He Shall Return

Chapter Thirteen: Entrance It was a typical Friday evening, and Alexander found himself at The Spirit Room, a cozy downtown bar known for its bohemian vibe and eclectic crowd. The lights were dim, casting a warm golden glow across the room. A jazz trio played in the corner, their saxophonist weaving melodies that mingled with the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation. Alexander was out with a mix of friends and a few employees from his startup, unwinding after a long week. He leaned back in his chair, a craft IPA in hand, listening to one of his team members recount a story about a botched coding sprint. The night was alive, the streets of Rochester bustling with laughter and chatter. Bars and restaurants spilled out onto sidewalks, where people strolled under the soft glow of streetlights. Then, she walked in. Adaeze entered with a group of executives, their presence commanding the room. Her emerald, green jumpsuit flowed effortlessly, accentuating her regal posture. Her hair, a cascade of Senegalese braids reaching down to her waist, framed her striking face. Adaeze exuded confidence, her aura magnetic, her laughter crisp and clear as it rang out over her group's chatter. Alexander's world tilted. Time slowed. Everything - the music, the chatter, even the very air in the bar - seemed to freeze. His chest tightened as he watched her laugh with her colleagues, her smile lighting up the space. She was captivating. Adaeze, however, didn't notice him. She was engrossed in her group, which included Ian Brennan, a Brit with a booming voice and a larger-than-life personality. Ian, the EVP of Europe, Middle East, and Africa for EXM Global, an international provider of forensic engineering and environmental consulting services, was on a U.S. tour of the Rochester regional office, and Adaeze's team was hosting him for the evening. Ian was holding court, regaling his audience with stories about his favorite continent, his travels around the continent and his growing African art collection. He had his group in stitches as he recounted hilarious idiosyncrasies of the people he encountered during his travels. Alexander, nursing his drink, observed from across the room. He couldn't help but study Adaeze. Was she with one of the men in her group? He noticed little movements that the rest of that group didn't seem to pick up, like the looks his girl (he had no idea why his brain was coding her as his) and the talker exchanged. He noticed the talker repeatedly brushing his hand down his girl's round behind, as if by accident. He noticed his girl excused herself to go to the ladies, brushing past the talker and accidentally grinding her round ass over the talker's front as she scooted past him. Alexander noticed how the talker adjusted his erection. They did all this in plain sight, hidden and brazen. It aroused a restlessness in him. He couldn't understand why he was so infuriated. He watched as his girl came back to the group, repeating the same passing grind. From his expensive leather laptop briefcase, Ian fished out a small, intricately carved wooden flute. “This,” he announced, “is called an Ojà. It's a high-pitched flute from southeastern Nigeria. Marvelous piece, isn't it? I acquired it during my last trip to Lagos. Look at the markings, pure artistry!”Ian continued regaling his group, explaining the cultural significance of the Oọjà. “The Igbo people use it for speech surrogacy, ceremonial music, and even storytelling. Remarkable craftsmanship.”Adaeze's gaze sharpened as Ian spoke and she lost the playful and flirtatious half interest she had been paying to him. The markings on the Oọjà seemed familiar, and an old story she had heard as a child came rushing back. Her family had passed down the tale of the third missing Oọjà of Nnobi, said to have disappeared in the 18th century. It was tied to the tragic fable of Nyemike, a priestess who had thrown herself into the River Niger after her son, Afamefuna, was speculated to have been captured by slave traders. The three villagers of Nnobi associated the loss of the sacred Oọjà with misfortunes that befell the town. With the twins of colonization and Christianity taking firm hold of Nnobi, the lore had faded to bedtime stories, with subsequent generations concluding the story was a pagan myth. It was relegated to the ranks of tortoise stories that were common in many Igbo homes. Adaeze felt a pang in her chest. She couldn't explain why, but she felt a strange connection to the artifact.“Ian,” she said softly, “may I see it?”Ian, delighted by her interest, handed her the flute, his fingers lingering over a caress as he transferred the flute to her. Adaeze’s fingers trembled as she took it. A wave of sadness washed over her, inexplicable and profound. “This poor Oọjà has been sad for so long,” she murmured. Without thinking, she placed her lips to the flute's head joint and began to play. A haunting, sorrowful tune filled the bar, silencing the room. Every patron turned, transfixed by the melody. The notes carried a weight of grief and longing, pulling at the hearts of everyone who listened. When she finished, the room erupted into applause. Adaeze blinked, disoriented, as if she had just emerged from a trance. But when the applause subsided, she noticed a man on the other side of the bar -Alexander - sobbing uncontrollably. Adaeze's curiosity was piqued. She crossed the room, her colleagues watching as she approached the weeping stranger. Kneeling beside him, she gently cradled his head.“Are you all right?”Alexander struggled to compose himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “I didn't know you were looking for me this long. I'm so sorry I caused you such grief.” Adaeze froze, her heart racing. How could he have known what the music conveyed? Only descendants of specific families in Igbo land were said to understand the sacred language of the ọjà.