The Immortal - Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

The Television Discussion

The only correct actions

are those that require no

explanation and no apology. – Auerbach

The drive to the studio unfolds smoothly as the streets of Lagos remain unusually clear. I glide effortlessly through the city, feeling the steering wheel hum beneath my fingers. The engine’s subtle vibrations create a symphony of mechanical harmony, each note resonating with the pulse of the road. Driving is my solace, my escape—a pleasure I refuse to relinquish despite easily affording a private chauffeur. The one my mother insisted upon leaves after six months of idleness, his services rendered unnecessary by my unwavering love for the open road.

I take particular pride in washing my cars myself. There is something meditative about the ritual, the way the water glistens on the paint, reflecting the world in distorted colors. Sheu, my majordomo, sometimes rises early to clean them, but his efforts are futile. I rewash them to my satisfaction, my attention to detail insurmountable. Eventually, Sheu recognizes the futility and stops trying.

I ease the SUV into the studio’s spacious parking lot, glancing at my watch: five minutes to six. My eyes catch sight of another SUV with the registration number TAB 005. A chill creeps up my spine, and for a moment, I consider reversing the car, returning to Jane’s calming presence. But I shake off the feeling. It is, after all, a free world. A vehicle from the Tabernacle parked here doesn’t necessarily mean someone from the church is attending the same program.

Aaron lounges smugly in the passenger seat throughout the drive, refusing to come down from the car because I haven’t let him drive. I know better. Whenever Aaron takes the wheel, chaos follows—not for us, but for the unsuspecting drivers around us.

Inside the studio, a flurry of activity greets me. The producer’s face lights up with relief when I enter, and I nod in acknowledgment, feeling the weight of expectation settle around my shoulders.

Prophet Isaiah, Elijah’s second-in-command, stands behind a peculiar-looking microphone, jolting my senses. I recognize his face from countless newspaper articles, each painting him as a formidable figure.

Beside him sits a professor of sociology, a key figure in one of the country’s leading human rights organizations. Next to him is the sanguine Senator Smith, chairman of the Senate Inter-religion Committee, who promotes harmonious relationships among Nigeria’s diverse faiths. His presence brings a sense of comfort—he is my favorite senator and also my brother-in-law.

The discussion centers on the proliferation of religion in the country and how their messages increasingly deviate from the salvation of human souls—the foundation of all faiths. The conversation flows smoothly until my ill-fated remark changes everything.

Some callers pose naive and simplistic questions that even a child might scoff at them. The conversation crackles with tension and potential, a powder keg waiting for a spark. And at that moment, unaware, I became the match to ignite it.

I glance at my watch: twenty minutes to seven. Less than fifty minutes until I’m home with Jane again. The thought tugs at the corners of my mind, a beacon amidst the chaos around me.

“The New Dawn Tabernacles is more than a church,” Isaiah proclaims, his voice ringing with self-assured conviction. “We teach people how to live and be prosperous according to God’s laws: ‘For the earth is the Lord’s and all things in it.’ (I Cor 10:26) God never meant for any man to be poor. We are poor because of our inability to get wealth.”

Isaiah’s words jolt me from my reverie. His expression bears a smugness that dares anyone to contradict him, eyes glinting with challenge.

“How does one become a member of the Tabernacle? Are all its members rich?” a caller inquires excitedly.

Isaiah covers his mouth with his hand, coughing lightly before responding, “Your success is as sure as the sun rising from the east tomorrow morning.” He turns his gaze to me, daring me with those eyes—filled with a hatred so palpable it seems it could pierce through me.

Why would he harbor such animosity toward me? The words of Prophet John echo in my mind, “Elijah is aware of who you are.” I push the thought aside, dismissing it as a figment of my imagination.

“The Tabernacle is neither a church nor a place where they worship the living God. It is a place dedicated to the glory of Lucifer,” the words spill from my mouth unbidden, each syllable charged with an intensity I can’t control. “God does not reside in the New Dawn. Elijah is an agent of the prince of darkness.”

Isaiah fixes me with a look of disdain as if I am an ignoramus who doesn’t know what I’m talking about. The program’s moderator raises a hand, covering his lips with his fingers—a silent plea for me to hold my tongue.

