Satans and Shaitans

by Obinna Udenwe

‘You are scared, brother?’

  The young man shook his head. He was just twenty-one years old.

  The Sheikh walked round and sat in the front passenger seat. He placed his hand on Musa’s leg reassuringly and said, ‘Have no fear, brother. You are blessed. What you have chosen to do is a great duty. Listen, Musa, it is said: “And we will most certainly try you with somewhat of fear and hunger and loss of property and lives and fruits and give good news to the patient.” We belong to Allah and to Him we shall surely return. So rejoice.’

  Musa turned and looked with pride at the Sheikh.

  ‘Thank you for finding me worthy to do my duty.’

  ‘Thank you, brother,’ the Sheikh replied and got out of the car.

  ‘We meet in paradise.’ The engine revved and the young man drove off.

  The Sheikh smiled to himself – at times even he was surprised at the ease with which he lied in the name of his faith. By quoting the appropriate chapters and verses, he could bend the will and heart of the soldiers to do his bidding. He had never been so happy. Now he must stay close to his transistor radio and wait.

  ‘Shedrack!’ he called to the man who was now heading towards the building. ‘Great news awaits us today! Great news!’

  That afternoon, Donaldo Amechi received a long letter from Ogiji, a friend of his who had just moved to Germany. Donaldo had convinced his father to include Ogiji’s name among the people he was sending to Europe for training in rice milling, so he could better himself, as his family lacked contacts.

  He sat on a rocking chair at the back of the mansion. Madam Vero was gathering firewood. He read the letter slowly and then dropped it on his lap. Ogiji said that he had grown big with beard and the training was going well.

  Donaldo went upstairs with the letter without saying a word to Madam Vero. Stealthily, he took his bath and then drove away. It was the second time he had left the Island since Adeline’s disappearance.

  The sun was already setting when he stopped at the outskirts of Ishieke. He drank palm wine with Mr Ogiji, his friend’s father, and some elders, sitting on the exposed roots of an oji tree. Mr Ogiji was always happy to see him as he could never forget how Donaldo had helped to send his poor son abroad.

  Then Donaldo drove to the café. The same café where he first met Adeline. He could not eat what he ordered, so he drove home. Donaldo lay on his bed, and as the fear and worry began to creep over him again, he remembered how it all began.

  SECTION II

  A RECIPE FOR MURDER

  To show your feelings is to risk opposing your humanity.

  Felice Leonardo Buscaglia

  SIX

  Tuesday, 2nd February 2010

  Donaldo Amechi and Adeline Chuba stared at each other across the café till he started to feel shy. It was the first time a woman had looked at him like that. Donaldo folded his unfinished copy of Vanguard and made for the door. As he approached it, he looked at the mirrors in front of him and saw the reflection of her face still staring at him. The doorman opened the door before he reached it.

  ‘Nee anya, look out!’ an old man yelled as they almost collided. Donaldo stepped out of the café and stood for a moment before heading for his car. His mind was full of the beautiful face and those eyes that stared so piercingly at him. He had never seen that face before.

  It was breezy as he jumped inside the car and sped off. During the short drive to the Island he kept thinking of the girl’s face and slender body.

  He had watched as she came in with an older woman, and she had stared continuously at him without blinking an eyelid. That face must be drawn immediately, he thought as he accelerated, as if the image would disappear if he went too slowly.

  As he approached the driveway to the Island, he slowed down, whistling to himself. Only his left hand held the wheel, while the right hand made an imaginary drawing in the air. Children playing on the Island field waved as he passed. He honked gleefully.

  Williams Island was located in the small town of Ishieke, some kilometres from Abakaliki. It was not a large island, and only thirteen families lived on it, in rambling, old fashioned mansions, the kind with long passages and balconies. It had a small cafeteria operated by one of the families, a sports court, and at the far eastern end a small golf course that was rarely used, except occasionally when his father, Chief Donald Amechi, and his associates held meetings in one of the halls and played golf afterwards. There were two public pools and a nursery school at the northern end.

