Sometimes, when she saw how the child’s eyes lit up whenever her father entered the room, when she sat with her family and felt as if her face was pressed against the glass, stuck on the outside while their love blazed on the other side, Perpetua admitted to herself that she had lost her daughter. She knew when it happened, and she knew why. It was her husband’s fault, he had stolen their daughter’s love; he wanted to punish her because she had found God, who saved her child. But the knowledge brought no comfort.
Like Job, her faith was being tested. Why else — despite all her efforts, which would continue for fifteen years; despite her prayers, her night vigils, her holy water douches, the careful observance of her ovulation periods, when, even if he was tired, she stroked and crooned and kissed her husband into submission, and then, after he collapsed on her, she remained with her legs raised, wrapped around his back, just so nothing would be wasted, every single drop would have a fighting chance of breaking her womb’s defense — could she not get pregnant? A fresh start, another child, would help her endure her husband and daughter’s fondness for each other. Otherwise, she foresaw a future where she would forever be the minority in a vote of three, always the odd one out.
The big fight happened on a Friday in May 1970, four months after the civil war ended. That night, in the dining room, husband and wife traded insults in front of their daughter, in front of their housemaid, and in front of his friends, colleagues from the office who had come to dinner. Above the cries of Daoju and the pleas of their guests, the couple shouted at each other, shot out of their chairs and pointed fingers, then advanced, flinging words like daggers. Then Perpetua grabbed her husband by the shirtfront and screeched in his face, “Kill me now, you demon!” and Godspeed, for the first and last time in their eighteen years together, raised his hand against his wife. He struck her, once, across the mouth.
The day had started well. Perpetua, as usual, rose early to fix breakfast while her husband and daughter prepared for work and school, and then she joined them at the table, which was not her usual practice. Every Friday for the past two months she had played host to Mr. Farasin, a church member who Bible studied with her and exorcised the house; so, on that day, she was in an expectant mood. She snapped at Daoju to stop playing with her fried egg yolk and to drink up her Horlicks or her father would leave her behind, yet when her daughter rose from the table, despite leaving the egg half-eaten and the drink untouched, she smiled at her, happy to see her go. As Daoju tripped to the sitting room to collect her school backpack and lunch box, Godspeed, dangling his car keys in one hand, his Samsonite brown leather briefcase clutched in the other, walked to the front door, followed by his wife. They stopped in the open doorway, stood side by side, their arms touching, both of them silent, lost in thought. Then they drew apart so Daoju could pass between them. Godspeed bent forward to kiss his wife’s cheek, and he told her, “I forgot to mention — I invited four colleagues over for dinner tonight. Three you haven’t met and Goodnews Abrakasa, who might bring along one of his wives. We’ll arrive together, seven-ish.”
Perpetua nodded, her forehead drawn in a frown of concentration, and kept on nodding, her vacant eyes staring at the receding shapes of her husband and daughter. When the car engine vroomed she started awake, and then pulled the front door closed and hurried up the stairs.
Mr. Farasin arrived promptly at ten. Tene let him in, and after she called her mistress, she headed to the boys’ quarters to hide in her room. Perpetua entered the sitting room to find him slouched in an armchair, his long thin thighs splayed, thumbing through her wedding photo album. He swung his legs closed and stood up to greet her. Then he raised the photo album and faced it to her, his fingers gripping the top. With the other hand he pointed out her husband’s photo and said, “This is your husband.”
“Yes,” Perpetua said.
“The Lord Jehofah has planned big things for him. Don’t worry, we will get him.”
“Amen,” said Perpetua.
Tall and skinny, with a shaved head, a skull-like face, roaming yellow eyes, and a feeble mustache, Mr. Farasin only wore dull-colored polyester safari suits. His color today was bottle-green. His feet were tucked in black, cracked leather shoes as long as scuba flippers. His vinyl attaché case, stamped on the flap with the Citadel’s emblem, a cathedral ringed by fire and crowned with a halo, was always by his side, in his hand, on his lap, where it served as a lectern for his bulging, finger-stained Bible. His voice was a vibrant bass. He spoke English with a thick Oyo accent, which meant his vex was pronounced fex, his charm became a sham, and on a sunny day, the “shun sown.”
Perpetua asked him to sit. She walked to the drinks cabinet to fetch a bottle of Lucozade and two glasses. She poured a glass for him and the other for herself, then picked up her Bible from the center table and settled into the armchair beside him. After the usual chitchat, which lasted as long as the energy drink in their glasses, they got down to business.
“Let us pray,” Mr. Farasin said. Perpetua bowed her head, and he began, slowly at first, then faster, angrier. Perpetua’s responses grew louder, matching his rising intensity. His face, which shone with sweat, took on the character of his words — when he slew enemies and collapsed obstacles and taunted the devil, his face grimaced; and when he said, “Our lives are in your hands, O Lord, do with us as you wiss,” his shoulders sagged, his features slackened, became submissive. The prayer ended with the request that God grant his two servants the wisdom to understand the Bible passages that he had chosen for them today. Then Mr. Farasin opened his eyes, Perpetua opened her eyes; Mr. Farasin opened his Bible, Perpetua opened her Bible; Mr. Farasin selected a passage, read, and explained, Perpetua listened.
After Bible study, it was time to rid the house of demons. Perpetua rose from her seat and went into the visitors’ toilet to collect the bucket of tap water she had asked Tene to stand there. She placed the bucket in front of Mr. Farasin, and then picked a bottle of anointed oil from the center table. She had a cache of extra virgin olive oil in the wardrobe of the smaller, unused guest room, whose furniture was from the time of Mr. McGee, the colonial administrator who had lived in the house before them. Every Sunday Perpetua took a new bottle to church for the pastor to consecrate. Once the bottle was opened for her Friday prayer sessions, the leftover content was sent to the kitchen for use as cooking oil.
She approached Mr. Farasin. He stood up, accepted the bottle from her, broke the seal, and uncapped it, and then poured a dollop of oil into the water. Stirring the water, he said in a ringing voice: “By the power of God Jehofah, king of kings and lord of lords, protector of the innocent and destroyer of enemies, I sanctify this water in Jesus’ name!”
“Amen!” Perpetua shrieked, waving her Bible over her head.
Mr. Farasin scooped a handful of water. “Out, out, out — blood of Jesus!” he yelled, as he flung out his arm. Water flew across the room and spattered the wall, the ceiling, the glass door of the drinks cabinet. “In the name of Jesus, get out!” he shouted, and threw water again.
“O yes Jesus, yes Lord!” Perpetua cried.
She trailed Mr. Farasin as he walked through the house. He knew the house well; he had gone over it several times. He threw open the bedroom doors as if he didn’t expect to find anyone there. He burst into the bathrooms and splashed water on the folded towels and drying underwear. He leaned into kitchen cupboards and sprinkled the grain sacks, the empty pots, the drowsing geckos. Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, two sitting rooms, one dining room, one study, one kitchen, one pantry, three balconies, and one verandah — they went everywhere.