Akata Witch: A Novel

  “Only when there’s a reason,” Chichi said, but she looked pleased.

  Sunny fidgeted. She knew she looked good in her navy blue dress pants and blue top with orange and yellow designs, but it didn’t really matter to her. “I hate dressing up,” she said.

  “I don’t mind it much,” Orlu said. He wore a long light blue caftan and matching pants. “But there are more important things.”

  The same funky train that dropped them off picked them up. It was a tenth of the size they’d left it in, even smaller than a van, and it was empty. There was a white throne for Anatov in the second row.

  “Hey,” Sasha asked, sitting behind Jesus’s General. “What music you got?”

  “If it’s got gam-gbam dim-dim that shakes the very air I breathe, I dey grab,” Jesus’s General said. He and Sasha slapped hands. Sasha clicked through Jesus’s General’s digital collection.

  Anatov sat in his seat, opened up the day’s paper, and began to read. Chichi sat beside him and did the same. Orlu and Sunny went to the back. As they drove off, Sasha got the music going. He and the general bobbed their heads to the beat.

  “Hey,” Orlu said. “Remember what I said about you guys being careful. Chichi knows her way around, but you’re new, so be extra careful.”

  “Sure,” Sunny said, rolling her eyes. “So, did you and Chichi come to this together last year?”

  “Yeah,” Orlu said.

  “Your parents and Chichi’s mother are friends?”

  Orlu frowned and cocked his head. “Yeah . . . sort of.” He lowered his voice. “Chichi gets her weirdness from her mother. Her mother’s really, really brilliant. She’s an assistant to Sugar Cream and she’s a Nimm priestess.”

  “What’s—”

  “Women who become Nimm priestesses are chosen at birth. Their intelligence is tested before their mother even gets a chance to hold them. If they pass, they’re ‘sold’ to Nimm, a female spirit who lives in the wilderness.”

  “Like Osu people?” she asked, horrified. These were Igbo people sold as slaves to an Igbo deity.

  “Sort of. Nimm women aren’t outcasts like the Osu,” he said. “Nimm women all have ‘Nimm’ as a last name, and they’re never allowed to marry. And they reject wealth.”

  “Is that why Chichi’s father left?”

  Orlu laughed bitterly. “No. I overheard my mother telling my aunt that he was one of the most selfish men she’d ever met. He didn’t know that Chichi’s mother is Leopard, though.” He paused. “I’ll bet if he knew he couldn’t marry her mother, he’d have fought to marry her.”

  “Oh,” she said, realizing something. “So Chichi’s not pure Leopard?”

  Orlu shrugged. “No one’s ‘pure.’ We’ve all got Lambs in our spiritline somewhere. Anyway, Nimm women are . . . kind of eccentric. My parents are friendly with her, but not friends.”

  There was a silence. Music drifted back from the front of the funky train.

  “Orlu,” Sunny finally said, glancing at Chichi, who was reading her newspaper, “what do I . . . do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I supposed to keep all this stuff from my family for the rest of my life? Who can live like that? It’s already weird. What do free agents do?”

  “Well, for one, the pact we made prevents you from telling anyone about it,” Orlu said. The trust knot, the symbols on the book, and the juju knife—it seemed like years ago, not just a few months. “I don’t know, Sunny. You know what, though?”

  “What?”

  “You really need to find out about your grandmother,” he said. “Especially from your mother. You didn’t inherit the spiritline from your mother, but maybe your mother knows more than you think.”

  The Abuja market was about ten minutes from the Hilton. Sunny hadn’t expected them to go to a Lamb market, especially not this one. It was the first African market she had visited, a few months after her family had returned to Nigeria when they’d stayed with her aunt. Talk about culture shock! The American supermarkets were always neat, the prices rigid, everything so sterile. The Abuja Market in particular was ripe, unpredictable, and loud. She’d been overwhelmed by what the market sold, and how the vendors sold it. Now it was just a market.

  After Anatov paid Jesus’s General, they all went straight to a shaded part of the market. A crude roof of wooden planks was built over all the booths here.

