This Is How This Story Ends

Photo: nikko macaspac, Unsplash

It ends with a jaded god. Ogbunabali. The god who kills at night. They say he grants a request in exchange for five souls. It is called the ritual of exchange. It is well known. But, like every tale, there are four parts to it. The part you tell. The part I tell. The part we agree not to tell. The part Wiwe tells.

It is evening.

The cloud frowns; its face contorts and threatens to spill the blackest curses. Hiss loudly, let your left hand caress your jaw as you strut around the family compound. Our people say the absence of the cat gives the rat freedom. Drag your fingers down your throat. When you speak, caress your neck as your Adam’s apple bounces around like an erect nipple under a loose blouse. Say something sagacious. Say, the stalking of a leopard is not due to fear. Clear your throat. Tell your audience to hold their ears. Drag it! Pull it! Listen!

This is the part you tell.

***

Wiwe sighs and stares into emptiness as the new wife yells in pain for the ninth time in two days. The whole exaggerated labour pains drama has become irritating to her. She suspects the woman is putting on the show to shame her. It is well known that Wiwe is barren. That her womb is as dry as a spoilt pumpkin seed. For the twenty-five years Wiwe has been married to her husband, she has not had a miscarriage, nor has she had periodic blood like other women. At first, her husband’s people complained that she was a desert and threatened to send her away, but Wiwe calmed them down by funding his marriage to a new wife. Our people say poverty and witchcraft should never blend, so Wiwe chose wealth, Wiwe chose business. She chose to exchange the herbalist skills she picked up from her father for money. Somehow, that has overshadowed her barrenness. Between then and now, Wiwe has funded her husband’s marriage to six other women. 

Wiwe whispers a quick prayer and hopes the woman’s water has finally broken. More importantly, she prays it is a female child. She does not rise quickly to meet the crying woman. Of all the women married to her husband, Wiwe detests the new wife the most. She is young and fertile and bold. And that girl clearly wants everything Wiwe has, and she does not even hide it. Worse, she will take everything if she delivers a male child.

Wiwe ties and reties her wrapper. She hides agbiri, a madness potion that sets a person’s spirit on fire, in the folds of her wrapper, and Ijekwu seeds—an asymptomatic poison known as the strangler—covered with red and black cloth, between the braids on her head. She uses nzu to colour her tattoos, wears her earrings, and adorns herself with several red coral beads before strolling out of her hut. Outside, she hears the chatter of the men from the hut at the far end of the compound, their congratulatory songs and praises, even though the child has not been born. They are saying it is a son; Wiwe disagrees. Seventeen of these celebrations have all ended in disappointment: either a dead son or a female child. One would think they would have learnt. She resolves to visit the men first before attending to the woman in labour pains.

The men chant Wiwe’s name as she arrives. Of course, they would, seeing as she has been feeding them for the past two days. She finds them drunk on palm wine and licking pepper soup off the chunk of goat meat in their hands. She suspects these men wish that her husband would have a woman in labour every day so the feast would never end.

Wiwe kneels before her husband to greet him. His stubby fingers curl around her shoulders as he brings her up and kisses her lightly on her lips; everyone cheers. Wiwe is giddy; she stops herself from throwing saliva on his face. She controls herself. Every time he does that, she gets an epiphany. This time, it is about the first time they met. She had met him at a friend’s marriage ceremony after she had lost everything; his hand curled around a flute as he played to everyone’s delight. She was eighteen and was in love, so she gave him her name. On a different day, she also gave him her lips. After that, her body, her wealth, and more wives.

Now, she wonders if her father used a love charm to make her leave his house. Because there is nothing spectacular about this man. She hates the numerous veins that crawl across his face. She hates the way his lips stretch when he smiles. She hates that he christened her Oke Nne, which means Senior Mother, as if her barrenness is not obvious enough. She hates that he does not see the irony of the name and says it with genuine love. She hates his friends who are laughing and consuming her food. Perhaps it’s why she feels nothing when she gives his sons Ijekwu at their birth.

Regardless, she is grateful to him for his respect and for helping to stamp her authority as the first wife in the household. He would not allow any wife into his hut at night or even consume their food without her approval. Perhaps the love charms her father used on him are not jaded. However, Wiwe believes things would change quickly if any of the wives gave him a son who isn’t dead. Her father would berate her: how would she control a village when she could not control a small household? Perhaps she can get that with the ritual of exchange. Five souls and she will bear a son; she will have control.