  The beauty of the Island was enhanced by the beach that nearly surrounded it, separated only by the Mile 50 road that led to the town on its northern side. At the climax of some rainy seasons, it became a complete island when the river overflowed its banks and rushed towards the inside of the Island, cutting it off.

  There was a large expanse of forested virgin land and swampy fields near to the Ishieke River, where the Islanders cultivated rice, one of the major agricultural products of the Abakaliki people.

  Madam Vero was like a mother to Donaldo. She had been of tremendous help to him since the death of his mother when he was six. She loved him like her own son but Donaldo had never loved anyone, because he did not know what love was.

  Donaldo’s father had no time for anything on earth except football and politics. The little spare time he had, he devoted to rice farming and his business empire.

  ‘Donaldo, you’re not eating your food,’ Madam Vero said as she entered the dining room. The woman was in her early fifties. She had worked for the Chief for fifteen years, ever since the death of his wife. She was employed to take care of Donaldo and the old mansion. She had a family in Ishieke town, and she visited them every weekend.

  She placed a cup of homemade juice on the table for Donaldo and sat down on one of the chairs.

  ‘O gunu? What’s wrong?’ she asked in Izzi dialect.

  Izzi was the main clan in the Ishieke area and one of the three clans in Abakaliki. Ishieke used to be a small quiet community, but it grew quickly thanks to the foresight of Chief Nwiboko Obodo, a notorious and wealthy warrant chief during colonial rule. He attracted many great men to Ishieke and the stories of his exploits abounded until he was hanged by the state. The rapid development of Ishieke was also due to the early arrival of the missionaries. They settled there and fought for dominance with the Chief, building the Mile Four Hospital and the Leprosy Centre.

  ‘I met a beautiful girl today,’ Donaldo said and smiled broadly.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Madam Vero gave him a hug. ‘That’s good, nwam, my son.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Where?’ she asked, her face brightening.

  ‘I won’t tell you.’

  ‘Donaldo! You need to open up more to people—’

  ‘I know. But I am a grown man. I can’t tell you everything I do.’

  ‘Listen, I have always longed for the day you would start going out with people, even with the opposite sex. You are always alone. Sometimes I wonder if it’s some fear—’

  ‘Fear?’ Donaldo interrupted. ‘Ahah, no, no, not at all. I enjoy concentrating on my art. For my future, for Mum and for you. Dad says women have killed many great men. He says that women are the problems of the world, you know that.’

  Madam Vero’s face furrowed. ‘When you mix with people, especially with women, it will enhance your art. It will bring out the real person in you… make you brighter, cheerful, more focused. Inugo?’

  ‘Yes… maybe you are right.’ He gulped down the juice.

  ‘So, Donaldo, who is she? Is she someone I know?’

  ‘Ah, no. How can you know her? No. Never mind… Ma.’ He walked to his room. He could see the girl’s face clearly now and was determined to paint it.

  Donaldo did not tell Madam Vero anything more about the girl he’d met at the café, like so many other things he kept hidden – perhaps he would never tell her. But she was more than happy that for once he had spoken confidentially and intimately with her. No matter how briefly.

  She was pleased the girl
was beautiful; at least he could see beauty in things. It gave her joy that Donaldo had laughed after so many years of solitude. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him laugh. Occasionally, if she teased him, he would smile, but then, as if recollecting himself, he would walk away.

  Later that evening, Donaldo and Madam Vero sat in the dining room as usual; the young man appeared to be thinking about something. Madam Vero had learnt not to disturb him at such times.

  ‘He will be coming back tomorrow,’ Donaldo told her as she served their dinner.

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Yes. He is in England, visiting his old football club.’

  ‘A footballer is always a footballer.’ She laughed, but he did not. What his father did, and where he went, was not his concern.

  As they ate, she enquired, ‘Tell me about the girl you met.’

  ‘Please. I am eating. You made the rules, remember: “Do not talk while you eat.”’

  She smiled.

  When he finished eating, he went to his room and fantasized about the girl at the café. He saw her face, the innocence in it. There was something in that face that seemed to beckon to him.

