Jackal, Jackal: Tales of the Dark and Fantastic

By Tobi Ogundiran

From Shirley Jackson award-nominated author Tobi Ogundiran, comes a highly anticipated debut collection of stories full of magic and wonder and breathtaking imagination!

In "The Lady of the Yellow-Painted Library" -- featured in Levar Burton Reads -- a hapless salesman flees the otherworldly librarian hell-bent on retrieving her lost library book.

"The Tale of Jaja and Canti" sees Ogundiran riffing off of Pinocchio. But this wooden boy doesn't seek to become real. Wanting to be loved, he journeys the world in search of his mother-an ancient and powerful entity who is best not sought out.

"The Goatkeeper's Harvest" contains echoes of Lovecraft, where a young mother living on a farm finds that goats have broken into her barn and are devouring all her tubers. As she chases them off with a rake, a woman appears claiming the goats are her children, and that the young woman has killed one of them and must pay the price: a goat for a goat.

These and other tales of the dark and fantastic await.

"Superb weird-fantasy fictions... an unfailing capacity for surprise." -Publishers Weekly, Top 10 Summer Read

"These stories will captivate readers with their haunting atmosphere, confident voice, and immersive settings." -Becky Spratford, Booklist

"Jackal, Jackal is a great showcase of Ogundiran's consistency and strengths of a storyteller and dark fabulist. Forget logic. These are stories you are meant to feel. Think Grimm by way of Amos Tutuola. Stephen King meets Cyprian Ekwensi." -Wole Talabi, Locus magazine

"Ogundiran's tales revel in small moments that create big ripples. Jackal, Jackal is a collection of such stories, characters grasping at a wish in their own unique, earnest way. An exciting yet intimate collection from a writer who continues to surprise and delight." -Suyi Davies Okungbowa, Author of The Nameless Republic trilogy

"Jackal, Jackal is an astonishing debut collection with real teeth." -Priya Sharma, Author of Pomegranates

• Language: English
• Publisher: Undertow Publications
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215146897

Tobi Ogundiran

Tobi Ogundiran is the British Science Fiction Association, Shirley Jackson, Nommo and Ignyte award nominated author of JACKAL, JACKAL: Tales of the Dark and Fantastic. He lives and works in Oxford, Mississippi. Find him at tobiogundiran.com and @tobi_thedreamer on Twitter.

Book preview

Jackal, Jackal

PRAISE FOR JACKAL, JACKAL

Superb weird-fantasy fictions…an unfailing capacity for surprise.

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, TOP 10 SUMMER READ

"Jackal, Jackal is a great showcase of Ogundiran’s consistency and strengths of a storyteller and dark fabulist. Forget logic. These are stories you are meant to feel. Think Grimm by way of Amos Tutuola. Stephen King meets Cyprian Ekwensi."

WOLE TALABI, LOCUS

"Ogundiran’s tales revel in small moments that create big ripples. Jackal, Jackal is a collection of such stories, characters grasping at a wish in their own unique, earnest way. An exciting yet intimate collection from a writer who continues to surprise and delight."

SUYI DAVIES OKUNGBOWA, AUTHOR OF THE NAMELESS REPUBLIC TRILOGY

"Jackal, Jackal is an astonishing debut collection with real teeth."

PRIYA SHARMA, AUTHOR OF POMEGRANATES

JACKAL, JACKAL

TALES OF THE DARK AND FANTASTIC

TOBI OGUNDIRAN

Undertow Publications

JACKAL, JACKAL: Tales of the Dark and Fantastic

Copyright © 2023 by Tobi Ogundiran

Front cover artwork and design by Vince Haig

Interior cover art © Geran de Klerk/Unsplash

Interior design and layout by Michael Kelly

Proofreader: Carolyn Macdonell-Kelly

First edition

All rights reserved.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

ISBN: 978-1-988964-43-0

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental.

