Lagoon

by Nnedi Okorafor

  He frowned, turning to look her in the eye. She smiled back pleasantly. Always so pleasant.

  “I know why the Elders like you,” she said.

  Anthony held her gaze a bit longer, then turned back to the aquarium. “Can you change into one of those?” Anthony asked Ayodele, pointing at a red shrimp with white stripes.

  “I can,” she said, pressing her face against the tank. “You know that.”

  Anthony nodded. “You can change yourselves but you can change the fish, too, right?”

  “Precisely,” Ayodele said. “We give them whatever they want.”

  “Damn,” he said. Then he nodded with a small smile. “Respect.”

  Adaora slipped the slide onto the microscope’s stage and took a look. It didn’t take long to see what she needed to see. She switched to the lens of the greatest magnification just to make sure. She chuckled, feeling an ache of excitement deep in her belly. “Shit!” she whispered.

  Again she pushed away crowding memories of what she’d witnessed under the sea. How she’d been floating and breathing beneath the water in whatever contraption they’d built down there on the reeflike structure. How one of them had touched her arm, and she watched as it became coated with lovely iridescent fish scales and her fingers webbed together. How the sensation of the changing felt more like rigorous vibration than pain. How they’d known that that was what she wanted so that she could horrify her husband. How easily they’d changed her back. She squeezed her eyes shut. Focus, focus, focus, she thought.

  Agu sat on the stool beside her.

  “So, what do you see?” Agu asked.

  Adaora stepped aside. “You tell me,” she said, motioning to the microscope.

  He put his eye to the lens.

  “Do you know what cells normally look like?” Adaora asked.

  “Yes. I remember from secondary school.”

  As he looked, Adaora watched Ayodele gazing at the fish. She met Anthony’s eyes, and she gave him a slight nod. He cocked his head and mouthed, “This is crazy.”

  Adaora nodded in agreement. They both shifted their gazes to Ayodele, who was still looking at the fish.

  “Well, Agu?” Adaora asked, after a minute. “What do you see?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, still looking.

  “You . . . you see them, right?”

  “Tiny balls? Moving around and sort of . . . vibrating?”

  Adaora nodded vigorously. “Yes! That’s her skin . . . magnified.”

  Agu’s battered face held a deeply uncertain expression. “But . . .”

  “I don’t think it is cellular matter.” She leaned against the lab table.

  Agu touched his bruised nose. “Does that mean . . .”

  “One thousand times!” Adaora whispered loudly, ignoring Agu. “That’s how strong the magnification is. She’s made of tiny, tiny, tiny, metal-like balls. It’s got to be metal. Certain types of metal powders look like that at two hundred times. I think that’s why she can . . . change shape like that. You saw how . . . how . . . when we were . . .”

  Agu wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Yeah. I saw.”

  “The balls aren’t fixed together as our cells are,” Adaora said.

  Agu just looked at her blankly.

  “I always wondered,” Adaora continued. “Much of the world’s most famous extraterrestrial material, mainly meteorites, has fallen right here. In Nigeria.” She was speaking more to herself now. “Last year a big one fell in Tarkwa Bay. I was testing the water for pollution when it happened . . .” She started looking around. “I should write all this down!” She grabbed a pen and paper and started ­jotting down notes, focusing on each word she wrote. Not wanting to focus on Agu. If she focused on him, her world would fall apart. She could feel him looking at her. She took a deep breath, fighting down tears as she thought about the fight with her husband. “So . . . what happened to your face?” she asked.

  “It was punched.”

  “I see that, but by who?”

  “By my ahoa,” he said. When Adaora looked at him questioningly, he said, “My ahoa . . . my comrades, my fellow soldiers.” He sucked his teeth. “Don’t act like you didn’t listen in during my phone call in the car.”

  She had, all of them had. Agu had used her phone to call his parents in the small town of Arondizuogu. He’d told them to leave their home immediately and hide with relatives because hired thugs were going to descend on them. “Tell Kelechi and his wife, too. Leave the yams! You can grow those back but you cannot grow your life back, o!”

