CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. ULOMA.
Uloma awoke to an eerie, searing silence penetrating her consciousness. She was lying on her living room floor with its bamboo cane chairs and beaded table. She retrieved her hand, which was splayed in the general direction of her woven door leading to her hallway. Everything felt like a dream. She wondered warily whether she was awake as she got up. She shut her eyes to reorient herself, and just like that, sounds came rushing back, shaking her to her core. She had to dig her bare feet into the floor to keep from staggering. The strangled noise that came rushing out of her shocked even her ears. The noise went away as suddenly as it had started.
Her brain was screeching. Why was her brain screeching? Uloma opened her eyes again and saw why. Something red and sticky covered her hands. Uloma looked at her left hand, dazed. She lifted it to her face, searching her brain for what it was. Her eyes dropped to her legs and then to her exposed stomach. She was covered in red... no, crimson, and a metallic smell was leaving a bad taste in her mouth. Her brain slumbered, like it was choosing to take a break in that moment, rather than focus on whatever this was. Uloma slowly dragged her heavy eyes away from herself. There on the floor lay two of her servants; humans serving out their sentences for a life they now regret in the Realm of the Dead. Death kept human other humans called bad, here, the thought flashed through her mind like it was coming from outside of her.
Uloma rushed towards the bodies, unnamed helpers who had faithfully served her in the shadows.
“Wake up.”
She croaked, shaking first the woman, and then the man, but there was no Death left in their body. They were not supposed to die in this form; they could go extinct yet, she thought, without actually trying; it was as if knowledge was filtering through to her. These weren’t her own knowledge.
“Please wake up.”
Uloma pleaded, shaking the stiff shoulders of the man on the floor. He was covered in red; it was blood. Uloma choked, pushing herself to her feet again, only to be stalled by the slippery floor covered in blood.
“Help.”
She croaked, stepping away from both bodies. She walked backward, afraid she wasn't really in a nightmare.
“Help.”
She screamed, her legs hurrying towards her woven door.
“Help, please, please. Please help.”
Uloma screamed as she attempted to run, stumbling backwards, she fell bottom-first on the blood-covered floor. Her shocked mind was returning. In panic, Uloma stumbled from her floor. She was drenched now in blood; the smell was not everywhere; it was inside her. She bolted upright again, slipping all the time, and, refusing to fall a second time, she ran for the door, screaming for help. The scream died in her throat the moment she walked through the door, littered in a stretch in her hallway, were servants whose names she never bothered to learn, servants who had waited on her every need, faceless until now.
“Ahhh.”
Uloma cried and vomited. The agony in her voice moved through her body and left her shaking all over.
~
Death stood staring down at her peers and family, her daughters on her sides, as question after question was thrown at her. Even her daughters were impressed as they watched the stoic woman face down everyone capable of bringing her down, if they worked together. But Death knew something that her daughters did not; beings this powerful worked together only when they absolutely had to. They were suspicious of and disliked each other the rest of the time. Uloma was not a threat enough at the moment to compel a coalition.
“You are telling us, your daughter managed to leave this realm without your help!”
Ike-Igwe boomed, his silver eyes staring daggers at his wife, daughter, sister, and the mother of his children. Death levelled a cool stare at him; her white attire in contrast to his silver one left her glaring opposition even more evident. This was made even more obvious by the murmurs from the room of gods, Heavenlies, and Cosmics. Death shook her wild hair.
“If I used myself in any way, you would have felt me.”
The murmurs in the room intensified; her daughters were stirring beside her, ready to defend their mother against a room humming with power and energy. Death reached out for their minds all simultaneously and patted them as if she were patting their hair or shoulders to calm them down. The action was so tiny in a teeming room that it went undetected.
“Enwu, are my worlds threatened?”
Owa-Owa asked. She barely raised his voice, but the room fell silent as he spoke. Owa-Owa, Death was worried about, but you could not tell by the thin smile on Death’s face as she regarded the being who was neither male nor female, because she was male and female. She was unlike many genderless beings; genderless beings were common, and he was anything but ordinary. The most beautiful of all the beings, he was regal in the manner in which her body seemed to be made of the world without seeming to be made of anything.
When she spoke, her voice was the wind, but it was the roar of fire, and yet it was the patter of rain. Her razor-sharp eyes were never one colour; they shifted every time he looked at you. She walked and talked with such grace that every being stopped, entranced when she opened his mouth. His beauty wasn't what worried Death as she watched her. It was her cunning, it was that look in her eyes that said, I know more than I am choosing to let on, and she should know, he was the mother of worlds. She drew them into existence, thought them into being. Not much that happened in any world escaped him.
“You know I am always partial to you, Enwu, and to your offspring, but we cannot sit back and allow the order of reality to begin to shake. We work too hard for that.”
