Onoh Futility

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-83541-429-3
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 336 Seiten

For readers of Oyinkan Braithwaite's My Sister the Serial Killer and Bella Mackie's How to Kill Your Family, this is a monstrous, gleeful, bitingly funny tale of murder, body-swapping and bloody vengeance from the recipient of the Bram Stoker Award® for Lifetime Achievement and 'Queen of African Horror'. Crackling with wit, this is a monstrous, gleeful, bitingly funny tale of murder, body-swapping and bloody vengeance from the recipient of the Bram Stoker Award ® for Lifetime Achievement and 'Queen of African Horror'. Betrayed by the men in their lives, two women seethe with rage and bitterness. When a trickster spirit offers them the gift of revenge, they cannot resist. Chia runs one of the best restaurants in Abuja, Nigeria, and is renowned among the male clientele for her captivating beauty and delicious hot pepper soup. But her hot pepper soup has a secret ingredient, and her beauty is not what it seems. Claire is a 50 year-old British woman living in Abuja with her young Nigerian boyfriend and his beautiful cousin, Shadé. Consumed by jealousy and resentment, Claire's carefully organised life spirals into chaos after a night out at Chia's infamous restaurant.

Nuzo Onoh is an award-winning Nigerian-British writer of Igbo descent. She is a pioneer of the African horror literary genre. Hailed as the 'Queen of African Horror', Nuzo's writing showcases both the beautiful and horrific in the African culture within fictitious narratives. Nuzo's works have featured in numerous magazines and anthologies. She has given talks and lectures about African Horror, including at the prestigious Miskatonic Institute of Horror Studies, London. She has also appeared on many radio shows and podcasts, including BBC Radio 4's Woman's Hour. Her works have appeared in academic studies and been longlisted and shortlisted. She is a Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement Award recipient.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Onoh, Nuzo

Leseproben

2

Claire Bellows lifted her generous bum from the faux-leather sofa and released a delicate fart. The sound was tight, a squeezed little fart more suited to an aristocratic arse that the fleshy rotundity of her peasant backside. It reeked of baked-beans overdose, her supper earlier that evening.

Claire inhaled deeply, savouring the stench from her orifice as she eyed the young woman seated across from her, scrolling on her mobile phone with feigned disinterest. She was a slender woman whose long hair extensions and false eyelashes stamped her with the cloned appearance of the female undergraduates at the various private universities in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital city. The girl’s skin was flawless with the silky smoothness of melted chocolate. Once again, Claire eyed Shadé with bitter envy. In her striking tall slenderness, Shadé was the Megan Markle brand of femme fatales, the ones men either lusted after or loathed for rejecting their lust—God! I just hate young girls, especially these little men-magnets who wield a terrifying power over men of all ages and races. Fucking tarts!

She muttered the curse and released another fart. This time, the sound was explosive and Shadé’s head jerked.

“Kaja! Aunty Claire!” she exclaimed as she stared at Claire with startled disbelief.

Claire returned her look with a smirk, daring her to comment or cover her nose from the putrid reek of her fart. For several tense seconds, it looked as if Shadé might explode with fury. Her false lashes flickered manically, her blue contact-lensed eyes flashing dangerously as she leapt from her chair, brushing aside her long, gold hair extensions with an impatient hand.

Claire continued to watch her silently, her smirk growing wider, swollen with dark malignancy—Come on, babes! Say something! Go on; let’s hear what you really think of me again, you stupid little shit. I dare you to say a word about my fart. Claire was cruising for a brawl and needed a victim to vent her frustrations on tonight. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her side and her body quivered with menopausal frustration. The intense tropical heat wasn’t making things any better and the girl’s unusual rebellious stance irked her pride.

Shadé stood still for several seconds before finally lowering her head until her jaw almost rested on her chest. Finally, she straightened her shoulders, adjusted the spaghetti straps of her skimpy top, lifted her head, and turned to face Claire. A manic smile spread across her face.

“Aunty-Aunty!” Her voice thrilled with cocaine glee, her bright blue eyes glinting with ill-repressed insanity. “Kaja! This is my special oyinbo aunty! Everything about you white people is just beautiful! Even your fart smells like perfume, I swear,” she giggled manically, slapping her thighs with exaggerated mirth. When her eyes met Claire’s, the cold hardness in them belied the brightness of her smile.

Got you, bitch! Claire returned her smile with a tight twist of her thin lips. They both knew there was no love lost between them, but necessity demanded they play out the charade imposed on them by their shared interest—Kolade, where the fuck are you, you wretched man? How long does it take to get a bleeding haircut, for God’s sake? God! I just hate this frigging city! It’s the only place I know where barbers do more business at night than in the daytime. Fucking vampires! A scowl replaced the smirk on Claire’s face.

“So, Aunty Claire, do all white women’s arse-pollutions smell like your perfumed one?” The girl’s voice cut into Claire’s dark thoughts. There was a subtle mockery in her tone that raised Claire’s hackles.

