“Maami Baami? What’s going on? What is this?” My eyes are wide, my throat dry, and I can feel my heart thumping slowly in my chest. It feels hard to breathe, and an oppressive aura lingers in the air, threatening to suffocate me. I glance beside me at my sister, wondering if she is feeling what I’m feeling. Her wide eyes, slightly parted lips, and trembling body tell me all I need to know. I can’t even bring myself to look away or look at my parents, who remain quiet. But just when it seems like the silence has reached its oppressive peak, my father speaks.
“Lara, Tunde, you bear my surname Adekanbi, but you have another surname, one that has more impact on your life than mine. Your mother’s bloodline flows through your veins, and it’s no ordinary bloodline. No, it’s one with a legacy as ancient as the sun.”
What? I can’t believe what my father is saying. But I hear his calm, deep voice resonating in my ears, the slight Yoruba accent which he usually hides carefully is present, soothing the fear that has taken root in my soul. I finally manage to snap out of the trance and immediately look away, grabbing my sister as I take a few steps in retreat, stopping only when I am closer to my parents. I look at my father, my expression grave. I am only just beginning to realize the seriousness of the situation. My father is a linguistics professor, and he prides himself on how well he can hide his Yoruba accent. "Oloyinbo" my mother would call him whenever he speaks to us. But now that same accent my father always hides is in plain view. This only happens when my father is extremely serious, and that’s how I know he means business.
My mother steps forward, her arms wrapping around me and my sister. She begins to gently console us, her hands making circles on our backs as she tries to soothe us, especially my sister, whose body is still trembling. She is still quite shaken. I look at my father, waiting for him to continue speaking. Seeing my gaze, he nods gently, taking it as a sign.
“Your mother is Fadesewa Omo Akinsemoyin, Blessed of Orunmila. And you,” my father pauses as he looks between my sister and me, “both of you are descendants of Akinsemoyin, the ancient family known to be Magis that wield control over the elements of the earth.”
---
Earlier that day...
I am lying in bed, headphones in my ears, my favorite Ventify playlist playing, and I am lost in my own world—a bad habit of mine that I never want to stop. In my head is a new world, one where all the things I wish for exist, and I am truly satisfied with my life. Now, if my ‘friends’ were to hear my thoughts, they would look at me like I am mad, and if you knew me—the me everyone else knows—you’d probably agree with them.
My name is Adekanbi Adetunde. My father is a linguistics lecturer at a very prestigious university in Abuja, and my mother is a very influential lady here in Lagos. Why she is popular or how she rose to prominence, I don’t know, but what I do know is that I’ve seen quite a number of influential figures speaking to my mother, and they all have one thing in common: they are all extremely respectful of her. In fact, it looks more like fear to me, but my mother is the gentlest woman I know. She could never cause that much fear in someone.
My parents are extremely rich, hence to everyone else, I am rich by proxy. I don’t think so, though, and I hate the fact that most of my so-called ‘friends’ are only friends with me because of my parents’ money. How do I know? I’m not too sure myself, but I just do. I have a twin sister, and we are both at the top of our classes—way above the rest, and I don’t even study at all. I once told my father about it, but all he said was, ‘It was a gift from your blood.’ Of course, I didn’t believe him, but at the time, I wasn’t interested in arguing it out.
I’m not only intelligent; I am also unnaturally intuitive. I can tell when my ‘friends’ are lying; I can see through their façades so well that sometimes I feel so much superior to them. I can feel it—if I wanted to, I could make them all puppets dancing to my tunes, and the thought of something like that terrifies me. Sometimes, I like to think that my feelings and thoughts stem from the money.
So as you can see, in the eyes of everyone else, I have money, I am smart, and I have fame. What more could a guy want, right? But I don’t think so. I’m not satisfied with my current life because the only thing I have that is truly mine is my intelligence, and according to my father, even that came from family. Everything feels so fake, everything except the world in my mind. There, I have perfect friends, a perfect life, and so much more. Sometimes, I even have powers—control over the earth and dominion over the heavens. It is fun. And just like any other day, I am on my bed, listening to phonk music, lost in another fantasy. Until I feel a splash of cold water land on me.
