The Tower of Secrets

FACT Anyanwu and all other deities mentioned are a real part of Igbo mythology and the Igbo pantheon. The Tower, and all the stories associated with it in relation to the mythology, are not. They are fictional and meant for entertainment purposes only. If interested in the original mythology, please seek adequate sources that can educate you on the subject matter. *** YOUR MOTHER always used to say: myths are rumors, but every rumor is born from a shred of truth. And you have no reason to doubt that. Ekwensu’s Mask was a myth. She found it. Amadioha’s Staff was a myth. She found that, too. It takes one person to leave where they are and go extra lengths to turn a myth into an indisputable truth supported by legend, and supported by fact. Before she died, that person was your mother. There's no one else to take up this large mantle she's left behind, this huge legacy that seems larger than anything. But you will. Your siblings sure as hell won't. Your mother always used to say: you sef no small, and if you no small, nobody big pass you. You are enough, Adanna, and what you can't do does not exist. So you're going to believe that. You do believe that. And you believe that, after seven years, after endless hours of research, after months of drawing and memorizing Nsibidi symbols on surface you could find, after studying the mythology to the point of breakage, after reading and ponder everything your mother had on the subject, you will find the mystical Tower of Anyanwu. Or, hopefully not, die trying. *** ANYANWU IS THE goddess of sun, of good fortune, of knowledge. The name anyanwu literally translates to “eye of the sun”, and according to your mother's notes, that symbolizes the ability to see the unseen and inspire foresight. But you decide to focus on one thing that Anyanwu is almost always associated with: wisdom. With the years you've spent as an archeologist’s daughter, you know that when a deity is associated with wisdom and knowledge and foresight, there's another underlying word that always goes unspoken but everyone knows is present: secrets. Chukwu, the Supreme Creator, did not like that the other deities kept coming to Anyanwu to ask for help, to seek advice, to learn her secrets. When he brought it to her attention and wondered if giving her such abundant and accessible wisdom was wise, Anyanwu told him that he never needed to worry, because she had already anticipated this encounter and she had come up with a solution: if she had somewhere to keep her wisdom, to keep her secrets, then she wouldn't immediately have them with her when the other deities came asking. Chukwu admired her wisdom and when he asked what kind of place would be strong enough to hold her wisdom, Anyanwu suggested that Chukwu let her build a structure very high, high enough that he would see it from his throne and strike down anyone who tried to enter it—a tower. This is the tower that Anyanwu built and this is the tower you have set out to find. Everyone that is wise is always hiding a secret. Just like Anyanwu. You are wise, and best of all, you have secrets of your own. *** THIS IS NOT the first time you're coming to Anambra, but it is the first time you're seeing it through the eyes of a young woman. You travel here by road, not because you can't afford anything else but for the sheer purpose of seeing the way life is lived—and being a part of it. The smells are strong and it is harmattan season, so the wind is sharp and the dust clings to your lashes and skin. The heat of the day is not quick to end and every metal surface in the coaster transit bus will burn you if you touch it. Your stomach rumbles—you don't remember eating anything besides the okpa you had before the journey began—but you try not to think about that right now. With your mother's journals and spreadsheets spread out and half unfolded on your lap in the rattling bus, hunger is the last thing on your mind. What is on your mind is what you will do once you get to Anambra, the present day Kingdom of Nri—and how you will find the tower. You remember your mother, years ago, when she was hale, when the tumor wasn't malignant, telling you and your siblings about how the source records aren't clear on where the tower was built, but how she was sure that if Anyanwu was as wise as the stories say she was, she would have hidden it in plain sight, on where was now known as the Hills of Wisdom. You did your research. You called her friends and you called her museum. You have the maps in your satchel and you found out that those hills are in a place called Enugwu-Ukwu, a small town in Anambra. That is where you are headed. “Madam, you be student?” asks the curious woman sitting next to you. Her eyes are alight with the wonder of someone who has seen someone else do something considered to be a marvel. She has been staring at your maps and the drawings in your mother's books. You shake your head no. “No, I no be student.” “You sure?” she proceeds to ask with a raised eyebrow. “Because na only student I dey see dey carry all this ting wey you dey carry for body. E get one course wey dem dey