Madeleine and the Seventh Mystic

By Salisu Suleiman

Madeleine McCann was nearly four years old when she disappeared from her familys holiday apartment in Portugal on May 3, 2007. Despite a massive joint investigation by the Portuguese and British police departments, Madeleine was not found. Reports of sightings of the young girl in Spain, the Netherlands, Morocco, Argentina, Austria, France, India, America, and Australia brought cruel moments of hope to her family, but her actual locationand fateremained a mystery.

As the search for Madeleine reached a dead end in Europe, Salisu Suleiman, thousands of miles away in Africa, had developed an unusual approach that could overcome the limitations of modern investigative techniques and forensic science. Knowing that there were hundreds of people across the continent who claimed to be able perceive things in an alternative reality, he considered the possibility that one of them might be able to find Madeleine.

Embarking on this strange search, Suleiman meets the Seventh Mystic, who believes that he knows where Madeleine is. Through his gifts, the Seventh Mystic delivers what should be the answer to everyones prayers: an address in Lisbon. Soon after that, a photograph of the suspects surfaces. But just when they think Madeleines recovery is imminent, they face a seemingly insurmountable obstacle because no judge will authorize a search based on the visions of a psychic in a remote African settlement.

Was the mystics information correct? Was Madeleine ever in house number nine? Is she still there? With the Seventh Mystics visions left untried, many questions remain unanswered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475902617

Salisu Suleiman

Salisu Suleiman worked extensively in the public sector before joining the Good Governance Group (3G) as its communications director in 2009. Now a director at the Civic Media Institute of Nigeria, he is also a widely read columnist and contributor to NigeriaIntel.com

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Contents

Introduction

1

Madeleine Is in Maiduguri

2

The Final Exam

3

A Chance Reunion

4

My First Recruit

5

All about Madeleine

6

An Expedition into Mysticism

7

You Have Enemies

8

Don’t Go Down that Path

9

The Signals Are Vague

10

Confusion on the Confluence

11

The Center of Commerce

12

We Have to See Lukman

13

The Seventh Mystic

14

Madeleine Is Alive!

15

The Hunt for a Map

16

A Parallel Universe

17

The Stakeout

18

The Invisible Man

19

Return to the Search

20

Another Dead End

21

The More You See …

22

Who Will Save Madeleine?

About the Author

Introduction

How did Madeleine McCann simply vanish without a trace? How come advances in science and technology, including forensics and DNA, have failed to provide any logical explanations to her disappearance? Should these limitations translate to defeat for the human spirit? And would the methods really matter as long as Madeleine is reunited with her family?

Many in the West regularly scoff at the idea of supersensory powers as folklore, yet in many parts of the world, these phenomena are daily realities that often defy scientific explanation. Fortunately, attitudes are changing, and some top scientists now accept the existence of parallel universes.

For me, what began as an irreverent, even quixotic quest to find Madeleine and seek answers to some personal questions turned out to be a life-changing voyage into the extraordinary. If the clues we uncovered in 2008 had led to her successful rescue, Madeleine and the Seventh Mystic would not have been written, strange as the accounts are.

But Madeleine remains missing. Is there a chance that the accounts narrated herein will lead us to her and possibly reignite hope for the families of other missing persons around the world? She is out there.

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1

Madeleine Is in Maiduguri

It was a hot afternoon. The air was still, and the little wind from the great Sahara Desert to the north managed to stir up drying stalks from the corn and millet farms around us, though it was too warm to provide much relief. The month was October, so farmers still hoped for a few more rains, except that the brown fields in every direction meant the likelihood of rainfall remained only a faint hope.

Already, the signs pointed to an early Harmattan. This was the strong wind that seasonally enveloped most countries in and on the edge of the Sahara and parts of the Sahel with dust and haze and brought cold days and nights. The Harmattan season coincided with winter in Europe and North America and was the coldest it got here, if that could be thought of as cold.

