BUREAU OF LIFE [PART VII]

Continued...

“I already told you Elion sent me and I don’t want your money even though I need it bad.” Benjay rummaged the sling bag at the foot of the bronze-sprayed chair under him. He produced a sheet of paper and scribbled on it. He pushed the paper to Tiamiyu. “When you are ready to listen to what Elion wants you to do, call that number.”

He rose, picked up the sling bag, and walked towards the door. Tiamiyu stared at the paper in front of him. 080-ELBENJAY was written on it.

***

Benjay shut the door behind him and hurried to the main entrance of the MGAAN office complex. He never understood why churches and church-related organizations built such mega-complexes yet impoverished Christians numerically dominated the select rich. He had nothing against churches; he just found it ironic that structure and packaging took precedence over the well-being of souls that these structures were erected to attract.

The door he’d just shut opened in tandem with the main entrance and a lady dressed in denims & a t-shirt entered the lobby. Benjay stopped in midstride. He could recognize the lady but had no idea where he’d seen her before.

He looked back and saw Tiamiyu, standing by his office door, and staring at the lady too. Benjay turned back to the lady and it suddenly hit him. She was one of the faces he saw in his sojourn into the ethereal.

“Mosun Akinola.” The Voice said.

“Do I approach her now?” Benjay asked but The Voice didn’t reply. Benjay took a quick decision and walked over to Mosun, who was conversing with the blonde receptionist. Why can’t Nigerians just stop the pretense? A blonde Nigerian? Benjay thought.

“I need to talk to you ma,” Benjay muttered to Mosun, but she sidestepped him and headed for Tiamiyu’s office. The disgust on her face told Benjay all he needed to know about her; this lady was rude.

***

Silence. Weighty physical silence. Silence enough to allow the spiritual noise in the church yard some vocal room in the physical. Huntoel observed the team of five angels from the Bureau of War advantageously positioned on the roof of New Estate Baptist, Yaba.

“What are they doing here?” Sanctiel broke the silence.

“Silence.” Huntoel hissed without turning to look at Sanctiel. In all his years of service, he had never been paired with a complete nepios – angels in nappies. He preferred executing missions alone, but if the occasion demanded a partnership, he always had battalions of seasoned executors to choose from. But like Amaziel had pled, if Mackel said to take Sanctiel, his reasons were sturdy.

Rapha dept. had furnished them with cloaks and claymores. Even though this was meant to be an investigative mission, Huntoel had opined that something could go wrong and they might have to fight their way through some skirmishes. Sanctiel hadn’t wielded a sword, more so a claymore since he left the academy eight Zion months ago. He had never even seen a cloak before, so his excitement was insanely skewed to the scary when he received it and learnt its capacities. Also, his enthusiasm beat new-year fireworks when he learnt he was going on a mission with Huntoel – the most decorated executor in the Bureau.

“Sir, once again it is my greatest honour to serve alongside--" Sanctiel reeled off in excitement, forgetting the last order Huntoel had just issued.

“Silence.” Huntoel hissed again and ducked. He pushed Sanctiel’s head beneath the rise of the roof adjacent to the huge church. Yazael, the leader of the five-angel team, spun in their direction.

***

Yazael scanned the building adjacent to theirs and sniffed the descending zephyr.

“We have company.” He said, drawing his sabre-tooth scimitar.

“Light or darkness?” Messuel, Yazael’s second in command, asked. But Yazael uttered not a word.

The team of five had defected from the ongoing onslaught in Sections 61-65 of Quadrant 1 – Yobe, Maiduguri, Baga, Biu and Gwoza. Balrog’s battalion was doing a damn fine job of upsetting the scales of justice in code 234 and the apostolic wave that Elion wanted to drown Africa in had been stalled. Nigeria was pivotal to the success of this last move of Elion on planet earth before the great Armageddon.

To be Continued...

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BUREAU OF LIFE [PART VI]

Continued...

Everything in Mackel’s office was suspended in mid-air yet they didn’t float about because they were held in position by his state of mind. All bureau heads wielded so much power that structures around them responded to their emotions. Amaziel and Huntoel had never seen Mackel this way before, items were always grounded around him because he had learnt to control his pride and ego via service.

“I need you to monitor Luciel’s movements in code 234 and report to me directly,” Mackel said. He was making an effort to be calm. “I want you to follow protocol, stay within edicts and be as invisible as possible.” 

“May I speak out of turn sir?” Huntoel asked with his head bowed. Since the day he discovered Mackel’s true position, he had never dared look the angel in the eyes. It took so much control to wield so much power and still choose to open doors for the lowest ranks.

“As long as you are within reason.”

“This is a matter for the Bureau of War, why don’t we contact them?” Huntoel asked.

The suspended items in the room, floated about in mild frenzy. Amaziel glared at Huntoel, who simply shrugged in defiance. The floating items stopped their mild agitation.

