Growing up in a remote part of eastern Nigeria in the late 90s, we were surrounded by erosion-damaged roads, bustling streets with out-of-school kids and hawkers, and public compounds housing over 200 tenants. 

Childhood memories from the suburbs are etched vividly in my mind. Street fights for rewards, a slice of fried yam from Mama Ekene or a balloon, was a routine. A kid wouldn’t mind wrestling with a dog for these rewards. Sadly, some grownups indulged in this routine. These were adults my parents would refer to as efulefu. I always found the word strange yet funny. 

My parents disapproved of the moral decline in our neighbourhood. My father frequently emphasised that he’d be heartbroken if we turned out like the rotten kids in our community. My parents toiled tirelessly, day and night, to earn enough for us to relocate.

Finally, we moved to a better neighbourhood. It wasn’t a dream come true because I had to switch schools, thereby losing all my friends. On the brighter side, I got to see stunning exotic cars like the V-boot, zooming past our house every day. Back in our old neighbourhood, the sight of a nice car was rare, and only when politicians visited the area during campaigns. In fact, the street chairman was the only one with a car — a rickety Volvo.

My devout Christian parents did their best to teach me essential values. Sunday mornings meant dressing up for service, a clash between my eagerness to dress in sequin-adorned outfits and their insistence on ‘dressing like a child of God’. Whatever that meant. Attempts to protest led to beatings and lengthy sermons.

My parents were deeply religious, and as their children, my siblings and I followed suit. Mid-week services, Friday Bible studies, and Saturday morning sanctuary cleanups were mandatory. Whining or complaining was not allowed unless you were genuinely sick. Faking illness to skip church activities was a bigger offence than missing out on basic hygiene like forgetting to brush your teeth before breakfast or wetting the bed.

Even as a child, I sensed I didn’t belong to the Christian society. I was  not meant to be there.  As a matter of fact, I was never aware that other religions existed before my epiphany. Church activities felt out of sync with my spirit, yet attendance was mandatory due to my parents’ insistence. Even at that, I still protested attending church activities against my will. I got beatings but I did not relent.

I believed I was a special child. In fact, I've always felt special. Growing up, my father's tendency to dote on me more  than my younger sibling, Ụzọma, despite being the second-born, instilled the memo in me. My father, unlike my mother, wasn't one to openly display his emotions. However, whenever I was around, there was a noticeable sense of calm that enveloped him, earning me the affectionate nickname ọgụgụa m obi. 

One afternoon, my siblings and I returned home from school only to find ourselves locked out. Zimụzọ, in his usual forgetful manner, had misplaced the house key among a bundle of identical ones. As he fretted over which one to try, I impulsively grabbed a key and slipped it into the lock. To everyone’s amazement, the door swung open effortlessly. Yagazie, always quick with a teasing remark, dubbed me ‘Akụlue, the oyoko-meter! The wise one’, amid laughter and cheers. 

In that moment, a sense of wonder washed over me, making me wonder that maybe, just maybe, I possessed some sort of special knack. But as the initial excitement faded, a gnawing feeling began to creep in, hinting at the possibility of a much darker side to my newfound abilities.

By the time I turned 11, I was able to predict future events through dreams. If I ever had  a dream and I was able to recall it by morning, there was a chance the event would occur in real life. However, it  was always  negative things — death, accidents, failure in exams, etc.  After prayers, these events would  unfold, leading others to believe I was possessed. My family went ahead to trust a so-called prophet that reinforced this silliness.

On the night of my 15th birthday, a terrifying dream haunted me, leaving indescribable images etched in my mind. It was the  kind of dream that would leave your heart racing even though you were deep asleep. The kind that would make beads of sweat run down your face as you recalled it. 

As I was drifting off to sleep, my body suddenly twitched in response to a hypnic jerk, but I remained asleep. In that lucid state, I felt myself being pulled into a void, plunging forward until I abruptly collided with an unseen surface. With my face pressed against the ground, I could hear distant hums and melodic chants echoing in the background. As I turned around, I found myself encircled by an unusual assembly of people. Upon closer inspection, I discerned that most of them were elderly, comprising both men and women. They sported bizarre ornaments adorning their bodies, dressed in garments of silk-white fabric wrapped around their chests, and adorned with intricate white markings on their faces. 

