(eng) Nnedi Okorafor - Who Fears Death 01 by Who Fears Death

Author:Who Fears Death [Death, Who Fears]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 32

AS I SAW WHEN I FLEW OVER IT THE NIGHT BEFORE, on one side of the town, the land was hilly. We entered on the flatter side where there were shops selling paintings, sculptures, bracelets, and blown glass along with the usual items.

“Onyesonwu, put your veil on,” Mwita said. He’d wrapped his over his head, letting the thick green cloth fall low over his face.

“I hope they don’t think we’re sick,” I said, doing the same with my yellow veil.

“As long as people stay away from us,” Mwita said. When he saw the bothered look on my face, he said, “We’ll say we’re holy people.

We approached a cluster of large buildings. I glanced inside a window and saw bookcases.

“This must be their book house,” I said to Luyu.

“Yeah, well, if it is, then they have two,” she said.

The building to our left was also full of books.

“Ah ah,” Mwita said quietly, his eyes wide. “There are people in there, even at this late hour. You think they’re open to the public?”

The town was called Banza, a name that sounded vaguely familiar to me. And it was on Mwita’s map. We were off course, having traveled northwest instead of due west.

“We need to pay closer attention,” Mwita said, as we stood looking at his map.

“Easier said than done,” Luyu said. “The walking gets so monotonous you drift off. I can see how it happened.”

A few people looked at us with mild interest as they passed but that was all. I relaxed a little. Still, it was obvious that we weren’t from here. Where our garments were long and flowing pants and dresses and veils, these people wore tighter clothes and cloth tied tightly over their heads.

The women wore silver rings in their noses and long tight half-dresses that flared at the bottom called skirts. They also wore shirts with no sleeves, showing their arms and shoulders. Most of the women’s skirts, shirts, and headcloths were of clashing colors and prints. The men wore similarly close-fitting clashing pants and tight caftans. We searched for an hour and found ourselves at their central market. It was busy despite the fact that it was past ten p.m.

Banza was an Okeke town driven by art and culture. It wasn’t old like Jwahir. Banza’s wounds were fresh. As the years passed, Banza learned to use the bad to create the good. The town founders turned their pain into art, the making and selling of which became central to Banza’s culture.

“Does this town sleep?” Luyu had asked.

“Their minds are too active,” I said.

“I think everyone here is crazy,” Mwita said.

We asked around about Diti and Binta. Well, Fanasi and Luyu did the asking. Mwita and I stood behind them, trying to hide our Ewu faces.

“Very pretty and dressed like holy women?” a man asked Fanasi. “I’ve seen them. They’re around here somewhere.”

“Stupid girls,” a woman told Fanasi. Then she laughed. “They bought some of my palm wine. About ten men were following them.” Apparently Diti and Binta were having a good time.

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