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Rafeeat Aliyu
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The gathering was as lively as the champagne in the flute Jemila brought to her lips. Drawing a deep breath, she took a sip and enjoyed the path of the liquid down her throat. This crowd looks so good, she thought, and could imagine how wealthy she would be by the end of the night—all these fancy people, carelessly slipping their handhelds where Jemila’s eyes could clearly see them. It was like the miracle two weeks ago, when her house had buzzed with good news.
Jemila had thought the house system had caught a virus when its androgynous voice had told her Matthew Halliday, a reclusive scientist, had randomly selected her to attend a dinner in celebration of his latest invention. “It was a random selection based on probability,” her house system had droned when Jemila demanded an explanation. “Congratulations.”
Jemila had been suspicious all of the next two weeks, even after a call to Halliday’s office confirmed that she was indeed on the guest list. Though, in the end, she decided that she would attend the party after all. The years had been especially tough when her parents had disowned Jemila after discovering her relationship with Nketiah. They had first asked her if it was possible to change before cutting off her allowance and freezing her accounts. Thanks to Nketiah, she had been able to move from the family home in Osu, Accra, to Abuja, Nigeria. In her newly adopted metropolis, Jemila discovered she could put all her years at university to good use hacking into handhelds and selling data chips on the black market. Jemila never really knew why selling data was such a lucrative business and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. That was six years ago, when she had been a spoiled princess and her preference had been cross-dressing men with high heels. She missed Nketiah sometimes.
Jemila placed her empty glass on a tray atop one of the bot tables weaving a path through the crowd that passed by her, but it moved away before she could snatch a mini-sandwich from its top. Pulling at one of her lightning shaped earrings, she studied the crowd. Jemila guessed there were about fifty people in the wide hall mingling before dinner. The crowd was a diverse one, there were round dark faces, plump arms, there were faces that suggested a hint of Asian ancestry mixed with African. Jemila noticed a few of the guests were noticeably wealthy in the way they carried themselves, others looked like this was their first time out of the slums in Karu.
Time to work, Jemila thought, rubbing her palms down the slinky fabric of the dress she wore. She made her move across the length of the hall, casually bumping into unsuspecting guests and slipping their smart devices into her open clutch-purse. Jemila had purloined four when a firm hand grabbed her by the wrist.
Before she could react, Jemila saw who it was and smiled. “What brings you here Detective Bolanle?” Jemila crooned, looking at Bolanle’s disapproving face.
Bolanle let go of Jemila’s wrist as if it was on fire and cleared her throat, darting eyes the only sign of her slight nervousness. “Most here won the lottery, abi?” she asked.
“Are you sure you’re not here on business Bolanle?” Jemila asked, still smiling.
Everyone who regularly visited The Red Elephant, near the Computer Village, had heard of Bolanle Okereke and her private investigation business. Jemila remembered meeting Bolanle when she was still new to the city; they had worked a case together then.
“No I am not,” Bolanle responded crisply. “You on the other hand seem to be very busy.”
“If I had recognised you, I wouldn’t have even tried.” Jemila’s hand had not even brushed Bolanle’s pocket, the woman was as sharp as always.
“I thought you had left that life,” Bolanle said and eyed Jemila, from the top of her shorn hair to exposed thighs from beneath her dress. “You said...” Bolanle paused to clear her throat. “I mean I haven’t seen you at the Red Elephant for a few years now.”
“Times are hard,” was Jemila’s only response. “I never thought you were one for small talk Detective.”
Bolanle glared at Jemila, gave a curt excuse, and disappeared into the crowd.
The guest toilet had a strong scent that reminded Jemila of the ocean. Her chip linked to the last handheld and gathered up all the necessary information. A loud knock sounded at the door left Jemila remained unfazed. This was the third time a person had pounded on the door.
“Hurry and finish whatever you are doing in there, people are waiting,” said a loud and angry voice on the other side of the door, “nonsense.”
