The president had never felt so calm. His body seemed to hum. His mind was clear. Ever since Ayodele had dissipated, he’d been feeling strange. Not only did he crave raw garden eggs, but he felt so calm, as if all that had happened was something he could understand. He had been in Saudi Arabia yesterday. He’d been more than half dead. Yesterday, he had felt his death in his bones. Today, he felt like he’d live forever.
The Elders. They’d told him the waters off the coast hid aquatic forests. All the offshore drilling facilities would be destroyed by the people of the water. Even in the delta, all was lost. Oil could no longer be Nigeria’s top commodity. It could no longer be a commodity at all. “But we have something better to give you all,” the Elders had said. Their technology.
The president smiled. We will be a mighty nation, he thought. He made a few phone calls as they drove, managing to reach one soldier on Victoria Island who claimed he’d tried to help Adaora’s daughter when she was shot and that he now had the island back under control; his VP Wishwell Williams who was not surprisingly safe in Nigeria’s capital, Abuja; and two governors in northern and southeastern Nigeria. All that each reported made him smile more. Things were settling down and things were looking up.
When they arrived at the television station, there were three men and a woman waiting for him. All were dressed in semi-casual attire, but three of the four of them looked nervous, staring at the president. The fourth, a short young woman with neat braids in a white blouse and a long black skirt, spoke first.
“You all can sit here,” she said, motioning to some chairs set up outside the broadcasting room. She picked up three stacks of clothes. “We have everything ready for your speech, Mr. President.” She handed him a stack and then handed the guards theirs.
He blinked at her for a moment, looking into her brown eyes. She looked to be in her early fifties, but she had the alertness of someone much younger. Her calmness reminded him of . . . Ayodele. “Oh,” he whispered, understanding why. “Em, Miss . . . I need a room where I can . . .”
“Get your thoughts together?” she asked, finishing his sentence.
“Yes.”
“Come, I’ll show you.”
“Honey, do you want me to go with you?” Hawra asked.
“No,” the president said. “Thank you.”
“We will stay outside your door,” one of the guards offered.
“That is all right. You need to change your clothes too. I will be fine.”
The president glanced at Agu, who was watching him intensely. The president nodded reassuringly at him. Agu didn’t nod back.
They followed the woman to an office down the hall. The guards were shown into one room, the president into the one next door. He shut himself inside. The space was plain, with an old computer on the desk and some filing cabinets against the wall. It smelled of face powder and perfume; it was probably usually used by a woman. But he didn’t care. Not tonight. He sank into a cheap leather chair and sighed, glad for the solitude. It felt good to be alone for a moment. He’d composed his speech in his head, but he needed to just be still.
“This is all happening,” the president said aloud. “Just hold on.”
Everyone needed him to do this right. Everyone in Lagos. Everyone in Nigeria. Maybe everyone in the world. He worked best when people needed him. And as it always did, this knowledge calmed him down. Since taking office, he’d found himself powerless to fight against Nigeria’s soul-crushing corruption. Wherever he tried to make changes, people around him were always trying to drain some sort of shady profit from his efforts. If he tried to create a program to improve schools or hospitals, someone set up a fake contract that would bleed money from the program. When he tried to address unemployment, health care, inflation, electricity, education, agriculture, any time there was money to be spent, it was the same result: The vampires always came. This had worn him down. It had made him feel futile, useless. Now, for the first time, he felt like a president. And this speech would be his first real act as Nigeria’s true leader. Oh, it was exciting.
He removed his dirty clothes and stood in the room in his boxers, looking down at his body. He’d filled out since the alien woman healed him. His ribs were no longer so prominent. His skin was smooth instead of splotchy. Months before he had left for Saudi Arabia, he’d been so thin that he’d resorted to stuffing his clothes to appear bulkier. He slipped into the fresh white caftan and then the white pants. He filled them out nicely now. He truly was cured. They’d done this to him. He thought of Ayodele and wondered what else they’d done to him.
Someone knocked at his door. “Are you ready, sir?” It was the calm woman who reminded him of Ayodele.
“Yes. I’m coming.”
His guards followed behind him as he walked with the woman. “When the broadcast goes live,” she said, “it will appear on all of your people’s screens. As it did before. Everything with a screen will turn on, whether it is plugged in to anything or not.”
He stopped walking, looking at her. She stopped too, and smiled a small smile. “Mobile phones,” she said. “Computers, desktops and laptops, televisions, e-readers, all things with screens.”
“How?” he asked. “How do you do that?”
She laughed. “The knowledge is in you. Ayodele made sure of that. We will explain, later. But for now, just be aware, you are reaching everyone in this city.” She paused. “Unless you’d like it to reach farther?”
He considered it. “Can you make it reach all of Nigeria?”
“It won’t be exact, there will be some spillover into other countries, but sure.”
“Okay, do it.” He considered his speech. No, he wouldn’t have to change much of what he was going to say. He hadn’t been thinking only about Lagos. He’d been thinking of his entire country.
Yes, it was right.