Ike-Igwe boomed. His shiny bald head, contesting with his very bearded face, made his looks something of an enigma. His silver eyes sealed the deal; the god of the moon wore power around his neck like he wore his royal beads.
“Our children, and if anything is happening, you should all be able to feel it. I am only standing here as a courtesy to you all, but I am tired of this interrogation now.”
The room erupted as Death floated off the jagged rocks she had been standing on in the stead of her last child, her daughters in tow.
The elders, beings, and minor gods sitting on the sides of the rocks were divided, one side for her and the other against, perpetually in disagreement, as if the day that they saw eye to eye would be the day eyes ended.
On a higher platform, the other beings presiding over reality sat on floods and whirling sandstorms, neither element prevailing over the other. Enwu knew this was prevalent among the people in the gathering, light and darkness that would never meet, yet gods and Cosmics from all over the universe had gathered to witness the splendour of the gods up there. She should be a god up there, but they never truly thought of her as one. On the ground amongst the elders of the universe where her seat sat, she was welcomed with reverence; here she held power, here she had loyal followers who respected and even obeyed her when it came to it. They should not have a leader, but she was theirs. Unofficially theirs.
“How is your daughter doing?”
A bubbly woman asked her. She was the Lord of the heavenlies; her brown skin was neither fair nor dark, and she was tender all over, from her beady dark eyes to her chubby beaded legs, contrasting Death’s tuff personality and appearance.
“Thank you for your concern, Iye-Echi.”
Death brushed her off; she always smelled of kitchen fire, the warm smell that reminds the mind and stomach that there is a home for you. Death did not like her. The younger Deaths, oblivious to their mother’s sentiment, or not caring for it, fawned over the short motherly Iye-Echi, who just fuzzed over them, bubbling like a bee, as if she were their mother. Death wanted to pull her children away and yell ‘mine’, but whoever won a battle by being obvious?
“Enwu.”
Anim pulled Death aside.
“Sister.”
Death greeted.
“Enwu.”
Anim responded; they pulled each other into a hug.
“The vultures are cycling you.”
The Queen of the world, they were currently in, said, motioning with her head to Iye-Echi.
“She is to Death, what I am to Life.”
Death replied, watching the short, round woman, with her children, the children of most cosmics, even now, surrounded her.
“She worries me.”
Otti and Etti’s mother stated. Her height and sprite-like build were like her children’s; she even wore midnight black rather than the white favoured by most Cosmics associated with death or ascension.
“She is never up to any good, sister, is she?”
Death agreed.
“Mhmm, but Enwu, something tells me she is up to no good, more than usual, see how harmless she is trying to appear?”
They both silently watched the woman with bright purple make-up, and a flower wreath on her hair, her dress came up to her knees, and even though, like Death and most gods and older cosmics, she could grow into a giant, she was staying her short close to the ground, everyday height. What worried the cosmics watching her most was that she was so charming and disarming, she could easily sway their children, who usually did not have a bone of trust in them.
~
Uloma moved from one room to the next, body after lifeless body marked her path. She heaved and bowed, but her voice would not rise past a squeak, no matter how loudly she sobbed. The loud silence that followed her progress around her palace was only rivalled by the pervasive smell of blood.
~
Ogechi heaved and screamed, her agony threatening to shake the room with sounds that felt to the hearer like it was emanating out of the depths of her stomach.
“I see the head.”
The midwife was saying, but she was barely audible in the room full of grunting, screeching, and prayers, all in one breath from one mouth. The seasoned hands of the old midwife shook from arthritis, but her action was now more a muscle memory than a skill. Her hot-water-sterilised hands cupped the baby's head to help balance it and coax it out of her mother.
The head matted to the hair, or the hair matted to the head, was slippery against the woman’s already shaky hand. But again, it was not skills the woman worked with; it was a memory so steep it spanned generations, handed down from hand to hand, as if it would one day be handed down to her daughter, who was even now holding warm clothes under Ogechi’s leg. Ogechi screamed again, the head of the midwife shot up, her worn-out headwrap moving with the haste of the movement. Her eyes turned sharply on the old woman by her side, muttering prayers and words of encouragement.
“Your granddaughter has returned; we must start the ritual to keep her bound in this world to you. Go gather the needed materials.”
The old woman nodded, not missing a beat; they had feared this. Expected, and even hoped for it. This was not something new to them or anyone; children that returned were common. She would gather the materials, and the women outside this room, praying for safe delivery, would be more than eager to help. She gathered her wrapper about her and laboriously got to her feet, where she was bent with a piece of cloth mopping the sweat from Ogechi’s forehead and chest. Ozioma made to join her aunt. The old woman shook her head and motioned for Ozioma to stay.
“One of us should be here.”
The woman managed, over the scream and grunts from Ogechi.
“I will return quickly.”
