The Shadow Speaker

An excerpt

Prologue

The strength of the wave forced Ejii to inhale deeply as it passed. It smelled of a thousand roses blooming at the same time in the same place for the same reason. She sneezed and looked at her mother and they both pressed closer to each other. It wasn't the end. It was another beginning. But of what?

Chapter 2
The essay

Ejii Ugabe
History Class
"What is History?"
Assignment 3
Thursday, The Seventh Eke Market Day

History is change.

The great change, the change of my father, the change in Kwamfa, the change of my mother, the change in my life, the change of me. The reason anyone wants to write history is to record the big changes that happen. If history is change, then I am definitely a part of it.

The greatest change in my own history was when I was nine years old, when Sarauniya Jaa, the Red Queen of Niger, returned to cut off my father’s head. It is Kwamfa’s most famous and infamous day. I hope this essay will become a sort of historical document in itself.

Kwamfa is a great place because of Jaa. There is only one book written about her but there should be a million. She first came decades ago with her nomads, when Kwamfa was just a tiny dying village. With her leadership, people were able to organize, build and develop. Kwamfa changed from a village to a town. Years later, right after Jaa decided she’d done all she could for Kwamfa and hopped onto her camel and rode back into the Sahara, things changed again… because of my father.

I’ll tell you about him some because there should be history books about him, too. He was of the Wodaabe tribe and very tall. My mother told me that when my father was a child his mother and sisters used to pull his limbs to increase his height. To the Wodaabe people, height is very important for status.

Unlike my father, my mother is dark-skinned and short and believes in peace. And she is of the New Tuareg people. The New Tuareg are a group of ex-Tuareg slaves and those who wish to join them. Jaa is of the Hausa tribe but her nomads were New Tuaregs.

Anyway, my father was wealthy and respected. When he spoke, people listened. My mother said he was born with a "sugared tongue." And because he was beautiful, he’d always been extra popular amongst the women. When he was in his 20s, he was the winner three years in a row of Gerewol, a celebration of and contest between the most handsome men in Niger; it’s one of the biggest Wodaabe traditions. To win three times in a row is unheard of.

“It was those eyes,” my mother told me. “He could make them each go in a different direction at once. The judges loved that. It’s a shame that stupidity took over his heart.”

My parents were friends as children and they fell in love when they got older. Even when he was winning the contests, he refused to take a second wife. My father sold and bought houses for a living but he was most interested in politics. He never missed town meetings, and he was most attentive when Jaa was speaking.

My mother didn’t think anything of it at the time. She also liked politics and attended the meetings with him. She had no idea that my father and his circle of friends took serious issue with Jaa and how she ran things. Sometimes I wonder just how well my mother knew my father. Or maybe there were things that my mother chose to ignore.

Anyway, the day Jaa left Kwamfa, my father left too. All he told my mother was not to worry. He returned a month later a changed man. He rode into town on a bejeweled camel and he wore a golden caftan and turban and an equally golden smile on his handsome face. My father was somewhat light in skin tone, the color of tea and cream. But that day, my mother told me, he was much darker from traveling in the sun, and it made him even more beautiful. More freshly brushed camels marched behind him, ridden by his close friends. They threw naira notes to the gathering crowd and the crowd gathered faster.

"Jaa is gone, but no need to worry!” he shouted in his booming voice as he smiled and winked at the women in the crowd. “In her absence, I can make sure Kwamfa remains the great town Jaa built! Make me your chief and you won’t have to worry about greedy shady men destroying her council!"

 My father was playing off of people’s fears of change, that without Jaa things would crumble and become corrupt as they had been before Jaa’s arrival. In a matter of months, Jaa’s Kwamfa had its first chief, my father. More months later, after throwing a lot more money around, flashing his smile, making sure he had the right people on his side, after he’d made even more promises and silenced Jaa’s most devoted devotees with money or threats, my father was able to make a lot of…changes.

 This was all before I was born.

