BUREAU OF LIFE [PART III]

Lathan savoured the screams of the spiritually-starved crowd. This was his largest crowd ever; over two million people gathered at the main-bowl, National Stadium, Lagos for the annual Praiseathon concert. The thirst from the crowd swept like waves on seas and he was almost drowned by the urge to keep giving, but his time was up. He had to rest and get ready for the International Pentecostal Leaders Conference in Ghana.

Lathan listened rapturously as the crowd chanted his name like the welcome of an army general who had just recaptured all North-eastern territories held by Boko Haram. This was more than he had ever dreamed of. Two-hundred and forty-two months ago when all he had was a lousy Yamaha table top piano with missing keys, he had only wanted to just sing to the glory of Elion and lead thousands in worship at the Eyimba Stadium, in Aba.

Today he was standing by a Baldwin Grand Piano in front of a two-million-man crowd, all screaming his name. The chants welled up hills of pride in his misplaced thoughts – he had made it. It didn’t bother him that there was no mention of Elion in all the chants. This was Lathan Luciano’s show now, the organizers had saved his ministration for the last slot and the performance he just finished was worth the wait.

There was energy everywhere, glorious sweat stung eyes, bodies glistened in ecstasy, voices were hoarse from screaming, reverence had been paid to him and Lathan revelled in the worship. Elion had indeed done abundantly, above, and beyond all that Lathan could dream up in his wildest imagination.

“Thank you Lagos!” Lathan’s voice boomed over the crowd as he retreated backstage, down the ramp and into the green room. He needed to take a shower.

“Call for you,” Majek, his manager, held the phone at Lathan.

“I just got off stage, man.” Lathan brushed the phone aside as he pulled off his t-shirt. When he started out as a choirmaster, he had sworn to simplicity, just so he wouldn’t give the notion that his ministry was about materialism. Twelve years down the line, that principle held strong, but what he ignored in fashion, he made up for in estates. Lathan had properties in all highbrow residences across the federation.

“It’s the PFN president.” Majek added

“I don’t care if it’s the pope himself; I am not doing any free shows again.” Lathan slouched on the sofa and shut his eyes. He palmed the open bottle of Vodka in an ice bucket by the sofa and took three long swigs. “I want to be alone.”

“We need to talk--“ Majek tried to reason with him.

“Alone, MJ.”

Majek exited the green room and Lathan enjoyed the quiet in the room. But inside, he felt like he was in Balogun Market. Too many voices speaking at once, questions about where he was headed, demands for ambition, and confusion as to what he was really doing with his life. This wasn’t the life he had dreamt about. All Lathan ever wanted to do was sing to Elion’s glory. That want died somewhere along the line, now all he longed for was to hear Lathan on the lips of his fans, he couldn’t even remember the last time he heard Elion speak to him.

Without warning, Lathan’s oesophagus locked. At first it felt like it was his sitting position, so he sat up. But that only worsened the loss of breath that enveloped him. He grasped his throat in desperation and tried to call out to Majek, but no sound came out. The tingling sensation from the vodka he’d just swigged worsened his sensitivity to the tightening in his throat.

Lathan turned to check out the content of the bottle but his vision blurred and he shut his eyes in resignation to the persistent whispers of the nether.

To be continued...

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BUREAU OF LIFE (PART II)

Time stopped as Benjay’s vision narrowed on the number-plate tagged to the yellow bus approaching him with blurry speed. His heartbeat resonated the clap of a thunderstorm recorded in slow mo waves and amped with baser tones. His skin rippled with beads of sticky sweat trickling under his shirt and his whole body felt like a tank of concrete. This was dread; that dread which foreruns death.

The approaching vehicle was Soji’s bus and that meant Soji had returned with his clutch of touts. The two base instincts kicked in, but both options were ideas that only worked in blockbusters and brilliant imaginations. Behind him stood a seven-foot high fence that ran the next one hundred meters left and right, it was dressed with spiral barbs. There were no open gates and by the sudden spike in the number of dogs barking, Benjay could tell that they too had smelt death.

The thing with Gbagada streets was that nights were extremely dark as no streetlights had found permanent homes here yet and everyone just felt safer inside their high walls.

