Mama Ajadi

I was six years old when Mama Ajadi told me of strange things that would be unravelled before me with time.

She would say, “Make sure you come and see me the first time it happens, Alakẹ.” I would simply nod and kowtow, resting my head against her knees.

I did not understand what she meant by this, but I knew not to question her.

The townspeople talked in hushed tones about Mama Ajadi’s “special powers.” They believed that she knew things people had spent time, money, and other unspeakables trying to find out.

When she told me I was the only one who could understand the source of the horrors in my family through my dreams, I believed her. Still, I was curious.

“But Mama,” I said, holding her hands in mine, “Will you still be here?”

“Alakẹ, if I did not go yesterday, I will not go tomorrow.”

Twelve years have passed since then, and strange things have happened. But last night, I saw my grandmother–Iya Lekan–in my dream. Iya Lekan hit her mother-in-law’s head with a pestle, and she fell to the ground with a scream.

This must be it.

Mama Ajadi has a stool ready for me.