The funky train had miles to go, but already Sunny could see Zuma Rock. It was about two hundred feet high, the size of a soccer field, and dark as a humongous piece of charcoal. At its center was what looked like a crude, gigantic white face.
Sunny’s mother had brought her to see it during their visit three years ago. The man who gave them a tour said it was believed that Zuma Rock possessed mystical powers. He said anyone who climbed or went too close to it would never be seen again.
Zuma Ajasco, the Abuja Leopard headquarters, was set right at the foot of Zuma Rock, hidden from Lambs by powerful old juju. This was where the festival took place, too. Now the Zuma Rock myth made sense to Sunny.
About a mile from the rock, they turned onto a narrow road. People walking on it had to scramble aside to avoid getting run over. Most of them were dressed in different kinds of traditional attire, but some wore jeans, pants, and dresses, too.
When the festival came into sight, Sunny wasn’t sure if she was more in awe of its sheer hugeness or of Zuma Rock itself. The festival grounds were the size of seven soccer fields, partially in the rock’s shadow on the other side of the highway. Because of the rock, passersby wouldn’t have seen the festival even if there wasn’t strong juju hiding it.
“How come Zuma Ajasco isn’t the central West African headquarters instead of Leopard Knocks?” The moment the words were out, Sunny wanted to take them back. Anything to avoid the look Anatov gave her.
“In nineteen ninety-one, they made Abuja the capital of Nigeria instead of Lagos. Now the scholars of Zuma Ajasco think that Abuja should also become the Leopard central headquarters of West Africa instead of Leopard Knocks,” Anatov said. “Bullsh-nonsense. Leopard Knocks has been Leopard Knocks for over a millennium. To move it would dislocate all that we hold dear.”
He paused. When he continued, he sounded less angry. “I want you to know this now, before you all officially enter the extravagance of Zuma Ajasco. The idea of what is appropriate and respectable differs amongst scholars. The people are like people anywhere, but the scholars are the leaders. If they are rotten, things can go very wrong.
“Zuma Ajasco has only two scholars. You’ll know Madame Koto when you see her. I’ll introduce you if the chance arises. You can’t miss her; she’s a descendent of the ancient line of Tall Men. She’s also quite… wide. People say she eats five-course meals four times a day. It’s believed she secretly owns one of the world’s biggest oil companies; no one knows which one. When you see her, she’ll be surrounded by very attractive men, none of whom she is married to. She refuses to marry on principle.
“Then there’s Ibrahim Ahmed. He might be a hundred and twelve, but he looks as if he’s lived for over three hundred years. He has fifteen wives, owns a hundred-and-fifty-room mansion that changes shape and location every five months, and is rumored to be working with some Iraqis to break the physical plane between Earth and Jupiter. It’s also rumored that he’s dined in the White House many times with various American presidents. He makes his money in oil. You see the problem?”
Sunny did. These didn’t sound like Leopard scholars, who were supposed to live by the philosophy of modesty and only be interested in chittim and the welfare of the people.
“These fools passed the fourth level?” Sasha looked skeptical.
“Oh, those two aren’t fools,” Anatov said. “No, no, no. And yes, they’ve passed the fourth level. They’re capable of great things, but potential doesn’t equal success.”
Jesus’s General pulled the funky train up to the festival entrance, which was marked by a red wooden arch, and they got off.
The arch was huge, and carved to look like braided plants-but as the breeze blew, the wooden plants swayed with it. Lurking at the arch’s peak was a life-size wooden leopard. It inspected all who entered. Sometimes it sat up, stretched, and even growled. Mainly it crouched and watched.
“It watches for Lambs,” Anatov said. “That great piece of juju was brought here for the festival by one of the scholars from Cameroon.”
Sunny felt sick. What did it do when it spotted a Lamb? It may have been wooden, but it looked alive. And hungry. She wasn’t a pure Leopard Person. Would it sniff the Lamb-ness on her skin? She walked as close to Anatov as she could. Her legs felt like boiled cassava. They passed under the arch. All the while the leopard stared intensely, specifically at her.
