Satans and Shaitans

by Obinna Udenwe

  It was a rule that two blood relations could not both be members of the Sacred Order of the Universal Forces. But, thanks to Evangelist Chuba’s friendship with Chief Amechi, Simon was a hatchet man for the organization. He received contracts to assassinate those who threatened the existence of the organization in Nigeria, or any of its members.

  The harmattan sun made the air hot. But inside the large library of Chris Chuba’s home it was cool. Chief Donald Amechi and the Evangelist were seated on sofas. They had summoned Simon for an important and urgent assignment.

  The Evangelist was the first to broach the issue.

  ‘Simon, we need your help again. That is why we have invited you here.’

  ‘If it’s an assassination, count me out after the way I was treated the last time, with my name appearing in the papers.’

  ‘Listen, Simon, it happened so quickly. Chief Donald and I were out of the country—’

  ‘Do not tell me that, Chris! You have a lot of friends. Governors, presidential aides, ministers… Is the Chief of Police not under your control? Was he not aware that I was performing a duty for you?’

  The Chief was silent. He knew that they had failed the young man in their last operation, so he wanted the Evangelist to appease his brother.

  ‘It was a member of the Nigerian Intelligence Agency who had been following your activities – he was the one that caused the whole problem. That was why your name was among the suspects. But we took care of it. No one’s mentioned the matter since. The case file was made to disappear. We are sorry,’ Chris Chuba said.

  Simon was silent.

  ‘Look, Simon. That was in the past. We have reorganized now.’

  Simon looked from his brother to the Chief. ‘What is the job this time?’

  The two men looked at each other. Chief Amechi spoke first. ‘This could be dangerous if not well handled. We have a friend who we suspect could turn into a parrot.’ Simon nodded. He watched the Chief – he had always admired his strength and influence. That day, the Chief wore a white gown made of safari and a red cap on his head, signifying his title.

  ‘So who is it?’

  ‘This man’s name is Alhaji Umar Hassan.’ Chief Amechi produced from beside him a thick brown envelope. ‘All you need is in here. Your cheque, his photos, addresses in Abuja and in Sokoto, his vehicle number plate… all the information you need is here.’

  Simon took the envelope and looked into it. He pulled out the cheque.

  ‘Two million naira?’ This target must be a very important person, he thought.

  ‘Yes. You work alone on this. Alhaji Umar is the head of the Nigerian Port Authority. He has security and he is very intelligent. We had a meeting and he walked away from it, he understands the implications of that. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Two million naira is not enough. For the head of the NPA.’

  ‘Simon, nawao. We are in this together,’ the Chief said.

  ‘My target is an important man, Chief.’

  ‘Do the job first, Simon,’ his brother pleaded.

  Chief Amechi stood, signaling that the meeting had come to an end.

  That evening Simon drove back to his base at Awka.

  Donaldo came out from the hut where he painted, his face radiant with joy. He clutched his board under his arm, and his leather bag hung on his shoulder. He passed the Island chapel, which was very close to his hut. It could hold about fifty people, and was built of unplastered mud blocks. The floor was made with hard clay, the traditional way. The roof was finished with thatch, and leaves from nearby gmelina trees covered the floor and the pews.

  The altar was built in the form of a stage, raised off the floor, its walls extending to the roof. The long altar table was polished every Sunday. A tabernacle was fixed to the wall and enclosed with strong metal doors. To the side of the tabernacle was a lamp stand, and when there was a communion at the tabernacle, the lamp was lit. Donaldo would have made the sign of the cross as he passed if he had seen the lamp lit.

  He had asked his father once why the chapel had never been replaced with a modern structure, and he had replied that he wanted to retain the archaic architecture the British missionaries had left behind. After the missionaries had gone the subsequent owners of the Island had always maintained the chapel as it was and just rebuilt the mud walls.

  He walked to the priest’s cottage and smelt the aroma of fish pepper soup. He knew Ite, the priest’s servant, was preparing his master’s favourite meal. He knocked at the oak door and pushed it open.

