CW: dead bodies.
I
My grandmother used to say that all fingers are unequal, yet equal. There are long fingers, short fingers, fat fingers, thin fingers, straight fingers and crooked fingers. She said that each finger has a function, and all the fingers work in harmony for the common good of the hand they all share together. I like to think of myself as a good finger, an industrious member of a sanctified team, working together with so many others for the common good of the Roman Catholic Church in order to bring light and knowledge to my people.
My name is Mr. Bassey and I am a teacher. I teach our heathen children how to count their numbers, read their letters and become successful members of our fast-developing country. Our colonial masters continue to stamp their dominance over our lands and with each passing day, new visible signs of their presence proliferate in our villages like magic seeds—bicycles, churches, schools, hospitals and police posts. And today, I arrive at my newest post in a remote village called Ukari, to begin my latest vocation. I’ve been sent by Father O’Brien, the overseer of the Eastern churches, to head the new village primary school on behalf of the Catholic diocese. Being an unmarried native catechist who speaks both the Igbo language and the colonists’ English, I am deemed the best candidate for the new role of headmaster.
It is noonday when the mammy-wagon finally deposits me beside the sole asphalt road in the village, together with my Raleigh bicycle and brown portmanteau. I am received by one of my new teachers, a middle-aged man of small stature. In his short-sleeve shirt and khaki shorts, he’s the epitome of colonial Britishness, and his smile is as white as his shirt when he shakes my hand vigorously.
“Welcome to Ukari village, sir,” he gushes. “I’m Mr. Okere, one of your teachers. Everybody is looking forward to meeting you, sir. Let me take you to your house so you can rest properly after your long journey.”
Mr. Okere leads me through the village, calling out greetings in an overly hearty voice to the sullen-faced villagers, informing them that the new headmaster has arrived. The villagers appear more impressed with my Raleigh bicycle than my three-piece suit and bowler hat. My stride is proud as I nod coolly at them, maintaining an austere demeanour. One mustn’t get too familiar with the natives, you see, especially when one shares the same skin colour as them. It would lead to excessive familiarity which could dent one’s authority.
When the village urchins run alongside my bicycle with unrestrained glee, I admonish them in English to reinforce my mysterious aura. After all, I must stamp my authority on them as quickly as possible. As I expect, my tactic works, and they quickly disperse—save for one little girl, seven or eight years old, who refuses to withdraw like the rest, not even when the villagers shout her name in frustration.
“Ginika! Get away from those people at once! Do you hear? Ginika!”
Their screeches follow us past the village square and down the dusty path leading towards the new school and my new home. Ginika ignores them and continues to trudge alongside my bicycle, her steps determined, a mutinous frown on her face. Even when Mr. Okere threatens to beat her with a stick, she maintains her silence, albeit keeping a safe distance from him. And suddenly, my interest is piqued. I want to find out more about this strange child who has defied the ire of an entire village to act on her own will.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Mr. Okere apologises. “The girl is a mute, you see. She’s an orphan, raised by her senile grandmother who is too old to maintain discipline. Her hearing’s very good though; just that she’s wild and will do as she pleases.”
But I’m no longer listening to Mr. Okere. Instead, my eyes are glued on this fascinating child dressed in nothing more than a dirty calico dress and bare, dusty feet. As I study Ginika, what I see is a skinny, brown-skinned girl with strange, silver-grey eyes that slant heavily to the sides. My eyes widen, a sense of wonder speeding up my heartbeats. Never in my entire thirty-five years of existence have I seen such colour eyes in any full-blooded African person. The mysteries of our Lord’s creations never cease to astound me. I am so fascinated by the child’s eyes that I break my own rule and smile down at her.
Ginika looks away without returning my smile, frantically scratching her dusty, braided hair with equally dirty fingers—Poor little thing. Clearly, life hasn’t been too kind to her. On impulse, I ring the bell on my bicycle, and I’m pleased to see the startled look in her eyes before a smile finally breaks through her face. She draws closer to my bicycle, making signs with her hands, touching her ears and clapping wildly, indicating she wants the bell rung again. I proceed to ring my bell several times till Ginika is hopping in excitement.
As we continue our journey, I notice that every hut and hamlet is littered with fetish objects, chicken feathers, and effigies of various pagan deities. I am not much surprised by the strange sight. Father O’Brien has already informed me that the native problem is bad in Ukari; that their addiction to fetish superstitions is great; that the church is facing stiff resistance from this particular village and that only the threat of an armed invasion had forced a compromise with the community—they must give the church the land it demanded and send one child from each family to the school and Sunday Mass.
