Chi
Obinna Udenwe
It was a grey, rainy morning in the middle of June when I met this lady in Abakaliki. I had just come in a day or two before to visit family and was putting up in a small but cosy hotel somewhere in town. It happened that she was staying there as well. It appeared she’d been there for some time, and I did not bother asking, though I did not think much about it at the time, but now, every time I remember her, it is always the first thing that comes to my mind, that and the fact that she predicted my death.
She’d mentioned amid our conversation that she was in her seventies. She had snowy hair and all, but it was difficult to tell if she was lying about it. Well, most people had their age reduced, so it did not make sense that she would say she was in her seventies when she looked fifty. She had no wrinkles on her face at all nor black patches under her eyes. Her face was like that of someone who had gone to great lengths to care for themselves.
It was shortly after Israel invaded Rafah against all advice from their allies, and when one turned on the television, war was what was being discussed. But she told me about a different war.
The hotel was built in the form of a shared apartment. Each apartment had two to three rooms and a central lounge with sofas and a television on the stucco-coated wall. A picture of the Statue of Liberty hung on the wall. Opposite it was the Resilient Man, a symbol of Abakaliki, which was the picture of a man holding up a hoe, poised to cultivate his land.
Each time I came out of my room to run an errand or to visit this cousin or that friend, she was there, like a permanent feature to the sitting room. She was always elegantly dressed, mostly in flowing trousers and a flowered blouse. And all the time, she was nursing a beer, mostly a Heineken. She did not always answer when I greeted her, but murmured occasionally in response, then took her glass to her lips. By the third day, I paused for a glance at the TV when she spoke up.
“War is a good thing.”
I turned to look at her. Only someone who was crazy would dare say that.
She nodded at me and shrugged. “It is from the ashes of war that we emerge more learned about life’s lessons. It is only after a war that progress is made. Imagine what the world would have been like without the two World Wars. Imagine what Nigeria would have been without the Biafra War.”
I pondered her words for a moment, but it appeared my head was like a clogged wash basin, overflowing yet difficult to unclog. Besides, I was mesmerised by the fact that out of the blue she’d talked to me. It was at that point that I took a critical look at her. Her hair was shaven low; her jaw squared like a man’s; her cheeks straight, sunken a bit, accentuating her face. She had long hands and fingers and long legs, one of them now placed on the table before her. There was a bottle of Heineken beside her on a coffee table.
She waved me off. “You are young,” she said. “Young people do not know war. In fact, they hearken to its call like the moth to the flame and are mostly consumed.”
“I… I…”
“Run along, young man. I do not want to bore you with… melancholy.” Sighing, she took her glass to her lips.
I stood there unsure, then walked to my room. But it was difficult to think clearly after that. My head had been messed up by her words. War is a good thing. I pondered that. It is from the ashes of war that we emerge more learned about life’s lessons. I went to the shared kitchen and began making for myself some noodles with tomatoes and fresh Nsukka pepper, which instantly filled the apartment with its peppery choke. I heard her cough a few times. While the noodles simmered, I added a slice of cabbage and a can of sardines. Then, I poured myself a glass of wine and watched the view from the kitchen window. Some crows cooed on top a few cicadas on an empty stretch of plot behind the hotel.
The morning turned grey, greyer, in preparation for rain. The birds dispersed. Now the noodles were done. She came in and sat on a tall stool by the kitchen isle and watched me dish the noodles onto a flat plate. Without asking if she wanted some food, I dished a plate for her. I got another clean glass and poured her some wine. Now, we sat on the isle, staring at the food.
“I do not eat noodles.”
“Oh.”
“They are not for old bones like mine.” It was then she told me her age, which was difficult for me to believe. I told her she looked fifty. She said I flattered her.
I took a forkful into my mouth. It was hot, so I chewed fast, opening my mouth to let out some hot air. I watched her smile, uncomfortable in the way she gawked at me. It was as if she had known me for a long time, as if she were my mother, watching me eat her food, with some warm affection. I realised she hadn’t touched her wine, so I pushed the glass to her.
She shook her head. “I do not drink wine. I prefer beer.”
“I see.” She nodded. She continued to watch me eat.
When I was done, I polished off the food with the wine, gulping it down.
She shook her head. “You waste wine when you gulp it down.”
I said nothing. I took the second glass I had poured for her and studied it. Now, I took a sip and looked up at her.
“Good wine?” she asked.
