Satans and Shaitans

by Obinna Udenwe

  ‘I still don’t believe all that is happening. That Chief Donald’s son could murder my daughter—’

  ‘There are indications, Sir, that he killed his father too,’ Kwame added. Leonard nodded when the Evangelist looked at him.

  ‘What! How?’ the Commissioner asked, astonished.

  ‘We interrogated the madam in charge of the Chief’s house… she said that the Chief died the day his son was summoned home,’ Leonard explained. ‘She said that after the Chief received a visitor, which we believe to be the investigator from Enugu, he summoned his son back home immediately. They sent her upstairs and locked themselves inside the library where they had a long, bitter argument. She heard the Chief accuse his son of killing Adeline, your daughter, Sir.’

  The Evangelist’s eyes darted round the room. He undid his collar button with shaking hands.

  ‘But why would he kill Adeline?’ he asked.

  ‘Because they were lovers, and it seemed his father did not approve of the relationship. He feared it might ruin his son’s future.’

  ‘His son’s future! His backwards son who can only draw? What about my daughter?’ the Evangelist shouted, spittle flying from his lips. ‘He defiled her! She was a good girl, a decent girl, his backwards son turned her to evil. And then he stole her from me.’ His face was ashen. Guilt, anger and disbelief were running through his veins. ‘I want that bastard arrested with immediate effect. He will pay for all his crimes.’ He turned and, without saying goodbye, walked towards the door. The Commissioner followed.

  At the Commissioner’s car, the two men faced each other. They were silent for a while before the Police Chief placed his hand on the Evangelist’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t break down, my friend… this is temptation. I will do everything within my powers to bring this boy to book.’

  ‘I have already brought one to book myself.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The investigator. I will do it again,’ the Evangelist said and leaned forward. ‘Watch my back.’ He grimaced as he said this. The other man nodded and got into his car.

  Just then, Leonard rushed out from the house and waved at the Commissioner to stop. He saluted as the car window wound down.

  ‘Pardon my manners, Sir! But I just got a message. There is another body, Sir!’

  Kwame, Leonard, the Commissioner and his aides reached the priest’s cottage at the same time as police officers were warding off the Islanders who had gathered there. More police vans began to appear. The Bishop and two other priests arrived at the scene. The Bishop’s secretary was being interviewed by Leonard’s assistant.

  The priests and the officers were allowed to enter the cottage. Inside they saw the body of Father Simeon dangling like a punch bag. His cassock was sparkling white and almost covered his feet, his arms were by his side and there was foam around his mouth. The priests made the sign of the cross and the Bishop said some prayers of forgiveness for the soul of the deceased. He wondered as he said the prayers why the priest would take his own life. Didn’t he know it is a sin? Didn’t he know he would go to hell? But a letter found on the floor answered it all.

  I couldn’t save Donaldo. I failed Christiana.

  I failed God, and I have failed myself.

  How will I be able to explain to God that the child under my tutelage buried a dead body in his holy sanctuary?

  FORTY-SEVEN

  In his new camp, Sheikh Mohammed Seko had just finished the Magrib Salat with his men. It was past 7pm. Then he received an unexpected visitor. The visitor wore the gibba, quftan and the white turban of a Sheikh, while Sheikh Seko was dressed in his gallabiya. A transistor radio sat on the mat beside him. The visitor had prayer beads in his hand and his fingers worked on them. He had come with three other people.

  ‘It is an honour that you visit us here!’

  ‘The honour is mine that you do the work of Allah!’

  ‘As-Salamu ‘alaykum, Sheikh Ibrahim.’

  ‘May the peace remain with you. And guide your path, my son. You make me proud.’

  ‘We have just finished the Salat. Please come and sit. They will get you some fresh milk.’ The elderly man and his companions followed him to the mat and they all sat down.

  ‘You bring them here, Ustaz?’ Sheikh Seko asked.

  ‘Are they not friends?’

  ‘They are. I am grateful that people of such high status should seek us in this camp. But here we are trained to trust only our brothers.’

  Dr Bode Clark responded, ‘And what status is greater than that which you possess, my friend, yet you live here. Because of your love for your religion. We are both your brothers and your friends.’