“And tell them what? I was sitting on a mutiny for how many years and couldn’t smell it?” Mackel retorted. “Our mess is ours to clean.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.” Huntoel turned to leave.

“Amaziel will vouch for everything you need from Rapha department.” He shut his eyes as the suspended items began their descent. “And oh, Sanctiel will understudy you.”

Huntoel froze. “The radical?”

“He is loyal,” Mackel muttered with his eyes closed.

“His impulsiveness will foul up this mission sir.” Huntoel argued.

“He is loyal.”

“Sir--“

“Huntoel, loyalty is always willing to learn and loyalty eventually wins.”

***

Tiamiyu Aregbe listened to the tout seated in front of him in mock attention. It is not every day the seating president of the Ministering Gospel Artistes’ Association of Nigeria (MGAAN) met a tout claiming he had heard from Elion. These boys were getting bolder by the day. Internet scams were buying more jail terms than cars, so they had turned to the lucrative, full-proof venture that has fed millions of false-prophets all over the world, all through the ages.

“So, what exactly did Elion say?” Tiamiyu asked again

“Sir,” Benjay answered irritably, “you can either believe me or kick me out of your office, there are hundreds of names I have to talk--"

“--that’s not the way to get to him.” The Voice whispered to Benjay.

“I’ll make this easy for you,” Tiamiyu said, “I can make do with someone with your talent… and boldness. Let’s say, I clean you up--"

“I don’t need cleaning up.” Benjay barked. “You think I want to be here? I don’t give a rat’s butt what happens to you or your family or your association, I am not even a Christian.”

“Easy… easy young man.” Tiamiyu raised his hand as he looked round the room for anything that he could use to defend himself, in case this wild animal forgot where he was. His eyes settled on the miniature pharaoh sculpture that housed his assortment of pens. That would do just fine. Every other thing in his office was very sensitive. Tiamiyu’s office was a testament of world tours and a wealth-driven ministry. The wooden furniture was bronze-sprayed and the leather attendants were lined with golden studs. Rows and rows of books lined the office walls save for the seating area.

“Screaming isn’t going to get to him.” The Voice soothed Benjay’s angst. “Ask him about--"

“How about the stash of cocaine concealed in your fancy pen holder,” Benjay looked around the office. “The stash in that Dake’s bible, or the one in --"

“--Stop." A Frightened Tiamiyu rose from his seat. “Who are you working with, how much do you want?”

To be Continued...

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BUREAU OF LIFE [PART V]

...continued

For five days and five nights Benjay had swum in innumerable quagmires of hallucinations, nerve-splitting dreams and brain-banging visions. On his several trips to the ethereal reality, that was soon to become his existence, he had witnessed his body divorced from his soul. While his body writhed in eye-bulging spasms and gold-melting fevers, his soul was wreathed with streams of imagery that he couldn’t make any sense of.

The imagery was attendant to a voice with the audacity of crashing waves in a typhoon. The voice recited every bible verse Benjay had ever seen, heard and read. The weight of the voice still drummed in Benjay’s thrashed consciousness, rendering his heart palpitations rhythmless. Benjay could not finger any memory responsible for how he got home five nights ago and could not discern any taste that could testify to his consumption of any meal within that period.

Yet he felt alive. Alive with so much essence that he was scared the overdose would end his existence. In his sojourn into the inexplicable realm, he had seen faces. Faces he recognized but was confident he had never met in person. They were mostly attention-seeking, shallow-minded folks he’d seen on TV - celebrities.  Those fools he hated for wasting their talents. They had the opportunity to quake a cataclysmic change across the nation, yet spun the teeming toddlers of their audience to the advantages of their already green accounts.

Only few said the truth. Like Fela and Lagbaja. That’s why he had invested long nights in creating his afrobeat and afrohop mixtapes. He was going to be the next voice of his generation. His dread-locked brand look would be pegged on a reggae artiste any day and he loved the confusion everyone wore whenever he clarified that he was no Rastafari.

While he hustled Gbagada and Ilupeju bus-stops as a tout by day, he spent most nights recording hits and mastering his art. He had over twenty recorded songs, but none had been released because he felt he wasn’t ready yet; strange for a bristly twenty-nine-year-old with ambitions of international impact.

Benjay’s eyes fluttered open and the fog of confusion dispersed for a wee bit. He became aware that he was lying prostrate and that his entire body felt drenched. The dingy foam was soaked through vertically and horizontally. He pushed his dead-weight up as he rose and water gathered around his hands. Had his room flooded again? Lagos floods were no respecter of the high or low.

