An Oracle Sparks a Much-Needed Uprising in This Wry Fantasy Tale

io9 is proud to present fiction from Lightspeed Magazine. Once a month, we feature a story from Lightspeed’s current issue. This month’s selection is “The Oracle at Ikeja” by Tobi Ogundiran. Enjoy! The Oracle at Ikeja By Tobi Ogundiran I. The Oracle at the Ministry of Truth Ayinla could not say when he first heard of the Oracle. Perhaps at the barbershop, where he had settled himself into a rotting and dangerously unstable barber’s chair, robe too tight around his throat, silently cursing the barber who stopped every now and then to argue with “hangers.” (There were always hangers at barbershops; jobless, often shirtless men who were as much a fixture of the shop as the harsh fluorescent lights that exposed Ayinla’s pores). But then, it might have been at work, lying beneath the rusty and mud-covered chassis of a 1989 Peugeot 404 when he heard his boss, Aminu, swearing about the Oracle who told him that he was about to come into some money. And what do you know, he found a bag of five million naira on his way home abandoned by the roadside! (Perhaps he should not have announced that, for he was robbed and beaten within an inch of his life the very next day.) Interestingly, no one remembered when they first heard of the Oracle, but it took the nation by storm, in a fever akin to Independence Day. People swarmed to Ikeja City Mall where the Oracle was domiciled under the careful watch of enterprising individuals who called themselves “Ministers of Truth,” charging a hefty sum for interaction with this Oracle: market women, civic workers in dusty suits, street urchins and local agberos, pickpockets, preachers, imams, liars—the long line of hopefuls worsening traffic for a city already notorious for traffic, constituting a nuisance to daily living. There was no denying the impact of the appearance of the Oracle. A seismic shift was upon the nation, one that divided history into Before and After. Not that anyone could remember Before. • • • • A long queue wound outside the Ministry of Truth. It was Ayinla’s fourth day in line and his back ached from sleeping on the hard ground, not that he’d had much sleep. Snooze and someone would cut the queue to take your spot. Why, just yesterday, Iya Bashira’s tent had been moved aside while she slept. Upon waking, the woman spent the next half hour raining curses on the persons who would do such a thing to an old woman like her. She left and returned with her sons to reclaim her spot and a fight ensued. Someone lost their eye. Bones were broken. And so on and so forth. Enterprising individuals had opened up stalls along the line, hawking cold Coke—a welcome respite under the hot sun—and chin chin. Ayinla had watched, belly rumbling, as a family of five gutted and cooked a billy goat. There were three hundred and eighty-six persons before him to see the Oracle. But he was in no rush. He knew what he wanted, and the Oracle’s answer would not change his mind. Before him a spirited conversation had broken out on the Oracle. “Some say they’re an agent of chaos,” said Fadila, bouncing the fussy child strapped to her back. “Chaos, keh?” said Femi Coker, a failed banker. “Would an agent of chaos give every person regardless of status, regardless of station, the opportunity to know the same thing? The opportunity to confront your future and be at peace? Would it give us agency?” “We have all the agency in the world! We have our God-given free will!” said Othuke, who had been in the middle of a spirited denouncement when he overheard their conversation. Having been sent by his boss, Evangelist Micah Collins of God’s Way Global Ministries, to turn people away from the idol that was the Oracle, he now turned his speaker to the cluster of idolators. “The freedom to go out and make something of ourselves. This . . . machine should not be telling us the future. Only God should possess that knowledge!” “It is the Antichrist,” said Othuke’s proselytizing partner, Lukman. “If you hate the Oracle so much,” sneered Baba Seyi, “what are you doing here?” Lukman pointed to the rusted jerrycan by his leg, which was filled with petrol. “I’m going to burn it.” They were upon him in seconds, with grasping hands and punching fists and scratching nails. They clawed at his eyes and clawed his flesh to ribbons. Someone dragged him by both feet far away from the line. Three tyres were found and necklaced around his bloody and bruised torso. He was doused with the very same petrol he had intended for the Oracle and promptly set ablaze, the black pall of his combustion billowing into the sky. In the bacchanalia, Othuke gathered his microphone and speaker and slunk from that place, never to return. • • • • After Femi Coker’s visit with the Oracle, he made a brief stop at Tejuoso black market before going to University