Two men play draughts in an abandoned warehouse. Besides the game board, the table between them is littered with empty fast food cartons and bottles of beer. Rusty farm equipment, stripped cars, and an assortment of grime covered junk take up most of the space in the warehouse. But a few feet away are two mattresses covered in dirty blankets and old clothes. The men have been sleeping here for days.

The older-looking man, Oluman Shi, moves a red piece, capturing four of his opponent’s pieces. “Heh, I’m simply too much,” he laughs as he adds the white tiles to his mounting stack. “Aren’t you tired of losing?”

Bald and heavily wrinkled, Shi wears an unruly grey beard that covers his jaw entirely, coiling down to his chest like wild bougainvillea. But the old man is also well-built, and his attire leaves little to the imagination, consisting solely of the cloth bound around his waist, traditional leather sandals, and the large black beads on his neck, wrists and ankles. He flexes his muscles in celebration, and they ripple and gleam even beneath the weak fluorescent lights in the high ceiling.

“Give up already,” he says. “This is just getting sad.”

Kiira, the second man, is unmoved by Shi’s looming victory. He is heavily built as well, albeit leaner and several inches taller, with platinum blonde braids that cascade down his back. Unlike his companion, he is outfitted in something modern—blue jeans and combat boots. “So you won a board game?” he mutters, crossing his arms over his bare, tattooed chest. “What do you want, a medal?”

Shi lets out an exasperated sigh. “What’s your problem? Please don’t tell me—”

“Oh excuse me for being concerned about our safety,” says Kiira. “I’m only trying not to die.”

“How are you still worried about her?” Shi says. “You wanted us to leave Ghana, and so we did.”

“I was thinking overseas, not bloody Nigeria.”

“You were worried about protection, and so we lifted over a dozen concealment beyie.”

“I would lift a hundred more if I could,” Kiira says.

“We even installed, what, thirty-six warding talismans? What more do you want?” Shi says.

“I want to have never agreed to this batshit plan in the first place!” Kiira snaps.

“You would rather we remained that witch’s servants for the rest of our lives?” Shi says.

“Better that than no life at all,” mutters Kiira.

Shi shakes his head. “You have chicken balls, bro.”

“Your mother has chicken balls.”

“You have chicken balls,” Shi says again. “And so does that immortal cow you’d rather be serving. Say what you will about Oluman Shi, but at least he’s got vision. We deserve more than what Wu allows. And I’m tired of pretending like we don’t.”

The lights in the ceiling flicker, and the two men look up. Kiira is immediately panicked, and he rambles a string of swear words under his breath.

“Will you shut up?” Shi hisses. “It’s just a fluctuating current.”

The lights start flickering again. There is a spare chair next to the mattresses on the floor. Neither notice when, during one of the flickers, the chair disappears.

When the lighting steadies, the men look at each other and Shi rolls his eyes. “Told you. Big baby.”

“Hello boys.”

Kiira and Shi jump to their feet, jerking their eyes up to the source of the new voice. Their chairs clatter backwards across the floor.

Floating high above them, seated in her own chair with her legs crossed, is Mama Wu.

Kiira lets out another obscenity, and this time it is more a wail of despair than fear. He and Shi immediately draw witch-arms—Kiira’s a spear, and Shi’s a whip—and poise themselves for attack.

“Give me an excuse,” Mama Wu says. “I dare you.”

And suddenly, neither Kiira nor Shi can find the will to move.

As Mama Wu makes her slow descent from above, she speaks:

“So a curious thing happened about a week ago. I received a distress signal from Korkor. Showed up to find one of the villagers wandering about two miles outside the village, a raging fiery monster. As it turns out, somebody had corrupted his sunsum and, with the keepers too preoccupied trying to stop his rampage, launched a devastating firestorm beyie on the village. The community I spent the last century painstakingly seeding, grooming, and building? Reduced to dust. Worse still, I was left with the very unpleasant task of ending that villager’s life myself—the last of his people, my handiwork. To call it excruciating would be an understatement. And the entire time, you know what I was thinking?”

Her chair ceases its descent to hover just about an inch above the floor. “Where. The hell. Is my team?” says Mama Wu. “Did I not recruit a circle of the most talented beyifo in the sub-Saharan region,” she continues, “specifically to prevent this level of catastrophic loss? So where were they? Because other than Selasi, not a single one of them showed up. I thought: ‘Surely this is some kind of misunderstanding. Maybe they’re at a wedding? A funeral? In bed with their lovers? Inexcusable still, but at least, not suicidal.’” Her smile is taut. “Because there’s no way this was on purpose, right? Surely they wouldn’t be foolish enough to betray me?” Her eyes narrow. “And yet, here I find them in hiding, reeking of beer and guilt and fear.”

