BLURB
From the author of the National Book Award finalist Ghostroots, a debut novel that thrills with its eerie mix of folklore and history.
Something is haunting the pregnant women of Lagos. Across the city, they are walking into water . . . and drowning.
Twenty-three-year-old Yosoye arrives in Lagos ready to start her life. Working for a slick architectural firm, she finds a city of adventure and opportunity. Her new world is one of fancy gallery openings, glamorous friends, and all the shiny potential of the future, encapsulated in projects like Omi City, the ultra-luxury development her company is building, a symbol of the dawn of a brighter Lagos.
But Yosoye’s idyllic vision of Lagos soon begins to seem naive, and its darker, stranger layers trouble her. Something is not right about Omi City, and as construction speeds ahead, stories of strange deaths in the city’s open waters reach a fever pitch. And then, after a chance encounter, Yosoye discovers she is pregnant . . . a revelation which puts her on a collision course with an inexplicable force that is as seductive as it is deadly. A masterwork by a writer hailed as “an astonishing talent” (Lauren Groff), One Leg on Earth is an ambitious novel like no other: a coming-of-age story, an uncanny exploration of motherhood, and a chilling vision of the dark side of progress.
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EXCERPT
MIRIAM AIKI PRAYED FOR THE FRUIT OF THE WOMB for thirteen years. Thirteen years of chafed knees: blood and shredded skin staining church altars, shrine altars, her bedside rug, her mother-in-law’s living room tiles. Thirteen years begging for a miracle, for strength, for patience. Her cries were answered. At thirty-eight, her womb was unfurling its first bloody fruit.
Now, in the passenger seat of her husband’s car, she smiled at her taut six-month belly. An ugly joy stirred within her. Ugly because it sat heavy on top of her growing baby, nausea amassing saliva in her mouth. But mothers who’d hunted long for that title knew that this unpleasantness was welcome, embraced.
Miriam smoothed a hand over her lace buba. She smiled at her husband, Victor, who frowned at the standstill traffic. They were running late for his cousin’s wedding and hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. His knuckles tapped an agitated beat on the steering wheel along to soft jazz playing on the radio. Past her husband’s head, the blue BRT bus keeping them in merciful shadow advertised a “We Are Lagos” music concert. Celebrating our oneness together! Miriam turned her beaming face to her window, gap-tooth a narrow darkness in an otherwise white smile.
These shining eyes, these stretched lips, these deep dimples. The people of Third Mainland Bridge stuck in traffic with Miriam would always remember the fizzy happiness in these details.
Miriam’s bliss bubbled up, feathering her insides, shimmering around her baby, erupting from her throat in a giggle—a curious misplaced sound in that car.
Victor turned to her, startled. His hand brushed her thigh, her rounded belly.
“Are you okay?”
Miriam giggled again. Her head slid down the leather headrest, neck tilting backward for more happiness to escape, clavicle bared to her husband’s confused gaze. This frothing joy within Miriam, she wanted to warble it out, to dance through it, until she and her baby were heady with the fervor of it.
She pushed the passenger door open. Stepped out. Victor sat there, blinking in shock for what would later seem like two lifetimes. The humid air crowded in to displace cool air-conditioning. He clicked the radio off, leaned toward the open mouth of the door.
“Miriam? What are you doing?”
Miriam kicked her sandals off, flung the fuchsia-pink slingbacks behind her. One heel struck the car’s bonnet, leaving a silver chink. She wound between the bridge’s stalled vehicles: engines turned off; gears stuck in neutral. She skipped and spun and squealed. Even in the midst of that sweltering Lagos day of thumping car music and raucous engines and the truck that honked at her for dancing too close, Miriam’s squeal stood out, a siren.
Passengers lowered their half-eaten Pure Bliss wafers and leaned out of windows to watch this odd but entertaining episode. Drivers, stretching their legs in small huddles, paused their whining—about traffic and heat and wives and money and that new backache that made their worlds flush dark when they bent at the wrong angle. All necks craned toward Miriam. Hawkers hitched boxes higher and nudged each other to behold the spirited pregnant woman.
Miriam swayed, shoulders shaking with laughter at a joke nobody else could hear. Her legs kicked. Hands stretched, twirling as if being spun about. What joy! What joy!
Victor leaned on the horn. His feet hit tar, finally going after her. Had she gone mad? He yelled her name, using the tone his father wielded on his mother, demanding Miriam return to the car immediately.
But Miriam didn’t want to get back in the car. She wanted to dance, to be free, to glide forward with the happiness surging from her womb, her baby. Her husband navigated between fascinated watchers. He shouted, “Miriam! Miriam! Miriam!” But by the time he got to the railings, she had launched herself off Third Mainland Bridge, laughing and screeching into the lagoon below, belly-first, like a child jumping into the arms of a beloved parent.
Author Info
Pemi Aguda is a Nigerian writer known for her short stories and debut collection Ghostroots (2024). Her work often explores complex themes surrounding motherhood, identity, and the supernatural. Ghostroots, which includes previously published stories such as "Breastmilk" and "The Hollow", was a finalist for the 2024 National Book Award for Fiction and received critical acclaim for its unifying themes and narrative cohesion.
Aguda's stories have been widely recognized, earning multiple accolades, including an O'Henry Award in 2022 for "Breastmilk" and again in 2023 for "The Hollow". Additionally, "Breastmilk" was shortlisted for the 2024 Caine Prize for African Writing. Her forthcoming novel, The Suicide Mothers, which won the 2020 Deborah Rogers Foundation Award, is slated for release in 2025.
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