Nnedi Okorafor - Lagoon

“I’m fine,” he said. Even his voice was louder. Clearer. Stronger. He chuckled, looking up at the sky with a smile on his face. “I’m fine.”

“What did she do to you?” Zena cried. “It sounded like…”

“She healed me, Zena.”

“Praise Allah,” Zena whispered, tears running down her cheeks. She bent forward and put her hands on her knees, attempting to catch her breath. Hawra came up behind her, her eyes wide.

Ayodele said nothing. She was looking up at the sky with the President.

The others got out of the car and slowly approached.

“The air is so sweet,” the President said. He inhaled and exhaled. “Allah is great.” Slowly, he stood up.

Zena blinked and then cocked her head, frowning suspiciously now. “Help our husband,” Zena said, pushing Hawra forward. “You are stronger.” Hawra moved toward the President.

“My mind… it is clear,” he said, his arm around his second wife. He chuckled again and Adaora looked at Agu, who shrugged.

The President turned to Ayodele, who’d also stood up and was looking at the airplane. “Take me to your leader,” he said.

Ayodele turned around and smiled. “Leaders.”

“Where will I meet them?” he asked.

“In the water.”

Agu moaned.

The President looked at him. “Private Agu, where can we get a boat?”

The sea always takes more than it gives.

Right now, as I weave, the sea roils and boils with life.

About a day and a half ago, the oceans were ailing from pollution.

Today, as the sun rises, there may as well be a sign on all Lagos beaches that reads:

“Here There Be Monsters”.

This has always been the truth, but today it is truer.

They must understand this. But I hope they do not understand any of it. If they do, then they will not step on to that boat and the story will not continue. My strong webbing will snap. The story will stop growing and spreading. Let them venture forth. I will throw out a strong thread, maybe three. Then I will anchor it firmly to Lagos. That way, I can continue to narrate this tale while I enjoy it.

I am Udide, the narrator, the story weaver, the Great Spider.

I live in this great cave beneath the city. I have been here for centuries and I will be here for centuries more. This metropolis is just getting started. The coming of these new people is indeed a great twist to Lagos’s tale. Who saw it coming? Even I did not.

I roll onto my back and place my hairy feet to the earth above me. I feel the vibrations of Lagos. This way, I see everything. What a story this has been. The sun will soon come up and I will watch everyone see what they have done. The chaos will be on display.

The sun rises.

Dawn is here, and the dust settles.

The streets are full of mayhem’s terrible fruits.

Burned vehicles. Smoldering buildings. Dead animals.

The waking giant of the road goes back to sleep, leaving a trail of terror.

The death of the boy on the road has already been seen by over three million people around the world and will be seen by millions more.

There are new people amongst the old people.

And the digital ether has gone wild.

The great Ijele leads the wildness and the tricky Legba laughs.

The Bight of Biafra’s waters are teeming.

The President is healed.

His eyes are dry and white. His skin is clear and brown.

His mind is strong and free.

I revel in it all.

I am stronger than ever. I approach the end of this leg of the tale.

And here, I greet you.

Welcome, listener, welcome.

I press my sensitive feet to the cave’s ceiling.

Na good good story.

I go continue to listen, o. Quietly…

The President of Nigeria walked along the narrow path outside his mansion, inhaling the scent of lilacs and lilies. The small garden between the mansion and the guesthouse in the back was his sanctuary. Well-paid gardeners tended to these flowers daily and it was worth the cost. This was where the President usually came in the morning to think. Nevertheless, this particular morning was not the usual morning at all, so he walked swiftly past the flowers toward the guesthouse.

He’d dressed in a white sukodo and buba, his finest attire. Granted, if he fell in the water, he suspected his clothes would make swimming hell. But he didn’t plan to fall in the water. He imagined that the aliens would come to his boat on whatever contraption they used as transportation and talks would ensue. Talks of what? He’d cross that bridge when he got to it. The fact was that the woman Ayodele, who was not a woman, had healed him. She was a child of Allah. So everything was good.

“I’m not going,” Zena said, holding her delicate black veil over her face as they stood outside the guesthouse. She’d stayed here since they’d arrived. She didn’t want to be in the same house as “that creature in women’s clothing”. Nor did she want to be near her husband, who’d surely been infected with whatever the creature was spreading. Though Zena had hated watching her husband deteriorate, there had been comfort to be taken from his illness. It was Allah’s will and she’d come to terms with that.

But there had been more to it than she’d admit. When he’d been healthy he’d married two other wives and slowly her role in his life had dwindled. With the onset of his illness, Zena had become his support system again; she’d become his mouth, his confidante. His third and youngest wife, Caroline, had even grown jealous and moved to their home in Abuja. Now, with him being healed, all that would change.

“One of us should stay here,” Zena snapped. “Let Hawra go.” And may she never come back , she thought. Zena was tired of the overeducated, PhD-wielding, cheeky Hawra. Let her go and never come back.

Hawra dressed in fitted jeans and a T-shirt, and then donned her veil. All her life she’d dreamed of being a part of something huge. Something that would bring a change to all things as she knew them. She wouldn’t miss what was going to happen next for the world.

Father Oke rested his back against the wrought-iron bars of the gate that surrounded the Glass House in downtown Lagos. He had a pounding headache. But at least he was alive. When he’d come back to himself on the lawn of Chris’s home, everyone was gone and the house was on fire. They’d left him there. His flock. Maybe they’d even joined the aliens.

He shoved the thoughts away as he looked at the road. It was a bright early morning. Quiet, too. Not only were there no people in the area, the power in the city had been completely knocked out by the last sonic boom. Once in a while a group of young raucous boys or a car would pass, but otherwise the road was empty. Here, Lagos was desolate, except for a smoldering car down the road. Most likely all the worst madness was in Oshodi or near Mile 2.

Along with his head pounding, his face burned from where he’d been slapped. He’d thrown off his filthy white robes long ago. Then wearing his grey pants, white shirt and grey tie, he’d walked the streets for a while. He’d seen a woman laughing as a man ravaged her from behind against a stalled vehicle. She’d been screaming and laughing that an alien was probing her. Father Oke had helped a young woman with three young children cross a street. He’d seen several go-slows that were so solid that people had abandoned their vehicles. He’d seen Area Boys carrying branches and palm fronds that they used to threaten people, moving in on the abandoned vehicles like vultures. And worst of all he’d seen many of them .