by Yas Niger
Pam nodded yes.
“Well, when I am at work, all our computers are Ubuntu instead of Mac or Windows. The security community knows how Ubuntu works but no one knows how the Mac or Windows works so we don't use it so that we don't end up giving sensitive information about the people and government of Nameless to other foreign governments. But on my personal time, I prefer using Tails as it makes the computer forget everything after I shut down.
"For our official communication, we use PGP on all our emails and instead of using yahoo and google we use riseup.net while waiting for the politicians in Nameless to pay for our own to be locally hosted internet service. You know how politicians take time before they release the funds for anything ba?' He asked me jokingly.
“For quick discussions with other agents on our mobile, we use an app called redphone for calls and textsecure for texts”
“So that means everyone use android in the NSA?” Pam quickly asked.
“No. Redphone and textsecure are called silentphone and silent text on the apple store.” Yaro said with a smile.
“Does that mean NSA doesn't use blackberry or nokia anymore?”
“No. All official phones and devices are android phones that we have rooted. We ensure that apps like orweb, orbot, textsecure, chatsecure, jitsi and search engines like duckduckgo have replaced google on those phones." Yaro finished.
Pam racked his brain to see if he had any more questions. But before he could speak again, Yaro raised his hand and stopped him.
“I know you want to hear more but that is as much as I can share with you. The rest of the stuff you are already doing as we have seen that you now avoid using internet explorer, safari or chrome."
“Yeah. I use the Tor browser, firefox or chromium as long as ghostery, adblock plus, do not track me, https everywhere and click & clean are activated on the add ons.” Pam agreed.
“I want to thank you for telling me all these. I know you usually don't share trade secrets with other people outside your field. I just wish I knew how I could help. Goguwa has nothing to do with me.”
“Well we imagine he wants to see how he can expoilt your dislike for our agency but we will see what he wants when he finally makes contact with you. I assume you know what an E911 is?”
“Not really.” Pam said.
“Well it is a device that allows us to activate the camera and the microphone on your phone remotely. Courtesy demands that I should make you aware that we will be doing that often with you so don't be surprised if your phone is constantly drained of battery.”
Pam looked at him in suprise. This was news to him. He took out his phone from his breast pocket and looked at it as he asked, “Would I know when you are listening to my conversation?”
“No you wouldn't. I suggest you keep your phone in another room when you are having a conversation with Lyop.” He said. Finally mentioning Pam's girlfriend and tacticly telling him that they had been listening to him for awhile.
Pam acknowledged the gesture and tried not to show his annoyance at such blatant disregard for his privacy. He wondered what else they had been doing and how long it had been going on.
“Oh one last thing.” Yaro said as he turned to restart the car. “When my office says 'Citizens that have nothing wrong, have nothing to fear,' remind the public that the onus is not on citizens to prove they were not doing anything wrong.”
For the second time that day, Pam was very surprised. “Are you giving me tips on how to fight your agency?”
“Well I am a citizen first before an agent of the NSA. I want justice but I also want to see that it is not abused. That can only be achieved if citizens understand privacy and have an honest debate and pass stringent laws to protect it. The people of nameless might not have much to hide but it doesn't mean they have everything to share.” Yaro said as a parting shot. “I hope we understand each other better now?” Pam smiled and nodded. Suddenly he realized circumstances being different, he could really get along with Yaro and admire him, aside from his loathsome job.
Yaro started the taxi and drove away as Pam entered the gate and headed for his front door. His arms were laden with the bags he had with him. He doubted if Lyop would believe him when she gets home and he told her what happened. He also wondered if he would ever be able to look at another taxi cab without wondering who was in it and what they could do remotely. He shook his head of that thought and headed up the short stairs to his front door. He was genuinely looking forward to being contacted by Goguwa. At least they could trap him and put an end to his reign of terror. It sounded simple enough.
Pam inserted his key and opened the front door, He stepped into his sitting room and sitted in his favorite armchair was the heavily bearded Goguwa, already here to make contact. Pam swallowed and stood speechless. Suddenly, it didn't sound simple any longer. He couldn't remember returning his phone back into his breast pocket.