Undertow Publications, Pickering ON, Canada

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Typeset in Palatino

Printed in Canada by Rapido Books

For mum and dad, who sacrificed everything.

CONTENTS

The Tale of Jaja and Canti

The Lady of the Yellow-Painted Library

Jackal, Jackal

The Epic of Qu Shittu

The Many Lives of an Abiku

Isn’t Your Daughter Such a Doll

The Muse of Palm House

Here Sits His Ignominy

Lágbájá

Maria’s Children

Faêl

Guardian of the Gods

Drummer Boy in a World of Wise Men

Deep in the Gardener’s Barrow

Midnight in Moscow

In the Smile Place

The Clockmaker and His Daughter

The Goatkeeper’s Harvest

Story Notes

Author’s Note

Publication History

Acknowledgements

About the Author

THE TALE OF JAJA AND CANTI

I: The end, almost.

Seated on the balcony of the house across the street is a man. He is slumped in his chair and has remained unmoving for several hours. The tattered frays of his agbada spreads about his person like an old sailcloth, snapping in the wind. His equally tattered hat is positioned on his head such that you cannot see his face. He has maintained this position for nigh on a day (which is much, much longer than you think).

If you think him dead, then you’ll be wrong; if you think him alive, well...

Look closely.

You may find that the skin of his hand is the texture of old wood, the shrivelled grains of a tree long exposed to the elements. You may find that the wrinkles on his face are unmoving, the tight curls of his beard a little too solid, the globes of his eyes a little too elliptical.

Don’t be alarmed, it is exactly as you think: he is made of wood.

After some five hundred-odd years of roaming the treacherous terrain of the Midworld, his journey has led him here. Now. Sprawled on that balcony as unmoving as a tree.

Waiting.

II: The years before, before.

Jaja’s first memory is of a weeping, wizened face.

Papa? He stretches to touch his Papa, and a thin wooden hand appears in his line of vision.

Oh, Papa gasps, tears streaming down his cheeks even as he smiles. Oh, bless the stars! As Papa sweeps him off the table into a hug, Jaja sees the hem of a dress vanish as the shop door clatters shut. He glimpses the impression of a woman through the dusty shop windows.

This is the first he sees of the woman who gave him life. His mother.

The act of procreation was a deceptively simple thing: Papa carved him from the finest wood, and the woman he calls mother filled him with life.

Who is she? Jaja asks Papa several times in the intervening years. It is from Papa he learns her first name: Moremi.

Moremi?

Yes, my boy, says Papa, filing the wood that will become the hand of a new toy. Jaja wonders vaguely if that is how he was assembled. He knows that that is how he was assembled.

I met her at the edge of town, on my way to the forest to... He gazes shiftily at Jaja. "Life had not been very good to me, you see. Once, I had been wealthy, the most renowned toymaker in all the land, but soon people forgot about me, and the shop became as silent as a tomb, quieter still when my wife died. So, I decided to walk into the forest, walk until I could walk no more.

It was hard to notice her at first, yes, because her skin was the dark of midnight, but her hair, oh...it was like light trapped in locks! His eyes glaze with the sheen of reminiscence. "There was something about her that made me forget my troubles. She said, ‘That is a fine boy you have there, sir.’ And that is when I realized I had been cradling you in the pit of my arm. My wife and I, we never could have children, see. So, I made you for her, the child she could never have. When she died, you were the only thing to remind me of her.

This woman, she knew why I was going into the forest. She knew what I intended to do. So, she took my hand, and led me back here to the shop where she commanded me to fix you up. I gave you new hinges and oiled the rot of your hand. And she watched me night and day as I worked. And when I screwed on your last finger she wept.

She wept?

Yes.

Why?

She must have seen what a beautiful boy you are, says Papa, Weeping, she took you and cradled you to her breast like a newborn babe, singing a song as old as time. When she placed you on the table, you were...you. Papa wipes his eyes. Moremi, she gave me purpose. She made me want to live again. She gave me you. And she did not even wait for me to thank her.

