Excerpt: Gaslight by Femi Kayode

Brothers and Sisters

I can’t look away from the other side of the road. That’ll be us later, stuck and trapped. I dread it already.

‘You can at least fake some interest?’ Kenny says, petulance mixed with irritation.

I turn from the static scene of cars heading towards Lagos. ‘Do I look bored?*

Kenny side-eyes me, then hisses. ‘We’ve been in this car for almost an hour and—’

‘Eighty-two minutes to be exact. But I can’t complain since you’ve used Folake to—’

‘I didn’t use anyone!’

I’m still miffed she went through my wife to ask my help. ‘So, why didn’t you come to me directly?’

‘Because I don’t like how you make me feel every time church comes up.’

I raise a sardonic brow. ‘Like a whimsical escapist?’

‘See?’ She glowers. ‘That’s why I went to Folake first.’

‘No, Kenny Girl?’ She hates Dad’s pet name for her, even more than I detest his ‘Kenny Boy’ for me. ‘You went to Folake because you know murder makes it perfectly legit for me to say “I told you so.”‘

‘He didn’t murder his wife,’ Kenny whispers, nodding in the direction of her driver’s clean-shaved head.

I snort but lower my voice. ‘Everyone knows.’

‘Not from me.’

I suck in air – one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three – and exhale. ‘He’s practically the most famous murder suspect on earth right now.’

‘Suspect is the keyword here,’ Kenny snaps.

‘How you don’t find suspecting a pastor of murder disturbing, worries me deeply?’

It’s the devil at work. Why would Bishop kill his wife? There’s nothing to remotely suggest she’s dead. It’s a conspiracy.’ She kisses her teeth loudly. ‘So many haters out there.’

I blink. It’s hard to reconcile this accomplished career woman in her late forties with language at my teenage daughter’s level. My younger sister’s religious fervour confounds me. How did we get here?

‘You don’t know the world, Philip,’ Kenny continues with pity reserved for the naïve. ‘It’s firmly under the devil’s control.’

‘And this world somehow has your pastor’s wife hidden away somewhere?’

‘Bee-shop,’ she corrects. My sarcasm ranks lower than my mislabelling.

‘Whatever. His wife’s missing, and even if he’s God’s personal assistant, the spouse is always the number-one suspect.’

‘That’s why we need your—’ Kenny’s phone rings. ‘We’re still in traffic, sir,’ she says with reverence into the handset.
‘It’s not that bad, but still slow.’

It is bad. The road I’ve nicknamed ‘Highway of Evangelical Churches of Nigeria’ is chaos. The snail-paced traffic starts just before the ‘Goodbye to Lagos’ signage and graduates to near standstill as another billboard welcomes you to Ogun state.

‘We’re moving now,’ Kenny continues. ‘The road is clearing a bit. We should be there in about half an hour—’

I scoff, taking in my surroundings with resignation. Unless we are airlifted, her optimism is doomed. The megachurches lining both sides of the road are the only sign of order. A town planner would have an apoplexy at the jumbled mass of petrol stations, retail shops, informal markets and bus stops connecting one church estate to another. There’s no method to the madness that spills onto the road, narrowing a width created for three cars to two at the best of times.

‘Ah, he feels very honoured, o. It’s no bother at all.’

My double take is pointed. Kenny ignores me. I return my attention to the road. After megachurch estates, schools are next on the road’s claim to fame. From kindergartens through high schools with boarding options to university campuses; they’re all here. Tuition fees are printed in large, colourful starbursts with facilities listed as endless bullet points on massive billboards. The schools’ intimidating entrance gates seem designed to reassure prospective students of protection from the bedlam on the road. I’m not sure they succeed.

Kenny ends the call. ‘The elders are waiting.’

‘They can spend the time praying for a miracle.’

‘Don’t.’

I keep my face on the road to hide my smirk.

*

Two hours and twenty-three minutes later, in a plush boardroom more befitting of a Fortune 500 company than a church, nine men and four women stare at us like we just interrupted a heated discussion on plummeting stock prices.
There’s more tension here than in the Pentagon’s situation room during the ambush of Osama bin Laden.

