There are places in Abuja that one should not visit in November, places where the dust devils from the Sahara transform into actual devils who will gladly trade and barter your skin for whatever they want.
You walk towards one of such places, the ends of your scarf flapping in the chilly night wind. The cloth cover of the squat wooden structure is short and frayed, illuminated by a single yellow bulb that brings to life the wall’s crudely carved symbols that seem to shift and breathe. Your fingers tremble and you stuff them into the pockets of your jacket.
Beneath the shifting symbols of a red like blood, the peeling paint tells the story of a house that has fallen on hard times. As if in response to your thoughts, the peeling spots fill up with red, and the symbols glow brightly, so that the whole wall is like red skin. A shiver runs down your spine. You kneel a few steps before the red and white curtain, your heart racing.
Then an invisible force pulls your hands to the ground, drawing a scream from your throat. You lay prostrate, unable to move. As you struggle, a whimper escapes you and you bite your tongue till the pain is all you can focus on. Dora warned you; show no fear or hesitation.
“You have to be absolute in your desire. If not, he’ll suspect that you can go running to someone else when you suddenly have doubts or get scared.”
So, you swallow your whimpers and screams, praying you heart does not beat too loudly in this strange moonlit forest.
The breeze whispering through the trees around you changes. It becomes warm and musty, almost…intimate.
“Why are you here?” a voice whispers. The wind is a tongue licking the shell of your ear, and you squeeze your eyes, fighting the urge to flinch.
“I want to help you.”
There is nothing but silence for a while. Then a great booming laughter that goes on for so long you know you are being mocked.
“I can make your house great again,” you continue.
As the last word leaves you, something cold and sharp presses into the back of your throat. You stay completely still, your brain doing your screaming for you.
“And who says my house ever stopped being great?”
You curse inwardly. Words turn over each other in your head and stumble onto your tongue.
“Forgive me, baba. I did not mean to insult you. May the gods strike me if I do. I meant I came to give you a sacrifice.”
The knife leaves your neck, and you draw in a deep breath. Then you open your eyes and lift your head.
His singlet, clean as it may be, is threadbare and does little to conceal his pot belly. White tufts of hair cover his head, matching the struggling beard on his hollow cheeks. The wrapper around his waist flutters in the breeze.
Before you is a man of whom numerous stories are told. The witches who operate heavily during Christmas, the money ritualists who make billions for their clients every holiday season, the relatives who suck you dry every Christmas and New Year and spend the rest of the year acting like you don’t exist.
He is all of them. He is all of them because no magic, especially the opportunistic, blood-requiring type, can happen in Abuja without him.
At least, it used to.
Now, he just looks like an old man clinging to his vestiges of power.
As if on cue, the peeling paint of the house reappears, then the old man clenches his jaw and the spots are red and bloody again.
“Why did you come to me?” he asks.
His voice is deep and without inflection, but behind his words is his true question. Why him, after the whole of Abuja has turned on him? There are now other ritualists, now that he isn’t the sole guardian to power.
You bow your head, your forehead grazing the dirt. “Because only you can help me do what I want. Only you can conjure the powers I need to do what I want.”
The subservient words are sour on your tongue. They are a perfect copy of Dora’s same words to him when she came looking for poison to get rid of her stepmother. But all that matters is your anger, the one that makes your chest burn every night when you think of Nonso.
You raise your eyes to the baba. His sharp eyes watch you, dark wrinkled face impassive.
“And if I give you these powers, what will you give me in return?”
“A sacrifice,” you reply.
The man sucks in a sharp breath and chuckles. He folds his arms. “What do you know about sacrifice? You are barely a child.”
“I have heard the stories. I know you lost your influence and power because people stopped sacrificing to you.”
You point to the topmost corners, where the red like blood cannot reach for some reason. The man does not follow your eyes, and from the glower in his eyes, you know you must choose your next words carefully.
“Give me the power to kill someone, and I’ll feed you someone, and people will tremble at your name once more.”
His arm snakes out to grab your neck in a vise grip. You yelp as he pulls you from the dirt, hoisting you in front of him like you are a marionette.
“So young, yet so hungry,” he murmurs, his other hand grazing your cheek.
