By Chinaza James-Ibe

Eke—Umelo is dancing to the ominous toll of the Ogene, and Dibianta is on his bicycle, crashing through mist on his way to Ekezeali to buy plastic cowries. So what if Umelo has been dancing since the last Eke? He is certain that it is not his charm that did it; the woman was destined to be mad. 

Everyone knows to steer clear off Dibianta's path; the old women, upon hearing his bicycle bell, which he never ceases to ring, leap out of the way and wait in the nearby bushes, their small, market stools pressing against blades of elephant grass, spitting at the airy remnants of his presence as he wheezes by, a whirlwind. Brakeless, he pedals without pause and without sitting on the bicycle’s black-leather seat—as though a semblance of rest is an abomination; his eyes bruised by wind, nostrils flaring, and he skids to a stop three shops away from Umeibe’s shop. What has Dibianta come to buy? Cowries. 

“Umeibe! Dibianta, the son of many gods, has come to buy cowries! Umeibe! Are you asleep?" He bellows as he drags his sore-tired bicycle on his way back to Umeibe’s shop, scouring to make sure the entire Ekezeali can hear him. 

“Umeibe! Have you visited the shore where our ancestors revel, and have you picked me the cowries straight from the mouth of Mmiyiuli?” He reaches the dwarfish batcha held up by two wooden poles, roofed with crisp raffia, and heavy with the presence of a man. A smile is playing on Umeibe’s lips; around him are the contents of his business: batteries, combs, beads, mirrors, nzu, ụtaba, mkpanaka, matchboxes, pepper, salt; even if you're looking for your mother, ask Umeibe. 

“He who sees all,” He replies, tunnelling his hairy nose with his forefinger. “Have you seen the day?”

“Umeibe, Amadioha will not wait for you to unpack your nose; you know what I have come for.” The two men stand, looking at each other, laughter perched on their lips. 

“Have you heard that Umelo is still dancing? I heard that they chained her to the bed, and the next morning they found her bloodied and wriggling and wriggling. I told them to unchain her before she maims herself. I even saw Lovina some minutes ago on her way to your shrine; the entire town is calling her an amusu because she seems happier now that Umelo has gone mad. Eh, the way people are preaching the potency of your charms these days eh, I am sure the gods’ business is boisterous. See your belly. You even dyed your hair.’ Umeibe continues to yap as he fumbles a big, grey ghana-must-go positioned between his legs. He pulls out a transparent pack of clean-white cowries and hands them to the impatient Dibianta, who has been jerking his right leg.

“Ọnụ-n’ekwụrụ-ọha, let it be like we never saw.” “Ekezeali Alàm!” He screams, mounts his bicycle and pedals away like a furious madman, his wrapper like a parachute behind him. 

Dibianta's shrine is at the farthest corner of the town, so wherever their sicknesses, greedy needs, and malicious wishes ambush them, the people of Ezeali know where to scurry to—it stands, neither a dwarf nor a giant, its walls fashioned out of clay bricks to keep it cool at all times, its fence hardly a fence at all but a long strip of red, moth-eaten linen connecting four wooden corner poles. In front of his shrine is the stump of an oil bean tree, where he sits and watches the people of Ezeali, his people. On some days, he watches them like one would watch stars, in awe, always in awe of their aliveness, the sisters-in-law bickering about other sisters-in-law, their sweat pouring into supper, the old women with sickle spines, darting about farmsteads as though they had just slipped from the womb, the men afraid to ever look unimportant, children chirping, the hearths always in flame. On nights like these, Dibianta crawls into his shrine, curls up on his mat, and marvels at his being at the heart of something so brashly alive. On other nights, Dibianta looks at the people of Ezeali like there is a fishing hook in his chest—the way one looks at a rabid dog—wary of the dense madness, spewing from every corner of the town. He never knows what to expect; he never knows where to take shelter. Just the other day, Asọ, the son of Ukandu, came to ask Amadioha for a British accent. Ocheze once crawled to his doorstep only to find Rose, her sister-in-law just arriving there—the both of them, drenched in shame, escorted themselves home. Didn't Umeibe, before he came to his senses, ask for a charm to make his wife unfaithful to justify his infidelity? And when Lovina visited, had Dibianta not ground a cube of sugar, convinced her it was a charm for instant madness, and ordered her to slip it into Umelo’s bathwater? Now, Umelo has lost her mind, and everybody believes he is the answer to every how. On nights like these, Dibianta is certain that if there is a God, he is not sitting almighty in heaven but curled up in a dark cloud, trembling at the sight of his creations, regretting.

