THIRTY-ONE- ELEVATED.
The excitement wafting from the crowd of waiting students could be harvested and sold for immense profit. Uloma sighed and looked over to Ekama; their conversation from the night before sat heavily on her mind. Ekama winked at her, smiling broadly, and holding on to Ogba’s muscular arm, she too had caught the inescapable feverish anticipation in the air. Standing on the podium were Emenikes, Abali, and the other prefects. Asi was there as well, because she had come into her powers.
Emenikes were reciting incantations over the students and the prefects, with their eyes closed and their feet barely touching the podium, were lending their powers to the enchantments, making them even more potent than they already were. Uloma ran a finger under her nose; the musty scent of magic in the air was somehow also electric. She felt tingling race through her. The crescendo of chanting rose amongst the students; they were nearing a vibrating pandemonium. Uloma felt herself chanting along; she could not help it. She wanted to stay grounded, sensible, but she was powerless against the enchantment pouring into her. She threw her head back and laughed in defiance of anything and everything. She felt like she could run through anything and come out unscathed.
Kaneni, iyeye kpotoyo. Ekenele lolu, olu wnuke kptu yo.
Kaneni, iyeye kpotoyo. Ekenele lele, elewnuke kpotu yo.
Kaneni, Iyeye ujale lu-ununnuyo ndeke obuiyeye le ekpeniyo.
The loudest students vanished first; they dissipated before Uloma's eyes, turning into wafting blackness as they ascended into nothing. Uloma felt her head snap up, her eyes turning inward as if searching for something within. She felt herself shake violently, and then she was nothing, a weightless darkness floating away.
~
A man with his wrapper tucked between his legs opened his mouth and fire exploded out of him, the crowd cheered, their voices rising into the night had reached a maddening pique. The man produced an unlit torch as if from nowhere, and the cheering crowd applauded and hooted. The man directed the fire coming out of his mouth in the direction of the torch, and the torch came alive. He raised the torch over his head in triumph to the whooping and admiration of the cheering crowd. He was suddenly flagged on all sides by spirit people inside masquerades, dancing the dance of the elevated. One of the spirit men stood on a thin, long stick shooting out from under him. It was impossible to see anything of him that could identify him as human. He was covered all over in flailing strips, and he wore a grotesque mask on his face, an interpretation of the face of spirits. The other spirit people inside the masquerades stood below where the waist of the stick masquerade person probably started. They danced their elevated dance, wielding canes, machetes, flaming pots, and various odd items.
A disembodied voice resounded through the crowd. The depth of its cry pulled at the crowd, throwing them into immediate silence.
“The one who walks the paths of the gods, so that we may stay happily human.
The one who keeps the balance between worlds.
It is he whom the people have chosen—he who the gods have blessed.
Oh, hear you tonight, the thread of the mighty—the giant of our world.
In his wake, the wind stands in silence and in awe. Is it not he who wrestles a tiger without breaking a sweat?
Oh, the honored one. The all-powerful spirit in human.
Dear mortal servants, hail your king!”
A disembodied drum sounded in response to the chant, inspiring awe in all who heard it. A flute joined the drum, and the pull that silenced the crowd brought them to their knees as they bowed to their king.
“The one who must not be heard or seen, is here.”
A shrill cry rang out into the air, eliciting groans from the shaking crowd. They felt the sovereign one in their bones. He touched everyone in the crowd through a chill that cowered.
An army of feet thudded away, signaling the passing of the king and his court, still the crowd stayed with their head pressed into the sand. The grainy earth imprinting on foreheads.
“The king declares the coming-of-age ceremony officially open!”
The Crier sang, rousing the crowd, who jumped to their feet and celebrated. Dancers poured out as the crowd looked on. The crowd, drunk on excitement, cheered and clapped.
A talking drum sounded into the night, and a line of children with musical instruments milled out. Dancing children stood suspended, waiting for the musical cue. A child holding a beaded maraca shook it vigorously to a rhythm his feet kept time to. His beautiful eyes watched the crowd; a pleased smile was plastered on his face. Two young girls, wearing neatly tied wrappers in similar shades and colours, joined the boy with their beaded shakers. Their forehead shone against the full moon, pulled back by the style of beaded, threaded hair they wore.
Before long, the rest of the children joined in, but a masterful sound from an iron bass drum stood out. The padded sound beaten from the mouth of the instrument swayed the previously still dancers. The heads of the crowd spun, searching for the child handling such a complex instrument to learn. The music the child was making was masterful, controlled, and too expert for a beginner.