Isaiah tweaks his nose, offering me a supercilious smile. “I will answer Mr. Giwa, please. Sir, do you think the president would adopt the Tabernacle as the official government church if it is evil like you said?”

“Your boss has got the president eating out of his hand,” I retort, my voice rising incredulously. “Do you think the president would be doing your boss’s bidding if he was in his right senses?” The urge to smash the microphone into Isaiah’s face surges within me, but I restrain myself, fingers tightening around the unhooked mic.

The moderator looks horrified, his mouth agape as if witnessing something beyond comprehension. Why can’t they see that Isaiah and his boss are not men of God?

“Are you insinuating that the president of this country is mad?” Isaiah asks, his smug smile unwavering, taunting.

“I never said anything of the sort,” I reply, frustration seeping into my voice. “I only said that the president is under the influence of your boss’s satanic power. Recently, he has been doing things he otherwise would not have done.”

The reaction to my statement is swift and brutal. Discontent crackles through the air, palpable even before the first call connects. The phone lines light up like a Christmas tree, each ring a visceral condemnation of my words. Callers hurl accusations with venomous fervor, labeling me an arrogant, irresponsible rich kid who has forgotten his roots. Some even suggest I should be locked up and the key tossed into oblivion. The moderator’s expression mirrors their outrage, his eyes filled with reproach for daring to speak my mind.

I sit there, absorbing the backlash, my hands clenched tightly in my lap. With a dismissive wave, the moderator silences me, denying me any opportunity to defend myself. Religious intolerance flourishes unchecked on this publicly owned television station, a blatant affront to the principles of free speech.

“Are you going to sit there feeling sorry for yourself, or will you teach these people a lesson in tolerance?” Aaron’s voice pierces through my thoughts as he strides into the room, his shoulders squared, his hands swinging like a soldier on parade.

He perches himself on the arm of Isaiah’s chair, pulling faces like he does for the children who can see him, and shouts directly into Isaiah’s ear, “You are a bloody liar!”

A bubble of laughter rises within me, and I barely swallow it. “The idiot can neither hear nor see you. You’re wasting your time,” I choke out, laughter threatening to escape.

Isaiah cries out, clutching his eyes as if struck. Aaron’s fingers poke him, and before I can comprehend what is happening, Isaiah is on the floor, doubled over in pain. Aaron’s kick lands with surprising force, sending Isaiah sprawling across the floor.

Aaron turns to me, his eyes wide with surprise. This has never happened before. He takes the microphone from its stand, his voice filling the studio. “Hello,” he says, clear and resonant.

“Who is that?” the program moderator demands, his voice trembling.

The moderator watches the microphone move in midair, bewilderment across his face. He hears Aaron’s voice but sees no one.

“It is me, Aaron, you idiots. Can’t you see me?” Aaron bellows, his frustration echoing through the studio.

Pandemonium erupts as people scatter like startled birds, fleeing the studio in a frenzy of fear and confusion. Alone in the chaos, I sit, too stunned to move, meeting Aaron’s gaze with a look that speaks volumes.

“Aaron, what is going on, for heaven’s sake?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I wish I knew,” Aaron replies, bewilderment coloring his tone. “I didn’t expect my fingers to poke Isaiah’s eyes or my kick to connect. You know I’m like a breeze, passing through people without effect. But today, something changed. Maybe the good Prophet would know something about this.”

“Maybe not, but whatever happened today marks the beginning of a new relationship between us. Remember, you also picked up the broken ashtray in the house,” I muse, the implications of the day’s events unraveling before me.

Aaron begins touching everything like a child with a new toy, his fingers brushing against buttons and switches with newfound delight. He plops down on the seat Isaiah vacated, making exaggerated faces at the camera, his antics unrestrained.

“Aaron, I think we better leave before security storms the studio,” I urge, a nervous edge in my voice. We sprint out of the studio, narrowly avoiding a pair of mobile police officers rushing in the opposite direction, their expressions a mix of confusion and urgency.

Aaron darts to the driver’s side at the car park before I can protest. “I will drive this time,” he declares, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I hand him the key, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “You know what happens when you drive.” I settle into the passenger seat, my mind buzzing with the day’s events.

The road to my parents’ house is littered with potholes, making the drive laborious. Impatient drivers, intent on beating the traffic, face oncoming vehicles, creating a tangled standstill. A lone police officer wades into the chaos, forcing cars back onto the correct side of the road. Most comply, except for one cantankerous fellow who engages the officer in a heated argument.

