by Reni K Amayo
‘Please, where am I?’ Sinai asked, her voice hoarse and raspy.
‘Surely you already know the answer to that question,’ Meekulu replied, as she walked over with a warm smile. ‘I’ve seen you wandering about here a number of times.’
Sinai noticed a playful glint in the old woman’s eyes.
Meekulu suddenly stopped mid-stride before placing one finger in the air, as though she had just remembered something important. She swivelled on her heels before busying herself with something on one of the shelves.
Sinai stared at the old woman curiously. She had never laid eyes on Meekulu before, but whispers about the old woman had filtered through the palace walls for longer than Sinai could remember.
Meekulu was not only known for her impeccable meals, but her unique appearance. She was small and thin, and those flat crystal circles on her face supposedly helped her old eyes see even the most minute grains in the dishes that she prepared. Her hair was native to Namibia, several thick bundles of hair coated in a red waxy otjize paste, all but the ends, which were soft puffs of white hair that nearly reached the ground.
Her dark-leathered skin was a powdery reddish-brown colour, and Sinai felt inexplicably drawn to it, as though it promised stories of times past. Looking at the peculiar woman, Sinai felt a sense of familiarity, which came as a surprise to the girl who had spent her life feeling like a perpetual stranger.
‘You … know who I am?’ Sinai said quietly.
‘Mmhmm,’ Meekulu replied, with her back still turned.
‘But … how?’ Sinai asked incredulously.
‘The same way that you know who I am,’ Meekulu said, as she turned around with a pale pestle and mortar in her hand, both of which she placed on the wooden table by the foot of the akwa nest that Sinai lay on. She then scoured the room for a collection of various spices, bottles, and dried fruits before drawing up a chair and sitting by the table.
‘Well, no. Sorry, I just mean … well, I don’t think … well, it’s just different. I’m not—I’m not known,’ Sinai struggled to explain her thoughts.
‘Neither am I,’ Meekulu chuckled. ‘But people tend to discuss peculiar things.’
‘Peculiar? But I’m …’
‘The strange efuọla noble girl who skips lavish events in favour of wandering, seemingly aimlessly, around the palace,’ Meekulu said, dipping her chin so low that it almost touched her neck. Her glasses sank to the end of her wide nose, and her wrinkled eyes peeked over the top as she glared openly at Sinai. ‘And I am the Namibian cook with the strange eyewear and extravagant hair,’ she continued, with another light cackle.
It was true that, on several occasions, Sinai had roamed around the crooks and crannies of the palace. At times, she had even visited the kitchen quarters, but she had always been quiet and unassuming. She always slipped away before she could grab anyone’s attention. It was considered uncouth for a noble, particularly a woman, to be in areas dominated by the common folk. After all, what need, other than something sinister, did a noble woman have to be in such areas? Sinai had always found it surprising that curiosity or even boredom had never been considered legitimate reasons.
Sinai reflected briefly on the old woman’s words, and suddenly became increasingly warm. Rarely had she ever felt so exposed. She had always imagined herself to be someone who blended into the background. Nothing about her was loud or distinct enough to draw attention; she kept to herself, and lived mainly in her own head. She found it disturbing that while she had been hiding in her mind, people were discussing and scrutinising her. She didn’t like that at all.
‘It is quite curious that that was the first question that popped into your mind after a near-death experience, but each to their own,’ Meekulu added, her lips stretching into another cheeky smile.
The weight of what had happened suddenly tugged at Sinai’s core. Meekulu was right: she had nearly died. In fact, she was certain that she should have died; no one could have survived such a high fall.
Whilst her body felt like it had been dragged through hell, it was still, for all intents and purposes, in one piece.
‘How am I even alive?’ Sinai pondered aloud.
‘This will help with the pain; recipes are very powerful, like potions,’ Meekulu said. ‘You can make people do almost anything if you have the right type of ingredients. I could give you something and you’d sleep for days!’ She smiled as if she had just told a joke that only she could understand.
