Ojo lets the devil become a whirlwind inside her. She’s fed up and wants Dibu’s blood. The vein above her left brow throbs, and sweat slithers down the bridge of her nose. She pushes him off the couch and rams her fist into his face. She smashes his half-empty Heineken bottle against the Danish sideboard and attempts to thrust it into his shoulder.
‘Ye!’ he screams.
Dibu, frail and small, doesn’t put up a fight. Each action takes less than a second to complete, leaving Ojo without the burning satisfaction she needs. She bounds toward the 43-inch flatscreen television. It’s all shiny and new in the way rarely-used things are. It must weigh 15 pounds, a little less than her standard dumbbells. She yanks it off the sideboard and flings it in his direction. Her aim is off; it crashes with an earth-shattering sound to the floor a few feet from him. In the silence that follows, Ojo stands still, her chest heaving. The weight of her actions sink in.
‘Blood of Jesus,’ Dibu shouts, ‘Ojo has killed me o!’ He inspects his body, a mix of anger and disbelief dancing in his eyes.
‘My friend, shut up there.’ Ojo kneels by him and twists his mouth. ‘You better keep quiet before I kill you for real. The TV didn’t even graze you.’ She pulls open his bloody shirt to check the wound. The cut looks shallow but the blood is a river. ‘See, just a scratch.’ She can barely believe her own words. Is this really her? Instinctively, she raises her hands to her mouth. It tastes bloody. She hoists herself up and stares sickly as Dibu’s blood seeps into the beige rug.
‘It’s no time to stop yet,’ the devil whispers to Ojo. ‘Finish him.’
Ojo rubs her temples. ‘Can you please leave me alone?’
‘No.’ His tone bites at her. ‘Remember what he did… all he’s done?’
Ojo resists the devil. ‘Stop it.’ She grabs her own bottle of Heineken from the fridge and finishes it in three quick gulps.
Dibu increases the tempo of his shouts for help. ‘Mo ti ku. I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.’ He pulls himself up and leans against the sofa. ‘Somebody help! The witch has killed me.’
Dé ja vu jolts Ojo: a market memory from their childhood. Their mother, Ekùn, is haggling with the trader over a derica of rice when Dibu cries that Ojo has just bitten his neck. They are six and five. She’s lacing her worn-out pink Converse, and when she stands to full height, thinking it all a joke, a smile moistens her eyes. Her mother doesn’t find it funny. The boy is precious and the traders are watching for her next move. She lands two hot slaps on Ojo’s face and rubs Dibu’s smooth neck. The traders nod; their mother has done the right thing. Liquid trickles down Ojo’s face and thighs. Moments later, an ice cream cart rolls by and Dibu gets a cone with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Ojo gets none.
Always a good actor, Ojo gives that to him.
In no time, Nursy, their upstairs neighbour, in the blue scrubs he wears to the teaching hospital, appears at the screen door. He slides the door open and walks over to Dibu, who is still writhing in pain. He looks at both of them. Without saying a word, he rushes out and returns with a first aid kit.
‘What happened here?’ He asks. ‘Jesus. Dibu. Look at you! Who did this?’
‘The devil,’ Dibu says. ‘She’s right there.’
*
The devil had wanted this for Ojo since he entered their lives. Who left the doors open? No one knows. Ojo was already a disturbed teenager who suffered from low self-esteem and an undiagnosed eating disorder. At night, she was plagued by vivid nightmares that left her sitting in corners to chew her nails, hair, and underarms. He immediately took a liking to her.
At night, he taunted her with the words Dibu tossed at her on their walk from school: ‘Girls don’t deserve education. Do you think you’ll be more than a housewife? You’re just going to be a prostitute. Maybe even a gold digger.’ The devil sang in Kanye West’s voice: ‘Now I ain’t sayin’ she a gold digger, but she ain’t messin’ with no broke niggas.’ His accompanying laugh was always Dibu’s annoying laugh.
‘Ojo,’ the devil would ask, ‘how can you take this? How can you stay silent while this good for nothing boy just does you anyhow?’ Ojo would hiss and plug in her discman, hoping Ella Fitzgerald’s “Get Thee Behind Me Satan” would chase him away. It never did.
*
‘Is that the devil sitting down on your shoulder?’ Nursy asks as he lays out gauze, tweezer and antiseptic solution. ‘Should I be afraid? Because I don’t know what Dibu did to make you throw a television set at him. Let alone, beat him like this. Your devil better start explaining.’
Nursy was their mum’s friend. At least in theory. The one whom she asked to care for her boy and watch over ‘that girl of mine’ before she was locked away. He knew of Ojo’s devil because their mum had made enough noise for him and their entire neighbourhood to know: Taking Ojo to deliverance services that ran into dawn so that the entire compound heard the screech of the gate as they returned. Buying bottles of Goya anointing oil and forcing her to drink them in the wide courtyard, under the sun as she brandished her cross wrapped in a red handkerchief at her. Inviting men of God in white garments to press prayers into her head after which she took them in her bed. Telling tales of the devil sneaking into their home, entering Ojo’s feet, making his way to her stomach so that she scuttled several times at midnight to the kitchen to steal meat.
‘Just look at what you did to the poor boy. The devil kwa? You’re just a wicked person. What gan gan gan did he do to deserve this?’ Nursy presses a gauze to her brother’s shoulder.
There’s nothing Ojo hates more than people who infantilise grown-ass men. He’s no boy. Boy who has a real job writing code at a tech company? Boy who smokes, drinks and goes to Strip32 where women grind on him? She rolls her eyes, and locks them with TuFace on the poster on the orange wall. The poster their mum had asked Dibu not to put over hers of Jesus and the freckled-faced kids. She brings her eyes down to her fingers: still sticky and bloody. If she dwells any more on the memories, she might explode.
