Trinitatis 3 Part Two

September, 2000

Jide Offor woke with a start, his body tense like coiled wire and slick with sweat. His heart was hammering unusually fast against his ribcage and goose pimples had broken out over his forearms. He sat up straight in bed, trying to rationalize why he had woken up so suddenly.

He glanced to his side at the sleeping figure that lay half covered by the bed spread. Helen still lay deep in slumber; her shapely figure beneath the bed covers expanding and contracting in rhythm with her gentle snores. Nothing had disturbed her. Then what had disturbed him?

His ears strained against the darkness. He could hear nothing. He glanced at his watch and the luminous hands showed him it was eighteen minutes to three- an unholy hour of the morning. One part of his mind told him to go back to sleep but he refused to listen to it. The reason that he had stayed alive till date was his unflinching trust in his instincts.

Quietly he slipped out of bed and silently went over to the closet. He felt around at the back of some clothes and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun. It was regularly oiled and cleaned in case of an emergency. Patrick wasn't sure whether this was an emergency but he was taking no chances.

He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweats.h.i.+rt and a pair of sneakers. This he did with the minimum amount of noise. He tossed some more clothes in a hold-all and prepared to leave the boy's quarters.

He glanced at the sleeping form of his girlfriend and considered her briefly. They had had some good times, he thought, most of them hot and l.u.s.tful. He had some affection for her but it was strictly physical. He could not afford to wake her.

Waking her would pose him with problems he couldn't handle. She would become hysterical and const.i.tute a major nuisance. His instincts were screaming at him to leave now and alone.

He unlocked the door and opened it a crack. Tentatively he peeped out at the nightscape. Nothing moved. That worried him. The night was always busy; crickets chirping, night birds screeching, rodents scurrying about and maybe even a cat or two. But tonight was deathly still. The way a forest is silent when a ma.s.sive predator is on loose.

He opened the door gently and slipped out quietly, hoping the sudden draft would not wake Helen. He shut it behind him and headed for a clump of bushes nearby. He crouched down to wait, the shotgun cold against his grasp. He was ready.

He didn't have to wait long. He ears perked up like a dog's as the unmistakable sound of a snapping twig distinctly came to them. Later he could almost certainly make out stealthy footfalls. He grinned. They were coming for him. A delicious rush of fear and antic.i.p.ation pumped through his veins.

He lay in wait as his unwelcome visitors closed in on the Boys Quarters. There were about six shadowy figures and they had materialized from the trees that grew close by. It looked like they held guns. They took up positions outside and one of them kicked in the door. They moved in en ma.s.se.

A high-pitched scream tore through the shroud of silence that had enveloped the night. Helen had at last woken up. Jedi grimaced and patiently waited for thirty more seconds. With every pa.s.sing minute her screams got louder. Not that it mattered anyway. There wasn't any other living soul residing within a square mile of the place. Finally he arose from his hiding place and moved swiftly and silently to the boy's quarters.

The a.s.sailants were raping her. Their whole attention was focused on the macabre activity. That proved to be their undoing. He pointed the shotgun at the party.

They suddenly sensed the figure that filled the doorway and turned, raising their weapons in offence. It was far too late. He squeezed the trigger and relished the roar that shook the building to its foundation.

He fired again and again and again. Smoke billowed out of the room masking the remnants of the destruction he had evoked without a shred of pity. His mind working like a well–oiled clock, he surveyed the damage and verified it was total. He turned on his heel and strolled over to the garden shed while keeping his eyes peeled for any stray would be a.s.sailant that had missed his surgical onslaught.

Yanking open the door he peered inside and spotted the 25 litres can of fuel that had been there for ages. He retrieved it and made his way back to the Boy's Quarters. For the next five minutes he meticulously bathed the interior with the fuel. He struck a match, tossed it inside and turned and walked away.

As he strolled leisurely up the pathway that led to the highway, he barely acknowledged the towering inferno that lit the silent night with a fiery crackle, the blue-black smoke rising in a huge dark cloud to the jet black sky above totally obscuring dozens of twinkling stars.

