Chapter 1: The Woman With Shadow Eyes

I be blind man, na spiritual work I dey use survive for this Lagos. As I dey talk am, the tiredness for my voice go show you—no be small wahala I don see for this life. Sometimes, na inside darkness you go find that small light wey go give you hope. For Lagos, everybody dey hustle, but my own get as e be. I no dey beg for junction—I dey stay under the big mango tree for Palm Grove, with my bamboo stand, mat, and small chalk, dey wait for people wey get real wahala to find me.

That day, one correct woman waka come my fortune-telling stand. As she reach, breeze just blow—like say spirit dey waka with her shadow. The sun dey bite, but she carry her own cold. The way she dey waka sure, but her eyes dey waka up and down. Lagos woman get her own, but this one carry another kind load. She sit, cross leg, still dey look me like person wey dey calculate whether to run or talk true.

My name na Ifedike, spiritual consultant without church or family. For Palm Grove, people sabi me as 'Half-Blind'. My work na to help anybody wey get serious wahala—relationship, money, business, house cleansing, any matter wey concern soul. Some call me dibia, others babalawo, but me I just dey do my thing, no dey carry big title.

To help people solve wahala, check their fortune, na im I dey use take chop. My body no too strong, so other work no fit reach me. Some days, only two or three people go come. But I no dey complain—na the path wey fate give me. Sometimes, na so God dey use test man.

My blind master die ten years ago. Before e die, na him dash me this fortune-telling stand and one small wooden box. I no get papa, mama, brother or sister—na only these two things I get.

The day dem bury my master, early morning rain dey fall. The ground soft, na only me and two agberos dig small pit for back of one old, abandoned house. No priest, no choir, nothing. I arrange the mat for im body, put small kola nut for pocket say make e carry go meet ancestors. My tears join rain as I dey pour sand. But who go cry for poor man?

This work hard pass as people dey imagine. People wey dey enter this line, na people wey get one kind wahala for body or spirit, or dem dey owe fate debt. You fit manage survive, but you no go ever get money reach. Like my master: after e die, no proper grave, no tombstone—just mat and sand. Life harsh, but the spirit world dey watch. Na why we dey try gather small good.

No coffin sef. Sometimes, I dey wonder if my master spirit dey check me for dream. The only inheritance be this bamboo stand and that wooden box. But I hold am like diamond, because for this world, na only memory fit save you from craze.

We dey this world to gather small good for the spirit side—good wey go count for next life. Old Igbo saying talk: "onye mere mma, chi ya ga-eso ya." Person wey do good, e spirit go follow am. I dey hope say all the people wey I don help, even if na small, e go count for my next life. Maybe then, I go born as son of chief, not as half-blind orphan.

That day, na woman waka come my stand. As she enter, even the akara woman for left look up, mouth open. I just bend my head, dey wait. Woman wey fine like that no dey waka alone come meet person like me for open place—sign say wahala big.

To talk true, na correct fine woman—tall, fox eyes, neck like swan, never reach thirty but her shine no be here. Her skin clean, wrist smooth, no be all those fake fair wey bleaching dey do. The way she dey look around, one kind restlessness dey her body. E be like say her beauty dey bring trouble, because men dey look her anyhow. But as she sit, I fit sense say her heart dey heavy.

Normally, na old men and women dey come do fortune-telling. Young people for Lagos prefer Instagram motivation or prophet crusade. Na only when wahala pass be careful, dem go humble find anybody wey fit help. So as this kind fine woman come, e really surprise me.

The akara woman give me side-eye, like say she dey suspect jazz. But na her wahala. For my mind, I dey calculate wetin fit make this kind person come.

"Oga, abeg help me check my fortune."

She bend forward, voice gentle. Her hand dey shake as she drop purse for table. Na the kind voice wey fit melt stone. Even her perfume—soft, flowery, but carry small sadness.

As she sit, her voice soft, almost shy, e give me small goosebumps. The way her voice vibrate, e enter my body like harmattan breeze. I clear throat, pretend say e no move me, but for heart, I dey happy say better customer don show.

"Oga."

The way she call me sweet for ear. I remember my mama, the way she dey call my papa with respect. Na voice wey dey heal wound, even if na small. E sweet me small.

I fit swear say my face light up, but I keep calm. If na another person, e for call me 'baba' or 'blind man'. But this one show respect, give me small dignity for my hustle. E make my chest rise.

Because one of my eyes blind from birth, my master too, dem dey call me 'Half-Blind'. This na the first time person dey call me 'Oga', e make me proud.

For Lagos, name get power. The way people dey call you fit give you new spirit. As she call me 'Oga', na as if I get new cloth wear, even if na for mind. I thank her with nod.

I nod, tell her make she remove her mask and lift her hair small.

She pull mask, small sweat for her nose. As she raise her hair, I notice her hand dey shake. For my work, I sabi read sign—no be only face, but movement. This one dey carry load for mind.

Her forehead and fortune palace covered with dark shadow. Eyes deep, cheeks hollow, spirit tired, the black for under her eyes strong—like say sleep dey run from her. For her age, she don get crow’s feet, and no be from smiling.

Even as I no dey see well, I sabi when bad luck dey follow person. Her face carry mark—like cloud block sun. If you look well, you go fear. She be like person wey dey live with shadow.

And the crow’s feet scatter anyhow. For Lagos, crow’s feet for young person na sign say spirit dey trouble you. E mean worry too much. If e scatter like this, e fit mean say your journey for love and family go rough.

For face reading, crow’s feet dey show how luck be for love. If e scatter, na so so wahala for relationship go dey meet you. Dem talk say if your crow’s feet cross anyhow, na spirit husband or spirit wife dey worry you. Na so I dey reason as I dey look am.

If e bad well, e fit even mean say love wahala wey fit kill person, like say spirit husband dey drag am. This na big wahala—because if spirit husband catch you, real life go suffer. Some women fine, men dey like them, but nothing dey work. I dey pity her.

"Wetin dey worry you?"

I let my voice soft, so she go know say she fit talk without shame. People dey quick judge, but sometimes na spirit dey drag person.

"Recently, I no get any strength at all. I no fit concentrate. Night time, na like say I dey half sleep, half awake. Even sleeping medicine no dey work, my hair dey fall anyhow. I dey almost mad."

She cover her mouth, voice dey tremble, as if if she talk too much, she go break. You fit see say this problem don chop her courage. She never talk three sentences finish, her voice dey shake, like she wan cry.

Her eye red, tears dey hide for corner. For Lagos, if grown woman nearly cry for public, matter don pass her power. I pass hand give her old handkerchief, just to make she feel small comfort. As her tears hide, conductor dey shout for bus stop, "Oshodi! Oshodi!" but inside, her own wahala loud pass.