Shadow speaker, p.1
Shadow Speaker, page 1
Praise for
Shadow Speaker
“Shadow Speaker is wonderful, highly original stuff, episode after amazing episode, full of color, life and death. . . . Nnedi also deals head-on with the fact that power and pain are closely linked, as are magic and blood. I think this book is marvelous.”
—Diana Wynne Jones, author of Howl’s Moving Castle and the Chronicles of Chrestomanci
“There’s more vivid imagination in a page of Nnedi Okorafor’s work than in whole volumes of ordinary fantasy epics.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin, author of the Earthsea series
“For 13 and older, my pick for best fiction of the year is [Shadow Speaker]. . . . A young adult devoted to Orson Scott Card for his complicated societies set in the future will be thrilled to discover this complex quest tale that begins in the Sahara Desert of 2070.”
—The Barnes & Noble Review
“As wildly inventive and suspenseful as her first novel, [Shadow Speaker] is at the same time more ambitious and thematically complex, and represents a major step forward for a storyteller who, in the tradition of Octavia Butler and Nalo Hopkinson, is equally adept at combining that most contemporary of forms, science fiction, with the ancient beliefs and values of non-western cultures that have for too long been underrepresented in modern fantastic literature.”
—Gary Wolfe, lead reviewer for Locus
“Many will also embrace the novel’s complicated characters, especially its women, and the unusual appearance of African, Muslim traditions in a science fiction context. Fans of Nancy Farmer’s The Ear, the Eye, and the Arm will want to give this a try.”
—Booklist
“[Okorafor’s] imagination is stunning.”
—The New York Times
“Ejii’s world is touched by magical realism, with technology interwoven with wild magic in a chaotic post-apocalyptic setting. . . . The rich and complex world-building creates an intriguing setting for Ejii’s quest.”
—Kirkus
“Shadow Speaker is endlessly imaginative, full of mystery and delight on every page. Nnedi Okorafor is a voice that will delight readers of all ages and backgrounds.”
—Tananarive Due, American Book Award-winning author of Ghost Summer
Winner of the Parallax Award
Finalist for the NAACP Image Award,
the Essence Magazine Literary Award,
the Golden Duck Award, and the Andre Norton Award
A Tiptree Honor Book
An Amelia Bloomer Project Book
DAW Books proudly presents the novels of Nnedi Okorafor
WHO FEARS DEATH
THE BOOK OF PHOENIX
NOOR
BINTI: THE COMPLETE TRILOGY
(Binti | Binti: Home | Binti: The Night Masquerade with Binti: Sacred Fire)
The Desert Magician’s Duology
SHADOW SPEAKER
LIKE THUNDER*
*Coming soon from DAW Books
Copyright © 2007 by Nnedi Okorafor
New material copyright © 2023 by Nnedi Okorafor
All rights reserved. Copying or digitizing this book for storage, display, or distribution in any other medium is strictly prohibited. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact permissions@astrapublishinghouse.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Jacket illustration by Greg Ruth
Jacket design by Jim Tierney
Edited by Betsy Wollheim
DAW Book Collectors No. 1945
DAW Books
An imprint of Astra Publishing House
dawbooks.com
DAW Books and its logo are registered trademarks of Astra Publishing House
ISBN 9780756418762 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780756418779 (ebook)
First edition: September 2023
Contents
Cover
Praise for Shadow Speaker
Also by Nnedi Okorafor
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Desert Magician Smoke
Prologue
Chapter 1: Static
Chapter 2: The Essay
Chapter 3: Fadio’s News
Chapter 4: Walkabout
Chapter 5: Dieuri and the Grand Bois
Chapter 6: Shadow Speakers in the Graveyard
Chapter 7: The Nerve
Chapter 8: Keep Your E-Pal Beside You
Chapter 9: Cactus Candy
Chapter 10: Aejej
Chapter 11: Shallow Waters
Chapter 12: City of Burrows
Chapter 13: The Desert Magician
Chapter 14: Old Naija
Chapter 15: Yellow Lady
Chapter 16: The Ghost Room
Chapter 17: Ejii Evolves
Chapter 18: Ginen
Chapter 19: Strangers in a Strange Land
Chapter 20: The Village of the Red One and Her Chiefs
Chapter 21: In the Tree
Chapter 22: The Burning Bushes
Chapter 23: Dawn
Chapter 24: Orders
Chapter 25: Clear Skies
Chapter 26: E-Pal Entry 783
Chapter 27: Home
Dedicated to my father, Dr. Godwin Okorafor
Desert Magician Smoke
You again.
