Welcome to this second edition of Nuzo’s Nightmare Pit, and I hope you enjoyed last month’s short story, Bad Meat. The story I’ll be sharing with you this month, is inspired by a real-life experience. So, join me as I indulge my passion for story-telling in the old-fashioned and folksy style of open-fireside-full-moon-roast-corn-lazy-nights-and-lazier-clucking-hens childhood magic!
This month’s story is one I’ve titled, Veil Mary. Happy Reading!
It’s been almost a month now since I last saw Emeka. Apart from a few rushed texts, he hasn’t answered my calls or even my WhatsApp messages. If he had a Facebook page, I’d be stalking it by now. But the useless man is a social media philistine, and I’m now starting to wonder if there’s more to his archaic online habits—maybe he’s cheating on me, just as he’s cheating on his wife with me. Sudden rage flares in me at the thought. Might explain why he wouldn’t want his face recognised by another one of his gullible victims if they stumble across his Facebook or Insta pages. Bastard!
I’m tempted to send him another text, but I force my fingers to resist the temptation—what’s the use? It’s not as if he’ll respond to it anyway, the cheating bastard. Again, I curse myself for the rice-brained fool I am. If I hadn’t been so distracted by all the money and gifts he lavished on me, I would have discovered his address before now and gate-crashed his useless matrimonial home in a blink. After all, he’s promised to make me his second wife as soon as he divorces his wife, a woman that goes by the boring name of Nkechi.
According to Emeka, Nkechi is both infertile and “bush”. He married her from his village in the days he was a mere petty trader, and she’s struggled to settle into his new life of wealth and privilege. That’s one of the reasons why Emeka loves me. According to him, I’m everything his illiterate wife isn’t, beautiful, educated, sophisticated and classy. Not forgetting I’m much younger than Nkechi by almost eighteen years. Emeka says he’s the same age as his wife, although something tells me he’s a bit older than the thirty-eight years he celebrated last year. Still, what do I care about his age when his generosity pays my university fees and my hairdresser’s exorbitant charges?
My widowed mum always says a man is only as attractive as his wallet, and every woman must use her God-given blessings to pave her way in our cruel society. As her only child, I’ve been blessed with brains and looks, and without the help of rich, older men like Emeka, it would’ve been impossible for me to enter university, what with the high cost of education in our country. I pay one of my lecturers a termly bribe money in lieu of sex, otherwise, the useless man would fail me in all my modules, just as he’s done with several girls in our year who have refused his advances. Emeka’s generosity ensures I never have to submit my body to that vile, obese toad till I graduate from his class next term.
With a loud hiss, I return to my Insta page and start browsing my latest photos. A warm feeling replaces my earlier angst. I think I can definitely give Nicole Scherzinger a run for her money. Emeka may not be on social media, but I know the fool man can see my Insta photos—eat your heart out, mister. See what you’re missing, idiot man. I’m thinking I’ll make him regret the way he’s treated me by pretending I now have a rich, young, and handsome boyfriend. At the thought, I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline.
“Uzo, are you awake?” I turn to my roommate stretched out on her single bed across from mine. Silence. I hiss loudly. I know she can hear me, but just pretending to be asleep. It’s only 9 o’clock at night, yet the lazy girl is already in bed. If we weren’t both members of the Kardashian Club in our university, I wouldn’t bother sharing a room with her. All she has going for her are our trademark faux eyelashes, long hair extensions, extended butt and glamourous garbs…oh, and the red name badge with the famous name,” Kim-Girl”. Every member of our fraternity is known as a “Kim-Girl”. Uzo lacks the other qualities that go with being a bonafide member of our exclusive Kardashian Fraternity; the go-getter ruthless drive to succeed in everything at all costs, fair or foul. That’s why she’s still stuck with her childhood sweetheart, David, a devastatingly good-looking guy with nothing to offer a woman but his killer looks. But Uzo can afford to date poverty. Her father is almost as rich as our president. Lucky girl!
“Uzo, I know you’re awake,” I say going over to shake her roughly. She moans and opens her eyes, glaring at me with irritation through her green contact lenses. “It’s urgent, okay? I need your help desperately. When next are you seeing David?”
“Tomorrow. Why?” Uzo gives me a suspicious look. Despite knowing my preference for rich older men, the fool girl is still convinced that I, and every woman in the universe, are interested in her dirt-poor boyfriend.
“I need to take a photo with him, okay? I’m…”
“Why?” Uzo cuts me off, leaping up from her lying position as if stung by a scorpion.
