The House of Akwusianubaogu

he House of Akwusianubaogu is downtown, overlooking the sea of people that is Ojuelegba Under-bridge. It is on the ground floor of an unpainted, three-storey building, in a cramped block of other unpainted three-storey buildings. During the day, it is just another door in Lagos that never opens. A door sitting below a tattoo shop and football betting centre. The only remarkable thing about The House of Akwusianubaogu is that it is the only floor in the block whose corridor has a complete set of wooden rails. The other floors do not have rails, just sparse metal bars that have seen better days.

Lagosians have gotten used to the ground floor apartment — how nobody comes in or goes out of it. Yes, they still have unanswered questions they ask themselves: Who owns the place, ehn? What could be lurking behind the door; a ritualist's enclave, a child peddler, an abortion clinic? They know the apartment belongs to someone because every new month, paid electricity bills and LIRS tax receipts are pasted on the unopened door. But what can they do? This is Lagos and it is always best to know when to stop being an amebo and start minding your business. After all, there are one thousand and one other things to worry about in this city. So they decided it is best to make up explanations to satisfy their curiosity. Maybe the apartment belongs to a late Alhaja whose children are still slugging it out in court for ownership.

Yes, this could be true, abi? Shebi, are there not hundreds of doors like this one scattered all over Lagos?

Every house takes root from a story.

The story of the House of Akwusianubaogu is nothing like the stories Lagosians tell about it between fanning charcoal to roast corn and stretching the waistline of a pair of jeans to demonstrate its durability to a customer. It begins with a rebirth. The rebirth of Akwusianubaogu. Before her rebirth, nobody knew who Akwusianubaogu was. Some said she used to be a secretary at the bicycle license office, others said she ran a successful okporoko shop at Afia Ochanja, the rest could swear that she was a big-time tailor at Upper-Iweka, and there is also another story of how she fought in the war. However, the consensus was clear. Akwusianubaogu had lived countless lives that bled into each other so well it is possible she was all of the things they said she was.

Then she disappeared into the wilderness.

For seven months and seven days. When she returned, she told the world that her name was Akwusianubaogu.

'See, it is very mouthy. Consider the strain in your jaw after saying my name before you choose to challenge me in a fight,' she said to the crowd that gathered around her to see the spectacle for themselves.

She stood there, resplendent in her spotless white, lace blouse and ox-blood lappa. Her hair was woven nearly into six sections with owu, strung full with cowries, and then collected into a tower. The otanjele guiding her eyes made them seem like they had a mind of their own. Only a glimpse of her neck could be seen, the rest was decked up with coral beads.

'Where did you go?'

'To the wilderness.'

'What did you go there to do?'

'To commune with the foremothers.'

Where the wilderness was, Akwusianubaogu could not say. The foremothers were the ones who led her in and out of it. But she was sure of one thing; that fa ncha, from Ani to Mbari, told her that they would give her a gift, but she needed to be reborn both physically and spiritually to be able to receive the gift.

'Reborn into what?'

'A woman.'

'So you used to be a man?'

'You used to know me as a man.'

'So you're no longer a man or what?'

Akwusianubaogu heaved a sigh. 'How do I explain this? I am both and neither, at the same time.'

The crowd began to grow uneasy. A murmur of disbelief ran from end to end.

'Shhhh...They also prised my mouth open and filled it with songs.'

They dared her to prove it. To sing this song that the foremothers put in her mouth. When Akwusianubaogu opened her mouth, she unearthed something uncanny, something no one in the crowd had ever heard before. It was the voice of a thousand choirs echoing all things past and present, living and dead. They sat there, even hours after Akwusianubaogu left, replaying the voice they just heard over and over again. The spell the voice cast on them clouded everything else Akwusianubaogu said about being reborn.

Word spread fast about the strange woman who returned from the wilderness with an ethereal voice. They gathered at Afia Ochanja to hear her sing. Her songs chronicled tales from a long time ago, people who were dead, and cities forgotten. The market women loved her because of the massive crowd she drew. Their wares, mostly okporoko, abacha, and ogiri, were cleared out by customers way before noon.

She sang from dawn to dusk every Nkwo, no breaks in between. Three times during her performance, a new set of ndi ogene and dancers would come in to replace the ones with blisters on their palms and feet. She handpicked her ndi ogene and dancers. From men and women like her to men who loved other men and women who loved other women. They would perform their hearts out and Akwusianubaogu's hawkeye was always alert to sniff out anyone sneering in the crowd.

'There is a man over there congealing his face like shit. Obi adiro gi nma? Ehn, if you're not happy then you can leave.'

It was not just the voice that Akwusianubaogu came back with from the wilderness. She also returned with a vision for a house. In the first weeks of her performance, she nursed this vision, biding her time, counting what remained of the crumpled naira notes people dropped in the basket at her feet while she performed after she had paid her ndi ogene and dancers until she knew for sure that she was ready. She made a large clearing at the outskirts of the town and together with her dancers and ndi ogene they dug the foundation, started on the masonry and woodwork, and wove the atani roof until the house was finished.

