Lagoon

by Nnedi Okorafor

Chris kept his distance, talking only to the Nollywood woman who called herself Stella Iboyi. And the only reason he talked to her was because she wouldn’t leave him alone. After a while, his blood pressure began to rise.

  “Why did you people allow your roads to be so dangerous?” Stella asked.

  “We didn’t ‘allow’ it,” he said. “Our government—”

  “Your wife’s father was eaten by the road monster, though. You never went to the road and asked it to give her father his life back.”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense!” he snapped. “When a man dies, he goes to heaven or hell. He doesn’t . . .” He frowned. “Her father was hit by a truck. He wasn’t eaten by a road.”

  The television, his mobile screen, and his mother’s computer all came on at the same time. On their screens was the president. Everyone in the room grew quiet. Chris watched on his phone, everyone else watched on his mother’s most prized possession—the wide-screen television. Adaora had bought it for her last year when his mother had broken her ankle and had to stay in the house for three weeks.

  When he heard his wife’s name mentioned, Chris felt his heart flip. Then a surprising emotion washed over him. He was proud, deeply proud. His witch of a wife was part of something that was going to be grand.

  “In the name of Jesus,” he whispered.

  * * * *

  In the city of Accra, Ghana, several people in a street market had stopped walking. They were looking at their mobiles. The sun was setting in a beautiful display of orange, pink, and indigo but few noticed. Music drifted from the MP3 player of a man selling women’s dresses, then it stopped and began playing the voice of Nigeria’s president.

  A woman who’d been walking down the middle of the busy dirt road that passed through the market wanted to throw her mobile phone away. She’d never liked mobile phones. She knew it sounded crazy, but she had always been sure that they could do more than anyone let on. She had a feeling that they could watch you. That they could speak to you at night when you were asleep and brainwash you. “Maybe this is why Ghana is still the way it is,” she’d proclaim. “Because we all use phones and they all control us.”

  Nevertheless, her boyfriend insisted she carry one. She’d only agreed because he was a sweet, sweet man and she liked the way he spoke Ewe, the language of her mother, whom she missed very much. She’d done exactly what he asked her to do, which was to carry the phone. When he called she answered, but that was as far as it went. She never used it otherwise. She wrapped it in tinfoil and kept it deep in her purse where it wouldn’t harm her.

  She’d never set her phone to vibrate, but vibrate and vibrate it did as she walked through the market. Finally, she brought the thing out and unwrapped it. It was talking. And it was showing the Nigerian president. It wasn’t made to do any such thing! Her boyfriend had assured her. And what the Nigerian president was saying made her stop and stand still for many minutes. When he finished talking, he disappeared from her phone’s tiny screen and there was the date and time again. Like normal.

  She frowned, her nostrils flaring. She squeezed the phone. Then she wrapped it in tinfoil and put it back in her purse. She started walking very fast, wanting to get home to check the news on her boyfriend’s computer. For the first time since the Internet and mobile phones had come to Ghana, she wasn’t afraid.

  * * * *

  A young man named Waydeep Kwesi slung a plastic bag over his shoulder as he stepped out of the fast-walking woman’s way. He watched her pass and then looked around. He didn’t have a mobile phone, and he hadn’t been near any sort of screen in the last few minutes. He was more interested in the people around him, anyway. His belly growled. He reached into his bag and brought out one of the smaller garden eggs he’d just purchased. He’d been hungry for them for hours.

  No one noticed as he bit into it like it was the sweetest mango and continued on his way.

  CHAPTER 55

  GOOD JOURNALISM IS NOT DEAD

  Femi didn’t think he’d ever see his Honda Civic again. He sat in the gray, well-worn driver’s seat and sighed deeply. His car smelled faintly like his girlfriend’s perfume. Laughing, he’d sprayed the driver’s seat just before he left their apartment two days prior.