  ‘Who is that?’ a voice called.

  Donaldo came in and put his art materials by the entrance. The cottage was rarely visited. The Islanders avoided it because they resented the old nagging priest.

  The priest had been reading, The Ritual Circumcision of Ezza People by Rev. Fr. John Okwozey Odeh, and, on seeing Donaldo, he put the book aside.

  ‘Welcome, Naldo. Your face glows. What makes you so happy?’

  ‘Am I? I don’t know. I am making a painting.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘It is called Head on a Basket.’

  Ite entered the room carrying a bowl with bananas and groundnuts, which he set down on the table. Ite was a dapper young man in his early thirties, but still unmarried.

  ‘Tell me about it, son.’ The priest’s voice was husky and it broke from time to time. He had lost a couple of his teeth, which also gave him a slight lisp when he spoke.

  Father Simeon Iwunze had been a psychologist before he entered the priesthood and he claimed he had read about five hundred books on psychology alone. He was the special advisor to the Committee of Bishops in the country and was often consulted by powerful people in the state.

  ‘Head on a Basket, you’d love it if you saw it. It’s a huge painting, the size of your front door. I am painting on wood. It has a small basket and a large female head. There are shadows in the background and the image is well illuminated.’ Donaldo picked up a banana from the bowl and began to eat it.

  Father Simeon had baptized Donaldo. His godfather, Donaldo’s uncle – his mother’s elder brother from Palermo – had told him during his last visit some years back that his mother’s wish had been that he be brought up not by his father, but by the old priest. Christiana Amechi had developed a deep love for Father Simeon, who was like a father to her; whenever she was beaten by her husband, she would run to the cottage for refuge. After Donaldo had to stop going to school when he was twelve, the priest became his teacher, though Donaldo rarely attended his lessons, discouraged by his father who preferred him to focus on his art. As time went on he had avoided the priest. But since he had met Adeline, he felt the need to visit him again.

  They talked about the painting, which Donaldo intended to donate to the Island to be put on display at his favourite restaurant. The priest said it was a good idea.

  Ite brought the fish pepper soup and white agidi on a tray and went back to bring another glass of water. He also brought a bottle of whisky for the priest, which he would drink after his dinner.

  ‘Come to the dining table, Naldo.’

  The priest began to say grace, firstly to himself quietly, before continuing aloud, ‘… bless and sanctify this meal, which we, thy children, are about to take out of the abundance of thy grace, Lord.’ He made a sign of the cross with his right hand, which was wrinkled and trembled slightly.

  ‘This reminds me, Father. Why is it that whenever we want to eat, you say some prayers in silence, even in mass?’ Donaldo served the food.

  Father Simeon was quiet for a while. He drank some water and then said, ‘Quite a number of prayers priests say, especially at mass, began as private prayers.’ He took his plate of agidi and a fork and began to eat. Donaldo ate too.

  When satisfied, the priest sipped his whisky and Donaldo watched as his Adam’s apple jumped up and down. They said nothing to each other until the servant came and cleared the table.

  The old priest began to talk about the origin of the prayers t
hey said in mass. He wanted Donaldo’s mind to always be occupied with the things of God. But the young man’s mind wandered far away – it had always wandered. Before, he used to think deeply about his mother. He had not stopped missing her. But since he had met Adeline, he felt happier, he smiled to himself often, so as the priest talked about mass, Donaldo’s mind was elsewhere. He imagined kissing the lips of the beautiful girl.

  ‘Donaldo. Your mind is not here.’

  ‘Oh, I am tired.’

  ‘You work hard. All the time. You should go home now and sleep. Okay?’

  Donaldo straightened his hair.

  ‘I am fine.’

  ‘And how is your father? Still determined to make you the greatest artist ever?’

  Donaldo groaned. ‘He is well, as always. Attending to some business.’

  ‘Your father…’ Father Simeon said in a whisper, his hand turning his glass of whisky around. ‘Your father is a complex man.’

