Ikenga

by Nnedi Okorafor

  * * *

  “Show me,” Chioma whispered.

  After his shower, Nnamdi had dressed and gone to find Chioma. They were outside in the spot where Mr. Oke usually sat during the day. Now Mr. Oke was inside celebrating with everyone else. Ruff Diamond had had enough and gone to Nnamdi’s room, where he was now fast asleep. Chioma sat in Mr. Oke’s old leather seat.

  Nnamdi looked around to make sure no one would see. Then he changed into the Man. It was so easy now. It had become a part of him. And though he felt a strong sensation of power and potential anger, he knew he could control and guide it.

  Chioma stood and stared up at him. “Finally, I get to just look at you,” she said. “You look . . . so . . . black.” They both giggled. “And your voice sounds like a monster, all low and big-big.” She imitated his laugh with a low voice as she walked around him, looking him up and down. “How do you feel when you’re like this?”

  “Like I could break a tree with my bare hands,” Nnamdi said, holding them up. “And to do it would feel good. I feel like I could jump over a car, run through a brick wall, all this stuff.”

  “You feel like Superman, then?”

  “More like the Hulk,” he said.

  “Who is the Hulk?”

  Nnamdi only shook his head. He’d been trying to get Chioma to read his Hulk comics for years, but she was so not interested that any mention of the Hulk brought the same question.

  “What happens to your clothes?” she asked, poking at his arm with her skinny finger. Nnamdi could barely feel it.

  “Dunno. I guess they’re underneath? When you found me and I changed back, my clothes where Never Die cut me were all ripped and dirty, remember?”

  “Not really, wasn’t paying attention,” she said, touching and then rubbing at the skin of his arm. “You feel hot and kind of staticky, like the screen of my grandpa’s old television.” She pinched him. “Do you feel that?”

  “Yes, Chioma,” he said. “But only a little. When I got stabbed and shot, I felt everything. I’m not protected against pain.”

  She sat on the leather chair and Nnamdi changed back. “Wow,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “So . . . why would your father give you a power that is so dangerous?”

  Nnamdi shrugged. He’d thought about this himself. “Daddy was a crime fighter,” he said. “Maybe . . .”

  Chioma nodded. “Maybe he wasn’t done.”

  “And maybe he didn’t want to see Kaleria in flames. Not even as a spirit. And maybe he didn’t know exactly what would happen.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Nnamdi knew they were both remembering his father, but he didn’t want to say any more. It made his heart heavy.

  “Do you think we stopped it? You know, by going to Tse-Kucha and getting the car? And setting all those people free?”

  Nnamdi shrugged. “I hope so. But there’s more to do.”

  “Maybe . . . oh, I hate to say this, but . . . maybe we have to take down the Chief of Chiefs,” Chioma suddenly said.

  Nnamdi nodded. “Glad to hear someone else say what I’ve been thinking.”

  “But you and I have to do it, not just the Man,” she added.

  The smile dropped from Nnamdi’s face.

  “The ring. You said he had your father’s ring.”

  “Yeah. The Chief of Chiefs was wearing it when he came to the funeral, the arrogant bastard.” He felt the Man ripple deep inside him. The Man, always there, waiting and awake.

  “Relax,” she said, pinching her chin and narrowing her eyes. “Hmmm, well, let’s start with the ring, then.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a folded newsletter. “They ran this a few days ago. I kept it.” She paused as Nnamdi read the announcement in the newsletter that Chioma had circled. The Chief of Chiefs would be having a banquet party in a week. “You were still missing and . . . I was going to try to get the ring.”

  “What?! Why?”

  “To prove that he killed your father,” she said. She shrugged, looking way. “It was a stupid idea . . . but I had to do something.” Nnamdi raised his hands to hug her, hesitated, and instead patted her on the shoulder. She must have suffered so much when he was missing, with her world stuck in long shadows just as he was stuck as the Man.

  “And why would a newsletter even report about the Chief of Chiefs’ banquet? That’s like free advertising,” she said. “He’s a known criminal.”

  “Those people,” Nnamdi muttered. “They will report anything that sells newsletters.”

