We tried to forget our history. We tried to forget all we’ve been through but we couldn’t because there were no skins on us. There was nothing to leave behind as a relic -not pulverized flesh nor the decomposed remnant that ensues with the manures. All we had on in us were memories. Excruciating memories. We were the îvīañas.

We were spirits of the African Borealis. We lived in the ever glowing band of light mix just like the fixtures and fittings of a dancefloor. I know, you think it was the most beautiful thing ever. The colours. But it wasn’t. We wanted to live like human. Put on beautiful skins and have nice hairs. The humans worshipped us. They offered libations at the hills and mountains even at the highest rocks. They felt the higher the apex, the easier our offerings would get to us. They thought right. My brothers and sister always fed on the essence like raving epicures. They couldn’t help it when they heard the downpour of wine or the mild droppings of meals at the apex. It was their drive force. A catalyst.

I was different. I didn’t like being an îvīaña. I envied the human bodies. I didn’t like to be worshipped. I yearned to be a worshipper. I always looked at the brown skin girl from the eastern region who had an elegant smile to her nimble steps. She held the libation like it was a glass egg. She couldn’t risk it falling off. I always looked at how she spilled the wine with eclectic intent, smiling like she could see me. I wanted to be in that body. I wanted her nimbleness. I wanted her smiles. I wanted to be her so I did the abominable. I épìjìd into her.

While I walked away, I could see my brothers and sisters squabbling over so many personal libations. I sneered. I loved my skin now. My skin glistened when the sun touched it. It was the most beautiful feeling I had ever had.

The libations were over and other humans were moving away from the Borealis. I wanted my siblings to notice but they didn’t. I stood a while then a hand yanked at my dress “Efe! Efe! Let’s go home. Mama is waiting”. He must have been the host’s brother. I smiled and clasped my hands with his as we walked away…………

An African fiction that continues

What are your stories of Africa?