Just as we reach the edge of the village, Ginika suddenly stops laughing and Mr. Okere hurries his steps. In fact, the man is almost running, and I worry he might drop my portmanteau balanced precariously on his head. Ginika doesn’t run, but she no longer skips, either. Her face wears a nervous look, her slanted eyes darting left and right, little fingers scratching her head with maniacal frenzy.
An icy chill slivers across my spine. Don’t ask me why, because I’ve no rational explanation. All I know is that one minute, the sun is bright in the sky and everywhere is filled with the noisy din of a teeming village; then in a blink, everything goes silent, as if an angel of the Lord has passed by. Except the feeling I’m getting is not of heavenly benevolence, but rather, one of earthly malignancy, an insidious and menacing quality in the air that makes me want to hop on my bicycle and pedal away on furious feet.
I weave an invisible sign of the cross and stroke the Lord’s silver cross hung snugly below my green bow tie. My eyes peruse our surroundings, searching for anything that might explain the strange unease I feel. I notice nothing particularly out of the ordinary, just a greater density of Melina trees and a total absence of mud huts, cassava farms, domestic animals and villagers. This is to be expected, though, since I’m aware that the new school has been built inside the thick forest where the villagers bury their evil dead. It’s a common practice amongst village communities to only bequeath such accursed plots of land to the Christian churches and their schools.
Just as I’m about to push my bicycle past the village boundary and into the forest, I notice what I take to be a grave mound located at the entrance of the forest. It is over two feet high and has a dirty human skull placed atop it. Several clay pots littered with chicken feathers are dotted around the grave.
I pause; my brows furrow in a deep frown. In my experience, people usually bury their dead inside their compounds for a good reincarnation or cast them into the bad forest for a cursed reincarnation. But never have I seen a grave dug in isolation and at such an unusual location as well. I’m almost convinced the villagers dug the mound as a kind of fetish curse to discourage the colonial government’s imposition of schools and churches in the deeper villages.
“Mr. Okere, what in our Lord’s name is this mound?” I ask.
Mr Okere turns back and looks at me with a caged look on his face. “It’s the late witch-doctor’s grave, sir. He died just a few days after we finished building the school compound. As you can imagine, he was fiercely against our project,” Mr. Okere shrugs.
Witch-doctor; I should’ve guessed. Well, if the villagers expect the Lord and his servants to be terrified of their pagan medicine man, then they’ve got another think coming. With a grim smile, I resume my walk into the forest, my steps brisk and resolute with renewed zeal. But little Ginika will go no further. She turns around and starts running back towards the village. I watch her with a slight sense of disappointment. Hopefully, she’ll be one of the children that turns up on Monday when the school officially opens.
Several minutes later, we arrive at a vast clearing within the forest, populated with three whitewashed bungalows. The largest building has a great wooden cross atop its zinc roof and I know it will serve as both church and schoolroom. The next thatched-roof building has three small windows and woven raffia doors that indicate it’s the residence of the three teachers that will work under me. The final bungalow, a two-bedroom affair, is the headteacher’s house—my new home. From outside, it looks majestic with its zinc roof, sturdy wooden door and panelled windows. Inside, the rooms are airy and clean, and my heart is fit to burst with pride. It’s a house befitting a white colonial officer, and for the first time since my arrival, I am finally content.
II
On Monday, eleven children turn up for lessons. I’m disappointed by our low numbers but heartened to see little Ginika amongst the children. Moreover, all the pupils, ranging in ages from seven to thirteen, appear cheerful and excited to be in their new school. They look around with wide eyes and smiling faces, talking animatedly amongst themselves till I finally quieten them for their first assembly. But first, I let Mr. Okere address them in their local vernacular, giving them the new rules for the school. It’s vital that I maintain my mysterious aura to counteract the immense hold their medicine men have on them.
“Children, from today on, you will all start learning the king’s English language and must endeavour to only speak in that special language while you’re on the school premises,” I hear Mr. Okere say in their local dialect. “You will remove all the fetish charms you wear and wash off all fetish symbols inscribed on your bodies. You’re now children of Jesus Christ, the biggest of the gods, even bigger than Amadioha the sky god, and you must all follow His holy laws.”