***

The young man stumbled through the front door and ran out into the night. He stumbled and fell, got up, stumbled and fell again. He struggled to his feet again, looking confused and alarmed and broke into a haphazard run again. As he fled he held his head with his two hands as if it was about to explode.

His brain was expanding and contracting like a hyperactive lung, the small, thin thread that held his sanity was stretched beyond its limit. His mind was like a T.V screen filled with static.

My G.o.d, I'm going crazy, he thought in panic. At last the only thing he feared in the world was finally happening. For most of his life he had walked on the edge of the abyss of insanity. At last he had keeled over.

He was entirely soaked with blood, his black T-s.h.i.+rt, jeans and even his boots slickly wet and smelling like copper. He was like a madman escaping from an abattoir.

Suddenly, he was awash in white, blazing light.

'FREEZE" roared a harsh voice.

The metallic sound of guns c.o.c.king was unmistakable in the chill of the night.

He held his hands high, swaying like a drunkard. He heard car doors slamming. Saw dark figures moving toward him. The moonlight glinted off their weapons. He had been well and truly caught this time. No escape.

The security men edged nearer. The security jeep's lights burned mercilessly into his eyes. He could only see their black outlines.

"There's blood all over him" the man closest to him said.

"Cuff him" said another.

Rough hands seized him and before he could blink, his arms were twisted behind his back and he felt the cool clasp of metal on his wrists.

"Where was he coming from?" asked someone.

"It seems he just left that guesthouse," replied another.

"Let's check it out."

While the fugitive was hauled into the jeep, the security operatives went to the guesthouse, which was submerged in darkness.

The Ekene Dili Chukwu guesthouse was a large bungalow with about six bedrooms but one living room. All the rooms were vacant except one. What the operatives found there shocked them to the bone.

The body of a young lady lay on the large bed that had its white sheets stained crimson with blood. She lay outstretched like a star; cords held her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. She had been stabbed so many times that single wounds could not be identified except for the gaping red hole in her chest. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, her mouth agape as if her screams had been cut short. An ugly red lump lay at the foot of the bed and it didn't take long to figure out it was her heart.

"Call the chief," whispered one, "Tell him there's been a murder on campus and we have the killer in custody".

The sun was low in the horizon when the bus stopped at Ogbete Park. Jide took a taxi to independence Layout. It had been a year since he had last seen his Aunt and he was really looking forward to seeing her. She was one of the few close relatives that he had that would shelter him without asking questions.

Umoji Close was still as he had last seen it: a quiet middle-cla.s.s area that he had become so accustomed to. Aunt Helen's neighbours still kept their hedges in tip- top condition.

He felt elated as he walked up to the door of No. 6 Umoji Close. He pushed the doorbell and waited for an answer. After what seemed like ages he heard footsteps approaching the door. He braced himself and tried to keep his face expressionless as he heard the bolts slide open. The door opened. His prepared blank gaze turned to one of confusion.

She was a small lady, which made her look younger than she probably was. Her skin was olive-coloured and as smooth as a newborn's. Her long, jet–back hair actually reached her hips. Her face was sweet and childlike, and her enormous black eyes gazed at him with intense curiosity.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely. She had on a cream–coloured slip dress that showed off an excellent compact body. Patrick was rather impressed by her muscular arms and broad shoulders. Her pert b.r.e.a.s.t.s jutted aggressively out at him and it was apparent to his trained eye that they had no bra support.

"My name is Patrick. I am Helen Okuoma's nephew. Is she around?"

A look of bewilderment appeared on the girls face but she recovered quickly.

"My mom's not in" she replied a bit too quickly.

"Oh…" Jide's disappointment was evident in his voice.

She suddenly spied the bag he was carrying and decided to be more hospitable.

"Why don't you come in?" she asked, smiling.

"Thanks."

He came inside and Janice locked up behind him.

