Nnedi Okorafor - Lagoon

People shouted and clapped encouragingly.

“I’m sorry to say, my wife has become a marine witch, o!” he announced grandly.

The church exploded with indignation and Chris’s heart swelled. Tears gathered in his eyes. “I need help!” he shouted, clenching his fists.

“You will get am !” a man shouted back.

“ Kai ! God will help you, o!” a woman shouted.

“The Lord will favor you, o!” a child shouted.

Some condemned the heathens who did not go to church. Some shouted about how it was all coming to pass. Whatever “it” was, only they knew. They announced that the ocean would soon swallow them all up for the sins of these marine witches and warlocks, nonbelievers in Christ who’d taken over the country. Some blamed the Muslims of the north. Others blamed the Americans. Al-Qaeda. Sickness. The British. Bad luck. Devils. Poverty. Women. Fate. 419. Biafra. The bad roads. The Military. Corruption.

Father Oke raised his hands to quiet his flock of sheep. He had the answers for them. He was holy. They grew silent, including Chris, who looked at Father Oke in earnest. As much as he could love a man, in this moment, he loved Father Oke very much.

“Have no fear!” Father Oke told Chris. “ I will save your wife.”

His sheep sighed with relief.

“Tell everyone about your wife’s friend, Brother Chris,” he said.

Chris nodded, but frowned. What did his wife’s cure have to do with that one? But he trusted Father Oke. “Last night,” Chris said, “my wife brought something home with her. A… a visitor. A true visitor. I saw—”

Father Oke quickly spoke up. “A visitor from outer space ! An alien! An extraterrestrial!” he said, dramatically rolling his ‘‘r’’s. The entire church went silent. This was the shock Father Oke had hoped to cause. Perfect. “It is in Brother Chris’s home! It is only the first of many!” he continued. “You see the news, all these strange things happening. We are being visited , my friends.”

He paused as people started talking amongst themselves.

“ Kai ! I knew it!” a man exclaimed to the woman beside him. “Didn’t I tell you? There is no smoke without fire!”

“Why here? Why here?”

“I didn’t see a damn thing last night.”

“We all go die, o!”

When the chatter began to swell into panic, Father Oke shouted, “Calm down! Calm down! Listen!”

Near instant silence. He had these people eating out of his hand. It was beautiful. Thanks be to God , he thought. “You have seen today how I handle witches and their devilry. Have faith in my power to heal! Now, these visitors, my friends, they mean us no harm,” he said. He laughed confidently and leaned against the pulpit, holding his microphone to his lips. “I have seen the one at Brother Chris’s house. These are people who need to be saved! We will welcome them, enfold them into our flock. Wash them in the Blood of Christ! Make them immaculate.” He paused, smiling at their frightened faces.

“Who will join me? Who will come with me to Brother Chris’s home to enfold this intelligent creature into our flock? Who will make our church the first in all of Lagos, in the WORLD, to do such a thing? Who will come with me and do God’s will?”

There was only silence. Father Oke looked into the crowd of faces and what he saw made him feel a pinch of doubt. Cowards. All of them. Frail. Afraid. The Lord has given me weak vessels , he thought with despair. Then someone in the back started singing. The voice was shaky and panicked. Father Oke knew who it was: Memory Fulami, one of his craziest parishioners. She’d joined his flock four years ago and came to church twice a day. She sang too loudly, smelled like dirty sweat and was known for shouting at girls who wore tight jeans. She drove him crazy. She had a voice that would kill every cockroach in that filthy “face me, I face you” compound she lived in down the road. But at this moment, of his entire congregation, he loved her the most. Father Oke dug his nails into his leg as he fought to hold the pleasant smile on his face.

The others began to join her. Maybe it was to drown out her awful voice or maybe it was a show of true solidarity. It didn’t matter. Soon the entire church was singing their support for Father Oke.

Everyone except Chris.

They stood in Adaora’s living room, uneasy. The afternoon sun streamed in, bouncing off the white leather couches and chairs and the white carpet on the floor. The fans were on and Philo had set out a bowl of chin chin on the coffee table. It was a room for relaxing. Not for thinking about the end of the world as one knew it.

Adaora was beginning to see why Ayodele’s people had chosen the city of Lagos. If they’d landed in New York, Tokyo or London, the governments of these places would have quickly swooped in to hide, isolate and study the aliens. Here in Lagos, there was no such order.

Yet and still, the country had vigorous life. Everybody wants to leave Lagos , she thought. But nobody goes. Lagos is in the blood. We run back to Lagos the moment we step out, even though we may have vowed never to come back. Lagos is Lagos. There’s no city like it. Lagos is sweet. Even her husband Chris knew this. He’d returned from Germany as soon as he had his MBA in his hand, even though a German company had offered him a job.

It was the reason why, despite the fact that she was a highly sought-after marine biologist who’d taught for some years at the University of California, Santa Barbara, she’d opted to return home. Lagos was riddled with corruption but she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And its ocean life was fascinating. And problematic. It needed her. Lagos needed her. And Adaora had to go where she was needed.

There were aliens in the ocean and they were going to come out soon.

“Text me if there’s trouble,” Anthony said.

“I’ve memorized your phone number,” Agu said, tapping the side of his head. “Better up here than on a piece of paper.” Still, he’d written it down, folded the paper and placed it deep in his pocket, just in case something made him forget.

Adaora looked at Agu. “Will there be trouble?”

“Look at my face, o,” Agu said. “My commander might make some wahala . But I think he’ll be smart enough to focus on the crisis at hand.”

Adaora wasn’t so sure but she didn’t press the issue. It was worth a try. If they could reach the President, then things would go far more smoothly than if they did not. “Anthony, Philomena is upstairs with the children,” she said. When she was teaching and Chris was working, Philomena stayed with the children, but today she didn’t like the idea of being away from them. She’d get back as soon as possible and she hoped Chris would, too. “Stay close to Ayodele, OK?” Ayodele was downstairs in the lab reading an issue of National Geographic .

“Of course I will,” Anthony said.

“Call if Adaora’s husband comes home with more wahala ,” Agu said.

“I sent him a text, warning him to leave you alone,” Adaora added. “But he didn’t respond.”

“I can handle the man,” Anthony said.

“And if you can’t, Ayodele can, eh?” Agu said, winking.

“Ibi so,” Anthony assured her, slapping hands with Agu and giving Adaora a brief hug.

As soon as they left, Anthony took out his mobile phone and dialed. “Festus,” he said, smiling. He could always reach Festus, the one person in the entire Ghanaian music industry that he trusted.