In no time, lessons begin in earnest, and I hold my first English language class successfully. And just as I expect, little Ginika proves herself to be the brightest of the kids, mastering her writing of the alphabets on her little black slate with the white chalk sticks she holds with determined proficiency. The children leave school cheerfully at the end of the day and Ginika smiles shyly at me, her strange silver-grey eyes brimming with joy. For the whole week, I continue to see that joy in her eyes and on the faces of my children, whose numbers now total fifteen. I am hopeful that the numbers will continue to increase with time.
My hope is dented the next Monday morning when the children arrive at school. There are only ten of them. Their smiles have vanished and their eyes are clouded. When their leader, a tall and lanky thirteen-year-old boy called Egeyi speaks, my heart sinks.
“The medicine-man’s grave mound has turned black, sir,” he says, his voice coated with fear. “We saw it on our way into the forest, and we don’t think it’s a good sign.”
An icy chill spreads over my body. I can’t explain why the boy’s words fill me with dread, but they do. It takes everything in me to banish Satan’s fear from my heart.
“Do you believe in the power of Jesus Christ to protect you from whatever harm you think the dead witch-doctor can inflict on you?” I fix the children with a fierce glare. They are quiet, and their silence tells me that their faith is still weak. Their terror of the witch-doctor’s grave will not allow them to study, and halfway through the lessons, pandemonium descends on the class.
The children are the first to spot the three new children sitting amongst them in the religion class. Their sudden shrieks and wild scrambles draw my attention.
“Ndi-Mmo! Ghosts!” They scream, pointing at the three strangers seated in their midst as they abandon the class and the school compound for their homes. And when I turn to observe the new students, my heart almost ceases its beats. I gawp with terror-glazed eyes as my teachers equally flee from the terrifying sight of the three reanimated corpses coated in a thick swarm of flies. They sit as still as statues and the only sign of life in them are their eyes, fiery blood-hued gazes that fix me with their malevolent glare.
I stumble away, my heart pounding, my hand clutching my crucifix with desperation—Lord Jesus, save thy servants from evil! Yes; I know that my school is built on the accursed burial ground of Ukari village, but it had been sanctified by the church, all evil bound with prayers, fasting, holy water and holy oil. I had visited other schools and churches built on similar cursed grounds and had never witnessed the kind of chilling phenomenon I now confronted. The hatred brimming in the eyes of the three young corpses as they glare at me almost steals my breath and I escape into the dubious safety of my house, just like my teachers. I remain inside in desperate prayers for several hours before finally stepping outside just before the sun sinks.
The corpses have vanished. No matter how desperately we search, there is no sign of the three fly-infested ghosts. Once again, the compound is empty, save for myself, my traumatised teachers and the normal creatures that inhabit the dense forest. The next morning, only four children turn up at school, and this time, their faces are clouded with resentment. Ginika exhibits a very nervous and fearful energy, her fingers scratching her head frantically. The rest of the children, especially their leader, Egeyi, are sullen throughout the day. They refuse to do any writing and continue to speak to each other exclusively in the local vernacular instead of the King’s English, undoing all the progress we’ve achieved over the first week. It is with relief that I ring the bell at the end of the day and dismiss the class.
After the children leave, I discover Ginika hiding behind my bungalow. She willingly follows me into my house, and I see the wonder in her eyes as she admires my chairs, my wall paintings and my glossy linoleum flooring. She lifts her hand to stroke the beautiful ceramic statue of our Blessed Mother, running her little fingers lovingly over the smooth curves of the statue.
“Ginika, tell me, are you and the rest of the children still frightened about what happened yesterday?” I ask gently, offering her a bowl of peanuts which she wolfs down in minutes. I know she understands me well, as we’ve already established some form of sign language, albeit it’s still in its infancy. She’s the only person, teacher or child, that I address in the local Igbo language.
I see the fear return to her eyes, and she starts scratching her head manically, a sign I’ve now come to associate with distress. Then she begins to gesticulate wildly with her hands. I’m unable to understand much of what she says as she’s very agitated, but she quickly picks up her black slate and draws an image that resembles a grave mound—Aahh! the witch-doctor’s grave, the one the children claim has turned black.
“Are you children worried that the witch-doctor will curse you for attending my school, is that it?” I ask gently.
She nods fiercely, her silver-grey eyes coating a deeper hue in her terror. On the spot, I decide to walk her home and see this diabolical mystery of the black grave for myself.
