“How did you get here?” he asked.
“Well,” you cleared your throat. “I got here from the prison you threw me in a few days ago, and…” The words had not finished forming in your mouth when a spear flew past your head with the speed of light. You turned around, watching as the spear rammed into the chest of one old woman on the line. She opened her mouth out of surprise rather than pain, stood with her two legs apart, and drew out the spear from her chest without a wince. She exhaled and tossed the spear aside. It landed with a clatter, beside her feet, which were bare and had dark nails. How could an old woman be this strong? You wondered. Then it clicked, and this time, more strongly than you’d like to admit. You were dead. You were all dead. When you turned your head back to face the registrar, he was already standing in front of you. He grabbed your precious isiagu, making you stagger for balance, and glared into your eyes.
His eyes shone with rage, as though they had no permission to express any other form of emotion. His hair, full like a mop, floated above his head. It was as if the wind was on duty every day, just for his hair. In place of fingers, he had long appendages with suction cups, and a larger and thicker mass of tentacles for beards—they wriggled like snakes waiting to attack anyone who touched them. His face had tiny little holes, plenty of them, like it’s being nibbled at by unseen organisms. He looked spent, like someone who had been on a job for aeons but was unwilling to vacate the position anyway. And then there was his voice, old and tinted with venomous anger.
“Listen to me, old man,” his breath was putrid and his lips trembled with each outlet of air, “if you get me angry one more time, I’ll have my protocol officers throw you back into the memoratorium, where you’ll be tortured by your past and all the evil you did when you were alive, and there you’ll remain until your whole body decomposes. Understand?”
The thought of being locked up again in that haunted room scared you. You shook your head vigorously and swallowed an enormous volume of spit.
You understand.
“Speak up,” he snarled.
“Yes…yes…I understand.”
Deep in his eyes, you saw the face of the man who saved you many years ago when you were lost in the world, neglected by the woman who bore you. Deeper, you saw the face of the one who killed you. Confusion set in.
Your eyes failed you and you blinked rapidly.
The registrar straightened your isiagu, patted your shoulders, and blew one straying ant off your forehead. The odour of his breath made yours cease for a minute. You let out a deep sigh of relief when he turned and walked back to his seat. If nothing else, his swiftness amazed you.
When you first arrived here, a dark, wall-less hall full of strange people, your sentiments sat on your head like a heavy crown of gold. You walked as though you owned the place, refused to exchange pleasantries with those on the line—not that they were willing to indulge you anyway, and avoided eye contact altogether. It was not until you got to the front of the registrar that you knew, for sure, what you were in for.
“Ah. Welcome to the land of the dead.” He smiled as though he knew you from somewhere before. “Can I have your details?”
“Land of the gini? Details kwa?” You almost ran mad. What was happening? You looked at the registrar keenly, your eyes asking the questions. Instead of answering your ‘stupid’ questions, he had you locked up. Just for the fun of it.
Now appearing before him again, with your body already heralding a colony of ants and termites, no one taught you to be verbose and embrace loquaciousness like a second skin.
“So, what is your name?” He asked without looking up from his register.
“Chief Afamefuna Amaechi.” You projected your voice. This was the only question someone could ask you and you’d answer proudly. Sometimes, even when not asked.
The registrar pointed at you and laughed hysterically, throwing his head back, with his tentacles swaying rhythmically. “Chief? So you are a chief now eh?” He cackled some more, using his appendages to rub his tentacled beard playfully.
Your eyes twitched from anger.
“This is the land of the dead,” he reminded you.
Your brows furrowed into a disfigured line. You looked at him with disdain, and his eyes took yours in, daring you to a staring duel. You both reached into each other’s souls with your eyes, but you could no longer hold still when the image of the one who killed you flashed before your eyes. Again.
You blinked.
“As you can see,” he spread his arms and waved them around, willing your eyes to follow them, “there are no titles here.” Indeed, the people on the line looked nothing like titled men, but instead like vagabonds, tired from a soul-biting journey that had stripped them all of their identities. When you turned back to face the registrar, he stroked his tentacles with pleasure and leered at your misery. Your insides wanted to explode. How could this thing talk to you like that? Did he know where you were coming from? Who you were on Earth? How much respect you commanded? You may be dead, but you’re still a chief. “So tell me,” he continued, “where are you from?”