  Chioma jumped up and began pacing back and forth. Nnamdi pinched his chin, stretching out his legs. After a few minutes, they put their heads together and talked it out. Before long, they had a plan.

  * * *

  Ruff Diamond sat up in Nnamdi’s bed, frowning deeply as he looked closely at Nnamdi.

  “What are you two up to?” he finally asked.

  “The less you know, the better,” Chioma said.

  “You’re not going to kill anyone or anything, right?” he asked.

  Nnamdi chuckled. “No.”

  “And you’re not going to get yourself killed?”

  “Hope not,” Nnamdi said.

  Chioma elbowed him. “No, we’re not.”

  “Well, what if your mother calls?” Ruff Diamond asked.

  “I’ll tell her not to,” Nnamdi said. “She’ll just be happy I’m doing something normal after all that happened. And you can’t get more normal than a sleepover.” It was a risk, Nnamdi knew. There was indeed a strong chance that his mother would call. But if he assured her that he would be all right and his mother should call only if it were an emergency, things would be okay. As long as Ruff Diamond was willing to cover for him. Chioma’s friend Onuchi had already agreed to cover for her.

  Ruff Diamond squinted at Nnamdi and Nnamdi waited. Nnamdi could practically hear him thinking right now. He was probably trying to imagine Nnamdi as the Man again, as he turned all the details over in his head. Nnamdi hoped he didn’t think too hard, because the plan was kind of risky.

  “Okay,” Ruff Diamond finally said. “I’ll do it. No shaking.”

  Party

  A WEEK LATER, Nnamdi and Chioma met up under the same streetlight where Nnamdi had initially met his father’s ghost. Nnamdi got there before Chioma. As he looked around, his belly fluttered. He couldn’t help looking for his father. But the only people in the area were some young men across the street, talking animatedly.

  “Nice outfit,” Chioma said as she stepped into the light.

  “Do I look enough like a waiter?” He did a slow turn, showing off his white dress shirt, white pants, and white but dirty gym shoes.

  She nodded. “How about me?” She was wearing navy-blue pants and a white blouse. She looked more like a student.

  “Sort of,” he said. “A waiter who is too young . . . I guess I do, too. But I don’t think they’ll notice.” Hopefully, not before we can get the ring, he thought.

  They pooled their naira. They had just enough to get them to the banquet and back. Chioma hailed a taxi as if she’d done it a million times. “My mother has me do it when she has too many things to carry from the market,” Chioma said as they got in.

  * * *

  The grandiose white mansion was surrounded by lush palm trees and a heavy white-bricked gate tipped with pointy wrought-iron designs. If they couldn’t talk their way in, they’d be in trouble, because there was no way they could scale that gate. Nnamdi had stressed and stressed about how they would convince the gateman to let them in. What if it was obvious that he didn’t know what he was talking about? What if Chioma started talking and said too much? What if their uniforms were wrong? Cars were packed into the large parking lot and crowded along the sides of the road outside the mansion. Those walking to the gate entrance were dressed in vibrant ankara dresses and suits
, immaculately white agbadas, and sokotos. Flamboyant geles fanned from women’s heads like satellites. Some wore complete three-piece designer suits and tuxedos.

  Nnamdi and Chioma didn’t say anything as the taxi dropped them off and sped away. Nnamdi felt sweat trickle down his back despite the fact that it was a mild night. He could grow into a tall shadow man with superhuman strength and fight off six men at the same time, yet here he was nervous about simply getting into the home of one criminal. Life could be so complicated. He reached into himself and felt the Man stir. Nnamdi smiled and stood up straighter.

  “Let’s hurry,” Chioma said.

  “Go in through the back” was all the gateman said when they walked up to make their case. They hadn’t had to say a thing. And just like that, they were in.

  * * *

  The floors of the Chief of Chiefs’ mansion were thick periwinkle marble, even in the kitchen. That was the first thing that caught Nnamdi’s eye. His mother’s favorite color was periwinkle. The second thing was that the kitchen was in organized chaos. Large pots of red stew, boiling rice, pepper soup, and egusi soup bubbled. The counters were packed with trays heavy with spicy skewers of suya and chin chin. The air was thick with heat and the spicy aroma of all kinds of delicious things. The Chief of Chiefs wasn’t interested in Western foods like stuffed mushrooms and caviar.

