Chapter 1: The Curse of Love Trials

Eldest Sister went to the land of the living to face a love trial. When she came back, she lost her mind.

For our family, people dey always talk say once person waka reach that world, heart no dey remain the same. Some say na curse, some say na just the wahala wey dey wait for woman for land of the living. When Eldest Sister return, she dey talk to herself, sometimes dey laugh for midnight. Sometimes, she go dey pluck kola nut for midnight, dey talk to am like pikin. Our compound spirit children go gather dey peep, dey whisper, “She see strong thing for there.” Even Mama Nkechi, wey no dey fear anything, go just shake her head, mutter, “Eyaa, love na wahala.”

Second Sister no believe all those things, so she go too. Before one month reach, she return even more crazy.

People begin fear to near her. She go dey run from one end of the corridor to another, dey shout the name of one man. She go kneel for shrine, dey beg spirits to bring am back. The whole River of Forgetfulness begin dey echo with her cries every night. Sometimes, Mama Nkechi go carry white cloth cover her, tie red thread for her wrist, dey chant incantation to calm her mind. But e no dey work.

Mama Nkechi catch me where I dey hide and ask why I never go.

She just appear one day as I dey sneak behind kitchen, her wrapper tie well, eyes sharp. Her wrapper make shh-shh sound as she waka, the scent of camphor dey follow am. “Ifeoma! You dey hide from me abi? Wetin you dey fear? Your turn don reach, you dey dodge!”

Of course I no go go.

I just hold my ground, look Mama Nkechi with stubborn eye. “I no dey go anywhere,” I talk, my voice small but my chest dey pound. I rather chop sand than let love drag me that side. I fit feel her gaze dey scan my spirit, dey find small crack wey she fit use break my resolve.

Because I sabi say the land of the living full of wahala and greed. I fit use half of my life dey suffer for man, then at the end, na so so pain and betrayal go finish me.

E no get as you go turn am, the matter no dey ever sweet for woman. Love na big trap for that side. I dey hear all the old stories—how spirits go enter with hope, come back with scar. I just tell myself, better make I siddon for here, dey chop my underworld food—sometimes e taste like burnt akara, sometimes like cold yam—dey look River dey flow.

If I fit endure hundred years by the River of Forgetfulness, I go become the next Mama Nkechi, and I no go ever suffer the nightmare of my last life again.

Sometimes, I go just dey count the years for my fingers, dey look my own shadow for the river. I no wan remember anything from past life again. The pain still dey sharp, but if I fit just hold on, I go reach that place of peace. When you become Mama Nkechi, you go get small power, you fit help other lost spirits, and nobody fit push you anyhow.

This particular day, as usual, I dey prepare soup for Mama Nkechi.

The aroma of bitterleaf and dried fish dey rise from the pot. I dey slice utazi leaf, dey check say oil no too much. Mama Nkechi na person wey dey chop native food—no salt, no pepper pass boundary. But me, I like am small sweet. So as I dey stir, I dey plan how I go add small something to balance am.