“I’m originally from Inyi. But if we’re to go by where I grew up and with whom, I’m from Nnewi.” You smiled in spite of yourself.
“Okay,” he scribbled some things down, “what’s the manner of your death?” His tone was serious.
You took the inquiry in good faith, rolled it on your tongue like a ball of akpu dipped in hot ogbolo soup, and swallowed it like the sumptuous meal that this combo is. How you got here? The journey was a long one.
“I’ll tell you my story.” Your voice sounded remorseful. You weren’t.
The registrar gestured at you, his pen waiting to concretize your account.
So you began and started telling your story from the very beginning.
***
Okereke Amaechi was a renowned farmer in Nnewi at the time. He was a hardworking man, with two sons and a daughter. But there was another child he called his foster son; the boy whom he found cradled in wrapped clothes inside a small basket, and kept beside his farmstead. The day he found that boy and took him home, good things started happening in his family.
At first, his wife, Obiageli, had vehemently refused to take care of a child that was not hers. But when her husband refused to take the boy back to wherever-you-brought-him-from or to the palace so the king would decide what should happen to the lost-and-found child, she caved in at last, favouring raising a bastard child over being thrown out and sent back to her kindred. In those days, it was a shame if a woman got sent back to her parents. Was she a bad mother? Had the gods locked her womb? Had another man climbed her? Was she not listening to her husband? Whatever speculations may arise, women never wanted to be the talk of the village because of their marital woes, not minding if the husband was the culpable one. So Obiageli agreed to raise Afamefuna, for that was what Okereke named the child, projecting that his name would not be lost, despite being left lost in the world.
Afamefuna grew in brain and brawn. He was the doting apple of his father’s eyes. But one mistake Okereke made was loving his foster son more than his biological children—Kene, Ugo, and Nneka. He would take Afamefuna to the farm, to the market, and anywhere he went, including his clan’s meetings where the boy had absolutely no business being. He sometimes even escorted him to the playground. But when challenged by his wife on why Afamefuna had to be treated so differently, Okereke said it was because the boy was their bringer of fortune. If anything happened to him, they’d be doomed. Obiageli grumbled in anger and accepted her fate.
The more Okereke showered love on Afamefuna, the more his harvests yielded good fruits, the more his barn grew in size. The richer he became, the more wives he took, the more his manhood reached the essential parts of his wives and made them pregnant with children. A rich man does not stop at raising four children. A woman does not stop at bearing three either. So Obiageli didn’t mind getting pregnant again, if only it could make her give her husband a new favourite child. But deep down, she knew that as long as Afamefuna’s presence continued to bring good fortune to their family, Okereke’s love for the boy would never dwindle, no matter how many more children she and her co-wives brought into the world.
The only thing that would make it, was death.
Long before Okereke died, his wives bore him more sons. They all called Afamefuna ‘our brother’ and respected him as one would respect their elder brother. However, the two eldest sons—Kene and Ugo, Obiageli’s children, who knew how Afamefuna became a part of their family, never hid their disgust for him. They only tried to treat Afamefuna well because their mother told them that in doing so, they were sucking his chi dry. Ekwensu na-igaghi achupunwu n’ulo gi, i ga ewere ya dika onye obia. A devil you can’t throw out of your house has to be entertained like a guest. Soon, everyone got used to having Afamefuna around, so long as the family was progressing fine. No one cared whether Afam stole meat from the pot too often, or threw sand into the drinking water, or placed banana peels carelessly on the floor making Okereke slip and fall to his death, or consumed a horrendous amount of food on the day Okereke was buried instead of crying from grief.
***
“Wait,” the registrar straightened up in his seat. “Are you Afamefuna?” He asked seriously, his tone suggestive of one trying to come to terms with reality, or perhaps fate.
You shook your head in mockery. “What did I call my name in the beginning?” The disdain in your voice had a taste: salty. You could feel it tear at the registrar’s tentacles, cutting them away one after the other, bit by bit, slowly, until they could no longer wriggle like snakes. Those damned things. Maybe now that your story was getting interesting, and the queue had dissolved into a wide circle around you with ears gummed to your body as if their lives depended on it, was the right time to get back at this idiot.
The crowd laughed in a deafening cacophony. They were on your side. You joined in and clapped your hands in further mockery of the registrar. His tentacles spread like they would grab someone’s throat or tear them apart. One could never know until it happened.