  Adaora had felt embarrassed and sorry for Agu when he handed back her phone. And for minutes, no one in the car said a word, not even Ayodele.

  “But what did you do?” Adaora asked now. “Why are they coming after your family?”

  Agu looked at her with his fully open eye and squinted with his swollen right one. “I tried to stop one of my own ahoa from raping a woman.” He paused, a disgusted look on his face as he remembered. “We’d pulled her over on the Lagos–Benin Expressway. This fine woman; she was drunk. Lance Corporal Benson, my superior, he got out of hand with her. I . . . I punched him in the gut.” He paused, frowning. Then he looked into Adaora’s eyes. “He went flying like a sack of feathers!”

  Adaora went cold. “What? What do you mean?”

  Agu nodded. “Exactly! I’m not a weak man. I exercise, keep myself in shape. And I’ve had my share of fights. But . . . he went flying. Because I hit him. Then for a while, he didn’t move. The rest of my ahoa descended on me for that. They beat me like a dog and left me unconscious on the side of the road. I must have lost my mobile phone then, so—”

  The sound of the television interrupted their conversation. Anthony had switched it on for Ayodele, who had moved to the sofa. She sighed softly when the picture appeared.

  On the TV, as a breaking-news banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen, a newscaster in fashionable dress pants and a white blouse stood on what could only have been Bar Beach. The wind was blowing, and military personnel behind her were setting up barriers.

  “Witnesses on Bar Beach are saying that just after nine p.m. they heard an earth-shaking explosion that seemed to roll up from the water like a tidal wave,” the newscaster was saying. “People are reporting broken windows in cars and buildings. A few people say they’re even experiencing hearing loss. There’s no sign of terrorist activity yet, but here to discuss the issue is Lance Corporal Benson Shehu, who is on the scene.”

  Beside her stood a stern-looking Hausa man in sharp military dress, his green beret perched on his head like a fixture. He rested a hand on his hip, as if he were working hard to stand up straight.

  Agu pointed at the television. “That’s him! That’s my—”

  “Shhh shhh shhh,” Anthony hissed, frowning.

  “You also happen to be the president’s nephew,” the newscaster on TV added.

  “Yes, but that is mere coincidence and irrelevant to the issue,” Benson snapped. He winced visibly, pressing below his ribs.

  The newscaster nodded as Benson looked into the camera and squinted as if he were looking into the sun. “There is no destruction or, or anything like that. It was not a bomb. It seems to be some sort of sonic blast. Erm . . . noise from the breaking of the sound barrier. Something like that. This is not a suicide bomber. We have never had that nonsense in Lagos. But we are treating this as an attack,” he said.

  “An attack? Against Nigeria?”

  “Yes,” he said, turning to the newscaster.

  “By who?”

  “We don’t know,” he said. “We don’t know anything. But did the Americans know who destroyed their World Trade Towers when it first happened?”

  The newscaster nodded. “Good point. But that brings me back to my question about the president. Where is he? Will he be giving—”

 
“By morning, we hope to know more,” Benson interrupted. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “In this case, where there is noise, there is a source. For now, we are advising people to continue going about their business. Act normal, no need for wahala . . .”

  “They don’t know anything,” Adaora said with a wave of her hand, returning to her microscope.

  “I agree,” Agu said, following her back to the counter. “And if Benson did, he’s too dumb to process it. The president needs to come back. The last person they want in charge of what’s happening on Bar Beach is Benson, trust me. Why is he the one they’re interviewing?”

  Adaora shrugged. “Looks like you did his body some damage, though.”

  “The man earned it.”

  “At least you know you didn’t kill him.”

  Agu looked into Adaora’s microscope as she scribbled more notes in her notebook.

  “They can be anything and are nothing,” she said as she wrote. “Basically, she’s a shape-shifter.” She smiled. “I wish my grandmother were alive to see this.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She was always sure the markets were full of them, witches, shape-shifters, warlocks, things like that. This would blow her mind, sha.” She suddenly snapped her fingers, making Agu jump. “Ah-ah, what kind of technology must they have?”

