She was in Dan Fodio House, named for Sultan Usman Dan Fodio of Sokoto. Kambirinachi knew of Dan Fodio from before before. She’d played with his dazzling Fulani Muses—most Muses are dazzling; that is how they inspire. They shared stories of his sheer brilliance, throwing around the term “revolution” quite a bit, but Kambirinachi was preoccupied with his poetry. She started to remember, she laughed about it quietly, and then she stopped, for fear that she would incite a visit from the Muses, her old friends. It had been too long now, and they might condemn her choice to live out this fragile human life. No, they certainly would; it was an unnatural thing.
The thing she loved, the thing she knew would help her manage the waves of tedium interspersed with the angsty melodrama and cruelty of teenage girls, was art class. And Mr Obasa, the junior school art teacher. Kambirinachi patiently sat through forty-five minutes of art history and theory so that she could unleash her mind in the half hour of drawing practice. In still life, she would follow Mr Obasa’s instructions: “Draw what is in front of you.”
It took several classes for Kambirinachi to remember that the things she saw in front of her were not always apparent to others. Not everyone could see the rot before the rot, growing in small scaly patches around the large green and yellow mangoes arranged on the fabric-draped stool. That kind of decay told Kambirinachi that the person who picked the fruit, whoever they were, had a head full of ill intention. But Mr Obasa appreciated her “imagination.” He was impressed by her talent. Only eleven and she had a distinct style, somewhat bizarre and vaguely disturbing but distinct, nonetheless.
AUNTY ANULI LIVED IN A SMALL TWO-BEDROOM FLAT on the ground floor of one of the several bedraggled five-storey blocks of flats in the school staff quarters. She lived with her husband, Ugo, and their six-year-old son, Junior. The three of them slept on the queen bed in the master bedroom, and they used the second room to store all the foodstuffs that overflowed from the kitchen cabinets, some old furniture, and a navy blue and red portmanteau filled with sequined George wrappers and embroidered silks from their wedding a decade ago. The day before Kambirinachi’s arrival, Aunty Anuli asked Ugo to cram as much of their things as possible into the cluttered closets and stack the rest against the wall to make room for the new twin mattress she had bought for her strange niece.
Kambirinachi was grateful to be sleeping at Aunty Anuli’s place instead of boarding on the other side of campus, where if you weren’t claimed by a senior student as a school daughter, you could be awoken before everything alive in the world to fetch bucket after bucket of water for the seniors in your dormitory. Kambirinachi still had to fetch water some mornings, when there was no power for the water pumps. Three full buckets: one for the kitchen, one for Junior, and one for herself. She was slow, but Aunty Anuli never complained.
The thing is that Anuli was afraid of the girl. Even though Ikenna had stopped referring to the child as an Ọgbanje, Anuli could not surrender the thought. She was a pious woman, insisting that her husband and son join her at the crack of dawn in prayer and devotion. On the second or third morning of prayer, she caught Kambirinachi with a vacant look in her wide-open eyes, mumbling something indecipherable under her breath. Maybe she was only praying, but Anuli found it unnerving and decided it was best to leave the girl alone. Best not to anger the thing.
Kambirinachi let the month blur by so that when Visiting Day arrived, she burst with joy at the sight of her father’s face and threw herself into his arms. For Ikenna, the distance had made her fonder of her strange child. Kambirinachi tried to commit every single detail of the visit to her knotty, mosaicked memory, so that when the day was over, when her parents had driven back to Abeokuta, and the fear started to slither into her mind, beckoning the voices to join in, she could go back and savour a particular moment. Like sitting in the pickup, on her father’s bony lap, her mother smiling, and the taste of Mr Bigg’s fried rice and chicken in her mouth.
Taiye
HOME FROM THE AIRPORT, Taiye retreated to the kitchen to let Mami, Kehinde, and Farouq embrace. Things felt a bit tense, a bit like all the sweetness was a trick, and a rage would rise up soon enough. Though their mother’s rage hadn’t reared its head since Taiye had been home.
In the kitchen, Taiye checked on the browned pieces of curried chicken roasting on a tray in the oven. Realizing she’d forgotten to stop by the Falomo market to buy tinned tomatoes, she decided to make do with whatever was in the cupboard: maybe palm oil, maybe crayfish, maybe some efirin. Perfect for native jollof, actually.
Rummaging through the cupboards brought to mind a former lover, Kessie, with whom jollof rice had been a topic of heated contention. Kessie was a stubborn woman from Cape Coast, Ghana, whose hedonistic hunger matched Taiye’s near perfectly; their perversions complemented each other’s gorgeously. They’d dated one stunning London summer and allowed things to peter out in early autumn when Kessie went back to school in Leeds. “Dated” is a bit of an overstatement; they’d slept together, frequently, for four months. For Kessie, it was entirely physical. In her words, she “wasn’t a lesbian or anything …” She had just been “bored with men,” and Taiye was “convincing in her advances.” Though it was she who came on to Taiye. But Taiye wasn’t concerned with the details; their ridiculous chemistry had been enough for her. They’d had many Nigerian jollof versus Ghanaian jollof arguments, but Kessie despised cooking and could never defend her claim. So Taiye always won.
Former lovers aside, this is how you make native jollof rice, or, in Efik, iwuk edesi. Because you forgot to buy tinned tomatoes, but you promised your family jollof rice. Everyone knows that you do not casually break promises of jollof rice and survive unscathed to tell the tale. You will need two cups of rice, preferably long-grain white rice, but really, any type of rice will do. You will also need a quarter cup of palm oil, some smoked fish—eja osan would be your best bet—one large onion, a half cup of dried prawns, ground peppers, two tablespoons of ground dried crayfish, one tablespoon of puréed tomato, a small bunch of chopped efirin, half a tablespoon of salt, and a cup of beef stock or two bouillon cubes.
Taiye washed and set the rice to boil until it was nearly fully cooked. She poured the palm oil into a hot pan and let it smoke and settle before adding the sliced onions. She added the tomato and pepper purée, the crayfish, the smoked fish, the bouillon cubes, and some water. Then she put the lid on the pot and let the stew bubble and reduce. The aroma eh, the depth of flavour that crayfish adds to any dish is incredible. Taiye checked on the chicken again and turned the oven off.
Kambirinachi shuffled into the kitchen. Her socked feet muffled her steps, but Taiye knew her mother’s smell.
“So, madame chef,” Kambirinachi said, perching herself on the edge of the counter, “did I do well with the chicken?”
“You did well, Ma.” Taiye smiled and turned to wash her hands.
“I’m sure your brother-in-law is handsome under that bush he has on his face. Do you think that is his normal look?” Kambirinachi tried to appear sombre, but the smile in her voice gave her away.
Taiye burst out laughing and doubled over at the sink. “You know what? I have no idea, but abeg don’t ask him that.”
“Well, I’m just wondering what kind of charm he has if that’s what he is carrying on his face.”
“Oh my God, Mami!”
“Anyway, I hope he eats normal food.”
“I’m sure he eats normal food.”
“I