How had she kept it all in these 20+ years? When he broke her sewing machine after she told the teacher on assembly that she was going to become a fashion designer like Shade Thomas Fahm. When he burnt the Guinness World Records 2007 she won for being the best in Home Economics. When he locked her out of the house for scoring 276/400 in JAMB. How? She slumped down to her feet and sat on her heels, staring at the feigned innocence in his big black eyes. Guilt was a heavy knot in her chest. She had to apologise or face the music. The speakers blared Rihanna’s Disturbia.
‘No apologies. Over my dead body,’ the devil says.
‘You’re already dead.’
‘Just as your brother could be.’
‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’
‘I am behind you.’
Ojo looks over her shoulder before returning her gaze to her brother who stares at her with intense red eyes. She feels naked, like he can see into her soul.
‘I know you’re worried about the Women’s Wrong…’ the devil says.
‘Shut up.’
‘Don’t tell me to shut up, I’m your friend.’
‘You’re not.’
‘I am.’
‘No, you’re not. Leave me alone.’
‘Nursy,’ Dibu says, ‘let’s go to the hospital and then we can file a police report. Or we can just call the police straight. Let them come and arrest this witch. Look at her looking at me with her witchly eyes.’ His voice falls. ‘She’s cursing me.’ He sniffs. ‘I don’t want to die. She’s going to kill me.’ He tugs on Nursy’s shirt.
‘No need for that,’ Nursy says. ‘Don’t worry yourself, me I can take care of you. It’s not even a deep cut. And as for police, what happens in the family should… should stay in the family. Don’t you think so? If it was one of those your woto woto girls, I’d understand. Abi? And again, if mumsy was here with us now, you think she would be happy to see me send her daughter to jail? I’ve always told you guys to behave sensibly. You’re both grown up. You shouldn’t be acting like this. Peace must reign between the two of you. Abeg.’ Nursy blinks at Ojo but she can’t tell if he’s eyeing her or has an eye problem so she looks away.
There has never been a time he intervened in their fights and didn’t take Dibu’s side. Even when the harm done to her was worse than she just did to him.
Dibu scoffs. ‘Rules are rules. Let her go meet her mum. Like mother, like daughter.’
‘Our mum!’ Ojo corrects through gritted teeth.
‘You’re still talking?’ Nursy snaps and throws his shoes at her.
It narrowly misses her but the devil is already upset. Ojo’s neck and face flare up. She stands up, hisses and storms out of the house.
*
The Women’s Wrong Act was passed a few months before Ojo left secondary school, putting an official stamp on a normalised lifestyle: crimes against women were non-crimes, but crimes against men were a serious offence.
Over the years, Ojo watched it play out in the lives of those far from her with zero remorse. When, in her first year of university, gossip broke that Mosco, a hunky final-year student had raped long-legged Mofe who wore short pleated skirts and court shoes to class in the Moot Court on the third floor of the faculty, Ojo and Tabitha, her closest friend, had bonded over the fact that there was nothing Mofe could do, ‘Good riddance. She should know better than to wear short skirts,’ Ojo had said, and Tabitha had laughed.
And when the small group of female senators who opposed the law before it was passed were suddenly prosecuted for various financial crimes but luckily acquitted, Ojo and Tabitha had discussed how disappointed they were with the outcome of the case.
Her mantra was simple: No one is coming to rescue us, so let’s act right. She lived by this disillusion until her mum too was arrested. Only then did she realise she wasn’t special. There was no mark on her head that flagged her as an exception. She was a woman and if e fit touch anybody, e fit touch am. Period.
*
Tabitha is a good friend. She knows not to ask questions. Boil some water, bring out some clean clothes, and cook a hot meal. She prefers not to know, to sit silently and wait until the problem feasts on your intestines and you can’t help but blurt it out.
Ojo has no plan to wait. Everything is like rushing water inside her. She just needs to get his blood out of her hands, fill the hunger thickening inside her and she’ll be ready to talk. She needs to know what to do. She soaks herself in the tub with lavender oil and Epsom salts while the devil sits cross-legged on the toilet seat, flipping through an old edition of TW magazine.
‘Okay, let’s be honest, didn’t that feel good?’ the devil asks.
Ojo ignores him, and connects her phone to Tabitha’s Sonos speakers so she can listen to Boney M. Christmas carols are a salve to her soul and a welcome change from her brother’s haunted playlist.
Dinner is served by 7 pm. Tabitha rings the antique bell she bought on a trip to Morocco and Ojo appears in an ecru linen dress her friend had laid out for her.
‘Don’t go and be thinking you’re any angel because of an ordinary white dress,’ the devil says. ‘I’ve been an angel and it’s overrated. And now that you’ve injured that boy, you can’t even qualify as an angel on earth.’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘Maybe I’ll get you a t-shirt that says 1% Angel but ohhh that 99%.’
‘That you don’t know the difference between white and ecru is enough reason to stop talking.’
Dinner is yam and garden egg sauce, accompanied with a bottle of Prosecco. The mats are beige and the plates and serving dish are bone china. Tapered candles in candle holders sit at the edge of the table, casting a warm glow under the stern gaze of a painting of Tabitha’s 80-year-old great uncle who is now president.
‘Did you paint that?’ Ojo points.
‘Oh no. He gifted it to all his relatives when he won the election. I just hung it up. Doesn’t feel like the most charming painting in the world, don’t you think?’
Ojo’s mind drifts from the painting. She’s picking at things on the sage green sideboard by the dinning table. An old debit card. A passport photograph. A tube of pain relief cream.
‘Ojo, why don’t we sit down.’
‘Hmm.’ She sits and fills her glass with Prosecco. The rising foam comforts her. She doesn’t wait for it to settle before she takes a gulp.
‘Slow down, iya.’
