The girl’s expression is distorted: ‘It’s true, mother! I have visited this life four times before, but this is the first time I’ve stayed.’

The mother turns exasperated eyes from her phone and stares at her daughter. ‘Girl?’

‘Yes, mother.’

‘Stop saying that,’ she says, adjusting her long skirt as she shifts around on the couch.

‘Why?’ the girl pouts, sitting on the carpet with her legs folded in. She yanks off an ear from an already noseless, charcoal-black woolen doll. The mother sighs, scans the rooms, and shakes her head. To think she almost died, bringing her into the world!

It had felt surreal at the time… something like a miracle. But the girl has turned into something she barely recognizes. She has been questioning her own sanity a lot.

‘I was in a Yoruba woman’s stomach the first time,’ the girl says, face blank, as she continues pulling threads from the doll. The mother watches, hand reflexively moving to her stomach as the girl pulls another thread with a sharp yank. ‘Let the doll be, girl.’

‘I hate it!’ the girl snaps. ‘I was in a Yoruba woman’s stomach the first time,’ she continues with a sinister smile. ‘She had a big shop inside Balogun Market in Lagos where she sold toys. I could hear everything from inside her stomach.’ 

The mother’s heart plunges. Her sins are coming back to taunt her. She can hear the ghosts and shadows of her past life mocking her now… striding across the room and haunting her. Maybe she made a mistake ten years ago.

‘Mother?’ The girl’s large, brown eyes look up to meet their older, wearier reflection.  She hates how much the girl resembles her – the same ugliness she has worn all her life – the same brown skin she tries to scrub off every time she bathes. She sucks her teeth in irritation and looks back to her phone. A picture of a man with a balding head and thick black lips covers the screen. There is a huge Bible underneath his left armpit. His right hand is outstretched and resting on the head of a kneeling girl. ‘Okay, so why did you leave the Yoruba woman? Why did you choose me?’ she replies, eyes still on her phone.

‘Because her body did not want me.’ The girl abandons the doll and sits beside the mother on the couch. ‘She almost died. She would have died if I stayed. Her fiancé beat her a lot. She was good for nothing. It was yet another failed pregnancy, after all. He was certain I wouldn’t stay. I left the day he hit her shoulder with a hammer.’

The mother shudders, her stomach turning. The girl is going mad. Is this the same girl that suckled at her breasts? This defiant little thing? The frequency of her episodes has quadrupled since the girl started her period. Episodes… because there is no better name for these sporadic performances, these guilt-inducing confessions. Two months ago, she had walked into the girl’s room to find her painting her face with blood. Her first bleeding. At ten. And three days after that, she hit a boy’s head with a rock at school and was sent home.

She constantly thinks about pressing a pillow to the girl’s face at night, shutting her demons up forever. She has considered poisoning her, something in the girl’s favorite food. She sometimes believes the girl is the chain binding her to her dark past, the one thing that has paralyzed her from starting afresh. But the girl is her child. Is she?

Does she feel guilty for having those thoughts? Of course, but what can a mother do? How do mothers love children who are broken things? The woman opposite her house has a vegetable for a child. How do you love a vegetable? An almost-lifeless thing that sucks away your energy and gives nothing back, not even a word spoken. Why did she even decide to become a mother? Why had she once craved this torture?

*

The juju man is a patient listener. He shifts about on his divination mat, his face wearing the serenity of a man who has seen it all. He is old, his full white hair crawling with lice. He asks short questions, but his English is smooth. ‘Who was the second woman?’ He speaks without showing his teeth. He has only one functioning eye that he now pins on the girl. Where the left eye is supposed to be is a black patch. He repeatedly trails the red cloth wrapped around his neck with dirty fingers.

The girl huddles closer to the mother on a low bench, seeking shelter from the ancient gaze. ‘She was a prostitute,’ she mumbles and chews on her fingers. The mother winces.

‘You heard everything from her stomach, too?’

The girl nods.

‘Why did you not stay?’ The juju man grunts. His eye searches and lands on the dry skull of a goat resting against the white walls of the shrine. ‘See that clay pot at the entrance?’ he asks the mother. ‘Use that dry skull to fetch me some water.’

