She sighs. “Obatala’s judgement was swift and firm. Exile. But Aganju and Shango are revered, powerful, influential. There were too many who loved and stood by them. What was supposed to be simple punishment gave rise to defiance, revolt and, finally, mutiny against Obatala’s supremacy.
“Like that, the whole of our home was thrown into chaos. The war was long and hard, and became the end of Orun as we knew it. In the wake of our pantheon’s destruction, some of us fell here, many others in other parts of this world, and in parts of other worlds. What you people call godlings are Aganju’s creations, falling alongside us. No one knows where Aganju or Obatala fell. Good riddance to rubbish, if you ask me.”
“So how does this connect?” I’m really not here for a history lesson. “To us, right here, right now?”
She chuckles. “Humans. You too have inherited their stupidity. Can’t you see this is the exact same thing your Ajala is planning to do? He must have gained knowledge of Aganju’s feat and found a way to achieve it. Whatever his plan, it begins with us. And if he is going the way of Aganju, I can promise you it will not end well, for you or whatever little slice of this world you wish to protect.” She stares pointedly at me. “We did not ask for this war, but we became victims anyway. We are refugees in a place we cannot call home; we cannot go back to the place we should call home.” She pauses. “This will be you if you don’t do what is right. That is, if this isn’t already you, orisha ’daji.”
“My name is David Mogo,” I say, rising. “And you don’t know shit about me. I didn’t cause your war, and I didn’t bring you here. Don’t try to guilt me into anything.”
“I’m only telling you a story.”
“Whatever. I’m going to bed.”
When I’m at the door, Kehinde says to me: “Whatever you seek, David Mogo, you know some of the answers lie here. You know what you must do to get them.”
Then she shuts her eyes and goes back to ‘sleeping.’ I stand there for a while and watch her, then return to bed.
I do not sleep.
Chapter Six
THE NEXT MORNING, we have to beg Kehinde to come out of the ward. She folds her arms and crosses her legs. You people think you’re wise, trapping me? Ooooh. Just let me sit here and watch you all die by your own hand. I spend an hour convincing her that we only want to talk, to put together our best intentions and see if we can come to a consensus. Eventually, when she has promised not to harm us in any way, Papa Udi wipes the ward and she steps out safely, tossing her braids in triumph. Her material form is much prettier when she isn’t scowling.
Now in the living room, we stand around the one large table occupying the empty side of the room—a table we like to think is a dining table, but really isn’t. Kehinde is perched on the edge of a tall stool. Papa Udi offers to make her tea; she scoffs and tells him higher beings do not drink filthy human shit. Papa Udi goes into a sullen silence from then on.
“You and I,” Kehinde says to me, “we’re going to that Ajala’s place. And then you’re going to help me get Taiwo back.”
Papa Udi makes a click at the back of his throat. “Is like this one never understand.”
“I understand fully,” she retorts, perched on the edge of a tall stool. “He might be a more powerful wizard than you are”—she juts her chin at Papa Udi—“but we must get my Taiwo. Because if he starts to use Taiwo’s essence…” She shakes her head.
“So,” I say, drumming my fingers on the table, “explain this thing again. What does he want to make deities for?”
“I don’t know. What I know is that he will take of my brother’s essence, cross them with mortal lifeforms and create gods he will force to bow to his command. They might or might not be akin to Aganju’s, but considering how savage your kind can be towards one another, will definitely pose a major threat. You could suffer the same terrible fate we suffered at Orun. Or worse.”
Papa Udi frowns in confusion, but I brush it aside.
“What’s in it for us?” I ask. “Why don’t I just take this money and enjoy my life?”
“It depends,” she says, “on if you really want answers to the questions you seek”—she looks directly in my eyes when she says this— “and if you’re ready to live with the guilt when your people crumble under Ajala’s hand.”
Papa Udi chews, sucks the bitterness from whatever’s in his mouth and says: “But una know say wizard no fit attack wizard, abi?”