“Silence.” He stamped his fist on the table and rose. “I think you’re wasting time on how you died. No one asked for your life history.” He looked around, surveying the entire crowd, how bigger it had grown since you started telling your story, and then his eyes settled on you. You scoffed at him and folded your arms. What was it going to be? After an eternity of your eyes exchanging long stares, he finally spoke. “Hmmm. It is really you.”
The manipulation card. You knew it too well. A presumably superficially-positioned person trying to outsmart the less privileged fellow. His tactics won’t work on you. You gave him a narrowed, darting gaze. Do I know you from somewhere? You let out a long hiss and you folded your arms, waiting for his reaction.
The registrar shook his head and smiled. “Just tell me how you got here. Who or what killed you? Your last moment on earth. That’s all I need for documentation’s sake,” he considered, before adding, “and that also applies to you all.” He pointed at the crowd and watched them murmur. When everyone had quieted down, he gestured at you. “Oya continue.”
You smiled a smile of victory. What the registrar said was for his own pocket. You were going to tell your full story. “Eh ehn. So where was I?”
The registrar rolled his eyes at your stubbornness. “I know what happens next.” He offered with a malicious smile, dropping his pen and folding his arms in the manner that said ‘It is me and you today.’
The crowd began to murmur again, and your heart started racing.
Who really is this man? What is he up to? The more you looked at his face and the oddities they carried, the less you saw of who he really was.
The crowd started chanting, “Tell us, tell us,” and for a minute you lost your composure, eyes darting from one person to the next. Were these people not on your back just seconds ago?
The registrar smiled his own smile of victory—more alluring than yours, then he cleared his throat.
***
With Okereke dead and Afamefuna becoming more daring as he grew, Obiageli stopped preaching to her children to entertain the devil as a guest. Now she was worried about what would happen if the devil grew too powerful and decided to harm them. Didn’t he cause her husband’s death?
“Afam is gone,” Kene and Ugo announced one sultry afternoon in August when all Obiageli wanted to do was think about how her family was falling apart. How her co-wives had run away with their children after Okereke’s death. How all her sons were wasting away and her daughter, Nneka, wouldn’t say who planted his seed in her garden.
“Ginimezie? Gone to where?” Obiageli didn’t believe her ears. She went into every single room in the house, looking and searching. “Afamefuna.” “Afam oooohhh.” “Afamefuna.”
“Mama, you’ve finally chased him away.” Nneka sobbed quietly in one corner.
Kene and Ugo hissed. Obiageli shot Nneka a side-glance. The younger sons whispered into each other’s ears. They all continued searching the house for Afamefuna.
“You’ve chased our source of livelihood away, Mama.” Nneka rubbed her stomach but Obiageli paid her no mind. “The father of my child,” she added low enough for her mother not to hear.
Obiageli continued searching the house for their bringer of fortune. Now, she wished more than ever that she had entertained the devil in a more hospitable manner. Maybe, just maybe, Afam would still be here and her family wouldn’t have fallen apart.
It took another round of screaming into empty walls and her voice echoing back to her before Obiageli believed that Afamefuna was truly gone.
But he did more than leave.
He defiled her daughter and took her peace of mind along.
“What do you mean the father of your child? From where to where, eh? Afam is your brother oh.” Obiageli suddenly screamed at Nneka.
She’d heard.
As hot tears rolled down Obiageli’s cheeks from shock, loss, and everything in between, Nneka sat unmoving on the low stool, her hands resting on her stomach, with her eyes transfixed on the wall as if she wanted to bore a hole in there and escape into oblivion, just like Afam. “Ah. I am finished. Why did you let this happen, eh?” Obiageli shouted again, jolting Nneka in her seat. “Nneka biko,” she pleaded with a softer voice, her eyes asking to know how it all happened.
Anger reeked from Kene’s face as he paced the room. Ugo bit into his forefinger and lifted it up. First, their father brought a bastard into their home and made everyone idolize him. Now, this imbecile has spoiled their only sister’s life? They swore to take revenge.
***
Kpa. Kpa. Kpa. The registrar clapped and enjoined the crowd to follow suit. “What a beautiful story, Chief Afamefuna Amaechi.” He stretched out your name and cackled until he choked on his laughter. Laughter erupted from the crowd, some at your ridicule, and others at the choking registrar.
