Chapter 1: Mist from the Old Bush

When I was small, every December meant travelling back to my hometown for Christmas holiday.

The way the red sand of our village would stain my slippers, plus the air thick with palm oil and roasting corn, always made my body know true Christmas don land. Everybody for compound go gather under the big mango tree, dey share gist, while harmattan breeze dey paint our lips white and crack. I always looked forward to those trips like pikin wey dey wait for party jollof—eyes shining, belly ready.

My younger uncle would carry me up the hill to hunt wild grasscutters.

He go sling me for back like small bag of garri, laughter bubbling as we duck under tall cassava stems. Sometimes, he go crouch low and whisper, "Chijioke, shine your eye! Grasscutter dey waka pass here." His hands rough, smell of ogiri and camphor still for his skin, but those hands always sure, always safe. On his back, I felt brave—like small chief wey no dey fear anything.

We dey chase the animal footprints, dey run like say na competition.

My slippers dey flap for the red soil, the excitement make my heart beat gbim-gbim. The grasscutter’s track dey twist inside tall elephant grass, like say the animal dey play hide and seek with us. Uncle voice go ring out, "See am! E run go that side!" and we go zigzag follow those crisscross marks for ground.

Suddenly, thick harmattan mist just cover everywhere.

E roll in like say dem pour am from calabash, swallow bush path, even our own footstep muffled. The world shrink, cold and strange—birds quiet, air heavy. I no fit see my hand if I stretch am. The mist carry sharp smell of old earth and something older—like stories wey elders dey whisper for firelight.

I called out, worried, “Uncle, e be like say we don enter the old bush o.”

My voice dey shake, no pass whisper. As I talk, the words just disappear inside the white mist, like groundnut wey fowl chop finish. I remember wetin Grandma always talk about forbidden places—bush wey even goat no dey near.

My uncle’s face just change, fear catch am. “Kai, make we run commot quick. Even those animal footprints we dey follow no pure.”

Him eyes dey look left, right, grip for my wrist tight. I see seriousness for him face, sweat mix with harmattan dust. Him voice low, “This one pass be careful, abeg.”

As we dey rush, my leg just slip, I fall, injure my knee.

My knee scrape sharp against stone wey dey hide under leaf, pain shoot up my leg. Ground cold and gritty, small pebbles dey bite my skin. Uncle hiss, “Chai! Stand up!” but I grip my shin, tears almost fall.

Before I fit shout, uncle cover my mouth quick.

Him palm smell of camwood. “Shhh!” he whisper, eyes wide, dey look the mist. Everywhere silent, my heart dey pound for my ear. I dey breathe through my nose, small sobs dey hide.

Inside the mist, I fit see one shadow—e resemble person, wear animal skin coat and cap—dey waka come our side from deep inside old bush.

The shape just dey move quiet, like say e dey float for ground. Animal skin glisten with dew, yellow rings for neck catch the small light wey mist allow. No sound for e step, but my body know danger—hair for my neck stand, chest tight.

Uncle no waste time, lie flat, carry me for back, begin crawl comot from bush like animal.

We move like bush rat, belly dey touch cold earth, every twig wey snap loud for my ear. Uncle breathing dey shake, hot for my cheek. World behind us just white, fear full everywhere. He dey mutter, “Chukwu, cover us o.”

As we reach outside, uncle balance me well, start to run.

He burst pass last line of guinea corn, legs dey run as if evil dey pursue am. I bounce for him back, hand tight for neck, feel him heart dey drum steady. Outside bush, air light again, no more secrets for breeze.

I ask am, “Uncle, why you dey run?”

My voice come out small, pain and fear mix. I look back, expect to see that strange shadow still dey follow.

Uncle voice dey shake, “Na Oga Madu. Na Oga Madu.”

He no slow down, voice thick like stone dey for throat. The name alone send shiver climb my back. Even birds quiet as he talk am.

Uncle rush go open door. Outside, the mist swallowed everything—even the truth.