Aaron stops the car; a wicked grin spreads across his face. He approaches the argumentative man and slaps him across the face, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

“What? You dare slap me?” The man glares at the police officer, who stands frozen, his confusion mounting.

Aaron’s hand snaps through the air, delivering a sharp slap that echoes like a gunshot. The police officer, recognising the sound, spins on his heel and bolts. The man stumbles, his face twisting in shock and pain, before scrambling toward his car as if pursued by a demon. Aaron races after him, catching up to plant a swift kick that sends the man crashing into the vehicle. His hands shake violently, fingers fumbling over the ignition as he struggles to start the engine. When he finally manages, he reverses in a frenzy, slamming into the car behind him with a shattering crash.

It takes two grueling hours to escape the snarl of traffic, each minute stretching on as we inch forward. When we finally arrive, my mother, Dorcas Giwa, envelops me warmly, her happiness soothing the day’s chaos. Her arms wrap around me like a comforting blanket, the scent of home clinging to her clothes. She pointedly ignores Aaron, likely sore from one of his notorious pranks.

Aaron saunters to the dining table, plopping down with a mischievous grin. He beams at Mum, who steadfastly refuses to acknowledge him. I greet my father, whose presence is no less significant, even if his welcome is colder.

Settling into my favorite chair, I notice a shadow of worry flitting across my mother’s face. “Is something the matter?” I ask, my voice probing the tense air between us.

“How can you ask her that after your performance on TV?” my father cuts in, throwing down the newspaper he had been reading. His gaze is stern, etched with a mixture of disappointment and concern.

“You open your mouth too wide, Moses. Why do you always embarrass your Dad and me with your unguarded speech?” my mother adds, her tone blending frustration and maternal care.

I sigh, feeling the weight of their disapproval settles over me. “You too, Mother! Is there anyone in this world who will take my side?” I ask, hoping for a flicker of understanding. My mother usually backs me in religious matters, standing firm against my father’s traditional views, but not today.

“The president phoned expressing his displeasure about your statement and wanted to know if you were misquoted. I told him you were,” Joseph Giwa says, his voice strained as he struggles to rein in his temper. His words hang heavily, a reminder of the delicate balance I have upset.

“Dad, I know you’re trying hard to control your anger. You can lay one on me if it makes you feel better,” I say, attempting to lighten the tension.

“You’re not beyond that, you know. I wish I had done that more often years ago, but to my regret, that negligence now haunts me. Are you going to tell the president you were misquoted?”

“We all know I wasn’t. The program was live. Aren’t we still in a democracy, Dad?”

“Democracy doesn’t give liberty for people to act irresponsibly or for boys of yesterday to disrespect their elders,” Joseph Giwa retorts, slamming the newspaper onto the dining table. His voice carries the weight of disappointment and authority. “For your interest and mine, tell him you were misquoted when he calls you.”

Dorcas looks at me with an intensity I haven’t seen since I was a kid, a mix of concern and disbelief.

“Why, Moses?”

“Why what?” I ask, my voice heavy with the fatigue of the day.

“You know what I’m talking about. Today, Elijah is the most powerful man in Nigeria, wielding the power of life and death. They say he’s more powerful than Victor himself.” Dorcas’s head drops, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. “Elijah is more popular than any living human being today. You shouldn’t have said what you said.”

What is happening to our country? Has it come to the point where one can’t express a contrary opinion on an issue? Must everyone mindlessly follow Elijah when common sense dictates otherwise? The country is in deep trouble.

Arguments will solve nothing, and fatigue tugs at me. I bid my mother goodnight and leave with Aaron trailing closely behind. Elijah’s influence looms large, tearing at the fabric of my family.

“I thought you would have outgrown Dad’s irritating scolds by now. But I can see the man still rubs you in the wrong places,” Aaron remarks as we step outside, his presence a comforting shadow.

“Why didn’t you say anything in my defense when we were in the house?”

“What would I have said? Anything I said would have upset Dad more. You know I always say things to Dad. It would have ignited the situation with Dad thinking you were speaking the words.”

Back home, Jane sits in the living room, her attention absorbed by a film. Sheu, perched awkwardly on one of the cushion chairs, springs up like a startled cat when he sees me and scurries away.

