Nnedi Okorafor - Lagoon

Edgar’s father had been the family’s Great Son. He was the oldest. He was the most successful. He was the loudest. And he’d been blessed by God to spread God’s Word. Edgar’s father’s family accused his mother of being a witch. They believed she had caused his death so that she could take all his money and build an empire with the children she had robbed from him. They were determined not to let her. They wanted their Great Son’s wife to be destitute for what she’d done. They wanted the children to starve. Those children were evil if they’d let their mother kill the family’s Great Son.

Edgar was an outspoken, compassionate child. He could never stand to see anything suffer. So he was known for helping tortoises across the road and ushering lizards out of the house. He’d once even caught a bird in the living room with his bare hands and set it free outside. He was tall for his age, though very lean no matter how much he ate. And when he spoke, because he had the gift of gab, he seemed even taller. His mother beat him often for his silver tongue and hugged him even more often for his praise songs. His father nearly burst with pride whenever Edgar sang a praise song to him. Edgar knew how to make his parents happy, most of the time. And Edgar had plenty of friends and never had to fight. Words were his weapons. He knew how to crack his tongue like a whip. But that was only when he got angry.

And this day, as Edgar watched his father’s people, who blamed his mother for his father’s death – this fateful day, Edgar got angry.

Uncle Kuffour was leading the way, flanked by Auntie Boteng and Uncle Mensah. They looked heated and self-righteous. These were three people who had spread the worst rumors about his mother. Just as he was good with words, Edgar was a sharp listener. He could hear a conversation from far across the room, catch every word, every syllable. He’d heard these three talk about his mother as if she were a dog.

According to them, in her village, before she married his father, she was known to commune with the devil. Since his father’s death, his mother not only cooked for but slept with all of his father’s friends. And even before his father had died, she’d aborted several children. So they said. According to them, his mother’s nails were always dirty, her soup was always sour, and she’d used charms to get his father to marry her.

His mother knew of the rumors, even while forced to stay home and guard the house for the past month. And she cried every night because of them. Edgar could hear her through the thin walls. His mother was a pediatrician and his father had been a well-loved and well-known preacher. They’d done well. Together. And now that his father was dead, the relatives wanted it all. Edgar knew family was supposed to take you in when things were bad. But this family wanted his mother, his brothers, his sisters and him out of the way.

Edgar stood as they approached, and blocked the open doorway to his parents’ house. His house. His siblings’ house. His bare feet pressed firmly to the ground. He wore an old T-shirt and black shorts. He was dark-skinned like his father and he looked them all in the eye like his mother. “What do you want?”

“Get out of the way,” his Uncle Kuffour said. The others assented.

“Move.”

“Make this easy.”

“No one will blame you.”

“No,” Edgar said. “This is my parents’ house.”

“You won’t invite your own relations into your home, then?”Auntie Boteng asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Do you behave like my relations?” he asked. He took a brave step forward, feeling the rage bloom in him. In his mind’s eye, he saw his middle sister sobbing in the kitchen as she peeked around the entrance and watched Auntie Boteng act like a stranger. Auntie Boteng was her favorite auntie.

“Have any of you come to wish my mother well?” Edgar asked. “To see how your brother’s children are doing? Do any of you have hearts that aren’t frozen? Do any of you have any shame?”

He could feel it. In his chest, first, but then it radiated out to his entire body. He curled his shoulders to hold it in. But it was so hot, so powerful.

“Old man,” his uncle chuckled. He stepped closer to Edgar.

Edgar didn’t move. These people were here to take everything. He would never move.

As soon as his father’s oldest brother grabbed his arm, Edgar heard the music – sweet and pure and electric. It hummed up through the earth. And it sang to him in a clear voice, “ Defend them .”

Then that which was building up within him, humming to the rhythm of the earth, burst. His uncles, aunts, cousins were all blown back. Two of the cars closest to them were blown onto their sides, before slamming back down onto the road. The homes across the street, including his aunt’s, were bombarded with red dirt, and they rocked on their foundations.

Those relatives never came back.

Edgar never explained the incident to his mother, though she later learned from the neighbors what had happened. Edgar never used the rhythm to do violence again. But when he got on stage, when he rapped and let the words flow from his tongue like warmed honey, he could feel it. It would be there when he needed it. So far, he hadn’t needed it.

But he needed it now.

Father Oke’s people were crowding the lawn and Anthony could sense they were about to do something terrible. They’d just thrown a Molotov cocktail into the house and some of them held more. He stepped toward the front door.

When he performed, he spun words as a spider spins its web. He drew it from within himself and worked with it. Then he threw it back at his audience enhanced and laced with energy and images. No one left his concerts unchanged. He was a positive force. But only because he chose to be one. That day, in the doorway of his mother’s house, he’d been something else. He’d had to be.

Now, he slipped his shoes off as he stepped out of the house to face Father Oke and his diocese. He stepped onto the soil of the flowerbed beside the path to Adaora’s house. It was cool beneath his feet.

“What are you people doing?” he asked evenly.

He set his eyes squarely on Father Oke. The man was bewitching and charismatic, so much like Anthony’s father. Anthony frowned. Father Oke’s actions were not so unlike what he did himself when he was performing as Anthony Dey Craze. But I don’t use people , he thought. I free them, I open them up to God.

Father Oke’s garments were smudged with dirt and the side of his face was swollen like Agu and Adaora’s. His eyes were rimmed with red and glistened with unshed tears. But his voice was firm: “We would like to speak with the extraterrestrial.”

“No,” Anthony said. “Speak to me.”

Now Father Oke laid his eyes squarely on Anthony. The two stood tall, proud and powerful. Both were adored by the people around them. Both knew it and could feed it. Anthony was calm as an underground river. Father Oke was a volcano ready to erupt.

“Bring it out !” Father Oke shouted, his eyes wide. “Bring it out now !”

Several of his followers threw stones at the house. Others shouted and shook their fists. Two men walked up to Anthony, hunched forward, fists clenched. At the door, however, they stopped, looking past him. Anthony turned around. Adaora stood behind him. She was holding Ayodele, who was still a tiny monkey.

“This is she,” Adaora said, her smile an angry smirk. She stepped past Anthony, eyeing the two men. “And she has nothing to say to you.”

She could hear the crackle of flames, feel the heat, and see light reflected in the broken glass on the ground. The top floor of the house must now be completely on fire.