Lagoon

by Nnedi Okorafor

  “What did she do to you?” Zena cried. “It sounded like . . .”

  “She healed me, Zena.”

  “Praise Allah,” Zena whispered, tears running down her cheeks. She bent forward and put her hands on her knees, attempting to catch her breath. Hawra came up behind her, her eyes wide.

  Ayodele said nothing. She was looking up at the sky with the president.

  The others got out of the car and slowly approached.

  “The air is so sweet,” the president said. He inhaled and exhaled. “Allah is great.” Slowly, he stood up.

  Zena blinked and then cocked her head, frowning suspiciously now. “Help our husband,” Zena said, pushing Hawra forward. “You are stronger.” Hawra moved toward the president.

  “My mind . . . it is clear,” he said, his arm around his second wife. He chuckled again and Adaora looked at Agu, who shrugged.

  The president turned to Ayodele, who’d also stood up and was looking at the airplane. “Take me to your leader,” he said.

  Ayodele turned around and smiled. “Leaders.”

  “Where will I meet them?” he asked.

  “In the water.”

  Agu moaned.

  The president looked at him. “Private Agu, where can we get a boat?”

  CHAPTER 44

  NARRATOR’S WELCOME

  The sea always takes more than it gives.

  Right now, as I weave, the sea roils and boils with life.

  About a day and a half ago, the oceans were ailing from pollution.

  Today, as the sun rises, there may as well be a sign on all Lagos beaches that reads:

  HERE THERE BE MONSTERS.

  This has always been the truth, but today it is truer.

  They must understand this. But I hope they do not understand any of it. If they do, then they will not step on to that boat, and the story will not continue. My strong webbing will snap. The story will stop growing and spreading. Let them venture forth. I will throw out a strong thread, maybe three. Then I will anchor it firmly to Lagos. That way, I can continue to narrate this tale while I enjoy it.

  I am Udide, the narrator, the story weaver, the Great Spider.

  I live in this great cave beneath the city. I have been here for centuries, and I will be here for centuries more. This metropolis is just getting started. The coming of these new people is indeed a great twist to Lagos’s tale. Who saw it coming? Even I did not.

  I roll onto my back and place my hairy feet to the earth above me. I feel the vibrations of Lagos. This way, I see everything. What a story this has been. The sun will soon come up, and I will watch everyone see what they have done. The chaos will be on display.

  The sun rises.

  Dawn is here, and the dust settles.

  The streets are full of mayhem’s terrible fruits.

  Burned vehicles. Smoldering buildings. Dead animals.

  The waking giant of the road goes back to sleep, leaving a trail of terror.

  The death of the boy on the road has already been seen by over three million people around the world and will be seen by millions more.

  There are new people among the old people.

  And the digital ether has gone wild.

  The great Ijele leads the wildness, and the tricky Legba laughs.

  The Bight of Biafra’s waters are teeming.

  The president is healed.

  His eyes are dry and white. His skin is clear and brown.

  His mind is strong and free.

  I revel in it all.

  I am stronger than ever. I approach the end of this leg of the tale.

  And here, I greet you.

  Welcome, listener, welcome.

  I press my sensitive feet to the cave’s ceiling.

  Na good good story.

  I go continue to listen, o. Quietly . . .

  CHAPTER 45

  ON THE WATER

  The president of Nigeria walked along the narrow path outside his mansion, inhaling the scent of lilacs and lilies. The small garden between the mansion and the guesthouse in the back was his sanctuary. Well-paid gardeners tended to these flowers daily, and it was worth the cost. This was where the president usually came in the morning to think. Nevertheless, this particular morning was not the usual morning at all, so he walked swiftly past the flowers toward the guesthouse.

  He’d dressed in a white sukodo and buba, his finest attire. Granted, if he fell in the water, he suspected his clothes would make swimming hell. But he didn’t plan to fall in the water. He imagined that the aliens would come to his boat on whatever contraption they used as transportation and talks would ensue. Talks of what? He’d cross that bridge when he got to it. The fact was that the woman Ayodele, who was not a woman, had healed him. She was a child of Allah. So everything was good.

  “I’m not going,” Zena said, holding her delicate black veil over her face as they stood outside the guesthouse. She’d stayed here since they’d arrived. She didn’t want to be in the same house as “that creature in women’s clothing.” Nor did she want to be near her husband, who’d surely been infected with whatever the creature was spreading. Though Zena had hated watching her husband deteriorate, there had been comfort to be taken from his illness. It was Allah’s will and she’d come to terms with that.

  But there had been more to it than she’d admit. When he’d been healthy, he’d married two other wives, and slowly her role in his life had dwindled. With the onset of his illness, Zena had become his support system again; she’d become his mouth, his confidante. His third and youngest wife, Caroline, had even grown jealous and moved to their home in Abuja. Now, with him being healed, all that would change.

  “One of us should stay here,” Zena snapped. “Let Hawra go.” And may she never come back, she thought. Zena was tired of the overeducated, PhD-wielding, cheeky Hawra. Let her go and never come back.