  Sheikh Seko knew in his heart that Dr Clark didn’t care if he was fighting because of his love for Islam or not.

  ‘I am saddened by the news of the Chief,’ he said.

  ‘We all are. His work will not die. His benevolence lives forever,’ Alhaja Amina Zungeru said. She wore a glistening long robe of silk that swept the dust as she walked. There were bangles of gold on her neck and her arms and in her nose she wore a golden ring. When she talked a gold tooth glittered in her mouth. She was an extremely beautiful woman and highly educated.

  Sheikh Seko ordered his men to bring some fresh milk. They discussed only mundane issues in the presence of Seko’s men. When they finished their milk, which Dr Clark and the other man who was a State Governor found very tasty and rich, Seko told his men to leave, and they entered into the main discussion, their voices low.

  ‘Sheikh, we commiserate with you on the death of your deputy, Abouzeid,’ the Governor said. ‘May God reward his soul for his efforts on earth.’

  ‘It is the will of Allah,’ he said, with a wave of his hand. ‘I hear that it is the Chief’s son who murdered him?’

  ‘That is likely to be the truth.’

  ‘He has a punishment. And that is death. An eye for an eye!’

  The men present knew then that he had loved the Chief deeply.

  ‘Sheikh, we are planning to impeach the President,’ Dr Clark told him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He is not one of us,’ the Governor said.

  Alhaja Zungeru added, ‘He does not support this cause, even though he is a Muslim.’

  Sheikh Seko thought for some time and then said, ‘But he is a Northerner. Is it not better to have a son who is troublesome than to have none at all?’

  ‘The paramount thing is the cause. The jihad,’ Sheikh Kabiru Ibrahim replied. ‘The President is not a true Muslim if he fights against our cause.’

  Sheikh Seko looked up to the sky. ‘What must we do, then?’

  ‘We go to war!’ Dr Clark responded, a little too eagerly.

  ‘Hmmn, well said, but this war, will it be in the North or in the South, my friend?’

  Dr Clark was silent for a while. He had not expected this question. Why was Sheikh Seko challenging him like this? Perhaps the death of the Chief and his deputy had affected his reasoning.

  ‘Your tone worries me, Sheikh, are you diverting from the cause?’

  Sheikh Seko shifted himself, placing his rifle on his lap.

  ‘What is the cause, Dr Clark?’

  The men exchanged glances. Sheikh Ibrahim came to their rescue. ‘Haba, Seko. What is wrong with you? We started this. All of us. Have you forgotten Kano? I saw you then, as a young student. I knew that you were destined to fight for Islam. I could not be of much help. But these men. They came and blessed your dreams.’

  Sheikh Seko rubbed his palm on his long beard. He said to them with disdain, ‘My friends, I am destined to fight for my people. For my religion. For God. You see these men here?’ He looked around the camp and they all turned and looked around with him. There were men scattered about carrying Kalashnikovs. ‘These men have left their families to fight for the cause. They have no mothers now. Fathers, wives, sons or daughters. They are here not because my friends in the South want a change of government. Or because my friends from the North wa
nt to gain power. They are here because they believe in the Holy Book, and because the true religion cannot exist alongside that which is barbaric and evil.’ He paused, and drank from his water bottle. ‘I was born to do what I am doing now. Abouzeid and I. When I started the intifada in Kano, I did it with no funds, no arms. But people listened to my voice. They did my bidding. Allah has used you as a means for us to do greater work. But we abhor your intentions. They are evil in His sight, for He is all seeing and all knowing.’

  They stared at him in wonder and fear. Sheikh Ibrahim’s mouth was open in surprise. Dr Clark wished that Chief Donald Amechi was still alive. It was Alhaja Amina who dared to speak, ‘Sheikh Seko, it seems you are beginning to follow your own sermons. Have you forgetten all our plans, our intentions?’

  He turned to her. ‘And you, Alhaja. You have wealth and glamour. You wear a gold tooth. But your fellow women groan with hunger. What do you seek in a foreign land?’

