Ikenga: Chapters 3–7

He put his plate, laden with only hunks of goat meat, on the ground just so that he could dramatically slap hands with Ruff Diamond.

The two laughed raucously.

She was very fat, tall, and strong and she wore a black drape of a dress made of a thick, coarse material. Hugging her was suffocating, hot, and scratchy.

It was exhilarating to run like crazy in the dark after...what? A thief?

He stopped and his legs shook with adrenaline.

Was this the devil bringing him to a secluded place where no one could save him from being tempted to evil?

“It will steal your breath if you breathe while I’m offering it. That is what I am told." He spoke in a monotone voice, as if he were doing a ritual.

The dirt made a crackling sound as it fused itself into the shape of an ebony figure with two long spiral horns, seated on a stool grasping what looked like a machete in its bulbous right hand.

Every surface of the object was etched with tiny symbols, except the piercing eyes and thick, unsmiling lips.

He was looking up at his father, suddenly feeling light-headed and a bit queasy.

Even in the darkness, Nnamdi could see the drunken man's shirt was filthy, stiff with dirt, grime, and sweat. And he could smell him. Like putrid garbage and unwashed socks.

He touched his face and felt stubble.

His breathing grew faster and faster, and soon he was hyperventilating.

Chioma looked from her hand to Nnamdi, shaking her hand as if the Ikenga had left some residue on it.

Had he really seen his father and then beaten up one of the most notorious carjackers in Kaleria?

The headline read: “Three Days’ Journey Thwarted in Three Seconds.”

Several new leaves had unfurled from the snaking vine.

Nnamdi bristled, sure that she was going to start badgering him about what had happened last night or about the Ikenga.

In all his time weeding, watering, planting, and pruning back there, he hadn't seen one butterfly.

Nnamdi liked Ruff Diamond well enough, but he didn't quite trust him because of how much Ruff Diamond loved to exaggerate and embellish everything.

Nnamdi bristled so hard that his armpits prickled. Ruff Diamond was so annoying.

She smiled wanly. The armpits of her yellow blouse were damp with sweat and her feet were caked with dust. She walked slowly, wincing with each step.

They’d walked past several market stalls when Nnamdi smelled something utterly rotten. It was so rancid that he swooned with dizziness and nearly dropped the tray.

The air itself took on a noxious green tint, like stinky fog.

“Bad Market is the head of a small but very crafty group of pickpockets,” Nnamdi’s father had explained to him only months before his murder.

“When Bad Market finishes a job, he gets arrogant. He likes people to know they’ve been robbed; that’s part of the thrill for him. He has these balloons filled with chemicals. He throws them when he is done robbing, and when they hit the air, that creates the smelly fog he is known for.”

Slowly, the noise of chaos fell away and his ears pinpointed the sound of swift, nimble adult feet.

Nnamdi snatched up Bad Market’s arms and held them together as the limber man tried to squirm from his grasp.

The smelly green fog was dissipating and, though they were in a secluded section of the open-air market, Nnamdi sensed people nearby.

He fought back the embarrassed giddiness he felt at his rich, deep voice.

For what felt like hours, he was chased by the shadowy grotesque demon version of Three Days’ Journey, who seemed to be made of a sticky brown goop that stained everything it touched.

He turned it over, feeling the charge softly thrum in his fingertips.

“A Bad Day for Bad Market” sounded almost sympathetic to Bad Market’s plight.

“We don't know who this mysterious wannabe vigilante is,” Chief Okimba said.

There is no room for primitive irresponsible ‘jungle justice' in my civilized town.

He hadn’t liked Chief Okimba since his father's funeral, where the man had given a speech that subtly blamed Nnamdi's father for his own death.

She knew Chief Okimba was insulting Nnamdi’s father’s efforts and she was seething with anger.

What Nnamdi had done was not “jungle justice,” not really. It certainly wasn’t “irresponsible.” What about the drunk driver who was lynched in the streets months ago?

Chioma wore jeans and a T-shirt, had a hand on her hip and an inquisitive look on her face.

Nnamdi paused, then he scoffed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”