The mother hesitates, eyes darting from the pot to the skull. The skull has holes; how will it retain water?

However, she obeys.

The girl tries to follow the mother, but the juju man binds her to the bench with his one eye. ‘Sit, girl,’ he demands. ‘Why did you not stay?’

‘Her body wanted me, but she did not want me.’ The girl’s smooth brown face creases in anxiety.

‘Mother?’ She turns to look at her mother, who is now carrying the skull of water, hands wrapped unsteadily around the brown horns. Not a drop of water escapes, but she hides her shock well. The mother hands the skull to the juju man, returns to her seat, and straightens her skirt. She hates that she always straightens her skirt when she is nervous. She hates that her skirts are long. She hates that she only wears skirts now.

‘Yes, my girl?’

‘Do you love me?’ 

The mother’s hands freeze. She bites her lips and closes her eyes. ‘Why do you think I am trying to save you?’

The girl doesn’t get it but says, ‘I love you too, mother.’ 

The juju man snorts. ‘Why did the prostitute not want you?’ He places the skull meticulously beside him.

‘I was yet another mistake,’ the girl confesses. ‘She should not have trusted her last customer. He was not even handsome. He had bad teeth and bleached skin. He had preached love to her, fucked her for free; how could she have been so foolish? She would abort me no matter what.’

‘Girl!’ the mother yelps and plants a knock on her head. The girl cries out, clutching her mother’s hands. ‘I don’t know where she learned those words; please forgive us,’ she pleads. How many times will she have to warn the girl not to use the word fuck? Where did she even learn it?

The juju man waves her apologies away, ‘It’s the Abiku spirit. These spirits have visited this life many times. They know things we don’t.’

The mother clears her throat, ‘I thought Abikus were born to the same mother?’

The juju man whistles. He retrieves a small cup containing snail shells and white powder from a rotting wooden shelf. He mutters something incomprehensible and blows the powder into the face of the girl. She shrieks. ‘When did this happen?’

The girl weeps. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Mother… please.’

The juju man does not ask if the prostitute is also a Yoruba woman. He tells the mother to strip the girl naked. The girl tries to run, bites the mother’s wrist, scratches her face, and screams her lungs out. The mother’s determination reddens the whites of her eyes. Pinch me all you want, girl.

He pins the girl’s squirming body between his legs with a disturbing smile. ‘Hold her down!’ he commands as he grabs a razor from a sooty basket and reddens it with his own blood. Muttering a string of incantations, he uses the bloody blade to start carving long incisions on the girl’s chest and back. The mother’s hands quiver from the blood stains. Blood drips from the juju man’s fingers. The girl’s screams turn to whimpers.

The juju man washes away the blood with the water from the skull. He begins to chant, his one eye rolling back in his head.  After some time, he licks the girl’s forehead and sighs. ‘It is done,’ he says.

The mother pays him 100,000 naira.

*

The girl has lost some weight but has not had any episodes in three weeks. Some weight for some sanity – the mother believes this a fair exchange. Is her love for the girl unconditional? Why has she loved the girl for ten years? She doesn’t want to understand her love for the girl. Probing might reveal worms and a rottenness she would rather leave buried. The mother watches her through the window of her home office as she plays with a neighbor’s son and his German Shepherd. A boy of 11 with fair skin and black eyes that match the color of his hair curls. She looks happy.

How dare the girl look happy after causing her agony? The mother sighs. She realizes she is jealous. She loves the girl but hasn’t experienced much happiness since she birthed her. Months before the girl was born, the mother’s twin sister, Oluwatosin, died during childbirth. Before that, the mother had intended to name her first girl Tosin, short for Oluwatosin. After the death, she left the girl with no name. Well, girl is technically a name, and that’s all anyone has ever called her. Now and then, she still feels grief and guilt strangling her, tying a knot around her throat. The mother grunts in disgust and looks back up to see the girl and the boy are arguing now.

‘My mother is the best!’ the girl exclaims.

‘No, my mother is better than yours!’ the boy retorts.

‘All the mothers I have had combined are better than your ugly, wicked mother!’ the girl maintains.