  Alhaja Amina Zungeru put her hand on her chest. ‘Haa, my Sheikh. Haba. Why do you make my heart ache? Have I not been useful? And in my own way do the work of the Almighty? Was I not the one who connected JMJ to the other organizations in Bangladesh, Afghanistan, Pakistan and Somalia? Even in—’

  He raised his hand to stop her, then stood, indicating an end to the meeting. They stood too, wearily; their feet felt like they had been wearing heavy boots. It dawned on them then that it was easier to give water to a monkey, but difficult to collect back your cup.

  Professor Yerima Musa sat with the President in his private study in the presidential villa. He told him about the terrorism plot – he did not mention the name of the Sacred Order nor the members, but the information he gave the President was overwhelming. He told the President that to survive impeachment he needed to assure the Members of Parliament that he was on top of the security situation.

  The President had been shocked, if not completely surprised. He realized how little he knew of what was happening in his country, and realized then that it was time to use the attack on the Centre for Islamic Knowledge to his advantage. Professor Musa gave him the names of the leader of Jama’atul al-Mujahideen Jihad, Sheikh Mohammed Seko, the man who had built the Centre for Islamic Knowledge, and other leaders. He would address the country first thing in the morning and expose Seko as a traitor to his country and to his religion. All Northern and Muslim members of the House of Representatives would be summoned for an emergency meeting with the President after the broadcast.

  Professor Musa was delighted with himself for what he had done. After all, was he not a Muslim? Had he not an obligation to protect his Muslim brother, the President? He had seen what Seko and the other Northern members had not – that in the coming election and in subsequent ones, it would be an uphill task for a Muslim or a Northerner to rule Nigeria again. He knew the Southerners had no interest in allowing Muslim rule in the North; with JMJ they would destroy the Islamic community in Nigeria, they would tarnish the name of the faith.

  However, it was not just dissatisfaction with the plot which had prompted him to betray the Brotherhood – he was disappointed that the Sacred Order of the Universal Forces had appointed Dr Bode Clark as the new Sacred Lord and Grandmaster of the Sacred Order in Nigeria after the death of Chief Amechi. Dr Clark might be the richest man in Africa, but he lacked the undaunted temerity and ruthlessness of the Chief. Professor Yerima knew that the impeachment of the President of Nigeria would have been easy if Chief Amechi were still alive, but Dr Clark would not be able to control Seko and his men.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Friday, 21st May 2010

  Miss Spencer was in the kitchen when the Evangelist came in, dressed in blue trousers and a shirt. He dropped the Bible he was carrying on the kitchen work surface and said, ‘I trusted you, Carol. Why did you allow Adeline to go out with that boy?’

  Miss Spencer turned, but couldn’t look at him so she stared at the floor. ‘I am very sorry, Sir. I am so sorry. I loved Adeline like my own child. Perhaps more than I love my own daughter, Mary. Adeline was so happy with him. She made me swear not to tell anyone… to respect her wishes I hid the information from you… from the police. How could I have known?’ She raised her face and their eyes met. Everything was in the open now and Miss Spencer had no reason to hide anything from her boss any more.

  ‘They are looking for him in Port Harcourt. He should be arrested today.’

  Miss Spencer had mixed feelings. She still couldn’t believe that Donaldo had murdered Adeline.

  ‘It still amazes me. My heart is heavy. Adeline was so good to him. She loved him.’ She turned and began to cut some vegetables with a knife.

  Miss Spencer wondered what the Evangelist was lingering in the kitchen for. She turned round to find the Evangelist close to her, looking into her eyes.

  ‘Carol,’ he whispered. ‘I need you now.’

  Miss Spencer found the Evangelist’s hand on her shoulder.

  ‘No. No—’

  ‘But you were once mine—’

  ‘That, Sir, was a long time ago. You have a family now… please leave, Sir.’

  ‘Family? I don’t have a family.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir? You have Madam.’

  ‘I have always loved you, Carol. I want us to rekindle what we had back then in Cameroon, before you came here.’

  Miss Spencer shifted away from him. ‘Sir, that can’t be… what are you saying? We were young then… you were unmarried.’

  ‘Then why did you come to Nigeria in search of me?’

