How to be an ogbanje
Photo: Daniel Mtombosola
When you were five, you stole money from your mother’s favourite handbag, the one with colour patterns that reminded you of Joseph’s coat. This handbag, always securely locked in her wardrobe, was only brought out on Saturday evenings to be cleaned for church service the next day.
When your mother flogged you that evening, she said it wasn’t just about the money. It was that you stole right in the middle of collection, in the presence of God and his people. She had gone to the altar, and you knew she would take a while. She was the most religious person you knew; her every movement in church was peppered with drama: the serene look worn for communion—her eyes squeezed shut, her whole tongue sticking out and recoiling as soon as the white wafer touched it, the loud amen—the time she took before standing for collection, as if she were communing with the Holy Spirit to decide just how much to give, when in fact, she already knew she would be dropping fifty naira in the collection box. With the gait of one who has just communed with the Spirit, she’d stand and dance with all her might, back and forth, until she reached the offering basket where she would drop the fifty naira. She would return to her seat slowly, her countenance depicting heavenly bliss. Anyone watching her had to conclude that she was spirit-filled. But you knew it was all a show: you lived with her for years, and she did not know that you were an ogbanje.
You didn’t always know it yourself either. At first, you didn’t understand how your dreams were so alive. How you felt more at home with the children in those dreams than with your family. How it was only you that could see these children. You waited for your mother to know too, to read the signs. You even told her things before they happened. Like that time you told her that her best friend was going to die. She just looked at you strangely and warned you to never say things like that again. Her friend died three days later.
One: Be born into a family with a need. They must want you. Have been praying for you, in fact.
Before you were born, your mother had had three miscarriages and two dead children: one was a stillbirth and the other lived for only one year. She visited a dibia from a nearby town who told her that it was your father’s brother’s wife who had tied her womb, that she needed to offer sacrifices, and fast for thirty days. He gave her a special oil in a tiny plastic bottle with a red cover. She was to draw circles on her stomach with the oil with specific incantations. And although it took a few years and tonnes of incantation, mixed with doubt and frantic desperation, you came.
It rained the day you arrived. Your father thought it a good omen: rain meant life, cleansing. As your mother pushed and panted, your father was offering libations to his chi. When your cry was heard, he knew that his chi had accepted his prayers. So did the prayer group from your mother’s church who had been kabashing all day. It was in thanksgiving that your father held you and named you Obiageli, the one who came to enjoy. He promised to make sure that you lacked nothing; he vowed to protect you. It never occurred to him that it might be him who needed protection from you. The catechist from your mother’s church also held you and gave you a name. He called you Ekpere because you had been brought to the world through the power of prayers. It didn’t occur to him or your mother or the other members of the prayer group that you would live up to that name. That it would require daily doses of prayer and supplication to keep you.
Two. When you come, don’t come alone. Bring something from the other world that you are tied to. A scar to show you’ve been here before and your iyi uwa. Remember that this iyi uwa must be hidden at all costs. If found and destroyed, you are obligated to live.
It was raining on the day they found out that you were an ogbanje; it had started with a dream. If your mother were honest, she would have admitted that she had always suspected. It was in the birth scar that had been on your hips, exactly where it had been on the child that had come before you—a slash your father had made in tears. It was there in the imaginary friends you spoke to all the time—she dismissed it as something you’d grow out of, but it only got worse. It was in the sudden swellings on your body that disappeared the next day, in how you always seemed to be lost in a trance, in your sudden bouts of illness that always felt to your mother like you had one foot in the afterlife, in your ability to know things before they happened. The signs were all there, but it wasn’t until you had that dream that it became clear as day to her.
On the day you had that dream, you didn’t realize that you were speaking out loud. They wanted you back; you had stayed in this world for too long. Your mother who would often keep vigil over you while you slept had overheard your muttering. In her panic, she woke you up with holy water and anointing oil, sprinkling on you more than was necessary. She told your father who confirmed what they already suspected. You were an ogbanje, and you were being called back.
With her consent, Papa sought Ezenmuo, the priest who treads the lands of the living and the dead. It was Ezenmuo who told them that your iyi uwa had to be dug up. He held your hand as he walked around the compound, promising to get you anything you wanted if you showed him where your iyi uwa was buried. When you showed him, he dug it out as you stood by the side, crying. It was a little piece of clothing with needles and a doll made of straws. He destroyed it, told your mother to give you anything that you asked for and to watch you as you slept that night. He left by dusk, whistling, the clucks of the chicken he had been given complementing his whistles. Those were the last things you heard before you went to bed that night in the bosom of your mother who had a hard time balancing the guilt—for bypassing the church—and the relief that she felt. Her pastor, when she had gone to him, had quoted a bible verse about demons and archaic beliefs and all things being new in Christ.
Three. It is important that you are born in the early 60s or in the era of Okonkwo, the one from Things Fall Apart.
You were born in the 80s. Big mistake. People were already too happy to jump on the bandwagon of Christianity, although they still dabbed into “fetish things” when convenient. Your mother was a convert to Christianity. She wanted options. She wanted children. She had already had three miscarriages and one stillbirth. The traditional ways were not working. So when she became pregnant for the fifth time, she knew the church was her only hope. She would take her two months old child with her for weekly prayer meetings, and although the child died ten months later, your mother remained a Christian. In her mind, that child wouldn’t have lasted that long if it weren’t for the church, so it was best she remained in the church as she hoped for another child. But that didn’t stop her from going to the dibia for oil and incantations. And a few years later, you came.
You are seven now, and there are people coming to the village, bringing with them a new civilization; people who claim that you’re not an ogbanje, that you have “sickle cell”. They claim to have medications for it, and even worse, they are organizing classes to teach people about your kind. But all this is funny to you, and of course, you know they are liars. How can they explain your interactions with the spirit realm? Your dreams? Or the fact that you can see and hear things that normal people can’t see or hear? What about the time you predicted your mother’s best friend’s death? How about what Ezenmuo dug up? What is their explanation for that? To say that you are who you are because of something called genotype is a slap to your face, and tufiakwa if you will be here to watch that happen.
About the Author
Faith Nwani is a writer and student based in Nigeria. Her works have been published in literary platforms such as Afritondo, Kalahari Review. When she is not trying to survive school, she co-hosts a literary podcast called The Writer Sauce. She is presently working on her first book. She can be reached on Instagram (Fideiiii) and on Twitter(FaithyWanny).