The years pass and Jaja doesn’t age. But he doesn’t worry much about it; he knows he’s not an ordinary boy.

Still, boys will be boys and in his free time he makes mischief. With friends from down the street he terrorizes the neighbourhood with the sweet abandon of childhood.

And he watches his friends go gangly, sprouting like beanstalks from childhood and into youth. And they in turn look at him with fresh eyes, the scales of innocence lifted, as they realize that he is different.

They turn on him. With sticks and stones and hurtful words, he is reminded that he is other.

He weeps.

The shop is his refuge: his endless youth is given to toil; to filing wood and oiling hinges, to air-drying wood just right, to wiping it down with vinegar and scrubbing the uneven surfaces with glasspaper, to oiling with beeswax and lacquering for durability.

Papa does not have much, but he cares for him. Jaja knows what it is to love and be loved. And he loves that old man right until the very end.

Jaja stands long at the fresh mound of Papa’s grave, wondering who will love him now that Papa is gone.

That is the moment he decides to find his mother.

That is also the moment he starts to age.

III: The search.

Jaja travels the world in search of his mother.

All he has is a description of her and the vague memory of a song. When he tries to sing it to people, all that comes out is a tortured clack, like the rattling of wooden shutters. He walks farther than he’s ever walked in his life, and then some. He passes through sentient forests and wades through thrashing waters. And when he can wade no more, he boards a passenger ship whose captain is missing a nose.

It is from him he learns of her second name.

The Midnight Queen, says the captain when he gives him her description.

The Midnight Queen?

Oh, yah. Das what I call her. She got skin as black as a starless night, hair white as da morning sun. He chews on his pipe, squinting at the frothing waters. Very beautiful. Me an’ my old boys, we got attacked by a kraken. Damn beast tore right through da ship till we were all of us screaming for our mothers. It ate my boys, bless em, an’ took a rightful chunk off my face. He taps at the hole in his face. I was convinced I was dead. Everything went black. Next thing I know I hear singing an’ da kraken is dropping me all sweet and nicely on da shore. I saw her then, very briefly. Coulda sworn I was hallucinating. But I no forget her since. Jaja looks in his eyes and thinks he can see something there: kinship. This be one hundred years ago and I haven’t aged a day since.

Jaja feels his age in the creak of his wood and the rust of his hinges. He is startled to learn how much time has passed since he set out on his quest.

The world changes around him as the years pass and he remains the only constant. He feels like the axis around which the wheel of time spins. Still he ages, slowly, painfully.

He has long left the realm of men when he hears the sounds: rhythmic pounding sounds coming from deep in the forest. He enters into a clearing with a modest hut, where he finds a young girl labouring over dinner while her mother snoozes in the corner. The sound Jaja heard is the pounding of her pestle into the mortar as she cooks a steaming meal of pounded yam.

I am looking for a woman, he says, you may have seen her.

Does she have dark skin, with hair of light?

Yes!

Why, she was here only yesterday, she says, then pauses. I think. I am never sure about time in these parts.

A flicker of hope warms Jaja’s heart. This woman, what did she do for you?

We had eaten our last meal weeks ago, me and my mama, and were waiting for Death to claim us when I heard a voice singing. So, I followed the voice to the glade in the forest where I found the woman. She told me I would always find fresh tubers as long as I lived.

Do you know where she went?

She thinks for a moment. Yes. She took the road. It leads only to one place: Orisun.

Jaja thanks her profusely and heads down the road.

IV: Orisun.

The city, Orisun, is filled with ethereal threads of light shimmering in the air: iridescent, like sunlight on the skin of a bubble. The single paved street is flanked by strange houses, stretching as far as he can see. As Jaja makes his way down the street, creatures stare at him through the windows. He understands that these creatures are as old as time itself. He sees people too, many of them children, doing unchildlike things. They look at him with old eyes.

He knows that she is close.

Someone seizes him from behind and Jaja turns to see a young boy with cowries for eyes.