"I don't think we've met…," he began as she faced him.

"You're Janice, right?'

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I've heard a lot about you."

"Aah! You must have a biased view of me then."

"Not really. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"And what do you think?'

"I like what I see so far."

She smiled pleasantly at his comment. Jide was fascinated by her eyes. They were disturbing. They were so much like her mother's but had a darker quality. If not for her eyes she would look like an infant.

He entered the house and looked around him. Everything was just as it was except he knew that it wasn't. The atmosphere was different, very different. The air was still and tense like the way it is before a violent storm. Something was not right; he could feel it in his bones. He turned back to Janice. She was watching him with interest.

"Where did you say your mother was?" he asked.

"I didn't say she was anywhere. I only told you she wasn't in."

"Then where is she? And what of her baby son?"

"You have a lot of questions, don't you? Why don't you settle down first? Then I'll answer your questions. I think we have a lot to talk about."

"Yes, we certainly do."

***

The shrill ring of the telephone on the bedside table woke Bartholomew Daniel, the Chief of Security for the University of Nigeria, Nsukka from slumber. He grudgingly disengaged himself from his wife's ample backside and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Chief, there's been a murder."

He quickly got up, ignoring his wife's sleepy protests. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 01:00.

"Where?"

"The Ekene Dili Chukwu Quest House".

"My goodness. Who's the victim?"

"I don't know, Sir. A young lady, possibly a student. We caught the murderer."

"You did?" the chief sat up straight, "Who is it?"

"A young male, possibly a student. We suspect he's a secret cult member."

"I'll be right over. Is someone at the crime scene?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll go there first and check it out. No one touches the suspect till I get there. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

The Chief dropped the receiver and stared off into s.p.a.ce. Something to do at last.

The next day he got to the Security Department and found the suspect in the holding cell. He was a formidable fellow with fierce eyes.

"Who are you?" demanded the Chief angrily. What he had seen at the guesthouse had ruined his mood.

"I don't know," replied the suspect after what seemed a long time.

Chief Daniel raised an eyebrow.

"Having a bout of amnesia, are you? Let's go see if we can refresh your memory."

He snapped his fingers at the other security operatives.

"Take him into the interrogation Room."

The Security Department of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka is not much to look at. During the Nigeria Civil War it was bombed and quite a bit of it reduced to rubble. Until it's restoration in the late 1990s it remained a relic of the war. However inside the building the chief had spent a lot of time renovating a particular room. He called it the interrogation room but to everyone else it was notoriously known as the Torture Room.

There were chains to hang prisoners from the ceiling, a long table with cuffs for wrists and ankles and other macabre appliances. The Chief hated cultists and was waging a war against them. He had a strong belief in torture as a way of extracting information and he used it freely. There were even times he supervised and even carried out extrjudicial executions. He was nicknamed the Butcher and cultists feared him.

The suspect was dragged struggling and kicking into the torture room. He had his wrists chained from the ceiling so that his legs were left to dangle a good three feet from the floor. He had been stripped bare, leaving only his sweaty underpants. He was powerfully built and well muscled.

"The interrogation room is soundproof," the Chief told the suspect. "No one will hear you scream."

Someone handed the Chief his favourite whip- a long rawhide affair that he had bought in the Northern town of Gumel, near the Nigerian–Niger border. He grasped the handle firmly and flicked it with the easy skill of a Fulani Cattle herdman. There was a whistle as the whip sliced through the air and cracked across the suspect's upper body. The Chief enjoyed the scream he heard.

Jide had always slept in the guest room and that was where he put his bags. Apart from a musty smell of disuse it was still exactly as he had left it. He sat down on the bed and felt momentarily confused, like he didn't know where he was. He didn't know why he was feeling this way. All he knew was that he was feeling some strange sadness in his heart. Maybe it was the barbaric events of the last 48 hours that were getting to him.

