It was 3:30 a.m. in the morning. Afifekúmẹmu’s wake coincided with the first crow of the morning cock. He exuded perspiration. It was as though a masquerade pursued him from sleep. He shook his hand over his head and chanted vigorously: “Ikú kìi pa orógbó. Ikú kíkú kan kìi pa awùsá. Tí a bá láá mú òní, ọ̀la làá mú. Death is not on my face. Now is not my death.” He sat up against the wall, “But what does one make of this kind of dream? Me? Death? Not this time.” He invoked the earth and death to avert any looming danger wanting to befall him, “Ilẹ̀ afọkọ́yẹrí, the eater of flesh to rot, my flesh for you has become sour to swallow. Ikú dẹ̀dẹẹ̀gbò, my blood is bitter like bile; you never should drink from it.” For a little while longer, he looked dumbfounded. He thought of so many possibilities. When he wasn’t getting the answers he sought, he shrugged his shoulders and let out a hiss, “Shio! A mere lie. A child’s play.” He lay on the bed, side down and slept off. * * Later on when the day was ripe, Afifekúmẹmu would later beat his chest in the presence of his two wives and seven children he saw his deceased father in his dreams. All white, he had come telling him of an impending calamity; inputting into his subconscious mind a stern warning that he should not go on any outing that day. “Do not attend any social function while today lasts,” Afifekúmẹmu mimicked in gruffish voice the spectral warning before his marvelling audience. “Do not attend any social function while today lasts,” Afifekúmẹmu mimicked in gruffish voice the spectral warning before his marvelling audience. His dead mother appeared, he told them, in a sequel accompanied by an aura of darkness, her face as grave as a muddied stone. She cautioned, her head tilted—hiding the livid bores in her face—“Listen, listen, listen. The flood that carts away the mother hen can take away the chicks as well.” “Fife,” she called out. “Mother,” he responded. “Fife,” “Mother,” “Afifekúmẹmu,” “Mother,” thinking she would ask him how many times she had called him, he preceded in response, “Three times.” “Obedience is better than sacrifice.” She dissolved into thin air, her overwhelming aura following her. Now panting before his entire household, he told them how these were empty warnings, inert like the horse in Kola’s English textbook. His last son, Kola, broke into laughter at the instance of this analogy from his father, the mighty man of valour, the beginning and the end of effective juju. He watched with admiration and reverence on his face as his father went out for his early morning rite. Read more: https://www.literaturepadi.com.ng/2024/12/31/afifekumemu-ridwan-adedeji-fiction/