Startled, I launched myself into a sitting position, bewildered by my sudden surroundings and how I had arrived there. As I sat up, the group of people began to advance towards me, humming even faster. Among them, one extended a hand, holding a talisman embellished with cowries, white feathers, and what appeared to be stains resembling blood. With each step closer, he repeated the phrase ‘Bịa jee ozi’ while offering the talisman to me. 

Overwhelmed by the unsettling scene unfolding right before me, I instinctively rose to my feet, and pushed one of the figures away in a panicked attempt to escape. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I sprinted as fast as I could, my heart pounding in my chest. In my haste to escape the evil gathering, I missed a step and tumbled headlong to the ground. As I plummeted downward, I found myself plunging headfirst into a newly formed body of water, which had materialised seemingly out of nowhere. Even within the confines of my dream, I struggled with the stark reality that I couldn't swim. 

Desperation consumed me as I thrashed about, struggling to stay afloat until every ounce of strength left my exhausted body. Gradually, I felt myself sinking deeper into the murky depths of the river until I reached the riverbed below. There, a gathering of diminutive, humanoid figures stood, with an air of enthusiasm, reminiscent of spectators cheering someone on. It appeared that I was the focus of their jubilation, because as soon as they caught sight of me, the creatures surged forward with astonishing speed, their voices rising in a joyful chant of ‘Nwanne anyị’. 

As my strength continued to wane, I found myself powerless to resist any longer. With a sense of resignation, I closed my eyes, shielding them from the piercing gaze of their sharp, bloodshot eyes. They encircled my prone form as it lay face down, their miniature bodies pressing against mine as they gingerly ran their clawed fingers through my damp skin and hair. Then, I woke up, my heart beat racing, and my clothes plastered to my skin.

I couldn’t bring myself to share the gruesome images with my family. As I attempted to let go of everything, the remnants of those memories would  resurface, haunting my dreams every night. As young as I was, I had begun to develop sleepless nights. Even though I shared a room with my two sisters, it didn’t change the fact that I was  always afraid to shut my eyes after  those  terrible episodes began.

Soon, illness struck. I was so sick that I could barely talk or walk. My devout parents, who always believed in divine protection, finally faced the reality of me lying helpless in a hospital bed. Numerous laboratory tests yielded no results, and my condition worsened. Midnight prayers waned, and I reluctantly began to accept the feared fate; death. Eventually, my fate veered onto a different path.

One day,  I opened my eyes after another tumultuous night to find myself in an unfamiliar room. Three silhouettes loomed over me — my parents and a strange, older man. My vision cleared, allowing me to recognise  them. The unfamiliar man, leaning close, applied a substance to my face, plunging me into confusion. As I struggled to comprehend, I abruptly entered a trance.

In this new state, it felt like another realm. The deserted surroundings gave way to abstract figures materialising from thin air. Twig-like figures emerged. They had tiny arms, legs, and a head-like round part. These twig entities were adorned with tiny spikes all over them. Their floating presence left me marvelled, as they drew near. New figures materialised — shaped like cacti but looked lifeless and dry. Although they stayed still, they could shake their parts, producing sounds reminiscent of a rattlesnake’s tail. 

Besides these figures, no sign of life was in sight. Not even the scurrying of a  mouse. The surroundings remained desolate, filled only with these odd and unsettling figures. I  stood there, trembling with fear. In the distance, the echoing beats of a local wooden drum began to play, sending chills down my spine with its unfamiliar sound. The drumming intensified, and the spirits responded in a rhythmic motion. The twig-like figures moved in sync, floating with a choreographed precision. Meanwhile, the cacti-like creatures heightened their quivering, creating the sounds of a rattlesnake tail and it harmonised like an ensemble of tambourines. 