“It’s watching me,” she whispered to Chichi.
Chichi laughed. “Maybe it thinks you look tasty.”
Sunny held its stare as they passed. The leopard growled deep in its throat. It turned around to watch her once they were through. Minutes passed before she stopped expecting it to come bounding through the crowd to tear her apart.
The festival grounds were paved with cobblestone, and there was highlife, hip-hop, and jazz playing from three different stages. There were booths selling food and souvenirs, and there were tons and tons of people. She must have heard more than fifty different languages. She saw a group of children crowded around a man claiming to have gone to the moon; a large tent with a cross in the front that said, THE LEOPARD SOCIETY OF THE LORD; another where she heard hundreds reading from the Koran.
People used juju to light their cigarettes, push baby carriages, and block out cigarette smoke (she needed to learn that one). She even saw some kids batting a tungwa around. As it floated inches from the ground, they dared each other to kick it. The brown skin ball finally exploded on an unlucky boy, and all the others laughed and pointed.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Anatov said. The wrestling match wasn’t for another forty-five minutes.
The food was the usual, and Sunny was grateful. She ordered a large bowl of okra soup and garri and a bottle of Fanta. It was hot, spicy, and good. But as she sat at the table with the others, that feeling of being completely out of her element crept back in. Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic, drowning in the unfamiliar and unpredictable. “Where do you think the bathroom is?” she asked, wiping her hands with a napkin.
“On the other side of that booth,” Chichi said, pointing.
She got up before Chichi could say anything about coming with her. She needed a moment alone. There was a long line. She tried to hold back tears. Still, a few harmless tears were better than picking a fight or destroying things. She walked past the bathroom and came to an open field of dry grass. After making sure no one was around, she broke down sobbing.
“Excuse me, are you all right?” someone asked in strangely accented English.
When she looked to the side, she started. Then she wanted to cry some more. More strangeness. The man wasn’t just tall; he was like a human tree. He had to be over seven feet. He wore a long yellow caftan with a heavily embroidered neckline and yellow pants. He was dark black-skinned like some of the yam farmers back home who worked in the sun all day.
She just stared at him. Instead of getting annoyed, he smiled. It was the brightest, warmest smile she’d ever seen, and she couldn’t help smiling back. He handed her a yellow handkerchief. “Thanks,” she said, looking at it. “Are you sure, I-”
He gave her the beautiful smile again and said, “My gift to you.”
She blew her nose into it and looked up at him. She figured she owed him some sort of explanation, but all she could say was, “I-I’m a free agent.” She felt so stupid.
“Oh, I see,” he said, understandingly. He put his arms behind his back and looked at the field. She followed his eyes, straightening up and putting her hands behind her back, too. He just had this aura about him that said, “Whatever I do is good.”
“I found out only months ago,” she said. “My teacher brought me here with my other, um, classmates.”
“Who’s your teacher?” he asked.
“Anatov,” she said. “The Defender of Frogs and All Things Natural.”
“He still uses that title?” He laughed. “Brother Anatov earned it years ago when he first came to Nigeria from America. The man went on and on about being a vegetarian and how frogs were the thermometers of the Earth. I know him well. Good man,” he said. “You’re from Leopard Knocks, then.”
She nodded.
“Well, let me tell you this,” he said. “You’re neck-deep in Leopard society right now. The good thing is that it doesn’t get any deeper than this. Sometimes it’s best to just jump in. Then, after that first shock, you can handle anything.”
“Yeah,” she said, wiping her eyes again. “I-I got my juju knife today, too.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said. He looked down at her. “Use it well and true. There are more valuable things in life than safety and comfort. Learn. You owe it to yourself. All this”-he motioned around them-“you’ll get used to in time.”
He patted her on the head and walked away. She held the handkerchief to her chest. Only when she turned around did she realize a crowd had gathered to watch them.
They had really good seats for the match.