Ojo clears her throat. ‘So, here’s the thing. My brother. Dibu?’ She stirs the sauce ‘I know on the outside we look close. Like we post pictures for the gram and we always yap on the timeline, and when you’re at mine, we act cool.’ She takes a bite of yam. ‘But the truth is that we cannot stand each other. He hates my guts. Always has. And if I’m being honest, I hate him too.’
Tabitha’s eyes flicker with surprise as she drops her fork and folds her arms. She loves a good story. This is no time to eat.
‘You’re not close? I. Do. Not. Believe. It.’
Ojo shakes her head. ‘Sadly. My mum raised us such that I was—am—subservient to him. Na me dey cook him food, wash him clothes, clean him room and alladat jazz. As kids I even did his homework. Let me not get started on the disgusting things I still do.’
Tabitha’s eyes widens. ‘Like tamba? Do you… for him?’
‘Ew. Don’t ask me that. It sha gets worse. When we were kids, my brother supposedly had dreams where he saw a black creature following me about, making me do things to hurt him. Like maybe poison his food. My mum believed he was a prophet and so the deliverance services began. She calls him Samuel. Her prophet. Joseph. Her dreamer. Even the last time I visited her, she still asked me how’s my Samuel? Someone that has not for once taken the time to visit her there. He probably wants her to waste away.’
‘Oh no.’ Tabitha reaches for Ojo’s knuckles. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea…’ her voice trails off.
‘…that my family was this dysfunctional? It gets even worse. He physically assaults me. Remember that bruise I had under my jaw two months ago?’ She unlocks her phone and slides through her Google Photos to find a picture. ‘It was because he punched me.’ She drops her phone without showing Tabitha the photo.
‘You told me you fell on your jaw while running the Access Marathon.’
Ojo laughs. ‘I lied.’ She twists her arms to show Tabitha some of the scars on her skin. ‘Not once have I ever done anything in return. Not until today. I’ve been passive aggressive here and there… showed my anger and irritation. But nothing… nothing like today.’
Ojo looks down at a burn scar on her hand. Four months ago, he pressed her hands against the edge of the hot oven because she put onions in his eggs.
‘What did you do, love?’
‘What I did is really bad. I’m in big shit.’
Tabitha pushes her plate forward and dabs at her lips. ‘You’re scaring me now. What did you do?’
She slides her hand from her hair down to her forehead. ‘Soooo… I won the FastPay Grant for Creators. It’s like 5 million naira. Long story short, he called them to tell them that I didn’t make my entry piece myself. He sent them a video which I haven’t seen but can bet—on my life—is AI-generated, where four small kids are using their hands to make the dress. How? Said like Rihanna, I’m into child labour and other grossly unethical activities which contribute to the success of my fashion brand. And they disqualified me without even reaching out or investigating. Then he had the guts to say—’
‘You got the grant? Oh my God! I had no idea you got the grant in the first place. It’s such a competitive one. You didn’t tell me. Congratulations!’
‘Tabitha. This isn’t about—I didn’t even tell him. Big idiot was reading through my email. And it came today. Just this morning. I was going to tell you.’
‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry. That was such a stupid thing to say.’ She rubs her friend’s knuckles. ‘I know you worked very hard on the application.’
‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’ Ojo takes a swig of Prosecco, this time right from the bottle. She pauses, staring at some crows sitting on the fence behind the window. ‘Oh my God Tabby. What should I do? I shouldn’t have hit him. He’s going to report me.’
‘You did what?’
‘I hit him. And stabbed him, actually. With a bottle. And then as if that was not enough, I threw the television at him…’
Tabitha’s mouth is ajar.
‘No no no, the TV didn’t touch him. He’s fine. But he’s pretty shaken.’
‘Oh my goodness, Ojo. You know that this is a Women’s Wrong.’ She rubs her forehead. ‘Why would you?’
‘I know, Tabby. I can’t believe it myself. He triggered me and I was just so angry. I didn’t know the anger had built up like this. I could have killed him, heaven knows. He said he was going to start a smear campaign against me. Destroy my business. And he was laughing. You know his annoying laugh. Tabby—’
‘I hate it when you call me Tabby. But let’s calm down now. Why don’t we get through dinner?’
‘No, Tabitha. We need to fix this now. What if the devil comes— Sorry, what if the police come now and carry me away. He said he was going to report. God. My life is over.’
‘Baby girl. He provoked you. Provocation can be used as a valid defence in some cases. In the case of…’ she drums at her jaw, trying to recall.
‘This isn’t How to Get Away With Murder or something. This is real life.’
‘I’m going to ignore that.’
‘Oh shit.’ Ojo’s face lit up. ‘You’ve been a criminal lawyer. You know these things.’
‘Yay,’ Tabby mocks. ‘Good morning to you too. If they arrest you, I can help.’
Ojo frowns. ‘Tabby. You’ve not seen the inside of a courtroom since 2018. How do I tell the judge that my lawyer no longer practises because she’s a compliance officer?’
‘At least I didn’t port to the English department and went to law school unlike some people,’ Tabitha tried to joke.
‘That is below the belt, but whatever.. Did you even do any murder cases when you practised?’
‘I did. Won a few cases sef.’
‘Any female defendants?’
‘None. But I promise, I know the law—’
‘Many lawyers, even the best, haven’t been able to win a case here even with provocation as a defence. Only a handful of women have been exonerated. Guess what they have in common? They’re stinking rich or influential. I checked the stats on the way here. I read the stories. And the majority of cases are from women like me who just happened to defend themselves from abusive boyfriends, lovers, siblings… If I’m arrested and tried, chances that I’m acquitted are thin. That’s it for me. It might not even get to court. Have you considered that? 80% of cases in the last three years haven’t been heard. Do you know that?’
‘But I’m pretty sure yours won’t be like that.’
Ojo is silent.
Tabitha comes around to sit beside her. ‘Don’t worry yourself. They won’t arrest you. Your brother won’t even report.’
