ALIMA

ALIMA'S TEMPTATIONS

I brushed his hand off my head and grabbed him by his arm.

“Papa, what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” I yelled, shaking his arm. “A—and why do you look like this?” I asked, observing his appearance from head to toe.

Papa was never on a clean shave—he always left his beards, and he never dressed so stylishly—we never had the finance to dress so elegant. What is going on? I asked myself, taking in his pressed buba and sokoto, his golden watch glittering under the dazzling chandelier of the brightly lit mansion.

“Perhaps you should discuss with your mother,” He said, cutting me off my thoughts. Mother?

Just then, a fair-skinned woman raced down the stairs, with a beaming smile on her face. She looked familiar—like I had seen her before—and when my eyes met with the mirror that stood at the far corner of the room, I saw the undeniable resemblance.

“Mother?” I whispered.

“Alima, we were so worried about you.” Her eyes raked over my body, and I suddenly felt conscious of my own appearance. “Why are you dressed like that? Where have you been?” She questioned.

I suddenly felt dizzy. I held my hands to my head—swaying from one side to the other unsteadily. Bu-but mother is dead, how is this possible?  The last thing I remembered was their blurry faces and distant cries, before falling to the floor.

* * *

I woke up feeling better the next day. My supposed mother had forced me to take a shower and change my dress, before coming down to join them in the dining room. I had never seen my father so happy, and I had never felt so relieved. I watched Papa dig into his food while he shared side glances with his wife. They subtly indulged me in mild conversations to which I replied as though we had all been living together. Papa made few jokes and I laughed heartily alongside my mother.

This was all I had ever wanted. I wanted nothing more than to forget my sorrows and move on. I was happy. Papa was happy and Mother was alive, but it didn’t feel right. I turned my gaze to Papa, he felt so foreign—his laughter, his appearance, his comport—nothing was like him. And then there was Mother. She was supposed to be dead—resting in peace—she didn’t belong here, none of us did.

I jerked off the chair and grabbed the fork from the nearest plate on the table, lunged forward, and threw it right into Mother’s chest. She gawked at me in horror—holding my gaze. She then smiled and sobbed silently, before muttering a thank you. She began to shake violently and shrink, till all that was left of her were bones—as it should be.

I turned to my father and he vanished into thin air like a programmed hologram. My surroundings began to twirl and shift. I heard a loud voice echo in my head and I cried out, holding my hands to my head and tugging at my hair.

“You fool! I gave you everything you ever wanted. This is not the end. I assure you.”

As soon as the voice stopped, I was thrown onto the ground roughly. I rose up to my feet. I was at the same border again, but this time, there was only one route. I didn’t feel so clean anymore. My new dress had been replaced with the former one—I was dishevelled once again. I began to walk down the path that was most definitely leading to Ibile as the earlier events played out in my head. I wondered if they actually happened, or if it was just an illusion and someone was playing with my mind.

* * *

Immediately I arrived at Ibile town, I found the first forest in the village and I summoned Osanyin—the god of the forest and the guardian of the herbs.

A violent whirlwind rushed forth in the air, blowing the trees and leaves. I shielded my face with my arm, and held unto a tree with the other.

“What do you want?” A voice thundered, as the windstorm ceased.

I turned my head to the direction of the voice. Osanyin was seated on a large stone, with a wooden staff in one hand. He was a little older than the other gods I had met. His skin was as black as ebony. He had on a brown robe and a matching coloured turban over his head. He wore golden beads over his neck and golden bands on his arm. His white goatee stirred with the moving winds and his brown eyes boasted of aged exuberance.

I slightly bowed my head in reverence and proceeded.

“Thank you for honouring me with your presence. Babalu Aye says you have the cure for lovers disease, I need the herb for my father.” I said.

“You have met Babalu Aye?” He asked as though he was surprised.

“Yes. And in fact, I think I had an encounter with Esu not too long ago.”

Osanyin eyed me carefully and replied.

“Well, Yes I do have the cure. But—” He paused and I let out a heavy sigh, waiting for the complete statement. “It doesn’t grow here on land. The herb you seek is growing underneath river Oba.”

“You mean underwater... underneath the salty tears of Oba?” I blurted out, remembering Babalu Aye’s story about Oba—the first wife of Sango. Gross.

Osanyin shook his head at my outburst and continued.

“Travel to Osoosi, there you will find river Oba which intersects with river Osun at turbulent rapids, due to the rivalry of the two goddesses. You must seek river Oba because that is where the herb lies, but if you pick river Osun, you might not live to tell the tale,” He warned.

I nodded my slowly, allowing his words to sink in. I thanked Osanyin—the god of the forest and began my journey to Osoosi.

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