  Nnamdi had to admit he was a little surprised. His parents had often spoken of the dinner parties they had to attend that were held by “the Important People.” They always returned late at night and Nnamdi would get up and join them as his mother would cook up a “real meal,” as opposed to the “bland, tasteless dishes of the West” served at these parties.

  Young servants moved in and out of the kitchen, setting down empty trays and grabbing fresh ones. Nnamdi and Chioma went to the door and took a peek down a grand flight of marble steps that led into the large backyard. Surrounded by tiki lights, the party was huge. Men in black suits or colorful traditional attire and women in all kinds of dresses milled about. At the back, a crowd of people danced as a band played an Afrobeat tune on a portable stage. The lead singer sported long, thick dreadlocks with blond tips. He grinned as he swung them about and sang a reggae song in Yoruba. To the right was a large buffet heavy with food. The line for it wound all the way around the party. People laughed, ate, danced. Nnamdi wondered how many of these people were criminals.

  “Look over there,” Chioma said, pointing. “Isn’t that the chief of police? All the way near the back, where people are dancing.”

  “What?” Nnamdi squinted and then gasped. “No way!!” He was far off, but you couldn’t miss the guy near the stage in the white caftan dancing spasmodically, graceless as an old chicken. He was surrounded by laughing women who wiggled around him, urging him to dance harder. Yes, that was him. Kaleria’s chief of police was at the Chief of Chiefs’ party, shamelessly getting down. Nnamdi’s heart fell and he leaned against the doorway. A hand tapped hard on his shoulder and, when he turned around, a tray of chin chin was shoved to his chest.

  “What are you standing around for?” a sweaty woman asked. She dropped a small silver spoon in the chin chin and gave Nnamdi a stack of green plastic plates. “Move, move, move!”

  Before Nnamdi knew it, he was shoved toward the party. He turned around and met Chioma’s eyes as the same woman dragged her toward the bubbling pots of stew. “I’ll meet up with you later,” Chioma said over her shoulder. “Find the ring.”

  How was he supposed to find anything in this madness? He walked down the stairs and, before he even made it to the grass, a tall elderly man came up to him, grabbed a plate from him, and used the spoon to scoop the sweet cookie-like bits onto his plate. He grunted, barely acknowledging Nnamdi as a human being, and put the spoon back on the tray. As he moved through the party, before Nnamdi knew it, his tray was nearly empty. He didn’t have to say or do much; people treated him like a robot who didn’t deserve even a hello or eye contact.

  This was fine with Nnamdi because it allowed him to get a look around. His heart nearly leapt into his throat when he spotted the short old woman in the spectacular multicolored lace wrapper and matching top. Her gele was huge, which Nnamdi thought made her look even shorter. Nevertheless, despite her amazing outfit that Nnamdi knew all his aunties would go crazy over, the woman wore her signature black blocky shoes. Even without the shoes and expensive stylish outfit, Nnamdi would recognize Mama Go-Slow anywhere. When had she been released? He backed away and bumped into a tall man with muscles that wanted to burst from his suit. He was dark-skinned with vehicle tribal marks etched on his cheeks. He glared down at Nnamdi.

  “Watch yourself, young man,” he said in a deep voice.

  “Sorry,” Nnamdi muttered.

  The man was about to say something else, but then his eyebrows went up with surprise. He smiled uncomfortably and backed away. A hand fell on Nnamdi’s shoulder and squeezed. Nnamdi turned and found himself face-to-face with the Chief of Chiefs.

  Long Live the Chief

  WELL, TECHNICALLY, NNAMDI was not exactly face-to-face with the Chief of Chiefs. Nnamdi was taller. Nevertheless, the sheer presence of the man made him feel very small. Everything he wore was probably brand name, but Nnamdi wasn’t well versed enough in brand names to know which ones. The Chief’s fragrance probably would have impressed Chioma’s sharp nose. Nnamdi felt everyone’s attention suddenly shift, focusing on him and the Chief.

