KABU KABU
NNEDI OKORAFOR
Copyright © 2013 by Nnedi Okorafor.
Cover art by Johnathan Sung.
Cover design by Sherin Nicole.
Ebook designed by Neil Clarke.
ISBN: 978-1-60701-421-8 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-60701-405-8 (trade paperback)
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“Funny how all things people don’t understand seem to be ‘cursed.’ ”
—Zahrah Tsami from Zahrah the Windseeker
Contents
Foreword, Whoopi Goldberg
The Magical Negro
Kabu Kabu
The House of Deformities
The Black Stain
How Inyang Got Her Wings
On the Road
Spider the Artist
The Ghastly Bird
The Winds of Harmattan
Long Juju Man
The Carpet
Icon
The Popular Mechanic
Windseekers
Bakasi Man
The Baboon War
Asunder
Tumaki
Biafra
Moom!
The Palm Tree Bandit
Author’s Notes
Publication History
About the Author
Foreword
Whenever I’m grabbed by a book or an author I tend towards overkill. And when I find authors who take on the world while incorporating mythologies that are so fresh and different I begin to hoard their work.
This is what happened when first I read Nnedi Okorafor’s work. I love that she writes of young women who are strong and facing the challenges not only from their changing bodies but from family and friends. More often than not, the stories are based in modern or future Africa, which is rarely shown in science fiction and fantasy. And even the magic is indigenous. Nnedi changes our perception that Tarzan is still an accurate portrayal of the continent and surrounds us with ancestors and stories that engage us as one world.
Her short story collection, Kabu Kabu, takes us on rides of the heart and mind, her characters could be any of us on the planet, and her stories invite us in rather than keep us at bay. Science fiction used to be a genre that didn’t feel inviting to me. I always loved it, but I didn’t feel I was part of it . . . that is until I read Octavia Butler and now Nnedi. When you read Nnedi you never feel as if you’ve lost time you’ll never get back. Instead you find yourself wanting to write her pleading that she expand her short stories and make her novels never-ending.
In short, get somewhere you want to be, gather your snacks, turn your music down low, and step on in.
Whoopi Goldberg
NYC 2012
The Magical Negro
Lance the Brave stood on the edge of the cliff panicking, his long blond hair blowing in the breeze. Behind him, they were coming fast through the lush grassy field. All Lance could do was stare, his cheeks flushed. Once upon him, they would suck the life from his soul, like lions sucking meat from the bones of a fresh kill. He held his long sword high. Its silver handle was encrusted with heavy blue jewels and it felt so right in his hand.
He loved his sword; so many times it had helped him bring justice to the world. He’d fight to the end. His life for his country. If only he knew how the amulet around his neck worked. The ruby red jewel bounced heavily against his chest as if to taunt him more with its difficult riddle. He was never very good at riddles. He took a deep breath, a tear falling down his rosy cheek.
“My life for my country,” he whispered, trying not to look down the cliff. “If it must come to this.”
But it could have been better. It could have been more.
Any moment now. It wouldn’t be quick, but painful. The shadows were savage beasts. The horrible black things were known to skin a man alive, tear off his fingernails one by one, boil a man’s flesh until it fell apart. The shadows would dirty his very soul. The shadows came from the very heart of darkness.
I never should have gone there, he thought.
The shadows were almost upon him, devouring the light that shined on the grassy field. They left only rotten filthy blackness behind. Lance closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer for the welfare of his beautiful fair wife and lovely daughter, Chastity, back at the castle. When he opened his eyes, he nearly fell over the cliff. What is that? he wondered.
Standing between him and the approaching shadows was an equally dark figure. The African man floated inches above the grass, his large crown of puffy hair radiating from his head like a black explosion. His skin, a dirty brown, almost blended in with the shaded evil approaching him. He turned to Lance, held up a dark black hand and brought it to his thick lips.
“Shhh, no time,” he said in a low smoky voice. He wore no shirt or shoes and carried no weapons. He’ll be killed, Lance thought sadly. He didn’t like the idea of someone else dying on the cliff with him. This moment was about his martyrdom only. Lance shook his head, his long blond hair shaking.
“Please,” he said. “You must . . . ”
“Look, there’s no time, so just listen,” the African said. “The amulet responds to your heart.”
The shadows were only meters away. Who is this man? Lance wondered. Where did he come from? How can he levitate?
“Look deep within yourself,” the African said. “You have the power, you just haven’t tapped into it . . . ”
The black man’s eyes suddenly bulged and a dark red spot ate its way into the middle of his chest. He’d been pierced with an evil blackness deeper than his own. He fell to his knees, coughing up blood. The shadows paused behind him, as if to savor the death of the black man. Lance watched him with a sad frown. The man only had moments to live.
Then the African man looked up at him. Lance would have jumped back, but even in his fear, he knew to do so would send him prematurely plummeting to his death. The African man looked angry. Angry as hell.
“Yo, what the fuck is this bullshit!” The African quickly stood up and looked at the red hole in his chest oozing blood and other fluids. “Aw hell no! It ain’t goin’ down like this. Damn, how many times?”
He turned to the shadows and held up a black finger.