Within the hour, the open field was filled with rows and rows of folding chairs. There was a large area in the center for the match. Within minutes, the chairs were all taken. It looked like everyone at the festival was here.
They sat in a special section in the left front specifically for the scholars and their chosen students. On the way to their seats, Anatov introduced them to Madame Koto. He had described her perfectly. In height, she easily rivaled the man that she’d spoken with. But where he was stick-thin, Madame Koto was very, very fat. She was surrounded by three very attractive men, each wearing an expensive designer suit and a smug smile. They treated Madame Koto like their queen.
Madame Koto looked down at the four of them and haughtily said, “It’s good to meet you.” Then she made for her seat with her three men in tow. Two boys and two girls, presumably her students, also followed. They looked at Sunny, Chichi, Sasha, and Orlu with great interest, but Madame Koto didn’t introduce them.
Sugar Cream was there, too, sitting with a group of very old men near the back of the special section. They were having an animated discussion and didn’t seem interested in the wrestling match at all. They stopped talking when Anatov brought Sunny, Chichi, Sasha, and Orlu to say, “Hi.” The old men didn’t return the greeting, instead staring at the four of them like they had sprouted wings.
Today Sugar Cream wore a long, silky, European-style cream-colored dress and several cream-colored bangles that clacked whenever she moved her arms. “Chichi, Sasha, Orlu. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” She only gave Sunny a stern look before moving on. Sunny felt like a dirty dishrag.
The old men finally broke out of their staring trance and introduced themselves. Sugar Cream had to translate. They were from the Ivory Coast and Liberia.
“How many languages does Sugar Cream speak?” Sasha asked Anatov as they sat down.
“At least ten,” Anatov said. “Probably more.”
“What about you?”
“Who knows?” Anatov said. “Who’s counting?”
“Where are Taiwo and Kehinde?” Sunny asked.
“Home, of course,” Anatov said. “Someone had to hold down the fort.”
There were several other students with their teachers, some Sunny’s age, most older. One boy, the student of a scholar from Ghana, knew Chichi and Orlu.
“Long time,” he said.
“Not long enough,” Chichi said.
“I’ll best you tonight,” the boy said, pointing at her.
“You’ll have to try, you know. Talking’s nothing,” Chichi said playfully, but Sunny detected a real threat behind her words. “Oh. These are my new classmates, Sunny and Sasha. You know Orlu. Sunny, Sasha-this, unfortunately, is Yao.”
Yao and Sasha looked each other up and down. Instant tension there, Sunny thought. “Isn’t Sasha a girl’s name?” Yao asked with a smirk.
“Do I know you?” Sasha asked. “Because you obviously don’t know me.”
“Ah, American,” Yao said.
“Can’t you tell, jackass?” Sasha said.
“All right, enough of that,” Anatov said, pushing Yao toward his teacher. “Save that for the social tonight.”
“Who the hell is that?” Sasha asked Chichi, still shocked at Yao’s nerve.
“He’s the one I told you about,” Chichi said. “You know what we discussed.”
“Oh, I see,” Sasha said. “A’ight, later then.” Chichi nodded.
“What’d you guys discuss?” Orlu asked. Chichi and Sasha just laughed. “Ugh. This is going to get crazy. I can feel it.”
A regal woman briskly walked onto the field. She brought out her juju knife and Sunny nearly screamed with horror as she dragged it across her throat. Then she remembered where she was. There was no blood, not even a cut.
“My name is Mballa and I will be your commentator this fine day,” the woman said in a highly amplified voice. “Welcome to the two hundred and forty-sixth annual Zuma International Wrestling Finals. Make sure to note our sponsors, who have worked sponsorship jujus on your seats. Remember their names when you go to our vendors to ease that mysterious craving. Special thanks, of course, to Abuja’s own Madame Koto and Ibrahim Ahmed for making all this happen.
“Now we all know that this year’s finalists have come a long way to get here. Fifty undefeated victories each, and both have passed the seven Obi Library tasks. These are two truly gifted men, o!”
