The first time I heard someone calling my name was the night we arrived at Mpa Nnukwu’s house. I went to ask my mom if she was calling me, but she screamed, “God forbid,” circled her hand around her head and snapped her fingers before yelling at me not to answer. It was ill-luck to answer strange calling voices.

Mum was hesitant about going, but the rest of us couldn’t wait to go. “He is dead now,” dad would say whenever mum objected to our going. Mpa Nnukwu was a rich man in his youth, however, he did not approve of mum. In fact, he and mum never met from the time dad introduced mum to him till his death. Then, there was that incident I heard mum and dad talking about when they thought I was sleeping. It was about Mpa Nnukwu.

Although Mpa Nnukwu was rich, when he died, he did not leave much behind except his old two-story house, built in the old colonial style, with deep-seated balconies, large gaping windows, and the vents at the top emphasising on ventilation. It was a solid rectangular building with a balcony that went round the floor at the top. It didn’t matter that the house oozed the staleness of old age, I couldn’t help but fall in love with it. The staleness would go with time. Living in the city was tough. Living in a general house was even tougher. But Mpa Nnukwu left us this house so dad would not complain about paying house rent again.

“It is too far away from the market,” mom complained.
“There’s always light,” dad would counter.
“How will I sell my wares?”
“You can even make one of the rooms your shop.”

But mum would not stop complaining even though having the house was better than seeing the landlord curse my parents out in front of me. It was better than seeing my dad on his knees. So, my love for this house was not just in the neat and tidily arranged flower hedges that sat like short sentries in front of the house. It was not in the spacious staircase that ran all the way to the top. It was not in the realisation that for the first time in my life I was going to have a room to myself. It was in all the things my parents didn’t say. It was in the peace that comes with owning your house and living alone.

Cynthia, my elder sister, fell in love with the building also, but she was more concerned about the boy we left in the other street. His name was Joseph. He had a croaky voice and was always trying to get me to do things for him. Before we left, I had bluntly refused to call Cynthia for him and almost got beaten for it. He was working at one of the tailoring shops that lined the street at home. Cynthia, on the other hand, was supposed to be reading for her WAEC exams. I didn’t think they fit each other. I had always imagined Cynthia as a rich woman getting married to an even richer man. It was because of the stories I read about from dad’s old story collection.

The only person that didn’t share our enthusiasm for the new place, along with my mum, was the youngest in our family, Uchenna. He missed his friend dearly, and they were just getting along. That night, with all the unpacking and excitement running through my veins, I only noticed his glum look late.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you will make more friends here.”
He shook his head. At 5, he was already pretty adamant about things that he felt strongly. “No, brother,” he said. “He will not let us.”
“Who?” Uchenna started singing, ignoring me. He seemed to have forgotten his statement just moments ago. I felt the pounding beneath my chest. My body shivered involuntarily. Added to that, I heard what sounded like the thump of a walking stick pounding on the steps, and heavy footfalls accompanying it. But the sound faded, and with it, the whiff of a mouldy scent. The puzzlement dispelled quickly. Before long, I was already off and about again, the strangeness in the tone of his voice forgotten. Uchenna was like that anyway. He said strange things and quickly forgot about them, like the one time he said a cat was talking to him.

Cynthia got the biggest room on the top floor exercising the right of her 2-year seniority over me. My own room had a window that was close to the mango tree outside. It was just the way I liked it. From my window, I could reach out to touch the branches. I only had to wait for the fruits to ripen, and I could pluck mangoes right from my window sill.

I had barely settled down before Uchenna ran into my room. “Tell him to stop chasing me,” he said.
“What? Who?” He pointed at the empty doorway. “You left my door open,” I said. “There is no one there.” But Uchenna would not stop pointing. His behaviour was slowly pushing the pace of my heartbeat. “Who is there?” I asked, trying to make my trembling voice steady. What if it was a ghost?
“In the mirror,” Uchenna said.
“There’s no mirror here. Who’s there?” I asked again. This time I succeeded a little in steadying my voice. The gentle wind that was beginning to build answered with a soft whistle, the door with an unearthly creek, and the branches outside with their swooshing. As the wind intensified, announcing an oncoming rainstorm, the light flickered overhead. It seemed like someone else was in the room. I could feel this eerie familiarity, like someone was standing close to me, just reaching out to touch my face. Outside, unbidden, the rain started pouring. Uchenna and I instinctively pulled close to each other. I could swear I heard footsteps just outside my door, from down the hallway towards my room. Still, I wasn’t sure because the sound of the rain was getting louder.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

I heard them clearly now. The thumping footsteps betrayed an unsteady gait. From outside the hallway, something scratched along the floor, inching closer to my room. Tree branches banged against the closed window, startling me. I turned towards the noise, grabbing Uchenna close. Just then, lightning streaked past the window, and I think I saw the source of my fear: a pair of red, glowing eyes that stared back at me.

