Where Women are Kings (24 page)

Deliverance Church was empty when I pushed the doors open, but the candles at the front were lit and flickering softly. I carried you wrapped in Baba’s jumper, the last of him, the very bones of your baba. Bishop was at the front, reading
Time
magazine, flicking the pages quickly. ‘Welcome,’ he said, as if he’d been expecting me – us. ‘How are you, Deborah? I’ve been praying for you. I haven’t seen you since the funeral, but I’ve been praying.’

I nodded and pulled you closer to me. I tried to act as normal as possible, with my unkempt hair, wild eyes and wrapped-up-in-a-jumper baby.

He pushed his hand towards me and I touched it, drawing my hand away quickly, without waiting to see if he could tell how dirty my fingers were, how dirty I was. I felt as if he could see into my bad heart; that he knew at once what kind of woman I was. I felt badness all the way through me, Elijah, right to my core.

This Bishop was close to God and God had probably whispered secrets straight into his ear. He could see how
terrified I was, how badly I held you, how you weren’t strapped up high on my back like you should have been.

Close up, even in my raw state, I noticed how the Bishop looked even smoother. His beard was clipped neat and tidy around his mouth and he had pink, pink lips like your baba after too many hours playing the saxophone. A woman with a sour face stood behind Bishop. It was only when she coughed that I noticed her, too. She was holding a glass of water on a tray. She had a high forehead and her features looked squashed on the bottom of her face. She didn’t smile at all, and I wondered if she, as a woman, could see how broken I was.

‘Oh, that.’ Bishop waved at her and she brought the tray. He took the glass and a sip, then replaced the glass on the tray. The woman went back to the shadows behind him. ‘I mean her. She is my assistant. Not one of my twenty-seven wives – I’m no Fela! I’m only married to my work. To Jesus himself. Now,’ Bishop walked closer to me, so close I could see the tiny crumb of biscuit on his bottom lip. ‘What can I do for you, my sister?’

The words poured from my mouth. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir. It’s my baby. I am not finding motherhood easy, and I fear for him. I’m not coping well alone in England, and without my family in Nigeria. There’s something wrong with me – with my health. I so want to be good, but I need help –’ I said and took a big breath – ‘with my baby. I am not a good mother.’ My eyes fell down. ‘After my husband, after my husband was killed …’ I wanted to tell him everything, Elijah, about the red car that followed me everywhere, and other things, Elijah, that I can never write down, things between me and God and you, because only we were there; but I didn’t dare speak of it. I was certain that a man of God would not help such a woman.

Bishop almost smiled, kindly, and snapped his fingers and the woman behind him came forward again. At first I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. But then he looked at you wrapped up and nodded. ‘Let this poor woman sit down in my comfortable office. Can you not see she is concerned about the welfare of her child? What a stress for you to suffer, madam. Let us help you. She needs our help, here at Deliverance Church.’ He looked at me. ‘You have heard about our services. We can help anyone. Do not worry, sister; you have come to the very best place. I am a doctor of souls, a medical man for the spirit. A pharmacist for human weakness.’ His voice was soft and sure. I pulled you, wrapped up in the jumper, towards me and felt your breath on my face. Relief is a powerful force, and it blew right through me to my rotten core. Everything would be fine. I would protect you from any harm. I would be a good mother, the Bishop would help me with my grief and rottenness and he would help me be whole again.

A small noise woke Nikki from a dreamless sleep. A tinkling sound; a tiny bell. But there was only Obi snoring in the darkness and the feeling of life moving inside her: the kicking, which was increasing every day since she’d first felt it. She touched Obi’s back, his skin sleep-warm, wanting to wake him up and for him to put his hand over her stomach, whisper that he knew it would be OK.

‘Why didn’t we try sooner, then?’ Nikki had whispered.

And Obi smiled. ‘We were so tired,’ he said. ‘Simply exhausted.’

She lifted his hand to her face, placed his fingertips on her cheek. ‘I don’t feel tired any more,’ she said. She thought of Elijah, of the baby inside her, imagined them both together.

