As she walked, they perfected. She glanced around and saw that the hallway was packed with all sorts of pot-bellied imps, floating soft-fleshed ogbanjes, bush souls, and many other named and nameless spirits. They always gathered at her performances, but never so many. The arena could pack thousands, and from what her manager told her, it was near capacity tonight.
When she stepped onto the stage the audience went wild. The noise was near solid, and she squinted as she smiled. Now her fingertips were throbbing and every surface of her skin tingled. Breathe, she thought; but what she saw was breathtaking. The lights were still low and she could see over the heads of thousands; they were like a swarm of ants – powerful and unified. These people had come for a show. And tonight, there were all kinds of people. Near the center, on the lawn, she saw what resembled a giant transparent bale of dry hay. It bounced and undulated amongst the packed people, spraying semi-transparent straw. Some of the human audience members wiped at their faces, necks and arms, as the straw showered onto them.
She saw the great Nigerian Igbo masquerade whose spoken name was Ijele. It hovered above the audience near the front, all its figures – the mother, father, child, police officers, everyone – standing on their bright ribbon woven platforms. History had always thought Ijele looked like a giant erector set monster made by one of those autistic kids. She spotted Mako jumbies walking amongst the people, as well. They were like stilted blue, yellow and orange spiders, gracefully prancing over unsuspecting human audience members.
Even on stage, she saw a shadowy figure standing on the far side, watching her and her band. He was old, brown-skinned, and leaned on a cane. Legba. So there were not only powerful spirits and demons here tonight; there were gods and probably goddesses, too. As if to solidify her realization, she saw lightning flash in the bowels of looming clouds that no humans seemed to notice... except people like her, who had ‘four eyes’. Shango the Yoruba God of Thunder was here.
So many were present and for a moment, she frowned and thought, What’s going on here? Maybe I – But then she saw glowing periwinkle and her voice swelled in her chest. She brought the microphone to her lips and hummed as she walked to the center of the stage and the lights came on. A unified shriek of joy burst from her audience. The vibrations hit her and she was in her own ecstasy as she began to sing her favorite song. Yes, today, she decided to start with her favorite, which happened to be her most popular. As she sang, the audience sang along, too. And then it took her and she was both gone and there.
HISTORY WAS SINGING the soulful song that made her grandmother cry. This was when she came back to herself. She had not written the song; she did not write any of her songs. However, when she sang this one, the tune always forced her to dig deep within herself and remember a vision she had in Nigeria when Abassi had asked her to remember her past life.
It had been when she was ten, a month after she’d begun training and Abassi had made her stay awake for four days in a row. On the forth day, Abassi asked History to remember her past life. Without effort, her mind rushed back to a time when she’d also been ten years old. She was standing in the bush as a young boy crying. Before him, his father fought two men, as another two destroyed his stone gods and knocked down their shrine. History did not fully understand what was happening, but she felt the same deep sense of loss as that boy had, so long ago. The feeling was so deep that when the vision stopped, her heart was beating irregularly and she passed out.
She felt that anguish now, standing before the audience, her mouth open as it poured out a melodious vibration. Even though her eyes were unfocused, she could see it sweeping over the captive audience, a soft periwinkle vapor. The vapor was glowing. Poison or perfume, History didn’t know. But as she sang, her back arched and something flew from her chest. All went black.
SHE WAS LOOKINGup. The clouds above rumbled as they churned, lightning flashing within. Someone was screaming. Then there were more screams. Something was happening. The ground began to undulate and she brought her head down to see her audience was no longer unified, as people tried to flee in different directions. The stage quaked, making her stumble. Behind her, she heard a cymbal hit the floor. One of her backup singers yelped as she fell. The stage quaked again and History fell to her knees. She breathed into her chest, warm sweat beading from her brow. She wiped it away, smudging her make-up.