But it was only for a split second, and then they were gone. The thumping sound resumed. I wanted to scream for my parents, but I was struck dumb with fear, its paralysis seeping into my bones, rendering my limbs inactive. My mouth ran dry. My teeth wanted to clatter against themselves. A band drummed a chorus in my head.

Thump… screech…

Thump… screech…

Thump…. screech…

I could feel Uchenna’s tiny body trembling against mine. My eyes darted all over the place. “God save us,” I muttered, wondering if it was possible for God to hear me now. Perhaps, he was busy attending to other prayers.

Thump… screech… thump… screech…

The footsteps crossed the threshold of my room. A dank odour hit my nose so strongly that I wanted to cover my nose. I half-expected my late grandfather to poke his head into the room, but there was nothing there except more screeching sounds of a walking stick being dragged along the floor. In my mind, I pictured Mpa Nnukwu’s dead body dragging itself across the floor towards us, the walking stick sliding along. If only I was downstairs with my parents, this would not be happening. Maybe it was time to believe in ghosts.

The branches slammed against my closed window more frantically. The wind howled its warning. The rain hammered down on the roof. The footsteps faded. For a long time, I stood there in the middle of my room hugging my youngest sibling tightly, waiting for the unknown to happen. Then Uchenna stirred, “Can I sleep here? I don’t want to stay alone.”
“Yes,” I agreed, my heart beating hard against my chest.

We had oka na ube for dinner that night. It was roasted corn from the woman down the street, whose hands were blackened by soot. Among other things, mum prayed against Mpa Nnukwu’s past and his worship of idols. From the tone of her voice, it was clear what she thought of Mpa Nnukwu. He was the sin to our righteousness, the darkness to our light.

That night also, I woke up from sleep with the sound of my name against my ears. “Saaahhhh!” I answered, drowsiness still clouding my senses. Outside, rain drummed against the roof. My window was shut, still the cold wind seeped through it. Lightning scratched patterns across the sky. On the bed, Uchenna was sleeping peacefully. He clawed at his cheek and murmured meaningless phrases that I couldn’t hear through the sound of the rain. Dad and mum were probably still awake downstairs, having a little time to themselves. They usually made us sleep early. As I walked down the stairs towards the living room, I wondered why dad would be calling me when I had already slept. I needed only to find out.

There was no one in the living room when I got there. I stood moping for a while, wondering why I came down here. Again, I felt a caress against my skin and the intense stare of disapproval. Someone was watching me. Unbidding, the lights went off. The front door creaked open and smashed shut. Thunder rumbled through the storm. The night got darker. There were dancing, disfigured shapes on the wall. Beyond them, I could hear whispers of my name and a voice not unlike Mpa Nnukwu’s voice. “Jesus… Jesus… Jesus…” I murmured, afraid to speak out loud. I could hear the roar of my pulse as blood rushed through my head. Scared half to death, I remained where I was standing. The curtains billowed in the wind. Then I heard that sound again, distinct, coming down the stairs.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

It was Mpa Nnukwu’s gait. My blood froze over. What does he want now? Why is he here? Is he here? Mpa Nnukwu was dead, but I could never forget the sound of his walking stick.

 

The memory of it was burned into my head from the last time dad snuck us from the house to visit him without my mother’s approval. I could still remember how he peered into our faces with disapproval, standing up close to us, almost brushing our faces with his wrinkles. His eyes, cold and veined with red, sinewy branches, held no emotion in them. His lips were puckered up, and there were brown stains on his teeth.
“They should stay with me and learn our ways,” he had said. “Especially the little one.”
“God forbid,” papa replied, pushing us away from Mpa Nnukwu. “No one is staying with you.”
“I will take them by myself.”
“Don’t dare it. I brought them, so you can see your grandchildren. Nothing more.” In Mpa Nnukwu’s eyes, I could see hurt and anger and helplessness.

