Akata Warrior

by Nnedi Okorafor

  “Very good,” her father added.

  Ugonna just stood there, clearly as impatient to have this over and done with as Sunny. She stood before her uncle because the kola was always presented to the oldest man in the room. She held the plate steady so that the balls of alligator pepper wouldn’t roll off.

  “Look at you presenting it like a miserable human being,” her uncle snapped. “Wake up. This is not just something your elders do. It’s an important ritual. You young people don’t know anything.”

  Sunny wanted to heavily protest. She wanted to say that she knew more old ways than he ever would. She’d faced real masquerades and had her own juju knife, for goodness sake.

  “Kola is important,” her uncle said. “Not just to Igbo, to all Nigerians. The Yoruba grow it, the Hausa chew it, Igbos talk and talk about it. For us, Ndi Igbo people, the kola nut, the oji, symbolizes pure intention. It connects us to our ancestors. Oji is the channel of communication beyond the physical world and into the spirit world. Nothing starts without breaking kola.”

  He picked up the pinkish-yellow kola nut and broke it into four parts. “Four lobes,” he said. “Very good.”

  He took a piece, scooped up some peanut paste with it, then some alligator pepper, and handed the plate back to Sunny as he ate it. Sunny next offered the plate to her father who did the same. When she served Ugonna, she refused to look at his smirking face. If he had been younger than her, she’d still have had to serve him, for maleness outdid age in Igbo culture. Ridiculous, Sunny thought as she always did when she got stuck serving the kola nut when her father had visitors.

  She took her piece, dipped it into the peanut paste and then the pepper, and angrily crunched the combination. The bitter taste came from the fact that kola was full of caffeine. It used to be the ingredient in Coca-Cola that gave it its flavor and caffeine. The bitterness, the heat of the pepper, and the peanut flavor was always an explosion to her taste buds. She focused on that instead of her irritation.

  Sunny studied well into the night, riding the caffeine wave of that one piece of kola nut. When she finished, she brought out the box from beneath her bed and opened it. Her kola nut buzz gave a kick to her curiosity. I wonder, she thought, bringing out the sheet of Nsibidi. She put it down, turned off by the idea of vomiting kola nut if she tried to read it. Then she picked it up again. She took a deep breath and then quickly unfolded it.

  She looked at the symbols and nothing happened. She sighed, irritated. Nothing happening was even worse than feeling the nasty nausea. “Great,” she muttered, still straining to “read” the Nsibidi. “Now I don’t even—” The symbols started shifting. Her belly flipped with surprise; she grasped the sheet more tightly. “They’re looking back at me,” she whispered, feeling her lips go numb and her ears begin to plug up. She was being thrust high into the air or deep into the water. There was a strange smell, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The smell was sweet and grassy—oily, too. Her belly rumbled and roiled.

  Then Sunny heard the voice of her only Leopard relative, who’d been so powerful and loved and secretive and then brutally slain by her best student Black Hat Otokoto. Sunny’s belly stopped rioting, the rising nausea disappearing. Her grandmother sounded almost exactly like Sunny’s mother. The same high voice and rapid way of speaking. Then a strange place opened before Sunny—a city with beautiful stone buildings all etched with intricate designs. Mosaics, engravings, stone that contained mineral veins in natural, colorful, fractal patterns. Tall buildings that stretched high into the sky, but the buildings were rivaled by equally ambitious and strong trees, some palm, some more like fat baobab trees and hefty ebony trees. The roads were red packed dirt. And there was a small sunflower-yellow stone house with a stone roof . . .

  The House is here. Yes, it smells like flowers, too. This surprises me. I love flowers. Everything here is stone, built to last. If it is wood, the trees will take offense and then take it apart. The winds can be strong in this place when it rains. A house must be solid and heavy, too. The front door is round and made from the wing of a giant Ntu Tu beetle. It’s clearer than glass but won’t break no matter what you do to it. That door is old, but it is not the oldest part of the house. Inside, you will find books, you will find heat, and flowers that have grown on the ceiling since the house was built.