As we draw closer to the boundary between the forest and the village, I notice two things in stunned horror. First is the suffocating stench of corrupt decay, followed by a ghastly landscape littered with the corpses of black birds that I instantly recognise as vultures, the carrion birds of death. At the sight, icy terror douses me with a blanket of goose bumps as I struggle to navigate my way through the deluge of dead birds.
Just then, I spy a crowd of shrieking villagers prostrating before the witch-doctor’s grave, pleading for his mercy. With frenzied repetition, they bang their foreheads so hard on the ground that soon, they’re all bloodied and bruised. Yet, they seem unable to stop themselves from this senseless act of insane masochism.
Something lands heavy on my head and I shout, leaping back in shock. A dying vulture topples off my shoulder to the ground, trembling violently before becoming still, dead like the rest of its kind in the vicinity. Jesus, save my soul! What evil is this? My gaze is riveted on the unnatural deluge of dead vultures strewn all over the forest, even as it is drawn back over and again to the screeching villagers debasing themselves before their dead witch-doctor’s grave. There’s a terrible bleakness in the forest which overwhelms me with sudden despair. I want to stab myself with a knife; my body yearns to fall from the highest palm tree and pulverise my brain. I want to join the villagers bashing their heads on the ground till I’ve reduced my head to bloodied mush. The desire for self-immolation is so strong that I know I’m experiencing a supernatural attack.
“Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” I’m gripping my cross with desperate fingers, shouting the Lord’s name over and over in a fierce voice for my soul’s salvation. Rivulets of sweat drench my body, dampening my crisp white shirt with terror-stains. By my side, Ginika is crying; hard, choked sobs that hurt my heart. I grip her little hand strongly, almost squashing her fingers in my panic. I’m gagging and coughing as we stumble out of the forest towards the chaotic scene beyond. And now, finally, I see the witch-doctor’s diabolical mound.
Jesus, have mercy! I stare with goggled eyes, unable to believe the evidence of my own sight. It is the same grave mound I saw when I first arrived at the village just over a week ago, but yet, it isn’t. A ghastly change has taken place, just as the children said. Instantly, I sense its terrible malignancy. An involuntary shiver quakes my body. Blood of Jesus! Blood of Christ! I do a quick sign of the cross and my grip on Ginika’s soft hand tightens. She’s whimpering softly like an abused dog as she tries to pull me back into the forest towards the safety of my school—The children didn’t tell me the entire truth about the grave mound! Jesus, save my soul! The children didn’t tell everything!
My body quakes shamelessly, terror pounding my heart. All Egeyi and the children said was that the grave had turned a black colour. They didn’t mention that it is a dark hue from beyond the realm of man, a soil so densely black that it shimmers under the intense sun, pulsating with an invisible energy that causes the soil to heave and roil as if whirled by a powerful machine. Any moment, I expect to see the grave explode, releasing its terrible occupant in his malevolent goriness.
Several more villagers arrive at the scene, hurriedly laying their sacrificial offerings at the side of the turbulent black grave; cooked foods, palm-wine, kola nuts, kennel-nuts, butchered white chickens still dripping blood. There are so many dead chickens that I wonder if there are any poultry left in the village. They beg forgiveness for their sins, sins which include my missionary school, my Christian church, and my very person.
In a blink, the mood changes. It is as if the villagers have suddenly regained their sight, and they can see me clearly for the first time. Their rage turns wild and with a great shriek, they jump to their feet and charge at me. I see murder and madness in their eyes.
“Run, child! Run back home as fast as you can!” I scream at Ginika as I turn to race back towards the forest. But Ginika is fast at my heels instead and behind us, I hear the raging shrieks of the Ukari villagers.
“Kill the stranger!” they screech, their voices laden with hate. “Kill him! Let’s sacrifice his carcass to our great medicine man. Then maybe, he might spare us from his rage and stop massacring our livestock.” The villagers continue to shriek in savage fury as they give chase. My heart is ready to burst from my chest and I know it is only a matter of time before they catch up with me and dispatch me to Saint Peter’s pearly gates.
But something strange happens. As I turn to look fearfully over my shoulder, an impossible sight beholds my gaze. I halt my flight, gasping and huffing. Ginika is right by my side, once again gripping my hand tightly. I stare with disbelief at the scene before me. The villagers no longer pursue us. I notice that they’re huddled at the exact spot where the Melina trees demarcate the village from the forest, their faces bewildered. In fact, I see some of them stumble backwards as if pushed back by invisible hands. They try to surge forward, and again, their progress is halted by an invisible barrier. Their faces are stunned as they hurriedly retreat to the churning grave mound, falling to their knees once again to resume their self-torturous entreaties before the birring black mound. The grave is now a violent volcano, spewing the blackest soil of unrepressed rage.