Kiira’s ramping terror reaches a peak. With a delirious cry, he shoots towards Mama Wu with his spear drawn, at a speed on the cusp of sound.

He doesn’t quite reach Mama Wu before some unseen beyie obstructs him, igniting him on impact, a bright and sudden blaze like phosphorous fire. The momentum sends him flaring past an unfazed Mama Wu. His body skims across the floor, a shooting star on crash landing. And when he comes to a stop, there is nothing left of him but a pile of smoldering bones teeming with squirming, incandescent maggots.

Oluman Shi drops his whip, horrified.

“I’m not sure what I’m more ashamed of,” Mama Wu says, as she gets out of her chair, leaving it still hanging above the floor. “That you would hide at all…” With a wave of her hand, she snatches Oluman Shi off the ground, flips him upside down, and yanks him to her. “…or that you have resorted to petty tricks.”

She waves her hand again, and his body begins to morph. His muscles compress, his frame lengthens, his beard shrivels and blows away like desiccated grass. His facial features liquify into wet clay, squeezing, twisting, and molding themselves back into their original state.

“It makes me question what I ever saw in you,” says Mama Wu.

A different man now hangs before Mama Wu. But for his bald head, this one bears a fraternal resemblance to Kiira. He fights back tears of rage as Mama Wu bends over to address him, her face inches away from his.

“Kamari,” says Mama Wu. “Where is Oluman Shi?”

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” Kamari stammers through gritted teeth. “So why would I tell you?”

Mama Wu’s smile does not meet her eyes. “Because I could make your end swift, like your brother’s. Or I could turn this into a very, very long night.”

Kamari shakes his head so hard, his neck bones are making gentle pops. “We face neither East nor West, neither East nor West, neither East nor West,” he drones, his voice deepening into a pitch as deep as the sea. His facial muscles slacken, and his eyes roll back into his head. “We march eternally forward, eternally forward, forward. The revolution…has come.”

Mama Wu steps aside, just as a light shines out of the whites of Kamari’s eyes. The light projects a fluttering, washed-out image in the air.

An image of Oluman Shi. This version of the bald, bearded old man is wearing a camo uniform of dark, muddy and olive greens. He stands with his back to Mama Wu, his hands clasped behind him, every muscle more pronounced than when Kamari wore his likeness. He speaks over his shoulder in a deep and rumbling Akan:

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“Back in my army days, we had a word for commanders like you. Nsamuden. They did a little too much, tried a little too hard, to control everything around them. It sounds perfect for the military at first. But even the dove pecks at your eye if you squeeze it too hard.”

Mama Wu walks up to the image. “You recount your past with such sweet fondness, Shi. If you long for the days when you were human, come here. Let me remind you what mortality tastes like.”

“Of course you would say that.” Oluman Shi turns to face her, his tone chiding as he switches to English. “Your paths to resolution have always been drowned in blood, Mama Wu. No wonder you cannot see the footprints in the sand, never mind where the road leads. But this is the blessing of my truth-eye beyie. It does more than reveal the truth in spoken words. It reveals the truth about the world. And our world is ready for change.”

Mama Wu nods thoughtfully, and starts to sit into empty air. Her chair glides across the floor to catch her in time. “So, that’s what this is?” she says, as she is seated. “A coup?”

“The word ‘coup’ implies you were ever put into power,” Oluman Shi says. “But you weren’t given your authority, Wu. You took it.”

“From flesh-eaters and megalomaniacal coven keepers,” Mama Wu says, with the calm of a millpond. “What’s your point?”

“That you are far from the benevolent god you make yourself out to be. You are a false god. And our brothers and sisters are finally ready to be free. They see how your laws weaken our people. Your disdain for any authority other than your own has only resulted in stagnation. You are a boulder around our necks, weighing us down from our true potential. The old ways must die.”

Mama Wu’s smile is unfaltering. “And I with them, I suppose.”

“Only if you resist. Unlike you, I am open to diplomatic paths.”

“He says, a week after mass murdering a village.”

Oluman Shi pauses, and takes a deep breath. “Korkor was…unfortunate. I mourn the dead in Korkor,” he says, “like I mourn the dead in Saanga.”

Mama Wu goes quiet at the mention of the second village. Otherwise, she offers no other physical reaction. Her smile stays up. “So you know about Saanga,” she finally says.

