Ikenga

by Nnedi Okorafor

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nnamdi muttered. But he could feel the Man wanting to come forward.

  “Enter, it’s open,” a voice said. Nnamdi pushed the door open and was bathed in sunshine. The walls here were a stunning white. The shelves were made of dark oak wood and topped with colored books and trophies. A PhD in microbiology was framed and hung in the center of the wall. The desk was expensive-looking, like the Chief of Chiefs’ desk in his home office, and the computer had a large flat-screen.

  The newsletter’s editor in chief, Ikenne Kenkwo, wore a white dress shirt with a red tie, and his mustache was so perfectly trimmed that it didn’t look real. He grinned at them and said, “It’s so good to see kids taking interest in the wonderful art of—” The grin dropped from his face when he noticed Nnamdi.

  “Yes, it’s me. Police Chief Icheteka’s son. Chioma, shut the door,” Nnamdi coolly said.

  “Nnamdi,” Chioma said quietly.

  “Just do it,” Nnamdi snapped. He clenched his fists as he felt a powerful urge to change into the Man. As Nnamdi held the Man back, he noticed that his vision had a slightly red tinge. It was so slight that he wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the white walls of the office. “We came here to face him, right?”

  Chioma nodded.

  Nnamdi smirked when he heard the door shut. “Good,” he said.

  Kenkwo was eyeing him closely now. “I can call security,” Kenkwo said. “But I’d only do that if I were afraid.” He leaned back in his luxuriant chair. “What do you want?”

  “What do you think I want?” Nnamdi asked.

  “I think you want something from me that you cannot get,” he said. “Once a story is printed, it cannot be taken back. The public has seen it. It is immortal.”

  “I’m not here for some stupid story you printed about me.” The red tinge in his eyesight grew a bit redder. Nnamdi clenched his fists again; he wanted to change so badly. This man deserved to be terrified.

  They stared at each other for a long time. Nnamdi could hear Chioma fidgeting behind him. He didn’t blame her for being nervous. He was doing everything in his power not to change into the Man, but he was slowly slipping and the more he strained and tried to contain his anger, the redder things grew. His instincts heightened. He could almost smell the guilt coming off Kenkwo. The part of him that was the Man wanted to change and tear him apart. The part of him that was Nnamdi wanted to sit down and cry and cry. This was the man who’d robbed his father of life, made his mother a widow, who’d taken one of the two people he most loved in the world. Who had caused so much sorrow in his family. Who had done injustice to Kaleria. It was so sad and infuriating.

  “I want you to admit that you killed my father,” Nnamdi flatly said. His throat felt dry and his stomach queasy.

  Kenkwo scoffed. “You’re crazy,” he said. “I’m calling security. I want you out of my office right now.” He picked up the phone.

  That was it for Nnamdi. He let go. It was like inhaling fresh air after holding his breath for two minutes. The red in his eyesight cleared. He felt himself rise several feet as he grew from five feet to seven. He could hear Kenkwo’s eyes widen, the skin stretching and the tears sucking at his eyeballs. The sound of Kenkwo dropping the phone was so clear that Nnamdi could hear the tiny crack that snaked up the side of the earpiece.

  Kenkwo whimpered.

  “You scream and it’ll be the last sound to come out of your mouth,” Nnamdi said, his voice deep and sonorous. He leaned a shadowy hand on Kenkwo’s expensive oak desk. Then he pushed down until he heard it start to crack. “Did you kill my father?!”

  “Nnamdi, don’t hurt him,” Chioma whispered.

  Nnamdi didn’t know whether he would hurt Kenkwo or not. That was up to Kenkwo. Still, he was aware of Chioma just behind him, and he let that knowledge keep him steady.

  Kenkwo’s mouth flapped as he tried to speak. “W . . . w . . . witchcraft! E-e-vil juju. God help me!” he whimpered.

  Nnamdi wanted to slap Kenkwo’s shocked face. He reached forward and grabbed him by the collar and then pulled him over the desk. He held Kenkwo up to his shadowy face. “Did you kill my father?” Nnamdi hissed. His heightened senses picked up Kenkwo’s rapid heartbeat, his overpowering expensive cologne, and the scent of adrenaline wafting from his pores. Lastly, he realized that the man wasn’t breathing. Nnamdi shoved him back. “Stop holding your breath! BREATHE!!”