I fall to my knees in relief amidst the dead vultures carpeting the forest soil. Praise be to thee, Lord Jesus, slayer of demons! My heart thuds with elation, my breathing hard and fast. I’m ready to shout with joy. By the greatest of miracles, I’ve been saved from an evil from the deepest hell. I am filled with righteous triumph as I scramble to my feet and turn to smile my relief at Ginika.
“You just witnessed the miracle, how our Lord held the villagers back from us?” I ask, my voice euphoric with grim satisfaction. “The witch-doctor can’t harm you, my child. Not now or ever. Come; go home now and I’ll see you in school tomorrow. I don’t think your people mean you any harm. It’s me they’re after. But our Lord, Jesus, has kept them away from us. Make sure to tell the other children what you witnessed today. Praise be the Lord!”
I gently push her towards her people, but she resists me, her brows dipped mutinously. Nothing I say will change her mind or make her return to her people. Instead, she trudges resolutely behind me as I return to the school compound.
My three teachers await us, and I feel great elation as I relay the day’s events to them. They listen to my narration with faces that reflect the terror in Ginika’s eyes. Despite their conversion, I know they still labour under the yoke of superstitions like the rest of their people. I sense it’ll take a lifetime to cure them completely of their pagan afflictions. Still, I see the awe in their eyes as Ginika confirms my story with several fierce nods. And when I’m done, they shake my hand with admiration. My heart flowers, watered with our Lord’s grace.
Inside my house, I lay a mat for Ginika on the floor of my parlour after giving her a good meal of jollof rice and goat meat. In no time, she’s lost to the world, sleeping the deep slumber of the truly innocent. As for myself, there is no such reprieve. Through that long night, the distant sounds of angry chants and manic drumming filter through the thin walls of my bungalow, filling me with great unease. I know something terrible is coming, but I have no idea what to expect. Once again, I redouble my desperate prayers, and it is almost dawn before sleep finally catches up with me.
III
The next morning, I hear a multitude of rowdy voices beyond my bungalow and my heart leaps with joy. Praise be to thee, Lord Jesus! The miracle I’ve hoped for has happened. News of the Lord’s miracle at the forest boundary must have spread and now, more children have joined our little mission. This is the happy thought dancing inside my head as I stride across to open my door and see my new pupils. But Ginika holds me back. She stands before the door, barring my progress with her outstretched arms. She shakes her head over and over, her eyes wild with terror. I notice her right hand scratching her head manically and the familiar act tells me she’s in great distress.
“Don’t be afraid child,” I smile reassuringly, ruffling her dusty, braided hair, which desperately needs washing. “It’s only your classmates come for their lessons. In fact, I think you’ll find that many more new friends have come to join you today.” I gently nudge her away and open my door, a small, yet triumphant smile on my face.
I think I scream; I know I’m almost pissing on myself as I dash back into my house and bolt the door behind me, trapping Ginika and me within its temporary safety. My heart is pounding and my body, shivering. I grip my bible and fall on my knees before the cross of Jesus nailed to my parlour wall. Ginika joins me, soft whimpers issuing from her lips.
“L-Lord Jesus, Holy M-Mary Mother of God, come to your servants’ rescue in our hour of need, I supplicate you,” I stutter, my voice quivering as harshly as my body. I grip my bible, trying desperately to hold on to my flailing Christian faith. Beyond the locked door, I hear the agonised shrieks of my teachers as they are torn to bloody shreds by the ghastly creatures I briefly glimpsed before I shut my door.
For what I saw in those few terrible moments were not the faces of my pupils, but the masks of Satan himself. Amidst the milling horde of the bloated undead, I recognised the figures of some of my former students in their brand-new school uniforms, especially their leader, Egeyi, in his distinctive gangly tallness. But their eyes and faces were no longer their own. Where before their eyes had been black hued, they now glowed the fiery red of Satan’s hell. Every single one of the children’s faces had cloned into each other, as if they had been dressed in identical, cursed flesh. And the look in their eyes when they saw me . . . Jesus, save my soul! They had glared at me with undiluted hate while their bared lips revealed animal fangs dripping with the blood of my massacred teachers.
