The Water Came

(EARTH)

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Have you ever seen a strange object plunge through the air with the speed and chaos of a meteor hurtling towards Earth, its trails of golden light streaking through the vibrant Lagos sky until it crashes into Oshodi market? And when it crashed, did you notice the vendors, shoppers, and passersby turn in unison, their faces reflecting a mix of wonder and shock as the market's cacophony of voices hushed into a collective gasp? If you are one out of the many who have witnessed such, then you know we are not divine beings cast out of heaven; instead, we are awọn eniyan tó rẹ̀ navigating a descent far removed from grace.

Welcome to Nigeria. Our names are James, Adam, Paul, and Azeez—the JAPA Four. We are friends who first met in a boarding secondary school, and we, ìbèjìrè, are here to tell you a tale about how we became the last surviving people in the year of the atúnwáyé.

That year, a contagious wave of excitement swept through our tight-knit group as we received the thrilling news that Azeez, after weathering numerous setbacks, had successfully secured his study visa to the United Kingdom, joining the rest of us. Despite the palpable enthusiasm, the surroundings of each of us painted a picture of dilapidation and hardship.

In James's modest kitchen, the remnants of a gas cooker flickered weakly, struggling to maintain its flame as he skillfully boiled rice. The walls, once painted vibrant colours, now bore patches of peeling paint, revealing the crumbling plaster beneath. The floor tiles, cracked and worn, bore the scars of countless years of use. 

Adam, on an okada to teach extramural classes—undeterred by the three-month drought in paychecks—felt the familiar vibration in his pocket as his worn-out motorcycle navigated through potholed Lagos streets. The motorcycle itself showed signs of wear and tear, its paint chipped and rusted in places, a testament to the countless journeys it had undertaken.

Meanwhile, Paul, steeped in a five-year struggle for employment after graduation, was deep in slumber, a radio stood right next to his mattress on the floor as a radio host narrated some sordid news about an impending flood and the immediate need for evacuation, when Azeez merged him into the lively conference call, jolting him awake to the joyous news. His room, dimly lit by a flickering bulb, bore the signs of neglect, with furniture showing signs of wear and tear. The window, once a source of light and air, was covered with grime, obscuring any view of the outside world.

Despite the jubilation over Azeez's success, the surroundings of each of us served as a stark reminder of the challenges we faced daily in our quest for a better life.

Azeez's voice trembled with emotion over the phone, the imposing structure of the British Embassy forming a solemn backdrop as he stood there, surrounded by the architectural grandeur, and through choked words, said, “After so many years of trying, it has finally happened, guys! I am staring at my visa approval letter.”

Amid our jubilant celebration for Azeez, exclamations like “chai,” “na God,” and “E don happen” reverberated through the air, with each of us taking turns in a lively chorus to express our happiness. The rhythmic wave of our colloquial cheers served as the musical backdrop to the moment, and we collectively decided to delve into our plans later that evening.

James' journey to Canada, Adam's venture to Spain, Paul's expedition to Germany, and Azeez's path to the UK were unfolding, scattering us across the globe. Yet, an unspoken pact bound us: we wouldn't forsake our homeland until we secured flight tickets, synchronised within a tight three-hour window on the same day, ensuring our departure together. 

In the hush of night, over our Japa WhatsApp group call, we navigated the vast web of flight choices until destiny smiled upon us—budget-friendly flights that would wing each of us to our chosen destinations.

After booking the flights, right before saying goodnight, Adam said, “Is it just me, or does everyone else feel that by how easily we found the flight tickets for the same day, it means our ancestors are solidly behind us?”

A chorus of affirmative murmurs, “It’s destiny”,  “It was meant to be”,  and joyful laughter harmonised , painting a unanimous agreement in the airwaves. 

