Chapter 2: Blood and Spirit No Dey Lie

My name na Musa Ling. My papa na Musa Garba.

For Jos, if you mention Musa Garba, only three people go answer, but my papa name go open gate for old stories, for market, for mosque. E be like leaf wey refuse to dry for harmattan.

We be the last people wey remain for Musa family line.

Our own family, na like tree wey get plenty branch, but now only two leaves remain for harmattan wind. Sometimes, I wonder if the thing wey dey pursue us go ever tire.

According to our family story, our ancestors na seers wey serve great kings. When dem send dem go fight that rebellious river spirit, our blood join with the spirit, na im make us fit control people mind and dey do illusion.

Dem say for those days, Musa pikin fit enter palace, speak word, king go believe am. But river spirit no dey give gift for free. Sometimes, when I dey alone for night, I dey feel water dey rush for my ear, dey call my name.

As time dey go, Christianity and Islam come strong, Musa family power—wey dey inside old ways—come make both sides dey find us.

Dem burn shrine, pursue elders, call us names. So the family hide. The world move, but our shadow remain. No matter how breeze blow, fowl yansh go show.

To avoid wahala, about five hundred years ago, our great-grandma Musa Fatima set family rule: "Spirit-eye dey look Heaven secret for nothing; any pikin wey try practice go bring bad luck, poverty go full everywhere, the curse no go ever end."

Heh.

Na that kind curse go make person humble. Every Sallah, every Christmas, we dey remember.

I early know the matter.

Even when I dey small, any time better thing wan reach my hand, e go just miss road.

The reason we poor and our luck bad, na because none of the Musa ancestors gree follow the rule.

For inside room, dem dey burn candle, call name, mix words. For outside, dem dey act like say dem holy. The thing tire me.

Dem just dey practice the thing for hide, no be for open.

Just like my papa.

For outside, e dey run this yeye jade shop. For inside, na all these mysterious jobs e dey do.

Me, I try to run straight, to bring better luck for family, I read book, enter big university, join better company, begin do office work like normal person.

I hustle well well. Even do NYSC for Abuja, dey submit CV upandan. I tell myself say I go break this family wahala. But village no dey ever leave person body finish.

But as my papa disappear, everything change.

Na that morning, I just wake up see say everywhere dry, phone off, money no dey. Na only small paper my papa drop: 'Lingling, you strong, use your eye well.' Na so water begin drop for my eye.

I fit feel am say e dey somewhere wey nobody know, confused, dey waka for dangerous place. But e never reach where e go die—at least not yet—him mind still dey calm.

My papa fit no too get sense, but na my papa. I no fit just leave am.

No matter how I vex, my heart dey drag me back. Blood no dey lie. I go find am—no matter wetin happen.

So I resign, carry Lingling Jade Shop, begin find clue—dey hustle to survive too.

Omo, life hard. But street dey teach person. Even small children dey see say I dey try. I go buy puff-puff for them, sometimes help mama Sade carry bag, make spirit for shop no dey heavy.

That time, I understand:

Every pikin get him own destiny.

You fit run, but your shadow dey always waka behind.

As for that our great-grandma talk—

Dem no hear word.

So why I go hear?

If my own wahala go different, make e be.