  Donaldo looked at him.

  ‘Donaldo, there is something that has been worrying me for some time now. Some rumours, not that I give much mind to such talk. But, they say your father is an occultist.’ Donaldo’s eyes widened in surprise. He stared at Father Simeon. For many years he had witnessed his father’s odd behaviour, but he never thought other people had noticed.

  ‘You scare me with statements like that, Father.’

  ‘Do not be scared, son. God watches over you.’

  ‘God is in heaven, Father.’

  ‘Have faith, son. God is not just in heaven. He is here. Over you, beside you, behind you. He is in the space around us. Watching over us. The idea of heaven is to give you a sense that, up there where your eyes cannot reach and your hands cannot touch, there is where God is. But what is the definition of heaven? It is the vacuum. The void.’

  ‘It is a shame God was not here when Christiana needed Him.’

  The priest was taken aback by this statement. Donaldo looked down, sorry for his outburst.

  Father Simeon opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t find the words.

  ‘And what of Satan, Father?’

  ‘Come to the sitting room. I need to relax my back.’ The priest stood and stretched. ‘My boy, the church teaches you that Satan is beneath the earth. As a kid they ask you to march on the earth hard so you can stamp on his head. But son, he is not there. He is on earth, beside you, behind you. He is everywhere around us. He is even human!’

  FOURTEEN

  Tuesday, 23rd February 2010

  The two brothers were inside the International Stadium in Lagos. They were sitting on the plastic seats surrounded by empty rows. They could see the two goalposts and the green field. A few people were jogging round the field.

  Alhaji Umar Hassan turned to look at his younger brother, a man in his mid forties, who was holidng an envelope. Their eyes locked and Malik Hassan said, ‘Is what they plan really jihad?’

  The Alhaji shook his head. ‘Jihad, Malik, means a lot of things. There are three categories of jihad in Islam: jihad of the soul, jihad against Shaitan, and jihad against the infidels.’

  ‘So what they plan could be categorized as jihad against infidels.’

  The older man shook his head. ‘Malik, the world has changed. When jihad was fought during the time of the Prophet, peace be upon him, and after his death when caliphs took over the leadership of Islam, things were different. Islam was a new religion striving for prominence. Remember that back then a religious leader also served as the leader of the people. So the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, was the religious leader as well as the people’s leader… they needed to conquer new territories to expand their reach and win converts to the religion. Things are different now, Malik.’

  ‘Do we as Muslims not need to strive to conquer more territories?’ his brother replied. ‘We need the Islamic caliphate back. Don’t we? I believe that the Islamic world was better off when the caliphate was in existence. Alhaji, for thirteen centuries, the caliphate fused Muslims and Muslim lands as one, politically, economically and spiritually. Ever since the caliphate fell the Islamic world has not been united. But given what is happening around the world, in Africa, in the Middle East and Asia, we may succeed in getting back the caliphate. Who says it cannot be stationed in Nigeria? You never can tell, brother.’

  Alhaji Umar Hassan shook his head – he had heard the same sentiment expressed by many young men recently. ‘That was long ago, Malik. The world has outgrown that. There is the growth of technology, and the forces of economics have spread beyond individual states bound by the same religion or ideology. Besides, many people now do not even want to belong to any faith at all. Do you think it is the will of the Almighty Allah that people should be forced to follow our religion?’

  The young man said nothing.

  ‘One of the Hadiths explains that the Prophet, peace be upon him, when he was returning after a war, had told his companion that they had left the lesser jihad and were returning to the greater jihad. His companion asked which jihad is greater than the war they had just fought and the Prophet, peace be upon him, replied that the jihad against oneself, jihad against Shaitan is the greater jihad.’

  The young man had heard that Hadith before. He was silent. He was a brave man who liked war. He did not like the path his elder brother had chosen.