When she looked up, she saw that where her audience had been, there was now only trampled dirt. In the center, near the front of the stage, blazed a quivering ring of fire. Above, the sky opened and released torrents of warm water. As raindrops hit the ring, they hissed and steamed out of existence. History frantically wondered if she were witnessing a slow explosion. Someone was tapping at her shoulder. She looked up and met the face of the old man who’d been standing on the side of the stage. “Stupid, stupid witch,” he said, but he was smiling. His teeth were worn away and his gums were a dark brown. “What a mess you’ve made.”
“Me?” she asked. “I didn’t –”
“Get up,” he said, holding out a hand.
She allowed him to help her up and walked quickly after him. She wiped at her wet face; even her clothes were soaked through. When had she torn off her wig? The air felt cool, so close to her wet scalp. She chanced a pause and a look back, and saw the ring burning now, white hot; the rain coming into contact with it instantly vaporized. A blue light was forming at the center. There were only a few people left in the stadium now, slipping and sliding on the mud as they fled... few human people. The others were still around. Not far from the fire ring, something was undulating beneath the muddy ground, and Ijele was dancing wildly on top of it. On stage, a tungwa exploded, the resulting jumble of teeth and tufts of black hair immediately pounded down by the rain.
Suddenly, there was a great CRACK! and the blue light shot out of the ring and zoomed up out of the stadium, and into the stormy sky. A great cacophony of noise burst from all the great peoples still hanging around. Ijele’s many life-sized characters whooped and hollered, its police officer held up its gun and fired shots into the air. Several smoky humanoid spirits did cartwheels. An ogbanje hovered by and slapped its plump brown baby legs together as it gleefully giggled and rolled in mid-air. Noises of elation came from all over the stadium. History wiped water from her face and frowned. If she had to describe it, she could have only described it as... applause? Yes, she knew a standing ovation when she heard it.
The man pulled History away. Expertly jogging in her six-and-a-half inch heels, she followed him closely, but as he pulled her along, he disappeared. She kept running. She met two security guards, who ushered her into her tour bus.
Two of her back-up dancers huddled on the couch in the back. Both were pulling towels tightly around their bodies, and they stared at her with stunned eyes. Her manager and hairdresser leaned against the side windows; they too stared at her as if they were sure their lives were about to end. The bus door opened and her cousin climbed on, soaked to the bone. Her hand shaking, she held a waterproof cell phone up to History. “Here,” her cousin said, looking up at her.
“Did they bring out my mirror?” History asked, taking the phone.
“Yes, and it’s safe.” Nicki turned to leave.
History grabbed Nicki’s shoulder. “Hang on. Nicki, what... what happened?” she asked. “I don’t remem –”
Nicki shook her head, pulling away from her. “I don’t know. I don’t know. It was so scary!” She stepped backwards off the bus and quickly walked away.
“Wait!” History called, stepping down. But Nicki kept going, entering a car behind the bus. There was smoke rising from the stadium. Was the stage burning? Why?
The cries of a baby made her jump. The television mounted on the bus wall was on and it was tuned to the channel covering the woman in labor at an intersection in New York. One of the kneeling paramedics held up a wet brown crying baby. The child’s eyes were open as he wailed. History shivered, her eyes locking with the child’s, as if s
he stood right there on the New York street. Then there was a burst of applause from the people standing around the scene. The anchorwoman turned to the camera with tears in her eyes. “Wasn’t that just... wow. Oh, the miracle of life...”
History sat in the empty bus driver seat. She shut her eyes and shook her head. “Ugh,” she breathed. She held the phone to her ear. Behind her, her manager asked the girls if there was an emergency exit in the back. She heard the emergency door click open.
“Uyai,” Abassi said. History pressed the phone to her ear. This was the name only she called History, when they were alone, during History’s apprenticeship. No one else knew the name, not even her mother. It meant ‘beauty’ in Efik. Abassi said all names were juju, powerful spells that everyone was foolish enough to speak every day.
“Mama Abassi,” History said.