Ezeali is alive, and because Ezeali is alive, Ezeali desires, and because Ezeali desires, Ezeali pursues, and because Ezeali pursues, Ezeali never rests, and because Ezeali never rests, Ezeali is. An equation with explosive tangents. Some nights, he aches to shake the scales off their eyes and free them from their lostness, to bare his anus to Ezeali and confess that there is no god here, and to expose pastor Matthew of the Christ's Assembly, who on his first day in Ezeali, had snuck into his shrine to beg Amadioha for a rich congregation, specifically women. 

Lovina, eyes bright like a cat's, in a sack-like dress, her guilt fastened around her neck, is kneeling and waiting. Dibianta brushes past her to his backyard, where he soils the cowries to make them look authentic. From the backdoor, he enters his shrine-cum-house, lights his tobacco, and orders Lovina to come in. She is barefoot and trembling at the sight of the muddied skull sitting on a low stool at Dibianta's right side—she has seen all these before, but today she comes with a heightened terror having witnessed the decline of Umelo. Her teeth chatter at the sight of the room's floor—a minefield of feathers dipped in chicken blood.

“Lovi, I am listening. You have come to reverse the charm haven't you?” Dibianta asks, fishing out his charm bag. 

“Ee,” Lovina says, her eyes are now shut and she continues to tremble.

“You have to say it with your own mouth, my mouth is not for you.” 

“Yes, I-I want to reverse the charm.”

Laughter: staccato, ripping itself out of his throat in short bursts. Laughter: practised and superfluous, like the unpacking of collective mirth. 

“So, you think the gods are your slaves?” Silence. “Lovi, the truth is that if I relay your message to Amadioha, he is going to strike you with blindness and madness. You have to choose between yourself and Umelo. Decide before my spit dries up.” He closes his eyes and begins to hum. When he reopens them, he is alone. Dibianta shakes his head and begins to peel the rugged yam that is his supper. Ezeali will not be the end of him. “You want her mad, then you want her sane; you want a British accent; you want Frankincense and myrrh; just bring your underfed goats to Dibianta, and he will give you the world. Mtcheew.”

An owl, the town crier of the night, is hooting a dirge as he goes to sleep. Some of its words sound like Umelo, Umelo. Deeper into the night, Dibianta hears his name, Dibianta, Dibianta and pausing his snoring, he answers: Yes, yes. Dibianta, where are my cowries? Dibianta answers: Yes, yes. A hand, like a gust of wind, lifts him up and throws him off his mat across the room, where he wakes to behold Umelo, her eyes calm, her body wet with stream water. 

“Dibianta, Mmiyiuli is asking for her cowries; I've been searching for them.” 

“I have never been to Mmiyiuli; I have never used a real cowry in my life,” Dibianta confesses, he touches the earthen floor with his forefinger, touches his tongue with it, and lifts his finger skyward. I swear to God. 

“But you have them right there in your charm bag.” She stands over him, reaches into his bag, and pulls out the soiled cowries. “These are for Mmiyiuli, and thank your friend Umeibe, for she will be visiting you soon.” 

Dibianta can hear her footsteps leaving like the last drops of seasonal rain. The owl continues singing Umelo, Umelo, and as it sings, dawn arrives on Ezeali to rest her throbbing feet—Orie.