“Here, take this,” she said, handing him a scarf, scowling at him with narrowed eyes. She crept back, her eyes still on him. There had to be ten people around him now. All seeing him. He suddenly felt cold. Then he felt as if all his muscles were relaxing. He was changing back. Quickly, he tied Bad Market’s limp hands with the scarf. Then he ran off.
* * *
Nnamdi breathed heavily as he fled. He felt the shadow self slipping from him and the feeling left him light-headed, as if he’d been hanging upside down. He rushed behind a house and sat down hard with his back against the wall. He could feel it; he was not himself yet. He could feel the length of his legs and arms. He could see his flesh, black like outer space in a Star Wars movie. However, his muscles felt mushy and weak. He wheezed and coughed. Suddenly, a force lifted him off the ground and slammed him to the floor. “Ooof!” he grunted, the little air in his lungs knocked out. As he lay there in the dirt, he wondered what would happen next. Was this his father? Was the power that had been controlling him going wrong? He’d hurt Three Days’ Journey, too. Was God punishing him for harming yet another person? He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to shake away the image of Bad Market flying back fast and hard because of Nnamdi’s slap. Nnamdi had never slapped anyone in his life. God would punish him for sure.
When nothing more happened, he coughed again and slowly pulled himself upright. He leaned his head against the wall and looked down at his school clothes. Filthy. At least the shadow hadn’t eaten them away. Still, his mother was going to be so angry. He gasped. He had to get back to his mother and Chioma. They were probably still outside the market, worrying about where he’d gone.
He was about to get up when he heard soft chuckling. He froze, his mouth hanging open. It sounded like it was right beside him. But there was nothing there. “It’s okay, son. Be more careful,” he heard his father say. Nnamdi tensed up, his eyes wide. Then he heard his father’s laughter, low and musical. Nnamdi listened as it faded into the distance. As if . . . as if his father were walking away.
“I won’t hurt anyone again,” Nnamdi said to the space around him. Only a brown goat tethered to a pole nearby responded. “Baaaah.”
A peacefulness spread over Nnamdi and he changed completely back to himself and collapsed onto the dirt, overcome with a pounding headache and deep fatigue. This time he didn’t pass out. With lidded eyes, he stared at his now small shaky dark-brown-skinned hands.
“No,” he said to himself. “I won’t hurt another person.”
* * *
“Oh, thank God!” Chioma exclaimed when Nnamdi found them.
Once the smelly green fog had cleared, Nnamdi’s mother and Chioma had walked all over the market, looking for him. They told him how they saw people who’d fallen or bumped into each other or tumbled over things in the heavy fog. They’d seen people standing in line as police gave them back their things. And, like everyone in the area, they’d witnessed the capture of Bad Market.
“You missed all the excitement!” Chioma said. “Well, so did we, but we got to see the police shove Bad Market into a police car. He’s really good-looking.”
Nnamdi rolled his eyes. Chioma was always pointing out “good-looking” men.
“I wish they would catch Never Die,” his mother growled, and Nnamdi knew she was remembering how he’d robbed her on her way home from the market. “So, what happened to you in there?”
“I guess I kind of just got lost in the fog,” he said with a laugh that sounded false even to him. He avoided Chioma’s suspicious eyes.
* * *
That night, as soon as he hit the bed, Nnamdi fell fast asleep. But again it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. For what felt like hours, he was chased by the shadowy grotesque demon version of Three Days’ Journey, who seemed to be made of a sticky brown goop that stained everything it touched. And always present was the glowing Ikenga, now the size of his father, floating after him and pointing its machete.
Nnamdi opened his eyes and the dreams instantly shrunk away. This dream seemed far less serious than the one he’d had the first night he’d changed. He shook his head, rubbed his face, and looked outside. Still night. He sat up and picked up the Ikenga. The strange electrical charge coming from it no longer really hurt. Instead, it felt like a force making his hand do what he didn’t tell it to do. The Ikenga was still warm. He turned it over, feeling the charge softly thrum in his fingertips. What would happen if he threw the thing in the garbage? Would he stop changing? He didn’t want to throw it away, though; it was a gift from his father, a gift his father could only give or not give, with no advice.
He focused his eyes on it. Then he strained with all his might to intentionally bring forth his shadow body. He thought about the feeling of being big. Being powerful. Being black like the moonless night. He imagined he could hear a pin drop from ten houses away. That he could smell a drop of gasoline leaking from the generator next door. That he could feel the slightest shift in the air as someone walked by outside.
What if he could teach himself to control it? Then he could be a mighty force in Kaleria. He could be his father 2.0. Maybe this was why his father had even given it to him, to make him Nnamdi, the young son of the town’s greatest police chief, who had finished what his father started. He’d be like Batman. Yes, he thought. I could teach myself to control it. It would all make sense. “Oh, let’s give it a try,” he whispered. He took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes.”
Nnamdi held his breath and imagined he was wrestling a great shadowy beast. He strained until his head ached, trying to squeeze the beast within him into a shape he could control. He felt it move within him and then fall on top of him, knocking the breath from his chest. “Ooof!” he grunted. He gathered himself and tried again. Then again. Then again. Breathless, he lay back on his bed. He stayed that way for an hour, thinking and thinking. Eventually, he fell asleep. He had not one dream.
Untruth
“A BAD DAY for Bad Market,” the newsletter headline shouted.
“I’ll read it when I get home,” Nnamdi muttered to himself, handing naira to the seller, folding the newsletter under his arm, and walking away from the newsstand. It was Saturday morning and people were taking advantage of the pleasant cooler weather. Some sat outside their homes, playing cards and sipping from cold bottles of beer. The woman who sold akara was already preparing her frying pan, small fire, and oil to fry the tasty bean cakes she’d sell that afternoon.
“Good morning, Mrs. Abassi,” Nnamdi said.
She smiled. “Good morning, Nnamdi.” He’d known Mrs. Abassi since he could remember. His father loved her akara and would buy from her several times a week. She was a smart old lady, especially when it came to math. Nnamdi and Chioma often came to her for help with homework when she wasn’t busy. “Is that today’s paper?” she asked.