I open my eyes, anger evident as I stare at my twin sister. A lot of people say we look alike, but I don’t believe any of them. I am handsome—or so I’ve been told by countless girls—and while I know they only say it to get in bed with me, I’m not blind. I know I am good-looking. My sister, on the other hand, looks like a troll whenever I stare at her. When we go to school, she wears makeup and very skimpy dresses that make her look pretty, but I know the real her. I am burdened with the sight of her every day. And to make matters worse, today her hair is unbraided, sticking out in all directions like the end of a battered broom. I take out my headphones and open my mouth to rain insults on her, but she speaks before I can.
“They’re back,” she says, and I immediately forget about my anger or the chill I feel as I move whenever the soaked part of my shirt meets my torso. I follow behind my sister, and we both go to the parlor window to stare outside.
We can barely see anything except for two dark figures making their way into the house. I am sure they are my parents; after all, no normal person would be moving about in this weather, much less coming over to my parents’ house. It has been raining for a week now, non-stop. Due to the landscape, our house isn’t flooded, but from what we can see on the news, we know it’s pretty bad. There are reports of five-story buildings underwater, no movement for any vehicles, and even canoes and boats can’t move due to how harsh the wind is. Although no death count has been mentioned due to the fact that no one inside has heard from the outside, I know the toll is already high and rising. It is really tragic.
So you can imagine the shock and fear my sister and I feel when my parents say they have to go somewhere and that it is extremely urgent.
“More urgent than the need to preserve your life?” my sister had yelled at them, another shock. My sister might be annoying and to those she hangs out with, cold and disrespectful, but in truth, she is extremely respectful to the elderly, and much more so to our parents. That is the first time she has raised her voice to them. But my parents go anyway. That was more than five hours ago, and I’ve been so worried that I escape to my mind to calm myself.
A few seconds later, the door opens, and my sister and I hurry to welcome our parents back home. I pick up the blanket I placed on the chair earlier and immediately use it to wrap my mother. I don’t say a word; I can’t. Even though I am extremely worried and care a lot, words aren’t my forte. So I just stay there, my hands holding the blanket around my mother. My father looks at me and nods with a small smile. We become quiet. My sister isn’t much different from me in that she doesn’t express affection through words, and the atmosphere immediately becomes a bit awkward for both of us. My father, ever intuitive, notices and clears his throat.
“We must have worried you both,” he begins, and my sister and I both nod.
“Pele, there was a reason why we had to leave. And you must trust that it was extremely important,” my father says. He glances at my mother, both of them doing that silent communication thing African parents tend to do when things are serious.
“Lara, Tunde, there is something we have to show you.” At this moment, the atmosphere shifts from one of slight awkwardness to a feeling of foreboding. For some reason, my heart skips a beat.
“What’s wrong?” My sister and I speak at the same time. Normally we would have looked at each other and laughed, but that doesn’t even cross either of our minds.
“Don’t worry, it will all be fine,” my mother says, and I find myself calming down. My mother has a thick Yoruba accent, and even in this modern age, she can seem so uncivilized if she speaks only in her mother tongue. But she has distinctions in her BSc, master’s, and PhD. She studied medicine. I love my mother’s way of speaking—something about the Yoruba accent always calms me down. At times I wonder if it is my body’s way of craving its origin.
My sister and I nod, and my father leads the way, my mother staying close behind us. We head to a room just after the parlor. It is my father’s office, and it is strictly out of bounds. The last time my sister and I entered was when we were very young. My parents think I don’t remember, but I do—I was four years old at the time. My father opens the door to his office, and we all step in. My mother closes the door behind us and locks it. I glance back, but she smiles at me, and I look back at my father, who is now heading toward the shelf. I remember that the shelf wasn’t there back then. I glance at my sister. I can tell that she is also wondering what my father wants to do, and the shocked expression on her face tells me she is as stupefied as I am. My father grabs the shelf and rips it off the wall. Yes, the shelf isn’t a shelf—it’s a painting—a three-dimensional painting of a shelf!
“What? It wasn’t a shelf?” my sister asks.
“No. It was a painting. Any normal person wouldn’t have been able to tell, but both of you would have if you came close. That’s why I made my office out of bounds for you both,” my father chuckles.
While my sister is still paying attention to the shelf, my eyes lock onto something else—a door. The moment my gaze lands on it, I feel a strange sense of déjà vu, but I remain quiet.