* * * *
A leather chair nicer than the one in the office where he’d changed clothes was set behind a wooden desk. The Nigerian flag hung behind it, over a full bookcase. He sat down, and his guards stood behind his chair in their fresh, spotless uniforms.
Technicians rolled the camera in front of him, and someone applied makeup to his face. He smiled when she didn’t linger. He didn’t need much. Before, he’d needed thick makeup to make him look less sick.
“I don’t need the teleprompter,” he said. He tapped his forehead. “It’s all here.”
The technician nodded.
The president inhaled, watching the technicians. The woman who was not a woman stood on the other side of the camera. She placed her hand on it, and he saw the tips of her fingers sink into its black casing.
A technician said, “Five, four, three, two . . .” He motioned to the president, and the red light lit up. The president was on the air.
The woman who was not a woman’s fingertips were in the camera. Again it hit him. Oh God, he thought. He looked into the camera, his brilliant words escaping him. So much of Nigeria was seeing him right now. Even in the most rural places, these days more often than not someone carried a mobile phone or was near a television or a computer.
He sat up straight. This was his time.
“Greetings, Nigeria,” he said. He was strong. He was healthy. His country was seeing him. The world would see him. This was the most positive thing to come out of Nigeria in a long time. Let the world watch, the president thought. Let them see that we are mighty.
“This is a historic moment for our nation,” he began. “For it marks an important milestone in our march toward a maturing democracy.”
The president had never been a great orator. But today, this early evening, he was feeling his words. He was tasting them. They were humming to the rhythm of his soul. He smiled as he spoke. “For the first time since we cast off the shackles of colonialism, over a half century ago, since we rolled through decades of corruption and internal struggle,
we have reached the tipping point. And here in Lagos, we have passed it. Many of you have seen the footage on the Internet or heard the news from loved ones. Last night, Lagos burned. But like a phoenix, it will rise from the ashes—a greater creature than ever before.
“The occasion that has put me here before you tonight is momentous. It marks another kind of transitional shift. Now listen closely to me. This shift is cause for celebration, not panic. I will say it again: celebration, not panic. There are others among us here in Lagos. They intend to stay. And I am happy about it. They have new technology; they have fresh ideas that we can combine with our own. Hold tight. We will be powerful again, o! People of Lagos, especially, look at your neighbor. See his race, tribe, or his alien blood. And call him brother. We have much work to do as a family.
“Now let me tell you about my own adventure. Then we will get down to business. . . .”
The president spoke of his failure as a president and of the corruption he could not stand up to. He told of his pericarditis and fleeing to Saudi Arabia to die, away from his country. He spoke of his shame. Then he spoke of being healed by Ayodele. He said nothing of her subsequent sacrifice. He wasn’t sure how the people would take it, especially the part about her dissipating into a fog that they’d all inhaled.
He mentioned Adaora, the marine biologist, who would serve as his scientific expert because she’d been up close and studied their . . . guests. He spoke of Anthony the Ghanaian rapper, explaining that he was the man who “eagerly offers celebrity endorsement from a neighboring country.” The president knew Anthony wouldn’t mind because Anthony didn’t think the world needed to know what he planned to do, he just needed to do it. The president spoke of two soldiers, one named Agu who had interacted closely with the newcomers and developed a rapport with them, and the other the soldier he’d spoken with at length via phone. His name was Hassam, and he’d restored order on Victoria Island. These were the trained officials he was appointing to take the lead in keeping everyone safe. All were part of the old world, the president explained, and part of the new world. However, he didn’t say a word about the fact that despite it all, he still felt Agu, Adaora, and Anthony were witches. Good witches, but witches nonetheless. Old outdated ways of thinking don’t die easily, and sometimes they don’t die at all.
He warned people to stay away from the waters for now. And then finally he told of his meeting with the Elders. He spoke of aliens among the people, and he spoke of them as friends.
“Listen to your own hearts and look around you,” he said. “We tore at our own flesh last night, as we have done many times in the past. Now, as we hurt from the pain and loss, let our minds clear. And see.”
Then he spoke of alien technology and how the land would be pure and palm nuts, cocoa, and other crops would grow as they never had before. Extinct creatures would return and new ones would appear. Nigeria would have much to give the world—and to show it. “In the coming months, we will set up solid programs. The change will be both gradual and swift.” He paused. “Corruption is dead in Nigeria.” Then he smiled.
The red light went off. The broadcast had ended. The president felt his entire body relax. He was drenched in sweat. His armpits were soaked. He felt damn good.
CHAPTER 54
SPIDER’S THREADS
As the president gave his speech, Adaora stood at a window, looking outside. There were speakers all around the studio; one could hear the broadcast in every room. The others had stayed to watch, but Adaora needed to be alone and gather her thoughts.
There would be meetings with reporters, local, national, and international. There would be meetings with government officials and scientists. She’d collect a group of oceanographers, and they would go on dangerous dives, document and research in labs, collect samples and creatures (at least the ones who would allow themselves to be collected). Maybe I will even call Moctar Ag Halaye, she thought. The Tuareg diver was one of the best, and he’d gone on dives to study great whites many times off South Africa’s False Bay, so monsters didn’t scare him much.