learn am, sef.” Then she looks up like she's thinking, trying to recall something important. “Ah, I don forget the name, o…” She is talking about archeology. You are not an archeologist, no matter how much your mother wanted you to study that in Nsukka. You actually got a degree in Economics, two years after your mother passed. You are far from your depth with this whole quest you have signed up for. Sometimes you wonder what the hell you think you'll find if you find that tower. But here you are. And there's no way you can't quit now. The bus driver pulls into the motor park before you can help the woman out. It is a cacophony of noise and movement once the car parks. The doors and trunks fly open and the sharp air rushes to greet your skin. The bag you have beside you is the only piece of luggage you brought with you. So when you get down from the bus, you hoist it onto your back and start walking through the park. It will be a while before you find a car that will take you all the way to Enugwu-Ukwu, but whatever the price is, you're willing to pay. You don't even say goodbye to the curious woman, who watches you leave. *** WHEN YOU TOLD your siblings that you were heading to find the tower last year, at that small reunion in the kitsy restaurant your sister picked out, they reacted exactly how you expected them to. “What?” gasped Eberech , in that plastic way that you hated. “This is a joke, right? Right? Ada, you can't be serious.” Nonso, who was chewing on a drumstick, had started to laugh. “Of course she's not serious. You know how funny big sis can be sometimes—” “I'm serious,” you said, without a smile. “I'm going.” Ebere’s face seemed to twist into what you can only define as complexity, like she couldn't understand what would make you, or anyone, do this. “But…why?” “Because it's what Mummy would want,” you told them. “So it's what I will do.” “But you don't know what she would want,” said Nonso, as he wiped his hands. “None of us do. She was a complete mystery.” “Maybe to you,” you simply countered, brows raised, “as you never seemed to be around long enough. I understood her quite well, actually.” “Ada, seriously,” said Ebere, shifting her chair much closer, “let's be reasonable and actually think about this first: you want to go off on a whole adventure to find something you're not sure exists or not?” You twisted your head in her direction. Your face was flat when you said: “Yes, Eberechi Juliet Nnamdi. I believe that much was clear when I said it the first time.” Eberechi shook her head in disbelief. “Mummy said the tower was a fable, a myth!” She fixated her eyes upon yours. “She always said that the tower was something all the archeologists in her circle speculated on. That they weren't sure—” “If Mummy wasn't sure if the tower was real,” you said, “she wouldn't have asked me to find it.” This part was a lie. But it made both your siblings grow quiet. Ebere had raised her eyebrows in a question and Nonso glanced at her with his mouth open. Your mother actually never told you to make the conscious decision to run off and find a mystical tower filled with ancient knowledge, but she might as well have done so with all the clues and maps she left after she passed. It was a small lie, but they looked convinced by it. You were the closest to your mother. She always said the others were like your father—who you weren't even call to tell about any of this in the first place because a) it doesn't concern him and b) he wouldn't even care much if it did. He didn't even care much about the three of you to stay, and if you were to bring that up, you know Nonso, even as a grown adult, would immediately jump to his defense and say something like: “Mummy didn't make it easy to stay, either—adventurer doesn't equal good wife or good mother” with a straight face. “Ada,” said Nonso, in the space when Ebere went quiet, “you know what Mummy was like. If she said that, she probably didn't mean that literally. You know how she was always carting us off to some crazy adventure or the other when we were kids.” “Those ‘crazy adventures’ were her life, Chinonso,” you said icily. “And don't act like said adventures didn't pay so you would survive or as if she didn't find anything at the end of them. Ekwensu's Fifth Mask? Amadioha's Staff of Storms? Mummy made legendary discoveries and it's insane how the two of you have quickly forgotten about those.” “We didn't forget anything, Ada,” said Ebere, softly. “All we're saying is that Mummy risked her life countless times to make these discoveries in the first place.” “So? The ends justify the means. She survived.” “Yes, but for how long?” “Ebere,” you warned. “Besides,” chirped Nonso, almost haughtily, with a stupid smile you wanted to slap from his face, “if she found these things like she said she did: why aren't we rich?” You turned to him and you glared. “Everyday I think you might have grown a little smarter out there in the world. Then you open your wide, stupid mouth and I'm proven wrong.” “Ah ahn, big sis,” he said, wounded. “It was just a joke, come on.” “Out of all the times to joke, you think now is