Jemila heard the murmur even through the relative thickness of the door yet she remained patient, watching the animated cats dancing on the screen as they walked from the handheld’s memory folder straight into the bulk file on her chip. Jemila smiled, she had created the program to do just that. Cats were more interesting than folded envelopes, and represented passwords, pin codes, names, addresses, codes that disabled house systems, numbers, and such. She recalled the days when she picked up jobs that asked for specific data. Jamila had first met Bolanle at The Red Elephant, Bolanle’s stern imposing figure trying to blend in even though everyone knew the kind of work she did and wanted no part in it.
Back then, Jemila had just come out of working freelance having found a reliable data auctioneer. It was in year two of surviving on her own and Jemila was seriously considering heading back to Osu and kneeling down before her parents, the prodigal daughter returned home. Jemila overheard Bolanle questioning someone, asking about a car and if they knew Musa. The interrogation was mostly one-sided with the detective doing the talking. Jemila was at first not inclined to help. Like all the other patrons at the Red Elephant, she minded her business in the corner she shared with Dafi and two other ole, data thieves, a bottle of gin between them. Everyone knew that Loveleen had sold the data chip to Musa, who had then broken into a wealthy mansion on The Hill and made off with a brand new jet car—rapidly taken apart and its pieces sold—among other things. The detective was searching for something, she wouldn’t say what, that had been inside the car; it was like trying to eat an elephant whole.
Yet the detective was persistent, asking questions, wearing people down, hoping to gain just the slightest clue. As Jemila observed the detective’s determined approach, a sudden need to be reckless arose in her, to be carefree as she was in the days before she started stealing data. That urge grew as the night progressed, eventually encouraging Jemila to sneak out after the detective had left the bar with the whole story ready at the tip of her tongue.
The tiniest beeps alerted Jemila her work was done, and she stuffed the handhelds into her purse. She would have to sell the data as soon as possible—information had a very short market life. Amidst the loud knocks and curses from the other side of the door, she made slow work of activating the sensors that flushed the toilet. She turned to regard her reflection in the large illuminated mirror, and smiled. She took in her dark skin and short, neat afro. The overhead light glinted off the crystal on the silver stud in her nose. Her red dress suited her, Jemila thought, and fished out her lipstick from her purse.
The lights went off.
Jemila gasped, power cuts were common in the slums and outlying areas but she would never have expected it here. Jemila waited for the electricity to come back on, she pulled at her earrings and stretched out her arms in front of her. The darkness was heavy. She could not make out a single thing. It almost felt unnatural. Jemila rubbed her hands over her bare arms now marked with goosebumps.
A sound came from behind her, at first low then steadily growing louder. It was a moaning, like a dozen people moaning, it was loud and yet sounded muffled. A shiver ran up Jemila’s spine. It sounded more like keening and cries for help, and another sound, the sound of flesh torn apart. Jemila slowly spun around, a light she had not noticed before shone on a masked figure bent over and relentlessly digging into something that lay flat on a table. Jemila felt like throwing up when she noticed the gloved hands of the figure were bloody from being inside what she now saw was a lifeless body of a woman.
A rush of fear, desperation, confusion, and just a taint of madness slammed through her. Then she saw the source of the low moans. Behind the studiously working figure were cages big enough to hold humans. Each cage held a woman dressed in a soiled, expensive outfit, some of their faces stained with makeup, or something else. Her knees buckled and she kneeled on the cold floor. Right there clutching bars, was a woman who looked just like her with her exact red dress, torn exposing her stomach.
Darkness descended.
A chorus of hands slammed against a door. “Come out now! Which kain nonsense be this!”
Jemila blinked, she was back in the toilet with its peach tiles, virtual flowers, and soft towels. Her hands trembled as she opened the door, and she barely noticed the stern looks of disapproval.
Jemila struggled to make sense of what she had just seen. Almost automatically, she opened her purse and dropped off the stolen handhelds at different points in the hall. In her mind, all she could see was herself waiting in that cage to become the next unfortunate woman on the table.
The din of the lively crowd seemed muted as Jemila finally rested against a wall. She was sweating profusely even though the hall was cool, air-conditioned. Her hands were shaking and she could not stand up straight in her heels. One of the bots carrying refreshments approached her and she snatched two glasses of champagne and downed them in quick succession, but they were not strong enough to wipe away what she had just seen. Jemila looked down at herself and then looked up at the crowd around her. The soiled dresses the caged women wore suggested that all the other women were somewhere in this hall, just like her. Have they seen the same thing I did? Jemila wondered, and shook her head, it made no sense, yet it felt so real.