The boy laughs. The mother stiffens. She smoothes her skirt and screams inside. At night, the mother sits the girl down and asks, ‘Tell me again, what was the third woman like?’

‘Will you take me to the scary juju man?’

‘No, my girl.’ The mother runs her hands through the girl’s full hair – the only good thing they have in common.

The girl refuses to say anything.

In the morning, the mother asks again, ‘What was the third woman like?’

‘She died while giving birth to me.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

The mother heaves and considers the girl. ‘And you left her too?’

‘I did not want to live without a mother.’

‘Is there someone who comes to tell you these things?’ the mother asks. Maybe she would enjoy motherhood if it was another child, another girl. Would she?

The girl shakes her head. They sit in silence. The girl yawns, ‘Mother?’

‘Yes, girl.’

‘I’m hungry.’

The mother says okay, gets up, and heads towards the kitchen. Poison crosses her mind again. Maybe I will do her a favor.

‘Mother?’ The girl calls after her.

‘Yes, girl?’

‘I love you very much.’

The mother returns to the girl, squats, and hugs her. ‘I know, girl.’

*

The girl has lost some more weight. Certainly, it hasn’t been a fair exchange, and the mother is concerned. The girl has been eating alright; what could be wrong? Dealing with her mental struggles is enough on its own. She’d better not come down with some fever! But she will look into it after this visit.

Today, she is wearing an expensive blue satin skirt and silver jewelry. With his thick black lips and balding head, the pastor is uglier in real life than in the picture she looked at the other day. The mother thinks his eyes look demonic, but that might be her imagination. 

The pastor says witches are trying to initiate the girl. He wipes sweat off his forehead. ‘But nothing is too much for our God to do!’ he declares.

‘Amen.’ The mother squeezes the girl’s hands. If there is nothing too much for God to do, why has he punished me for ten years? To be fair, God must be tired of her and all her sins. But she will trust him this one time.

The girl is eating candy, considering the pastor with suspicion.

‘Give me a minute, please.’ The pastor squints and opens a big notebook in front of him. After flipping through several pages, he confirms for the second time that the mother has paid the consultation fee of 400,000 naira.

‘You have come to the right place.’ He clasps his hands together on his desk. On his desk is a large notebook, a pen holder, a big Bible, a crucifix, a bottle of olive oil, a small bell, and a whip. ‘Tell me everything.’

The mother tells the pastor everything  — not everything, but she includes the visit to the juju man.

‘You should never serve two masters, but our Lord Jesus is merciful.’ The pastor is impatient, but the money is big, so he will try.

‘Girl,’ his voice is deep. ‘Do you fly at night?’

‘No,’ her voice is firm. She doesn’t fear the pastor as much. ‘I cannot fly at all.’

‘Who comes to tell you that you have lived before?’

She giggles, ‘Nobody. I just know.’

The mother looks away and attempts to adjust her skirt but catches herself. No! She folds her arms instead. She needs to stop wearing skirts. How did this ridiculous habit even start? Before becoming a mother, she rarely wore skirts. All the good older mothers wear long skirts in this country. They used to.

The pastor turns to the mother. ‘The girl is ten?’

‘Yes.’ She rearranges her necklace. She digs her hands into a black jumbo bag she came with and searches. For what?

‘You do realize the girl is old enough to cook up stories,’ the pastor says.

The mother retracts her hands inside the bag, ‘She did not cook up anything.’ How could she be so sure?

The girl sniffs and throws the candy at the pastor, who only smiles. The mother exercises self-control: She doesn’t enjoy knocking on the girl’s head.

‘Mother, are you not happy that I chose you?’

The mother is taken aback. Confusion forms deep creases on her forehead. She looks to the pastor for help.

‘Does your husband beat you?’ The pastor raises a brow at the woman. ‘Children learn a lot from their environment.’

The mother blinks, opens her mouth, and closes it. Then she says, ‘I don’t have a husband, Pastor.’

The pastor waits for more.

‘I have never been married.’ But I have lived many lives as a woman, she thinks.

‘Sooo…’

‘Don’t interrogate me. It’s a long story. Can you cure the girl or not?’

He wipes sweat off his face again. ‘Woman, if you want the girl to get well, tell me what I want to know.’