  “God, that seems so long ago,” he whispered. He laughed. He was actually in his car again. They’d let him go. But he was planning to return to the president as soon as they called him. He took another breath and looked around. He was parked close enough to Bar Beach to see the water . . . and the part of the shape-shifting alien ship that hovered above the water, far out from shore. A few cars passed on the street, and there were one or two people on the beach but no one nearby. Good, he thought.

  He reached over to the passenger seat and undid the latch underneath. Then he flipped the passenger seat open. Quickly, from among various cables, chargers, batteries, SIM cards, and mobile phones, he removed his car charger and his laptop. He’d owned this car for six years. He had bought a Honda for more than its plain, unassuming look. Hondas lasted. Even on the roads of Nigeria. And for this reason, he’d spent thousands of naira to have this secret hiding place custom-made for his car. He kept absolutely nothing else inside it. This kept him mobile. A journalist needed to be mobile.

  He plugged his phone into his car charger, placed it on the armrest, and then opened his laptop. Its background was black, and there was only one icon on the screen. He kept all his links and folders inside and then opened his browser.

  When he checked his YouTube account, his heart began to pound like crazy. The footage he’d posted of Agu, Adaora, and Anthony saving him, the guards, the president, and one of his First Ladies on that boat had already gotten over three million hits. He’d named it ‘‘The President of Nigeria Saved by Witches and Warlocks!’’ That title, coupled with his reputation as a respected journalist who’d once worked as a CNN correspondent, plus his substantial following, might have gotten the ball rolling.

  “Okay, Femi,” he whispered, opening his laptop wider. “This is happening. So make it happen.”

  His inbox had over a thousand messages. Many were from Nigerians threatening to kill him for involving himself in witchcraft. Some were from Nigerians who called him a disgrace to journalism. The majority were from Lagosians asking him to please report more. He spotted several e-mails from newspapers around the world demanding more news. And there were some e-mails that accused Nigeria of being too backward, undeserving of an alien visitation.

  He found at least ten from news services including CNN, Fox News, the BBC, the Guardian, Reuters, the Associated Press, and Al Jazeera.

  He read and then closed all of these and clicked on the one from the Nigerian Times. This one wasn’t asking to buy his story. It was his editor asking where he was. He typed a quick response: “I’m fine. I’ll have a story to you soon. Watch your inbox.” He paused. He still had the footage from Tin Can Island where the one called Ayodele had sacrificed herself. He clearly understood that this was what she’d done. He’d inhaled the fog like everyone else, and he’d immediately felt a shift. In perspective; in memory. He’d only smoked weed once in his life, when he was seventeen. Within minutes he’d felt everything around him open up like a flower. He’d been horrified by the experience and never gone near the stuff again. This was how the perspective shift had felt, though smoother, more integrated with his own point of view. He felt it most when he looked at the sky.

  Of all that had happened, of all he’d seen, Ayodele’s sacrifice was the real story. That was the story CNN and the BBC would really want. But that story wasn’t for sale. At least not to any foreign buyers. He quickly added a bit more to his e-mail: “I’m fine. I’ll have a story to you soon. Watch your inbox. This isn’t a story for print. It’ll have the best effect if posted on the Web. I have video.” Then he clicked send.

  He settled back. All he needed to do his job was his car, his laptop, a
nd his mobile phone. He sat back and began to write:

  My fellow Nigerians, my fellow humans, let me tell you about all that I have seen. I was there! . . .

  It was the most honest piece of journalism he had ever produced. He did not write it hard-news style; he wrote it as a memoir. He was a reporter sharing his experiences. He ended his fifteen-thousand-word article with what had happened on Tin Can Island.

  . . . She saved them all and then they beat her to near death. But can you blame them? After all they had probably been through? Even before getting to Tin Can Island? What must they have seen during that night when Lagos burned, rioted, ate her young? So they beat her. I saw them stamp on her chest, kick her in the head, and worse. I was too far away to help. So the only way I knew I could help was to keep recording. This is what happened next. Do you all remember that fog? You should if you were in Lagos; wherever you were, whether you were inside or outside, you inhaled the fog. This is where it came from:

  Then he embedded the footage he’d posted on his YouTube page. When his editor posted the story on the website, he’d make the YouTube footage live.

