Rosewater

by Tade Thompson

  Interesting though it is I am not closer to Bicycle Girl unless she is a fan.

  Lijad is a Spanish word, a verb, meaning sand or sandpaper. I dismiss that thread. The Lijad that interests me is a noun.

  I reach for the cognac only to find it gone. I shoot Femi a questioning look.

  ‘I need you sober. I’ve put coffee on.’

  ‘I need alcohol for the … for the finding process.’

  ‘No, you don’t. Don’t forget, I’m the expert on finders.’

  ‘Facist,’ I say.

  I go to a portal called Irohin, which is the Yoruba word for news, then I push past all the culs-de-sac until I get to Amebo. Amebo means gossip, but it is an example of the dynamic nature of language. The actual Yoruba word for a gossip was ‘olofofo.’ Amebo used to be a proper noun, the name of a character in a popular television show Village Headmaster. In the show, Amebo is a prodigious gossip and her name passes into the Nigerian lexicon as synonymous with gossip. A small part of my brain notes that the Lijadu Sisters recorded a song called “Amebo.”

  Amebo has one stream on Lijad. A lone voice, it seems. These places are the domains of conspiracy theorists and paranoiacs.

  Have you seen Oyin Da? Have you heard her message of light? The Science Hero of Arodan Lives!

  I wonder what a science hero is.

  ‘What’s a science hero?’ I ask.

  ‘No idea,’ says Femi.

  ‘Is Oyin Da a religious nut?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I know she didn’t speak any English, but picked it up later.’

  There are eight posts, all by the same person who amazingly leaves his phone number as a signature line. There is also a … is that shtml? Isn’t SHTML an Internet language or code? The Internet is the precursor to Nimbus and has been overrun by pornography and other oddities. If I understand this right the posts should direct me to websites, which are text-based and 2-D graphics intensive. Flat. This motherfucker is a flat-earther.

  ‘Can this equipment parse Internet?’ I ask.

  Femi says, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never had to. Come and get your coffee.’

  ‘You can’t bring it to me? You’re coming here anyway.’

  ‘Not your serving girl, Kaaro. Get it yourself.’

  I burn my tongue on it as I read a post titled “The Problem of Arodan.”

  What the authorities are suppressing is interesting to any student of history or the paranormal/esoteric principles! They say this disappearance was an isolated freak event. Indeed, towns and groups of people in vehicles have disappeared before. The Roanoke Colony, the Mary Celeste, the 1956 B-47 Stratojets, all mysterious in their way. Arodan presents a unique case, in my opinion. My research has shown that it has been repopulated THREE times. Three!!! Let that sink in, reader.

  Arodan was a village that existed in ancient times but was first destroyed by the British in 1894. They burnt the buildings and killed the men, women, and children, scattering survivors. It is not clear why, but some British scouting soldiers may have been killed in the weeks prior. It slowly repopulated and rebuilt on the same site, but was destroyed again in 1956 (1956!!! The same year as the Stratojets!!!). This time the villagers were killed, mutilated, and in some cases there were bite marks on the bodies. We are to believe cannibals came for them in the night!!! Finally, in 2044, the most recent catastrophe was visited upon Arodan. It simply vanished.

  Clearly, the gods do not wish for this town to exist, yet people are attracted to the site. Why?

  The answer is in the Lijad.

  ‘We have to phone this guy,’ I say. ‘He’s not well, but he has done some research and it would be a mistake not to exploit that.’

  ‘Go ahead. You have your phone,’ says Femi. She drinks a coffee of her own and peers at me over the rim behind rising steam.

  ‘I thought you’d need to trace him or something.’ I block caller ID, then dial, but the number is disconnected. ‘Well, that’s that, then. We’ll have to get to Regina.’

  Femi tries again, but she informs me that there is a major operation going on. It will be hours before they can find their way there. She seems exasperated. ‘Someone used a fucking particle accelerator weapon. Why would they —’

  She stops abruptly when she sees I am paying attention.

  I pick at the crusts of my wounds, the spots where the IV had gone in.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about your husband?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’ll get me talking about him, feeling the loss, feeling the guilt, then I’ll get all teary and you’ll come and put your arm around me to comfort me, and one thing will lead to the proverbial other, right? We should get one thing straight, Kaaro, there will be no sex between you and I. Is that clear?’

  ‘Relax, Mrs. Alaagomeji. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.’ A lie, but I have to put her at ease. ‘I just wanted us to pass the time is all.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. I’ll put the television on for you.’ Femi leaves the room.

  I can see her husband still, cold and on a slab somewhere, in darkness. One part of being a finder that most people do not know about is that once I have found something I will always know where that thing is, like a psychic tag. It takes deliberate and sustained effort to put them at the back of my mind, and if I give even the slightest thought to anything I can see what is current about the found object or person. I know that a rich, but rather forgetful woman’s brooch, which I found eighteen months earlier, is lost again, stuck between two wooden items of furniture and gathering dust. I see the faces of a number of children, most happy, some not. Parents who find a lost child usually treat them right, but there are always the sour, evil ones who have been abusive in the first place.

