Emeka pointed at Colonel Usenetok. “May your juju be destroyed by the bloood of Jesus!”
“Amen!” the bus agreed, more enthusiastic than they were about Jubril. The ring of people around Emeka loosened, and their attention turned to the mad soldier. Most people were standing now, ready to give the Spirit a hand if need be.
“Jesus, your blood has already covered us against the Muslims,” Emeka said, coming to stand face-to-face with the soldier. The chief cleared his throat at the word Muslim and opened his mouth to say something, but Monica nudged him to keep quiet and told him the Spirit could do no wrong.
“Jou again?” the soldier laughed. “What have I done to jou?”
“Chut up!” Tega said to the soldier, looming behind Emeka, wielding her clog.
“Lady, why are jou against me?” the soldier said.
“No worry,” she said. “De Spirit go chow you pepper.”
“If this man touches me this time, I will yust kill him.”
“You can’t do de Spirit anyting. Who born you?”
The soldier stood there, unperturbed. He seemed more interested in the people behind Emeka than in his ranting.
“May the Muslims drown in Khamfi, like Pharaoh and his army in the Red Sea,” Emeka said, as if the soldier were a Muslim fanatic. “In Jesus’ name!”
“Ameeen!”
“I commaaand you, I commaaand you, Jesus, to come down, here here here, and battle this juju!”
With that, Emeka tackled the ECOMOG man, and they went down like two gladiators. Jubril wanted to join the fight on the side of Emeka, but they restrained him. Everyone backed away, saying it was a spiritual fight, and anybody who was not called by the Spirit, like Emeka, was risking his life. The fighters writhed on the floor and tore at each other’s clothes and skin, bloodying the aisle. There were loud prayers that Emeka might conquer the juju soldier. The commotion was so loud that the refugees outside gathered around the bus and hopped up and down to get a glimpse of the action.
“STOP OR WE GO shoot!” The police barged into the spiritual combat, cocking their rifles.
“No way, officers!” someone said.
“Dis one no be police fight o!” another said.
“Officers, guns no go fit win dis kind war,” Monica said. “Dis fight na for God, no be for Caesar.”
“Remember, police, you too go all die,” Tega said, “if you allow dis ECOMOG soldierman follow us home!”
Colonel Usenetok broke free and scrambled toward the police for protection, with Emeka in pursuit. The officers lowered their guns and tossed Emeka out of the bus, reprimanding him for fighting with a soldier. They said they would never allow a civilian to disgrace a man in uniform, no matter how tattered.
Outside, the refugees who had followed what was going on restrained Emeka, who was bent on running into the savannah to engage whatever evil spirits lurked there. He was like a man on drugs, his muscles still bulging with unexhausted power. This incident brought some consolation to the park refugees. With Emeka in their midst, some of them started thanking God for the Spirit who would protect them, even if the government failed to do so. Emeka had become the center of attention, and they milled around him in the dark, some reaching out to touch him. Then a few people switched on their flashlights; those with candles lit them. The light surrounded him like a halo that was too big for a saint and had to be shared by all who were near.
In the ghostly silence that sealed the bus, Jubril stood up and approached the door like a zombie. He said he wanted to be outside with his brother. He said he had stood by while people killed Joseph the first time and was not going to make that mistake again. When people asked him who Joseph was, he pointed at Emeka and said that he would rather return to Khamfi and die than travel without him. There were tears in his eyes. The refugees were edified by how deep his conversion had been. Though threatened by what the ECOMOG man would do now, they were consoled that the Spirit had converted at least one person to Christianity.
Tega appealed to Jubril, whispering to avoid the attention of the victorious ECOMOG man. “Gabriel, no cry. Leave everyting for de Spirit.”
“De next ting for you is proper baptism!” Monica said. “When we reach delta, we go baptize you for river like Jesus for River Jordan . . .”
“Ha-ha, where would you get a river that is not clogged by oil in the delta?” the chief said.
“Dat’s why we Christians must fight de oil companies for our rivers!” Monica said. “Dis oil drilling dey affect our prayer life o.”
“Don’t wolly,” Ijeoma said. “When we reach home, we know wetin we go do to oil companies. For now, according to de Retter to de Lomans, even when we no fit play, de Spilit dey play for us! Dat’s why de Spilit descend on Emeka.” She turned to Jubriclass="underline" “Gabliel, dis Emeka is flom my virrage. You want mourn pass me? Stop clying.”
Tega invited Gabriel to take her seat, to console him. He could have sat anywhere. He was enjoying the hospitality afforded a new convert. But Chief Ukongo was not happy and said it was not a good idea to separate Jubril from him. He signaled to Tega, who was standing by Jubril, to return him to his former place. Tega said no and gave the chief a bad look. He tried to get Jubril’s attention, but Monica prevailed on the chief to forget that idea.
The soldier found Nduese under one of the seats and broke into a celebratory dance, a wild gyration of worship. People backed away to give him a bit of space, still afraid of him since he had defeated the Spirit.
From his bag, the soldier pulled out an egg-shaped stone in a little container of water. He set it down, a temporary altar, and circled the spot in a seat-obstructed, jagged symmetry, calling out to Mami Wata, the goddess of the sea, in a litany of names. The soldier thanked her for leading him to war and back and for defeating Emeka. He promised her he would clean and restore her rivers in the delta to what they were before the Christians and Muslims dirtied them with sacrilege and greed for oil.
He squatted before the mobile shrine. “Mother, don’t abandon me now,” he said. “Remember, I performed this ritual every morning to jou in Liberia and then in Sierra Leone.” He looked into the bowl of water, bringing his face closer until his reflection filled its surface, then touched it, causing it to ripple. “Mother, thank jou. . . . Jou fill the earth with jour children!” he whispered. “We all belong to jou!”
Everyone’s attention was trained on the soldier, though in the background Chief Ukongo could be heard talking to his dog. He held it in his lap, stroking its bony body and whispering sweet things into its torn ears. Nduese looked at him attentively.
“Do you know that without the royal fathers our country is finished?” he asked the dog, which had begun to whine agreeably. He stuffed Nduese’s mouth with biscuits. “Nobody likes the royal fathers anymore. When my great-grandfather was the chief, people listened to him. He organized the people to fight off the wicked white men, who came to enslave us. Many died fighting against white people’s guns and swords because once he spoke people obeyed.” Nduese began to lick the chief ’s hands.
“When my grandfather came to power, they listened to him too . . . even missionaries. He gave them land to build churches and hospitals and schools, which is how the south became more educated than the north. In my father’s time, it was the same thing. I mean, these big oil companies consulted him regularly, which is why the oil tribes weren’t killing each other, as they do today in the delta. Even the military government worked hand in hand with him. . . . But now, nobody wants to hear anything from me . . . not my people, not the oil companies. What kind of democracy is that, my friend?