I nodded. I did not want to mention to her that I did not know much about wine. I only liked to enjoy my noodles with it. I had no way of knowing what made a wine good or bad.
“It cannot be good. It is a cheap wine.”
“How did you know?” I asked, perplexed. “You did not see the bottle as it is in the fridge. So how did you know?”
“You’d be surprised what I know …” she said with a sigh. “Like you … I know you—”
“Me?”
She shrugged. “I can tell you the date of your birth and what happened when you were born. I can tell you the kind of food you’d ever had… even, young man, the number of women you have bedded.”
“What?”
“I know,” she paused. She held my gaze and said, “I know that you are going to die by this time next week.”
I choked. “Pardon,” I said and pushed my chair backwards. Gently, I stood. Her face was like stone, difficult to read. I stared at her as she stared back. She was serious, yet there was the hint of a smirk on her face. What kind of person told a stranger they’d just met that they were going to die in a week’s time? Who could she be? A seer? A prophetess? I continued to look at her, at her demeanour, wanting to see signs that this elderly woman who drank beer almost every minute of the day was a prophetess, the kind who had a church where women dressed in flowing white robes and danced around themselves on riverbanks.
“You are wondering what kind of woman I am, right?” she asked. “It irks you that I know about you?”
“About me? What do you know about me, really?” I drew the chair and sat back down. I placed my hands on the table and stared straight at her. Now, I was beginning to get angry, for it appeared she was out to mess with my head. I had heard stories of people who owned churches and prayer centres and told their congregants things like when they would get their next appointment, or raise at work, or about that uncle or aunt in the village who wanted them dead or had used juju to tie up their destiny. I knew how most of these predictions put people in jeopardy, creating enmity between them and their families. I was not one who visited the church often. Though a Catholic, I could not remember the last time I went for a confession or attended Mass. My perception of pastors and prophets was that of jaguars out to scavenge the people. I never thought a day would come when I would be faced with one. It annoyed me that I now had to deal with one in the most unlikely place as this.
“If I do not know anything about you, why would I know the day you will die?”
“Stop it,” I said calmly.
“There is no running away from our shadows. No one has ever succeeded, you see.” She sat back and placed her two arms on the table. Her nails were long and well-manicured. “Your father…” she sighed. “He died of pneumonia, ten years ago, didn’t he? Was it not the year you turned twenty-eight and he fifty-eight?” There was that smirk on her face as she watched my face contort in anguish.
She was right. The year I turned twenty-eight, my father passed away. He’d been sick for just a few days. He’d visited the clinic where they confirmed he had pneumonia. It wasn’t a life-threatening situation, so he wasn’t detained in the clinic. He’d returned home with his medication and spoken with me on the phone. Then, an hour or so later, I got a call from my mother. He’d collapsed and died. It was the most difficult day of my life. I couldn’t comprehend it. One minute he was there, and the next, he was gone, just like the clap of thunder.
“You are messing with my head,” I said.
“Am I?”
There was an awkward silence for a moment, but it appeared to have lasted for a lifetime. A crow came to the windowsill and, using its beak, tried to poke at the glass. I saw her staring at the glass window, at the crow. I noticed a glint in her eyes, a brilliant sparkle on her face, as if there was a feminine affection for the crow, like a woman admiring a loved child. I thought she wasn’t a bad person for a bird to have such an effect on her. We watched the crow poke at the glass window for a minute or so before it flew away. Someone called out downstairs. A car honked twice in response.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Now, she smiled at me. “Isn’t that what you should have asked in the first place?”
I nodded at her.
“I am water.”
“Water? What does that mean?”
She sighed and proceeded to tell me a strange and bewildering story, “Two years after I was born, my mother took me and my older sibling to the River Niger to do the laundry. I walked into the water and was swallowed by it.”
My eyes were wide open in disbelief. There was that smirk, which was like a permanent feature to her face.
“I was told that my mother and other women present screamed and screamed until men ran out from their farms. They even dived into the river and searched for several hours, but I was gone. Fuum! Just like that. Like smoke.”
“And?”
“But here I am.”
“How did you come out? They found you?”
“No one found me. Three years after, exactly the day I was swallowed. The water regurgitated me. I came out, just the way I was when I went in, the same age, the same height. I just walked out of the water as if I had just gone into my father’s room or my mother’s kitchen.” She smiled. She had some beer in the refrigerator. She collected one and uncorked it with her teeth, which surprised me. She poured herself a glass. “Time was frozen for me for all the three years I was in that other world. When I re-entered your world, it was as if nothing had happened. I was supposed to have been five, but I was two. Everything about me was still the same.”