“This girl! Just chill, okay?” I laugh, shaking my head wryly. “I want to borrow David for a photo, so that Emeka can get jealous when he sees it on my Insta,”
Uzo frowns. I can see crazy thoughts running through her mind by the intense manner she peers at me. One would think I’m planning to make away with her inheritance.
“I’m not sure about this, Mary. What if other people see the photo and start thinking David has dumped me for you?” she asks, still frowning suspiciously.
“Of course, they won’t. Everybody knows just how tightly you and David are glued to each other. But Emeka doesn’t know about David, and I think it’ll drive him crazy when he sees me and David together. You know how things are with me. I’m not like you with a rich father to indulge your every whim. Without Emeka, I might end up having to sleep with that disgusting Mr Ubiam in order to graduate.”
“But what about Chima and John? Surely, they give you enough money to make up for whatever you’re missing from Emeka,” Uzo says in that disapproving voice that gets my goat.
“Come on; you know very well that Chima’s pittance only pays for my hairdresser while John only comes through after I sleep with him, the tightwad. Emeka is the only one that is constant with his donations, not forgetting he’s the only one that’s ready to divorce his wife for me, unlike the other two idiots. Come on, Kim-girl; you know I have no one to provide for me. Just lend me David tomorrow and I promise I’ll delete the post once Emeka sees it; cross my heart.”
I weave the sign of the cross and smile winningly at Uzo. It’s an emotional blackmail tactic that’s always worked for me. As long as I keep her feeling guilty about our unjust inequalities, all will be well in my life. I’ve since discovered that guilty people are the easiest type to fleece.
“Alright; just this once, mind you,” Uzo capitulates as I expect. “Honestly Mary, I don’t know why you always create drama out of everything. I’ll tell David about it, but only on condition that I take the photo myself with my own mobile phone.”
“Of course; whatever you say.” My heart is zinging with bliss and I’m ready to hug her. But I restrain the impulse. I can’t afford to let Uzo know that I’m fazed by her generosity. It might give her the impression her friendship is more important to me than mine is to her, and change the dynamics of our relationship.
***
My tactic works. David and I are the Nigerian Kourtney and Younes on Insta, and the likes sky-rocket; so much so that Uzo insists I delete the post within hours, the jealous cow. But the philandering dog’s been well-leashed by then. Emeka calls the very same day asking to meet up. He gives me this yarn about being in Dubai and South Africa on business and tells me he’s got an amazing gift he thinks I’ll adore.
“This USA guy that’s been after me for ages gave me $1000 cash last week; no measly Naira shit,” I fib with a bored yawn, trying to halt the heady rush of triumph pumping up my heartbeats—If this fool man thinks he can buy back my love so easily, he has another think coming. “The guy’s been after me for months and in fact, he says he plans to give me a car for my 21st birthday next month.”
“Mary! Come on, Baby; why are you talking like this, eh?” Emeka whines down the phone. “You know I already promised you a car for your graduation. Why are you letting this useless guy deceive you, eh? These young men are all talk and no action, trust me. He’s the one on the Instagram photo with you, isn’t he?”
Bingo! Now I know for sure that the cheating rat definitely saw my photo with David, and once again, I feel rage burn in my heart. But I quell it. I need the man’s money after all, and possibly his ring on my finger. After that, I’ll show him the real me. Nobody messes with me and gets away with it. That little bitch, Uju, is still nursing the acid face my hired thugs gifted her after she dared mess around with my ex. As for said ex, fool man is now a pedestrian after his car mysteriously burnt down. It’s not cheap keeping thugs in one’s payroll, but it’s worth every penny I pay them to get justice for myself.
I glance at my mobile phone. It’s almost 7pm and I need to be dressed before Emeka arrives in thirty minutes for our date. Uzo is spending the night with David, likely to ensure his heart still belongs to her after our brief virtual pairing on Insta—Rice-brained fool girl! I’m almost tempted to snatch David from her just to prove a point. There’s no man I can’t get if I put my mind to it, and pulling David will be like stealing candy from a child. I put the thought away for another day, watching a small smile play around my lips in the long mirror attached to the wardrobe door. With a deep sigh, I pick up my mascara to touch up my lashes.
The room plunges into sudden darkness. Bastard NEPA strikes again! Sure, everyone knows that PHCN now manages electricity supply in Nigeria instead of the defunct NEPA (Nigerian Electric Power Authority). But it’s a moot point. PHCN and NEPA are one and the same; an ill-managed company designed to deliver nothing but darkness to the citizens of this wretched country. Only the rich or those that can afford to buy black-market petrol at exorbitant prices can afford a generator to power their homes when NEPA strikes. It’s a daily torture Nigerians have learnt to endure with the same dark humour they employ to stomach their corrupt leaders.
