Lagoon

by Nnedi Okorafor

  “Relax, Chris,” Father Oke said, seeming to read his thoughts. They watched the woman leave the room. “It will affect nothing. Wine is the beverage of Jesus. It can only do good.”

  Chris nodded, bringing the glass to his lips. His hand shook as he sipped.

  “Well, Chris,” Father Oke said. “What did you expect when you married a woman ocean biologist?”

  “But she and I have known each other since we were small children,” Chris said. “Our fathers were best friends. . . .”

  Father Oke shook his head, putting his wine down and leaning forward. He had a pained look on his face, as if he carried a great burden on his shoulders. “Look, Brother Chris, women are . . . weak vessels. It is identified in the Bible. Your Adaora is a highly educated biologist but she’s no different from the others. She could not change herself if she tried.” He chuckled and sipped his wine. Then he laughed loudly. “Kai! But your wife is a tough one, o!”

  “You really think she’s a witch?” Chris asked.

  “I do, Brother Chris,” he said. “A marine witch, the worst kind. Look at her knowledge of the water. But don’t worry, no shaking, o,” he said, chuckling. “My church is powerful. It is my job to handle such things.”

  Chris sipped his wine, his hand still shaking. It left his mouth sour. “Good, because tonight she did something to me. I was trying to subdue her and suddenly I could not move! I was pinned to the floor like a goat for sacrifice!”

  Father Oke frowned, but said nothing.

  “Eh heh,” Chris said, nodding and taking Father Oke’s silence to mean he believed him. “And let me tell you what else. Only an hour ago, I came downstairs to her witch’s den and found my wife with two strange men!” he said. “TWO! And there was . . . there was another. Another witch! She changed right before my eyes!”

  “Eh, Brother Chris, slow down,” Father Oke said, trying hard not to laugh at this sorry lamb of his flock. “It is imperative to fast, to purge your wife’s witchcraft from your body. But you’ve been fasting so much, of late, and . . . perhaps you are not seeing what you think you’re seeing?”

  “I know what I saw, Father,” Chris insisted. “This woman changed into ME! I can take you there right now! I can—”

  “Relax, Brother Chris.” Father Oke chuckled. “It’s late.” He sighed. “Okay, if your wife has brought another witch into your household, best to wait for daylight. I will come tomorrow.”

  “But . . .”

  Father Oke made the sign of the cross. This always calmed his parishioners down. Now was no exception. Chris instantly quieted and relaxed. “Trust in the Lord, Brother Chris,” Father Oke said soothingly. “All will be well in due time, eh? Meantime, pursue peace with your wife. Avoid the appearance of contention; women thrive on that. Do not fall for her antics. Look to Jesu Christi who asked us to turn the other cheek. Go home. Go to bed. I will see you tomorrow.”

  Sufficiently opiated by the words of his beloved priest, Chris felt better. He even gave a shaky smile. “I will, Father. Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  INTERVIEW

  The digital video camera Adaora used when she went diving was old, and its battery was dead. But it still worked when plugged in. She put the camera on a tripod and set a folding chair in front of the fish tank.

  “Sit here,” she told Ayodele. Adaora felt thick and groggy. While Agu and Anthony had stayed up watching TV with Ayodele and talking, she’d curled up on the sofa and gotten a few hours of sleep.

  Adaora peered into the camera’s window and was relieved when she could see Ayodele clearly. “Okay, good,” she said. “Look this way.” She pointed at the camera’s lens. “Now, just talk, Ayodele, tell me about yourself.”

  Ayodele smiled and nodded, gazing into the camera. Adaora shivered. If there was any strong hint of the alien in Ayodele’s appearance, it was in her eyes. When Adaora looked into them, she felt unsure . . . of everything. A college friend of hers used to say that everything human beings perceived as real was only a matter of the information their bodies recorded. “And that information isn’t always correct or complete,” he said. Back then, Adaora had dismissively rolled her eyes. Now, she understood.

