Excerpt: LOVE, WITCHES, AND WAHALA by Christine Cowan

CHAPTER 4

Nneka

TThe soft clucking of the chickens roosting outside stirs me from my sleep. I open my eyes fully, excitement flooding through me, making my insides vibrate. Something tells me it has to do with that man with locs from yesterday.

My eyes wander to the small bedside table beside me, cluttered yet charming in its disarray. The brass lamp stands like an old friend, casting a golden glow that dances with the subtlety of a flame. Worn and well-loved books are stacked haphazardly on the desk across from the bed. Each spine is a doorway to another world, another adventure. Among them lies my diary, its cover creased with the passage of time and hands. Each page holds the echoes of laughter, tears, and whispered secrets from lives once lived.

This house, with its walls steeped in history and magic, has been my home through nine lives. My grandmother, a powerful witch in her own right, cast a spell on it, ensuring that it would always be a haven for me, and me alone. To outsiders, it’s just an old house that refuses to fade. The once-bright paint is chipped and bleached from years under the Port Harcourt sun, and the tall wooden gate, slightly warped by the rains, still stands strong. Some say it looks out of place among the newer, more modern buildings, a stubborn relic of another era. But to me, it’s home—solid, familiar, and mine—safeguarding the last of the Ezenwanyi bloodline.

I turn around. A photo of my grandmother sits on the dresser, a constant reminder of my lineage and the powerful magic that runs through my veins. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and humming a tune. It’s soft and melodic, a song that seems to have woven itself into my dreams, lingering in my waking moments.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cool touch of the floor under my feet as I stand up. I didn’t dream of a song, did I?

I’m distracted as I walk toward the bathroom door. My mind keeps drifting back to the man with the locs, and the song in my head grows louder and more persistent. I softly sing along as if I’ve known this song my entire life.

Sometimes, life’s a winding road. With turns and twists, we carry our load. But no matter how far I go, I find my way back home… Under the starry night…

As soon as I’m done freshening up, I step into the altar. The room is small but mine—a sacred space filled with herbs, crystals, and mystical things. I close the door, sensing a shift in the atmosphere as I enter my realm of spirits and magic. The herbs hang from the ceiling like old memories; their once-vibrant colors have faded from overuse, while small vials of glowing liquids are lined on the shelves.

In the center stands a wooden table, my main altar, worn smooth from years of use, its surface stained with the remnants of past spells and potions.

I take my place before the altar, grounding myself.

With a steady hand, I reach for my herbs, carefully selecting each: lavender for peace, rosemary for clarity, and a pinch of salt to cleanse the doubts. I sprinkle them into my cauldron, watching as they dance and twirl in the air before settling into the bowl.

I say my chant, my voice steady and sure. The words are old, passed down through generations of witches in my family. Udo m na-arịọ ka ụwa m jupụta na nghọta. A plea for peace and understanding to fill my world, a harmony I seek to invoke with every uttered syllable. As I speak, I move gracefully around the cauldron, my body swaying to the rhythm of the spell.

I light the candles one by one, calling out to the spirits. “Ancestors, guide me. Show me the path.” I’ve asked for their guidance countless times before, and the answer has been the same each time—nothing.

I’m running out of time.

The flame on the last candle flickers and then goes out. A gust of wind rushes through the room, though every window is shut tight. My heart sinks. Not again.

I force myself to ignore it. Instead, I focus on one bottle on the shelf in front of me. It’s filled with a deep-red liquid, a potion I’ve been working on secretly for weeks now, something that might help with the curse—if I can ever get it right.

The idea came to me in the quiet hours of the night, when sleep refused to come, to create something that removes my connection to the land itself. No more waiting. No more searching for a soulmate I may never find. Just freedom.

But before I can reach for the potion, the bottle tips over, crashing to the floor

“Nonsense!” My frustration spikes. “I should be better than this, o!”

My powers used to be precise and controlled. Now they slip away from me like water through my fingers, wild and unpredictable.

The wind dies down, and the room falls still once more, the vivid colors in my braids settling into a gentle glow.

Then an abrupt rap on the door slices through the stillness like a sharp blade. My heart stutters in my chest; I’m not used to unwanted visitors at this morning hour, especially when I’m in here.