‘How do you know? Hmmm. You don’t know Dibu oh. That’s one sinister human being. He was the one who reported our mum. Did I ever tell you that?’
‘Wow.’ Tabitha scratches her chin. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I promise you, you won’t be arrested. I’ll make some calls, look through the law again… Just leave that to me. Come on, let’s finish our dinner so it doesn’t get cold. Then we can maybe binge-watch something light to make you laugh. Seinfeld? Friends maybe? How do you feel about Parks n Rec?’
‘Yeah.’
*
Tabitha picks Friends.
Bad choice, Ojo thinks as she sinks into the giant bean bag. One awful comment from Judy Geller to Monica might send her spiralling.
She opens X on her phone and checks Dibu’s profile. He likes to make long threads about his life, so she knows he might post about his experience. He’ll say it’s domestic violence to elicit sympathy and invoke anger. She imagines all the vicious men waiting to prance as she refreshes. Nothing. His last tweet is from this morning—a photo of the pasta and eggs he bought from Pasta Home. He captioned it, ‘Can’t wait to get married so my wife and I can do cooking competitions.’ An indirect way to say, ‘I cooked it.’
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Two minutes later: nothing still. She waits five minutes before the third refresh. Nothing. She reads his bio: ‘Child of the Sun. Software Developer. Lover of good things.’ Perhaps he’s decided to listen to Nursy and is keeping it quiet. Unlikely. She sets her phone aside, face down.
The devil chuckles. ‘Instead of you to do what I said.’
‘What is your problem number? Can’t you just leave me?’ She wags her finger at the air.
Tabitha has left to microwave some more popcorn when Ojo’s phone beeps. Her heart thumps.
It’s a WhatsApp message from Dibu. She reads it hurriedly and falls into the cosy sheepskin rug. Her hand on her head.
Tabby walks in. ‘Ojo, you know I don’t like—’
‘Shut up. Just shut up for once. Please.’
If Tabitha is upset by her tone, she doesn’t show it. She drops the bowl of popcorn and rushes towards Ojo. ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did something happen?’ She lifts up Ojo’s chin. ‘Talk to me. What happened?’
‘Dibu just messaged me. He says my worst fear is going to happen tomorrow.’
*
Tabitha pulls back the covers, smoothing out any wrinkles before guiding Ojo to lie down. Ojo is too tired to tell Tabitha she’s being extra. She lays down and allows Tabitha to arrange the blanket over her.
‘I don’t have any nightwear you can borrow, so you’ll just have to sleep in this dress. Is that fine?’
‘Of course,’ Ojo says.
‘I’d have stayed home with you but I already made plans with the girls from work. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. Please have fun.’ Ojo hides her resentment in a stiff smile. They’ve known each other since uni, but she can’t say that she’s upset Tabitha has not invited her out or doesn’t care enough to chill with her in her pain
Tabitha strokes Ojo’s arm. ‘Everything will be fine, okay?’
Ojo nods.
‘You know where everything is in case you need anything?’
‘Yup.’
The moment Tabitha leaves, Ojo pushes the blanket aside and sits up.
She has plans of her own tonight.
*
Ojo never considered herself the kind of person to send a dilemma to a social media agony aunt, but today is a day of firsts.
In as vague details as she can, she types out what happened to Dr. Ajayi (not a real doctor), a witty relationship expert who shares sarcastic advice with anonymous X users, and sends it with a burner account. Ojo is convinced that the dilemmas Dr. Ajayi posts are made up. And perhaps a majority of those really wild stories are. What do you mean your husband impregnated six of your friends? Someone out there will likely see her story and think the same thing. Dr. Ajayi, being a well-known patriarchy princess, might not be of much help, but someone else might have advice.
It’s only a matter of minutes before Dr. Ajayi posts her dilemma and people start advising.
The most popular reply tells her to go out at midnight to curse her foolish brother into silence. ‘It’s like women don’t know the power we carry in our bodies.’
Curious, she Googles ‘Cursing as a woman’.
*
There’s no recipe for cursing your brother online. It’s not an exact science. The Devil and several posts on X, NairaLand, Reddit, and Quora assure her it’s not something she needs to overthink. ‘Curses work all the time,’ a writer on Zikoko says. ‘Curses from the lips of a scorned, naked woman? Twice as potent. Curse them outside under the full moon, naked? Thrice as potent.’ This is accompanied by a gif of Oprah Winfrey dishing out curses: ‘You get a curse, you get a curse, everyone gets a curse.’
Another journalist compares it to naked protests, tracing their history back to the Aba Women’s Riot of 1929 in the Southeast where hundreds of naked women protested harsh colonial policies. They also reference Madam Don’t Go and a number of old Nollywood movies where it is effective. Naked curses, a form of protest. She likes how it sounds.
On another blog, she finds actual experiences: people have cursed siblings, fathers, husbands, ex-lovers, internet providers, electricity providers, and ride-hailing companies. The stories are fascinating: 1) The girl who cursed the food delivery driver who helped himself to one pack of six of her Domino’s Pizza and didn’t apologise. ‘I was very hungry,’ he said with a smile. He called her two days later to say he hadn’t been able to stop shitting and she had to forgive him. 2) The woman who cursed her husband of 20 years after he slept with her secretary. He became impotent and lost his voice so he couldn’t even report to the police.
‘You see? You worry too much,’ the devil says.
*
The full moon sits behind a brilliant haze. Owls hoot, and a distant radio station oscillates between late ‘90s and early noughties music: TLC’s “Scrub,” Nelly’s “Hot in Here,” and Linkin Park’s “Encore”. Once in a while, a car with screaming people speeds down the express road, playing Asake or Tems. It annoys her that people can still enjoy themselves when her entire world is on the verge of collapse.