perfect?” “Ada, please calm down,” said Ebere, ever the peacemaker. “Nonso, no more jokes. Please. Let's all just…calm down.” All of you seemed to have exhaled at the same time. You folded your arms and turned away from them. Pettiness blossomed in your chest right then and you said: “She found them doesn't mean she took them. Mummy always said it was always about how you got there, not what you got from it.” Nonso was quick to reply. “Oh, I remember. All that ‘it’s about the journey, not the reward’ stuff.” “Exactly. And it wasn't stuff.” You shot him a look. “It was what she believed in.” Ebere saw it fit to cut in then. “Ada, let me ask you this: do you know what you're going to find when you eventually locate this tower? Where you're going? What you'll do once you're in it, all the risks attached?” This is where you went quiet. Not stunned, but unable to speak. When you looked at Ebere then, you realized how she looked like a much more petite and self-actualized version of your mother—long black hair neatly braided to her back, lips glossy in the daylight, gold hoop earrings and bangles to boot. She looked how your mother would look if she was put together, which is not a real version. You looked how your mother really looked—like the human version of a mosaic or a collage. Part of you took pride in that. “Okay, a simpler question,” your sister continued, “is there anything I—we—can say or do to change your mind?” Bring her back sat on the tip of your tongue but you know they couldn't do that. And if they could, they wouldn't. And if they could, you don't know if you'd really want that if it happened. So it became a question you could really answer: “No.” “No?” “Yes, no,” you said, sitting up straight again from leaning. “Ebere, my mind is made up. It has been for a while, to be honest. I was going to go whether or not you guys supported me. I just…thought to tell you in person in case—” “Ah, in case what?” they both yelled. You knew what you were thinking about when you said that. You tried to shoo it from your mind. “Look,” you said to them, “you don't know what it was like to watch Mummy when she was sick, when she was on her last legs. Both of you weren't there. I was.” Ebere's eyes clouded over. “Ada, that's not entirely fair—” “Don't even start, Eberechi. And don't interrupt me. I was there.” With a little bite in your voice, you said: “Neither of you will know how it feels to have watched a parent die. She was all I had.” “But Daddy—” “—is for both of you. He's yours. But Mummy was mine. Hadome might be your father, but he wasn't mine.” You told them, “I don't need your pity. I don't need anything from either of you, and if you want to come with me, I'm not going to stop you. But I'm not changing my mind about this. I'm going to find that tower, even if it kills me. End of story.” Your last word punctuated a silence that only a sigh from Ebere broke. “If you want to do it, then we can't stop you. We never could.” She looked up and forced a wry smile. “I would be lying if I said I wasn't worried, but jisie ike, sister. Good luck.” “Here's to hoping finding the tower doesn't win,” said Nonso. And that was how you remember it: you saying you would go, and them saying good luck, them saying they would be praying for you (even if Nonso is something of an agnostic and Ebere is a lapsed catholic, like Hadome.) So imagine your surprise when you take out your phone on your way to Enugwu-Ukwu and you see missed calls from both of them, split between intervals—Nonso calling thrice first and Ebere calling six times after. A part of you twinges with worry for a few seconds because you still care about your siblings and you still wish the fractures in your family would mend someday, but you quickly dispel the feeling, telling yourself they're fine and they just want to see if I'm fine and they worry too much. You turn off your phone, and you don't plan to call them back. At least not until you've found Anyanwu’s Tower. *** SIX HOURS AFTER you arrive in Enugwu-Ukwu, you set out for the hills from your hotel on the east side of the village. It is one of four they have at the town, and it is not a very good one. But you don't care, because if all goes well tonight, you won't be staying long. When you arrived, nobody took notice of you because everyone was busy doing something else: traders hawking agidi and abacha, bike riders driving pregnant women to antenatals at obscene speeds, children rolling wooden makeshift cars on the dirt road, dozens of men gathered by a telecom store to watch a Premier League match, voices raised when their teams lands a goal. It is the exact archetype of what you imagined it would be. But you cannot stay and witness any of it. Tower, first. *** THE HILLS OF Wisdom don't seem to be as far as you thought they would be. Or maybe they are and you didn't notice because you were running on adrenaline and walking for so long, it became natural. You're wearing clothes meant exactly for this weather and exactly for the time period you are embarking on this journey. The harmattan wind blows torrents of dust and particles into your eyes as you