Fear wraps around my spine as I step through the corridor. Another knock, impatient, insistent. I reach the door, my hand hovering over the knob. This isn’t a casual visit; I can feel it in my bones.

When I open the door, there’s not a soul in sight.

Then, as if woven from the morning mist, a messenger from the Council of Elders materializes before my eyes. They’re an enigma, draped in darkness that seems to drink in the dawn’s light, their gaze ancient and all-knowing.

“Nneka.” They address me, their voice echoing everywhere and nowhere, a whisper of leaves against a stone. “The day is drawing nigh.”

Those five words hit me like a storm. My mind races as I search their face for clues, but it’s as mysterious as ever. Why would they want to remind me now?

The Harmattan season ends in three months. That’s supposed to be my deadline before my life ends. My last chance to break the curse is in three months. The council has never interfered before—never summoned me ahead of schedule.

“Is there… is there a problem?” I manage to ask.

“The weave of fate is complex, and you, Nneka, are entwined within it. The Council of Elders awaits your presence,” the messenger replies. “You would do well to prepare.”

“Yes.” My mind is spiraling.

The messenger’s form dissolves into the air, the edges of their figure blurring until they are gone, leaving only a whisper of their essence behind.

A shiver runs down my spine because their sudden call is no coincidence. Not after him. His aura is mingling with mine in a way I can’t understand.

The elders felt it.

Of course, they did.

They don’t even know that my powers have been slipping, but they do know when magic shifts, when something unsettles the natural order. But what do they suspect? Do they know about my powers dwindling? Because that can only mean they think I don’t have control anymore.

I close the door lightly, leaning my forehead against the cool wood.

This isn’t good.

The bell above the shop door chimes its familiar tune as I step into Ezenwanyi Pastries, a world away from my morning rituals and the unsettling visitation. The sweet scent of fresh baking should comfort me, but it’s overshadowed by the weight of the council’s sudden summons.

Ebele catches the ripple of my distress before I can smoothen into my usual calm demeanor. She raises an eyebrow, her arms akimbo as I hand my bag to the witch in training.

“Adaobi, please put this in the back room.”

As Adaobi leaves, Ebele clears her throat. “What’s got you all tangled up, Nneka?” She gestures at me from head to toe.

“It’s nothing,” I lie.

She clicks her tongue and walks closer to me. “Yimu. It’s that man from yesterday you told us about, isn’t it?”

Ebele can read people like it’s nobody’s business. I sigh, the truth bubbling to the surface despite my attempts to keep it submerged. “It’s… more than that. The Council of Elders sent a messenger this morning. They want to see me.”

Her eyes widen. The elders don’t summon without cause, and every witch knows that. I can see the cogs turning in Ebele’s head, the protective fire lighting up her eyes.

Chinwe bounds in with an energy that’s nearly tangible. Her excitement is a stark contrast to the turbulent morning I’ve had so far. She clutches a piece of paper, and her eyes sparkle with mischief that instantly puts me on alert.

“I heard everything, and I think I have a solution to your problem,” she says.

I look at Ebele and back at Chinwe. “You were in the back, right?”

She nods.

“So, how did you hear every single word?” I squint at Chinwe. “Abi, your ear don develop superpowers overnight?”

Chinwe half shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m very good at paying attention. Besides, that’s not even the issue.” She waves a hand dismissively. “The real wahala now is we need to do something before this meeting.”

I exhale, already dreading where this is going. “Define ‘something.’”

She tilts her head, pretending to think. “I don’t know… Maybe we try a small spell—just to peep the future, get an idea of what they know.”

Ebele stares at her. “You want us to spy on the elders? With magic?”

She grins. “Or, better still, we brew one correct love—”

“No.” I raise a hand, shutting her down before she can even finish.

Chinwe sighs dramatically, placing a hand on her chest like I’ve wounded her. “But you’re no fun at all, o!”

“I’m plenty fun,” I counter. “I just don’t want that fun to end in them punishing the three of us because we played FBI witches. You know the limitations on the magic we’re allowed to practice.”

“But, Nneka, if you’re in trouble—” Ebele starts.

I hold up my hand. “I can’t have you two getting into trouble because of me. I already have a lot on my shoulders. Unless we have better ideas—”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Chinwe cuts in.