The walls beckon your eyes once more. You realize the red symbols, the red like blood, the brown mud walls, they are not human materials. They are a mangled distortion of a body, breathing, pulsing softly in the moonlight. The doorway looks more like a mouth now, the flapping curtain a red and white tongue reaching out as if to lick you.
The entire house is alive, and it is dying.
The man turns around and rips off a piece of paint, and the ensuing squelching sound makes you gag.
He turns back to you. “Open.”
Your mouth opens of its own accord at the barked command. Your body jerks. Everything feels wrong. All you wanted was a potion, or some powder, or even steps for a ritual. Tears leak from your eyes as you try to close your throat, your lips, your teeth, anything to stop the baba’s hand and the bleeding strip he is feeding you. Then the strip touches your tongue, and your eyes roll back in your head.
Your vision fills with images of you standing in front of a beast, tall as a tree, covered in brown fur matted with symbols, the same symbols from the house. The baba’s hand is a vise on your neck as you shake uncontrollably. And as you watch with your mind’s eye, you and the beast merge into one, so you do not know where you end and the beast begins.
The pressure on your neck eases and you slump to the ground, your breath coming in short gasps
The house has disappeared. A burning sensation beckons your gaze to your arms to find the source. Your body breaks out in a cold sweat when you see it. Your stomach twists. The symbols from the house are burned into your forearm.
You have become the house. The wind blows past your ear, warm and musty.
“You have one week. Get out.”
Nonso Amusan was first your Bolt driver before he was anything else. That balmy night of your first meeting, he was just another chatty driver to endure before you arrived at your destination. That night, though, you couldn’t even pretend to care as your heart hammered within your chest and your sweaty palms gripped your phone tightly.
It was finally your first official date with John, after weeks of excuses and rescheduling on his side, and overthinking and nail-biting on yours.
Which was why it stilled your hammering heart when you saw his text. The words were littered with his usual obfuscation, but the message was clear.
There would be no date tonight.
“Is everything all right?” Nonso asked, drawing you out of the well of despair you were already sinking into.
“I was supposed to meet someone here, but he—they,” you corrected hastily. “They canceled.”
He glanced your way out of the corner of his eye, scanning you head to toe. The silent perusal made your skin tingle and you sucked in your stomach and surreptitiously tried to sit taller.
“Who’s he?” he asked at last.
You stared at him, words failing you. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He was either supposed to pretend he hadn’t heard your slip or throw you out of his car with barely disguised contempt.
You took a closer look at him. Black locs and a full beard framed a dark face dotted with a few pockmarks. His lips were slightly full, as were his cheeks. But it was his eyes that mattered most, glossy brown orbs behind black-rimmed glasses made you feel like liquid.
“He’s just someone I met a while ago,” you finally replied.
He nodded, quiet again for a beat. “Since we’re here already, why don’t we go in and eat? I haven’t had anything since morning. And at least you coming here won’t be a waste of time.”
Alarm bells went off in your head. Beautiful and kind as he may have been, men in Nigeria did not spontaneously ask other men to eat dinner with them. “Are you serious?” you asked.
His lips lifted, and the alarm bells quieted a little in the glow of his smile. “Yes. Let’s go.”
Still baffled, but now smiling, you followed him into the restaurant.
He made you laugh that night, self-consciously at first, then raucously as he offered comments on everyone’s outfit in the restaurant. By the end, John was nothing but a stepping stone to Nonso, and you were intoxicated with happiness.
“I have to get back home soon,” he said after he paid the bill.
You didn’t want to leave, but you didn’t want to ask and seem needy to someone you’d just met. And it all felt too good to be true. A man that looked like he did could not be unattached.
“Are you married?”
His eyes widened slightly before he relaxed his face and shifted in his seat. “Why do you ask?”
You told him that you don’t do married men. He laughed and called you a child, and you didn’t respond to his texts for two weeks. Then he told you he had an agreement with her, with his wife.
“That’s what they always say,” Dora had said when you played the voice note for her.
Which was why you didn’t tell her of the way your heart beat frantically every time his finger grazed your hand as you had brunch together. Nor did you tell her of the time you had a mini-breakdown, and he drove to your office to hold you, rubbing your back and whispering in your ear. And you definitely didn’t tell her how soft his lips felt, parting yours for a kiss that elicited moans that made you grateful for your soundproof walls.
