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?” Read full story in Lolwe Magazine.
