Chapter 1: The Beggar’s Warning

When I was small, one old beggar waka enter our shop. He come talk for one kind dull voice, "Somebody don kpai for here before, abi?"

As the beggar talk, e face rough like old leather, him wrapper brown like old garri water, patches everywhere, and the smell wey follow am enter fit pursue fly. I just dey hide for back of counter, eye dey sharp, dey watch as he bend small, hold him walking stick for hand. For this our part of Oyo, people no dey greet beggar anyhow, but my grandpapa always give anybody food if dem show. Na why the shop dey always full, even beggars sabi am. Everybody for shop freeze that moment, even the way breeze stop, e be like the old man carry one kind cold enter. My grandma mutter one quick prayer under her breath, fingers counting rosary bead inside wrapper.

My grandpapa shock for some seconds before he answer, "Na two years ago. That time we just fix new ceiling fan for the shop. All the people for the village come gather dey look. My second son tall, him say make he siddon under the fan because e dey cool there. After chop finish, he forget say fan dey on top. As he stand up, the fan just slice him head comot, blood full everywhere for ground."

I remember that day—the way mama scream, the whole village gather, people dey shout, "Jesu!"

My grandpapa voice quiver small as he talk am, e eye just dey far, like say e dey see that memory again. E adjust him cap, shake head, and sigh deep, the pain of that day still dey touch am, even though him no like to show. My grandma just hold her wrapper tight, mouth dey tremble, eyes shine with tears wey no fall.

The old beggar come talk again, him voice cold like harmattan breeze, "That your pikin still dey inside this shop. By midnight today, him go come out cause wahala. Una better prepare."

Na so fear hold everybody for inside shop. Even the pepper seller wey dey near window begin shift body small, e be like say breeze just blow reach her heart. I remember as my small brother duck under counter, dey whisper 'Jesu o!' for corner. The air thick, no leaf fit shake outside. Mama Nkechi cross her finger for back, whisper, “Orisa protect us o.”

As the beggar talk finish, thunder just tear everywhere.

Thunder tear sky like Sango dey vex, zinc roof jump, even goat for backyard shout. The thunder loud so tay, window for shop vibrate. My mind run back to old stories dem dey tell for village—say when thunder roar for such time, na ancestors dey talk. E remain make ground open.

Sky just dark anyhow, cold breeze begin blow, the thing cold reach bone.

Goosebumps full my body like cold yam porridge for morning. You fit hear teeth dey knock for people's mouth. Rain dey threaten but e never start.

My grandpapa come frown, talk with worry, "Old man, na this shop we dey take survive o. Abeg, show us road."

E voice heavy, pride no dey there again. He shift him stool closer to the beggar, both palms open as if to beg for blessing. For Yoruba land, to ask stranger for help na big thing, but when spirit matter enter, even elder go bend small.

The beggar narrow him eye, comot one kind red paper from him pocket, talk for low voice, "Paste this thing for the beam. Put one bowl of clean water. No matter wetin you hear for night, no come downstairs. Hide for upstairs till day break. When morning reach, check the water. If e never change colour, wahala don finish."

He hold the paper with two fingers, as if e dey avoid the thing touch am well. The red paper get marks like old shrine prayer, but e dirty, e be like e don waka many miles for road.

As he drop this one, the beggar waka go.

He just turn, no look back, e leg dey drag sand as e waka. Rain begin spray for outside, e just use wrapper cover head, waka comot into darkness. Nobody talk for some seconds, even the shop cat wey like to disturb, just quiet.

My grandpapa and grandma look each other. My grandma come ask with fear, "Old man, you believe wetin that beggar talk so?"

She dey wring her hand, her gold wedding ring dey shine under lantern. Voice small, like say she dey talk to herself. For our house, if grandma begin fear, all of us go begin fear.

My grandpapa just frown, answer am, "This kind thing, better make you believe pass say you no believe."

He shake head as he talk am, then spit for ground small, sign say him no wan wahala pass that one. For Yoruba, if elder talk so, no argue.

As he talk finish, he paste the red paper for the beam.

He use small gum, press am for the thick wood beam. Everybody watch am, even our neighbour, Mama Folake, peep from window, her eyes wide like she dey watch Alarinjo play.

That paper red no be small—red like blood, e just dey look wicked.

E shine for lantern light, almost dey glow. I swallow spit, the thing fear me.

Boom! Another thunder hit, glass for shop dey shake.

The glass door bounce, lantern light shake, oil nearly pour. My grandma hug herself tighter.

After the thunder, rain just begin pour like say heaven dey vex.

The rain wey follow na serious wahala—e loud, e slap zinc roof like drummers for Sango festival. Water begin enter gutter, noise full everywhere.

My grandma talk, "Old man, rain too heavy, nobody go come. Make we close shop early."

Her voice weak, eyes dey red, as if sleep dey pull her but fear dey chase am too. Na so she begin pack groundnut inside nylon.

My grandpapa check wall clock, talk, "Na just nine o'clock. E too early to close. Make we wait small."

He tap the old wall clock two times, time still show nine. For his mind, maybe customer fit still come, maybe na fear dey make everybody head dey hot.