Ahmed and I were on a motorbike, a cheap Chinese contraption that was groaning under the weight of two adults. We were on our way to see a psychic, Mallam Umaru. Mallam meant scholar or teacher and was usually used with reverence. Umaru lived in a settlement about fifteen miles outside the ancient city of Zaria. We were riding along the highway to Jos, a famous tin-mining city in colonial times. The moderate weather and rocky hills had once made the city an ideal haven for British missionaries and colonial officials and was also a retirement destination for many locals.

The hamlet we were going to was another three or so miles off the highway and only had a footpath, so it could not be reached by car. And because we didn’t have the time or inclination to walk the entire distance on foot, we had opted to use a motorbike. The bike strained with every bounce, the high-pitched, single-cylinder engine wailing. I felt every jolt and held on for dear life, realizing that what we were trying to do would be anything but easy.

Already, I had dust in my eyes, and my nose was revolting from the black, noxious emissions from trucks carrying all manner of goods from one local market to the other. The possibility that the jarring ride would be the first of many to areas even more inaccessible was troubling. However, it was the first day of an undertaking that had no logical format; to succeed meant we had to be ready for the unexpected. I was the general and the foot soldier, the strategist, and the field officer.

I shut my eyes and also tried to close my mind to the difficulties I suspected would dog every step of our way in the coming weeks and months.

That day in October 2007, trying to fight off the elements, I was very unsettled. The first of my many worries was the journey on the motorbike. Though Ahmed drove it with assurance, since he’d owned it for a number of years, I wasn’t relaxed; the last time I’d ridden on a bike with him, we’d ended up in a ditch. That was back in high school when we’d gone to his aunt’s place for a visit. Her husband had sent us on an errand and asked us to take his bike. Ahmed wasn’t a good driver yet but didn’t say so. After several false starts, we’d finally gotten on our way. On the last turn before returning to the house, he’d lost control of the machine and we’d ended up in the ditch. Luckily, there had been no injuries.

Ahmed had probably forgotten the incident, and I didn’t want to remind him. On second thought, I lightheartedly reminded him, and we had a good laugh. Still, as I’d climbed on the bike behind him, it was with trepidation because I knew we would be riding on a highway where motorbikes, like pedestrians, didn’t have any rights. The phrase that came to mind was a dead man has no right of way. I’d seen the bodies of too many pedestrians and bikers splattered on the sides of too many roads to dispute that saying. I offered a silent prayer.

We were both wearing kaftans and caps, and as Ahmed somehow coaxed more speed out of the machine, our caps began to bob on our heads with the increased wind. We jammed them down harder, but that didn’t help much, so we removed them. I held both caps with one hand while I used the other to hold onto the bike for balance; we had no crash helmets. Wind and dust blew into our eyes as cars and trucks drove past us.

Soon, my eyes were red and my nose was dripping. We rode on, taking care to keep to the shoulder of the road, only occasionally veering onto the road to avoid riding over the maize and sorghum villagers dried on the shoulders; lacking modern implements, it was common for local farmers to spread foodstuff by the roadside to dry. Some of the sand was absorbed into the food chain.

We missed the turn we were supposed to take off the highway because there were no signposts, milestones, or any form of guide. After some distance, Ahmed realized something wasn’t quite right; we turned back and began to look more carefully. I had no idea what to look out for so was of no help. Shortly afterward, he slowed and rode down a narrow footpath branching off the highway.

It was obvious that few, if any, four-wheeled vehicles had ever traveled that far; people simply walked from their homes to farms or markets and back. A few had bicycles, and fortunate ones, like us, rode motorbikes. On that squeaky, badly protesting bike, on a road that seemed to lead nowhere, my backside beginning to ache from the grating ride, I didn’t feel privileged.

In minutes, signs of habitation appeared to drift away. The distance between farms became longer. It also seemed there were more trees as we rode farther away from the highway. A lone Fulani boy tending some cattle waved at us. Apart from that, nothing else moved as far as I could see. The air was dry and the surroundings serene. On a different day, any of the shady trees would have provided an ideal location for a quiet picnic. The only sound was that of our motorbike, struggling on valiantly.

