Alkaline Water

 If I were asked when it all started, I would say it was the night after she had Somkene. In the weeks leading up to that night, Chi-Chi looked forward to having her child, decorating the nursery with shades of pink and teddy bears, with the bed smelling of baby oil and powder. But when I brought Somkene– wrapped in a plump, white shawl—to her, her face registered disappointment. 

“Sister, see our beautiful baby girl,” I said.

Chi-Chi waved me aside and turned her face to the wall. She was supposed to take the crying baby from my arms, cuddle her closely to her breasts, and sing those nursery rhymes she had rehearsed for her baby. When she finally took the baby from me, she held her with a distant look on her face, seemingly frustrated by her sore, milkless breasts, before tossing her back to me like a porcelain doll. My heart leaped. I tried to talk to her; Mama also did, but our words bounced off the hospital walls and right back to us. 

“Do you think it is because of Chidozie?” Mama queried.

I shook my head vehemently. 

Though Chi-Chi had had a difficult pregnancy, it could not be because of her deadbeat baby daddy, Chidozie, the sweet-talking Ogwu businessman who had his way with words and promised her everything in the world only to abscond when he heard about her pregnancy. He closed down his shop in Ogwu market, cut all connections with her, and never returned any messages or calls. Chi-Chi saw such people as weak men who wanted the easy way out, who drove themselves through legs without any form of protection and rejected the consequences later. 

I can still remember the evening Mama found out Chi-Chi was pregnant. She cried out in pain because Chi-Chi was in her final year of university, set to be the first graduate in the family. She held onto Chi-Chi’s arm all the way to Ogwu market, where we met Chidozie’s neighbour, who said he had travelled overseas to buy new goods. 

My sister was a strong woman with an authoritarian personality, and I couldn’t imagine how Chidozie used sweet words to lay her on her back and pump his seed into her. But love made one do stupid things. Chi-Chi promised to have her baby and shower her with all the love she had to give. She had looked forward to this baby as much as everyone. So what changed? The baby screamed for the warmth of her mother’s body and breasts but found none. She neither asked for nor cuddled her weeks after we were discharged from the Central Hospital in Ogwu. 

It took Chi-Chi two months to reach for her. I was stunned as I held the baby in her hands. 

“She looks like Chidozie,” she muttered. “She cheated me.” She smiled, looking at Somkene absentmindedly. “I waited nine months only for you to come out looking just like him.” 

Could that be the reason for her change in temperament? The fact that her baby reminded her of a man who dumped her when she needed him the most?

“Leave us. I want to bond with my child.” 

I swelled and deflated with relief, raising my hands to the skies in thanksgiving before leaving the room to hunt for scent leaves Mama would use to make her pepper soup. I had barely finished harvesting the greens when I heard screams and shouts from the compound. I looked up at the cause of the commotion and saw Chi-Chi on the balcony, the baby in hands, smiling. It was a strange smile, the kind one wears before doing something one will regret. The baby shrieked as if she had a premonition of what her mother wanted to do. My mother was on the ground, tumbling in the dirt with her kiri kiri star wrapper. 

“Chi-Chi, nwa m, biko, come down, don’t do this.” 

Everyone was begging her. 

I could have slapped myself for leaving her in the room alone with the baby. She wanted to kill Somkene, not bond with her. Praying for a miracle that slowed time, I tiptoed upstairs to the balcony, sneaked up behind her, yanked her back, and grabbed the baby from her hands. Chi-Chi fell hard to the ground. 

“Chi Chi, ara o na agba gi?! Are you mad? What kind of mother thinks of doing this to her child?” were the questions asked when everyone gathered in the sitting room, heads bowed like we were mourning. 

Chi-Chi stared into the emptiness, her eyes just as bland.  

After that day, the suffix of onye ara was added to Chi-Chi’s name, and I was christened “Nnenne, nwanne Chi-Chi, onye ara” — Nnenne, the sister of Chi-Chi, the mad woman. 

Anytime I was coming back from the market, little children would trail me, clapping and making up songs referencing my sister until I would turn and give them a hot pursuit. 