We named our WhatsApp group ‘Japa’ using the initials of our first names, just a few days after tragedy struck: James lost his father to gunshots at the Lekki toll gate;  Adam's uncle, Sharp Guy, was found hanging upside down a mango tree, swollen head ballooned  by his unpaid houseboys who fetched his water for brushing teeth, washing clothes, and bathing  because he wouldn’t increase their salary; Paul's little sister, Faith, got kidnapped from school by insurgents; and Azeez had his arm chopped off for kissing a man in Bauchi, behind a building when visiting his aunt. Our WhatsApp conversations became our rebellion against a nation spiralling into madness.

 On the eve of our journey, we assembled in a virtual call, our hopes and dreams reverberating through the digital threads that connected us. Amidst the laughter and banter that day, a casual but crucial question surfaced.

“Did  anyone remember their power bank?” James enquired, a note of concern in his voice.

Adam's laughter echoed, “You think ọ̀bọ̀dọ̀ ọyị̀bọ̀ is like Nigeria, always without electricity?”

Paul chimed in, “Adam, ask him for me!”

“Guys, we still need a power bank for unexpected situations abroad. What if there's a natural disaster and the lights go out for days? I've seen it happen on CNN,” Azeez cautioned.

“God forbid,” a collective response echoed.

“Affliction shall not fall upon us a second time,” James declared.

***

On the day we were scheduled to japa, it began to rain. James was the first to arrive at the airport, followed by Adam, Paul, and then Azeez. A funeral silence welcomed us, with not a single soul in sight. Despite the mass evacuation of Nigeria’s rural and urban dwellers who had enlisted in various armies involved in conflicts worldwide, we had not imagined that the airport would be as desolate as it turned out to be. Abandoned luggage carts stood motionless on pavements. A few scattered, dilapidated signs lay strewn on the sidewalk, as though àgbéròs had meddled with them.

Once teeming with the hustle and bustle of travellers, the airport now resonated with emptiness. We had anticipated encountering airport officials, at the very least. This desolation at the heart of our departure starkly contrasted with the exodus of others who had gone before us, seeking refuge or fortune in foreign lands.

In recent years, we had grown accustomed to the emptiness of our country as pastors and politicians, including billionaires, departed for better prospects abroad. Unfortunately, lower-middle-class Nigerians who sought refuge in foreign armies returned in caskets after a short time on the battlefield. Realising we were among the last to leave, we felt the unexpected weight of guilt that accompanies a person when, deep down in their hearts, they are certain that the moment they touch down in ọbọdọ ọyịbọ, they are never coming back. 

Over a year ago, a chorus of voices, echoing through the Pan-Africanist Movement for Climate Change, painted a grim picture of an approaching flood. They urgently pleaded with the Nigerian government to halt its relentless pursuit of illegal mining and deforestation, emphasising the impending disaster these actions could trigger. Unfortunately, their impassioned plea faded into a void of inaction, leaving our nation ill-prepared for the impending tempest. Now, the consequences of our past sins, entwined in a history of greed and secret dealings with foreign investors, unfolded as we faced the tense repercussions of our actions.

In the arrivals lodge, James expelled a sharp whistle, prompting a hidden bird to flutter nervously from one beam to another. Adam's voice, amplified by the cavernous space, resounded like the call to prayer from a muezzin.

“Anybody here?!” he bellowed, the echoes rebounding through the empty hall.

Paul, ever pragmatic, suggested, “Let's check the departure lodge. Maybe we'll find someone there.”

While the others proceeded, Azeez strolled towards a vending machine, his steps accompanied by the soft hum of its refrigeration. “If it's as bad as I suspect,” he said, “I'd better stock up on enough food to last us a lifetime.”

Passing through body scanners that discharged sporadic beeps, we entered the departure lodge. The customs and immigration officer seats, usually occupied, now held notes bearing a sombre message: We regret to inform you that, as of today, Nigeria has relinquished its sovereignty. Depart while you still can. 

By the vast window that framed the tarmac, a lone aeroplane stood against the reclaiming forces of nature, as defiant weeds and resilient grass pushed through the cracks in the pavement. The insignificance of our existence loomed large. The once overwhelming reality of residing in a country where the leaders of tomorrow never reached tomorrow, politicians were merely business-minded individuals  and religious leaders were revealed as con artists now felt like a distant, inconsequential worry in the face of the pressing situation before us.

