The Immortal - Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

The President’s men

There is no more sure tie between friends

than when they are united in their objects

and wishes. – Cicero

We sit around an oval table in an empty office, the only furniture being the chairs we occupy. A lone picture of the president on the wall looks down disapprovingly at those facing away from the door. The ceramic tiles on the floor shine as if freshly laid, reflecting anyone who bends close enough to see. Someone once said the place used to be a torture chamber. If true, the president would never keep us in such a place, yet something about the room makes one’s skin crawl.

Chief Oyekanmi, introduced by Henry, stands and makes faces at the picture of the president hanging on the wall. The laughter generated by his antics dissipates the tension in the room.

Henry brings us to Abuja from Port Harcourt on the presidential plane, along with three other people from Lagos. The presidency, that early morning, looks like a graveyard. Everyone wears mournful expressions.

The president throws down in disgust the newspaper cuttings sent to him by his Press Secretary. They still carry stories about his speech. Nearly all of them have editorials on why he should not quit. They call it selfishness on his part to abandon the country now that she needs him.

How dare they call him selfish? He has given almost eight years of his life to the country. He flips through some newspapers, but they all say the same. He presses the bell on his table. “Bring my guests in,” he tells his secretary.

The president’s secretary ushers us into what looks like a conference room where the man himself has a stack of newspapers before him. He waves us to the seats already arranged for the meeting.

“Gentlemen, I guess you all know me; I will dispense with introductions. My security chief has briefed me; I now know the names of the two men I am meeting today for the first time. You are all here because of an issue that threatens the security of this nation. Before I forget, Moses,” he says, turning to me, “congratulations on your marriage to the beautiful Jane, even though belated. You need not have brought your lawyer as this is not an official discussion.” His smile infects us. He looks happy.

Embarrassed and uncomfortable, I smile and avert my eyes from the president. The bitterness engendered by government action after my television discussion speech has dissipated over time. Jane compensates for everything. I have become a full member of Prophet John’s Church of Eternal Hope. The world looks different from my new perspective.

“Sir, thank you for the congratulations. I did not bring Uncle Tayo because he is my lawyer. Senator Smith and Richard Stone would have joined if Henry had not kidnapped us from our honeymoon yesterday. I only managed to persuade Uncle Tayo. My brother-in-law gave flimsy excuses for an urgent assignment,” I explain. I begin to warm to the ‘new’ president despite myself. I grin at Henry, who frowns at me.

John warns me we would be in for surprises, especially with the president’s bombshell we read about the previous day.

“What do you need my Minister of Industry for?” the president asks, surprised. “Apart from being your in-law, I don’t see why you need him here.”

“Sir, I will tell you as soon as you tell us why Henry stopped us from quietly enjoying our honeymoon.”

The president instructs his secretary to serve us tea or coffee. John declines. The president, unaware that John fasts until six every day, tries to make him change his mind to no avail. The president clears his throat. What he says next leaves all of us dazed.

Aaron sits on the president’s table and makes funny faces at me. I busy myself with my coffee. Aaron throws a paper clip at me, and I duck at the last minute. Prophet John catches it in mid-air.

“I told you he can see me, but I didn’t tell you I went to see him after your famous speech,” Aaron whispers.

Pastor John puts the paper clip underneath his seat. Nobody seems to be aware of what happens. “You didn’t tell your brother you came to see me?” Prophet John asks Aaron in surprise.

“I didn’t see any reason to do so. Moreover, my brother is preoccupied with the delectable Jane,” Aaron replies with a tone of jealousy.

“Prophet, what are you talking about? Who came to see you?” The president picks up the torn picture on his table. He turns it face down.

“I am sorry, sir. I was thinking aloud,” the prophet says.

“That is alright. Now, to begin with this business. I have been under the influence of one man until lately. I do everything contrary to my principles and beliefs. Greed and avarice blind me so much that I abandon my creed. The man responsible for this is…”

“Elijah,” I supply under my breath.

The president nods, his eyes darkening with the weight of his confession. “Yes, Elijah. His influence has been insidiously pervasive. I thought I was making decisions, but in reality, I was a puppet.”

He sits back in his chair, his face a mask of disbelief and growing realization. “He had me under his control so completely I became a figurehead while he ruled without contesting for election. The scales fell from my eyes only after I stumbled upon a file from an unauthorized investigation into Elijah. What I found out disturbs me. The man seemed to have materialized out of thin air just a few years ago.”

