Chapter 1: Born Under Bad Luck

I be the reincarnation of one wicked spirit, wey dem talk say na so-so bad death go dey follow me for this life—na only after I die finish I fit turn real strong ghost.

Even from when I first land this world, elders for spirit side don dey whisper for my ear, say my matter no be beans. If I no careful, bad belle go follow me till I comot. Sometimes, e dey be like say, for every breath I take, na another wahala dey follow. For night, when breeze dey blow for back of my neck, e dey always feel like spirit hand dey tap me, dey remind me say my own different.

Na some other spirits advise me say make I choose to come back as woman for olden days. Dem say if luck shine for me, dem fit even drown me as I born.

As dem dey yarn me this tori, I just dey reason say which kind wahala be this again? Imagine, to come this world as woman—inside those days wey nobody dey send girl, na real gbege. Dem talk say, if dem lucky, dem go even throw me for river after I just born, sharp sharp—say that one quick pass. Old spirits dey laugh for back; their voice na like harmattan breeze, dry and sharp for ear.

But I no die.

Instead, na so my mama carry me for chest, press me close, rub my back small small. My papa dey always hail me, dey talk say na me be the apple for him eye. For our small compound, even when other people dey look us with corner eye, my mama dey cook better soup, dey sing those ancient lullabies wey dey chase fear. Sometimes, when I dey sleep, her hand dey rest for my head like shield.

My mama love me well, my papa dey treat me like gold. For thirteen years, even the wahala wey dey my body dey fade small small.

You know say for this Naija, if your papa dey treat you like pikin wey carry star, the wahala for body fit slow down. Sometimes I dey play for backyard, dey hear mama call me "Nwanyi oma"—good woman. For night, she go plait my hair by moonlight, dey gist me story of ancestors wey fight lion. Na that love dey melt the darkness for my heart, dey make all those bad belle things dey fade. I dey begin believe say maybe, just maybe, this life fit better.

Until that day wey my uncle cause big gbege. Because my papa na pikin wey dem born from side woman, dem push am come front make e carry the blame, even drag my mama go execution ground.

Everything scatter like when rain fall break old zinc roof. Na just one afternoon, before harmattan breeze even cool, my uncle set us up well. As dem drag mama go public ground, the villagers dey gather, dey shout. I hear one old woman for back mutter, "Na side-woman pikin bring wahala." My spirit just dey shake—this Naija family politics, e strong pass ogbono soup.

When my aunt throw me enter river, I no struggle. Na only one tear drop comot from my eye.

As I hit that cold water, I no struggle. My mind just dey blank like chalkboard wey dem clean finish. The river dey cold, but my inside colder. I remember say, as my body dey go down, na just one tear drop waka from my eye—quiet, stubborn.

I wan break my promise.

That promise wey I make as I dey look papa for eye, I dey remember am. My chest dey heavy, my mind dey toss like beans wey no done.

I bin promise my papa say I go try be better person.

I dey remember the day wey I kneel, touch papa leg, swear for front of red candle: "I go try, I go change." I fit still feel the warmth for him hand as e brush my head. For Naija, pikin promise dey heavy for parent ear—no be small thing.

But now, nobody deserve peace.

My heart dey burn. For inside my chest, na war. For this world, if na so dem wan play am, make everywhere scatter. I just dey wish say, as the ancestors dey look, make dem turn face—because this life, e no fair.