Nine

I opened the door in the cellar, shining light on the faces of ten desperate souls waiting in darkness.

They asked who I was.

They asked who I worked for.

They asked how I found them.

I noticed the empty bowls scattered around them, I noticed the corner of the room filled with feces, I noticed the diseases some of them carried and the secretive look in others' eyes. I noticed the concern, the scorn in their voices, when they found out the internet knew where they were.

I had thought no one on the internet could figure out Amadi's address just based on the journals, but what I hadn't considered was that someone already knew and wanted to know where these poor souls were hidden.

That's when we heard the front door open and footsteps creak above us. I wanted to call, to ask if it was my mother coming to check where I was. One soul covered my mouth, tears in her eyes. Another soul closed the door and locked it.

We stood there in the darkness.

The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs to the cellar. Whoever this person was, they were in no rush, but they knew exactly where they were going.

We stood there in hiding.

Each step descending the staircase hinted at bare feet and a heavy figure. The whole house shook with their first step on the cellar floor. I began to question whether the house truly shook or if that was just myself.

We stood there in our glass prison.

When the footsteps arrived at our door, the person stopped and chuckled. It was the kind of chuckle your heart makes when it's on its last pump.

We stood there waiting for our hearts to stop as well when the voice spoke with the tone of an opening gate covered in centuries of rust:

"If I were a god, I would enact a test on my subjects. There would be no wrong answers, though some answers may lead to death-- but only for those who seek it."

A knife cut a hole in the door, shining light inside for the brief second before the figure peeked through, blocking visibility again.

"So tell me, which one of you seeks death?"

I heard stifled whimpering.

"Good. The test is not for any of you."

The figure backed away from the door, allowing me to peek out and see their face. I saw orange hair obscuring eyes, and I saw a smile enjoying itself too much.

Without reason, the door fell over as if its hinges had never existed. The person bolted into our chamber, grabbing hold of an old man and clutching a knife to his throat.

"And then there were nine."

Within seconds, we ran out of the cellar, up the stairs, and out of Amadi's home. I have seen no sign of Oya since then. At least.. I'm told that thing we saw was Oya. We're currently hiding in a cafe, myself and the nine running souls.

They tell me stories, tell me that something is seriously wrong with the world. That Orishas are real, except they're not at all on our side anymore, if ever they were. Some running souls refer to them as Alusi. Some call that one chasing us "Njoku Ji," the Alusi of yam. There really must be something seriously wrong with this world if the god of yam is chasing us across town.

I need to tell my mother, but these running souls are mad enough at me for telling you where their cellar hiding place was. They say, as soon as I post this, we will have to leave the cafe.

I don't know if this is one long fever dream in grief, but I want to wake up soon.

Cellar Door

Amadi had a door in his cellar. I have only been in his cellar once before, and it was out of curiosity before he ushered me out. There is little in the cellar but that door, that locked door with the voices coming from it. Amadi told me the voices were of "spirits preparing to return to The Marketplace."

According to these journals, there is a key to open the door.

I am afraid, but I will open it because no one else will.

Closure?

I thought this was behind me. I thought the grief could fade on its own. But apparently, Amadi had been leaving codes in the journal this whole time.

Here are the rest of his journals. If there is any way to understand his intentions in passing, I am up for it.

The journal

My secret that I must share with every stranger but hide from my closest friends is this: I took a journal from Amadi. I cannot justify this. It was as I saw his body for myself. His journal lay on the drawer next to where he hung.

I wanted to pretend, whatever was written inside, was being written from the afterlife, that he had left a journal of his experiences... but somehow they were here next to his...

I can't write when I cry.

I wish to immortalize you, Amadi, so I post your journals.

Now that I have written down my crime, I can... I don't know.

Personal, please don't read if you find this website

I awoke this morning to find my mother standing at the edge of my bed. This was normal for her, but she had this look in her eyes as if she had just stared into the face of nothingness and Obatala all at once (I shouldn't use that word; my teacher gets mad at me when I invoke anything non-Christian, but I have more on my mind right now). She did not say anything, she only gave me my things and sent me on my way to school.

My day, it was normal. I paused during lunch to think back to the look in mother's face, but I thought little of it at the time.

By the time I got home, I had just sat down in front of the TV when mother spoke the news.

"Amadi is dead," she said.

As my conscious mind processed this, I could feel, deep within me, all my happy memories begging to be let out. I wanted them to happen again, to live in them. Amadi lives across the street from us. He's like an uncle to me. He is the reason I feel so strongly for my beliefs; he believes religion is the most important part of human culture, and he has this way of speaking of Olódùmarè that makes you smile and think This man has seen God in ways no Christian or Muslim ever could.

That was offensive. I'm sorry.
I'm still grieving.

But I write for a reason. Amadi was found in his house last night with a noose. He died peacefully, even if I disagree with his methods. He did everything peacefully. He was a kind old man who would give every kobo he had if he thought it would make a difference in someone's life, whether it was the life of the men who threw stones at him for his beliefs, or whether it was the life of the girl across the street from him who wanted to afford her school textbooks.

I write to make sense of my feelings. Please, Eshu, help me make sense of this which you have given me.