More shouting. More gunshots, three or four, closer still. Then the feeling comes again, tugging at my skin, as if trying to remove something from beneath it. It’s stronger, like whatever’s causing it is right in front of me.
Until it is.
The door before me, the one that leads outside, slams open, and a man flies through. A long rifle falls with him, but he’s up quickly, recovering enough to settle his gun into a good firing grip. He points it to the silhouette in the door.
He never gets to shoot. A hand reaches out of the darkened doorway and touches his skin.
The feeling hits me, stronger than ever, like my skin is stretched to pain now. My ears block completely. But the guard is having it harder. The gun clatters from his hands, falls to the ground, and he’s jerking, emitting that long yowl I heard before, the cry of a wounded animal.
Then the feeling goes pop, and he is still.
The little shadow steps from the doorway into the light of the room, dressed in a black hijab and robe, and walks up to my circle.
Fatoumata smiles.
Then she puts her hand forward, into the ward.
The air vibrates, as if someone is taking a wooden bat to a rubber wall, and the space in front of me shimmers, like when you look above fire. Fatoumata winces, but keeps her hand there, eating up the essence of the ward into her body. She bends by the waist, braces to accept more pain, but she keeps her hand up.
Then, all at once, the circle breaks. She reaches into the circle and grasps the necklace.
It feels like someone is pulling my skin out of my body. My bones ache like a wisdom tooth. My brain pounds in a migraine, and I feel my mind, my consciousness leaving me, slipping away. I scream in pain, for the first time in my entire life.
Fati goes down on one knee, but by all that is of sky and sea, she keeps her hand up.
Slowly, the chalk on the ground fades, wears away as if washed by age. The necklace breaks, the warded beads rolling across the floor.
The ward is almost greyed into the floor before Fatoumata can’t keep it up any longer. In slow motion, she crumples into a faint and lays still.
It takes me two, three minutes before I gather enough strength to flex my arms again. Finally, I pull at the chains; they resist for a moment, before opening up at the links. I slip them off my hands easily, then snap off the chains at my ankles.
Tentatively, I stick my hand over the ward circle, teeth clenched and braced for the pain. When it doesn’t come, I put my arm, leg, and finally my whole body over the boundary. Nothing.
I stand outside the circle, my mouth open, staring at the girl on the ground. I want to look at her chest and confirm, but I don’t need to. Papa Udi is a genius, isn’t he? This is where the beauty of the ritual lies—a smart practitioner can turn it against the user, and this is just what he’s done. Not only did he take Ajala’s Listening charm on Fatoumata and re-write it to become an actual sponge—I didn’t even know he could do that!—he made it a sponge for everything.
I was wrong afterall. Ajala might have Aganju behind him, but he still isn’t the best wizard in Lagos, because someone else has just done what he’s spent his whole life trying to do.
Papa Udi just made Fatoumata a god.
I kneel and gather the girl into my arms. Outside in the yard, palace guards are scattered about on the ground, motionless. I try to concentrate on the moment. Right now I should be grateful to be alive and free, but I’m angry that Papa Udi put a teenager at risk of being shot.
But—he made her a full sponge.
By the front gate are two bodies still standing—one leaning calmly on the bonnet of a parked Hilux, one with a gun in hand, pointing at us.
“Na them,” Papa Udi says.
“Oh, thank God,” Femi Onipede says, lowering her gun.
I set the girl on the ground and embrace Papa Udi. “Oh, you fucking brilliant man.”
“Haysss.” He shoves me aside, embarrassed. “Put the girl inside motor.”
We lay Fati down in the backseat. She stirs a little, finally coming to.
“How you do am?” I ask. “Where you learn that kain thing? How did you—” I clear my throat. “You know. Write it there.”
Onipede frowns and says, “Hmm?” Papa Udi blinks and refuses to acknowledge, but motions to Fatoutmata in the vehicle.
“Na she say make I do am. I just close eye do the thing.”
“I told him he could’ve killed her, sending her in there like that,” Onipede says. “I mean, I took care of these ones out here, but what if there was someone hiding in there with you?”
