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400 pages, Hardcover
First published August 8, 2023
“Please heal him,” the woman says, begging Mummy with tear-filled eyes. “Please.”Then comes the magic or rather at that point, some generic folk healing plus some bit of ancestral spirits blessings that offers a stunning glimpse of the fantasmagoric treat awaiting readers into the incredible magical system used based on mythology from my homeland. Coming from a superb and unique imagination of a new to me author, Ehigbor Okosun, weaving a tapestry of world-building stunning in its uniqueness and some intricately detailed structure.
My mother grunts, but she takes the boy from the woman and sets him on our cot in the corner of the room.
This woman will get us killed, I know it.
But I waddle over, dragging the calabash behind me, its heavy wooden body leaning against my legs like a cow about to give birth. When I reach the edge of the cot, I open the neck and pour palm wine into the cracked bowl lying next to it. Mummy pulls the boy’s eyelids up and peers at pale irises ringed with red cracks. Then she unbuttons his tunic and examines the network of bulging red veins spread across his pale skin.
“Dèmi?” she says.And this from just a few pages of reading!
“Okonkwo poisoning. It’s been at least six hours. He won’t last another,” I say.
She nods. “Good. How long will the recovery be?”
“If he is healed now, then at most a day. But the healer will be exhausted for three.”
She smiles, brushing a lock of my tightly coiled hair from my face, brown eyes shining with pride. Then she turns to the woman. “Even if he’s healed, your son might still pay a price in the future. Are you prepared?”
The woman’s tearful face morphs so quickly into a mask of disgust that I fear I imagined her tears. She spits on the floor—our floor—before tossing a cloth bag on the ground. Several gold coins roll out, littering the mud like the kwasho bugs that crawl around in summertime. There is at least twenty lira, enough to feed us for two years, even with the extra trade taxes.
“Pure gold,” she sneers. “More than you’ve ever seen in your miserable lives. That should be enough. Or do you need more?”
I bristle. “Gold will not stop the spirits—”
Mummy shoots me a glance and I swallow my words. She straightens her back. We only have the small kerosene lantern to light our hut, but her skin—brown like fresh kola nuts—glows golden in that light. Her braided hair is a crown adorning her heart-shaped face. For a moment, I see her again as she used to be, before she was cast out, a princess of Ifé.
I want to scream in her face. The woman spits again, and it takes everything I have to hold myself still. Meascan. Adalu. It’s times like these, when these insults wash over me, that I drown in a well of anger. There are so many words for what we are, words sung over me like a lullaby of curses since my birth. The message is the same: We are not human. We are tainted. Tools to be used and discardedSo after a misfortune that finds her seeking vengeance for herself, her tribe and family, she embarks upon the classic heroes' quest in finding herself and her powers in a cruel and evil world.