Note: This used to be chapter 4, standing between the current chapters 3 and 4. But people who read it said it slowed down the story and it was better if I dispersed its contents to other chapters.
🌜🌛
The next morning, Lucifer's favor consumed my thoughts while I left for work. Had I officially chosen a side by accepting his offer? I wanted nothing to do with the upcoming Heavenly War II. But it seemed no matter how hard I tried to stay away, as long as I had moon magic, I had to choose a side willingly or I'd be forced into one.
Arriving at the bus station, I entered the first bus and sat at the back, picking the right window seat.
Most passengers who entered stared at me, then they nodded before picking a seat. I nodded back, of course—I had manners. The locals were used to the white tattoos on my body.
Once the seats were full, the bus left the station. The conductor stood by the door calling for more passengers to fill the cabin, while the driver turned on the radio. It had two frequencies: the normal one—which was for everyone—and the magic one, intended for sorcerers, heard by activating magic in our ears. It informed us on issues concerning sorcerers from around the world.
The first time the magic frequency was in effect in my country was on January 30, 1962—the day the Tanganyika Laughter Epidemic began in the village of Kashasha, west coast of Lake Victoria, affecting over a thousand people. It was right after Tanganyika had won its independence from Britain on Dec 9, 1961.
Idiots believed the epidemic was stress-induced because Tanganyika's independence brought higher expectations to people of low status. Strict traditional elders ruled Tanganyikan society, so sociologists and psychiatrists believed the hysteria was a manifestation of cultural disparity between conservatives and liberals, as they clashed in beliefs and acceptance of new ideas.
This was a lie.
The British had sorcerers among their ranks. After Tanganyika gained independence, the British sorcerers cursed my people, hoping they'd be unhinged so when they retook the country as its colony, they'd come off as saviors.
But the British sorcerers, like the Germans and Arabs before them, had underestimated Tanganyikans, not realizing powerful sorcerers were hiding among those the cursed.
Through the magic frequency, the sorcerers in Kashasha alerted others around the country. And in a matter of months, the epidemic was no more.
Something poked my arm. Turning toward the source. I saw a baby staring at me with its hands touching mine. The curiosity in its eyes made me smile. Babies never judged how I looked, nor were they afraid of me.
"What's your name?" I asked the baby.
"Joanita," the baby said.
"How old are you?"
"1."
Before getting moon magic, I had other magic abilities. One of them was communicating and understanding any living thing.
I cleared my throat and gazed at Joanita's mother. She narrowed her eyes at me but said nothing. To her, her daughter said, "Gugu, gaga," when answering my questions. I never wanted people to know I had this ability. So when I spoke to babies or animals, I avoided making it seem like I understood them.
"What do you think of the modern world?" I whispered to Joanita.
"It's weird, but in a good way. I was in the first slave ship that took us from Africa to South America." Tears welled in her eyes before rolling down her face. "It was horrible. The things they did to us. I can't... I can't..." She started crying.
I backed off from her after her mother glared at me.
After God disappeared, Heaven stopped creating new souls. The people who died and were deemed worthy of entering Heaven got the option of either entering Heaven or reincarnation.
Joanita was 1-year-old. She had time to reminisce about her past lives. By the time she turned five, she'd forget about them. But this was a massive contributor to the term "history always repeats itself". It was the same people being reborn again and again, doing the same things they did before without knowing it.
Hell did the same thing. But they didn't give the condemned a choice. They made a deal with them. If they converted a certain number of pure humans into wicked souls, then they'd never enter Hell, continuing the reincarnation circle.
Those types of people were called Agents of Hell.
Though, there were rare occurrences where children over five remembered their previous lives in great detail. Sadly, most humans' reluctance to accept the supernatural meant they saw those children as nothing more than people with creative imagination.
I turned my attention to the front of the bus where people were arguing about Football. Last night, there was a match between the two biggest teams in the country—Simba and Yanga—which ended in a draw. Mama and Baba loved Simba, while my older brothers were Yanga fans. My younger brothers didn't care about the Tanzanian Premier League, preferring the English Premier League. The oldest two supported Arsenal, while the youngest liked Liverpool.
I smiled, remembering the days when my brothers argued about football all day. It irritated Mama, especially when they did it during dinner. It was one of the few times I saw her scolding them, which made me happy.
It wasn't that I didn't care about football. I loved watching men run around like headless chickens for ninety minutes chasing a ball. But my main focus was catching up to my oldest brothers' skills, so I could prove I was as good as them.