“That’s the problem with infamy. All those myths and legends about the great Mama Wu; truths buried beneath lies, convenient when you have secrets to hide. Right up until someone comes along…” Shi taps a finger against his forehead. “…who can tell truth and lie apart. In this case, the truth sealed Korkor’s fate. Their destruction was inevitable. And their blood is on your hands.”

Mama Wu cocks her head ever so slightly. “I see.”

“Korkor was only a show of resolve. We mean business, and are willing to take more from you if necessary.”

The image pans with Oluman Shi to reveal a second person, bound to a chair by what appear at first to be coils of shiny black rope. But as the rope shifts, the head of a snake slithers from around the person’s hip, and flicks its forked tongue. Shi stands behind the captive, reaching around to tilt their head up by their chin.

Selasi’s face is bruised, battered, bleeding. His eyes are so swollen, it is impossible to tell if he can even see Mama Wu.

Mama Wu’s smile falters, but doesn’t drop.

“He came looking for Kamari,” Shi says. “He found me instead.”

“If this is your big bluff,” says Mama Wu, “you’re about to be disappointed.”

“Give me some credit. I know your heart is little more than a lump of coal. But I also know that it beat once. And once is enough. I know of the girl.”

Mama Wu goes still. A moment passes. Her smile is now lifeless, as if stitched into her skin. But even then, it still does not drop. “What girl?”

It is Shi’s turn to smile. “Ah ah ah, don’t bother,” he says, with the self-satisfaction of an elder putting a child in their place. “Truth-eye. Denial only wastes your time and mine. As we speak, I have associates on standby, ready to act upon my command. One word and the girl dies. And if for any reason at all, they do not hear from me in twenty-four hours, they will kill her anyway.”

Mama Wu purses her lips. “I see,” she says again.

“You will not be able to stop them,” says Oluman Shi. “Without a doubt, you noticed the measures the boys have taken to cloak their hideout. Except, those talismans aren’t there to keep you out, Mama Wu. No, they’re there to lock you in. They’re part of a special beyie of interlocking seals I designed with two simple conditions—to activate upon your arrival, and to strengthen by absorbing the sunsum of any living thing killed within its field of effect. You killed Kiira so that’s already one exponential increase in strength. Kill Kamari, and that will be two.”

“You sound so proud of yourself,” says Mama Wu.

“It took years to develop. I am.”

“I could blow it apart with sheer brute force. Surely you know that.”

“Yet I am confident you won’t. You should ask yourself why,” Shi says. “By the time you’ve discovered a safe way to free yourself, it will be too late to save the girl, or Selasi, or to stop what is to come. And now that your team has betrayed you, who is to say the community will not turn on you as well? Whom can you trust? Face it Mama Wu. You are alone. You always have been. Do not allow pride to be your downfall. Yield.”

Mama Wu’s composure has seemed unrelenting thus far. But finally, her smile falls, leaving behind a countenance as cold as the moon. “Alright,” she says, “what do you want?”

“You know what I want,” he says. “Step down as arch witch.”

Wu smiles. “So that what? You may lead? You just think you want my authority, Shi. But you are a child wailing for the flame. Its dance mystifies you, but you will only burn yourself and burn everyone and everything down with it.”

“My truth-eye tells me otherwise,” Oluman Shi snaps.

“I don’t care what your beyie tells you. I cannot offer you something you do not deserve.”

“Then the girl will die.”

Mama Wu shrugs. “I guess she will. Look,” she says, moving her head from side to side, loosening her neck muscles, “you get a nine for effort. But a three for overall execution. I’ll admit I’m curious to know who told you about Saanga. And I’m furious you know about the girl. I’ll even throw in a ‘kudos’ for your little trap. But even if I could give you what you want, I don’t negotiate with mice. There is only one way this ends, Shi.” A flash of crimson light as Mama Wu summons her witch-arm. “With your heart in the palm of my hand.”

And for the first time since their conversation began, Shi looks unsure of what to believe. “You would really sacrifice Selasi? The girl? You’re bluffing!” he says, his brow furrowing with doubt. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Mama Wu stands, and as she approaches Shi’s image, she says, “You’re the one with the truth-eye.” She leans in close. “You tell me.”

And then, spinning around, she flings her scythe at Kamari. The blade separates his head from his body in one clean cut, dropping it to the floor with a series of soft thuds. The head rolls to a stop at Mama Wu’s feet, and Oluman Shi’s image—now partly projected onto her body—begins to fade.