Bolanle! Jemila recalled the detective’s manner earlier; the same determined look in her eyes from four years ago at the Red Elephant. Jemila pushed herself off the wall. While she did not understand what she had just witnessed, she would not wait to find out.
Jemila’s heart hammered against her chest as she pushed her way through the crowd. She approached the vestibule and saw two heavy-set men now guarding the closed entrance doors.
“Madam,” one of them said as Jemila came to stand before them.
“I left something in my car. I would like to retrieve it.” Jemila looked up at the one who had spoken. The stiffness in his posture suggested he was an AI.
“I am afraid it is not safe out there yet Madam, we have been informed that some dangerous elements want to use this opportunity to steal sensitive data.”
Jemila almost laughed aloud at the irony. There were people outside longing to steal the scientist’s new invention, yet a thief like her had won an invitation to such a high security event. Jemila realised what she had to do, she nodded curtly at the AI before making her way back into the boisterous hall. She paused before the three short steps that lead from the vestibule into the hall and watched guests weave around the tall columns smiling and laughing without a care in the world.
“Excuse me,” a slightly husky voice interrupted Jemila’s cloud of confusion. The voice belonged to a petite woman, her stick-like arms jutted from the loose blouse she wore.
“Yes,” Jemila replied curtly.
The woman sighed loudly and said, “It looks like you received my distress call.”
“Distress call?” That got Jemila’s attention.
The woman nodded. “You are sensitive too, aren’t you?” she whispered, the words rushing out of her mouth.
Jemila glared at the woman who was now leaning towards her.
“So you won’t think I am crazy when I tell you that we are the main stars of Halliday's gala tonight... but for what he has in store for us, we’re more like guinea-pigs,” the woman gushed.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m Chigozie,” the woman introduced herself. “I wish this could have been a proper introduction but if we don’t find our way out of this mansion, tonight could very well be our last night alive.”
––––––––
It was dark and quiet when Bolanle started transmission. “Aboubacar,” she urgently called her secretary/fixer’s name, and heard a long sigh before he replied.
“Yes Madam, I am working on it.”
“Just unlock the door already.”
“I am working my magic as we speak.”
Bolanle squatted, her back against the balustrade, the stairway behind her and the door to Halliday’s study right in front of her. Slipping out of that monstrous hall had been easy and so was finding her way to her target’s private study. Bolanle was grudgingly grateful that Aboubacar had his fixer ways of obtaining house plans and entering into house systems. Her major concern now was untimely discovery—the balustrade only provided a shield from the lower floor. As far as she saw, the upper floors were deserted and shrouded in darkness, very much in contrast to the ground floor that was so well illuminated. Bolanle had noticed the bodyguards in the hall. Their presence may have surprised her if she did not rationalise it with thoughts of crowd control and the extravagant lives of the wealthy.
Bolanle remembered Jemila’s grinning face and clicked her tongue. It was a surprise to find a familiar face in that crowd. Three years ago, Jemila had literally stood out at the Red Elephant, but her naïveté and careless attitude to life unsettled Bolanle. No one else had aided Bolanle with her investigation then, and for that, she was thankful to Jemila even though the girl had all but signed a death warrant by doing so. Still, Jemila was also very cunning.
“How long will it be Aboubacar?” she said, into the comm unit inside her bracelet.
“I am now attempting to override the house system without raising alarm.”
Bolanle agitated, quietly kissed her teeth. Their current client enlisted Bolanle’s services in locating a device he called Shango 4680. Her client had not given many specifics, so Bolanle launched her own search with nothing but a name and a concept drawing of the device. It had been difficult to track down as the Shango 4680 enjoyed the privilege of moving around often from the hands of one mysterious owner to another. After chasing it for a month, she and Aboubacar finally pinned its location to Halliday’s mansion a week ago. Her job that night was to capture some images of the device for her client’s review.
Bolanle sighed, of course, there was more to the Shango 4680 than her client relayed. She was most likely aiding industrial espionage. Bolanle sometimes missed her days with the Pan-African Army if only because then she had more opportunities to draw, and use, her guns.
