1

Yesterday, our rich in-law, Bongo, brought a horse to my uncle Gabriel's house. It was a pre-wedding gift for my cousin, Keziah, who was soon to become his wife. The horse was a truly impressive creature, big, black, and powerful. It stood the height of two grown men and the girth of five fat women. Its white-streaked mane was long and thick, just like its sleek neck and bushy tail. The muscles in its torso rippled when it neighed, and its hooves kicked with manic frenzy, keeping all away from its vicinity. Everybody that saw it said that Bongo had done well, that he had given his in-laws a gift fit for a king. They also agreed it was a good thing the horse would be killed for the wedding feast. It had certainly earned the butcher's knife and the soup pots with its unruly behaviour.

From the time it was dragged into my uncle's compound and tethered to the mango tree, the black horse neighed with incessant panic. It screamed and groaned so much that we all were forced to abandon it and its mesmerising beauty in order to save our eardrums. Even we village children, normally used to extreme ruckus, found ourselves unable to withstand the terrifying screams of that great horse.

And its cries were truly chilling. It was an eerie whine that was shrouded with human anguish and terror. In my ten years of existence, I had heard the voices of countless creatures, from the chirpy songs of birds to the raging howls of rabid dogs. Yet nothing prepared me for the unearthly sounds of raw terror coming from the gaping mouth of the black horse. Even from the modest distance of my father's compound, its piercing shrieks filled our ears and chilled our hearts. My skin involuntarily gave birth to little, hard rashes that came in shuddering waves as the black horse screamed through the endless hours of the morning and afternoon.

"I swear, that horse must be infected with madness," my stepmother, ?la, complained later that evening as the deafening din continued. "Its screams can be heard across all the compounds in this village. Someone should do something about it."

"Perhaps it's been bitten by a snake and is in a lot of pain," my mother suggested, her eyes filled with the habitual compassion that made her a target of my stepmother's manipulations. I could hardly recall a time when it wasn't my mother feeding my three half-brothers. ?la was always too busy with one thing or the other to care for her triplets, and Mama never complained about being taken advantage of by her.

"We can't let the poor children starve," Mama would always say whenever my big sister, Ada, complained about my stepmother's laziness and non-existent maternal skills. "It's not their fault that their mother is a Pancake-Face rather than a nurturing mother. After all, that's one of the reasons your father married her: to appreciate her beauty rather than her cooking skills. At least she's done what she was brought in to do, and has given your father three sons in just one pregnancy. What else can we ask of her?"

'Pancake-Face' was the term used to describe a well-powdered and made-up face. It was a beauty practice peculiar to beautiful women in our village. They would coat their faces with thick powder several shades paler than their skin, slap bright blue eye shadow on their lids, and colour red circles into their cheeks with lipstick. My stepmother was one of the biggest practitioners of that beauty regime and there was no denying that she was beautiful. With her tall slenderness, smooth ebony skin, and striking features, ?la was a sight to dazzle every eye in our village-men, women, and children. Despite her not being my blood-mother, my dream was to be as beautiful as ?la when I grew up.

?la pushed her glamorous, beaded braids away from her face, frowning in irritation as the black horse continued to groan. Its screams were getting louder and more terrifying as the night drew closer, and my heart continued to thud in involuntary panic.

"I heard that horses know when they're going to die and will cry and mourn their impending death till the minute the butcher's knife slices their throat," my big sister Ada said, cracking her knuckles absent-mindedly as was her habit.

"Who told you such evil?" ?la shivered delicately, shaking her head reproachfully. "This girl! I've never seen anyone that tells more outlandish tales than yourself. That's how you convinced us that Keziah's period was stolen by a witch, only for us to discover she was pregnant, hence this speedy marriage tomorrow, huh!" ?la screwed up her beautiful face in disgust.