The urge to pull down and chew her hair, now in a bun, sits inside her belly. She leans into Tabitha’s gate and distracts herself with how unsettling the night is. The sound of crickets and the eerie lack of human voices. Through the one street lamp that lights the empty close, she sees rats scurrying into the gutter in front of a barbershop. Tall palm trees cover most of the duplexes so that Ojo can’t see who might be staring at her from their home. She clutches her bag to her chest, and does the sign of the cross thrice.
‘It’s time. Take your clothes off,’ the devil says.
‘No.’
‘It’s more effective.’
‘I said no. Jeez.’
‘Be like say you go like jail.’
‘No, not jail.’ She slips off Tabitha’s ecru dress and pushes it and her phone into her backpack, leaving it under a dusty old Mercedes parked in front of Tabitha’s gate.
Running down the street to the junction, grabbing her tender PMS breast she calls Dibu’s government name and curses him: ‘I curse you, I curse you, I curse you,’ her voice shaky and unsure. She then orders him to 1) Shut up about the incident, 2) forget about the entire thing, 3) Leave me alone for god sake OR—she’s thinking about the implications of not following her commands when she notices a flashlight point in her direction from the edge of the close, next to Tabitha’s house.
‘Who is there?’ a gruff voice calls.
‘What are you doing?’ another voice.
Ojo you’re so stupid for thinking absolutely no one will be out at this time. She bangs her forehead. You’re so foolish to think you’d get away with this.
The odds that this will end well are not in her favour. If they harm her under the pretext that she had been cursing a man or committing any other crime, there would be no consequences. In fact, it is their legal responsibility to harm her to protect the community. So she runs, hands flailing, breasts flying, buttocks bouncing. Where is she running to? She’s not sure. More people stand around on the express road smoking blunts, drinking straight from bottles, and awaiting customers. One boy catcalls her. Another jokes about her breasts. A woman asks her to not bring her business here. They too can surround and kill her.
She runs until she hears singing and sees lights oozing out of a short square building to the left of the main road.
A church.
‘You must not go in,’ the devil says.
‘Get thee behind me,’ she says and bangs on the gate.
*
“Candles in the Sun” is Ojo’s favourite Miguel song.
It’s the song she hums when she’s in a reflective mood. It’s the song that pops into her head when the lady who welcomes her into the church—Sister Dasola who smells of Dove soap, chamomile tea and Elizabeth Arden perfume—gives her an oversized boubou with patches of blue and yellow to cover ‘that beautiful nakedness’ and some hot chocolate to drink.
It’s Delight, their monthly youth women’s vigil. The devil can’t enter so he growls at her to come out. ‘Let’s go finish what we started. You know you must do this thing yourself, right? These people are not going to help you. Nobody is coming to rescue you.’ He bangs on the burglar proof. None of the ladies see or hear him and Ojo is glad.
Ojo counts 28 women including herself. They are sitting on mats in the small building. They look posh with their manicured nails, matching silk nightwear and designer bags. She catches a few curious or pity stares on her. She knows what they think of her: a mad woman, thief or destitute. It’s no bother right now. She’s safe. That’s all that matters.
Scented candles surround them on the floor and on tables, mixing with the smell of mosquito coils. The goal of the night is to let it all out, Sister Dasola tells her. This means that they’ll sing, pray and just talk about issues. They take turns to contribute worship songs for a while before Sister Dasola lightly taps her and asks if she wants to sing something. She knows she can say no, or sing Bukola Bekes or Mercy Chinwo but she sings the only song in her head: “Candles in the Sun,” which makes the Devil laugh. Is there a god? Is he watching? Is she watching? Are they watching now? If not, what are we doing? Where are we going? What are we doing now?
At first, the women stare at each other confused, but soon, they’re clapping and nodding and waving their hands.
Someone else sings Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”. Outside the window, the devil glares at her with anger.
Tabitha feels safe.
*
The last time she felt this way was a lifetime ago.
Her mother, on instruction of yet another man of God, Pastor God Is Well, had just withdrawn her from her moderate private school and sent her off to a public boarding school in an obscure part of town in the middle of a school term, only months before her final school leaving exams.
He too claimed he saw the devil in a birthmark on her shoulder and warned Ekùn that if she didn’t want her son to die early, Ojo had to go. Ojo welcomed it, anything to be away from home.
Boarding School was dead. The buildings were old, slanted and covered by rusted brown roofs. The classrooms and dorms were shaded by brown-leaf trees. Most of the school was unconnected to electricity supply, so they lived in perpetual darkness, using lanterns to study. They fetched water from a nearby health centre because there was never running water. They were often completely unaware of what happened in the outside world except when a day student snuck in a phone or brought stories she heard on the radio on the commute to school. It was like being in a different world, and Ojo loved every minute of it, especially her house mistress, Ms. Courage.
Ms. Courage was Mother. Each Monday and Thursday evening, in the small space after Prep and before Light’s Out, Ms. Courage hosted the girls in their final school year to a hot rendezvous. She offered them chin chin while they gisted about boys, sex and life. It was Ms. Courage who first validated her love for fashion. Like the women in the vigil, they sometimes sang—hip songs by Alicia Keys, JLo and Beyoncé as seen on Channel O—reading the lyrics off her Lyrics Books and using torch lights as mics.
On their final evening at school, Ms. Courage called them in for advice. ‘I want to talk about those new laws they just passed. You see, it’s better for you girls to be good girls. Personally, as in me, personally, I’ll prefer for us to be able to do whatever we want and live freely. But it’s better to not be stubborn women, the kind the devil uses. Be good women living quiet lives. Obedience is better than sacrifice. Okay? If a man touches you inappropriately, move on. No one will believe you if you report it, and you’ll get in trouble. If a man insults you, stay quiet. If accused of tricking a man with juju, run o. Run as fast as you can. Men are protected by law, and we women aren’t. Just do what is right in the eyes of the law and stay out of men’s trouble. History is rarely ever on a bad woman’s side. And finally, make friends with other women like yourselves. It’s the key to survival in these times. Understood?’