  Kenkwo’s mouth still hung open, but finally he blinked and began to inhale, his nostrils flaring and tears rolling down his cheeks. Nnamdi looked at him in disgust. He was about to grab him again when Kenkwo spoke. “I did,” he said in a small, small voice. “Now the Lord has sent the devil to kill me, o.”

  Behind him, Chioma gasped.

  Nnamdi leaned forward. “What did you say?”

  “I . . . I sh-sh-shot your father,” he said, tears dropping from his eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. The newsletter was going under. It has been in my family for generations. This paper survived colonialism, even the Biafran Civil War! For it to fold now, during a time of peace? Just because of the internet? I would be such a failure!”

  “So to save your newsletter, you killed my father?! Just so you could have more negative stories to report?”

  “I . . . I was desperate! And after that happened, look at the turnaround this place made! We’re going to move into a new building. . . .”

  “And the letter?” Nnamdi asked, his chest tight and his deep voice thick.

  “That was me, too. I had a boy deliver it. The boy had nothing to do with it.”

  Nnamdi felt a sob wanting to escape his chest. His hands shook, hungry for Kenkwo’s soft murdering neck. He would squeeze and squeeze until Kenkwo was dead.

  “Nnamdi,” Chioma said.

  But Nnamdi couldn’t speak. He didn’t want to speak. He wanted to act. Chioma suddenly stepped up beside him. “You will confess then!” she shouted. Nnamdi slowly looked down at Chioma and met her eyes. She looked back at Kenkwo and quickly continued, “Write it all on paper, sign it, and then go straight to the police and confess!”

  Nnamdi stared at her, feeling his entire body tingle. Chioma was . . . Chioma was right.

  “You will write your confession here,” he roared at Kenkwo in his angriest voice, throwing the notebook and pen at him. “You will immediately give it to your assistant editor. Then you will go straight to the police department and turn yourself in.” He leaned on the desk again. “AND IF YOU DON’T . . .” He raised his fist and smashed it down on the desk. It buckled in two with a satisfying crunch.

  Kenkwo nodded, still in his expensive leather chair, limp with fear.

  Nnamdi felt himself coil as tight as a spring. Then . . . then he just let go. He had the truth. It was over. He relaxed and when he did, he changed back. He looked at Chioma.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He turned to Kenkwo. “Do we have an understanding?”

  “We do,” Kenkwo whispered, staring at Nnamdi. Then he hung his head. “We do.”

  Nnamdi wrinkled his nose. Kenkwo had peed in his pants. Good.

  That day, two kids left the Kaleria Sun, taking with them the greatest story in Kaleria’s history.

  Pride

  NNAMDI WOKE EARLY the next morning and quickly dressed. He was at the door when his mother came out of her bedroom.

  “Where are you going? And why are you up so early?”

  “I just want to buy a newsletter before I get ready for school,” he said.

  He hadn’t told his mother a thing. How could he? His mother was happy and he didn’t want to ruin that for anything. He ran out into the early morning. The sun hadn’t risen yet and people were outside washing their cars and motorbikes, buying akara and bread for breakfast, leaving for work.

  There was already a line in front of the newsletter stand. Nnamdi stood behin
d a tall, regal woman who looked like she worked for the president. Her phone went off, but she only brought it out, silenced it, and put it back in her purse. Everyone was oddly quiet. Those who got their copies slowly walked away, their eyes glued to the front page.

  After a few minutes, the woman in front of him noticed Nnamdi behind her. “Oh!” she said. “Nnamdi!”

  “Yes?” Nnamdi said. He didn’t know the woman.

  “I buy tomatoes from your mother’s stall. She and I went to school together,” she said. She put an arm around Nnamdi’s shoulders and moved him forward. “People, let him go to the front!” she said. “This is Chief Icheteka’s son!”

  Everyone in line turned around and Nnamdi felt his face grow heated.

