Chapter 1: Deliverance and Doubt

When I work as local guide, I fit deliver four women in just three days.

People for this our area dey always talk say mountain pass dey for those wey wan test their destiny, but truth be say na ordinary people like us dey show strangers road—na hustle, nothing more. Still, anytime person waka go that kind high place, you go just know say the air dey somehow—spirit dey hover for that edge, as if the mountain dey eye us with side-eye.

For those sharp cliffs and crazy drops, person always dey there, ready to jump—again and again.

Na so life be. Sometimes, e be like say people dey find trouble with full chest, as if spirit dey push dem go do wetin dem no suppose do. This my job, I dey meet people wey carry wahala for mind pass. Some dey find adventure, some dey run from wetin their mouth no fit talk.

He say beta things still dey this world we never chop.

Na my guy talk am one night for palmwine joint, when gist dey flow scatter: "See ehn, even if wahala full everywhere, e still get sweet things wey never touch our tongue. Make we no use small pain forget big joy."

From that night, I no be human again.

After that talk, my mind no dey ground. Sometimes e go be like say na only my shadow dey waka for this village, like my real body don lost for inside mountain breeze.

1

On the afternoon of New Yam Festival, na me carry the second woman go meet Uncle Bala.

The New Yam Festival dey scatter our village every year. Drums dey boom, pikin dey race with fresh white yam, elders dey shout blessing. But as others dey chop and dance, na road I dey.

Her name na Lele. She get short hair, sun don kiss her skin well, with big round glasses wey almost cover her face.

Lele no send anybody at all. Her skin black fine, sun don use am draw map of laughter for her cheek. Those her glasses, na dem first catch your eye—big, round, shiny like moon for dry season night.

Unlike yesterday woman, this one truly happy—her name no lie.

Her voice dey ring for bush like bell, no dull moment at all. If smile na light, Lele for turn this whole trail to afternoon, I swear.

She no let me rest for journey: from Palm Grove reach rain flower stones, anything she never see before dey make her eyes shine like torchlight.

Her ginger dey catch everybody. Even old hunter for bush dey peep from behind tree to watch how she dey marvel for small lizard or spiderweb for tree branch. Me sef dey shame say all these wonders don pass me since I small.

She dey waka like say she dey dance—her leg light, skipping and turning like say festival dey happen for mountain.

As she dey go, her waist dey move to rhythm wey only she sabi. Sometimes she go stop, turn, raise hand like she dey feel music for her ear. You go swear say na festival dey for mountain too.

To talk true, I no even know why I dey carry her go meet Uncle Bala.

The thing get as e be. Sometimes my sense go ask me, 'wetin you dey do sef?' but I go wave am away. Person must chop, and work na work.

Na the same question I get yesterday, but I no put mind. Na only around noon today I realize say the woman I carry go yesterday, Ifeoma, never come back.

That realization sting me like fresh pepper. I count all the people wey I don carry go for this my hustle, and e rare for person to waka go mountain, sleep there, and no rush come back before night. But Ifeoma still dey miss.

Meaning say Ifeoma spend the night with Uncle Bala for the camp.

And for this village, overnight for mountain na big wahala. Only people wey get real mind dey try am. Na so my chest dey heavy as I think am.

Nobody else dey there; for the past six months, that place na Uncle Bala private paradise.

People for village dey whisper say Uncle Bala na spirit man, but na only those wey never meet am dey talk so. Since he start to camp there, nobody dey disturb am—na only him and mountain breeze.

Maybe na to go bring Ifeoma back I dey carry Lele go, or na wetin I dey tell myself be that.

Anyhow, my leg still dey push me go. Sometimes, you go just dey lie to yourself make the next step no heavy.

But my mind dey far. Wetin suppose be two hours waka turn three because Lele wahala too much. Na when sun nearly set we finally reach.

She go stop, squat, pluck flower, even dey call me to snap her picture for every rock. If no be say I sabi shortcut, we for still dey road when oganigwe begin blow for festival village. She smell the flower, grin, then tie the stem for her wrist like small bangle—city girl dey learn village ways.

Mushroom Rock—one strange wonder wey hide for inside mountain deep deep.

People dey talk say Mushroom Rock na place wey gods dey rest when dem tire to look after people. For dry season, bird dey build nest for inside the shadow, rain no dey touch am. Small pikin dey fear reach there because dem say juju fit dey inside.

E stick out from the mountain like one big mushroom with flat head, just dey hang for cliff, thousand feet above valley—na im dem give am the name.