  “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure!” a man announced in a gruff voice. Junk Man. He had a look that practically screamed that he was far more than what he seemed. He was short and fat, his head shaven so close that it shone like a black bowling ball. In contrast, he had a bushy gray mustache and a long equally bushy gray-black beard. He wore a bronze ring on every finger. His cushioned chair creaked whenever he moved.

  His booth was the same size as everyone else’s, about twelve feet by twelve feet. Wooden dividers separated his shop from a utensil shop to his right and a basket shop to his left. But his place was packed! A narrow path led through his wares. He raised his fat hands and shouted, “Hey! Anatov!”

  “Junk Man,” Anatov said, as they vigorously shook hands. Junk Man’s rings clicked loudly.

  “That one?” Junk Man said, pointing at Sunny. Anatov nodded. “Ah, an albino,” he said. He smiled, and a dimple appeared on his left cheek. “Go on, have a look-see. But none of it is free. Don’t be shy. Look, then you buy. But don’t touch the things you don’t think you should. Especially those parrot feathers. For some reason, people don’t know better. Then they get home and wonder why all they want to do is chatter about nonsense.”

  Sasha, Orlu, and Chichi were already looking around. Sunny had no idea what not to touch. There were so many items—most on tables, some on the ground or hanging from nails on the wooden dividers.

  There were baskets; ebony and bronze statues; rings, necklaces, and anklets of various metals; piles of colorful stones and crystals; ancient-looking coins; cowry shells the size of her pinky and larger than her head; scary and smiling ceremonial masks; a jar of gold powder; a pile of jewels and rusted daggers; bags of colored feathers. An eight-foot-tall ebony statue of a stern-looking goddess watched from the far corner.

  “Hey, you see this?” Sasha asked Chichi. The two huddled close around something. That snickering again.

  Sunny stopped to look at a mask emitting a very foul odor.

  “Sunny,” Orlu said, “here are the knives.”

  They were piled in a beat-up cardboard box. Some had jeweled handles; others were made of metal, copper, bronze, or what looked like gold. Another looked like wood. Another was plastic.

  “How do I—”

  “You American?” Junk Man asked. Suddenly, he was right next to her.

  She jumped. “Um—yeah, sort of. I was born there and lived there for nine years before we came back.”

  “Who’s older? Him?” he asked, pointing at Orlu.

  Sunny shrugged. “Only by a few months.”

  “Your parents born here?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Then you from here and there. Dual thing, you know?”

  She laughed. “If you say so.”

  “I know so.”

  “So what’s that make me, then?” she asked.

  “Who cares?” he said. “You want a juju knife, right?”

  She nodded, grinning. She liked Junk Man very much.

  “Close your eyes, reach in there, and pick one up.”

  She shut her eyes. As she rummaged around, one of the knives cut her. “Ah!” She snatched her hand away and opened her eyes.

  Junk Man immediately reached into the box. “We have a winner,” he said. The knife he brought out had a small smear of her blood on the blade. “Funny,” he said.

  She stared at it. “What is that?”

  “Oh. Weird,” Orlu said.

  “Is that the one that chose you?” Chichi asked, coming over.

  “Oh, that’s—uh, that’s different,” Sasha said.


  Its handle was an unremarkable smooth silver, but the blade was paper-thin, made of a clear green material, like glass.

  “Man from the north gave me this one for free after I bought some others from him,” Junk Man said. “He wore a thick veil, so I didn’t see his face. But he had eyes pretty like a woman’s and a very kind voice. You can always tell a man’s nature by his voice, a woman’s nature is more in the eyes. Anyway, there’s your knife. It picked you fair and square.

  “Thirteen coppers, that one will be,” Junk Man said.

  They all gasped. “That’s crazy!” Chichi said.

  Sunny frowned, annoyed. She had expected to pay three. “Do you want—”

  “I know what you want and I know what wants you,” Junk Man said. “When it comes to juju knives, I don’t negotiate. This one chose you, so no other knife will until it is destroyed. I could charge you a thousand chittim and you’d have to pay up.”

  Thankfully, Sunny had brought twenty copper chittim. She dug out thirteen while Junk Man polished the knife with a white cloth.