The surreal scene continued as  my spirit was weak and unable to handle the haunting symphony of unearthly sounds and peculiar entities. Unable to bear it any longer, I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my ears with both hands and screamed.

As I felt increasingly light-headed, my screams almost led me to pass out, causing me to collapse. The ground beneath was unexpectedly springy, unlike the usual sturdy earth I was accustomed to. Strangely, the moment I fell, the drumming and the ethereal figures paused abruptly as if a magical pause button had been pressed. 

Slowly, I opened my eyes so I could see what must have made them stop, but I saw the figures approaching me. As they did, the drumming resumed at a faster pace. Despite my fear, my screams transformed into desperate pleas for help, but words escaped me. Even my weak legs thwarted my attempt to escape.

Soon, I was surrounded by the figures. I lay there as they closed in on me, and  their presence almost got tangible on my face. Then, I started sinking. Although it  felt like they were still nearby, my body descended into what felt like an endless void. The descent continued until everything faded into complete darkness and emptiness.

***

Five months had passed since my harrowing out-of-body experience. Though I had fully recovered from the illness that strained my parents financially and almost took my life, everything about living still felt  different. 

My church and school routines were back to normal, and my return to school was met with joy from friends and teachers. Everyone, including the teachers, seemed quite delighted to see me again, in the flesh and blood. Chiemerie, my best friend, leapt for joy upon sighting me approaching the assembly ground. The warm reception I received upon resuming school, made me wonder if rumours of my demise spread during my time in the hospital. Rumours travel faster than the truth, they say. Mother once mentioned that my form mistress and three students visited, but the restricted meeting likely fueled misconceptions about my well-being.

Reconnecting with the world brought a sense of freshness. But internally, I still felt adrift like a sailor on a deserted island. Every day, I felt this emptiness echo within me, so loud that I could hear my heartbeat. Numerous unanswered questions went through my mind, yet there was no one to vent to.

My father’s stern warning added to the isolation, advising me to keep silent about the experience. 

“Listen, don’t ever mention what happened to anybody,”he warned while he dragged his ear. “No old man came to this house and you didn’t have any vision. You must always admit to everyone that you had malaria and pneumonia if you still want to stay under my roof.”  

Of course, I agreed to his terms to remain under his roof. I acknowledged my father’s formidable nature and I trusted his capability to enforce his threats.

My suspicions about my siblings not being aware of the old man were confirmed when I asked Ụzọma if she knew or saw him. Her puzzled expression revealed she had no clue. Since then, I had been left to carry the weight of a frightening secret. A secret that I found challenging to bear.

In retrospect, a prophet once claimed I was possessed by a legion of demons, and it was all  beginning to make sense. I wondered if I was more than that. Perhaps I was a witch, or a queen mother in a coven beneath the earth’s crust. The possibility that the old man came to rescue me from the devil’s clutches, began to make even more sense.

There were  moments of celebration. There were  moments I tended to celebrate what seemed to be my redemption. Yet, there were  moments when doubts lingered. The memory of the trance raised more questions. What were  those twigs? Were  they spirits? Malevolent spirits, maybe. They scared me so badly that the thought of the experience still sent  shivers down my spine.

Twenty-seven months had  passed, and I was on the brink of becoming the woman I aspired to be. I would clock legal adulthood in a few days and I had just secured admission to a Federal university in Uyo. For someone who was raised in a strict household, this marked my first adventure beyond my parents’ home. I had never experienced holiday visits to relatives, unlike my classmates. One of them once claimed she went to America during Christmas to visit her uncle. While in America, she was lucky to meet George Bush and she even got to shake hands with him. The envy once led me to create a fictional brother in London, a tale that landed me in shame after being caught in the lie. I couldn’t face my friends for a week.

Finally, I had broken free. I would explore the life I desired without the constraints of curfew or reprimand. Excitement filled me at the prospect of becoming an adult. I eagerly anticipated  celebrating my birthday with my family before heading back to school. 

