“How is your mother?” Sunny’s mother asked, looking Chichi over and sitting before them at the table.
“Oh, she’s fine,” Chichi said.
“Your mother and I went to the same secondary school.”
“Really?” Sunny asked, truly interested.
“I didn’t know that,” Chichi said, frowning.
“Mhm,” her mother said. “Asuquo was a year ahead of me, but we all knew her. She was good in literature and writing, like Sunny here.”
“My mother doesn’t talk too much about her school days,” Chichi said, sounding annoyed. “Not the ones here, at least. She says school is-”
Sunny stepped on Chichi’s foot.
Chichi smiled. “Oh, never mind.”
Her mother’s smile wavered. “What does your mother do now?”
Sunny pressed her foot harder on Chichi’s foot.
“She-she teaches,” Chichi said. “She teaches writing.”
“Oh? Where?”
“There’s a-small school in Aba,” she said. “She teaches there.”
“Well, that’s very nice,” her mother said. “Is this the school you attend, then?”
“Mama, her father’s that famous musician Nyanga Tolotolo,” Sunny blurted out.
“What?” her mother said, surprised. “Really?” Chichi nodded. “Sunny’s father absolutely loves his music. I didn’t know that!” Her mother looked more closely at Chichi, probably remembering the hut that Chichi lived in.
“Yeah,” Chichi said. “We don’t hear much from him, though. The most I’ve seen of him has been on his DVDs and TV commercials.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” her mother said. There was an awkward pause. “Well, there’s some jallof rice and plantain. Take as much as you want.” She got up. “It was good to finally meet you, Chichi. Greet your mother for me.”
As she was leaving, Chichi said, “Mrs. Nwazue?”
She turned around. “Mhm?”
“Can Sunny sleep over at my place this weekend?”
Her mother stood there for a moment.
“We’ll be good,” Chichi added, with a winning smile. “I know how Sunny was late getting home that day and all. It won’t happen again.”
Her mother looked shrewdly at Chichi. Then she said, “Make me a promise, then. Promise that-promise that you’ll both behave and be responsible.”
Sunny almost shivered at her mother’s intensity. “We will, Mama,” she said.
“Certainly, Mrs. Nwazue,” Chichi said.
Her mother stood there looking from Chichi to Sunny. She seemed to think for a moment, as if she was making a big decision. Then she nodded. “Be back on Sunday, by dinner.” The girls stood in silence as her mother filled a plate and left the room.
“What was that about?” Chichi asked. “She sounded like she was sending you to your death.” Sunny just shook her head. Chichi grabbed Sunny’s shoulders. “You’re going! This is going to be great!”
Sunny smiled, but still felt ill at ease.
“Woohoo!” Chichi said, sitting down. “That felt like a job interview.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Well, it’s over. Cheer up, eh? Come on, let’s eat! I’m so hungry.” Chichi took a few mouthfuls. “Your mother is a great cook!” She paused. “You ever been to Abuja?”
“Shhh, lower your voice.”
“Sorry,” Chichi whispered, giggling.
“Twice. My aunt, my father’s oldest sister lives there.”
“I love Abuja,” Chichi said. “The air is so dry, and that big mosque is lovely.”
“And the roads aren’t so bumpy.”
Chichi laughed. “Yeah, that, too.”
“So is there anything I’ll have to do?” Sunny asked. “You know, like when I was initiated?” She shuddered, remembering the mud, dirt, and rushing river water.
“No,” Chichi said. “But don’t get too cozy. You know what we have to do about Black Hat.”
Sunny shuddered again. “Just-just tell me about this juju knife stuff.”
“We go see this man called Junk Man and you buy one from him. It’s simple.” She smiled. “You’ll see.”
Sunny hoped so.
12
It was Saturday morning and the sun was just getting into gear. The friends were part of a crowd in front of the path to Leopard Knocks. Sunny couldn’t stop smiling. Since she was with Leopard People, there was no reason for her to pretend she needed her black umbrella. She was standing in the sunshine, just like everyone else. She’d considered asking Anatov why she was no longer light sensitive, but really she didn’t want to know.
In the distance, they spotted an ominous red cloud-the funky train, approaching at a ridiculous speed. “Wish you’d brought a box of tissues?” Sasha asked Sunny.
“Not funny,” she said. She didn’t tell him she actually had. This was going to be a snot fest.
The funky train was covered with sayings embellished with colorful loops and swirls. JESUS IS MINE, O!; NO ONE BUT CHRIST!; THE BLOOD OF GOD!; NOTHING BAD!; SLOW BUT SURE!; LIFE IS SHORT!; JESUS SAVE US! In the center was a crude painting of a very white-faced blond-haired Jesus flashing the peace sign.
“Is this for Leopard People?” she whispered to Chichi. “Or Christian fanatics?”
Chichi only laughed. “It’ll change to different things about Allah when we enter Hausaland. And the Jesus painting will become a crescent moon and star. You know the saying-‘When in Rome do as the Romans do.’”
The driver was a man who called himself Jesus’s General. But there was nothing holy about him. Every other word he spoke was a jolly swear word. Loud profanity-laced hip-hop blasted over the sound system. Sunny wondered if he changed his name to Allah’s General when they crossed into Hausaland. She laughed to herself.
“How many are you?” Jesus’s General shouted, getting out of the vehicle.
“Sir,” said a stately woman, “does this piece of junk run on fuel-gasoline?”
“Oh, this no be so!” A man groaned a few steps away. He spat something in what Sunny thought was Yoruba and then threw his dusty backpack on the ground.
“Eh, eh, eh,” Jesus’s General protested humbly. “Na hybrid vehicle. A little fuel, a lot of juju, and plenty plenty of God’s will. Come, ah beg. I no go disappoint you. Step aboard. I give you good price to get to festival.”
“It’s a piece of rubbish! We’ll probably all die of the fumes,” a woman said. “I’ll wait for the next one.”
Jesus’s General waved an annoyed hand at the angry people and turned to Anatov.
“Anatov,” Jesus’s General said, shaking, slapping, and snapping hands with him. “Good as hell to see you, my man.”
“Likewise,” Anatov said, putting an arm around the driver’s shoulder. They moved a few steps away, obviously to discuss prices. Anatov looked at them and said, “Get on,” then turned back to negotiate.
It took a while to find a seat because the long vehicle was mostly full. Sunny’s backpack was slung over her shoulder, and as they made their way to the back, it smacked a boy in the head. “Oh! I’m so sorry,” she cried, patting his head. She snatched her hand away when she realized what she was doing. “Sorry,” she said again.
Rubbing his head, the boy nodded. Her face grew hot. He was gorgeous. Of all people she could have bashed in the head, it had to be him. He gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay,” he said in Igbo. “I’m still conscious.”
She laughed and quickly moved on.
There were exactly five seats at the very back of the funky train. The chair in the center was large, clean, and throne-like with much more legroom than the others. It was obviously for Anatov. Chichi plopped down beside Sunny, Orlu, and Sasha on the other side of Anatov’s seat. Not surprisingly, Sasha took the window seat.