  Hawra dressed in fitted jeans and a T-shirt, and then donned her veil. All her life she’d dreamed of being a part of something huge. Something that would bring a change to all things as she knew them. She wouldn’t miss what was going to happen next for the world.

  CHAPTER 46

  THE GLASS HOUSE

  Father Oke rested his back against the wrought-iron bars of the gate that surrounded the Glass House in downtown Lagos. He had a pounding headache. But at least he was alive. When he’d come back to himself on the lawn of Chris’s home, everyone was gone and the house was on fire. They’d left him there. His flock. Maybe they’d even joined the aliens.

  He shoved the thoughts away as he looked at the road. It was a bright early morning. Quiet, too. Not only were there no people in the area, the power in the city had been completely knocked out by the last sonic boom. Once in a while a group of young raucous boys or a car would pass, but otherwise the road was empty. Here, Lagos was desolate, except for a smoldering car down the road. Most likely all the worst madness was in Oshodi or near Mile 2.

  Along with his head pounding, his face burned from where he’d been slapped. He’d thrown off his filthy white robes long ago. Then, wearing his gray pants, white shirt, and gray tie, he’d walked the streets for a while. He’d seen a woman laughing as a man ravaged her from behind against a stalled vehicle. She’d been screaming and laughing that an alien was probing her. Father Oke had helped a young woman with three young children cross a busy street; they’d all nearly been run over, but he’d gotten them to safety. He’d seen several go-slows so solid that people had abandoned their vehicles. He’d seen Area Boys carrying branches and palm fronds that they used to threaten people, moving in on the abandoned vehicles like vultures. And worst of all he’d seen many of them.

  It wasn’t something most people around him noticed. Every­one was too busy doing whatever they were doing. But Father Oke wasn’t going anywhere. He was not lost. For the first t
ime in his life, his eyes were open. So he noticed those people who seemed a little off. Their faces didn’t carry as much emotion as other people’s. Or they seemed too calm. Too comfortable. Too adapted to the situation. They walked with too much grace. And they were everywhere.

  He saw them helping people escape Area Boys. He saw two putting out the flames in a burning truck. He saw one helping a little girl find her father. He saw them watching as so many people of Lagos made fools of themselves.

  “Oh Lord,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Oh my Lord, save us, o.”

  “Excuse me, sir. Did you say something?”

  He looked up. The woman was standing in the parking lot, looking at the building. She was curvy, wearing tight blue jeans and a white short-sleeve blouse that barely contained her large breasts. On each of her wrists she wore a shiny silver watch. Their faces sparkled in the moonlight. Only watches encrusted with diamonds did that. Father Oke remembered admiring the watch of a rapper once while he was in the United States at a fund-raiser. Yes, those were very large breasts and very large diamonds.

  “Uh, no, no, I didn’t say anything,” he said, his eyes taking all of her in. He regularly bedded his house girls and paid them to keep quiet about it. They were sexy, docile, pliable, and certainly sweet. But this woman was something else. This woman was mysterious. And she reminded him of a woman he’d loved years ago.

  She sashayed over to him. She wore those high-platformed heels he saw all the Nigerian actresses wearing in their films. Shoes that lifted them up but could never make them truly tall. He loved to watch them walk in those heels.

  “Oh, I thought you did,” she said. She spoke like she was from the Niger Delta region. She was still looking at the building with a grand smile on her face.

  He smiled too. “Are you looking for someone in there?”

  “No, no, I just love this building,” she said.

  “Well, this is not the best time to come out and see it.”

  “It’s crazy, yeah?” she said. She looked up at the bank. Father Oke frowned at the beautiful woman’s strangeness. She chuckled and looked at Father Oke. “The city is breaking itself,” she said. “But not one single pane of this building is broken.”

  Father Oke looked at the Fin Bank and winced. The Fin Bank was one of Lagos’s most artistic structures, a gigantic trapezoid with arched wings made entirely out of square panes of glass. A few were red, but the majority of them were an ocean blue. It had gone by many names over the years, but Lagosians had always called it the Glass House. He hated this building. He was sure that it was evil. Not surprising, with all the evil that was flooding the city tonight, that the Glass House should be spared.

  “Do you want to come with me?”

  He smirked. “Come with you where?”

  “Answer my question first.”

  Father Oke looked from her to the building and then to the sky. He could hear someone shout nearby and the sound of tires screeching. The worst night of his life had melted into the worst day. The night and day that everything fell apart. He turned to her. “Fuck it,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” He laughed, imagining her heaving breasts bouncing above him as he took her right there on the deserted beach. He was already soiled, why not soil himself more? Might as well get some pleasure from the night.

  “You know the mythology behind this place, sha?”

  “Yes, yes,” he quickly said. He didn’t want to think about it “Let’s go.”

  “They say that because this building is so shiny and the color of the water, it creates an aura that attracts the sea. You see, the Atlantic always overflows at Bar Beach and that’s close to this building. So this place is always flooding.”

