Chapter 2: The Market Curse

1

"Oga, this one..."

The steward wey dey Uncle Okafor side no know wetin to do, but as e no get choice, e kneel join, even as e dey whisper:

The steward dey shake like leaf, e try hide face, dey look me from corner eye. For Naija, if ritual don serious, everybody dey humble by force.

"This cat get only one eye, and e tail don split like broom. E sure say e fit save our madam pikin?"

The way e talk am, na fear mix with doubt. Tail wey don split, eye wey dey shine one side—if no be spirit, wetin I be?

Uncle Okafor just eye am. "Wetin you sabi? With all the drummers and fireworks wey just happen, all this crowd, any normal stray cat for don run."

Him voice sharp, e wan put mouth for matter, but e respect the way things dey. For our place, if something no run from masquerade and noise, that thing get power or wahala.

"All the pastors and native doctors reject the matter, but this one still get mind—no be sign say e get power?"

One of the elders for background nod head. "True talk. Cat wey no fear fire, na ogbanje or something strong."

As dem dey talk, I don already clear half of the chicken, both skin and bone.

I no even send dem again. Hunger fit disgrace man, but spirit no dey shame for food. The taste sweet pass dream, na so I dey munch, even lick oil for paw.

Na sweet die.

After I don dey chop only dirty-smelling evil spirits for long, body no too get strength again.

E get as body dey feel when belle full; I stretch small, purr like say cold breeze dey touch me for back. All those years wey I dey waka about, na bitterness full my mouth. This one, e be like festival.

As I just dey chop, Uncle Okafor ask me with fear:

E voice don soft, e no get pride again. "Great Wildcat Immortal, you fit check if my daughter still get hope?"

Mouth still full, I tear the last chicken leg, hold am for mouth, jump come down from the altar, waka small small go the keke chair.

Everybody keep quiet, dem dey look me. Some dey cross hand for chest, some dey squeeze rosary. As my leg touch ground, even small pikin hide behind wrapper.

Even though I get only one eye, I fit see wetin dey for both spirit and ordinary world.

Na so e dey be. One eye for this world, one eye for where ordinary people no fit see. I blink, my spirit sense open; the air cold, thick like palm oil soup.

The pikin wey dey inside no pass five years, only small light of her Fetal Soul still dey—na the root of her three souls. Out of her seven spirits, the Corpse Dog and Thief Devourer don lost already. Na half-dead she dey so.

Small pikin, but big wahala. For spirit world, na empty compound I see, only one faint candle still dey burn for parlour—na that Fetal Light. The rest, darkness swallow am.

Worst part be say, dem tie her hand and leg with big iron chains, cold and dey shine, the other end dey drag enter one kind deep darkness.

The chain thick, old, the kind wey native doctor dey use lock shrine for forest. The sound alone for spirit ear na like iron bell for burial ground.

The chains still dey tight, dey try drag the last small Fetal Light commot.

I dey see the chain dey pull her small soul like goat wey dem dey drag for market. The chain dey shine black, dey hum like mosquito for ear.

Na real soul-hooking be this.

If you know, you know. No be play, na people wey get hand for dark thing fit do this kain binding.

I look well.

I squint, try see who fit get hand for this kain matter. Air thick, something dey hide for dark.

This pikin never reach her time to die.

Spirit no dey lie; I check her forehead, still dey clear. Her chi never collect her case.

And this kind soul thief, one strand at a time, no be the way Seventh or Eighth Elders of the Underworld dey do.

For our side, elders for underworld dey follow protocol. This one na street thief, rough hand, e dey cut corner.

Since na one kind crooked spirit, I no waste time, I just jump enter the keke chair.

People for compound shout; some scatter, others wan peep through curtain. I dey ready.

I use my sharp claws scratch the iron chains. Thick black smoke rush commot from the keke, scatter for air.

For spirit world, the chain try fight back, but my claw sharp, tear through like machete wey dey slice ugu leaf—sharp, quick. Black smoke burst, enter breeze, the place cold small.

People outside no fit see the chains, na only the sudden black smoke make dem shout.

All the women begin cover head, one of the boys throw stone, dem fear say abomination dey happen.

"Ngozi!" Uncle Okafor, wey heart dey break for him pikin, rush come check.

E push people, enter the keke, hold Ngozi hand. E voice crack, "Ngozi, wake up now, I beg you!"

The small girl still dey unconscious, Uncle Okafor come dey waka up and down in worry.

E dey scratch head, sweat dey flow, e dey mutter prayer, call all the saints and ancestors join.

I gats talk for human voice:

I clear my throat, force voice wey sound like old market woman. "Your daughter soul don lost, her spirits no complete. If you no fit bring them back, she no go wake."

Uncle Okafor shock as I talk, but e quick ask, "So wetin we go do, Great Immortal? Make we call her soul back?"

E voice dey shake, but e dey try hold hope. All the women for background begin whisper, some dey suggest prayer, others dey wipe eye.

I shake head. "E no go work. If na normal pikin wey fear catch am, e soul go still dey nearby, dem fit call am. But Ngozi own, dem don carry am go, we no even know where e dey—you gats go snatch am back."

The way I talk am, e heavy for air. Everybody mouth close, fear grip dem, only the sound of goat dey bleat for far corner.

"Anything strange happen to her recently?"

I face Uncle Okafor, my eye sharp like blade. E swallow spit, dey try remember. I fit smell the tension for ground, like rain wey wan fall for dry season.

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2

As Uncle Okafor talk, on the third day of the third month, during New Yam Festival—na time for people to go outing—Ngozi follow the women for house go church bazaar.