You’re lost. It is a simple declaration.

No, Jaja says, I am…looking for someone. A woman with dark skin and hair of sunlight.

This is when he learns her third and final name: Canti.

Canti?

The singer. The one who gave you life. That is what we call her. Don’t you know never to look for Canti?

Why not?

He looks at Jaja like he is stupid, then really looks at him and nods solemnly. You are already far down this path. What difference does it make? Go to the house at the end of the street. You will see a chair on the balcony. Sit there. Wait.

Jaja wants to thank him but he is already scuttling down the street.

V: Jaja and Canti.

Here is Canti, the singer. She was, before the dawn of time and will be long after. She sang the world into existence and will sing it into oblivion.

She knew the moment he decided to search for her. She followed him through whispering forests and thrashing waters to dissuade him. She has watched him sit there for a day (which you now know is much longer than you think), hoping he will go, go far away and never seek her again. Hoping he doesn’t set eyes on her a second time.

She opens the door and crosses the street toward him. Jaja sits up at her approach, taking off his hat.

Mother, he whispers.

Her heart shatters. She has been called many things; Canti, the Midnight Queen, Moremi, Oluwa. But never mother. It is a word that carries the weight of his pain and yearning. It is a word that drips of undying, unparalleled love. It is a word she’s longed to hear ever since she learned to sing.

You shouldn’t have come. Her tears betray the swell in her heart. Twice you can look upon me.

Jaja rises, the old wood of his body groaning in protest. He reaches out a hand and touches her.

I am Life, and Death, she says.

Hasn’t he known this? Hasn’t he suspected from the stiffening of his wood, from the rings that marked his years, and from the rust of his hinges, that he drew closer and closer to Death? But none of that matters because all he wants, all he’s ever wanted, is to feel love if only for one last time.

She presses his head to her breast in a gesture to mirror when she sang him to life.

Tell me you love me, mother.

She would tell of all the ways she loves him, explain the endless facets of that word and what they mean. She would tell of the dying notes of her life-song thrumming in his wood, of how in a moment of weakness she sang her desire into him. She would tell of how quickly she fled so he wouldn’t see her, so he would never die. But words are not enough, have never been enough for one like her. So, she gathers him in a hug instead.

"I will sing you a lullaby. My son." The tears that flow down her cheeks are hot.

Yes, Jaja says. Skin as dark as night, hair like locks of light, this is the last he sees of the woman who gave him life. I would like that...very much.

The world explodes with her song.

VI: The end.

Standing on the balcony of the house across the street is a tree. It is a magnificent tree with each limb spreading out regally in the directions of the seven worlds. The leaves are tendrils of light hanging from the limbs like curtains of Dawn itself. The powerful roots are firmly entrenched in the earth of the Midworld. The tree has stood for a long time (which is longer than you think) and will stand for even longer.

Look closely.

Upon closer inspection, you may find carved into the trunk the lines of an ancient face, the delightful crinkles of old eyes, the suggestion of lips upturned in a contented smile.

Don’t be alarmed, it is exactly as you think.

THE LADY OF THE YELLOW-PAINTED LIBRARY

I. Things Fall Apart

Dear Mr. Badmus,

This is to inform you that the book "Things Fall Apart" which you borrowed from this library on the 4 th (fourth) of August is one day overdue. Please return immediately.  Failure to do so will result in dire consequences.

Thank you.

L.

I’m here to see the librarian.

That’d be me, said the young woman behind the counter, flashing him a bright smile.

Wande could scarcely hide his surprise. Really? Where is the other woman? I forget her name—

She is indisposed at the moment. She took a fall and fractured her hip.

I’m sorry to hear that. He was more relieved than sorry. He had been worried at having to explain himself to the old stern-faced librarian. But this woman, she was young, and while he was not much to look at, his silver salesman tongue never failed to sway people over to his side. Are you her daughter, then? You definitely look like her.

How can I help you Mr...