Janice. He never thought he would actually meet her in the flesh. Had she finally made up with her mother? He knew Aunt Helen barely mentioned her and when she did it was with an undercurrent of malice. But where actually was Aunt Helen? At the market?

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. Janice popped her head in.

"Would you like something to eat?"
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"Yes, please. I'll come down after a quick shower."

"Take your time."

She gave him a long unsettling stare then her head disappeared. Patrick sat and thought about her. For some reason, she spooked him. He wondered why.

Over dinner they talked. He was least prepared for the news she was about to deliver to him.

"Mother went to Dubai".

"Dubai? What for?"

"I don't really know… something to do with her business. She took Bobby with her. Bobby is the child."

"When did she say she was coming back?"

"She's only staying a few days. It's a trade fair or something. You'll wait until she comes back, wont you?"

"Well … I guess so."

There was a moment of silence while Jide digested this piece of information. Something seemed amiss. Her story sounded okay but it didn't feel right. His instincts were usually correct but he couldn't understand what could be wrong.

"Do you have her number?" Janice asked as she watched him with her huge eyes. He knew she was reading his thoughts.

"Yes, I do. I tried calling her before but the phone was switched off."

"Then maybe you can call her later?"

"That sounds like a good idea. I'll do that before I go to bed."

"Fine. Do you need any more helpings?

"No, I'm full, thanks".

She leaned back against the back of her chair and stretched. Jide watched her with interest.

"Let's go watch TV," She suggested.

"No thank you," Patrick said. "I need to rest. I've had a long day."

Jide left her to clear up and headed to his room. He sat down on the bed again and he felt the dread return. Something was coming for him, he thought, and this time he might not escape.

I stood on a ledge, beyond the ledge there was nothing, only a blackness that seemed to never end. Beyond the ledge I could see them flying. The Angels. They soared and swooped like distant birds.

One of the angels drew close and I saw that it had bat like wings that jutted rudely out of its naked body. It fluttered close. Its face kept drawing nearer and nearer until I recognized it. I knew that face. It was mine.

But I knew it wasn't me. It was the face of the Other. The ent.i.ty that knew no feeling, no compa.s.sion, no mercy. The Other was taunting me, daring me to fly.

"You have wings too," he cried gleefully, "Wings like mine, spread them and fly!"

I did not believe I had wings but I was afraid to look and see. Did I want to be an Angel? Did I want to be like the other? No! I still wanted to be human. I still wanted to be saved. I did not want to go to h.e.l.l.

The other suddenly came at me with incredible speed and with large, powerful talons, seized my shoulders and carried me off the ledge. I struggled in vain, screaming for the creature to put me down.

I was carried to a beautiful garden, filled with lush fruits and beautiful flowers. They were so real. I could touch and hold them. Where was this? The Garden of Eden?

I was naked and standing in the midst of splendour while the other flew to the branch of an olive tree and turned to a crow. It watched my every move with its beady, black eyes.

Suddenly naked women began to emerge from the thick bushes, women of such haunting beauty I was sure they were spirits. They were flawless in structure; their painfully voluptuous bodies a feat of creation. They circled me slowly; their huge unblinking eyes locked with mine. They closed in on me, warm, delicate hands roaming my body, arousing intense pleasure that stretched beyond human endurance.

"Arise, Jide, kill and eat," said the crow. "What you see here now you cannot get in the world of the living."

What was he talking about? Was I already dead? If I was, then was I in Heaven or h.e.l.l? Was it already too late for redemption?

One of the beauties took my face in her hands and kissed me on the lips. She tasted like nectar; it made me dizzy. They all dragged me down into the soft gra.s.s. Swarming over me like fire ants. They took me again and again and again…

All the time I could hear the crow cackling maniacally. Pleasure mixed with pain till it was a potent mix, I drank the juice until I thought I was going to burst. Then suddenly I realized that h.e.l.l did not have to be a boiling lake of sulfur and fire. h.e.l.l was the beauty that I could not comprehend, the pleasure that I could not endure, the desire that threatened to drive him mad…

A long, hideous scream of terror could not be heard through the wriggling ma.s.s of silky bodies.