The President threw his head back, a hearty laugh escaping his lips, but it sounded hollow and quickly died away, replaced by a shadow of fear. Prophet John nods knowingly. “He dropped from the sky, sir.”

“Come on, prophet, people don’t drop from the sky,” the president counters, trying to cling to logic.

“He dropped from the sky,” John insists, his eyes unwavering. “That is why there is no record of his birth anywhere. He belongs to no country, yet he claims all as his own. Henry, your head of security, came close to Elijah’s true nature when he quoted that Bible passage.”

The president glares at Henry, suspicion clouding his features. How could John know about their private discussion if Henry hadn’t divulged it?

“Mr. President, your suspicions are misplaced,” Prophet John interjects, calm and assured. “I can tell you what happened between you and your wife yesterday. I can tell you what you are thinking right now.” He leans forward, whispering something in the president’s ear.

The president reclines in his chair, a look of shock settling over his face. “I now know I made the right decision to bring you together. I want to know what you know about Elijah so we can decide on our next steps. Mr. Oyekanmi, what can you tell us about our friend Elijah?”

Chief Oyekanmi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, clearly out of place in the opulent surroundings of the presidential palace. He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze distant and unfocused.

The others turn to him expectantly. He jerks upright, realizing he’s the center of attention. “I’m sorry. Until a moment ago, everyone except my pastor and Prophet John made me believe I’d lost my senses. Many of my church members thought our pastor had lost his mind when he said the devil had reincarnated here in Nigeria.”

He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “Some time ago, on one particular night, our pastor gathered us for a night vigil, assuring us we would see Satan in his true form. After praying most of the night with no result, many left before he returned from home with some printed prayer points. Since then, suspicion has shadowed him.”

He takes a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. “My troubles began when I awoke to find a cheque for twenty-five million written in my name on my dining table.” His voice shakes, laden with disbelief and the weight of an experience that defies explanation.

Chief Oyekanmi pauses, his hands slightly trembling as he recounts his unnerving experience. “When I first saw that cheque on the dining table, my wife asked me how many bottles I’d had the night before when I asked her about it,” he recalls, a faint tremor in his voice. “I called the man who supposedly bought the land. He addressed me by my first name and even asked after my wife and children, mentioning them by their names. He inquired if my brother had signed his portion of the agreement to sell the land.”

Oyekanmi stops, the weight of the memory pressing down on him. “Go on,” the others urge in unison, leaning forward with rapt attention.

Oyekanmi takes a deep breath, trying to piece together the surreal events. “Before me, on the telephone stand, was a copy of an agreement. I could have sworn it wasn’t there before. I picked up the phone to call my brother but was suddenly convinced that speaking to him would only deepen my confusion. So I hung up.”

His eyes widen with disbelief as he continues, “I confessed to my wife that I knew nothing about this Uncle Elijah. She gave me a look of pity, and her eyes drifted to a picture on the wall that I had never seen before. In the photo, I held hands with a strange man, smiling at the camera. When I asked my son about the man in the picture, he fled to the bathroom in fright.”

He shakes his head, the memory still haunting him. “I thought I was losing my mind when I visited the land site. A grand church stood where there had been empty land just two days prior. The place was filled with people, many standing outside, seemingly unable to find space within.”

The room is silent, and the tension is palpable as Oyekanmi describes the bizarre scene. “I had never witnessed anything like it. The congregation wasn’t singing; they were chanting, like the Hare Krishna sect I’d once seen. Their language was completely foreign to me, like something not of this world. They danced and swayed as if intoxicated.”

“‘Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils,’” Prophet John quotes solemnly from Timothy 4:1, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he’s peering into the spiritual realm.

Oyekanmi shakes his head as if trying to shake off a bad dream. “I don’t know about the doctrine of devils, but what I witnessed was surely not of the Christian faith.” His voice quivers with the weight of what he has seen, his hands supporting his chin, elbows planted firmly on the table.

“I ask some of those outside how old the church is. They can’t remember. One man tells me he has been worshipping there for seven years! He corrects me, saying it is not a church but a Tabernacle. That’s the final straw.”

His eyes widen with recollection, fear palpable in the set of his jaw, and his hands tremble. “I was terrified on the drive back home. I knew I wasn’t mad, but everything pointed to that conclusion. I decided to let the matter rest when my wife suggested I see a psychiatrist. My family was relieved, but I knew there was something evil about Elijah. My pastor, who I called when I thought I was losing my mind, was the only one who understood.”