With another angry curse, I reach for my mobile phone and turn on the torch. It bathes the small room in a murky glow. I search for my matchbox and soon light up a candle. I can’t afford to run down my mobile battery by using the torch function, just in case electricity doesn’t return in time for me to recharge it. I tuck my mobile into my jeans pocket and pick up my mascara before returning to the mirror. Holding up the candle before me, I lean forward, as close to the mirror as I can in the gloom, mascara brush all ready.
Something moves in the shadow, a flirting image in the mirror that disappears before I can blink. I’m not sure what it is, and I instantly lean back, away from the mirror, a frown creasing my forehead. I glance behind me, but the room is empty and the door shut. I shake my head and raise my brows in irritation—likely a moth or some insect magnified by the shadows. I kiss my teeth and return to my beauty routine. Emeka will be here in minutes and I’m yet to sort out my face. Even though I always keep him waiting whenever he visits, I still like to be ready. Fool man might just take it upon himself to gate-crash our female-only hostel and catch me not looking my coiffured best. I lean close to the mirror again with my candle to apply the mascara to my left lashes.
And I see it! Oh Jesus and my ancestors! I see the unspeakable horror staring at me from the shiny surface of the black mirror. Terror douses my body in icy waves. My head contracts and expands, swelling into a great ripe melon that’s ready to burst, spilling blood and pulped brain matter on the laminate flooring of our room. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out of my frozen lips. It’s as if I have become the stone-gargoyle leering at me grotesquely in the mirror.
What I see in the mirror is the face of a woman, at least, I think it was once a female face. The distorted and fearsome features of the creature reflected next to my image has an unnatural ugliness that is beyond anything ever seen on human soil. It hovers right behind my reflection on the mirror, static, watchful. Its blood-red eyes glitter malevolently, trapping my petrified gaze in a hypnotic hold. All I see is a fearsome, terrible face; no physical body or hair. Just a great bearded face wrought from the greyest stone. Despite the beard and repulsive, elongated features, the gargoyle wears a distinctly female face, right down to the beauty spot that dots its right cheek. Pure evil emanates in waves from the stone-monster, and I feel my body shiver uncontrollably, goosebumps layering my skin.
Then the gargoyle starts to move—Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Terror-tears roll down my cheeks, ruining my make-up with streaks of black mascara. I watch helplessly as the stone-creature floats closer to my petrified face in the mirror, so close that it slams into my mirror face. In a blink, it begins to spread, just like grey wallpapering, coating my face in a total eclipse that gradually masks my face in concrete grey. Now, all I can see is just one terrible face and one human body in the long mirror; my body and the gargoyle’s face. Invisible, icy hands cup my face, freezing my skin, my flesh, my blood, and my bones into a numb hard lump.
Jesus! Jesus! Oh Amadioha have mer... mercy! I’m shaking, shrieking, shouting prayers to every god and ancestor I know; but no sound emits from my lips—its lips—its wide leering lips that mock my terror with cold hardness. I want to escape, but just like my trapped voice, I’m frozen before my botched image in the accursed mirror.
Then the face—my new face—smiles. Oh Jesus, save my soul! Its corrupt lips give a leer of undiluted evil and unbridled arrogance. I feel my entire body shudder with terror and repulsion. I know I did not smile, yet this monstrous face that has stolen my face smiles on its own volition, a smile that mocks and curses me, drenching my heart in horror. And in that instant, the mirror cracks. Jagged lines zigzag violently across its surface like lightning streaks before it explodes in a shower of glittery shards. The stone-gargoyle vanishes, together with my image.
And I’m released from my trance. My fingers loosen their hold on the candle and it drops to the floor, plunging the room in darkness once again. Whimpering like a whipped dog, I stumble towards the door and out into the long corridor of our hall of residence. My mobile is ringing as I stagger in the darkness towards the flight of stairs leading to the entrance of the building. I know it’s Emeka calling to let me know he’s arrived, but I don’t bother answering. I just want to get out of the building and its evil as fast as I can. My fingers run frantically across my face, seeking my features in a frenzied bid to confirm their existence. I heave a sigh of relief when I feel the familiar spikes of my faux lashes, the gold ring piercing on my nose, and the soft folds of my full lips—just a mirror illusion…all my imagination…still…that ghastly face…oh Jesus!