  Sunny, this is a place where if you seek, you will find. It took me years to find it. Maybe you will need to do the same at some point. If you are what I know you are, your life will not be easy, and there will be much that you have to answer to. But for now, you relax and see this place. See the street that leads to it. See the front door. And there is so much inside.

  The floors are a mosaic that you can stare at for hours and think about the world. See the palm tree that grows through the center of the house? There is a clear roof that protects the opening from water when it rains. Come this way to the library. It smells of sandalwood all the time, and the walls are covered with amulets. The acoustics here bring any kind of music to life just as strongly as the words in these books bring ideas and stories to life. To learn is to live.

  When the Nsibidi let her go, she was looking blankly at the bottom of the page. She could still smell sandalwood. What a beautiful place that was, she thought, lying back. “I want a place just like that when I grow up,” she whispered. “Just like that.” But what did it all mean? Why would her grandmother write a page of Nsibidi about this place? She hadn’t even told Sunny where it was and whose place it was. Maybe it’s something she wants me to read when I’m under stress, Sunny thought. The fatigue that resulted from “reading” the powerful Nsibidi was tugging at her eyelids. She put the page away and closed the box. Then she lay in her bed. So relaxed. For several minutes, she thought about the house that sat in the strange city. Maybe Grandma was a fiction writer, Sunny thought with a chuckle. Fiction written in Nsibidi, it would be better than a motion picture. She chuckled some more. It was well past three A.M. As her eyes drifted shut, she hoped she’d dream about the beautiful house.

  But she didn’t.

  Within minutes, she was dreaming . . .

  She was in soft, warm water. Not choppy and rushing like when she was in the river during her initiation. No, this place was calm and blue, but she could feel its weight as she moved through it. And she could breathe here. She sped up. Her body seemed to know where it was going even if her mind did not. Faster and faster until the blue of the water became the blue of the sky.

  She was flying. The rush of the cool air against her face took her breath away. She was high above a great forest, a rain forest. Mist moved through the trees like clouds that were too lazy to float. Then in the distance she saw it. A city of smoke. Burning so hot the buildings looked otherworldly. “Noooo!” she screamed, trying to stop herself. But she couldn’t stop. She just kept hurtling toward it. She was going to burn, too . . .

  She was falling. She was jarred awake by her body hitting the floor, again. “Oof!” She blinked in the dark, her eyes adjusting. She looked around her room and sat up. A bed, a dresser, a closet. There was a rolled-up newspaper on the floor. She felt a moment of panic. She couldn’t remember her own name. “Who am I?” she whispered, frowning.

  She could not remember. The room was nice, comfortable, and pleasing to her eye, but it was foreign. Where am I? What is all this? She got up, fighting panic. The bed had yellow-and-rose-colored sheets that she’d pulled half off when she’d fallen out. She looked down at her legs and frowned. Her skin was so pale. There was a flat-screen computer monitor on the desk and a small computer box on the floor beside it. Schoolbooks were also on the floor. Yes, those were schoolbooks.

  As she looked around the room, unsure of who or where she was, she began to remember other things. The wilderness. Like an impossible wonderful jungle full of . . . everybody . . . but the living. Mostly green, but every other color and kind dwelled there, too. The wilderness made the physical world seem
flat, dead, and quiet. “Ekwensu,” she whispered. And when she spoke the name of the powerful terrifying masquerade who’d nearly killed her and her friends a year ago, she felt a deep anger rise in her. She hated no one; she didn’t have the propensity for hatred. Nevertheless, the one who held that name was one she wanted to send to the darkest corner of the universe.

  Her eye fell on the top of the wooden cabinet beside her window. She blinked. Then she burst out laughing. She sat down on her bed, her eyes still glued to the top of her dresser, and she laughed even harder. As she laughed, it was as if her spirit flew into her and filled her up; everything returned—her memories, her destiny, her self. She was Sunny Nwazue and she was Anyanwu. She was the daughter of Kingsley and Ugwu Nwazue and granddaughter of Ozoemena of the Nimm Warrior Clan. She was a Leopard society free agent, initiated over a year ago and witness to the suicide of the ritual killer Black Hat Otokoto and the banishment of the evil Ekwensu. And she was a most excellent soccer player.