But the thought of losing to the new wife is comical; things will only change if Wiwe allows them to. Imagine the new wife, that silly girl, finally bearing a son for her husband. That girl who calls her Oke Nne, even though she abhors that name. May Ogbunabali never allow it. Death will be kinder.

—What should we call him?

Her usual harsh voice becomes soft and pleading. It is the voice she used to reserve for her father. Whatever charm he used on her must be potent for it to still have effect.

—Afamefuna. We will call him Afamefuna.

Wiwe mouths with him. It is the eighteenth time they have done this—the name never changes—but Wiwe is certain that if another wife is to conceive tomorrow, she will do the same. She hails the men who are consuming her food and leaves to join the girl in labour.

If your eyes are bad, you will think Wiwe is the pregnant woman, because the way the other wives dote on her is befuddling. It is disguised fear. One offers her dry fish; another offers her hot water. They praise the wrinkles that she tries to hide with powder; they call it beauty lines. They are requesting her dirty clothes, vying for whose daughter will get the privilege to sweep Wiwe’s hut. It is true that the Igbo people have no king, but no one said anything about a queen. Whosoever manages to awe Wiwe with a display of affection will be permitted to lie with Wiwe’s husband. Wiwe smiles and frowns and laughs; there is a reason her father took her womb and her powers. She tries to appreciate their efforts. Perhaps it is to test how she would cope with these people and their petty-mindedness.

Wiwe finally attends to the girl in labour. She is young, too young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Her eyes are dilating as she struggles to breathe; she stretches her jaw and leaves her mouth ajar to swallow air. Maybe if she had a wide nose and not that thin, long nose, breathing would come more naturally. Beads of sweat crown her head. Wiwe makes a show of wiping the girl’s sweat with her wrapper. If she’s lucky enough, her fragrance will intoxicate the girl and choke her, or she will slip agbiri onto the girl’s skin. Wiwe is not lucky. The girl bites Wiwe’s thumb, and her mother throws ward-off incense at the barren woman.

—Oke Nne, you will not bewitch my daughter’s womb.

Wiwe holds back the biting desire to slap the older woman. She’d have summoned lightning to help convey her emotions if she still had her powers. If this woman knew what she had, what she was before her father detached The Spirit and married her off for some “vital spiritual lessons”, she would speak carefully.

Instead, she pretends to cry.

The girl’s mother silences Wiwe with a prayer meant to counter the powers and plans of evil spirits. Wiwe stares at the older woman. She watches her jump around, shaking the enormous mound of flesh on her arms as she reminds, no, coerces her daughter to breathe. The woman does this throughout the walk to the hut at the end of the compound. She notices the woman’s genuine worry and care for her daughter.

Wiwe wants that. To experience that kind of love, not disguised fear.

Wiwe observes the woman’s hope muddled in anxiety, and she wishes to participate. She wonders if she’ll ever be the recipient of that emotion, if she will ever do that for someone. For a child. For her child. She wishes she could conceive. Maybe if she asks the Chief Priest of Ogbunabali to do the abominable, grant her a womb in exchange for five souls.

But that will ruin her chance of ever being the Chief Priestess.

Maybe.

Wiwe clutches her barren stomach; she wishes to have her periodic blood back. Maybe she can. She ponders. But, this is not the end of this story.

______________________

 It is night. The sky grumbles and rumbles and quells and grumbles again. Wiwe says it is a sign of a healthy daughter. The new wife’s mother says it is a bad omen. Wiwe’s husband says it is a sign of a male child. The villagers say it is a sign of a troubled god. The new wife says it is just rain.

Ah, a wise man will hear and understand heaven’s language.

Our people say, only a wise cripple survives a foretold trouble.

Don’t prance too fast. Look straight ahead. They are watching you. Nod like you’ve just had an epiphany. Don’t think about it, just talk.

This is the part I tell.

***

The sharp cries of the new wife bounce off the corner where Wiwe sits. Wiwe swallows her complaints. Another wife steals a glance at Wiwe, and the wealthy woman pretends not to notice. Another piercing scream, another glance. Wiwe orders one wife to make chicken pepper soup for the new wife, she’ll need her strength after delivery. To cry.

