“There is no advice I can give you for this. I can only give it to you or not give it to you. I choose to give it to you. Chukwu only knows the rest, my son.”
Nnamdi closed his hand around the warm object, more on instinct than anything else. He was looking up at his father, suddenly feeling light-headed and a bit queasy. When he spoke, it felt like he was speaking up from the bottom of a well with a mouth full of warm honey. His words came slowly: “But doesn’t Auntie Grace say that . . .”
Everything went black.
Then he was there again.
His father was slowly fading away.
Nnamdi tried to speak, but his throat was burning as if he’d just swallowed hot pepper soup. He fell to his knees, but his knees were burning, too. And his right hand was burning, still grasping the Ikenga. His face, arms, belly. He shut his eyes. Every part of him felt like it was in flames. Panic. Regret. Should have stayed within the gate, he thought. This was some evil, had to be. Only evil could feel this painful. Maybe this man was the Chief of Chiefs in some sort of crazy disguise. Maybe, like his father, Nnamdi had been shot. Was this what his father had felt as his life drained away? A whimper escaped Nnamdi’s throat as he curled into himself, trying to squeeze out the pain searing through his body.
The pain stopped. He looked at his right hand; the Ikenga was gone. Slowly, Nnamdi stood up. But the ground felt mushy . . . not there? He looked down and nearly screamed. He was floating. “What is . . . ?”
He inhaled and exhaled on the empty road. At least I’m still alive, he thought.
“Stop it!” a woman screamed. Beeeeeeep! The noise was coming from straight ahead. Up the road. In the dark. Nnamdi frowned. Yes, it was dark, but—but he could see. Like he was a cat.
“Stop it! Please!” the woman screamed. “Take whatever you want; just don’t hurt me!”
Nnamdi felt a powerful combination of complete confusion and an instinct to help. The need was so strong that he was overcome with dizziness and nearly fell over. Instead, he stumbled against the wall beside him. He steadied himself, pressing a hand to the concrete. The wall was rough and grooved and . . . as he ran his hand over it, he could hear every grain of concrete and dirt on the wall rolling and crumbling beneath his palm.
“Get off me!” This time Nnamdi heard the woman so clearly that she could have been a few feet away. He heard her hand shoving against the person trying to hurt her. Then he heard a slap! And a male voice growl, “Get out!”
Still dizzy, Nnamdi took off toward the shouts, again following his instincts. He wildly ran along the side of the empty road, the shouts sounding as if they were just in front of him, yet nothing appeared. He turned a corner and there, finally, he saw the car. A shiny silver Mercedes with its headlights on. The engine was still running. There were barbed logs on the road and a car stopped before them. A man and a woman were struggling at the front door.
“Ged out b’fore I break your head!” the man yelled in a slurred voice.
He pulled at the young woman’s arm, but she held fast to the inside of the door. What is . . . ? But there was no time to process any of it. The woman was in trouble. Thinking of his mother at the mercy of a criminal like this, Nnamdi ran at the man and grabbed the collar of his shirt. What am I doing? Nnamdi thought with terror. This man is going to tear me apart! But Nnamdi yanked at the shirt anyway. Maybe the woman will at least get away, he thought. Even in the darkness, Nnamdi could see the drunken man’s shirt was filthy, stiff with dirt, grime, and sweat. And he could smell him. Like putrid garbage and unwashed socks.
Nnamdi looked deep into his eyes: they were dreamy and unclear, like milk mixed with too much water. Nnamdi knew who this man was, as he knew all the crazies of Kaleria. This was Three Days’ Journey, the dirty carjacker, who, despite his constant drunkenness, managed to steal close to a hundred cars each year. He would take the cars to Tse-Kucha, a town three days’ journey away, where he would sell them for a nice price. Now, somehow, Three Days’ Journey seemed to be having trouble pulling away from Nnamdi’s grasp.
“Leave her alone!” Nnamdi shouted, yanking Three Days’ Journey back and throwing him to the dirt. Nnamdi vaguely noticed the deep, echoing sound of his voice, but he was too focused on Three Days’ Journey to wonder about it. As Nnamdi moved toward the wild man, several things dawned on him at once.
1: Three Days’ Journey, a grown man of over six feet, was scrambling away from him, a twelve-year-old boy.
2: The low voice had been his own.
3: The woman behind him had shut the car door, turned the car around, and driven off.
“Please! AYEEEE! Don’t hurt me, o!” Three Days’ Journey shouted as Nnamdi stood over him. “Whooo!” Three Days’ Journey jumped up, wobbling about. “I was just . . . please! Devil! Spirit! Whatev’r you are! Spare me, o!”
Nnamdi couldn’t believe how wildly this man was behaving. He was screeching and dancing about like a madman. Because of me? he wondered. “Calm down! I’m just . . .”
“Chineke! You don’ have to speak! Ah, ah! I’ve learned my lesson!”
Nnamdi frowned and took a small step toward Three Days’ Journey, holding out a hand. “Let me help you,” he said.
“AYEEEEE!” Three Days’ Journey screeched. Then he turned and fled into the patch of nearby bushes, his long, skinny arms in the air like a terrified orangutan.
Nnamdi stood there in the darkness. He could clearly see Three Days’ Journey shambling off through the bushes as if he were looking at him in broad daylight. The man tripped and fell, got up, and continued running away. How can I see that? Nnamdi wondered. Then he remembered how strongly he’d held the man. He looked down at his hands and gasped. They were the hands of a grown man! A large man, dark-skinned. Not “dark”—black-skinned, as if he were stitched from the night. He touched his face and felt stubble. He gasped, pulling his hand away with horror. “My body, o! My body, o!” he cried. He twitched, hearing his low, deep voice. “What’s happened to me?! Witchcraft?”
Nnamdi turned and ran home.
He ran past people strolling on the roadside. Market women returning from a late night. More people headed to his compound for the party. He looked around, breathing frantically, wondering what he must look like. Where had they been when all this was happening? Cars and trucks passed him on the street. All he heard was his own breathing, like some huge man, and the sound of his huge feet slapping the dirt. He wasn’t floating high above the ground; he was just super-tall. He briefly wondered what clothes he was wearing, for surely his own clothes were too small. He didn’t look down to check.
His breathing grew faster and faster, and soon he was hyperventilating. His vision rolled around him, stars of red, silver, and blue bursting before his eyes as he finally arrived at his gate. He stumbled between the parked cars. He moaned, his vision blurring. Then, right there at the gate, he passed out.