Why do you keep coming back? You are seeking something within these pages. But you’re only going to dig up more questions, and they will make you itchy. And prickly. Like mental heat rash. A distant discomfort. An inflammation of the imagination. You’ll have to choose your own way.
I built this bonfire for you. Sit there, warm your nyash and soul. You’ve come a long way just to see the Desert Magician, no? Well worth the trip. This is important. I can make water spring from where there is none. Watch and see. Be amazed.
Sit up straight. I don’t enjoy looking at you all slumped over like that. You look like one of those nonsense vultures roaming the sky out there. When they land they stand all slumpy slump, like so. The damn things can barely walk, though they glide in the sky more perfectly than machinery. Beautiful beasts. Make good stew, too. Their meat is sweet; melts in your mouth. They’re easy to catch on nights like this, when the desert still hot and dry after the sun has set.
You smell that dry air? It clears the sinuses. Prepares the ears. Opens the brain. You need water? Well, watch the magician at work. Watch closely. Give me that cup behind you while you let me answer the question in your mind: yes, it’s made of bone. Now, watch my hand. I dig it in the sand like this, fingers first. See how the hole fills up and all I have to do is dunk the cup in and scoop out as much as you want. Here, take. Drink. It’s cool. It’s fresh.
You are smart, but more importantly, you are lucky. That’s the plight of your kind. Human beings. You all stumble about each world, kicking and stomping and breaking and somehow, hearty and resilient, you live. And get comfortable. You relax. You get rested. Clarity comes. You invent. You enjoy. Then you kill. And then you kill again.
See my feet? Do you have any idea where these feet have been? The bottoms of them are as thick as the borders between here and there are thin. I have walked the tops of the Air Mountains, strolled down the streets of Kwàmfà, danced in a parade in Agadez, left dirty footprints in the halls of the Ooni Palace, marched behind masquerades in Arondizuogu, and of course, I have sauntered across the hot sands of many deserts.
I have heard firsthand about the beginning. Small small groups of you called it Original Sin. But that’s some bullshit. You didn’t come from any clay. Your ancestors never ate a magic apple. If they did, the man would eat first. If woman found the Apple of Knowledge, she wouldn’t share it. And she’d eat it in the sunshine. All the way to the core. And then look for more.
Mmm mmm, smoke oily sweet. Watch how it creeps over the fire. See how it does not dissipate. See? It forms a small billowing cloud, like a giant ball of gray cotton. Now look into it and see. More killing here, more killing there. Heh heh, it’s amusing. You may be my people, but not really. I don’t care much for you. All I care about is a good story.
Once in a while I’ll jump in there, stir up the detritus, move things along, kick up some water. Is that not the Desert Magician’s job? Make water appear where there is none? Without water, do things not grow dry and cracked, immobile?
Let it begin in the way many things begin, with an egg. Sit back and make sure you’re comfortable because you aren’t going anywhere for a while. I will give you what you’ve come for. See my duology unfolding in the smoke. The change will be great, like thunder. Ah, you will think you’ve landed on another planet, maybe another dimension. Or a place that will never exist, right? How else can you explain the fact that you’ve arrived in an African future? One that is so specific, so real. You can see it on the map, right there. How do you even pronounce its name?