walk, and as it blows past your ears, you seem to hear a voice in every blast saying turn back, go away, leave, leave, leave but yet again, you dispel it as your imagination. After you manage to leap across two ravines caused by horrible erosion during the rainy season—ravines that look deep enough to be graves, you think darkly—and make it past the dogon yaro trees that a townslady described—the very ones, moving in the wind like it's a dance only they understand—the hills reveal themselves: three small plateaus in front of you, the middle towering over the others like it's the eldest of the three, a crescent moon hung over it like a jewel. The thought of the three hills being you and your siblings makes you smile in the cover of night, and you feel surprise at the fact that the thought of family doesn't make you as scared as you thought you would be. Fear is a message, your mother always said. It is left for you to interpret what it means—what you must do with it. You are going to continue, no matter what you hear. You will do it scared. You will do it tired. You will do it. There is no way you are turning back now. *** YOUR MOTHER MIGHT not have embarked on this journey herself—but she knew exactly where to start. In her journals, from what you can read, it says that Anyanwu, being the goddess of knowledge, demands knowledge in exchange for knowledge she will give. Wisdom given for wisdom gained. You have brought your certificate, as well as your final thesis that you produced into being with your blood, sweat, tears, gristle and bone. Anyanwu can have them. You don't know if what you find in the tower will be worth it but you know that in Nigeria, right now, you won't use your certificate anyway. When you arrive at the top of the middle hill, you set to work immediately. You produce a shard of glass from your bag, a mirror—it is a sacred item, because Anyanwu is the goddess of light, and the moon can shine just as bright as the sun. Plus, it's the best you could do with the time that you had. You add other sacred items, too: paper and ink, a pair of glasses, a sheaf of wheat, handfuls of salt and spices. Next, you get to work on drawing the Nsibidi symbols you memorized, in a neat wide circle—the space in which you want the tower to appear. You draw the symbols for journey, for mirror, for Earth, for Sky, for wisdom, for truth, for power all around, until the circle is completely full. You're satisfied with how wide it is and satisfied with how accurately you followed the instructions. This could actually go exactly the way you planned it. But you don't hear the footsteps until they reach the bottom of the hill. You stop and spin around in confusion—nobody comes out here, the townslady said—but your confusion switches to irritation when you recognize the sheepish smile. “Chinonso,” you say with murderous intent, “did you follow me here?” Nonso grins from down the hill. “Big sis, how far?” “Are you mad? I told you I was—” But that is when you are forced to stop because you realize that your brother is sweating in the breeze. And he's making that constipated face he makes when he's scared or in trouble. “I might have told a few people you were coming here,” he says, and that's when you notice that his hands are raised. And that there is a man behind him, pointing a gun to his head. *** “YOUR BROTHER DEY owe my oga a lot of money,” the heavyset man says, gun still raised to your brother's head. You glare darkly at him. You knew about his gambling addiction, and so did your mother, but you never knew it would lead him to the point of assassination and worse, lead him to you at the worst possible time. “Nonso,” you say first. “Sis, I know it looks bad,” he starts, “but I swear I didn't know that he had followed me. I was just going to come here and find you so we could lay low together—” “Lay low? Do you hear yourself?! How did you even find—” “Hey!” yells the heavyset man. “The money or hin life!” You're aghast. “What money? What did he promise you?” “I might…have told him that you were with the money I owe his boss,” says Nonso with a nervous laugh. “But don't worry! It's not a lot.” “How much is not a lot?” A shrug. “Five or six.” “Five or six what?” “Million.” “Nonso!” “It's fine, big sis!” He says to you and the heavyset man, “You're about to find the tower, right? And if you get what you came for, you'll be set! So set you can give this fine gentleman what I owe and he can be on his merry way.” “He's paying with interest,” says the gunman. “As you keep reminding me—” Nonso doesn't get to finish the statement because the gunman rams a balled fist into his gut. He makes a sound like a deflated cushion and doubles over. The gunman sets him right. “God,” he gasps, coughing. “Me and my big mouth.” You want to say serves you right, iberibe, but you can't bring yourself to say the words because you can't believe any of this is happening. All your work lays abandoned on the hilltop while your brother stands at gunpoint at the bottom. You're not prepared for this and you have no idea what to do. But you have to think of something. And fast. “Okay, senior