  He reread his story, editing, adding where he saw fit. He didn’t censor a thing. He read it out loud. He read it aloud again, and then he played the footage. The combination gave him the shivers. The world as he knew it had changed. He’d been sent out to cover the dead whale on Bar Beach. He never could have imagined what would happen next.

  He clicked send. Then he sat back and waited for his world to turn yet again. His thread of story would join the vibrating of the great natrrator’s rhythm. He smiled. And it was good.

  CHAPTER 56

  THE SWORDFISH

  She swims around the alien home that was in the water three times. Three is a magic number to her. Her most memorable moments happen in threes. She’d never seen the massive ones in her entire life, until one day while swimming far from land she saw three of them. Though they could stay underwater for a long time, they could not breathe it as she could. She’d enjoyed watching them meander to the surface and blow water out of a hole in the top of their heads. On the best day of her life, she’d eaten not one, not two, but three of her favorite fish in a row. And it had taken her three tries at spearing the dead snake thing in the water to make the dry creatures go away for good. They are gone for good. Yes, she is sure of this.

  So she swims around the underwater part of the visitors’ home three times. As she does so, she inhales the sweet, sweet water. Her gills are enormous now. Her body is huge. She matches perfectly the golden light filtering through the clear water. Then she swims away. South. She swims out to sea, to see what she can see.

  CHAPTER 57

  SPIDER THE ARTIST

  I am the unseen.

  For centuries, I have been here. Beneath this great city, this metro­polis. I know your language. I know all languages. Legba is my cousin, and he has taught me well. My cave is broad and cool. The sun cannot send its heat down here. The damp soil is rich and fragrant. I turn softly on my back and place my eight legs to the cave’s ceiling. Then, I listen.

  I am the spider. I see sound. I feel taste. I hear touch.

  I spin the story. This is the story I’ve spun.

  I am Udide Okwanka.

  I have been spinning these stories in this cave for centuries. I’ve spun the birth and growth of this great city. Watched through the vibrations that travel through my webs. Lagos. Nigeria. I know it all because I created it all. I have seen people come from across the ocean. I have seen people sell people. I’ve knitted their stories and watched them knit their own crude webs. They came in boats that creaked a desperate song and brought something I’d never have created. Lagos has fed me. Fast life, fast death. High life, low life. Skyscrapers, shanty towns. Flies, mosquitoes. The roads rumble as paths to the future, always hungry for blood. The Bone Collector will always be one of my favorite children. Ijele is my cousin.

  I have watched, heard, tasted, touched these new people.

  Shape-shifters of the third kind. Story weavers of their own time.

  I respect them.

  They brought Agu, Adaora, and Anthony together. Adaora the brave. Agu the strong. Anthony the energetic. I know their stories as I know all stories. Do you want to know how their stories end? Do you want to know what happens to Chris? Does he get back together with his wife? Or will Adaora stay with Agu? What of Kola and Fred? What is Anthony’s place in the new world? Yes, you want to know. We all want to know things.

  But I feel the press of other stories.

  I wove that which Adaora draws from to practice her witchcraft. I wove that which gives Agu his leopard’s strength. Anthony’s life became part of my web when he first set foot in Lagos. I know the one who wove his rhythm. Anansi is my cousin. Anthony has always been within my reach. Fisayo’s destiny was written. The boy with no name had no destiny until I wrote that part of the story. Father Oke was destined to meet one of my cousins. The young man Benson and the other soldiers—they are all part of my great tapestry.

  And now the world sees what is happening inside of Lagos and her waters. What is that sweet taste I feel with my feet? It is patriotism, loyalty. Not to the country of Nigeria but to the city of Lagos. Finally. Maybe it will flow and spread like a flood of clean water. What a story that would be. The waters off the coast are treacherous. They are clean. It is beautiful. But there is a problem. Other people in other parts of the world—they see what is happening here. And they fear it. They are agreed. Lagos is a cancer. They wish to cut the cancer out before it spreads. I will not let them. I don’t know who will launch them, but these people are all in communication, so all are involved in the decision.

