That afternoon, the church was packed, thanks to the television, newspaper, and radio, though not so much the Internet. According to the media, the water along all the beaches was “rising at an alarming rate!” and pushing into the lagoon. Government buildings and independent businesses were all “closed until further notice!” There had been an “excruciatingly loud racket tumbling off the ocean.” Something was amiss, and everyone was getting ready for whatever would come next.
Some packed up and fled for the rural villages where they had built homes that they normally only stayed in during holidays. The wealthy and influential tried unsuccessfully to procure plane tickets to the United Kingdom, Germany, and the United States. Some even tried to fly to Ghana and Cameroon. But all planes everywhere were grounded indefinitely due to the unidentified sonic boom. Many flocked to mosques. And, in Lagos, hundreds flocked to the church of Father Oke. For many, Father Oke’s church was exactly the refuge they sought.
Father Oke smiled grandly as he moved away from his wooden pulpit toward the three kneeling women. Behind him stood his bodyguards, just to keep an eye on things, keep everyone safe. As he stepped before the women, he glanced down at his expensive gold-tipped white loafers. They peeked out from beneath his spotless white robe. He was looking sharp.
He moved his eyes from his shoes to the first kneeling woman. He had to work hard to keep his disgust from showing. He could almost smell her. Peasant, he thought. Rubbish. Filth. But he would take her money.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m a winch.”
The audience gasped.
He blinked, shocked. Her words pricked him like a needle. “What did you say?”
“I’m not a winch. I’m a winch . . . for Jesus,” she said.
Her voice was flat, her face slack as she looked up at him with stupid eyes. She wore an old white blouse and a long blue skirt. From what he could see, she was flat-chested and her coarse hair was untouched by refining chemicals. She might have been about twenty. This idiot must be one of those empty-headed girls who was dropped as a baby, he thought. A waste of a woman.
“What is ‘winch’? Do you know what that is? Can’t you speak English? Are you uneducated?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said in her flat voice. “My English no be good, o.”
“Witch. You are a witch?”
“Yes, for Jesus.”
He felt the rage rise in him before he could control it. This . . . this common piece of female trash in his glorious church had the nerve to admit to the greatest sin! To his face! In front of his swollen congregation!
“You are a FOUL DEVIL! Do you know who you are speaking to? Foul devil!” He brought his hand back and slapped her across the face as hard as he could. The women beside her screeched.
“Praise Jesus,” several of the audience members shouted. Others applauded.
Still, as his hand connected to her face, he regretted his action. He’d gone too far, he knew it. He glanced to the side of the stage where the camera was recording everything today. And did he also spot a young man in the audience with his mobile phone open? Shit, he thought. But the woman had just made him so goddamn angry. How dare she? He started walking away from her but then walked back. He couldn’t leave it at that. He didn’t know what he would do, but he couldn’t leave it at that. He had to remain in control of the situation. Make it work for him.
“Where are you from?” he demanded. He couldn’t get the anger out of his voice.
“I’m from Imo State,” she said, tears in her eyes. But she stayed kneeling. Good, he thought.
“Where did you learn witchcraft from?”
“I’m not a winch. . . .”
“Who are you?”
“. . . but I am a winch for Jesus.”
GODDAMMIT! he thought, the rage flaring up in him again. Again, she says it! What is wrong with this bitch of the devil? And look how she speaks so defiantly! Maybe she IS a witch! He stood up straight and looked out at his captivated audience. He smiled, taking a deep breath. Then he nodded to them, taking several more. Calm, he thought, his heart rate slowing. Steady.
“Jesus has no witches! You are a demon!” he roared. But he spoke with controlled passion now. Confident power. His audience jumped up and shouted and applauded. He looked at the kneeling woman and again felt his heart rate try to surge. He stifled the urge to slap her a second time as she mumbled something. He put his hand in her face, refusing to hear another word. “All of you, know this! Whoever speaks a lie shall be struck down! Now, foul devil, get out of here before God kills you right on my stage.” The other two women got up, and quickly dragged the woman he’d slapped offstage. He hoped that the audience beat up every single one of them. In the name of Jesus.
He dabbed his face with his handkerchief. He was riled up. He needed to calm down. Today was about something special, not about idiot peasant women. Before this stupidity, for three hours, spittle flying from his lips and sweat dripping from his face, he’d preached about change and opposites and progress. He’d hedged around the real matter at hand, building to the climax that would bring it home. He knew exactly how he’d broach the topic with his loyal followers. The energy was high already. His confrontation with the witch meant he had their undivided attention. This was the moment. He called on Chris to stand in his front pew and speak to Father Oke’s flock. The other man stumbled to the pulpit, looking ragged.
“My wife . . . She is troubled,” Chris said. He wrung his hands, desperate and stressed. He was so glad that Father Oke had finally let him say his piece. He needed help. Salvation.
The congregation murmured encouragement.
“Something has taken her,” he said, wrapping his arms around himself. There were sweat marks around the collar and the armpits of his white cotton shirt. He’d worn this same shirt two days in a row to work. “I don’t know how to say this. . . .”
People shouted and clapped encouragingly.