  ‘What is happening across the world is not drawing people closer to Islam.’ Alhaji Umar shook his head. ‘It pushes them away. The religion of Islam is not under external attack, though some terrorist organizations will make you believe otherwise. The fact that some countries have attacked an Islamic country does not mean every Muslim should take up arms against Christians and non-Muslims. No. I tell you, the Western media totally misuse the word “jihad” to describe suicide bombers or any people striving against the interests of the West. In the past they caused a lot of disaffection among many Muslim countries, and now that some individuals in these countries have turned against the West, and are using violence, Western countries are claiming in their media that these people are fighting in the name of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.’ He looked down and shook his head again, his eyes sad and his heart heavy.

  ‘When I was at university in Zaria, I took part in and led uprisings against the Christians, as you know, brother. I thought I was doing the will of the Almighty,’ Malik said.

  ‘Yes, Malik. But remember, I warned you. Look, do you not have a brain? Do you never wonder what kind of God would command people to kill others? No. Allah is compassionate.’

  Malik stared at his brother. And there was no doubt in his mind that there was fear in his elder brother’s eyes. He wondered why he should be so afraid. He said, ‘I would have been happy to hear of this plan, if it weren’t for what you tell me now.’

  The Alhaji smiled. ‘Malik, do you now do God’s work for Him? Who are you, a mere mortal to know the ways of the Almighty? Leave Him to judge everyone according to His choosing. There is no coercion in the worship of the true God, no coercion at all. The Qur’an says: “There is no compulsion in religion. Verily the right path has become distinct from the wrong path.”’

  ‘Whatever my brother says.’ Malik looked away, and for a while there was silence as the two brothers watched some men who were exercising on the far side of the pitch.

  Alhaji Umar broke the silence. ‘I am going to be assassinated, Malik.’

  Malik turned abruptly and looked at his brother, a sudden sick feeling in his stomach.

  ‘I have no documents to prove all that I have told you, about the terrorism plans. But the men whose names I gave you – you must watch out for them.’

  Malik looked at the envelope in his hand. Inside it were names, phone numbers and contact details, together with photos of Chief Donald Amechi and Sheikh Mohammed Seko. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Insha’Allah, nothing will happen to me. But my heart is filled with fear, Malik. Yet I take solace in the teachings of the Holy Book. It says: “Do men think that
they will be left alone on saying we believe and they will not be tested?” My hope is in the Lord.’

  ‘Then may the will of the Almighty be done.’

  Donaldo was in the sitting room that Tuesday afternoon when his father saw him from the porch and came in. He greatly resembled his handsome father, the only difference being his eye colour, the length of his hair and his accent.

  ‘It’s been a long time, son,’ Chief Amechi greeted him.

  ‘Good day, Chief.’ Donaldo seldom called his father ‘daddy’ or ‘papa’ in his presence.

  They shook hands and the Chief patted Donaldo’s shoulder, saying, ‘Sit down. Do you want a drink?’

  Donaldo remained standing. ‘No. I need sleep.’ He hesitated before saying, ‘This month is the anniversary of my mother’s death.’ He looked at his feet. If there was anything he feared in this world, it was the tall man in his presence.

  Chief Amechi frowned. ‘Ahh! That’s right. I don’t need you reminding me. I miss her too, you know. Don’t look at me like that. Life must go on.’ His father sat on a large sofa. ‘Yes, life must go on – in fact, you need to get your portfolio ready to show it to that company in Italy. I’m leaving tomorrow.’ The bulky man lit a cigar. His expensive robe was radiant in the light spread by the coloured chandeliers.

  As he sat drawing on the cigar and puffing out smoke, he wondered about his son. Many years back, he had discovered that his son had an extraordinary artistic talent, so he encouraged that passion and turned him against everything else. He made sure his son visited no one, had no girlfriends, and attended no parties. He was happy Donaldo did not love women, for he believed that women had destroyed so many great men.

  He knew Donaldo would be a great man and exposing him to the world might destroy that potential. He watched the smoke as it played with the breeze in the room; he watched it as it curled around the only picture of Christiana, which stood on top of the television. Oh how he hated that woman.