“Come, we aren’t there yet,” my father says with a smile as he opens the door. It leads to a dark tunnel, one that leads to God knows where. My father, as usual, leads the way, and my sister follows. I am behind her, and my mother is behind me. The moment the door to the tunnel closes behind us, light begins to fill the dark space. There are lanterns along the wall, leading down into the tunnel.
We walk for quite a while before reaching another door. This one is metal and has quite a few locks. My sister and I exchange glances for what seems like the hundredth time—the curiosity and slight fear in our eyes are evident. My father finally removes all the locks and opens the door to reveal a large open space. My sister and I walk in, our eyes wide as we take in the sight. It looks like a church—no, more like a cathedral, except it is filled with books that look more ancient than anything I’ve ever seen. The ceiling is like the night sky, with countless constellations on it, and the altar... the altar... On the altar is a being!
No, it’s a statue—one that looks so alive that I feel my heartbeat stop the moment my eyes lock with it. My breathing suddenly becomes loud in my ears, my heart thumps extremely slowly, and the world seems to slow down. The statue is of a man. He has white markings drawn all over his body, his hair is like the night sky, and his eyes seem to contain the universe. It sounds silly, I know, but these are the only things I can use to describe him. His muscles are aligned perfectly, and his skin seems to ripple. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he moved at that instant. But the most shocking thing about him is the massive set of white feathered wings behind him. There are twelve of them.
“Baami, you’re joking, right?” I ask, even though I know my father is a hundred percent serious. I rarely speak Yoruba, and I guess just like my father, when the situation gets too serious, it just slips out. Although I’m not as fluent, I know enough to speak on instinct. “This isn’t a fantasy world; this is real life. What do you mean, Magi? Control over the elements?”
“Are you serious?” my sister suddenly speaks. I look at her. Although her lips are still trembling slightly, and her face looks pale, she seems to have regained her composure.
“Yes, Baba yin sooto (your father is speaking the truth),” my mother says, her soft voice laced with a thick Yoruba accent echoing in the room. I feel it immediately—the strange change in the air. My mother looks at my father and sighs. She steps forward, walking past my sister and me, slowly heading toward the statue.
“The Lagos of today was once called Eko Ile Oba (Eko, land of royalty). This name wasn’t for show.” My mother looks back at my sister and me before continuing. I notice immediately that she doesn’t pay attention to my father—no, it’s more like she doesn’t need to. It’s pretty obvious why: my father knows too. When he spoke about Magi and their ability to wield elements, I could tell he had absolute belief in what he was saying. And it wasn’t just a belief based on faith; he must have seen proof.
“Lagos became what it is today because of three men: the first was Oba Ashipa, the first king of Lagos. He and his predecessor, Olofin Ogunfunminire, founded Lagos and established it as the land of kings. The next was Oba Akinsemoyin; he built upon what his predecessors had created and began Eko’s journey to beauty and prosperity. And lastly, Oba Ologun Kutere expanded Lagos, and his descendants Oba Kosoko and Oba Akintoye made Lagos the center of excellence. These three men were more than kings; they were chosen by the gods.”
My mother pauses before the statue, her eyes gazing upon it with reverence. She isn’t afraid—no, she is—but her fear is different from ours. While mine and my sister’s are terror, my mother’s is piety. We all remain silent as she continues speaking.
“The bloodlines of these three Obas later became what was known as the three Great Families of Lagos, and in the war that came after, these three families played great roles both on the surface and from the shadows. But now, very few people still remember their names. Why do you think that is?” My mother asks but doesn’t wait for either my sister or me to reply. “It’s because that was the price to pay—the price exchanged for power.”
“The power of the gods?” my sister asks, and my mother nods with a smile. All the while, her gaze remains on the statue.
“When the country was in dire need, and Lagos was on the brink of destruction, the three great families pleaded with the gods to grant them strength to repel their enemies, and their prayers were answered. Three statues were built, and their elder gods answered, sending their avatars to listen to our request.”
“Then what happened?” I mutter, entranced. I feel like I know where the story is going, but at the same time, I don’t. And with every word my mother speaks, I feel a strange hum in my body, like something is calling out to me.
“The gods granted us a tenth of a drop of their blood, and we awakened as Asoju—emissaries of the gods. The elder gods became the family deities of each of the three great families. For the Olofin, it was Obatala, and he granted them the power of the kings—a vocal magic that gave them control over common men. For the Ologun Kutere, it was Ogun, and he granted them the power of war. They were the backbone of the battle. And for us, the Akinsemoyin, it was Orunmila that heeded our call and granted us wisdom over all and the understanding to wield the elements of the earth.”