She said to the room, her eyes on Oge, whose eyes were shot tight; her contorted face was a clear indication that she was not present with the world.
“She is losing a lot of blood, but the child is almost here; the loss of blood should not be a problem.”
The midwife told her daughter, her forehead and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She retrieved a clean piece of warm clothing from her daughter, mopping expertly under the baby's head, taking care to keep the cloth and heat from coming into contact with the child, all the while muttering.
“Inside of your mother, the blood would not hurt you, but you are vulnerable now that you are on your way out.”
Ogechi screamed; the midwife continued to talk.
“You are almost all here. Once you manage to get your shoulder out, the rest of you will slide out easily. Don’t worry about your mother; she will recover. She only wants you to be healthy. Concentrate on coming out.”
She raised her head and smiled in the general direction of Ozioma.
“I see her shoulder.”
She whispered to the heaving, pushing, and sucking in of breath of Oge. Outside, the grandmother organised her community; she was on a mission, and this time, this child would stay, if she had anything to say about it.
~
Uloma moved faster and faster, through the rooms now, not wanting to see, not wanting to feel. She was searching for just one breathing or undead person. Her breathing came in torrid of heaves, and the tears falling down her face were ignored because the more her hand swiped at her face, the more blood she smeared on it. In her room now, she collapsed against the wall. Her head had started screaming at her at some point, trying to tell her something, but she could not hear it against the ringing in her ears.
“Oh, so sad, are we crying?”
The voice was by her ears; it had a mocking drawl that should have worried Uloma, but she felt spent, drained. She looked in the direction of the voice, into the empty hole where eyes should be staring at her. That smile churned Uloma’s stomach, which should not have been possible because her body was certain it no longer had a stomach. Uloma’s reaction was slow, but she eventually scuttled away from the creature watching her with a malicious gleam on her face.
“If it is not the daughter of Death herself, the very Death of time.”
Uloma did not answer; her gaze would not leave the woman's face. The woman moved closer to her.
“Oh, you are famous. You, with all your notoriousness. We heard and wanted to play.”
The woman giggled; everything she did felt like an imitation, as if she were pretty because she was trying to imitate the idea of beauty. Even the way she walked was unnatural. Her body moved as if it were learning what walking was, and the effect was skulking. She threw her head back and laughed when Uloma scurried away again.
“I did not peg you for a coward, Death of time.”
She said sweetly to Uloma, her skin shone and glittered. Uloma watched her, too dazed even to register much.
“To be fair, you are keeping up more than the beings I have met; they are so stunned they are barely able to move. Mhm, to your credit, you are moving. So, I will make your death simple, won’t even take pleasure in it.”
She eyed Uloma. Uloma withdrew her leg into herself. The woman started to laugh again.
“Okay, you caught me. I am lying. I will take my time with you; I did not eat any of your servants because I was saving up space for you. But if you would rather not be eaten, say something.”
She said, pausing as if she were expecting a response; she giggled gleefully. Uloma made a squeaking sound, and the woman cocked her head.
“Did you say something?”
She asked, lips turned up in mockery.
“Oh well, do not say that I did not try.”
She giggled and started humming, moving her head from side to side.
“Oh, this will be so much fun. But I have to say, I was hoping you would be a bit more of a challenge. If I say I am not disappointed, I would be lying. All that hype, oh well, food is food, whether they fight you or not.”
Inside her head, where Uloma hid, too traumatised to come out, she reached out for herself. Not like this, her head whispered. The woman was in her face, reaching out her hand to Uloma.
“Not like this!”
Uloma shouted, snapping out of it.
“Not like this.”
She shook her head, throwing the woman off her feet. She fell to the ground, all pretence of pretty gone, in its place was an empty blank face. As if she were regaining her composure, the beautiful face returned.
“There is more grit in you then. Not to worry, we will take care of that.”
The woman was in Uloma’s face again. Uloma scrambled up on her feet.
“No.”
She told the woman.
“Too bad I was not asking for your permission, first you and then your puny humans you love so much, oh don’t worry about your realm, even as we stand here, it is being overrun and overthrown, it is our turn in the dark, and according to that prophecy, you are the only thing in our way.”
Uloma shook her head.
“No.”
She repeated. We will not hide, she said in her head to her hiding, traumatised consciousness, and squared her shoulders.
“Is no, the only thing you can say?”
The woman laughed, clapping her hands. Uloma eyed her in response, making a fist, her years of combat lessons with Emenike kicking in.
“See for yourself the rubble your realm has become.”
The woman said and blew hot, rotten air in Uloma’s eyes.
~
All four pounds of Ogechi’s baby slipped out of her, as she heaved one last time. But there was no sound from the fluid-covered little human. The child's silence infected the room. Their fear was palpable.