Chi-Chi was locked in the room downstairs, where she crept further back into her shell, saying a few words and staring out the window at the clump of bushes. Sometimes, she changed the music on the boombox to match her mood. Other times, she was a Fireworks in the sky, like Katy Perry sang, or she was melancholic, Frozen in her body, like Madonna. 

We had been introduced to music early by our father, and something we loved as adults. When we did Saturday chores, we turned the volume high, moonwalking with the mop, throwing our rags in the air, and catching them while doing cartwheels to Britney Spears as Mama yelled in the background. I let the music play because they said music is therapeutic. Maybe she would find her way back to us through it. I entered from time to time to take the dirty plates by her bedside to wash, change the sheets, and pour hot water for Mama to bathe her. 

“How is my child?” She startled me with that question the few times I went to drop food in her room. Ever since the incident, she hardly talked about her child or anything else. 

“She is healthy,” I replied. “We are giving her infant formula.”

“How big is she?” 

“Six months.” So much time had passed. 

The distance between us was glaring. We were the only two my mother bore before my father passed away. She never remarried but happily raised us. We used to be close; we often knew what each other was thinking without words, passing messages with mischievous glares. We walked back from school hand-in-hand, plucking hibiscus flowers and placing them in our hair. Chi-Chi was the stronger and more stubborn one, getting into fights with boys or girls who tried to bully me and taking Mama’s bashings and whips with peace while I cried in the background, begging Mama not to kill her. 

She looked at her breasts, bloated with milk and sighed. 

“Sometimes, I hear her screams from here, and my breasts become very full and sore. From the time she was conceived, she has caused me nothing but pain. Chidozie, the man I thought loved me, abandoned me to my fate to eat my thoughts till my blood pressure spikes. She took my life when I was about to finish school. I had to keep everything on pause for her, yet she continues to cry. I can’t stand those tears. Sometimes, I want to use a pillow and stifle her forever, but I am not capable of those dark thoughts that that woman is asking me to do.” 

My eyes bulged out at the mention of ‘that woman’ till I was sure they were as round as Akara balls. 

 She raised her hands slowly and dramatically to a dark corner of the room. My eyes followed her hands, hoping to see whom she spoke of. But nothing was there, just a wig stand with her brunette wig that hadn’t been worn in months. The gentle wind was blowing and the curtains were floating. Was the silhouette making her imagine there was someone else in the room?

“She is not here now, but she comes sometimes. She wears a faded jean skirt with a floral shirt that billows in the wind. She talks to me and is the only one who understands and advises me on what to do.” 

She took the spoon and scooped the pepper soup into her mouth resignedly. She looked tired, as if she didn’t want to talk anymore. I hurriedly went to Mama and told her what I heard. Mama, who had been chopping onions, dropped the knife and wiped her hands on her faded wrapper. 

“This is where Prophet Ukoh comes in. Before Chi-Chi will wake up one day, carry her clothes, and enter Eke Uboh.” 

I knew Prophet Ukoh. He was a tall man with an intimidating physique dressed in white from head to toe. His well-cut Afro and wide nostrils flared out when he commanded evil spirits to drown in the Osimmiri River. He never walked alone; he had a procession of white-clad, zealous believers tethered to him by an invisible string, latching onto each word with a feverish "Amen!" 

You could tell he was miles away by the bell he used to ward off evil spirits and the strong scent of the herbs he immersed in water to purge the environment of them. He was known for the tactics and theatrics he employed in calling out unclean spirits. When he was in a good mood, he asked politely, imploring them to take host in a new body. On other days, he would go as far as challenging the spirit to a duel or wrestling the victim, ensuring that the demon was stressed before eventually leaving so it would think twice before coming back. He had a good number of success rates, and Mama was sure he would cure Chi-Chi. 

He danced around Chi-Chi for some time as if trying to inspect the demon he was expunging and group it accordingly. 

“This one is strong,” he mumbled, and his interpreter chorused in Igbo. 

