It wasn’t until I turned eight that I understood what Kerekere had told us about the evil spirit that hunts for kids through the street at dawn. Its colour was tan-brown but would change to purple when hungry for blood. It had a horn or two with a piercing edge, and when viewed from the back, didn’t seem to own a face. He would call us behind our mothers’ back and we would all kneel before him.

“Now listen”, he began, “you must all begin to respect me”, he would say in that shrill baby-boyish voice. “What did I say?”

And we would all repeat those words, which wields so much power.

He knew those evil spirits well, and because of this, he commanded so much respect. There was Mubi who called him sah and there was Abaga who fanned him with plantain leaves, because they said they had heard him speak to a spirit for strength and it gave him, and he won three muscled-boys in one fight. But I knew this to be true, prior to their telling me. I fought him once when we were five and won him — he would beg with red and swollen eyes and I would reach a hand down there and pull him up. But then again, in recent times, everything had changed; the boy was no longer a boy, there were bulgy veins that stood out from those scrawny arms, withered scars he had picked from gang fights, and between his jaws, lay tufts of black hair. So, it was alright to call him sah, brodah, anything he wanted.

I never imagined that anyone could face spirits, so keen and proud at such a young age. It was a thing of great honour, and although we hated his guts, we spoke boldly of his achievement across the street. “Look, Kerekere knows that Ojuju and the Ojuju knows him.” The little boys would give us their ball and biscuits, and flee while crying.

Every boy in the street, below us, looked up to him alone. He led us through the neighbourhoods with bad gangs and he’d sometimes, steal boiled eggs and tinned sardine for us. With him, hunger barely reached anyone. I very willingly, wished for myself this sort of achievement. I sometimes would puff my body to seem ferocious and strut viciously like he did. I saw him push up once, without labouring for air, and so I did too, ending up half dead.

Yet this could not stifle my desperation. I’d come already to the point at which I was ready to move from being a boy to facing any kind of spirit. So, my initiation to that sphere of life began. I allowed my hair to tangle and I made sure my shoulders stood high, while walking. I uttered my words with so much strength and between my legs, my balls dangled more. My mother feared my death, for I was growing thin, beyond recognition. Kerekere said it was only in extreme hunger that one could behold the spirit. So, I supposed, my facing Ojuju was only nearby.

However, not to seem deceitful about my courage, I had doubts. The way they pierced my heart, had already spelled out the end for me. But I made no sense of it all. In some ways, my body seemed to be already involved with the spirit. It neglected the Vaseline and Sheabutter I applied to it, standing on its own, with an inward bitterness. My inner thigh was darker with heavy rashes and there was a mole, growing at the back of my left ear. I have never been happier, but was careful, as not to let my pride known. I still called Kerekere sah and brodah. I hadn’t any intentions of taking his reign. I just wanted a feel of that air, or to put it better, to make a mark in the street again.

Now, there were other facts — which I’d come to know later — Kerekere didn’t tell us about the spirit, like where it came from and where it lived or should I suppose, that in such companionship, there was no need for sheer details, for trifling things like: does it have a native land? That all one needed was to tighten his guts and make no pretense, to humbly receive the rewards of his hard work, and just move on.

And so, soon came December, with all its harmattan and sizzling beam. What my goons and I did, was to talk about anything and everything Christmas. The Kito sandals, the rubber Timberland, the singing spider-woven watches, bangers and never Ojuju. By now I had forgotten, whatever residual interest I had for the spirit had been laid to rest by the greasy expectations of Christmas. The treat to it, however, was that we went down to my native place, as did every family I know. My native place is set along a deserted part of earth, and what gave life to it, could just be the whistling pines and frequent crack of oil bean pods. One had no right to speak of lack of development here; it seemingly was not needed. Its people had in them, a primordial concession to the undaunted living. It was apparent in their febrile gait, deftly gay, and in the forge, with which they carried on without food. Their night bore a malignant air, twirling on the faces of its own, and a dark sky, dilatory in breaking. And so, it was on a night like this that I came in full grip with the spirit.

I had moved out with boys my age, relatives I’d never know their names. We walked round — as I was told later — an entire village, telling stories of Mbeku and Agama, raising our catapults, to shoot at preying River-birds and very often, checking out who was taller between ourselves. Through all these, I’d hear distant wails and chattering, but was never sure what it was.