man!” you call towards the gunman. “Senior man, I fit follow you talk?” “Ehn?” “I fit follow you talk?!” “I dey hear you!” And you start talking, rapid fire, before your foolish brother can open his lying mouth again: “My brother no get sense, that one sure—” “Hey!” yells Nonso. “—and I no actually get the money where I dey now. But if you fit bring down your gun small, make I finish wetin I dey do, I go carry you go my hotel. The money dey there, cash.” And when he gives you a baleful look, like he doesn't believe a word coming out of your mouth—and he shouldn't—you add: “I go give you the money, I swear. No worry. We no need all this fight. No need for gun, abi?” For a few seconds, the gun is still raised. And the heavyset gunman is still glaring from you to your brother. But he says, “Hope say you no go take long?” “I no go take long, I swear,” you effuse to him. “Five, ten minutes, I don finish.” “No sly me, oh. No use me play,” he warns. “Ten minutes.” “Ten minutes, wallahi.” Then, slowly, he lowers the gun and Nonso heaves a sigh of relief and lowers his hands. But he catches Nonso’s arm into a vise-like grip and the relief is short-lived. “You lucky say your sister get sense pass you,” the gunman says as he yanks a grimacing Nonso forward. “No try nonsense, o—” You tune them out because you don't have long to summon the tower, and you don't have long before the gunman finds out that you have lied to him, too. You face the circle again, your mother's journal and spidery handwriting in front of your face once more, and you start to chant— “Amamihe ka e nyere maka amamihe e nwetara—” Wisdom is given for wisdom gained— “A na-achọ ihe ọmụma ma na-edobe ihe ọmụma—” Knowledge is sought and knowledge is retained— “ụlọ elu m na-akpọ, ụlọ elu na-adịghị ahụkebe—” A tower I call on, a tower uncommon— “—Ike nke uche bụ nke m na-akpọ.” —a power of the mind is one that I summon. You don't expect it to happen immediately but miraculously—it does. The wind blows softly at first, then it seems to race, then it rushes forth in torrents from every angle, pulling the trees around the hill in every direction. The air is shouting and your voice is loud enough to be heard far down the hill. The gunman is crying out now but you can't hear him, you can't hear anything besides your voice as you yell. “Amamihe ka e nyere maka amamihe e nwetara—” The Nsibidi on the floor is doing something very strange now—the hill is seeming to rumble as the wind is spiraling and the symbols, ever so slowly, are moving, like they're suddenly alive. Something has loosened in your chest and dropped to your stomach but you do not stop chanting. “A na-achọ ihe ọmụma ma na-edobe ihe ọmụma—” The sky that was once clear before has darkened completely in a matter of minutes, and a stripe of lightning has forked across it in your peripheral vision. You can't believe this is actually happening—that the symbols are moving, the paper is flying, the ink is swelling from the bottle, your thesis has spilled open to its center, that this is how you finally find the tower, this is it—when you hear someone scream your name, in a single unbroken line. This is the only thing that makes you spin back around. The gunman is frozen in fear, your brother is trying hard to see you in the roaring wind—and two people have joined them at the bottom of the hill. One of them is a woman you don't recognize. The other is your sister. *** “EBERECHI JULIET!” you shriek at the top of your voice. “What! Are you! Doing here?!” You wonder how both of your siblings found you in one night and how something so simple turned out like this. “Ada, you have to stop!” she cries out to you from below. “You have to call this off! The tower is not real!” “What?!” “THE TOWER IS NOT REAL!” “I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!” And then with fury emblazoned in your eyes, you scream: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE TOWER IS NOT REAL?!” Eberechi scrambles for her phone in the slicing current of wind. The woman you don't recognize is staring directly at you, with what looks like kohl lined under her eyes. She looks dangerous, but you don't care. You try to pay attention to her, to everyone and to everything but it's all just too much it's too much why can't they just let you do this WHY WON'T THEY LEAVE— “Look!” shouts Ebere, brandishing her phone. “Mummy's diagnosis! I got it from the hospital!” “Why would you do that?!” you bark, and it almost gets swallowed by the spinning wind. “WHY?!” “To prove to you that Mummy actually didn't know what she was doing when she was doing research on the tower!” Ebere cries. “Her brain tumors made her schizophrenic! She had no idea that she was sending you on a fool’s errand! Ada, the tower really is just a myth! Please, get down from the hill!” That is when you pause. Your mother did have a brain tumor. Your mother was schizophrenic at the end. Your mother didn't ask you to do this. Your mother was the one who made you obsessed with adventure. Your mother wasn't a good wife. Your mother wasn't a good mother. Yet— You take the journal and bring it up to your face, and