Fatoumata goes and sits at her feet. My mother draws her in and strokes her head like a pet, and Fatoumata snuggles in. I find the whole thing so weird. And it’s not just Fati; save for Papa Udi, who never really knows how to act in the presence of new friends anyway, they all always sit at my mother’s feet, like she is Buddha to be worshipped. Everyone somehow feels that urge to snuggle into her safety; everyone except me, her one and only son, the one person who should feel the urge to sit at his mother’s feet.
“You sent for me,” I say, after we stare at one another for a while.
“I was wondering where you were,” she says. Her voice, too, is different. In the visions, it was something divine, something otherworldly, something that rang in my bones and sang in my teeth. This is a flat monotone without depth or nuance, too human.
“You know where I was.”
She calls me a name and sighs. That name, it’s something I can never pronounce or remember after she’s said it. No matter how I try to listen, to grab hold of it in my memory, it darts from me like a mosquito.
“You should be staying with us,” she says. “You can’t be hiding in the dark out there in that plane.”
I look at her for a second, watching her pat Fatoumata’s head. The day she came, she immediately recognised Ibeji within the girl. Ibeji, too, knew her for who she was, and dropped Fati to her knees, bowing her head, whispering in a godtongue that scratched at my ears. My mother walked over to her, slowly, and patted her head in this same way. And before anyone knew what was happening, my mother grabbed Fati by her neck and stuck her hand down the girl’s throat.
I swear we all thought she was killing her, and went in all fires blazing, but before we could act, there were these flashes of light and bursts of sound, and our skins crawled and we smelled earth and burning and rum, and then Fatoumata was lying there on the ground, and standing beside her were Taiwo and Kehinde, wearing their respective forms. When Fati got up and opened her mouth, even she was surprised when words came out.
Maybe that was the thing that bonded them all, caused everyone to gravitate towards my mother like fireflies to a light. Maybe she is a light to them; maybe they see her as the one who will take us out of this bondage we’re living in. It’s just that if she is, she’s a light I cannot see.
“What do you want?” I ask. I’m not sure if I’m asking her why she wanted to see me, or why she’s been here for so long and hasn’t told me why she’s returned, what she’s looking for. Maybe I’m asking her all this at once.
“Come stay with us,” she says. “I want to see your face often.”
“Is that all?”
She calls me the name again, and the memory of it is gone before it even begins.
“My name,” I say between teeth, “is David.”
She studies me for a second. “What are you angry about?”
Papa Udi slowly clears his throat in the background. This suddenly feels like a very traditional family; the peripheral father keeping the child in check, the front-and-centre mother doing the talking. I’d never thought about it before, but I feel like I have parents, and the whole idea sends a wave down my spine.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I say, addressing them both.
“David, calm down,” Papa Udi says in a low voice. “Make she talk.”
“There’s a war out there, with actual things happening, people like you”—I point to my mother—“taking everything from everybody, and you’re down here, wanting to talk.” I shake my head. “I don’t even know what I’m doing with you people.”
“What do you want, then?” my mother says. “What do you want from me?”
The truth, maybe? I really don’t know what I want. I want my doubts erased, my world back. I want home. I guess I hoped that when I found my mother, I’d find all these things. And I’m angry that I didn’t.
“I’ll be in the hall,” I say to no one in particular, turning away. “When you’re ready to do actual things, you know where to find me.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE END OF the world as we know it does things to people. Everyone forgets who they were, abandons their past life and tries to align themselves with the new state of things, tries to form new connections with people, tries to unearth some new version of themselves. Some change a little, most change a lot.
Not Nigerians, though, especially Lagosians. The end of the world hasn’t changed them much. They are still unruly, uncouth, unabashedly rude, and disinterested in any sense of community or structure. Or maybe this is just the same way every end-of-civilization is.
As I round the corner back into the main hall, I can already hear shouting, complaining, mostly in thick Yoruba that’s beyond my limited understanding. In the main hall, there is a major gathering of all kinds of people, which is expected. For the last few days since the increased arrival, Femi Onipede and Shonuga (whose first name I’ve learned is Ifelola, but I’ve been unable to get over how unfitting that is, so stuck with using her tougher sounding surname) have both been working to bring order to the growing populace. I’m not sure if it’s scratching an itch from their military backgrounds, but I quickly saw the sense in it. If order isn’t established quickly, the airport will devolve into a toxic space before long.
They stand before the complaining crowd, trying to get them to calm down. The twin gods, Ibeji, are trying not to interfere. Taiwo, back to his lanky seven-foot form, looking like a stick of ice lolly in those warm-red-almost-pink robes, has his head down. I can hear his constant tut-tutting from all the way over here. Kehinde, on the other hand, has her arms crossed, her forehead in that perpetual frown that’s just a part of her face. She too has returned to her blue robe over jeans, but has ditched the heavy suede monk-buckle wedges which were always terribly out-of-place. She and her brother have gone for almost-matching laced boots, a more practical option. I’m unsure if they found those or if they came with their new forms.