I longed to have a boyfriend, but my desire was curtailed by the restrictions at home. Mother issued a stern warning to my sisters and I: 

“If  you allow any man to touch you, you will get pregnant. And you know I will skin you alive if you bring any ungodly pregnancy to this house. Do you see all those worldly girls that follow boys? All of them have had abortions up to five times. They are just walking corpses. Don’t even be like them unless you want to ruin your future.” 

Although I believed her, I couldn’t  help but admire how my friends passionately locked lips with their boyfriends in hidden corners during our school’s inter-house sports competition. Now, I could  enjoy having a boyfriend and freely share kisses without my parents’ interference. I used to crush on the boy across the street but the feelings wavered after I witnessed him pick his nose and eat the booger.

Thursday finally arrived, bringing me just 24 hours away from my 18th birthday. The excitement was boundless, especially knowing that I would be travelling to Uyo by Saturday morning. Overflowing with joy, I had packed my belongings since Tuesday, eagerly awaiting my parents’ prayers and blessings before embarking on my journey. This birthday might be the coldest; with my siblings away at universities, leaving me to celebrate with just my parents and perhaps a few neighbours and church members. Nevertheless, it was  better than nothing.

I lay on my bed that night, contemplating the life ahead in Uyo. I couldn’t contain my excitement and I found myself, kicking the air in joy. I decided to stay awake until midnight, eager to be the first to wish myself a happy 18th birthday. It was a special night and I did mind breaking my routine of sleeping before 11:00 PM.

Time ticked slowly and drowsiness was already creeping in. It was almost as if someone had blown sleeping powder in my face. I struggled to resist but found it tasking to even stand from the bed. Eventually, I gave up the fight and allowed the dreamland to take over.

Though asleep,  I felt acutely aware of my surroundings. The curtains in my room, shielding the louvre, swayed to the rhythm of the cold January breeze. Then, I began to hear a group of people speaking in hushed tones behind the window. Their words were unclear, resembling a child’s attempt at voice mimicry. Fear took hold of me but I remained incapacitated. I wanted to ask, “Who is there?” but I discovered I couldn’t move my lips. What happened next nearly made me jump out of my skin.

Initially, I dismissed it as a figment of my imagination, but the image became clearer. A tall and slender figure materialised, walking through the window as if a door was  slightly ajar right there. The towering height of this creature forced it to bend its neck to avoid the ceiling. With cold, black eyes deeply sunken into its oval head, it stared back at me. The figure had a pale grey complexion and was devoid of clothes, but the body was plain and smooth like paper. I lay there, paralysed  by the unsettling presence.

The figure leaped onto my bed, looming over me as if to pin me down. Its face drew close to mine, eyes piercing through, and I was gripped with sheer terror. I was rather mute, unable to utter even a whimper. Suddenly, more like-creatures entered the room through the window, their words echoing in a distorted harmony. Though their words were unclear, I distinctly recall them saying “Bịawazie!” as they circled my bed. This torment persisted for what felt like hours until, finally, I regained my speech. I screamed “Nooooooo!” and they suddenly disappeared from the room.

Regaining consciousness, I swiftly leaped from the bed and reached  the door in a haste. I made it to my parents’ room, and banged  the door while I panicked, as if I was being pursued by a terrifying poltergeist in a horror movie. Mother came to my aid. In detail, I recounted the encounter. Repeatedly, I gasped, “They were here,” panting heavily.

My parents and I spent the rest of the night, praying in tongues. It wasn’t long before my confidence gradually returned, and I went back to bed, uttering more prayers as I lay down. I had faced enough demons but I was determined not to let this unsettling experience ruin my birthday weekend and peaceful journey to Uyo. I managed to voice some prayers before finally drifting off to sleep.

Hours later, I felt a sensation as if I was tapped on my thighs by a manly palm, jolting me awake. Although my eyes felt heavy from sleep, something propelled me into a sitting position. I needed to pee, I thought. I stood up and the door to my room creaked open on its own. I moved slowly, heading straight to the toilet.