“There.”
Oma pointed him out to her family. The boy's eyes were shut tight; he swayed to the music, playing as if marionetted.
“That one is evidently an elevated child.”
Oma’s grandmother commented, and the people around her nodded in agreement.
“He is playing in a depth far beyond his age.”
Oge quipped.
“Far too young to know or understand the emotions conveyed by his music.”
Oma’s grandmother agreed.
“He shines, does he not seem to? The more he plays, the brighter he seems to glow, right?”
Amara said in a faraway voice, gazing lovingly at the boy. He did seem to suddenly have spotlights on him, but Amara’s family gave her a querying look. Oma rolled her eyes. Her sister fell in love a lot. When the soulful music ended, the music became upbeat. The young dancers swayed in practiced uniformity; their waist and neck beads swinging as they danced.
“Let us move on and find your brothers and their mother.”
Oge suggested to her family as they shuffled away; she caught the eyes of her husband, who was watching her as he laughed with friends. Oge mouthed that they were moving on. She did not wait for his response, already gathering her wrapper around her, she took the hands of both her daughters. But Oma pulled away and snuggled into her grandmother’s side. Her mother and sister were overly into festivals, occasions, and parties. As if to prove her point, Amara called to her.
“Omam.”
“Mhm?”
Oma replied, still holding on to her grandmother.
“You know, last week we had the first coming out event, and tonight is the night of the competition, next week we...”
“Amara, leave me alone, please.”
Oma sighed and hissed. Her grandmother looked down at her disgruntled face and smirked knowingly at her.
“You have not shut up about the event all week. From the moment we wake up to the moment we go to sleep. I was here last year, I was not dead for my Chi's sake.”
Amara pouted for a second but physically waved her sister’s annoyance away with a flicker of her wrist.
“You only attended the competition ceremony, and we did not even attend the last event because we did not participate in the competitions.”
“Ignore your grumpy sister; crowds annoy her. You can tell me what you want to tell her, if she is tired of hearing you talk.”
Oge told Amara, patting her on her neatly woven hair. She looked over at Oma with her barely tame hair wrestled into two buns with beads wrapped around them, and smiled at her.
“Your sister is just excited, Oma, be nice.”
She told her, Oma huffed and sniffed before grudgingly nodding her assent. Cold air cooled the night, bringing with it the occasional welcomed chill and goosebumps. The air smelled of burned woods from the flaming lamps lighting every corner of the market square, giving the atmosphere a romantic, intimate, albeit lit air.
Amara adjusted her neck beads for the hundredth time to Oma’s annoyance. Her sister was determined to make an impression. She was pretty, Oma admitted, but she was trying too much, and that was what their fight earlier in the day had been about. She had wanted Oma to put in a little effort and had slyly mentioned it to their mother, who took her side. Now Oma was wearing a skirt that covered half of her upper thighs, and the wrapper covering her upper body held her chest snuggly, bringing her unwanted attention.
“Ah, is this Oma looking like a girl. Ah, look at that chest and hips, when did you start turning into a woman?”
Her auntie greeted them when they pushed through the crowd to where her auntie sat on a mat with their cousins, massaging palm-kernel oil all over Nkemu’s exposed body.
“Even I, her mother, was surprised. Her breasts are far too developed for her age. She reminds me of me at that age.”
Her mother laughed. Oma would have asked for any means to die in that moment as people around them turned to stare.
“Like mother, like daughters. Check Oge out, that waist, those wide hips, we will be beating men off with sticks by the end of the coming out season.”
Amara giggled shyly, and Oma found her glare growing; she looked over at her cousins, and they had the same look of irritated disgust she was wearing.
“Did your mother do your hair? How did you know to draw the pencil over your eyes like that?”
Ozioma fussed over Amara, running her hands over the woven braids. Oma wished she had stopped with her grandmother when her grandmother saw her peers and decided to spend the rest of the festival with them.
“It took me two days to braid her hair. You know, my Amara, she requires excellence and nothing short.”
Oge boasted and laughed; her best friend joined her. Oma exchanged an exasperated look with her cousin.
“Oma, pass some of the oil so that I can help your aunt massage strength into your brother.”
Oma passed the oil to her mother, kneeling in respect. As her mother and aunt worked on her cousin's muscles to prepare him for his wrestling competition.