of Lagos campus. In the department building he consulted the schedule and was disappointed to find that Mrs. Idris, his chemistry teacher, was still away on sabbatical. He went to the park, smiled at some lounging ladies, dribbled with some kids who marvelled at his skill before he ducked away towards the ice cream cart. It was here, while he licked his vanilla ice cream, that the woman he had been looking for came walking down the path. “Femi!” she cried, her eyes lighting up. “Ah! Ah! Fancy seeing you here—” The bullet took her between the eyes, and Femi was stowing away the gun even before she hit the ground, ducking through the chaos of fleeing and frightened people. He had asked the Oracle if he would live long, and the Oracle answered, NOT LONG. YOU WILL BE RUN OVER BY YOUR CHEMISTRY TEACHER. Not anymore. Now he could live well into his old age. Femi burst out of the park and onto the street where the last thing he saw were the jaundiced headlights of a blue Buick and the last thing he heard was the shriek of its skidding tires. From the smoking and wrecked automobile sprang a paunchy figure: Mr. Sobowale, Femi’s high school chemistry teacher, who recoiled in horror when he recognised the mangled form of his old student. • • • • When he finally got his turn with the machine, Ayinla asked a simple question to which the Oracle replied: YOU WILL KILL THE COLONEL AND BECOME HEAD OF STATE. II. Enter: The Colonel Colonel Idi-Agbon sat shirtless in the Grand Room of the Presidential Palace, smoking a Cuban cigar while two aides massaged shea butter and other soothing ointments into the teeth on his feet. Those teeth had long pained him such that he could no longer wear shoes, and he had abandoned his military uniform for a loose loincloth (which at least saved him from suffering the embarrassing spectre of his penis). He looked, on a good day, like some half-transfigured sea creature. In the coup d’etat that had brought him to power, the colonel had shot his predecessor General Pangolo point blank in the face, and several of the general’s teeth had excused themselves from their confines to lodge in the colonel’s cheek. Slowly, the teeth began to multiply like some malign growth, until nearly all his body was covered in little yellow molars and premolars. He had tried removing them, but that brought him excruciating pains, and not even the best medical professionals in the country could help him. (He had assassinated all the competent doctors). Thus the aides massaged soothing ointments onto the growths, and now and then the colonel kicked them in the mouth for their trouble. The colonel called for the TV to be turned on, and he found himself staring at a rather rambunctious specimen who he identified, by the legend scrolling beneath, as Evangelist Micah Collins of the God’s Way Global Ministries. “No machine can tell the future, for that is the very purview of our Lord and Saviour,” the evangelist frothed, already working up a healthy sweat in the air conditioned TV studio. “That ungodly machine is the work of the Antichrist, sent forth to lead the righteous astray in these latter days and you would do well to eschew it! Only God can prophesy the future, and He works through His appointed agents, anointed prophets such as myself!” He mopped the sweat from his brow and assumed a beatific expression. “Therefore, brethren, should you wish to know your future, for only forty thousand naira, text: prophecy to 0-800-Prophecy. That’s 0-800 . . .” “What is this, Yekini?” asked the Colonel. “What is this evangelist talking about?” “It is a machine, Colonel. It can answer whatever you want to know, sir. It can also tell the future.” “That is bullshit.” Yekini could categorically state that it was not bullshit, having himself paid a visit to this Oracle, which had told him in no uncertain terms that all his children were his neighbour’s. Not a one of them came forth from his own loins. Do you know what it does to a man to learn he has been cuckolded not once, but four times! Yekini had made his wife watch as he fed all four offsprings and their father to the colonel’s crocodile. Colonel Idi-Agbon sucked on his cigar as he pondered on this revelation. In his long and storied career he had consulted with babalawos who he suspected told him only what he wanted to hear, being that all of their prophesies came to naught. The colonel, not one to suffer lackeys, sycophants, or liars, put them all to death. He had been unable to find a babalawo to accurately predict his future. The appearance of this machine seemed to him an act of providence. “Yekini,” he said. “I must have that machine.” “Of course, Colonel.” “Bring it to me.” “At once, Colonel.” • • • • The Oracle looked like an arcade machine: a metal box with a glowing screen, two orange-tipped joysticks, and a keyboard, whose keys had the appearance