It was after that visit that I had a nightmare for two straight nights where Mpa Nnukwu dragged me away, and mum would not stop shouting at dad. It was the day that my parents had their loudest disagreement in front of us. It was also the day that I remembered their discussion when I spied on them: Mpa Nnukwu had taken me from our tenement residence in Port Harcourt to the village when I was a baby, and only gave me back after dad went to fight him. No one knew how he found our house. No one knew how he got in through a locked door and left with the door still locked. “He needs someone to continue worshipping his demons with him,” mum screamed throughout the argument.

 

In the darkness, my heart would not stop pounding. My veins wanted to pull out the skin on my head. This was a nightmare. It had to be. Through all of that storm – the heavy raindrops slamming against the roof of the house, the distant rumbling of the thunder, and the quickening drumming of my chest against my heart – I heard Mpa Nnukwu’s distinct heavy breathing. I realised then that the house smelled of him, or maybe it was just starting to, a musty scent that reminded me of his wrinkly skin and bloodshot eyes.

He was supposed to be dead.

Lightning streaked across the closed curtains, brightening the insides of the house, and I saw him standing there, pale and thin, bony and leaning to the side. His eyes had a sickly amber glow to them.

“Nnanna!” I jerked. Light flooded the room. At the foot of the stairs, my mum stood staring at me. Mpa Nnukwu was nowhere to be found. “What are you doing here?” mum asked.
“I… I… You called me?”
“Who called you?!” she was almost screaming. I was afraid her voice would rise above the banging of the rainfall.
“I heard my name.”
“You heard your name late at night, and you answered?”
“I thought…”
“You thought what?! Jizos, nwa a ga-egbu m.” This child will kill me. Quickly, she closed all the windows, her movement frantic, muttering words of prayer. Next, she picked up the bottle of anointing oil, which was on the table, and sprayed the oil at the four corners of the living room. That night, no one slept again. Mum made sure we all stayed awake to pray the calling voice away.

“O mmuo ojoo. An evil spirit that came with the form of your grandfather,” mum mumbled the next morning while I lay in bed trying to catch up on the sleep that I missed, the sleep that I had made the entire family miss.

My friend, Jide, used to say that evil spirits do not exist. Azeez, my classmate, believed they were just ghosts who did not live life fully when they were on earth. “They missed something. They have a mission.” Ola said it’s evil spirits who take your dead loved ones captive, and then use them to ensnare you. “I once saw my dead uncle at Onitsha,” Ola said. I wished the thoughts away and tried to clear my mind for a beautiful morning sleep. We were on holiday, so I didn’t have to deal with the hostel prefects and the annoying school bell in the mornings. In my room, Uchenna made himself at home on the floor, playing with paper men that I made for him.
“You shouldn’t have answered,” he said.
“What?” I asked sleepily.
“I’m going.” I heard the door open and shut while I battled with sleep.

***

“Nnanna! Call Uche to come and carry his food,” mum was calling from downstairs. I stirred and stretched myself on the bed. I must have slept for an hour or two. “Nnanna!”
“Uche is not here,” I replied. Downstairs, the boy was not there either. Dad, mum, and Cynthia were at our new dining table. It felt strange. We had never used a dining table before.
“Where’s Uchenna?” Dad asked.
“Uchenna? Is he not down here?” I asked.
“Go and find your little brother,” mum demanded. “His food is getting cold.”

I hurried back upstairs to my room. There was no sign of Uchenna. “Uche, are you here?” I asked. The silent room gave its response. I moved over to his room, but it was empty. Cynthia’s room provided no answer as well, except for the mirror. It reflected light weirdly as if it were absorbing it. I heard a caressing whisper. Uchenna is hiding somewhere here, I thought. “Uche?” I called. He must be hiding under the bed. I looked under the bed. He was not there. “Uche?” I called again. There was no response. Maybe he was outside. Maybe he ran outside.

“Nnanna.” I jerked, my neck turning towards the mirror. Did it just talk now or am I running mad? My chest fluttering, I stared when I should be running out of here. “I’m going,” Uchenna’s tiny voice teased me again.

Thump…

Thump….

Thump….

The sound suddenly filled the room.

“Nnanna.”
“Uche? Uche? Is that you?” I asked, my voice shaky, my breath contending for movement with the tension building up in my throat.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

The lights went off. The only light that I could see was a glow from the mirror. A force drew me towards it, towards the odour of old age. It was mildewy and forced its dankness into my nose.