  “Let me see,” Anatov said to Junk Man when he’d finished with it. Anatov held it before him, pointing it straight ahead. He peered down the blade. “Nice.”

  “Lucky girl—maybe,” Junk Man said. He looked at Sunny. “Come here and put them in that basket there, under the table,” he said. She dropped the chittim into the half-full basket. “Here, take it.”

  Slowly, she took the juju knife. She yelped and almost dropped it. Junk Man grinned. “Ah, that’s all I really needed to see, that look.”

  “Is—is this normal?” she asked, staring at her hand and the knife. It felt as if her hand and the knife had merged. She’d read about it in the juju knife book, but experiencing it was very different from reading about it.

  “Yep,” Anatov said. “It’s a sensation best understood by experience.”

  She touched the tip of the knife. It was amazing—she felt it right through the knife. She tapped it lightly against the table. It was like tapping her finger.

  “Now try something,” Junk Man said.

  “But I’m not that good at—”

  “Call music,” Chichi said. “That’s easy enough.”

  Sunny did remember how to do it, but she was still nervous. “Tell me again.”

  “Cut downward, flick your wrist, and then catch the invisible pouch,” Chichi said. “Then speak the trigger words into it: ‘Bring music.’”

  “All right,” she whispered. She carefully cut the air and flicked her wrist as if tying the invisible pouch in a knot. The wet, cool juju pouch dropped into her hand. She smiled. “Bring music,” she said into the pouch in English.

  It wasn’t classical music that came. It was fast, high-pitched guitar. Highlife music. Her father’s favorite song by Nyanga Tolotolo. She laughed and grinned. She glanced at Chichi and was relieved to see her grinning, too. Two copper chittim fell to her feet.

  “Ha! See? It pays for itself!” Junk Man shouted.

  The loud music startled people, most of whom were Lambs and probably assumed it was coming from a boom box somewhere in Junk Man’s booth. A woman passing by shimmied her shoulders a bit, and a man did a few dance steps. Seconds later, the music faded away.

  “Well done,” Anatov said.

  “Your first juju charm by knife,” Sasha said, patting her on the back. “You’re a new woman.”

  “It’s just the beginning,” Chichi said.

  “Here,” Junk Man said, handing her a small blue bean. A sound was coming from it. She held it to her ear. The thing was giggling!

  “I like to give my new customers a little gift,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking at the bean. “What is it?”

  “Take it home and put it under your bed. Wait a few days.”

  “How much is this?” Sasha asked, holding up a polished brown conch shell the size of his hand.

  “Hmm. Do you know what that does?” Anatov asked.

  “Sure do,” Sasha said. Anatov and Sasha exchanged a look.

  “One copper and a silver,” Junk Man said.

  “How about one copper,” Sasha said.

  “Sold.”

  13

  Zuma Rock

  The funky train had miles to go, but already Sunny could see Zuma Rock. It was about two hundred feet high, the size of a soccer field, and dark as a humongous piece of charcoal. At its center was what looked like a crude, gigantic white face.

  Sunny’s mother had brought her to see it during their visit three years ago. The man who gave them a tour said it was believed that Zuma Rock possessed mystical powers. He said anyone who climbed or went too close to it would never be seen again.

  Zuma Ajasco, the Abuja Leopard headquarters, was set right at the foot of Zuma Rock, hidden from Lambs by powerful old juju. This was where the festival took place, too. Now the Zuma Rock myth made sense to Sunny.

  About a mile from the rock, they turned onto a narrow road. People walking on it had to scramble aside to avoid getting run over. Most of them were dressed in different kinds of traditional attire, but some wore jeans, pants, and dresses, too.

  When the festival came into sight, Sunny wasn’t sure if she was more in awe of its sheer hugeness or of Zuma Rock itself. The festival grounds were the size of seven soccer fields, partially in the rock’s shadow on the other side of the highway. Because of the rock, passersby wouldn’t have seen the festival even if there wasn’t strong juju hiding it.

  “How come Zuma Ajasco isn’t the central West African headquarters instead of Leopard Knocks?” The moment the words were out, Sunny wanted to take them back. Anything to avoid the look Anatov gave her.

