Moon Shadow

2

I left Pastor Hans consoling Mama Joni after informing her of Joni's death, unable to stay and watch her cry—it was too much. Seeing a mother weep for her only child would've broken me too. I couldn't even hold back the tears when she rushed to her son's room, cradled his dead body in her arms, and started humming to him his favorite bedtime song.

Pictures of my mother flashed in my mind, reminding me of the time she used to sing to my younger siblings before they fell asleep. The love that sparked in her eyes was something I had never seen before. I couldn't help but feel jealous because all I wanted in life was for her to show me the same love she showed them. But no matter what I did, I couldn't please her.

It was two hours past midnight, and my body had reached its limit. Before going to Mama Joni, I was in Mikocheni dealing with the malevolent spirit of a dead colonialist. A few children at a sleepover had summoned it through an old ouija board game they bought online. The dead colonialist wanted to murder them after realizing Tanzania had earned independence from its people.

The ride home was quiet—very much to my liking. The auto-rickshaw driver hadn't inquired about my life or told me about theirs. If I wanted to be questioned about my relationship status, then I would wait for the next clan meeting. My uncles and aunties always made sure to tell me how to live my life and then try to set me up with one of their friends' sons. Argh!

My phone buzzed in my pocket, taking me out of my thoughts. On the screen, the word Mama appeared. "Shikamo, Mama," I answered.

"Marhaba, Binti. How did it go with the vana?" Mama checked up on me after every case. It was one reason we always fought. She didn't allow me the freedom she gave my brothers, and it put a strain on our relationship.

Since I was the middle child and the only woman out of seven, she had a microscope on my life. Everything I did and said, and everyone I was in contact with: she wanted to know about it. Even though it came from a place of love, at some point, she would have to accept I was a twenty-five-year-old woman who needed space from her family without it feeling like I wanted nothing to do with them.

"Um..." I bit the inside of my cheeks, not sure if I wanted to tell her about the necromancer or not. If I did, she would panic and ask one of my older brothers to come to Dar Es Salaam to protect me. And that was the last thing I needed. It took me years to escape their shadows and form my own path. If we needed each other, we would call. Otherwise, everybody did their own thing.

"Binti, are you there?"

I wanted to tell her about Pastor Hans and how dumb he looked when he realized faith magic wasn't the end all be all—we always shared a laugh when we spoke about the clergy and their reluctance to accept anything that wasn't in their beliefs. But my mood for that had dwindled, knowing it wasn't Pastor Hans' fault. The Ministry had brainwashed him. To them, anything that wasn't faith magic was impure—it belonged to the devil: thus, those that used it were devil worshippers.

I would rather die than worship that asshole.

"Yes, I'm here." I sighed, then rubbed my aching eyes. It had been a long day. Fuck. "He..." A lump formed in my throat, making it hard for me to speak. The image of Mama Joni cradling her dead son poured into my mind again like an ocean wave. She looked so broken, so tired of life. Nothing seemed to matter to her after realizing she'd never laugh, cry, or play with her son again.

Will Mama cry like that if I die? A sour taste filled my mouth, reminding me of the natural medicines Mama used to make me drink when I was sick. Looking back at it now, they worked better than anything I would have gotten at a hospital.

Tears streamed down my face while I swallowed the lump in my throat.

I saw many children die while working as an occult detective, making me numb to it. But Joni's death affected me more than I wanted to admit. I never knew the kid or his mother before today. So why was I feeling some type of way about him?

"Don't blame yourself for his death, Binti," Mama said.

I didn't have to tell her. She knew—she always knew. Her ability to read people scared the shit out of me because it made me vulnerable to her. She once told me vulnerability meant weakness, and I didn't want to be weak. Not to anyone—especially her. And yet, she read me like an open book.

She continued. "The demon could have gone to kill other people. You stopped it from happening. You should feel proud."

Proud? There was nothing to be proud of. Joni shouldn't have died—a necromancer cut his life short to deliver a vague message to me.

But Mama's motto was: Two lives over one.

She had no problem letting a few people die if it meant saving more. And because of that attitude, she used to be among the most respected occult detectives in Africa.

"It never feels good when someone I promised to save dies," I said.

"I always warned you about making promises. You know this job doesn't guarantee that." She sighed. "It isn't supposed to feel good. Every time someone dies, it's supposed to hurt. That way, it keeps you on your toes so that when you go save someone else, you do whatever it takes to make sure they don't die."

"You're right."

When we weren't arguing, Mama was the best person to ask for advice. She had seen it all and done it all; these incidents rarely surprised her.

"Of course, I am. Your Mama is never wrong."

I rolled my eyes. She loved praising herself, not waiting for others to do it.

"I have to go now, Binti. Talk to you soon."

"Goodbye, Mama. Love you."

"Love you too, Binti." She hung up.

When I returned my phone in my pocket and focused on my surroundings, I had arrived home. Light bulbs above the houses' walls brightened the tarmac road, allowing me to see the passage to my house. Apart from the loud afrobeat music coming from a few bars, the rest of the street was quiet.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," I told the driver.

"You didn't, Miss." He reached for the rearview mirror and pulled it down, revealing his bright red eyes in the reflection. There was only one asshole who had those eyes.

"What do you want?" I crossed my arms on my chest and curled my lip, unimpressed by his trickery. When I hailed the auto-rickshaw, he had hidden his face under a baseball cap while telling me the fare. But what was he doing here? We had no more business together. And surely he hadn't decided to earn a living as a driver.

"I come bearing a gift." He took something from his shirt's breast pocket and showed it to me.

My eyes widened and my heart nearly fled my body when I saw the white light inside the small transparent sphere in his hand. My soul. I knew it was mine because the sphere had a black number 7 written on it. When I gave him my soul years ago in exchange for moon magic, I watched him put it in there.

"What's the meaning of this?" I asked.

Lucifer turned to me. "I'm giving you your soul back"—his red eyes glowed with mischief—"but I need a favor."