Just when I thought we couldn’t possibly be more isolated, my mobile phone began to ring. We were moving more slowly on the bush path, and the softer breeze wasn’t strong enough to blow off our caps, so I returned them to our heads. With my free arm, I brought the phone out of my breast pocket.

It was Safiya, my wife. She wanted to find out if I’d reached Zaria safely. Perhaps something didn’t seem right to her, so she asked where I was. I told her I was on a motorbike with a friend on our way somewhere. She wanted to know if I could make it back to Abuja that day, as I’d planned. Glancing at my watch, I realized it was approaching two o’clock in the afternoon. Abuja was over two hundred miles away. Constant armed robbery on the highway from Kaduna to Abuja made traveling at night risky. Meanwhile, we had a list of ten psychics and were yet to reach the first one. I said I wasn’t sure.

An image formed in my mind, and I laughed to myself: I’d imagined David Livingstone’s wife phoning him to find out how he was progressing along an isolated stretch of the Congo or Zambezi, on the watch for hostile natives and giant crocodiles.

*****

When I decided to embark on what I now referred to as the mission, I thought it was important to have a working knowledge of mysticism, paranormal activity, and alternative realities. I’d researched the subject while trying to keep an open (if skeptical) mind to what I read, heard, or came across. Did such forces exist or not? What was the history of mysticism, and how many cultures practiced it?

When I felt sufficiently prepared after reading several volumes on mysticism, I’d asked Ahmed to enquire about local psychics, especially the more reputable ones who were thought to have genuine gifts that enabled them to treat various forms of illnesses by unorthodox means. Many of them were supposed to be able to commune with extraordinary forces.

Within a week, Ahmed had called to tell me that he’d drawn up a short- list of ten mystics. I considered asking him to screen each one of them, but on reflection, my curiosity got the better of me and I agreed to go along with him to visit all ten. We wanted to observe the nature of people who patronized them and see if their reputations were justified. What we saw would help us decide what to do afterward.

I’d heard many stories about people with spiritual auras whose prayers were so powerful that all you needed to do was get them to pray on your behalf and your dreams would come true. (And I asked myself why there was still so much pain and poverty.) As a child, I’d also heard some very frightening stories that bordered on the occult. Now, I had a chance to investigate some of those stories, and the temptation was too strong to resist.

Prior to that time, I’d never consulted a psychic, though I’d had numerous invitations from people who were convinced such forces really existed (though they’d never admit to visiting psychics in public). If anything were to come out of our mission, I wanted to record it. Also, since I was more familiar with the case, I felt better placed to appraise which psychic had correct insights about the affair.

And so here we were, chugging along a dusty footpath, surrounded by brown fields on our way to see a psychic we hoped would tell us if a missing girl was still alive and where she might be.

*****

That morning, when I’d arrived in Zaria from Abuja, Ahmed had brought me up to date with what he had done so far. Observing the careful approach he took, I knew I had someone who believed in the mission and was as committed to it as I was. We’d looked at the list of psychics and agreed to begin testing them without delay, starting with the first name. I didn’t know what informed the order of names, but the first was Umaru.

The mission required secrecy since I’d never much believed in mystics, suspecting that many so-called clairvoyants were merely cons who preyed on people’s fears to defraud them. It would have been awkward to be seen consulting with one. I also wanted to minimize any discomfiture in the event of failure; no one except Ahmed and me was to know what the mission was about.

I’d left Abuja early; the roads had been relatively free, save a police checkpoint, where some policemen coerced some money out of me. It wasn’t compulsory to give them money; it also wasn’t wise to argue with armed policemen on an isolated highway that early in the morning. And you had to pretend to be happy while making the forced gift. I tried.