 My mother said that before, when Kwamfa was Jaa’s town, everyone learned how to shoot a gun, ride a camel, take apart and rebuild a computer, etc. That back then, girls and women who had meta-abilities were allowed to hone their skills and take lessons from elders. My father put an end to all this.

“Women and girls are too beautiful to dirty their hands with such things,” he told the people with a soft chuckle. The men would agree and the women and girls would feel flattered and demurely smile. My father also thought women and girls too beautiful to be seen, so he brought back and enforced the requirement of wearing a burka or veil at all times. And he cut off several food and housing programs, which left many people very poor.

“Once I have put my great design into motion, we won’t need such programs,” he told everyone with a wink.

I was months from being born at this time. My mother said that most people backed my father in his fight against even the smallest crime. Kwamfa was safe, but no place is ever totally crime free. My father wanted perfection. Soon there were public canings, hands and ears being cut off and in the rare cases of murder, public beheadings. All was in the name of Jaa, he constantly said. But Jaa would never have approved of these things.

I was a month from being born when my mother decided to leave my father. She tried to sneak out but he’d caught her. It was the only time she ever talked directly to him about what he was doing.

“Do you really want your daughter to grow up like this?” she asked him, still clutching her bags.

“Nkolika, it’s all falling apart,” my father said. “My way, the old way, is the safest way for our children and women to be protected, for me to protect you and our child. The old way might not be perfect but it’s the best, more durable. You have to give up some things.”

My mother looked at him, chuckled and shook her head. Then she moved past him and that made him angry.

“Get out then!” he shouted for all the neighbors to hear. “You mean less than goat droppings to me! I don’t want you if you can’t support me!” My mother said he had tears in his eyes; that it was the only time she’d ever seen him cry. So maybe he did have a heart. But then again, this was my mother’s version of the story.

I hate thinking about this. She was so desperate to leave him peacefully. He grabbed her bags from her and threw them out the door. Then he pushed her out, too.

“But not hard enough so that I would fall,” she told me. As if that made it any better. What if she’d fallen anyway? She finally told me all this …history last year. I’d been asking for years. All I knew up till then was that over the years, my father didn’t visit me. I had been sure that it was because of me, because I was a shadow speaker. But it had nothing to do with me.

My father didn’t fear Jaa’s wrath. He was so sure that she would never return. My mother watched him become a different man. It must have been so painful for her when, to top it all off, he started marrying more wives. The better to look the part of the “big man.”

He was like one of those wild magicians that go crazy in the storyteller’s stories. Talented, arrogant and always wanting to eat power. The magic and spells that my father used were woven from politics. He had the perfect plan, his “Great Design.” As with all magicians who go wrong, it was bound to come back to him.

It happened during the New Yam Festival, nine years after I was born.

It had been ten years since Jaa had left and my father took over. My father liked to have an opening ceremony where he gave a speech and ate the first piece of yam. The festival was set up in the center of town. There were booths made of raffia where food and jewelry would be sold and performances would take place. As usual, the wrestling match was to be next to the giant monkey bread tree. I’d always wanted to go watch but women and girls had to always wear the burka here. The matches were in the middle of the day under the hottest sun, so, few women ever came to watch.

For his speech, my father made sure that there was a specific spot next to the stage for plenty of journalists. Part of his Great Design was to “put Kwamfa on the map.” They brought their digital cameras and the footage and photos would be posted on the popular Nigeria Net News, broadcast from down south in Nigeria, and talked about on the net radio stations. My mother said that Jaa would have been disgusted, for she viewed the Yam Festival as a private Kwamfa affair.

A stage was set in the center of all the booths and festival spaces for my father to give his usual speech. A high golden top covered it and around it were several bushes and a palm tree. The stage floor was covered with a thick red cloth, Jaa’s color, and decorated with soft red and gold pillows. The air already smelled of palm oil, the pungent aroma of pepper soup, sweat and cologne. It was supposed to be a fun day.