Most of the crowd have gone more practical too: jeans or cargo pants, hats and beanies, fanny packs, utility and military belts, ponchos and pashminas, denim or suit jackets, heavy laced shoes. The newcomers look like experienced travellers who took the time to pack before leaving. (The earlier groups weren’t so lucky, some arriving in nothing more than singlets and boxer shorts. One woman arrived in a nightgown and no shoes; one in a wedding dress.)
I walk over to the crowd, and the noise dies down to almost total silence as they spot me. It no longer surprises me; instead of hiding, I should be using this influence to help in any way that I can.
“What’s up?” I say to Onipede, ignoring the whispers among the crowd and the many eyes following me as one, like a school of fish.
“We’re still trying to explain why we need these groups,” she says. “They’re refusing to listen and I’m tired of explaining.”
I look towards Shonuga, who nods firmly.
The two women have, in the last few days, developed a relationship that’s almost symbiotic; unsurprising, understanding their backgrounds, but still jarring, having spent some time with them both beforehand. They’ve almost completely ditched their I-can-save-the-world bravado, and simply settled into doing their parts in something bigger. They’re almost becoming one another, dressing identically: they clipped each other’s hair close to the scalp, snipped their combats into shorts, military-style belts still on their waists, and topped the lot with matching dainty flower-print blouses I believe they must’ve traded with some newcomers.
They’re still strong, still command respect, but something has shifted within them. They’ve become more interested in simpler things, often seen taking walks down the runway during sunsets, fingers interlocked, smiles playing about their lips. A few people have mentioned seeing them kissing at the far end of the runway, but no one is sure and no one wants to ask. It’s the end of everything anyway, who cares?
“What d’you want to do?” I ask them.
“We need everyone to join a group.”
No one even blinks. They move as one, hurrying into the sun, now beginning its descent. I motion to Ibeji and everyone else to follow me. Outside, I arrange them into rows, then explain why we need groups, and why everyone here must be treated with respect. Then I lay down a couple of threats, specifically that anyone who refuses to pay attention to what Onipede and Shonuga and Ibeji have to say will answer to me.
Femi calls out the required groups, starting with security and running through scavenging, food, water, pantry duty, hunting and scouting, clothing, shelter preparation, the likes. Truth is, we’re most interested in security, but we don’t want to tell them that outright; it’d put put everyone off. Everyday brings newcomers, and it’s only a matter of time before someone shows up, human or divine, that isn’t interested in integrating but in conquering.
Then, of course, there’s the lingering issue of Aganju and his horde.
There have been rumours of a preparation for an attack on the airport, that he’s coming for me—for taking out his first vessel, then his brother. He has even more of that shadow horde Sango did. He’s managed to take over the State House in Upper Island, bent humans to his will; and those who couldn’t escape and wouldn’t join his cause have gone ‘missing.’ With the current exodus from Upper Island, a lot of it currently leading here, we expect an attack at any time and need to be prepared.
Once everyone has chosen a place and dispersed, we’re left with five volunteers for security. The three tough-looking men in front explain that they used to be part of the Federal Special Armed Robbery Squad. It takes everything in me not to pounce on them. Before The Falling and Aganju’s attacks, the FSARS was the deadliest and most unchecked police force group, kidnapping and torturing young men all around the state just to extort money from them, in the name of tracking down suspected armed robbers and internet fraudsters. Amnesty International published several reports about their atrocities, and the public hated them. Before they even start to say anything, I ask the men to turn around and leave the airport immediately, but not without adding a threat that if I see them return, I’ll kill them myself. They walk away slowly, shuffling, muttering between themselves and casting glances back at me.
The two left are a woman who used to be a Federal Road Safety Corps official and a man who used to be a gated estate security guard and local vigilante. He knows how to shoot a gun, so we take him. The woman doesn’t, but Femi offers to teach her.
“So,” I say, “all in a day’s work, eh?”
The two women and gods look at me as if I’m delusional.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have sent those men away,” Kehinde says. “That was foolish.”
“Those men are killers,” I say. “We can’t have such people in our camp. Small thing, they would start bullying everyone here.”
“You should’ve given them a chance,” she insists. “They were assets.”
I look at the other three. “You people think I’m harsh? Am I being irrational?”
The two women look away. Only Taiwo says, “Yes, you are.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “I’m not angry.”
They just look at me.
“Let’s look at any new group tomorrow, abeg,” I say, turning away. “You people know where to find me.”
I’m on my way back to the hangar, back to my plane and my darkness, complaining to myself under my breath about how everyone’s acting crazy, when I hear someone following me. Kehinde.
“What d’you want now?”
“You need to stop this. You need to go and speak with your mother.”
I stop and turn. “What did I do again?”
“Everything,” she says. Her eyes are bright even in the late afternoon sun, shining with àshẹ, the divinity of the gods. “You are doing everything wrong.”
I sigh, arms akimbo. “What do you people want from me?”
“Talk to your mother,” she says, frowning. “You two need to settle. Then you’ll see not what we want, but what we need from you.”
I watch her walk away, her blue robe swaying in the breeze of the tarmac.
