Tangled at the Root

Chapter 1

The cab crosses the invisible boundary of Ghenelo, and I think, fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have come.

My heartbeat and breathing speed up as we go deeper into the village, through the scanty centre, and past a mix of mud huts and concrete bungalows.

Ghenelo might literally be sun-kissed, but, unlike its name, there’s a barely perceptible darkness here, settled in the air like a thin veil of ash.

The streets are practically empty, most of the villagers perched just on the edges of the open doorways to their homes, peeking out like the head of a tortoise that preferred the comfort and safety of its shell.

A woman walking down the side of the road stops and tugs sharply on her child’s arm to pull them close, her stare oddly blank as she waits for the cab to pass them by.

I don’t look out the windows again.

I can’t stop thinking, what if—? My heart pounds like a deyé oerhwu’s drum, beating out a rhythm that sounds like a premonition.

Jesus Christ, I’m being ridiculous.

She hated it here, I remind myself. She’s not here, Rosemary.

She won’t be here.

Stop fucking thinking about her.

I tap my darkened phone screen, and try to wrangle my mind into matching colourful candies.

We’re in the middle of the forest when I notice the cab is slowing down. I glance surreptitiously at the driver as the beat-up vehicle jerks to a stop, thinking through the quickest incantations for protection and disorientation.

“I’m sorry, ma, but I won’t be going any further than this.”

I blink, the sound of the spells stolen from my parted lips. “I don’t understand.”

Activating the charm on my glasses reveals nothing; the road ahead is practically identical to the part of it we’ve already travelled—inadequately paved tar cracked and overrun with carpets of dirt and grass.

The bracketing trees, which seem to have been well taken care of once upon a time—at least enough to be welcoming—give the same air of wild abandonment as the deeper parts of the surrounding forest.

The driver shakes his head. At some point, the rosary that had been hanging from the rear view mirror made its way around his right hand, its cross hidden in his clenched fist.

“For say I had known this was where you were going, I wouldn’t have accepted your ride.” The switch to pidgin tells me how serious he is.

“But—”

“By the time I realised, we were already here. Please, ma. Abeg. I cannot—I will not be going further than this.”

I glance out the windows again, one hand clutching my phone, the other the handles of the large handbag resting in my lap.

The sun is going to set soon. I know I should’ve left earlier, but I’d let my anxiety take over, as if arriving while the sun had been high—its blinding light banishing any and all shadows I could hide in—would’ve increased my chances of running into her.

When I know she’s not here. I’d only taken this case precisely for that reason.

My mouth opens, then closes. There’s no point asking what he knows. Small village; possibly ancient, possibly haunted house sitting alone in the middle of the forest. I got it.

I settle the payment and watch as the cab reverses down the single road, leaving me standing in the middle of it with my handbag, an old trunk, and a medium-sized duffel bag.

The forest is a little too quiet. There’s sound—skittering critters and chirping birds and the rustling of small animals; just enough noise not to raise the suspicion of the common folk.

But the darkness I’d sensed in the heart of the village is here, too, lingering like a wraith in the spaces between the trees.

I murmur a quick incantation to activate the beads in my hair for protection, then I’m stuffing the duffel properly on top of my trunk, swinging the long strap of my handbag over my shoulder, and beginning to trudge my way down. Thank God I’d worn my crocs.

The house looks deserted. Grass has grown in the connections between the worn paving stones leading up to the gates, breaking and stealing their way through the cracks of some of the weaker slabs.

The fence—probably once painted white but is now a dull, washed cream with darkened spots of black and green algae—might as well be there for decoration for how badly it’s fallen apart.

To the right, a single step could take me over the collapsed blocks, like a giant hammer had been taken to that section of the wall.

To the left, a crumbling part of the fence sits at about hip-height.

Not that any of that matters, because the rusty, black iron gate is currently wide open.

Even from here, outside of the compound’s perimeter, I feel the pulse of an ancient and strangely familiar eshé—a vision of a great tree with deep, winding roots.

Though fainter, possibly because I’m standing just out of reach, it’s the same feeling and image I get when I’m in the heart of the forest in Maraya, my hometown, where most of my ancestors are buried.