  I take a last sip of the coffee and move away from the table. I marvel at the cleanliness and shininess of the surfaces. I have never seen a kitchen so sterile, so devoid of the smell of food. The ghosts of meals past usually make a kitchen the most welcoming room in any home. I sit on the floor, on tiles which smell of pine. I rest my back against the cabinet under the sink and close my eyes. Both my back and buttocks are against cool, hard surfaces, and they ground me in place. Pine is a third anchor. The aroma of coffee is a forth, though I would prefer a cigarette. The distant hum of air conditioning is weak, but I still register it as number five.

  I think of Regina Ogene, and the moment I touched her. The sensations come rushing back in an instant, but this time I am ready and braced for them. I welcome rather than resist the light tubes. I take control of my breathing and say to myself, ‘You are in the kitchen, on the floor, near the sink, smelling Brazilian coffee beans.’ I repeat it till the anchor beats back the tide of panic induced by too many possibilities.

  I have never experienced this before and want to study it. The ends of each tube present themselves to me, shoving ostia forward and pulling back when another becomes dominant. I pick one of the larger tunnels at random and my mind rushes through, with a sinking, falling sensation.

  You are in the kitchen, on the floor, near the sink, smelling Brazilian coffee beans.

  Even before my awareness reaches the destination, I know Bicycle Girl is not there. It is an area beside a stream, near a clutch of green bamboo, with a beige raffia mat on the grass. There is no human being within fifty yards of the spot. I already feel my consciousness returning to the starting point, but I have an idea.

  A second ostium leads me to a market scene bustling with activity. Hawkers, butchers, grain traders, palm oil farmers negotiating, and rich housewives trailed by servants create a confusion of presences, but no Bicycle Girl.

  You are in the kitchen, on the floor, near the sink, smelling Brazilian coffee beans.

  A third leads to Tafawa Balewa Square in Lagos, easy to recognise with its shop-bound complex and buskers outside. One leads to a desert, another a car park, a dense jungle, a waterfall.

  These are places Oyin Da has visited. The possibilities are multiple and multiplying because she never stays still, nev
er lingers long enough to leave her psychic mark on a place.

  You are in the kitchen, on the floor, near the sink, smelling Brazilian coffee beans.

  The light tunnels change and their paths warp. I can study them, try to determine which are more recent, maybe with time predict —

  My phone rings and jars me out of the finder’s trance. For a minute I am groggy and I stagger when I stand up. The phone vibrates and whines next to the coffee mug.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You called my number.’ Unfamiliar voice, male, slow speech.

  ‘A message said it was disconnected.’

  ‘Yes, it is a subroutine I have in place for barred calls. I can never be too sure. The government is always watching.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. You called me. And since you used this number I can only assume you are interested in Oyin Da.’

  ‘That is correct. No names, then. Do you know how I can find her?’ I am going to change my number on this very day. Can’t have this guy owning my contact details.

  ‘Have you heard her message of light?’ asks the caller. He drags the sibilants, giving the unsettling mental image of a diglossic tongue.

  ‘No, I have not, but I want to,’ I say.

  ‘She wants us to share with one another. Petty feuds are to be put aside, and so should all malice, greed, and sexual impropriety.’

  Sexual impropriety?

  ‘She wants us to follow her into the new places, the places where there is a new heaven and Earth.’

  ‘Are you her priest?’ I ask.

  The man pauses. His breath sounds heavy, but it seems more that he holds the receiver too close to his mouth. ‘I am not worthy of such a position.’

  ‘Then what —’

  ‘I had the opportunity to go with her and I could not.’

  ‘Why? What stopped you?’

  ‘I … I hesitated. I was not pure in my conviction. The window closed.’

  ‘What window?’

  Silence.

  ‘Sir, what window? The window of opportunity?’

  ‘The window!’

  ‘I —’

  ‘She wanted me to come through the window and I hesitated. Others went, but I hesitated. Do you see? I hesitated.’

  ‘The window to the Lijad? Is that what you mean?’

  The man pauses. ‘I see you are hesitating too. Good bye.’

  The line goes dead.

  I redial the number from the site several times, but get no response.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rosewater, Lagos: 2066

  Molara stops bleeding and helps me up. I am both grateful and concerned that she is powerful enough to subdue the metal man. I can read her lust, but there is no way I’m going to have sex in a rotting meat temple. She has saved my life, and she knows it, but my recent run-in with Ryan Miller makes me more aware of the moral aspects of my behaviour. Aminat is in Rosewater, in the same apartment as I. Is what I do with Molara cheating? Does being in a relationship mean she owns my mind as well as the fidelity of my body?

  Ryan Miller had noticed the old one inside me, the dead one, Nike Onyemaihe.

  The liquid metal pools, and then soaks into the muscles that make up the floor without mixing with the pus. I dip my finger into the puddle before it’s gone. I taste it, and feel the familiarity immediately.

  Clement.

  ‘You know him?’ asks Molara.

  ‘You can tell?’

  ‘It’s on your face.’

  ‘He is someone I work with. Used to work with.’

