Chapter 4: Cancer No Get Respect

“This na Mountain-Splitting Axe—one swing fit cut iron or stone.”

“This na Mixed Iron Needle—if you talk the spell, e go fly, pierce anything from far.”

“This na Flying Rope—throw am, call e name, e go tie enemy tight.”

…

As dem dey show me, my face dey squeeze more.

Second-in-Command dey look me, e no too happy. “Wetin dey do you? You no like these treasures?”

“No, no, the treasures make sense. But all of dem na just physical attack. But Sango head na bronze, e bone na iron—nothing fit break am! Wetin e go fear axe or needle for?”

Great Chief and Second-in-Command come dey reason am.

“True talk, better brother. We know this thing since, but no solution. Na why we call you—how we go fit handle that Sango?”

“To handle Sango, eh… as long as… and then… you fit…” I dey dodge, then switch question—na something wey dey worry me since I dey watch Journey to the West: “Great Chief, Second-in-Command, una don get una own territory, dey live free, cultivate spirit, life long—why una dey chase Father Mbaka flesh?”

“This Father Mbaka flesh—no be our fault,” Second-in-Command sigh. “West of Odo Idodo Ridge, for 800 miles, every mountain chief dey use ‘catch Father Mbaka’ as recruitment advert. If we no raise Father Mbaka flesh banner, our boys for don waka go another place.”

“Yes,” Great Chief add, “na only Father Mbaka flesh dey make dem follow me—say na e go give dem immortality.”

Chai, even for masquerade world, competition too much. If you no set target, your boys go run.

As I dey plan next move, my chest come pain me, I cough blood.

I look the red blood for my hand, freeze.

I think say, as I don enter Journey to the West, my sickness go cure—like second chance from Heaven.

But that pain wey I know well tell me: cancer still dey, follow me cross come. E follow me transmigrate.

Even here, death still dey pursue me like NEPA bill. My chest tight, but I no gree let tears drop.

I really dey die.

Why? Why dem do me like this? Wetin Orun dey play?

Na to make me shine small—then turn me to masquerade food?

I no gree!

I no go die—Father Mbaka na my own chop, even if na Jesus wan save am, e no go work!

I clean blood from my mouth, smile wickedly.

As I wipe the blood, I just hiss, give myself small ginger. For my heart, I dey curse all my village enemies, dey wonder whether na spiritual arrow follow me enter this masquerade wahala. For my mind, I dey see myself dey flex for Aso Rock if I fit survive am. That stubborn Nigerian never-say-die spirit just rise for me.