________________________________
Married Deities
Oluoma looked at herself in the mirror admiring herself. ‘This is truly God’s work, his very good work.” She looked at the half-dimple smothered in makeup and nodded in approval.
Reducing the volume on the redition of 'Jesus is the answer for the world today' playing on their bedroom radio, Oluoma briefly recited part of the speech she would give at the proposed thanksgiving ceremony, when she became a member of the House of Representatives.
The elections, to her mind, were a foregone conclusion, only the devil could stop her now. Didn‘t The Bible say Satan was under her feet? She murmured “Satan don fall for ground,” as she struggled with the zipper on the back of her dress. Her glee froze as she realized her arms were stressed in the two minutes they had been sent to the back of the blouse.
“I need to lose weight ooh” she said out loud, ‘this is definitely not the life of a baby girl." just then she sounded like her daughter Chiamaka who always used that phrase to get out of chores she didn‘t want to do. Was there anything Chiamaka liked to do? Not even lectures in Nameless' nearby private University appealed to her, the spoilt girl.
Pastor Ekwueme tickled her from behind, amusing and annoying Oluoma at the same time. How didn‘t she hear him enter the room?
“Dee, you know I have told you I don’t like this thing you always do, eh. What if I had fallen down?”
He ignored her mock anger. ‘Then I would have fallen with you, my love. We would have descended into the depths of love, eeh Omalicha m… Egovin nwa… Ada Ada mmadu!”
Oluoma smiled. After all, she was better than Odinkenma whose husband paid her no compliments.
“Have the last guests gone?” Oluoma was tired of smiling at people, tired of catching a glimpse of people stuffing their bags and purses with fried meat and canned drinks.
“Yes they have gone. The stewards are stacking up the chairs outside already, but the canopy people will come tomorrow. Incompetent buffoons. First they came late to set up and now say they can’t stay to clear the canopies as agreed because they close early on Sundays.”
“No problem as long as they clear them early tomorrow. I‘m not comfortable with us parking our cars outside.” She said. Oluoma was done changing into her nightgown and flicked the facewipe in her hand into the bin. She opened the bedroom door. “Let me check on the children," she shut the door behind her.
***
"Dee biko, I thought you said you were tired. I”m tired too."
Oluoma resented this habit her husband had of waking her up in the middle of the night to do “God’s work”, as he called it. She was annoyed at his insensitivity, not at all impressed by his determination to keep up the early morning ritual come rain or shine. For God’s sake, Sunday had been super busy. From playing the dutiful pastor's wife and mother at the two services in church that morning, it was home to boss the caterers and event planner for the celebration her husband insisted they have. What was the celebration even about? The birth of their 4th son and sixth child. It i
nvolved the customary slaughtering of a cow, and her husband had taken it up a few notches by buying her that gold jewelry set she eyed covetously the last time they were on holiday, not like she didn’t deserve it, and more.
She was honestly tired of giving birth; she was sick and even more tired of being pregnant. She was unhappy with her body, constantly afraid her husband‘s eyes would stray to figures slimmer and still better put together than hers.
However tonight she was so angry she didn’t care if he went to a cat or dog to satisfy his urges, she just wanted to sleep, to be left alone.
Ekwueme's hand fell from Oluoma's rounded shoulder. “I don’t know why you always do this, Oluoma, doesn’t The Bible say not to deny your spouse? Did you not see it there that your body is mine and vice versa? Why are you allowing the devil to use you? Why?”
"Ekwueme biko, biko, biko." Oluoma sat up on the bed, she glared at her husband. "Stop right there with all the scriptures please. Do you want to kill me? I've been on my feet since 4am yesterday, catering to you and the children, supervising caterers and others for the reception, and breastfeeding a two-week-old. And you know my body has not healed yet. When did I go to have the stitches removed for gods sake? This thing of waking me up every early morning has to stop!"
