I

  Priest

  As expected, the pop was instantaneous. And the decompression.

  Dr. Aliozor steadied me.

  Could have given me a heads up, at least. What if I’d fallen and my screen cracked? Kicking my legs free and flinging out my arms, I glared at him. He didn’t catch me, having gone forward in the dark.

  Where…? Heart in mouth, my expectations struggled to maintain a flatline as the beam of my phone followed Dr. Aliozor. It caught the side of the bungalow that was the parish. Oh.

  Following behind, I shook my head. We were on a patch of grass between the parish and the fence of Ebuka’s primary school. Meaning Fr. Ama’s house was mere steps away. Very low probability he’d accompany me that far. More likely, he just wanted to drop me off. However, I staved off the renewed nagging in my head to ask Dr. Aliozor for pointers with the opposite. Since he was here, there was still some possibility…

  I was locked in this battle of the mind when he turned and spoke. “Remember GIG, you might not be in the action, but your task is every bit as important as any of ours. Take it seriously.”

  No need to constantly harp on about it.

  Nodding at me, he snapped out of sight.

  I recovered myself immediately, checking the time. Fourty minutes after eight. He knew we were coming here and still chose to ‘trap Mr. Peter’; there must be some other way. He wouldn’t have left me without pointers if he thought I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t allow the suggestion he wanted me to use magic for this and meeting the nurse any space in my head. He didn’t know.

  I remained a few seconds before the structure of the parish, absentmindedly dabbing the stickiness from my body while praying. For all three of us and our respective missions; for Ebuka and his family; for trust in Dr. Aliozor; for Onyeka. How could I not? With the particular place Dr. Aliozor Relocated us to (intentional or not), it seemed God was signalling me: pray before you get into this next phase. I think I also used the chance to rest my legs.

  Finished, I cleaned my trousers and crocs as I set my face towards the parish house. The distance to the L-shaped bungalow, with sections of paint cracked and peeling off, was short. Another L-shaped structure came to mind, and a boy. But the plans I was making to get Fr. Ama’s attention slowed my pace.

  Like with priests, many people have a…reverence for medical doctors. Our role in saving lives is certainly one reason. Linking the information Dr. Aliozor wanted as crucial to saving Ebuka’s life (which wasn’t a lie) should make Fr. Ama sing. That was my plan for the nurse too.

  But first, how to convince him I was a doctor without Ebuka’s uncle. I stopped in my tracks and glanced at my phone. Its network bars were still down. Didn’t mean the call wouldn’t go through. It might sound something like Drs Aliozor and Chris over the phone earlier though.

  Hopefully, Dr. James was having a calm shift, and he had his phone with him. Stomach churning, I dialled his number. I didn’t resume walking until it rang. Yes! Thank God. Dr. James could get the old woman’s phone number for me at least if I couldn’t talk with her using—

  I drew back suddenly, throwing forward both hands, my left a shield against the powerful white beam directed at me, my right with the beam of my phone a sword. An inferior sword.

  “Kedu onye ah? ji ?k? phone na-aga n’?ch?ch?r?? Agakwala nso ulo ?ka. Na Chetakwa na ebe a b? be Fada. Okekenwa na nd? òtù ya, ò? b? unu?” Who’s that walking in the dark with a phone torch? Do not go near the church. And remember that this is Father’s house. Okekenwa and his clique are you the ones?

  His wasn’t the only voice. The minutes on my phone call had started counting. From time to time, James’ voice rose from the static. In my head, one little voice wondered why I’d been pointing the beam of my phone carelessly moments before, another asked which I’d answer first: Dr. James or the man in front of me.

  “ònye ka ? b??” Who are you?

  You don’t appreciate how difficult it is to think clearly in such a situation until you’re there. The harsh glare of that beam, the voices, the what if’s (what if I’m unable to get Dr. James again, what if the person with the torch is armed) interrupted every train of thought. To worsen matters, I had begun sweating afresh and was experiencing hunger contractions. So, I acted.

  Drawing phone to ear, I shouted. “? b? maka Ebuka.” Oops. I’d intended to say that in English. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if Dr. James had heard me; it seemed he’d cut the call when I shouted though.

  The man I was sure had heard me said, voice harsher. “Ejila m egwu egwu.” Don’t play with me.

  “Ejiro’m gi egwu egwu,” is what I meant to say. But the words were a tongue twister. Placing my confidence in both English and pidgin, I carried on, speaking as fast as I could. Didn’t want him stopping me mid-sentence to attack. Assuming he had a weapon.