“What is the basis of this?” Kehinde asks.
“Practitioner ethics,” I say. “If any of them fights another using their skills, everyone turns on that person.”
“So that means Ajala won’t attack us if we go with him?”
I turn to Papa Udi in mock dramatics. “What a wise thought I didn’t have!”
Payu shakes his head. “No, no, no. Na die two of una dey and I cannot follow you for such a thing. Good luck if you wan go die, but you cannot drag me along. David, no. I say no. No!”
IT TAKES ME the remainder of the day to persuade Papa Udi to come with us. Kehinde spends the time going about the house, mmhn-ing and aah-ing at articles of interest. Papa Udi pretends to cook beans, and spends a lot of time in a kitchen he barely spends time in, slicing lots and lots of onions that he actually hates but pretends to like in his old age. I throw in incentives: we get to find Taiwo and see if he knows anything about my mother; we’ll be doing Lagos a favour; we’ll add it to our portfolio and use it to wring more jobs out of Femi Onipede and her Lagos State Paranormal Commission. I would tell him about Fatoumata too, but something holds my tongue.
“Fine,” he says at exactly 7pm. “But I must carry things follow body.”
By things, Papa Udi means his War Kit, a leather briefcase belonging to the ’90s that he says he’ll carry for consultations, but never does. It contains compartments stuffed with recipes—powders and potions alike—and a number of artefacts made through rigorous rituals. Some are wearables, some throwables, some consumables. I don’t know how half of them work, because Papa Udi sent me to school instead, back when he still went on consultations. He said that life wasn’t for me.
Well, wasn’t he wrong?
I, on the other hand, carry only my daggers. My plan is for us to solve this as amicably as possible, so I’ll go with nothing else but my wits. What with me wearing my godessence on my sleeve (literally), I’d better look like the least possible menace; anyone working on the back of a good recipe or ritual will earmark me as first target.
We leave close to sunset, when the sky is split into a dichotomous rainbow: half a sharp orange, half a numbing deep blue. Papa Udi’s bony knees dig into my waist from the backseat of the Bajaj, as I ride through the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway to Agbado rail crossing for a fourth time in three days.
Of course one god, one human, and one in-betweener cannot fit on my Bajaj, so we asked Kehinde to find her way there by herself, giving her instructions to meet us first at the railway crossing.
The plan is, only Papa Udi and I will go inside. She might be a god, but I can’t trust her not to turn hysterical in there, and I can’t trust Ajala to not have some trick up his sleeve and capture her on the spot. The kind of diplomatic discussion we’re going to be having, we need the coolest heads ever.
Papa Udi chews behind me, the breeze in his face, nonchalant in that way one becomes at his age. His mouth is turned down so that I know he thinks he’s doing something distasteful going to Ajala’s house—someone he detests. Still, I think he relishes it, in that way you do when you’re so old you don’t care anymore.
We arrive at the railways and park to wait for Kehinde. Papa Udi, in the meantime, checks up on his charms. He has three Nsibidi ward amulets on: a bracelet and two rings, one on the middle finger of each hand, all baptised in ebo. He downs two other herbal potions as well—one that prevents him from being manipulated, and one that enables him to disapparate, to get out real fast, if he absolutely needs to. He used to sell the latter to interstate bus and truck drivers, so t
hey could disappear right in the moment before an accident. He insists he only does honest work now, so I wonder why he’s still making these.
We stay another hour with no sign of Kehinde. Papa Udi is starting to tire, and no one wants a tired old man on their hands, so we move ahead without her.
Another two minutes, and we’re at Ajala’s gates. I honk and park my bike outside the compound, in case I need to make a quick escape. The policeman at the gate, same guy from last night, is not happy to see us, especially Papa Udi and his case. He lets us in anyway.
We’re back in the foyer. Ajala keeps us waiting for about thirty minutes, then rushes in, his steps light, as if he’s happy to see me.
All that vanishes the minute he sets sights on Papa Udi.
