An image of Benin.
The chalk-faced juju friar (our township's self-declared pope) scolded the fire while circling it, jumping from one foot to the next, with his red-mud beads gyrating. The stream of sweat smudged the chalk, leaving white tiger patched on his coal cheeks.
Osas, Ameze, and I stared at him, wondering if, no, hoping his scolding worked. The fire fought back, hissing out kerosene scent and firewood smoke. We cried, even though Mommy wasn't peeling onions for okra soup. The fire, not daddy, thrashed us, because the juju man made her mad.
We ran all the way home, not even looking left or right when we crossed Ekpere Road, never noticing the curtain in the sky.
Maybe just keep focused longer on the friar. That's a very moving description of him. Lovely writing.
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