James, succumbing to the weight of it all, crumpled to his knees, tears tracing rivulets down his face. “I should have listened to my cousin when she advised me to move to Ghana. At least, no visa would be required.”

Adam, sorrow painting a gentle rain on his cheeks, lamented, “I should have applied for the America visa lottery that year my mother applied. Maybe this problem, like her, wouldn't have caught up with me.”

Paul, palms pressed against the window while his eyes fixated on the solitary aeroplane on the tarmac, said, “God, what happened to ‘affliction shall not fall upon us a second time’?”

Azeez arrived with provisions – crisps, chocolate, and fizzy drinks – placing them beside us. As we hopelessly reached for the snacks, he enquired, “Have we decided on what we're going to do?”

The airport walls trembled, and coarse particles began raining from the ceiling. Fear mirrored in James' eyes like a stormy sea. “What's happening?” he asked.

“The flood. It's here,” Adam declared, a flicker of anxiety in his eyes.

Abandoning the snacks, we sprinted out of the departure lodge, racing down the stairs toward the lone aeroplane on the tarmac.

“We need to find a way to fly the plane,” Adam shouted, his words racing alongside his pounding footsteps.

“We don't even know if it's working,” Paul gasped.

Climbing aboard, we scoured for the button to retract the stairs and seal the door. Azeez, taking charge, announced, “I'll check the cockpit,” and disappeared within.

While the rest of us panicked, frantically searching for the door button, the vibrations intensified, rippling through the cabin. Overhead compartments swung open, releasing a cascade of safety manuals, magazines, and forgotten travel essentials. The seats shifted and reclined independently, contributing to the surreal dance of disorder within the confined space. We realised the flood was fast approaching. Suddenly, the plane's radio speakers came to life, the lights switched on, and for a brief moment, we thought Azeez might have started doing something right to get the plane off the ground. 

“Adam, please, Azeez can't handle it alone with just one arm. You have to go help him. The rest of us will keep searching for that door button. We're running out of time!” Paul said.

Adam stood up from the floor, where he had crouched for a moment out of fear that the shuddering aircraft would toss his skinny body across the halls of the plane and went to help Azeez.

From the radio speakers of the aircraft, we could hear white noise, and then the frequency became much clearer. A radio host announced, “News reaching us here in Ghana confirms that all the dams in Nigeria have broken their banks. A mighty flood is sweeping across the country as we speak, and in a matter of minutes, Nigeria will be nothing more than a swimming pool. It is so sad to see the one-time giant of Africa reduced to a swamp. Nigeria had gained its independence in—”

The radio cut off. We heard Azeez and Adam arguing in the cockpit, so we rushed there to find out what was going on.

“I told Adam we should just turn on all the buttons and see what happens, but he doesn’t want to agree,” Azeez said.

“Why should I say yes when we're in the dark about what to do, and, for all I know, following your plan might just be a one-way ticket to crashing this plane?”

In that instant, the sturdy airport windows broke into a billion pieces, creating a loud mix of shattering glass. The chaotic blend of sounds hung in the air, unmistakably announcing the arrival of the flood. 

Like a heavenly light flashing before our eyes, the water came. In those final moments before water and glass pierced through us, James saw the elusive  northern lights of Yukon in Canada slipping through his grasp, Adam mourned the missed opportunity to marvel at the historic Alcazar of Seville in Spain, Paul regretted the unfulfilled dream of exploring Berlin's Museum Island, and Azeez bemoaned the loss of witnessing the sporting events at Britain's Wimbledon. In the last exhilarating swoosh of the flood, we clung to each other's hands, and our souls were lifted high ꜛ

Upꜛ

Upꜛ

Up into heavenꜛ.

PART II

(PURGATORY)

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Have you ever seen water spinning into the drain of a bathtub, its circling motion mimicking a twirling tornado digging its way into the ground? If you have, then you have seen purgatory.

