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MY HUSBAND ALMOST USED ME FOR RITUAL

Episode 6: The Holy Mountain

Osogbo by sunrise looks peaceful. The old railway tracks were rusted, grass growing between the sleepers. The yellow kiosk was exactly like the photo paint peeling, Coca-Cola sign faded. A woman was frying akara nearby, her radio playing gospel music. No one would guess that 20 meters away, a man was trading pregnant women for money.

I walked alone. The police car dropped me two streets back. Inspector Kemi’s voice was in my ear through a tiny bud hidden under my scarf. We have you on camera. Drone is up. Three officers in the akara queue. Two in the vulcanizer shed. Say ‘ofada’ and we move.

My legs were shaking, but I walked. The red wrapper dragged in the dust. It felt heavier now, like it knew I had put tech inside it. Like it was angry.

A boy of about 12 came out from behind the kiosk. You be Adesuwa?
I nodded.
Follow me. Baba dey wait.

We walked past the railway, into the bush. The path was narrow, trees closing over our heads. The air got cooler. The boy didn’t talk. He just walked, barefoot, stepping over roots like he’d done it a thousand times.

After 20 minutes, the trees opened. A hill rose in front of us. Not big, but steep. At the top was another brown building. No windows. But this one had paintings on the wall white chalk drawings of women with big stomachs, and a knife above each one.

Holy mountain.

My ear bud crackled. Adesuwa, we see the building. We cannot get visual inside. Too thick. Be careful. Repeat, be careful.

The boy stopped at the bottom of the hill. You go alone from here. Baba say make you climb. No shoes.

I removed my slippers. The ground was sharp stones and broken bottles. I climbed. Every step cut my feet. By the time I reached the top, blood was mixing with dust on my toes.

The door opened before I knocked.

Baba Orisun was not old. That was the first shock. I expected 70, white beard, red eyes. He was maybe 45. Clean-shaven. Fine boy in his youth, you could tell. He wore a white lace kaftan and a small red cap. He was smiling.

Adesuwa, he said. My lost sheep. Welcome.

Inside, the building was one room. No chairs. Floor was sand. In the middle, a circle drawn with white powder. Inside the circle, seven white candles burning. And lying beside the circle, on a mat, was Mercy Ojo.

She was alive. Eyes open. But her mouth was covered with cloth and her hands were tied with red rope. She was wearing the same red wrapper. When she saw me, she started shaking her head, tears running down her face. Don’t come, her eyes said. Run.

Baba saw me looking. She is number 8. But the spirit said number 7 must come first. You disrupted the order, Adesuwa. Now you must fix it.

Let her go, I said. My voice came out stronger than I felt. I’m here. Take me.
The spirit doesn’t take by force. The spirit takes by choice. You must enter the circle willingly. You must lie down. You must say yes.
And if I say no?
Then Mercy dies, and I take number 9 next month. And number 10. Until I get a willing one. There are many Femi’s in this country, Adesuwa. Many hungry husbands. The list is long.

He pointed to the wall. I hadn’t seen it before. Names. Dozens. Written in charcoal. Some crossed with red. Some fresh. At the bottom: Mercy Ojo Canada Client. Adesuwa Adebayo Cancelled Replace.

Cancelled. Because I ran.

He brought out a knife. Not old and rusty. New. Shining. Lie down, Adesuwa. It will not pain. The baby will sleep first. Then you. You will wake up rich in the next life.

I looked at Mercy. At the knife. At the names on the wall. At my feet bleeding on the sand.

Then I stepped forward. Into the circle.

Inspector Kemi’s voice was screaming in my ear: Adesuwa, no! Don’t enter! Ofada! Say ofada!

I didn’t say ofada.

I knelt. Then I lay down flat on my back, inside the white powder. The sand was cold. The candles were hot. I looked up. The roof had a small hole. Through it, I could see sky. Blue. New moon was gone, but morning sun was coming.

Baba Orisun raised the knife. Say yes, Adesuwa. Say ‘I give myself to the spirit.

I closed my eyes. Put my hand on my stomach. I give myself, I whispered.

He smiled. Louder!
I GIVE MYSELF TO THE SPIRIT! I shouted.

And then I said, clear and loud: OFADA.

The roof exploded.

Not the whole roof. Just the small hole. It became big. Ropes dropped. Three policemen in black fell from the sky like angels of war. POLICE! DOWN! DOWN!

Baba froze for one second. That was all my father needed. He came through the door I didn’t know he was there and hit Baba at the back of his knees with his pistol. Baba fell. The knife flew.

I rolled out of the circle, grabbed Mercy, and used the kitchen knife from my bra to cut her ropes. She couldn’t stand, so I dragged her.

Shots fired. Not at us. At the wall. Warning shots. ON THE GROUND! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!

Baba Orisun was on the ground, screaming. Not from pain. From rage. You broke the circle! The spirit will curse all of you! Your children will die! Your wombs will close!

Inspector Kemi kicked the knife away. The only spirit here is the Holy Spirit, and He just arrested you.

They dragged Baba out. They carried Mercy. I walked down the hill myself, barefoot, bleeding, but alive.

At the bottom, my father was waiting. He didn’t hug me. Soldiers don’t hug on battlefield. He just touched my head once. My daughter.

In the police van, Mercy held my hand. She couldn’t talk yet, but she squeezed. Thank you.

By 12pm, we were at Osogbo Teaching Hospital. Mercy was 4 months. Baby was fine. Heartbeat strong. Like mine.

Femi and Mama Adebayo were transferred to Osogbo to face charges with Baba. The list of names became state evidence. 17 women. 6 dead. 11 alive. Now 12, with Mercy.

That night, I slept in my father’s house again. No nightmares. Just deep, black sleep.

But at 3am, my phone rang. Withheld number. I picked up.

Breathing. Then a new voice. Younger. Female. Adesuwa Adebayo?
Who is this?
You killed Baba. But Baba is not one man. Baba is an office. I am the new Baba. And number 9 on the list… is your sister.

The line died.

I ran to my brother Segun’s room. His wife, Folake, was 2 months pregnant. She was asleep, hand on her stomach.

Safe. For now.

The war was not over. It had a new general.

And my family was the next battlefield.

Watch out for episode 7

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