of typewriter keys. Two glowing bulbs on the forehead looked oddly like eyes. Yekini and his goons wheeled the Oracle in on a dolly and gently settled it before the colonel who, in his infinite wisdom, remarked that there were no wires running from it, nor was it connected to any electrical outlet, so however was it running? To which Yekini, who fancied himself something of a whiz kid, theorised that there must be some internal battery powering it, but they could neither find a battery panel or even a bolt or seam to get at the innards of the Oracle. “Leave it,” said Idi-Agbon, after some time, impatient to get to questioning. “And leave me.” Yekini snapped his fingers and the goons marched out of the room. He exited last, shutting the door gently behind him. The colonel then manoeuvred his ample form out of his chair. His winced as the teeth dug into the flesh of his feet. He winced some more when he caught his unflattering grimace on the dark screen. Then the screen lit up with a flourish, the following throbbing words scrolling across: FEELING LUCKY? The colonel was not entirely sure if that was a joke. He decided not to respond, but typed: WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? SAME PLACE YOU CAME FROM. The colonel scowled. I CAME OUT OF MY MOTHER, GOD REST THAT BITCH. ARE YOU SAYING YOU CAME OUT OF MY MOTHER? YOU ARE ENTITLED TO ONE QUESTION A DAY. The colonel scowled even deeper. He had never been told no a day in his life, not since he became head of state. And here was this Oracle denying him his pleasure. He had killed people for less! He spent the next half hour roaring expletives and venting his vexations. The next day he returned and typed: DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? YOU ARE COLONEL IDI-AGBON. HEAD OF STATE OF THE FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF NIGERIA. “That is bloody right,” growled the colonel. “And you would do well to remember that.” • • • • The colonel existed in a reality all his own. Irritated by the constant groaning of the unhappy citizens he encountered on his TV (when all he was trying to do was relax, goodness!) he declared that every day henceforth be Day of Happiness, and that every man, woman, and child who appeared on national TV must sing his praises or be introduced to the firing squad. When a tropical rainstorm deluged the land for several days, the colonel, itching to watch the final match of his favourite football teams, declared that it was no longer raining and a vibrant sunshine gloried the heavens, and that both teams present themselves in the stadium for the final match. When the players’ bus got swept up in a flood on the untarred road leading to the stadium, he sent men to fish them from their flounder and summarily execute them; for how could they be trapped in a flood when it was not raining? So it was not too much for the colonel to declare that the standard length of a day was five minutes. The decree was sent out to every nook and cranny across the country, much to the confusion of the weary populace. However were they to fit a day’s existence into five minutes? Easy. Same way they fit a day’s existence into the previous definition of a day. When next the colonel entered the Inner Sanctum (for that was what he named the spare bedroom where he kept the Oracle), he informed the Oracle about the newly defined parameters of a “day,” and wonder of wonders, the Oracle complied. WHO IS THE MOST POWERFUL IN ALL THE LAND? YOU ARE. WHO WILL RULE THIS LAND FOREVER? THE LINE OF IDI-AGBON WILL RULE THIS LAND FOR A CENTURY MORE. The colonel had always suspected he was immortal, and this was confirmation enough. But the colonel was also clever. At least, he thought so. He pondered the Oracle’s answer to his question. It was a very vague answer, and at face value did not mean what he thought it meant. He queried again. WILL I, RAZAK IDI-AGBON, RULE FOR A CENTURY MORE? THE LINE OF IDI-AGBON WILL RULE THIS LAND FOR A CENTURY MORE. This caused the colonel some anguish for he had twelve sons whom he loved to varying degrees. But he did not love them so much that he would see them usurp his power. Now that he thought of it, they had been acting suspicious of late. Having meetings without him, calling on him unannounced to inquire about his health. What child would inquire so fervently about the health of their father if they were not conspiring to hasten him from his seat? The colonel decided he would kill them all in one fell swoop. But he had to be crafty about it. Yes, he would invite them to a grand celebration and poison them; he would invite his cabinet too and blame them for killing his sons and in that way clear all opposition to his power. It was an ingenious plan, and the colonel congratulated himself on a job well done. III: The Plot Thickens Behold the foul waters of Makoko, where