The Rebirth and Curse of the Blue-Eyed Women

The filmy figures descend and approach a huge African teak. Iraye tree. Scores of
them really. At the foot of the tree, they kneel and kiss the buttress roots. They
rise in unison and singly begin to embrace the trunk, to gain entry through an
invisible niche. Vanish. One after the other. All of them.
Soon, like birds; white birds, they emerge and fly into the new town. The tree has
played its role. Host for the …….
YEAR 1920
MAY 22.
It is night in the old town of Oke Idanre. A white-bread town in the western part
of Nigeria. The thunderstorms are louder and more strident this year. They seem
to shake the seven sacred hills. I can imagine the clunk of their chain.
A child is born into the house of Adegbemile, delivered by the wrinkled old hands
of Iyaganku; the ancient midwife. The poor baby’s cry resonates within the
ancient hills and into the night. It dissipates into the innocent new town of Odo-
ode at the foot of the hills.
Each year, a child is the spirit-consecrate for the Orosun festival. Apart from six
others. The offerings for the gods. Ogun is chief of them all. One for each hill.
Adegbemile’s son is the innocent soul, yet, just one of the “meats” for this season.
Others would come from…….
The long procession of white-clad maidens walks slowly towards the hills this
misty morning. Silent but for the punctuating intrusion of their collective breath of
…… perhaps despair. Unsure of the outcome or ultimate nature of the ancients
today. It is the first procession of purity to initiate and consecrate this year’s
festivities.
At the first step …. They stop to gaze around the Iraye tree as if for the last time.
All thirty-five of them. Six will not return. The rest … twenty-eight will descend the
six hundred and eighty-two steps at dusk to become the spirit-mediums and
traditional midwives.

They begin the tortuous climb now … with diligence …. their eyes fixed as with a
trance.
Close to the summit, they continued upwards even when the six choice maidens
were no longer in their midst. The chosen ones were already engaged in ritual sex
with the king in his sacred chambers; rooms carved out on the inselberg.
The others progress, oblivious of the screams of the girls whose maidenheads are
being violated. Until death. Making up the tally of seven. At nightfall the bodies
were dumped in the valley and the Arun River. Two and four. Respectively.
The harvest has been brought in. Orosun a gbè wá o o!!!
PRESENT DAY.
YEAR 2020
Sitting some yards from each other, they gaze curiously at themselves as if drawn
by a certain force or telepathy. Something magnetic. Their foreheads furrow as
they scrutinize each other. There is a strange golden glow to those eyes. All four.
Leaving their plates half-empty, the three girls approach the table of the fourth.
Her large expressive eyes remain rivet on the approaching trio.
She has company but with a flicker from those eyes, her companions vacate the
table as if sensing a strange quality in the atmosphere of the students’ cafeteria.
They arrive the table, pause for some seconds, still with the appraisal.
She nods and the three sit with their hands flat on their thighs. Still gazing.
Solemnly now. Then she smiles at them. She is Eniola; a terror to lecturers and
students. At least to those unfortunate to be teaching and learning in her
department. Agronomy.Arrogant, fanciable, mischievous, sarcastic, brilliant, et
cetera, et cetera. These words aptly describe her.
They give a response in kind. The leadership is established there and then. Those
blue eyes also establish kinship.
“ Hi, girls. Glad to meet,” she tweets flashing a flawless dentition. Others merely
nodded.
YEAR 2000.
In the dead of night, Ogungbemi sneaks out of the ancient clay and mortar house,
clinging tightly to a large bundle. Furtively, she keeps looking over shoulders as

the night swallows her. A listening ear would hear the whine from the aso-oke
bundle. The cloud shifts and rays of light pick the glittering gold specks in the
eyes of three wriggling tots. They were blue. There comes a thunderclap. No
wind. No warning of a storm building up in the sky. She bounces the babies in her
hands unconsciously. Maternal. The tots become calm. They understand the
urgency. The cloud shifts back. She is fifty years old and wondering about what
her lust would produce the next time she seeks somatic pleasures. This
consequence is too grave for her to bear all by herself. The last time was the
village drunk. What would fate bring next. Her feigned illness of nine months has
brought forth these ……… absurdities.
At dawn, three infants are seen floating in a grass and raffia basket, drifting
towards the mouth of Arun River, this body of water enjoys a great reverence,
especially since it is believed to have taken its source-point from the hills. It has
magical powers for healing all kinds of ailment. Yet, it is a water body that acts as
a scapegoat; taking away the afflictions, curses and infirmities of the land. It is no
mystery if the people fear to partake of it midstream and downstream. But what
would anyone make of these seeming apparitions. Aberration. The eyes.
Butterflies seem to have taken a fancy to the babies; several colourful species rest
on the crude craft and the foreheads of the tots.
+ + + + + +
PRESENT DAY
“Do you think we have a common purpose?’’
“I think so, Eniola. I mean, we are here on the same campus, blue eyes and not
contacts. Three of us were raised by the same family that had no history of this
mutation. You know, we were adopted. I don’t know about you though.” She
frowns slightly, staring intently at the girl.
“I was born in London. My father was shocked at the colour of my eyes and
immediately accused my mother of adultery. You know a case was reported in the

dailies of a woman who had slept with her ex-husband; who had come for a
reunion, and her African boyfriend within a few hours of each other. She was
delivered of twins. Male and female. One a Caucasian and the other black. Father
rejected me for five years and their marriage was badly damaged emotionally.
They barely spoke to each other until ….” She paused. Emotional. Perhaps.
“Until my fifth birthday. He bought me a large teddy and called me ‘angel.’ My
story is an alteration of yours, yet the theme was one of rejection and the fear of
it.” She sighs.
One of the girls, makes a fist and stretch out the hand to the others.
“To the mutants!”
Others respond in kind, touching fists. Like a toast or salute. Fellow students look
on with suspicion. Lesbian cult. The mien of the males dramatically goes through a
change. Eros.
+ + + + + + + +
There is a partial gloom in the apartment. Clarity is given by the blue and red
lights from the wall brackets. The girls, in various state of undress, are asleep in
their separate rooms. Outside, a storm is already brewing. The rainy season is
gathering steam. It is the month of June.
It begins to rain, a light drizzle at first, now it is a heavy downpour punctuated
with thunderclaps. Yet, the girls sleep peacefully …. Tara mutters something
incoherent and gnashes her teeth unconsciously until …….
In the darkness one could see the pinpoints of crude lanterns; small clay
receptacles for palm fat with cloth wicks in them. Business seems to be good, the
women and girls before their farm products attract a lot of buyers. A market
should be noisy since trading is brisk. Yet, no sound emanates from their
transactions at Ode-ija (market square) White birds appear in the night sky and
distribute themselves among the women, just by their wares and at the feet of the
female buyers.
Suddenly, everyone moves towards home, accompanied by the birds. The sound
of drumming fades in. Ode-ija is empty. Deserted. But not for long. A royal
procession emerges on the hill. The king appears in full regalia. There is a dull
glow to his bronze crown (Ade-ide)
This is the night the Ọlọfin must dance to celebrate the crown stolen from a

distant kingdom. Ile-ife. Up on this hill, he feels invincible after all, the chain is
just a few yards away. A pull at it closes the hills of Idanre. They simply interlock
to form a hidden enclave and if not, the intruders will have a tiring climb up the
hill ready for the slaughter. That is the magic wrought by this tiny town.
He must dance. Yes, dance until he divests himself ready for the sacrificial
maidens. Naked but not, for his crown must remain even during the heat of the
sacred rape of the maidens’ dignity.
As the girls wail and whimper, Ọlọfin walks away a bit and lifts his crown into the
night sky; cutting a pose akin to a lion rampant.
“The season is blessed by the gods!!” He roars into the darkness beyond.
A sudden thunderbolt strikes the crown, making him to glow like embers of a
fireplace. His body crackles. Reddish orange. And his feet make two shallow
imprints in the rock face. The Agbogun footprints; the legend of the thunder-
stricken crown is born.
He turns towards the violated girls. They are gone. The glow from the full moon
illuminates them right behind the mausoleum, shivering and clutching feverishly to
their white bloodstained covering.
“I’ll destroy your descendants for what you have done to us.” One of them utters
a curse. Like a whisper. She looks up at the moon. The silver beam catches the
faint blue irises. The eyes were vicious.
Several men move past their position in a noisy search for the girls. Amid the
commotion, the girls sneak toward the valleys and arrive on the narrow strip
separating them. Either side of the strip is a dead drop. They run along the strip
not daring to look sideways into the darkness below until a man wielding a
machete with a glinting edge appears at the end of the strip of Ese-ogbeji. The
girls turn silently and race back.
Five men including the king, await them at the domed peak of the inselberg. They
remain still. Fixed like a hare in the harsh glow from headlamps.
The men close in on them. And methodically bring them to their quietus one after
the other. The last female to go begins to scratch something illegibly on the rock
surface.
“ I’ll destroy your descendants, Ọlọfin,” she sighs at the last stroke. The little rock
rolls off her hand.
The men stoop to study the inscription but could not fathom out the import. They
shake their heads in confusion and wander off in the direction of the palace.
They wake up screaming. They hear each other and all run into the living room.
After a while, it is clear they made acquaintance with the same gruesome