The next morning, I opened my eyes and found myself on the floor. My head felt heavy as if I had hit it on the wall. The world around me swirled in a rotational motion, and I realised I was lying on a terrazzo floor. This was odd, as my parents’ house had marble tiles, not terrazzo. 

“She has woken up. Thank God,” a familiar female voice proclaimed. 

I noticed that figures were moving close to me, so I attempted to sit up, only to realise my hands and legs were bound in rusty chains. The shock dispelled every remnant of sleepiness or tiredness in me. My mother stood alongside a strange man in a white clinic coat, while my father sat on a long bench, wearing a defeated expression. Confused and alarmed, I wondered aloud, “What’s going on?” 

“Doctor, I don’t know what has gotten into her. Just this morning, someone in our street found her lying in the gutter, naked. We think she has lost it, that’s why we brought her here,” Mother’s voice trembled as she blurted out to the man’s hearing. 

My mouth fell open in shock. Was that true? The doctor examined me closely, then took a deep, heavy breath. Observing as he pulled my mother to a corner and signalled my dad to join them, I felt my anxiety rise as I was  yet to fathom what was happening. Looking around, I noticed a young man sitting on the floor at the other end of the room, acting irrationally. Bound in chains, he struggled with two men in nursing uniforms. Before they could grasp him, he swung both fists at one of the men, giving him a punch by the chin. Then, he began to laugh maniacally. It suddenly dawned on me where I was.

“Get me out of here!” I cried, swinging my arms in an attempt to break free from the chains. 

My actions disrupted the doctor as he signalled a lady by the counter. She called two uniformed men who emerged from a corner and walked up to me. As they grabbed my arms and led me out of the hall, my eyes locked with my father’s, filled with sorrow and anguish. My mother was already drowning  in tears. 

“Daddy, please. Don’t let them take me,” I begged, but it was already too late.

Over the next seven weeks, I endured an unpleasant experience at the mental home. The patients would become violent at the slightest provocation, and I found myself subjected to frequent beatings. The nurses rarely intervened, but they made it a priority to ensure sharp objects were kept away from the patients. The daily intake of psychedelics heightened my anxiety, adversely affecting my performance during mental evaluations. I was confined to a ward with a psychotic patient who consistently made snide remarks at me whenever possible. She would often say to me, “Nwa ọgbanje, ndị mbụ na akpọ gị oku. Jee zaa ndị mbụ,” concluding with sinister laughter. I harboured a strong dislike for her, particularly hating how she would hit me on the head.

My family’s visits were infrequent. When they did come, my father seemed always in a hurry, cutting the meetings short. In total, they visited just three times, each interaction lasting about five minutes. I couldn’t fathom how my father  suddenly turned against me, and I began to sense that my mother was taking sides with him. I understood my siblings’ compliance with his wishes, given his authoritative character, and their awareness of his stern consequences for flouting his orders.

Every day, I thought about the future I once envisioned, now turned bleak. Two years had  swiftly passed since I found myself in a mental home. Perhaps, my lack of progress in treatment led my family to cease their visits. I entertained the idea that my father may have ordered them to sever ties, given that my case had  gone beyond redemption. 

The day I confronted my father with the question, “Daddy, why didn’t you tell me I’m ọgbanje? I don’t know what it means but someone in my ward said ‘I should ask you’,  everyone in the room was stunned. Despite being ignored, I stood my ground, demanding answers. I remained convinced he knew  something I didn’t,  and would  eventually respond. But, I never saw him again. This remained the same with my mother, Ụzọma, Yagazie, and Zimụzọ. I believed they maintained contact with the hospital, given the ongoing concrete treatments I was receiving. Apparently, someone was still footing the bill for all of this.

My only companion was the words of my psychotic ward mate, who fell ill and passed away just as I was beginning to grow fond of her. Her words began to resonate with me, urging me to find a way back to my roots. I must escape this place, learn more about the ways of my forebears, and fulfil what was  expected of me. To understand the concept of Agwụ and take up the mantle, I needed to find a way out. When the time was  right and I had  identified the perfect accomplice in this asylum, I would plan my escape.