  “You have named me Ayodele. You people will call me an alien because I am from space, your outer heavens, beyond. I am what you all call an ambassador, the first to come and communicate with you people. I was sent. We landed in your waters and have been communicating with other people there and they’ve been good to us. Now we want your help.”

  “What do you eat?” Adaora asked.

  “We take in matter,” she said. “What we can find. Dust, stone, metal, elements. We alter whatever substance we find to suit us.”

  Adaora smiled. “But you are most fond of my jollof rice and fried plantain.” Ayodele had eaten every scrap of food Adaora placed before her, and then several more platefuls, commenting the entire time about how enjoyable it all was. The only thing she hadn’t really liked was bread.

  Ayodele smiled. “In this form, consuming your jollof rice and fried plantain gave me great pleasure. And what was it? . . . Garden eggs and yam.”

  “You liked both of them raw . . . uncooked?” Adaora pressed.

  “Yes, especially the garden eggs. The yam was nice too, though. It heightened my senses.”

  Adaora considered asking her for details of this but decided to move on instead. “Do you drink water?”

  “In this form, yes.”

  “Do you enjoy taking human form?”

  Ayodele smiled. “Yes.”

  “It’s easy?”

  “After the first time, yes.”

  “But it’s hard the first time?”

  “It’s not easy.”

  “How do you change?”

  “We have control of all our parts, great and small, and the forces influencing them.”

  “Can you die?” Adaora carefully asked.

  Ayodele narrowed her eyes and looked at Adaora instead of at the camera. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because I’m a scientist,” Adaora said. “I just want to know, to understand.”

  Ayodele turned back to the camera. “I prefer not to answer that.”

  “Why?”

  But Ayodele just looked at the camera and said nothing.

  “Okay, fine,” Adaora said, after a moment. “Did you bring me, Agu, and Anthony together? Was that a coincidence? Why do all our names start with A?”

  Across the room, Agu perked up.

  “It was not a coincidence,” Ayodele said. “I am an ambassador. I know—”

  “Wait a minute!” Agu jumped up and rushed over. “Did you make all that happen so we’d all be there at the same time? Did you make my superior and the others attack that girl? Did you make me—”

  “We are change,” Ayodele calmly responded “The sentiments were already there. I know nothing about those other things.”

  “But you pushed them over the edge!” Agu said, stepping into the camera’s view. “You hurt people! Do you understand that? You . . . I’ve seen what you can do, what you all are! You . . .”

  “Agu,” Adaora said. “I’m filming.”

  He shot Adaora a look that was way too similar to the one she’d seen in her husband’s eyes. “Let me do this,” she added quietly. “Please.”

  “Your husband slapped you!” he shouted. “Has he ever done that before?”

  “No. But my husband and I have some . . . serious problems that I wouldn’t blame Ayodele for in a million years. Would you really hold her responsible for your fellow soldiers, your ahoa, behaving that way? Think hard about it. They acted on impulses already present in their minds. And the other thing that happened . . . Was it her fault? Maybe it was yours.”

  Still breathing heavily, Agu shut his eyes, his shoulders slumping.

  Ada
ora breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Ayodele.

  “So there are more of you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t count ourselves.”

  “Many?”

  “You would think so.”

  “And what do your people need?”

  “Nothing. We have chosen to live here.”

  “Here on . . . earth?”

  “Here.”

  “The land?”

  “Your land.”

  “Africa?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you are all over the continent?”

  “No.”

  “Part of it? Like West Africa? Nigeria?”

  “The city, Lagos?” Anthony asked, walking over.

  Ayodele looked at him and grinned. “And the waters.”

  “Why Lagos? Why the water?” Adaora asked.

  Ayodele shrugged. “These seemed good places for us.”

  Agu and Adaora both frowned deeply, but neither said a word.