Papa Udi smells the air, then frowns at me. “Blood.”
“Mine,” I say. “Only a scratch. They shot my leg earlier, but it’s healing.”
“Good,” Onipede says. “Because we need your help. Right now.”
“Yes, yes,” Papa Udi is saying. “We gats go there sharply.”
“Where?”
“LASPAC command,” Onipede says. “Ajala is there right now.”
“Doing what?”
“Taking out the one organisation that can stand in his way,” Onipede says. “And you know if he succeeds, we’re all well and truly dead.”
Chapter Eleven
81 DIVISION OF the Nigerian Army was formed in Lagos during the colonial era, and replaced the Lagos Garrison Command in 2000. The Nigerian Army’s long-abandoned website says its responsibility is securing Lagos and Ogun States, and that the division is a “mechanized infantry with affiliated combat support and combat service support units.” But the real truth, over fifteen years since the website was last updated, is that 81 Division is now a cold, dark nook on Ahmadu Bello, right off Onikan, a little ways off the Lagos Island marina. The command, an abandoned cluster of barracks, has long since been handed over to the under-equipped infantry of the Lagos State Paranormal Commission.
In time, the LASPAC Command has become the last hope for Lagos. Everyone lives in the little hope that LASPAC will one day hustle up arms and take on cleansing Isale Èkó once and for all. As with most things Nigerian, it’s a pipe dream. LASPAC officers can barely tackle the actual menace of deities fallen from the sky, never mind a mad wizard with three gods and an army of monsters behind him.
So when we arrive at Onikan Under Bridge in Onipede’s Hilux, me in front, Papa Udi in the back with Fatoumata—now awake—the sight that greets us is something I’m not shocked to see, yet causes us to gape.
The men must’ve received word of Ajala’s threat, but being Nigerians, did not take him seriously enough. Or maybe they took him very seriously, and bailed. Seeing as their director was busy rescuing a stupid demigod at the time, it makes sense to take the chance. Those who remained must’ve sat behind their walls without much protection. So, when Ajala stormed the yard with a horde of monster-children, they couldn’t have been prepared enough.
The smoke outside the command stings my nose. There’s a big fire burning somewhere within its walls—maybe a whole building. There are one or two LASPAC-blue Hiluxes parked mid-flight, some of them crashed into square concrete planters. There are blood smears and hand prints on the walls, like something dipped its hands in blood and proceeded to climb over them.
Fatoumata shudders as we get down from the truck. Papa Udi’s mouth is twisted like he’s chewing something bitter. I’m not entirely sure what I feel, considering I took this power and handed it over to something that I’m no longer sure I can conquer.
I turn to my army of two. “Okay, so remember the plan?”
Fatoumata nods, then signs something to me. I assume it has something to do with being ready or careful.
“Right,” I say. “We move.”
The ‘plan’ is simple. The Yasal bottle must still be hanging from Ajala’s neck—it’s the source of his power over these monsters. Papa Udi says since the bottle was used to make them, Ajala will lose much of his control the minute he loses the spirit bottle. Get the bottle, free Ibeji, and that power is gone. Then it’ll b
e just Ajala/Aganju versus us all.
Two tiny problems, though. First, how do we get past a hundred taboos? Secondly, once we isolate him, then what?
So Papa Udi suggested we break the plan into two. If he finds a way to lure the taboos, then Fati and I can go for Ajala. If she can sponge off his power for a bit, I’ll use that window to get to him—and the bottle.
There are problems with the plan. The only way Papa Udi can lure them involves putting himself in danger. After I told him the story of Ajala’s Reveal charm and how he used it to call to the taboos, he’s decided he will do the same. I ask him how he’s going to carry out the charmcast part without harming himself, and he smiles and says nothing.
“You’re not doing it,” I say.
“I go dey alright,” he says.
“No, Payu. No.”
“Look,” he says, placing both hands on my shoulders. “I don do am before, you know.”
“Charmcasting?”