components of a dream. Nightmare.
“ Who are we for god sakes?”
“ Well, I’m from Idanre in Ondo State,” Eniọla says, scratching her left buttock,
releasing a loud fart in the process. The others fail to react to the insulting rectal
explosion.
“ We must assume we are from that town,” she continues.
“ Our adoptive parents are from Ile-ife,” says Tara. She stares at the other two for
confirmation. Both nodded.
“ We must visit Idanre. I think we need the break anyway, after all we just
concluded the semester exams,” Lara adds.
“ I prefer the North. The Argungu festival in Kebbi State to be precise,” Eniola
submits stubbornly.
“ You’re crazy. What business do you have with some peasants trying to win a
fishing prize? This is more important, it will define our future existence,” Lara
speaks with a calm yet ominous voice. The girls lean back into their seats, yawn in
unison and promptly doze off. Left unspoken and undone is the coin-toss for
Idanre town and Argungu fishing festival in Kebbi State.
Iyaganku, the old midwife, emerged from the mist of a waterfall, a heavy-looking
staff in her hand. There seems to be no other way of describing her other than ….
Grey. The long hair, staff, raiment, et cetera. Grey. Could it be the effect of the
mist from the waterfall? Who can tell ….
The girls were sitting by the entrance of a small cave, looking up at the old
woman; awe-stricken.
“ Welcome, mother,” Tara says
“ How is your family, my child?”
“ They are alright, mother”
“ Your journey back home will not yield any answers to your queries. It will be
fruitless. I never was happy about my tasks but, I could do nothing. You have
sacrificed enough, what else do you want?”
“ His descendants are still alive. You could not do anything. I can and will. I must
visit my wrath upon those descendants and continue to do so until …”
“Until what? Until you destroy innocent souls!”
“The souls may be innocent but the spirits in those souls aren’t,” Tara’s eyes blaze

at the ancient woman.
“ When they can interpret what I wrote upon the rock, only then will I stop
coming back for them.” She is vehement. Irresolute.
“ You think because you have the power to keep coming back, you are now
greater than Olodumare.” The old woman submits quietly.
“ He gave me the power to wreak vengeance on these bastards. Tell the women
to remain barren or else I will keep destroying their progeny,” she says, beating
her chest, just above her large bosom. The beat on the chest echoes in the cave
behind them. Atmospherics.
“ Stop this madness before it consumes you. Your companions are not with you
and you will do well not to influence them in this matter.”
With this, the old woman turns towards the waterfall.
“ Goodbye, my child.” And she disappears into the mist. The girls rise and touch
their fists together. Instantly, to attain a fusion. They all become one. Tara. She
smiles evilly and vanished.
Their eyes blink open and they come awake.
“ The same dream again?” Eniọla’s expression reveals her worry.
“ Are we to follow you now? I thought Eniọla is our leader, especially since she is
our senior on campus,” Lara points out. Tara smiles.
“ She is, but I want you to join this recourse of mine. That’s all. Are we together?”
She asks sheepishly. Deception of course. The three girls promptly nodded.
“ It is done then. I will reveal them when the time comes. First, we travel to
Idanre and we will visit Kebbi State.”
“Yeah!!!” Eniọla yells with glee.
“Initially, the name of the town means ‘it’s magic!’ But over time, the name was
corrupted in sound but not in import. It seems to have gotten its name from the
pulling of the chain that closes the hills; at the time of invasion after the people’s
journey here at Oke-idanre; the old town. The hills are reached by six hundred
and sixty-seven steps, not forgetting the five resting points you passed to get to
this summit. From this vantage spot, you can see; with almost a bird’s eye-view,
the new town called Odo-ode below with the rusted roofs of an ancient town,
almost abandoned by modernity. You can also see the valleys interspersed with

granite inselbergs. The Arun River flows between the hills. The river is now like a
stream, it gave protection to warriors who drank from its water before battle. It is
believed to have spiritual powers,” the curator cum tour guide is saying.
“Sir, why was the chain so stiff?” Eniọla asks with a slight furrowing of her
eyebrows.
“The chain is not stiff; you simply lack the strength to pull it. You must also have
the spirit purity it requires to pull it,” he says mockingly.
“Really?” Tara asks with mirth in her eyes.
“Yes, lady,” he returns.
“OK,” she smiles mischievously and winks at her friend and sisters.
And like telepathy, they follow her movement as she descends from the peak of
the hill towards the old palace. She gets to the chain inside the rock and sighs
heavily, leaning slightly and tugs at the chain.
A great rumbling shakes the walls of the palace, reverberating towards the peak.
Birds squawk in the sky shedding some feathers. There is a brief silence.
There is a sudden rush of persons down from the summit as the inselberg stops
its tremor.
“What happened?” The curator, when he finds Tara still holding the chain.
She shrugs, turning down the corners of her red mouth.
“Girls, let’s visit the river goddess. We really need the cure,” she says, giving the
tour guide a wink.
“From what?” Eniọla asks suspiciously.
“Ranging from flu to chlamydia.” She laughs loudly. Strangely.
They get to know she is not with them several seconds after they return to the
bank. Tara apparently is still in the depths of the river.
Eniola drops her towel, walks back and dives into the deep. The other girls merely
gawp even after the ripples fade.
Eniola, undoubtedly, a good swimmer, receives a shock that could lead to her
drowning. She’s the lone spectator to an initiation rite at the bed of the river
among a cluster of strange aquatic plants.
Tara’s hair swirling in the water brings a creepy sensation to her spine. Her heart
seems to freeze as she gazes at the colourful snakes that represent her friend’s
hair. A strange-looking female wearing a silver crown of shells clad with aquatic
plants and coral beads, apparently is giving a benediction or commission to Tara.

She turns to catch a glimpse of her friend staring at them a few yards away.
“Kill her Ọmọtara!”
“No, mother. She’s with me,” her eyes sparkle red. Green. Blue. In succession.
“Go and do exploits, my child. You have a lot of work to do. Let no bead be left
unturned,” the woman decrees and fades out of sight.
Tara swims past her friend’s position with the snakes flashing their fangs at Eniọla
who’s cringing with terror.
On the trip back to school, Eniola is shivering with a bout of something. Sitting in
the passenger seat of the Range Rover, Tara, driving, stares at her with a glint of
mischief in her eyes. They are smoky blue this morning.
“Don’t worry, my friend. You’re alright. The trouble is the nature of the things you
saw back in the water. You were not supposed to see that,” Tara speaks
soothingly.
“Will your sisters and I be alright?” Eniola croaks. Tara laughs.
“Of course. You girls are part of my mandate whichever way you look at it. The
truth is, you will do something to ensure the success of the process that is now
upon us,” she says with the narrowing of her eyes as she gazes into the road
ahead.
The auditorium is silent and nearly empty. The students are sitting several metres
apart, wearing nose-masks. The PA crackles suddenly with the voice of the
middle-aged man standing behind the lectern on the dais, a board marker in his
hand. It echoes.
“What do you think?” He asks mockingly. His mask, just under his chin.
“I think the Taste Panel would be redundant and unable to perform their sensory
functions since they are suffering from the loss of all their senses,” Eniọla submits
clearly, not hindered by her gold designer nose-mask.
“How do you mean, Ms. Falana?” The lecturer teases.
She spreads her arms, expressing irritation at the man’s line of questioning.
“It’s like …. why … like three blind mice for crissakes!!” She returns, heavy with
sarcasm.
“Focus, please, Ms. Falana. This isn’t the kindergarten.”
Eniola frowns.

“God, I hate this guy,” she mutters in what seems an aside.
“I heard you, Ms. Falana!!”
“Obviously.” The class roars with glee.
“Quiet!!” The man’s frustration becomes evident. It is clear, even to him, that his
ability to manage the class is questionable.
“Please, see me in my office after now, Ms. Falana.”
“ ‘ am in my period.” Another aside. The class roars again.
“I heard that, Ms. Falana.”
“I am intentional,” she says with an evil glint in those blue eyes.
The man quickly arranged the papers on the lectern and makes a beeline for the
huge glass doors of the hall.
“Hey, Rep, I think it’s high time we had a new lecturer for this course. That idiot is
getting on my nerves. So inept!”
“Ok, Ms. Falana,” says a young man in the front row with a mock bow.
The class roars. Again.
The clop-clop sound of a white horse comes to the fore. Shortly, it goes into a
gallop. Rounds a bend covered with a shrub growth into the quiet drive of a white
bungalow.
The dark rider, wearing a hood, dismounts from the horse. There is a sword
hanging loosely from the rider’s side. The animal neighs, the rider turns sharply to
pat its nose. It gives a short snort.
“Sssshhh,” a silent response as the rider makes for the verandah of the house.
Inside the living room, the sound of someone gagging on something encroaches
from an inner room.
“You will fail my course again if you don’t let me ….”
“Please, Prof …. You’re killing me!”
In the bedroom, a middle-aged man is ripping off the dress of a beautiful young
woman. He manoeuvres her towards the bed and lands her on it with a bounce.
The dark rider appears silently, pulls back the hood of her black anorak and
unsheathes the sword in a single sweep. The sound startles the man and he jerks
off the now naked girl on the bed. The sword swished past his neck at its descent
in a swift swing. The crimson fluid splashes across the wall and slowly crawls
downwards. The girl on the bed screams stridently, holding the shreds of her
dress to her bosom.

Eniola blinks and comes awake. She looks at the clock on the wall. It reads one o’
clock.
Afternoon. She sighs heavily and walks towards the bathroom. Standing before a
mirror above the wash basin, she could see the flight of the hooded-rider, riding
away furiously on the horse. She pulls back as if in shock or fear.
“What was that all about? Biobaku; the lecher,” she sneers.
Daytime. Centre-campus. The busiest time at the university. 2:00pm. The student-
drift today is wearing an amusing gear; one of frenetic-reading and frenzied
browsing of short notes and key points. Examination period. Someone breaks from
the drift and …
kneels before her close to the Senate Building wrapping his arms around her
upper thighs, just under her butt.
“Please, love me, Ọmọtara and make my life worth living. Right now, am willing to
abandon my study and flee with you to the end of the world,” he says teary-eyed.
Tara gawps and stares at the gathering crowd of students, since traffic freezes for
a minute.
Many laugh, some hiss and move on. Yet, the boy is undeterred. The crowd keeps
increasing. Many are using their phones. The social media is about to be hit with a
viral content. And to everyone’s amazement, he pulls back to kiss her foot. The
crowd roars with glee and derision.
“You’re embarrassing yourself, whoever you are. We are being recorded, you
idiot,” she hisses through clenched teeth.
“My name is Michael Oritsedere. Love me, please.”
She laughs. Ringing. In the bright sunshine. Her own helplessness is apparent.
“I don’t care about the consequence.”
She smiles then.
“Consequence! What do you know about consequences?” I will let this pass. Next
time you stop me like this, you will be romancing with a grievous consequence.”
She pushed him gently and walks away with slow strides. A speculating look on
her mien. My friends were not there to witness the ….. ‘enterrassment.’