“And they recognised you?”
“Of course, who wouldn’t? And even if everyone forgot who I was, my mother would never have forgotten. No mother would forget. Such an incident puts an indelible mark on one’s memory, creating an unforgettable picture. I bet you, if you lost a child in such circumstances, their face would be in your mind forever, marked by anguish and regret. Regret that you should have been more careful, regret that you failed to keep a watchful eye on the child. But when certain things are to happen, there is nothing we can do about it. They saw me traipsing to the river until I was swallowed. They could not do a thing.”
“They were in a trance.”
“Possibly so.”
I heaved. I gulped down the second glass of wine. I poured for myself another glassful. Now, convinced of this woman’s extraordinary nature, I thought it was best I listened to her tell me about this impending death, which was to come. But she remained calm, quiet, studying my face with that annoying smirk on her face.
“Tell me,” I said, now sitting on the edge of my chair. “What is this death you talk about?”
“Young man. It is not death but war. I told you earlier that war is good and that it changes the world; changes our mindset, our perceptions; even makes us believe that there is God. But not all wars are good.” She took a sip from her Heineken. “When you war with your chi, you are doomed. No one fights their personal god.”
“And… and I fight mine?”
“Yes. You have been at war with your personal god since you were born.”
“I do not know this. I do not understand this.”
“Everyone carries with them a being or personae in god form. Though we have the burden and gift of freewill, our chi helps us navigate the rough terrains of this world. Be in good terms with your chi and you are a success, else your life becomes a mirage. A shadow. No matter how hard we try, we never could catch our shadow. Do we?”
I was more confused at hearing this.
“Our chi intercedes for us among other peoples’ chi and before the Supreme Being. Sadly, your chi does not intercede for you.” She shook her head.
“Your father as well. And that was why he died the way he did. He did not pay attention to life’s lessons, to the warnings. The things that happened to him were to warn him that all was not well. The chemistry of his life was not balanced. It was tilted awkwardly. He only needed to have paid attention to see it.”
I was confused.
“I confuse you,” she said, smiling, “But it is better you are confused than ignorant or hard-hearted. Your father wasn’t confused. He refused to believe.”
“How did you know he refused to believe?”
“Because just like you, I warned him. I told him there was a lack of balance in his life. You know the science behind equilibrium?”
I nodded.
“You should. You are a scientist, of course. To get a pendulum to swing freely, tik-tom. Tik-tom. Tik-tom. It needs to be balanced at its centre of equilibrium. If it is not, then it cannot freely swing. It falls to either side.”
I nodded.
“That is just how life is. There should be a balance. Distort this balance, and things begin to go bad.”
“How do I know when mine is distorted?”
“But it is already distorted. Can’t you see?” She shrugged. “Look at your life. You are thirty-seven. Unmarried. Cannot have a steady girlfriend or a steady job, and seems to always be short of money. Nothing you do seems to ever work. Your chi is far away from you because you fight with it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It is not of your own making. Physically, you cannot see it. But if only your eyes were open, you would be amazed at who you are, what you are, what you would have become, if not for this war.”
I was confused.
“You say you told my father this same thing—”
“Oh yeah. I did. But he was a stubborn man.”
“He was.” I nodded. “How did you meet him?”
“Your father and I… we were lovers.”
And for the second time, I choked on my drink. “My father… he… he could not. He loved my mum so much.”
Now, she laughed at me. “Men are capable of loving two, three, or more women at the same time. Men, you love with your head.” Again, she sighed. “There are things you do not know about your father. Many things. But this is not about your father. It is about you. I came here to warn you, the same way I warned your father. I knew you were going to come into town. I knew you were going to stay in this hotel. And that is why I am here. I made sure you got the same apartment as myself.”
I was beginning to be scared, and goosebumps were now on my skin. The more I studied this woman’s face, the scarier it became (though it could all have been in my head). Her face glittered and sparkled like water that had been hit by intense sunrays in a hot afternoon.
“I will not bore you further, young man. But next week, when you turn thirty-eight, you’d die. Simple.”
“What do I do? How… how do I avert this death?”
“Good. That is what you should have asked all the while.” She sat back, as if relieved. She finished her beer and stayed quiet after that, for what appeared to be a moment. Then, she said to me, “It is simple. You only need to carry out a small sacrifice and all will be well.”
