Nnedi Okorafor - Lagoon

“God, that seems so long ago,” he whispered. He laughed. He was actually in his car again. They’d let him go. But he was planning to return to the President as soon as they called him. He took another breath and looked around. He was parked close enough to Bar Beach to see the water… and the part of the shape-shifting alien ship that hovered above the water, far out from shore. A few cars passed on the street and there were one or two people on the beach but no one nearby. Good , he thought.

He reached over to the passenger seat and undid the latch underneath. Then he flipped the passenger seat open. Quickly, from amongst various cables, chargers, batteries, SIM cards and mobile phones, he removed his car charger and his laptop. He’d owned this car for six years. He had bought a Honda for more than its plain, unassuming look. Hondas lasted . Even on the roads of Nigeria. And for this reason, he’d spent thousands of naira to have this secret hiding place custom-made for his car. He kept absolutely nothing else inside it. This kept him mobile. A journalist needed to be mobile.

He plugged his phone into his car charger, placed it on the armrest and then opened his laptop. Its background was black and there was only one icon on the screen. He kept all his links and folders inside and then opened his browser.

When he checked his YouTube account, his heart began to pound like crazy. The footage he’d posted of Agu, Adaora and Anthony saving him, the guards, the President and one of his First Lady on that boat had already gotten over three million hits. He’d named it ‘‘The President of Nigeria Saved by Witches and Warlocks!’’ That title coupled with his reputation as a respected journalist who’d once worked as a CNN correspondent, plus his substantial following, might have gotten the ball rolling.

“OK, Femi,” he whispered, opening his laptop wider. “This is happening. So make it happen.”

His inbox had over a thousand messages. Many were from Nigerians threatening to kill him for involving himself in witchcraft. Some were from Nigerians who called him a disgrace to journalism. The majority were from Lagosians asking him to please report more. He spotted several emails from newspapers around the world demanding more news. And there were some emails that accused Nigeria of being too backwards, undeserving of an alien visitation.

He found at least ten from news services including CNN, Fox News, the BBC, the Guardian , Reuters, the Associated Press and Al-Jazeera.

He read and then closed all of these and clicked on the one from the Nigerian Times . This one wasn’t asking to buy his story. It was his editor asking where he was. He typed a quick response: “I’m fine. I’ll have a story to you soon. Watch your inbox.” He paused. He still had the footage from Tin Can Island where the one called Ayodele had sacrificed herself. He clearly understood that this was what she’d done. He’d inhaled the fog like everyone else and he’d immediately felt a shift. In perspective; in memory. He’d only smoked weed once in his life, when he was seventeen. Within minutes he’d felt everything around him open up like a flower. He’d been horrified by the experience and never gone near the stuff again. This was how the perspective shift had felt, though smoother, more integrated with his own point of view. He felt it most when he looked at the sky.

Of all that had happened, of all he’d seen, Ayodele’s sacrifice was the real story. That was the story CNN and the BBC would really want. But that story wasn’t for sale. At least not to any foreign buyers. He quickly added a bit more to his email: “I’m fine. I’ll have a story to you soon. Watch your inbox. This isn’t a story for print. It’ll have the best effect if posted on the web. I have video.” Then he clicked send.

He settled back. All he needed to do his job was his car, his laptop and his mobile phone. He sat back and began to write.

My fellow Nigerians, my fellow humans, let me tell you about all that I have seen. I was there!…

It was the most honest piece of journalism he had ever produced. He did not write it hard news style, he wrote it as a memoir. He was a reporter sharing his experiences. He ended his 15,000-word article with what had happened on Tin Can Island.

…She saved them all and then they beat her to near death. But can you blame them? After all they had probably been through? Even before getting to Tin Can Island? What must they have seen during that night when Lagos burned, rioted, ate her young? So they beat her. I saw them stamp on her chest, kick her in the head, and worse. I was too far away to help. So the only way I knew I could help was to keep recording. This is what happened next. Do you all remember that fog? You should if you were in Lagos, wherever you were, whether you were inside or outside, you inhaled the fog. This is where it came from:

Then he embedded the footage he’d posted on his YouTube page. When his editor posted the story on the website, he’d make the YouTube footage live.

He reread his story, editing, adding where he saw fit. He didn’t censor a thing. He read it out loud. He read it aloud again and then he played the footage. The combination gave him the shivers. The world as he knew it had changed. He’d been sent out to cover the dead whale on Bar Beach. He never could have imagined what would happen next.

He clicked send. Then he sat back and waited for his world to turn yet again. He smiled. And it was good.

She swims around the alien home that was in the water three times. Three is a magic number to her. Her most memorable moments happen in threes. She’d never seen the massive ones in her entire life until one day while swimming far from land she saw three of them. Though they could stay underwater for a long time, they could not breathe it as she could. She’d enjoyed watching them meander to the surface and blow water out of a hole in the top of their heads. On the best day of her life, she’d eaten not one, not two, but three of her favorite fish in a row. And it had taken her three tries at spearing the dead snake thing in the water to make the dry creatures go away for good. They are gone for good. Yes, she is sure of this.

So she swims around the underwater part of the visitor’s home three times. As she does so, she inhales the sweet, sweet water. Her gills are enormous now. Her body is huge. She matches perfectly the golden light filtering through the clear water. Then she swims away. South. She swims out to sea, to see what she can see.

I am the unseen.

For centuries, I have been here. Beneath this great city, this metropolis. I know your language. I know all languages. Legba is my cousin and he has taught me well. My cave is broad and cool. The sun cannot send its heat down here. The damp soil is rich and fragrant. I turn softly on my back and place my eight legs to the cave’s ceiling. Then, I listen.

I am the spider. I see sound. I feel taste. I hear touch.

I spin the story. This is the story I’ve spun.

I am Udide Okwanka.

I have been spinning these stories in this cave for centuries. I’ve spun the birth and growth of this great city. Watched through the vibrations that travel through my webs. Lagos. Nigeria. I know it all because I created it all. I have seen people come from across the ocean. I have seen people sell people. I’ve knitted their stories and watched them knit their own crude webs. They came in boats that creaked a desperate song and brought something I’d never have created. Lagos has fed me. Fast life, fast death. High life, low life. Skyscrapers, shanty towns. Flies, mosquitoes. The roads rumble as paths to the future, always hungry for blood. The Bone Collector will always be one of my favorite children. Ijele is my cousin.