Nnedi Okorafor - Lagoon

The last “dive” I did was nothing like the others , she thought, hysterically . Her mind moved to the incident on Ahmadu Bello Way. She could still see the little boy’s eyes as he died. The mad woman. Why had she done it? Ayodele said that the woman had lost hope. That wasn’t good enough for Adaora. That poor boy. She wiped her eyes and sucked down a bit more toothpaste.

They weren’t far from the airport. It was nearly 6 a.m. They had minutes. The closer they got the fewer cars they saw. Agu said the airport had probably been evacuated. But it looked flat out abandoned.

Whirrrrr!

At the sound they all leaned forward to peer through the windows into the dark sky. In a few hours the sun would come up. And what would it reveal? Adaora pushed the thought away and focused on the plane above. There was only one in the sky.

“Shit!” Agu said, speeding up.

“You think that’s them?” Adaora said.

“Of course it is,” he said. “Who else would it be?”

“Tonight?” Anthony asked. He’d opened his window to get a better look. Then he laughed. “ Chale , could be a lot of things.”

“What does this man look like?” Ayodele asked.

“Like a taciturn old yam farmer,” Adaora said.

Agu chuckled. “He is tall and skinny like Anthony… but not healthy. He has many ideas but he hardly follows through on any of them.”

“Baba Go-slow,” Adaora muttered.

A minute later, they arrived. Agu stopped at the gateway that led onto the tarmac. Up ahead was the ramp that led to the drop-off and pick-up section of the airport that Adaora knew well. Even from here, she could see people milling about outside. Confused. No one was going into the airport; most likely the doors had been locked. But there were a few people leaving the building – running out and hopping into waiting vehicles.

The entrance to the tarmac was deserted and the gate was up. Agu shook his head with disgust. They drove in. It was easy to spot the President’s small jet. It was the only plane labeled ‘Nigerian Air Force’ and it was the only moving plane on the tarmac.

“Shut the lights off,” Adaora said.

They crept after the plane as it taxied to a stop on the far side of the tarmac. Agu parked the car in the darkness between two stair-trucks and got out. Adaora’s legs were shaking. Had they done the right thing by bringing Ayodele here? What would she say to the President? What would she do to the President?

The plane stopped. Nothing happened for several minutes. But through the round windows, Adaora could see the lights on and people walking up and down and looking out into the darkness. She spotted the President.

“I see him! Do you?” She pointed.

“I do,” Anthony said.

“The window near the center,” Agu said.

The President of Nigeria was looking outside. A soldier pulled him away from the window. Adaora could see two of his wives, too. Hawra was the junior wife who was in her early forties. People called her “the smart one” because she was a lawyer who also carried a PhD in political science and was rumored to be one of the President’s closest and mouthiest advisors. Zena was the senior wife and in her late fifties. People didn’t call her much of anything.

Finally, the door opened, lowering into stairs. The first to come out were three military officials. Guns up, they looked around. They must have deemed things safe because they stepped aside to allow Hawra and Zena to exit. The two wives, Zena a tall woman of nearly six feet and Hawra short and plump, wore white garments and veils. Then two older men in fine suits emerged – the President’s advisors. Then the President came forth. Two young soldiers were holding him up. He looked weak and semi-conscious. They half carried, half dragged him down the stairs, his legs barely touching each step. When they got to the bottom, one of the soldiers patted him on the shoulder as if in apology for the rough treatment.

This shriveled, sickly man was to lead the country during a crisis. Adaora had never felt so ashamed and conflicted. If he was this ill, why didn’t he step down, or at least delegate responsibility until he got better?

Adaora was the first to realize Ayodele was moving.

“Wait,” Adaora said, running after her, Anthony and Agu following. “Wait for us!” But Ayodele was swift. Though she appeared to be walking, she was covering the distance impossibly fast.

The soldiers raised their guns as Ayodele approached. She didn’t slow down. “President,” she said loudly. “I am here to speak with you.”

“Stop right there!” one of the soldiers shouted, when Ayodele was a foot from his gun. “I will shoot!” Three other soldiers joined him, guns raised.

“Who are you?” Zena asked in her shrill voice. She stepped in front of her husband. “What are you doing here?”

Out of breath, Adaora, Agu and Anthony came to a stop behind Ayodele.

“I am Private Agu, Amphibious Division, sir,” Agu told the soldier, snapping a salute. “We are only here to help.”

“Has the airport been shut down? There was no one in air traffic control! We nearly died landing!” Hawra said. “How can an entire airport be empty and dark?”

“Aren’t you aware of what is happening?” Agu asked.

“We know only what we’ve heard,” the President said, his voice weak.

“You,” one of the soldiers said, pointing at Anthony. “Are you that rapper from Ghana?”

“Yes.”

“Eeey, na wao ,” one of the other soldiers said, lowering his gun. “I have all your albums, jare !”

“Say it, sha ,” the first soldier said, grinning. “I dey craze!”

Anthony rolled his eyes.

Adaora stepped forward. “My name is Adaora,” she said. “I am a marine biologist. This is Ayodele. She is one of them, one of the… the extraterrestrials. She is their ambassador. She was the first to make contact and she seeks an audience with you, Mr President. We’ve gone through a lot to get her here.”

The soldiers pointed their guns at Ayodele as they moved to shield the President.

“Oh, move aside,” the President snapped at the soldiers, becoming a little more animated. “Do any of you think you can save my life? Look at me! I’m nearly dead already!” He muttered something in Hausa. “Come,” he said, looking at Ayodele.

She stepped up to him. Her long braids blew in the soft breeze. Both of the young soldiers holding up the President looked terrified. Above, the dark sky was warming as sunrise approached.

“Are you truly a stranger? An extraterrestrial? An alien?”

“Yes.”

“You look like a woman from Igboland.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

He chuckled weakly and then coughed. “Prove it.”

She paused. Then she said, “Watch closely.”

Even as she spoke, her words were falling apart, disappearing into the din of metal balls on glass, shifting and reshaping along with her body. The soldiers guarding the President dropped their guns, the wives screamed, and one of his advisors fainted. The pilot fell to his knees and began to vomit. The President watched with wide eyes. Thankfully the two soldiers carrying him did not drop him, though one of them started to sob and the other seemed to be having trouble breathing.

Ayodele was now a broad-shouldered, stocky white man in a blue uniform with bushy grey hair and beard and haunted eyes. He had a mustache like a handlebar. Ayodele-the-man put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

The President’s mouth fell open. “ Karl Marx ,” he whispered. “I… I…”

“I know,” Ayodele said, in a manly voice. She stepped closer to him, graceful in her man’s body. “You believe in Marxism, yet you are too powerless to enact it.”