  Anthony laughed. “You bring in what you put out. Lagos . . .” He patted Agu and Adaora on the shoulders and dropped into Pidgin English. “‘Lasgidi’ you dey call am, right? Eko? Isn’t that what you people call Lagos? Place of belle-sweet, gidi gidi, kata kata, isu, and wahala. Lagos is energy. It never stops. That’s why I like coming here too.”

  “We can work with you people,” Ayodele said. “And we will. We’re coming.”

  Adaora stepped around and stood before the camera, looking into its eye. “Nine January, six thirty-nine a.m. You heard it directly from the horse’s mouth. One is here, the rest are coming.” She switched the camera off.

  CHAPTER 8

  MAMA?

  The gateman opened the gate in the back of the house to let in the shiny silver Mercedes. He watched admiringly as it pulled into the side driveway. The vehicle gleamed like a diamond. The gateman had dreamed of owning such a car since he was a boy. Now that he was thirty-five, it was a fading dream, but one that still made him smile.

  When the bishop got out, the gateman frowned and blinked. He always experienced the same mild surprise when this man came over. His brain simply couldn’t hold the fact that a holy man could and wanted to afford such a vehicle. Ahmed Ubangiji was a Muslim and lived ten minutes away with his two wives and five children. He had nothing against Christians or any other people of the world. But a bishop displaying such extravagance seemed wrong. Then again, a lot of things seemed odd lately. He closed the gate and went back to his station to continue listening to the news of the flooding and strangeness on Bar Beach. If worse came to worst, he’d pack his family up and head north for a few days. Surely his boss would understand.

  Father Oke stretched his arms and shut the car door. He’d been coming here too often, of late. Brother Chris was too needy. But he was one of Father Oke’s biggest supporters, donating an ever-increasing amount of money from year to year. Brother Chris had been blessed by God, who’d made him a wealthy accountant. Even though his wife was a problem, she too brought in good money as a professor and a scientist. Yes, they were good people to have in his congregation, so dealing with Chris more than he wanted to was worth it.

  Father Oke dusted off his black suit and adjusted his immaculate white collar. His shiny shoes were spotless, which was just the way he liked them. He walked to the door where Chris was already standing. He must have been waiting for the last fifteen minutes.

  “Good morning,” Chris said, smiling a bit too widely.

  They shook hands and went inside.

  * * * *

  Adaora was scribbling frantically in her journal. She’d gone upstairs to make breakfast for her husband, the children, and Philomena. After assuring them that everything was okay, she’d run back to get her churning thoughts out of her mind. She had to remember every detail of the night’s events. Of Ayodele’s reactions, how they’d all met up, the sights, sounds, scents of the beach, everything. She was the scientist; the world would expect her to have the facts. Plus, it kept her from dwelling on the memory of her husband squirming on the ground as though held by invisible restraints. Ayodele and Agu were watching the news as Anthony paced the room.

  “The mystery deepens hours after a sonic boom sounded somewhere off the waters of Bar Beach,” the newscaster said. “The military cannot locate a source for the noise. Since the incident, however, and equally as mysterious, the sea level continues to rise. So far, it has risen over seven feet above its normal level. Lagos’s lagoon is filling up, and people’s homes, roads, and the beaches have flooded. Neither the military nor scientists have any answers at the moment.”

  Adaora rolled her eyes. Of course they don’t have any answers, she thought. And if they do, they’re not going to share them.

  “What’s happening?” Agu asked Ayodele, who was happily munching on a raw garden egg.

  She bit, chewed, and swallowed the crunchy green-and-white tomatolike fruit for several moments before responding. “It’s the ship,” she said. “The size of it. The waters actually rose last night, not this morning, remember?”

  “Yes, it was a big ship,” Adaora said vaguely.

  “It’s not just the size,” Ayodele said. “It is communicating with the water and the creatures in the water. We are communicative people.”

  Anthony continued to pace. He wrung his hands and wished he had a big fat joint, the finest jamba. “I don’t know why I’m still here,” he muttered to no one. “I should have left early this morning.”