“Done,” Aboubacar said, as the door clicked and slid open.
Bolanle slipped into the darkened room, waited until the door shut, and then pulled out a pencil-thin torch from inside her jacket. In the wide, spartan study, there was a large desk computer—that she hoped was off lest it recorded her visit—a bookshelf, and a small, glass fridge that cast a dull, green glow in the corner it occupied and was the only other source of light in the room. Slipping on a pair of skin-tight disposable gloves, she started her urgent search for the Shango 4680.
Bolanle rummaged through the bookshelf, but came up with nothing except books and more books—hundreds on extraterrestrials, genetic research, and several copies of the West African Scientist. She moved to the desk computer, its screen was dark and there were locked drawers below the desk. Fervently hoping they were not pass-coded, as with the computer, she gently slid her fingers over the top, sides, and bottom, of the desk, and sighed in relief when she felt a small keyhole.
A sudden excitement overwhelmed Bolanle. This was the most excited she had felt in years. Getting the drawers open was easy with her auto-lockpick, and the bottom drawer held a safe ensconced beneath hardened glass and steel. Inside lay the Shango 4680. She knew its look due to the concept drawings, yet something almost indiscernible seemed to pulse from the device. Bolanle had to stop herself from reaching out to touch it, which would set off a dozen alarms. She wasn’t a sensitive person—there were people she knew who talked about how they felt the presence of aliens and neglected spirits—but it was almost as if the device was calling to her.
She bit the inside of her lip, slipped the camera over her fingers, and said, “I will begin recording now Aboubacar.”
With a small light and camera in hand, Bolanle filmed the Shango 4680. It was slightly larger than the palm of her hand, with deep indentations that would fit fingers perfectly around the handle. Tubes ran along its length and there was a small button presumably to charge it. Bolanle was sure it was a weapon; it looked like a sturdier, modified version of the blaster she carried.
“The Shango 4680,” Bolanle whispered almost reverently, as she captured the device from all possible angles. Satisfied finally, she turned off the camera. “Aboubacar, has the video been transmitted?”
“Yes,” he replied and added with surprise, “Wow, what a weapon!” Aboubacar was rarely surprised.
“We are not sure it is a weapon,” Bolanle snapped, even though her reaction to it troubled her and told her as much.
––––––––
“Chigozie, you’re saying that you see into the future.” Jemila asked after she had calmed down.
“I... see things, and I can help others see them as well,” Chigozie replied.
“And these things happen?”
“99% of the time, they do,” Chigozie said and nodded. “What of your ability?”
“If you can see the future, why did you come here?”
“I can’t say I have a hold on my ability,” she said, and looked embarrassed. “My visions are not always accurate, when I saw it, what I showed you, it was too late already.”
Jemila’s eyes flipped to the tall painting of Halliday that stood across the hall. The artist had captured his vibrant skin and bald head. Behind him were the old ruins of the mosque at Djenne and hovering in the air were five UFOs composed of two concentric circles and two lines that crossed between them.
Jemila gritted her teeth. “I can get us out of here,” she said, her voice low.
“All of us?” Chigozie's eyes lit up. “I haven’t been able to find the other eleven...”
“No,” Jemila said fiercely. “I mean just you and me.”
Chigozie looked disappointed. “Is that your ability? We can’t just leave the others here.”
“Then why did you not send your distress call to all thirteen of us?” Jemila pursed her lips.
“I didn’t choose for it to reach you,” Chigozie said, and sounded upset. “As I said earlier I do not have much of a control over this ability, I wasn’t even sure it would work-”
“Look,” Jemila interrupted, and leant closer to Chigozie. “We don’t have time for you to play the hero. We can go call for help, and then come back.”
The sound of metal tapping against glass echoed through the hall, silence ensued.
“All the guests are gathered, it is now time for dinner,” Halliday’s loud voice boomed. He stood tall with a wide-set body more suited to a bodybuilder than a scientist. “We can now proceed to the dining hall.”
The unsuspecting guests milled into the dining room. Jemila stayed back, Chigozie beside her, but when they were the only people left, they joined the guests.
Brightly lit chandeliers cast a beautiful glow over the guests as they made their way to their designated seats with the help of 3D cards projecting their names.