On the surface, it doesn’t seem particularly off or malicious, though not all cleansings are requested for polluted or poisoned eshé. Sometimes, it’s as simple as having a spirit who’s a little too friendly and the client just wants it to stop bothering them.

This eshé feels like air trapped underneath a glass bowl—seemingly innocuous through the clear container, but every other moment, a whiff of it escapes, bringing with it the faint smell of rot.

I take my glasses off and use the heel of my hand to mop the sweat from my temples and brow. It’s going to rain soon, the promising weight of it sinking heavily into the already humid air.

I activate the charm as I replace my lenses, just in case.

It’s shoddy work because of the metal—my fault for getting the frames for the aesthetic.

When the idea of charming them had come to me, it had felt like a waste to replace them with a better material just for one silly enchantment.

I’d also taken it as a challenge—one I’d, admittedly, only marginally passed.

It takes a few tries before the charm activates, but nothing that could’ve been hidden—or hiding—reveals itself.

Built into the fence to my right, the gateman’s house looks just as forgotten as the rest of the compound. Its broken window lies uselessly open, the cracked panels covered in a thick layer of dust.

A hundred-metre-long driveway leads straight to and encircles the main house, a two-storey thing with once-white walls as washed as the fence, maroon trim, and a pitched, dark red roof. It’s a typical Nigerian abode, but seems to loom in the distance, like it’s watching me.

The curtains of the first-floor window on the right flutter.

An elderly, dark-skinned woman stands there, her form so eerily still I think she must be a cardboard cutout.

At the same time, I’m hit with a stronger gust of that terrible rot—damp and must and the eye-watering stench of a decomposing animal.

I recoil, instinctively holding my breath. I’d barely blinked, but the woman is gone. Reactivating the charm on my lenses shows me nothing. Inhaling tentatively, and then more deeply reveals nothing either, as though, for that one single moment, I’d imagined the strength of that awful smell.

I give it some time; perhaps the woman is my mysterious client on her way down to meet me.

Two minutes pass. I don’t get even a hint of the smell of decay, no matter how deeply I breathe. If it hadn’t been so strong just then—the subtle, earlier whiffs of it so obvious—I’d have thought it hadn’t existed at all.

I wait a minute more before fumbling in my handbag for my phone. There’s shockingly some service in this desolate place, thank God, even if it’s only a single measly bar.

“The phone number you have dialled does not exist in our database. Please check the number and try again.”

Scowling at the screen, I’m about to do exactly as the automated voice instructed when there’s a subtle shift in the house’s eshé. My gaze flies up, an incantation for protection and the spell to activate my glasses leaving my lips on reflex.

The eshé contracts sharply, suctioning the air around me like a hoover.

As suddenly as it comes, the pressure is gone.

Then I hear her.

“What do you even want?” The question is spat with frustrated exhaustion, and I’m moving without entirely meaning to.

My legs—my body—have gotten a mind of their own, leading me stumbling down the driveway until I’m standing at the base of the steps leading up to the veranda.

She appears from the left side of the house, switching from cursing in English to cursing in Ibiiom.

I lay eyes on her, and ten years coalesce into a single heartbeat.

It feels like, only a moment ago, she’d told me we needed space.

It could’ve been a moment ago when I’d watched her leave.

When I’d let her, even as every fibre of my being had known her request had been her subtle way of telling me goodbye.

My tongue glues itself to the roof of my mouth. The Delta heat, already sweltering, seems even more so, my skin blistering hot. On the outside, I’m a statue. On the inside, I’m trembling like a newborn calf. My chest is expanding and contracting, yet I don’t seem to be taking in any air.

When she notices me, recognises me, she stops in her tracks, her pretty eyes growing wide, full, unpainted lips parting.

“Rosemary.” She breathes my name—still—like it’s something beloved.

“Genevieve.” Her name falls from my mouth with everything I’d fooled myself into thinking I’d forgotten.

Her thirtieth birthday had been a few days ago. I’d spent it trying so hard not to think about her she’d been all I could think about—buried in work, perfecting new herbal remedies for my clients, while memories of her hovered like a stubborn ghost over my shoulder.