Chapter 2: Taboo and Terror

I come ask, confused, “Who be Oga Madu?”

My question hang for air, wrap with the fear wey dey my chest. I don hear the name before for story, but never like this, never with real trembling. Uncle no slow, he look me, as if e dey search for correct word.

Uncle, dey pant, answer, “That one wey your grandma dey always talk—Oga Madu wey dey chop stubborn pikin. Na that thing we see just now.”

Him eyes wide, sweat dey roll for dust-covered face. I remember the warning, those stories when darkness fall and only kerosene lantern dey shine. Suddenly, all the tales no far again.

I stammer, “E no possible now? Wetin I see just be like person.”

I try reason am, dey hold ordinary, hope say my words go make am so. My mind dey replay that shadow, dey find how to explain am away.

“Keep quiet, no talk again.” Uncle voice full fear, he come dey run faster.

No room to argue. His fear press me, settle for my body like cold garri water. Tension thick for air, I dey taste am for mouth.

As we enter compound, uncle jam the door shut and lock am.

The bang loud, tell everybody for house say wahala don land. Uncle throw bolt, hand dey shake. He press him back for door, chest dey move up and down.

Grandpa come outside to meet us.

Wrapper tie high, chewing stick for mouth, he peep from door, eyes narrow. He look ready to shout, but when he see uncle fear, him voice soft small.

“Obinna, why you dey sweat like this? Go near fire, make you no—”

Roasting yam smell dey come from kitchen, but nobody send. Grandpa voice get half-concern, half-surprise, like say he never see him pikin fear reach like this.

Before Grandpa finish, uncle cut in, “Papa, I see Oga Madu.”

Voice nearly break, hand dey shake as he grip table edge. For my eyes, uncle never fear like this before—him dey always brave pass all of us.

Grandpa face, wey be like old tree bark, just turn dark like charcoal.

Lips press together, eyes narrow. The cold pass through am. Even chewing stick stop mid-chew, he swallow hard.

“You go enter that old bush?”

Grandpa voice drop, dangerous. Everybody for house sabi that tone. Na the same he use when goat spoil him yam mound.

Uncle talk with shame, “Mm.”

Head down, voice low. Shame and fear dey mix for him face.

Grandpa just give am one hot slap.

The sound loud like palm fruit drop for zinc. Uncle wince, red mark rise quick. Even me flinch—nobody dey argue when Grandpa vex reach that level. "If you no hear word, na slap go reset your brain—na so my papa talk am."

“Nobody don enter that old bush for more than twenty years, na you waka go find trouble.”

The words heavy, each one sink for wall. Even cock for backyard quiet as Grandpa talk, anger like thunder.

That old bush na silent taboo for our village.

Everybody sabi the story—elders always talk say that bush no belong to human eye. Even hunter dey avoid am, mama dey warn pikin, “No play near there.”

The last person wey mistakenly enter never come back.

People still dey whisper him name for night, but nobody fit point bush side. Him mama cry for riverside, dey pour libation for pikin wey bone no show.

Everybody for village hear as he dey shout, dey cry, but nobody fit enter go look.

Whole community hear the cry, one dry season night. Men gather with lamp and dane gun, but nobody cross threshold. Fear hold everybody.

Me and my uncle don break big taboo.

My chest heavy with am. I dey imagine spirit dey count our name, dey wait for nightfall.

Uncle hold him red cheek, try explain, “Na grasscutter we dey chase. Mist come, we no see road, na so we enter by mistake.”

Voice small, eyes dey beg. I see regret twist him mouth. He cling to my shoulder like support.

Grandpa breathe deep, ask, “How you sure say na Oga Madu?”

Voice soft small, but old fear still dey for eyes. He shift, dey look us as if he fit read truth from our face.

“He raise him hand, wave for Chijioke. That hand long reach like two meters.”

Uncle words just pour, hand dey draw long thing for air. Eyes meet mine, dey search if I go confirm.

I think am. “Maybe na branch the hand touch, so e just look long.”

Mind dey hold ordinary, hope say fear dey play trick. I no want believe say story don waka enter real life.

Uncle say, “That animal skin, e black, with yellow ring for neck. No be that demon Oga Madu be that?”

Conviction full him voice, but hand dey shake. The description match Grandma calabash drawing—the one she dey hide for her box of secret.

I say, “That yellow thing, e just resemble scarf for my eye.”

Memory dey blur, part of me dey hold normal. Maybe na hunter, maybe masquerade wey miss road.

Grandpa say, “Obinna, you sure wetin you see? If Oga Madu come out from bush, na serious wahala. Christmas dey come—no go spoil am for all of us.”

Warning no be anger again, na worry. The thought of Christmas spoil by evil cold everybody. He spit, wipe him mouth, brow still dey tight.

Uncle think small, come dey unsure. “I think say na am.”

Voice shrink, doubt enter. He squeeze my shoulder, like say him need pikin to reassure am.

Grandpa just dey waka up and down, head bend.

He dey pace, dey mutter for himself, chewing stick dey grind for teeth. Wrapper dey flap, floor dey creak.

At last, face serious, he talk, “Make una lock all the doors. I dey go call the village chief. No open door for anybody.”

No argument. He spit for sand, glare us both. Air just charge, house dey on edge.

Grandma rush enter house, carry plenty banger firecrackers, put inside grandpa pocket.

She enter sharp-sharp, wrapper tight, face set. "Take these, in case wahala show face," she whisper, press the banger into Grandpa hand. Fireworks for Christmas don turn shield.

Grandpa, chewing stick for mouth, commot.

He straighten back, spit for luck, step out enter mist. Him shadow linger for doorway before mist swallow am. Compound cold, empty without am.

Outside, children dey chase each other with sparklers, but today, nobody fit shout.