Fate
Photo: Fatola Israel
It was raining outside, and as per her usual tradition, Nnaworo sat with her legs folded underneath her and her back leaning against the cracked wall of her hut. She could hear the patters of feet and the faint murmurs heading toward the quiet compound. As it was dark, she could barely recognize the faces outside when she peered through the window. She sat still, awaiting whatever misfortune would come upon her.
“Smash the door!”
“Drag out the evil thing!”
“Ndagonta, go to my hut and fetch my white cloth.”
“Gbongbo, clear away her belongings from the room. She and her belongings are abominations.”
She had expected this for so long. She knew they would come for her. She had tried to stop this day. Since her husband, Tswanya, died, the whole village had shown her everything but love, accusing her of things she knew nothing about. Parents warned their children about crossing paths with her. She was labelled a witch, accused of killing her husband, Wusagi (the village prettiest damsel), and Sokokpeka (the town crier). To make things worse, she had no child—something that, in the eyes of her detractors, was the ultimate proof of her witchcraft.
“Nnaworo,” yelled Dagba the chief priest, his eyes wide open, full of rage and hate. “You were asked to confess, but you refused. You are hereby banished from Kakpiyi and all the nine neighbouring clans. You are to be locked up in a box and placed on the Gbako river to sail to the land of no return.”
"Eyye re eee! Kasa re eee! Will I ever get out of this misery?" Nnaworo lamented to herself, looking up to her roof as if god lived there, as if she was talking to him. She struck her thighs with her arms as her people did when bad news reached them. She walked, gingerly, to her bed, retrieved a tiny black bag from underneath it, took out a brown bottle that sometime in its past housed a cough syrup, uncorked the bottle, and emptied the content into her mouth. Then she lay on her bed and waited. If she was going to be locked up in a box, it might as well be one that she never has to come out of.
About the author
Muhammad Ndamazhi Aliyu is a Nigerian writer, artist, and photographer. He has a lot of interest in history and metaphysics. He lives in Minna, Nigeria.