  “Okay, o,” he said, wanting to get moving before she said more. He took her arm and pulled. But she wouldn’t move. He frowned. She was like a heavy stone. He shoved her hard and still she didn’t budge.

  She chuckled. “You know what they also say? That it’s not the ocean that is attracted to this place. That it is Mami Wata who loves this building. Do you know Mami Wata?”

  “Yes,” he said. Mami Wata was the goddess of all marine witches.

  She looked squarely at him. “This is my favorite building, o.”

  Many things happened to Father Oke at once. He felt his heart break. Why had he slapped that woman so hard yesterday morning? Why had he slapped her at all? Twice in one night he had conversed with a woman who was not really a woman. The first had been from outer space. This second was from the earth’s water. For the first time in his life, Father Oke truly realized that he lived in a glass palace, while others around him lived in a ghetto.

  He gave up.

  Father Oke gave in.

  What a relief.

  They left the Glass House, crossing the empty street. They were heading toward the beach.

  No one ever saw Father Oke again.

  CHAPTER 47

  FEMI

  Adaora, Anthony, and Agu led the way as they walked along the beach, the president and his second wife behind them, flanked by his guards, Bamidele and Chucks. The morning sun was just warming the sky. The president was excited to get some fresh ocean air, but there was a greater purpose in their long walk to the army boats.

  “What is that?” Anthony said, pinching his nose.

  Adaora pressed her hand to her chest. The sight of it was worse than the stench. A giant carcass stripped of all skin, putrefying in the increasing morning heat. “That used to be a whale,” she said. “It must have beached itself. Probably got scared. Poor thing.”

  “I saw it before,” Agu muttered. “They have taken most of the meat.” There were still a few people carving out pink slivers of unspoiled or semi-putrid meat. All were young men, many with desperate looks on their faces. To make the situation sadder, there was a camera crew filming them, and several well-dressed journalists interviewing people. There were even youths standing around holding their mobile phones up as they recorded the pathetic scene and probably posted it on YouTube. Adaora felt her gorge rise in her throat as she thought of the little boy on the monster road. Hadn’t these people gotten enough last night? Someone pointed at them, and the president’s guards raised their weapons.

  “Na de president!” a man carrying three slabs of stinky meat shouted.

  “Oh my living God! Na dream I dey dream so.”

  “How e go be de president? Dem been don deport de president.”

  “And him been don die before dem deport am!”

  Several of the people laughed hard.

  “Na him be dat, sha. See him flat-chest wife, na.”

  “Na him!”

  Soon the president and his wife were surrounded by journalists, camera technicians, and chattering civilians.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” the president snapped. He frowned, wanting them to understand. He switched to Pidgin English, which he hated speaking. It was the ignorant-man’s language. “Nothing do me,” he loudly proclaimed. “See me well well!”

  The five journalists jostled to get a statement from him.

  “Do you have anything to say about last night?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “How come you did not—”

  “Last night,” the president said, switching to Standard English, “our biggest city ate itself. Now it is full and ready to give birth to itself. That is all I have to say on that.”

  “Where have you been?” a male reporter asked.

  “Sick. But now I am well.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see if I can make this better. You may follow us if you like. But do not try to follow us once we are on the water.”

  “Oh my God,” a woman reporter said, pointing at Ayodele. “Isn’t that the woman extraterrestrial who got into all our technology yesterday?”

  As one, the cro
wd forgot the president and focused on Ayodele. A cameraman swung his camera into her face and moved it down her body. Adaora shoved the camera away. “Enough,” she said. “She is not a piece of whale meat.”

  “We don’t know what she is,” the cameraman muttered. He stepped back a few paces as Ayodele turned to him.

  “I am taking them to the Elders,” Ayodele said. “Your leader will meet mine.”

  “Why can’t we come along?” one of the male journalists asked. Adaora recognized him immediately. Femi Adewumi. He wrote features and a column for the Guardian. She’d always thought he looked handsome in his column photo—her husband used to get annoyed whenever he saw her reading Femi’s writing—and he was just as handsome in person. Adaora frowned at the direction her thoughts had taken. What am I becoming? she wondered.

  “You may,” Ayodele said, after looking him over. “But only you.”

  Femi grinned and stepped beside Agu.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Agu told him.

  “This is the story of a lifetime,” Femi said excitedly. “Sometimes a man must throw caution to the wind!”

  “Madam,” said a female journalist. “Please. Can I come too?”

  Ayodele looked her over. “You can’t swim. You stay here.”

  The woman’s face fell but she didn’t argue.

  Several others asked after that, including two men carrying rotting meat. Ayodele said no to them all.

  “Let’s move on,” Ayodele said.

  Agu nodded. “This way.”

  * * * *

  There were nine of them: Ayodele, Adaora, Agu, Anthony, Femi, the president, Hawra, and Bamidele and Chucks. The sleek white speedboat was made to take ten, but this didn’t set Agu’s mind at ease. The boat, like most government-issued equipment, was a piece of shit, with leaks and a faulty motor that backfired randomly at high speeds.