“I’m sorry to say, my wife has become a marine witch, o!” he announced grandly.
The church exploded with indignation, and Chris’s heart swelled. Tears gathered in his eyes. “I need help!” he shouted, clenching his fists.
“You will get am!” a man shouted back.
“Kai! God will help you, o!” a woman shouted.
“The Lord will favor you, o!” a child shouted.
Some condemned the heathens who did not go to church. Some shouted about how it was all coming to pass. Whatever “it” was, only they knew. They announced that the ocean would soon swallow them all up for the sins of these marine witches and warlocks, nonbelievers in Christ who’d taken over the country. Some blamed the Muslims of the north. Others blamed the Americans. Al-Qaeda. Sickness. The British. Bad luck. Devils. Poverty. Women. Fate. 419. Biafra. The bad roads. The military. Corruption.
Father Oke raised his hands to quiet his flock of sheep. He had the answers for them. He was holy. They grew silent, including Chris, who looked at Father Oke in earnest. As much as he could love a man, in this moment, he loved Father Oke very much.
“Have no fear!” Father Oke told Chris. “I will save your wife.”
His sheep sighed with relief.
“Tell everyone about your wife’s friend, Brother Chris,” he said.
Chris nodded, but frowned. What did his wife’s cure have to do with that one? But he trusted Father Oke. “Last night,” Chris said, “my wife brought something home with her. A . . . a visitor. A true visitor. I saw—”
Father Oke quickly spoke up. “A visitor from outer space! An alien! An extraterrestrial!” he said, dramatically rolling his r ’s. The entire church went silent. This was the shock Father Oke had hoped to cause. Perfect. “It is in Brother Chris’s home! It is only the first of many!” he continued. “You see the news, all these strange things happening. We are being visited, my friends.�
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He paused as people started talking among themselves.
“Kai! I knew it!” a man exclaimed to the woman beside him. “Didn’t I tell you? There is no smoke without fire!”
“Why here? Why here?”
“I didn’t see a damn thing last night.”
“We all go die, o!”
When the chatter began to swell into panic, Father Oke shouted, “Calm down! Calm down! Listen!”
Near instant silence. He had these people eating out of his hand. It was beautiful. Thanks be to God, he thought. “You have seen today how I handle witches and their devilry. Have faith in my power to heal! Now, these visitors, my friends, they mean us no harm,” he said. He laughed confidently and leaned against the pulpit, holding his microphone to his lips. “I have seen the one at Brother Chris’s house. These are people who need to be saved! We will welcome them, enfold them into our flock. Wash them in the Blood of Christ! Make them immaculate.” He paused, smiling at their frightened faces.
“Who will join me? Who will come with me to Brother Chris’s home to enfold this intelligent creature into our flock? Who will make our church the first in all of Lagos, in the WORLD, to do such a thing? Who will come with me and do God’s will?”
There was only silence. Father Oke looked into the crowd of faces, and what he saw made him feel a pinch of doubt. Cowards. All of them. Frail. Afraid. The Lord has given me weak vessels, he thought with despair. Then someone in the back started singing. The voice was shaky and panicked. Father Oke knew who it was: Memory Fulami, one of his craziest parishioners. She’d joined his flock four years ago and came to church twice a day. She sang too loudly, smelled like dirty sweat, and was known for shouting at girls who wore tight jeans. She drove him crazy. She had a voice that would kill every cockroach in that filthy “face me, I face you” compound she lived in down the road. But at this moment, of his entire congregation, he loved her the most. Father Oke dug his nails into his leg as he fought to hold the pleasant smile on his face.
“Count your blessings, see what God has done,
Count your blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord has done.”
The others began to join her. Maybe it was to drown out her awful voice or maybe it was a show of true solidarity. It didn’t matter. Soon the entire church was singing their support for Father Oke.
Everyone except Chris.
CHAPTER 13
CHIN CHIN
They stood in Adaora’s living room, uneasy. The afternoon sun streamed in, bouncing off the white leather couches and chairs and the white carpet on the floor. The fans were on, and Philo had set out a bowl of chin chin on the coffee table. It was a room for relaxing. Not for thinking about the end of the world as one knew it.
Adaora was beginning to see why Ayodele’s people had chosen the city of Lagos. If they’d landed in New York, Tokyo, or London, the governments of these places would have quickly swooped in to hide, isolate, and study the aliens. Here in Lagos, there was no such order.
Yet and still, the country had vigorous life. Her best friend, Yemi, had put it perfectly one night after they’d finished taking final exams and were talking about where they’d go when they graduated. Yemi had had too much to drink, yet her words and thoughts were clear and eloquent that Adaora still remembered her words well. Everybody wants to leave Lagos. But nobody goes, she said. Lagos is in the blood. We run back to Lagos the moment we step out, even though we may have vowed never to come back. Lagos is Lagos. No city like it. Lagos is sweet. Even Adaora’s husband, Chris, knew this. He’d returned from Germany as soon as he had his MBA in his hand, even though a German company had offered him a job.