  “In nineteen ninety-one, they made Abuja the capital of Nigeria instead of Lagos. Now the scholars of Zuma Ajasco think that Abuja should also become the Leopard central headquarters of West Africa instead of Leopard Knocks,” Anatov said. “Bullsh—nonsense. Leopard Knocks has been Leopard Knocks for over a millennium. To move it would dislocate all that we hold dear.”

  He paused. When he continued, he sounded less angry. “I want you to know this now, before you all officially enter the extravagance of Zuma Ajasco. The idea of what is appropriate and respectable differs amongst scholars. The people are like people anywhere, but the scholars are the leaders. If they are rotten, things can go very wrong.

  “Zuma Ajasco has only two scholars. You’ll know Madame Koto when you see her. I’ll introduce you if the chance arises. You can’t miss her; she’s a descendent of the ancient line of Tall Men. She’s also quite . . . wide. People say she eats five-course meals four times a day. It’s believed she secretly owns one of the world’s biggest oil companies; no one knows which one. When you see her, she’ll be surrounded by very attractive men, none of whom she is married to. She refuses to marry on principle.

  “Then there’s Ibrahim Ahmed. He might be a hundred and twelve, but he looks as if he’s lived for over three hundred years. He has fifteen wives, owns a hundred-and-fifty-room mansion that changes shape and location every five months, and is rumored to be working with some Iraqis to break the physical plane between Earth and Jupiter. It’s also rumored that he’s dined in the White House many times with various American presidents. He makes his money in oil. You see the problem?”

  Sunny did. These didn’t sound like Leopard scholars, who were supposed to live by the philosophy of modesty and only be interested in chittim and the welfare of the people.

  “These fools passed the fourth level?” Sasha looked skeptical.

  “Oh, those two aren’t fools,” Anatov said. “No, no, no. And yes, they’ve passed the fourth level. They’re capable of great things, but potential doesn’t equal success.”

  Jesus’s General pulled the funky train up to the festival entrance, which was marked by a red wooden arch, and they got off.

  The arch was huge, and carved to look like braided plants—but as the breeze blew, the wooden plants swayed with it. Lurking at the arch’s peak wa
s a life-size wooden leopard. It inspected all who entered. Sometimes it sat up, stretched, and even growled. Mainly it crouched and watched.

  “It watches for Lambs,” Anatov said. “That great piece of juju was brought here for the festival by one of the scholars from Cameroon.”

  Sunny felt sick. What did it do when it spotted a Lamb? It may have been wooden, but it looked alive. And hungry. She wasn’t a pure Leopard Person. Would it sniff the Lamb-ness on her skin? She walked as close to Anatov as she could. Her legs felt like boiled cassava. They passed under the arch. All the while the leopard stared intensely, specifically at her.

  “It’s watching me,” she whispered to Chichi.

  Chichi laughed. “Maybe it thinks you look tasty.”

  Sunny held its stare as they passed. The leopard growled deep in its throat. It turned around to watch her once they were through. Minutes passed before she stopped expecting it to come bounding through the crowd to tear her apart.

  The festival grounds were paved with cobblestone, and there was highlife, hip-hop, and jazz playing from three different stages. There were booths selling food and souvenirs, and there were tons and tons of people. She must have heard more than fifty different languages. She saw a group of children crowded around a man claiming to have gone to the moon; a large tent with a cross in the front that said, THE LEOPARD SOCIETY OF THE LORD; another where she heard hundreds reading from the Koran.

  People used juju to light their cigarettes, push baby carriages, and block out cigarette smoke (she needed to learn that one). She even saw some kids batting a tungwa around. As it floated inches from the ground, they dared each other to kick it. The brown skin ball finally exploded on an unlucky boy, and all the others laughed and pointed.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” Anatov said. The wrestling match wasn’t for another forty-five minutes.

  The food was the usual, and Sunny was grateful. She ordered a large bowl of okra soup and garri and a bottle of Fanta. It was hot, spicy, and good. But as she sat at the table with the others, that feeling of being completely out of her element crept back in. Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic, drowning in the unfamiliar and unpredictable. “Where do you think the bathroom is?” she asked, wiping her hands with a napkin.