Prologue
The year was 1430:
The place, what is now considered Nigeria:
I was, from my calculations, approximately thirty years old when I found myself amid my worst day of life.
A day when the elders of the villages convened amongst themselves.
A day when a very important and historical decision was made.
A day when I was cursed.
I had grown a reputation in my youth; one that I held on my shoulders as a badge of honor; one that caused a lot of turmoil and grief within the neighboring cities and tribes.
You see, when I got it in me to have some amusement, it was usually with the village elder’s daughter. One who’s life was that of chattel; to be gifted off, sold off, or kept for their own pleasure.
I would sneak into their ulo aja oto, or ile, and lie with them in the night. Not one of them argued, but they also never agreed.
The elders of the tribes, cities, and communities; eight to be the exact number of willing participants in the curse; convinced one of the voodoo priestesses to come to their aid.
The Night of the Curse:
Winter on the coast is likely the best time for, well, anything really. They days are hot, but the nights are comfortable. If you like a humid ninety to seventy-five degrees. The smell of the ocean hits me as I walk the sands, stalking a fresh and tasty morsel. She has no idea I’ve been walking behind her for the last fifteen minutes, watching her pick shells from the sand and be entertained by the gulls.
That is when a net is thrown over me. One weighted down with large stones in the joints, making it incredibly difficult to move and fling it from myself. One of the stones hits me in the head, and my vision blurs.
From what I can make out, four large men descend on me, kicking me, punching me, and they drag me away towards the narrow in between of homes.
…
I awaken in a dark room, lit only with sparse candles scattered around the floor. The flames flicker and dance giving the room a cast of dancing shadows along the walls, ceiling, and floor.
A clucking comes from across room.
I blink a few times, vision focusing on a chicken in a cage on the floor in the corner.
My head aches.
I put my fingers to the pain, wincing, and pull them back, finding blood on the tips.
From the other side of the room, I watch through the netting as a woman enters through the hanging beaded door. They clack and tick as she moves them from her way and lets them fall into one another.
Their ticking sends a shudder through me, making my head hurt further.
The woman moves to an altar against the wall, picking up an athame, a tool used in the practice of voodoo. With it, she raises it to the ceiling, chanting in our native tongue, and pushes the point into her fingertip. Holding her hand over a wooden bowl, she continues to chant, letting the blood drip, drip, drip.
Everything begins to blur for me.
The room begins to spin.
Her chanting grows louder.
Shadows move around the room, wisping past me to indiscernible to lock onto.
Smoke rolls from the incense on the altar, swirling around with each movement of her and the shadows.
A flash of light, the candle flames jumping high.
She continues to chant, taking my hand regardless of my attempts to struggle, and pierces my fingertip with the athame.
Holding my hand over the bowl, she makes my blood drip into and mix with hers.
The shadows dance more rapidly, moving all around me at speeds unknown, causing my head to spin further, the ache growing stronger until it’s a stabbing pain that pulsates and throbs from one ear to the other. From the front to the back.
All I can do is lie there under the netting, unable to think let alone move to run.
She moves for the altar, adding in herbs to the bow, then with a flash, she sets it all on fire. Grabbing a small drawstring bag, she forms a circle around me with black powder. Upon completion of the circle, she moves for the chicken, all the while continuing to chant. Holding the chicken upside down, she takes the athame, putting the chicken’s neck between the blade and her thumb, and slices through the feather, the meat, and ultimately the bone.
With this sacrifice, she chants louder.
The room spins faster.
The shadows dance erratically.
A tightness grows within my chest.
A flame of pain, fire hot, sparks within me, emanating from my heart.
My heart pounds and pounds and pounds, sending the flaming pain farther and farther throughout my body until I am nothing but white hot.
I scream, writhing about beneath the netting.
My screams fall on deaf ears as the woman’s chanting grows louder than myself.
She chants louder and louder, rising with the pain, until…
It all stops.
Everything turns black.
And all that can be heard is her voice, speaking in our native tongue of Nigeria. “You have accosted the wrong people, and now you must suffer as they have. You will live forever knowing what you have done, and for this, you will have a hunger for life more strongly than that of lust. You will not fall until what gives you life falls from your chest. From the heart is life, and from the heart is death. You shall now live in the in between of both. Neither living nor dead, but something far worse.” She pauses, taking in a sharp breath. “I curse you, Desta, son of Ayele. Your Ethiopian and Nigerian roots have been stifled. Nothing more shall come from you and your tainted line. Your actions have brought you here, and one day, your actions will find you in the same state. On your knees and dying.” Without another word, she leaves.
I know this because despite my pained state, her footsteps echo through the small room, growing fainter and fainter with each passing second.
Not much longer after her departure, someone comes back, grasping the netting, and drags me from the room, flinging me out into the woods.