  Sunny was laughing because Della her wasp artist had created a brand-new sculpture out of some of the Oreo cookies in her backpack, a perfect replica of a stern-looking . . . Batman. As she watched and laughed some more, Della used a skinny leg to add one last flourish—a realistic sneer to Batman’s lips probably made from the Oreo’s cream.

  Her belly cramped as she tried to stifle her giggles. She knew exactly where the large blue wasp had gotten its inspiration. She’d been reading her brother’s copy of Batman: Death by Design, which their uncle had sent him from the UK. There it was on the floor beside her schoolbooks.

  “You are amazing, Della!” she said. “I love it!” She laughed again.

  Della buzzed proudly and hovered beside it as Sunny snapped a picture with her cell phone. The wasp had grown to be about an inch and a half in length, its skills evolving beyond anything Sunny had ever imagined. Wasp artists that were happy were known to live as long as the human being they bonded to and develop skills that rivaled and even surpassed the greatest human workers of the arts. This Batman not only looked as if it would walk away at any time, but it resembled the dark, gritty Batman found in the recent films Ugonna had come to love so much.

  Della buzzed happily and flew a gleeful loop the loop into the tiny mud nest it had built in the ceiling corner. Sunny sat on her bed. It was nearly dawn. She got dressed. Today was another day.

  8

  PEPPER BUGS

  The next day was another day, too. A normal day. So was the next, and the next. For two months, things settled for Sunny. Well, it settled as much as it could for a free agent whose mentor was the Head Librarian of Leopard Knocks.

  Sunny saw no more octopus-monster-propelled lakes, Mami Wata kept her distance, and reading Nsibidi was feeling more and more natural, though no less sublime. She didn’t speak a word to anyone about her hardening body, and that made things easier, too. Better to just roll with it than try to explain it to anyone.

  On the midnight of every Wednesday, she went with Chichi, Sasha, and Orlu for classes with Anatov. Half of these times were spent in his hut reviewing readings, learning and practicing new jujus, and being lectured on Leopard etiquette and history. Chichi and Sasha had recently passed to the Mbawkwa level, and Anatov taught them and had them practice higher-level jujus. Orlu and Sunny could only sit and listen. They weren’t even allowed to ask questions during these portions of the lessons.

  The other half of their Anatov nights were spent “learning by experience.” Leopard education did not have any vacations or breaks aside from certain religious ones like Eid Al-Fitr, Eid Al-Adha, Christmas, and Easter. For Eid Al-Fitr, while Lamb school was on break, Anatov had all four of them volunteer at a local Muslim orphanage and then work later that night filling potholes along one of the smaller village roads. They’d used a dirt moving and packing juju that Anatov had taught them that very night. For days, Sunny was digging muck from beneath her nails and sweeping dirt from her bedroom.

  For tonight’s “learning by experience,” Anatov was sending them into Night Runner Forest to capture four pepper bugs.

  “What’s a pepper bug?” Chichi asked, frowning.

  Anatov smirked and pointed a long finger at her. “See, you and Sasha consume all the juju, Leopard history, and Leopard culture books, but yet you neglect the field guides. And, Sunny, you haven’t had time to learn about the creatures of the Leopard world, except for those things you encounter personally, like ghost hoppers or the lake and river beasts. Knowledge gaps are no good.”

  “I know tungwas and bush souls, too,” she added. “And wasp artists, and all those . . .”

  Anatov waved a hand at her. “You know nothing of the millions of magical creatures of the world. And I have yet to assign you any field guides to read. For instance, you see tungwas all the time, but who can tell me what tungwas actually are?”

  Sunny looked at the others, barely able to contain her delight. Even Orlu was silent, an annoyed frown on his face. Being new to the Leopard world, Sunny had been deeply disturbed by the basketball-sized skin covered balls that exploded into a shower of teeth, bones, giblets of meat, and tufts of hair. To calm her mind, she’d done a bit of research on them.