It is night on campus. A Friday night. There is music everywhere. Mobile phones.
Mp3 players. TV flatscreens. In HD. Home theatres. Huge speakers. Typical of
Fridays. A night most of the lecturers quietly leave the campus. Why?
It is a convenient environment for campus cult strikes. Too much noise. Even in
the middle of the semester examinations.
A slow build-up in the flow of students towards the Morrison Maboogunje Civic
Centre is evident tonight. Michael is among the drift with a girl tagging alongside.
“You don’t look well, Mike,” the girl is saying.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What?” She frowns slightly.
“Mike.”
“We are childhood friends and ….”
“And you now feel entitled?” His contempt rings clearly.
“What’s with you tonight?”
“What’s eating you up?” She asks, her hurt showing in her voice.
“Use your phone, Janet. It is obvious you’ve not been on the planet for a while.”
“My phone?”
“Look, just forget it,” he says irritably and attempts to move away when he
tripped on something. He falls badly. Face down.
“Shiit!!” He struggles to get up. The girl makes as if to help.
“Let me take it from here, Janet. Is it?”
A hand lifts him effortlessly.
“Yes, yes, ma,” Janet says nervously and hurried away.
With her hand on his side, she steers him towards a dark building. They are both
silent until they get to the dark verandah of the building. She sits on the last step.
“Sit,” she snaps. Michael obeys.
“You’re angry, queen.”
“How can you tell? It’s dark”
“Your eyes have a terrible glow to them. It’s different from what I’ve seen.”
“How many times have you seen me on this campus?”
“Just twice. Tonight, being the second.”
“Really. What prompted you then? I wanted to see you tonight so as to deliver a
strong warning. Yet, I couldn’t. But why the obeisance ….. the servile, the act of

worship?”
“I just couldn’t help myself. There was a strong pull towards you. I have never felt
that way. I saw a silver crown upon your head and I uncontrollably responded,”
he sniffs.
“Do you still feel that ‘strong pull’?” There is laughter in her voice.
“Yes … yes, my queen.”
“I like to be in control. That was why I came to you.”
“Naturally.”
“You will have to drop that ‘queen’ thing. My name is Ọmọtara, 200 level Botany
major.”
“400 level Medicine.”
“I know, Michael. Nothing can be hidden under the sun.”
“Really? Tell me something you ordinarily wouldn’t know about me.”
“That’s the easy part …” she is silent for a while.
“You see, there are certain things that are hidden under the sun,” he whispers.
She laughs. Sadly.
“Mmmphmn …. Why are you impotent, Michael?” A calm voice. Michael gasps.
More like a choke.
“You were born normal. What happened?” There is a grave silence for a while. A
long while. Michael whimpers and begins to sob.
“No, Michael, you don’t need this. Today is the day of your deliverance. You
should be filled with rejoicing. Your young stepmother set you up. Very beautiful,
sexy and wicked. You couldn’t resist her large buttocks. In fact, that was the
reason your father married a woman his son’s age in the first place.”
Michael wails. Into the night.
“Stop it, you idiot. They will think you are being raped.”
Michael immediately controls himself.
“I walked into her room when I heard a strange noise. I was coming from dad’s
living room. She was naked and ….”
“I know. Like I said earlier, tonight, you will be whole again.” She suddenly
laughs. Loud.
“She’s telling me not to intervene in your case. Do you want her dead?”
“No, my qu …. Omotara,” His fear is reflected in his voice.
She reached for his hand. “Let’s go to my apartment.”
“What! Are you sure?”
“Yes. Don’t be embarrassed. Can your patient hide himself from you and still
expect a cure?”

He silently gets up and meekly follows her into the lights of the campus. Friday.
The day when all sorts of things can happen. At night.
“I dreamt that I killed Professor Biobaku in a most brutal way. Now he’s dead
exactly the same way he had in the dream,” Eniola is saying nervously. Lara
laughs.
“A dream you say? Is it SK or Loud inspired?” She asks pointedly staring at the
colourful hookah on the stool with its hose and mouthpiece hanging to the floor.
“Forget that. The girl fled the guesthouse leaving her panties behind. Her name
was embroidered on them. O. Ọbadare. She was arrested and quizzed by the
Police yesterday. She blabbed a lot. She told the Police that a strange female in a
hood had come into the guesthouse and practically slaughtered the Prof. using a
sword,” she delivers solemnly. Her friends look at her with considerable sympathy.
“Yeah. Still, you need to reduce the volume of SK and Shisha that you smoke with
that toy of yours. I’ll take the vibrating cock with suction cup any day,” she says
with a crazy giggle.
“On a serious note; don’t put on yourself, it may be a coincidence. It is possible
you have become a seer like Tara,” Lara says trying to keep a straight face.
“Remember she told us we may help her without actually doing anything,” Eniola
sniffs.
“Yes, I remember but this may not be what she meant.” A distant look comes to
Dara’s face.
The silent and self-effacing Ọmọdara moves on the sofa and releases an insulting
fart. The others protest.
“You’re too beautiful to be doing this nonsense,” Eniọla fans her face with her
hand, recovering fast from the earlier funk.
“Really? Then that was a beautiful fart. Do we have a sign up in this house
reading; ‘do not fart here by order’? I merely wanted to contribute that’s all.” She
released another.
“You’re crazy.” Lara spurts irritably.
“She’s coming with a boy,” Dara says without a facial expression.
“Who?”
“Who else? He is very handsome. I think it’s the boy she’s been secretly mooning
over for some time now.” They all smile knowingly.
“Where are they now?”
“Somewhere like a laboratory. She’s offering …... her …... Jeezus! It’s like
watching the opening scenes of ….”

“Enough, sister! Your imagination is too fertile. Better start that long-awaited
novel of yours,” Lara says putting up her hand.
“Are you going to spare this one?”
“Who do you mean, mother?” Tara says frowning, staring up into the cave by the
waterfall.
“The one you’ve been sleeping with. He’s one of them.” The wind and force of the
waterfall brings her voice clearly to the young woman.
“Impossible! He’s from the Delta region,” Tara argues boldly. Irritably.
The old woman laughs. The long raucous laughter seems to unsettle Tara and she
picks a pebble flinging it across the calmer part of the water.
“You fool. His spirit merely migrated South-South.”
“I can’t and will not believe it”
“I see. You enjoy his worship and other personal attention and you want to
protect the enemy.” Her voice seems to resonate.
“Don’t waste your time, old woman.” She spits.
“Oh, so it’s ‘old woman’ now?”
“I’m not even trying to listen to you, old hag,” she screams her frustration.
“You insult your origin”
“I don’t care!!”
“But you should know that you have been sleeping with your enemy; Ọlọfin
Agboogun whose footprints are as eternal as his victory over you!”
” What? You’re crazy, old woman. How can you even begin to think that?” She
cries.
“In the spirit realm, he’s already feasting on the old delicacy of okra soup and
pounded yam. You’re the meat in the steaming soup,” with this, she disappears
from the cave entrance. Lost in the watery curtains of the fall.
She wakes in tears raging with the shock of the revelation.
“I must consult!” She leaves the bed and beats on the wall close to the bedstand.
Four times. The wall suddenly becomes a cinema screen. A verdant riverside
scene.
“ Iyaganku is right, my daughter, but the situation is not as bad as it seems. He
has foolishly played into eternal servitude under your control; he will always

reincarnate, and will be your slave. Always. It’s like seeing a trap yet, walk into
it!!” The goddess laughs.
“What are you going to do now?” The Spirit queries with suspicion in her eyes.
“You will know sooner or later. I’ll fix it.” Tara’s solemn response.
As they move down the concrete staircase after their classes, a group of students
are at the last step, split into two, hiss as Eniọla and her friends go past them.
“Ashawo! Look at them, they think they own this university and can do as they
please, especially that one that does it at the drop of a hat. For free. You will meet
your end very soon … you,” she sneers. They stare at each other in consternation.
“Why is she like that, Lara? I thought you were friends with Susan,” Eniọla asks.
Lara shrugs. “We’re still friends … she’s been bitter since she caught me with the
leader of the Birds Confraternity”
“So?”
Lara sighs. “She’s his lover as a matter of fact.”
Eniọla giggles uncontrollably and finally turns to look at the group of irritated girls
and gives them the erect middle finger sign. It enraged the girls the more.
“Is he good at it? Because I know it is not the money,” says Eniọla soberly.
“Sure, quite good. He worships my ass. He told me she was too bossy and a
monitoring spirit. And that’s not good for his reputation.”
“He said that?” Dara asks.
“Yes, sis.”
“Then, is that not jumping from the frying pan into the fire?” Dara continues.
“You see, many females, I dare say, do not know the first principle of control. You
manipulate, you don’t insist. You make it seem as if it was his idea all along. The
woman suggests at appropriate junctures and the whole thing appears to be his.
He will think it, he will dream it, he will imagine it. You can’t beat that.” Lara offers
with pride.
“Jeezus!! You are a genius.”
“That’s my sis.” Lara slaps her bum playfully.
“Where’s Tara anyway?”
“She’s with her bae,” Eniọla offers. They all giggle.