Thump …

Thump…

Thump…

The footsteps were close now.

“Nnanna.” It was Uchenna’s voice. There was no doubt about it. And it was clear like the sound of the rain that drummed against the rooftop the night before.
“Uche! Uche, where are you?”
“I’m going.”

Thump….

Thump…

Thump…

But this time, the thump thump sound of Mpa Nnukwu’s unsteady gait was accompanied by the soft footfalls of Uchenna’s steps. “Nnanna.” Mpa Nnukwu’s voice was stern and demanding. Slowly, I walked to the mirror from where the odd glow was emanating. The footsteps were rescinding now. Instead of my reflection, there were two reflections in the mirror. “Uche,” I called. The silhouetted figures stopped. It was of a man and a boy with their backs to me, walking away towards the glow. The man slowly turned towards me. I could not make out the entirety of the face, but it was what I imagined a corpse’s face would be. It was eroded in places with patches of decaying flesh, perforated by dead flesh-eating worms. “Nnanna!” This time the voice was loud and shocked my very nerve centre. The face sped towards me, complete with the rottenness and worms and decay. I scrambled back and away from the mirror, stumbling to the floor. Mpa Nnukwu’s face escaped the confines of the mirror, crooked teeth clamped tightly against themselves. His eyes glowed with the faint luminescence of forgotten souls and the embittered anguish of lost ones. “Answer me!”

God, this is not happening. I’m peeing on my bed. I’m having a nightmare. My eyes were shut tight, but when I opened them again, those eyes were still there, looking at me. In them, I felt the weight of an ageless accusation, and an intelligence that could snuff out my life at a whim.

I already expected to be gone, to be pulled into a whirlwind of suffering, to be cut into pieces, to have my soul snatched from my body. But somehow, the only thing Mpa Nnukwu could do was glare at me with his head extended from the mirror, his rotten teeth slowly crumbling. I shut my eyes again, tightly. “Nnanna,” Uche called from behind him. The room quickly filled up with an icy dread. Somehow, Uchenna’s voice didn’t sound like him. I didn’t know what it was, but it was there, different. Don’t answer. “Nnanna,” he called again. My insides quivered with fear. I trembled at the thought of reaching around Mpa Nnukwu’s ghoul-like figure to find Uche. The only thing I wanted to do was get out of here, run downstairs, and escape this house. “Broda Nnanna,” my brother called again.
“Uche,” I murmured, then I slowly opened my eyes. I felt something give way inside of me. Mpa Nnukwu’s face was still extending from the mirror. But now, he stretched out his wrinkled, old hand towards me, grabbing my elbow roughly and pulling me towards him. “Leave me!” I screamed. “Leave me alone!”
“Broda!” Uche’s voice was loud. I struggled frantically against the rotten hands with a vice-like grip.
Mom! Dad! I could only scream for them in my head. Something had my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I slipped through the mirror, unable to pull myself away from his grip. It was cold, damp and empty. The emptiness seeped through to my soul, crushing it under its depressing weight.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

This time, I could hear it just beside me. I could see Mpa Nnukwu using his stick. Behind me, someone opened the door to Cynthia’s room.
“Nnanna?” she called. “Uche?”
“Cynthia!” I screamed, suddenly gaining the strength to pull away from Mpa Nnukwu before I ran towards her. I slammed into an invisible wall just as the room was set aglow with light. “Cynthia!” I yelled again. “Call mum! Cynthia!” I expected Mpa Nnukwu to come after me angrily, but he didn’t. Cynthia had paused and was looking around the room like she heard something. Perhaps if I screamed louder, she would hear. I was about to call her name again when I felt a little hand slip into mine. I looked down and saw Uche shaking his head. His eyes were taking on the same eerie glow as Mpa Nnukwu’s. Behind him, Mpa Nnukwu watched us intently, and I realised he wanted me to keep calling Cynthia. I had not pulled away. He had let me. Mpa Nnukwu had unfinished business. He needed us when he was alive. Now, he was simply picking us up. He wanted me to be the calling voice. He wanted me to attract Cynthia, so he could get her. I wondered if I was already dead, if I had been taken captive by an evil spirit, if any of this was real. The door in Cynthia’s room answered by slamming shut as the light went off. It dawned on me that Uchenna and I would soon be history. For the second time, Mpa Nnukwu had abducted me.

Later today, we would be reported missing, and my parents would look for us in all the places where we were not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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