one million residents of the great country lived in abject destitution. Shanties, shacks, and various such abodes dwelled on stilts in what looked to the foreign eye to be a haphazard arrangement, the parasitic mushrooming of civilisation with no order. And you would be wrong. For Makoko was a city. A city with waterways for streets and canoes for taxis; a city with schools and churches and mosques and hospitals—all the markers of civic institutions by residents who had provided for themselves what the colonel could not, would not. Now, near midnight, a lone gondolier navigated a waterway to his shack. It was Ayinla. Sombre-faced, he went once more to his hollow shack. Hollow, for it was no longer filled with the presence of his mother, or her boisterous laugh, or sonorous singing voice that bespoke happiness even in the midst of all their destitution. Five years had passed since he gave his mother to the waters of Makoko, but the hollowness remained resonant with her emptiness. All this Ayinla thought, and because he was lost in thought as he stepped off the canoe and up the ladder, he did not see, until it was too late, the four masked assailants lurking on the balcony of his shack. They fell swiftly upon him. “Let me go!” cried Ayinla. He threw out an arm and threw out a foot and felt both limbs connect with the soft and yielding belly of one assailant: a howl of agony. Encouraged, Ayinla renewed his thrashing, flinging his fists wildly in the dark. But he was soon overpowered, a filthy gag stuffed into his mouth, a scratchy cement bag thrown over his head, painfully hogtied and bundled unceremoniously away. The next thing he heard was the roar of a speedboat’s engine and soon came the juddering, bouncy rocking of a vessel in motion: They were bounding across the lagoon. “Grab him,” came a coarse voice a quarter of an hour later. Hands grabbed him. The bag came off. The gag came out. The ropes came off. Ayinla found himself on the ruins of a shipwreck, the vessel much rusted and in danger of sinking. He found that he was also surrounded by three men, all of them wearing military fatigues, faces painted as if for battle. Near the entrance to the submerged lower deck were several cannisters of nitrous oxide. “Apologies for the cloak and dagger,” said the man before him with an apologetic smile. “Or in this case the gag and rope. But you put up a good fight. That is the spirit of a revolutionary.” “A what?” said Ayinla. “Revolution, brother,” said the man, a fervent cast to his face. It was a familiar face, and Ayinla searched his mind as to where he had seen it before. “The colonel has eyes everywhere, so we had to bring you to a safe place.” Safe was not how Ayinla would describe a listing shipwreck. “What do you want?” “We need your help. We are going to liberate our god.” Ah. Now Ayinla remembered where he had seen the man. He had been the Minister of Truth who had collected all his life’s savings before leading him to the Oracle for a single query. The other ministers introduced themselves. If this Oracle was truly a god then it needed no help and could liberate itself. A god could not be held captive. If it had not liberated itself then perhaps it was content to remain where it was: in the bowels of the palace, ministering to the colonel. But Ayinla kept his thoughts to himself. For fervour was water to a parched man; purpose was a drug to the listless mind, and he would not deny them who had been denied so many things. Minister Paul, for that was the man’s name, began his long manifesto. He went on about how the colonel had stolen their lives, stolen their purpose, and now stolen their god. When would it be enough? It was obvious he had prepared this speech, probably rehearsed it in front of a mirror. Ayinla let him go on until the end, then said. “I don’t see how I can help you.” “Why are you playing coy?” said Minister Paul. “We know you will kill the colonel.” They had promised him absolute privacy; indeed, the mall lobby had been darkened, the windows shuttered, the space emptied of all but the Oracle and a stool. Ayinla searched himself and found that he was not at all surprised that they had been spying on him; they had probably spied on everyone who conversed with the Oracle. When the Oracle told Ayinla he would kill the colonel it had come as no surprise to him. He had always planned to kill the colonel, ever since his mother died. Nearly five years prior, Ayinla and his mother had been helping themselves to the poor man’s dinner of beans and garri, eating straight from the pot and listening to the croon of Ebenezer Obey on the transistor radio when their serenade was interrupted by the national anthem and then the colonel’s voice came on to announce that the despotic General Pangolo had been removed from power in a successful coup, and he (the colonel) was the new