Searching the floating characters, Jemila found her place first. “Think about my offer,” she whispered to Chigozie, before settling down. Chigozie gave Jemila a forlorn look as she walked away.
In a matter of seconds, the first course arrived, a steaming hot-pepper soup with orishirishi. Jemila stared at the fine china bowl before her, the soup looked good but the assorted offal in it turned her stomach in a bad way this evening. She was not going to touch it. As she watched the other guests dig in, a paranoid thought went through Jemila’s mind; what if they knew she had not eaten? She restrained from panicking and reminded herself that she had a way to get out of this event alive, all she had to do was find a way to use it.
“Fine girls like you don’t eat?” a middle-aged man beside her asked with a smile on his face. Beside him, his wife rolled her eyes. “This is really good stuff.”
Jemila gave a small smile and shook her head, too distracted for small talk.
“Let me help you,” he said, and replaced her full bowl with his empty one.
Jemila’s nagging paranoia disappeared, and she wondered if it was just paranoia. Perhaps it was Chigozie transmitting her distress calls. Jemila bristled in her confusion; she was not sure what to believe any more.
Halliday climbed atop a dais, introduced himself, and then launched into a speech. Jemila barely heard a word—anytime the audience laughed, she wished Chigozie had more control of her ability. If everyone had seen what she had seen, they would not be laughing.
A piercing siren sounded through the hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Halliday’s self-assured voice boomed through the large room. “It has just been whispered in my ear that my mansion may be under attack. It seems my enemies can’t keep their hands off my invention and do not want us to enjoy ourselves.”
Nervous laughter rang through the hall.
“If you would all calmly move towards the doors to your left, my able-bodied employees will guide you to the nearest exit.”
This was Jemila's chance. She rose and eagerly followed the crowd through the large doors. Wanting to blend in, she kept her eyes to the ground and its luxury rug as she moved ahead. A large hand wrapped around her elbow and it felt like her heart fell to her feet.
“Madam, please this way,” a man said, who resembled the AI’s at the front doors earlier.
Jemila felt helpless and dug her nails into her palms as the AI dragged her away from the confused crowd.
Bolanle cussed when she heard the alarm, convinced her cover was blown. It was the perfect excuse to make a choice from her selection of concealed weapons and she chose the semi-automatic pistol. Back pressed to the wall just beside the door, adrenaline pumping through her veins, she waited for the assault to begin. Her eyes darted around the room for an escape route but there was only one barricaded window. Bolanle waited and counted the still minutes until she heard the sound of shoes shuffling past outside the door. She stole a quick glance out the window. Cars zoomed out the mansion’s gates under the neon streetlights. It was time to go.
With one last lingering glance at the desk where the Shango 4680 lay encased, Bolanle pressed the button that opened the study door and made her way to the stairway.
“Aboubacar, I’ve left the target’s study now, heading back to the hall where the guests were welcomed in,” she said, paused behind a pillar beside the stairwell, and listened for sounds from below. Shortly she heard footsteps at the bottom of the stairs.
“The girls have been rounded up,” said a high-pitched voice that carried clearly to where Bolanle stood tensely.
“Hope that means we are finished for the night,” a second deep-set voice replied. “I have a date with Miss Desereah.”
“The one with all the ropes?”
“Yeah, she...”
The voices faded away, and Bolanle waited a few moments before creeping down the stairs.
“Bolanle, I can open the exterior doors for you,” Aboubacar said. “It sounds like something’s up. Be safe.”
“You’ll need to let me into the hall first, those doors are closed. I am approaching from the first floor.”
All around her was a jarring silence compared to the earlier bustle. The guests must have vacated quickly, she thought, and was glad she did not have to attempt leaving in any other direction. True to his word, Aboubacar opened the necessary doors for her with his remote connection. The brightly lit hall was grating and eerie in its emptiness, the server bots still. It felt almost like everyone had been spirited away at the height of the gala.
“There are two doors leading outside from the hall, one across from the vestibule, north, the other is to the west of the hall,” Bolanle said.
“I am working on opening both of them,” Aboubacar assured.
Once Bolanle was outside, she would head to her car parked in a far corner of Halliday’s lush estate.
