The sun is well in form when I brave the afternoon traffic back from Upper Island. Bearing a demigod and a godling for twenty-five kilometres of the Lekki-Epe Expressway turns out to be too much on my okada, which overheats. I turn off to Ahmadu Bello and park by the bridge interchange to let the bike cool off, and sit by the silent roadside to eat some fried yam and sauce I’d bought off a streetside seller. I call Papa Udi to find out if he’s eaten, but he doesn’t pick up. Typical. I leave some food for him.

My phone vibrates. It’s not Payu calling back, but Ajala. I put it away.

Once the bike’s cooled off a bit and I’ve fed the radiator some water, I’m ready to gun it back to Sura, but voilà: as I turn the interchange, I run into a police roadblock.

The Nigerian police are a fucking menace. There’s five of them here, dressed in the customary black combats and ratty boots, each hoisting a rifle. They’ve blocked half the road with their van and a couple of tyres. They flag me down instantly.

Now, what I do isn’t entirely illegal. Yes, technically, the government—specifically, LASPAC—are there to deal with stray deities, so technically black market godhunters like me shouldn’t exist. It’s never a fun run-in with the police for me.

So when the first thing a policeman does is rip open the tarpaulin across the back seat to find a teenage boy bound and gagged there, imagine what it looks like.

The five of them cock their guns and train the barrels at my head.

“Good afternoon, officers,” I say, smiling brightly. “Great day, yes?”

“Shut up,” says the one close to me—his badge reads Ibrahim Momodu. “Identify yourself and what you’re carrying.”

“David Mogo,” I say. “Godhunter.” I tap the godling just enough for it to make its clearly inhuman sounds. “And this, right here, is something you don’t want on your hands.”

The men look at each other, and an understanding passes between them.

“Get down from this bike,” Ibrahim says. “We need to search you.”

This is all pointless shit. They know who I am and what I do; they’ve heard stories. They’re not looking to keep the peace. See, this is one of those times I wish I could speak Yoruba, convince the man in his native tongue. Too bad I never got around to it.

“Look, officers,” I say, planting myself firmly on the bike, “I don’t need any trouble. I’m just doing my work.”

“My friend, get down,” Ibrahim says. “Don’t you know your work is illegal? Everything about you is illegal—no ID, no visible source of income, loitering Èkó axis without aim. You are illegal just standing here.” He hoists the gun higher. “I said, get down.”

I’ve been shot once before. By the police, actually. It hurt, but not much. It healed quickly too, even before Payu’s recipes hastened the process. I’ve never been shot by five people at once, though, and I don’t know what that will do to me. Even so, I’m still thinking I can take them. I mean, it’s the Nigerian police—they’re as useless as shit. All five will be kissing the dust before anyone can fire two shots. And the first one will definitely miss.

But then I’m looking at Papa Udi’s food in front of me and thinking he won’t get to eat if I don’t get home tonight. So I get down from the bike.

Ibrahim just pokes around, really. More a performance than a real search. When he opens my bag and finds my tools, I see him shiver a bit. Then his eyes light up when he spots the hundred grand in cash. He turns about to me.

“We’re confiscating your bike until we can ascertain that you’re not a danger to the public,” he pronounces finally. “Let’s go to the station.”

I laugh. This is just ridiculous.

“Are you laughing? I’m not afraid of your useless juju oh.”

I laugh even more. That’s what people say when they’re afraid.