head of state of this great country. Furthermore, “a honey pot of embezzled funds has been discovered in a Swiss bank, and the Swiss have been instructed to return the funds, which is the inheritance of every citizen of this great country, with robust alacrity. Upon reclamation, the funds will be evenly distributed to every citizen.” “Thirty six million naira, mama,” Ayinla said. “How much do you think we will get?” But his mother sat, spoonful of garri trembling in her hand as she stared wide-eyed as if she had seen a ghost. “That voice,” she whispered, lips trembling. “It is him.” “Who?” “Your father.” “The colonel is my father?” And she keeled over, dead. She died of a broken heart, cloven cleanly in two. Only great anguish could have done this, the doctor told Ayinla, presenting him with the halved pieces of his mother’s heart, which now glowed in a chest in his shack, like calcified rubies. Ayinla found himself overcome with grief, which soon curdled into rage that sought an outlet. He roved the streets, seeking gangs to fight or die fighting. And then, one hot Tuesday evening as he sat in the barbershop, the colonel, half his face overrun with teeth, appeared on national TV with a sombre expression. “Fellow citizens. It is with a heavy heart that I announce that the thirty six million naira stolen by General Pangolo was recovered and put in the warehouse for distribution. However, overnight, the warehouse was attacked by a very large snake who swallowed every single note—and swallowed all the guards too. Our thirty six million naira is missing.” The colonel paused for effect. “Rest assured, good citizens, that every able-bodied member of the Secret Police, led by the capable Inspector Yekini, is on the hunt for this snake, and we will not rest until it is found! Aluta continua.” It was at that moment Ayinla decided to kill him. “You have been chosen by our god,” said Minister Paul, placing a hand on Ayinla’s shoulder, recalling him to the present, “and who are we to stand in the way of destiny?” What Ayinla did not tell these revolutionaries was that he had tried, in the intervening years, many times to kill the colonel. He procured letter bombs, which he mailed to the palace in the hopes that they exploded in the colonel’s face; and once hurled homemade bombs at the presidential colonnade. He had tried several times to sneak into the palace and had nearly gotten shot for his troubles. The colonel, like a festering tumor, clung to life. And now here were these folks, offering to help him. “What is your plan?” “The colonel is hosting a grand party,” said a woman, stepping from the shadows. “We will sneak in as the catering company. We have someone at the Presidential Palace. He will arrange an . . . accident.” Ayinla looked at this newcomer, who, though dressed in revolutionary garb, did not possess the same fervour in her eyes. There was rage there, a familiar pain that could only come from losing a loved one. “I am going to kill my wretched husband,” she said. “Inspector Yekini. He killed all my children. He killed the loves of my life! Fed them to the colonel’s crocodile. I want to put the bullet between his eyes, then feed his carcass to the crocodile.” “This is a mad country,” said Ayinla. “This is a mad country,” agreed the minister. “All right,” said Ayinla. “What’s the plan?” IV: Grotesquerie, or Mayhem at the Presidential Palace Today of all days, thought Colonel Razak Idi-Agbon as the aide dressed him, his many teeth ached like a bitch. He had spent the better part of the morning being lathered in soothing ointments by his long-suffering aides—long-suffering, for he had kicked them a little more than usual, and they were now bruised and nursing aches of their own. The colonel was rather pleased to have shared his pain, if only to some minor degree. There came a soft knock on the door. “Come!” Yekini entered, sleek as a cat. “Is everything set, Yekini?” “Yes, Colonel.” “Today will be glorious.” “Indeed, Colonel.” What Yekini did not tell the colonel was that there had been some trouble earlier in the day. Somehow the Nile crocodile had gotten loose, and, sniffing the aroma of the feast that the catering company bore in huge pans (or perhaps the human aroma of the many members of said company) it had attacked, gorging on everyone including the head chef and the sous-chef. Luckily, a rather enterprising aide in the person of Yakubu had been able to procure another catering company at the last minute, who went to work with inspired alacrity, concocting the feast that now awaited his pleasure. All was good. All was jolly. The colonel consulted the Oracle one last time before he ventured into the banquet hall. WILL I BE SUCCESSFUL IN MY ENDEAVOURS? THE NIGHT WILL END WITH MUCH LAUGHTER. Colonel Idi-Agbon bounced gleefully on his feet, which shot arrows of pain through the