Chapter Seven

I wasn't supposed to be traveling.

Or at least, I hadn't known I would be—until Kosi barged into my room that morning, her tiny fists drumming against the door.

"Aham, wake up! We are going to Agulu!"

I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. "Go away, Kosi."

"You're not packed!" she said, her voice high with excitement. "Papa said we are leaving today. Everyone is ready!"

I pushed the blanket down slightly and frowned at her. "What are you talking about?"

She rolled her eyes. "Aham, we are traveling to Agulu! This morning!"

I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. Nobody had told me anything.

"When did Papa decide this?"

Kosi shrugged. "Maybe last night. Maybe before. I don't know." She was already bouncing on her feet. "You should hurry. If we leave you behind, I will take your spot by the window."

She dashed out before I could reply.

I sighed and swung my legs off the bed. So, we were traveling.

I had barely processed it when I heard Adaora's voice from the hallway, sharp with irritation.

"If we don't leave now, we will get stuck in traffic, and I am not spending the night on the road!"

"Go and tell Papa that," Nonso muttered. "I'm not the driver."

I rubbed my forehead and stood up. There was no use arguing. Agulu was waiting.

---

The Road Trip

The Sienna was smooth, the air-conditioning humming quietly as we drove out of Lagos. The city peeled away behind us, its traffic, its noise, its chaos shrinking in the rearview mirror.

Adaora sat in the front, scrolling through her phone. Nonso and Obinna sat in the middle row, muttering to each other about the disaster of traveling without network.

"There is no single bar," Obinna groaned, waving his phone. "At all."

"How do people even live here?" Nonso muttered. "It's like being exiled from the real world."

"Welcome to the real world," Adaora said, not looking up.

Kosi twisted around in her seat and faced me. "Aham, doesn't it bother you?"

I glanced at my phone. The signal had disappeared about thirty minutes ago. I locked the screen and slipped it into my pocket.

I shook my head. "No."

Kosi sighed. "You're weird."

I smirked. "You're just noticing?"

She nudged my leg, then turned back, staring out at the passing trees.

---

The compound smelled of wet earth and burning firewood. It had rained earlier, and the ground was still damp in places, patches of mud clinging to the red soil.

The main house stood in the center, large and old, its deep verandas stretching wide like arms ready to embrace. The smaller houses, where visitors and extended family stayed, sat neatly beside it, their zinc roofs glinting under the afternoon sun.

As we stepped out of the car, Nne Ora emerged first, her wrapper tied high above her waist. Behind her, standing tall with a wooden staff, was Papa's father, Ozoemena Nwokedi.

"Umu m! Unu abiala!" (My children! You have come!)

Nne Ora's voice carried warmth, but it was Ozoemena's presence that held my attention. He did not rush to speak. He only watched us, his gaze steady, his silence stretching long enough to command respect.

We bent slightly, greeting them in the way we had been taught.

"Good afternoon, Nne Ora."

"Good afternoon, Papa Ukwu."

Ozoemena finally nodded, his voice deep and certain. "Welcome home."

Mama smiled. "The children have finished their exams. We thought it best for them to spend time here before school resumes."

Ozoemena grunted in approval. "A man must know his home."

He turned to Papa. "Obi, have you greeted the land?"

Papa nodded, then bent down and scooped a handful of soil, pressing it briefly to his forehead before letting it slip through his fingers.

I watched him, something heavy settling in my chest. There were things we did, traditions we followed, that I did not fully understand—but I knew they mattered.

---

We were still settling in when we heard voices from the entrance. Aunty Bianca's children had arrived.

"Unu di egwu!" Dubem called as he stepped into the compound, grinning. "Our Lagos people have come to suffer!"

Somadina and Kosisochukwu followed behind, each carrying a tray covered with a white cloth.

Kosi looked up at the sound of her name.

Kosisochukwu smiled. "Ah, my namesake! Kosi nwannem, welcome!"

Kosi blinked. "We are namesakes?"