  I explained how Ebuka presented to UNTH. I told him that Ebuka needed blood, but we hadn’t found a suitable donor, and his condition had worsened earlier that evening. That was what brought my senior colleague, Ebuka’s uncle, and me down there. The former two were at the patient’s house. Taken there by the keke rider who dropped me here. (Lies I asked God to forgive.) My senior colleague wanted a fuller picture of the family history from the priest and the local nurse was why I was there. The information was crucial to getting Ebuka blood and saving his life. He could speak to the grandmother or the uncle over the phone if he didn’t believe me.

  Given the circumstances, I must admit I impressed myself. It was like loving the sound of my voice. Would that have impressed Dr. Aliozor? Where was he now, in the land of the Kanevorians or still on Earth, spreading Ebuka’s mixture?

  I looked up and, rather than off-white gas, saw doubt. Was telling him about Peter heading home wise? What if he checked things out? How much did he know about blood transfusions? Would he ask why we came under the cover of darkness? I could manufacture an answer for this easily. Except he talked with those boys. What if he atta—

  “Would Peter return here without calling me?”

  Not unless someone told him not to. It was a guilty thought. My mind registered surprise (he…spoke correctly, without an accent!) as another lie rose to my lips. Peter wasn’t with his phone.

  He twisted his head around before I could utter it. An exchange of low voices. And one of them from the slightly ajar door of the bungalow. The priest?

  Wiping my face, I edged sideways and forward, just far enough that a third of my body was outside the beam. In these few seconds, it also occurred to me that feigning ignorance was more honourable than lying. I was shifting to the side again when he turned.

  He didn’t focus the beam on me as before. “Kp?? ha. Tinye ya na speaker.” Call them. Put it on speaker.

  I shouted that I was calling Ebuka’s grandmother because I didn’t have Mr. Peter’s contact as I dialled up my colleague. I don’t recall how many tries it took before it connected and he answered his phone. And even then network was still an issue. But the man and grandma had a conversation, crackling and static notwithstanding.

  I won’t revisit the entire conversation save three things. In hindsight, telling about Peter going home was the wise thing because Ebuka’s grandmother mentioned it. Two, my accent when I spoke Igbo gave me away that I wasn’t from there. Last, the man was the priest.

  The long-faced, bald priest was all excitement after the call ended. Light source neutrally positioned, he took me by the wrist. I’d drawn up to the entrance and turned off the beam of my phone during their conversation. “Kedu aha g?, Doc?” What’s your name?

  I answered in Igbo as if I had something to prove. “Aha’m b? God is Good, mana ha na kpom GIG.” My name is God is Good, but they call me GIG.

  “God is Good Motors,” he said.

  A joke I expect from most people who hear my name the first time. I smiled thinly.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Anambra State, Nimo, Awka-South,” I said in no particular order.

  “Mana ? toro ebe a…” But you didn’t grow up here.

  I gave a noncommittal gesture, willing him to move on. I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want to get into explaining that I could hear the language but not speak it fluently.

  He did. “They call me Father Ama. In full, Father John Ama. And first, doctor GIG, allow me to apologise for the torch. I’m truly very—”

  “No need, Father!” I said, growing more embarrassed, stomach still growling. “It’s our…my fault. We should have let you know our movements beforehand.” Not that Dr. Aliozor would have let us.

  He spoke again before I could shift the conversation from me to his bravery. I could never have confronted someone in the dark like that unless I was a hundred percent certain who it was, or that I could win an ensuing fight. Isn’t that what Drs. Aliozor, Chris and I were doing, throwing ourselves into the unknown? a small voice said.

  “Eh, no, don’t worry. I think it’s network…”

  I wish you knew how false that was, Father.

  “…because my boy, Ifeanyi… Ifeanyi, ? ch?gh? ikele d?ctor?” Ifeanyi, you don’t want to greet doctor?

  A sweaty, medium, gangly youth with a sharp point to his head appeared instantly. He swiped off some of it with a finger. Perhaps the person Fr. Ama was talking with the time he turned his head. My mind travelled to another set of boys and their keke rider as he greeted. Where were they? I acknowledged his greeting. His singlet must have seen cleaner days.

  Drawing at the parts of his vest plastered to skin, Fr. Ama introduced me. “…God is really good. He is really, truly good, caring for his own. Ebuka is fortunate to be treated by humble, dedicated doctors who go above and beyond. Thank you very much,” he said.

  Ifeanyi chorused his own thanks as well. Letting go of my wrist, he told Ifeanyi to set out things for some light refreshment in the sitting room.

  Betrayed by my stomach. All that remained now was to yawn and collapse. I shook my head before the boy withdrew. Almost nine. I needed information. Now! I explained to Fr. Ama. Voice tense but polite.