The entire audience recited the next thing she said. “This is the final test of brains and brawn, so let them show and prove!” Everyone burst into applause, howls, and cheers. People stamped their feet and pumped their fists in the air. Then the drumming began. Sunny looked around. She didn’t see anyone with drums.
“These two warriors are the greatest West Africa has to offer,” Mballa said dramatically. “Kind, generous, loving, loyal, both of these men would give their lives for Africa without a thought. Both of these men know when one must stand up and fight. They are what Western society fears most.
“On this side, from the country of Burkina Faso, comes Saaaaaayé!”
The crowd burst into noise as Sayé, a brawny brownskinned man of about forty, jogged and bounced around the arena. Orlu leaned toward Sunny’s ear and said, “You see that leather sleeve he’s wearing?”
She nodded.
“When he was young, he was hit by a car and his arm had to be amputated.”
“So his arm is fake?” she asked.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Orlu said. “He was born with this… weird ability that was only discovered when the accident happened.”
“On this side,” the commentator continued, “from the country of Mali, comes Miiiikniiiikstiiiic!”
The crowd shouted again as a very, very tall black man ran in. Sunny recognized him-he was the man she’d talked to an hour ago. No wonder a crowd had been gathering!
“Miknikstic can see into the near future,” Orlu said into her ear. “About five seconds ahead. So he’ll know all of Sayé’s moves before he makes them! They’re as evenly matched as I’ve ever seen.”
“But if these two guys are so great, why are they fighting each other?” she asked. Orlu just shushed her. “It’s an old West African Leopard tradition,” was all he said. She sat back. At least she knew who she was rooting for.
The opponents stepped up to each other and warmly shook hands.
“Rules,” Mballa said. She spoke more to the audience than the competitors. “One. Stay in the arena at all times. The arena ends twenty feet above the ground. Two. You can only use your natural abilities-no powders, dusts, juju knives, et cetera. Three. This is hand-to-hand. Whatever your ability, the fight must remain so. No mental or spiritual manipulation is to be used against your opponent. The powers who watch over you will decide what the winner wins. Good luck and may Allah help you.” She threw down what looked like a flat black stone and quickly left the arena. She took a seat in the front, two rows away from them.
The two men circled each other, Miknikstic crouching low and Sayé moving sideways. The drums beat a steady rhythm. The men ran at each other. When their bodies collided, the crowd shouted, “Wah!”
They grasped each other’s shoulders, their muscles flexing as they tried to throw each other down. But, as Orlu had said, they were evenly matched. They grabbed each other, let go, and grabbed again. Sayé’s leather sleeve bulged more and more as the fight intensified. Miknikstic pushed Sayé back. Sayé paused, then grabbed the zipper of his sleeve. He pulled.
“Now they start!” Mballa announced. “Miknikstic crouches low as Sayé prepares to give him the worst.”
The zipper caught a little on Sayé’s sleeve and he looked down, but even before this, Miknikstic was in motion, quickly moving to the side and lunging at Sayé. Sayé had barely ripped the sleeve off when Miknikstic threw a hard punch at his head.
“Wah!” the audience shouted.
“Look at that!” Sasha screamed, standing up.
Sunny wanted to close her eyes. But she didn’t. She knew that no matter what she did, the fight would continue.
Sayé staggered several steps and fell. Everyone in the crowd stood up and started shouting.
“Get up, o!”
“Brilliant!”
“Chineke!”
“Why did I bet on that man?”
“Allah will protect you! But only if you get up!”
“Use your ghost arm, you idiot!”
Miknikstic didn’t prance about talking trash as Muhammad Ali did in old TV footage. Nor did he spit on Sayé, gesticulate, taunt, beat his chest, or laugh, as they did in pro wrestling. Instead, Miknikstic stood over Sayé, looking down at him, waiting for him to get up or call it a match.
Sayé slowly got up. Miknikstic was ready. He must have seen what was coming next because he did everything he could to block it.