Elijah had been fine, quieter than usual, but no further outbursts as Ricardo had predicted, as Nikki had worried. She’d underestimated him. Maybe, when the baby came, he would handle it well. She could see him already: a loving, protective older brother. They’d spent the afternoon in the kitchen, eating and talking; while Elijah quietly drew pictures, Nikki and Obi had talked about the baby, how it would be, how everyone would love the baby. ‘You’ll be such a great big brother,’ said Obi, and Elijah had looked at Nikki closely and drawn a picture of a family: Nikki and Obi and
him, all holding hands. A giant star above them and dark blue sky. He’d drawn dozens of freckles all over Nikki’s face. ‘Where’s the baby?’ Nikki had asked. Elijah looked up at her. ‘The baby’s not here yet,’ he said.

The darkness became darker and Nikki’s steady heart beat quicker. A noise was on the edge of things: something metal, something shining. Elijah’s smile filled the darkness, but something about it felt different. She touched Obi’s skin and his back was no longer warm, but cold and clammy, sticky, like there was a layer of worry coming out from his insides.

Something felt very wrong. Nikki had the sense that there was someone nearby, and she sat bolt upright. Obi groaned and turned. A shape hovered in the darkness.

‘Elijah? Is that you?’

He moved closer and Nikki recognised his outline. Her heart slowed to almost normal. Almost. ‘Elijah, you scared the life out of me. My goodness, I thought you were a burglar!’

Obi sat up. ‘What’s going on? Are you OK?’

The bed moved underneath them as Obi shifted his weight. Elijah came closer. As Nikki’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, she could see something in his hand. ‘Elijah, are you OK?’ He looked hurt, and what was he holding? The something was shining and metal, like the taste inside her. Nikki heard a baby cry, from far away. A wail. From somewhere else. It filled every part of her.

She reached for Obi’s arm but Obi’s eyes had not adjusted to what was in front of him, of them.

‘I am not Elijah,’ he said, and he walked towards them, the knife in his hand stretched out for Nikki’s stomach. And she saw it then, in those seconds, how wrong they all were about everything, how little any of them really understood.

Elijah was not himself. His eyes were different, and there was something behind them: a terrible shadow.

‘I am not Elijah,’ he said again.

Nikki was screaming before she realised and her own voice sounded far away, in a dream, trying to escape. Obi was shouting too, and then a light was switched on. It happened suddenly, but everything slowed down. Nikki’s heart beat quietly, drawing everything towards it. Obi reached across her, and Elijah moved forward. Elijah’s eyes were shining like the metal of the knife, and there was something behind them that scared her more than she’d ever felt fear. She folded in half, doubled over, put her hands in front of her tummy and Obi fell over them, but it was too late, the knife pushed through and she felt it cutting to her very centre.

Elijah,

As I sat in the office, a feeling of hopefulness spread across me like jam. I had the feeling, Elijah, that he could help us both. I would be such a good mother to you. How I loved you, Elijah. I should have come here straight away, I thought, when the spinning started, when your baba had left. I should have come to Bishop after it happened. The church always helped its own. Cleansed us. Washed our sins away, the sins of others. I was one of God’s own children, and the church was my family. Bishop was my brother.

‘Now, tell me precisely, what is it I can help you with?’ The Bishop looked at my clothes and bag very closely, like he was asking them a question.

I felt your mouth next to my breast, the hot air coming out, soft and warm. ‘I have had bad luck, so bad, and now I feel as if I’m no good to him, to my baby.’ I looked at the Bishop and his expression was soft and warm as your little breath. ‘A car full of men has been following me. I get confused, since Akpan died. He was in the street, in the road.’ I gulped. ‘It was that red car that hit him. What was inside it …’

My eyes began filling with tears so large that, when they splashed down on to your face, you were startled and began
to cry. ‘Please, child,’ said the Bishop, with his kindly voice and good heart.

I started crying so hard, the Bishop’s face blurred in front of me and became another face – almost exactly Uncle Pastor. ‘I try but I can’t feed him properly, and he’s not safe.’

The Bishop put his hand up in the air. ‘It’s OK; please don’t cry, sister. I can see what a great job you’re doing as a new mother. Motherhood is not easy and it sounds as if you’ve had a terrible time. Terrible luck. But that is what I’m here for. Now, let me see this lovely child.’