He reeled off, telling Mama that Chi-Chi was suffering a possession from the ghost of a woman who drowned her babies when she was alive and had taken her own life, too. The woman often visited women who had recently given birth and had access to those with porous spiritual fields. The woman had ruptured Chi-Chi’s mind and made herself comfortable.  He mentioned some items that they would buy for him to banish the woman and rebuild and fortify Chi-Chi's spiritual field once again. I heard words like pure alkaline water, raven’s eggs, red and white candles, and aromatic incense. 

“The alkaline water will neutralise the damage caused by the evil spirit, the raven’s eggs are to make sacrifices to appease her, the red and white candles are to build a protective wall around her while we carry out the rituals, and the incense is used to invoke and welcome good spirits to replace the bad one.”

With tears in her eyes, Mama set out to gather the items requested by the prophet. On the morning of the first ritual, we walked to Chi-Chi’s room and met an empty bed with the bed sheets wrapped neatly and piled in a corner. I rushed to the window, screaming her name, but no one replied, and my words reverberated in the chilly breeze. My sister was gone with the wind as Ben King’s Stand By Me boomed in the sitting room. The only thing left was a small puddle in the centre of the room. 

“I told you the woman has been pulling her into her world. Now she is gone. We have to make offerings for her safe return instead,” Prophet Ukoh spoke heavily, shaking his head as my mother rolled on the floor and Somkene joined in the confusion, crying her tiny lungs out. 

I fell to my knees and wept. Somkene called my mother “Mama,” she was the only living reminder of the beauty that sprouted amidst the sadness and chaos of our home—that sunflower that wasn’t stifled by thorny weeds. I raised her with the sisterly love I had for Chi-Chi. I transferred all my love and attention to her, helping her take her first steps and hugging her tightly as she walked to the nursery school’s entrance on her first day of school. 

•••

We never saw Chi-Chi again. It was only two years later, when I got employed in the local Police Force, that I started hearing things like “Nwanyi Mmiri” and linked it to what might have happened to my sister. It was one of the reasons I joined, to get closure. I buried my head in the missing people and cold cases files, seeking trails that led to various disappearances in Ogwu town. On average, about thirty to forty pregnant women vanished in Ogwu town under mysterious circumstances. 

I didn’t care about the leering gazes of superior officers who wanted me to lie on my back and spread my legs for promotion. I ignored them and worked hard to rise through the ranks and earn their respect. As I progressed with my investigation, I realised there was truth to what my sister said about the strange woman who haunted her. I set up a board in my room in my bid to research the missing women and the circumstances in which they vanished. Some of them had complained about sighting a strange woman who was crying and stalking them with dirty hair while she held what seemed like a bundle in her hands. My red tape spun across many women, including the hospital in the centre of town where the women went for antenatal care and Sowe Lake. There had to be a connection between the places.  I wanted to learn more about the creature Prophet Ukoh had spoken of. I went to the Ogwu State Library to satisfy my curiosity and was directed to the part of the library that held mystical and spiritual books. One grabbed my attention in particular. Owu Mmiri or Water People was its title, written by Rev. Father J.J Abonne, a renowned spiritualist who was an authority in paranormal investigations. 

I got home and tore into the book, which became more interesting with each flip. One illustration stuck out to me: a sad woman with dirty hair and an unworldly appearance pulling herself up from a body of water.  It had to be her, Nwanyi Mmiri. From snippets of the story detailed in the book, she was a jilted side chick who thought the love of her life would leave his wife and marry her even after she had two secret children for him. One day, when the billionaire assured her he was not going through with the divorce as it would cost him his inheritance, she became enraged and drove her car with her children into Sowe Lake. Since then, she has been sighted around the lake, wailing for her children and lost love. She specifically hunted pregnant women, crying at their doorsteps, and anyone who saw her was sure of certain death.  

The book also described the symptoms: hearing unseen voices urging you to take your life or kill your child, puddles that come from nowhere and red blotches on your skin. Once the red blotches started showing, ripe like you were afflicted with a disease, the end was near. The only thing the book did not mention was how to guard against the wrath of the crying woman. It was almost as though you had to resign yourself to death and wait for the day she drowned you in her puddle. 