  Puzzling, but at least I know where to find the motherfucker. I return to the altar and touch the bone, stroke its surface.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘A message from my friend. Something. A warning, perhaps.’

  ‘There is nothing here but rot, Gryphon,’ she says. ‘Come and make love to me.’

  I turn on her. ‘There is something wrong with you, Molara.’

  I recite the first of many phrases that takes me back to my maze and presently I open my eyes in my room.

  I have wet myself.

  I stand up and stretch the stiffness out of my joints. There is still pain from my injuries, but it is mild. I strip off the clothes and walk naked to the bathroom. Aminat has not changed position and only forty-six minutes have passed since I entered the room.

  ‘Shower. Twenty-seven degrees.’

  I wash away my fear and residual lust for Molara, but my guilt remains. Fucking Ryan Miller. Although that might have been just my own mind creating order out of the chaos of the xenosphere. Ryan Miller is a sensitive fairytale. I was freaked out and my subconscious threw something my way.

  Aminat opens the door and her anguish washes over me.

  ‘You want to go on a road trip?’ I ask.

  ‘What about Bola’s funeral? The family needs support and I—’

  ‘You’re family by marriage and you’re upset. You need cheering up and I need to go to Lagos.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see my family. My real family.’

  Alhaji’s house has changed. The structure is the same, but the paint is peeling, fungus rises along the sides in a dry black tide, weeds overtake any semblance of order that I remember from over a decade ago. The windows are intact, however, and this fills me with hope. There is no movement.

  ‘What’s here, Kaaro?’ asks Aminat.

  ‘A friend, I think. Someone who saved my life many years ago.’ I turn to her and smile. ‘Musulumi ododo bi tie.’ A true Muslim like you.

  ‘Mi o kii n’she Muslumi,’ she says. I am not a Muslim.

  ‘Your name —’

  ‘Is an Arabic name meaning ‘trustworthy,’ but I’m named after the legendary fifteenth century queen. Nothing to do with religion. Not all Arabs are Muslims you know.’

  ‘Oh. Okay, then.’

  ‘Are we going to see your friend?’

  ‘In a minute.’

  Lagos is hostile to me, but not because of the people. My employers like to confine their agents to specific cities unless there is a reason for movement. This time I asked for and got permission to travel, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t tracking me by drone. I feel a need to remove my implant all together, but it is embedded close to the spine. The surgical skills required are not available on the street. Still, if S45 does not know about Alhaji I don’t want to expose him. I’ve also been timid since my last foray into xenosphere. I apply extra thick layers of ketoconazole all over my body and it gives me that chemical taste in the mouth.

  Alhaji, are you there?

  Alhaji, are you there?

  Alhaji, are you there?

  It flows out from me like a beacon. It should be no problem for Alhaji to pick it up. He and Valentine didn’t have a problem picking up my distress call all those years ago. On a whim I try something else.

  Valentine, are you there?

  Valentine, are you there?

  Valentine, are you there?

  After a few minutes, I sense that someone is listening.

  Valentine, it’s me, Kaaro. I was —

  I know who you are. You’ve grown quite a bit since I last heard you. You can come in.

  Valentine meets us at the door, but I get the sense that he has not been on his feet in a long time. He is withered. Where his skin used to be smooth there is a crumpled, papery parchment lined like a medieval map. He is hairless. Even his eyebrows are gone, which makes me wonder how he deals with sweat from his forehead.

  Where’s Alhaji?

  I’ll take you to him. ‘Who’s this lovely creature?’ he asks.

  ‘This is my girlfriend, Aminat,’ I say. My hand is in the small of her back.

  Valentine hugs her. ‘What are you doing with this reprobate?’ he says, a little too seriously for my liking.

  ‘I’m just using him for sex,’ says Aminat.

  Valentine laughs, but it ends in a cough. Cheeky, this one. Also, nice
ass.

  ‘You can’t objectify women, Valentine. You’re gay.’

  Aminat looks from one of us to the other.

  ‘He is appreciative of your anatomy,’ I say. Take me to Alhaji. It’s important.

  And her?

  She can hear what I can hear.

  ‘I just want to say that this is a very frustrating conversation for me,’ says Aminat.

  She is joking, but I take her hand, feel the skin of her palm, then flip it so that the back of her hand is in my palm. I look her in the eyes. I do not believe I have ever been this close to anyone.

  Valentine takes me to a room in the house and I already know what is there before Aminat and I cross the threshold. There is a small gravestone in the middle of the room with memoriae sacrum and Alhaji’s true name carved on it. As is traditional for Muslims the stone does not rise above thirty centimetres. It’s marble, veined with black streaks and squat. It is surrounded by murals of different flowers and the light from the single window shines directly on the grave which is depressed to a depth of a foot. A grave in a house is not unusual in Nigeria, although I’ve mostly seen them in courtyards or atria.

  ‘I could not attend the funeral because … homosexuality is still a crime and the family would rather not hold that discussion. I exhumed the body and had him reinterred here.’

  ‘How did he die?’ I ask.

  ‘He got distracted, he got sick, he decayed and died.’ I have the same sickness. I feel my life slipping away each day.