It was easy to fall in love with him, even before the first time the two of you had sex.
When he asked why, at 27, he was your first boyfriend, you didn’t give your usual response of “I wasn’t ready”.
“The last time I tried to tell someone I liked them, I was beaten to an inch of my life.” Your voice shook as you recounted the story. You brushed off all his attempts to hug and soothe you, afraid the tears would start and never stop.
Then, one day, limbs entwined in your bed, he said the words.
“My wife wants us to stop meeting,” he said, and your body grew hot. You shook your head repeatedly.
“I thought you had an arrangement with her,” you said, reaching for his hand. He pulled away, and your chest tightened.
He didn’t answer immediately. “Yes, but now her father wants me to join House of Reps. And you know this thing,” he gestured between your naked adjacent chests.
He didn’t have to finish. Despite the number of indiscretions that took place behind powerful doors, to first get behind those doors, Nonso needed to have a closet clear of skeletons.
You were not ready to let go. Not after years of rejection from members of your community, having been told you were too much, too much of everything.
And so, every night for four days straight, you called him twice. Once, when you got off work, and once just before you went to sleep. He never picked up once. Then on the fifth day, he texted you by 4:37pm.
Meet me on the street beside the church behind your house. 8 o’clock.
The smile didn’t leave your face as you packed up and rushed back home. You took your time preparing, scrubbing every inch of your body, and splashing perfume everywhere. You even sprayed your tongue a little, gagging from the bitter taste. But it would be worth it, you told yourself. That was the night to remind Nonso of what he would miss if he let his wife drive you two apart.
The lack of streetlights made you anxious as you stood in wait, but not even the fear of agberos could dim your smile. For every car that drove by, you would tap your feet and bite your lip, even though you knew what Nonso’s black Camry looked like, down to the dent above his headlamps and his plate number.
When he finally came, you practically ran to the door and into his arms the minute he stepped out. Despite the pep talk you’d given yourself in the bathroom, you still felt a few tears roll down your cheek.
“I missed you,” Nonso whispered, squeezing you tight. The car lights were still on, but neither of you cared. Not even about the gate men from two houses down who glanced your way, cigarette butts glowing red.
“I missed you too,” you replied, then kissed him. Then you pulled back after a few seconds, swatting his arm playfully. “If you missed me that much, then why didn’t you reply my texts?”
He frowned, his eyes growing smaller as he squinted. “What texts? I only got the one you sent me today.”
You let go of him and stepped back, confusion and anger warring within. You decided to go with anger because it was safer than what confusion meant. “Nonso, don’t be stupid. Don’t even try those games on me. You know I’ve been texting you for the past four days.”
His lips twisted as his eyes moved back and forth, searching your face. The anger in you grew into a hot feeling in your chest. It was one thing for him to ignore you for four days, but feigning ignorance was inexcusable. Yet, beneath your anger was growing confusion and dread. What if he was telling the truth?
“Has anyone been with your phone since last week?”
“Only my wife. She’s been handling the start of my campaign.”
Your chest felt heavy, and you tried to calm your racing thoughts. Out of the corner of your eye, you could not see the gatemen anymore. The street was eerily quiet, filled only with the hum of electricity
“Did you—did you send me any text today?”
Sweat built over your brows. You needed the answer to be “yes”.
“No.”
A smash split the air. Nonso’s headlights went out. Then a sharp cry burst from you as you were wrenched away from Nonso.
Your chest seized as you were flung to the ground, your head striking the pavement as booted feet began to batter your body.
Stop! Your mind begged. But even the loudest screams could not penetrate the memories that had engulfed you, that paralyzed you enough not to run.
Suddenly, you were back in that dorm room, big bare feet digging into your stomach and sides, leather belts whipping you into a corner, the edge of the metal bunk pressing into your back. No matter how loud the taunts or screams, no one would come to save you. You’d once thought it was because no one would dare interrupt SS3 boys beating up a junior.
But later, it dawned on you that perhaps no one wanted to interrupt your molestation because they believed you deserved it.
All because you wanted to know if you had a chance with the boy you had a crush on.
The same feelings of helplessness kept you from moving as the thugs turned on Nonso with gleeful vigor. Nonso’s cries were loud and guttural and made your head and stomach hurt even more, but not enough to take you out of that dorm room. Tears streamed down your face.
