Lagoon

  Pause. “Why the three of you?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t . . . No, that’s not true.” She blinked as it dawned on her. She took his shoulder, gripping it. “Chris?”

  “What?” He looked afraid.

  Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. She’d never been religious. She’d never believed in the mysterious as her husband did. She was a scientist. Her world was founded upon empiri­cal evidence, on rigorous experimentation, on data. She was the thinker, and he was the one willing to simply have faith. That had been what kept them balanced. Chris was a genius when it came to securing and growing contracts. He had stocks in America and in the UK. He followed hunches when he did business. He consulted dibias, witch doctors, and babawelos when he felt he was at a crossroads. And this had always worked. It had made them rich.

  For Adaora, however, logic determined her actions. She went to church because she was expected to go, not because she believed. She studied the ocean and its creatures. She calculated, documented, observed. She wrote articles for academic journals and was respected in her field. She was a well-regarded professor, and, though she made far less than Chris, her income had made them that much richer.

  They had known each other all their lives. There was history. And there was mystery in that history that they had silently agreed never to discuss. Neither of them had ever called the other evil or illogical . . . until the last year after Chris had had the scare on the airplane from Lagos to Owerri and became born again. Since then, things had unraveled.

  “You’re right,” she whispered.

  “About what?”

  “The world.”

  His eyebrows went up. Then he smiled.

  “No, no, not all the Christian stuff,” she said. “But the mystery.” She paused. “Ayodele spoke of her people being catalysts of change. Wherever they go, they bring change.”

  “You are part of the change,” he said.

  “Maybe.” She took his hand. “Will you get the children to your mother’s place? Please. They are all we have.”

  After a long pause, he said, “Yes.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  They both turned to go upstairs. Anthony, who’d been leaning against the door, listening, took a deep gulp from the bottle of water he held. He sighed as he walked back to the living room and said, “Finally, some progress.”

  * * * *

  Chris took Adaora’s Mercedes, leaving her his smaller, faster BMW. Fred and Kola cried and cried. Aside from wanting to stay with Adaora, they didn’t want to leave Ayodele, who remained in her monkey form and still refused to speak. As soon as they were gone, Adaora sank into the sofa with the beginnings of a headache that could only come from deep conflict, the internal battle between relief and anxiety. And then a brick smashed through the window followed by a Molotov cocktail, setting the sofa on fire.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE RHYTHM

  “Come out!” Father Oke shouted.

  Anthony was beginning to lose his temper. It had been draining from him since those idiots had tried to shoot Ayodele. The drainage had increased tenfold when the soldiers wounded Kola. Nor­mally, a deep breath and a glance at the sky could settle him. Not now. And the worst thing about it was that the Elders would see whatever he did.

  The Elders. That’s what Ayodele called them. Not the Elders who were his ancestors, the Elders from the stars. Those . . . creatures that Anthony was having a hard time separating from himself. He could still hear their song, still hear the beat of their drums; yes, he could still feel them. They were deep in the ocean, just off the coast of this great megacity called Lagos. He felt them in a way he’d never felt anything before. Because they were still with him. They were listening through him. They were hearing, seeing, and feeling with him. Nevertheless, he was still himself and when he got angry, he got . . . mad. When he was mad, he would take from everyone around him. He would take from the earth. From the very ground beneath his feet. And then he’d wield what he had taken, and the damage would be great.

  He’d done it once when he was ten years old, when he still went by the name his parents had given him, Edgar. Just after his father had died and left his mother to shoulder the blame for his heart attack. For a month, Edgar had stayed in that house with his mother and siblings. They survived on leftovers from the funeral and supplies his mother had managed to buy the day before the ceremony. Nevertheless, when their water supply grew too low, his mother had finally given in.

  On that fateful day, she was at the market while Edgar stayed home watching his younger brothers and sisters. His mother had thought the in-laws had given up. She’d been in the house for a month. But he knew they’d come. And a half hour after she left, they came to the small white house in the village with the satellite dish perched on the roof and the brown water stains on the walls. His relatives. His uncles, aunts, older cousins. All from his father’s side. They came to take what they felt was theirs. Back then, there were no mobile phones, but the bush radio, the village grapevine, worked better than any digital form of communication. It was probably Auntie Osei who lived across the dirt road who had notified everyone that his mother had finally gone out.

  Edgar had sat on the small porch, watching them come. Their cars and SUVs pulled up and they waited. Gathering like ants preparing to haul away a dead spider. Ants never sleep. Ants are relentless. And ants know the scent of opportunity and do not hesitate to follow its trail.

  His father’s relatives—about twenty of them—gathered beneath the large mango tree in front of the house. It was heavy with ripe fruit. Several in the group picked the largest mangoes. As if the mangoes were theirs to take. The day was warm and Edgar started sweating. After several minutes, as one big group, they walked toward Edgar’s home. His youngest sibling, Helen, was only seven months old. His brother Bamfo was nine. There were five of them in all, and ten-year-old Edgar was in charge.