There is a heavy silence in the large room. A silence that you can perhaps hold.
Palpable. The man at the one end of the table sighs after a long stare at the open
part of something on the table covered with green plastic sheet. Everybody is
wearing a nose mask. Twelve persons. A large screen is showing the group in the
room, meaning there is a camera somewhere in the room. The man sighs again.
His gloved hands and scalpel begin to work. Someone applies a forceps and a
tube vacuums excess blood.
“A hysterectomy is the surgical removal of the uterus, the ovaries and the
fallopian tubes are also removed,” he’s saying with hands still busy.
“It is procedure done to treat the following; uterine cancer, uterine fibroids,
endometriosis, uterine prolapse and other gynaecological conditions.” A lump of
tissue finds itself in a silver dish.
“It requires an IV line. If it is to be an abdominal hysterectomy, then the pubic
and abdominal areas may be shaved. It may require a general or regional
anesthesia.”
A young man breaks away from the proceedings moving towards the broad white
doors.
“And where do you think you are going, Michael?”
“To the toilet, Doctor Benson,” he says holding his stomach.
“But there is a convenience in this theatre.”
“I have diabetes,” he says, now grabbing his crotch.
“Then use the convenience.” The man sighs.
“I will flood the place, Doctor.” The theatre roars.
A face is now visible in the round window in the doors. Ọmọtara’s.
“I see …... your distraction, Michael.” The man winks.
He continues with his surgery.
“Urine is collected during the procedure using a catheter.” Michael exits, the
doctor’s voice fading out. Behind him.
“My father’s wife …... word got to me yesterday that she’s deceased.” Michael is
saying, staring up at the white ceiling in his opulent apartment. The back of his
head resting on Tara’s crotch; she sitting toying with his hair on a leather sofa
pretending to watch a movie.
“I know. She was a nuisance. She choked in her vomit,” she delivers silently.
Michael jerks up suddenly.
“What?”
“How ….?”

“How I knew? I should know ‘cos I did her in.” Calmly. Michael suddenly begins to
shiver with his hand reaching for his chest. The left breast.
Tara frowns irritably. “Please, don’t have a seizure on me. You should be thanking
me right now and doing what I expect of you at this moment of body contact.
Michael, I need you to examine my anatomy right now, not shivering like a rain-
beaten cat,” she hisses. He sighs and begins to speak tremulously.
“It just occurred to me that I know nothing about your family.”
“Is that what you want or my willing and yielding body?” She teases.
“Let’s start from that point, please,” he says, trying hopelessly to recover.
“Alright then. My family is really close-knit. I mean, close as in we walk into the
bedroom and my father’s balls are hanging all over the place and no apologies
offered and none expected. Or my mom’s pussy wide on the bed.” She says trying
to stifle a burst of mirth.
“And your dad walks into the room and your tits are dangling?” Recovered.
“So what you will ask next is if we all are fucking, right?” She says slightly
offended.
“Oh, no! I was just ….”
“I can read your mind you know.”
Michael’s crumples in agony. Tara releases the floodgates of her suppressed mirth.
Michael joins.
“I can’t believe you pulled me out of a surgery class, Ọmọtara.”
She fails to answer for a while. She is staring at the television now.
The screen is now showing an underwater scene. What appears to be the shell of
a giant scallop is the throne upon which sits the water spirit; goddess. Tara passes
her hand across his forehead and instantly, he dozes. Like a baby.
“You know, you don’t have to kill him.” The voice from the TV. Almost like a
plea.“I actually wanted to end the charade today. I wanted a final intimacy
between us,” Tara says in a rather sad tone.
“I know, my daughter. You are the one I love the most yet you are the most
difficult to control. Let us be wise. Keep him on a short leash and you won’t regret
it.” The gentle voice.
“But he is the bastard that started it.”
“Yes, but he can be a great tool for your purpose.”
“Revenge?” With furrowed brows.
“Exactly, my child.” She says toying with an albino ray.
“In what way, mother?”
“He shall be your smoker.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will when the time comes. I want you to grow into a wonderful, responsible
and most-influential woman,” she says with a twinkle in her blue-green eyes.
“I would still prefer to kill him. He insulted my family,” Lara says petulantly.

“You see what I was saying concerning you now, my child? I think I have spoilt
you.” The spirit grumbles.
“I’ll respect your wish, mother. I will use him this afternoon then.” She giggles.
The screen shifts to a Netflix logo and the usual array of movie menu. Sight.
Sound.
The tide is high and the night breezy at the pier. Seating on the concrete, the
children, five of them, could see the silver moon in the sky, up just above the
horizon. The water is rippling black. They couldn’t tell if it is any other colour or if
it would change in the morning from the usual grey-brown. Tonight, under the
silver moon …… it is black.
They move their legs lazily in the high water. What they don’t know is …...
embedded in their song. This night.
By the side of each child are seven pebbles glowing dully on the pier.
Why?
The response comes as the first pebble hits the blackness beneath their little feet
with a clop.
“When I grow up …. I will become a rich woman by selling household wares and
fabrics.”
Another clop.
“When I am fully grown, I will become the First Lady of my country.”
Another clop.
“I am going to be the greatest among women. The Queen of all women by trade
and politics.” Determined. Definite. Purposeful.
A clop.
“I have come never to return. The world is a rotten and hopeless place.” Dejected.
Frustrated. Beyond redemption.
Another clop.
A deep sigh. Drifting towards the silver-lined horizon.
“I will grow to become all of you combined, I will keep coming back till I have
completely milked this world of all its goodness. I will fight against injustice and
rule over the wicked of this world. Again. And again. And again.”
A cloud drifts over the moon and there is absolute darkness. Until ….
Other children scream. Almost in unison.
“Who touched me?”
“Something left me.”
“I have been robbed!!”
“What is this on my head?”
“It is me! I told you, I am becoming all of you.” A silent voice in the dark.

That selfsame night in the Lishabi Hall for females, it is a night none would forget
in a long time. It is a dream. For all the females in that large building, housing at
least five hundred bonafide and squatting girls, there is a serious cause for alarm.
It begins with a scream of robbery with spiritual implications all night till dawn ….
In the bathrooms and loos, nervous conversations are rife.
“There are witches in this hostel,” someone hisses.
“You mean in your family.” With irritation and disdain.
“Your family!”
“Look, you better start praying and fasting o.”
“I suspect all those squatters and prostitutes among us.”
“Yes. Could be that those men they go about with are ritualists.”
“God forbid. The one living in me is greater and powerful than the one in them
and in the world.”
“Oya, please tell me which portion of the bible you just quoted from.” Some of
them giggle.
“Madam pastor!”
“They will fail. In fact, they have already failed!!” A loud fart escapes an orifice.
“Jesus Christ!!!”
“Don’t touch me with your pant.”
“Are you crazy? What’s wrong with them?” Irritated voice.
“They are filthy and stink!”
“You dey mad.” With a slap to push the assertion through.
A rumble begins and the ladies of Lishabi Hall are at it again. Notoriously.
TEN YEARS LATER.
The Morning Show programme on Arise Television is on. The TV hostess;
Jeannette Fabiyi, in her usual eloquent self, is quite dazzling in a blue dress that’s
a match with the blue backdrop.
“Good morning, Nigeria. Welcome to another great day in our nation. With me,
this morning, is a fascinating and enterprising young woman of great drive. She’s
no other person than Ọmọtara Mariah Oritsedere, a representative of Irele Local

Government Area of Ọsun State. Good morning, Mrs. Oritsedere, how are you this
morning?”
“Am quite alright, Jeannette, and you?”
“Feeling wonderful. Mrs. Oritsedere, the audience would …”
“Please, call me Mariah. I insist,” she says pleasantly. The camera zooms-in, and
her blue eyes blaze with a silver light.
“Yes, if you insist, yet one can’t be too careful, after all, you are an honourable
member of the National Assembly.”
“I respect fellow women. We are the mothers of this nation and deserve to be
respected.”
“Yes, I was about to ask you this question. How come you’re representing a local
government far distant from your husband’s?”
“I am primarily from Ọsun State, my marriage to a man from Delta State is
secondary.”
“And how have you been coping psychologically and physically?”
“He is a medical doctor and his schedules are quite demanding yet we are doing
quite well, I think it is easier at the moment because our son is in Europe.”
“How about the maternal care kids deserve at infancy and their formative years?”
“My child is with my sister and her family. I’d like to use this moment to say a
huge ‘thank you’ to her. I love you so much, sis.” She gives the thumb-up sign to
the camera.
“Now, let’s talk about your various charities and why they have all been women-
centred. There is a current joke in the social media about the need to appoint you
as the Minister for Women Affairs.”
The honourable member of the National Assembly laughs, flashing brilliantly white
dentition.
“Yes, but when you look at it critically, the importance of legislation will be
undermined, and that’s what ‘am all about. The condition of women at childbirth
and post-child delivery, intervention when they and their children are deprived of
support even when married, their abuse and violently too, the issue of poverty
and education concerning women must be examined. Bandits killing them and
their children must stop in the northern parts of Nigeria. Taking them into sexual
slavery irrespective of their religion must stop! I have constituted an NGO
mandated to police this violations and work hand-in-hand with the NPF.” She says
vehemently. The eyes glint in outrage. As if they have a mind of their own.
“It is quite clear why you decry these violations upon women being a woman
yourself, yet, I seem to have a strong feeling that there is another reason for …”
“The general impulse or concept would naturally be one of poverty and abuse. My
case is different in the sense that I was raised with a golden spoon and never
knew hardship in any way or form. You see, women, by the nature of their
creation and intuition are more powerful in the spiritual sense. In fact, if there is a

power-base or apparatus managed visibly by men, check deeply, the nucleus is a
woman or a group of women and the men are just fronting. But we do not know
the degree of power we are able to wield. Why? Because of our loose lifestyle and
our succumbing to the basic sexual instincts. Yet, with this tendency we are still
able to control men. I find it so absurd for a man to pay enormous fees just to
have access to our private areas. As we do this, that is manipulate men, we are
losing our natural and cosmic purity which should have put us in good stead to
acquiring much more power than we wield presently. We don’t even love or like
ourselves! No woman would want to vote for or work under a woman. It’s crazy!!
We have submitted ourselves to the enemy of mankind to be used and abused. So
much so that when you see someone having a spiritual or psychological problem,
the nucleus of it all …. is a woman or a group of women. We have lost our God-
given power to protect mankind. We have allowed our natural love for humankind
typified by our role in the continuity of the human species be supplanted by
unnecessary evil or wickedness. Evil men have obtained support from women. We
are nature in itself yet, we have helped in destroying nature. It appears, women
have managed to acquire just one thing ……. the ability to self-destruct.” She
concludes and the eyes lose their glow.
“Wow! That was loud and clear. A wake-up call to the womenfolk. Viewers, we’d
take a break for the commercials. We’ll be back shortly.” The theme music plays.
“You see, some people might appreciate what she’s doing right now, but in the
long run when this member of the House of Representatives becomes too
influential and powerful, we would have succeeded in creating a Frankenstein
monster difficult to control or destroy.” A male voice from the phone. Apparently,
an interactive TV programme.
“But if the power and influence is used for the good of the populace, what more
do we want?”
“Look, let me tell you, I know this kind of woman. They keep creating and funding
charitable causes just for the publicity and influence and are failures in their
matrimonial homes. No matter your self-importance and political victories, the
moment you are a failure at home; you have also failed in the society. These
women are mental cases only they don’t know it.”
“Sir, it is this kind of …,” Mariah was saying.
“Please, madam, do not engage. I’ll take it from here,” Jeannette cuts in. Wisely.
“I want you to know that in this time, women are not under compulsion to get
married. I’m talking about enlightened people not people in village settings or
people pressured by traditional values. What ‘am saying is that women are not

