The sound of hoof beats spurred Anya on. Feet hitting the soft earth of the forest, she threw a panicked look behind her to see the members of the guard closing in on her. Facing forward, she ran faster, her vision filled with floating tree trunks, leafy branches and the large pink fruits the people of the realm called Kedara.

Butterflies with wings the colour of the transient rainbow in the blue-red sky fluttered above her, a spectrum of colours falling from the edges of their wings to her face. Anya ran, tears streaming down her face. She was about to be banished to that hated place for the second time and this time the great spirit did not care about her protests.

“For it is my will”, its voice had whispered and thundered at the same time, sending sparks of lightning across the great room and the realm below. “It will be done.”

Anya had screamed and screamed, fearful of the circle of birth and death.

“Please I beg you, no more. I can’t stand it. Be merciful,” Anya had said, speaking with her heart, for words were not needed in the seventh realm.

The voice had turned gentle, almost caressing her from the gilded throne where it emanated.

“It is the judgment Anya, the judgment.”

Anya had escaped after that. Soon after the guards faced the bright light and bowed their heads in worship, she had flown from the seventh realm to the fifth realm, moving through passages of immortal design on her long limbs. The guards had found her on the fifth realm, charging behind her on winged beings with long silky hair and gentle eyes.

Anya ran. The hoof beats bore down upon her.

Then they surrounded her, a half moon circle of white skins. Anya looked into the dark almond eyes sitting beneath wide foreheads. A fire burned within them but it was peaceful. Anya refused to be comforted. She sank to the ground and wailed into her hands.

“You must go Anya,” the captain of the guard said, its face still and unmoving, hairless body slipping from the back of the winged being to the soft earth. He lifted her to her feet. “It is the will.”

Anya wailed louder, throwing her face skyward. “Why?”

“To complete the circle.”

Then the captain showed her, on a screen conjured in the middle of the breathing forest, her former life. The tears dried on her face and she watched with growing horror the bright glint of a sharp object raised to a white blinding sun. It was in the hand of a creature, the type that lived in the last realm. The creature was beautiful, its skull topped with a magnificent halo of curls, clothing made from a coarse material that covered very little of its skin. The creature sat on top of another creature, a more compact alien with thick arms.

“That is you Anya.”

Anya stepped away from the vision, certain that the captain of the guard was wrong. Her skin was white and her eyes, black almond pools like everyone in the seventh realm. Her legs were long and flexible, her feet webbed and graceful. She couldn’t be the creature with brown skin and alien features.

“That was your life,” the guard said again. “You were mortal once.”

Anya shook her head. “How can it be? I don’t remember.”

The line on the face of the guard grew in a smile.

“I know.”

Anya began to say something but stopped when she saw the object in the hand of the first creature lower, burying itself in the upper body of the second creature. She gasped when she saw the pain and sorrow on the face of the second creature and the thick red liquid that flowed from its body.

Together with the guards, she watched the first creature stand and lift its arms to the sky. Anya was held spellbound by what happened next. The air around the creature shook and parted, revealing thousands of other creatures like it. They stood in several rows, strange looking mouths parted to expose tiny white objects. Anya wondered what they were.

“You were a powerful mortal. A woman,” the guard said, coming to stand beside her and resting its hand on her shoulder.

Anya watched the creatures gather around the fallen creature.

“What was it,” she pointed to the fallen creature. “What is it called?”

“Man.”

“Your enemy,” another of the guards spoke. Anya turned towards it, trying to remember its name. When she failed, she turned back to the captain of the guards.

“Was he evil?”

“The mind of mortal harbours evil and good.”

Anya sighed and dragged a hand across her face.

“I hate the place. There is no memory of it. The elders say it is a place of pain…” she looked again at the vision, “of sorrow.”

“But there is love Anya. The great spirit still lives among them.”

Anya shook her head and pled again for mercy.

“Let me stay,” she said, grabbing the hand of the captain of the guard. “Please!”

The captain looked at her, its great head moving side to side.

“I am sorry Anya. A debt must be paid.”