  Like anyone who really wants you to have something, Fr. Ama thought fast. He pushed Ifeanyi inside. He should hurry and package some light refreshments. Things that wouldn’t be difficult to carry.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I chuckled as he dashed away. Poor hosts they were not.

  Inside the house would be suffocating; it was better we stayed outside, he continued. He shouted for Ifeanyi to leave the refreshments and bring chairs first. I decided against protesting this when I remembered I might still have to walk to the nurse’s house. I could leave without the refreshments, he said, if he finished answering my questions before they arrived.

  Unlikely.

  He also suggested calling a bike rider to bring Nurse Azuka to his house. Or telling her to come herself. It wasn’t too late. When we finished, we would head over to Ebuka’s home together.

  No. God, no. The implications of his last point flashed through my mind. It was a nonstarter. As well as anything that led to it. Not calling her would look strange. Calling her too early would give her time to prepare a story, or disappear. Might also prompt her to check on Mr. Peter and his relatives. Or prepare an atta—

  I used Dr. Aliozor’s words about lack of knowledge and skill to suppress that worry. Likely incompetence, he’d said. If she’d had someone competent to teach her… Nevertheless, Fr. Ama had planted another idea in my mind. “Father, I think for now we shouldn’t disturb her. She may have patients. I can call when I’m headed to her place.” My voice, tense some minutes ago, sounded weak in my ears.

  Fr. Ama was now a sticky point. Was he buying it? Would he check up on them after I left? I could tell him Dr. Aliozor didn’t want any interruptions with Eunice. That her case was delicate. Couldn’t Dr. Aliozor have worked around trapping Peter?

  “O o o ya!” he said, dabbing his forehead with his hand. “See Doc, echefukwala’m n’unu adaghi azu ike.” I forgot you people don’t rest.

  “Even priests too,” I retorted. I know several.

  Ifeanyi interrupted Fr. Ama’s laughter, stool in one hand, plastic chair in the other. “Nyekwa Doc. oche plastic,” Fr. Ama said, taking the stool and placing it near the torch on the sandy earth.

  I collected the chair with a thank you to the priest and Ifeanyi. I prayed that the boys were safe.

  “I na’eme ofuma. Daal?. Mee ngwa ngwa wetara the refreshments,” Fr. Ama said, seating. You’re doing well; Thank you; Hurry with the refreshments. “Mechie ?z?.” Close the door.

  I glanced to the sky before taking my seat. Nothing. Maybe churches restricted magic. Subtly moistening my eyes with spit, I leaned forward. I didn’t trust myself to stay awake. I placed my bare feet atop my Crocs.

  “Now, Doc… You should understand because you’re a doctor. There are questions I won’t answer. Anything that falls under the seal of confession and anything someone has asked me explicitly not to repeat.”

  I repeated his conditions under my breath as he said, “That is not to say I’m against helping you obtain the information via other means that don’t involve going against my convictions, if it’s that important…”

  I should have anticipated that.

  “…Anything else, ask away.”

  But no use crying over spilled milk. I thought about what we had seen of Peter and his grandmother, and Dr. Aliozor’s words. Fr. Ama was to serve as an arbiter of truth: Peter and grandma’s story, and the story we would hear from the nurse; who they had been before Ebuka’s birth versus who they were now. If he’d seen or sensed any odd thing then. Or any other time. Some protection for when I faced the nurse?

  This would all be a waste of time if he was a ‘bad’ priest and someone had used similar mind-altering magic (any magic) on or near him. The same if he planned to lie. He seemed a good priest. However, holiness does not appear on faces.

  He coughed. “Doc—”

  “I… I wanted… I’d like you to give me anything you can about his family history and pregnancy history.” I started slowly, choosing my words like a cook adding salt to a broth. “It’s important to us for children as some conditions can be familial or come from birth. So, the period around Ebuka’s birth, from the time his mother returned to the village to…to sometime after she’d given birth.” I must have offended him somehow here because I remember thinking ‘Sorry, Father’ as I continued speaking. “Who were they, his grandma, mother, Nurse Azuka, and Peter, before and after? How much did they change? Did you notice anything odd?” It itched me to add that he should just summarize but respect and the answer he was giving kept my mouth shut.

  He had a look in his eye. “I don’t know how many pregnancy questions I can answer. I recall I’d ask Azuka questions about Eunice’s pregnancy, general questions, and she’d respond positively. Eunice was fine, the babies—”

  “Ebuka wasn’t the only one?” I blurted out, recalling what I’d told Ebuka’s grandmother about triplets and how she’d shouted. Had I been close to the truth?