  “Would you like some chin chin?” Nnamdi asked, offering a warm smile. If the Chief didn’t recognize him, he’d be fine. He’d move on quickly and then quietly slip away to search for the ring in secret.

  “Nnamdi Icheteka,” the Chief said.

  Nnamdi’s eyes grew wide. “I’m . . . sir, I . . .”

  “Why don’t we find a nice quiet place to talk?”

  “Oh . . . okay,” was all Nnamdi could say. He felt pressure on his bladder. He took a deep breath and the need to pee lessened. He would not urinate on himself from fear as he had when he’d met the Chief at his father’s funeral.

  It didn’t surprise Nnamdi that the inside of the Chief’s house was paradise. From the outside, he’d seen that it rose into four floors of large windows, solid brick, and marble. Several windows featured a door leading onto a balcony. The house looked simultaneously like a five-star hotel and a gateway into an African kingdom. But the inside was even more striking. The rooms looked like the home of a very old-fashioned yet modern-minded wealthy man. The house was a sprawling mansion that spread out on the ground like the palace of a king. The hallway they walked down was long and wide. Tribal masks and brass-framed African paintings hung on the walls. The air-conditioned air smelled like perfume.

  “We can talk in my private study,” the Chief said when they came to a pair of solid ebony doors. He opened one of the doors and motioned with his hand for Nnamdi to enter. Nnamdi glanced at the Chief’s hand. There was the ring.

  Like the heavy doors, the walls were made from dark polished wood, as was the desk near the wall-sized window. The Chief walked around the desk and sat in the dark red leather office chair, which creaked under his weight. The walls on his left and right were covered with filled bookshelves. Nnamdi spotted classics he’d heard older kids complaining about at his school, including Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. But he also noticed African authors his mother liked to read, like Chinua Achebe, Nuruddin Farah, Flora Nwapa, and Christopher Okigbo.

  “‘His eyes grow large. Deep black eyes,’” the Chief of Chiefs recited, gazing at Nnamdi. He paused and then grinned. “That is the poet Okot p’Bitek, a visionary of our times. Do you enjoy literature?”

  “Do . . . do comic books count?”

  The Chief frowned, pressing his lips together. “No.”

  “Oh,” Nnamdi said.

  The Chief eyed Nnamdi silently for several moments, to the point where Nnamdi began to seriously consider fleeing. His skin pric
kled and his palms were sweating. He glanced at the door, hating himself at the moment. He was the Man; why should he fear this small, small man . . . this man who had killed his father? He frowned and took a deep breath to steady himself. He was here for the truth, to get the evidence. He would get all of it.

  “So, tell me,” the Chief said. “What brings the ex–chief of police’s son to dine with thieves?”

  “I was not ‘dining,’” Nnamdi said. “I was—”

  “Do you have any idea how many dangerous people are here at my home on this fine night? Do you know how many people here walk around with blood on their hands?” the Chief said, his voice rising. “I have many young female servants. I’ve had to hire undercover guards to make sure that none of them disappear tonight. There are kidnappers, murderers, car thieves, terrorists, arsonists, money launderers, 419 scammers . . . Every type of criminal you can think of is here tonight eating, drinking, watching. And your father put many of these people in jail at one time or another. So I ask you again, what the hell are you doing here? It’s not safe for you.”

  Nnamdi opened his mouth and then closed it. The Chief’s concern for his well-being was confusing him. He frowned. He had to say something. If he didn’t do it now, he’d kick himself for the missed opportunity later. Talk, Nnamdi, he told himself. Come on! The words came from deep within him, where the Man and his anger quietly boiled and mingled. “You’re a murderer!” Nnamdi growled.

  The Chief gazed at him as Nnamdi walked up to his desk and put his hand on it. Nnamdi leaned forward. “You may not be in jail, but I know the truth. Arrogant man. You’re even wearing my father’s ring as some sort of a sick trophy!” Tears welled in his eyes and he could feel his body wanting to change. Good, he darkly thought. This way I will avenge Daddy’s death with my bare hands and no one will know it was me.