I sat on some of the gold pillows with my half brothers and sisters. I wore my yellow veil over my long blue dress. The veil was of the type that I knew my father would have approved of if he ever turned my way. It may sound strange but I wanted to be there.

“Look at this goat girl who thinks she should be here,” Baturiya, my half-sister, said to my half-brother Azumi. They were two and three years younger than me. Baturiya must have known that she had whispered this loudly enough for me to hear. She screwed up her nose. “I hate smelling her.”

Azumi looked at me and frowned. I wanted to slap the frown off his face. I hated them both.

“I don’t know why she comes,” Baturiya said sucking her crooked teeth. “She should be ashamed.”

“She’ll accept scraps,” my half-brother Fadio said, his eight-year-old face twisted like a bitter old man’s. It was Fadio whom I hated most. He was the meanest.

My mother sat in the audience. Even if she hadn’t divorced my father, she still would have refused to sit with the other wives who were all closer to my age than hers.

Only during public appearances did he acknowledge me as his daughter by sending a messenger to tell me my “presence was demanded.”

During these events, he’d either ignore me or look at me with a disgusted face. A year earlier, he’d pulled me aside during the Yam Festival celebrations.

“How old are you now?” he asked.

“Eight,” I said. He’d never really asked me anything before. I remember, staring into his eyes and for a moment, just for a moment, him staring into mine, too. He stepped back, maybe not liking what he saw in them.“In a year or two, you’ll be of age,” he said. “My cook’s son has agreed to marry you. Be glad someone will.”

But I wasn’t glad. I was horrified. I knew my father’s cook’s son. Aside from the fact that he was more than twice my age, he was known for harassing women and refusing to learn recipes from his father. I had been betrothed, and to a cook’s laziest son. That is the kind of man my father, the Chief, was. I never told my mother that this was what my father planned for me, and I never will. I didn’t and still don’t want to hurt her. It was a heavy secret to carry, but I did, still do.

Though I looked more like my mother, the whole town knew I was his daughter and he’d have looked stupid pretending that I wasn’t of his blood. “Is it a wonder that she has those strange shadow speaker eyes?” people would say. “Look at what her father could do with his! Moving them about like that.” So his solution was to marry me off as soon as possible and be rid of me, make me someone else’s responsibility.

My father knew the power and the rules of marriage. That’s why, right after he’d banished my mother from his house, he went on to marry five very young wives. I think he married so many to spite my mother, too.

As I sat there on stage, waiting for my father to finish his Yam Festival speech and trying to ignore my half- siblings, a light blue scarab beetle climbed up my sandal. I brought out my magnifying glass to look more closely at it. I liked insects, especially this kind of scarab, so I always carried the magnifying glass in my pocket. As I looked, I knew to tilt the magnifying glass with great care. If I moved it in the wrong direction, the insect would fry.

Sometimes these kinds of blue scarabs will spontaneously multiply. My mother says that these ones weren’t native to earth; that they come from that other place. Anyway, for thousands of years, scarabs have been a sign for rebirth here in Niger. Little did I know that that scarab was giving me a sign; I was about be reborn.

I dropped my magnifying glass when I felt a rhythm vibrate through the stage, like a heart beat…maybe even a little like a tiny version of the earthquake two weeks ago, now that I think of it.

“In the new year,” my father was droning. He was draped in the red cape that he always wore for speeches. He’d just broken the four lobed New Yam kola nut and given the pieces to the elders present. “As chief of Kwamfa, I will make sure elections run smoothly, and that every man running has his say. In the name of our nurturing queen, Sarauniya Jaa, I will…”

“You dare speak my name?!” said a voice high-pitched like the sound of a bamboo flute. “You dare say your words are in the name of Jaa?!”

A whisper flew through the audience and the soft thump of camel feet on sand grew closer. With my peripheral vision, I saw my half-siblings all running in different directions. I was too afraid to move. I looked at my father. His eyes were wide and his upper lip quivered as he stared at his fleeing audience. From somewhere nearby, behind a building, came the sound of galloping camels.