  They will burn it away before it spreads.

  I will not let them.

  For the first time since the birth of Lagos, my glorious city, I will pause in my storytelling.

  I will leave my web.

  I become part of the story.

  I will join my people.

  And we spiders play dirty.

  SOME NIGERIAN WORDS, PHRASES, AND PIDGIN ENGLISH TERMS

  419—a highly successful strain of advance-fee Internet fraud popularized in Nigeria, which appears most often in the form of an e-mailed letter. The number “419” refers to the article (sectioned into 419, 419A, 419B) that deals with fraud in Chapter 38 of the Nigerian Criminal Code Act (“Obtaining Property by False Pretences: Cheating”).

  Adofuroo—a derogatory term for homosexuals in the Yoruba language

  Ah-ah—for goodness’ sake

  Ahoa—Nigerian foot soldiers

  Am (Pidgin English)—she, he, or it

  Anuofia—an insult that literally means “wild animal” in the Igbo language. Anu means “animal,” ofia means “forest.”

  Area Boys (also known as Agberos)—loosely organized groups of street children and teenagers (mostly male) who roam the streets of Lagos

  Chale (Ghanaian Pidgin English)—a terminal intensifier that is similar to the exclamation “man” in American-English slang. Pro­nounced very similarly to the name “Charlie.”

  Chin Chin—a snack consisting of sweet crunchy bite-sized bits of fried dough

  Chineke—the Igbo Supreme Deity. To exclaim it is the same as saying, “Oh my God!”

  Chop (Pidgin English)—to eat

  Comot (Pidgin English)—to leave a place

  Danfo—a commercial minibus or van. They are usually orange or individually painted and very old, beaten up, and have been repaired a million times.

  De (Pidgin English)—the

  Dey (Pidgin English)—this means “is” or “are” . . . most of the time. Other times, it means “something else.”

  Face me, I face you (Pidgin English)—a type of building where a series of single-bedroom apartments have their entrances facing each other to form a compound with a main entrance le
ading into a square in the middle. This type of building is common in urban areas in Nigeria, such as Lagos.

  Gari—a creamy white, granular flour made from fermented, gelatinized fresh cassava tubers

  Go-slow (Pidgin English)—heavy traffic

  Gragra (Pidgin English)—a show of bravado (often false)

  Ibi (Pidgin English)—it be

  Igbo—(1) the third largest ethnic group in Nigeria and name of the language of the Igbo people (note: the author of this book is Igbo) (2) Nigerian slang for cannabis (unrelated to the Igbo people or language, and not capitalized as a proper noun)

  Kai (Pidgin English)—a sympathetic exclamation

  Kata kata (Pidgin English)—trouble of the sort that only the poor experience

  Kparoof (Pidgin English)—to manhandle

  Marine witch—who the heck really knows? Certain Nigerian evangelical Christian sects believe many of the world’s ills are perpetrated by witches, and the most powerful is the “marine witch”

  Mek (Pidgin English)—make

  Mumu (Pidgin English)—an idiot

  Na (Pidgin English)—it is

  Na wao (Pidgin English)—the equivalent of exclaiming, “Wow!”

  NEPA—pronounced “neh-pah.” An acronym that stands for the National Electric Power Authority. Usually to blame when the power goes out. Now called PHCN (Power Holding Company of Nigeria), people still refer to the governmental electricity company as NEPA.

  Nko (Pidgin English)—an interrogative pronoun used for emphasis at the end of sentences (believed to be of Yoruba origin)

  Nyash (Pidgin English)—ass

  O—a terminal intensifier. One sings and prolongs the sound more than speaks it.

  Oga—a term of respect toward men, equivalent to “sir.” The term of respect for women is “madam.”

  Okada—a commercial motorcycle or motorcycle taxi