He stops short, tucks his hands into the pockets of his jalabiya, studies Papa Udi’s ward charms and nods.
“Odivwiri.”
Papa Udi doesn’t nod back. He just chews and chews, watching Ajala, who sits opposite us, slowly, carefully.
“So, you’re here for the bottle,” he says to me.
I blink. “Not really.”
He nods. “I see.” He’s waiting for me to explain, but he’s looking at Papa Udi.
“I’m reconsidering,” I say. “I think maybe I won’t take this job. So, I’ll give you your money back, no problem.”
“No problem,” Ajala repeats. His fingers are stained black at the tips, his fingernails bitten, stubbed. Has he been digging through herbs again? His eyes look darker, shaded, like he hasn’t been getting much sleep. He looks tense, on the edge. That look is not helping me right now.
“Yes,” I say.
“And you’ll like what in return?” He looks to Papa Udi. “This one that you brought, Payu here, it can’t be for nothing.”
I stiffen at that name.
“No ever call me that thing,” Papa Udi says, speaking up for the first time. “Ever.”
I’m looking at Papa Udi, confused. That name is intimate, in-house. The ease with which Ajala says it tells me there’s some history here, something Papa Udi hasn’t really been forthcoming with. What else has this man been hiding from me?
“Oh, he never told you?” Ajala says, reading my face. “Ah, na wah oh.” He leans back now; he has the upper hand. “Payu was my Baba na. He trained me for a while when I was just coming up.”
I watch Papa Udi, who’s refusing to look at me, slightly narrow his eyes.
“Call me that name again,” he says.
“Okay, okay,” I’m saying, my hands out. “We just want Taiwo back. That’s all. We give you your money, I get him from the Yasal bottle, we go on our way. Everybody’s fine. What about that?”
Ajala is dumbfounded for a second, then starts to laugh. As he does, the palace guards about him snicker too, and that’s when I notice them for the first time—one at each corner of the foyer, like on the first day. Six in total, I count.
“You think I care about the money?” he asks finally. “Measly one-and-a-half million is nothing compared to what I plan to build when I’m through with my work. Ibeji is very critical to what I’m doing here, okay? So, no; no returning.”
I breathe. “I understand that, sir, but maybe we can reason something.”
“Oh, there’s nothing to reason,” he says, then rises. “If you won’t provide your services anymore, no problem. I have what I need to begin my work.” He beats his chest. “Me, Ajala One; when I’m done, you won’t recognise Lagos again.”
He’s saying this when a chorus of shouts rise at once, from somewhere within or behind the house. One or two voices first, then a good number, commanding someone, something to stop.
Then a gunshot, loud and rattling. We shoot to our feet. Ajala flashes us a sharp look.
“Sit,” he hisses. His men move in sync with his command, and he looks to them: “If any one of them moves, finish them.” Then he’s gone off.
The ruckus increases. Now there’s a rush of feet. The men stand stoic, flexing their muscles.
Papa Udi nudges me and whispers in my ear: “See their rituals.”
Again, I notice the tattoos peeking out from beneath the sleeves of their t-shirts. This must be how he forces them to work for him, probably tying them down with charms. I’m uneasy in my seat, being cut off from something important happening about me, and guarded by warded men. I feel the tensing of Papa Udi’s shoulder next to me.
“We gats to commot here,” he whispers.
A collection of screams reaches us—children’s voices. Sounds: a stampede, a tumult, a chase. The clatter of something climbing the zinc roof above us. More screams, objects shattering.
A second gun report. More shouts.
Then, amidst these, a voice starts to beat a rhythm, chant something from somewhere deep in the rooms of the palace; something manic, something between a war chant and a playground song.
Papa Udi and I look at each other, eyes popping.
“Which kain stupid—” Papa Udi says.
“Shet. Trap.” I yank his wrist. “Time to go.”
The closest guard moves just when I do. He’s real close, though, so I grab a fistful of his bushy hair. He’s thick and buff like me, but is he a demigod? No.