  “Do they even need it?” Agu asked. “I mean, in a way, they are technology. They can cha—”

  Someone came running down the stairs.

  “What is . . . Adaora, who are these people?” Adaora’s husband, Chris, demanded. He still wore the jeans and wrinkled dress shirt he’d been wearing when they’d fought. As he moved down the stairs, he cut an intimidating figure, despite the fact that he’d been eating nothing but bread and water for the last two weeks. He slipped on the bottom step, cursing as he grabbed the banister and caught himself. Adaora groaned, mortified and feeling ill. Anthony didn’t bother hiding his amusement as he laughed aloud and muttered, “Kwasiasem. Nonsense.”

  Chris glared at Agu, who was standing beside Adaora. Agu stepped away from her and Adaora flinched.

  “While I’m asleep?” Chris said, striding up to Adaora. “In my own house? With our children right upstairs?!”

  Adaora spotted her five-year-old son, Fred, and eight-year-old daughter, Kola, peeking down from the top of the stairs. “Jesus,” Adaora whispered. She wanted to bring their presence to Chris’s attention, but he was in too much of a rage. Adaora had managed to hide their physical altercation hours ago from the kids; she didn’t want to push her luck. Even if he didn’t hit her in front of them, he might bring the children into the argument. He’d done it a year ago, calling Kola into the room to ask her opinion about Adaora’s refusal to stop listening to “filthy types of music.” Poor Kola, who didn’t want to speak against her father or her mother, had begun to cry. No, Adaora thought now. Better he not notice the children.

  Behind her children crouched Philomena, the house girl, who should have been keeping them upstairs. A soft-spoken, chubby girl in her twenties, Philo had less and less control over Fred and Kola these days. Adaora shelved this fact for another time.

  “Chris,” Adaora pled. “It’s not . . .” She flinched as Chris raised his hand to slap her for the second time in three hours.

  “You . . . you don’t want to do that,” Agu said, stepping in front of her. He sounded very unsure of himself.

  Chris blinked, sizing Agu up. Agu may have had a raw face, but he was wearing a military uniform, he was taller, and he looked stronger. But Agu’s demeanor clearly said that he didn’t want to fight Chris at all. Chris lunged at Agu.

  “CHRIS! STOP IT!” Adaora shouted, jumping back.

  Agu easily threw Chris aside. He raised his hands. “Please,” he begged. “Just listen. I don’t—” But Chris got up and went for Agu again, throwing a punch and missing completely. Agu stepped to the side and clocked him one in the back of the head. Chris ­stumbled to the lab table, knocking test tubes into the sink and onto the floor.

  “Shit,” Agu hissed, distraught. “Not again, please not again!”

  “Come on,” Philo said, grabbing the children’s hands and pulling them away.

  “Na wetin dis?” Anthony said, stepping forward and hauling Chris to his feet. “Let it go, chale. Are you mad?!”

  When Agu saw that Chris was still conscious, he sighed loudly with relief, bending forward to rest his hands on his knees.

  Chris snatched his arm from Anthony and stood up on shaky legs, his nose bleeding. He glared at Adaora with that same hatred she’d seen hours ago just before he leaped on her. He opened his mouth to say something but instead cringed at the sound of metal balls on glass. “Eeeee!” he screeched. Adaora dug her nails into her thighs. Agu squeezed his face, pressing his hand to his mouth as he resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “Oooooh,” Anthony moaned, feeling nauseous. If any of them had turned to look at Adaora’s giant aquarium, they’d have seen the cowfish dart forward and smash into the glass, the shrimp fall to the aquarium floor, and several other fish swim in confused circles. It was a sound never heard on earth until this night.

  When Chris turned around, he was staring at himself.

  Adaora opened her mouth in utter astonishment, nearly forgetting to breathe.

  “CHRIS!” Ayodele said. Her voice was identical to Chris’s, as was her physique. Not only did she look like him, she was even wearing the same wrinkled dress shirt and jeans.

  “Jesus,” Adaora whispered. She stepped forward and grabbed Agu’s arm and pulled him away. Anthony sucked his teeth at the ridiculousness of it all.

