Nnedi Okorafor - Who Fears Death

“In twenty-five,” he said.

Ting took three hours to return. In this time, the poison lines lengthened by three inches and my hand had begun to itch horribly. Chief Usson and Chieftess Sessa stopped in with their daughter Eyess. Eyess jumped into my lap. I hid my pain and let her plant a big kiss on my lips. “You will never die!” she exclaimed.

Other people came to wish me well, bringing food and oils. They gave me tight hugs and shook my hand, the one without the symbol, of course. Yes, now that I had “released” whatever had built up in me, yet was slowly being poisoned by something my biological father had inflicted on me, I was no longer untouchable. They also brought tiny human figurines made from sand. If you held these to your ear, you heard soft sweet music.

What had happened when I first died was starting to really set in. The world around me was more vibrant. Whenever Mwita touched me, I shivered. And when people hugged me, I could hear their hearts beating. An old man hugged me and his heart sounded full of wind. I had a strong urge to touch him. I could heal him without suffering much, but I heeded Ting’s warnings to not try anything. It was so hard to sit still. Yet even with all these tools, Daib still lives and I am dying, I thought.

“Give it a few more hours,” Mwita said. “If you get up now, you won’t be doing yourself any good.”

“Well, we’ll have to risk that,” Ssaiku said, walking in. Behind him, Ting entered followed by, judging from their attire, the town’s Ani priestess and priest.

“I may be able to stop the poison,” Ting said.

Mwita and I grabbed hands. Then he yanked his away. “Ah, I hate that thing,” he said glaring at my symboled hand.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It won’t be easy,” Ting said. “And whatever happens will be permanent.”

Suddenly, I wanted to scream with laughter. When she said permanent , it clicked. I understood a part of the puzzle. When I had been my future self in that concrete jail cell awaiting execution, I’d looked down at my hands. They’d been covered with tribal symbols… Nsibidi.

“You’ll be the one to do it, no?” I asked Ting.

She nodded. “I’ll be overseen by Ssaiku. The priest and priestess will pray during the process. Words to battle words.” She paused. “Your father is very powerful.”

“He’s not my father,” I said.

She patted my shoulder. “He is. But he could not have raised you.”

To prepare for the process, I had to take a cleansing bath. Mwita procured a large palm fiber bathtub. It was treated with weather gel and was thus as good as any metal or stone tub. Mwita and several others gathered capture station water, boiled it, and poured it into the bath for me. My wounds stung as I slowly got into the steaming water. The symbol on my hand itched so vigorously that I had to fight the urge to tear at my hand’s skin.

“How long do I have to stay in here?” I moaned. The water smelled sweet with the herbs Ting had given me.

“Thirty more minutes,” Mwita said.

When I got out of the bath, my body was red with heat. I looked down at the three deep scratches on my chest. Right between my breasts. As if Daib had wanted to remind Mwita of his presence . If I survive, I thought.

I hated Daib.

When Mwita and I returned to Ssaiku’s tent, everyone was ready. The priest and priestess were already begging Ani. I felt annoyed, thinking about the Creator who’d recreated me and the fact that Ani was a weak human idea. I held my tongue remembering the Golden Rule of Bushcraft: Let the eagle and the hawk perch. Ssaiku closed the tent flap behind us and ran his hand over it. Instantly, all noise from outside ceased. Ting sat on a mat, a bowl of very black paste beside her. There were two mats with symbols drawn on them.

“Sit there,” Ting said. “Onye, you are not to get up until it is done.”

It was like sitting on hot skittering metal spiders. I wanted to scream and if it weren’t for Mwita, I would have.

“It’s the symbols. They’re alive as anything else,” Ting said. “Give me your hand.” She looked closely. “It spreads. Ogasse , I need two hours of protection.”

“You will have it,” Ssaiku replied.

“Protection from what?” I asked.

“Infection,” Ting said. “When I mark you.”

“If I can’t do it any longer, I will speak up,” Ssaiku said. “I’ve warned everyone already. I think some of them will welcome the time to explore a bit without the storm.”

Ssaiku couldn’t protect me and maintain the sandstorm at the same time.

“This will hurt,” Ting said. She paused, looking nervous. “If it works, you’ll never be able to heal with your right hand again.”

“What?” I screeched.

“You’ll have to always use your left hand to heal,” Ting said. “I—I don’t know what will happen if you use your right. It’s full of his hate.” She took Mwita’s hand. “Hold her,” she said.

Mwita put his left arm around my waist and put his right hand on my shoulder. He kissed my ear. I braced myself. I’d already been through so much. But I held steady. Ting took my right hand and poked the back of my hand using her long sharp thumbnail. There was a fiery eruption of pain. I cried out, at the same time, forcing myself to focus on her face. She dipped her nail in the paste and started drawing.

It was as if Ting fell into a trance and was taken over by someone else. She smiled as she worked, enjoying every loop and swirl, every line, ignoring my grunts and heavy breathing. Sweat beaded and fell down her forehead. The tent began to smell like burned flowers as smoke rose from my hand. Then there was the itching. The symbol was fighting back.

She turned my palm up and began to draw near the symbol. I looked down and was horrified. It quivered, coiled, and moved slowly away from her drawings. It was disgusting. But there was nowhere for it to escape. As the drawings closed in around it, it began to fade. Every surface of my hand was covered. Daib’s symbol disappeared. She drew the final symbol over the spot where it had been, a circle with a dot in its center. Ting’s eyes cleared and she sat back.

“Ssaiku?” Ting asked, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

He didn’t respond. He had his eyes shut tightly. His face was strained and he was sweating profusely, dark patches in the armpits of his caftan.

The itching started on my left hand. Ting cursed under her breath when she saw the panic on my face. The priest and priestess paused in their prayers.

“Has it worked?” the priestess asked.

Ting turned up my left hand. The symbol was there now. “It’s jumped, like a spider,” she said. “Give me three minutes. Mwita, get me palm wine.”

He quickly got up and brought the bottle and a glass to Ting. She grabbed the bottle and drank deeply from it. Her hands were shaking. “Evil man,” she whispered, taking another swig. “This thing he put on you… eh, you can’t understand.” She took my hand. “Mwita, hold her tightly. Don’t let her run. I have to chase it away now.”

She started drawing again. I gritted my teeth. When she’d chased and trapped the symbol in the center of my palm, it did something that made me want to jump up and tear out of that tent like my life depended on it. It sunk deep into my hand and then emitted such an electrical shock that for a moment, I couldn’t control my muscles. All of the nerves on my body flared. I screamed.

“Hold her,” Ting said, grasping my hand with all her strength, her eyes wide as she drew. Mwita held me down as I bucked and shrieked. Somehow, Ting managed to complete that last circle. The symbol, repelled, jumped from my hand and landed with a clack on the floor. It sprouted many black legs and ran.