She orders one of her stepdaughters to dig a hole near the large orange tree for the burial of the child’s placenta. Maybe, for the child too.

She asks another stepdaughter to summon her father, the Chief Priest of Ogbunabali, for the cleansing that will take place immediately after the birth of the child. For a quick burial too.

Another stepdaughter is to call the men who will kill the cow for the thanksgiving ceremony that will follow after the child’s birth. Or death.

Wiwe sits quietly in her corner and ponders the things that should be put in place for the child’s coming. She pretends the screams do not prick her skin; instead, she smacks her lips and hisses at one wife and slaps and insults another as she berates them for their ineptitude in the tasks she has assigned.

The new wife’s mother refuses to permit Wiwe into the child delivery hut. She says Wiwe somehow changes the gender of babies from male to female. Wiwe wishes she had that power; she’d have made her brother a woman and even the battle of who will be the Chief Priest of Ogbunabali. She would not need to give Ijekwu to any of the six baby boys from the other wives. The old woman called her a witch, and it hurt like a thousand slaps, almost like the pain she felt when her powers were taken. Wiwe is not bothered about insults, but she does not condone accusations because they create doubt and become a rationale for judgment. A judgment that would lead to the invitation of her father, and that will ruin her. Wiwe threatened that if she was denied entry, the new wife would have no help from other wives in her delivery. But the older woman did not budge and condemned Wiwe to sit at her corner with the other wives, awaiting news.

Wiwe wonders how the men do it, aren’t they curious, concerned, or scared?

Wiwe wonders what will happen if the baby is a boy and she is not present to administer Ijekwu. If the new wife succeeds in taking her place. Her father would never choose her. The torture does not go on for long before Wiwe marches to the delivery hut in the company of the other wives and forces her way in. The new wife is sprawled on the wooden bed, like a person in prayer, exasperated from all the contractions and relaxations of bones that come with childbirth. Her mother charges at Wiwe. Wiwe lets her come. The old woman slaps and blows and tears Wiwe’s wrapper. She rips at Wiwe’s braids. There is a small blood on her knuckles and more on Wiwe’s nose. She laughs and brags and attacks again.

Scream and shout and dodge, and while everyone is concerned with pulling her off, blow agbiri on her.

It is your turn to laugh and brag. It is her turn to shout and scream and weep. Her madness will only persist for a while; it will end at midnight, but that is enough time. Ignore her wailings of pain; let the other wives handle it. This is your chance: be swift as a hawk. Strike like a serpent.

Wiwe is alone with the new wife.

The hut is properly lit, perhaps a tad too much. There are too many torches, and it makes the air warm and breathing difficult. Maybe Ogbunabali will be kind enough to suffocate the troublesome girl and her unborn child. She’ll gladly fund a replacement.

The hut smells of filth: the girl’s shit, incense, sweat, blood, and shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The girl is sobbing. A pleasant sight that would have been blissful if a wailing baby girl lay beside her. Wiwe helps her to her feet. The girl begs for Wiwe’s help. She says her thighs are on fire, and her head is throbbing. Wiwe is yet to apply any charms. Music to her ears.

—Oke Nne, all I want is to deliver, I don’t care if it’s a boy or girl, just take it out of me.

She calls Wiwe that name. Her fragile frame is made visible in the resolute brightness as she stands. She speaks as if she does not want the unborn child. She says it with senile gentleness and vulnerability. Wiwe does not recognise this girl. Where is the girl who would hiss at Wiwe’s instructions and chide her for her barrenness? Where is her rival wife who threatened to steal her place?

Ignore her. Drown in the warm red light of the torches. Revel in victory. The path to being the Chief Priestess calls as the ruckus outside drags.

There are tears and catarrh and spit on the girl’s face as she pleads. Wiwe listens to the rhythmic tone of her pleas. The drama is not unusual in childbirth, but there’s too much déjà vu here. She probably was as young as the girl when it happened. She does not see a rival wife; all she sees is herself, how she begged when her father stripped her of her powers to teach her a lesson. Control.

Wiwe wipes everything off with her wrapper, including the shit on the girl’s thighs. When the girl is clean, Wiwe helps her lie on her back, in a supine position, on the wooden bed, with hips and knees flexed, thighs apart, and legs supported by her arms. She instructs the girl’s breathing and screams ‘push’ intermittently. The girl cries and roars and fights, but her fight is too weak. More shit. Too much blood.