She had just reached the vestibule when there was a blinding flash and two women landed close to the north-facing doors. They both seemed to jump out of nowhere, and it was by sheer force of will that Bolanle did not shoot them. She would have recognised Jemila’s red dress anywhere, but Jemila’s friend—who looked like she was going to throw up—was a new face. Bolanle bit the inside of her mouth to keep from showing any reaction.
“Jemila?” she called out, a question to reassure her that she was not hallucinating.
Bolanle saw it took a moment for Jemila to focus but when she did, the turmoil in her eyes evaporated. “Bolanle! I’ve never been happier to see you. We are in serious trouble,” Jemila said, rushing to where Bolanle stood.
Bolanle inhaled deeply. She would not give in to confusion. “You have one minute to tell me what the hell is going on,” she said, and looked around the hall, finger tapping nervously on the gun, waiting impatiently for everything to go wrong, and it did.
Dr. Halliday’s henchmen herded Jemila, Chigozie, and eleven other confounded women into an enclosed room. The sole door only opened from the outside and required a thumbprint, ID scan, and a pass-code, to unlock. One wall was entirely made of dark glass, Jemila noted as they huddled together, then the darkness cleared revealing Halliday and bodyguards on the other side.
“Good evening ladies,” he said, and there was a wide grin on his face as he struggled to contain his excitement. “All thirteen of you were specially chosen to be part of my new invention.”
To Jemila’s horror, a few of the women visibly relaxed even though they were in a prison and the person responsible stood before them.
“You mean we are to be your experiments,” Chigozie retorted boldly. “Your guinea-pigs.”
“Oh... wow! This is amazing,” Halliday said and laughed, his eyes shining. He looked at his handheld. “Chigozie Nwanna, 28 years old, unmarried... we can mark her down as possessing some sort of pre-cognitive ability.”
He turned and spoke softly to someone on his right, beyond the glass wall. Jemila’s ears burned from continuously pulling on her earrings. Meanwhile panic began throughout the enclosed space.
“What do you mean by guinea-pigs?” a girl who looked no older than eighteen worriedly asked Chigozie. “My parents didn’t tell me anything about that.”
“Pre-cognitive ability?” A plump elderly woman murmured, obviously baffled.
Halliday cleared his throat. “You will have ample time to interact later,” he said, and glanced at his handheld once more. “The drugs will soon take effect so I shall make this quick. I am sure all thirteen of you have had to keep secrets all your lives, secrets of your super-human abilities. My research is currently looking into that.” He continued, speaking of aliens landing in West Africa centuries ago and mating with humans for the continuation of their dying species. This resulted in the emergence of thousands of humans with extraterrestrial ancestry and unusual abilities.
They listened.
“Consider yourselves great helpers of humanity, like your alien ancestors were,” he said, enthused. “The information we obtain from you will be able to drive our species forward. We could develop more competent AIs, and work to strengthen humanity for future generations when this world may be inhabitable for our current form.
You are all unique. My wife...” He paused, his eyes glazing over, “...before she passed away was able to aid us in advancing weather control.”
One of the women dropped to the ground, perhaps from the shock of it all Jemila thought, but it was not shock.
“I see the effects have started,” Halliday said, and then once more talked to someone they couldn’t see. “You shall all be put to sleep now. Understand we had to do this to ensure maximum cooperation. I’ll see you when you awaken.”
The mirror went dark once more. Jemila grabbed Chigozie’s hand as gas filtered into the room. “We cannot wait anymore,” Jemila said, and she disappeared with Chigozie.
––––––––
“Jemila, you can teleport!” Bolanle said when they appeared near the doors and she figured it out.
“I call it ofe.” Jemila replied, steadily observing Bolanle for her reaction.
“They are going to be looking for you soon, if they aren’t already,” Bolanle said, avoiding Jemila’s gaze, and stemming her numerous questions for a safer time. “I was on my way out of here when you ladies barged in. We can all fit into my minibus and make a run for it.”
“Are we not going to attempt saving the other women,” Chigozie asked, disappointment evident in her tone.
“There is no reason for me to...” Bolanle lost track of her words. Jemila was glaring at her and Bolanle knew why.
