Chapter 1: The Night Spirit Come

Mosquitoes dey hum for my ear, and frog dey croak for gutter. In the middle of the night, I go toilet for our old family compound for village, na there I hear voices wey dey come from backyard.

The air thick with the earthy smell of wet harmattan sand, and the distant hoot of night owl somewhere inside the palm trees. My heart beat small-small, my hand dey shake, but curiosity dey worry me.

Curious, I tiptoe closer—na so I see one giant rooster dey swallow the smoked bushmeat wey we hang for raffia pole.

My bare feet prick for cold cement as I peep. The rooster big pass normal, e feathers dey shine like those masquerade costumes for New Yam festival. The shadow alone fit scare pikin.

E even dey count as e chop, mumbling, “Three pieces, four pieces...” I rub my eyes, think say sleep dey worry me.

The voice no even resemble fowl own, e get as e be—deep, rough, with small pidgin inside. The way e dey count, e sound like one old man wey dey calculate debt after market.

Fear catch me. I sharply cover my mouth so I no go shout, then stagger back in panic.

I almost trip for one old rubber bucket, my legs dey shake as if cold don enter my bone. My breath hang for air, my heart dey pound like ogene drum for festival.

The big rooster turn face look me, with one big piece of meat still hang for e beak.

The moon catch the oily meat, and for that moment, those rooster eyes just dey shine green-green, like the glass beads my Grandma Ngozi keep for her shrine. I wan shout but my voice no gree come out.