teeth embedded therein. He could only laugh because all his scheming was proceeding swimmingly, but being familiar with the Oracle’s penchant for vagueness, the colonel pressed: WILL I BE DOING THE LAUGHING? YES. • • • • Dinner was exquisite. Roast beef, roast turkey, chicken fried in spicy honey, rhinoceros imported from Uganda; and that rare delicacy, a three day old Siberian tiger cub. Amala and steaming bowls of gbegiri; pounded yam and eforiro. Cups and cups of freshly tapped palmwine, champagne and other exotic and expensive wines. The mouthwatering aroma so perfumed the air that the revellers could scarcely resist. The colonel had a stuffed lioness all to himself and he gorged with the singular focus of a tiger in the veld: wary, watching, calculating. Looking particularly at his sons for any shiftiness that betrayed their traitorous intent, not that he needed any confirmation. The Oracle had spoken and it had not failed him yet. Besides his twelve sons and their wives, gathered in that banquet hall were the Honourable Commissioner of Enjoyment, the Honourable Commissioner for Bureaucratic Works, and other cabinet members who served at the whim of the colonel and who bear no relevance to this tale. Also in attendance was Evangelist Micah Collins of God’s Way Global Ministries who presently between mouthfuls of roast chicken was extolling the virtue of the colonel to everyone who would listen, how like the good man David, the colonel had been called to lead this great nation into the light. Yekini stood at attention behind the colonel. His men had been positioned in the right places, awaiting his signal. He noted the comings and goings of the caterers, who he was quite pleased to say operated with efficiency. After finishing preparing the food, he had ordered them out of the kitchen, then went about dousing the poison into the food—all but the colonel’s food, of course. The sons and their wives would die, his men would execute the cabinet and come the morning, they would announce to the country the treachery of the cabinet, how they had murdered the colonel’s poor sons and would have murdered him too but for the grace of the Oracle who knows all and tells all. It would be a mess to clean up. Lots of bodies, but the crocodile had an insatiable appetite. The doors opened and a caterer wheeled in a massive aluminium barrel. She pushed it to the corner and swiftly ducked out of the room in the unobtrusive manner perfected by caterers the world over. And for the briefest of moments, just before she exited the room, Yekini thought he recognised her; he thought he saw his wife. But she couldn’t be here. He had not seen her since that night he fed her bastards to the crocodile. The witch haunted him. He saw her face everywhere. That barrel, though. What was in it? Yekini started to approach the barrel when someone tugged at his sleeve. It was the colonel. “Help me up.” He helped the colonel up. “Friends,” said Idi-Agbon. “Do you know why I have gathered you all here on this very auspicious night?” It did not occur to them to question the occasion of the invitation. “It is my birthday!” Having decreed that a day was five minutes, the question of birthdays, days of the week, and even what year it was, remained up in the air. But if the colonel proclaimed it was his birthday, then indeed it was so. And so the company sprang to its feet and delivered a rather rousing, if chaotic rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” “Gentlemen, Ladies,” said the colonel, sharp eyed, clear eyed, shrewd. “I consulted the Oracle and it told me that in this room, eating my food, under my roof, is my very betrayer.” Silence rang. Several shifted uneasily in their seats. Someone coughed. “Is it I, father?” asked his first son. “Is it I?” asked the second. These questions echoed on the lips of all twelve sons like mimic birds. The third son arose. He looked for a moment as though he were about to say something, then he keeled onto the table as a violent ejection escaped his rear end. Cries and groans of disgust rang across the hall, for he had just soiled himself. He looked mortified and quite in some pain. Laughter rang out; a singular, hooting cackle, and everyone turned to the guilty party: the Evangelist Micah Collins. The evangelist clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle the gales, to little success. “Is this funny?” said the colonel, the first stirrings of anger in his heart. “Do you think this is funny?” “I am so sorry, colonel,” gasped Evangelist Micah, tears tracking down his cheeks. “I don’t know what—” And he too keeled over and ejected a fountain of excrement. And then they were all laughing and shitting and laughing and shitting. Even the guards who stood sentinel at the walls primed to execute the cabinet had now collapsed under the weight of their guffaws. Colonel