Yes and no. Still, they nodded.
The bell rang for lights out, and the girls filed out after collecting big hugs from Ms. Courage. Ojo felt safe knowing she was good.
Of course, after Ekùn was arrested less than two years later, Ojo knew not to hold Ms. Courage’s advice as a creed. Now more than ever, she knows. Loud or quiet, no woman is protected.
*
Ekùn was very loud.
She often joked that her head torched and sparked, making her do and say things she would normally not do or say. Ojo prefers to assume that’s what happened the day Ekùn slept with Pastor God Is Well in a hotel in Sideview. The day he refused to pay her because saving her family from Ojo was enough payment to last a lifetime. This should have been fine for Ekùn. She made a fortune sleeping with the rich—a Women’s Wrong she was protected from because her clients, men like Pastor God Is Well, were well-connected: powerful religious leaders and politicians. But if there was anything Ekùn hated, it was being cheated. So quiet, she couldn’t keep.
He was a rich pastor, and he wouldn’t have missed his wallet. Unfortunately, stealing a wallet was too vanilla for Ekùn. So, with what Ojo pictures as a wicked smile and a steady hand, Ekùn reached for the knife she kept in her bag for ‘special occasions’ and stripped Pastor God Is Well of his manhood while he snored softly. It is rumoured that she also attached a note to his chest with a safety pin: ‘Next time, pay what you owe.’
Unzipping her bag, she showed off his manhood around the neighbourhood. ‘Look at it. So small.’ She giggled.
People loved and revered Pastor God Is Well for his power and kindness. Importantly, people hated a loud and boastful woman. So it wasn’t surprising that lots of people went to the police. The list Ojo is sure of includes: Pastor God Is Well’s wife, the vulcaniser down the street, and customers who feared their penis awaited the same fate.
Dibu’s report was most surprising.
The family was just settling to eat their beans and bread when the police arrived with several squad cars. Dibu sobbed as they dragged Ekùn away.
She didn’t go without a fight. ‘I did nothing wrong,’ she screamed. ‘He cheated me. He refused to pay me. Arrest him too.’
Dibu intertwined his hands in Ojo’s. ‘Sister Ojo, it’s the right thing to do.’
Staring as the police cars drove away, he said it wasn’t about the argument he’d had with Ekùn days before where he had asked her to clean his room because he was bringing home a girl and Ekùn had cursed him. Or the day she teased him about being more like Ojo whose second year uni results were splendid. Or the day she cooked pasta with the thin spaghetti and corned beef when he’d asked for the thicker one with sardines.
Ojo didn’t believe him. She realised that day that Dibu was as much bite as he was bark.
Ekun’s arrest was further proof that no one was coming to save women. None of Ekùn’s powerful friends came to her rescue. None wanted to be associated with a sex worker who had stolen from a powerful man of God. Her money couldn’t buy her freedom. No one had a problem with collecting dirty money. They just didn’t bother to fulfil their end of the bargain.
So Ojo’s mantra became: ‘No one is coming to rescue us. We might as well live.’
In 2023, Dibu published a blog post about it on Medium on the 10-year anniversary of Ekùn’s arrest: The Hard Thing About Doing The Right Thing: Reporting My Mother to The Police. Over 3000 claps.
*
When Ojo visited Ekùn in prison, they rarely spoke. Ekùn ate the food Ojo brought and asked customary questions.
How’s life? How’s work? How’s Dibu?
Once when Ojo dared to ask her mother how she felt about her life, Ekùn laughed so hard that water (or something like that) came out her nose.
During a different visit, she answered:
‘I fought for myself the way I knew how to.’
Ojo scoffed. Well, you didn’t fight for me and you didn’t teach me to fight. Although Ojo didn’t say this, Ekùn bent her head low and mumbled. ‘Sorry.’
*
Around 3 am, after the ladies have spent an hour praying, Sister Dasola tells them to come with their women issues. She’s sitting at a wide office desk to the right of the altar. The women wait in a queue, an ample distance away from whoever’s sitting in the office chair opposite Sister Dasola, potentially to give some privacy.
Two women flank Sister Dasola to her left and right. They both have computers in front of them, and are likely taking notes. Some women who seem not to have any women issues lay back on the mat, using their phones. Others talk to each other in low tones.
Ojo tries to ask a woman wearing large Sony headphones, what’s going on. The woman doesn’t respond. Ojo taps her and the woman looks at her squarely, then walks away.
She hisses and joins the queue hoping to find answers. When it’s finally her turn, the women on Sister Dasola’s side seem ready to pack up.
She takes a seat.
‘So I don’t even know if I should be here but you mentioned women issues and I wanted to know how it works. Like, what is this group?’
Sister Dasola smiles tightly. ‘We women have to help each other, you know. It’s been what? Eleven, twelve years? Over a decade since being a woman officially became a crime. And we…’ She sighs and leans into Ojo. ‘We support women. We help them take care of problems.’
‘I have a problem too.’
Sister Dasola and her assistants look at each other. Something passes between them.
‘Okay, go ahead,’ Sister Dasola says, squinting.
When she’s finally done narrating her experience with Dibu, the women are all shocked.
‘You did what?’ One assistant eventually says, a little too loud.
Ojo looks around; all the women look up from their phones.
Sister Dasola looks at the assistant with stern eyes before turning to Ojo. ‘Ojo, that’s your name right? I’m very sorry to hear about your experience. It’s such a shame that we women have to be pushed to the wall in this way.’ She sighs. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, but unfortunately, we can’t help you.’
‘Wait, I don’t understand. Why can’t you help me? You’re helping the others? Aren’t you? Or what do you mean?’
‘First, you’re not a member and two, your problem is outside our scope.’