‘Yes, I …’ Sinai said, as she tried to get the old woman to hold her gaze, in the hope that it would focus her. ‘Meekulu, how did I survive the fall?’ she asked again, when she finally locked eyes with the woman.
‘You fell on Afọ, the third day of the week.’
‘Okay, thank you, but that’s not …’
‘Do you know what the cleaning ladies do on Afọ mornings?’
‘Well, no, I was actually wonde—’
‘They dry the akwa nest blankets. Rows of thick fur spreads from window to window. You must have seen it?’ the old woman implored, as Sinai shook her head before opening her mouth to protest once more.
‘Really? Hmph—so you nobles really never notice anything, eh? Guess that makes sense with your heads always floating in the sky,’ Meekulu chuckled, before Sinai could say a word. ‘Well, in any case, you fell out of a window that was on the corner of the Ọnwa building, which you must know is right next to the Anyanwụ building. What you might not know is that it is one of the most ideal places to hang sheets! Which is incredibly lucky, because it seems as though those series of sheets broke up your fall! Now, you still ended up badly hurt—you definitely have some broken bones here and there, and let’s not forget that the fur cloths were unsalvageable—but you lived all the same. Sergeant Olu found you on the ground and brought you here. Lucky he did, too. I don’t think you would have survived without some proper seeing to, and the palace doctors are incompetent, if you ask me!’ Meekulu poured the ingredients one by one into the mortar before proceeding to grind them together to create a beige paste.
‘I don’t remember seeing the fur spreads,’ Sinai murmured with a deepening frown.
‘It’s funny what we remember and don’t after such events,’ the old woman replied. with yet another glint in her eyes. ‘But I assure you they were there; how else could you survive such a fall?’
‘Yes, it makes sense … I suppose … I just, I don’t remember this at all.’ A wave of sadness washed over her. It was by far the most dramatic thing that had ever happened to her, and it disturbed her that she couldn’t recall what it had been like. She recalled the veil from her dream, and sighed audibly. Sinai quickly caught herself and was reminded suddenly of her surroundings. She cleared her throat uncomfortably.
‘I must thank the man. Sergeant …?’ Sinai continued. Meekulu did not reply. Instead she dipped a white cloth into the pasty substance and brought it to Sinai’s head without warning.
Sinai backed away instinctively. She was not used to anyone touching her head; in fact, it almost felt threatening. However, almost as soon as the cloth touched her skin, she relaxed. Sinai sank back into the soft furs that lined the small akwa nest. She knew that she should feel outraged, perhaps even scared, but she didn’t. Sinai’s painful headache started to subside into nothing.
‘Hush, child; you have a long journey ahead and so much to learn,’ Meekulu murmured.
Sinai was about to ask her what she meant, but everything suddenly felt heavy. She was being pulled into a deep sweet sleep. She momentarily tried to resist, but a wave of tiredness overtook her body and suddenly she gave up, sinking into darkness.
THE VISITOR FROM THE CITY OF NRI
Igbakwu
A DENSE SILENCE accompanied Naala and Gini on their brisk walk towards the village.
Naala had practically fallen out of the tree when she’d caught sight of the approaching swarm of bloodthirsty men. In their hands were weapons that had shone brightly with the gleam of the Eze’s
enchantment. The stench of impending death that had trailed them had been undeniable. Even from her great height she had been able to see the swirling coils of power coating their large abaras, a deadly weapon synonymous with the Eze’s army. Not only could it slice a man’s neck as though it were soft yam, but it was also known to cripple its victims after even the slightest of grazes, causing a wave of intense pain that would ripple relentlessly through his soul. Naala had hit the ground hard with an expression as fierce and distant as thunder brewing on a warm night. Gini had instinctively known that something was terribly wrong.
‘Aii!’ Gini had gasped. ‘What’s going on?’
Naala had felt trapped between wanting to find the words to fully explain the situation, and the undeniable fact that, if her suspicions were correct and there was indeed an army marching to wreak havoc on her home, she was already running out of time.
Finally, she had managed to say, ‘We have to go!’ before pushing past Gini and pacing ahead.