In the water, we were God's  children, born of virgin mothers who never glimpsed the crowned jewels of men. We existed in the middle, between space and time, ọ̀run àti ayé. Whether in the heavens, on the earth, or within living beings no one knew existed, our essence flowed freely, like water escaping all boundaries. And so, we embarked on a journey to see what would have become of our future, a different realm if  we had reached ọ̀bọ̀dọ̀ ọyị̀bọ̀.

James, now carrying a bit more weight on him, worked in a chocolate factory, donning a crisp white coat and sturdy metal boots. He put in twelve-hour shifts, five days a week, engaging in the rhythmic process of spreading chocolate on baked dough as it glided down the endless conveyor belt. The persistent strain on his back served as a reminder of the prolonged hours spent standing and bending forward to handle his tasks manually. The factory, still reliant on manual processes, left James frequently reaching for his sore back, a tangible result of his committed labour.

On his way home, he often made a pit stop at a charming pastry shop, splurging two dollars and fifty cents on croissants and juice. This ritual seemed to make up the bulk of his meals, a budget-friendly choice over buying African cuisine from the distant African store, a 45-minute bus ride away. While not radiating happiness, he carried an air of contentment. Maybe contentment, especially while  experiencing the warmth of the sun in summer, wasn't such a bad thing. In Canada, he foresaw a life of solitude, reaching the age of 72 before his demise.

His Nigerian graduate degree would remain irrelevant in Canada, and the prospect of returning to school or job hunting, particularly after settling into the factory job, felt too daunting to entertain. Ultimately, he would leave behind estranged children who harboured resentment for his fallout with their mother, a Lebanese woman who’d only ever dated black men before meeting him, and absent from his burial ceremony. A faithful dog would stand vigil by his side as he took his final breath, due to obesity, in his apartment, never to wake up again. Among all the wonders he'd encountered, the northern lights of Yukon would emerge as the most beautiful sight he ever beheld.

In the first three months in Spain, Adam's life would sparkle with joy. Embracing the gig economy, he'd juggle roles as a barman on some days, a hotel cleaner on others, and a stadium security officer on yet more. By the fifth month, just as optimism began to shine through and he amassed enough for independent living, tragedy would strike. One morning, his roommate would find him lifeless, a victim of an overnight choking episode during convulsions. 

The toxicology report would later reveal that the alcohol, initially a source of joy that temporarily alleviated the misery stemming from feelings of loneliness due to being far from home, turned out to be the same substance that caused his death.

Left alone in the world, Adam's demise would reverberate across borders. His mother, residing in the United States, would grapple with the heart-wrenching news, tormented by the regret of not fast-tracking his dependent visa for them to be together. Eight months later, she would succumb to a broken heart. Adam's dream of witnessing the grandeur of the Alcazar of Seville would remain unfulfilled, and the funds he diligently raised for rent and managed in his savings account would dissolve into the Spanish economy—the unspoken cost of providing shelter to a migrant.

During Paul’s first year in Germany, he would meet a German white girl he’d come to fall in love with and marry. She would teach him everything there is to know about German culture—how arriving on time to social events, unlike in Nigeria, is highly appreciated, how joining a queue without shunting the line is a public etiquette integral to the culture, and how honesty, even when it hurts, is how Germans get along.

One day, on a train back from the hotel where he would work as a cleaner, he would feel his chest tighten and start to cough. The travellers on board, mostly white men, women, and children, would make room for him, as though he were a living, breathing virus. The chair beside him would stay empty, as it always had been since arriving in Germany, and when he would, later on, try to explain to his wife how it made him feel, she would rest her hand on his back as he coughed and help him to the dining area, where she would prepare the only Nigerian food she did well—Jollof.

In the coming days, the cough would grow stronger and more painful, and when he would book a hospital appointment and turn up, the receptionist, looking at his English name and Yoruba surname —Paul Owolabi—would lift her head from the computer and say to him, “I’m sorry, but there’s no doctor in for the day. Come back tomorrow.” And on and on and on, this would continue until the day, walking back from another failed hospital appointment, he would drop to the floor, and in his final moments, eyes in the sun, he would see the Museum Island, its artefacts falling from the sky like snow before closing his eyes forever.