“You’re mad,” Shi says, as the light from Kamari’s eyes begins to flicker.

“I resent that word.” Mama Wu catches her witch-arm overhead on its way back. “See you soon.”

And with that, Kamari’s eyes go dark.

On cue, a hundred curtains of roiling smoke appear around the warehouse. Strange shapes trudge out of the swirling doorways: two-headed lions, howling wolves with wings, sinuous serpents with pincers and pedipalps, giant prey mantises and butterflies with flickering arachnid eyes embedded in their wings, a carnival of monstrosities. Hulking, snarling kakai of every bestial persuasion multiply around her with each passing second. The creatures twitch and growl as they advance to surround her.

Mama Wu begins to understand what’s happening. If every life taken will strengthen the seal trapping her here then—

She curses Shi under her breath as the horde begins to surround her.

The ancient witch whips out a strip of cloth, gathers her heavy locs over her head, and wraps them in one fluid motion.

“It’s plan B then,” she mutters.

The creatures attack.

OOO

Elsewhere, in another world…

Beneath an ocean of stars, across a sea of sand…

Atop a truncated pyramid, with a massive floor paved in pearly grey slabs…

Oluman Shi stares at the defunct magic circles inlaid in a stone altar, bewildered by his last conversation and simmering with rage. Just beyond the altar, arranged in an arc, are eight standing mirrors framed in silver and rimmed with glowing Adinkra symbols. Each mirror contains a shadow shrouded in fog. One of the shadows, the second from the right, lets out a bellowing laugh.

“What did we tell you?” says the shadow in a man’s voice. “This your plan, it will not work. That evil shrew cannot be blackmailed.”

“Crossing Mama Wu is tantamount to suicide,” says one of the shadows in the middle, a woman this time. “We should have never agreed to this.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to anything,” says a nervous voice from the leftmost mirror. “I only agreed to hear you out. I will deny anything else!”

“Fool, just being a witness to this one’s schemes puts our houses at risk,” says the adjacent mirror. “She will visit her wrath upon us all.”

The voices begin to squabble.

Shi lifts his hands. “Please, please, illustrious ones. The battle has only just begun. We are not alone in this fight. I have sought some special help.”

One of the shadows kisses her teeth. “The kakai? What are kakai to a god?”

“Not just any kakai,” says Oluman Shi. “And not just any kind of help. I ask you to be patient just a little longer. Give me two more days. And if I cannot deliver you Mama Wu’s surrender, I will take my life upon this very altar before you.”

“Save your dramatic lines for your lackeys, Shi,” hisses the second mirror from the right. “Just do what you promised or leave us out of it.”

The mirrors go dark, their adinkra symbols fading out slowly. When Shi is sure the meeting is concluded, he drops his keen expression.

“Hers is the side you’ve taken?” Shi says, turning around. “That is your redeemer?”

Selasi doesn’t respond. His head remains bowed, his breaths sharpening as the snake constricting him to the chair tightens its hold. The chair creaks and threatens to snap.

“At least now you have seen for yourself how little regard she has for your life,” Shi adds, as a burst of purple light draws a witch-arm into his hand—a silver revolver damascened from end to end in waves. He points it at the base of Selasi’s neck, just above the serpent’s heaving body. “You swore loyalty to the wrong god.”

“Just get it over with,” Selasi rasps.

The shot is deafening in the small room, reverberating against the walls, and ringing out into the wilds outside the castle.

Selasi gargles on his own blood. But as he takes his final breaths, he lets out a faint, shuddering chuckle.

Shi shakes his head in disgust. “Maybe you and that she-devil do deserve each other.”

“Go-,” Selasi wheezes. “Go-,” he husks. “Go…tcha,” he finally croaks, as his head drops to the side and the life fades from his eyes.

Every inch of Selasi’s skin is suddenly ablaze in fiery, red runes. A hundred and one chains, made of candescent platinum light, shoot out from the walls, the floor, the ceiling. They latch onto Oluman Shi’s muscular limbs before he can blink. The elderly beyifo struggles and flexes, but the chains are ruthless. They bind his arms and legs, layer after layer, from his elbows and knees to the tips of his fingers and toes. In less than three seconds, he is restrained and his sunsum is nullified.

Shi roars, spewing a cascading series of vile curse words in Akan. And then he calls: “Kwaakwaa!”

A messenger crow arrives in the lone window of the room, flapping to a stop on the sill.

“Send the word,” Shi barks. “They must move on the girl! Now!”

The crow caws, and flies into the night.