  “It’s because you can’t,” Agu said.

  Anthony stopped pacing, annoyed that Agu was paying any attention to him. He’d been talking to himself.

  “You can go home but nothing will change,” Agu continued. “Who knows, they may have already overrun Accra.”

  Anthony flared his nostrils at the mention of his country’s biggest city. “Don’t say that.”

  Father Oke swept ceremoniously down the stairs followed by Adaora’s husband and Philomena, the house girl. Father Oke was all smiles and pleasantries. “Good gracious morning, everyone,” he said.

  Chris said nothing, making a wide berth around Agu as he moved toward Adaora.

  “This man again,” Anthony muttered, glaring at Chris.

  Agu and Chris glared at each other, and Adaora felt more than nervous. However, it wasn’t Agu she suddenly wanted to protect. She placed herself between Ayodele and Father Oke. If there was one thing she knew about Father Oke, it was that he was a smooth-talking predator. She couldn’t keep him from her husband, but she would keep him from her children . . . and Ayodele.

  Philo sat on the stairs, took out her mobile phone, and discreetly started recording with the phone’s camera.

  “Adaora,” Father Oke said. “Please introduce me to your . . . new friends.”

  “Good morning, Oke. What do you want?” Adaora asked. The man was a bishop, yet he insisted that people call him “Father Oke.” This deeply annoyed Adaora, even before he’d sunken his claws into Chris.

  “Greetings, my child,” he said. “I—”

  “How can I be your ‘child’? You’re only a few years my senior,” Adaora snapped.

  Father Oke didn’t miss a beat. “You’re a child of God.”

  “And you are God?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “God speaks through me.”

  Adaora snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I am not here to fight,” he said. “You need to make peace with your husband.”

  Adaora felt rage heat her face. She clenched her fists, aware that everyone in the room was watching her. Slowly and deliberately, she said, “And how can we make peace when you are constantly meddling? You instruct him to starve himself like someone who does not have food! You convince him of your twisted nonsense.” She st
epped closer and Father Oke stepped back. “How does him slapping me in the face bring peace, Father? Eh? How can a man slap his wife ‘in the name of Jesus’? You instructed him to do so! You think I didn’t see your e-mail to him a week ago? ‘Break her with your hands, then soften her with flowers.’”

  Behind her, she saw Anthony shake his head in disgust. Agu glowered at Chris. Father Oke looked utterly flabbergasted. Chris looked shamefaced.

  “You have little trust in your husband if you’re reading his e-mails,” Father Oke said coldly.

  “Get OUT of my house!” Adaora screamed.

  “My house, Adaora,” Chris said.

  “Oh my God, I’m going to kill someone this day, o,” Adaora proclaimed. “Your house? Says who?”

  “Seke, seke, seke,” Anthony muttered, still shaking his head.

  Chris waved a dismissive hand at Adaora. “Father Oke is not here to speak with you, anyway,” he said.

  As if on cue, Father Oke slipped around Adaora. “What is your name, child?” he asked Ayodele, who’d been watching with quiet interest.

  “I don’t need a name,” she said. “My people know me. But you may call me Ayodele.”

  “Are you a witch?” he asked.

  “Will you slap her if she says yes?” Adaora snapped. She inhaled deeply, put her hands on her hips, and walked to the other side of the room. If she didn’t step away, she knew she’d do something she’d regret.

  “Why does this matter so much to you?” Ayodele asked Oke.

  “Because I can help you.” Father Oke stepped closer. “I’m trained to help you control your evil, to find grace and salvation and goodness.”

  “See?” Chris insisted. “She doesn’t deny it. I saw her change. She—”

  “You didn’t come here to ask me about witchcraft,” Ayodele said to Father Oke, ignoring Chris. “You have other things on your mind.”

  “What do you want?” Adaora loudly asked Father Oke from across the room. “People like you always want something.”