Excerpt from Noor by Nnedi Okorafor, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

What Kind of Woman Are You?

48 HOURS EARLIER ...

It was late when I got home. I switched the light on in my bedroom and a startled gecko rushed up my wall and tried to hide near the ceiling. "Oh, not today," I muttered. Then I spent the next hour trying to catch it. Thankfully, the thing escaped out the window. Wall geckos have always bothered me, and the thought of sleeping with one in my bedroom made me angry. On top of this, my headache was back. I knew I wasn't going to sleep well.

I drifted into normal sleep just as the sun was rising. I think. I don't quite remember. I was in my bed facing the window, rubbing my temples. My headache wasn't ready to let up, thumping its drumbeat as if it wanted my spirit to go some­where else. I was gazing across the Abuja building tops, there was a go‑slow in the distance and I remember feeling glad that I didn't have to be in it. These days, I rarely had to travel on the highway, anyway, thanks to the auto shop being only two miles away. My world was comfortably small.

The sunrise was a warm one, the breeze wafting into my open window. I liked the heat; when it was hot, I felt languid, effortless, good. I slept naked, unbothered by mosquitoes. They never seemed to like me. A hawk soared past my apartment window. Or maybe it was a vulture. The beating in my head seemed to surge. "Ah," I groaned, rolling over.

Then I was watching my ex‑fiancé Olaniyi's back as he walked out the front door into a lush undulating jungle, a fan;tastic drum beat rolling up the green, red, and yellow leaves of trees and bushes. I looked up and the sky wasn't really the sky because I was dreaming. It was like looking at a sky that was a blue leaf under a strong microscope and you were zooming and zooming in to see that it wasn't a blue leaf at all; it was millions of blue eyes that made up the leaf. All those eyes were looking at me. And then they weren't blue, they were red, like the eyes of lizards looking. Blinking and looking, blinking and looking.

When I blinked, I awoke, my heart pounding and my head aching so badly that I winced. I should have known the day would carry its own basket of strange. I should have known to be prepared. It was Friday, but I should have stayed home.

The auto shop expected me in at eleven AM, so there was time. This would be my first weekend without Olaniyi. He'd come by and taken his things days ago, and when he walked in, he was holding heavy black charm beads in one hand and he re­fused to look me in the eye. He moved quickly, grabbing his clothes, laptop, chargers, his moldy old books. I said nothing, but inside I was weeping.

Now, fiancé gone, my life plans in unexpected ruin, I in­tended to spend much of the weekend weeping. I was going to wipe all of him away with a delicious meal of egusi soup heavy with shrimp, beef, and fish, smoothly pounded yam, perfectly fried plantain, sliced sweet mango, a coconut cake and hot tea.

I was going to not call any of my friends. I was going to work on a sand repelling device called an "anti- aejej," which a man from up north had brought me to repair. I'd only seen and fixed one, all using guess- work. I was sure I could fix this one, too, and I was excited because I was going to fully understand how it worked. All of this I could do in my spotless incense- scented, quiet roomy apartment with no man I loved staring at me as if I were a demon he'd been jujued into loving.

The evening and then the weekend were mine.

But first, I needed to do some food shopping before work. When I'd lived in Lagos, just getting to the market early would have been a whole morning affair. However, I'd followed my fiancé here to Abuja because a good mechanic (especially one with a cybernetic left arm and thus a hyperdexterous hand) can find work anywhere and a good man is hard to find. And so my life was a different story where I could go to the market in the morning and still make it to work on time.

Excerpted from Noor by Nnedi Okorafor. Copyright © 2021 by Nnedi Okorafor. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.