The loud assistant nods vigorously.
‘The thing is,’ Sister Dasola leans into Ojo. Her breath smells of milk. ‘We’re for a specific kind of woman. Not all women. I don’t know how to say this. But don’t worry, God will help you sort it out.’
Ojo is frozen for several seconds. Finally, she turns towards the window to find the devil’s reaction. He’s no longer there.
*
Ojo walks into Tabitha’s house and knows something has happened. There are no obvious signs. The fake flowers still sit still behind the chaise lounge. The photo tiles are neatly arranged, except that forever lopsided one.
‘Tabitha, are you home?’ She calls out.
Nothing.
‘Tabby?’ she says, peeking into the kitchen.
Nothing, still.
Her ringing phone makes her jump. ‘Jesus Christ.’
She rummages through her bag.
It’s Tabitha, and her mouth is full of words. ‘… just be coming… I’m at your house. Come right away.’ Ojo can barely get a word in before Tabitha hangs up.
Without thinking, Ojo orders an Uber.
*
Ojo swarms in the Uber. Her mind is awash with a million scenarios. Tabitha was forced to call her in because the police is waiting for her at home. This is possible but doesn’t make sense. Nothing stops them from coming to find her at Tabitha’s. Except if they’ve been to Tabitha’s and didn’t find her there—which would explain why the house felt different. Why is Tabitha at her house in the first place? How did she get there?
She raises her arms, sniffs her armpits, and bites into the underarms. It’s been so long she relished this pleasure. She needs it now.
The Uber driver takes her home via a rough route with narrow roads, instead of the long, straight road that would have gotten her home in 20 minutes. She’s too tired to ask questions. The longer the better.
She moves from one edge of the backseat to the other. She winds down the window, then winds it up when the fresh breeze pisses her off. She slams her head into the Driver’s headrest.
‘Madam take it easy,’ the driver shouts.
‘Sorry, sorry.’
She sends Tabitha a text. Tabitha, tell me what’s going on or I’m not coming. After five minutes of no reply, she calls. She should never have left the house. It’s a trap, she thinks. Dibu kidnapped Tabitha while clubbing and forced her to get Ojo to come to him, she thinks. Tabitha doesn’t pick up.
She calls Dibu.
The automated voice replies: The number you’ve called is switched off.
She grunts and pushes the driver’s headrest.
‘Madam, what’s the matter?’ His voice is gruff. ‘I offend you ni?’ He eyes her through the rearview mirror as he turns on the radio.
Ojo curls into a ball, pressing her face into the moth-smelling seats. Where’s the devil when you need him? He’d have known what to say.
The soul music provides some reprieve but her pulse tells her she’s not fine.
‘Driver please stop the car. No, take me back to where you picked me.’
They are only five minutes away from home.
‘Ehn?’
A newscaster’s voice crackles through the radio, her forced accent dissolving Ojo’s ‘Please I’ll pay you anything…’
‘There has been a massive prison break at the state correctional facility…’
Ojo jerks up from her seat.
‘…Authorities have confirmed that hundreds of women, many of them considered dangerous, have escaped custody. This breakout, the third in 2024, which occurred in the early hours of the morning, has left law enforcement scrambling to regain control. Residents are advised to stay indoors and report any suspicious activity immediately. The escaped inmates are believed to be moving in groups, and there are unconfirmed reports of violent confrontations with civilians. We will provide more updates as this story develops…’
An advert comes on. The driver parks his car in front of Ojo’s building and ends the trip. Not before eyeing her suspiciously.
‘That’ll be three thousand naira,’ he says.
*
Dibu’s body is already pale when she arrives into the midst of the large crowd in her living room, but Ojo will not stop howling at him to wake up because that’s the only thing she can think to do.
‘He’s just pretending,’ she says to Tabitha next to her. ‘He’s asleep.’
She taps his arm. ‘Dibu, you can please stand up. Please wake up. I’m here. It’s me, Ojo. Wake up.’
The murmurs in the room grow louder around her. She has no clue what they’re saying. What this means to them. How it happened. What they’re doing here. She wants them to get out.
Nursy touches her shoulder and she screams into Dibu’s face. ‘Wake up. Wake the fuck up.’ Even she can hear the heaviness in her voice.
Tabitha tries to pull her away.
Nursy says, ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. There’s nothing we can do.’
Someone else says something about the ambulance they called over an hour ago. Another person says, ‘O ma se o. It’s a pity.’
Ojo can see a victory smirk on Dibu’s wounded face. This is what he wants. To die and send her to prison. A simple punishment. No, she can’t let him win.
She nudges him again and is reminded of some Nollywood films she watched as a child. How the living threw themselves unto the dead, asking that the dead take them too. She better act or the whispering crowd of neighbours, including Nursy, will be the first to tell the police that she killed him.
‘Dibu oh. My only brother. Why would you do this to me oh? Why?’
In her thrashing and shouting, and their attempts to pull her away, she’s confounded by the ordinariness of this boy in his chequered shirt who is still smug in death. Her stomach bubbles at the sight of the marks she left on his face only yesterday. The feeling is soon replaced by guilt. She screams the loudest scream she can muster, the one that shakes the room, and finds its way to the street. Inside it, she asks God why. Outside it, she asks, did my curse work?
*
Later, when the car with the siren finally arrives and takes him to the morgue, Ojo breaks into a hysterical laughter. She doesn’t realise it is real, part of her pain, grief and whatever indecipherable emotions are running through her, until uncontrollable tears weaken her knees and she’s rolling on the road outside.
Throughout the day, people drop in and out of the house to pay condolences.
‘Must be the girls he carries up and down.’
‘Didn’t I see one here just last night as I was cooking dinner?’
‘Oho. I thought it was my eyes.’
‘And where were you, his sister, in all this?’