  “Get inside,” he told Bamfo. His little brother looked at him with such worry that Edgar felt like crying. His brother’s love, all his siblings’ love was so strong. They would die for each other. And they knew what death was. They had all been there when their father died of a heart attack, right in front of them all at the dinner table. They’d been in the middle of a wonderful Sunday feast—fufu and peanut soup with goat meat. A rare hearty meal. Edgar couldn’t remember what they had been celebrating. All he remembered was the look on his father’s face. From happy to pained to shocked. The expression remained as he took his last breath.

  Edgar’s father had been the family’s Great Son. He was the oldest. He was the most successful. He was the loudest. And he’d been blessed by God to spread God’s Word. Edgar’s father’s family accused his mother of being a witch. They believed she had caused his death so that she could take all his money and build an empire with the children she had robbed from him. They were determined not to let her. They wanted their Great Son’s wife to be destitute for what she’d done. They wanted the children to starve. Those children were evil if they’d let their mother kill the family’s Great Son.

  Edgar was an outspoken, compassionate child. He could never stand to see anything suffer. So he was known for helping tortoises across the road and ushering lizards out of the house. He’d once even caught a bird in the living room with his bare hands and set it free outside. He was tall for his age, though very lean no matter how much he ate. And when he spoke, because he had the gift of gab, he seemed even taller. His mother beat him often for his silver tongue and hugged him even more often for his praise songs. His father nearly burst with pride whenever Edgar sang a praise song to him. Edgar knew how to make his parents happy, most of the time. And Edgar had plenty of friends and never had to fight. Words were his weapons. He knew how to crack his tongue like a whip. But that was only when he got angry.

  And this day, as Edgar watched his father’s people, who blamed his mother f
or his father’s death—this fateful day, Edgar got angry.

  Uncle Kuffour was leading the way, flanked by Auntie Boteng and Uncle Mensah. They looked heated and self-righteous. These were three people who had spread the worst rumors about his mother. Just as he was good with words, Edgar was a sharp listener. He could hear a conversation from far across the room, catch every word, every syllable. He’d heard these three talk about his mother as if she were a dog.

  According to them, in her village, before she married his father, she was known to commune with the devil. Since his father’s death, his mother not only cooked for but slept with all of his father’s friends. And even before his father had died, she’d aborted several children. So they said. According to them, his mother’s nails were always dirty, her soup was always sour, and she’d used charms to get his father to marry her.

  His mother knew of the rumors, even while forced to stay home and guard the house for the past month. And she cried every night because of them. Edgar could hear her through the thin walls. His mother was a pediatrician, and his father had been a well-loved and well-known preacher. They’d done well. Together. And now that his father was dead, the relatives wanted it all. Edgar knew family was supposed to take you in when things were bad. But this family wanted his mother, his brothers, his sisters, and him out of the way.

  Edgar stood as they approached, and blocked the open doorway to his parents’ house. His house. His siblings’ house. His bare feet pressed firmly to the ground. He wore an old T-shirt and black shorts. He was dark-skinned like his father, and he looked them all in the eye like his mother. “What do you want?”

  “Get out of the way,” Uncle Kuffour said. The others assented.

  “Move.”

  “Make this easy.”

  “No one will blame you.”

  “No,” Edgar said. “This is my parents’ house.”

  “You won’t invite your own relations into your home, then?” Auntie Boteng asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Do you behave like my relations?” he asked. He took a brave step forward, feeling the rage bloom in him. In his mind’s eye, he saw his middle sister sobbing in the kitchen as she peeked around the entrance and watched Auntie Boteng act like a stranger. Auntie Boteng was her favorite auntie.

  “Have any of you come to wish my mother well?” Edgar asked. “To see how your brother’s children are doing? Do any of you have hearts that aren’t frozen? Do any of you have any shame?”

  He could feel it. In his chest, first, but then it radiated out to his entire body. He curled his shoulders to hold it in. But it was so hot, so powerful.

  “Old man.” His uncle chuckled. He stepped closer to Edgar.

  Edgar didn’t move. These people were here to take everything. He would never move.

  As soon as his father’s oldest brother grabbed his arm, Edgar heard the music—sweet and pure and electric. It hummed up through the earth. And it sang to him in a clear voice, “Defend them.”

  Then that which was building up within him, humming to the rhythm of the earth, burst. His uncles, aunts, cousins were all blown back. Two of the cars closest to them were blown onto their sides, before slamming back down onto the road. The homes across the street, including his aunt’s, were bombarded with red dirt, and they rocked on their foundations.

  Those relatives never came back.

  Edgar never explained the incident to his mother, though she later learned from the neighbors what had happened. Edgar never used the rhythm to do violence again. But when he got on stage, when he rapped and let the words flow from his tongue like warmed honey, he could feel it. It would be there when he needed it. So far, he hadn’t needed it.

  But he needed it now.

  Father Oke’s people were crowding the lawn, and Anthony could sense they were about to do something terrible. They’d just thrown a Molotov cocktail into the house, and some of them held more. He stepped toward the front door.

  When he performed, he spun words as a spider spins its web. He drew it from within himself and worked with it. Then he threw it back at his audience enhanced and laced with energy and images. No one left his concerts unchanged. He was a positive force. But only because he chose to be one. That day, in the doorway of his mother’s house, he’d been something else. He’d had to be.