You were drowned in the noise. How did it get to this point? Your cheeks burned fiercely and sweat filled your palms. Confusion set in your mind as you wondered how the registrar knew the secret you’ve guarded all your life. While you were caught in the thicket of your dilemma, the crowd began to quiet down and some threw scrupulous glances your way. Exasperated, you dug your fingers into the corners of your eyes and tried to figure out what to do next, but a curious voice soon broke out, stopping you short.
“Afamefuna impregnated Nneka kwa? His elder sister?”
You opened your eyes.
When you searched, the voice belonged to the old woman who had drawn the spear out of her chest earlier. You weren’t surprised. Old people like questioning everything. Even after they’re dead. Is it a new thing to sleep with one’s sister? And if one were to analyse it well, Nneka wasn’t even your blood. So why the fuss?
“Old man, that question is for you to answer.”
That was the registrar’s. This was the second time he was calling you old. You could take any tag in this world, but not something you dreaded becoming. Old—like him. At that moment, all the alarms in your head went off. “Old?” You looked at the old woman, then at the registrar. Has the definition of old flown past your head?
“If I call you old, you’d better answer and be glad I’m not doing everything I’ve imagined in my head to do to you, you bastard.” The registrar said in one breath, and without waiting for you to recover from the shock, he picked up his pen with a little too much satisfaction. “Now, can you tell us how you got killed already or do you want me to throw you into the memoratorium again?” He barked, his tentacles dancing along.
A quick scan through the crowd and you knew they were all enjoying the drama, and would love to see more, to your disadvantage. Another quick scan and you knew one of the protocol officers was dying to escort you to the horrible memoratorium if you wasted any more time. Defeated, you cut to the chase.
“You want to know how I died?” Your voice carried a certain pain. “Well, the last thing I remember was eating the food my cook, Kanu, served me.” You swallowed hard.
Heads turned and stared at you. The old woman came forward with cupped hands. At first, you thought she wanted to comfort you, but her actions said otherwise. “That serves you right.” She spat at your face and when you licked it, you tasted blood.
“Chai.” You cleaned your tongue furiously, picked a straying ant off your body, and chewed it to wash off the pungent taste. The last thing you wanted to taste was the blood of an old woman who died from god-knows-what-sickness.
Another round of murmurs ensued. Some were castigating the old woman—who was she to judge; and some came for you also—what kind of careless life have you lived that you were still proud of, even in death?
“So you ate poison.” The registrar spoke, breaking the tension in the crowd. “Hehe.” He clapped and threw his head back, laughing. The mockery in his voice was palpable.
You tugged at your arm and scratched furiously. This humiliation was getting too much. As the registrar laughed, you thought about flying to his seat, strangling his neck, and killing him—dead. Deader. Something must give.
“Didn’t you say you’re a Chief?” A masculine voice sprang up from within the crowd, breaking you out of your reverie. “And you died, fiam”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that?”
You turned around and rolled your eyes, arms akimbo. Why was it so hard to believe? Is it a new thing for desperate servants to kill their masters? If not for your own carelessness sef…
You hissed.
Another round of noise erupted from the crowd and it was at this point that the protocol officers started to intervene.
Watching the cacophony made you more unsettled. The registrar was lost in laughter. The crowd, in pandemonium. You, in deep thought: Kanu was one of your most trusted servants. Why would he want to kill you? This special isiagu you have on was what you wore the morning you met your ill fate; where were you heading to before inadvertently landing here? And here, the registrar seemed to know you more than you know yourself. Was it just because he hated your guts?
Bodies brushed past you, and hands shoved you out of their way. You tried to speak, to get a hold of your situation and understand it, but no one heard you. They were shouting and chanting, resisting control from the protocol officers who had suddenly developed wings on their backs, and using them to slap heads together here or push back resistant bodies there. As you watched in vain, your body started to fail you. Your feet couldn’t feel anything and your ears twitched from the noise the crowd made—which now sounded eerie to your eardrums. You opened your mouth again to speak, but no sound came out—only a mist of cloud. A force, greater than anything you’d ever known, began to lift you off the ground. You stretched out your hands hoping to grab something—anything to stop this force from carrying you away, but they only reached into the vast darkness. Your body began to twirl vigorously in the air, and your eyes began to water.