  The next day Donaldo drove to town in search of her, but came back without any luck. It was raining when he drove back to the Island. As he pulled up in front of the mansion, a maid came out with an umbrella to help him inside. He was dressed in a suit and wearing a silver necklace, but no tie. The priest at the Island chapel said ties were badges of slavery.

  From the sitting room, he called his friend Ogiji on his mobile phone. The temptation to discuss the girl with him was strong, but then again he wanted to keep the memories to himself. He did not dare to share her with anyone. How could God make one person so beautiful? She was an angel in human form.

  SEVEN

  Friday, 5th February 2010

  The harmattan blew the trees this way and that, their branches swirling in all directions, and dried leaves fell in abundance to form a thick bed beneath the trees. Asha birds and pigeons roosted in their nests and on branches, flapping their wings once in a while to shake off the cold. A group of men was gathered in a large room at the golf club on Williams Island, seated around a very long table. White papers and files were scattered in front of them. They deliberated quietly about issues that would change the history of Nigeria forever, while outside the wind gained momentum.

  ‘Sheikh Mohammed Seko, Allah will bless you for this great honour you are about to bestow upon Islam,’ Alhaji Abu Rabiu Mukhtar said. The other men in the room, about sixteen of them, were calm, their cruel eyes studying the face of the young Sheikh who was about to be entrusted with a tremendous power – the power to command death.

  Chief Donald Amechi said in a rich baritone, ‘Sheikh Mohammed Seko, thank God the madrasa has been expanded to a bigger institution. It will serve as a cover for our operations. For the young men who are preparing to do the will of Allah—’

  A voice cut in rudely, taking them all by surprise. ‘The will of Allah? Your words are haraam! Allah can never be happy with this! Islam does not support this—’ Alhaji Umar Hassan spoke up for the umpteenth time, waving his hands in the air. The Chief cut him off.

  ‘Alhaji, be quiet in my presence! This is the fifth time we have called a meeting. You attended every one of them. You even contributed some of the ideas—’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. But that was at the beginning when it was to expand the madrasa to propagate Islam in Nigeria, and to try to Islamize Northern Nigeria. Did I ever know that we would be sitting here today, planning terrorism? Haba! Islam forbids terrorism. The Holy Book forbids terrorism.’ The Alhaji folded the thick paper in front of him. On top of the paper, in bold print, were the words Jama’atul al-Mujahideen Jihad – ‘A Group of Youths Striving for Holy War’.

  ‘Alhaji! Alhaji!’ Evangelist Chris Chuba called out. ‘Do you say the Holy Qur’an does not support jihad? Do you? Have you read the Holy Book well? Does it not say: “Fight those who do not believe in Allah…”? What we do is provide you, our brothers, with support. We all benefit as brothers.’

  ‘Evangelist, do you believe in Allah yourself? This is not jihad to promote Islam. What you plan is evil. Terrorism against the Nigerian state to gain power! Jihad is different from terrorism.’ The Alhaji was frantic. He was sweating profusely. His small eyes roamed from one man to another. What was revealed in those eyes was fear. Great fear.

  He continued, ‘Jihad means to “strive or to struggle”. Striving against oneself for holiness, to become a better person. Striving against the Shaitan. Striving to teach people the correct doctrine of Islam. To defend the religion from external attacks from hostile or violent people. Terrorism is deliberate killing. To kill is “qitaal”, not jihad.’ He reshuffled the papers before him. ‘Do you not know that I know your hearts? Evangelist Chuba, you are not a Muslim, so do not challenge me over the Holy Book. In the Qur’an it says: “There shall be no compulsion in the acceptance of the religion of Islam.” So, Mr Evangelist, the Almighty does not teach war against governments and against other religions. Sir, people should be free to choose the religion they like. But anyone who follows Islam has gained a great deal. If you compel people, do you think they will worship Allah with all their hearts?’

