Lagoon (26 page)

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.

Chris kept his distance, talking only to the Nollywood woman who called herself Stella Iboyi. And the only reason he talked to her was because she wouldn't leave him alone. After a while, his blood pressure began to rise.

“Why did you people allow your roads to be so dangerous?” Stella asked.

“We didn't ‘allow' it,” he said. “Our government—”

“Your wife's father was eaten by the road monster, though.
You never went to the road and asked it to give her father his life back.”

“That doesn't even make any sense!” he snapped. “When a man dies, he goes to heaven or hell. He doesn't . . .” He frowned. “Her father was hit by a truck. He wasn't eaten by a road.”

The television, his mobile screen, and his mother's computer all came on at the same time. On their screens was the president. Everyone in the room grew quiet. Chris watched on his phone, everyone else watched on his mother's most prized possession—the wide-screen television. Adaora had bought it for her last year when his mother had broken her ankle and had to stay in the house for three weeks.

When he heard his wife's name mentioned, Chris felt his heart flip. Then a surprising emotion washed over him. He was
proud
, deeply proud. His witch of a wife was part of something that was going to be grand.

“In the name of Jesus,” he whispered.

*   *   *   *

In the city of Accra, Ghana, several people in a street market had stopped walking. They were looking at their mobiles. The sun was setting in a beautiful display of orange, pink, and indigo but few noticed. Music drifted from the MP3 player of a man selling women's dresses, then it stopped and began playing the voice of Nigeria's president.

A woman who'd been walking down the middle of the busy dirt road that passed through the market wanted to throw her mobile phone away. She'd never liked mobile phones. She knew it sounded crazy, but she had always been sure that they could do more than anyone let on. She had a feeling that they could watch you. That they could speak to you at night when you were asleep and brainwash you. “Maybe this is why Ghana is still the way it is,” she'd proclaim. “Because we all use phones and they all control us.”

Nevertheless, her boyfriend insisted she carry one. She'd only
agreed because he was a sweet, sweet man and she liked the way he spoke Ewe, the language of her mother, whom she missed very much. She'd done exactly what he asked her to do, which was to carry the phone. When he called she answered, but that was as far as it went. She never used it otherwise. She wrapped it in tinfoil and kept it deep in her purse where it wouldn't harm her.

She'd never set her phone to vibrate, but vibrate and vibrate it did as she walked through the market. Finally, she brought the thing out and unwrapped it. It was talking. And it was showing the Nigerian president. It wasn't made to do any such thing! Her boyfriend had assured her. And what the Nigerian president was saying made her stop and stand still for many minutes. When he finished talking, he disappeared from her phone's tiny screen and there was the date and time again. Like normal.

She frowned, her nostrils flaring. She squeezed the phone. Then she wrapped it in tinfoil and put it back in her purse. She started walking very fast, wanting to get home to check the news on her boyfriend's computer. For the first time since the Internet and mobile phones had come to Ghana, she wasn't afraid.

*   *   *   *

A young man named Waydeep Kwesi slung a plastic bag over his shoulder as he stepped out of the fast-walking woman's way. He watched her pass and then looked around. He didn't have a mobile phone, and he hadn't been near any sort of screen in the last few minutes. He was more interested in the people around him, anyway. His belly growled. He reached into his bag and brought out one of the smaller garden eggs he'd just purchased. He'd been hungry for them for hours.

No one noticed as he bit into it like it was the sweetest mango and continued on his way.

CHAPTER 55

GOOD JOURNALISM IS NOT DEAD

Femi didn't think he'd ever see his Honda Civic again. He sat in the gray, well-worn driver's seat and sighed deeply. His car smelled faintly like his girlfriend's perfume. Laughing, he'd sprayed the driver's seat just before he left their apartment two days prior.

“God, that seems so long ago,” he whispered. He laughed. He was actually in his car again. They'd let him go. But he was planning to return to the president as soon as they called him. He took another breath and looked around. He was parked close enough to Bar Beach to see the water . . . and the part of the shape-shifting alien ship that hovered above the water, far out from shore. A few cars passed on the street, and there were one or two people on the beach but no one nearby.
Good
,
he thought.