Cough if the unfamiliar concept irritates your throat. Cough some more. And now relax because it is here. The water where there once was none. Smooth, clean, refreshing, cool, and maybe just a tiny bit bitter. You’ve been warned.
Welcome to Book One.
Prologue
Ejii was on her bed typing into her e-pal when the ground began to shake. From the kitchen, Ejii heard the clank-bang of a pot falling and then her mother’s shout of surprise.
“Mama!” she shouted, droppi ng her e-pal and rolling off the bed to a crouching position on the floor. She listened, sweat forming on her forehead, her eyes darting around her room. Two books on her desk were shaken to the floor. The model globe on her dresser bounced onto its side and bumped against the wall. The clothes in her closet danced on their hangers. Outside her bedroom window, the red-flowered tree growing there quivered to the rhythm of the Earth.
“Come on!” her mother shouted, now standing at the door. “Out . . . outside! I don’t know what this is!”
Ejii was too afraid to move. The ground joggled her about, even as she crouched. She heard the crash of things falling and, outside, people screaming and crying things like:
“Oh Allah, save us!”
“Please, not again!”
“Take us into your arms, o!”
“Come on,” her mother said again, this time more softly as she held out her hand.
Ejii fought her surety that this time the world really was ending; that the Sahara Desert was finally finishing what it started, swallowing up the rest of what was there. Then the room darkened. She felt them press against her, almost pushing her up. The shadows. Ejii grabbed her e-pal and ran with her mother to the front of the house. She tripped over a fallen chair, her mother stumbled over a framed family painting, they both leapt over a toppled houseplant and a large beaded ebony mask, the groans and shakes of the Earth slamming them against the walls.
When her mother threw the door open, Ejii saw that outside was chaos, too. Everyone had run out, sure that this was finally the end of days. A young child stumbled about crying, his father chasing after him. People dropped to and hugged the ground, praying to whichever gods they prayed to. A woman tried to stop her roaring camel from running off. Other camels lumbered in large circles, confused and horrified. A brown goat stood defecating and several chickens huddled against a child’s legs.
Two men, even as the Earth shook, tried to salvage the round stacks of flatbread that had fallen from their cart. Another man laughed wildly, as he stared at the sky where many birds and bats circled. Ejii also spotted a windseeker woman flying with the birds. She could see that the windseeker’s face was wet with tears. The windseeker wailed and flew even higher, several bats and birds following her like babies following their mother.
Others just stood, as Ejii and her mother now did, looking south, past the houses and buildings and palm and monkey-bread trees, into the Sahara Desert. Something was coming. Ejii could see it far better than everyone around her.
Something green.
A green egg on the horizon.
As it grew, the earthquake subsided. Soon everyone was looking. The greenness spread over the sky, quickly approaching them. Ejii grasped her mother’s hand and touched the amulet that hung from her neck with her other hand. “Inshallah,” her mother whispered. Then the green wave came with a WHOOOOSH! Its wind pushed everyone a few steps north, only the toddlers and the very old fell to the ground. Palm trees bent northward and monkey-bread trees lost all their fruits.
The strength of the wave forced Ejii to inhale deeply as it passed. It smelled of a thousand roses blooming at the same time in the same place for the same reason. She sneezed and looked at her mother and they both pressed closer to each other. It wasn’t the end. It was another beginning. But of what?
CHAPTER 1
Static
Kwàmfà, Ejii’s home, was a town of slim palm trees and sturdy gnarled monkey-bread trees, old but upgraded satellite dishes, and sand-brick houses with colorful Zulu-style designs. It was noisy, too: its unpaved but flat roads always busy with motorbikes, camels, old cars, and, during certain parts of the year, even the occasional truck. Kwàmfà was also known for its amazing carpets and, after the great change, in the shadier parts of the market, its flying carpets.
