“I’ll tell your wife if you don’t let me go first,” the young one said.

“Tell her then,” the fat one angrily barked.

In Jwahir, Ewu people were outcast. In Banza, Ewu women were prostitutes. It was no good wherever I went. “I’m a holy woman,” I asserted, holding my voice steady. “I entertain no one. I am and will remain untouched.”

“We respect that, lady,” the tall one said. “It doesn’t have to be intercourse. You can use your mouth and let us touch your breasts. We’ll pay you well for…”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “I’m not from here. I’m not a prostitute. Leave me be.”

A series of unspoken words passed between them. They made eye contact with each other and their lips curled into mischievous smiles. Their hands left their pockets where their money was. Oh Ani, protect me, I thought.

They sprang at the same time. I fought, kicking one of them in the face, grabbing the testicles of another and squeezing as hard as I could. I just needed to make it to the door so the others could see me.

The tall one grabbed me. There was too much noise inside the tavern and the breath was knocked out of me before I could shout. I punched, scratched, and kicked. I was rewarded with grunts and curses as I made contact. But there were four of them. The one with the braids grabbed my thick braid and I fell backward. Then they started dragging me away from the door. Yes, even the young one. I anxiously looked around, holding my braid. There were other people nearby.

“Eh!” I shouted at a women just standing there staring. “Help! Help me, o!”

But she didn’t. There were several people doing the same, just standing there watching. In this lovely town of art and culture, people did nothing when an Ewu women was dragged into a dark alley and raped.

This is what happened to my mother, I thought. And Binta. And countless other Okeke women. Women. The walking dead. I began to get very very angry.

I was bricoleur, one who used what she had to do what she had to do, and so I did. I mentally opened my sorcerer Bushcraft bag and considered the Mystic Points. The Uwa point, the physical world. There was a slight breeze.

They held my face to the dirt, tore at my garments, and freed their penises. I concentrated. The wind increased. “There are consequences to shifting the weather,” Aro had taught. “Even in small places.” But I didn’t care about that right now. When I’m truly angry, when I’m filled with violence, all things are easy and simple.

The men noticed the wind and let go of me. The boy yelled, the tall one stared, the fat one tried to dig a hole to crawl into, and the one with the braids pulled at his hair in terror. The wind pressed them to the ground. The most it did to me was blow my thick braid and loose garments about. I stood up, looking down at them. I gathered the wind, gray and black in my hands, and pressed it together, elongating it into a funnel. And I would thrust it into each man, as each had wanted to thrust his penis into me.

“Onyesonwu! Don’t!” Mwita’s voice was resonant, as if he’d thrown it at me.

I looked up. “See me!” I shouted. “See what they wanted to do to me!”

The wind kept Mwita back. “Remember,” he shouted. “This is not what we are. No violence! It’s what sets us apart!”

I began to tremble as my fury retreated and clarity set in. Without the blindness of rage, I clearly understood that I wanted to kill these men. They cowered on the ground. Terrified of me. I looked at the people who’d gathered. I looked at Binta, Luyu, Diti, and Fanasi all standing there. I refused to look at Mwita. I pointed the black roaring spear of wind at the youngest one.

“Onyesonwu,” Mwita begged. “Trust me. Just trust me. Please!”

I pressed my lips together. Thinking of the first time I saw Mwita. When he’d told me to jump from the tree after I’d unknowingly turned into a bird. I hadn’t been able to see his face, I didn’t know who he was, but even then I trusted him. I threw the spear and it blasted a large hole beside the young one. Then the idea came to me. I changed myself. In the Great Book there is a most terrifying creature. It only speaks riddles and, in the stories, though it never kills, people fear it more than death.

I changed into a sphinx. My body was that of a giant robust desert cat but my head remained mine. It was the first time I used a shape I knew, altered its size, and kept a part of myself the same. The men looked up at me and screamed. They groveled lower to the ground. The onlookers also screamed, running in all directions.

“Next time you want to attack an Ewu woman, think of my name: Onyesonwu,” I roared, whipping my thick tail at them. “And fear for your life.”

“Onyesonwu?” one of the men asked, his eyes wide. “Eeee! The sorceress of Jwahir who can raise the dead? We’re sorry! We’re sorry!” He pressed his face to the dirt. The young one started crying. The other men gibbered apology.

“We didn’t know.”

“We smoked too much.”

“Please!”

I frowned, changing back. “How do you know of me?”

“Travelers spoke of you, Ada-m,” one man said.

Mwita stepped forward. “All of you, get out of here before I kill you myself!” He was trembling as I was. Once they ran off, Mwita ran to me. “Where are you hurt?”

I just stood there as Mwita pulled my clothes together and touched my face. The others quietly crowded around me.

“Excuse me,” a woman said. She was about my age and, like many of the women, had a silver ring in her nose. She looked vaguely familiar.

“What?” I asked flatly.

The woman took a step back and I felt a deep satisfaction. “I… well, I wanted to… I want to apologize for… for that,” she said.

“Why?” I frowned realizing where I’d seen her. “You stood there just like everyone else. I saw you.”

She took another step back. I wanted to spit at her and then scratch her face off. Mwita held his arm more tightly around my waist. Luyu sucked her teeth loudly and mumbled something and I heard Fanasi say, “Let’s go.” Binta belched.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t know you were Onyesonwu.”

“So if I were any other Ewu woman, it would’ve been okay?”

“Ewu women are prostitutes,” she said matter-of-factly. “They have a brothel in Hometown called the Goat Hair. Hometown is the residential part of Banza, where we all live. They come here from the West. You’ve never heard of Banza?”

“No,” I said. I paused, sensing once again that I’d heard of Banza before. I sighed, disgusted by the place.

“I beg you. Go to the house on the hill,” the woman said, looking at me and then at Mwita. “Please. This is not how I want you all to remember Banza.”

“We don’t care what you want,” Mwita said.

The woman looked down and continued to beg. “Please. Onyesonwu is respected here. Go to the house on the hill. They can heal her wounds and…”

“I can heal her wounds,” Mwita said.

“On the hill?” I asked, looking toward it.

The woman’s face brightened. “Yes, at the top. They’ll be so glad to see you.”