“Oh my goodness!” Sunny shouted when she saw Sayé’s right arm. It seemed to be made of a blue substance somewhere between water and mist. At first it was shaped like an arm, but as Sayé rushed at Miknikstic, it shifted and morphed.
Miknikstic held his arms up to block it, but it kept changing shape. It split in two. Miknikstic threw himself to the side. Sayé’s arm missed Miknikstic’s head by a fraction of an inch. Miknikstic tumbled and then quickly got up.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Sunny muttered. She’d just spoken to Miknikstic, and now he was out there fighting for his life. He’d been so kind to her.
Sayé landed a punch, sending Miknikstic flying and the crowd to its feet again. Sunny pressed her hands to the sides of her face. “No, no, no!”
“That was a heavy blow. Is he dead?” the commentator asked. “No. He still moves. Miknikstic is getting up. He spits out a tooth. Brushes himself off.”
Sunny shut her eyes and jammed her index fingers into her ears to block out the commentator’s gleeful descriptions. She sat like this for minutes, listening to herself breathe and the muffled sound of the crowd.
“Okay,” she finally said to herself. Her voice was loud with her ears plugged. “We’ll be going home after this, so-take it in. Even if it hurts. Miknikstic would be proud.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes. When she saw the two opponents, her vision blurred with tears. They were bleeding profusely, and neither would give up. She looked around at everyone. It was as if they’d become actual leopards, leopards who smelled blood. They were shouting and laughing and encouraging-nostrils, mouths, and eyes wide, trying to take it all in in as many ways as possible.
The only people who seemed calm were the scholars, who sat stiffly and clapped once in a while. Anatov had stopped getting up whenever Sayé or Miknikstic fell. His face was unsmiling and stern. Sunny, Sasha, Orlu, and Chichi were the only students who had stopped enjoying the spectacle. Chichi was frowning. Orlu had a stunned, blank look on his face. Sasha looked angry and glared at the commentator whenever one of the competitors fell, as if waiting for her to put a stop to it.
Miknikstic was wrestling with Sayé’s ghost arm, which kept escaping his grasp. A part of it extended away from Miknikstic. It threw a punch at Miknikstic’s chest. Miknikstic doubled over but didn’t fall. He wiped the blood from his face. Sayé took the moment to spit out a tooth.
Suddenly, Miknikstic’s face undulated.
“What the hell?” was all Sunny could say.
His face had become a wooden square mask. It looked like a robot-if a robot were made of wood. The crowd gasped in shock.
“Oh, Jesus,” Chichi said, looking away.
Sayé brought forth his spirit face, too-a gray stone face of a lion.
“And now they are down to it,” Mballa said. “The blood is flowing and the true selves emerge. Don’t turn away, people. Truly these two are noble and selfless men, o.”
They went at each other again. This time, their spirit selves took the lead. Miknikstic lumbered forward, and Sayé leaped. Miknikstic dodged Sayé, rolled around him, and grabbed his arm. He yanked. There was a loud crack, and Sayé’s good arm was dislocated from its socket. Sayé gave a mighty roar, rolled over Miknikstic, and drove his ghost hand right through Miknikstic’s chest.
A silence fell over the crowd. Sunny clapped her hand over her mouth.
Miknikstic fell to his knees, gushing blood. Sunny whimpered, tears rushing into her eyes. She wiped them away.
He whispered something to Sayé, and then fell to the ground. He was dead.
It started raining chittim on the field. As they fell, Sayé straightened out Miknikstic’s body. Not one chittim hit either of them. Sunny would never forget the metallic clacking. When the chittim stopped, Mballa the commentator found her voice. It cracked as she said, “Bow down to this year’s Zuma International Wrestling Cha-”
Miknikstic suddenly got up. He gazed up at the sky as brown feathered wings unfurled from his back. He crouched down and then leaped, shooting into the sky like a rocket.
“Oh, praise Allah! What a fight this was tonight!” Mballa shouted. “We have witnessed yet another fallen wrestling competitor become a guardian angel! People give our new champion, Sayé, and Saint Miknikstic a hand! Oh, this is just amazing! Amazing! Ah-ah!” She started clapping. The whole crowd could hear her soft sobs because she’d forgotten her voice was still amplified.
