arena looking up at the sky.

  “Now the scholars will help heal Sayé, so please don’t worry about our champion. He will be fine. The match is over,” Mballa said, out of breath. “I hope you enjoyed the show.” She ran her juju knife across her throat again and then just sat there.

  They watched as people left, talking excitedly about the match. In the arena, the scholars had surrounded Sayé, who now lay on the ground. Sunny couldn’t see what they were doing exactly. Miknikstic’s wife stood in the middle of the arena, gazing at the sky. No one comforted or congratulated her.