“Kwamfa is mine now,” I heard my father shout, his voice sounding as if he were being strangled. “You won’t take it… you witch!”

There were shouts of surprise, as people jumped and threw themselves out of the way. On the side of the stage, journalists continued recording and snapping pictures. My mother remained where she was, her eyes wide. A few steps behind her stood my half-brother Fadio. Only my father and I were onstage. Even his wives had run off! Then I saw her, as they came around a corner.

I have seen many camels. People ride them and use them to carry burdens. They smell like desert wind and have long eyelashes, rough fur, soft lips and knobby knees. They roar with protest when mounted and many of them can speak various human languages, usually to complain. But I have never seen camels of this size. I don’t know how such a small woman (at the age of nine, I was as tall as her) was able to climb onto that kind of beast, let alone ride it. Her two husbands were not much taller, their camels equally as huge.

The camels wore no gold or silver and had no saddles or reigns. And their eyes were wild. But they traipsed through the fleeing crowd fast and with care. Not one person was trampled. I could see Jaa’s face clearly through her sheer red burka as she approached. She was very very dark, her skin almost blue; like mine. She had a smile on her round face, just like in the stories.

Once everyone was out of the way, she picked up speed and unsheathed her sword as she barked something to her husbands. I speak Hausa, French, Igbo, Yoruba, English, Efik, and Arabic. But I couldn’t understand the language she spoke. Her husbands stopped their camels but she continued, with her sword held high.

I gasped.

My father’s mouth was in the shape of an “o,” a guttural grunt coming from his throat that was probably meant to be a scream, or perhaps words. He swayed slightly, paralyzed with indecision, awe and fear.

Jaa’s camel leapt on stage.

At the same moment, the scarab beetle landed right on my shoulder. It made a soft popping sound as it multiplied into two, the second beetle appearing on my other shoulder. But I didn’t brush them off. I was barely even aware of them because of what happened next.

Shhhhoooomp! With a swipe, she took his head right off.

For a moment, everything around me looked as if it were made of metal, shiny silver, gold, copper. I felt sick and there was a pain in my chest. I stretched my eyes and mouth wide, all the blood rushing to my head, but no scream came from my throat. And there was something else, something…

I’m still disgusted with myself to this day. I…

I was glad.

I was relieved, so happy with what she did.

I could have screeched with joy.

Finally, I thought. He deserved it! Even in the midst of being appalled, I felt this way!

Something is wrong with me, o!

The camera flashes made the scene even more gruesome, lighting up the shade and highlighting the horror. So many people witnessed it all. I felt as if I would die. Someone screamed but I was only focused on Jaa. I could not look at my father. Her camel had leapt off the other side of the stage. Now it had climbed back up and was approaching me!

I still didn’t move, though at this time I was shaking. I heard a crunch. Her camel had stepped on my magnifying glass. She reached down and pulled off my yellow veil. I felt naked in my blue dress.

“Are you his daughter?” she asked me in Igbo.

A red flower fell from the sky, bounced on my head and fell to my feet. Even in my horror and terror and happiness, I couldn’t deny who my father was. And as my terrible relief began to fade, I felt dreadfully guilty because, well, he was my father.

“Y-y-yes,” I said. Tears fell from my eyes. I sniffed and tasted blood. My nose was bleeding.

“What is your name?”

“Ejii Ugabe,” I said. I could feel the warm trail of blood creeping from my nose toward my lips.

She chuckled. Then brought forth her sword. I took in a sharp breath still trembling. But she didn’t take off my head. She flicked each of the scarab beetles off my shoulders. They caught themselves in midair and flew up and away.

“Chief Ugabe, indeed,” she said. “I hope you are nothing like him.” She squinted at me, her head cocked, as if she was assessing me for something. I just stood there looking at the strange blue eyes of her camel and the smear of my father’s blood on her sword.