"I'm not lying, this woman," Ada retorted. "Go ask Papa if you don't believe me. I heard Papa telling Uncle Gabriel that horses can sense their death and will kick and bite anyone that comes near them, as well as cry non-stop until they're killed. And I wasn't lying about Keziah's period, either. She told me herself that a witch had stolen her period; that's why she didn't even know she was pregnant till her tummy started swelling." Ada's voice was as fiery as her eyes. My big sister was known across the clans to have a temper that rivalled the fury-wind itself.

"Whatever." ?la waved a dismissive hand laden with sparkling rings. "I just wish someone would stuff something into that vile horse's mouth, so we can get some rest. I don't know how we're expected to sleep tonight with all that din." She leaned down and turned up the volume of the small transistor radio by her feet. My stepmother never went anywhere without her transistor radio and Mills & Boon book.

Instantly, the familiar happy lyrics of the FESTAC '77 song filled the air: "Festac '77, 77 is here; Festac '77, 77 is here!" Over and over, the song repeated the joyful chorus in a never-ending loop.

"I'm sick of this useless song," Ada bit out viciously, glowering at the radio. "That's all they ever play these days, wretched 'FESTAC '77' non-stop, as if there's no other song in this world."

"What is FESTAC '77?" I asked from my mat. ?la looked down at me and patted the empty space beside her. I quickly scrambled from the floor to sit next to her on the wooden bench.

"FESTAC '77 is the festival of arts and culture currently taking place in the big city of Lagos," ?la said with that wistful tone of voice she had whenever she spoke of her beloved Lagos City, our country's capital. "Every famous African from the world is taking part, even Miriam Makeba; you remember Miriam Makeba, don't you?"

I nodded eagerly. "She's the one that sang 'The Naughty Little Flea'."

"Exactly! She's in Lagos City even as we speak. Heaven knows I'd give an arm and a leg to visit Lagos City again for this festival and-"

"What will you do there when you visit, eh?" Ada cut in with a voice dripping with mockery and spite. "Perhaps you'll dazzle them with your Pancake-Face and read them a stupid story from your precious books, eh?"

?la gave her a withering look of disdain and coolly returned her attention to me.

"Bata, I told you I schooled in Lagos City before I married your father, didn't I?" My stepmother smiled at me. I nodded enthusiastically again. I couldn't recall the number of times ?la had drooled about Lagos City to me and everybody that cared to listen. "Lagos City is like nothing you've ever seen," ?la continued, her eyes glowing dreamily. "The houses are so big and tall they cover the skyline. As for the roads, they're so wide that ten cars can drive on them and still have space to spare. And come see the cars, Jesus Almighty! You'll think you're in New York in America. Everywhere you look are white people and rich people." ?la sighed wistfully.

"What's the big deal about white people, eh?" Ada snapped. "If I want to see a white person all I have to do is wait for Christmas when Engineer Tip-Toe returns with his German wife and almost-white son," she hissed loudly, cracking her knuckles angrily.

Engineer Tip-Toe was the only man in our village who had visited the white man's country and got a university degree under the government's sponsorship for gifted students. Since his return from Germany with his white wife and little son, he had been working in Lagos City and rumoured to be almost as rich as our village chief. He owned the second storey-building in our village, with the first one belonging to our chief.

In the background, Uncle Gabriel's black horse released another chilling screech, instantly drowning out the FESTAC '77 song.

"That's it! I'm done with this blasted horse. I'm going to complain to Our-Husband right now about it." ?la stood up from the bench and sauntered away with her trademark slow and swaying walk. She left a heady scent of her perfume behind.

My stepmother was the only woman in the entire village that used perfume. It was in a bottle hidden inside a pale blue package with the bold title of 'Charlie'. She told me that it was how white women smelled and that only the rich African women living in Lagos City used that powerful scent. I had once sneaked my way close enough to Engineer Tip-Toe's German wife to smell her body, but she smelled nothing like ?la's perfume. She just smelled of breastmilk. When I told ?la my observations, she explained that the African hot weather had likely drained the scent from her. It seemed every white woman that came to our country soon sweated away their natural perfumed odour....