Hail Warning

Two Years Ago Caribbean Sea — Port of Spain, Trinidad

Christopher Columbus had renamed the island from Iëre (Land of the Hummingbird) to La Isla de la Trinidad (The Island of the Trinity). This fulfilled a vow he had made before setting out on his third voyage of exploration.

Isaac Obano had no intentions of waiting for the jihadi to convalesce in the Porlamar, Venezuelan hospital. Once the realtor returned to the Nigerian Princess, he had told his wife to put on a bikini, and he then cast off from the dock. Obano had looked at the map and decided that Trinidad would be a great place to kill some time, during which time Afua’s health either got better or he died. Either course was just fine with him.

Isaac Obano’s life had not been all that wonderful up until this point. He had seen a lot of nasty things done to people undeserving of those acts — all in the name of the Boko Haram attempting to move up the food chain and improve the cards they had been dealt. Those who saw the atrocities either supported the warlords in control of a section of dense and meaningless jungle, or you were the people the warlords preyed upon as they ascended their ladders.

Obano found it was more profitable to stay on the good side of warlords once he had factored in longevity, health and happiness. As a realtor, Isaac held the keys to dozens of properties currently either vacant or those soon available. Those homes, apartments and trailers represented a commodity the warlords needed and would pay handsomely for the property’s use. Thus, Obano could provide safe houses to those able to pay for such extravagances. Hell, it didn’t cost Obano a dime to allow someone to stay for a few nights in a dwelling currently unoccupied. His contract specified his clients permitted him to manage and sell their properties, exclusively. That reduced the possibility of another realtor walking in on a sect of mean-looking men in the living room holding three hostages strapped to chairs with genitalia wired to car batteries. That reduced the resale value in a heartbeat.

Did he condone the activities that occurred behind closed doors on the properties he managed? No, not particularly. Would it be better if he could simply work as a realtor and avoid the reprehensible goings-on taking place? Sure, but that’s like saying it would be nice to breathe oxygen on the moon. He worked within a bubble of revulsion. Horror had become such an integral part of his life that now very little fazed him. But Afua shooting down that commercial jet weighed on his conscience.

On that morning, Obano, from the deck of the Nigerian Princess had been watching the planes’ departures from the airport. He had known what Afua’s mission was, but deep down inside, he hoped that Afua couldn’t pull it off. He silently wished that something would go wrong with the missile, or it would miss its target. Any scenario, other than taking down the airplane, would have been fine with Isaac.

But, as luck would have it, Afua had been successful in his mission. When United 9257 had been shot down, Obano felt sick to his stomach. It had been a clear day and the jet had been very close in proximity. He watched the streak of the missile racing skyward. The jet blew up, broke apart and, Obano watched in horror as two large pieces tumbled back to the earth. At the time, he hadn’t understood why it had affected him so deeply. After all, he had seen women and children shot and tortured. He had seen the worst men could do to one another.

But, maybe it had something more to do with the pure insanity of the act. Back home, when a warlord went on the warpath, there was a tangible reward at the end. Maybe the reward was more power, influence, land, money or property. But he could not comprehend what reward was gained by shooting down a plane occupied by a group of random and innocent people. On the contrary, according to Obano’s thinking, there was nothing on the “pro” column; instead, everything landed on the “con” ledger. Those carrying out this heinous act would be marked men for the rest of their potentially very short lives. Wouldn’t their accomplices, as well? If Afua Diambu claimed to be a terrorist, then this was an act of pure unadulterated terror, because the act served no altruistic purpose.

Watching the plane fall from the sky, had a profound impact on Isaac’s psyche as well. Shortly after the incident, he began to suffer from nightmares, awakening in spasms during the middle of the night, unable to return to slumber. Initially, he reasoned it was a predatory reaction to having had Afua on-board. For all Obano knew, killing he and his wife might be the final phase of the Boko Haram’s plan. Even with Afua 120 miles away — fighting for his life in a hospital — Obano still continued having the nightmares — specifically falling nightmares. It was like watching himself fall from the plane, experiencing the jet falling out of the sky to his death. The fall from the sky took forever — all night long — until he was incapable of sleep.

If there were a God up there, and He had seen the direct hand Afua had in the evil terrorist act of downing the airplane, that had taken place, Obano thought perhaps The Almighty almost took Afua’s life in retribution. Then Isaac began to wonder if this same God had him in His sights as well. Maybe it would take some time for God to circle back to squash Obano and his wife into the ground like ants for being accomplices in Afua’s wicked deed. If that were the case, Obano thought he better start having a good time — immediately. Hence, he left Afua at the hospital; he and his wife made a beeline toward paradise.

They were enjoying a wonderful massage at the Magdalena Grand Beach & Golf Resort. They had left the Nigerian Princess in the care of the dockmaster who was giving the boat a good cleaning and a rigorous servicing before they began their trip back across the Atlantic Ocean. The Obanos had been at the resort for more than a week, relaxing with drinks that had little umbrellas that were brought to them while they lounged on reclining chairs set in straight rows on the pristine beach. His wife had her hair braided in Bo Derek style, and she was beautiful. She was happy and looked radiant. The couple had enjoyed five-star meals and $500 bottles of wine. They had the best sex, and more sex, than at any time in their lives during the entirety of their marriage. Everything was perfect — at least everything should have been perfect. If it weren’t for the damned plane and that goddamned jihadi who was the cause for his horrible nightmares.

Obano’s phone rang. He looked at it for a moment, considering ignoring the incoming call. He contemplated forgetting his past life and remaining in Trinidad. There was probably some type of significant real estate property being exchanged on the island. He was confident he could make a quick transition to island life and chisel out a good living.

He sighed and answered his phone.

“This is Afua, and I’m ready to get out of the hospital. Come pick me up.” The line disconnected. Obano let it fall onto his bare chest.

His wife asked, “Do we have to go?”

Obano didn’t know what to tell her, because he hadn’t yet determined his plan of action.