Spawn of the Mirage was shortlisted for The Lord’s Scribe TLS writing contest 2024 and was published in an anthology alongside 19 other shortlisted stories. The Christian-themed anthology, ‘Babies for Lunch’ is available for free on Selar.
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Dala Hills, Kano
06-09-2098
The scalding sun rays were only circumvented by the gust of wind generated by the rotating chopper blades.
Anita was certain that her melanin wouldn’t shield her from being fried. At this rate, she would return to South Africa a charred husk.
As the desert wind swept specks of dust into her eyes, she wondered what had pulled her back to this godforsaken land. The scholarship had been a welcome means of escape.
Her PA, a plain young Ghanian lady named Levina Kyeng who had piloted the helicopter, bristled as they approached their destination.
An elderly man emerged from the gate with a curious limp.
“Miss Anita Esemele! God bless you for coming,” he said as he shook her hand firmly. “You don’t know how desperately we prayed that you would come to our aid.”
“Mr Josiah Zamdayu, call me Anita. It’s a relief to finally meet you,” Anita said with a light-hearted chuckle. “Did I really have a choice? You and your cohorts practically spammed my social media accounts and email nonstop for two whole months. I figured the situation was dire.”
His facial expression morphed into perplexity. He muttered, “Are you sure? I only sent one email last month. We hardly have network coverage in this area, so it was a miracle when we received a call from your PA that you’d be coming.”
A sliver of alarm snaked through her veins as she gazed into his honest-looking eyes. What did he mean? Could her coming here have been a terrible mistake?
“What are we waiting for? Come on in,” Mr Josiah chirped, snapping her out of her reverie.
As Mr Josiah ushered them through the vast compound towards the Light of the World Missions chapel, he filled Anita in on the statistics of how many had died and how many still lived. There were militants and bandits, scavengers who raided missionary fortresses like this, he said.
As they passed by a building, a twinge of sympathy squeezed Anita’s lungs. Children and preteens peered from behind louvre windows with bulbous eyes. Mr Josiah said they were orphans catered for by the mission.
One little girl with kinky hair drew closer and gingerly touched Anita’s translucent suitcase that housed her solo-programmed invention, the 3D Nanobot Inoculator.
Levina shooed the girl off, but Anita stopped her. Anita crouched to the girl’s level and smiled, patting the girl’s lean cheeks.
This was her sign. For the sake of the innocent child she once was, she had to make this minor sacrifice.
If that snake of a man was still alive somewhere, she hoped karma had caught up with him. That would convince her of the existence of a sovereign divine being.
~~~
Gwagwalada, FCT
23-11-2087
“Prophet Firdausi, my daughter is possessed!” Mrs Esemele cried, her Ankara boubou shaking in rhythm to her frantic gesturing. “She hardly sleeps. She mumbles to herself and writes jargon on the walls of her room. Please, help me!”
The bald man in a white kaftan assessed the wiry fifteen-year-old figure of Anita, who sat beside her mother, her lips pursed. She squirmed, looking away from him.
“But, Mama, I have told you to stop worrying yourself na. I’m working on some scien—”
“Will you shut that your dirty mouth up?” her mother snapped.
“Madam, calm down. There is nothing the lord of this mountain cannot do. Just leave her here for three days. We will conduct deliverance with fasting and prayers for her.”
Her mother left after pressing a wad of naira notes into the prophet’s palm after which he embraced her too intimately as he spoke gibberish in a hoarse voice.
Not long after, the prophet locked the door and shut the window. Dread coiled around Anita’s chest but she sat still. He brought out a bottle of Goya olive oil from a drawer and pranced towards her.
Abruptly, he barked at her to stand and walk towards him. He forced her to gulp down a measure of the oil.
A moment later, her head swam dangerously. Anita realised, too late, that the oil was drugged. Her senses dulled but she remained half-conscious as he stripped her of every inch of clothing and laid her spread-eagle on his table.