The scream was mine.

"Okay, okay! I'll talk!"

The cultist hung helplessly, blood running in rivulets down his sweat-slicked body from the dozens of cuts and abrasions on his skin.

"Talk? About what?" asked the Chief in a bored tone. He had stripped down to just his trousers exposing a magnificently built upper body. His powerful arm flexed the whip he held.

"I will tell you the cult I belong. I will tell you how they choose their members, their organizational structure, modus operandi… Everything!"

"I want names."

"I can't give you that."

"Why did you kill the girl?"

No answer.

The whip cracked once. When the scream died down and the suspect had regained his breath, he spoke again.

"I will tell you who our executioner is."

"Really? You will do that for me?"

"Yes."

"What is the name of your cult."

"The Black Angels."

The Chief felt cold s.h.i.+vers run up his spine.

"What is the name of your executioner?"

"His name is Harlequin."

Chief Daniel lowered his whip and took in a deep intake of breath.

Got you, b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Bring him down," the Chief told the other stunned security operatives. "I think we have a new friend."

The Chief had heard of the Complalanches. He had also heard of Harlequin, their famed enforcer. However the stories surrounding them had a myth like quality which made him sometimes wonder if they were just they were just spook stories.

There was a time when the stories were confirmed. A cultist had once been caught during a botched armed robbery operation and he had decided to talk. He had been helping them create a file on the cult but he refused to give names. He only told them of Harlequin, a young man of infinite ruthlessness that was fast rising through the ranks of the cult and was certain to one day become their leader. The captured cultist talked about Harlequin like he was an evil spirit.

One day it seemed the spirit paid him a visit. He was found disemboweled in his own cell. Since then there was no other information on the mysterious cult and its shadowy henchman.

If Chief Daniel's present suspect could give him the information he needed then he had the one chance of smas.h.i.+ng the most successful clandestine organization in African history.

The suspect was brought down from where he had been hanging and taken out of the interrogation room. He was giving a desk and a chair plus papers and pens. A tape recorder was placed in front of him. The Chief pulled up another chair to the desk and sat on it.

"Get me the file we have on the Black Angels and Harlequin," he ordered one of the security men. He then faced the suspect, "Now then, let's compare notes."

While the Chief waited for the file to be brought, the suspect began to talk.

"You do know that this is a very dangerous thing I am about to do."

"I'll protect you."

The suspect gave a harsh, short laugh.

"I'm not afraid of what might happen to me. I am afraid of what might happen to you."

The next morning Patrick came down the stairs to meet the smell of frying plantain. The aroma led him on a leash to the kitchen. Janice was humming some ba.n.a.l pop song as she fiddled with the frying pan. She was wearing a long, pink Minnie Mouse t-s.h.i.+rt and powder blue b.u.m shorts. Jide thought she looked quite fetching.

"Hi!" she greeted, brightening when she saw him, "You're up bright and early, aren't you?"

"Actually I'm a late riser but the scent of your cooking forced me to postpone my early morning masturbatory activities."

"Eww. Sorry about that, though fried plantain isn't exactly ideal cuisine."

"For me it is."

He flopped unto a chair and placed his elbows on the kitchen table. Resting his jaw on his hands he watched her with interest as she prepared breakfast. Minutes later she placed a steaming plate in front of him and prepared a hot mug of cocoa for the two of them. She sat opposite him and watched him eat while she sipped her beverage.

Patrick at first did not notice her quiet scrutiny since he was very hungry but his skin began to crawl and he looked up sharply. He caught her probing eyes off guard and for a moment they reminded him of an owl that had once spooked him in the dead of the night. Its blank, unblinking stare had giving him the creeps.

"Don't look at me while I'm eating" he said smiling, "I'm shy."

She smiled back.

"Sorry, I was only admiring your appet.i.te. You must have had some strenuous activity recently before coming to town."

Patrick smiled.