Idi-Agbon considered the circus with great stupefaction. “Have you all gone mad?” He roared, before an errant titter escaped his lips. The Presidential Palace rang with laughter. A cloying smell of shit perfumed the air. But there was something else, too. Something that greatly troubled Yekini. The enforcer, cackling now, edged closer to the barrel and opened it. It was empty. There was nothing in the barrel, but he would recognise anywhere the sweetish taste of laughing gas. He seized the colonel and spirited him out of the hall. Here they found guards collapsed on the floor, rendered impotent by uncontrollable fits. Upon seeing the colonel they struggled to their feet, perhaps in an effort at military decorum, but soon collapsed under the weight of laughing, and the colonel, though he knew in some rational part of his mind that they were not laughing at him, was vexed all the same, dogged by their hooting. “Yekini, you fool,” he managed. “What poison did you put in the food?” “Em. Laxative, colonel. Horse laxative.” The colonel burst out laughing and laughing. As they rounded the corner they came upon a figure blocking their path. She wore a gas mask and even before she took it off Yekini recognised her. He reached for his gun and shrieked mid-cackle when a bullet tore through his hand. He collapsed, clutching his hand to his chest, the blood gushing from it in great spurts. “Hello husband,” said Khadija. “You and I have unfinished business.” The colonel ducked into a passage, hooting all the way. He was under attack, that much was true. His palace infiltrated, his mission bungled. There was only one thing on his mind. He stumbled into the Inner Sanctum and shut the door, whereupon he commenced to enter a complicated sequence of numbers into the security system. It was only when he turned around that he saw that there was someone else in the room with him. Ayinla considered his father, the fount of all his ills, covered in teeth. He was a monstrous specimen; an inhuman creature. Even after everything he could not help himself. He asked: “Do you know who I am?” “You’re one of the caterers. You served me dinner,” wheezed the colonel, looking around him. “Where is the Oracle?” “The Ministers have it,” said Ayinla. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a picture; a much thumbed Polaroid of a young woman. “Remember her?” The colonel remembered. He remembered her pleas. He remembered how she had lain there. And now that he looked at this young man, really looked at him, his laughter turned at last to one of genuine mirth. He reached towards Ayinla. “My son—” (The last thing the colonel thought before it all went dark was that the Oracle, the fucking Oracle, could have been more specific.) The bullet exploded the colonel’s eye in a bloody and gelatinous spray that spattered Ayinla’s face and neck. In the years to come, eyes would sprout in those spots, brown and bulbous as hard-boiled eggs, spreading like some malign growth to fill every inch of his skin. But for the present, Ayinla gazed at the wretched creature crumpled before him, and touched his pockets where the broken halves of his mother’s heart rubbed against each other, and wept. The colonel keeled over, forehead pressing the secret button. With a mechanical whirr the trapdoor sprang to reveal the secret vault, which yielded its loot of naira notes. Thirty six million of them. About the Author Tobi Ogundiran is the author of the Guardian of the Gods duology and the critically acclaimed, British Fantasy Award-winning short fiction collection, Jackal, Jackal. He has received/been a finalist for: the Locus, Ignyte, World Fantasy, British Science Fiction Association, Shirley Jackson, and Nommo awards. His work has been featured in original anthologies such as Africa Risen, The Book of Witches, The Big Bad Book of Kaiju among others; in several educational and Year’s Best anthologies; and twice on the hit podcast LeVar Burton Reads. Ogundiran has also written for the Overwatch and Magic: the Gathering universes. Born and raised in Nigeria, he now lives and works in the U.S. as an assistant professor at the University of Oklahoma, where he teaches speculative fiction writing. © Adamant Press Please visit Lightspeed Magazine to read more great science fiction and fantasy. This story first appeared in the November 2026 issue, which also features short fiction by Ian Li, Nibedita Sen, Phoenix Alexander, Merc Fenn Wolfmoor, Jenn Reese, Christopher Rowe, Georgina Kamsika, and more. You can wait for this month’s contents to be serialized online, or you can buy the whole issue right now in convenient ebook format for just $4.99, or subscribe to the ebook edition here. Want more io9 news? Check out the best movies and TV shows to stream this month and all the upcoming sci-fi, fantasy, and horror books that should be on your radar.