The Selection Read online

  Harvest of Blood

  The Selection

  Ifeanyi Esimai

  Copyright © 2019 by Ifeanyi Esimai

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Lee Caleca - Caleca Editing Services

  Ciparum Press

  C/O Ciparum LLC

  270 Sparta Ave., Suite 104, PMB 152

  Sparta, NJ 07871

  ISBN: (Print) - ISBN-13: 978-1-63589-706-7

  ISBN: (E-book) ISBN: 978-1-63589-707-4

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Note to the reader

  About book 2

  About the Author

  Also by Ifeanyi Esimai

  Author’s Note

  While contemplating ideas for my next novel, I had occasion to visit Enugu, also known as the coal city, and the capital of Enugu State. The name of the city, Enugu, came from a combination of two Igbo words, Enu and Ugwu, meaning hilltop, which describes the city's topography. It had been a colony of the British Empire, then known as the Southern Protectorate of Nigeria, and is now home to several institutions of higher learning, including my alma mater, the University of Nigeria College of Medicine.

  I was retracing my steps, going down memory lane, and visited an eating place called Car Wash, a restaurant situated right in a mechanic’s workshop. I’d frequented it often as a student.

  It originally was an open-air restaurant. They served what New Yorkers would call “street food” and catered to mechanics and their apprentices. Known for serving delicious steaming plates of white rice, spicy tomato stew with fist-sized lumps of goat meat, and sides of fried plantains or boiled beans, it had grown and attracted people from all walks of life.

  I sat and started to enjoy my meal. A man sitting next to me was speaking into his mobile phone in Yoruba. When that call was over, he shoveled a few spoonfuls of rice and beans into his mouth before his phone went off again. This time he surprised me by speaking Igbo like a native. I waited for him to finish his call, and out of curiosity asked him whether he was Yoruba or Igbo.

  “Oh, I’m Yoruba from Lagos State. But my mother is Igbo. I grew up with my grandmother on my father’s side in Abeokuta.”

  He told me he was a contractor and was chasing a contract with the state government.

  “What do you do?” asked the man. “You never know. You might even be the man with my file sitting on his desk right now waiting for his signature.”

  “I’m a writer,” I said. However, I shot myself in the foot later by saying I’d attended school here in the coal city.

  “Which school?” the man asked.

  I ended up divulging the fact that I’d trained at the medical school.

  “Ah, you’re a doctor.” He paused. “Doc, you agree, modern medicine does a lot of good?” His eyes bore into mine. His gaze was intense.

  I nodded and waited for the next shoe to drop.

  “But there are some things I see my Babalawo for,” said the man. “Like intervening on my behalf with the gods to smoothen out the outcome of my contract.” He bit off a chunk of goat meat.

  I did a stealth eye roll, but unfortunately, he caught it.

  The man snapped his finger. “I knew it. You’re one of those people who think medicine is a cure-all. Do you believe in jazz?”

  I shook my head. Jazz is slang for magic or juju. I owned up to him that even though I did not believe, I would not tempt fate, nor disrespect a juju believer or practitioner.

  “What are you working on?” asked the man as he picked his tooth with a toothpick.

  I’d joined the Harry Potter bandwagon really late and was toying with the idea of writing something in the fantasy or science fiction genre. I pointed out to him that I didn’t have any story I was working on yet, just pieces of ideas here and there.

  “You can always write something medical. You already know a lot of that stuff.”

  I nodded and wracked my brain for ways to get away. Usually, at this point in a conversation, the person would offer to tell me a story which I should write, suggesting we should share the profits.

  The man pointed his toothpick at me with a single strand of meat dangling from it. “I have a story for you.”

  I made an effort not to roll my eyes this time.

  “When I lived with my grandmother as a boy, I heard many stories about magic and the Orishas that would rival any magical story you’ve ever read. They happened hundreds of years ago, maybe thousands of years ago.” The man looked at his watch. “I have a few hours to kill before I return to the ministry to check the progress of my file. I can share the stories with you to pass the time. It’s yours to do anything you want with it.” The man smiled. “But, if you know someone at the ministry…” His voice trailed off.

  I hesitated. “And it’s a story about magic?”

  “Yes, and it happened very close to Lagos.”

  I ordered some hot pepper soup for both of us. We introduced ourselves. His name was Temidayo Ademola.

  “Call me Dayo.”

  “Please, what’s your story?”

  Dayo smiled. “It begins with a young girl and a village in the kingdom of Ode. I believe the year was… I don’t know.” Dayo chuckled. “My grandmother would say, ‘a long long time ago when such things as magic and gifts from the gods were recognized by men’. Not like today when the only magic we know is in our smart phones.”

  I leaned closer.

  Dayo cleared his throat. “Then, most communities celebrated harvest after crops had been reaped from the ground. But in the Kingdom of Ode, they celebrated before the seeds were planted, sowed with the blood of the innocent, through a ceremony called the Harvest of Blood...”

