Nnedi Okorafor - Lagoon

Troy asked, in a small but worried voice, “If danger come dey all this plan, nko ?”

Jacobs and Tolu murmured agreement. Moziz gave Troy a very foul look. “No worry,” he said. “Na woman de ting be, o. Look am.”

Troy frowned at this. Something wasn’t right about what Moziz was saying but he wasn’t sure what it was. But he felt Moziz was right, what he’d seen in the video was just a woman. She looked like a slightly older version of his sister, even. She had to be harmless. She’d be easy to kidnap.

Tolu liked the idea of kidnapping the alien well enough, but more importantly, he didn’t want to cross Moziz when he was in one of his moods.

Jacobs didn’t like the idea at all. If the woman was an alien who could shape-shift, she wasn’t just a woman. And maybe that made her dangerous. However, Jacobs did like the idea of getting rich. It was about time. He’d been a struggling university student long enough. He took the phone from Moziz and watched the footage again. He glanced at Troy and Tolu. Both were looking intently at Moziz and Moziz was enjoying their attention. Discreetly, Jacobs sent the footage to his own phone.

“See,” Moziz said. “We catch am, carry am, come my place. We go rich before sun go down. Na who no ’gree? She just woman; she no dey harm.”

They were all in. Moziz glanced at Philomena, blew a kiss and then flicked his tongue at her. Philomena smiled shyly, glad that no one could see the ache between her legs and the hopeful dreams in her head.

That afternoon, the church was packed, thanks to the television, newspaper and radio, though not so much the internet. According to the media, the water along all the beaches was “rising at an alarming rate!” and pushing into the lagoon. Government buildings and independent businesses were all “closed until further notice!” There had been an “excruciatingly loud racket tumbling off the ocean”. Something was amiss and everyone was getting ready for whatever would come next.

Some packed up and fled for the rural villages where they had built homes that they normally only stayed in during holidays. The wealthy and influential tried unsuccessfully to procure plane tickets to the United Kingdom, Germany and the United States. Some even tried to fly to Ghana and Cameroon. But all planes everywhere were grounded indefinitely due to the unidentified sonic boom. Many flocked to mosques. And, in Lagos, hundreds flocked to the church of Father Oke. For many, Father Oke’s church was exactly the refuge they sought.

Father Oke smiled grandly as he moved away from his wooden pulpit towards the three kneeling women. Behind him stood his bodyguards, just to keep an eye on things; keep everyone safe. As he stepped before the women, he glanced down at his expensive gold-tipped white loafers. They peeked out from beneath his spotless white robe. He was looking sharp.

He moved his eyes from his shoes to the first kneeling woman. He had to work hard to keep his disgust from showing. He could almost smell her. Peasant , he thought . Rubbish. Filth . But he would take her money.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I’m a winch.”

The audience gasped.

He blinked, shocked. Her words pricked him like a needle. “ What did you say?”

“I’m not a winch. I’m a winch… for Jesus,” she said.

Her voice was flat, her face slack as she looked up at him with stupid eyes. She wore an old white blouse and a long blue skirt. From what he could see, she was flat-chested and her coarse hair was untouched by refining chemicals. She might have been about twenty. This idiot must be one of those empty-headed girls who was dropped as a baby , he thought. A waste of a woman.

“What is ‘winch’? Do you know what that is? Can’t you speak English? Are you uneducated?”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said in her flat voice. “My English no be good, o.”

“Witch. You are a witch?”

“Yes, for Jesus.”

He felt the rage rise in him before he could control it. This… this common piece of female trash in his glorious church had the nerve to admit to the greatest sin! To his face! In front of his swollen congregation!

“You are a FOUL DEVIL! Do you know who you are speaking to? Foul devil !” He brought his hand back and slapped her across the face as hard as he could. The women beside her screeched.

“Praise Jesus,” several of the audience members shouted. Others applauded.

Still, as his hand connected to her face, he regretted his action. He’d gone too far, he knew it. He glanced to the side of the stage where the camera was recording everything today. And did he also spot a young man in the audience with his mobile phone open? Shit , he thought. But the woman had just made him so goddamn angry. How dare she? He started walking away from her but then walked back. He couldn’t leave it at that. He didn’t know what he would do, but he couldn’t leave it at that. He had to remain in control of the situation. Make it work for him.

“Where are you from?” he demanded. He couldn’t get the anger out of his voice.

“I’m from Imo State,” she said, tears in her eyes. But she stayed kneeling. Good , he thought.

“Where did you learn witchcraft from?”

“I’m not a winch…”

“Who are you?”

“…but I am a winch for Jesus.”

GODDAMMIT! he thought, the rage flaring up in him again. Again, she says it! What is wrong with this bitch of the devil? And look how she speaks so defiantly! Maybe she IS a witch! He stood up straight and looked out at his captivated audience. He smiled, taking a deep breath. Then he nodded to them, taking several more. Calm , he thought, his heart rate slowing. Steady.

“Jesus has no witches! You are a demon!” he roared. But he spoke with controlled passion now. Confident power. His audience jumped up and shouted and applauded. He looked at the kneeling woman and again felt his heart rate try to surge. He stifled the urge to slap her a second time as she mumbled something. He put his hand in her face, refusing to hear another word. “All of you, know this! Whoever speaks a lie shall be struck down ! Now, foul devil, get out of here before God kills you right on my stage.” The other two women got up, and quickly dragged the woman he’d slapped offstage. He hoped that the audience beat up every single one of them. In the name of Jesus.

He dabbed his face with his handkerchief. He was riled up. He needed to calm down. Today was about something special, not about idiot peasant women. Before this stupidity, for three hours, spittle flying from his lips and sweat dripping from his face, he’d preached about change and opposites and progress . He’d hedged around the real matter at hand, building to the climax that would bring it home. He knew exactly how he’d broach the topic with his loyal followers. The energy was high already. His confrontation with the witch meant he had their undivided attention. This was the moment. He called on Chris to stand in his front pew and speak to Father Oke’s flock. The other man stumbled to the pulpit, looking ragged.

“My wife… she is troubled,” Chris said. He wrung his hands, desperate and stressed. He was so glad that Father Oke had finally let him say his piece. He needed help. Salvation.

The congregation murmured encouragement.

“Something has taken her,” he said, wrapping his arms around himself. There were sweat marks around the collar and the armpits of his white cotton shirt. He’d worn this same shirt two days in a row to work. “I don’t know how to say this…”