By Osahon
Let me tell you something about Amina, the girl next door.
I wish I can say I know her well, but I don’t seem to understand her, not one bit. She came in to the flat next to mine a month ago and upon seeing her, I knew she was trouble. She walked in with her bum shorts and her long dreadlocks that flipped around and reached the floor. When I saw it, I had to reach for my own hair and wonder if we both came from the same country. And she’s not an half-caste, I’ve asked since I can’t seem to mind my business.
So back to the gist, this Amina girl, I discovered she likes to paint, not even the normal self-portrait that can be used to make money in this economy, but one- kind abstract nonsense. She didn’t go to the university and she has no other degree; I found that one out by doing some rounds of gossip.
But the paintings were still beautiful, I can’t lie. The first day she knocked on my door and showed me her work, I was transported to another world. I felt like I was swimming in pools made of gold and dancing in the most elite of the clubs. It was strange because it made me feel younger—twenty five and swinging my hips in skin tight clothing with big hoop earrings, teasing for the boys and partying with my girls while jamming to Fela, the Afropop king; a feeling so accurate that I had to write it down.
And you have to understand, my emotions are messy; even when I’m on my cycle I’m a ball of rage and yet a soft cloud, lightning striking and still waves. The emotion wasn’t mine. It was obvious that I was being manipulated. Yet I still looked everyday, like an idiot until it dawned on me. I had spotted a witch.
Yes oh! It could only be that. Even as I say it, it still seems unreal, but with each picture she has shown me since the month she carried her dreadlocks and waltzed into the place, there have been different versions of me twisting hips and moving around.
Now please, you can’t tell anyone else of this, especially not the police, because this is the part where it gets especially tricky, on the legal side. Lawyers hearing this close your ears! You cannot be tested until you experience the unexplainable. I broke into that girl’s house, stole all the pictures, and burnt them in a fire.
No, I’m not proud of myself. Maybe I overreacted. The girl started staring at me every time I walked into my flat, like last week when I was coming back from the market. I heard sounds from her room that night, like she was fighting with someone and then a few days later, she knocked on my door. I didn’t want to answer it this time, but this girl would not leave me alone, pounding and pounding like I was some sort of debtor owing her money, when it was only to show me picture.
But this one wasn’t as soft and detailed as the other. It was violent splatters of red and black, like she was in mourning. I was transported again but this time there was no music. I was in a big house, all alone, it seemed, my voice echoing with every word I said. Pictures hung from the wall but they were covered with dust and the next idea came and I was in the hair of someone, bushy and thick, and the dirty lice stared at me.
That’s all so far. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but I’ll gist you the next time something happens. I’m very afraid that I’ve done something to this girl.
*
So you know, guilt ate at me—as guilt does—and I confessed. The girl did small yanga when I told her, and her dada slapped my face, but I still felt bad. I did some apologizing and even knocked on her door but she didn’t answer me. I left to face my work and she faced hers.
Only for me to see her showing her walk to a different man another day while I was coming back from work. Let me not lie, I gave her one dirty look to make sure she knew that I was doing very well without her coming to disturb me. She ignored me and walked away, but her malice did not phase me. I thought it didn’t, only for me to see myself begging the man to show me what he had seen in the picture. He gave me the same look I had given her and shot the door on me.
Amina, the witch girl, decided to show me the depths of her malice by showing her artwork to everyone else in the flat, even the landlord. I rolled my eyes when I saw her passing by the hallway and slammed my shoulder into hers as she walked past me in the hallway. I decided to leave the girl and face my work, right? After all I was successful and even due for a promotion at my job.
But then it started. Everyone in the flat was talking about her. I felt like I couldn’t even stay in my room and not hear her annoying name. So I used my office as my new place of residence and stayed longer hours, but this girl’s name entered into my work place. Her name became a mosquito that just kept on sucking my blood everyday.
Witch, obviously. It was very obvious that she was not a normal human being. But I shrugged and kept her secret anyway, before they put tyre on her head and perform jungle justice and all the guilt would trouble me again.
I thought she was just a name, carelessly thrown around to disturb me, but she was actually a phenomenon. People discussed her, and of course, I perched in on the conversations, but I was never in the loop. Her paintings had turned into some kind of game, one that excluded me.
I can’t lie, it started to affect me. This girl entered my dreams and I wasn’t able to sleep well—always turning in the bed at night. At last, I could not take it anymore so I just knocked on her door the next day. She opened it for me but when she saw my face, Amina rolled her eyes at me and stared at her fingernails while planting her other hand on her hips, like she had something better to do when it was very clear she was jobless.
It shocked me how far I had fallen. Imagine me—a whole me!—at her doorstep, ready to beg for her forgiveness. But then something reminded me that since she was a witch, I should plead very well so she would not add generational curse on top of the malice. That is how I swallowed my pride, almost kneeling down for this girl, so she could leave me alone.
After all of that humiliation, she smiled and rushed into the room, coming back with one huge painting. I looked at it and felt relieved, teleporting my mind to whatever fantasy she had planned for me.
I saw all of them, all of the other parts of me—the ones swinging and dancing, young and naïve, old and greying—they looked at me, all the images of myself I saw when I examined each painting of hers. They led me through places made of glass and stone and I went through space and time, swimming in the cosmos and defying gravity. My life flashed before my eyes and I noticed that memories I didn’t remember and I was sure had never experienced were thrown into the mix, yet they were strangely familiar. The experience felt like it lasted hours and it made me wonder how mad I looked, just standing there in the hallway, staring at art. But the journey continued and I got twisted into different shapes, different forms. Somewhere along the line, I’m sure the faces of my ancestors appeared and I took it all in till all the versions of me walked away from me till they were out of sight, out of mind.
I’m telling you, my heart almost gave out when I came back to reality. I wasn’t even sure where I was for a few minutes. Amina, still smiling, shut the door on me after that, before I could say a word. For a while, I stood there dazed and speechless, but I entered into my flat and crashed on the floor, completely blacking out.
I don’t even know when I woke up. It was the best sleep I ever had.
*
She still shows the picture to everyone but me, but now, it feels like there’s less tension than before. We even greet each other whenever we see ourselves in the hallway.
I know you are waiting for some kind of explanation, but I don’t even know what happened to me yet. I bought one of her artworks and hung it on my wall, and each day I stand by it, waiting for an out-of-this-world experience.
I started traveling a lot, the closest thing to going to another world. I recently went to Amsterdam and I loved it there. The day after I came back and unpacked, I reached for paper and a brush and began to paint—curvy lines stroked all over until the paper was soaked in colours. It was a mess. I threw it in the trash. But I continue to paint. They are all garbage sha—none of them can represent what I feel.
Of course, I didn’t show it to Amina and I don’t think I ever will.
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