“Next time dey do homo nonsense.”
The men spat on you both and walked off. Arms came around you from your behind and you flinched hard. You kicked and screamed at Nonso as he struggled to hold you. It wasn’t until his arms squeezed around you that your cries were reduced to quiet whimpers.
“It’s fine. I’m alive. I’m fine. We’re alive.”
He repeated those four words until your fear faded into a cold anger that pebbled your bruised and bleeding skin. This had been a targeted attack, and you knew who had set it up: the same person with Nonso’s phone.
The wine burns you throat and you struggle not to choke on the sensation. When the burning passes, you take another sip and smile a little, despite your rebellious throat. You need to fit in. Your eyes scan the crowd. Everyone is dressed to the nines, with starched sparkly geles and flowing embroidered baban rigas and agbadas and dashikis.
It is a game of opulence, even though it is a birthday party, and the main player is yet to arrive. Your stomach growls and you rub it over your top, resisting the urge to smile like a cartoon villain. It feels almost too good to be true. Soon, you’ll get rid of the one obstacle standing between you and Nonso.
“Soon,” you whisper, hoping the house will listen and settle.
Cheers erupt from behind you and you turn to the hall entrance. Nonso walks in, Amina on his arm, the picture-perfect couple. He is as beautiful as you remember, his white baban riga gleaming on his dark skin that the gods surely painted. Small eyes flit over everyone surging to spray money on them as they walk down the carpeted aisle to their seats.
You frown at his head, a pang in your chest. Gone are the dreadlocks you used to play with late at night when he would be working on his laptop, constantly pushing up his glasses. Now, his hairless head gleams under the string lights spread across the ceiling.
As they pass by your table, your stomach tightens and you lurch forward involuntarily. Your drink spills on the tablecloth, staining it a deep red that spreads rapidly.
Nonso and Amina finally arrive at their seats, dancing for a few minutes more before finally sitting, causing everyone to return to their seats.
The emcee steps in front of them. But before he does, Amina’s eyes briefly meet yours and widen. Then she smooths out her expression and smiles widely at the emcee, at the way he regales the crowd with one slightly inappropriate joke after another.
Your head pounds. Your skin itches, and you want to claw it off there and let the house out. Bile fills your mouth and you stand abruptly. People from nearby tables look at you strangely but you don’t care. All you want to do is go outside before your anger (and the house) overtakes you and you charge Amina in front of everyone.
As you weave between tables, whispering apologies to chairs you bump into, you feel eyes on your back. You stop and turn. You lock eyes with Nonso, and it is like being plunged into cold water. Electricity races up your spine at the naked need in his gaze. It has been three months since you both laid eyes on each other, since that awful day.
There is a new scar on his eyebrow, one that has earned him a daredevil attractiveness over social media. Heart-fluttering as it may be, it is hard for you to see it as anything more than a reminder of that terrible night. Especially since the scar matches the ones underneath the long sleeves of your kaftan.
Then he smiles, and tears fill your eyes at how sad it looks. You make a split decision, or your legs do for you. Maintaining eye contact with him, you move to your right, where the bathrooms are located. He never stops looking at you, and you feel his gaze on your back as you turn and shut yourself in the men’s bathroom.
The sounds of the music and chattering and the emcee’s voice become muffled. A ringing sound fills your ears. Your stomach rumbles loudly and you rub it slowly.
“Shh,” you whisper. “Very soon. I just need to see him first.”
A sharp pang makes you double over and wince, and your eyes catch your watch. 8:33 pm. Less than four hours before the Baba’s deadline. No wonder it is impatient.
You straighten and bring out your phone to distract yourself from counting the minutes until Nonso shows up. Yet nothing can stop the rapid beating in your chest and the lightness of your head. Then the door opens, and you turn with a wide smile.
He is not alone. The smile drops from your lips.
“What are you doing here?”
“You think I’d let my husband come and meet you alone? I saw how you were looking at him.” Amina’s lips are pulled down and she eyes you head to toe. Your body turns hot.
Your growl is low in your ears, distorted. Short white and red thorns sprout on your arms, and Amina’s eyes widen as she scrambles back towards the door and crosses herself.