"Of course," Kosisochukwu smirked. "Any child named Kosisochukwu is destined for greatness."

Kosi grinned, clearly pleased with herself.

Dubem set the trays down and lifted the clothes, revealing bowls of abacha, steaming hot okpa wrapped in fresh leaves, and bottles of cold cola.

"You must eat before you go to our house," Somadina said. "We can't have you fainting in the village."

The food smelled rich—the abacha glistening with palm oil and pepper, the okpa warm and soft, the cola sweating in the heat.

We ate in silence, our hands moving quickly, the taste of home settling on our tongues.

I could feel Ozoemena watching us from his chair, his staff resting beside him.

As I chewed, his voice rumbled through the air.

"The masquerades will come in two days."

---

Later that night, as we sat outside, the conversation drifted back to the festival.

"The real masquerades are coming out this year," Dubem said.

Nonso raised a brow. "What do you mean, real ones?"

Somadina leaned forward. "The ones that don't just dance. The ones that tell stories."

Dubem's voice dropped slightly. "Agulu masquerades are not just for entertainment. They are spirits of the old, returning to remind us who we are."

The night air felt heavier, thick with something I couldn't name.

I leaned back against my chair, staring at the moonlit compound. The past was never truly gone here. It lingered, waiting, watching.

And soon, it would dance.

The night air clung to my skin as we walked back to Papa Ukwu's compound, the voices from Aunty Bianca's house fading behind us. The girls had stayed back, their laughter rising and falling in the distance—Kosi giggling at something Adaora said, Kosisochukwu responding in Igbo too fast for me to catch.

It was just Nonso, Obinna, Dubem, Somadina, and me now, our footsteps quiet against the dry earth.

Inside the compound, a lantern burned low on the verandah, casting soft, shifting shadows on the walls. The faint, steady hum of the generator filled the air, coming from the side of the main house where it sat, its sound blending into the night. It was different from Lagos, where multiple generators roared together, fighting for dominance. Here, there was only one—small, steady, almost gentle.

From the main house, Ozoemena and Papa's voices drifted through the open windows, low and deliberate.

"Their meetings last till morning sometimes," Dubem said, pushing open the door to the smaller house where we'd be sleeping.

Somadina chuckled. "One time, Papa Ukwu and Uncle Obidiegwu finished talking when the cocks were crowing. Mama said they are always discussing matters of the land."

Nonso sighed. "If they don't finish early today, Papa will sleep through tomorrow."

Obinna, who had been mostly quiet, muttered, "At least there's light. Imagine if we had to sleep in heat."

Dubem smirked. "Be grateful, Lagos boy. You're lucky there's even a ceiling fan."

I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the warm, yellow glow of the bulb hanging from the ceiling. A ceiling fan spun slowly above, its blades cutting through the humid night air. The hum of the generator outside was faint but constant, a soft reminder of where the light came from.

The room was small and simple, a sharp contrast to the space I had left behind in Lagos. Two beds pushed against opposite walls, a wooden table, a single window letting in the deep scent of earth and night. The sheets smelled of the sun, the mattresses firm, the kind that didn't sink beneath you.

There was no bookshelf, no sleek desk with scattered notebooks, no silent hum of an air conditioner cooling the air.

Instead, there was the soft creak of the bed as I sat down, the distant chirping of crickets, the scent of roasted maize drifting from somewhere nearby.

I glanced at Nonso. Back in Lagos, we never shared a room. He had his own space, I had mine. Here, we were suddenly side by side, thrown into the closeness of village life. Even Obinna, who normally spread himself across his own bed at home, had to adjust to sharing space.

From the main house, Ozoemena's voice rose slightly, then fell again, steady as a river carving through stone. Their discussion would last deep into the night. It always did.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the quiet weight of the village settle around me.

I had thought coming here would be a break from everything, but already, I could feel it—the past, the present, and the things waiting ahead, pressing in from all sides.

Somewhere in the distance, a drum sounded—faint, steady, calling.

And then, there was nothing but the night.