"It wasn't strenuous at all."

"What kind of activity was that?"

"I had a rodent problem where I was staying before."

"Ooh, that sounds bad."

"It's okay. They're all dead now."

She kept quiet but she didn't stop watching him until he had finished eating. He thanked her for the meal and made sure to wash the dishes before coming into the living room with the intent to watch some television. A few minutes later there was a knock on the front door. He stiffened. Had Aunt Helen returned?

"I'll get it," called Janice as she hurried from the kitchen. Jide lost interest in the T.V as he listened to Janice unlocking the door. His sharp ears caught the brief conversation:

"Yes?"

"h.e.l.lo, I'm Mrs. Chudi from No. 9. Is Mrs Okuoma in?"

"My mother isn't in."

"Aah, so you're her daughter. How nice." Mrs Chudi's tone didn't think sound like she thought it was nice at all.

"She is not in." Janice's voice was as flat as spent soda.

"So you've told me. Where did she go?"

"None of your f.u.c.king business."

"There's no need to be rude. I'm just…"

SLAM.

Jide wondered why Janice was being so hostile. He went over to the window to see who the visitor was. Mrs. Chudi was a pretty woman likely to be in her late thirties. Her eyes appeared a bit cold. Jide had the feeling she couldn't be a friend of Aunt Helen. Then what was it she wanted?

"b.i.t.c.h."

Jide jumped slightly when Janice spoke from his right shoulder.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"A nosy woman who won't mind her own business."

"You were rather quick to brush her off weren't you?"

"She's been here before," she said. "Then I didn't tell her who I was. I don't know what her problem is. And I'm sure Aunt Helen doesn't like her."

She pressed closer to him, her left breast warm against his forearm.

"Forget her," she whispered, "Let's watch TV."

"Sure, why not?"

Janice went out later that morning saying that she wanted to do some shopping. Jide didn't mind being alone. She was creeping him out anyway. When he tried calling his aunty and the number refused to go through he decided to wander round the house. That feeling that something was amiss hadn't gone but as he moved from room to room he didn't notice anything strange. Everything was as he had last seen them. Then what was wrong? Maybe he was cracking up. He had been in the darkness too long and wasn't used to the light. He didn't have the stomach for the things he did anymore.

You don't but I do.

His auntie's bedroom was as he remembered it. Her familiar scent was still in the air. On her dressing table was an ashtray with a pair of keys in them. The sight of them made him smile. Aunt Helen had boasted about those keys. They opened the door to a guesthouse in the University of Nigeria, Nsukka where she had permanent accommodation. The reason she received this privilege was because she had satisfied the Vice Chancellor s.e.xually more than once. He was eternally grateful. She had never slept in the apartment but she kept the keys on the dressing table just to gloat at it.

He noticed a folded up newspaper that lay on the dressing table. He picked it up and glanced at it. The main article was about a reporter who discovered the body of a prominent Nigerian politician on exile in Britain. He dropped it back and moved on.

Eventually he ended up at the kitchen. All spick and span. The house was quiet, so quiet. There was a strong smell of disinfectant that he had noticed during breakfast but it was slowly dissipating. The only sound he could hear was the monotonous hum of the deep freezer. He sat in the kitchen for over a quarter of an hour just listening to nothing in particular.

They are coming for you. Patrick they're going to kill you like you killed all those people.

Someone was knocking insistently on the front door. When he answered it he saw the woman who had visited them that morning.

"Yes, can I help you?" he asked.

"Are you Ms. Okuoma's son?" Mrs. Chudi asked. Jide thought her eyes looked like chips of marble.

"No, I'm her nephew. How can I help you?"

"Please, I really need to talk to you. It's very urgent."

Maybe Jide should have told her to get lost but he was extremely curious to know what the woman had to say.

"Come on in, then."

"Thank you."

Her eyes did not soften for one bit as she went past him into the house. Jide smiled to himself. This conversation should be interesting. They both sat in the living room. CNN was showing a flash flood that had destroyed property worth millions and swept away dozens of poor devils. The news was ignored. Instead, they contemplated each other.