~
Uloma saw her school burning. The School of Death was in ruins; rubble was falling everywhere she looked. The academy's walls collapsed on Sani as Uloma watched. Thick clouds and plumes of smoke made seeing, for the already distressed students, that much worse. Students who were not lying still on the ground were running, screaming for help, begging for their lives. Chaos was everywhere, in everything, on all their faces. Something was coming: not just one thing, but a lot of things. It was going to eat the whole academy; they were going to eat the entire school. Uloma’s sob caught in her throat; this was her fault somehow, she knew it, she felt it. They had come for her and taken her school as collateral. The ground shook, burying students with it. Green vines reached towards running feet, tripping them and binding their bodies, until every vestige of being was squeezed out of them, leaving them limp and extinct. As she watched helpless to do anything, a dishevelled Asiya trailed into view, dragging her left foot behind her. She was holding a limp hand to her midriff. Abali and Ekama were not far behind. Ekama collapsed, Abali fell on her seconds later, thick dark essence oozed out of open, gaping wounds all over his exposed, charred body.
“They are all gone, and it's all your fault. Your existence is the cause of their extinction.”
“Nooo!”
~
The eyes of the baby in the hand of the midwife snapped open; her wails followed very close, to the relief of the room.
~
Uloma felt the heart thump beside her. She was in the place again, where nothing else should exist, but it was different this time. Someone warm was present, and they were happy to be here, like it had been a long time coming. The disembodied person opened her eyes, and they were suddenly there with Uloma, no longer a floating consciousness. The consciousness had a form; it was the form of a baby. Uloma’s eyes shot open.
“Enough! I said, no!”
She said to the eyeless woman, brushing off whatever hold the woman had held over her, Uloma advanced towards the woman, her eyes shining with pain and anger. Uloma’s bloodied feet barely touched the floor, as if their owner had no use for the ordinary civility needed to appeal gravity.
“You are not listening to me.”
She said as she advanced on the woman. The woman backed away from Uloma’s fury, as if it were a physical thing. Uloma did not have fire in her eyes or in her voice; she even appeared calm and in no hurry or rush. Uloma slowly reached out her hand to the woman, the woman’s body started to twist and contort. She fell to her knees, her body twisting into shapes that would have been difficult for ordinary bodies to contort in. The woman made an unworldly sound reminiscent of an animal in pain. Uloma cocked her head, observing the writhing thing in front of her.
“You managed to copy the forms of many beings perfectly, but you could not manage to copy the eyes. You know what they say about the eyes: it is the window to the soul. It just means we can see your soul through your eyes. You have no soul. Everything should have a soul; that is what makes you unnatural. I have half a soul, so your lot think we are in the same boat, but we are not. Half is not nothing.”
There was no beauty now left in the woman; it was barely a woman. Her hair, beads, and clothes were gone; in their place was a veiny, dark green being that matched the empty eyes.
“Don’t you have something to say for yourself?”
Uloma paused and cocked her head to the other side, the creature before her was visibly in agony, Uloma’s stretched out her hand never shifted from her, she curled them into a near fist and suddenly unclasped them again, the veiny being screeched, it was pulsing, Uloma watched it without feeling, thick green liquid ran through the visible veins all over its body.
“Oh, well then, don’t say I did not give you a chance. First, you, and then the rest of your whatever you call yourselves will follow.”
Outside, the wind surged, but Uloma did not hear it. Rain beat down her palm-leaf roof; Uloma did not hear it either. She watched the thing in front of her like it was all she could see and hear. Uloma touched the thing on its slimy pulsing shoulder, and an unnatural sound poured out of it. A rush of white light sparked off Uloma’s fingers onto the thing's shoulder; it shrank away from Uloma, or tried to, writhing in pain as it was covered bit by bit in a searing white until there was nothing there. She hadn’t just vanished; it was as if she was wiped away, tiny bit after tiny bit: her shoulder, and then her arms, slowly until there was just white, where the thing once was.
Uloma’s hand fell to her side, but the searing whiteness would not go away; it started to cover wherever Uloma stepped. The power surging through her felt too much to contain, but she felt herself shrinking away again, like this was too much for her to deal with.
She pulled herself out of hiding, inside her head, and willed her exhausted legs to carry her. She had to get away from her palace. She needed to get to her sister and her friends. They could not be dead, no, they could not be dead. She had to help them; she had to save them. As she walked, the searing whiteness followed her, erasing everything she passed and everything she encountered.
Uloma wandered from room to room, forgetting why she was even moving in the first place, but unable to do anything but wander. A sense of urgency carried her. But where to?
When there was no room left to wander through, Uloma wandered around in the blank oblivion of whiteness.
She could not remember when she had started to wander, or why. Or if she was wandering. Her legs carried her, convinced by her brain that letting her take a break even for a second would be the end of her.