From the corner of my left eye, I spotted someone looking at me. I turned and saw Baraka, an occult detective working for Dennis's Occult Services. Their offices were near Azania Front Church—constructed in the late 1800s by German missionaries—meaning they got a lot of customers from that church daily. It was why Dennis could hire hundreds of sorcerers, making a lot of money. He was named in the top 5 richest men in the country last year. It was insane! Kha!
When I started out, Dennis tried to recruit me. I showed him my middle fingers and told him to fuck off. If I wanted to be in a 360 deal, I would become a musician.
Until this day, Dennis and I were bitter rivals. But in my opinion, there was no rivalry between us. He was making millions a day, and I was making... Well, I was making something.
"Baraka," I said with a nod.
"Nasra," he replied with a wink. He never called me Binti, nor Binti Nasra. Just Nasra. This little worm knew how to piss me off like his boss. In fact, all the worms who worked for Dennis knew how to piss me off. It was like all they did at work was teach each other how to piss me off and not do any work. Stupid Dennis!
"I like your blue shirt. It brings out your receding hairline." Bam! Straight shot to the nuts. I wasn't playing around this morning.
Baraka clenched his jaw, then turned away. He was wheezing, and his hands shook. The male ego got easily bruised when it came to their hairline. I loved it. No weapon formed against me prospered.
I spent the rest of the ride listening to passengers as there wasn't anything of interest in the magic frequency. The issue that had them talking concerned a widow from the Luo tribe—her husband died three months ago.
According to Luo tradition, they expected the woman to offer her body to her brother-in-law within 40 days of her husband's death to chase away the spirit which would otherwise haunt her. The woman refused and ran away from home, leaving her children and parents behind.
Now, was the thing about spirits haunting Luo widows true? Yes. Centuries ago, Omondi—a powerful Luo sorcerer—cursed his brother's wife and other Luo women after the wife had turned down his advances. Then he killed his brother. The wife didn't believe him at first. But after a spirit haunted her for months, she gave in.
The people on the bus were urging the woman to give in. Otherwise, she'd never see her family again. Traditions were fucked up like that. As a modern African woman, they saw me as lacking manners and respect for my elders and ancestors because of my beliefs.
The thing was, because of slavery, African traditions were lost.
What we called "tradition" came from the colonialists. It wasn't ours. Only sorcerers knew what true African traditions were. There were a few connected to the African Gods.
African, Greek, Roman, and all other deities existed. But they weren't the God. They were a manifestation of human beliefs in a time where humans needed guidance and protection after God's disappearance. And the moment the humans stopped believing in them, these gods ceased to exist.
The bus arrived at the end of its journey and I got out. Posta Stesheni—a bus station in Posta—was as busy as ever. It was 11:45 a.m. and the sun shined like it had beef with humans, making the city as hot as Hell's asshole. There were multiple bus lanes, each occupying buses to different places around the city. Between the lanes were thin concrete platforms where vendors sold their goods.
I took a deep breath, then exhaled through my mouth. I grabbed a hat and sunglasses from my handbag and began the journey to my office.
Posta was one of the busiest places in the city. People of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicity walked through it, focused on their destination. Restaurants, food bars, and skyscrapers filled the area. Cars, motorbikes, and pedestrians moved around nonstop.
"Binti!"
"Binti!"
"Binti!"
Multiple people called me at once.
There was Abraham the Fruit Seller. He had a fruit stand at the station, selling mostly pineapples, bananas, mangoes, and watermelons. He always offered me pieces of pineapples filled in a plastic cup for free. I had helped him with a demon problem a few years ago after he had summoned a sex demon to possess an office girl he liked. She worked at Tanzania Revenue Authority (TRA). Its building stood opposite the bus station.
But the thing was, sex demons were unpredictable. Just because you summoned them, doesn't mean the one they'd possess would end up having sex with you. The office girl—under the demon's possession—ended up sleeping with her boss, whom she had her eyes on since she started working there, and got pregnant. Now, they were happy and in love. While Abraham was still Abraham, but without his soul or the girl.
Then, there were others like Crista the Shopkeeper, Aloice the Bus Conductor, Susan the Bus Driver, Zakaria the Security Guard, Zainab the Voucher Seller, Joyce the Cook, Tyson the Office Manager and many more whom I had helped with demon problems. And in return, they helped me grow my business by spreading the word of how good I was. I may not have been as rich as Dennis, but he was not as skilled as me. Even without the moon magic.