It happened that my mother was staying in Afikpo, which was a little over an hour from Abakaliki. She was working at the local council as an election officer and visited the town only on weekends. So, that night, I spoke with her on the phone. I wanted to know if she heard anything from my dad about some spiritual war in his life or any prediction about his death.
“Your father told me everything,” she said. “I believe, if there was anything like that I should have known.” Then, she wanted to know why I was bringing up his death since he’d passed long ago.
I told her about the lady and what she told me. I told her she mentioned she’d tried to warn my father several times, but he did not believe in such things.
“Was Dad seeing another woman?” I heard a sharp gasp on the line.
A moment passed.
When she spoke, her voice was raspy. “Do not bring up your father. No man is perfect.”
“You knew he was seeing someone else while married to you?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Your father was not a perfect man, but I do not judge him. He was a good man. He loved and treated me right.”
“Did you ever see who he was with at the time? Who he was seeing.”
She did not respond.
I was patient.
“I did. Once. She was an older woman.”
“But beautiful?”
She didn’t say anything. I knew it must be the same strange woman who was just at that time sitting in the lounge, drinking her Heineken. I glanced at the door.
“After I saw her, I hated your father. She was older than me, older than him. Why he was seeing her was beyond me.”
“Did you ever confront him?”
“I did not. I did not know… I feared. I was afraid of how he was going to react. I didn’t want to shame him.”
“Come on, Mum.”
“Do not judge me. Do not. You do not know the war women wage with themselves to keep their homes. I continued to fight against myself, debating within me whether to confront him or not until he passed. And his death… It was too sudden. I cannot comprehend it.”
I told her about the woman and all that she said to me, and what she mentioned she said to my father. I told her she wanted me to perform some sacrifice to ward off this evil she said was to come. I told her I was confused.
“Can’t you see she is evil?” she said. “Can’t you see she ruined your father… killed him possibly, and now she is out for your soul? Can’t you see, my son?” I wondered if she was right. If a mother were told her son would die in a week’s time unless a sacrifice was performed, would the right thing not be to encourage him to go ahead with the process, at least to be sure? Why would she want to discourage me? Could it be because the one saying this used to be my father’s lover, someone she considered a rival? These questions weighed heavily on my mind.
“What do I do?”
There was another long silence.
She was heaving heavily, sobbing. Then, she said, “Leave. Leave that godforsaken hotel and return to Asaba. Do not allow evil to lead you through any satanic sacrifice. Go to your reverend father in Asaba and tell him everything. There must be something the church can do. Hmm? We are Christians. We are Catholic. If we lose faith in the church, are we not doomed?”
My heartbeat increased at this point.
“Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Will you do as I have said?”
“I will, Mama.”
I did not sleep that night. It was as if everywhere I turned, there was the woman’s face staring at me. The next morning, before anyone was up, I packed my bag and hurried out of the hotel.
At Asaba, the priest listened to me patiently. He said a special Mass for me and gave me the holy communion. The priest said to me, “There is nothing which kills a man more than fear. If you will die, then it is not any prediction of evil that will kill you. It is fear. So, cast aside your doubt and leave your burden on God’s doorsteps. For did He not say that there is no yoke of ours that is too heavy for Him to carry? Only what you have to do is believe in His might and cast fear and doubt out of your mind.” But no matter how strong one’s faith was to be, it was difficult to truly believe those words without doubts. So, I tossed his words and those of the strange woman round and round the vast field of my mind as the days went by faster than I’d ever known, and I kept getting older by the day.
Now, tomorrow, I turn thirty-eight, yet I fear. I fear for that which might happen.
Obinna Udenwe’s works address the issues of love, sex, power, manipulation, politics and religion. He is the winner of the first edition of The Chinua Achebe Prize for Literature in 2021 for his second book, Colours of Hatred, which was also a finalist for the NLNG Nigeria Prize for Literature. His first book, Satans & Shaitans won the ANA Prize for Prose Fiction in 2015. His short stories have won a Prairie Schooner—Glenna Luschei Prize in 2020 and The Short Story is Dead Prize. His collection of stories, Men Are Fools was a finalist in the Prairie Schooner-Raz Shumaker Book Prize. It is now published in Nigeria as “The Widow Who Died With Flowers in Her Mouth”. His story, “It Has to do with Emilia”, was made into a film in 2022 by Bump Films in South Africa. His latest book, Years of Shame, was recently published to a good reception.
*Image by Ariyo Aanu on Unsplash
