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A TBT post. Been occupied with a few things and haven’t gotten around to organizing and finishing up articles for publication, so I decided to edit and publish an old story I wrote on Facebook. It echoes the Nietzschean theme of ‘Eternal Recurrence’ before I encountered the Nietzschean theme of ‘Eternal Recurrence’.
"I want to be affluent; Emeka Offor. Then, fix my looks; Van Vicker," he said to the shaman in flickering candle lights in the cold dark cave.
The shaman in an old frayed wrapper that could dissolve into scales at any moment who looked more fragile than her wrapper said, "Your third wish, Obele1?"
There were so many things to wish for. Scoring with his dream chick? But what if the dream turns dull? Scoring with someone beyond his wildest imagination? Nah, too vague; an invitation to more craziness than he wished for. Fame? Money and good looks could get him that. Or maybe not; good looks fade and his ego may need to feel he was more than his checkbook.
"You may lose everything," said the hag, her sunken eyes glowing in the dark, "if you don't hurry up, Obele."
"My name is not Obele," he said.
"Quit stalling, and get on with it, little one." Her smile revealed a healthy mouth, perhaps too healthy, full of strong teeth. "You have the duration of a fart’s smell."
This is a nasty old lady, Nolue thought, scrunching his face, but he thought the expression childish and straightened his back, made a solemn face.
"I want to be a younger version of me."
"You want to be reborn, yes?" The old woman shot forward like an avid dog and Nolue rocked away from her.
"No, no, I said younger me. Nolue, twenty; not Nolue baby."
"Yes, yes! It is the same."
Twenty’s a good age, thought Nolue, with a thumping heart. Twenty’s actually great. Before all the bad choices, before all the things he should’ve caught he let go. Before all the missed opportunities to become someone instead of still groping to find who he ought to be. Failed love for fear of engagement. Deferred ventures for the elusive dream ahead. How old was he anyway? Don’t matter; twenty’ll fix everything.
The shaman wrapped her arms around her legs drawn up to her chin, closed her eyes and began to hum. The hum was so low and interminable that Nolue, edging forward, couldn’t tell if she paused to catch breath.
The hum ceased abruptly and when she exhaled, Nolue felt a gust hit him from her direction. No way; that’s not just her breath. He began to realize how afraid he’d been since this business began.
As soon as her eyes fluttered open, Nolue knew he should have stayed home, should have ignored Nonye urging him to meet the Wish Pool. How many sane people will take up an offer to visit a spiritualist on the mere prompt of an online friend?
Her eyes were twin pools of shimmery blackness. She popped open her jaw and he realized that her teeth had turned into spikes.
His body was running before he knew it, feet pistons flooded by fear juices popping up and stamping down. He lurched out of the alcove, and bolted and hoped he was fast enough.
He wasn’t. With a cackle that evoked terrors old when the world was young she catapulted from the alcove, a dark spry shape. As Nolue spared a glance backwards, he saw the dark form spring at and slam into him. They rolled together in a tangle and at stop the hag straddled him.
“Rebirth!” her voice came through a sandwich of static, sounding as if it was filtered through a dirty slap. “Let me birth you through the canal of pain.”
“No,” he shrieked. “I don’t want again. Take back your wishes.”
“My gifts are not returnable, Obele.” She drew back and darted forward, her mouth agape with green tongues of flame licking around spiky teeth. He reached up with his arm and her teeth clamped down, digging deep, burning. A scream rasped out of his throat. With a grunt, she pulled away, ripping flesh. It sounded like snapping rubber bands. The wounds sprouted green flames.
She arced and darted in again, tearing away pieces of Nolue. She was all over him in a wild feed. There was pain, oh pain. It lodged in his torn flesh and danced to his head and around his body and wove and swarmed and stitched, and it was fire and it was ice and it was alive and numbing. It was everything and he swam in it, and it was a tail he chased but kept dancing at the tips of his fingers. He inhaled pain and exhaled screams.
“Do you feel the agony of rebirth, Obele?” she yelled through the garbled static and overwhelming agony. “Feed me your pain, feed me your wishes, and feed me your hopes and memories. Feed me your flesh and blood and bone and I will give you a new birth.”
Green flames bloomed and blossomed all over his body.
“You do not remember, do you, the pain of birth,” she was in his head now, amidst the rainbow cloud of pain that was now dwindling with every other sensation.
An inky blackness gradually licked life from the corners of his vision.
Sitting on her haunches, she gnawed at what remained of him. The green flames died out. His form dissolved.
“The tragedy of the phoenix,” she said. “They live. They die. They forget. And they do it all over again. That’s why they cry.”
She raised herself and hobbled back to the lit alcove. She sat and hummed again, interminable and low.
The atmosphere froze into one moment that had an entire lifetime, an eternity encapsulated within. Then the world resumed.
The air pulsed. The lights dimmed, flickered and flared. The flare revealed Nolue sitting before her.
"I want to be affluent; Emeka Offor. Then, fix my looks; Van Vicker," he said to the shaman in flickering candle lights in the cold dark cave.
Obele: ‘little’ or ‘young one’ in Igbo; with the connotation of ‘inexperienced’