Ebele and I exchange a look, a silent conversation we’ve perfected over years of friendship and shared secrets. It’s funny to think it all started back when I was reborn into this life five years ago. With me, rebirth doesn’t mean starting over as a child. I simply wake up one morning in my house, a year or two older, and realize another life has begun. Chinwe and Ebele had just moved to Kamalu Lane, then two witches in a town with no family, just like me. Maybe it was fate, maybe just the need to belong, but we clicked instantly. Opening Ezenwanyi Pastries together felt like the natural thing to do—combining our love for magic and baking, blending our talents and dreams. Since then, we’ve been thick as thieves, always having each other’s backs through every wild scheme and witchy mishap.

“Okay…” I reply.

She spreads the paper she’s been holding tight on the counter, pushing aside the pastry cutters.

I lean in, my curiosity piqued despite my reservations. It’s a list. Chinwe’s handwriting loops across the page with the heading Soulmate Search and names of male witches she’s deemed potential soulmates for me.

“Okay, you both hear me out,” Chinwe begins. “First, we have Fredrick, the potion master. His secret love potions are strong—I doubt it will be as strong as mine, though. But they say even a sniff will make you fall head over heels.”

Ebele and I can’t help but laugh.

“And what? Should I spend my life wondering if it’s real or just his potion at work?”

Chinwe waves off my concern, moving on. “Alright, next is Chike, the pyromancer. Hot in every sense of the word. Literally, his touch can ignite—”

“Flames in my heart or my entire house?” I interrupt, shaking my head.

Her grin widens. “You need someone to light up your life, Nneka. But fine, let’s move on. How about Chima? They call him the Illusionist. He can create the most romantic settings. Imagine the most romantic place on earth beneath the stars every night.”

“And wake up to the same old Kamalu Lane every morning? Sounds… disillusioning.”

Chinwe sighs dramatically, and I can tell she’s enjoying this as much as I am. She’s trying to pull me out of my shell, to remind me that there’s life beyond the curse. I appreciate her efforts, I honestly do, but the fear of not figuring out this curse before my end in three months keeps me anchored in place.

“Chinwe, I love you for this, but I’m not ready,” I say. “You both know I’ve been burned in my past lives—literally. I can’t risk it again, abeg.”

I force out a laugh, but it comes out thin and hollow. Because the truth is, my past isn’t just something I remember—it’s something I carry. A weight that settles deep in my bones, in my blood, in the very magic that pulses beneath my skin.

I close my eyes briefly, and there it is again—the udara tree, the lake, the dying light of my fifth life.

Obinna, his voice, sweet as honey, whispered in my ear, “I will love you for all your lives, Nneka.” I believed him. Even after I’d told him about the curse, even after I bared my soul, he swore he wouldn’t run.

Weeks later, under that same udara tree, he pressed a cool hand to my cheek, his eyes full of something I mistook for love. But it wasn’t love—it was hunger. “You could be so much more,” he said, voice thick with greed. “Think of what we could do if you just let go of these limits and do more with the powers you have.”

I said no.

And Obinna smiled, his grip tightening. He claimed I was being foolish by letting my power go unused, arguing it could be used for my own selfish desires, and he wanted it for himself.

The dagger was swift, cold. My blood spilled onto the earth, soaking the roots of that cursed tree. And as my vision blurred, as I felt life slip through my fingers, I promised myself, Never again.

The air in the shop becomes suddenly thick, pressing against my ribs. I swallow hard and shake the memory away. I see their faces fall, and a wave of guilt washes over me. These women, my sisters in all but blood, would face the council’s wrath for me without a second thought. They would fight for me, even when I couldn’t fight for myself.

“Let’s just… let’s wait and see what the elders say,” I add, trying to infuse some hope into my voice. But even as I say it, I wonder, if the past is anything to go by, will it even matter what they say?

Chinwe’s lips quirk up into a little smile. “That’s fine, Nneka. I just hate seeing you so caught up in breaking this curse that you forget to live.”

I reach over the counter to squeeze her hand. “I am living, Chinwe. Just… cautiously.”

She nods, scooping up her list. “Alright, no more matchmaking. For now. But remember, life is too short—even for a witch with ten lives.”

I know the elders aren’t hovering because they suddenly care. They want me to fix the mess their curse made—the one they aimed at my mother and me but accidentally tethered to every witch born after me. And I have only three months, so the pressure is higher. But first, I need to know what the elders know.