I toss my jacket onto the nearest chair, frustration still simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t invite hired hands to sit with you in the living room. It breeds indiscipline.”

“Why?” Jane asks, a playful grin dancing on her lips. “I thought they were human beings like us. I felt lonely sitting alone while you were making your famous speech. Incidentally, the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since then. Most callers refused to believe you weren’t around. One cantankerous fellow wanted to know who I was. I told him I was your live-in secretary.” She smiles, flicking her hair with a cheeky tilt of her head.

I open my mouth to respond when, as if on cue, the phone rings. The cantankerous fellow turns out to be Uncle Tayo.

“Who was the foolish girl who answered the phone a while ago?” Uncle Tayo bellows, his voice booming from the other end.

I snatch up the handset quickly, cutting off the speakerphone, hoping Jane hasn’t overheard the rude remark. I glance at her, relieved to see she is completely unbothered and still engrossed in the TV screen.

“That was my fiancée you’re talking about,” I chide Uncle Tayo, my tone pointed, just in case Jane has caught the insult.

“Another one?” Uncle Tayo’s voice drips with scorn. “Grow up, Moses. Contrary to popular opinion, you’re not getting any younger.”

“Uncle, I doubt you called me at this hour to discuss my status as the most eligible bachelor,” I reply, attempting to steer the conversation away from my personal life.

“Of course not,” he snaps, impatience edging his voice.

“Then I guess you were watching TV tonight.”

“You’re damn right I was. While my family thinks you’re a hero for saying what many want to but are too smart to voice, I beg to differ. Do you have a death wish? I think it was a stupid thing to do.”

Jane picks up the mobile phone from the shelf, its incessant ringing demanding attention. She listens, her eyes widening.

“It’s the presidency,” she whispers, her voice tinged with awe.

“The presidency is on the other line, Uncle,” I tell him quickly. “Call me back, please.” I hang up before he can protest and take the mobile phone from Jane. A voice on the other end instructs me to hold on. Moments later, the president’s familiar drawl fills the line.

“I told my wife you were either misquoted on TV or some extraordinary circumstances were responsible for your speech tonight. I didn’t watch the program; my wife did,” the president says without preamble.

“Good evening, sir. I hope you and your family are in good health,” I reply, my voice respectful but tense.

“Were you misquoted or not?” the president demands brusquely, dismissing my pleasantries.

“No, sir, I wasn’t misquoted,” I admit, the words escaping before I can filter them, “but...” The line goes dead.

The president wanted a denial, but I couldn’t give him that. I had lost control of my tongue to a force beyond my understanding, a compulsion that defied reason. Where is Aaron when I need him? His presence would have been a moral anchor, a reminder of the humanity I still cling to.

Jane’s face lights up with a smile as she walks over, her eyes meeting mine. She kisses me softly, her lips soothingly against the turmoil inside. “Thank you for being honest,” she whispers, her voice reassuringly amid the chaos around us.

Am I being honest with myself? My life feels like a script where I am the principal actor yet have no input. Everything seems to slip through my fingers, and I cannot stop it. Who said I had a death wish? I can’t even remember. Do I have one?

A wave of exhaustion washes over me, the weight of the day’s events pressing down. I turn to Jane, seeking solace in her presence. “I’ve faced more opposition today than I ever imagined,” I confess, my voice weary.

Jane’s eyes, filled with understanding, meet mine. “The path of truth is rarely smooth, Moses. But you are not alone in this fight.”

Her words soothe my soul, reminding me there is light even in the darkest times. As I sink into the cushions beside her, the day’s chaos begins to fade, replaced by a growing resolve. Whatever challenges lay ahead, I will face them head-on, fortified by conviction and the unwavering support of those who believe in me.

In the aftermath, Aaron’s absence feels like a chasm, a missing pillar of support in my shaken world. Yet, in the soft glow of Jane’s smile and the warmth of her kiss, I find a flicker of solace. “Honesty is the best policy,” she says, her gratitude a balm to my frayed spirit.

My internal monologue is a quiet storm, a tumult of self-reflection and doubt. Am I the architect of my narrative or merely a puppet enacting a role scripted by unseen forces? Once firmly in my grasp, my life now seems to slip through my fingers like grains of sand, each moment an elusive memory I can’t quite hold onto. The accusation of a death wish echoes in my mind, a voiceless whisper from the past, its origin as unclear as its validity.