Gini had run after Naala, pivoting in front of her when she’d eventually caught up. She’d held up both hands, hoping to halt her friend.
‘Wh—’
‘We have to go, I don’t have time to explain it—they’re coming!’ Naala had said exasperatedly, as she’d attempted to bypass Gini, but the smaller girl had firmly stood her ground.
‘Who is? Naala just—’ Gini had started, but stopped as Naala had thrown her hands up in frustration.
‘Gawa! I said move, Gini. We don’t have time for this. The village is in danger. We have to go!’ Naala’s voice had been stern but tense with fear.
Gini’s breath had caught in her throat. Naala had never been easily frightened, and yet now she appeared terrified. Whatever had happened in that tree was far more serious than Gini had imagined.
‘Let’s go,’ Gini had replied softly.
Now, as Naala traipsed through the woods, the voices in her head ran rampant:
You’re overreacting.
No, I’m not.
You’re letting your imagination run wild.
No, I’m not.
What reason would the Eze have to attack the village?
The last statement was not her own, but she let it ring loudly in her head. It had been the words of her uncle, the night he had spoken to the man with reddish-brown woolly hair, who had eaten noisily at her grandmother’s table.
THE RUMOURS HAD STARTED SLOWLY but they had grown relentlessly, like a spider’s web weaving out until it finally reached Mama Ugoulo’s home in Igbakwu. Mama Ugulo, Naala’s grandmother, was a hard and stubborn woman who vowed to never leave Igbakwu. She gave birth to an equally hard and stubborn girl, who vowed to never stay. One day the headstrong girl left the village, never to return. Mama Ugulo would wait every night for the grey hamerkops to flutter into the village with a message from her lost child nestled in their long beaks, but all she was met with was disappointment. Years later, a visitor came with Naala cradled in her arms, claiming that the baby was the lost girl’s child. Mama Ugulo looked down at the sleeping child and allowed her hardened heart to soften. She took the baby in her arms and vowed, this time, to never let go.
Naala adored her grandmother. She followed the old woman everywhere and always made sure to take the seat closest to Mama Ugulo during meals, particularly the evening dinner, which was by far the most intimate within their home. Those nights, Naala would sit amongst her family and, at times, guests, contently hidden under the cloak of the night. Each one of their black faces would be illuminated by the warm glow of the floating ọkụ lights, small balls of fire that hung weightlessly in the air, remnants of Anyanwu, the lost fire goddess.
In the deep of those evenings, with her grandmother’s warm food and fresh palm wine settled in their bulging stomachs, visitors would whisper animatedly about the Eze’s madness. It felt like blasphemy. It was blasphemy. The Eze was their hero. The man who saved the world from the Mother’s wrath. He ensured order when the gods left the earth. His heart was pure enough to hold the Mother’s crystal! It was simply inconceivable that such a man could be unfit to rule. Yet the stories enthralled them all. While the tales felt too distant to be real, the thrill of hearing such scandal about the people in power was undeniably addictive. People would lean over the table as the conversations gradually escalated from nervous whispers to loud debates.
Naala, however, had never enjoyed these conversations. Her mind twisted and turned, collecting snippets of information and placing them cautiously into a bigger, frightening picture. The problem was, she had paid too much attention to the visitors’ stories over the years. She remembered all the seemingly small but truly unjust laws that the Eze would throw into the mix of his loyal subjects’ lives before dashing them away without reason or cause. She recalled the stories of the once-praised senior lords, who disappeared suddenly, with nothing left of them besides a bad taste in the mouths of those that used to sing their praises. She had spent too much time thinking about the Eze’s wife, Obioma, and how no one had seen her in years.
These thoughts swirled in her mind and made the salacious rumours so much more than frivolous dinner table gossip; for Naala the rumours were simply too real for comfort.
Worse still, they were increasing. It seemed now that every visitor who strolled through the village brought new whispers about the almighty Eze’s indiscretions. ‘Something bad has happened,’ they would say. ‘Come, hear what the Eze has done.’ And Naala would shudder with her eyes closed.