"I think your aunty might be in danger," the woman began. "But the worst might already have happened."

"Why do you say that?" Jide asked feeling dread creep into his heart.

"Two nights ago your aunty and a young woman had a terrible argument. Their voices could be heard all over the close. The next thing I heard – I am sure of it – was something like a cry of pain. I am certain it was the voice of your aunty. After that there was silence. I'm sure this young woman hurt your aunty and your cousin seemed to be the only woman around. I haven't seen your aunty since then and when I asked your cousin about her mother she brushed me off. Like I said, I fear the worst."

Jide was silent for a few seconds as he digested this story. It seemed a little far-fetched. If Janice had hurt Aunt Helen, then where there h.e.l.l was she? And why should Janice still hang around after the incident? It didn't make any sense at all.

"Thanks for expressing your concern," he said finally, his tone curt. "I'll look into the matter."

"I'm thinking of going to the police," she said, watching him like a hawk. "I just thought it proper to speak to you first."

The police!

"I don't think that is necessary," Patrick said, trying to suppress the alarm in his voice. "I'll look into it myself. After all you might have misunderstood the entire situation."

"I don't think so. I know what I heard."

"Now I think it would be in your best interest to leave," He stood up cutting off her reply. "I'll show you the door."

He showed her out. She turned stiffly to him and said:

"You two have not seen the last of me. I will personally see this matter through."

Jide slammed the door in her face. Now he didn't blame Janice for her behaviour.

Janice came home that afternoon with a bag full of groceries. Jide promptly relayed what Mrs. Chudi had informed him. She listened intently, her face darkening like an approaching thunderstorm, her body still as a statue.

"That gossiping witch!" she hissed and Jide thought momentarily that she looked like a cobra, "How dare she come here and say those things!"

"Of course they are all lies?" he prompted.

"Not exactly," she replied as she sat on an easy chair. "I did have an argument with my mother. I needed some money and she wouldn't give me enough."

"Mrs. Chudi says she heard Aunty cry out in pain."

"The one who cried out in pain was me. I called her a stingy wh.o.r.e and she slapped me. I shut up after that".

Jide mulled over this. Janice seemed to be telling the truth. His aunt could sometimes explode in glorious rage though she had never been angry at him.

"Forget that b.i.t.c.h," Janice said. "Only she knows the real reason she comes here. My mom was promiscuous. Maybe she screwed the poor woman's husband."

"Janice! How can you say that about your mother?"

"I can say what I want. She was nothing more than a high cla.s.s hooker."

"Shut up!" Jide snarled, his eyes blazing and Janice looked momentarily frightened.

"Okay, I'm sorry" she said.

They were silent for a few tense minutes. Suddenly Janice stood up and went over to him. Before he knew what was happening she sat on his lap.

"Dammit, what are you doing/" he growled.

She quickly put an arm round his neck and leaned her head against his.

"Let's be friends, okay?" She whispered, "I like you. I think we can be friends."

JIde placed his hands on her body to gently push her off but he liked what he felt so much he decided to leave them there.

"Janice, we are cousins…"

"That's just a seven letter word. Let's be frank, you don't know me from Eve. Look, I bought a bottle of red wine just for the two of us. Let's celebrate…"

They chatted some more as they drank. As the evening wore on he felt himself drifting. One solitary dark cloud hung on the horizon of his consciousness before oblivion claimed him:

Janice had said, "My mother was promiscuous."

She had talked about her mother in the past tense.

The rise of the Black Angels

There is a new breed of secret cults on campus and they are called the shadow cults. These are the true cults. The Black Angels a.k.a. the clandestine order of Sheol, is a shadow cult.