Anya stepped back in horror. She would be pierced with the gleaming object.

“I cannot…please I cannot bear the sorrow.”

“It will be different this time Anya,” the captain said, the line on its face moving again.

Then he touched her and everything went black.

***************************

 

Darkness is around me when I open my eyes. I breathe deeply for several seconds, ignoring my badly palpitating heart. The memory of the dream lingers like a bad taste in my mouth and I see the face of the strange looking woman who has somehow become part of my consciousness. Outside the world stretches awake and the pulsating cry of a bus conductor calling for passengers pushes aside the mélange of sounds in my room.

“Akerele! Masha! Stadium!”

I turn to my side, my right hand under my head, and stretch my left arm out. My skin is brown, caramel brown from centuries of genetic mixing. I flex my fingers, happy to see them parted.

Across my bed, my image is cloned on a full-length mirror. I pout at the image buried under a tangle of white bed sheets. “I am not Anya. My name is Irima.”

Satisfied, I wriggle to the edge of the bed and push my feet into my waiting slippers. My clothes hang from the handle of the wardrobe beside the mirror, a fashion statement of cotton and satin. The dress is black and shorter than I usually like, but it is a gift and I like gifts.

Walking to pick my phone concealed under my pillows, I check the time and jump in alarm.

“Jeez! Eight already.”

I fling the phone and pull my nightgown over my head. Grabbing my towel from the hanger from the other handle of the wardrobe, I run out of the room to the bathroom I share with my sisters.

I am lucky today. There is no one to cajole or threaten with physical harm in the bathtub-dominated bathroom with white and pink tiles. I stand before a malfunctioning showerhead and employ the services of the blue bowl bopping in the green bucket cursed with storing water, in scarcity and in plenty.

Pouring of scoops of water over my head, I lather my skin quickly with my favourite bath gel after weighing it and noting the loss in weight. I make a mental note to issue an ultimatum to my sisters.

Buy the next one or get your own!

I spend two minutes in the bathroom, doing my best not to enter the toilet bowl placed closely to the bathtub for lack of space. Soon I am in my room and throwing my clothes on. Duro my taxi driver is waiting for me outside the house. I meet him wiping down the body of his ink blue Passat with loving care.

“Ah, Aunty Irima you take style stay o!”

“Sorry,” I tell him, jumping into the backseat of his car and calling Caroline, my best friend and colleague on my HTC one X.

“How far?”

“Abeg I am going to that Oil and Gas Company in Lekki Phase One. Help me come up with one lie if madam asks for me.”

“Okay.”

Traffic does not disappoint. We spend one hour sweating under the harmattan heat until reprieve comes our way in the form of a speeding police van. We happily join the stream of cars speeding behind it. I enter the air-conditioned interior of the company in Lekki at exactly ten. The receptionist is kind and helpful.

“Please sit there and wait for Mr. Harry,” she tells me, pointing to a set of leather chairs at a corner of the room. I sit at the edge of a double seater beside a floor standing air conditioning unit and pretend to read the Economist, all the while cooling the wet patches under my arms. Mr. Harry strolls in at ten thirty. He is a smiling middle-aged man with a shock of gray hair. I rise to my feet, balancing nicely on my black five inches heeled Michael Kors pumps and take his hand in a handshake.

“You are here for the meeting,” he tells me, pumping my hand. When he lets go, he steps aside to reveal a younger man in black suit. Unlike Mr. Harry, this man does not smile. Instead he looks at me, his eyes cold and unfriendly. “Meet Mr. Eleojo.”

I look into the narrowed slanted eyes of the man facing me and feel the strongest dislike.

Oh God, I hate him.

Somehow I suspect the feeling is mutual.

The man across hates me too.

————————

Umari Ayim is the author of ‘Twilight at Terracotta Indigo’ and ‘Inside my Head’ both winners of the 2011 ANA NDDC Flora Nwapa prize and 2012 Poetry prize respectively.

Umari blogs at www.umariayim.com and tweets from @umariayim