"Blood of Jesus! Oluoma! Are you talking to me like this? When did you start talking to me like this? Am I the one you're talking to like this Oluoma?" Pastor Ekwueme Nwabuike was furious, his nostrils flared and he suddenly felt so hot despite the air conditioning. He blamed himself for allowing her to follow this politics thing; perhaps she now felt she was the man in their relationship. He stood up, manhood and ego now in urgent need of inflation.
"Ekwueme.” Oluoma‘s voice was as tired as her body, “I am only trying to say I'm tired, very tired. You know we have a meeting tomorrow I can’t miss because elections are close by. I am truly tired, body, mind and spirit. What is the point if I don’t respond eeh? What if I get pregnant again eeh? With a body that has not healed, it would kill me, Dee. Do you want to kill me?“
“Shut up Oluoma, shut up. You are now bringing down your voice after shouting at me abi? What kind of foolish question is that? You‘re asking if I want to kill you. Why would I want to do that? A whole man of God? Wait, what is even wrong with getting pregnant? So you want to us disobey God‘s mandate eh kwa?”
Anger at his words drove her tiredness away and launched Oluoma to her feet by this time. If she was not going to sleep, her husband would get the full extent of her, minus her body of course.
“Ekwueme, God wants us to do a lot of things, not only multiply and replenish the earth. What happened to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and do good to our neighbors and enemies? Did The Bible say you should kill your wife with sex? Did it? Ngwa did it?“
Oluoma’s voice was laced with a double scoop of sarcasm and derision, and so she was a little puzzled when her husband burst into laughter. Mock laughter, but laughter nonetheless.
Then it got worse, he actually started clapping. Oluoma braced herself, but it was his words that hit her. “See who is talking about feeding the poor, and clothing the naked. Even if I am blind, deaf and dumb, we both know you have squandered at least 70% of the appropriation your office has received. Is it 70% or is it everything sef?” Ekweme wouldn't let Oluoma get in another word until he was finished. “Yet you can open your dirty mouth and tell me about what God said, onye oshi di ka gi! Is it the Women‘s Empowerment Project Purse, or the Community Development Initiative? Do you not remember you told me how you misappropriated the money or are you just stupid?“
“Don’t call me names Ekwueme, don’t try it!" Oluoma wagged her finger at her husband in warning. "Saint Ekwueme talking about a wife that steals. Did you not accept our tithes and offerings with open hands? Did you not trouble us to make donations after donations? Ehn, answer me! To chair the church harvest, to donate over and over again to all the endless building projects? The money was not stolen then abi? Useless man, pot calling kettle black! All of this because of sex? Come and have sex now, come! Come and climb on top of me by force, see if I won’t use this my fat to press the air out of your body, useless man. Meanwhile, we are planning for your private jet o." Her cruel hiss would put serpents to shame.
Ekweme was suddenly disgusted, first at how fat his wife was, and at himself for deceiving her. Clearly the gloves were off and he had never been one for a conflict. The early years of their marriage had showed him how awful his wife could be when she was provoked, and this sounded like one of those times, when they lived from hand to mouth. With more affluent years, she had become less feisty. Now it looked like the volcano in her soul had not gone extinct after all, it had merely been dormant. Tonight, it had erupted in its true nature and blasphemous molten magma spew out of her fat gut. Shameless cow.
“Oluoma go and sleep, I don’t want to do again, since you don’t have the fear of God, since you tore out the page in your Bible where God said women should submit to their men, since you cannot accord me the respect I deserve as a man of God, then biko, take your body and go, I will go downstairs and spend some time in prayer.” Ekweme headed for the door, tired. Oluoma was just getting started though, and her sulphur-ridden words followed his every step.
“Pray ooh, better pray well! Ask God for deliverance from the lusts of the flesh! Ask God to help you remove the trailer in your eye before you look at the bicycle in your wife’s eye, inugo!” She rushed her words, determined he would hear everything.
Oluoma followed closely behind Ekweme, she would have the last word. “No come and do! Come and have sex, Pastor Ekwueme the sex machine. You‘re calling me a thief, is it not the money I brought that ensured you still have a church? Come and do ooh, come and have sex!"