He reached over to the passenger seat and undid the latch underneath. Then he flipped the passenger seat open. Quickly, from among various cables, chargers, batteries, SIM cards, and mobile phones, he removed his car charger and his laptop. He'd owned this car for six years. He had bought a Honda for more than its plain, unassuming look. Hondas
lasted
. Even on the roads of Nigeria. And for this reason, he'd spent thousands of naira to have this secret hiding place custom-made for his car. He kept absolutely nothing else inside it. This kept him mobile. A journalist needed to be mobile.

He plugged his phone into his car charger, placed it on the armrest, and then opened his laptop. Its background was black, and
there was only one icon on the screen. He kept all his links and folders inside and then opened his browser.

When he checked his YouTube account, his heart began to pound like crazy. The footage he'd posted of Agu, Adaora, and Anthony saving him, the guards, the president, and one of his First Ladies on that boat had already gotten over three million hits. He'd named it ‘‘The President of Nigeria Saved by Witches and Warlocks!'' That title, coupled with his reputation as a respected journalist who'd once worked as a CNN correspondent, plus his substantial following, might have gotten the ball rolling.

“Okay, Femi,” he whispered, opening his laptop wider. “This is happening. So make it happen.”

His inbox had over a thousand messages. Many were from Nigerians threatening to kill him for involving himself in witchcraft. Some were from Nigerians who called him a disgrace to journalism. The majority were from Lagosians asking him to please report more. He spotted several e-mails from newspapers around the world demanding more news. And there were some e-mails that accused Nigeria of being too backward, undeserving of an alien visitation.

He found at least ten from news services including CNN, Fox News, the BBC, the
Guardian
, Reuters, the Associated Press, and Al Jazeera.

He read and then closed all of these and clicked on the one from the
Nigerian Times
. This one wasn't asking to buy his story. It was his editor asking where he was. He typed a quick response: “I'm fine. I'll have a story to you soon. Watch your inbox.” He paused. He still had the footage from Tin Can Island where the one called Ayodele had sacrificed herself. He clearly understood that this was what she'd done. He'd inhaled the fog like everyone else, and he'd immediately felt a shift. In perspective; in memory. He'd only smoked weed once in his life, when he was seventeen. Within minutes he'd felt everything around him open up like a flower. He'd been horrified by the experience and never gone near the stuff again. This was how the
perspective shift had felt, though smoother, more integrated with his own point of view. He felt it most when he looked at the sky.

Of all that had happened, of all he'd seen, Ayodele's sacrifice was the real story. That was the story CNN and the BBC would really want. But that story wasn't for sale. At least not to any foreign buyers. He quickly added a bit more to his e-mail: “I'm fine. I'll have a story to you soon. Watch your inbox. This isn't a story for print. It'll have the best effect if posted on the Web. I have video.” Then he clicked send.

He settled back. All he needed to do his job was his car, his laptop, and his mobile phone. He sat back and began to write:

My fellow Nigerians, my fellow humans, let me tell you about all that I have seen. I was there! . . .

It was the most honest piece of journalism he had ever produced. He did not write it hard-news style; he wrote it as a memoir. He was a reporter sharing
his
experiences. He ended his fifteen-thousand-word article with what had happened on Tin Can Island.

. . . She saved them all and then they beat her to near death. But can you blame them? After all they had probably been through? Even before getting to Tin Can Island? What must they have seen during that night when Lagos burned, rioted, ate her young? So they beat her. I saw them stamp on her chest, kick her in the head, and worse. I was too far away to help. So the only way I knew I could help was to keep recording. This is what happened next. Do you all remember that fog? You should if you were in Lagos; wherever you were, whether you were inside or outside, you inhaled the fog. This is where it came from:

Then he embedded the footage he'd posted on his YouTube page. When his editor posted the story on the website, he'd make the YouTube footage live.

He reread his story, editing, adding where he saw fit. He didn't censor a thing. He read it out loud. He read it aloud again, and then he played the footage. The combination gave him the shivers. The world as he knew it had changed. He'd been sent out to cover the dead whale on Bar Beach. He never could have imagined what would happen next.

He clicked send. Then he sat back and waited for his world to turn yet again. His thread of story would join the vibrating of the great natrrator's rhythm. He smiled. And it was good.