  Fr. Ama nodded. “I was one of the few who knew. The nurse asked me to keep it to myself for the time being. But I never got to share it because Eunice gave birth to only Ebuka in the end. Or so I was told. She can help you with the finer details.”

  “You noticed nothing odd about or around her during that time or…anytime at all?” I said.

  “Asides her psycho—”

  “Sorry, I meant the nurse.”

  He thought for a while.

  My eyes went up. Plain sky.

  “Well, it was odd that both she and Ebuka’s grandmother hid the birth for a while…”

  Not the odd I meant.

  “…I don’t know how they achieved that, ‘cause you expect a child to cry, be noisy. I made the discovery myself during a routine visit to the house. Both were also tight-lipped about the circumstances of the birth, except for Azuka saying that labour was unexpected but everything came out fine. When I asked about the other children, she said she’d been wrong, there was just one.” He paused before continuing. “And then the fall out between both of them. Only they can let you know the cause of their rift, if they want.”

  I wondered if they’d revealed that to him under the seal of confession.

  “But from the timeline, I’ve always wondered if it wasn’t because of this mistake our nurse spoke of…”

  Mishandling a pregnancy could cause animosity. But why tamper with the memory if you weren’t erasing its actual cause? Was it because the Fr. Ama already knew, and her magic didn’t work on him? Maybe her intent was the details, not the fact of mishandling the pregnancy.

  “…Each year, I keep hoping they can mend things once and for all. As for Peter, they’ve told you about his drinking problem…”

  No. But I said nothing, taking it as a statement rather than a question. I didn’t wish to have another lie on my conscience. The little voice at the back of my head accusing me of lying by omission went ignored. Was this the reason he hadn’t been living with his family? What changed since he was living with them now? And the times he wasn’t in the ward… Him, Eunice and Nkiru came to mind again, trapped.

  “…It was worse before the boy was born. Bad enough for his mother to put him outside the house.” There must have been a look of disbelief on my face because, nodding, he said, “Yes. Yes. You wanted to know about the grandmother’s character. That was one of your questions.”

  Nodding, I clarified. “Who she was around the times I specified.” Who they all were.

  He remained quiet for some time, seeming to battle with something. “To understand Ebuka’s grandma, it’s good you know where she is coming from. There was a long line of chief priests and priestesses in her family, you know what I mean…”

  I did. African Traditional Religion. Paganism.

  “…before Christianity’s advent here. So, after her family converted, donkey’s years now, there was some overcorrection on her part. A militant tendency, which has its advantages. Ebuka’s grandmother is the kind who would attend both morning and evening masses on the same day if she had the chance. The kind who put her son out of the house for his drinking habits. One who believed that religion and not medicine would cure her daughter…”

  It seemed he was describing someone else. Not the woman in the ward.

  “…I remember when Eunice returned to the village. In a place this small, news travels fast, the bad kind faster than the good. I’d heard four different tales already before Ebuka’s grandma came to me herself. She—”

  We both turned our heads at the sound of the door. Ifeanyi. He couldn’t have waited some more minutes before interrupting us. I wished he’d be gone even as I thanked him for the polythene bag of biscuits and malt and an accompanying glass of water.

  “Ifeanyi hap? the bottle,” Fr. Ama said, standing up and taking the bottle of water from him. “I ji the phone?” Are you with the phone? Collecting the device from him, he told Ifeanyi to go prepare things for Mass in the morning and school the next day. Fr. Ama poured me a second glass of water before taking his seat again. I’d indicated that the second glass was enough between gulps of water.

  Dipping my fingers subtly into the glass, I moistened my eyes. Once it dries, it’s like strapping the eyelids open with tape. Fr. Ama was glancing at the phone, so I thought it wiser to ask him the time. It would also bring his mind back to the discussion.

  “Sixteen minutes after nine,” he said.

  The first hour was almost up.

  “Ka’m kwuo osiso. Kedu ebe’m kwusi?” Let me be fast. Where did I stop? “Ebuka’s grandmother… Grandma wanted her daughter to receive Holy Communion daily at home. She also wanted me to find out the truth of the matter from her. In confidence, if not in confession.”

  I knew what his answer had been even before he said it. He couldn’t give her communion if she had no capacity to receive— a baptised person in a state of grace, and able to treat the Eucharist with respect. The second was outright impossible unless her daughter explicitly asked him to reveal those things.

  “Ebuka’s grandma didn’t get her way, but we settled on a visiting routine at least. However, the girl didn’t get better. She never opened up to me about the things her mother wanted to know.”