She’d used the office phone to call Chris and the kids, speaking briefly to Chris’s mother before losing the connection. She hadn’t been able to reach them again. There were a lot of people trying to make calls.
But in their brief discussion, her mother-in-law had assured her that they were all okay. In the background, Kola and Fred had asked when she was coming to be with them. “Soon,” she said, and she was telling the truth. But she wouldn’t be able to stay because she had things to do that went beyond motherhood. She would risk never returning to them, every time she explored the dangerous waters. She sighed. What kind of mother am I? And what kind of wife?
“I am a marine witch,” she whispered.
She’d work it out, as her city would work out its alien issue. Adaora leaned against the window frame, and her eyes fell on three women standing at a corner beneath a palm tree. They were huddled together, all watching their mobile phones. When the president finished his speech, Adaora observed closely.
The women looked up from their phones and stared at each other. Finally, one of them said something and another nodded. The third was pointing at the ground and laughing.
* * * *
In the town of Arondizuogu, Agu’s younger brother Kelechi looked out the window of his uncle’s house and watched as the truck full of thugs drove away into the sunset. The thugs must have had mobile phones too. They must have seen the president’s speech. Maybe they finally understood that people like them were no longer going to rule Nigeria’s present and future.
“Kai!” his father exclaimed, sitting back on his plush chair. He pulled at his short salt-and-pepper beard. “Part of me wants to think that this cannot be good, but I think it is!”
They had all watched it on his uncle’s television. Kelechi had gazed in astonishment at his cheap mobile phone. He’d seen people in Lagos with their BlackBerries watching videos on the small screens, but he’d never had the privilege of such a thing. What he remembered most was how clear the president had looked, even on the small screen of his flip phone, and how he’d sounded like he was right in the room, speaking personally to Kelechi.
“How can this be good? Aliens?” Kelechi’s wife muttered, setting a bowl of okra soup and gari on the portable table in front of him. Kelechi’s father leaned forward and smiled at the food. He was in a good mood. “They are probably devils,” she added.
“You’re a child,” his uncle said irritably. “What can you know about devils except what those silly churches pound into your head?” He pounded his own head to illustrate his point. “What we just heard that normally brainless president say—that was the most wonderful thing I have heard any politician say in decades!”
Kelechi’s aunt came out with another bowl of okra soup and gari for his uncle.
“Have they gone?” his mother asked Kelechi.
“Yes,” he said. “I think so.”
“Thank God,” she said.
Kelechi laughed. “Well, thank something.”
“No, thank God.”
“If those idiots had not left, I’d have gone out to handle them, damn the consequences,” his uncle growled.
Kelechi’s father winked at him and nodded. “As we did during the civil war.”
“No one could stop us.”
“Not bullets, not armies.”
“If all the other rebels had been like that, we’d be citizens of the Republic of Biafra.”
They both laughed, sharing a knowing look as they ate their okra soup. Kelechi’s father bit into an excellent piece of goat meat. Still chewing, he said, “It is a good, good night.”
“Devilry,” Kelechi’s wife muttered, adjusting her wig.
* * * *
The woman who looked straight out of a Nollywood film showed up at the door just as the sun set. Chris didn’t want to think about
how she had gotten past the high concrete wall and locked gate of the community where his mother lived. The woman wore high heels, had the body of a goddess, and spoke with a confidence that reminded Chris of the best lawyers. In a firm voice that Chris found impossible to disagree with, the woman invited herself in for a cup of tea. As he showed her to the kitchen, followed by his curious son and daughter and his anxious mother and two aunts, she said that a road monster that called itself the Bone Collector had eaten her. “Your roads are safe now,” she said.
Then, not even ten minutes later, there was another knock on the door. This time, it was an older Yoruba man with smooth onyx skin who said that he’d been inside the Internet for hours and hours talking to Ijele. No matter Chris’s religious beliefs, even he knew that no one spoke directly with Ijele and lived. Not even one of . . . them. Still, he stepped aside and let the black-skinned man into his home. After that another seven aliens came. What was attracting them to his mother’s house and why, he did not know. But something deep in him had broken open, leaving him warm and curious. He wanted to be a part of whatever was happening.
His aunts were excited to have so many to cook for, and they happily went to the kitchen to get to it. Nevertheless, his mother’s face looked pained. She must have had a feeling that this situation went beyond the family. Beyond their beliefs. Beyond their religion. His mother was a Pentecostal Christian widow who gave much of her ample savings to the church and fell over with the Holy Spirit regularly during mass. Still, she retreated to the kitchen and helped her sisters cook a feast. They cooked egusi soup, okra soup, pounded yam, fried fish, and stew and rice. His mother even made chin chin. There was nothing left in the house’s two fridges when they were done. And when the strange guests had eaten their fill, there was no prepared food left either.
Kola and Fred served the visitors, and then after the visitors had eaten, Kola and Fred asked them questions. They joked and laughed and told them about Ayodele and about life in Nigeria.
Lagoon Page 25