I wonder if anyone cares what I need.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
EVENING COMES WITH its usual lights and sounds. Somehow, Shonuga, with the help of Femi Onipede, Ibeji and Fatoumata, have managed to recreate the Arena in miniature here on the tarmac of Terminal 2. The whole airport community comes out in the evenings to settle around a big bonfire. For the last few evenings, I haven’t joined them, but Kehinde’s words have pricked me someplace uncomfortable, so I seek a little light this evening after all.
I go to the hangar door and look out to the sunset, which is always beautiful from this part of the world. The sky is like flames mixed with harmattan’s dry red sand, giving off a reddish-orange glow as the clouds put a blanket over the sun. Most people just sit on the ground, but some bring blankets, clustering in family or friendship. There are very few children—my guess is many could not make the long walk—so we mostly have couples, some trios, and a few odd bands. Femi and Shonuga, resting on one another shoulder-to-shoulder, form a pair, their pastel blouses standing out in the crowd. At some point, they get up and leave, murmuring some excuse about going to check on Aburo, who’s tied up at the very far end of the runway.
The most interesting cluster, however, is my mother, Ibeji and Fatoumata. That one takes centre stage at the fire. My mother barely speaks, but Taiwo is always front-and-centre, regaling the airport community with tales of things that happened long before the great-grand-parents of most people here were even conceived, and of things had have happened in the last few weeks. Fatoumata embellishes the more recent tales, chipping in here and offering a demonstration there. Doesn’t matter what they’re saying. The people are enthralled enough by three gods just sitting there. They should be. These are the only divine beings they’ve ever met that haven’t tried to kill them.
I leave my safe spot at the hangar and head out to the fire, but I do not go to that cluster. I seek out Papa Udi, who sits off to one side. He has resumed his chewing, becoming more and more of his old self before this whole thing began. He has also resumed his delight in solitude. Something tells me I might’ve learned a thing or two from him.
He’s in the back of the crowd, listening to Taiwo tell about the time Sango came to Cardoso House, when I sit by his side. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. We sit that way for a while, with his chewing and Taiwo’s voice and the crackling of the fire and the giggles and gasps of the audience, before he says:
“How body?”
And that’s all he needs to say, really, and I feel warm inside. Maybe I was looking for warmth in the wrong place all along.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, sighing. “Just having a rough couple of days.”
“I understand.” He chews a bit. “That thing wey you do with Sango, your body suppose don scatter.”
“I feel like say pessin carry my body knack am for ground, arrange am back,” I say, glad to be back to the old us. “The thing dey pain, I no lie.”
“This Amúnáwá thing,” he says, “don change your body. I for surprise if the thing no pain you.”
I think about that for a while. “But what if I no wan change, you know? I’m not sure I like where all of this is taking me. I’m not sure I want to be that person.”
“Na why you dey run from your mama be that?”
I eye him sideways. “No.”
“You know say she go tell you the truth. She go tell you the same thing whey those two”—he points to Ibeji—“don dey tell you since.”
“Which is?”
“You no fit run from this thing, David. You gats to end this thing last last.”
“Ugh.” I’m tired of hearing this.
“Point one person for this place whey go fit face Aganju.”
I stare into the fire, listening to Taiwo talk about falling out the window and onto a pi
le of jerrycans. Now Kehinde and Fatoumata are laughing and adding the motions. It’s like a badly scripted three-man stage play, but these are the same people who love Nollywood, so they’re easy to please.
“Go talk to your mama,” he says. “We no get time to waste. Una two need to plan how we go do this thing.”
“Why us two?” I ask. “Why us?”
He gives me a sceptical eye.
“Fine,” I say. “You nko, why haven’t you spoken to her?”
“We don talk.”
“Oh? When? And what did you talk about?”
Apparently, I’ve been missing out on all the good stuff. It seems everyone has gained closure with my mother, especially Papa Udi. He tells me she explained why she chose Aziza, because he was from a pantheon outside hers and was a god no one wanted to interact with. The whirlwind god is apparently something of a mischief maker, someone no one wants to be known to be associated with. As a god of thresholds, it was easier to get him to slip me from her pantheon down here. She didn’t know, of course, that Papa Udi was going to be the one getting me, but after I was grown a bit, she was able to come back and spy on me from time to time without compromising our safety, until I was grown enough to take care of myself. She was there, even when neither of us knew it.
I look at my mother through the fire now. She looks weary but peaceful, a small smile playing at her lips as she listens to the story. She doesn’t flinch when they speak of violence and destruction, and maybe that’s because she already knows.
She looks across the crowd and meets my eyes, and I look away, into the darkness of the bush at the far end of the runway. She can see me, see through me; she can find me anytime. If she hasn’t come seeking me yet, she must be waiting for me to come to her. In my experience, Ogun always has a reason for doing things.
I retire into my airplane early. On my way, I pass Shonuga and Femi, returning to the fire huddle, the smell of ethanol on their breaths. They’re laughing, and I realise this is the first time I’ve ever heard either of them laugh, and the happy sound in the wake of a near-death experience and the promise of more doom to come is a breath of fresh air. I realise everyone seems to have settled into this hope, this belief that everything will be okay, and all of it hinges on my mother and me being here.
David Mogo Godhunter Page 19