Then, a blackout.
Dead men’s voices echoed in your head as you opened your eyes to see Okerebututu—the dibia, bent over your bed, and watching you with keen eyes.
His mouth broke into a smile.
“Nnọọ! You have returned from the land of the spirits.” The dibia held your hand and gazed into your eyes intently. “Do not listen to those voices,” he persuaded, as though he could hear them too.
The tranquillity here was deafening, and there was something different about the air. It felt soothingly familiar—like something you’ve been used to all your life, and for the first time you realised how much you had missed it.
“Oke-rebu-tu-tu,” you managed to call the dibia’s name, “w-why did it ta…take you so long?”
“My Chief,” he started, still smiling, “I rushed down here the very moment I was summoned. It’s been almost two days since you journeyed to the great beyond and I know no matter how long gone the damage was, I must do my job.” He cleared his throat before adding, “See, your subjects have been waiting for you.”
You swallowed hard and moved your eyes, peering at the faces looking down at you as you tried to re-register them in your brain. Their eyes bore no emptiness, nor their bodies straying ants. But did Okerebututu say two days? You could hardly imagine. You had spent nothing less than a whole week in that dreadful place. What with the long queue you met when you first arrived there. And if you were to add the days you spent in the memoratorium, maybe it’d be up to a month? Two days kwa?
“Welcome back, Chief.” The people chorused and shared assuring smiles, before walking out gently one after the other, leaving the dibia and his assistant to nurture you back to full health.
The dead men’s voices gradually faded into oblivion, and your head was clear again. But not your mind. You kept thinking about the registrar. His off features. The intense stares. His manic laughter. The threats.
Okerebututu cleared his throat.
“There’s no death in your eyes, my Chief,” he said as he helped you sit up on the bed, gently placing a stuffed pillow behind your back. Your heartbeat picked up and a loud moan escaped from your lips. “Ndo,” Okerebututu offered.
You grunted and relaxed in your new position, then turned and swept the room with your eyes. They fell on Kanu, huddled up in a corner with a battered face and bruised skin. Ropes bound his feet and hands, and you could tell that he had endured days of intense torture. Well, that made two of you.
You turned back to Okerebututu with bloodshot eyes. “I need water, please.”
He spread out his fingers and placed his hands on his chest, enjoining you to calm down, while his assistant walked out of the room to go get water.
“Please, Chief. Biko, show mercy,” Kanu cried.
His voice irritated your ears. Mercy? “I shall send you to where I am coming from, you ingrate.” You said in a low unintelligible tone, nothing near the hard voice you had planned to use.
“Ah Chief, biko nu…” Kanu begged for his life and started confessing. “Please, it’s Mazi Kene and Mazi Ugo who sent me here as a spy oh.” His breath dragged out like it would cease for a minute. “They said…they said you owed them your life and wanted me to help them take it.” His breath became heavier as more words flew out of his mouth. “I didn’t want to do it…” Kanu continued rambling as the dibia’s assistant came in with a cup of water. He offered the cup to you, bowing.
You gulped down the water and imagined the smirk that would be on the registrar’s face when he welcomed Kanu to the land of the dead.
“Here,” you gave back the cup, “go get some water for my little friend.”
Kanu whimpered and begged again. As he begged, all you could think of was how to deal with your brothers for trying to kill you. You? Afamefuna Amaechi himself, whose name must not be lost. Chief Afam. Chief oh.
For Kanu, at least, he would not die thirsty, and the people on the other side would welcome him well since they already knew his name. The registrar would be most kind, you thought.
A smile lit your face at the thought of your sweet revenge. What you didn’t know was that Kanu was the seed you planted in your sister—Nneka’s garden, those many years ago.
Winifred Òdúnóku
Winifred Òdúnóku (she/her) is a writer from Nigeria who loves to explore different narrative styles in her writing. She works as an Assistant Editor for Isele Magazine and as a Nonfiction Reader at Fiery Scribe Review. Her works have been published or forthcoming in Inked Gray Press, Ilford Review, IBADANarts, African Writer Magazine, Isele Magazine, The Moveee, Revista Periferias, Kalahari Review, Nnöko Stories, Ngiga Review, and Punocracy, among others.
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Photo by Jayant Chaudhary on Unsplash