‘Good afternoon, sir, Kenny says as she walks around the wide and long conference table, curtsying. I try to guess the elders’ rankings by how low she dips before each one. The greeting goes on until Kenny gets to the man closest to an empty leather chair at the head of the table. Early- to mid-fifties. He’d be good looking without the scowl. Dark-skinned, clean-shaven. The sprinkling of grey on his hair and the way he clasps his hands together gives him a stern headmaster aura. Kenny’s knees touch the ground. The resident Deputy Jesus, I bet.

‘Is this him?’ His voice booms. A man used to addressing large crowds. ‘The psychologist?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Kenny looks at me, and my heart warms at the affection beaming from her. ‘This is my brother, Dr Philip Kehinde Taiwo. He’s an investigative psychologist,’ she announces.

I wave, as uncomfortable with the pride in her voice as the full rendition of my name and profession. Kenny moves to the woman next to Deputy Jesus. She makes to kneel, but the older woman stops her, pulling Kenny into an embrace.

‘I was just telling them they shouldn’t have bothered you,’ the woman says, her eyes on me.

‘Ah, auntie, not bother me, ke? How can I not be bothered when the devil is not resting?’ Kenny looks at me as she puts her arms around the woman’s shoulders. ‘Phil, this is Bishop’s mother-in-law, Mrs Kikelomo Bucknor.’

I try to hide my surprise. Having the mother of the possible victim here throws me. I’ll have to proceed with more sensitivity than the unbridled candour I’d planned.

Mrs Bucknor gives me the once-over. I can’t read her beyond her weary demeanour. Her face is bare of discernible make-up, and apart from the tiredness around her eyes, her light skin glows with health. She wears an iró and bubá that would have looked ostentatious if not for the simple knot of the matching gèlè on her head. No jewellery. No wedding band. Affluence oozes from her like it’s the only adornment she needs.

‘So, you’re also a twin,’ a female elder says, as though doubting Kenny’s assertion.

‘Yes, ma,’ I respond stiffly. Hard to be gracious with thirteen pairs of eyes trained on you.

Mrs Bucknor turns to Kenny. ‘Two sets of twins in one family. What a blessing!’

While I doubt my mum would agree, I find the way Mrs Bucknor spoke curious. Her tone was flat, without the wonder I’ve come to expect whenever my family tree comes up. Then again, the woman’s son-in-law is being accused of murdering her daughter. Not quite a hurrah moment.

‘Please have a seat,’ Deputy Jesus orders me.

I comply and find myself opposite him.

‘My name is Pastor Abayomi George. I’m the assistant general overseer of Grace Church.’

I was right. Second-in-command.

‘Let me introduce the elders,’ – He gestures at Mrs Bucknor – ‘as Sister Kenny said, this is our First Lady’s mother, Mrs Bucknor …’

Decades of sibling coding goes into the look I give Kenny across the room: You go to a church where the pastor’s wife is called ‘First Lady’? She narrows her eyes in a reprimand that eerily reminds me of our mum. I turn back to Pastor George.

‘Next to her is Pastor Richard Nwoko. He heads our finance …’

To preserve my sanity, I decide to save remembering the names and titles for when – if – I take the case. I scan the room as the introductions drone on. None below middle age. The female elders don African print attires, reflecting good taste and skilled tailors. The men look dapper in three-piece suits and ties. How they are not uncomfortable is beyond me. Despite the cooling effect of the air-conditioning, the strain in the room makes me feel like unbuttoning my cotton shirt.
‘Our leadership is made up of a lot more people, with several heads of departments across the globe. But due to the delicate nature of this assignment, we thought it prudent to keep things, er, discreet for now.’ Pastor George looks around as if to confirm he has delivered his speech as agreed.

All, except Mrs Bucknor, nod. The rest look like kids in detention; defensive and ready to flee rather than go through what’s to come.

To ease the tension, I put on my most genial smile and lie. ‘I’m honoured to be here. How can I be of service?’

***

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