Ekweme banged the door; stung, humiliated and convinced his wife had to leave politics. But if his God had indeed enabled him with the gift of prophesy like he had led his congregation to believe, he would have known that it had always been out of his hands.
_______________________________
And the Eight Writers Rested
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Biography: Writers
Azeenarh Mohammed wears many hats. A project manager most of the time, a digital security trainer, queer advocate, feminist, brooding activist, wannabe hacker the rest of the time. She has found the sports that she loves and is trying very hard to let those sports kill her. When not arguing that the future will be made up of bikes, trains and teleportation, she can be found walking on the wrong side of the street while explaining for the umpteenth time why she does not answer phone calls.
Chioma Agwuegbo is a social media strategist. Her background is in radio and radio drama production, first for Aso Radio and Television Services, and then for the BBC Media Action, both in Abuja. She set up CC Consulting Services after obtaining a Masters Degree in Social Media from Birmingham City University, and has a growing portfolio of clients including the National Broadcasting Commission (NBC), the Nigerian Electricity Regulatory Commission (NERC), MTV Staying Alive Foundation (Shuga), etc. She is also Editor of YNaija2015, a site strictly dedicated to political news and analysis in a language young people understand.
Elnathan John is a full time writer who trained as a lawyer in Nigeria. His writing has been published in Per Contra, ZAM Magazine, Evergreen Review, Sentinel Nigeria, Chimurenga's The Chronic and The Caine Prize for African Writing anthology 2013 and 2014. He writes political satire for which he hopes to someday get arrested and famous. He also teaches writing. Although he has tried very hard, he has never won anything. He doesn't like mentioning it, but in 2013, he was shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Writing, for a story many people did not like. He still wonders if it was accidental but likes the acclaim this has given him globally. He loves Twitter. One day, he will quit drinking. He is unmarried and currently attempting to lose weight. He is planning his mid-life crisis to include contemplating a tattoo a
nd a vasectomy.
Fola Lawal is a project coordinator, environmental enthusiast, charity worker, and a social media brand-integrator for companies and individuals. Quite often, she helps writers write more profitably. These days, Fola divides her energy between managing her book-publishing business and encouraging her social media fans to save the world, one tweet at a time.
Kalu A. Aja is husband to Oma, son, father to ‘the boys’ and financial planner during the day. Kalu describes himself as a fiscal conservative with a strong belief in limited governments. Kalu writes part time on issues to do with governance, fiscal federalism and the efficacy of the Nigerian federation, and also acts as a life coach to many. An alumni of the Lagos Business School and the New York Institute of Finance, he is a firm believer that Enyimba Football Club of Aba, Nigeria is the best football club in the world.
Pearl Osibu is a feminist, humanist, Facebook trouble maker, blog warrior, saint of peace. Pearl writes by night- fiction, nonfiction, social commentary, TV and film. You can her work on https://pearlosibu.wordpress.com/ (Fifty Shades of me), https://www.sabinews.com/category/columnists/pearls-of-wisdom-with-pearl/ and Mnet/Multichoice Tinsel. By night, she designs and sews clothes. Yeah, she’s multi-talented like that. You want to be on her good side. On twitter she is @pearlosibu where you wish she shared her nudes. She doesn't. Oops
Rafeeat Aliyu likes to call herself a writer. She blogs and tweets as Eccentric Yoruba and more recently Cosmic Yoruba. Under that handle she writes for ThisisAfrica.me and HOLAAfrica. She is also a contributor to Muslimah Media Watch and Afrimind. She is a big fan of speculative fiction and horror and her short story Ofe! is published in the AfroSF anthology. She promises to have more speculative fiction available in the future. When she is not writing, she enjoys reading about gender and sexuality in West African histories, listening to kizomba, folk metal and Afro-house music, watching Japanese dramas and enjoying African cuisine. Few things make Rafeeat as happy as reading well-written and researched African historical fiction.