“Joseph,” Nonso says in a high-pitched voice. His voice is farther away, and you don’t need to turn to know he is afraid, eyes wide and face tight.
You open your mouth, and your lips stretch and stretch until it feels wide enough to swallow her head.
The fear in her eyes sends an electric thrill through your body. It is the same fear that was in Nonso’s eyes three months ago. A certain uncertainty of death.
“Wait!”
You close your mouth and spin to face Nonso. “Why? After everything she did to you. Don’t you know it was her that sent those boys to beat you up?”
His nostrils flare and he says nothing. His eyes flash with something alien and it creates a pit in your stomach. You know that look. It was the same look he had when you once returned from work to a smoky kitchen and burned stew. Guilt. Your heart races, and you pray you are wrong about the thought that just popped in your head.
“It wasn’t her.”
You suck in a breath. Those three words are your undoing, and your vision turns hazy.
“But why?” you ask, your voice cracking.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” he replied. “Not unless something big happened, not unless something violent came between us.”
No. This cannot be right. It can’t be true. You are light-headed, and grab onto a sink to steady yourself. Your hand slips and you grasp again, but your fingers are unable to find purchase, so you slide to the floor.
There is nothing like a betrayal from a loved one to cut so deeply, so swiftly, so completely.
“You knew,” you whisper, pulling your knees into yourself. Your whole body is trembling, and your vision is blurry. “I told you that because I trusted you. I have never told anyone that story, not even my parents.”
A trembling fills your body as tears fall down your cheeks. But it does not feel like you; it is an out-of-body experience. Your chest is heavy, bogged down by Nonso’s betrayal. It took everything and years of processing to move past that evening, past the fear that you would be beaten and kicked bloody again if you confessed your love to the wrong person.
And yet, it happened again.
Your fingers elongate into barbed black claws that dig into your sides as you hug yourself.
“I’m sorry, Joseph,” Nonso says. He crouches to your eye level. “But you know I’ll never win this election if they find out—”
He cries out and stumbles. His hand clutches his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His face contorts with horror and pain, the kind of pain that swallows screams, if his flapping lips are any indication. You raise your claws and flick off the strips of skin hanging there.
Somebody else screams, and you turn to the side to see Amina struggling to open the door. Her voice is shrill and makes you wince. With the magic now flowing through your veins, you wave your hand, and her mouth seals shut. The door handle disappears.
“It doesn’t matter,” Nonso says. His complexion is ashy now, and he looks at you like he does not recognize you. You want to laugh and scream at the irony. He was the monster first, yet because you cannot help but display your claws, you are the only monster.
“Listen.”
You cock your head to the side. There are no muffled sounds now. The entire hall has gone quiet. Then someone knocks on the door.
“Chairman, everything dey all right?” The emcee’s voice is loud, like he is mere seconds from breaking down the door.
He knocks again, more insistently.
Nonso’s brown eyes are filled with pity, tears running down his ashen cheeks. You walk towards him. And slice. And slice. And claw.
Blood pools on the floor when you are done. Splatters of it stain your white sandals. You hope the stain comes out. Nonso’s face is no longer beautiful or rakish. He is a bloody mess, his white baban riga covered in red and getting less white as time passes.
A thud from behind grabs your attention.
You unseal Amina’s mouth as you walk past her. The door handle reappears and you open it. The emcee steps back in surprise, then begins to shout at the top of his lungs.
The party guests scream and run helter-skelter as you walk calmly out, tears still flowing down your cheeks.
Out on the street, your stomach feels heavy. The claws on your fingers and thorns on your forearm retract.
The house is full, and no longer threatening to burst through your skin. Yet, you are empty, drained of every good thing Nonso reawakened in you, as you walk away from the tent, yellow streetlights guiding your uncertain way home.
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Plangdi Neple is a Nigerian writer whose dark and fantastical tales have appeared in magazines such as Anathema, Omenana, and FIYAH. A lover of the weird and unnatural, his works draw inspiration from Nigerian myth, folklore, and tradition. He is a co-recipient of the Milford 2024 Bursary, and a Voodoonauts 2024 Fellow. Find him at @plangdineple.bsky.social on Bluesky or at plangdineple.wixsite.com/plangdi. |