FICTION — HALLOWEEN MONTH
Photo Prompt 1 — The Haunting
IT’S JUJU …
"Juju is a figment of the imagination," Jake would always say dismissively, especially when an African was close by or whenever gossip of someone affected by juju filtered to his ears. It didn't matter that he had been in Africa for years, working as a journalist.
It didn't matter that he knew what some Westerners didn't — that Africa wasn't a country but a collection of several sovereign countries with distinct cultures. That her people do not dress in loincloths or sleep on trees.
It didn't matter that his service apartment in Victoria Island, Lagos, a city that is one of Africa's largest economies, cost a sum of one thousand dollars monthly. Even if it was a high-rise, it certainly wasn't on a tree.
Despite this, he still considered the people primitive despite knowing that his driver, Majid, was studying to be a data analyst and his cook a master’s degree holder.
Journalists were meant to be open-minded to understand the world in-depth. But not Jake. His mind was open to many things except the long-held concept of Africa and Africans. His grandfather, a former officer with the British government, had served in Nigeria in the fifties. It was he who told him what he knew about Africans. Even if all Jake saw in Lagos and other African cities he had been to was different, he still saw Africans as well-dressed savages living in cities. He was a Thomas; even the scars in the master's hands won't change his mind.
He said the same thing when Emeka, the neighbor's cook, was found stuck to Titi, the cleaner, in the boy's quarters.
He laughed at what people said about Titi's husband, a fetish man who had put Magun — a type of juju that jealous lovers use to catch their cheating spouses. He waved it off, even after seeing both lovers stuck like a poorly made sandwich or copulating frogs squashed under a tire. He brandished his dictionary at anyone who cared to listen, telling them that it was a case of penile or vaginal incarceration. Since everyone was familiar with his behavior, no one bothered or argued with him. Only his staff pretended to agree with him.
His ignorance and dismissal of the potency of juju would have been understandable if he hadn't witnessed this, but that is the kind of person Jake was. One would find it easier to remove a deep natural stain from a white garment than get him to change his made-up mind.
There was always a laser-like focus quality to his made-up mind. While this helped him gather facts, peel the layers off stories, and get the truth from his interviewees, it made him enemies among his colleagues. To him, Africans were less of humans like he had been raised to believe, but what he didn't know or chose to ignore was this: they are indeed perceptive people who knew when someone looked down on them.
With this mindset, he approached the story that landed on his desk a month before his trip back to London.
Haunted houses were a widespread occurrence in his country. Millions of books and movies are filled with similar tales of haunting and paranormal activities. So, it was convenient for Jake to assume it was all fiction. When the news broke about a haunted house in the Ikoyi area, James laughed at the news as he perused through the blog.
"These Africans are dirty; they might just need pest exterminators," he said aloud midway into the article when he read about the former inhabitants complaining about noises in the house. One wouldn't blame him; parts of Lagos where he lived were infested with giant rats who strutted proudly across the road in broad daylight. He once saw cockroaches in a four-star hotel he once lodged in. Anyone in his shoes would have assumed that roaches and rats were the problem. But were they?
Perhaps if he had been patient, he would have read the article to its end. But patience was the least of his virtues, especially since he moved to Lagos. He learned very early that to be patient in Lagos is to be positioned for failure. He hated failure, especially if the winner was African. So, halfway through the article, he sent the report to his assistant and asked him to accompany him to the address. On his last assignment before his vacation, he was determined to prove to anyone (and indeed every superstitious African) that juju was a hoax.
Jake reclined on his taupe Ikea sofa. Steam curled out of the steaming cup of tea on the glass stool beside him. King of Boys, one of the most talked-about Nollywood Movies of the year, played on the TV. Soft tufts of snow piled up outside the window. Moonlight glinted off the stand of his dining table.
It had been one month since he returned from Nigeria, and he felt good if he chose to forget the tasty barbecue Suya he always ate at the University of Suya on Lagos mainland or those pretty Unilag girls that often kept him company. It had been one month without annoying traffic and primitive Africans and their loud Fuji music. Oh, how draining it was staying with them. He thought aloud. And yes, it had been one month since he published his findings about the haunted house on his blog and in the magazine. He was right, he thought to himself; there was no such thing as juju. He had proved it to everyone. He had visited the house at night and entered all the rooms armed with a camera. The only thing he had noticed out of place was the crusted brown stains on the walls, which were later identified as blood. He had made sure to mention that the stains were possibly animal blood. Nigerians are notorious for craftiness, and there is no denying the fact that the former residents could have concocted the gory stories to avoid paying rent. He added this as well. He ensured he fired his driver and assistant, who refused to accompany him to the house. He could understand fear, another distinguishing African trait, like their religious fanaticism. But he could not tolerate disobedience in the line of duty. As he concluded in his article, there were no strange beings in the house and no evidence of drifting headless bodies. Therefore, no such thing as juju.
He had just brought the mug towards his lips when he heard the creak behind him. He turned, wondering if the radiator had suddenly developed a fault or something had fallen. There was nothing, he hissed, and he was about to turn when he felt a chill crawl up his spine accompanied by the stench of rotten flesh and fresh soil. The cup smashed against the glass table when he turned. In front of him was a family of floating headless bodies with outstretched arms drifting towards him.
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