“Y’all should know better. You know what I can do to you. You ain’t that stupid.”
The looming shadows retreated a bit. Lance was shocked. Could this man possibly be commanding the shadows? The shadows were pure power. How can he control them? Lance numbly wondered. The black man turned to Lance and pointed a finger.
“Look . . . fuck you.” Then he looked up at the blue sky and said, “My ass comes here to save his ass and after I tell him what he needs to do, I get sixed? Whatchu’ think I am? Some fuckin’ shuckin’, jivin’, happy Negro still dying for the massa ’cause my life ain’t worth shit?”
He cocked his head and looked back at Lance.
“I’m the mutherfuckin’ Magical Negro, what makes you think I’m gonna tell you how to use that damn amulet you been carrying around for two months because you too stupid to figure how to use it and then fuckin’ die afterwards? What world is you livin’ in? Some kinda typical fantasy world from some typical fantasy book? Like I ain’t got no family of my own to risk my life fo’ and shit!”
The Magical Negro reached into the pocket of his black pants and brought out a fat cigar and a lighter. He lit it and took two puffs. He blew several rings and, with a wave of his hand, linked them into a chain that settled around his long neck. Then he laughed as the chain dissol
ved.
“I . . . I . . . in my heart?” Lance asked. He was terribly confused. He could barely understand the dark man. What a strange dialect he was speaking. Controlling evil darkness? Could it be because he had internalized the evil of the shadows? Could that be what turned his skin that horrible color? Blew out his lips? Gave him such a huge deformed nose? Corrupted his hair? Lance frowned. Why am I thinking of such things in my last moments? He stepped forward, holding up his sword again, trying to look brave.
The Magical Negro shook his head and said, “Had enough of this.” With a wave of his hand, Lance fell from the cliff to his death. The Magical Negro listened for the thump of Lance’s body on the rocks below. He smiled. He took a puff from his cigar. He picked up his black jacket that sat in the grass and shrugged it around his narrow shoulders. Then he picked up his black top hat and placed it on his head and laughed a wheezy laugh.
“Sheeeit,” he drawled, looking directly at you. “You need to stop reading all this stupidness. The Magical Negro ain’t about to get his ass kicked no more. Them days is ovah.”
The Magical Negro rested his red cane on his shoulder and leisurely strolled into the forest to see if he could find him some hobbits, castles, dragons, princesses, and all that other shit.
Kabu Kabu
Written with Alan Dean Foster
Ngozi hated her outfit. But it was good for traveling.
Her well-worn jeans had no pockets on the back, thereby accentuating the ass she didn’t have. She’d accidentally stained her white t-shirt with chocolate after stuffing too much chocolate doughnut too fast into her mouth while rushing. And she had grabbed the wrong Chuck Taylor’s: her black ones would have matched better than the red. She’d overslept. Somehow, she hadn’t heard her fucking alarm clock. Now she was going to be late for her plane to New York, which would make her late for her plane to London, which would cause her to miss her connection to Port Harcourt.
“Shit.” She fought desperately to hail a cab. “Shit!” As a stress reliever, the angry repeating of the word helped to lower her blood pressure about as effectively as it did to draw something yellow with wheels closer to the curb—which was to say, not at all.
The day’s disaster didn’t end here. The long fingernail of her right index finger had broken and she kept scratching herself with it. Her skin was sandpaper-dry from taking a hot shower and not having time to put on lotion afterward. She had forgotten her antiperspirant. Not only did she feel that she looked like a pig, despite the cold outside she was sweating like one. Wonderful, she thought. Bronchial pneumonia would give her something to look forward to, as well.
The only saving grace was that she’d had the good sense to pack her things the night before. Her backpack, carry-on, and large suitcase were in far better shape than their owner. She stumbled out of her townhouse and dragged her things down the steps. Outside, the full moon was still visible in the early morning sky. The sun wouldn’t be up for a while. Nothing like leaving for another continent after a restful night’s sleep.
She saw it then. An unprepossessing vehicular miracle heading up the street in her direction. Too much to hope for, she thought wildly. She started jumping up and down, waving wildly and shouting. “Taxi! Oh please God, let it be a taxi!”
As it drew nearer, Ngozi first sensed and then saw that it was traveling too fast, buoyed along by a cushion of heavy-based music. She frowned. Her frantically waving hand dropped to her side and she took a step back. The cab had the sleek but stunned look of a hybrid vehicle. Might be a Toyota or Honda. In the darkness she couldn’t see the logo. The car was weirdly striped green and white and lizard-like. Even from a distance she could see that the exterior was pocked with way too many dents and scuffs, like an old boxer past his prime. As it came closer, she hunted in vain for a taxi number or business logo on the passenger-side door. Neither presented itself. Instead, there was a short inscription:
Two footsteps do not make a path.
Standing in front of a fire hydrant, the only open space on the stretch of street, she gawked at the oncoming vehicle. Despite the seriousness of her situation, she made a choice that was as easy as it was quick.
“I am not,” she muttered to herself, “going near that thing.” She glanced down at her watch and bit her lip. She was out of options.
