Silvia Moreno-Garcia - Future Lovecraft

I left the building and followed another path. The only sounds in the town were the cries of wild animals: monkeys and, sometimes, hyenas and carrion birds like the kite and the owl.

The path brought me to a primary school. Beside it stood a market already in ruins. The shops seemed like anthills of the savannah, telling the new grasses about last year’s bush burning. I entered the school building, painted yellow outside and white inside, and moved from one classroom to another, praying for luck. Each door I opened, I either saw lizards playing or rats making love.

I looked at a board in the last classroom. Despite water damage, ‘Class Five’ could still be read, although faintly.

There was a noise. If I hadn’t been fast, I wouldn’t have seen it. A long, coiled black snake, at least four feet long, nested among the empty desks. It raised its head. Its neck was dim white with black stripes. A cobra. The type our villagers called “Tomorrow is far,” because you would not live to see the next day, once bitten by it. It seemed to say, Who is this man who is treading on my territory? Before I could leave the room, it came at me.

I backed away quickly, unsure if it was attacking or defending. It recoiled itself and sprang, throwing itself at me. I managed to dodge and it missed the target.

I saw a broom lying nearby. I picked it up.

The snake sprang erect, spat its venom. But I was far from it, so all the saliva poured on the ground.

It was now my turn to attack. With my stick, I reached for it. It then recoiled itself and threw itself on me another time. I dodged again. It landed on the ground and my stick was on it. I never gave it a chance. I kept on striking till it was dead. Then I walked away, sweating. I was breathing heavily and I was sure my blood pressure was high.

I wanted to go home.

I ran through the town, shouting, asking for someone to come out. I found myself on the path again. Part of me kept telling me to just get in my car and drive back home. The other part insisted I continue with the search. Perhaps someone remained in the village. I listened to that part.

I went through the village. Most of the buildings were intact, though with peeling paint. At every house, I shouted, “Is anybody there?” Getting no result, I moved on. I hoped that, if anyone survived, they would answer me. However, due to the encounter with the snake, I was afraid of entering any house.

I gave up. On my way back to my car, I heard a voice.

A child stood in a doorway, a girl of about thirteen. I ran to her and held her tight. I was overwhelmed with joy. A joy that knew no bounds. She was weak and looked famished. She began to weep. I consoled her and took her to the car, kept her at the back.

Back home, we had a celebration as never before. One of us, I can’t remember who, said that this was a sign that God had not abandoned humanity yet. But amidst the celebration, some were skeptical of her. They wondered how a little girl could be the only survivor in her village. What did she have that others didn’t?

Rumours began, the most popular being that she was a witch. I think Mrs. Chioma, a woman living across the street, originated this version of the story.

Mrs. Chioma claimed to be a witch doctor. According to her, she never knew that she had the gift until a crisis rocked her family. It began when she gave birth to her fourth child. She had employed a nanny to help her look after her baby, so that she could still meet the demands of her housework. But unknown to her, the nanny was a blood-tasting witch.

A few months after the nanny arrived, Mrs. Chioma’s children got sick. Her first child died. She was still recovering from this shock when the second one also died, just six months later. As if that were not enough, the two children left were critically ill. None of the seven hospitals they were taken to could diagnose the problem.

Then a friend advised her to try a native doctor. The native doctor told her that she had the power to heal herself and her children, and that he could help her learn how. He gave her some herbs, which she was to boil and mix in her meals. Three days later, her inner eyes opened. She then saw how her children’s nanny turned into a big mosquito at night to suck her children’s blood, which she would, in turn, transmit to other witches in their nightly meetings as their meal. She had to exorcise the nanny before sending her packing. She had since lost her husband and remaining children to the disease.

I heard Mrs. Chioma, more than once, telling people that the little girl had a big tooth on her forehead. She even said it was the girl who killed her parents, not the disease.

I asked her, “If the little girl was truly the cause of her parents’ death, what of the rest in the village? Was she also responsible for that?”

She retorted, “The girl helped the disease in escalating the death rate in their village.” According to her, “When the girl saw what the disease was doing, she availed herself of that opportunity and started sucking blood as much as she could.”

If people had only seen her as a gossip among those of us who were living on Nnaji Street, I wouldn’t have considered it a problem. The problem was that she instigated people.

At first, it began with people being afraid of the girl. From that, it escalated to direct verbal abuse. I can’t now precisely remember the person, but I can still recall hearing somebody, one day, exclaiming to her that she was a witch who had come to kill us all, as she did to her people. The peak of the whole thing came when an angry mob stormed my bungalow. They needed to exorcise her. Unsurprisingly, the mob leader was Mrs. Chioma.

I refused to yield to their demand. But they threatened that if I didn’t release the girl, they would certainly catch her.

As this was by no means an empty threat, not only was she now living in my bungalow, I took her with me wherever I went. The accusations never stopped. On the contrary, they got worse! Whenever anyone died, she was the cause. As each day went, the pressure of her potential exorcists increased. I would have yielded to their demand, were it not for the timely intervention of Professor Dimbo Theresa.

Professor Dimbo offered to carry out a test on the girl. She saw the case in another light. For her, it was a step towards finding a cure to the disease, if one could actually find out what made the girl different from the rest of her village. And, although she was fiercely warned that this was a case beyond science, Professor Dimbo was not one who would easily go back on her decision.

Within a week after this test, Mrs. Chioma, herself, died. With their worst instigator gone, the mob faded and the pressures on me subsided. Professor Dimbo later revealed her findings. It was as startling as it was ordinary: The little girl had sickle cell anaemia. Anybody blessed with this ailment has a greater resistance to the ADAIDS—similar to the immunity they had to malaria.

In the subsequent days, I went on more searches. None yielded results. After a month, I became tired and abandoned the project.

The survivors in Uwani dwindled.

They all died.

I became worried for the girl, because she was still so sickly, and hoped I would die first, but it was not to be. She died yesterday.

I have burned my dead. My suitcase is in the car; my supplies are packed.

I am heading to no destination in particular.

One day, I will find another living human.

But for now, I am the last man standing.

This is the first professionally published poem for Andrew Dombalagian, a long-time amateur writer. His other poetry, inspired by Lovecraftian illustrations, anime characters and everyday observations, has previously appeared in collegiate publications.