As he finishes, Oyekanmi looks around the room, his shoulders sinking as if a weight has been lifted from them, relief washing over him now that he has shared his burden. The room falls silent, the air heavy and charged with the weight of his revelation.

Uncle Tayo looks stunned, his normally sharp mind grappling with the unsettling revelation that Elijah is not human. His eyes, wide and glassy, reveal a tumult of disbelief and fear. The full import of what they’re up against sinks in, and I almost see the wheels turning in the lawyer’s mind.

“Welcome to the world of Elijah,” I mutter, glancing sideways at my uncle.

Uncle Tayo’s eyes carry a peculiar look, a mixture of disbelief and fear. The realization that Elijah’s problem extends beyond legal solutions dawns on him slowly as the layers of denial peel away.

Prophet John rises from his seat, eyes fixed on the space where Elijah’s and the president’s picture once hung prominently. “Mr. Oyekanmi, how did you get my number that day you called me?” John asks, still staring at the bare spot on the wall as if the answer lies in its emptiness.

“It’s no mystery. I attend your church occasionally,” Oyekanmi explains, a faint smile on his lips. “They handed me a tract one Sunday with your number on it.”

“Why me in particular?” John inquires, turning his gaze toward Oyekanmi, his eyes searching for understanding.

“I knew you were a powerful Prophet, and if anyone could make sense of this madness, it would be you. Plus, you’ve been vocal in criticizing Elijah in the papers. I’m glad I called you; otherwise, I’d be in Aro by now.” Oyekanmi’s voice holds a tremor, a mixture of relief and fear.

“Hmm,” John murmurs, his mind seemingly elsewhere. “What happened to the picture that used to hang here?” he asks, pointing to the vacant spot on the wall.

The president opens a drawer, retrieves the torn half of the picture and hands it to John. Henry reaches into his bag, producing the other half with Elijah’s image. John fits the two halves together and adheres as if never torn. He returns the picture to the president, who promptly tears it to shreds with a resolute expression, the paper crumpling and falling to the floor like discarded hopes.

“You haven’t yet grasped the full extent of Elijah’s power,” John says, addressing the room. “If Henry thinks placing Elijah under house arrest is a solution, he should think again. If house arrest couldn’t stop me from leaving whenever I wanted, how could it restrain an ethereal being of Elijah’s stature? The only one who can stop Elijah is Moses. If he fails, God help us all.” John’s words hang heavily in the air, delivered without a hint of emotion yet resonating with a chilling truth.

When John first tells me I am the chosen one, a laugh bubbles up involuntarily. But as his unwavering gaze meets mine, the weight of his conviction settles over me like a heavy cloak. Doubts gnaw at my resolve—am I truly capable of this?

I shift in my seat, feeling the enormity of the responsibility laid upon my shoulders. The room remains silent, each person lost in thought, grappling with the reality of their situation. The air thickens with tension, an unspoken understanding binding us in our shared struggle against a common enemy.

As John trains me, the spiritual regimen unleashes forces within me I never knew existed. Through fasting, I learned how to pray using various methods, and I read the Bible so often that each passage takes on different meanings every day. I feel a profound transformation within myself, an exhilarating change as if new strength courses through my veins. My training prepares me for the epic battle, yet a nagging sense of inadequacy persists.

Sitting with a large Bible on his lap, John scratches his head thoughtfully. “Elijah was one of the angels who fought alongside Lucifer during his rebellion against the Almighty,” he explains, flipping through the pages with the care of someone who has memorized every line.

“When they lost that battle, God cast them out of heaven, and those angels became Lucifer’s assistants. He rewarded them according to their performances in the conflict. Since then, Lucifer has promoted many of his archangels. The twelve angels who help him rule the dark kingdom are at the top of the hierarchy. Elijah, whose real name is Demondenim, is thirteenth in the order of importance. His current assignment’s success would secure his promotion to the top twelve.

“He cannot afford to fail. Elijah is nearing the end of his mission. President Victor’s sudden defiance has disrupted his plans, making him desperate. He will be forced to reveal his true nature. When that happens, you, Moses, must be ready. Elijah is the worst nightmare yet to come.