  “Even in the Obi Library, there was no concrete information about them,” Sunny announced, smugly looking at Orlu, Sasha, and Chichi. “One: no one really cares to know. Two: some things in the world are just beyond logic and the tungwa is one of them.” She grinned and then added, “All this is according to Sugar Cream. I have to admit, I’m quite satisfied with both of these answers.”

  Everyone stared at Sunny, and she stared back at them, her grin fading.

  “Well, that was surprising,” Anatov said, after a moment. “Anyway, for now, this exercise will do.” He turned to Orlu. “I trust you know exactly what a pepper bug is.”

  Orlu nodded. “And I knew you’d ask us to go and find some.”

  “Why’s that?” Anatov asked.

  “For a few reasons,” Orlu said. “The cost of tainted peppers just went up in the market. You like your food really hot. And the patch of peppers in your garden out back looks like something just came and ate it all.”

  Anatov grunted, irritably. “Yes, there is a small grasscutter that lives around my hut that has a taste for spicy food. Damn things are the woodchucks of Nigeria. They even look like them.” He smiled at Orlu. “You are observant. Explain to them along the way.”

  Anatov gave Orlu a large metal pot, four spatulas, and oven mitts and then quickly ushered them out the IN door. “Good luck,” he said. “And remember, the entrance to Night Runner Forest closes at dawn. Bring the bugs here before you go home.”

  Only Orlu was excited about the assignment. All of them remembered what Night Runner Forest was like as it had nearly killed them last year. But they’d all learned a lot since then. They knew how not to get killed or too badly hurt. Of course, that didn’t make traipsing around in it at one A.M. any more tolerable.

  “They shouldn’t be that hard to find,” Orlu said as Sasha drew the tree symbol on the dirt not far from the Leopard Knocks bridge. Of all of them, Sasha was most used to entering Night Runner Forest because it was where his mentor Kehinde lived. “They are red and have long legs and square-shaped flat bodies that are kind of ridged, sort of like a leaf,” Orlu said. “They look like tiny slabs of really lean beef or salmon.”

  “Disgusting,” Chichi said.

  Orlu ignored her. “They’re about two inches in diameter, and they glow red in the dark.”

  “I’ll bet they sting,” Sunny said, as they stepped onto the path that opened up before them. “Things like that always sting.”

  “No, they don’t,” Orlu said. “They burn.”

  “Close enough,” Sunny said.

  According to Orlu, pepper bugs loved peppers. They would find a wild pepper plant and eat exactly one of the hottest peppers and then start to glow. This glow would n
ourish the plant and create a bond between the bug and plant. The bug would then inject the plant with a serum that would fortify the plant’s health. So not only did the plant grow large, it grew healthier, too. Then the insect would defecate at the base of the plant and within one night another pepper plant would grow. Then another and another until there was an entire wildly growing pepper patch of at least ten plants. Then the pepper bug would do a glowing shaking dance that would attract a mate and this patch would become their home. Pepper bugs were happy to share peppers with human beings if the human watered the patch regularly and didn’t pick too many peppers.

  “Anatov wants to regrow his patch,” Orlu said. “Then he’ll taint the peppers himself so they will grow super hot just the way he likes it.”

  Note to self, Sunny thought. Never eat Anatov’s pepper soup.

  “Why can’t he do this himself, then?” Sasha asked.

  “He’s our teacher, “Chichi snapped. “Students shop for their teachers all the time. Go to the market and everything. Don’t you?”

  “Not in America,” Sasha said. “That’s called ass-kissing.”

  They trudged through Night Runner Forest, trying hard not to disrupt, step on, bump into, or disturb anything. Of course, this was next to impossible. “I hate this place,” Chichi hissed. She was blinking hard, her eye watering. An evil weevil, a long-snouted foul-tempered insect with the ability to hurl small objects, had thrown a small seed directly into Chichi’s eye. Orlu grunted, scratching at a round orange-red patch on his arm where a Mars fly had bitten him.

  “Yeah, there are days I want to just nuke this place,” Sasha said, throwing yet another stick into the forest. He blew some powder and muttered some words, and the stick got up and stiffly began to smack at the patch of jungle to their left. Something large ran off. “Too bad no one’s written a juju that could do that.”