I shudder with renewed terror and redouble my supplications to Our Saviour on His wooden cross. I barely have time to catch my breath before I hear the violent pounding at my door. Ginika makes a frantic motion, pointing at my bicycle perched against the wall. I scramble hurriedly to my feet, grabbing my money-purse and bible. With quiet stealth, I push my bicycle through the back door. Ginika and I are like thieves as we leave. I can still hear the evil creatures that have overrun the schoolyard, screeching hate and destruction in their fiendish voices. My heart pounds so hard I fear they’ll hear me in their unnatural monstrosity—Lord Jesus! What in heaven’s name has taken possession of the children and raised the putrid corpses in this fiendish attack on us?
Soon, I’m pedalling furiously on my bicycle, Ginika perched atop in front of me. I hear the angry shrieks of the creatures behind as they belatedly spy us. They begin to give chase. But their feet are no match for my Raleigh wheels, and within minutes, I detect the forest boundary in the distance. I pedal faster, looking out for the dead vultures. The last thing I want is to be tripped by their carcasses. But to my shock, I see no vultures. They have vanished to the last bird. Icy dread pricks the back of my neck—surely, the villagers couldn’t have collected the vultures? I know that the terrible superstitions surrounding those vile birds would deter any sane villager from touching them, dead or alive.
In what seems like a blink, I find myself facing the high Melina trees that form the natural border between the village and the forest. Immediately, I notice that the gleaming black mound still lies sentinel, churning violently with malignant force, just as the day before. It’s as if it has birthed more black soil to feed its fury since last I encountered it; such is the stupendous size of the mound. Little Ginika shrinks back against me from where she’s perched in front of my Raleigh bicycle and little moans issue from her lips.
A small ditch opens suddenly before us before I can stop my bicycle and the next thing I know, we’re both crashing to the ground. Ginika’s right arm is badly bruised and bleeding, while my knee throbs from the fall. But now, the ditch and our injuries are the last things I’m thinking about because my eyes are terror-goggled, and sounds resembling Ginika’s whimpers issue from my lips. For in front of me, the churning black mound has finally spewed out its horror in his terrifying monstrosity.
The witch-doctor hangs mighty and proud before the entrance to the forest, his arms raised, his powerful legs wide apart. He is elevated, his feet suspended in the air several feet above his churning grave. Black smoke whirls furiously around him and an insidious sound of manic drumming fills the air from invisible drums. His ashy face is scarified and fresh blood drips from his feather-littered head, curving a trail of horror down his face. His eyes are a fiery, demonic hue that burns with rage and vengeance. Unrepressed power oozes from every invisible pore in his massive body, dousing my skin in sudden goose bumps. In my thirty-five years of existence, nothing has filled me with such terror as the ghastly sight of this diabolical spectre in its gory glory, and my man-heart struggles to retain its bravery. I notice with great dread that the ghost holds an Ofor sacred stick in his raised right hand while his left clutches a bunch of green palm fronds. In our Igbo culture, both objects grant him karmic rights and victory over me and my false Christian god. Behind him, the villagers cower on their knees, their faces frozen in catatonic mania as they bow their obeisance to their resurrected medicine man.
“Dibia Okacha! Dibia Okacha! Greatest of medicine-men!” they chant his name with manic frenzy. And in that instant, I understand everything; all the mysteries are finally revealed to me—It is this accursed spirit that has raised the dead and taken possession of the school children to avenge the hijacking of his pagan institution by our Christian one!
Righteous anger finally explodes inside me, killing my fear—Ghost or no ghost, I’ll once again show this fiend the power of our Lord, just as happened yesterday when the Lord’s invisible shield saved me from the raging villagers. Yes indeed; I’ll teach this demon that his infernal juju is no match to our Lord’s cross. I grip my holy bible tight as I push Ginika forward towards the border.
“Run home, child,” I shout at her, fixing her with my fiercest look. “Don’t look at the demon; just shut your eyes and run as fast as you can. Here; hold onto this rosary and our Blessed Mother will keep you safe from harm,” I remove my rosary from my neck and place it over her head. She’s shaking like wind-tossed leaves, but for once, obeys me without rebellion. Soon, I see her fleeing past the levitated witch-doctor and towards the village without a backward glance. The demon-ghost doesn’t spare her even the tiniest glance. His entire attention is focused on me, and I know that I face the battle of my life with the greatest of foes.
With a deep breath, I hold out my bible high in the air and raise my voice in thunderous prayers.
“Yea . . . though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me . . .”