Rest might not untangle the web of today’s events, but it promises respite, a chance for clarity to seep through the fog of exhaustion. Perhaps dawn will reveal that the day’s turmoil was merely a figment of a restless imagination.

With the finality of a curtain call, I power down my phone, the weight of the world momentarily lifted by the simple act. I offer Jane a parting nod, a silent acknowledgment of the day’s shared ordeal. “Let’s close our eyes to the drama,” I suggest, my voice a soft murmur in the dimming light. “Tomorrow is another scene, and we’ve played our parts for tonight.”

As I retreat into the sanctuary of solitude, the promise of sleep beckons—a temporary escape, a fleeting hope for a clearer perspective come morning.

The cool sheets embrace me as I lie down, my mind still racing with the day’s events. Aaron’s newfound tangibility, the confrontation with Prophet Isaiah, and the strained words with my parents all swirl together in a chaotic dance. Jane’s presence is a calming influence; her steady breaths are a lullaby that begins to soothe my turbulent thoughts.

Slowly, the weight of the day’s events starts to lift. My eyelids grow heavy, and the soft hum of the city outside my window fades into the background. I drift into a restless sleep, my dreams a tapestry of fragmented images and half-formed thoughts. Faces and voices merge and separate, moments of clarity punctuated by stretches of darkness.

In the quiet recesses of my mind, I find myself standing on the edge of a vast, empty expanse. The ground beneath me feels unsteady, shifting with each step I take. Ahead, a figure emerges from the shadows, its features obscured. As it draws closer, I recognize Aaron’s familiar silhouette. He reaches out a hand, and I grasp it, feeling a solid connection that brings a strange comfort.

“Where have you been?” I ask, my voice echoing in the void.

“Right here, Moses,” Aaron replies, his voice calm and reassuring. “Always right here.”

Together, we walk through the shifting landscape, the path uncertain but the destination clear. I wake with a start, the first rays of dawn casting a soft light through the curtains. The room is still, and the previous day’s events are now distant memories, but the sense of purpose I felt in the dream lingers.

Jane stirs beside me, her eyes fluttering open. She offers me a sleepy smile, a silent acknowledgment of the journey we are both on. “Good morning,” she whispers, her voice filled with warmth.

“Good morning,” I reply, determination settling over me. “Today is a new day.”

As we prepare for the day ahead, a quiet resolve replaces the uncertainty and fear of yesterday. The challenges we face are daunting, but together, we will navigate the path ahead. With Aaron’s presence a comforting constant and Jane’s unwavering support, I feel ready to face whatever lies in store.

The morning light filters through the curtains, painting the room in a soft glow. I glance at Jane, her presence a grounding force. Her movements are deliberate and calm, each action performed with the grace of someone who has found their center. I draw strength from her serenity, feeling the knots of tension begin to unravel.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles in the kitchen with the sounds of the city awakening outside. We share a quiet breakfast, the comfortable silence between us speaking volumes. Jane’s hand finds mine across the table, a small gesture of solidarity that fortifies my resolve.

The phone rings, shattering the peaceful silence. I answer, bracing myself for another confrontation, but it’s Uncle Tayo, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Moses, I’ve been thinking about what you said. Maybe there’s more to this than I realized. Let’s talk later.”

I hang up, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. There are glimmers of understanding and support even in the face of doubt and criticism. Jane’s eyes meet mine, and she nods as if sensing the subtle shift in the tide.

We step outside, the cool morning air a refreshing balm. The city bustles with energy, its streets a mosaic of movement and sound. I feel a renewed sense of purpose as we navigate the crowded sidewalks. The path ahead is uncertain, but with each step, the fear and hesitation of yesterday give way to determination.

Aaron appears beside me, his presence a silent assurance. He walks with an easy confidence, his gaze steady and unwavering. “We’ve got this, Moses,” he says, his voice a steady anchor in the cacophony of the city.

With Aaron’s words echoing in my mind, we forge ahead. The road is fraught with challenges, but I know we can overcome anything with the support of those who believe in me. Today is new; together, we will face whatever lies in store with courage and conviction.

🪶
J.J. Oluti
Creative Voice of Africa