For most of them, this was the first house they could all call home. They made sure to fill it with music, dance, and dreams and threw its arms open to people like them. Come, this is our safe space. On days they did not perform at Afia Ochanja, they would dance and sing for themselves. This was by far more magical than anything the crowd at the market witnessed. Akwusianubaogu sat back and soaked it all in. She had done it. She had completed all the foremothers told her to do.

People never really bothered about the house and the ululations that came from it. It was just Akwusianubaogu and her troupe rehearsing for their performance, they were not bothering anyone.

Akwusianubaogu had all the stories in the world beneath her tongue and she was not scared of turning it into rhythm. Soon, she started calling out men who beat up their wives and those who seized palm trees from widows who refused to sleep with them. She also sang about how the Igwe stole money meant for the school and health centre. Ifugo? Your shamelessness has been brought to light.

People began to advise her to stick to singing about myths and goddesses, to avoid poking her fingers into an aṅụ hive already galled by people constantly mining it for honey. Some of them came from a genuine place of being worried about her safety. For the rest, you could sense the mischief beneath their concern. If she starts calling people out, how long will it take before she gets to me? Who the hell is she to judge us, ehn?

She continued singing whatever she wanted to sing.

After another day of singing into the heart of the night, Akwusianubaogu and her ndi ogene and dancers came home to see their house razed to the ground.

Who could have done this? It must be the Igwe? What are we going to do now, Akwusianubaogu?

Her dancers and ndi ogene asked these questions with unwavering certainty that Akwusianubaogu had all the answers, that she must have a concrete plan of what they were going to do now. They followed her with their eyes as she waded through the heap of ash that was once their bedroom, kitchen, living area, and dining. They tried to gauge what this; retracing her steps that morning from the bedrooms to wake them up for rehearsals to the kitchen to hurry up those assigned to make breakfast, could mean. Her face was blank like the world before Olisa spat on it to form the waters and begged Ani to separate the waters to form land.

The next Nkwo, people gathered at Afia Ochanja, waiting for Akwusianubaogu and her troupe. Noon came and passed, still no sign of them. It was a long market day. Without the music and dance, they could feel every second taking its time to pass by. They were glad when the day was over and trudged back home. They knew about the house that got burnt four days ago, but what would be more important to Akwusianubaogu and her ndi ogene and dancers than coming to Afia Ochanja to sing and dance for them?

Another Nkwo passed and they began to speculate that Akwusianubaogu had disappeared into the wilderness, again. Who knows who she will become when she comes back this time? But seven months and seven days sauntered by and neither Akwusianubaogu nor a metamorphosis of her surfaced. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe this is the last of the House of Akwusianubaogu. They moved on. Barely a year would go by before their memories of Akwusianubaogu and her ndi ogene and dancers slipped through the cracks.

As she watched the wind scatter the flakes of ash from the burnt house, Akwusianubaogu gathered her ndi ogene and dancers in her arms and told them to wipe their tears. In the many years that went by, they moved across cities. With each new city, they built a new house and found other people like them. They would stay a bit until they were sure the new house could stand on its own, then they moved on to the next city.

This time, the houses were different. The world was becoming more hostile to them. So in the mornings, they would put on new skins and go into the world. Blend in. You will see them working in motor parks, in schools, in hospitals, selling one or two things in a crowded market, attending to you at the cash counter, convincing you to accept the Lord Jesus as your personal saviour. They are everywhere. Hiding in plain sight. At nightfall, they would peel off the false skins and go back to the house. No longer did they sing and perform in the market. All their singing and dancing, they kept for themselves and themselves alone.

Most of Lagos is finally asleep, but life is just beginning to rumble inside the House of Akwusianubaogu. Behind the door that never opens during the day is another door that leads you downstairs to a whole new world filled with colours, music, and dreams. Tonight is the grand opening of the Lagos house. Months of planning has gone into it; installing the padded walls to seal their voices from the outside world and making sure the cooling system worked every time regardless of the NEPA wahala in Lagos.

This is by far the most difficult house Akwusianubaogu and her ndi ogene and dancers have built. Other houses scattered around the country have sent their representatives to come see the house for themselves. Akwusianubaogu is sitting on the dais with her signature white lace blouse and ox-blood lappa, flanked with her ndi ogene and dancers. The blue light beams on them, accentuating the whorls on their faces. Faces that have continued to deepen with age and with the triumph of every new house they have built and the exhilaration that came with days of outrunning a squad of pot-bellied Olopas. They are surrounded in a semicircle by a sea of fervent faces.

The air pulsates with waiting as Akwusianubaogu stands up, struts to the microphone in the centre of the room. She signals her dancers and ndi ogene to get ready. She barely opens her mouth before the whole house roars to life.