Becoming Mmuommiri (Excerpt)

“I saw it with my own two eyes! A witch! Amadioha knows I cannot lie!”

The girl ducked her head down as the crowd murmured in response to the claim. Why had he come this way!? Running away had been simple, but how quickly she had become trapped.

The only thing the girl had taken was her pendant; basic amenities she could get herself. Nobody knew her, so she had been able to traverse to the outskirts of the village in just two days, about to leave it completely when she passed by Ufamu. The girl had seen it once, years ago, the only time she was allowed around the village. A lake so vibrant that simply being near it made her body ache with need; an ache she was helpless to resist.

The sensation of entering Ufamu basked her in waterfalls of pleasure; she twisted and turned, becoming sentient with the lake. For hours, the girl forgot herself in seemingly incessant pleasure; the kind that can only arise from the absence of shame. Floating blissfully, she sorely wished that every day could be like this: the only sounds the soft undulations of the water, existing in peaceful solitude... until a scream shattered the harmony.

The girl submerged immediately and gazed through the water. With her heightened vision, she could see a man watching her from the bank of the lake. She dove deeper and begged the fish for help, and they eagerly obliged, calling upon all the others to assist her. Within moments, their collaborative effort caused waves to crash upon the bank in a sudden torrential fury, and the girl laughed as she watched the man fall as he fled. Yet by detouring to Ufamu, she had to go back through a patch of houses to reach the village exit.

Now, just a mile away from freedom, a crowd barring the exit path caught the girl off guard, and she had joined them covertly to stay hidden, waiting for an opportunity to get through them and out of the village. All was well until the man she had just drenched had climbed atop the speaker's rock and started addressing the crowd.

“A decrepit witch, I said! Who is it? Show yourself! Look at your wives closely o!”

A voice responded shrilly, “Egbe, every time Amadioha, Amadioha, but why does your wife keep complaining about your lies?”

Egbe's voice rose back with vigour.

“Her skin was covered in scales, like a snake! She can control the water!” The crowd was laughing, and the girl took the chance to be on her way. At that moment, the scent that accompanies a coming rain enveloped her, and she froze, rooted by indecision. At any point in time, if it rained as she separated from the crowd, everyone would see her.

An old woman's voice, wizened but sharp, cut through the crowd, silencing them.

“In Congo, she is called La Sirene. In Brazil, she is Yemanya. In Guadeloupe, Maman de l'Eau. She is a Mami Wata, a devilish charmer of men. Would we have our husbands and sons be led to ruin?”

The crone's words did what Egbe's had failed to do; it was fear, not levity, that was capable of overwhelming reason. Pairs of female eyes darted through the ranks, exchanging suspicious glances; friends turned potential foes, and those with their husbands and children pulled them closer. The men were unfazed and wore amused faces; one of them shouted, “Let her come! We will see who will be ruined this night!” The girl's muscles tensed up as they roared with laughter, and the conversation turned bawdy, mingled with rough chuckles from rotund stomachs. Eventually, after heavy insistence from the women, they agreed to make their way to Ufamu, just as the first raindrops began to fall.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her and pulled her into a dark hut, slamming the door behind her. She tried to cover herself, but it was futile; her skin was already mutating under the touch of water, transforming into scales that shone through her cloth like lapis lazulis.

“You don't need to do that, child.”

It was the old woman's voice from a few moments ago. She stepped into the soft light streaking through the window gaps, and the girl lost her voice. Blue scales, dimmer than hers, but still surely the same, glistened on ancient skin, and the girl found her azure eyes mirrored in the woman's lined face. Reaching forward, the old woman touched upon the pendant, and for a brief moment, the girl was filled with an oasis of hope that quickly dried up; a mental mirage. She was not her. The girl would feel if she was her. After seemingly infinite seconds, the old woman spoke.

“My pendant... but you... you are not the one I gave it to. What is your name, child?”

The mirage flickered, and then shattered. The girl could taste water on her tongue; she swallowed, wetting the cracks that had rendered her mute, and enabling her to find her voice at last.

“Isioma.”