  ‘I loved you then… I couldn’t do anything without you. I thought if I found you I could be your wife. But… but when I came back you had a wife and a lovely daughter. I couldn’t bring you sadness.’

  ‘I do not have a daughter any more.’

  ‘But you have Madam. You can still make another baby—’

  ‘Carol, she does not have a womb any more.’

  ‘Please, shut up!’ Miss Spencer was crying.

  ‘I said, the mother of the brat who posed for portraits – stark naked – has no womb!’

  ‘Please stop!’

  The Evangelist suddenly grabbed Miss Spencer. He kissed her hard on the mouth, but she pushed him away.

  ‘You are insane!’

  Mrs Chuba burst into the kitchen. ‘So you two have been carrying on behind my back!’ she screamed.

  ‘No. No, Ma. It was years ago, when he was a student in Yaoundé.’ Miss Spencer tried to move towards her madam.

  ‘Liar!’ Mrs Chuba yelled, and slapped Miss Spencer across the face.

  Evangelist Chuba grabbed his wife away from Miss Spencer, standing between the two women. It was all the confirmation his wife needed.

  In a fit of rage Mrs Chuba lunged at her husband and grabbed his tie to strangle him. He fell against the kitchen cabinet and she used her nails to design a tattoo on his face while he struggled to breathe.

  ‘You are a devil! Devil! Devil!’ she was screaming. ‘You made me have that hysterectomy!’

  Miss Spencer ran to the door, whimpering. Her hands were clasped on her head. She marvelled at where the woman got the audacity and strength to fight the Evangelist.

  Miss Spencer was in a dilemma, torn between running out of the kitchen and separating the fighting couple. When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she tried to pull her madam off her husband but was thrown back. It was the chance the Evangelist needed to escape, and when his wife tried to grab him again he flung her away. Mrs Chuba fell, hitting her head on the sharp corner of the marble worktop, then flopped down to the floor like a rag doll.

  Miss Spencer could not believe her eyes at the scene she had just witnessed. She watched Mrs Chuba as blood began to seep from the wound in her head.

  The Evangelist was staring at the dead woman, his eyes bulging wide. Confusion spread across his face, then panic. He began to pace, to flap himself, suddenly hot, his chest constricted. What had he done? How could he ever have killed his wife? He looked at Miss Spencer who stoo
d crying, shocked, looking at the woman lying on the floor. And he knew, just then, that the Sacred Order had made him do it. The sacrifice had been delayed.

  ‘Carol, it wasn’t my fault, it was an accident, you saw…’

  Miss Spencer looked up at him in terror, as though she had only just registered what had happened. Then in a moment of pure horror she covered her face with her hands and screamed, a guttural, bestial cry, but there was no other person in the large house aside the Evangelist and herself.

  Jama’atul al-Mujahideen Jihad had no leader other than Sheikh Mohammed Seko and some foreign leaders of other organizations that gave them support.

  The Sheikh addressed his men. ‘We have been very victorious in our jihad. Alhamdulillah! It is a sign that the Almighty is our strength. A sign that He is with us. We have lost men in battle, but these men, I tell you, recline today on fine couches in paradise, rejoicing. They are awaiting our arrival soon to join them. Our fight is against the corrupt, evil society. We fight against a government, corrupt and evil, devilish and deceitful. Today, the people of Allah in this country are beggars and live in penury, while a very few in Government live in superfluous wealth and abundance. This is not the kind of society the Almighty envisaged for the people that He loves. And this is what we must fight till the last drop of our blood is spilt. This fight extends not just against the Government but against the constitution of this Government. Against the people who adhere to this constitution, and against the infidels who have rejected the way of Islam!’

  After his speech, over three thousand men were given funds for the journey to Southern Nigeria, as sleepers, awaiting orders from their Sheikh. While in the South they were enjoined to work as shoe menders, kiosk traders, nail clippers, suya traders, and wanderers with no job who would do whatever came their way, like trench excavators, well diggers and watchmen at offices and homes of wealthy men. They would live in the communities reserved for Muslims, awaiting orders. Awaiting the day the intifada would start.