“Do you know what you’ve done?”
History paused. If she spoke too soon, the poor connection would clip her words. “How do you know?”
“Because flowers are blooming on all the trees here, all around my compound,” the old woman said, switching to Efik. “The village children are looking around with wide eyes like she-goats.” She laughed so hard that she coughed.
“I don’t know what I have done,” History said.
“That’s because you are a creative force. You open doors. To do one’s duty is to eat the prized fruit of honor. You are a channel. But you don’t pay attention to maps and calendars, you barely read books,” Abassi said. “You don’t understand ley lines, you don’t know the names of those around you, or the flap of the butterfly’s wing.”
“Come on, Mama Abassi. Today was just a show,” she said. “I wasn’t doing –”
“Nothing is just nothing,” Mama Abassi said. “But your work is done. You even had a chance to bless him. We’ll take care of him from here.”
“Mama Abassi, stop speaking in proverbs and circles. I don’t get what you’re saying?”
“Power doesn’t always come with the gift to empower, not even for witches,” Mama Abassi said. History could hear her suck her teeth in annoyance. “Women like you will always be used, but it’s good because you are around good people.” She began to recite the cleansing song she always recited on the phone with History whenever they talked after a performance, but History wasn’t really listening. She was falling deep into thought, and her temples ached with the effort.
Abassi never minced words with her and those words always left History feeling as if she were floating in the sea of her life, with no control or understanding of where she was going. And tonight, Abassi’s words kind of hurt. History had come to give her audience something wonderful, and instead everything had gone up in strange flames and panic. Now here Abassi was telling her that she’d been ‘used’, as well.
She humphed and frowned quietly, an old irritation creeping up on her. The bush baby had said it one evening when she was about sixteen and she’d never forgotten. “You treat that Mama Abassi like your second mother,” it had said. “But don’t you ever wonder if she’s just keeping you under control? Or even making use of your talents?”
History had gasped at his words and slapped at the mirror. “Tufiakwa!” she hissed. “God forbid! You say such evil things sometimes.”
It snickered darkly, sitting heavily on her reflection’s head, looking her in the eye. “Well, it wouldn’t be anything new. Didn’t her people use your people as currency in order to buy nonsense from the white man? Isn’t that how slavery started?”
She scoffed angrily and rubbed the mirror, muting his laughter and any other evil words he spoke. Still, the bush baby had succeeded in planting that tiny speck of doubt. And hadn’t Abassi just come close to stating the bush baby’s words herself?
The sky was still churning, but the clouds were breaking. Whatever had happened was passing now. Abassi was right... most of the time. This time she was only mostly right. Maybe people did use History, and she was certainly around plenty of good people, but this time she would empower. She rubbed her forehead, trying to massage away her headache. Her mind grasped the image of the freshly born baby on television. She would give her mat to that child. “And the mirror,” she whispered to herself.
“Eh?” Abassi asked. “Is the connection going bad?” She’d finished the cleansing song and History had been so deep in thought that she’d forgotten to say the expected, “Thank you.”
“No,” she quickly said. “It’s fine. Thank you, Mama, thank you.”
She heard Abassi cluck her tongue. “You are most welcome. Oh, do not worry, Uyai. You are perfectly safe and your bush baby is truly good luck. Your fame will grow from this. When you clear your schedule, come home.”
“I will.”
FOR YEARS, HISTORY remembered that evening as the evening when the stadium she performed in was struck by lightning and burned down. And she quickly forgot the abundant presence of different people – from human to spirit to deity – that night. After finding the location of the woman who’d given birth on the street and sending the child the turquoise mat (with her signature on the edge), the mirror, and a year’s worth of diapers as a gift, she didn’t think twice about the child... except in her deepest dreams, when she saw his piercing eyes. And never in her long and prosperous life did she realize that this street-born child was the one who became the man that the world called the Conductor. It never ever crossed her simple mind that she’d gifted him with a lifelong friend who brought him the financial stability he needed to quiet his mind and invent.