To stand for Mushroom Rock, na to look valley wey fit swallow whole village, as if you fit throw stone reach the next world. Sometimes cloud go roll under the rock, everywhere go be like heaven.

The mountain stretch everywhere, but for here, e be like balcony dey, everywhere dey open, sun dey shine, old iroko trees and wild flowers full ground. Goats dey bleat for corner, smoke from suya stand dey bite nose, and old women dey clap hand as masquerade waka pass. Air for there dey pure, even small wind dey carry sweet smell of wild lemon grass. Sometimes you go see monkey dey swing for tree top, dey look human like say na film.

For Uncle Bala, wey sabi trekking, na the best place to camp be this.

E get people wey mountain be like second skin for them. Uncle Bala fit waka this slope with eye closed, e sure for am. Na im make him tent always dey near rock edge—say breeze fit touch am well.

We climb reach Mushroom Rock as sun dey go down. Uncle Bala dey roast fish for campfire.

The fire dey crackle, smoke dey rise small small, as if spirits dey taste the aroma first before human. I see Uncle Bala shadow long for ground, as if him dey guard Mushroom Rock himself.

The fish fresh, just grill am for hot stone, small salt and ata rodo—better pass any big man food.

The smell sweet like market for new yam day. Na this kind food dey make man forget all him wahala.

"Brother Bala, Lele don reach."

My voice echo for rock side, small breeze carry am enter bush.

The aroma full everywhere. After that waka, hunger dey finish me.

My belle don dey make sound like talking drum. I dey pray make nobody notice as I rub am small small.

Uncle Bala just look up, smile. "Una come at the right time, join us chop."

His smile gentle, but him eye still dey sharp like hunter. Na so I know say e no be ordinary man. E dey see wetin we no dey see.

Me and Lele squat for fire side, Uncle Bala give each of us one fish.

We sit cross leg. Lele dey laugh as she bite fish, oil dey shine for her mouth.

Catfish—the freshest you fit get, but bone full am.

I watch as Lele dey pick bone, she no even send say hand dey messy. She just dey enjoy herself, true true.

As I dey chop my own, Uncle Bala count ten notes put for my pocket.

He do am coded, like say e no want Lele see am. Na old trick for here—if you wan thank person, no let stranger know.

I rush reject am. "No, no, I no fit collect your money."

The way my hand fly, Lele burst laugh. "Oga guide, you too dey humble."

Uncle Bala force the money enter my pocket. "Chop first. When you finish, help me set up tent. I waka go hunt bush fowl today—nothing enter my hand, I nearly die for bush."

The way he talk am, you go know say e dey proud say him dey use hand survive. People like Uncle Bala dey look city people like say dem never chop real life.

"No wahala, I go do am now now."

I stand, brush hand for trouser. Lele dey watch me, smile dey her face. I dey wonder if she dey see the worry for my eye.

As I stand up, something hit my mind:

Like cold water, e splash for my head—wetin happen to Ifeoma?

Where Ifeoma dey?

I pause small, look the camp, dey reason the matter again. Na only three people dey here: me, Lele, Uncle Bala. But where the first woman?

I look round Mushroom Rock. Even though na cliff, the top flat well well.

From that place, you fit see valley and far village roof, but no be place person go hide. If Ifeoma dey, e suppose clear.

She be just small girl—she no fit waka go down alone, abi?

The climb no be beans. Ifeoma never trek pass city street before, from her look. E no possible say she fit waka down without help.

My eyes land for the yellow tent wey Uncle Bala don arrange.

The tent dey shine for evening sun, almost like say e dey call my spirit to come check am.

"Brother Bala, I fit set tent for here?" I shout.

I try form busy, but my mind dey run up and down.

"Go small, like… ten meters away."

E talk am sharp sharp, no even look my side. My heart beat increase small.

About ten meters—but he no talk which side.

I dey wonder, left or right? Bush full one side, rock for the other. I just waka anyhow, dey pretend say I dey look for flat ground.

I carry tent parts, dey find where to put am. As I pass the yellow tent, I no fit hold myself—I peep inside.

My hand dey sweat, leg dey shake, but stubborn spirit push me close. As I bend, spirit for my body dey warn me, but I stubborn.

The zip half open. Inside, one pair of legs curl up.

Light from campfire dey dance for the leg. My mind dey count the toes.

Stockings. No shoe.

Na white stockings, clean, but leg no dey move.

Ankle tie with iron chain.

My mouth dry like harmattan, fear dey dance for my throat. Wetin person dey do for bush with leg chained? E no make sense at all.