The Mantis Bride of Modekun

I clasp the unsuspecting boy by the shoulders and pin him against a wall. Leaning into him, I gaze into his eyes and snarl, "Why are you causing the women here to miscarry? What more harm do you have planned?" I feel his startle blur into confusion and then fear. His fear is loudest: as loud as a hornist blowing directly in your ear. Olurebi shakes him roughly. "Speak," he snaps. Baffled, the child cries. "Iya, ṣe iranlọwọ fun mi," he says, calling for his mother. A small crowd swells behind my partner and me. No one intervenes. They seem to know what we are, as they should from our customary headbands fitted with ostrich feathers. "I will not ask you again," I say menacingly. “I didn’t do anything.” The boy wails. My questions are part of a routine to ruffle him up—they’re public displays to confirm what we already know: his necromancy isn’t intentional. He doesn’t know what he is, or about the indwelling inside him. Olurebi turns to the crowd. “This boy is an ajogun," he declares. "He is the reason why many of you keep losing your pregnancies.” The crowd gasps. Women burst into tears. "Ademola? So, this is what you have been doing to us?" an elderly man says to the boy. "I didn't do anything. I swear." I shove the boy into the crowd, and his kinsmen seize him and conk his skull, loud and connecting with bone. He crouches, shields his head from more battery, and begs them to stop. Running to his mother, he grabs her, screaming, “Iya mi-o,” but they peel him off of her and slap him on his bare back, using their hands like whips. They urge his mother to join in, and she slugs him with the soup ladle she’s holding. Reeling from shock, the boy tries to flee, but they catch him and drag him back to us. “Can you see?" I say to him. "Your mother doesn’t want you. Your father doesn’t want you. Nobody wants you. You are no longer welcome here. So you must come with us. We will take you to a place where your kind is accepted.” I offer the boy my hand. Tearfully, he places his fingers in my palm. This is how it typically plays out. We disrupt clans with our revelations, and they allow us to leave with their children of misfortune (ajoguns, we call them), whom we resettle in the mystic forests of Ile-Jade, where plants produce pollens that neutralize their curses. We leave them in the care of alchemists, hermits who earn a living from selling the medicinal potions they make from the barks of trees only found in those parts. Often, they grow up, learning the trade. Whatever they decide for their future, they must never leave Ile-Jade—they must marry, raise children, and die there. As oracles, we do what we must. The gift of 'spirit eyes' makes it our business to keep our villages calamity-free. But even after years of rooting out ajoguns, it doesn’t get easier. It’s harder for empaths like me because we experience their emotions. Nothing is more heartbreaking than the shock they get from their families turning against them. Or their dejectedness on the long trip to Ile-Jade. My gift is a burden in these situations. Olurebi is more fortunate. He’s a seer. I wish I were a seer. Or a clairaudient. Or an augur. I wish I had no gift. I never join the crowds in beating ajoguns because I’m a pacifist. I may act tough sometimes, but I do that so people won’t take me for granted. I also do it to impress girls. In my village in Egba Land, I was always the outsider, back when people saw me as a cowardly teenager—a feckless young man who couldn’t even kill cockroaches. I would have been a laughingstock if they didn’t later learn I was gifted. Most girls back then, and even now, admired warriors: guys oozing confidence, physical strength, and that unshakable bravado that promised protection. Shola wasn’t like most girls. She preferred boys who were empathetic and intellectually deep. She liked me and made sure everyone knew, much to the frustration of her many suitors. One of them, Tolani, took it personally. He baited me relentlessly, undeterred by the fact that no one mocked an amoye—after all, we were revered as bridges to the ancestors, keepers of sacred wisdom who settled disputes with handshakes, not blood. He seemed convinced I would never fight back. I remember the day I proved him wrong: The rains have just come: that time when the earth calls everyone to the fields. Shola, who often steals away to my clan’s farm after finishing her chores, arrives with a clay pot. Doling out drinking water to exhausted farmers with exaggerated ceremony, she plays the benevolent village maiden while her eyes keep finding mine. Her laughter rings clear above the murmur of my kinsmen, bright as dawn breaking through storm clouds. Everyone knows her charitable act is motivated by her affection towards me—yes, the water is for us, but her presence is for me. Tolani is taking a kparaga break. I never touch that stuff: kparaga—that vile farmer’s tonic, bitter as guilt—and he knows this perfectly well. Still, it doesn’t stop him from interrupting the game of Àkòdà that Shola and I are playing to make a request. “Anjorin, take a swig.” Tolani, who is lounging a small distance away, offers me his gourd. “No, thank you,” I say. “Come on. Water will revive you, but this will energize you.” “Thank you, Tolani.” Shola and I return to our game. The air is heavy with the damp smell of soil, and something uneasy. I know Tolani isn’t done speaking. “Don’t bother,” Tolani says. “Strong drinks are for men with iron stomachs.” “Please ignore him,” Shola whispers to me. “I forget that you have no use for energy,” Tolani rants. “Everyone forgives your poor performance in everything because you’re an amoye. I bet Shola will excuse your limp c**k inside her.” My skin tingles. No one speaks. Not a single laugh breaks the silence. It’s like the unnerving pause before a thunder roll. Only palm trees meet my gaze, stifling as they bend their slender trunks. Even the inflection of chirping birds seems to go up a notch.