“Many years ago, after the death of the Savior, Jesus Christ, the camp of the devil celebrated. They thought the message Jesus came to propagate would not survive him. Unfortunately for them, the message spread beyond the Christians’ expectations.

“Lucifer devised a clever means to counterfeit the message through false prophets who claimed to bring a new form of worshiping the Almighty. This brand of Christianity was not radically different from the message of Christ, the Son of God, but it was polluted. This message, which portrays God as a loving father ready to forgive any sin, however grave if we confess it to his servants, became popular among Christians.

“Though this is still Christianity, it contradicts Christ’s teachings,” John continues, his voice resonating with conviction, his eyes aflame with the light of truth. “Worshipers began praying to the Mother instead of the Son.

“The pollution of the message is adequate but not swift enough to achieve Lucifer’s ultimate aim: total domination of the world.

“Lucifer seethes, resentful of his fall to Earth. He despises humans, molded in God’s image. Humans can achieve anything they aspire to if they draw closer to God and follow His will. When this occurs, Satan is powerless to halt them. Didn’t Jesus proclaim that with faith as small as a mustard seed, one could command a mountain to move, and it would? Satan is never pleased with true Christians and constantly waits for their missteps so he can destroy them.

“Remember, Jesus also instructed us to watch and pray. He urged us to pray without ceasing. I know you want to ask the question Moses once posed to me, ‘Why Nigeria?’ Lucifer targets Nigeria because we are ripe for it. Since then, the nation has deteriorated. The more prosperous we become, the closer we edge to Sodom. With its prosperity, Nigeria now stands as the most corrupt country in the world, courtesy of Elijah.”

“How do we counter Elijah’s next move?” the president demands, urgency weighing down his voice.

“We need every bit of assistance we can muster. The president’s recent action was the first move. We’ll wait for Elijah’s next move. We represent an unknown quantity to Elijah, so he cannot control some of us.

“I urge each group member to fortify their spiritual life to face the struggle ahead. Elijah is immortal; no one can kill him. He adopts the name Elijah because he was the prophet who never faced death in the Bible. He refers to himself when he cites Matthew 16:28 to his followers.”

Silence envelops the room after Prophet John’s speech. Each group member sits in deep thought, grappling with the weight of their mission. The President leans toward Hope, whispering something into his ear, and Hope nods in understanding.

“Before we conclude this meeting,” the president begins, solemn yet hopeful, “I want you to know that I have decided to pardon Moses. We will return everything taken from him.” He pauses, expecting a reaction from Moses, but none comes.

“Damn it, Moses, say something,” the president urges, his voice rising with frustration.

I remain silent for a moment, contemplating the gravity of his decision. “Sir, I appreciate your gesture,” I finally respond, my voice steady and resolute, “but my needs are not what they used to be. I would appreciate it if you gave everything to the Eternal Hope Church. I am glad the government took away my wealth. It marked a turning point in my life. After my wealth was gone, I realized why the Bible said it is easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle. Now, when I wake up, I give thanks to God that I am born again.”

The President stares at me, stunned by my declaration. When he finally regains his composure, he responds, “I will return your property to you. You can do what you want with it.”

We part ways, aware that Elijah’s reaction to recent events is inevitable and will determine our next move. Without a concrete plan, we agree to reconvene once Elijah makes his next move, which looms over us like an approaching storm.

As we walk down the corridor, Henry pulls me aside, curiosity and disbelief etched on his face. “You don’t mean to give all that money to the church, do you?” he asks incredulously.

I meet Henry’s gaze with calm determination. “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul?”

Henry’s mouth falls open, astonished. “But we are talking about trillions of Naira!”

I smile, unfazed. “The love of money is the root of all evil. After the president took most of my money, he left more than enough for my needs. Too much money corrupts the soul of a good Christian.”

As I walk to my car with Uncle Tayo and Prophet John, Henry watches us, shaking his head in disbelief. Scratching his head, he strolls to his car, looking as if he has witnessed an event beyond his comprehension.

Aaron, unusually silent, slips into the passenger’s seat without a word. I feel a sacred responsibility weighing on me. Even with Aaron’s assistance, I know I am not in the same league as Elijah. The Prophet is an ethereal being, capable of seeing and predicting our every move. I glance sideways at Aaron, who sits as if unconcerned, lost in thought.

“Aaron, what do you think of our meeting? You didn’t say anything throughout, which isn’t like you.”

