Ogbonna Nnaemeka Henry

BY Ogbonna Nnaemeka Henry Dedication This piece of work is dedicated to the grace and mercies of the Almighty God who has decided to flood my life with his goodness and talent to affect my generation with my pen. Acknowledgement I wish to appreciate specially all the people who by their invaluable inputs and contributions to this work made it see the light of day. While never for once losing sight of the mercies and grace of the omnipotent Almighty God for all his benefits, I wish to appreciate my dear pastor, Pastor Joseph Inda-John for his spiritual guidance and physical support. I also appreciate my daddy, Mr Godswill Ogbonna whose sustained rod and effort watered and nurtured this prowess with the pen. May God continue to bless you and Mummy. I cannot in any way overlook the inestimable financial, logistic and intellectual input of my friend, father-figure and boss, Mr Musa Simon Reef into hoisting this feeble effort of mine. God will continue to endue and enrich you. Thank you all. Ogbonna Nnaemeka Henry. 1. ECHOES OF THE DARK Mallam Ado sat in the swank swivel chair, with his hands to his chin. Eyeing the ceiling intently, he had counted the fifty-two squares on the ceiling up to sixty-five times in the five hours he had been sitted. As his other sweaty palm lifted from the sheaf of papers that contained details of his dealings with the Ministry of Science and Technology, which had been a testimony of his otherwise transparent and careful personality, he realized that on any other day, he would have been cruising at gentleman speed in his Toyota Camry LE along the seven –kilometer road that led to his house, giving his thoughts to thanking Allah for the unbelievable blessings of making him, of all people, the Permanent Secretary of such an important Ministry. He would also probably be salivating at the thought of the treat of a meal he was sure to meet at home, thanks to his beautiful but domineering wife, Hadiza. Hadiza …….Hadiza…. Hadiza….. Mallam Ado had risen from the minnows of humble beginnings, born to a farmer father and a trader mother. In his time and place, it was difficult to believe that there were families that were deprived the basic necessities of life, given the fabulous amount that had been voted at the Senate for the all-round development of his locality, the Senate President having come from his very local government. But corruption and selfish interest had made sure the local government looked even worse with the swearing-in of Prof. Hadi Haba, their kinsman, as the number-three citizen of the country. Scholarships meant for the empowerment and education of indigent people had been hijacked by as many people whom the Board was sure to get kickbacks from, and it was in no small denomination at all. As such, families that could afford to sponsor ten people single-handedly were mostly the beneficiaries of the Scholarship programmes, which sent promising students to Scotland and Britain, depending on their fields of endeavour, and there were prospects of handing them juicy appointments in government, or in any of the multinational firms which were fast becoming a force to reckon with in the financial and stock market. All the indices of economic assessment in Birnin Gado- the roads, power supply, adequate health care, and the like in his town were suffering from serious lack and neglect. All efforts to reach the people that mattered had proved abortive, as the local government chairman and the traditional ruler, the Wazirin Gado’s collaboration in siphoning the monthly allocations to the local government was very formidable and water-tight. They always assured the ever-busy and travelling Professor that all was moving well, and in place. Any effort directed at channeling their grievances to the Senate President had to go through them, and they made sure it was properly silenced, using an organized syndicate of machinery. This reign of corruption and embezzlement continued pitiably for the four years the Professor was in office, and when he paid his first visit to his land after he failed to secure another mandate to run a second term, the tears in his eyes as he alighted from the vehicle flowed, uncontrollably. But the tears could neither prosecute both the local government chairman and the traditional ruler nor sentence them to any jail, as, knowing the fate that awaited them, they had both boarded the first flight to Cyprus and the Maldives respectively, when they heard of the termination of the Professor ’s tenure. It was in the midst of this poverty that Mallam Ado was born, and he had proved precocious in every sense. It was a surprise to everyone when he took his first step of life at nine months old, and for him, time flew very fast. By a year and a half he was already in kindergarten, and he was double-promoted to primary one by his third birthday. His father, anxious to balance his Western education with a good knowledge of the Qur ’an, quickly enrolled him in the Madarasatul, an Islamic learning centre close to their house that had a sternlooking, heavily bearded, white-robed man wielding a horsewhip, ever eager and ready to use it on anyone who disobeyed his throaty calls for order, or mis-recited the readings. His father always dreamed of the day his handsome son would stand in the podium to recite flawlessly the length of the Holy Qur ’an, and cart away the prize money for the most proficient in the National Qur ’anic Recitation Competition. As such, the sweat and stress he expended to eke out his son’s school fees from his meager farming proceeds meant little or nothing to him, as the young Ado was combining well the virtues of absolute brilliance with impeccable manners, in and out of school. By the time he was ready for his West African School Certificate Examinations, aged fifteen, his parents were in no doubt that this second son of theirs of four children was truly Allah-sent. He had already fulfilled his father ’s dream at State level, but the same corruption had denied him the