Chapter 1: Spirit in the Rain

The rain that night was so fierce, it battered the zinc roofs of Okpoko like angry drummers. Thunder roared and the forest paths turned to mud. Even the bravest hunters would think twice before venturing out, but Second Uncle, stubborn as ever, pressed on. His hands and feet bled as he clawed through tangled bush and sharp stones. Hunger twisted his stomach, and by the third day, his lips were dry and he started seeing things—shadows dancing, voices whispering from inside the trees, like when witchcraft dey pass for midnight.

Just as he was about to give up, a white rat—half as tall as a person and walking on two legs—showed up and led him out to safety.

The rat moved with an eerie grace, its fur glowing in the dim forest light. It didn’t squeak or scamper but walked upright, nodding its head at Second Uncle, as if to say, "Oya, follow me sharp sharp—no dull yourself." He was too tired to protest, so he stumbled after it, the bush parting before them like the Red Sea before Moses. All through the journey, the white rat didn’t make a sound, just glancing back to make sure he was still following. Sometimes it looked at him with eyes that seemed older than the hills themselves.

When Second Uncle finally made it out, he had nothing to show for it and his body was full of injuries. He dreaded going home, thinking people would just laugh at him.

His slippers were lost, his wrapper torn, and his herbal basket gone. His whole body ached, and every bruise and cut burned from the cold. He limped back, rehearsing in his mind what to say, knowing the other men would mock him for returning empty-handed, calling him 'woman-man' or 'bush spirit's child.'

As he was about to part ways with the white rat, Second Uncle pretended to be grateful, saying that once he got home, he would set up a family altar and light candles to honour it. He dey form gratitude, but for him mind, na only how to survive dey worry am.

He put on his best smile and clapped his hands, as elders do when praying to ancestors. “Ah, White One, you try for me today o. Once I reach house, na altar I go set. I go buy red candle, kola, even one bottle of Schnapps, just to honour you.” But inside, his mind dey run another thing entirely.

The white rat, acting almost like a human, bowed back. But before you know it, Second Uncle used the opportunity, jumped the rat, and killed it with his herbalist’s cutlass.

He struck like a bushcat—quick, sharp, and with no warning. The rat squealed, surprise in its human-like eyes, before its head rolled on the wet ground. The smell of hot blood and wet fur mix with the rain, making Second Uncle’s stomach turn. Second Uncle’s hands shook as he wiped the blade on his wrapper, but he quickly steeled himself, muttering, “Better you than me.”

The rat’s fur was pure white, without a single blemish, and almost two feet wide. Just like that, Second Uncle became the talk of the whole compound.

Children came running, women gathered by their verandas, ululating and gossiping. Old men, usually too proud to praise, nodded in respect, some even tapping kola on the ground for blessing. That kind of fur, so perfect and wide, was something nobody had seen since the days of their great-grandfathers.

When Grandmother saw the fur, she handled it gently, but her face turned pale, like she had seen a masquerade in broad daylight.

She reached out with trembling hands, her fingers tracing the soft fur, then suddenly pulled back as if burnt. Her voice broke, “Ah! Chineke! This one na household spirit’s fur! You wan use us do ogbanje practice?” Her wrapper slipped from her shoulder as she turned to stare at Second Uncle with fear, not anger. The room felt colder, as if all the ancestors were watching from the walls.