Just two hours ago, Benjay had creased Soji’s face with a wheel-spanner because Soji had refused to do the needful – pay “loading-money” as demanded of all Lagos-public-bus-drivers at all bus stops. Arguments escalated to abuse and abuse evolved into punches and punches leaped unto borrowed weapons. Benjay was only doing his job - what was required of every tout in Lagos. Soji had fled the scene with a bleeding face and Benjay had stayed with a bloated ego. Well, whatever merchandize the ego bargains for at the marketplace is worn by the body.

So as not to appear before the pearly gates and receive criticisms for not putting up a fight against death, Benjay snapped out of the Slow-mo mode and set his feet on fast-forward

He heard the first gunshot and obeyed instinctual advice not to assess the distance between himself and the approaching train of death. However, on assessing the path ahead of him, he was certain that he could not beat this track. Yet his heartbeat replayed a line from Watersprout’s lyric that stayed on his mother’s lips even on her death-bed, as long as you have a nose, keep breathing. So he pulled apart the curtains of doubt and peeked at the river of possibilities. Seven-foot high on the right and death train approaching on a close left. Any attempt to cross the bus’s evil beam would buy him a one-way ticket to the land never seen by humans.

Only three words came to mind Lord help me.

***

Huntoel strode across the white-wood flooring of the glistening large Shamah hall with so much glory that his chayil scent filled the entire office floor. Huntoel was the most decorated executor in the Bureau. For every successful 100-execution on earth-space another jar of elixir was added to an angel’s essence and every elixir was a blend of refinement from Sakah Labs – an elixir from this Shakah lab would literally suck up all scientific and pharmaceutical labs on earth. The chayil scent was the highest elixir to be worn by any angel in the bureau.

Huntoel was the envy (or the equivalent of envy in Zion) of all angels in the Bureau because in spite of all his laurels and declaration he was the meekest in service. He remembered everyone’s name and he was easy to talk to. This was the kind of entity that earthlings would crush on.

“Great seeing everybody, in shape” Huntoel bellowed. His voice was what it was – an angel’s, unimaginable. "Varralel, how’s your dog doing?”

Varralel, the quirky secretary with huge globs of glasses on her nasal bone waved at him with her purifying wand. “She’s waiting for you,” referring to Amaziel, the head of Shamah Department.

Huntoel slipped seamlessly through the thick cube of ice that served as the door into Amaziel’s office. Only the highest ranks within the bureau could slip through ice entrances and exits

“Thank you for coming, Hunt,” Amaziel rose from her sit to embrace Huntoel.

“You may be my friend but you are my team lead,” Huntoel taps her on the back.

“I summoned you because, I believe your next mission is critical to a plan that Elion is setting in motion. I couldn’t use the transmitter because of confidentiality.” Amaziel sat down again. “It’s a Benjay Babatope—“

“--29, 76 strands of dreadlocks and street tout in Gbagada--“ Huntoel completed Amaziel’s statement.

“--You know him already?” Amaziel asked.

“Bottle fight in 2011, snake bite in 2012, food poisoning in 2013, and stab wounds in 2014.” Huntoel replied. He noticed Amaziel look away at the distant lushness of the valley of wellness through his ice window.

“Elion is preserving him for a plan.” Amaziel said.

***

The next bullet grazed Benjay’s neck and the force-field that companied the lone murderer propelled Benjay forward. He landed on his belly, but the fear of death whipped him back to his feet. If only he could just beat this long fence. Then he saw it - an open archway in the fence. Strange, he had never seen it before and he’d passed this fence on his way back from ise every day for the last three years.

He tossed his torso through the open archway as another bullet ricocheted off the edge, just above his head. He rolled to a stop, rolled his dreadlocks away and looked back to see if any of Soji’s men had made it through the archway, but all there was, was the white wall of the fence. No archway.

His heart stopped as he looked around to ensure that he hadn’t died, sure enough behind him stood an earthly duplex.  The same he had seen tower over the seven-foot high fence. Then his heart crashed as he saw two pit-bulls sprint towards him. Lesser evil; he could beat these.

As he got up on his feet again, he smelt a scent that weakened his bones, sent chills up his brain, and wrapped his tongue with dehydrants. It was not an earthly scent. 

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