‘Again with this nonsense!’ her uncle had exclaimed across the table. His fingertips had been pressed together and a perfectly formed ball of pounded yam sat on top of them.
Her young cousin had waited until the main course to unleash the stream of questions that he had bubbling up inside. It was finally their turn to host a guest, and little Eddy had been saving his questions for weeks now. He had waited patiently for a new guest to arrive, paying mind not to disturb his mother with his usual questions; after all she always had the same response: ‘I don’t know, bobo, ask your father’; which, of course, he would never do.
When the tall funny visitor had finally arrived, Eddy had almost yelped with excitement. The man had been wrapped in fine barkcloth, strips of softened, patterned wooden bark that rippled as he moved. He had travelled into the village on the back of a huge bejewelled rhinoceros, which meant that he must have come from one of the grand cities. Eddy had waited at the edge of his seat for the kola nut welcoming ceremony to end, and had even sat through the man’s boring reasons for passing through their village. Like nearly all the visitors, he was using it as a place to get a decent meal before embarking on his travels through the vast and wild Furuefu forest.
Finally, in a brief moment of quiet, Eddy had seen the perfect opportunity to ask about the latest news of the mighty Eze. Only to find himself being scolded by his father.
‘Please, Father, how often do we see a visitor from the city? You saw his big rhino; he’ll know things!’ Eddy had replied with wide eager eyes as his mother had tried to pinch him under the table, muttering insults under her breath.
The man had laughed heartily at the brewing commotion, his copper hair swaying as he’d shaken his head, and the series of raised line scars across his cheeks had lit up in the warm ọkụ light.
‘It’s fine, it’s fine. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last!’ the man had rumbled. ‘First of all, I’m not from the city, and Kubwa, my big rhino, was a … gift of sorts. I’m from a village like this but in a place much further away. Do you know of a place called Kongo?’ he’d asked the boy.
Eddy had shaken his head as a look of confusion had spread across his small face.
‘Well, that’s a shame, it’s a remarkable place—in any case, it’s a good thing that I’m from there and not the aforementioned City of Nri. I’d advise you not to have this conversation with a real city dweller … they are, how can I say it, built differently to us?’ He’d winked. Her cousin’s eyes had widened furt
her as he’d turned back to his parents.
‘See! He knows things,’ he’d whispered enthusiastically, before turning back to the man.
His father had grunted disapprovingly as he’d looked down to grab another ball of pounded yam.
‘So … you’ve heard of this nonsense too?’ he’d muttered, before popping the ball into his mouth.
‘I’ve heard stories on my travels … silly fanciful stories about the Eze, and if I were to be completely honest, I’ve always found them to be baseless … although there was this one thing—bah! I don’t know, it seems silly to even bring it up now … I think it just felt too close to home because it was about a village—’
‘The villages? But I thought the Eze is the king of the city, not the villages. We had a visitor once who said that the Eze chopped a man’s elbow off because he didn’t bow low enough.’ Eddy had bent his elbow to demonstrate, before catching a deathly cold stare from his mother and settling down quickly. The visitor had started a small smile that died before reaching his eyes.
‘Well, he is king of the whole kingdom, little man, not just the city,’ the visitor had replied softly. ‘And as gruesome as that sounds, it’s also unlikely; even if you believe these stories then you would know that the Eze is never so open with such acts. They say everything sinister gets swept under the table. Your one-handed man must have been dreamt up during an afternoon nap.’ Hidden in the corner of the guest’s smile had been a chill that had suddenly made the conversation seem far too real. The table had become still, and Eddy had shifted towards his mother, tugging at her cloth until she’d embraced him.
‘Edo bobo, please settle down,’ she’d murmured into his soft cushion of hair.
‘What was that you said of the village?’ Naala’s uncle had asked after a moment of reflection.
‘Well, it’s nothing, most certainly more of these silly embellishments, but still hearing about it did … unsettle me somewhat.’
‘Out with it then!’ Naala’s uncle had exclaimed impatiently.