“Of course, Shadé,” Claire said, holding the girl’s gaze with her hard grey eyes, gaslighting her with shameless impunity. “White women’s farts definitely smell like perfume, especially those originating from English buttocks. In fact, in the olden days in England, the king used to gather all the women in the castle for a collective fart-fest to scent up the banquet hall before he entertained important aristocrats. That’s how beautiful our farts smell. Mind you, aristocratic women own the best farts in the world; something to do with their blue blood and all. Still, one is thankful for the superior quality of our English farts.”

Claire raised a disdainful eyebrow at the young woman still standing before her and turned her face away haughtily. She wanted to laugh at the stormy expression on the girl’s face but, once again, the familiar irritation soured her mood. Shadé’s pretty face was a bloody ulcer to her: as always, she wished that her boyfriend wasn’t so close to his young cousin. But Kolade would do anything for the wretched girl and Claire had lived long enough in Nigeria to know that the people took their family bonds very seriously. Where Shadé was concerned, Kolade was ready to defy even Jesus Himself for his cousin’s welfare.

Claire sighed deeply and reached for her phone inside her handbag. Then she paused, eyeing Shadé with vicious hostility—Why not? Let’s make the little shit dance in her own filth. Not my fault if her greed for a British visa keeps her dragging her dignity to the floor. As long as the bitch thinks I’ll help her get her visa, she’ll remain my slave forever. But pigs will fly before I lift a finger to help the cow. She thinks I’ve forgotten what she said about me when we first met. I’ll show her that Claire Bellows has a very long memory and she never, ever, forgives a slight; never!

“Let’s have your phone.” Claire stretched out an imperious hand towards Shadé. The girl hesitated before reluctantly handing over her mobile. A panicked look replaced her scowl. Suddenly, she looked ready to snatch the phone back from Claire.

Claire placed the device on her lap as she pulled a couple of naira notes from her purse and handed them to Shadé. “Why don’t you go and buy us some suya meat while I make a private call?” she said, waving Shadé away with bored indifference. She knew the money she had given the girl was just enough to purchase the spiced beef delicacy for two people. She also knew that Shadé expected to share the treat with her. Her eyes glinted with icy malevolence as she watched the girl depart—Huh! You’ll be so lucky, bitch! The suya is for Cole and me. You can go treat yourself with your own money – or, even better, get yourself your own fucking boyfriend to treat you. It never ceased to surprise Claire that Shadé remained single despite her stunning looks and the desperate attention of all the besotted men in the city. She suspected the sneaky girl had a boyfriend hidden away somewhere but was trying to maintain a pristine and modest appearance before her cousin, Kolade—little hypocrite!

She hissed again and picked up Shadé’s phone to make a call to her psychic for her usual daily predictions. It was locked.

“Fucking bitch!” Claire screamed, flinging the phone on the floor. Hot rage flared in her heart and she prayed the screen would shatter into tiny fragments. But an inner voice mocked her wishes—You stupid cunt! You know you need the bitch’s mobile to make your call to the psychic line tonight since your official phone is likely bugged by the High Commission and you’ve left your second mobile at home. That’s what you get for shagging a native. God! I hate that Kardashian-clone bitch, Shadé! Where the fuck is Kolade? Shit!

Claire jumped up from the sofa and started pacing around the small living room like a caged heifer. The leather of her heeled sandals bit into her swollen feet and she quickly kicked them away. She stooped to massage her feet but her distended stomach blocked her passage. Her arms could only stretch to her knees while the loose African bubu kaftan she wore trailed almost to the floor, sweeping the dusty linoleum. With another loud curse, she stomped into one of the two bedrooms in the small flat, Kolade’s bedroom, and slumped on the bed, cradling her head in her hands—Just take a deep breath, Claire; that’s it… slowly… deeply… that’s good. Just calm yourself… mustn’t let things get to you. Sooner or later, they’ll have to post you back to a civilised country. In the meantime, try and make the best of this damned place and its bloody women, and enjoy passionate sex with Cole while it lasts.

Claire inhaled deeply once again before lifting her face and staring into the long mirror opposite the bed. She sighed in despair. The image in the mirror did little to improve her mood. It only intensified the damaging difference between her faded looks and Shadé’s vibrant beauty, heightening her insecurities. She looked every one of her fifty years, her short hair more grey than blonde. Her skin was an angry red, more burnt than tanned and the age lines on her face made a mockery of the phrase ‘laughter lines’.

She grimaced at her image in the mirror, instinctively pushing back her stooped shoulders—Fucking beached whale! She swore at her reflection, eyeing her obese body sourly. At just over five foot three, Claire’s fourteen-stone weight sat heavy on her short frame. All the fat seemed to have congregated on her stomach, arse and thighs. No matter how hard she exercised, nothing seemed to shift the lard plumping up her hips. She guessed she should be grateful to that peculiar body defect, which had turned her into hot cake in the eyes of many Nigerian men. Their obsession with mammoth backsides ensured that her hefty arse was now in hot demand, especially with her being a white diplomat too.

While...