I start to run down the stairs. At least, I try to run. But for some strange reason, my limbs feel as if they’ve been moulded with concrete, and every step is a mammoth chore. New terror fuels my flight as I stagger clumsily down the stairs, hiccupping and hyperventilating. Even when I see a couple of students heading towards the stairs, their mobile torches winking like stars, my panic remains unabated. I brush past them and in no time, I stumble out of the building and into safety—Thank you, Jesus! Thank you! Thank you! I stoop and take deep gulps of humid air, trying to stem my thudding heart.
Outside, the campus is shrouded in darkness, albeit the waning moon casts a gloomy glow. I see Emeka’s black SUV parked in the usual corner outside the hostel and I lurch towards it like a person nursing mauled limbs. I pull at the door, but it’s locked. I remember Emeka always locks it when he’s parked, just in case some armed robber tries to get in and hijack the expensive vehicle. Emeka sees me and quickly unlocks the door. I jump into the car, heaving and panting, my heart racing so fast I struggle to breathe.
“Baby, are my eyes deceiving me or is this really you that’s made it to my car on time?” Emeka teases, as he leans over to hug me. He tries to kiss me, but I’m in no mood to be kissed. I turn my face away, and his kiss lands on my hair extensions. I don’t need any romantic rubbish tonight. I just want to be held by warm, strong, human arms till the horror I witnessed in the mirror vanishes from my mind. My body is trembling so much that Emeka feels it. He pulls away and leans back into his seat.
“Baby, are you okay?” his voice is concerned. He switches the interior light and instantly the car is bathed in brightness. “Come, Baby; big daddy is here to take care of…”
Emeka doesn’t finish his sentence. In the bright light of the car, I see his face, the sudden contorted features, the horror-goggled look in his eyes, the terror that quakes his massive body before he starts to scream. He shrinks away from me, shielding his eyes from my face. I almost wet my knickers. A man’s scream in a condensed space is one of the most terrifying sounds of nature.
“Emeka…Sugar-pie…what is it?” my voice is as terrified as Emeka’s shrieks.
“You…your face! D…dog! Oh Jehovah! Get away from me…go! Go!” Emeka opens the door and pushes me out of the car. I stumble and fall to the ground. He drives away in a screech of tyres before I can get up. My heart is racing faster than his SUV. Thoughts swirl in my head like churning waves—what did Emeka see in my face? Oh my ancestors, what is happening to me?
***
It’s been a year since the evil entered my life from the mirror. In that space, I’ve lost all the friends, lovers, and acquaintances I once knew. These days, I live in our village, Ukari, with my widowed mother and her chickens and goats. Save for my mother, nobody can see my face; for to see my face is to see your true face of evil reflected back to you. Emeka had seen the face of a snarling dog when he looked into my face on that terrible night outside my hostel. I never heard from him again after his final text. Uzo shrieked that I had a cat’s face, a cat with the greenest evil eyes. She ran from our room and wouldn’t return till I vacated the room and the university for good.
Others have seen snakes, hawks, pigs, spiders, worms, excrement, coins, and fire on my face. Even our village priest claims he saw the devil himself on my face when I went to him for a botched exorcism. The witch-doctor chased me away from his shrine before I could show him my face. I think he already knew the evil that lay hidden behind my shroud.
No two people ever see the same face when they look into my cursed face. My mother thankfully, is the only one that still sees my face, although she can only see my toddler face on my twenty-two-year-old body. As for me, I see nothing but a rock-face, a terrible face hewed of the hardest stone, unyielding, jagged, remote and hard. Yet, to see this, I have to look into a bowl of clear water. For no mirror can countenance my cursed face without cracking.
In the early months of my curse, I used to check my face every day to see if it had reverted back to its normal mien. But the mirrors kept cracking till I despaired of looking. These days, I no longer look. I have no mirror in my possession and my Insta page has been deleted for good. I would kill myself if I didn’t fear purgatory and hell, not to mention the eternal curse of my ancestors. I also pity my mother, who has rediscovered her joy in her infant daughter. She spoon-feeds me, bathes me and sings me lullabies. She would swaddle me in Pampers if I didn’t resist her with my adult strength. She only sees the innocent face of her baby daughter instead of the corrupt face of her adult spawn. Lucky Mammi! She’s the only one not cursed by my stone-face.
And the children.
For some inexplicable reason, the children are not affected by my curse. They look at me as I stumble along in my new clumsy gait and giggle and point. They don’t shrink from me like their adults, or screech in horror when they see my unveiled face. I ask them what they see and they tell me they see a blank canvass, a grey face devoid of features. They laugh and ask me what happened to my nose, my eyes, my lips, my cheeks, and my ears; why I wear a marble mask that shrouds my features in total invisibility. Finally, they ask me why I walk like a drunk when there's obviously nothing wrong with my limbs.