  “Go on,” the woman said, gently pushing him forward. As Nnamdi slowly walked to the front of the line, people occasionally patted his shoulder. “Sorry, o,” some said. It was like a strange dream. The sun had just come up and all eyes were on him. He had to work to move his legs. He didn’t like the looks on people’s faces. They reminded him of the way people had looked at him for weeks after his father was shot. The newsletter seller gently placed a newsletter in his hands. He looked down at it.

  “Editor in Chief Confesses to the Murder of Chief of Police Egbuche Icheteka,” the headline read. Nnamdi suddenly felt unsteady on his feet, but he didn’t stumble or sit down. He stood tall and proud. The newsletter reported that its own editor in chief was a “megalomaniac nutcase” who would rather see Kaleria writhing with crime he could report than clean and quiet.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” a man said, patting him on the shoulder as he read. “At least they finally got the killer.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and quickly headed home.

  Mr. Oke was sitting at his station near the gate when Nnamdi returned.

  “Good morning,” he said, smiling too big. Then he saw the newsletter in Nnamdi’s hand and dropped the smile from his face. “You saw.”

  Nnamdi nodded.

  Mr. Oke came and gave him a tight hug. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “It’s good that they caught him.”

  “I know,” Nnamdi said. He let go of Mr. Oke. “It’s just . . . It feels like it’s happening all over again.”

  Mr. Oke shook his head sadly. “That kind of thing only happens once.”

  “Yeah,” Nnamdi said.

  “Does your mother know?”

  “She didn’t when I left the house.”

  Nnamdi looked away from Mr. Oke’s concerned face and slowly walked inside.

  “Mommy,” Nnamdi called. When there was no response, he went to her bedroom. She wasn’t there. He looked in the bathroom, the living room, calling and calling. No response. He finally found her in the garden, staring at the yam. The healthy plant had started to grow a new tuber in the last week. Her phone was in her hand and her head was to her chest.

  “Mommy, did you . . .”

  “Bonny just told me,” she said, looking up with dry, twitchy eyes. “That evil editor. The man is sick!” She covered her face with her hand and sighed a long, sad sigh. All Nnamdi could do was wrap his arms around her. His small arms. Eventually, his mother took Nnamdi’s newsletter and read the entire article.

  Then Nnamdi got ready for school and his mother got ready for work. Life went on.

  * * *

  Darling was still at large. The Chief of Chiefs was still running things with a soft hand. But when he thought about it, Nnamdi had to admit, the streets of Kaleria were quieter. And he also had to admit that a large part of this was because of him; Bad Market and Never Die were in jail and Three Days’ Journey’s car ring was broken. As he walked to school with Chioma, Nnamdi felt good. For now this was enough.

  “Nnamdi,” Ruff Diamond said, joining them. “We heard.”

  “Oh yeah?” Nnamdi asked.

  “Yeah,” Ruff Diamond said.

  He winked at Nnamdi and Nnamdi smirked and looked away.

  “Glad they caught him,” Hassan said, joining them. “Finally.”

  “He turned himself in,” Nnamdi said.

  “That’s not what my uncle says,” Ruff Diamond said, grinning. “He’s a reporter at the Kaleria Sun, and he says the Man paid him a visit.” He winked at Nnamdi again and Nnamdi’s skin prickled.

  “He actually saw the Man?” Chioma asked, catching Nnamdi’s eye.

  “No, he wasn’t there,” Ruff Diamond said. “It’s just what people are guessing, I guess.” He grinned. “And it makes sense to me.”

  Jide joined them, too. Soon the conversation turned from the confession of Nnamdi’s father’s murderer to the subject of Darling and how attractive she was. Chioma groaned and plugged her fingers in her ears and they all laughed.

  * * *

  Nnamdi woke in the middle of the night to the sound of scratching. His eye immediately went to the X-Men pencil case with the Ikenga inside it. He could see the Ikenga glowing red through the sides of the case and its machete was poking and cutting tears in it. He bolted up, barely awake. But his mind was clear. He listened for voices in his head. Was someone being attacked? His Ikenga had never glowed before and the only time it had moved was when Chioma had held it on that first night.

  He slipped his shoes on and climbed out his window in his pajamas.

