The unexpected guest looked at Amanse curiously, tilting its head like a lizard basking in the heat of confusion, or a bird inspecting a strange fruit. That movement was unnatural. Uncanny. It made Amanse's spine curl inwards like a fern touched by morning dew.
It pointed one raffia-covered claw at him and said in a voice that was neither male nor female—yet both—"Amanse... we know you."
The voice vibrated, as though the air inside the Obi had turned into a living thing that echoed the words back to him in a chorus. It wasn't just the voice—it was the weight of it. The words didn't just bounce off the walls; they seemed to settle on his shoulders like a mantle he didn't ask to wear. His breath hitched.
He staggered backward, each step heavier than the last, heart pounding in his ears like a war drum. This wasn't just any masquerade. This was Nwangele—the ancient hermaphroditic force, a masquerade not worn but born, said to only appear in times of great cosmic reckoning. People spoke of Nwangele in hushed tones, behind closed doors, beneath the hush of night, or in the throes of nightmares.
Amanse wanted to look away, but where would his eyes rest? On the right side, a feminine figure—bosom full, waist narrow, face carved with beauty so delicate it looked cruel. On the left, masculine—broad-shouldered, jaw set with resolve, eyes glowing with ancient rage. One form split into two by a jagged line that crawled down the body like lightning frozen mid-strike.
He clutched his wrapper tightly, summoning courage from the earth beneath his feet. "Wh—what do you want?" he asked, voice trembling.
They laughed.
The walls of the Obi rattled as the laughter thundered, as if the earth itself had joined the masquerade in mockery. His calabashes clattered off the shelves. Dust fell from the ceiling. Somewhere, something cracked.
"Your kind," the male half boomed, "has existed long before the clouds kissed the heavens."
"And they were all wiped out," the female said, her voice like jagged crystal dragged across an iron pot. "Or so you think."
Amanse flinched. His fingers twitched toward his staff, the one carved from ogirisi wood and marked with his father's sigils. But what would a stick do against this?
He felt heat rise from within, not courage but indignation. Why him? He had never asked to be born an ehihi. He never asked to carry the burden of secrets too dangerous to whisper, even to the dead. He wasn't a leader. He wasn't a warrior. He was just a man with eyes that changed color and a curse he wore like a second skin.
"I… I will…" he began, stammering as rage and fear collided in his chest.
But before he could finish, Nwangele moved. Just one step, yet it shrunk the space between them into nothingness. It bent low, impossibly low, so its twin faces hovered just inches from his own. From within the folds of raffia, thousands of small, wriggling worms twisted and curled. They dripped from the hems like tears made of rot. Amanse's stomach flipped. His ancestors never warned him about this.
The drumming returned. Louder. Closer. Dum. Dum. Dudududum.
Then, outside, the soil churned. A second anthill burst forth from the flooded ground, as if the earth was giving birth. The compound was quickly filling with rain, more water than the clouds should have held. The wind shrieked. Lightning flashed like anger unbridled. Thunder ripped the sky apart again and again.
Amanse climbed onto the Oboro—the hardened clay bench sitting above his father's grave. It had never failed him. But today, it offered little comfort. He was a man beneath the feet of gods.
The second anthill split open.
Out stepped another masquerade, but this one—oh, this one was different.
She didn't shimmer—she flooded. Her entire form was covered in dark grey raffia that flowed like a river alive. Water streamed down her arms, her waist, her feet. Where she walked, the flood followed. Her movements were slow, deliberate, the kind that could command oceans and expect obedience.
Mmuo Mmiri.
The great water spirit.
Legends said she once drowned an entire village for cutting down the sacred Ukpo tree by her river. They said her wrath was born of betrayal and her vengeance flowed forever.
Even Nwangele stepped back. The fear was visible—both faces bowed low.
"Mmuo Mmiri," Nwangele said, their voices unusually soft, "we greet you."
The water deity didn't answer immediately. Her glowing white eyes turned to Amanse. Water gathered beneath her and a wave rose high—higher than his Obi—then fell without sound, flooding the compound further. It lapped at the bottom of the Oboro now.
"Amanse," she said finally, her tone the calm before a storm, "you walk a path not meant for mortals."
He swallowed, tasted fear and iron. His lips moved on their own. "I didn't choose this…"
"No one ever does," she said simply.
He looked from Nwangele to Mmuo Mmiri. "Why now? Why me?"
The water surged.
"You have seen something, haven't you? What you saw has destiny changing ramifications for you, for this great kingdom called Amaaku and for the entire Igbo land!" Nwangele's female side said, rising to its full height again, voice sharper now. "You witnessed an astral gathering. You saw the old crone. The blood altar. What has been foretold has begun."
"You were marked the moment you saw us, before you were born even," Mmuo Mmiri added. "And the gods have called a council."
"For what?" Amanse whispered. He felt cold, soaked through, like a tree in the grip of harmattan.
"To sift your soul like chaff from beans," Nwangele said.
Amanse's breath caught.
"You will be brought before them," Mmuo Mmiri said. "You will speak, and your fate will be sealed."
His mind whirled. The gods? The real ones? Not the carved icons? The actual pantheon?
"But I… I am not ready!"
"Then die unready," Mmuo Mmiri said, voice like crashing waves.
"Follow me," she commanded, turning toward the swelling rain and beginning to walk away—her form slowly disappearing into the downpour like mist.
Nwangele stepped aside, bowing slightly to Mmuo Mmiri, then to Amanse. "Soro ya," it said. "Follow her. And may your spirit not unravel."
As Amanse climbed down from the Oboro, stepping into the freezing flood that now reached his knees, he hesitated. He looked back one last time at the place he called home.
The wind stilled.
Then a voice, whispering as if from the sky itself, coiled around his ears:
And so he followed Mmuo Mmiri into the flood, toward the unknown, his fate tied to the will of gods older than time.
A being far in the realm of darkness opened its many eyes and chuckled. Far stranger things were to come.