I stop abruptly, the words trapped inside my mouth. I lift my head to the sky, the sudden dark sky that has swallowed the bright morning sun like the most catastrophic eclipse. The darkness is so swift and complete that I’m instantly drenched in terror. Evil and malevolence pulse in the very air I breathe, and the sense of danger is overwhelming—Escape! I must get out of this accursed forest! I begin to push my bicycle forward, blindly, chanting garbled prayers through trembling lips.
I hit an obstacle, an invisible wall I cannot penetrate. I frown, as once again, I push and heave. All in vain. Nothing I do will topple the invisible barrier. I realise it’s the same barrier the villagers faced yesterday, Our Lord’s great miracle that kept the raging mob from me. I figure the barrier still keeps me safe from the witch-doctor’s malice, but then, it has equally trapped me within the forest, facing the attack of the awakened corpses and possessed pupils giving chase behind. I can hear their shrieks getting closer with every second, and panic begins to steal my senses.
An eerie red glow suddenly fills the forest, and from nowhere, something hits me on the head, followed by several more thumps. There is a sudden sharp pain in my neck, my face, my arms. I scream as I feel the blade-sharp beaks of multiple birds peck my skin with vicious malice. In the gloomy light, I see my unholy attackers and I am ready to collapse in mind-boggling terror. The dead vultures! Oh Jesus, save my soul! The dead vultures have arisen! Even as the thought leaves my mind, I see more of the accursed birds approach in their zombied flight and clumsy stagger. Their eyes glitter the familiar red malignancy that now fills me with blinding terror. In their cursed reanimation, the vultures carry out their master’s command with brutal efficiency; pecking, scratching and goring my flesh till I’m soon covered in blood and swollen bruises. I fight desperately against the savage assault of this unholy volt with flaying arms and shrieked prayers. But my efforts are all in vain. I surge forward once more to escape the accursed forest, but yet again, the invisible shield holds firm.
Then, the witch-doctor laughs, a terrible cackle that jellies my limbs. In his fiery eyes, I see the terrible truth—Oh Lord, have mercy on my soul! Goose bumps layer my skin in an icy coat of terror. My mind is a bubbling cauldron, fighting the ghastly fact, refusing to accept the evidence before it—My miracle wasn’t of the Lord’s making yesterday, but of this demon’s! In that instant, I know the chilling truth. It was the witch-doctor that stopped the villagers from getting to me yesterday . . . or rather, blocked my exit from the forest!
The witch-doctor roars again, a mighty shriek that nearly sends insanity to my brain. In that instant, a terrible thing happens to me. I become a stone statue, frozen where I stand behind the invisible barrier, my body like a tree trunk, rooted deep into the soil. Jesus! Jesus! I’m screeching silently inside my head, my voice as frozen as my limbs. Nothing I do, nothing I try will free me in my wooden immobility, and soon, I hear the raging voices of his possessed creatures behind me as they answer to their master’s call. In minutes, they will be upon me, and will surely tear my flesh to pieces as they’ve done to my doomed teachers. The vultures appear to have tired of their sport and once again litter the landscape in their putrid funk, stinking up the air with vile decay. My head is exploding with terror, hot piss once again trailing my thighs to my mortal shame. In my fevered panic, I’m calling on our Lord Jesus, our Blessed Mary, our God Jehovah, St. Peter, angel Michael, and every archangel in heaven. But my prayers are not working, and the Lord is powerless in this heathen land where Satan’s minions hold dominion—All is hopeless . . . I am finished . . .
That’s when I see Ginika. She appears suddenly like a Haley’s comet, flying at the witch-doctor with incredible, dazzling speed. Like the demon, she is also elevated, her dusty feet several feet above the ground as she whizzes resolutely towards him. Her eyes blaze with a bright light that almost blinds me with its unearthly brilliance. She is shrieking at the ghoul, her voice as thunderous as the witch-doctor’s screech. Except her shrieks annihilate his own and the powerful sparks from her eyes dazzles him into instant blindness.
He lets out a mighty roar and shields his eyes from her light. His body pulsates with unbridled rage as he points a raging finger at her. Instantly, the holy rosary around her neck snaps in a violent burst, shooting like little white bullets into the air. The villagers shriek in terror and hide their heads beneath their arms, shielding themselves from both the witch-doctor’s rage and Ginika’s blinding glow. And for the first time, I hear Ginika speak.