Wiwe helps her stand; her arms are fastened around the girl’s back, as the girl leans her mass on Wiwe. It does not take long; she pushes out a child. The child. A silent baby boy. Still, too much blood.

Tufts of hair are scattered sparsely on his head. The girl lies in a lateral position watching the child. Wiwe sits close to her, staring at the child cradled in her arms. The girl is smiling, Wiwe is not. The child is in her arms, but she does not strike. Is this the control her father spoke of? Then, he should not have struck. Wiwe stares at the weak naked girl. If she were fertile, she would have had a child the girl’s age.

—Won’t he cry, Oke Nne? All babies should cry, right?

The weakened girl says.

Wiwe pinches the child.

Nothing.

Bites the child’s fingers.

Nothing.

Slaps the child’s leg.

Nothing.

Listens for a heartbeat.

Nothing.

Wiwe exchanges a pitiful look between the child and its mother. The boy is dead. Has been dead.

The girl assaults the wooden chair that holds a bowl of water and incense and a bloody knife and the baby’s placenta, crashing everything to the clay-tiled ground. The gentleness has vanished. The wife Wiwe recognises is here. She yells like a lunatic; it is comical. Don’t laugh, swallow the laughter, force it into your stomach. Too late, a sound escapes Wiwe’s throat, a chuckle. In a quick move, the girl picks up the empty bowl and lunges it in Wiwe’s direction. Don’t scream. The sting in her head feels like the bite of her husband on her nipples.

She cradles the corpse and stares at Wiwe. Her eyes are venomous. She’s pointing at something. The Ijekwu, wrapped in red and black clothing, lies in a corner of the hut. Why did you do it, Oke Nne? she asks.

Silence.

The girl called her Oke Nne. It is not her name. The girl knows it is not her name. Wiwe knows the girl knows it is not her name. The girl never calls her name. Wiwe’s name is Wiwe. It is not difficult to remember.

—Oke Nne, you killed my child. Barren witch! she says in between sobs.

The insult does nothing to Wiwe, but the accusation is everything. It will take everything. Okay, she intended to kill the child, but she did not. Only a wicked person would witness the pains of the girl and strike. Only her father will strike. Wiwe is not her father. She did not strike; she knows control now. She did not strike.

—You killed my son!

Slap her. Slap away the disease she spewed. Let the ground consume the spit that has fallen from her lips. Let the wind blow to oblivion the rubbish words. Let the clouds roar and deafen everyone who hears it. Wiwe, the daughter of the fifteenth Chief Priest of Ogbunabali has control. She has control!

The weak girl bounces against the mud walls, then crashes her head on the wooden bed with a soft thud. Her child tumbles from her arms. Her head is bleeding; blood is also flowing down her thighs. The girl lies on the clay-tiled ground and begins to scream weakly. Not for help, though. It’d be better if it were for help.

Wiwe killed my son, she says.

Retrieve the Ijekwu. Force it down her throat. Cover her mouth quickly with a wrapper and force her to swallow those rubbish words along with the Ijekwu. Cover her nose and eyes and ears. Deny her air. Do it until the strange spasm that has taken hold of the body stops. Then, stare at the bloody mess that is her body.

Mother and child are dead, control too.

She’d have died anyway. She’d have bled to death. Stare at both corpses. Ponder. Because this is not how this story ends.

______________

The wind whistles quietly. Then, it roars and rips the earth’s clothing. There is a bright slash in the sky accompanied by a thunderclap.

Our people say, “A firefly that wants to put out an oil lamp will kill itself.”

This is the part we agree not to tell.

***

Wiwe, sixteen, gazes at the leaves lit by fire. She whispers incantations and watches as grey smoke ascends the clouds. When it goes high enough, the clouds darken, and it begins to rain. It is the spirit of Ogbunabali. She watches the clouds for a while, drinks the water that it pours, and smiles. But it is not enough. Summon the wind. Let it howl and destroy. Threaten the clouds with heaven’s gun. Strike the palm tree at the centre of the shrine with the white lightning. Let earth cower at your rage. Taste the power in the rain. Breathe, then end the display.

Wiwe wipes her smile before she turns to her father, who is watching. Frightfully.