Back on our way to the first psychic, a small incline slowed the bike and returned my thoughts to the present. We’d reached a collection of mud houses on the left of the footpath. A young girl standing by the corner of one hut left what she was doing to stare at us. As Ahmed rode up to her, she made to run away, so he called her back and asked if Mallam Umaru was home. She pointed to a mud building with thatched roofs. We left the motorbike resting against one wall and approached the building she’d pointed to.

As we got closer, I felt cold sweat abruptly breaking out under my clothes; there were several people sitting or standing around the building, some in chains! Had we come to a sanitarium or a mad camp? Was this confirmation that the mission was indeed crazy, or was I losing it? I slowed down behind Ahmed, ready to flee at any moment. He made further enquiries from a young man who appeared from behind the building.

It was much later that I found out that Umaru, in addition to his psychic gifts, also specialized in curing mental illnesses and that patients from far and near sought him for help. That was easy to understand: sometimes orthodox medicine failed or hospital bills became too high. I learned that the people we’d seen in chains were violent and that, within days or weeks, the lucky ones would leave, recovered.

As we entered Umaru’s office/consulting room/library and prayer room, I was numb with a mixture of fear and curiosity. I also hoped that this old man, in the middle of this remote African hamlet, would be able to tell us what modern science and forensics had failed to do. The room was tiny, and one corner was filled with ancient texts. There were handwritten copies of various books that were preferred by some mystics for their spiritual activities. Though the room had mud walls, it was clean and the books were arranged neatly.

We sat down on the mat across from Umaru, who welcomed us with handshakes. I wasn’t too keen to shake hands, though I had to pretend some level of joviality. I steeled myself and looked directly at the psychic. Umaru looked to be in his late sixties, slightly built, light complexioned, and obviously Fulani.

After a respectable period once we’d exhausted all expected protocols, Ahmed explained our mission, saying, Baba, we have come to seek your help to find a missing person.

Umaru assured us that there would be no problem and that he’d helped find missing persons before. The skeptic in me wanted to ask for evidence, but I thought better of it and kept quiet. He promised to give us whatever information he could discern on the matter once he knew the details.

Before proceeding, he asked for some money. I lifted my caftan to reach my pants pocket were I had my wallet, trying at the same time to make eye contact with Ahmed to get a clue of how much money would be appropriate. I hadn’t expected to be talking about money that soon. It turned out that only a token was needed. Even a small coin would have been sufficient. Ahmed brought out a twenty naira note (about ten cents) and handed it to Umaru, who took it and placed it on the floor in front of him. A pact had been offered and accepted.

Umaru asked us to join him in prayers. He mouthed some invocations I’d heard before, and others I wasn’t familiar with. After a while, he stopped and stretched his hand to lift an ancient table clock I hadn’t noticed before. It was red, probably handmade, and certainly hadn’t told the correct times in decades. It was obviously a remnant from the days when everything that signified quality in this part of the world carried the proud badge Made in England, unlike today’s bland Made in China.

I may have been trying to escape the reality of the moment because I began to think about the red clock’s workmanship. At least the Chinese armada hadn’t yet reached this hamlet, I reflected, then quickly corrected myself when I realized that the motorbike we’d ridden here was Chinese. And we certainly weren’t the only ones who rode Chinese-made bikes there, though a decade ago most motorbikes would have been Yamahas, Hondas, and Suzukis from Japan. These had been replaced by Nanfangs and Jinchengs, churned out from the vast factory China had become.

Umaru’s voice brought me back to the room. As I watched the clock with fascination, I observed that the glass was broken and the hands pointed in different directions. Umaru fiddled around with it for some time until I was beginning to think that he was just as crazy as his patients. After a few minutes, he stopped and asked for the missing person’s name.

Madeleine McCann, Ahmed replied.

If he was puzzled by the obviously foreign name, he didn’t show it. He brought out a piece of paper, a wooden pen, and ink from a small gourd, and then he wrote down the name in Ajami. This was the script in use in northern Nigeria before the British conquest in the early twentieth century. It was