  ‘Be calm, Alhaji!’ Professor Saturday Effiong shouted. ‘We are the owners of Nigeria. We cannot burn down the house we built. No. This is not terrorism against Nigeria.’ His pockmarked face looked at the others and they nodded their heads like lizards, with the exception of Alhaji Umar Hassan. ‘Listen, Alhaji Umar. This is a win-win game. If we start Jama’atul al-Mujahideen Jihad we help the North with their quest for Islamic states. We Southerners… we oust the President and put in a better man, a man who is a member of this Sacred Order.’ Professor Effiong sat back. He was a professor of Medicine at the University of Calabar, and had served as a Minister of Health. His influence in South-South Nigeria knew no bounds – it was like water overflowing its banks in an ocean, encroaching dry lands.

  There was silence.

  He continued, ‘And everyone benefits.’

  Every man in that room except one belonged to the Sacred Order of the Universal Forces – a secret organization with its headquarters in the Netherlands and branches in almost every country in the world. Members of the Sacred Order were men of power and wealth, ranging from politicians to business moguls, religious leaders to academics, security chiefs, sportsmen and media executives. In Nigeria, Chief Donald Amechi was the Sacred Lord, the most senior member of the Order in the country. As such he was responsible for communicating the rules, orders and decisions to all the members below him – a position so powerful he could institute events that could lead to the impeachment of the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

  Members of the Sacred Order occupied twenty-two out of the thirty-six state governorship positions in the country. The only man in the meeting who was not a member of the Universal Order was Sheikh Mohammed Seko, who was now being entrusted with the authority to lead an evil war.

  Alhaji Umar Hassan was silent. His right foot was tapping the terrazzo floor in a steady rhythm. His long garment made of safari material was soaked with sweat even though rain had cooled the air and the air-conditioner was on.

  Sheikh Mohammed Seko spoke up slowly, his heavy voice wrapped in a sharp but slurred Northern Nigerian accent. ‘Alhaji Hassan, I am disappointed. I did not think it would be you who would stand in the way of the progress of Islam. Our forefathers dreamt of this opportunity. Today, it is presented to us, at last. Are you scared because of where it has come from? Because it has come from our brothers from the South?’ The young Sheikh touched his white turban. ‘I am your ibn, because you are as old as my father. But you are not worthy to call me “son”. The words that come from your mouth make me ashamed to refer to you as Ustaz, master.’

  Sheikh Mohammed Seko was a tall man; he had to stoop to enter any room. He wore a long quftan that stretched almost to his feet a
nd, if he had removed his turban, they would have seen his bushy hair, covered with grey. His moustache and long beard were grey too, though he was still young. Hair sprouted from his ears in a startling way. He held his prayer masbaha of ninety-nine beads in his right hand and hadn’t stopped fingering the beads since the meeting began.

  He looked at Alhaji Umar Hassan and said, ‘Islam is the religion of the world. And we must strive to bring it to greater prominence, insha’Allah. Our Holy Book says, “Oh you who believe! What is your excuse when you decline to go forth in Allah’s way? Are you contented with this world’s life instead of the hereafter?” To do the will of Allah and his messengers is a sign of a true Muslim, Alhaji.’

  Some of the men around the table took a deep breath. They knew then that the young Islamic scholar was not someone to be challenged in the affairs of Islam. They feared that in those cool, darting eyes were lodged dreadful deeds of terror, waiting for the final opportunity to be unleashed, like an atomic bomb waiting to explode. Some of them also feared that a bomb, when it explodes, does not wait for its owner to escape before it performs the duties for which it is made.

  Chief Donald Amechi spoke up. ‘Sheikh Seko, a week from today, Sheikh Kabiru Ibrahim here and Alhaji Damba Tambuwal will contact you. You will receive twenty million naira. You know what to do with it. Evangelist Chuba will commence a West African evangelist mission in two weeks’ time. He will travel along the Trans-Saharan highway on his way back to Nigeria, through the Jibya border. He will hold his final crusade in Katsina State. With him will be the arms that are being held in Mali.’

  ‘How will he transport them to us?’

  ‘Do not worry. Not even the American Marines if they are on the border will bat an eye as his entourage passes through. He is a renowned man of God. Very renowned.’ The Chief put emphasis on ‘very’ to convince the young man that the European arms they had purchased with millions of dollars through the rebels in Mali would arrive safely in their hands in Northern Nigeria.