“Mrs. Bolanle, please. You haven’t seen what I have or what I showed Jemila,” Chigozie pleaded. “We cannot leave here knowing we could have saved the others.”
“Detective,” Jemila finally spoke up. “Chigozie does not have the time to show you what she saw. I’m not one for heroism, but the others could really use your help.”
“And you have a gun,” Chigozie interjected.
“Years ago, providing you with information on Mighty Rat and his posse put my life in danger,” Jemila continued, ignoring Chigozie. “And you promised me-”
“I remember what I promised,” Bolanle cut her short. “You want me to keep my word and risk my life on your behalf.”
Jemila nodded. “The situation is different but we can make a difference.”
Bolanle and Jemila shared a knowing look, before Bolanle shrugged and said, “We do not have the time to bicker or quarrel”. At least now, she had an excuse to use her guns and to test something that had been calling her name since she laid eyes on it. “Chigozie, do you have a vehicle? No? Can you drive? I shall authorise you to use my minibus. Jemila, will you be able to take your friend outside?”
“Yes,” Jemila nodded a small triumphant smile on her face. “I can move between places I am familiar with. I saw where most of the cars were parked.”
Bolanle described her vehicle to Chigozie and handed its elliptical key over to her. Then she focused on Jemila. “You should go back to that room and transport as many women as possible. I will keep the scientist and his posse distracted.”
“Okay,” Jemila said, her eyes betraying fear.
“Take this,” Bolanle said, and thrust a pistol into Jemila’s hand.
“I can’t use this,” Jemila blurted out.
“Would you prefer a blade?” Bolanle asked, and gave Jemila’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We need to move and before we do, remember save as many as you can. When you feel the situation is hopeless, save yourself.”
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The gun she did not know how to use, but Bolanle’s assurance boosted Jemila’s spirit nonetheless. First, she whispered ofe and took Chigozie outside the mansion. They did not land exactly at the spot but it was good enough. Jemila willed herself to be courageous, and not give in to the treacherous longing to remove herself from this mess and head to the comfort of her apartment.
When Jemila was twelve years old, she had asked her mother if people could disappear. Her mother had laughed and told Jemila about powerful ancestors who had once mastered magic. When these people wanted to disappear or move at supernatural speeds with the help of their magic, they chanted Ofe! Jemila sighed and headed back to the enclosed room where she knew eleven unconscious women lay.
––––––––
“Aboubacar, I am going to need you to open the doors that lead out. Keep those open, and the door to Halliday’s study.”
“Again?” Aboubacar's voice came clear. “Dare I ask what is going on over there, you almost sound excited.”
“Just do it.”
As expected, several alarms went off when Bolanle shot open the safe with her blaster, and pocketed the Shango 4680. On her way back to the hall, semi-automatic raised, the first person in a black suit she saw coming up the stairwell got a bullet in the head. She did not stop to check if her victim had been human or AI and just satisfied herself that it was not moving.
By the time she reached the hall, four more bodies had fallen and Bolanle knew she would have to use her flashier blaster soon. In the hall, she found cover behind a bot. As she waited for the action to truly begin, Bolanle felt the heavy weight of the Shango 4680 in her pocket.
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Moving unconscious women was hard work, but one by one, Jemila wrapped her arms around their prone forms and transported them to where Chigozie waited with Bolanle’s car. Jemila hastened when she heard the alarm sound throughout the mansion. On her third trip, she kicked off her high heels and helped Chigozie slide the latest woman into the back seat of the minibus. In the midst of the ongoing commotion, Jemila hoped Bolanle would keep Halliday and his henchmen distracted.
She was wrong.
On her fifth trip back to the room, there was a woman, immaculately dressed in a white tunic and long trousers, aided by an AI the likes of which Jemila had never seen. They were as shocked to see her, as Jemila was to see them.
“We clearly underestimated your kind,” the woman said. Everything about her was severe from her tight hair-bun to the starched points of her clothes.
“This ruse had a margin of error from the beginning,” the AI added. Its garish metallic head and insect-like eyes unsettled Jemila.
“Go ahead,” the woman said, and waved at the men who were in the process of removing the inert women from the small prison.
Jemila heard a gun discharge. It sounded like death.