and should not be judged on the basis of the success of their marriages. Nobody
does that to the men. A man can remarry for as many times as is possible, nobody
blames him for it even if he has been an abuser all along. They merely say he’s
been unlucky with women. Is that fair? I dare say it is not fair enough if you feel
it’s fair.”
“These women are arrogant and cannot stay in their marriages. No man would
condone their excesses. They are lazy, dirty and insulting not only to their men
but also to their in-laws.” Mariah’s blue eyes become darker. Blue-black.
“ Mister Raymond, you have to …”
“My name is Richard Isiekpe from Delta State.”
“Ok, Richard from Delta State, please be aware of your deviation from the
activities of the honourable member of the National Assembly,” the hostess, trying
to steer the course of the TV show.
“I am well aware of …...” A beep.
“I think we’ve lost that caller.”
A black Mercedes G-Wagon moves slowly out of the ranks of cars in the park and
proceeds down the driveway of the State House of Assembly. It joins the traffic on
Okpanam Road and zooms off towards Akpo junction where it makes a U-turn.
It is late in the afternoon as he continues to accelerate, at the DBS Road junction,
a truck with a load of asphalt dashed mindlessly into the road and crash into the
right wing of the Mercedes wagon. The collision causes the wagon to clear the
embankment into the other side of the road to attain another crash on the driver’s
side. The driver is bashed-in twisted between the air-bag and the wheel. It is a
freak accident on a road not known for excessive speeding.
People become frantic in a bid to help, especially on seeing the DHA sticker on the
car’s windshield. The driver is identified as Honourable Richard Isiekpe, member
representing Ethiope West. Among the first responders is a very beautiful, tall
woman in a red dress with striking blue eyes. People seem not to notice the dark
blotch on the bodice of her dress. Blood. She moves away slowly and seem to
fade out in the twilight human drift.

“Está bien, estaré en Madrid la semana que para la conferencia de mujeres y se
van a plantear muchas cuestiones relacionadas con ese ostracismos.”
“ Espero que pueda ayudarlos con algunos fondos?”
“Seguro, amigo mío. Puedes confiar en mí. Adiós.” Her hand reaches out to
depress a button on the stylized phone on her desk. Abstractionist. Ọmọtara gazes
blankly at a card announcing an international conference for women in Spain. She
pushes back and leaves the swivel chair to open a small closet in a corner of the
large office. The red dress can be seen. The stained bodice inclusive. Pulling out
the hanger of the dress, she mutters something under her breath.
“Smooth transit to and from the Niger-Delta.” Both dress and hanger hit the metal
garbage bin on the floor of the office. She picks a can of something and a liquid
flows into the bin. A swoosh and the contents are burning with vigour.
Ọmọtara sinks back into her chair. A buzz from the phone. She presses a button.
“Yes?” Irritably.
“Mariah, did you hear the news about the accident at Asaba?”
“And who may you be?”
“It’s me … Jeannette from the Morning Show.”
“Oh! What’s it all about, women were involved?” She frowns.
“No. It’s our caller this morning. Mister Isiekpe. It turned out he’s a member of
the State House of Assembly. He’s dead. It went viral an hour ago.”
Ọmọtara heaves a sigh. “I’ve not gone online since your interview, Jeannette. I
am still in my Lagos office. I’ve been on the phone all day with some foreign
delegates and organizers at the ongoing World Women Conference in Spain. I’ll be
travelling tomorrow.”
“It’s all right, Mariah. I just wanted you to see the twist of fate.”
“God help us, Jeannette. Let’s do lunch when next ‘am in town,” she said
managing to convey a modicum of mirth in her voice. She clicks off the
conversation.
The TV hostess stares at the phone in her hand for a few seconds and shifts her
gaze to the computer screen. She frowns at the motion picture of the woman
helping to bring out the mashed torso of the crash victim. She freezes the picture
and zooms the image of the frame containing the woman. In red. The eyes.

Jeannette’s visage crumples with confusion.
“The resemblance is uncanny,” she sighs tapping her upper lip with her index
finger.
The KLM flight from Murtala Muhammed International Airport soon receives
clearance from the control tower of the Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas
International Airport. She gets cleared through customs and out into the Spanish
sunshine.
A grinning man wearing livery breaks from the ranks of persons clustered around
several cars holding a large white card which bears: Ms. Mariah Oritsedere.
The woman smiles pleasantly nodding towards him. The chauffeur spritely opens
the rear of the black Bentley limousine.
“Amigo mio, take me straight to the convention, don’t bother with the hotel just
yet. Please, help in checking me in the hotel after you drop me off.”
“Yes, madam, to the convention then.” The man checks his passenger out in the
rear-view mirror. The expression in those eyes makes him to lose his cheerful grin.
Something strange and wicked in them. He is not too sure. He shrugs it off.
The man finally stops before an old but quite impressive building. The Palacio
Municipal de Congresos de Madrid.
“The speaker, at this time, is no stranger to many of us ….. I just got word that
she’s around though she’s scheduled for tomorrow, being the concluding day of
the convention but she’s reserving that courtesy for the speaker from the host
nation. You may have seen her on CNN, Focus Africa or on Facebook. She has
endeared herself to women from several geo-physical and geo-political entities
due to her charitable causes that are of great significance, especially to women
worldwide. Mrs. Ọmọtara Mariah Oritsedere is a Nigerian politician, social advocate
and philanthropist. For the most part of her life, she has been passionate about
helping mankind through a special interest in women and the travails that are
attendant with our sex. Please, let’s welcome Mariah Oritsedere the keynote
speaker for today.” The middle-aged woman gestures with her hand to beckon
Ọmọtara. There is intense applause. She walks briskly past the ushers to the

podium with a battery of microphones facing her. She studies the audience for a
while. She is wearing another red dress. Similar to the one destroyed in the bin.
“Now I know where the expression; ‘sea of humanity’ came from. Looking at you,
this afternoon, I can physically experience a swim through a sea of people of
various creed, religion, bias and sensibilities. So, I must tread carefully to watch
what I say not to offend this sea of women.”
Laughter crawls through the large auditorium.
“Women of this universe, we represent the birthing process of our species; a
process that ensures the continued existence of the earth. Even God is on our
side. We are not only the literati but parents, single parents, artisans laden with
tremendous labours on farms, in factories, in mines, quarries, departmental
stores, fish packing factories, seamstresses, sex slaves, languishing in prisons for
offences to which we have been tagged, wives under serious and violent abuse,
girlfriends being used as camels for drug barons, even those suffering from
various terminal diseases. Those under various forms of captivity and those
bearing the trauma of previous abuse. Even those look down upon by fattists who
think they are gods because physically they look impoverished. You may not be
here right now, yet, we support you. We represent you. Why? Because you are an
important part of this planet. Your situations by happenstance have made this
conference more relevant. You may not be here but your spirits are here. I salute
your courage through this avalanche of inhumanity. The most pertinent question
is this; ‘what are we all going to do about improving the lot of women all over the
world?’ Let’s not wait for legislation from the men of this world. Let’s not be
deceived into being a part of the membership in their fraternities and societies. It
is never enough. We want more. We need more. We must demand for more. We
must fashion out ways to attain more than mankind is offering us. We must take
the bull by its horns and do our utmost to overcome … to break down every
imaginable physical and spiritual barrier. I have established NGOs in some
countries including Spain to help alleviate some of our afflictions including health
and other violations be it of natural or artificial causes. We must extend our
present frontiers in medicine, social work, education, industry, art, entertainment,
et cetera and channel the resources into improving womanhood.” Even on the
large screen behind her, one could see the blazing silver light in those blue eyes.
Electric.
“When I leave you this afternoon, I shall be ratifying certain contracts and
partnership agreements with members of the Spanish gaming, health and
construction communities among others, prior to my trip back to Nigeria tonight.
Let’s all put our strengths and money where our collective voice as women is.

Thank you so much, my mothers, sisters and friends. Please forgive me for
crashing-in today.” With that, she promptly moves from the podium to walk down
the aisle where she’s accompanied by her sisters. Ọmọlara. Ọmọdara. They
embrace tightly. In the midst of a standing ovation.
“Christ! You guys are crazy. You could have given me a heart-attack.”
“We knew you will be caught unawares. See, now you believe you’re not
omniscient after all.” Lara teases.
“I believe. Dara, aren’t you getting too large around the ass?”
“It’s in vogue these days. Got to keep my husband from straying.” Dara giggles.
While sipping hot coffee in her office in the House of Representatives, Abuja, a
female aide comes in with a thick brown envelope, she drops it carefully on her
desk.
“What’s that, Nneka, a letter bomb?” She giggles excitedly.
“It’s from Spain, Honourable.”
“I know, ‘was just pulling your fat legs.” Her eyes sparkling with her good mood.
“You can open it, please. There’s no bomb in it. Just magazines and newspapers.”
She reclines in her chair. The aide lays out the tabloids on the desk.
“Mariah la defensora de las mujeres.”
“La matad femenina!!”
“La campeona nigeriana de mujeres.” The two journals and newspaper announce
with banner headlines.
“The photos are not complementary at all. Even Marca.” She chuckles.
“They think it’s all a joke. The shock is coming soon.” Ọmọtara throws a sharp
look at the aide and she instantly disappears through the door.
“Mr. Speaker, sir. There are some of us who would not believe that the women in
Nigeria are being treated unfairly. They are our mothers, aunts and sisters. We
love them as our wives. What more do they want? Why, no man in his right
senses would treat them as slaves as my honourable colleague is insinuating.” A
lanky man is saying into the microphone before him. It is a full house at the floor
of the House of Representatives.
“Yet, you marry them at age seven in your local government, damage their
genitals at age ten, turn them into shitty and dripping idiots at eleven. Mr.