History was not a smart witch, but she was a very, very powerful one.
About the Authors
Sophia Al-Maria lives in London, where she writes for film and TV. Her first book, The Girl Who Fell to Earth, was published in 2012 and has been translated into Arabic. Douglas Coupland said of it, “This book could easily alter the way you see the early twenty-first century.” She is credited with coining the term ‘Gulf Futurism’. In 2016, she presented a solo show at the Whitney Museum in New York called Black Friday, shot in nighttime shopping malls in Qatar – it was very loud and very scary.
Monica Byrne is the author of the Tiptree Award-winning debut novel The Girl in the Road. She’s also a playwright, artist, futurist, activist, traveler, and the first speaker in TED’s history to deliver a work of science fiction as a talk. She is supported entirely by her patrons at patreon.com/monicabyrne and is based in Durham, North Carolina.
Neil Gaiman is the author of over thirty acclaimed books and graphic novels for adults and children, including American Gods, Stardust, Coraline, and The Graveyard Book. His most recent novel for adults, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, was highly acclaimed, appeared on the hardback and paperback Sunday Times bestseller lists and won several awards, including being voted Book of the Year in the National Book Awards 2013. The recipient of numerous literary honours, Neil Gaiman’s work has been adapted for film, television and radio. He has written scripts for Doctor Who, collaborated with authors and illustrators including Terry Pratchett, Dave McKean and Chris Riddell, and The Sandman is established as one of the classic graphic novels.
Hermes is the pen name of Mohamed Magdy, a Cairo-based Egyptian poet, writer and translator who left medical practice shortly after completing his training as a doctor and finishing his military service. He currently works as a freelance writer and editor following a two-year stint as an editor at Egyptian publishing house Kotob Khan. His publications include two poetry collections, Chirping in Braille and My Beloved Kalashnikov, as well as Arabic translations of three novels. He was featured in The Tahrir of Poetry: Seven Egyptian Contemporary Poets which was curated and translated by Maged Zaher. His latest poetry collection, Evasions, will be published in Cairo in January 2017.
Saad Z. Hossain lives and writes in Dhaka, Bangladesh, for a minuscule audience of five to ten people. He started writing fantasy and science fiction type stuff to avoid having to research anything. His novel Escape from Baghdad! was
published by Unnamed Press in the US, and Aleph in India. It is available in bookstores, libraries, bonfires, Amazon and Kindle. Escape from Baghdad! was included in the Financial Times’ Best Books of 2015, and the Tor Reviewers’ List 2015. It has been well-reviewed by Vice, Kirkus, NPR, Library Journal, Wasafiri, Times of India, amongst others. He is working on his next novel, Djinn City. The djinns are not pleased.
Maria Dahvana Headley is a #1 New York Times-bestselling author & editor, most recently of the novels Magonia, Aerie, Queen of Kings, and the internationally-bestselling memoir The Year of Yes. With Kat Howard, she is the author of The End of the Sentence, and with Neil Gaiman, she is co-editor of Unnatural Creatures. Her short stories have been included in many ‘year’s best’ anthologies, including Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy, and have been finalists for the Nebula and Shirley Jackson Awards.
Catherine Faris King is a Lebanese-Irish-American writer. She has always known that Los Angeles, her hometown, has magic in it. When not writing, she enjoys blogging, cooking, and globetrotting. She is currently working on her first novel.
Kirsty Logan is the author of short story collection The Rental Heart and Other Fairytales (2014), which was awarded the Polari First Book Prize and the Saboteur Award for Best Short Story Collection, and debut novel The Gracekeepers (2015), which won a Lambda Literary Award. Her most recent book, A Portable Shelter (2015), is a collection of linked short stories inspired by Scottish folktales and was published in a limited edition with custom woodblock illustrations. Kirsty also works as a book reviewer, writing teacher and editor.
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