Badmus. Wande Badmus.

"Ah, that Mr. Badmus. (he grinned sheepishly) Have you come to return the book?"

Actually...how to put this delicately? I don’t—er—have it...

A pause. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you.

Well, Wande said, mopping at his brows. I seem to have, ah, lost it.

Her perfectly trimmed unibrow creased ever so slightly, but the smile remained firmly in place. The overall effect served to give her the grimace of one mildly constipated. That is quite unfortunate, she said finally. Are you sure? Have you searched thoroughly through your... lodgings?

Yes, yes, I have, said Wande. And it’s a damn thing. I put always put it on the nightstand, never even took it out of the room! It’s like the thing developed legs and walked out of its own accord! he laughed, licking his lips. The young librarian smiled even wider, and Wande congratulated himself on a job well done.

The truth was that he hadn’t set eyes on the book since the first day he borrowed it, and had even forgotten about it until he received the overdue notice yesterday. He had only taken the damned thing out of politeness to the old librarian who insisted he have it. What could he have done? He had after all come in here trying to sell her a brand-new rotary phone and the woman had bought two. One stood on the counter right now, blood red and polished to mirror sheen.

While that is certainly a possibility, she said. I encourage you to look again. Perhaps you missed it.

Actually, I’ve checked out of the room, said Wande. And I combed it to be sure—delayed one extra day while my partner went on ahead to Kwara but —he gave an exaggerated sigh— I just didn’t find it.

I see.

Yes, Wande blundered on. I’m actually on my way to the train station. He pointed at his worn leather suitcase. I’m leaving for—

Leaving? Her unibrow went up in a controlled expression of surprise. I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave until you return the book.

You cannot—? he took a deep breath, yanking down his tie. He was starting to get hot. We’re travelling salesmen—my partner and I—and we operate on a tight schedule. I’m sure you can understand...

If she understood, she gave no sign of it. The young librarian remained mute, hands folded neatly on the counter, professional smile taut on her face. They remained like that for a few moments, Wande trying to read some emotion in her coal black eyes. Finding none, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a thick manilla envelope which he slid across the counter.

What is this?

Compensation, he breathed. A fine. Whatever you want to call it. This should be more than enough to cover the cost of—

She touched a manicured finger to the envelope and slid it back across to him as though it were something particularly revolting. I think there has been a small misunderstanding, she said. And I apologize if I did not communicate myself clearly. We do not take compensations, we do not take replacements—not that you can find a replacement anyway, as that is the only copy on God’s green earth.

Wande blinked. "What, Things Fall Apart? It’s a popular book! It’s everywhere!"

The woman merely smiled at him.

What am I supposed to do? Wande spluttered, starting to get angry.

I’m sure if you looked through your lodgings again—

I already did! he cried, banging his fist on the countertop and rattling the rotary phone. The receiver clattered loudly to the counter. "I delayed my trip and took the extra day to search thoroughly through my lodgings. It isn’t there! Believe me, I want it to be but it isn’t!"

Wande left. He left the library with the fading yellow paint and infuriating librarian; he left the damned city with its reeking streets and rusty houses. That was what he should have done in the first place, but his mother had raised him right and he had decided to own up to his mistake. He had even offered her money; three times more than the price of the book because he had been feeling guilty (and maybe particularly generous; they had made a great sale in Ibadan, after all.)

Can’t allow me to leave, he muttered a few hours later, watching the countryside whip past through the coach window. Well, I’ve left, now, haven’t I?

In the three days it took Wande to reach Kwara he forgot all about the book and the librarian. He managed to talk himself into the business coach and even sold three rotary phones. All in all, it was a good trip and Wande arrived in high spirits to Kwara.

A note was waiting for him in his motel room, placed neatly in the centre of the bed where he couldn’t miss it.

