TheAfricanfuturist worldNnedi Okoraforintroduced inWho Fears Deatha book currently in development foran HBO series executive-produced by George R.R.
Martingrows withher new trilogy, She Who Knows.
When there is a call, there is often a response.
Image: DAW
She has had The Call.
But how can a 13-year-old girl have the Call?
Only men and boys experience the annual call to the Salt Roads.
Image: DAW
Whats just happened to Najeeba has never happened in the history of her village.
But its not a terrible thing, just strange.
Small, intimate, up close, and deceptively quiet, this is the beginning of the Kponyungo Sorceress.
Heres the full coverillustration by Greg Ruth, design by Jim Tierneyfollowed by the excerpt!
Onye Fulu Mmo Di?
[Who Sees a Spirit and Lives?]
Thats how hot it was that day.
I brought my portable from my pocket and looked at it.
At the top of the screen, it announced it was the hottest day of the year.
Then it decided to shut itself down for the next hour to keep from overheating.
It was dusk, yet still boiling hot outside.
Not unusual, but a little disturbing nonetheless.
The desert is strange.
I was standing there because this was the moment.
I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling it all, the fact of it.
Through my mouth, to my lungs, to the rest of my body.
Id been thinking about what it would be like for me in a few years.
Now I wasnt thinking about any of that at all.
My mind was full of a new knowledge.
I turned around, opened the door, and went inside to find my parents.
I was thirteen years old and I was a girl.
Yet I was sure.
I opened my eyes and paused, rubbing my forehead.
I cant believe this, I whispered.
Fry those yams, Najeeba, she said, her back to me.
The bowl of several stirred eggs was on the counter beside the stove.
Mama was making egg stew.
I joined her, my heart pounding hard.
I opened my mouth to speak.
Then my father entered the kitchen, grinning.
He put his arms around my mother.
Papa, I want to go this year, too, I blurted.
My parents stared at me and then my mother turned and looked at Papa.
Youve told our daughter before me?
No, he said, looking questioningly at me.
I havent told anyone.
I was about to tell you right now.
Mama looked hard at me with her near-black piercing eyes.
What does it feel like?
I thought for a moment.
Id never asked Papa, so I had no context to draw from.
I said the first thing that came to mind: Like .
like the wind is blowing me toward the door.
Mamas eyes grew wide and she looked at papa, who also looked shocked.
Ive given birth to three boys, not two.
Apparently so, Papa agreed.
Mama hugged me tightly, kissed my cheek, and then she shoved me back toward the now-sizzling yams.
But I noticed her eyes had grown wet.
She loved her solitude, but she didnt want me to go.
She stepped to the cube of salt and picked it up.
Salt is life, the three of us softly recited as she grated some into the bowl of eggs.
My father and I held out our hands and my mother grated some onto them.
We rubbed our hands together and then pressed them to our chests.
Salt has always been important to humanity, yes.
Even here in Jwahir, its worth more than most things.
But back in my village, salt was sacred to my people.
It was life but also culture, self-worth, our purpose for existing.
My mother poured the egg into the sizzling vegetables and began to slowly turn it.
Papa sat at the table, looking hard at me as he continued to rub his hands.
Its a week there, a week to the market, a week back.
I know, I said.
The way is not easy.
I know, Papa.
The Okeke at the market are camelshit people, Mama added.
They see us as abominations, even if you are kind.
Doesnt matter that we are all Okeke people.
It is the plight of being Osu-nu.
I know, Mama.
Youll still have to be kind, but strong.
Is your Abdul strong enough?
Abdul was my camel.
I will make him so, I said.
My parents could have a whole complicated conversation without opening their mouths.
My oldest brother Rayan said they spoke through their eyes, but it was more than that.
When they talked like this, I always wanted to leave because it just made me feel so .
But I stayed where I was, letting the yams brown and then flipping them over.
I carefully took them out, stacking them on the cloth-covered plate.
Mama gave the egg stew a few more turns and ladled it all into a large bowl.
The stew was fluffy and hot and I had no doubt that it was tasty.
With the yams, it was the perfect meal.
Who will maintain our vegetable garden while youre away, Najeeba?
my mother asked me, preparing a plate of the stew and yams for my father.
You will, Mama, I said.
No, she said, smirking.
I will pay someone to do it.
The three of us laughed.
Of course she would.
She Who Knows: Firespitter by Nnedi Okorafor excerpted by permission of DAW Books.
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