The taxi screeched to a halt, and backed up impossibly fast. Then it zig-zagged crazily into the undersized and very illegal parking space before her. It was the most adept bit of parallel parking she had ever witnessed. Not to mention quasi-suicidal. Barely an inch of clearance remained in front of or behind the cab. She shook her head and chuckled. “This guy must be Nigerian. Just my luck.” In the back of her mind she felt a twinge of caution. But she didn’t have time to waste.
The driver turned his music down and jumped out, shrugging a leather jacket over his short-sleeve blue shirt to ward off the chill. He was short, squat, medium brown-skinned, and possibly in his early forties. Definitely Igbo, she decided.
“I take you wherever you need to go, madam,” he announced grandiosely. His accent immediately confirmed Ngozi’s suspicion. It was quite similar to that of her own parents.
“O’Hare,” she said.
“No problem.”
She hefted her backpack up and stepped to the cab’s passenger door as he loaded the rest of her luggage into the trunk. “I’m running late. Really late.”
“I see,” he responded with unexpected solemnity. “Where you headed?”
She was too busy wrestling with the back passenger door to reply. She grew even sweatier. The door wasn’t budging at all. Loading a traveler’s baggage and taking off before he or she could get in was a widespread taxi scam everywhere in the world. The cab driver shut the trunk and smiled at her. “Let me get that for you,” he said. “It doesn’t open for just anyone.” He was chuckling to himself as he came around and grabbed the handle.
Wrapping his fingers around the worn, smudged metal he gave it a simultaneous twist and tug. The door swung wide with a curious non-metallic pop. Her nose was assailed by the unexpected aromatic scent of cedar wood and oil, both in much stronger concentration than was typical for the usual generic, commercial car deodorant. She slid inside. And promptly froze.
Nestled snugly between the front seats was a large leafy potted plant. On the ceiling of the car but presently shut was a slightly askew sliding skylight. A wealth of skillfully hand-wrought rosaries and glistening cowry shell necklaces drooped from the rearview mirror. Most startlingly, the entire interior of the cab was intricately hand-inlaid with thousands upon thousands of tiny, multicolored glass beads.
“Wow,” she whispered, running an open palm carefully over the car’s interior. The feel was smooth but bumpy, like a golf ball turned inside-out. This must have cost a fortune, she thought. It was as if she had stepped inside the world’s most elaborate handicraft necklace. Gazing at her unexpectedly ornate surroundings she tried to imagine someone, or even several someones, taking the time and patience to complete the intricate work of art.
Further up front was something that looked decidedly out of place in the bead-encrusted, shell-strung interior. Set into the dash beside the battered heating and air-conditioning controls was what looked like a computer installation. Rotating lazily on the screen was a three-dimensional image of a bushy ceremonial Igbo masquerade mask. At least, that’s what Ngozi guessed it to be. As a choice of screensaver, it was a distinctly unsettling one. She shivered. She’d never liked masquerades. Especially the ones at certain parties back home that turned so violent people had to hold back the performers with thick ropes. The damn things were supposed to be manifestations of spirits of dead people and they looked and danced like insane monsters. Serious nightmare material.
The driver got in and slammed his door shut. If he noticed the anxiety in her expression, he chose not to remark on it.
“You never answered my question,” he said. Throwing his right arm over the top of the front passenger seat, he t
wisted to look back at her as he started the cab. Another surprise: despite the vehicle’s scruffy appearance, the engine’s purr was barely audible. Definitely a hybrid, Ngozi concluded. “How do I know where to take you if you don’t tell me where you’re going?”
“I did.” Ngozi frowned. “Didn’t I say O’Hare? United Airlines. I’m, ah, going to New York.”
“Got relatives there?” the man inquired. “You visiting your folks?”
“No.” She wavered and finally confessed, “I . . . I’m going to Nigeria. Port Harcourt. My sister’s getting married.”
He grinned. “Thought so. You can’t hide where you’re from, O. Not even with those dada dreadlock on your head. You still an Igbo girl.”
“Woman,” she corrected him, growing annoyed. “Woman in a big hurry. I’m a lawyer, you know.” Fuck, she thought. Shut up, Ngozi. How much does he need to know to get me to the airport, man? Next thing he’ll try to scam me out of all my money in some fiercely tricky specifically Nigerian way.
“Ah, a big Igbo woman, then,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“And I was born and raised here,” she added, unable to resist. “So I’m Igbo, Nigerian, and American.”
The driver laughed again. “Igbo first,” he said as he shifted into drive. Jamming the accelerator, he roared out of the illegal parking space with the same lunatic adeptness with which he had darted into it. Flinching, she grabbed the back of the seat in front to steady herself and held her breath. Oh my God, I feel like I’m in Nigeria already.
As they accelerated out onto the street, he turned the music back up. Listening, Ngozi smiled. It was Fela Kuti, Nigeria’s greatest rebel musician. She loved the song that was playing . . . “Schuffering and Schmiling.” Crooning his unique command of mystery, mastery, and music, Fela spoke to her through the speakers:
“You Africans please listen as Africans
And you non-Africans please listen to me with open mind.
Ahhhh . . . ”