Reflecting on the prophet’s revelations, Aaron replies, “What could I have said? I was as stunned as you were by the revelation. I knew Prophet Elijah was not an ordinary man but not an Archangel. Do you believe he is one?”

A stray dog dashes across the street. I slam on the brakes, sending Aaron crashing into the dashboard. I chuckle at Aaron’s disapproving glare.

“Come off it, Aaron. You’re not flesh and blood,” I tease Aaron. “Back to your question, the prophet is an Archangel if Prophet John said so.”

“Why? Because he’s your brother-in-law?” Aaron retorts with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I grin; the thought of Jane waiting for me with open arms fills me with excitement. I press the accelerator, and the car surges forward.

“Damn,” Aaron swears as his neck snaps backward. “What is wrong with you? Do you want to get us both killed because of your wife?”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, not at all sorry, my eyes twinkling mischievously. “What’s your problem, Aaron?”

Aaron sighs, shaking his head. “Nothing. I’m just thinking about what we’re up against. This Elijah… he’s unlike anything we’ve faced before. We need to be ready.”

“I know,” I reply, my tone serious. “But we have something Elijah doesn’t. Faith. And with that, we can overcome anything.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” Aaron says more seriously. “Something is happening that I can’t understand. It started the day you told me about your dream.”

Suddenly, a deafening crash interrupts our conversation. A bullion van, its siren blaring, slams into our car. I slam on the brakes, the world tilting as the vehicle skids to a stop. I open the door and step out, surveying the damage with surprising calmness. Aaron slides into the driver’s seat and exits the car, his eyes scanning the scene with alertness.

Moments ago, there was a blur of motion, and the street now stands frozen in the crash’s aftermath—cars slow to a halt, drivers gawking at the spectacle. Pedestrians gather on the sidewalks, whispering and pointing. Amid the chaos, I stand with unshakable resolve, a silent promise echoing in my heart. The road ahead is fraught with challenges, but I know I must face them head-on, guided by faith and the certainty that I am not alone.

One of the police escorts exits the accompanying bullion van, his demeanor bristling with authority and impatience. “Will you move this thing out of the road?” he barks at me, pointing at the smashed car, his voice dripping with the typical Nigerian police attitude that demands compliance without question. He expects the vehicle to zoom off, oblivious to its sustained damage. When nothing happens, his frustration mounts and he slams the butt of his gun against the car’s boot, his temper flaring.

Aaron stands behind the officer with a steely resolve and delivers a swift, decisive blow to the man’s jaw. The officer crumples to the ground, his gun flying from his grasp and skittering across the asphalt. Disoriented and terrified, he scrambles to his feet and flees, unable to comprehend the unseen force that has overwhelmed him.

The sudden chaos draws the attention of his colleagues, who rush to the scene with guns raised, their fingers twitching on the triggers. They yank open the door of the empty car, expecting to find their quarry. Instead, a chilling sight meets their eyes—a gun on the other side of the road, levitating, guided by an invisible hand, swinging to aim at their backs.

The officer inside their van shouts a warning, but it’s too late. The gun fires, the sound cracking through the air like thunder. Bullets ricochet wildly, sparking off the pavement and whizzing past in a deadly dance. The police officers scatter, abandoning their vehicles and retreating in disarray as panic seizes them. Only the bullion car, its driver, and one remaining officer stay behind, frozen in shock.

A reporter, drawn to the unfolding drama like a moth to a flame, snaps a quick photo of the uncanny sight—a gun moving as if possessed. Aaron moves with a speed that defies belief, snatching the camera from the man’s hands. With a deft motion, he extracts the film and crushes it underfoot, grinding the evidence into oblivion. He returns the now-useless camera to the reporter, who stands rooted to the spot, too stunned to react.

The cigarette dangling from the reporter’s lips falls into his breast pocket, unnoticed until it scorches his skin. With a yelp of pain, he strips off his shirt and throws it to the ground, stamping out the small fire with frantic urgency. A singed hole remains, a testament to the bizarre and inexplicable events he had just witnessed.

Amidst the pandemonium, I double over with laughter, the absurdity of the situation overwhelming me. The tension of the day releases in waves of mirth, and I laugh until tears stream down my face, a cathartic release that echoes in the aftermath of chaos. Around me, the world spins on, oblivious to the battle between light and dark that wages unseen.

🪶
J.J. Oluti
Creative Voice of Africa