“Now I wouldn’t kill you but I would hurt you,” the woman said, pointing the gun at Jemila and nodding at the AI to proceed.
Jemila’s entire body froze as the AI approached her. She had kept the small gun Bolanle had given her nestled between her breasts, held fast by her bra. There would be no time to draw it out and Jemila recalled Bolanle’s words, ‘When you feel it is hopeless, save yourself.’ The AI’s dull grey hand reached for her.
“Ofe,” Jemila whispered, taking herself back to Chigozie and the vehicle.
“Chigozie! You have to go now,” Jemila shouted in warning even before she landed.
She was oddly pleased when she saw Chigozie had already had the vehicle hovering a few feet up in the air ready to leave. A look passed between them as Jemila acknowledged the usefulness behind Chigozie’s ability.
“Come in,” Chigozie gestured.
Jemila shook her head. “Bolanle is still inside.”
The first shot snapped past Jemila’s arm just as the car rose a few metres. At first, Jemila thought it was a good idea to face the encroaching danger, Bolanle’s gun trembling in her hand. However when she saw a column of men and AIs led by a very displeased Halliday, she changed her mind.
Jemila left a shimmer of light behind her as she disappeared.
“I resorted to hand-to-hand combat when my ammunition ran out,” Bolanle explained. “It took you long enough; I was saving the best for the last.”
Bolanle, whose face was bruised and swollen and her lip split and bleeding, limped as she crossed the vestibule towards the north exit, though she did have a small smile. Jemila followed closely behind her, choosing to ignore the carnage, but her respect for the detective multiplied.
“Aboubacar, north exit please,” Bolanle spoke into the bracelet on her wrist, and held something that looked like a cross between an e-reader and a weapon to Jemila.
As soon as the door slid open, they rushed outside. It came as no surprise that Halliday and his guards stood opposite them. The guards had their weapons poised while Halliday stood in their midst, hands crossed behind his back.
“If you could put the house on lockdown now Aboubacar,” Bolanle murmured into her device. She did not want anyone ambushing them from behind.
The two parties stood facing each other. It was very clear which side had the advantage in numbers but with the Shango 4680 in her hand, Bolanle felt invincible. She pressed on the button at the bottom of the device and it leaped to life with a low, humming. The mansion went dark, and the only light now came from the neon lamps that lined the entrance to Halliday’s estate.
“A thief,” Halliday said, clearly displeased. “You have no idea what you are holding, or what you have just done.”
“I know very well what I am holding,” Bolanle said, her voice strong despite her battered face. “This is the Shango 4680, later prototype of the Oya 3865, both preceded by Lei Gong 1900; all devices that mimic natural weather. The Shango 4680 has improvements on insulation, charging, and manageability.”
“Who sent you?” Halliday asked, clearly shaken.
“I am sure you’ll discover in no time,” Bolanle replied. The device strummed with power in her hand, it felt uncontrollable, wild, and she wasn’t sure she could hold it for much longer.
Bolanle felt the tentative touch of Jemila’s hand and their fingers intertwined.
“Jemila Kayode!” Halliday roared her name. He was furious now. “You think you can escape, I know where you live! I know who your parents are. All the others who left will be back here.”
Bolanle pushed the button that activated the Shango 4680. There was a moment of stillness, then what looked like a bolt of lightning shot out from the weapon. Obviously, the device still needed more work because she missed her mark, instead of hitting Halliday it veered off to his right, incinerating five men and leaving the others around them maimed with third degree burns. Jemila took advantage of the flashy distraction and used her ofe power, dragging Bolanle along with her.
They appeared in Jemila’s apartment, floating in the air for a few seconds before landing painfully on top Jemila’s bed.
“That was a poor landing,” Bolanle joked, wincing as she tried to sit up.
“I’ve never been pushed like this before,” was Jemila’s reply.
There was a stretch of silence as they both tried to calm their breathing and fully take in the night’s events.
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Rafeeat Aliyu is an African flying machine with a home base located in Abuja, Nigeria. She is a freelance writer and blogger whose varied interests include listening to Japanese folk metal music; researching on African and world history; picking up new languages; watching Korean historical dramas; cooking spicy dishes and meditating on the Yoruba cosmos. ‘Ofe!’ is her first published short story.
