“My Catholic children, I am sorry,” the chief said. “I wasn’t trying to destroy your faith, OK . . . ah . . . ah . . . but as you can see this woman’s water bottle is too small for our trip. If this soldier’s six years’ madness returns on the way, we will run out of holy water.”
“I no be against Catholic Shursh o,” Tega said. “But Shief dey talk sense.”
“Yes, make we dey look at dis situation well well,” Monica said.
Madam Aniema said, “We can all find a space on this bus . . .”
“I insist he must be voted out, and I am speaking as a royal father!” the chief concluded.
At this, they began to contribute money for the voting, which meant bribing the police. The chief whispered something into Jubril’s ear, and the boy quickly paid for both of them.
The soldier started shouting and threatening again, knowing they would get rid of him. He lobbed imaginary grenades at people.
Jubril was perplexed; he did not know with whom to side. He knew the floor space was not his. And because of the erratic way the chief was acting, he could not bring himself to say the chief had his ticket. Jubril was uncomfortable with the way his fellow passengers were switching sides on every issue. What would happen if the chief denied that Jubril had given him his ticket and he was thrown off the bus? What chance did he have if they forced him to reveal the content of his pocket? He begged Allah to take control of his fate.
SUDDENLY EMEKA BEGAN to tremble like the sick man had, calling on God with all his might. The bus was not afraid but happy, saying he was possessed by the Spirit. They thanked God for revealing himself in the midst of the threat they were facing from the mad soldier. Emeka threw away his monkey coat and took off his shirt. His big eyes were blinking riotously like a broken traffic light, and every inch of his short frame vibrated with fervor. Though his mouth was wide, the torrent of glossolalia flying out seemed bigger. He spoke without catching his breath. To Jubril’s ears, he sounded like Yusuf. Jubril quickly hid his face from Emeka and shut his eyes, trying not to think of his brother. He tried to chant some Islamic incantations in his heart to distract himself from Emeka’s speaking in tongues. But it did not work. In his mind, Emeka became Yusuf. Though he opened his eyes, he could not rid himself of thoughts of Yusuf.
“There’s an enemyyy in this bus!” Emeka said. “We must cleanse this bus spiritually . . . Jesus! Jeeesuzzz! The bloood of Jesus must disgrace you today . . .”
“In Jesus’ name!” the bus resounded.
“I say, the blood, blood, blood of Jeeesuzzz must cover this journey.”
“Amen!”
“Jehooovah, who deigned that Jonah be thrown into the sea . . . reveal him to us now, noww, nowww .”
“Now now, Jesus! Save us, Holy Spirit!”
“Reveeeal to us the evil one on this bus.”
Emeka stamped his feet and ranted on, looking up with eyes glazed, as if he were consulting the heavens, as Yusuf did the afternoon he was stoned. Emeka was out of control. Sometimes, it was as if he would fling himself out the window and disappear into the night. At the other end of the bus, the soldier was exhibiting all the madness of the war front. The two looked like the foci of a twin whirlwind, spinning close to each other but never merging. The bus was totally behind Emeka, cursing the mad colonel and drowning him out with prayers.
Now Emeka began to tremble toward Jubril.
“You’ve betrayed Christ!” he accused Jubril, reaching for his neck. “Who sent you to condemn God’s children to a bad journey?”
The refugees were surprised and disappointed that he was taking on Jubril and not the soldier.
“No vex, abeg o,” Jubril pleaded.
“No say anyting,” Tega advised him. “Just dey quiet . . . na mistake. Na de soldier he want hold.”
Monica said in a loud whisper, “Gabriel, no fight him o . . . de Spirit go correct himself. . . . We go pray for de correction.”
By now Emeka had grabbed Jubril firmly by the neck and was shaking him. Some prayed that the Spirit might be inspired to rid the right person from the bus. But when they saw that Emeka was determined, they went back to advising Jubril not to say anything or to retaliate, as it would be folly engaging the Holy Spirit. Jubril appealed to the chief as Emeka dragged him toward the door, much in the way he had dealt with the soldier when he entered the bus. But the old man said nothing. Jubril, terrified, trembled as much as his possessed captor. For a while the two whirlwinds came very close and shaved into each other, as Emeka bundled Jubril past the madman, heading toward the door.
“Accept Jesus as your personal Savior!” Emeka said in Jubril’s face.
“My broder,” Jubril said, talking to his late brother Yusuf, “I be your blood. I be one of you.”
“No, no, no, no,” Emeka said, pushing him to the floor. “Kneel down. . . . You’re the eneeemy!”
Jubril took the pain as his body slammed into people and then to the floor. His concern now was to make sure his right wrist did not come out of his pocket. He held it down with his left hand. “I no be enemy. . . . I be your blood broder . . . Gabriel!” he pleaded. “I accept Christ.”
“Liar! Who are you?”
“Ah . . . I first Catolic! Remember Mama say dem baptize us as baby, Joseph?”
“I’m a member of the Pentecostal Explosion Ministries. We don’t believe in child baptism!”
“We be one fader, one moder. Joseph, I dey accept you now.”
To prove his identity to his brother, Jubril showed him his Marian medal. But Emeka tore the medal and flung it out a window as if he had mistakenly picked up a red-hot coal. “Mary is an idol in Catholic worship,” he said. “And child baptism prepaaares a child for hell. . . . I knooow you! You cannot hiiide from the Father of Jesus Christ.”
“Beg our fader to forgive,” Jubril said. “You alone fit beg for me.”
“You must come with me then, if you want to meet our Father!”
“Our fader go forgive me . . . your killer?”
“Yes, yezzz! The Father is forgiveness!”
The refugees were astonished. They now thought the chief could have been right when he accused Jubril of carrying a talisman in his pocket. They looked at each other and increased their prayers and thanked the Lord for the miraculous powers of Emeka. Jubril lay there on the floor of the bus as the sick man had done, but on his side. His two wrists were latched together at the pocket in case Emeka, who was hovering over him, attempted to pull him up by his right arm.
“Emeka, ask him what wishcraft he use kill him broder,” Tega said.
“No tell de Spilit wetin he go ask,” Ijeoma whispered to her. “De Spilit no need your advice.”
“Me, I want know wetin dey him pocket,” Tega said.
Others asked them to be quiet and complained that it was already bad enough that the soldier was distracting the Spirit with his madness. They warned the two women that they were not in a position to judge Jubril or to intervene, and that since the omnipotent Spirit did not attack his pocket, they would not attempt it either. As far as they were concerned, the Spirit had already taken over the journey. The bus rained with thanksgiving prayers for Jubril’s conversion as Madam Aniema sat there quietly reading a torn copy of The Imitation of Christ. She behaved as if Emeka was the one to be saved from Lucifer. Occasionally, when he trembled in her direction, she sprinkled her holy water on him, without lifting her eyes. A few other Catholics who did not join Emeka’s prayer session sat grim-faced, grumbling about the denigration of their baptism and the disposal of the Marian medal. They nodded in approval whenever Madam Aniema sprinkled water on Emeka. Others looked at her as if she were a miniature Satan who badly needed Emeka’s cleansing.