“Grandfather! Let him be!” Ginika shouts the command in the deep voice of a grown woman. It is a powerful voice that resonates in the unnatural gloom, its hollow timbre sending skeletal claws down my back. “Let the teacher go! Who will look after this your granddaughter if the teacher dies? Is it my aged grandmother, your senile widow, who’s now on her way to the ancestors? Maybe you will raise my late mother from her grave to care for me, this last survivor of your bloodline? Tell me, grandfather, who will save your legacy? Who will care for the last of your bloodline if you destroy this teacher who is the only person that truly cares?”
Ginika’s voice is a terrible shriek that elicits moans and groans from the prostrated villagers as she continues to speak. “Great Dibia Okacha; good grandfather, please let me go with the teacher. Let him care for your granddaughter, that your bloodline may survive for your glorious reincarnation someday. As you can see, our people still remember your name and will not abandon our ways. So, return to your restless grave for a peaceful sleep, grandfather; I beseech you.”
For several tense minutes, all is still, and my body continues its cowardly shudders. I’m wondering if the witch-doctor will annihilate me or obey this powerful grandchild I had treated with levity in my pathetic ignorance. For several tense minutes, grandfather and granddaughter glare at each other while the clouds rumble threateningly overhead. Then suddenly, the witch-doctor swivels and fixes me with his fiery gaze. Red malevolence flashes in his eyes and I whimper again, fearing the worst. Before I can grasp his intentions, he flings the bunch of Ọfọr n’Ogu sacred palm fronds at me, and I see them whizz towards me with lightning speed.
I want to duck, but I’m still stuck in unholy immobility, and the fronds instantly wrap themselves around my neck in a strangling hold. But not before I see them morph into the deadliest vipers that ever crawled on Satan’s soil. I want to raise my hands to my neck; I want to fling the vile reptiles from my person; I want to howl till my voice is hoarse. Inside my head, I’m screeching, terror and repulsion quaking my body. The slimy skin of the snakes and their deadly grip around my neck begin to steal my breath and sanity—Jesus! Je-Jesus! Ple-please don’t let them bite me! Terror stutters even my thoughts and I’m ready to expire and meet my maker. In all of God’s creation, snakes are the things I fear the worst.
“Do you swear on your life to raise my granddaughter in the ways of our people?” I hear a terrible voice thunder inside my head, its old, corrupt mind probing my thoughts, my innermost fears. “Answer me, teacher of falsehood, or die on the ground like the snake you are. Do you pledge your soul in my service or die right now with the false gods you serve? For the sake of my granddaughter, I give you your final chance of life. So, answer me; will you be a teacher of our truth, serving our gods and ancestors with humility and zeal? Will you abandon all else and raise the next great medicine woman of Ukari village and the ten villages with unflinching loyalty? Speak now or die!”
The witch-doctor’s terrible voice is my doom and I’m quivering like taut arrows, ready to fly to my maker—Oh Jesus, pity your wretched sinner! My faith is shattered and my strength all gone. I’m only human, a pathetic and unworthy man who quakes before the evil might of a great demon. Forgive me, Lord, for the shameful pledge I’m about to make. I have no choice. I am the only son of my family and my death will end my father’s bloodline too. On this accursed of days, Lord receive the damned soul of your unworthy servant. Father, into your hands I commit my wretched spirit. May I be given a shameful space in Purgatory, that I may take eternity to repent of the great sin I commit today . . .
The black snakes poise their heads before my terror-frozen face, their eyes glittering as bloody as their glowing forked tongues which flicker through deadly fangs. One word from their master and my life is over in an agonising, poisonous death.
I shudder, fix my eyes on the swaying deaths poised to strike. With a cry of great despair, I submit my cowardly soul to the witch-doctor’s will and consign my soul to eternal damnation.
• • • •
My name is Mr. Bassey and I am a teacher. I teach our children how to revere our ancestors and worship our gods. My home is the large mud hut that used to belong to the late village medicine-man, a house I share with his aged widow and young granddaughter. It is one of the largest huts in the village, a home fit for a man of my stature. On most days, it is a decent life; different from the one I once lived, but good, nonetheless.
Except for the occasions I need to carry out the repulsive butcheries of sacrificial chickens to the gods—and the midnight sacrifice of a lone stranger unfortunate enough to wander into our village on a night the gods and ancestors demand the sacrifice of human blood.
Only then do I howl and yearn for the life I left behind and the Christian soul I lost so cowardly to the witch-doctor’s accursed hands.