  Now, he slipped his shoes off as he stepped out of the house to face Father Oke and his diocese. He stepped onto the soil of the flowerbed beside the path to Adaora’s house. It was cool beneath his feet.

  “What are you people doing?” he asked evenly.

  He set his eyes squarely on Father Oke. The man was bewitching and charismatic, so much like Anthony’s father. Anthony frowned. Father Oke’s actions were not so unlike what he did himself when he was performing as Anthony Dey Craze. But I don’t use people, he thought. I free them, I open them up to God.

  Father Oke’s garments were smudged with dirt, and the side of his face was swollen like Agu’s and Adaora’s. His eyes were rimmed with red and glistened with unshed tears. But his voice was firm: “We would like to speak with the extraterrestrial.”

  “No,” Anthony said. “Speak to me.”

  Now Father Oke laid his eyes squarely on Anthony. The two stood tall, proud, and powerful. Both were adored by the people around them. Both knew it and could feed it. Anthony was calm as an underground river. Father Oke was a volcano ready to erupt.

  “Bring it out!” Father Oke shouted, his eyes wide. “Bring it out now!”

  Several of his followers threw stones at the house. Others shouted and shook their fists. Two men walked up to Anthony, hunched forward, fists clenched. At the door, however, they stopped, looking past him. Anthony turned around. Adaora stood behind him. She was holding Ayodele, who was still a tiny monkey.

  “This is she,” Adaora said, her smile an angry smirk. She stepped past Anthony, eyeing the two men. “And she has nothing to say to you.”

  She could hear the crackle of flames, feel the heat, and see light reflected in the broken glass on the ground. The top floor of the house must now be completely on fire.

  “I don’t believe you,” Father Oke said.

  “Where the hell would I get a monkey at this time of night?” Adaora snapped, but she knew his response before he spoke it.

  “You’re a witch. I’m sure you have your ways.”

  Several of his followers muttered agreement.

  “Father Oke, or whatever your name is,” Anthony said. He stepped forward, placing himself between Ayodele and the two men. “Remove yourself and your people from Adaora’s property. There is nothing for you here.”

  Father Oke flashed a menacing look at Anthony, then turned to his followers. He lifted his injured left arm, wincing theatrically. “Please say it with me, ‘This is my Bible. . . .’” He pulled a Bible from his pocket and held it up with his right hand.

  “This is my Bible,” his followers repeated, their faces earnest.

  “It is the Word of God!” he shouted.

  “It is the Word of God!”

  “Yes! Good, my sheep, good! I believe I am who I am. I believe I can do what it says I can do. Do you believe in me?”

  “We do!”

  “Yes, o!”

  “Speak the truth!”

  Father Oke, buoyed by the trust of his flock, did an excited hop, grinned, and shouted, “Amen!” But when he turned back to Anthony, his grin was gone and his face was angry. He snapped his fingers and flung his right arm toward Adaora and Ayodele. ‘‘Grab am, grab am!” he yelled. The two burly men stepped forward.

  “Adaora, get inside!” Anthony growled.

  The moment the two men lunged at Adaora and Ayodele, Anthony let it loose. For the first time since he was ten years old, he unleashed the raw power of what he called the rhythm. It was a vibration that swelled up inside him and allowed him to touch all things. It r
olled warmly over Father Oke, the two men, his followers, and everyone on the streets. It put out the Molotov cocktail–ignited fire that had been eating Adaora and Chris’s home, and the one across the street that had ravaged most of the house. Weaver birds that had taken refuge in a nearby tree fell to the ground. Car alarms went off. The few unbroken windows around the block shattered.

  And as the sonic wave rolled, Anthony stood still, eyes closed, and received information about all the things that the wave touched. His ability had grown stronger since he was a kid. Back then, when he’d handled his bitter relatives, he’d blown himself backward into the house, hit the wall, and been unconscious for ten minutes. Now he stumbled back only a single step. It was the rhythm. Ayodele’s people knew it well, too. They’d used it twice to read the city of Lagos.

  Anthony took a deep breath and opened his eyes. There was smashed glass all around him. More glass fell from a broken window, tinkling as it broke against the sidewalk. Then everything was silent. And there were bodies on the lawn. Bodies. But he knew they were not dead, just unconscious. And yet he felt the same rush of power and stunned terror that he had felt when he was ten. He’d done this.

  He couldn’t help comparing what he’d done to footage he’d seen of pastors in churches using their so-called power of God to knock down whole groups of church members at the same time. He shook his head. This wasn’t that; this was something true and real. His father would have been proud. Anthony had controlled the vibration, the energy. He controlled it during his concerts to the point where the women felt ecstasy and the men felt exhilarated. Now he controlled it here, to read everything, to stop everything. To make order from chaos.

  He knew so much. “Ayodele,” he said. “We’re not all bad, chale.”

  Ayodele stood in the doorway, staring at him. She’d returned to her human form, except now she’d made herself taller, taller than him. She was at least seven feet. She was wearing a long, thick white dress.