Chapter 3 #2
I’d known this case was going to take a while, if only because of the strangeness of the call I’d received.
Whoever—or whatever—had called me hadn’t wanted to admit how they’d gotten my number; it’s something I’m used to, so I hadn’t questioned it.
Nigerians are generally superstitious people, but intentionally seeking out an oerhwu is treated not just like a moral failure, but as though you’re contacting the devil itself.
Admitting they would stoop so low as to go searching for a native doctor ironically seems more shameful and taboo than the act of asking said practitioner for their assistance.
There’s something desperately wrong with my house, and you’re the only one who can fix it.
Again, not unusual. Nigerians don’t like airing their business out to strangers over the phone, and especially not to one who’s a witch.
So, I have three options. One; the shannko, for whatever reason, does not want to talk to me at this time.
Two; the shannko has somehow been blocked from communicating with me and has in turn locked me in the house until it finds a way to impart its message, or three; whatever is blocking the shannko’s communication is the very thing keeping me trapped. I’m really hoping it’s option one.
I think back to my arrival, to the figure I’d seen briefly in the upstairs window. If the old woman is the shannko, she must be someone who’d either died here a long time ago, or who’d at least once owned the house; the eshé is too firmly and deeply rooted to belong to a wandering spirit.
My mind inevitably turns to Genevieve, how it had felt to hear her voice again after so long—
I frown, dimly registering the words she’d actually said.
Who had she been talking to? She’d claimed she’s the only one here, and I’d believed her. I still do.
Maybe she’d been talking to the shannko. My pulse speeds up. If that were the case, it’s obvious why she’d lie.
My breathing is erratic as I move around the room, closing the curtains.
Nigerian society and its bigotry had been the excuse I’d shamelessly clung to when I’d let Genevieve go.
But the truth is, as our friendship had strengthened and my love for her had deepened, I’d cared less and less about society and what they might think.
The fear of discovery had seemed inconsequential in the face of my sheer desire.
I’d found myself wanting, so badly, to be selfish. To stop thinking and just live.
I could’ve made juju to protect us. I could’ve made the eyes of whoever might’ve caused us harm slide right over us. I’d been given this gift by my ancestors; why couldn’t I use it for me? For us?
But it hadn’t just been about my ability to connect to and harness the eshé. If only.
It had been about my other … “gift”.
How I’d begun to suspect something about that “gift”, something that had subconsciously held me back—that had strangled me with fear and a premature sorrow, left me sitting still in that crowded terminal, staring into space as Genevieve had boarded her bus home on that early morning, and I’d watched her leave, taking my heart right with her.
I’d come home, and I’d still held onto useless hope until graduation. Until I’d had my phone out, and somehow, I’d known.
I was too late. Genevieve was gone. I’d lost her. And I’d thought, with all the secrets resting heavily on my shoulders, perhaps it was best to let her go.
When my mother had eventually corroborated my suspicions, I’d told myself I’d made the right decision.
The less attachments I had, the better I’d fare in the long-run.
If I’d let myself—
If I’d let her—
What would happen tomorrow?
And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? How would I survive it when—
Stop. Stop. Stop.
The loneliness I’ve felt all my life—only exacerbated after my mother had confirmed my worst fears—rears its ugly head once more.
Oh, how easy it had been to stand firmly in my convictions when I hadn’t had to see Genevieve face to face. How easy it had been to trick myself into believing time and distance had dulled the sharp edge of my ardour.
I try to remind myself I’m not here for her. I’m not here for us. I’m here on business, and coming clean is a necessity so I can properly do my job.
The thought makes my skin itch and the back of my mouth taste like blood and dirt.
My mother won’t approve. She dislikes when I “introduce” myself to people who haven’t specifically been referred, or aren’t already in the know. Unsurprisingly, the Venn diagram of those particular people is a circle.
Then again, she hasn’t approved of the way I’ve been handling the family business since I’d been given the reigns, so to speak, but all she can honestly do is complain.
How does she expect us to grow with the same dusty client list from way back when?
The older generation of Oronariode women have always been too old-fashioned.
They can consider this yet another modern upgrade.
I need to tell Genevieve I’m an oerhwu so I can easily figure out what brought me here and why.
If that means I get to lift one secret off my chest—that I get to blow apart at least one wall standing between me and the love of my life, I’m considering it a bonus.