The Black Angels: Origin

Secret societies in Nigerian Universities have their different origins, ideologies and inspirations. The Pyrates confraternity a.k.a Sea Lords and the Buccaneer Confraternity have their origins and ideologies from the real life historical vandals of the sea. The Black Axe confraternity, Maphites and Black Barets are examples of cults that deviated from the sea faring culture and sought other sources of inspiration like the Black Nationalist ideology.

The Shadow Cults are completely different; their own origins, ideologies and inspirations come from completely different sources making them distinct from the confraternities of old. The Black knights get their psychology from the Knight Templars, the Cleopatra Club is inspired by lesbian and feminist ideology, the Captains still stick to the sea faring culture but do not a.s.sociate themselves with the sea vandals, they instead they take themselves as navy men and follow a strict militaristic code. In fact, they are sometimes referred to as a militia. The Black Angels actually get their inspiration from Roman Catholic mythology but not in a conventional way.

Though it would be incorrect to label their ways as satanic, it would be wrong to a.s.sume they had Christian ideals as well. The cult borrows names, verses and terms from the bible but they are used for different purposes. Its actual origin is much more difficult to pinpoint.

As mentioned earlier the cult is also called the Clandestine order of Sheol. The number of their members is still quite small compared to other cults. They do not believe size matters. They believe in money, power and sheer will.

Members.h.i.+p

The Black Angels are very choosy about accepting new members. They, like most cults go for young men from powerful families but apart from that they also concentrate on those with an abundance of intelligence, creativity and absolute ruthlessness. For them, once you become a memeber you are no longer human but an angel. Human weakness is not tolerated.

Most of their members are still in other cults. It is a cult for cultists. It is very rare for a civilian to be a member unless he is particularly outstanding. You don't choose to join the Black Angels. They choose you.

Hierarchy

The Black Angels is only present in three Nigerian Universities: The University of Nigeria, Nsukka; the University of Ibadan and the University of Lagos. However they have a national body which consists mainly of alumni of these universities who were members during their undergraduate days.

The organizational chart of a campus fellows.h.i.+p is as follows:

Leader: Archangel

Deputy Leader/Logistics General: Archangel II

Executioner: Axe Angel

Foot Soldiers: Angels

Members attain these posts through elections or are sometimes installed by the Archangel. Coups are prohibited and do not occur in any of the fellows.h.i.+ps. Discipline among officers is strict and any slight misdemeanour attracts severe repercussions.

Most times the posts of Archangel II and the Axe Angel are filled by those with military backgrounds. Any civilian who is accepted into any of these positions must be very exceptional indeed.

It is very difficult for student members to communicate with the National Fellows.h.i.+p who regard themselves as a separate ent.i.ty even though they exercise total control over the confraternity. The Supreme Archangel a.k.a the Archangel of Archangels is only seen once a year by the campus fellows.h.i.+p, which is during initiation. Only with his approval can you become a true member of the Black Angels. His power over the cult is absolute.

Meetings

There is a Grand fellows.h.i.+p, which is a convention of all the fellows.h.i.+ps under one roof. It is held at a hotel of choice in Lagos only once a year. State fellows.h.i.+ps and campus fellows.h.i.+ps are also held once a month unless it is an emergency meeting which can be held at any time.

Activities

The campus fellows.h.i.+p exert control over every form of racketeering possible on campus including sale of question papers, fixing of results, boys quarters renting, female hostel accommodation, prost.i.tution and gun running. However, their area of core competence is the prost.i.tution and gun running business. Most armed bandits in the area buy their guns from the Black Angels. They also supply prost.i.tutes to clients as far away as Abuja. Their main rivals, the Captains, are continuously in conflict with them over turf.

The Axe Angel: Harlequin

He is the most efficient executioner the Black Angels have ever had. He is a cold-blooded killer, with a mind that works like a well oiled machine. His exploits are legendary bordering on mythical.

It is widely said that it was he that killed Prof. Jakande in front of his family. Prof. Jakande was the Grand patron for the Captains Confraternity and the a.s.sa.s.sination ignited a brutal cult war that went nationwide. A team was sent to slay him but he escaped after killing them all.