I opened Baba’s jumper. You were curled around in a tight ball. I felt so relieved, the weight of fear on my shoulders was gone, and right there in the church I felt, for the first time since you had been born, that I’d be worthy to be your mother, that you would be mine for always.

Bishop leant forwards and saw you. He frowned.

‘Your husband dying: that is a terrible thing to happen to anyone. Sister, you don’t need to be upset. I will help you. Your luck will change, no doubt.’ Bishop put his hand over mine. ‘Now, tell me, have you taken this child to see anyone else? A medical doctor, maybe? Or perhaps a social worker?’

I shook my head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the baby – it’s me who is not coping,’ I whispered, but the Bishop was too busy looking at you.

‘And your family? Do they know that you have come to see me? Friends? I’m sure your friends have recommended you come to see me?’

‘My family are in Nigeria. I want to get home to them – as soon as I feel better, as soon as I’m coping a bit more. When things get better. I’m sorry to admit that I haven’t yet told them of my husband’s death …’

Bishop almost smiled. His face was so kind. ‘You are in
the right place. I can certainly help you with any spiritual problem. In the absence of your father, I’ll become like your father. In the absence of your husband, I’ll take care of you as if you are my own wife. You do not need to worry. I will treat this child like my own flesh and blood. I will help him, and I will help you.’

The relief I felt, little Elijah!

You opened your eyes and blinked.

Bishop’s expression didn’t change. He kept looking at you, but not in the way of a person admiring a new baby. He looked up and down and over your little body, moving arms one by one, then stretching legs out one by one, letting them snap back into place. He opened your eyes widely with his thumb and finger. Wide eyes looked out. Bishop looked for a few seconds, then seemed to remember something important. He suddenly gasped. Then he looked at the woman in the shadows behind him with lowered eyebrows, and the woman in the shadows behind him gasped too.

‘What do you think is the problem with him? I myself can see straight away, but then, I’m an expert. I saw this many times in Akwa Ibom State when I first realised I had been blessed with the gift of healing. I have dealt with this issue for over twenty years and I know what the problem is, and have a one-hundred-per-cent success rate in healing this. But I need to see what you think. What would you say is the problem? Is there anything specific that is concerning you?’

‘The problem is with me, Bishop. I’m not coping. I feel so alone. Since my bad luck started …’

Bishop smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You need to understand something.’ He took his hand away and my shoulder felt warm. ‘The problem is not with you. These bad things that have been happening: it is very clear to me – in
fact, very clear to anyone – why they’ve been happening. The problem is not with you, sister. The problem is clear to me. I’m an expert in such matters. The baby is not well. Not himself.’

I looked down at you. You were breathing so quickly and your face was still wet from my tears, but it might have been sweat. I felt your skin and it’s true it was clammy. Were you sick? Was I such a bad mother that I hadn’t noticed?

‘Have you taken him to see any other specialists? Are you sure you haven’t seen any of these white doctors? Because, let me tell you, some of them are charlatans. They will take your prescription charges and give you placebos; do you know placebos? Tablets with nothing but air! And they do not realise that healing comes not only from the cells, the body, the organs and immune system, but it comes from God in his grace and wisdom. Treating the body without the soul is like cooking rice without adding salt: no point. And you are lucky, hearing the voice inside you, telling you to bring him here to me, the doctor of souls. Now, this is very important: did you tell anyone at all?’

I shook my head. ‘I didn’t think it was him – I thought it was me that was unwell.’ Relief washed through me as I looked at you. If you were sick then you could surely be easily fixed and I might be a good mother after all. A sick baby is surely easier to heal than a no-good mother? He could help us, this man of God. I could trust him. He would take away the pain I’d been feeling for so long. A voice whispered inside my ear. Heal me; heal us, I prayed. Elijah, I imagined being better and going home to my family and Rebekah’s laughter and my parents, who would take care of us both.

‘That is good. I see you are a wise woman bringing him first to me. I cannot say it will be easy, but I do think I can
help this baby. Of course, you know that he is full with wizard?’

I pulled Baba’s jumper over you and pulled you towards me. ‘You are mistaken, sir; it is me that is ill. I have voices, and things are not clear …’