Her sword is legendary. It’s made of a green clear metal that people say has no earthly name because it doesn’t come from earth. Rumor has it that the sword’s blade comes from the body of another place called Ginen. People say it smells like rain-soaked dark true soil. It is thin as paper but strong enough to cut diamond without a scratch. I believe all of this.

“Ejii," she said to me. “I realize that you’ll hate me for what I’ve done, but one day you’ll understand why I had to do it. He was like a weed in my garden, a weed’s destructive nature never changes.”

I only stared at her.

“Where is your mother?” she asked, after a moment.

I looked around. People were running and screaming. My half-brother Fadio lay on the ground; he’d passed out. A few people were staring. Jaa’s husbands, Gambo and Buji, their shoulder length dreadlocks swinging as they maneuvered their camels, were shouting for everyone to calm down. Some stopped but few listened. My mother was still standing there, her hands on the stage. I ran and jumped off the edge of the stage and stood in front of her.

“Leave her alone!” I shouted.

Jaa trotted up to me on her camel. I waited, trembling, sure she would raise her sword and behead me and then my mother. Instead, Jaa leaned to the side to see past me and said, “Greetings.”

“It’s a good time for you, Gambo and Buji to return, Sarauniya Jaa,” my mother said, pushing me aside.

“Mama, no,” I whined.

She caught my hand and held it. I looked at her and her face was sad and she wiped tears from her cheek. But they kept coming as she stood there.

Jaa laughed as if my mother were an old friend; no longer did Jaa look like a crazed warrior. I stood there trying to figure out her age, not wanting to glance at my father’s body. Jaa looked both ancient and the age of my mother.

“You will handle this town when I’m next gone,” Jaa told my mother.

My mother nodded, the tears still coming down. Then her shoulders curled and she sobbed. And that is how my mother became Kwamfa’s Councilwoman who answers only to Sarauniya Jaa. My mother is like Merlin to King Arthur, except I’m not sure if my mother is older or younger than Jaa, and Jaa probably has more mystical abilities than my mother.

It’s well known that my father’s head was never found. The bush it rolled under was one of the new type, the carnivorous type. I was the first to start looking for it, minutes later. I was in shock but I had to find it. I tried. I was too late. Those few minutes were enough time for one of these bushes to devour flesh and bone. So my father was buried without his lovely head. The burial ceremony was so big that Kwamfa had to be shut down for the day.

I still have the flower that fell when Jaa spoke to me. I planted it and over the years it has grown into a tree next to my bedroom window. I also still have horrible nightmares about that moment. Sometimes I hear the sound of her camel’s hooves, other times I hear laughing and see my father’s head roll. Other times I see my father and he’s winking at me. He never winked at me when he was alive. But I don’t cry as much anymore.

It’s been five years since all this and so much has changed in Kwamfa. Everything changed. And now there is the earthquake from two weeks. There have been tremors since the great change but nothing that violent, that similar to the huge earthquake that happened on the day of the great change. People are saying all sorts of things about what they think the latest earthquake, did and all of them scary. And there is a static in my ears as the shadows try to tell me something that’s probably earth shattering, as if the earth could endure more shattering.

I think about the mark I want to make on the world, my place in history, and I know that I don’t want to be a councilwoman like my mother, though I respect her career. I want peace but deep down I wonder if I am peaceful, I wonder if I am more like Jaa. I think I want to be more like her. Is that wrong of me since she killed my father?

I think about my father a lot. And how the scarab beetle, the sign of rebirth, landed on me moments before my father’s life was taken. And how it multiplied. And how Jaa in a way gave birth to a second me at that moment. But who knows, maybe I’ll never have the chance to make history because of the way things are going around here. Mrs. Nwabara, you said that we can’t move forward unless we understand the past. Well, I don’t think there is anything from history that can help us all prepare for what’s coming.

 

 

Hyperion Books for Children/Disney Book Group www.hyperionbooksforchildren.com