Dear Mr. Badmus,

I understand that you have, against my advice (and quite irresponsibly in my opinion) left Ibadan and are now in Kwara. I am very disappointed in you. Did you think I would not find out? Or did you think to slink away to someplace I would never find you? Please return at once to Ibadan, preferably with the book. It is now four days overdue. While you will be duly punished, I am willing to temper the severity of your punishment should you return within a day with the book.

Best wishes,

L.

Wande crumpled the note in a meaty fist and stumbled into the bathroom where Donatus was taking a shit.

What the fuck man! cried Donatus, trying and failing to cover his modesty.

Who delivered this letter? Wande asked.

What letter?

This one! Wande brandished the crumpled paper. It came from the librarian—

Maybe you brought it with you—

No, I didn’t. It was right in the middle of the bed! And you’ve been living here—

Now that I think of it, said Donatus thoughtfully, one hand still in the toilet bowl over his member, there was a raven. Yes. The letter was strapped to its leg. I fed it some crumbs, the good bird, afterwards I gave it some water to drink...

Wande’s eye was twitching. You think this is a joke?

You don’t see me laughing, do you? Now, will you let me wipe myself or do you want to watch?

II. Tick-tock Mr. Badmus

Kwara was a much tougher city to conquer and Wande found doors slammed in his face at almost every turn. It was infuriating, to say the least, and he wondered, for the very first time in twenty-five years of selling rotary phones, if he had lost his touch.

Just a bad city, is all, said Donatus when Wande brought it up in conversation. "Sometimes the stars all misalign and we run out of luck. Sometimes the people actually do know what they want—which isn’t rotary phones hehe."

Yeah? said Wande. "You sold some phones."

Eh, said Donatus, shrugging as if it meant nothing. Pure luck. You know this, old boy. He cocked his head, considering. Maybe your silver tongue needs a bit of polishing, eh? and he roared with laughter, specks of spit flying from his mouth.

Wande scowled at him, but Donatus had already put up his newspaper and did not see it.

Wande was glad to leave Kwara. He waited with the tickets and their luggage in the departure lounge in the train station, while Donatus went on to call their employer to give an update on their situation. He came back grinning.

What? Wande snarled. The bloody heat, the noise, the rank smell of humanity, not to mention a very poor performance in Kwara, had put him in a very bad temper.

Looks like you’ll have to go on without me, partner, said Donatus.

"What? Why?"

Donatus shrugged. Didn’t say. I didn’t ask. He’s the boss.

So I’m meant to continue all by myself?

Aw, don’t be like that. Donatus grinned, flashing a golden tooth. I’m going to miss you too. Come here, let me give you a kiss.

Fuck off, Donatus, said Wande, throwing him off.

Wande watched him saunter away, fighting the urge to scream.

Twenty minutes later, blowing like a horse and cursing fluently, Wande dragged his luggage down the train aisle to his compartment. He tossed the suitcase full of rotary phones to the floor and plopped down on his bed. His shirt was already sticking to his back and he fumbled the buttons with one meaty hand, reaching with the other for the jug of cool water on the table. The train lurched into motion and his questing hand smacked the jug over, spraying water all over the floor, the dusty window and his bed. Wande let lose a train of colourful expletives. Everything. Everything was going to shit.

That was when he saw the note, folded neatly

Reviews for Jackal, Jackal

[HebeCandelario · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

AMAZING ,ORIGINAL STORIES. worth purchasing the book. It's that good.

[shivam dube · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

his is a fun 90s action thriller. Bruce is great in his role as John 'Jackal' Johnson. Although, Bruce, who are you trying to fool with that wig? Little known fun fact, this movie was originally marketed in the oceanic region under the name 'Heat Lite', which led to generally unfavourable reviews and a confused audience expecting a sequel to Heat. Its reception in China was much better because of the scene in which he shoots the senator. IRA, played by Richard, is also a fantastic character. This will greatly satiate gearheads world wide. The only the negative comment I have for this film is that I am unclear as to the reason for having Sydney Poiter in blackface for the entire movie, but hey I guess it was the 90s mysainbury