He nods. “Once, before. The problem no be say people no fit cast am; na say them no sabi release am little by little.” He taps his chest. “I don do am, long time ago. I never craze, abi?” He sniggers now. “Trust me, I go dey alright.”
“And when those things come to realise you’re just mimicking him, what then? They will attack you, those monsters. They’re not kids anymore.”
He smiles wryly. “No worry. I go ward myself after I cast the charm.”
My eyes pop. “Draw a ward around yourself?”
He nods.
“No, Payu. There won’t be enough time between casting the charm and completing the ward. They will get you. No, no, no.”
“David!” He shakes my shoulders. “Listen to me—go get that bastard. No worry about me.”
I’m shaking my head. He pats my back, then retrieves his bag from the Hilux. Onipede is still in the driver’s seat, making a call: asking for reinforcements from the police, from the sound of it. Then she screams into the phone and slams it down in disgust,
“Fucking commissioner!” She runs her hand through her weave, and I see her eyes are bloodshot. “They say they can’t mobilise anyone here tonight. We’re on our own.”
Behind the command’s huge gate, I’m already catching a mad number of signatures, pulsing strong and firm. I look at Papa Udi, whose mouth is twisted as he starts to work out the intricacies of both charmcast and ward, muttering things to himself as he draws on the ground.
I signal to Onipede in the car. “Stay in the ward with him. If he goes too far with that charm, knock him out.” I take Fati by the hand. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
We take the left side of the fence, the one that opens up directly into the expressway. Cars barely flash by these days, but the sound of waves slapping the concrete marina covers our tracks. I seek a spot by the fence furthest from any signatures and stop there, hoisting Fati onto the fence by her haunches. She perches up top, crouching low and making herself small, while I climb over myself. The smoke is more intense now that we’re closer, and when I look down into the building, I see why this part of the compound is empty: it is long-abandoned, with a stinky pond of gathered water and algae growing over it. There are buildings close by here, possibly some old command buildings discarded for the new one, visible in the distance.
We crawl a few steps on the fence and I drop down as silently as I can onto solid ground. I hold my arms up for Fati, and she jumps, trusting in me absolutely. Something moves in my chest.
We get around a dilapidated building and study the barracks. I was wrong—the fire is not a building, but a car, a Hilux that didn’t make it out in time.
I suddenly realise that horrible smell in my nose is of charring meat. My blood boils, and I suddenly want to abandon the whole plan and storm the barracks. Who does this man think he is, killing and destroying? Who does he think he is, trying to take over Lagos?
And just then, the blast from the Reveal charm hits us.
I’m suddenly somewhere that is not Lagos, somewhere that looks like the south of Nigeria, in a divinery as big as Cardoso house; I’m aloof, pacing, trying to figure something out; I’m running through novel recipe mixes, scribbling down a new ritual designed by me and practicing tiny doses of charmcasting; I’m performing the rituals and charms, sweat running down my head and inside my armpits; fire, blood, whining, screaming, fire, blood; I’m running barefoot, my heart pounding, my feet bloody, but I’m running because my pursuers desire nothing less than my blood; I’m hidden, somewhere they can’t find me, and my heart is heavy with loss, desolate and lonely—
I shrug out of Papa Udi’s past like out of a thick, stifling robe, and suddenly I’m back behind the dilapidated barracks of the LASPAC command. A tumult greets me, something like a stampede of cattle. Before me, a large number of taboos—fifties, maybe hundreds—are loping towards the gate at the other end, running with their arms and legs like animals. Their mouths are open, their tongues dangling like feral cats, spittle dripping like they’ve smelled a fresh meal.
Out of the headquarters comes a figure, running in confusion. I recognise Ajala at once, his jalabiya flowing in the night marina breeze. He falls under the illumination of a yellow bulb, and I see his baffled, scrunched up face.
“Stop!” he screams, his hands out. I feel an echo of a charm. He speaks something in a language I don’t catch.
The ears of the taboos are pulled back by the wind, too loud for his voice, too loud for his charm. He is angry now, the air stirring up about him as his essence churns, his energies roused. The Yasal bottle is there, hanging from his neck as he struts towards the main gates, the last of the taboos flashing past him at superhuman speed.
