Chapter 1: Odo Idodo or Nowhere

90% pure hydroxybutyric acid—enough to teach Sango real sense.

You get seventy-two transformations? Me, I get Mendeleev.

You dey swing that thunder axe? I dey carry periodic table of elements.

Oya, taste this ultimate move from centuries to come.

Father Mbaka na my own chop—even if na Jesus wan save am, e no go work, I swear!

As I dey talk this kind strong thing, na real Naija confidence just dey my voice, like when Egbon for street dey challenge you, chest out, face full. This one no be play. Even breeze wey dey pass go slow, as if e dey fear my boldness.

One bright, fine morning, I just decide say I go end my life.

I get lung cancer, and dem say I no go last reach three months.

Worse still, chemotherapy don wipe all my hair. For person wey dey care about how e look, na that one pain me pass.

So, na goodbye be this. To hell with everything.

I wrap myself with wrapper, then jump from the building.

Thirty floors high, I no dey joke—na like jumping from Union Bank building for Marina. As breeze dey slap my face, I just dey think: at least, the end go quick.

Next thing—gbam! I land for ground. My yansh pain me die.

Wait first, by that kinetic energy formula—mass times velocity squared over two—I suppose don scatter like suya.

I open my eye, na cave I see, and for top the cave dem write three old symbols: 'Odo Idodo Cave.'

Plenty humanoid masquerades just gather dey look me, eye full curiosity.

Na as I land, even the cave dey vibrate small, dust dey float for air. Na so my wrapper shift, small shame catch me as the masquerades dey stare. One even dey eye me like say e wan price me for market. Na so person go dey naked for masquerade front? My village people go laugh tire. The smell of bush, burnt firewood, and palm oil just choke everywhere, make the place be like old time village square after festival, when goat meat dey roast and elders dey gist under mango tree.

“Bald head.”

“Wrapper.”

“I sabi am!” one of the masquerades shout, knock e head. “Na that pastor wey dey find holy scripture!”

Chai! My body nearly comot from my skin, I wan run.

But one masquerade grab me for armpit, drag me enter cave, dey shout: “Great Chief! Second-in-Command! I don catch the scripture-seeking pastor from Makurdi!”

The smell from e armpit almost make me faint, but my head dey turn: Great Chief... Makurdi... scripture-seeking pastor...

Na so I land inside Nigerian version of Journey to the West!

As science student, I wan cry—out of all the Four Great Classical Novels, I no even dream reach The Concubine, but even Things Fall Apart or The Palm-Wine Drinkard for better pass this one. At least for those worlds, person fit still chop correct jollof, no be masquerade dey hunt you.

My mind dey race—omo, how I wan explain give my ancestors say na masquerade cave my spirit dey now? The kind wahala wey I land, even Nollywood no fit script am reach. My wrapper dey my chest, cold dey catch me, but shame no gree me arrange am well. All the masquerades dey point, dey whisper, as if dem dey gossip for family meeting.