  On instinct, he walked out of the gate. He saw his father’s ghost before he even got to the streetlight. Nnamdi could see right through him. He didn’t look nearly as substantial as he had the first time. He wore his police uniform, the green beret perfectly perched atop his head. He was smiling.

  “Nnamdi,” his father said.

  “So much has happened, Daddy.”

  His father nodded. “I know. And I am so proud of you, Nnamdi.”

  Nnamdi grinned, but in his heart there was sadness.

  “This is the last time I will be able to speak to you like this,” his father said.

  “I know,” Nnamdi said.

  “I’m ashamed that my gift turned out to be a sort of curse to you,” he said. “I was selfish. You’re my son. You need to choose your own path. I shouldn’t have tried to force mine on you.”

  “No, Daddy. I mean, yes, at first, it was a curse, but . . . I learned so much about the importance of responsibility, choices, controlling myself, and that things may not always be what they seem. Not to mention having smart friends like Chioma. I am glad you gave me the Ikenga.”

  His father smiled sadly and nodded. “Come walk with me.”

  As they walked, a cool fog rolled in and Nnamdi could not see the homes or the trees or the few people on the streets at this late hour. In his own words, Nnamdi told him the whole story—about Three Days’ Journey, Mama Go-Slow, the abandoned school, the mango- and crime-filled town of Tse-Kucha, Never Die, the Chief of Chiefs, everything. His father laughed hard and requested silly details, like the look on Mama Go-Slow’s face when Nnamdi shoved her in that car. The more he asked Nnamdi to recall, the more Nnamdi laughed, too.

  “So you tell me about the Chief of Chiefs,” Nnamdi finally said.

  His father didn’t answer for a moment. Then he stopped walking and looked at Nnamdi. “We were close. Good friends.”

  “Does Mama know?”

  “No.” He started walking again and Nnamdi knew that part of the conversation was over.

  His father asked about his mother and he didn’t appear angry when Nnamdi told him about Bonny. “He’s a good man,” his father said.

  It was just like old times when they would sit in the kitchen and talk and talk. Nevertheless, soon, their conversation grew quiet and they just walked. Nnamdi sniffed, wiping a tear from his eye.

  “Nnamdi, I don’t want you to cry. . . .”

  “But I can’t help it.”

  There was more silence. Nnamdi could not touch his father. Those times were already over.
<
br />   His father held up his palm. The wooden Ikenga sat in its center. His father could touch that. “I will take this from you now,” he said. “It is ours, but it is trouble.”

  Nnamdi pursed his lips. “Daddy, I would like to have it,” he said. “I . . . I think eventually I will grow into it. And I can do so much good for Kaleria.”

  “So many before you have called it a burden, Nnamdimma. You don’t have to—”

  “No,” Nnamdi insisted. “Well, it is a burden. But carrying it makes me strong . . . and wise. And that woman Darling is still out there. Daddy, I will be better. I’ll be the best thing Kaleria has ever seen!”

  His father cocked his head and thought about it for a moment. He handed the Ikenga back to Nnamdi. It was the only thing in the world that both Nnamdi and his father’s spirit could touch. Nnamdi grasped it firmly, relishing the moment when both he and his father held it. When his father let go, he held it to his chest.

  “I have to go now, Nnamdi,” his father said. “Greet the Chief of Chiefs for me.” With a knowing look in his eye, he added, “And keep an eye on that one, as I did. He is . . . tricky.”

  Nnamdi watched his father walk away. Soon his father’s spirit vanished into the fog. Nnamdi watched the empty space for a moment, then put the Ikenga in his pocket and went home.

  * * *

  Nnamdi stopped at his garden. It was flooded in moonlight, in serenity, peace, and quiet. He looked at the garden with the eyes of the boy he knew he still was. He exhaled as he took in every little detail in the moonlight. Chioma’s sunflowers were nearly two feet high and growing. She said she’d put some kind of fast-growing plant food in them. A small blue moth landed on one of the green shoots. Nnamdi smiled. His yam had sprouted another two vines. The tomatoes, peppers, onions, and cucumbers were doing wonderfully. And the mango tree was heavy with soon-to-ripen fruits. All was well here. Again.