The boys didn’t complain. Our leader in his cheerfulness, kept at his story and we sang the accompanying chorus innocently. He urged us while speaking in a low tone, as we approached the village square, to be careful with our steps, as not to disturb the probing eyes of the Ukwu Egbu, a cluster of trees around the market square. If all that I had heard him say about the tree was true; that it swallowed children, who made known their mischief; that it shook from its root often, excreting the dead ones it had eaten, then it was also true that I had let out my urine, to freely flow in its hotness, in a relentless squirt, on my pant.

By now the wailing and chattering were no longer distant, it was with us. It also happened that the night had suddenly come undone, exposing everything to a fog. Each one of us kept his face down, as our leader had commanded. There were teardrops, trailing down to my lips, but they were quickly lapped up by the chilly night air. At the trunk of one the trees, I saw an arm retract from behind as I looked up, then another one beneath it. The boys saw this too, but moved on, so it allowed me no wave of thought. But then, almost at the same speed, a bulky shadow moved from behind the tree and stood directly in our path. It raised an arm and immediately, a host of four or more shadows, same as the first, followed suit. I made to run, but a coarse hand gripped mine, requesting for my name in an unexpectedly frail voice; why was I wearing a Kito sandal, had I come from the city to intimidate them or what? And what was that watch with flickering lights, what was that bad song in it? And then it bent down to look at my face properly, and just then it dawned on me: Ojuju! I exclaimed within. Oh Kerekere, why was he so hideous in telling us its native place, or could it be that he knew all along, but was jealous for the spirit was my clan’s-thing?

I stood there just gazing at the spirit, it was still tan-brown so I was safe still. It had no face truly and this one’s horn was swollen. Two arms were fashioned out from a body of thinloose raffia and so it seemed weak. Maybe it had expected to cause me a fright, because it shook the whip in its hand and made the wailing sound I had heard earlier. Astounding! I thought, had I now passed the test? Had my hunger strike gotten me my reward? Was he about to deposit some of his strength to me? Oh! I thought about the street boys who had taken my things and ridiculed my father’s name, should I just hit them till they bleed or just knock out a tooth or more? I was going to make a mark again in the street, after years of living in the background. One cannot, though, be silent with such excitement, but I was cautious as not to let the spirit know, so it doesn’t change its mind. So, I just stood there, gazing, thinking of what to make of my current situation.

My musings would have been well assured if not for what happened next — by now, my abductor must have alerted the others, for they all came to stand where we were, pointing fingers on me, my sandals, my wrist-watch and gawping like that in noisy whispers. They must have let the boys I’d come with go, for I didn’t see them. I expected something mighty, but one of them cleared his throat and I heard this:

“Boy, give us all your stuff now, and we won’t flog you” And yet another spirit:

“Come on, hurry, all those glittering things you have on, give it all and leave”

And leave? What was this? Had I done something wrong? Had I grown so thin, beyond their requirement? Or could it be that I had failed in saying a proper greeting earlier?

As my thoughts descended rapidly, they all began to put away their bodies — a part of the thin-loose raffia came off from the waist, like a skirt and the other from the head. The faceless head had come to own a head like mine, with all its features. Some had on their torso, a singlet, although torn on all side; and their legs, as lean as mine. They all wore pairs of short, tattered in all parts.

As frogs sat at the bushes around me, croaking and looking out for dinner, so too did I stand, in a brink of chaos and hot air, my wrist-watch taken, the Kito with it too, and then from a distance, one of them uttered:

“Get over it town boi, we’re just hungli and melli clismas”

I saw quite clearly now, the night in its fullness — its darkest places, the air giving out a gust of dust, lifting dried leaves, one by one, away from its branch. I moved slowly to one of the

Ukwu Egbu trees and there, let my urine out on its entire trunk, and the tip of its roots. I don’t spare a single drop.

Ifunanya Madufor is an Igbo writer and documentary filmmaker. Fascinated by the new wave of Igbo cultural revitalisation, she has gone on to develop deep interests in its history, literature, technology, philosophy, and spirituality.