I remained on the lookout for any reported cases or sightings of the water woman. One hot afternoon, as I was going through some files, I discovered that there had been a recent stalking report by a pregnant woman. When I asked the officer on duty with me why the matter hadn’t been addressed, he hissed. “Abeg we get more pressing issues to handle. E be like say that woman dey craze.”

Of course, this was Nigeria, where the police were the last port of call for people in danger.  Even when they were contacted, it was one thing or the other: the vans didn’t have fuel, or you had to drop small mobilisation money. I quickly got into my rickety car, the reward of my almost five years in service, and drove to the woman’s address, which I had taken from the file. 

•••

I knocked on the door of the milk-coloured bungalow located eerily away from the town, surrounded by a patchwork of umbrella trees and low rows of well-cut flowers. When a woman opened, by the pudge in her belly, I could see she was about five months gone. She had on a worn wrapper and flat slippers. From the dark circles around her eyes, she hadn’t had a good night’s rest in a long time. 

“Who are you?” she inquired, holding her bump and dashing her eyes around as if someone was in the corner, ready to spring on her. 

“I am Sergeant Nnenne from Ogwu Central Police Station. I am here regarding your complaint about a stalker two weeks ago,” I replied. 

Her eyes grew wide in shock. She dragged me inside and shut the door. I was aloof, wondering why she acted so quickly. 

“Come in.” She shoved me into the sitting room and asked, “What will you eat? I made fresh onugbu soup.” 

I asked her not to bother. 

“Do you know her too? She has made my life miserable, standing in the corner with a strange smile and whispering dark things to me.”

“Chinwe, your case is similar to my sisters. She saw the woman before she vanished seven years ago.”

I saw the dark cloud of fear creep slowly into her eyes. 

“No one believes me when I tell them she is there. I have told everyone who cares to listen. I feel my life is in danger. I have filed a report but they just laughed at me. My husband is outside the country, and my mother went on omugwo at my sister’s house in the North. Please, help me. I don’t want to die.”

I checked her skin and eyes and observed the red blotches were not yet visible. There was still a chance to save her and find closure on what happened to my sister. I took down her statement, gave her my number, and asked her to call me anytime she heard the woman call out to her.

The following weeks were uneventful; this was a sleepy Southeastern Nigerian town where nothing much happened except the mystery of the crying woman, which I was determined to solve. The day she called me, I was watching a thriller on Netflix after I had helped Somkene with her homework and tucked her in bed. 

“Hello,” I said into the receiver. 

“She is here, " a cold voice called out to me. I am so scared, and I am the only one at home.”

“Chinwe, stay there. I am on my way.”

I got into my car and raced to her junction, my gun firmly held.  

My boots scrunched the dried leaves on the ground as I stared at the bungalow, noting a dangling yellow bulb on the balcony. I knocked on the door, and she opened it. I put my index finger to my lips, imploring her to be silent.

We sat in the kitchen and waited for the sound of the crying woman. Chinwe held my hand tightly, happy that one person didn’t call her mad. I squeezed it back, assuring her that I was in her corner. 

We sat in silence for almost fifteen minutes before we heard a shrill cry, like nails scratching on a blackboard. Goosebumps formed on my skin, and I shut my eyes, reciting the Lord’s Prayer. I listened to the dripping of water; it sounded like it was coming from a faulty faucet, Tam Tam Tam. She was walking towards us, searching for Chinwe. I armed her with a kitchen knife. 

The footsteps were almost near when I sprang up and unloaded clips on the woman. I shot without thinking, bullet after bullet, until I realised the bullets were passing through her apparition, bouncing off the walls, and ricocheting across the room. She was invisible, but I followed the wet footsteps around the house. I watched her water trail as she edged closer to Chinwe, who was hopelessly swinging the knife around. Timing it, I shot at her as Chinwe used the knife to strike. That was when I saw her, the ghost of the crying woman. She looked like a character from a Stephen King novel. Her face was pale, and her eyes dark and empty. Her fingernails were long, rotten and black, matching her wet toenails. 