Speaker, I move against the motion to sustain this barbaric and evil Arabian
tradition. This is Nigeria and the practice must, I repeat must be discontinued. The
Sharia must no longer be allowed to perpetrate this unwholesome and shameful
tradition! In fact, the notion and the mere whisper of the Sharia itself should be
expunged from the Nigerian constitution! Why is it that the ATR is not given such
a pride of place in our constitution?” Mariah interjects.
“Mr. Speaker, I was still speaking before this southern whore chose to interrupt,”
the man rages, pointing towards the female lawmaker.
“Honourable Ali, you will watch your tone and language while talking in a civilized
setting,” she responds with an evil glint in her eyes.
“Order! Please, honourable members, you must be decorous in your language. If
there is a point of order, then state it rather than resort to abusive language.” The
Speaker of the House advised in a solemn tone. Mariah hissed and walks out of
the chamber in anger. Her high heels making dull sounds on the thick carpeting of
the aisle.
She’s in a red dress. Looking doable. Again. The harmattan breeze furiously
teasing the garment. She moves away from the Durbar horse fountain spewing a
steady stream of water through its mouth. It is night. The compound is well-lit in
strategic places. Security cameras look down into the premises. Like a wraith she
moves towards the porch of the white mansion. As she takes the first step on the
broad stairs to the doors, two Dobermans rush at her. She hears the snarl and
growl and turns to kneel, bringing the animals to a halt before her. They are
compelled to stare deep into her silver-blue eyes. She brings her mouth close to
their heads and whispers something.
“Go, you know what to do,” she tells them. The dogs nod obediently and wanders
off into the thick hedges. She scoops the earth from a flower pot, feels it between
her fingers and instantly disappears.
The guards on duty look squinty-eyed at the screens bemusedly. They could see
the dogs rushing at the steps yet nothing apparently can be seen. The dogs
stopped abruptly before something. Nothing. Their heads come close as if jointly
considering something. Can’t be fornication since they are both males. Except if
dogs can be happy and full of fun. Then the dogs nodded and walk into the

cluster of ornamental plants. Nothing. They find it very strange. You never can tell
with Dobermans anyway. Strange critters.
The Mace-bearer walks into the chambers preceding the Speaker of the House
and other top representatives. He is clearly ill-at-ease and his gait seems to falter.
After the proper protocol, the Speaker sits momentarily.
“I just received the report of the sudden demise of our Majority Leader at his
country home last weekend, in the person of Honourable Baba Kura Ali. He died of
natural causes. May we rise to a minute silence,” the Speaker says gravely.
The chamber rises. Except Honourable Mariah Oritsedere, who is busy scrolling on
her Instagram page. A video of a bloody tango involving two dogs and a man
wearing a flowing silver garment. The attack seems to echo in the hallowed
chamber; intruding on the minute silence.
“May his gentle soul rest in perfect peace.”
The members say ‘amen’ in unison. Except Honourable Mariah Oritsedere.
Every home. Family. Has its own kind of squabble and issues. Physical and
spiritual. The Oritsederes are no exception. The issue, today, is one of infidelity.
Accusations and counter-accusations. On both sides. The couple are presently
busy sizing each other up. Like observing a recess.
“Do you mean to tell me there are no so-called honourable members of the House
removing the cobwebs at Abuja?” Michael sputters recklessly.
“Really? You could actually open your filthy mouth to offer that statement?”
Ọmọtara says arms akimbo, seething with rage. The violent expression of which
she is struggling to control.
“Let me tell you, the only cobwebs to be found anywhere are in your brain. How
you can even practice your brand of medicine beats me at the moment. You’re an
abortionist, you violate your female patients by having them drugged before
sleeping with them and resort to blackmail when you encounter females who
resist your advances,” She says rather maliciously.
“Now, I know you’re insane. What nonsense are you talking about?” Outrage.
She laughs maniacally. “I built that hospital and I have tapes on you. Your office is

bugged. I’m just waiting for the right moment to haul your ass into jail, moron. I
will frustrate you to the point in which your only recourse will be suicide.”
“Will you just …. ”
“What I gave you, I can take back in case you’ve forgotten. I didn’t restore you so
you can sample every female within reach, like sampling cake before a wedding.
Now, talking about wedding, I think it is best we go our separate ways.” Her eyes,
now glowing dully like those luminous traffic signs at night.
As if poleaxed, Michael comes down to his knees, reminiscent of the scene back at
the university.
“You know, Michael, I kind of like this posture of yours. What you need right now
is a beggar’s bowl. Trouble is I don’t have small change.” Sarcasm.
“The trouble is the distance, darling,” he says unconvincingly.
“You’re a well-labelled fool. I made it very clear to you that all you need is to
desire me and I will be by your side. You’re scared. But you’re not afraid to
intrude into the private areas of your patients even those it was clear to you had
not bathed before coming to your hospital. You must be mad!” She spits at him.
“Have mercy on me. Please, Tara. Don’t do this to me,” he grovels sickeningly.
“I am leaving you but we will not make it official. You have found a favourite hole
among your nurses. Stick to that, my dear. You can continue with your trysts for
all I care.”
“There is no ….,” he begins.
“Don’t you dare!” She screams at him. And that moment reveals the presence of a
third party. The goddess. Just behind the groveling man.
Ọmọtara sighs heavily and walks out of the room in anger.
With clinking tall glasses under fascinating chandeliers, the couple moves among
other dancers. Seductively. The female, to be precise is seductive in a rather
décolleté black evening dress shimmering with sequins. The man casually runs a
hand across her rear smiling sheepishly.
“Careful, Mr. Speaker, this merchandize is already purchased,” Mariah says with a
slight slur.
“This merchandize is a property of the National Assembly.” Glibly. She laughs.
“I hope this is not inspired by Honourable Ali of wasted memory.”
“What?” He asks taken aback.

“He called me a southern whore, remember?” She winks at him.
“Don’t mind the idiot, Mariah.”
“Really? Is this coming from the champagne then?” She giggles.
The hand strays downwards. Again. She giggles and cleverly steers him away
from the floor into a ferny alcove. Gloomy.
“Wallahi, it seems to me you have experience in these matters,” he managed to
say as his hands now stray freely.
“What matters, Mr. Speaker?”
“Of the National Assembly.”
“Wallahi, you’re my first …… don’t worry, I’m a fast learner.”
“Please, don’t be so fast. I want you to be a slow learner.”
She couldn’t help herself now. She let out an insane laugh. The ferns shake.
Vigorously. The affairs of the State do require serious …… vigour.
“Now that you have him eating out of the palm of your hand. What do you intend
doing with him, my daughter?”
“I’ve got designs on him, mother. But you know these things. Is anything hidden
from the immortals?” She says rather pleasantly. The goddess leans back in the
huge scallop shell.
“With you, my child, I can only assume.” The spirit says grudgingly.
The Toyota Sienna mini-van drives off the freeway into the thick forest. It follows
a hidden trail for about two kilometers and stops before a crumbling red-brick
house. The driver jumps out to slide the door open. The girls …. five of them of
varying age were roughly ushered out into the floor of the forest. One of the girls
is wearing a blue anorak and hoods her eyes with long eyelashes. Several men
rush out from the building to help in taking the visitors inside. The unwilling

visitors. Inside, what looks like a tunnel is visible, sloping gently into the ground.
The girls follow the route downwards into a surprisingly large clearing with an
earth floor. The place is crawling with girls in various state of undress. And in
chains. Someone is on the phone, facing a wall.
“Chief, listen, the price cannot be lower than that ….. yes. we will give you the
whole ….. sir, we are short of men as it is. You can cut out the parts you need and
discard the rest ….. ok, sir. I’ll be expecting your men.” He rings off and turns to
consider the gathering. A terrible scowl on his face.
“This place stinks. I said you should stop fucking them, you won’t listen,” he says
spitting on a wall. On the walls are lamps that glow dully but enough to make the
occupants visible. The new batch of girls are huddled up in a corner. The man
with the phone moves towards them, now chewing kolanut, and stops right before
the one wearing the anorak. Her eyes are still hooded. He stoops to lift her chin.
The eyelashes shift upwards to reveal her eyes. He pulls back visibly, perhaps in
shock. And she smiles to reveal a sparkling set of teeth.
“How much am I worth, Tobe?” The man springs upright, now in shock without
doubt. The blue eyes now have golden fringes.
“Where did you idiots get her from?” Fear, a clear inscription on his brutish face.
Someone stutters something as Tobe makes for the tunnel but he isn’t in the
mood to verify.
Ọmọtara suddenly appears at the exit of the clearing, blocking his way. Now
hooded by the anorak. Tobe jerks back in terror. A shot is fired from a rifle and it
dins in the clearing. The girls held their ears, further clustering together.
“You, with the gun, come to me,” she says pointing at a skinny man in singlet and
grimy trousers. Now, there are seven of them in the enclosure.
“Kill Tobechukwu Olise.” She steps aside. The report of the gun shakes the
enclosure. The man falls like a felled tree.
“Good …. very good. I want you all to line up against that wall.” They comply.
Without a sound. Five of them.
“Delete them, my friend.” The fringes are now reddish.
And one after the other, they fall like dominoes.
“You, come here,” she beckons. Trembling before her, she leans to whisper into
his ears. He nods vigorously and grins like a monkey having a banana bunch
lunch. Ọmọtara walks over to Tobe’s body and collects his android phone. She
puts her back to the wall, looks at the girls with pity in her eyes and disappears.
The girls jump excitedly to their feet and cautiously follow the skinny man through

