Souraya sniffled. “Okay,” she said, and hugged Ola back.
Saturday, 9:27 PM
When Ola reached the pastor’s house, Okinosho had been in his office, seething loudly. He tried to get aggressive with her, but Ola had slapped him across the face, then shoved him into his chair, pulling up her dress. She rode him until he came, her nails cutting into his throat, then he calmed down. Ahmed had arrived shortly after. The pastor had him enter alone, and though Ahmed’s eyes had flickered to Ola standing behind Okinosho’s chair, he gave no sign that he recognized or knew her. Smart guy.
“Where’s the girl?” Thomas asked, his tone harsh. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.
“She’s outside, sir,” Ahmed replied, and Ola felt Okinosho’s shoulders relax under her hand.
“And your disrespectful friend?”
“He’s also outside.”
Okinosho leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands. “Good, good.” He smirked at Ahmed, and Ola admired how unmoving Ahmed kept his face. “You know I wanted to kill your friend, yes?”
“Yes,” Ahmed replied, deadpan. “I heard.”
“It was God’s will. You cannot violate the earthly vessel of God’s anointed with such impudence and expect that there will be no repercussions. Our God is a jealous God.”
Ahmed wisely kept his mouth shut. Ola hid a smile.
“I asked you here, to bring both your friend and the girl here, so that divine justice may be meted out. It would have been righteous to execute the boy, but the Holy Spirit spoke to me through none other than Ola here.” Thomas reached up and caressed her hand, and Ola bent down to kiss his cheek. “The message was one of grace, Alhaji, one of mercy. The kind of mercy God showed Abraham on the mountain. Where a blood sacrifice was required, a proxy was accepted. And so, your friend’s life will be spared.”
Ahmed bowed his head. “Thank you, sir.”
Okinosho raised a hand. “You have not heard what the proxy is, the extent of the grace I am proffering in my generosity, my God-given magnanimity.”
“Of course. Please, continue.”
“You see, your friend thinks he is…superior. Better than the rest of us when, really, he is nothing; he is dust as we are all dust. He needs to be reminded that we are, in God’s eyes, all the same. Some of us might be anointed by the calling, but we will all return to dust. We are all flesh. Only God is God. Only God can judge.” He stood up from his desk and smoothed out his agbada. “So. In exchange for your friend’s life, he will do something else for me. For himself. To remind himself of who and what he is, what we all are. Weak subjects of the Most High.”
Ola could see apprehension creeping into Ahmed’s face. There was no need for it—not a drop of Kalu’s blood would be shed. She was proud of herself for coming up with this alternative, something that would fulfill Okinosho’s need for vengeance and keep everyone in this shitstorm alive. She’d even gotten Thomas to pay the girl so exorbitantly that the child would be able to retire after this job. Luckily, Okinosho was cruel enough to not care about how much money he threw away as long as Kalu suffered.
Suffering, Ola had learned, was quite often better than death. It left you space for a life afterward, a life you could bend into whatever you wanted. It left you a chance.
Okinosho leaned forward, planting his palms on his desk, his eyes boring into Ahmed’s. “Your friend is going to fuck that girl in front of me, Alhaji. He’s going to fuck her until he comes, and I want to see it, you understand? As proof, so to speak.”
The blood had drained from Ahmed’s face, but he remained silent. Okinosho cocked his head to the side, examining Ahmed’s expression.
“I am being fair, Alhaji. Surely you can’t have a problem with this. I am paying the girl far more than what you paid her for your party. You knew what she’d be doing there; I’m sure you don’t mind your friend doing it as well.” His voice tightened into a sliver of steel. “Be glad I am not requiring you to participate as well. It was under your roof that this unfortunate incident took place.”
“I do not doubt your justice for a moment, sir.”
Ola admired the skill with which Ahmed was lying to Okinosho’s face. He was polite, courteous, hiding the horror he was feeling deep under layers of smooth facial muscles. She knew the pastor would appreciate it too.
“Good,” Okinosho said, straightening up. “Good. You will be the one telling your friend what his punishment is. Ola will tell the girl. I will meet you both in the yellow parlor. Ola, you know the way.” He gathered the folds of his agbada at his shoulders and swept out of the room, leaving Ola alone with Ahmed.
Ahmed’s face distorted into rage. “This was your idea?” he spat out. “Are you mad? Why couldn’t you leave the girl out of it?”
Ola stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. “I did you a favor, you idiot. Do you know the kind of punishments Okinosho gives, the kind of shit he’s capable of? What did you think he would accept as a substitute for your friend’s life? Don’t be so fucking naïve.”
“But this? This?” His mouth twisted. “You’re sick.”
Ola laughed. “You’re the one who put her in a room full of old perverts like Okinosho. Don’t lecture me about who’s sick. You should be fucking thanking me. I didn’t need to do this, and I only did it for Souraya, who you exposed to all this rubbish.” She eyed him up and down with contempt. “I should have let your friend die, you ungrateful piece of shit.”
Ahmed’s mouth opened and closed as Ola pushed past him out into the grand corridors of Okinosho’s house, uniformed staff standing discreetly at intervals. Ola snapped her fingers at one of them. “Where’s the small girl they brought?” she asked.
“This way, madam.” They led her into a dressing room where the girl was seated at a vanity, a woman applying kohl to her eyes. She did look young. The kohl wouldn’t make her look any older, neither would the red lipstick they’d put on her. Ola knew from experience that this wasn’t the point—in fact, it would only emphasize how young she looked.
“Can you people step outside for a few minutes? I need to talk to the girl.” The servants melted away and Ola looked at the girl, whose head was bent, her hands folded loosely in her lap. “What’s your name?”
“Machi.” Her voice was clear and ringing, not wilting like Ola had expected. The demure thing was probably a mask, then; she was pretending to be good—quiet and well-behaved. What she thought they probably wanted her to be. She wasn’t wrong. Okinosho liked them like that, the younger they were.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Ola said, and Machi raised her eyes to her. They were flickering between emotions almost faster than Ola could catch—admiration, a sullen defiance, nervousness. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Machi shrugged. “A job,” she said, and Ola had to bite back a smile. She sounded like a much younger Ola but with more manners and less sarcasm. Ola sat down next to her and told her what the job was, about Kalu, who he was, why Okinosho was paying so much for Machi to be there tonight, what he wanted from her and from Kalu. Machi gasped when Ola told her how much she was going to get paid.
“It’s a lie,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “It’s a lie.”
“It’s not,” Ola replied. “That’s how much you’re getting.” She watched as the girl threw her head back, trying to stop the tears from ruining her mascara. Ola wasn’t the type of person to feel pity for anyone, but she did want this child to know that she had options. That you could have a chance after suffering. “You can do whatever you want with it. Get a passport. Leave this place. Go to another city. Go back to your family if you have one. Whatever you want.”
“Why?” Machi asked. “Why is he giving me that much?”
Ola looked at her. “I told him to.”
Machi’s eyes widened and she dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around Ola’s legs. “Thank you, ma! Thank you so much!”
“Oh, stand up, stand up!” Ola pulled her up and forced her back into her chair. “It’s not that serious. You still have to do the job.”