I crash his head against my knee, and he falls.
The remaining five come for us.
“Cover your nose!” Papa Udi screams, then opens his palm and flings a powder into the air.
A strong, unpleasant odour like weed mixed with bitterleaf hits the air. I know this thing. Salvia, a powerful hallucinogenic, mixed with ginkgo. Worse yet, he’s ground black pepper into it. It’s like tear gas that makes you go gaga in under a second. All you need do is breathe.
These men might be spiritually warded, but this isn’t a spiritual attack. They reel back once the dust hits the air, then start to cough and scratch at their eyes. We don’t wait to see what else happens.
Out in the yard, the sight that greets us grabs hold of my chest and doesn’t let go.
Children of all shapes and sizes run about, making escape wherever they see. Half of them are midway over the fence. Some look around, barefoot, confused. Some are without shirt or shorts or blouse or skirt, running in no direction at all.
The same kids I saw the other day.
“Who be these—”
“Move, Payu,” I say. “Get the bike, I get Kehinde.”
I’m off before he can protest, trying to make my way through the sea of children and in the direction they’re emerging from. The sounds of Kehinde casting her charms increase. Some screaming, thuds, whooshes and bursts, followed by a voice I recognise: Ajala.
The rumours must be true. He and Kehinde must be fighting by charmcasting.
But how could he possibly—?
Out in the corner of my eye, someone covered in a black dress is helping a child over the barbed-wire fence. Despite her slim frame, she is heaving the burly child up. She turns to bring her shoulders into play, to give him one final hoist, and that’s when I recognise the oily tribal marks on Fatoumata’s cheeks.
Then a loud report, and something strikes the fence above her head where the burly child has just gone over. Fatoumata screams and covers her head in her hands. I look in the direction the shot came from and see the policeman who let us in cocking a rifle, readying himself for another shot. He raises the gun to his shoulder again.
Fucking bastard.
I pull one dagger from the sheath about my belt, take aim, and fling before his finger moves. The blade strikes him deep in his shoulder and knocks him over stat.
The gun goes off.
Fatoumata screams.
More children are criss-crossing the yard, but I can see her clearly, crumpled on the ground, gripping her upper arm which I know is bleeding before I can even see it.
I rush over to Fatoumata, pick her up, and throw her over my shoulder. Her skin is hot under the robe, and she is whimpering, weeping, hurting. If I must keep her alive, I’ll need to take her to Cardoso fast. Will she
even make the long trip? I have to go now, now.
I still hear Kehinde singing, beating. The thumps, the crashes, Ajala’s grunts.
She’s a god; she can handle him, right?
I hoist Fatoumata properly—she whimpers a little in response—and then head for the bike. If I’m going to save anything, might as well be things that can’t save themselves.
The gate is padlocked, but I give it one well-placed kick and the padlock gives way. I fling the gate open, and like that, the children pour out of the gate into the wet night of Agbado.
Papa Udi has already guided the bike over. I lay Fati in front of myself as I get on, kick it and rev. Payu gets on behind me and we zoom out, leaving the fracas in our wake, and the fading voice of Kehinde frantically beating and singing for an escape that might never come.
Chapter Seven
IT’S BEEN TWO weeks since we tried to give Ajala his money back, and everything’s changed.
For the first time ever, Cardoso House has three occupants. Papa Udi has been treating Fatoumata’s gunshot wound, which has begun to heal nicely enough so that she now gets out of bed and stares out the window in my room upstairs, looking at the old Union Bank and UBA buildings in the distance. She never says anything—it takes me a while to realise she’s actually speech- and hearing-impaired. She signs with her hands to us sometimes, but neither Papa Udi nor I have any idea what it means. However, Papa Udi, a man of few words himself, somehow manages to always meet her needs. I’ve asked her questions a couple of times—Where are your parents? Will they be looking for you?—but all she does is blink back at me, and sometimes sobs, so heavy and racking I become uncomfortable and leave her to herself.
David Mogo Godhunter Page 5