He looked at the room floor and dispelled that thought. There were dry sheaves of paper on the ground with his writing on them. He looked closely at the sheet closest to him and saw Lathan Luciano, 4-time NGMA winner, raised in Aba-Ngwa, sexually abused at 12, started ministry at 15 when his dad died from consumption of petrol, sold everything he had to record his first album, lives on 11 Glover road, Ikoyi, Phone number…

Benjay’s palpitating heart ceased in freight, when he looked at the next sheet. Statistics about another person he had never heard of - then the next sheet and the next one. All the sheets scattered about the floor had data about people. Then he saw a blank sheet with a bic pen on it.

“Pick it up and write,” the same audacious voice broke into Benjay’s dread.

“Who are you?” Benjay screamed. His confusion and frustration at the string of events clawed at the helms of his sanity. Was he running amok?

“Mosun Akinola, wife of the late Gbenga Akinola, who died of cocaine overdose while on his praise west-Africa tour…"

To be continued...

Image credit: Courtesy - jasonshen.com

PAINTED WORDS

I'm an artist 

I paint worlds with my keyboard.

My brush-strokes are words.

The oil I deep my brush into

drips from a priesthood higher than Aaron's beard.

The rhythm of my strokes are synonymous

 with the heartbeat of salvation.

Realism knows relatively nothing about 

the reality that I relate when I exhale

on my Microsoft canvas.

The points I make point out each self-evident truth, 

yet, from a perspective of pointillism, 

they collectively point to the whole truth - The only Truth.

This craft existed before me 

and will transcend every iota of the 

knowledge of my existence. 

The renaissance met & left it 

and civilization only recognizes ancestry 

because this craft laid the foundation for what 

vestiges of "awareness" we can glean. 

I picked up the brushes where the fathers dropped them,

my biological and otherwise lineage will 

wave the canvas when I conclude my patriotic duty.

It is the only craft that will stand where

and when all knowledge self-destructs. 

The craft of words 

Eternal words 

Elion's words...

Image Credit: Leonid Afremov on aliexpress.com

BUREAU OF LIFE [PART IV]

Continued...

As Lathan drifted into nothingness, he felt a presence so heavy that he floated on the essence of the presence. He tried opening his eyes but they were sealed tight. Then he heard a voice, so inexplicable it could only have been Elion’s. It sounded like a blend of wind chimes, tropical forests and underwater sonar.

“How does it feel to have arrived at the top, gained everything, and lost your soul?” The Voice asked.

Lathan tried to respond but his vocal chords felt like they’d been surgically excavated by a freshman medical student.

“You counter has approximately forty-seven seconds to go,” the Voice continued. “But it can be extended”

“Help me. Help me,” Lathan thought.

“Sing for me once again,” the Voice said. “Proclaim me your Lord, and your years will be increased."

“I will sing for you my Lord.” Lathan thought. “Anything. Please, just end this pain.”

“I didn’t hear that.” The Voice mocked as the grip around Lathan’s throat loosened. Lathan gasped for breath in large spurts, as he opened his eyes. He swooned, sucked frantically, closed his eyes, coughed and opened his eyes. The figure that Lathan saw was so majestic that Lathan vibrated in cold dread, this was Elion in flesh, or a close second. Amidst the pain in his throat, Lathan quickly grovelled at the figure in reverence.

Luciel, the head of Barakh’alal department in the Bureau, stood at a towering 7 ft 6”. His whole body was aglow with the glory he had just received from Lathan, his muscles rippled with tiny sparks and his chiselled physique was pure art from Zion. He had to bend to avoid hitting the ceiling.

“My Lord.” Lathan moaned as his whole being froze and unfroze intermittently. 

***

Amaziel paced her office in an attempt to denounce the evidence of the reports that just popped up on her screen.

“He must have had his reasons,” Huntoel said calmly, from the white cotton-stuffed sofa floating slightly above the white wooden floors.

“This has always been your problem, seeing good even in everyone’s bad,” Amaziel raved in inapt anxiety. Yadah had informed her about the lost minister who was dying of poisoning and while she was dishing out instructions to Huntoel, another dispatch arrived saying that Luciel had taken care of it. “That’s not even his department.”

“I believe he was available on hand and saved us the flight.” Huntoel reasoned. “The question should be ‘what was he doing in code 234?’”

“Elion mandated a halal campaign across code 234.” Amaziel answered and leaned on her glass desk.

“Explains a lot,” Huntoel deduced that Luciel was on earth at that same time to coordinate the concerted praises of believers across Nigeria for the release of grace - grace that was required to lead the nation into the next level of democracy.

Amaziel’s hologram slid out of her wrist and Mackel, the doorman, popped up

“My office,” Mackel said softly, “now.”

“Huntoel is with me sir--"

“Come with him.” Mackel added. Then the hologram slid back in.

“He knows.” Huntoel said. He knew Mackel had read the glory charts in his office and must have noticed spikes on Luciel’s radar. Mackel was the Bureau Chief, but only the departmental heads and unit bosses were privy to that information. Mackel manned the post of the porter as a reminder to all who knew his true position that true leadership is service.

To be continued...

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