That day, everywhere dey jolly. Village square full, masquerade dey dance, drums dey roll, children dey scatter ground with slippers. Sun bright, smoke from suya stand dey rise. Ngozi hold her mother wrapper tight, eye dey run everywhere, pikin joy.

Since harmattan reach, she just dey sick anyhow—not only cough and fever, even bone break, sometimes half month she no fit stand up from bed.

Dem try all hospital, dem try agbo, even grandma pour ogiri for her bath. She go well small, fall sick again. People begin whisper say maybe na ogbanje, but Aunty Okafor no gree.

When she finally recover go out, she dey curious, anything wey she see, she wan get am.

She dey tug sleeve, dey beg for puff-puff, dey point sugarcane, dey stretch neck to see everything. Her laugh that day sweet, e make women for choir smile.

Especially when she see one woman dey sell clay dolls—she stand for there, no gree move.

The smell of roasted corn and palm wine dey mix for air, but cold breeze still dey blow from the old shrine corner.

The dolls arrange for mat, dem fine pass some real pikin. Ngozi stand, mouth open, no blink. Even old men stop, dey look.

The clay dolls just too real, boys and girls, like three to five years old. Some dey sleep, some dey vex, some dey play fight.

For village, people no too see clay work like this; person fit think say na spirit dey inside those eyes. The air around the mat cold, even when sun dey hot.

But some get red dot for forehead, some no get.

Some women for back whisper, say red dot na mark of spirit child. Others say na just design. But my spirit sense no gree.

Ngozi just dey look, point the dolls dey cry, no wan go.

She cry that kain cry wey dey reach deep, body dey shake, her hand dey stretch like person wey see lost twin. Even hawker wey dey pass stop dey pity am.

Aunty Okafor no get choice, she squat buy one for am.

She try beg, "Ngozi, abeg na, we go late for church." But Ngozi no gree move. The crowd begin dey look. To avoid shame, she open wrapper, bring out small money.

The seller na old woman, like eighty years, hair don scanty but teeth dey shine.

Old woman, her face wrinkle like dry fufu, but her teeth white, e dey shine as she dey chew kola nut.

When dem ask price, she no talk, just dey smile dey look Ngozi.

Her smile long, cold, no joy for eye. Her head small, she dey rock like person wey dey hear secret music.

Her face wrinkle anyhow, the way she dey smile self no pure.

All the women for market begin shift leg, some dey whisper, "Na which side this old mama come from sef?"

Aunty Okafor no like the smile, she just drop money, carry one doll waka quick.

Her hand dey shake as she collect doll. She turn quick, hold Ngozi close, her heart dey beat. Na so dem waka, her leg dey fast pass usual.

But as dem dey go, she hear the old woman dey mumble one kind thing for back—

Old woman voice croak, she dey speak slow, words dey heavy, e be like wind dey follow am. "You carry my own, I go carry your own."

She spit for ground, turn her back, her wrapper flap like warning.

"You carry my own, I go carry your own."

Somebody for market turn back, but the old woman don close her eye, dey hum.

Since that day, Ngozi stop to chop and drink, just dey look one place, body stiff.

She go just sit for bench, mouth open, no gree talk. Water, food, even sweet, she no answer. Everybody begin fear.

If adult no dey watch, she go run go yard, dey dig sand chop.

Neighbours begin gossip, say pikin wey dey eat sand no get peace for house. Some say na spirit child dey show face.

Ask her anything, she no answer, just dey laugh anyhow.

Her laugh dry, empty, as if rain dey fall inside empty drum.

Dem carry her go meet all the chemists and native doctors for area, nobody fit cure her.

Na so dem waka from one herbalist to another, each one collect money, shake head. Some give soap, some give leaf, nothing work.

Church pastor talk say dem bring her too late, nothing fit be done again.

Pastor shake head, pray, pour anointing oil, even call prayer warriors. But the girl just dey look roof, dey laugh small laugh.

Aunty Okafor just dey cry.

Each night, her cry dey pass window, neighbours no fit sleep. She call saints, ancestors, even beg river goddess.

She dey call, “Chineke, wetin I do?!” Her cry loud pass night market bell.

When dem go find the old woman wey sell the clay dolls, she don disappear.

No trace for market. Traders say dem never see am before, nobody sabi her house.

Dem try everything, nothing work.

Grandma try break kolanut, call all the old names; uncle bring honey from shrine; nothing gree work. House people begin dey fear.

One night as Uncle Okafor dey go house, he meet old woman wey dey sell flower.

The road dark, moon dey hide, only this old mama dey waka with flower basket. Uncle Okafor greet am, e voice dey shake.

As she see say e dey think, she ask am wetin happen, after she hear, she talk:

She nod, her eye clear, say, "No be everything prayer fit settle. Sometimes you gats match power with power."

"Since dem use bad way, use bad way fight am back."

Her mouth twist, she spit for ground. "If na old spirit waka come, find older one fight am."

"For the grave mound for old forest behind mountain, whether na ghost, monster, tree spirit or wild masquerade, find one wey strong pass, make am be her spiritual guardian—e fit chase away wetin dey worry her."

The woman point road, her hand shake, she dey whisper as if wind go carry the words. "Make you no fear, just no let flesh block your eye."

Uncle Okafor no get another idea, na so e try.

E swallow spit, go house, plan everything. When wahala pass man, na to try everything remain.

Na so we reach the scene wey you see just now.

All the elders for house gather, light candle, pound yam, set table. Everybody dey hope say miracle go happen.

As I hear the story, I don already get small clue.

Na so all the pieces begin match for my head. My one eye flash, I nod; this kain case, I sabi the hand wey dey behind am.

But to face am, spirit go need spirit—and this one get teeth.