the tunnel. Shackled, yet, towards liberty.
The Northern Gamba grass part and the several muzzles of automatic guns
become visible in the midday heat. A loud whistling scours through the savanna. A
flock of Guinea fowls react to the disruption by leaving their nest up a nearby tree.
The sound of approaching automobiles comes to the fore. The black muzzles
vanish. It is a convoy of …... apparently of pot-bellied politicians. There are seven
exotic cars aside from the two SUVs and four Toyota Hilux vans serving as pilots
before and behind the fleet of cars respectively. The birds screech again.
Suddenly, there is a series of explosions as the convoy runs into a bump of steel
spikes hitherto invisible. The convoy goes into disarray as it struggles to get a
good grip on the shimmering road. Similar results face the rear pilots; the vans, by
so doing, the seven cars are isolated. Then, the men come out of the vegetation
to riddle the coachwork and occupants of the cars with hot lead. Bandits! There is
a response from the leading SUVs but effete. Until it is silenced. Masked, the men
drag the lifeless VIPs out into the scorching tarmacked road. And shot them again
to be sure. In now bloodied babanriga, the corpse of the Speaker of the House of
Representatives lies facing the sunny sky wondering how and why it all happened.
Didn’t know the dead could frown. Northern style.
The wraith-like woman in red appears suddenly in the scene, walks around the
carnage like an RSM inspecting muster.
She smiles benevolently at the bandits who were now gathering around a
particular man. She speaks silently in the leader’s ears. He grins stupidly and
reach unconsciously for his crotch. She leads him into the grass. The others soon
hear a gurgling noise inside the growth and dash in to investigate. Nothing but the
jerking body of their leader. They watch patiently, transfixed, as life dissipates
from the body. The lady soundlessly walks to the seepage of fuel on the road and
by the flick of her wrist, a cigarette-lighter sails towards the source of the leak.
And whoooosh! The fire speeds to engulf the cars to elicit further explosions.
Making an unwholesome barbecue of the once dignified VIPs. The bandits emerge
to watch the noonday bonfire. They see her, yet remain standing as if stunned by
the heat. She squats to touch the bloody streak from the Speaker’s body. Her face
is lifted. She gazes abstractedly into the skies. She smiles again.

Sitting amid an array of colourful pouffes, the Speaker of the House is on the
phone, Mariah is asleep or it appears, on the thick pile rug a yard from him.
The whole setting reeks of old money. Arabian style. With handcrafted couches
and stools. Expensive chandeliers hang at strategic points from the ceiling. He
stretched in a gold embroidered grey robe.
“Sheege mana, the country is ours to govern, Alhaji Jidda. No one, nobody can
stop us, it is our birthright. Don’t be afraid of those hopeless southerners. Oh …..
we’ll use the herdsmen or the bandits to checkmate them …… yes ….. look, my
friend, she’s even here with me …… ok. She thinks she is so special.” His voice
drops a few decibels.
“Ha ha ha ha ha, she is no better than my donkey. In fact, my donkey is sweeter.”
Soto voce.
“She wants me to use my influence in favour of her useless motions and help her
become the next Speaker of the House! Can you imagine! Mallam Baba Kura Ali
was right. She’s nothing but a southern whore. She wants to persuade me with
her filthy …...” He sees Mariah turn on the rug.
Fifteen minutes later, she sits and moves between the legs of the Honourable
Speaker.
“ Er, er, Alhaji, I will call you back,” he mumbles into the phone as she dives
beneath his robe. He gasps and sighs deeply.
Then she sighs. And she is gone. The men merely gawp at the vacant spot,
oblivious of the confusion among road users. They soon vanish into the
vegetation.
“Mariah, hay una des-liberalización reciente des las empresas locales en el país.
The government is threatening to confiscate shares held by foreigners except if
such shares are held by Spanish citizens.” A voice from the phone on speaker.
“Ok, no hay problema” Mariah says smoothly with an inscrutable expression.

“Sell my shares to a woman on your board, and let me have information on such a
woman. She will hold shares in the other two business interests.”
“Er, er, there may be a problem.”
“¿Cual es?” She frowns, eyes now glinting.
“The gaming or er ….. gambling business is currently under censure. You may
likely lose those shares.”
“¿Por qué, Alvaro?”
“The President’s cousin; Mateo, died in the bullfight ring last month …. We are
suspecting that it is the reason for this problema. The President suspected foul
play, he said the bull was drugged hence it was tireless and got his cousin
confused. He issued a decree to freeze the accounts of such businesses.”
“I will visit in seven days.” She sighs rolling her eyes at the ceiling.
“That is all right, Mariah.”
“Adiós.”
“Now, I know why you killed him, but you won’t have your way still.”
“I’m travelling to Spain in a few days. Protect me, mother,” she says imploringly.
“Go with the grace of the immortals, my child. They are trying to be smart and I’m
afraid for them.” She says stretching out slightly on her shell throne.
As she emerged from the airport, she moves directly to the first phone booth in
the busy road.
“Mikaela, It’s me. How are you holding up, my friend?”
“Mariah, we are under attack, we are being threatened. Last week they raided our
offices and made off with our computers. Los bastardos!”

“I’m aware of that, Mikaela. But who are these people?”
“I hear, Seńora, that they belong to the dreaded Saint Miguel de Alvuera
syndicate. Bunch of accursed miscreants!” Mariah turns suddenly and sees in a
split second; a bullet coming towards her. And she dematerialized. The glass
shield of the booth explodes in showers of shards into the enclosure.
A car screeches away into the distance.
“You’re too slow these days, Luciano.” The driver looks like he would have a heart
failure on seeing the woman in the passenger seat.
He involuntarily steps on the brake pedal. As if sensing an error in judgement, he
steps down on the accelerator and begin to weave through traffic like a lunatic.
Perhaps trying to shake her out of the car. Dead ahead is a slow truck with a
screaming Trujillo Compańía Petróleo logo. Luciano turns the wheel slightly to the
left in order to avoid and overtake the truck.
“Don’t. Go right through the truck.” She says silently, almost a whisper. The driver
grins like an imbecile. And obeys.
The façade of the obstetrics and gynecology wing of Santa Maria Hospital in Huete
is wearing a different look after the fire that gutted most of the hospital last June.
The crème of Spain is here present for the commissioning.
At the ribbon line, wearing an electric blue dress, is Mariah. Her hat is veiled
perhaps to reduce the intensity of those eyes. She is given the honour to cut the
ribbon. There is a quiet round of applause as one should expect from the so-called
upper-society. Some of them disgruntled over the fact that a foreigner was
allowed to cut the tape and not a government minister or the head of the hospital
board. The wail of siren cuts into their anger and grief. A black limousine pulls up
among other cars on the convoy. All eyes shift towards the new arrivals. A tall
middle-aged and handsome man is being ushered towards the entrance of the
women’s wing. Mariah smiles pleasantly behind the veil as he gets to her position
amid his entourage.
“Buenos dias, seńor president,” she says gushingly. The man merely nods and
smiles at her. His eyes trying to size her up as he walks past her into the hospital.
The buzz of activity attendant with the presence of a president soon took over,
giving her the opportunity to quietly slip away to the delight of the disgruntled.

Her phone piped a loud symphony and she comes awake almost immediately
reaching for it on the large bed. An unknown number, she cussed and turns back
to rearrange herself on the bed sinking deeper into the pillow. The phone. Again.
She refused to budge. The symphony stops.
She soon begins to snore softly. The music brings her to the surface once again.
She looks towards the bedside clock. 2:00 am.
“Idiotas sin sentido!!”
“¿Qué?” She yells into the phone.
“Alejandro Amaranto Adriano.”
“Estas loco!” And she swipes her phone.
The phone beeps. A message. She sighs and attends to the corners of her eyes
with her index finger. Yawns. Reach casually for the phone. Mariah frowns.
“Look through your window. I’m the idiota standing by a black sedan.”
She sniffs, wrap her robe about herself and walks barefooted to the widow.
“These Spaniards are really crazy.” She breathes as she makes for the door.
Mariah opens the front doors to see incoming headlamps into the driveway of the
posh bungalow. The lights sweep her and the lone figure by the sedan. And she
hears gunshots from blazing machine-guns through the doors of the disappearing
car. The man drops slowly to the tarred surface of the drive. Mariah runs to the
body and …… there lies the body of Alejandro Amaranto Adriano. The president of
Spain. On her driveway.
Effortlessly, she lifts the bulky body and takes it into her house. And she laughs
maniacally.
“Even your name mocks death, Amaranto,” she sighs.
The Casino Brava de Peralada is known for only one thing apart from prostitution,
assassinations, gaming of all kinds including the track and ring, extortion and
ticketing rackets. It is the HQ of the Saint Miguel de Alvuera crime cartel.

In fact, nobody goes by the Alvuera name, it is just a decoy. The kingpin happens
to be a rat known among close chieftains as Nicolo Bertolli. A rather small and
unassuming young man in his thirties. Yet he is notorious as an amazing knife-
thrower. Nicolo was the death that plagued the non-compliant waterfront seafood
merchants and prostitutes even at age fifteen.
Nicolo would effortlessly put them out in strange and unexpected situations. In
the toilet, during sex, at a game, at dinner, at a funeral, in the bathroom, et
cetera.
He now lives a charmed life, so they say because nobody thought he would last
this long.
His small feet on his very large sculptured desk, he puffs at a large cigar. Perhaps
something from Cuba. It is true that small men love big things. Even women. One
would wonder how they could manage that. Big women.
“I hope for your sake, you did not live any trace, Antonio.” He puffs at the cigar.
“Buenos, she will take the blame for it. I can’t wait to see how the puta will
explain ……”
“The death of your president, Nicolo.” A voice behind his desk. His left hand
makes for beneath his desk.
“Don’t bother, my friend.”
His hand freezes. She is suddenly beside him. She whispers into his right ear and
pulls back to examine him. She smiles ruefully.
“I was expecting someone with more balls, not a midget.”
The man winces at the jibe.
“When you’re done, you can reach for your knife. Buenos dias.”
After her strange departure, he sits there in confusion for a long while. He sighs
heavily and reach for the phone on his desk.
“I couldn’t believe it when the hospital authorities told me that a foreign woman
had rebuilt the hospital. Twenty million dollars. I was personally shamed that
while the government was reluctant to do it, a Nigerian woman did,” he says lying
on the sofa, a throw cushion under his head.
“Was that the attraction, Amaranto?” She smiles stroking his jet-black hair.