as the wind continues to spin, as the symbols continue to dance and ululate, as memories spark to life in your mind, as your heartbeat reaches your ears, as you think of your brother and your sister and your father and your mother, you realize that you forgot one thing that was meant to tie everything together, the one thing that holds wisdom to give more than anything else— Blood. So, in a split second, you snatch the glass shard and you run it across your left hand. You can hear Ebere shriek but that doesn't matter now. You press your bleeding hand to the symbol circle. And the world cleaves into two. Someone starts to scream. A few minutes pass before you know it's you. And then, the earth starts to scream with you. *** Wisdom is given for wisdom gained— Knowledge is sought and it is retained— A tower I call on, a tower uncommon— —a power of the mind is one that I summon. *** YOU THINK YOU are dead when you open your eyes. You are wrong. You should be, but you are wrong. You have always been wrong about everything, because when you open your eyes, when the wind has stopped blowing, when all the items are gone, when the symbols seem to be glowing faintly with yellow light, when the moon is out again, when the gunman has fled, when the unknown woman is lying unconscious at the bottom of the hill, when your brother and sister are sitting beside you with expressions you don't understand and do not want to understand, when it is all over, you realize— There is only empty space, and there is no tower in front of you. *** “NO, I DON'T understand,” you tell them, in a frenzy. “It was supposed to work? Why didn't it work? W-What happened?” Ebere tells you: “Lightning struck the spot you put your hand and you passed out. The guy holding the gun shot a bullet by accident while he was running. It hit the woman who brought me here. The symbols started to glow—” “—there was paper everywhere,” adds Nonso, tiredly. “—and a voice in the clouds—” “—and then a tornado—” “—and your blood turned into ink—” “—it was all so cinematic, honestly—” But now you have stopped listening. You hit the ground and you get the overwhelming urge to cry and wail and scream. All of that—all that magic and lightshows and the feeling of you falling into the earth—for nothing. You look at the ground and your eyes are hot with tears. “You were right,” you say to your siblings. Ebere crouches down and holds you. Nonso places a hand on your shoulder. “Mummy wasn't a good wife to Had—Daddy. And she wasn't a good mother to us.” After a small silence, you hear— “She did do her best,” says Nonso. “She did. We survived, didn't we?” “The ends justify the means,” adds Ebere, placing her chin on your shoulder. Through the map of tears on your face, a laugh breaks through. “Who are you and what have you done with my siblings?” you ask. They laugh. You laugh. You laugh together. It is a nice feeling. “Can we all agree that Mummy was crazy, though?” asks Nonso. “Unanimously,” agrees Ebere. “Hundred percent,” you say, and for the first time in years, since your mother left this world, you pull your siblings into a hug. This hug sends your heads sailing backwards. Your heads connect with something solid. There is still nothing in front of you. This is when all three of you pause. When all three of you stand up. When all three of you exchange looks. And when a solid golden key drops to the floor. *** ANYANWU IS NOT a stupid goddess. And you are not a stupid adventurer. You retrieve the key from the floor with break neck speed. “Ada, what—” “Remember what Mummy used to say when we were denied something we deserved?” You ask your siblings. “When we didn't get what we wanted?” “Steal when it matters?” answers Nonso. “Not that.” “Power isn't given, it's taken?” “Your mother did not say that.” “Oh, yeah,” agrees Ebere, giggling. “Wrong role model figure.” You raise the key in front of you. Facing the circle. Facing where a tower would be if it was there. You smirk. “She said: ‘When all the doors are closed, or if there is no door at all—’” You slowly slide the golden key into what seems like empty space, but it is the position where one would expect a keyhole to be. And it is, because the key clicks in. And a magnificent structure comes into view, then: huts made of mud and concrete and clay that seem to be stack upon each other over and over again, high up into the night sky. In front of three of you is a simple wooden door. “— ‘you create your own.’” “What in the—” “Was that there the whole time?” shouts Ebere, hands theown in the air. “Unbelievable!” “Big sis,” says Nonso, jaw dropped. “I know,” you tell him. You grip the key and with more force than necessary, you turn it. The wooden door slowly swings open. Golden light spills out upon you, your flabbergasted brother and your very annoyed but still baffled sister. Your mother used to say: myths are rumors, but every rumor is born from a shred of truth. And as it turns out, your mother was right. You give each of your siblings a look as you link your arms with theirs. “We've completed the journey,” you say, “so we might as well go claim the reward.” END.