He stops short suddenly, and at once I know he’s picked up the Reveal charm. The way that air gathers about him, I recognise it: he is preparing to cast something. And I know where and who exactly that charm is going to hit.
I look to Fatoumata, next to me in a squat. Her eyes are glazed over and she’s static, unmovable. It occurs to me now that I didn’t think of her in the grand scheme of things—the Reveal couldn’t deflect and slip off her like it would for me. She is not a demigod. She will experience the Reveal until the charm is yanked back, and is in no state to follow through with the plan.
It’s up to me now. I know what I must do.
I bound out of my hideout, slipping out a dagger as I go, readying it before me. The smell of garlic tickles my nose as the wind shifts against me, the ebo on my dagger splashing dots on my chest. It burns like melted plastic on my skin, but I don’t care. My eyes are locked on Ajala.
I’m three paces away when he senses me and turns swiftly, taken by surprise. His eyes are cold fire, surging, burning. The godessence within him is brighter, whiter, sevenfold.
I step forward with my dagger and, without a second thought, sink the knife right into his chest, his heart. I push so hard the whole blade goes in, up to the hilt. His mouth opens in a large “O” of surprise, of confusion, of betrayal.
Then he grins.
I first notice there is no blood, that the ǫbę iṣèṣé just stays in there, dripping ebo. Then much more slowly, I feel the halo about him, the shroud of energy pulsing about him, protecting him from everything and anything. I see that the dagger has not at all pierced his flesh, but pierced the shroud only, hanging in the air a hair’s distance from his heart. The hilt does not go forward, not being touched by ebo.
His grin widens into a smile. Then he pulls his hand back and slams a backhand into the side of my head.
We make this Nigerian joke about the difference between being slapped by an ordinary person and being slapped by a military person. Military personnel slaps cause ears to ring for days. It comes to me now that I’ve been slapped within an army command post, as Ajala’s backhand takes all the wind out of me.
I find myself on the ground, confused, my senses muted like I’m back in the ward circle. I no longer hear anything out of my left ear other than an incessant ringing, like an explosion just happened
on that side of me. Then a hand gathers my shirt at my chest and pulls me up. I lean back, and the whole shirt gives way into tatters. The hand swiftly catches my arm, hauls me back, and then I’m standing in front of Ajala.
He reels his fist back and smashes it into my nose.
A slight crack, and fire pours through my cheekbones and into the rest of my face. I find myself falling again. Why the fuck is he so strong?
My left ear is fully deaf now, but beneath the ringing, I still hear the clamour of the taboos. They scream, like there’s a fight going on. I hear the pop! of a body slamming a ward boundary, and ensuing howls from more taboos.
Ajala stands over me, his black jalabiya tussling in the wind. Suddenly, I’m seeing another image superimposed over him, like I saw with Taiwo at Èkó Ìsàlẹ̀. This one is a face formed of swirling desert sand, given form by molten magma and volcanic ash. The fiery beast is looking right at me through Ajala’s eyes, its mouth and ears black holes that spout fire-red magma.
Aganju.
Ajala places his foot on my chest, the sand under his sandal coarse on my skin. I take his ankle and try to pull it away, but I cannot. I breathe in, hunch my shoulders, and with both hands push against his leg with all the strength I can muster. Nothing. The foot is firm on my chest, without any effort. I don’t even move it slightly.
Aganju is smiling at me, his lips of magma flowing and forming, sand-eyes blazing with little fires. He says something I can barely hear.
“...think you’re smart?”
The wind howls in my ear, and the ringing continues. I strain.
“...you’re special? ...show you that I’m bigger…”
He lifts his foot and crashes it into my face.
Or at least plans to. I roll away and miss it by an inch. His foot hits the ground and raises dust.
At this point, I’ve lost all the decorum I learnt at Cardoso House, at King’s College. If this man wants to play hand-to-hand, fuck it. Streetfighting mode on.
David Mogo Godhunter Page 9
