But Chioma only stared at the spot and grinned, and Nnamdi knew she’d blocked out his negativity. Sunflowers were her “favorite, favorite, favoritest flower on earth.” He’d known that when he planted them and he’d known she’d nearly die with happiness when he told her.
“I’m going to come by every day until they are huge flowery suns!” she announced. “I’ll help you water them.”
Nnamdi just laughed. Chioma was so predictable.
“Nnamdi . . .” She paused, looking back at the house. He could hear his mother talking on the phone. “Come walk with me,” she said, lowering her voice. “I want to ask you something.”
“Okay,” he slowly said, hoping it wasn’t anything difficult to explain.
After telling his mother where they were going, they quickly walked around the house to the front.
“Did you see the newsletter?” Chioma asked. They waved to Mr. Oke as they slipped through the open gate.
“Yeah.”
“Daddy nearly choked on his bread, reading it this morning,” she said. She snorted. “Did you see that picture of Bad Market?”
“He deserved to be shown like that,” Nnamdi said.
She nodded. “Bad Market once robbed my aunt of a month’s worth of rent money. He might be good-looking, but he’s dangerous. So why did the newsletter make him look harmless?”
“No idea. But at least he’s off the street,” he said. “‘The Man’ made sure of that. The article said he’s in the hospital, being watched by police.”
“‘The Man,’” she spat. “Who is this ‘Man’? If people start doing whatever they want, there won’t be any order around here. He’s worse than the criminals!”
“You must be joking!” Nnamdi said, taken aback.
“You could have been hurt yesterday,” she suddenly said, stopping and turning to him. They were standing under a wide mango tree. Chioma reached up and angrily plucked a leaf and pointed at him with it. “Why’d you go running into the market like that?”
“Chioma, let’s just relax and enjoy the morning.”
She put her arms over her chest and squinted at him, looking more suspicious than ever. Behind them, cars and trucks zoomed by on the road. She pushed a braid out of her face and cocked her head. “What happened yesterday, Nnamdi? What did you see?”
“I saw what . . . I saw what you saw,” he stammered.
“How? Your mother and I weren’t in that stinking stench. We went in when it cleared. And . . . and you couldn’t have seen what I saw; you weren’t there. You’d have told me.”
“What . . .” Nnamdi paused, then he scoffed. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He hated lying and, really, what was he supposed to tell her? The truth? That he could turn into some super-strong giant shadow man because of an Ikenga his ghost father had given him? He wished she’d just shut up and stop trying to make him lie.
“I think you’re—”
Nnamdi felt his temper suddenly rise sharply. He flared his nostrils and stepped closer to her. She didn’t budge. “Why are you always shouting at me?” he said. “You always think I’m doing something wrong!”
“I’m not shouting,” she said. She shook her head. “I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t what?” he shouted. He stepped closer. This time, she frowned and stepped back. “What kind of friend are you? All I did was go in there and try to help and you’re acting like I . . . I robbed someone!”
The corners of her eyes quivered as she fought back tears. “You did something. I know it!” she shouted into his face. This time, tears did escape. “Something’s going on! And you’re hiding it!”
Rage hit him so hard and suddenly that he shuddered. He saw red and felt his body flare hot. His mouth tasted metallic. His mind went blank and his body felt as if a demon had taken it over. He balled his fists, lunging at her, his arm raised to strike. Chioma jumped back, staring at him, appalled. Two women passing by stopped. “What are you doing?” one of the women shouted, running over and grabbing his arm.
Just as suddenly as it happened, Nnamdi came back to himself. His body relaxed and he literally felt himself shrink three inches. Chioma sobbed, still staring at him in shock. Then she turned and ran off. The woman holding his arm stared at him, astonished.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“What kind of child are you?” the woman snapped.
“Acting like an animal,” the other woman said. “Shameful.”
“Never, ever hit a woman or a girl!” the first woman said, pointing a finger in his face and then giving his forehead a hard shove. “Tufiakwa! God forbid!”
“Sorry,” Nnamdi whispered, stepping away from the women. “I’m so sorry. I . . . I wasn’t myself.” He quickly walked in the other direction before the women could say anything more.
He was glad when the women didn’t pursue him. He walked and walked and his legs took him to where he liked to go when he needed to think: the old abandoned school down the road, past his own school, past the market, on Kosisochukwu Road, beyond the patch of bush. It was quiet here, and only palm-wine tappers or men hunting for the occasional bumbling grasscutter came here these days.
He’d run here the morning after he found out his father had been killed. He’d stayed there all day, sitting at an old desk and staring at the wall. He’d worried his mother sick. She hadn’t known that he liked to come here, so she hadn’t known where to look other than at Chioma’s house. When he wasn’t there, Chioma’s mother had had to catch Nnamdi’s mother as she fell to the floor, distraught. When Nnamdi came home later that day, she’d beaten him and then hugged him close. Even then, he hadn’t told his mother exactly where he’d been; all he’d said was that he’d gone for a long walk.
Now Nnamdi walked past the unfinished wall that was supposed to be built around the school. He was still quivering with shame and . . . rage. So much so that he was probably walking unsteadily, like someone trying to walk as the earth shook. There was a rough-barked tree growing there and he punched it with a fist as he passed. He stopped, backtracked, and stared at the trunk, then at his normal-sized fist, then back at the tree. The dent in it was deep. His fist had made that. Leaves fell from the tree’s branches.
He shuddered again, seeing Three Days’ Journey flying back like a rag doll when he’d slapped him. Nnamdi had heard he had a broken jaw. And now he’d nearly hit Chioma. He could have killed her if he’d done that. “What is wrong with me?” he moaned. “What’s it doing to me? Do Ikengas have side effects? Maybe its powers are poisoning me.” He touched the dent in the tree. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry.” He didn’t want to voice what he suspected deep in his heart . . . that the rage had nothing to do with the Ikenga and the powers it gave him, that the rage was his own. Rage at his father being murdered, his murder remaining unsolved, his mother’s suffering, his town slowly being overrun by the criminals his father had died trying to stop.