It seemed like the knife had more effect on her as she shrieked loudly one last time before marching out of the house and banging the door shut, almost pulling it from its hinges.  

“Oh, my God, I have never been so scared in my life,” Chinwe started, tears pouring from her eyes.  

I quickly gathered my thoughts. My bullets had done nothing but make the ghost angry, but the knife sent her running. Steel, she was repelled by steel! 

“Do you have any steel objects in this house?” I asked. 

         I rushed into her bedroom and checked her dresser and cupboard for anything I could find. I found a safety pin in her drawer and quickly pinned it on her. 

“Wear this always, and she will not come near you.” 

  Chinwe was still crying, but I could sense some relief. She pinned the note to her silky nightgown and mouthed, “Thank you.” I slept over to calm her down before leaving in the morning to get Somkene ready for school. 

Chinwe didn’t have any more complaints and regularly came to see me in the police station to share some fruits with me and catch up on the local gossip. 

“She is coming very soon, my child,” She rubbed her belly. 

“You will have a smooth delivery. There will be no complications,” I assured her. 

She stood up to go. 

“Where is your safety pin?” I asked.

She smiled weakly. “I forgot it.”  

“You must not leave it when going out!” I warned, aware of the danger she would face if the ghost found her without it. 

“I won’t. She hasn’t disturbed me for a while.” 

I reminded her, “It is because of the safety pins,” and she promised not to forget them.

        I watched her wobble out of the station on her swollen feet, concerned for her well-being. I had this sinking feeling that she would keep forgetting the pin.

•••

It happened the night before Somkene’s graduation. My phone rang, and when I picked it up, Chinwe was screaming. 

“My water broke and she is here. She is here to take my baby!” 

The meat I was eating fell from my mouth, and I gulped a cup of water before running out of the kitchen, fiddling with my car keys, and driving away into the darkness. 

I heard her screams a couple of paces away from her house, and my heart sank, imagining the worst. I rushed into the kitchen to see her sprawled on the floor, holding a knife and writhing in pain. Her head was dangled to the right, her face white as though life had been sucked out from it. There were dark patches on her neck. The woman had come, and she was here to take Chinwe.  

I retrieved my gun and aimed in the direction the voice was coming from. I shot, missed, and heard a deathly chuckle. She was mocking me and my ordinary bullets. The energy in the house was sinister and choking. It was too late to run and check for safety pins in the house. All I could do was to help Chinwe stand on her feet and move her to safety. 

I tried carrying her, but she was too heavy, so I dragged her to the floor as she kept screaming. Nwanyi Mmiri was amused by the spectacle in front of her. She trailed us, floating and screeching with laughter. I was able to get Chinwe to a room where I kept her in a corner and pointed my gun towards the door, waiting for Nwanyi Mmiri to show up. 

For a few minutes, it was quiet before she burst out from the walls and rushed at us with her mouth so wide open that I saw the dark, sticky goo. I shot and shot, but it was fruitless, and I was almost out of bullets.  All I could do was pray inward that we survived the night. It was a chaotic scene, a woman in labour with a vengeful ghost on rampage. 

Nwanyi Mmiri advanced towards us, turning to Chinwe in particular, bearing down on her while opening her bottomless mouth to suck her vitality. 

I saw a salt shaker in a cupboard nearby. I dashed for it and poured a circle of salt around us, recalling from the book that it would keep us safe for some time from Nwanyi Mmiri. I was fully poised, my gun out, waiting to hear the droplets of water.

Nwanyi Mmiri roared and struggled. I knew the circle wouldn’t hold for long, so I dealt her the final blow. I brought out a steel bullet I had doused in salt and holy alkaline water, then aimed at her.

I can never forget that scream. It rocked the foundations of the house. I rushed to place my body over Chinwe to protect her. The bullet caught the woman in the chest, right in the place where her heart should have been and burst. A pool of black water appeared underneath her as she slowly melted into nothing. 

We watched for some time before realising she was indeed gone. Chinwe screamed in pain, reminding me that she was indeed in labour. With little time to waste, we struggled towards my car and went straight to the hospital, where she was safely delivered to her baby boy.