Exactly twelve months after arriving in the UK,  Azeez got  married to a white man. Since then, the number 12 became his lucky number. Applying for the lottery—78912. Expected annual salary whenever he applied for a job—21,012. Purchasing a cutlery set—5 spoons and 7 forks, totalling 12. He’d be obsessed with the number because his white husband would be the embodiment of everything good the world has the potential to be; his kindness and quiet patience whenever the rent was up and he couldn’t afford to contribute because he hadn’t yet secured a job was reassuring and filled with a faith in him no one, not even his parents, had ever shown him. They would grow old together—Azeez to the ripe age of 57 when his husband, at the ripe old age of 90, would pass on. And when Azeez would become the first gay black British prime minister of Nigerian descent, he would look to the crowd during his inauguration, eyes scanning the heads of the British people to find his late husband’s ghost in the crowd, and wish his white husband were still alive to witness what good fortune the lucky number 12, and his faith in him, had brought him. 

Back in the water, we slowly started to dissolve into droplets of light, and that is how we knew it was time to meet with God.

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PART III

(HEAVEN)

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Have you ever heard the sound of a school bell after recess? Or do you remember what it felt like back in boarding school whenever you turned up late to a role call? Remember how frightened you were because you knew if you weren’t in class when the last ring of the bell sounded or you weren’t in line when your name was called, you would be punished? That is how we felt standing at heaven’s gate.

The clouds danced beneath our feet, a cosmic ballet of silken threads, as the angels of death took attendance at their pulpits adorned with symbols from diverse faiths—the Christian cross, the Islamic star and crescent moon, the Hindu om (ॐ), the Buddhist dharma wheel, and the Jewish Star of David.

A voice from the Buddhist queue called out, “Mr. Vladimir Ivanov of Yasnaya Polyana, Russia.”

“Present!” answered a tall blonde man, swiftly making his way towards the angel's pulpit.

James spotted Azeez in the Muslim queue and began waving, a broad smile illuminating his face. Attempting to articulate his disbelief and joy at their shared arrival in heaven, he opened his mouth, but words failed him. Turning towards us standing behind him, James subtly redirected our gazes, ensuring we also noticed Azeez's presence. Through exchanged smiles and silent gestures, we conveyed the shared acknowledgment that we had earlier greeted Azeez with our waves.

It seemed that in heaven, our Gods had taken away our old voices with the intention of giving us new ones.

When James reached the front of the line, he peered at the scroll the angel of death held, her blue pen poised over it. Alongside the scroll lay pens of various colours—gold, purple, green, and red. The angel, exchanging her blue pen for a red one, located James's name on the scroll and checked it with a tick.

The American who preceded James had a blue tick next to his name. The Australian man before Adam had a green tick, and the Indian woman before Paul had a purple tick. The Mexican demigirl preceding Azeez had a gold tick, and so it continued. Yet, amid our names and those of other recognised Nigerian surnames on the list, none bore the distinctive red tick, leaving us curious about its significance.

Upon passing through the ethereal gates, Azeez sprinted towards us from the Muslim entrance, and we embraced, forming a circle with our arms intertwining like ribbons over our shoulders, tears streaming down our faces. As we opened our mouths, a silent realisation  hit us—our voices had not returned to congratulate each other for successfully traversing heaven's gate.

Observing the diverse assembly of Europeans, Asians, Latinos, and Africans from various nations engaged in laughter and conversation, a question lingered: Why were Nigerian names like Yetunde, Chijioke, Aisha, Osagie, and Fatima, the sole bearers of red ticks on the list? Why were we, the Nigerians, rendered voiceless amidst this harmonious cacophony?