—You lack control.

She says nothing to her father’s words. Everyone says nothing to her father, except when asked to. She grimaces as he slits her right palm and uses the blood to wash her baby brother’s forehead. He starts to chant. Louder. Louder.

She feels her soul slipping. Not her soul. The spirit. Ogbunabali. It is leaving her. It hurts. Who would she be without it? She cries. She screams. She pleads. He does not stop.

Fight, a voice in her head screams. She tries. It is too late. Her father’s chant is too strong. She fights regardless. She should stop now. Nothing is left. He should stop. She should stop. She has nothing left. Only herself. He does not. She does not. She fights.

The incantation eats too deep. Deeper than it should because she will not let go. It takes everything. The spirit. Ogbunabali. Her periodic blood. Motherhood. The rain.

Sigh. Grumble. Listen. This is how this story began.

______________

When you tell this story, make it confrontational. Let them feel it. Make them understand. You are not the villain, so tell it properly:

Blackness.

The rain has begun. Hiss. Strut from one end to the other. You have run out of proverbs. Gather your audience. The five corpses. Do what must be done. Let heaven weep for you. For them too. May this heavy downpour never cease. Until what must be done is done.

This is the part Wiwe tells.

***

Wipe the rubbish from the girl’s corpse, but leave the blood on her thighs.

She bled to death. Say it again, and again. She bled to death.

The child.

Inhale. Exhale. Cough. The smell of shit is overwhelming, but it is therapeutic. Pick the baby and lay him on the bed. Clean the blood on his head and the one on his ankle. Stretch the jutted bones. Force them into his flesh. Press your palm against his stomach and feel his cold, soft skin. Pour water on him. On his head. On his arms. On his legs and his chest. Pour water again. Let the liquid lick every part of him that his mother has destroyed. Let the liquid make him whole.

Stare at the girl’s corpse. Spit. She does not deserve to be a mother. No mother would drop her child.

The jingling sounds of bells are louder. The Chief Priest of Ogbunabali hovers around. He hums and dances and curses; he’s not Wiwe’s father. Ignore him. Surround the baby’s corpse with torches. Drown in the warmth that soars. Chew your anger like Kola. Hide your disappointment in silence.

The Chief Priest halts his twirling; his fragile frame is visible in the darkness as he saunters. He hisses. He sniffs. He spits.

He is Wiwe’s brother. He has been given your spirit, your powers, your position.

Behind him, your father watches, silent as smoke, eyes heavy with judgment.

—I am disappointed in you. You lacked control then. You lack control now. It is why I took the spirit. It is why you stupidly lost your womb. It is why you’ll never be Chief Priestess.

Your father steps forward from the shadows and speaks as if he’s the one who lost everything. He has come to oversee Wiwe’s brother’s first job as chief priest.

Bear down on the child. Caress his sparse black hair. Put saliva on your thumb, then trace it down the baby’s forehead. They took your power. They took the spirit. They took your womb. They have taken everything. Everything! This is repayment. This is the only way Wiwe will hold her head high in this household after all these calamities. At least the only way it can be done without losing control. A son from a dead woman, or.

—I want a child. I want this child. Bring him to life.

Silence. Laughter. Insults. It comes in that order.

Forget control. Take everything. Embrace the cold wind that accompanies the rain. The spirit of Ogbunabali should return if your brother and father die. You will be Chief Priestess. You will bring this child to life.

Cradle the child. He will be yours. Sing a lullaby. This is control.

Arise. Saunter. Walk in the nebulous halo the torches have formed. Peep at your silhouette from the corner of your eyes. Bold and huge and intimidating. It is what you imagine you will look like as Chief Priestess. Pick the red and black cloth and the spilt contents of Ijekwu. Pretend you don’t hear the repulsive squeaky noises that come from the scratching of your fingers on mud walls. Pretend you don’t feel the heat from their eyes as they burn through your flesh. Pretend you don’t see them.

The screams of pain of the dead woman’s mother still haunt the night. There is agbiri in the folds of your wrapper; you can make these lots mad. You can feed them Ijekwu as a cure when the madness comes.

Blow the light from the torches. It is your turn to laugh, so laugh in the darkness you have created.

Rainfall. Corpses. Ritual. A breathing child. This is how this story ends.

Feature Image: nikko macaspac