It was the reason why, despite the fact that she was a highly sought-after marine biologist who’d taught for some years at the University of California, Santa Barbara, she’d opted to return home. Lagos was riddled with corruption, but she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And its ocean life was fascinating. And problematic. It needed her. Lagos needed her. And Adaora had to go where she was needed.
There were aliens in the ocean, and they were going to come out soon.
“Text me if there’s trouble,” Anthony said.
“I’ve memorized your phone number,” Agu said, tapping the side of his head. “Better up here than on a piece of paper.” Still, he’d written it down, folded the paper, and placed it deep in his pocket, just in case something made him forget.
Adaora looked at Agu. “Will there be trouble?”
“Look at my face, o,” Agu said. “My commander might make some wahala. But I think he’ll be smart enough to focus on the crisis at hand.”
Adaora wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t press the issue. It was worth a try. If they could reach the president, then things would go far more smoothly than if they did not. “Anthony, Philomena is upstairs with the children,” she said. When she was teaching and Chris was working, Philomena stayed with the children, but today she didn’t like the idea of being away from them. She’d get back as soon as possible and she hoped Chris would too. “Stay close to Ayodele, okay?” Ayodele was downstairs in the lab reading an issue of National Geographic.
“Of course I will,” Anthony said.
“Call if Adaora’s husband comes home with more wahala,” Agu said.
“I sent him a text, warning him to leave you alone,” Adaora added. “But he didn’t respond.”
“I can handle the man,” Anthony said.
“And if you can’t, Ayodele can, eh?” Agu said, winking.
“Ibi so,” Anthony assured her, slapping hands with Agu and giving Adaora a brief hug.
As soon as they left, Anthony took out his mobile phone and dialed. “Festus,” he said, smiling. He could always reach Festus, the one person in the entire Ghanaian music industry that he trusted.
“Where the hell are you?” Festus yelled.
“Relax. I’m fine.”
“You should have called to let me know that,” Festus growled. “You disappeared from your own after-party!”
“Sorry, o. Trust me, I have a good excuse.”
“I thought you’d been kidnapped.”
“I wasn’t,” Anthony said. “Listen, Festus, I have a job for you and the boys.”
As he told Festus an abbreviated version of all that had happened since he’d left the club where he’d performed, he strolled to the window. The gate in front was high, but flimsy. People could see the entire house, but someone would have to open the gate to get to the front door. A good space for a crowd. As long as it stayed polite.
Festus reacted just the way Anthony had hoped. He exclaimed with surprise and asked a thousand questions. Then Festus came up with the perfect way to alert Anthony’s fans about the “Mad mad Anthony Dey Craze free concert” that would take place on the lawn of a small Victoria Island home. “Through radio, social networks, and word of mouth,” he said. “Everybody go know!” Anthony could hear Festus grin his toothy grin. At heart, Festus was an instigator, so he didn’t feel guilty about the fact that it was all a ruse to bring people together for something outlandish.
“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Festus said.
Anthony pulled at his short beard and bit his lip. He did . . . sort of. “I do.”
While Anthony planned with Festus, Adaora’s children, Kola and Fred, peeked into the room from the hallway. When Anthony didn’t notice them, they oh-so-quietly tiptoed across the room to the stairs leading down to their mother’s lab.
* * * *
Kola had to work hard not to burst out laughing. Fred wasn’t helping. He always started giggling uncontrollably whenever they sneaked past adults. Kola had to stop for a moment; her belly was cramping from holding in all her laughter. It was funny but also really annoying. Somehow, they made it to the lab entrance.
Bellies ac
hing, they descended the stairs and peeked in on the alien. Preoccupied with a National Geographic magazine, Ayodele didn’t seem to notice as the two cautiously crept into the lab and hid behind the fish tank. All was silent except the tank’s bubbling filter. Kola softly tapped on the glass to get a yellow butterfly fish to swim out of her line of vision. She was about to sneak closer when Fred grabbed her arm.
“What?” she hissed.
“Scared!” Fred whispered.
“Don’t you want to speak to a real live alien?” Kola asked. “Like the ones in the movies?”
Fred vigorously shook his head. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“Well, I do,” Kola said. She stood up straight and nervously grabbed a handful of her long braids. “Hello.”
Ayodele smiled, though her eyes didn’t leave her magazine. “Greetings, children.”
“I’m . . . Kola and that’s my little brother, Fred.”
Still cowering behind the fish tank, Fred waved a feeble hello.
“Are you really an alien?” Kola asked.
Ayodele closed her magazine and looked at Kola. “By your definition, yes.”
“Well, how come you look human?”
“Would you rather I didn’t?”
“Why not appear as yourself ?”
“Human beings have a hard time relating to that which does not resemble them. It’s your greatest flaw.”
Kola liked this answer very much because it made sense. In cartoons, even the animals who could talk also had to look human. That had always annoyed her brother. She stepped closer.
“How come you speak English?” Kola asked.
“So you will understand me.”
“Can you speak Hausa?”
“Ii,” she said, with a nod.
“Igbo?”
“E-eh,” Ayodele said, nodding again.
“Russian?”
“I can if I get close to someone who can, yes. You cannot, so I cannot.”
Kola had to agree. She could indeed speak Igbo and Hausa and not Russian. “Do you like it here?”
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