  The arrow had pierced Baba’s chest and come out from his back. He was fighting to breathe, his hands on the arrow. Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to go to him, but my body refused to move. Baba was on his knees, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes roamed about and found mine. They widened. He mouthed a word I could only make out the shape of. Then he mouthed another which I understood. “Run!”

  If I obeyed Baba’s last instruction to me right then, they would give chase and kill me too. I stayed hidden. Baba remained on his knees, his chin rested on his chest, and the gurgling sound was no more. I don’t know how much time had passed, but soon, the reinforcements arrived.

  “Expand the hole!” said the captain. “Make it big enough to accommodate all.”

  I remained hidden until it was almost dark and the soldiers were long gone. When I got home, our house was in mourning. Mama was in shock. Nobody knew where I was. The captain had brought back Baba’s body and told Mama that he had been shot. Accidental discharge by one of the soldiers.

  Mama had been given an herbal concoction to drink. Now she lay asleep on her mat, my younger brother Dotan and
baby sister cuddled next to her asleep, our neighbor keeping a close eye on them. I sat on the floor, my back rested against the wall wondering how a day that had started so well ended with the death of my father. I felt detached, like I was in a dream. I retraced our steps from when we came out of the forest.

  Chapter One

  Baba and I walked back from the forest; his biceps bulged from holding the rope used to secure our kill—two cane rats and five catfish. We had been out hunting before the sun rose. Now, sweat dripped down Baba’s bald head, the sun high up in the sky. His bow hung over one shoulder, a hunting bag over the other.

  Dotan and Kemi, my younger brother and sister, looked more like our parents. They had Baba’s eyes. The only resemblance I had to him was my dark skin.

  Our catch would delight the butcher. He called the rats grass cutters, a high sort of bushmeat. As we walked, Baba would drop one tidbit after another about how to survive in the wild.

  “Animals sense danger before humans do. They also know the best way to escape. Keep that in mind.”

  “Yes, Baba.”

  “When a domestic animal appears agitated for no reason, keep searching or get ready to run, there’s always a reason.”

  “Yes, Baba,” I said.

  Father led the way as we walked to the market. He was a hunter, and people say he has the gift from the god of hunters. Even though I’m a girl, I prefer to hunt like Baba.

  “Ah, the gods were with you today!” said Alaba the butcher as we approached his stall in the market.

  Baba dropped our catch on a table in the butcher’s stall smiling.

  Alaba slapped the rats. “What nice meat.” He turned them over. “Straight through the eye. Clean shot as always.”

  I prostrated and greeted him.

  “Nuju’s shot,” said Baba without betraying any emotion.

  “Nuju?” said Alaba, lowering his head to look at me. “This daughter of yours will do wonders.” He nodded and smiled at me. “How old are you now?”

  “Almost six,” I said and dropped my head. My eyes found the ground. I wanted to shout with joy at the praise, but I tried to keep my face as passive as Baba’s. I knew he wouldn’t approve. This was the first time I’d shot an animal through the eye as Baba had taught me. Baba had made me a smaller bow but let me use the longer arrows. It took a while for me to pull it back far enough to strike and kill anything.

  Alaba’s eyebrows furrowed. “Can I pay you after I sell them? I’m a little short on coins today.” He shook his head. “I asked for a child, and the gods blessed me with twins.”

  Baba chuckled. “So is life. Sometimes you have to be careful what you ask for. Sometimes, the gods are merciful and give us what we ask for in abundance.” Baba paused. “Friend of my youth, you can pay me whenever you’re ready. I have to rush home. My wife promised my favorite dish would be waiting when we got back.”

  We said our goodbyes and left. Back at home, Mama served pounded fufu and okra soup. Dotan sat on the floor. He had rushed his food so he could get back to playing. Mama finished her food and cleared the dishes with Kemi on her back secured with a wrapper. I’d just swallowed my last mold of fufu when there was a knock at the door.

  Baba frowned, then raised his hand at Mama. “I’ll get it.”

  Baba washed his hands quickly in the bowl Mama had provided and dried them on his top as he walked over to the door. He yanked it open. A man wearing a soldier’s uniform, a head taller than Baba, stood outside.

  The man extended his hand. “I’m Captain Bala of the King’s Army.” The man’s voice was loud and deep. “I was told I could find Tunde…” He pointed at Baba. “Are you Tunde Ademola, the hunter?”

  He sounded like someone accustomed to giving orders, both to his junior and senior officers, and having his requests carried out with no questions asked.

  “I’m Tunde,” said Baba. “Come in, Captain, you meet us well. Come and join us.”

  If I hadn’t been watching Baba, I would have missed it; a flash of fear quickly replaced by calmness.