Anita tried to scream, but her lips wouldn’t comply. Hot tears streamed down her face as his nightmarish abuse flickered in and out of her consciousness like a repetitive mirage.
All her inner prayers for rescue were squashed, a wisp into nothingness.
~~~
Dala Hills, Kano
09-09-2098
The sound of the siren jolted Anita awake. It took a moment for her to shake off the nightmare. She hastily rose and looked out the window to the moonlit compound. Frightened and injured townsfolk trooped in. Mr Josiah’s voice yelled for someone to secure the gates. She could hear distant booms. Another attack, and so soon.
A knock sounded on her door. Anita put on a robe, picked her special suitcase and dashed out of her sleeping quarters, Levina in tow.
The scenery in the main chapel hall was unsightly; dismembered limbs, bleeding gashes, spilling guts.
Anita and Levina performed a quick triage. Five of the thirty refugees were already dead.
Anita began the necessary procedure, setting up the Inoculator. If all went well, the injured would be treated in less than an hour. Ignorant commoners claimed it was a miracle, but Anita knew it was merely the work of the advanced nanotechnology she had perfected over years.
When she got to the seventeenth person on the queue, her hands froze and her eyes widened to saucers.
‘No!’
The man stretched out on the floor had the better part of his left arm blown away to smithereens.
She would recognise those reptilian-like eyes anywhere. They belonged to that of the monster that haunted her dreams.
Recognition lit up his face as well. And was that a flash of guilt?
The Inoculator’s nanotube fell from her grasp and she hastened out of the hall, feeling suffocated.
“Anita!” the raspy voice of her nemesis groaned out as he followed.
Rage boiled like a volcano from the pit of her belly as she fought to keep the ugly memories from submerging her. He was still alive? And what in blazes was he doing here?
“Don’t…” she growled through gritted teeth, “come any closer.”
His face contoured in a tortured expression as he looked up at her through teary eyes.
“I am sorry, Anita…” his voice broke, “My daughter.”
Anita flinched, aghast.
“What?!”
“Your mother… May her soul rest in peace. She came to me out of desperation, when she was barren…”
Anita couldn’t believe her ears. She was the daughter of this monster, this wolf in sheep clothing? Could this get any worse?
“I was an impostor then, using diabolical powers under a guise. But God captured me. I came here as a missionary volunteer to Kano. I have sought to reach you and beg for your forgiveness for the evil I did to you. I’m sorry…”
“Were you…”—She gulped and lowered her voice—”were you behind the accident that claimed Mama’s life?”
His silence was all the answer she needed.
“You’ll rot in hell!” Anita screamed icily and stormed off, tears burning her lungs.
For the next twenty-four hours, Anita remained cooped in her room, not taking a bath or eating despite the prodding of a worried Levina. When Mr Josiah came, she informed him curtly that she would be leaving Nigeria, never to return, ever.
He hung his head in resignation for a long time. Then, Anita heard him whispering. Was he praying? For her? She felt irritated and, at the same time, oddly intrigued.
When he lifted his head, he said, “Child, I don’t know the details of whatever haunts you, but know this, he brought you here for his purpose.”
Something snapped in Anita and she yelled. “His purpose, my foot! Where was God when I was taken advantage of right under his nose, uhn? Tell me!”
Mr Josiah sighed.
“God loves you, and is willing to heal you, Anita. Perhaps, he allowed whatever happened because it was needed to shape you to become his tool to rescue millions of lives globally.”
She scoffed. So, she was the sacrificial lamb? How convenient!
“Will you allow bitterness to blind you? If you leave, many will suffer, many more will die…”
She broke down then, weeping for a long time on his shoulder.
Later that night, she returned to the hall. Prophet Firdausi lay prostrate on the altar, moaning in anguish.
Snagging her eyes away from his pitiful form, she clapped her hands and gestured that everyone yet to be treated should file to a side.
He jerked up and looked at her through red-tinged, yet hopeful, eyes. She didn’t know if she could forgive him, but she had a mission to accomplish. She would take things one step at a time.
~~~
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