The mother’s eyes are pertinent. Maybe she should grab the girl, go home, and press a pillow against her face. Instead, she says, ‘Nobody married me. The man I was with was…’ she grinds her teeth, looks at the girl, ‘…married. I was 37, and he said he didn’t want the baby, but I was desperate to become a mother. I don’t know where he is now. That is all I can say.’

The pastor refrains from asking why she was dating a married man at 37 when her age mates were in their husbands’ houses with children. He doesn’t have the composure to spare. ‘Do you know the history of this man’s family? The evil spirits might be from his side.’

When the mother doesn’t respond, he says, ‘Well, it will not be easy. The evil spirits inside her are strong, but God is the greatest.’

The girl scowls.

‘I will need to attend to the girl alone.’

‘Why?’ The mother peers at his face.

‘Are you here to question me?’

The mother does not move.

‘You risk getting possessed if you join us,’ he says finally.

After a few tense minutes, the mother leaves the office.

The girl starts to wail, ‘Mother! Mother! Please don’t leave me!’

The door bangs shut, sealing the girl’s squeaks.

The pastor grabs her. ‘Shut up, you little brat!’ He pinches where he assumes her budding breasts are and scoffs, ‘You know more than your age, eh?’ The girl bites his wrist. He hisses and strikes her hard across the face. ‘You evil child!’ He ties a damp cloth around her mouth and takes some time to watch the girl thrash around. A list of things he could do to the girl mats his mind, but he fights his intrusive thoughts. He grabs the olive oil and sprinkles it on her. She shudders.

Well, I have to show proof somehow.

He grabs the whip and begins to flog the girl with it. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. The gag represses her grunts.

What seems like forever to the mother passes, and the pastor opens the door. The mother crashes in. Her body has been pressed hard against the door all this while. Dusting her skirt, she looks at the girl’s tear-stained face. She is curled up on the floor, convulsing. Thick red welts decorate her neck, face, arms, and legs. Something ruptures inside the mother, and she charges at the pastor. Her fingers claw his flesh.

The pastor pushes her away. ‘I healed her, woman!’

*

The girl is very sick. She has lost so much weight. The mother hates the doctors for asking too many questions. Did anybody abuse the girl? Did she come in contact with infected blades? Where did she eat these past few months?  What did she eat? The girl’s liver is failing, something resulting from an infection. The mother answers no to all their questions. The doctors run more tests. They take blood from the mother and run more tests. The mother hates that part, too. The girl refuses to eat or speak. The mother sits beside her sick bed and scolds the girl for falling ill. When nobody is looking, she begs the girl, ‘Please don’t leave me.’

It’s been six months since the pastor’s visit, and the girl has not had any episodes. But she hasn’t done much either. The girl stopped playing with the neighbor’s son, stopped being aggressive with her toys, and talked less to the mother.

The doctors tell the mother one morning that the girl is going to die. Her immune system has taken a hit. The doctors promise to do their best, but the mother doubts the Nigerian healthcare system. One night, the girl finally speaks. Her huge brown eyes have become smaller. Bones are poking out in several places. ‘Mother?’ she mutters.

‘Yes, girl?’ The mother clutches her fragile hands.

‘Do you know why I chose you?’

‘What are you talking about?’ She feels the urge to straighten her skirt, but she is wearing trousers now. Her heart is pounding.

‘You could have been the perfect mother for me.’

The mother closes her eyes and whispers, ‘I know.’ Guilt envelops her. Her dark past flashes in front of her. Recollections of her early 20s when she walked the streets of Lagos, prostituting her body to men, women, and animals; of the homes she destroyed, of the abortions she had. The vivid image of her early 30s when she had a shop in Balogun Market selling toys and enduring an abusive ex-fiance who would beat her with a hammer. Memories of her lying naked in bed with her twin sister’s husband – she had loved him and had celebrated when the pregnancy test returned positive. Reminders of the day her sister, Oluwatosin, died during childbirth.

‘Being a mother is very hard, girl,’ she sniffs. She hates it.

‘I never want one again,’ the girl says as she withdraws her hand and turns away.

The mother sighs.

The chain has broken.

She can finally move on.