My mother finally looks in our direction, and I’m shocked to see tears streaming down her face. I want to rush forward, but my father stops me. I gaze at my mother, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces, and it doesn’t help that my sister is now crying because my mother is crying. As I watch them, a realization dawns on me.
“The storm!” I say, my eyes wide. I glance between my mother in front and my father behind, confused.
“Was the storm caused by someone from your family? Our family?” I ask my mother.
“The three great families maintained the balance of nature, but after years of being forgotten, the families have all declined. And now, nature is rampaging, and humans are dying. So, we decided that we need to awaken the slumbering bloodline...” My mother pauses. She seems to be struggling with her words.
“Only those below the age of forty and above the age of sixteen can awaken,” my father continues. My sister looks at him, her eyes wide. I can tell we’ve both come to the same conclusion: they want to awaken our blood—my sister’s and mine!
“So earlier, when you went out?”
“Yes. It was to a meeting with the other families. At a cost, they managed to establish a connection with the divine, and they received a message from the other side. A child is to be chosen from each family to become the next emissary, but a price must be paid for what fate bestows.”
“A price?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, you both are the only descendants in the Akinsemoyin family who are eligible to awaken.”
“What’s the price?” I ask. I immediately have a bad feeling, and I know this is most likely the reason my mother has been crying.
“Whoever awakens between you two will be forgotten by all.”
My sister suddenly begins to cry louder and rushes forward to hug my mother. I watch both of them for a while, a thousand thoughts running through my head. I suddenly realize that this is it for me; it’s time for me to be forgotten. Because there’s no way I would let my sister do it, and thousands of lives, possibly more, are at stake.
“Heh, I never thought I would experience something similar to death so young. And here I thought I’d be able to give you and Maami a set of amazing grandchildren.” I look behind me to see my father staring at me, his eyes filled with tears he refuses to let fall. My father always told me to be strong for my sister and my mother, because if I can’t be strong for them, then who will? I guess now he’s taking his own advice. I reach for him and hug him. My chest hurts, my mind is a mess, and I feel like plugging my ears and drifting off to my own world, away from all this. But I know I can’t. So instead, I smile and act brave, not only for my family but for myself.
“What’s next?” I ask my father.
“The ritual,” he replies curtly, trying to hide the fact that his voice is cracking.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting before the human-like statue of the avatar of Orunmila. In front of me, my sister and my mother are still in tears, and my father stands behind, watching everything. I am now naked, except for a white wrapper tied around my waist and the shorts I’m wearing underneath. My body is covered in white markings, my mother having taken her time drawing them as if trying to buy as much time with me as possible. Finally, she is done and reluctantly stands up.
“I will begin the chants. All you have to do is place your hand on the statue and let the process work itself out,” my mother says. The sadness in her voice is palpable, and she seems almost empty. I want to say something, but I remain quiet, taking solace in the fact that my mother will soon forget all about this sadness.
She takes a few steps, clears her throat, and suddenly begins singing in a slow, native manner. I immediately turn around and place my hand on the statue. It is cold to the touch, and at first, I feel nothing. But soon, I feel a warm pulse rush through my veins. Everything else seems drowned out, and the only thing remaining is me, the statue, and my mother’s chants resonating with my soul.
---
Orunmila Olorun Imo Emi Aye,
E je ki o so imo re si omo yi,
Omo Fadesewa Olusaaju Emi,
Ki ori re ba ogbon re,
Ki o fun un ni agbara re,
Ki won le da gbogbo ayika,
Ni owo re ni imo re,
Orunmila Emi to mo gbogbo,
Ba a se bowo fun o ba a se bore,
Ki o je omo yi ni imo ataaroore,
Ni Ile re ni orile-ede re.
(Orunmila, God of Wisdom, Spirit of the World)
(Grant your knowledge to this child)
(Child of Fadesewa, Master of Spirits)
(Let their head be filled with wisdom)
(Grant them your power)
(May they shape all surroundings)
(With your hand, with your knowledge)
(Orunmila, Spirit who knows all)
(As we honor you, as we revere)
(Make this child wise and enlightened)
(In your house, in your realm.)
---
A white light fills my vision, and the world goes blank.