I have no answer for the children. All I know is that the evil in the mirror stole both my face and my walk. I think it poisoned my blood with the same evil concrete that formed its gargoyle face. Every part of me feels like a hundred bloated corpses lying together in one gigantic iron coffin. When I sit on a chair or lie on a bed, they break and crumble from the unholy weight of my body. Now I sit and sleep on the floor, just like a “bush" woman from the deepest village; me, who was once the best of the Kim-Girls! It’s a good thing I’m now friendless. The scorn of the villagers is bad enough, but I would choose it any day over the pity of my former Fraternity friends.
As for my face, I think what the children see on its blank surface is their unwritten future waiting to be stamped with the lessons and footprints of life—and their unknown destinies, perhaps. And for their sake, I mask my face with a black, gauze veil. I’ll not have them driven to insanity like some adults should they one day, grow and stumble into their bad truths on the accursed planes of my face, even as they jeer and make fun of my black veil that protects them from themselves. They call me Veil Mary, and I can live with their taunts.
These days I spend my days before our Holy Mother in the village church, praying for her mercy and intervention. Even though I cry before her statue, just as I've cried everyday since my curse, my tears remain frozen behind my lids. Like everything else in me, my tears have turned to stone.
I see the priest come out from behind the curtained vestry and quickly make a u-turn. Like the rest of the villagers, he avoids me whenever I enter his holy sanctuary. I prefer his absence. My business is with our blessed virgin. We share the same name after all. Maybe one day she’ll hear my fervent prayers and free me from my curse. Till then, I live in despair and hope, praying for my own Fatima miracle—Hail Mary…blessed art thou amongst women…. holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen!
End
Q & A
I hope you enjoyed this little, nasty piece of fiction. I heard this story from a family friend during a visit to their village in my early teens. Through the car window, I recalled seeing a young woman whose entire head was covered with a thick black veil. She was walking along the dust-path in the blistering mid-day heat, her gait heavy and somewhat shambolic despite her apparent youth. It was a strange sight indeed, as my Igbo community are Christians, and so seeing a veiled woman was highly unusual. In fact, I heard some urchins chanting, “Hausa Mama”, as they ran alongside the veiled woman, their little dusty faces alight with glee and mischief—(The Hausa community in Nigeria are predominantly Muslim). When I asked who she was and why she was veiled, I was told the story you just read, albeit, with a great deal of added fiction to entertain you. Till date, the moral of the story has stayed with me whenever I’m tempted to spend excessive vanity-time before a mirror.
And now for a few unresolved questions I guess you must be dwelling on :)
Q: So, who exactly is Hausa Mama?
A: According to my family friend, the veiled woman the urchins referred to as “Hausa Mama” used to be a well-known village beauty with an unhealthy obsession with mirrors, till one night, she peered into the mirror with a lit candle and became possessed by a demon-spirit that turned her face into a monster’s mask. I would have given anything to see Hausa Mama’s face beneath her veil, but alas, it was not to be. However, till today, I’ve never gazed into a mirror in the dark, and definitely not while holding a lit candle!
Q: So, who or what exactly appeared in the mirror and why did it appear?
A: According to some of our Igbo beliefs, it is unlucky and dangerous to look into a mirror at night. This is because evil spirits and entities can use the medium to possess unwary souls. The entities that usually appear in the mirror are inevitably summoned subconsciously by the victims, either by their deeds, their words, their beliefs, or their desires. I believe that Veil Mary subconsciously summoned the demon of negative truths, the entity that shows only the evil or bad souls of humans. So, whatever anybody sees on her face, reflects back the evil part of their nature, just as Veil Mary can only see the stone-hard ruthlessness of her own soul. Fingers crossed, more prayers and hail Marys may yet thaw her face, and restore her to humanity once again as she continues her torturous journey of self-transformation. Who knows?
Remember, do share your experience of these thought-provoking tales of terror and mystery. Introduce your friends to Nuzo’s Nightmare Pit.
Terrific story, Nuzo. I like how you can write a story set in a rural village one time, and then give us this vapid city girl and her selfish life the next time. Both are equally African, only the time period has changed.
And that curse: "Oh Jesus and my ancestors!" That is SO evocative of modern Africa, hedging one's bets by calling out to the Christian God and the tribal spirits in the same breath! That was my favorite moment.