‘I know you people used to fight a lot. I hope say una no fight o.’
‘I know I heard screaming yesterday evening.’
‘How will you tell your mother bayi?’
‘Do you have any family members?’
‘Oh God, this is too painful. Dibu was such a good boy. A good man.’
Ojo ignores them. She stares at the painful memories buried in their ordinary home. It’s no different from how it was yesterday when she stormed out, but it’s still different. The smell of victory, Dibu’s victory, sits with them.
*
By evening, it’s just Tabitha and Ojo. They’ve shut the door and won’t open for just any knocks. All the condolence visits are a mask; people just want the tea. Ojo knows the police will arrive any minute now to take her away. She’s come to terms with this outcome.
Nursy is the only person she’s allowed in. He knows their story, and can tell the police what they need to know or what they want to hear. Every time he walks in, her eyes plead with him. His solemn face doesn’t say much. He just blinks back at her.
‘How did you even find out?’ Ojo blurts out at Tabitha, refusing the urge to redden her arms.
They’re both in Ojo’s room since she can’t be in the living room, in the space where she almost killed him and where he finally died. Her room’s vanilla smell is a sharp contrast to the living room and entire house.
Tabitha sighs and turns on her side. ‘I didn’t hear anything. I just came by coincidentally. So, I told my girls what happened. How your brother maltreated you and how you retaliated. They were boiling mad.’
‘Wait, why would you tell anyone what happened? Do you realise they can easily report to the police? Now that Dibu is dead? I trusted you with my story and you just went about telling your colleagues?’
‘Trust me, Ojo, they’re not like that. They’re like me.’
‘Like you huh.’ Ojo snorts and rolls her eyes.
Tabitha nods.
Ojo rubs her temples. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Ojo, just calm down and listen.’
‘No.’ She sits up. ‘You keep telling me to calm down. But you’re not the one in my shoes. You’re not the one who might go to jail. If something like this happens to you—God forbid—all you need to do is call your goddamned uncle.’
Tabitha pulls her down. ‘You’re not listening to me. Please listen.’
She stares at the ceiling. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’
‘We’d been drinking a lot and were not in the right state of mind. So uh—’ She scratches her elbow. ‘We decided to go rough him up a bit to quiet him. Lowkey I had a different plan. My intention was to…’ She uses her finger to slash her neck. ‘Finish what you started…’
‘What? You killed Dibu? You killed my brother, and you’ve been letting me blame myself since morning?’
Ojo knows her reaction is not honest—after all, if she wasn’t too chicken, she would’ve done it herself a long time ago.
‘That’s the thing. We didn’t do anything.’
‘Huh?’
‘We got here around 5 am. The entire building was up. The booze ran out of our eyes when we saw something was happening. So, we asked questions. At first no one said anything to us. Then finally, I overheard someone say, Dibu ti ku. When I realised Nursy was like the main person taking action, I asked him what happened and he just shook his head. I called you immediately I heard.’
Ojo’s neck is slick with sweat but she’s freezing from inside.
‘Listen. Listen.’ Tabitha holds her. ‘It’s done. He can’t hurt you anymore.’
Ojo doesn’t know what to say.
‘Ojo, say something,’ Tabitha says softly.
‘Who killed him? How did he die?’
‘I don’t know… We don’t know. Maybe. Maybe he killed himself? We might never know. Except of course you decide to do an autopsy, I think they’re going to call it suicide. That’s what I heard Nursy say.’
‘Could he have died from how I beat him yesterday?’
‘Haba now.’
‘It just feels like a big prank. I know the lengths my brother would go to punish me.’
‘You know, maybe that was a stunt double and he’s not really dead?’ Tabitha quips, attempting a joke.
‘Really, Tabitha? Really?’
‘I don’t know now. I’m just speculating with you.’
‘Speculate reality things,’ Ojo says, pretending she too hadn’t had the thought.
They manage to giggle.
Time seems to fly as they lie together. In the silence, Ojo can hear her brother’s accusations from yesterday and from years before. Usually, it would be the devil echoing them to her. Where was he anyway?
‘Ojo, did you hear there was a prison break?’
‘I did. I did.’
‘Omo, wonders shall never end in this city. It’s like the third one in six months and they’ve not caught any of them.’ Tabitha drones on.
Tabitha is only trying to distract her, but she barely registers anything she says. The problem with the world is a pebble compared to the boulder crushing her.
A slight knock on the door silences her for a moment.
‘I’ll get it. It must be Nursy with dinner.’
‘Wait. What if it’s the police this time?’ Ojo pulls Tabitha back to the bed.
‘Giving them a lot of efficiency credits, aren’t we? I was just saying they haven’t found the women who escaped in March and you think they’ll be quick‘
‘You’ve clearly not seen them in androcide cases.’
‘Relax, Ojo. You’re fine. And you know what, I’m going to call my uncle once I get back. So we can get you protection.’
‘Okay. But let me come with you.’ Ojo knots the wrapper she’s wearing. In the darkness, she trails after Tabitha, afraid to look up at what ghosts might be waiting around.
‘Who is it?’ Tabitha asks.
‘It’s me, Nursy.’
‘Are you alone?’ Ojo asks.
Ojo hears the hesitation in his voice.
‘Heh. No… the police aren’t with me sha.’
Tabitha chuckles as she unlocks the door but Ojo’s heart can’t beat fast enough. Trouble is waiting on the other side.
The moonlight floods in as Nursy walks in with a bag of food and behind him, a small figure draped in black.
Ojo gasps as she locks eyes with the figure. Their stare stretches until Ojo is pulled into an embrace that shouldn’t have felt as large, warm, and soft as it did.
‘Ojo, it was me,’ Ekùn finally says. ‘I did it.’
The devil appears on the verandah behind and rolls his eyes at Ojo.
Ope Adedeji
Photo by Rachel McDermott on Unsplash