  Chris’s mouth hung open. He shook his head and blinked his eyes.

  “Blame me,” Ayodele said. “Your wife is just trying to help. Calm yourself. Think.”

  There was a long pause as Chris stared at Ayodele. Then deep in his chest, he moaned and touched his own face with a shaky hand. He stepped back, then snapped around, turning a wild gaze on Adaora. He jabbed a finger at her. “You’ve poisoned me! Witch! I knew it! I am hallucinating because you’ve poisoned my body, o!” He took more steps back. “I shower my wife with everything she wants, only to realize I’ve fed the devil!” He stumbled toward the stairs. “Marine witch, o!” he wailed, pointing and pointing at her. “Amusu! I knew it! I knew it! Jesus Christ will send you back to hell, o! God will punish you! In the name of Jesus and the Holy Spirit!” He turned and fled up the stairs.

  Adaora squeezed her eyes shut as she heard Ayodele change back. She’d heard the sound several times now, first in the water and now in her own home. In both places it somehow sounded the same. Absolutely foreign. So foreign, that hearing it made her feel like falling to the floor. She plopped down in the chair beside her computer.

  “Your husband?” Agu asked as he dabbed the cut on his forehead with his fingers. It had started bleeding again.

  “He works too hard and he’s been fasting,” she said. “It makes him a little . . .”

  “That man does not love you,” Anthony muttered.

  Silence.

  “You people are very interesting,” Ayodele said, smiling.

  CHAPTER 6

  RED RED WINE

  Chris shut his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the warm night air. Dirty Lagos air. So different from the air he’d breathed during his three-year stay in Germany for his MBA. He coughed. Since he’d begun fasting, he had to admit, he just hadn’t felt right. He knew it was the witchcraft his wife had worked on him rebelling against his cleansing efforts. He had to keep fasting. Eventually it would all get better, he’d be free of her grasp and he’d be back in control of his life and his wife. Maybe.

  He sat staring at the wrought-iron black gate that surrounded Father Oke’s home, waiting. It was a solid gate built into a solid thick white wall that surrounded a
magnificent compound. The fence around Chris’s home was only wrought iron, so passers-by could see into the compound if they were nosy. He and his conniving wife Adaora did very well, but even they could not afford to build and maintain this kind of wall, not while building and maintaining the house itself.

  On both sides of the wall were tiny houses where most likely ten times as many people lived. Poor people. These homes were surrounded by walls too, though the walls were really just the walls of the much larger home boxing them in. Lagos is like a big zoo, Chris thought. Everyone is contained by lots of walls and lots of gates, whether you like it or not. It’s secure but there is no security.

  He rubbed his red eyes as Father Oke slowly opened the gate. The man looked tired, but this was urgent. Such things warranted waking even a holy man in the middle of the night. Still, Chris was apologetic. “I’m so, so sorry to wake you, but . . .” He couldn’t hold it in anymore. He wheezed and sobbed, leaning heavily on Father Oke’s shoulder. He was too taken by his own emotions to notice the look of deep that annoyance passed over Father Oke’s face.

  “My wife . . . my . . . my . . . I don’t know where else to go,” Chris moaned into Father Oke’s nightshirt.

  Father Oke patted Chris’s back and firmly pushed him backward. “What has happened?” he asked. He glanced with disgust at his shoulder, which was damp with Chris’s tears. “You . . . you haven’t done anything, have you?”

  “No, no. Not me. I . . .”

  Father Oke sighed with relief. “Come in, come in,” he said. “Let us talk inside.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Chris said as they walked between Father Oke’s Mercedes and his BMW. Father Oke frowned as Chris passed a little too close to the BMW. He’d managed to keep the vehicle in perfect shape despite the Lagos roads, and he was not about to let this desperate idiot scratch it.

  * * * *

  Chris and Father Oke sat across from each other on leather chairs. A bleary-eyed young woman in sleepwear came into the room with a bottle of red wine. Chris eyed the glass she poured for him, wondering if this would interfere with his fasting/purging of his wife’s witchcraft.