Chapter 1: Mirror No Lie

Na me be this? If to say dem tell me, I for no believe. Ifeanyi dey look himself for mirror. No matter how e try, the face wey dey look am back, na stranger own.

He stand there, chest dey rise and fall, the old wooden mirror dey shake small as harmattan breeze find its way through one window wey no close well. Na only the distant sound of suya man bell dey disturb the silence. Ifeanyi touch im cheek as if e go rub away the new skin; e blink, hoping say this magic go clear, but the mirror still dey tell im the same stubborn truth. The scent of camphor from old wardrobe dey blend with faint smell of palm oil, making the room feel half-spirit, half-home.

One voice inside him head talk: Na you be this now. You be Musa Garba, the Oba wey cross river go south, oga of Southern Umuola Kingdom. Eight hundred years after the time of the old Garba dynasty for Makurdi, over three thousand miles from your papa land for Okpoko Hills.

The voice dey heavy, thick like old people's proverb. It dey echo inside Ifeanyi head like song wey stubborn to comot. Sometimes e go try shake am off, but e stubborn pass village masquerade during festival. Ifeanyi fit feel the weight of all those years wey the voice dey count, like ancient calabash wey full secret.

No road to go back again.

The room suddenly cold, like early morning for Jos. The finality of the voice, e heavy like burial drum. Ifeanyi look window, but even the lizards outside no get road to run. The way the matter tie am, e be like say spirit don block all path home.

Ifeanyi reason am: Which kind talk be this? I talk say I wan go back before?

He huff, body tense, as if him dey argue with elder wey dey force palm wine for small pikin hand. For Ifeanyi mind, the question na, "Who send me message? Who ask me if I wan go back?" Even the wall gecko stop to chase insect, dey stare as if e dey reason the matter with am.

Eight hundred years ago, na my papa stubbornness, prime minister loyalty, and me—wey just dey enjoy, dey fear death, carry small guilt. But for this strange Southern Umuola, I no dey feel like say I belong at all. Abeg, make I just flex enjoy myself jare.

E go sidon, deep breath, the smell of fried fish from neighbor backyard sneak inside. The sense of not-belonging dey press am for chest. Ifeanyi eye am the mirror again, mouth twist, "Make I chop my own life abeg. If spirit carry me reach here, na flex remain."