  Baba opened the door wider. The smell of horses and their manure and their whining drifted into our hut.

  “No, thank you. We came a long way from Ode to see you,” said the captain.

  Baba’s eyebrows shot up. He pursed his lips, then gave a slight nod. “What has a lowly hunter like me done to deserve a visit from a captain in the King’s Army?”

  Captain Bala smiled. “If you can step outside, I need to have an urgent word with you.” The captain looked over Baba’s shoulder at us. “Sorry for interrupting your lunch.” He turned to Baba. “You can finish lunch before we go.”

  “No, I’m already done,” said Baba. “Please.” He gestured with his open palm towards the door and followed the man outside. He didn’t look back.

  Mama looked at me, a frown creased her forehead. “Nuju, go through the back and keep an eye on what’s going on. Don’t let them see you.”

  I stood up and exited through the back door. I trailed a finger along the mud wall of our thatched-roof hut as I walked close to the wall toward the front. At the end of the hut, I peeped; nothing. About five feet away from me was a pile of firewood. I leaped and hid behind it. The grunts of horses and the sound of voices was close. I brought out my head and looked, then jerked back; my heart thumped in my chest.

  Pulse racing, I peered out again. Soldiers sat on horses looking bored and tired. Baba and the captain talked for a little while. They agreed to something, then Baba walked away and they followed. They headed towards the forest. We lived at the end of the village and we could come and go from the forest without many people noticing.

  Where is Baba taking them to in the forest? I wondered. I trailed behind the fifteen soldiers and horses from a safe distance, out of sight. When they couldn’t go any more on horseback because of the vegetation, five stayed with the horses and ten went into the forest with Baba. I slipped into the woods and followed. They were not hard to follow, and I was very much at home.

  In addition to their bows and arrows, some soldiers carried diggers and shovels. That means they must plan to dig, I thought. Moreover, the men made so much noise; more proof of their lack of exposure to the woods. Neither did they come to hunt.

  We’d walked for about twenty minutes. None of the men spoke. Just the sound of crashing through bushes.

  “Tunde, how far do we have to go?” asked the captain.

  “We’re almost there,” said Baba. “If you listen, you can hear the river.”

  The river? Are they going fishing? I followed on, eager to find out.

  “The sooner, the better,” said the captain. “We have to get back to Ode as soon as possible.”

  Baba stopped at a bend in the river. “I found the basket here.”

  I got as close as I could and hid behind a bush. Two of the soldiers detached from the group and walked towards me. I stopped breathing. My whole body tensed.

  Baba pointed at a spot on the ground. He looked up at a tree and, for a moment, appeared confused. Then he pointed at a huge tree. “I buried the baby by the base of that tree.”

  A buried baby? The sight of the soldiers coming towards me distracted me from what was going on. I’d been silent; had they seen me? How did they know I was here? Should I run? My pulse raced, but my legs refused to move. At the last moment, the first soldier stopped. He fumbled with his trousers, and I knew it was the call of nature. Two more joined him. I averted my eyes.

  “Are you sure?” asked the captain.

  Baba nodded. “I was out fishing and saw the basket.” He pointed at a spot on the ground. “But, how did you know to ask me?”

  I too wanted to know the answer to that. Baba had never mentioned it. In fact, we’d never been to that part of the forest before.

  The captain didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed at three of his men. “You, you and you! Start digging.”

  The men put down their bows and arrows and dug. In no time they found something.

 
“Drag it out and bring it to me,” said the captain. “It is true.” The captain’s voice was shaky.

  He brushed sand off the wooden box and opened it. He put his hand inside and brought out a basket.

  The captain smiled expectantly. “I…I can’t believe it.”

  I moved my head to get a closer look. The captain’s voice was shaky with excitement. He lifted the lid to the basket.

  Captain Bala grinned. “Bones! King Kenzi will be thrilled.” He nodded and shut the basket. At the same time, the huge smile on his face faded. He nodded once, and, without warning, two of the soldiers grabbed Baba.

  I gasped and clasped my hand over my mouth. It was too late.

  “What was that?” asked the captain. His eyes darted around.

  At that moment, a monkey shrieked.

  “It’s a monkey,” said the soldier closest to the captain. “They’re all over the place.”

  “Hunter Ademola, the king thanks you for your service. You were at the right place at the right time. But, unfortunately for you, the wrong place to be.”

  Baba looked calm, but his eyes told me all I needed to know; he was enraged.

  “I’m very sorry,” said the captain. “I’m only following orders.” He turned to one of his men. “Hang him by the neck until he is dead.”

  From nowhere a rope appeared. Did they have it already? I wondered. As the soldier came to put the noose around Baba’s neck, Baba head-butted him in the face. There was a loud crunch, and the man screamed. I was sure his nose was broken. Blood drenched his hands. Baba jabbed the second soldier in the throat, and he went down.