  “What did she want to know?” I asked absentmindedly.

  “If she knew the baby’s father, or if she was…raped. Where she had been all these years. Eunice seemed afraid. Someone or something was on her trail she muttered constantly when she wasn’t quiet or laughing. I suspect this is one reason the grandmother continued to see the spiritual in Eunice’s afflictions despite advice to the contrary.”

  She might not be wrong. Ebuka’s father was Kanevorian. Kanevorians can blend in with the environment. One reason they hunted us quite effectively last time, I was sure. He could have stalked Eunice. Nurse Azuka aside, couldn’t he have damaged mother and daughter’s minds as well? Somehow. Like Dr. Aliozor said, the memory manipulation could external, and there were things about Kanevorians we didn’t know. But time would tell.

  We remained in companionable silence (well, I nibbled a biscuit) as I sorted my thoughts, which answers I’d gotten and which ones remained. During this time, I spotted branches of the off-white gas in the sky over the parish. They worried me. I wondered if this was need enough to trigger my impromptu magic. God, let them move faster!

  Another theory struck me. Ebuka’s grandmother saw Nurse Azuka using her ‘skill’ during the delivery. Maybe her ‘skill’ was cruder than I imagined, involving some sort of ritual. Not sophisticated like Doctor-Magicians. Could even be that Ebuka’s grandma had requested she use her ‘skill’. Things went sideways. Nurse Azuka did something to her memory to stay her guilty conscience. Hiding things from Fr. Ama flowed naturally from there.

  Did this make the possibility of an attack more—?

  “Seems like someone is carrying out an experiment,” Fr. Ama said, eyes in the sky.

  My food going down the wrong tract, I coughed violently.

  Fr. Ama stood to pat me on the back and pour another glass of water. He didn’t retake his seat until I’d stopped coughing. “Sorry Doc. Is everything alright? Sorry.”

  “I’m fine, Father.” Had he used that word intentionally? “Why did she let Peter move back in?” I asked.

  “Some people say she’s less strict now…”

  An effect of the memory modification?

  “…Others say it was because of money. But Peter started working on himself after the birth of his nephew. And I can only put that down as the action of God’s grace. His drinking problem is still there…”

  Ebuka’s grandma’s words before we’d left struck me. (“…Meanwhile, D?c, biko, e nwere ihe m ch?r? ka I nyere m aka. ? ma n’ilek?ta Ebuka ad?gh? mfe n’aka Peter. O dighi ya mfe. Biko, nyere m aka na ile ya anya ka unu na-aga n’ime obodo…” You know it hasn’t been easy for Peter taking care of Ebuka. It’s really difficult for him. Please, help me look out for him while you’re in town… watch him for me.) I thought she’d meant Ebuka. Now…

  “…but he’s much better than he was, say seven, eight years ago.”

  I imagined the man tearing open sachets of cheap alcohol and downing everything in one go. Let that not be the fate we had consigned him to by leaving him behind. “And… sorry Father, you said… nothing odd on nurse Azuka.” What would happen to him if, God forbid, Ebuka died?

  “What do you mean by odd?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure either. What was the odd thing the holy consecrated person felt around magic? If he hadn’t sensed anything… But he’d used the word experiment just now. A coincidence? I should have asked—

  “If it’s how she cares for patients, she has excellent skill, but I’ve heard no complaints about her.”

  I nodded. “She’s Catholic?”

  She was Pentecostal, though he was unsure of the exact denomination. That was neither here nor there. Next, I asked about how Ebuka related to his mates, if he fought a lot, and if there was anywhere people in the village avoided.

  He answered both questions in the negative.

  Thanking him, I stood up.

  He stretched himself to his full height. “Doc. ? j?tago aj?j? g? niile.” You have asked all your questions. He chuckled. “Kedu ka I cho iru bee Nurse? Keke unu ji bia o no nso?” How do you want to get to the Nurse’s house? Is the keke that brought you nearby?

  “Mba.” No. I was hoping he’d help with that.

  And he did. We returned the cup, bottle and chairs between the both of us. Quickly changing into his white soutane, he steered a bike from the back of the house into the clearing at the entrance. Apparently, his predecessor got around the village via the same means. He had taught him to ride.

  I had foreseen where his help would be problematic. If we made good time with her as I did with him, what was to stop him from heading to Ebuka’s home? Unless Dr. Aliozor returned before then or I convinced him otherwise. But, other benefits aside, having him tag along was the best way to maintain control of the situation.

  Such thinking felt too much like Dr. Aliozor. That was worrying.