“No …… you were so striking in that blue dress and that forbidding veil. I could
barely control myself. That was why I couldn’t even speak when you greeted.
Tongue-tied. That was it. I never knew I could ever be that way, Mariah. And now
you brought me back to life. I can’t believe it. Am I dreaming?”
“No. Once, you were dead, now, you’re born again and well. No bullet wounds
either.” She says with an absented expression.
“Yes, that’s another confusing part. I saw the car and its headlights. I also felt the
bullets hit. But, now ….. how?”
She leans to kiss him full on the lips.
“Certain things are better left unknown. You just enjoy the magical feeling,
especially when it’s clear you’re being favoured.”
He nods, gazing into the depths of her eyes with suspicion.
“I know that look,” she says, laughing.
“I will travel back tomorrow, dear.”
“Please, don’t. I want you by my side always.” Amaranto says without shame.
“How come you are not concerned about returning to the capital, to your palace.”
She traced the veins on his arm. He is naked but for his boxer shorts.
“You can see how confused I am,” he spreads his arms.
“Really, I must leave. I’m a politician, a lawmaker. I can’t be absent for too long.”
“I meant it when I said I want you by my side, Mariah,” he says with a pained
expression. She leans back and slowly shakes her head.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, Amaranto.” She’s resolute.
“Marry me, Mariah. I’ve been alone since my wife died five years ago. Please,
marry me. Make me an honourable man,” he says, now kneeling.
“Are you crazy!” She wrinkles her nose, getting to her feet.
“No, my dear.”
“Let me go and return.”
“When?” He scratched his nose. Incredulously.
“In four months. For the next quarter of the National Assembly.”
“I’ll wait for you then.”
“There’s something left to be done, Amaranto.” She states, coming to sit on the
floor beside him.
“What?”
“You must be back in your chambers. You will call Alma to serve dinner. You’ve
been asleep all day,” she says touching his head gently.
“But, they would have checked already ….” He started.

“It’s locked from the inside, my dear.” She smiles like a mother putting a child to
sleep. Amaranto suddenly disappears from the sofa. Mariah turns towards the
near wall. The goddess is there standing, gently clapping her hands. She is
transparent; the wall behind her is visible.
“Are you satisfied, my child?”
“Yes, great mother. I’m grateful for your help.”
Olurotimi Tomori is a billionaire with fingers in the proverbial pies. Telecom. Oil
exploration and marketing. Traditional and online publishing. Agriculture. But he’s
noted for his endeavours in the oil sector of the economy. He’s so self-effacing
that he could walk past you without giving him a glance. There were whispers that
he often gives bailout to some depressed banks. In the landscape of skyscrapers
along the Marina, the headquarters of his conglomerate stands tall. Thomas Lutor
Towers.
The penthouse is both home and office to this great man. Many of his employees
don’t even know him in person; he successfully created a buffer of aides and
directors around himself. Just like the Christ. He could be the man riding the
elevator with you, dressed in faded T-shirt and jeans, dozing in the corner,
apparently fagged out from hauling some equipment. Never holds board meetings
in person. Never attends birthdays, coronation ceremonies, housewarming parties,
child christenings and dedications. Never goes to the club to let his hair down or
belong to any gentlemen’s club. To him, these are a sheer waste of time, money
and effort.
Only these three things he doesn’t joke with.
Ọmọtara. Ọmọlara. Ọmọdara. His adorable daughters.
At his massive desk in the penthouse, he could see, with god’s eye, the sea, light
fishing activities and the office blocks several miles radius.
“So when are you coming to see your old man?” He chuckles into the phone.
“We’re here already, daddy!” Giggling.
“What do you mean by ‘we’ and ‘here’?”
“Your trouble-making daughters. In your office,” the female voice from the phone.
He turns as the whoosh and ting of the private elevator come to him.
“Jeezus! How did you get the code to the elevator?” He asks, getting out of his
chair to welcome them. He embraced each lingeringly, kissing them on the
forehead.
“How are you, daddy? And mom?” Dara asks excitedly.
“I’m fine as you can see. Some idiot called me a young old man last week. And
your mother is still a pain in my neck.” He chuckles.

“A sweet pain in the neck, I dare say.” Mariah inputs quietly, looking around the
office.
“Yes. Yet, she wouldn’t retire to cook my favourite meals.”
“That woman was born for the work not the kitchen, daddy.”
“But the kitchen is a cool and great work. She doesn’t need the job, she’s as rich
as her husband,” he says feigning outrage. The women giggle.
“Now, she’s aging faster than me. I think that idiot was right.” He frowns.
“Young old man?”
“Yes, Tara.” He spins on his heels to make the point.
“Come, come to the lounge,” he says with a gesture towards an array of divans
and sofas of various designs and colours. The colours suggest the handiwork of
his daughters. Variety is indeed the spice.
“This office still remains as intimidating as it was when we were in college, daddy.
The only change is the décor.”
“I never knew you could be intimidated by anything or anybody, Tara.” He
chuckles.
“In fact, as I speak now, I can feel my knees shaking. Let me sit quickly.”
Tomori roars with laughter.
“Now, I know you are pulling my old legs. To what do I owe this visit?” He sits
next to Mariah. The ladies sigh in unison.
“How are my grandchildren?”
“They are OK, daddy. Tara has something to tell you,” Dara says pleasantly.
“Really. You’re my favourite, you know?” An aside.
“We heard you, daddy!!”
“Oh, I didn’t want you to hear that,” he says, with a pained expression.
“I’m getting married again, father.” Mariah states solemnly.
Tomori frowns. “Now, I have to be careful. You’ve never called me ‘father’, Tara.
When we discussed last week, why didn’t you broach the subject?”
“I wanted to see what your reaction would be.”
“OK, you’ve seen my reaction. How do you read it?”
“Confusion ….. you think the National Assembly has changed your child.” She
smiles mysteriously.
“Well …… I was considering that aspect. Those crazy bastards have polluted you
with their politricks ”
“I and Michael thought it best to go our separate ways. Daddy, he couldn’t keep
his pants up and it pains me deeply. He has gone against our agreement.”

“Mmphnn. It appears you and Michael are not in agreement indeed. He told you
were the one hell-bent on divorce.” In apparent confusion.
“You will receive a visitor very soon. He’s Spanish.” Mariah says silently.
Their father looks towards the others. Lost.
“Give your blessings, daddy, after all, you never really approved of Michael.” Dara
chips in.
“Yes, but how do you see this fresh situation? You are more down-to-earth among
the three of you.”
“You will be having a president as a son in-law,” Dara continues.
“Dara!!!” Her sisters scream. She clamps her hand to her mouth.
“Forgive me, sisters for the drip. Dad, you didn’t hear that. Did you?”
“What? You said something?” Feigning confusion. Dara shakes her head meekly.
“This marriage thing, something tells me my blessings are not that important.
That you will go ahead with it anyway.” He avoids staring at Mariah directly.
“He’s Spanish, daddy.” Mariah states bluntly.
“Exactly what I meant. Again, being a er, ….. what did I hear the other time?”
The ladies shake their heads in unison.
“Ehenn, I knew I didn’t hear anything.”
“But we don’t have any diplomatic relations with Spain. I don’t even know the
name of their president,” the man says with amusement. The Senate president
laughs sipping champagne. They are sitting on loungers by the poolside.
“Sir, it’s never too late to break new grounds. I wonder what their women look
like.” They both laugh.
“He’s coming next week, sir.”
“OK.” The man nods thoughtfully.

Apart from the hum of the cooling system in the large bedroom, the silent snore
of Amaranto comes to the fore.
She sits up and leans on the leather headboard to gaze at the shiny gold band on
her left finger, next to the pinky with admiration. She smiles pleasantly at her
husband and leans down to kiss him softly on the forehead; careful not to wake
him.
“My daughter, it is very near now.”
She shakes her head. The goddess is leaning against the far wall.
“You woke me up, mother.”
“Yes, my child. It is about time.”
“I still have a lot do before leaving.”
“You can’t live it all in one sojourn. What will be left to accomplish when you
return?”
“Mariah shakes her head mournfully.”
“No …… please, mother.”
It is the goddess’ turn to shake her head.
“Amaranto will be devastated, he will not recover from the shock. Neither will my
earthly father and sisters. Please, give me more time.” She sniffs and tries to blink
back the tears.
“They will remember you fondly and mourn you for a while. But they shall
recover.”
“And my son?”
“Your son; Ọlaitan is just eleven. He will outlive the sorrow. You can protect him
from the spirit realm. After all, you won’t be really dead.” The spirit says
uncompromisingly. Mariah sighs deeply.
She silently leaves the bed and walks slowly to the double doors of the chamber.
She leaves the building and strolls in the direction of the artificial lake within the
grounds.
“Good evening, Seńora. A good night for a stroll,” a guard is saying, ogling at her
naked backside through the transparent negligée. She merely waves at him.
Mariah takes a long look at the palace and walks slowly into the lake until …..
Her head and tresses sink, leaving no ripples.
She goes down to the depths without moving a limb. Fishes of various species
encounter and tease the sinking apparition on its way down to the bed.
“Welcome back home, my daughter.” The goddess sits calmly in the huge scallop
shell.

Suddenly, Mariah resumes animation by embracing her spirit mother. Tightly.
They both dematerialize.

The Rebirth and Curse of the Blue-Eyed Women

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