After the recent earthquake, Kwàmfà was abuzz with rumors. But as the small town had moved forward after the great change, it moved forward again after the earthquake. Two days later, following a massive cleanup, the market, shops, and schools had reopened and people stopped preparing for the end of the world. Now, another twelve days later, people no longer talked about the earthquake with much urgency. Kwàmfà was a resilient town, even with its troubled past. This had always made Ejii proud. Of course, that didn’t mean that the town’s ghosts didn’t haunt her. Especially in the dark.
“Ejii, please turn on the lights,” her history teacher, Mrs. Nwabara, said.
Ejii didn’t sit that closely to the light switch, but her teacher always asked her to turn them on after the class had watched a digital. It was a cloudy day, and with the shades drawn and the class screen off, the room was pitch dark. It was logical for Ejii to be the one to turn the lights on. Mrs. Nwabara had also entrusted Arif and Sammy, who were also shadow speakers, with the same job when they were in this class last year.
Ejii flipped the lights on. Everyone in the class blinked except her. As she returned to her seat, she was aware of their usual eyes on her.
“Any questions about the French Fifth Republic?” her teacher asked. The class was silent. She smiled. “When did Niger achieve independence?”
More silence. Ejii and two boys raised their hands. The teacher picked one of the boys. “Raji?”
“August third,” he said. He paused, frowning. “1990?”
“Close,” Mrs. Nwabara said. “August third, 1960. It may have been over a century ago, but it was a big turning point.” She leaned on her desk’s edge. She wore light blue pants and a matching silk top, an ensemble that Ejii both liked and was bothered by. Mrs. Nwabara was the only female teacher in the school who had the nerve to wear pants.
“It’s good that all the hype about the earthquake has died down.” She paused again, pinching her chin. “But after it happened, I got to rethinking your next assignment. I have something better for you to do. Forget the oral presentation, but . . .” Mrs. Nwabara paused dramatically.
An anticipatory silence fell over the class and Ejii wasn’t the only one who couldn’t help grinning. She picked up her e-pal, highlighted the “oral presentation” link and happily deleted it.
“I want this new assignment to be long enough for you to efficiently explore the topic,” Mrs. Nwabara said. “At least seven pages.”
A groan swept through the class and Mrs. Nwabara laughed. “Would you rather do the oral presentation?”
Everyone quickly responded, “No!”
“Okay, then. Write an essay answering this question: ‘What is history?’ We’ve just watched a digital about the French, the people who colonized our country long ago. That is history, but do you feel like you are a part of it?” She paused. “Well, do you?”
Ejii shook her head and said, “No.” When she realized she was the only one who’d spoken, she felt embarrassed. The teacher smiled at her.
“Most of our history books are about foreigners or royalty or the wealthy or the murderous; they rarely focus on people like the farmer who lived and died on his farm or the mother who raised her ten children, the majority of people. Yet we can’t move forward unless we understand the past. Where do you fit in? Who are you?”
“I want you to write yourself into history, because no matter what history books say, even you are a part of it. Tell me about some historical event and how you figure into it.” She paused as several students raised their hands. “No questions asking me what I exactly want from you.” All the hands went down. “This is an open assignment. It’s up to you to write it however you want. Dazzle me. You have a week.”
As Ejii typed notes into her e-pal, she could still hear the shadows; their sound was like the soft static of an e-pal with a broken receiver. She frowned. The shadows had been trying to speak with her since the day of the earthquake. But no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t understand what they were saying. Still, one thing she was sure of was that she had a general feeling. Something bad was going to happen soon.
She suddenly knew exactly what she would write for her assignment . . . if she could ignore all the noise of foreboding.
• • •
That night, she quickly did her other homework and moved right on to her history assignment. She worked feverishly, finishing around four a.m. She put her e-pal down and went to the bathroom, where she ran some hot water over a washcloth and pressed it to her swollen face. It was swollen from crying. Her eyes burned, her head ached, and her stomach felt sour. She looked at herself in the mirror and wanted to punch her fist through it. It was always this way when she thought too deeply about her father. In her ears she could hear the shadows, and their voices were still nothing but aggravating static.
