Chapter 2: Festival Wahala

New Yam Festival night.

Everywhere for the capital, fireworks dey scatter for sky like flamboyant flower. Mama Kemi wey dey sell puff-puff come rush knock my door.

The air that night heavy with the smell of roasted corn and suya. All the neighbourhood children dey run upandan with banger, elders dey gist under mango tree, roasted plantain dey smell for air. Laughter dey mix with the thump of talking drum from the church across street.

"Aunty Ronke, wahala don jam your Chinonso!"

I jump from where I dey cook, no even remove my apron, just rush go gate.

My heart just dey pound—abeg, make nothing happen to that pikin. Oil still dey my hand, apron tie anyhow for my waist, but I no send. For this country, when dem call your pikin name for night, you no go wait talk.

Before I fit ask wetin happen, Mama Kemi hold my hand, drag me comot from the compound.

Her own slippers nearly fall for leg, as she dey pull me. "Abeg, Aunty Ronke, run small, na serious matter o!"

East Main Street dey jam-packed—roads cross everywhere, people full ground, mama put and tea joint for both sides, bridge dey cross canal. Area boys dey dance, one dey juggle bottle, another dey play talking drum. Music from distant Fuji band dey mingle with crowd noise. Hawkers dey shout price, one small boy dey chase chicken across gutter, while old women dey clap for masquerade wey dey pass.

As I dey pant, I finally see Chinonso cap—na that grey-blue one—far for the end of bridge.

I recognise that cap; na me sew am from old wrapper. Wetin e dey do for that side?

One fine car park for bridgehead, security men and houseboys full everywhere. One guard, big stick and red cap, face strong like person wey no dey laugh, don hold Chinonso for collar.

All these palace guards fit fear only Chief Musa. My body dey shake, but I no show.

Chinonso slim, fine fingers dey hold something tight, no gree drop am.

He talk, stubborn but clear: "No. Na my mama give me this safety amulet."

I see say im voice dey tremble small, but Chinonso get mind. Small pikin, but e dey stand im ground—something I sabi say no be all children fit do, especially for front of Chief people.

Inside the car, one small pikin voice, cold like harmattan: "Liar."

The voice sharp like blade. The window glass no let me see the face, but that kain coldness fit only come from one of those rich house children.

Then the command: "Auwalu, twist im neck."

Sharp sharp, the guard wey dem call Auwalu raise im hand, face no even show emotion.

The stick for im hand just shift. My blood cold instantly. If say dem born me witch, na now I for disappear fly reach that place.

—No now!

As I see am, my knees nearly buckle, mouth dry. I mutter, "Jesu, biko, cover us." The shout come from my soul. I no fit let harm touch Chinonso. I for don swear for ground if to say na shrine we dey.