In Nigeria, the colour ‘red’ symbolises danger and cult gangs, and represents the essence of blood. Perhaps, we mused, the Gods, in their empathetic wisdom, marked our names in red to symbolise the trials we endured in Nigeria. Could it be that our voices were relinquished so we could finally find respite after decades of fervent prayers for essentials like light, clean water, good roads, jobs, hospitals, and security? Maybe, as a trade for our voices, we would be endowed with angelic singing abilities, capable of attracting creatures, both grand and minuscule, the moment we uttered celestial melodies. Perhaps, by sacrificing our voices, we were destined to become the very voice of God.

Later that night, we were sitting around a campfire made of planets that blazed with delicate brilliance. Tiny golden sprites erupted from the flames, twirling and darting before disappearing into the shadows of undisturbed peace. While everyone else from other parts of the world around us conversed with themselves in their native tongues, James, lost in the luminous world created by the flames, watched corrupt Nigerian politicians, clad in tattered clothes, as they sat inside the flames with other criminals, slapping their bare legs and arms to ward off insects. Adam saw his uncle, Sharp Guy, in the flames, walking to the centre  of the circle with a bucket on his head. He stopped in front of a burning pile of coal and turned the water from his head onto it, and the coal erupted in a flare of smoke, causing everyone around him to break into fits of coughing. Paul recognised  in the flames, members of the insurgent groups in their outfits that concealed their identities as they struggled to take their ski masks off but couldn’t even though they were sweating like men in a sauna room, and Azeez saw the local chiefs in Bauchi, who had ordered that his arm be chopped off for kissing another man, holding their arms over the burning coal as if forced to remain that way by an unseen force. 

Not long after, the images in the campfire started to recede. When the last golden sprite erupted from the flames and began travelling into the wilderness, James stood up, watched the gold sprite, and then looked at  us. Together, we followed the spark.

The trees lining our path bore branches that extended like golden veins, embracing the foliage in a radiant gesture  as if each bough were a conduit of divine energy. Their leaves danced in a symphony of opalescent blues, as though the very breath of heaven imbued them with the essence of eternal calm. The ground was covered in dried summer leaves that glowed with life, and surrounding us were other Nigerians clothed in agbada, buba and sokoto, George wrapper, isiagu, and blouse.

Adam playfully kicked the leaves on the ground, and they chimed like cymbals as they hovered and swirled. Paul lay in the bed of leaves, covering his face with them, and the leaves dissolved into drops of honey that slid down his face. James joined Adam in kicking the leaves, and Azeez joined Paul in tasting the honey from the dried leaves. We were caught up in the moment, and we did not realise it when a dome appeared over our heads.

Paul saw it first and jumped to his feet; the rest of us followed suit.

The dome, like a snow globe with photographs glued to its walls, showed vignettes of various times in Nigeria’s history.

First Republic (1960-1966)

Oil Boom Era (1970s)

2000s - Mid 2010s

Then we felt a quiet rumbling in our bellies, as though a bouquet of roses was about to burst forth from our mouths.

“Pick a time in Nigeria’s history you would like to return to, and once you have decided, repeat after me,” a voice, thundering like crashing waves upon the shore, said through us.

The silence that followed felt pregnant with the unspoken.

James, Adam, Paul, and Azeez—each of us exchanged glances, our faces reflecting a rainbow of emotions. We couldn’t believe that our voices now embodied the singular voice of God.

For the first time, we were unified in our wants. James thought about the time before the oil boom that polluted our waters when the sea sparkled with a clarity reminiscent of polished glass. Adam reminisced about the era before the missionaries when the unity among traditional beliefs was as strong as the roots of an ancient tree, grounding communities in a shared spiritual heritage that withstood the test of time. Paul reflected on the period before monetary greed, when selflessness was a common currency, exchanged freely among individuals, creating a network of support that enriched the social fabric. Azeez considered the time before the anti-gay law when the societal fabric was woven with threads of tolerance and compassion, creating a space where diversity was celebrated rather than stifled. Together, like the fallen children of the Tower of Babel, we opened our mouths and chorused in a multitude of dialects: “In the beginning, was the word/and the word was with us/and the word was us,” and then we said, “Let there be light.”

00:00:03.

00:00:02.

00:00:01.

00:00:00.

And a new Nigeria appeared ※.