“I want to go home!” Sunny shouted, getting up. Anatov reached over his chair and grabbed her by the collar. “Let go! I hate this, I hate all of this! You people are crazy!”
Chichi stared at her feet. Sasha was furious. Orlu took Sunny’s hand. Anatov let go. Orlu pulled Sunny to him into a tight hug, and she sobbed into his chest.
“Keep her there,” Anatov said. “I have to go with the other scholars.”
Still holding on to Orlu, Sunny watched as Anatov joined the scholars walking into the arena. A woman ran in screaming. Another tall woman with long dreadlocks slowly followed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Sankara, wife of Sayé and architect of the Leopard Town of Zerbo-and meet Kadiatou, wife of Saint Miknikstic and warrior of the Women of the Cliffs,” Mballa said. “Please give them a round of applause.”
The crowd thundered with applause as Sankara threw her arms around Sayé, wiping his bloody face with her garments. Kadiatou, Miknikstic’s wife, just stood there in the middle of the arena looking up at the sky.
“Now the scholars will help heal Sayé, so please don’t worry about our champion. He will be fine. The match is over,” Mballa said, out of breath. “I hope you enjoyed the show.” She ran her juju knife across her throat again and then just sat there.
They watched as people left, talking excitedly about the match. In the arena, the scholars had surrounded Sayé, who now lay on the ground. Sunny couldn’t see what they were doing exactly. Miknikstic’s wife stood in the middle of the arena, gazing at the sky. No one comforted or congratulated her.
Sunny pulled away from Orlu and, without a word, pushed some chairs aside. “What are you doing?” he asked.
She jumped into the arena and ran as fast as she could. She passed the group of scholars surrounding Sayé. They were humming and something was swooping about. She focused on Miknikstic’s wife. She was a lot taller up close. She wore a long dress made of the same yellow material as Miknikstic’s outfit, her long dreadlocks tied with a matching cloth. Sunny stepped up to her. She could smell the woman’s scented oil, like jasmine flowers. “Excuse me, Mrs.-”
“I am not ‘Mrs.’ anymore,” she said, her back to Sunny.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s what he’d always known he would become. He’s dreamed about it since he was a baby. But he didn’t know it would be so soon.”
Sunny began to feel as if she was imposing on the woman’s grief.
“I-I met your husband just before the match,” she ventured. “I’m a free agent and I just found out a few months ago and here I am now. I was upset because I was overwhelmed.” She paused. “He saw me and he… he talked to me and made me feel better. He gave me this.” She held up the yellow handkerchief. Miknikstic’s wife still didn’t turn around. “I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am to him.”
Silence. Sunny turned to leave.
“Wait,” Kadiatou said, turning to Sunny. She had a wide nose, round eyes, and two dark squiggles tattooed on each cheek. She wore a thick metal bracelet around each wrist. “Thank you,” she said. “My husband was a good person, but he picked and chose who he spoke to.” She clicked her bracelets together and they produced a large blue spark. “You have my blessing, too.” She tilted her head back to the sky.
Sunny hurried over to Orlu, who stood a few feet away.
“You met him?” he asked.
“Yeah, when I went to the bathroom.”
They walked past where Sayé still lay. He was groaning and his wife was sobbing, “It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, my love! Be still.”
“He’ll be fine,” Anatov said, walking over to them.
“Now I know why my parents never brought me to watch,” Orlu said.
“This one was especially… eventful.”
“Why didn’t they stop it?” Sasha asked.
“Because life doesn’t work that way,” Anatov said. “When things get bad, they don’t stop until you stop the badness-or die.” He paused. “That’s an important lesson for all of you. This is why I brought you here. This is why you’re staying in that hotel. Look around, listen and learn. This is not a holiday. In a month, you will all be facing something as ugly as what these two men faced this afternoon.”