THE DAUGHTER OF THE EVIL FOREST

The udala tree was the only place in Umueze that gave shade without asking for anything in return. Its roots broke through the red earth like the knuckles of an old woman, and its branches spread wide enough to cover twenty children. Under it, Adaeze had drawn letters on the ground with a stick. "A! B! C!" the children shouted. Their voices were thin. Hunger made their stomachs sing louder than their mouths, but they shouted anyway because Adaeze was their teacher and when Adaeze taught, even hunger had to sit down and listen. "Again," she said. She was twenty-six, but she looked older when she was tired and younger when she smiled. That morning she had not smiled. Her wrapper was tied tight around her waist, her hair packed into two small buns that Nkechi said made her look like a witch. "Teacher Adaeze, my own C is not fine," little Chisom said, pointing at her crooked letter in the sand. Adaeze knelt. The earth was hot. She took Chisom's hand in hers. "Your C is fine. See? It is just sleeping. Wake it up like this." She guided the child's finger. "There. Your C is awake now." The children laughed. Adaeze laughed too, and for a second her tired face became young again. She had four pieces of akara left in a small leaf wrap. She had fried it that morning with the last oil in her father's house. She was saving it for her father, who had not eaten in two days because his stomach was turning. But when she looked at the children — at Obinna whose ribs she could count, at twins Ugo and Ugochukwu who had not been to school in three months because their mother said school was for children who have fathers with land — she unwrapped the leaf. "Close your eyes," she said. They closed them. "Open your mouth." She broke the akara into small pieces and placed one on each tongue. Twenty children. Four akara. She made it enough. "Teacher, you did not eat," Chisom said. "I ate before you came. I ate two big ones. My stomach is still complaining," she lied. Her stomach was complaining because it was empty. From the path leading to her compound, a voice cut through the lesson. "Adaeze! Adaeze!" It was Nkechi. Her father's second wife. The woman who had entered their house five years ago with a big smile and two big basins and had slowly swallowed everything. Nkechi did not walk. She marched. Her wrapper was new. Adaeze's father's money bought it. "So you are here? Your father is calling you since morning and you are here playing teacher-teacher with these fatherless children?" The children went quiet. They knew Nkechi. "Mama Nkechi, I gave him pap this morning. He said he wants to sleep," Adaeze said softly. She did not want to fight. Not today. "You gave him pap? You? The witch that cooks for him? No wonder he is not getting well. Come and carry your father, I am tired. I have my own children to take care of." Nkechi turned and left. The smell of her new wrapper perfume stayed. Adaeze stood, cleaned her hands on her wrapper. "Class is over today. Tomorrow we will learn D, E, F. And Chisom, practice your C that is sleeping." "Teacher, will you bring akara tomorrow again?" Obinna asked. She wanted to say yes. She said, "If God provides." She ran home. Her father's compound was quiet. Too quiet. The goats were not bleating. Her father's small house — the one he built with his own hands when her mother was still alive — had its door open. Inside, the air smelled of sickness and burnt herbs. Her father Okoro lay on the mat. He was a big man once. A man who carried palm bunches on his head and still had strength to dance on Nkwo day. Now his skin was folded over his bones. His eyes were open but looking at nothing. "Papa," Adaeze whispered, kneeling. "Papa, I am here." She touched his forehead. It was cold. Not cool. Cold like morning water. Her hand dropped to his chest. No rise. No fall. "Papa?" She shook him small. "Papa, wake up. I came. Papa." Behind her, Nkechi entered with two women from the next compound. Her face was already doing the cry. "My husband! My husband! Adaeze! What did you do to my husband!" Adaeze could not answer. Her mouth was open but air was not entering. Nkechi fell to the ground, beating her chest loud. "People! Come! This witch has killed her father! I told you! I told you this girl is a witch! She refused to marry, she stays doing teacher-teacher, she does charm to kill her father so she will take land!" People came. Compound filled. Women started crying because crying is contagious. Adaeze still held her father's cold hand. "Papa did not wake up," she said to no one. "He is cold." One elder, Mazi Offor, pulled her hand away. "Leave the dead. Don't spoil his journey." They covered Okoro with white cloth. Adaeze sat outside, on the bare floor, her back against the udala tree that was not there. Her mother's grave was behind the house. She could see it. She wanted to dig it open and enter inside. "My father said if I die, it is Nkechi," she heard her own voice say. She remembered last week. Her father had whispered, shaking. "That woman put something in my food. Adaeze, if I die, hold my land. Don't let her sell." She had thought it was sickness talking. Now it was death talking. By evening, the village town crier came. It was fast. Too fast for death. The Igwe had called elders. Nkechi had told them: Adaeze is witch. She killed Okoro to take his land. She must be buried with him to cleanse Umueze, as tradition demands for witches who kill their father. Adaeze heard it from where she sat. She did not run. Where would a girl whose mother is dead, whose father is cold, whose brother is in Lagos run to? Emeka, her elder brother, was in the city. He sold phone accessories in Alaba. He had not come home in eight months because Nkechi told him Adaeze was rude. She stood. "I did not kill my father," she said. Her voice was clear. It was not loud, but everyone heard because the compound became silent to hear witch talk. Nkechi pointed, tears still in eyes but voice strong: "Then who did? I cook for him? You cook for him! You gave him pap this morning! Everybody saw!" Mazi Offor looked at Adaeze. He was old. He remembered when they buried witches alive with their fathers in 1978. He thought that era ended. "Adaeze, daughter of Okoro. Do you have anything to say before elders decide tomorrow morning?" Adaeze looked at her father's white-covered body. Looked at Nkechi's new wrapper. Looked at the children from under udala tree who were now standing at gate fence, watching their teacher become witch. She said, "Call my brother Emeka. Let him hear my father's last words. I did not kill him. If I die, let my brother know Nkechi killed him." Nkechi laughed, loud. "You see! Witch talk! Now she wants to kill me too!" But Emeka was already on his way. Someone had called him. He was entering Umueze on night bus, with his phone in his pocket, and inside that phone, a voice note his father sent two days ago, with shaky voice: "Emeka... if I die... it is Nkechi... she put something... save your sister..." The next morning, they would drag Adaeze to the grave. They did not know the grave would refuse her.