five hundred thousand naira prize money. But through a sympathetic and well-to do uncle, he was able to secure the funds for his School Certificate examinations, and in one sitting he made a clean sweep of all his papers. On the day he presented his distinction-littered result to his near-illiterate father, the tears welled up in his eyes. ‘Baba, na ci jarrabawa ta’, (I passed all my papers) he said gleefully. ‘Da gaske? Mu gani’, (Is it true? Let’s see) he said in disbelief. ‘All the A’s you see near each subject mean that I scored the best possible marks in that subject’, Ado explained, clicking his fingers in joyous tension. The tears of joy trickled southward from his father ’s eyes and landed on the piece of paper on his hand, wetting them. ‘So what happens next?’ he asked anxiously. The next day, Ustaz Abdul dressed in the cleanest robe he could find, forgoing his routine weeding at the farm that morning. Soon, father and son were trotting hopefully towards the Adamu Bala Avenue that housed the office of the Scholarship board. The posh cars parked in and around the premises showed the status of the people that were found there, or rather it was meant for, and Ustaz Abdul felt intimidated. The grim-looking official they met at the reception regarded their humble appearances with some disdain, doing a good job of thoroughly sizing them up, before slowly lifting a fat finger that pointed to the left. ‘The last office’, the words tumbled out nonchalantly and fast. The cold, purified air from the air-conditioner hugged and welcomed them, and it was a refreshing change from the stiff heat of the humid northern morning. But it was in sharp contrast to what emotions the fat, muggy, and neckless man that sat behind the polished mahogany desk had for them, and he did little to hide it after discovering with disappointment, their indigent status, from their appearance. ‘Good morning, sir ’, father and son greeted in unison. ‘Can I help you?’ Ado fiddled with his bag and fished out a folded piece of paper. ‘We came to register for scholarship’, he said. ‘My father is a poor farmer and my trader mum is even sick. They can hardly afford to feed us, and I need to study Aeronautic Engineering in Scotland. See, I made all my WAEC papers, and my birth certificate , certificate of origin, and other particulars you might want to see are all here’, he dropped in the best English accent he could muster, as he brought out another file, hoping he had impressed the elephantine Mallam Shamsu. Pulling his bifocal glasses down to the tip of his nose, he regarded the impressive credentials before him. The sides of his nose and cheek twitched at intervals as he tried to drink in the intricate details of his result, but it was actually in a bid to find one subject or the other he was deficient in, so as to disqualify him instantly. In the cases of other applicants whom he really wanted to deal with, there would have been exchange of lively banters, and the refrigerator sitting close to Ustaz Abdul would have lost at least three or four bottles of soft drink, and it would have ended with the instant inclusion of the ward’s name in the list of beneficiaries being compiled, and of course the exchange of complementary cards which meant Mallam Shamsu would be at least a million naira or so richer from the slush contracts he was sure to get, apart from the money with which ‘his palms would be greased’, which was also no less substantial. Finding no ground to disqualify the young Ado, his conscience stung him without mercy because he knew there was no way this ‘nobody’ could ever make that list, even with his faultless result which boasted of more than what was required for the scholarship. He was juggling between up to five people he had received varying degrees of gratification from, to make the last three names needed to complete the list of students bound for Scotland. He looked up from the document in front of him for the first time, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. There had been a frown on his face, with which he intended to intimidate them, but it had vanished as he wondered in awe what kind of genius this was, comparing his own son’s result who was about Ado’s age, in his mind, with what he was seeing. The frown resurfaced, and it was proving to be powerless against the lashing he was getting from within. It created little gullies of flesh on his forehead. ‘Return in three weeks. You have an excellent result. Insha Allah, we shall process your application, and I have no doubts you will make it’, he finally said. ‘Nagode maka. Allah ya saka da alheri’,( Thank you, may Allah favour you) the Ustaz said for the first time, stooping low. His son followed suit. ……………………………………………………………………………………… Three days later, Ado Hassan was helping his father out in the farm when a faint panting sound startled and kept him at alert. Looking up, he made out the vague figure of his friend Bamali, cantering at breakneck speed towards him. He kept wondering what could cause his slightly lame bosom friend to run so early to their farm, and the heavy thud with which he breathlessly landed as he tripped over some shrubs nearby, succeeded in lifting Ado from his thoughts. ‘I thought you applied for the Scholarship scheme for this year?’ he asked, after catching his breath. ‘Yes, and what about it?’ ‘My friend just informed me that the list has already been compiled, and concluded two days ago. He told me he made the list, and I know that he hardly had three credits in his result. I was wondering how on earth he got the scholarship, when I remembered you told me you also applied.’ ‘But I was told to come for the final verification in three weeks, and I was assured of a place on the list’, Ado said, confused. His father who had been listening attentively suggested, ‘Why don’t we go to the office and see things for ourselves?’ After fifteen minutes of hard racing, they arrived at the premises to find the place milling with people. They shuffled within the crowd to the notice board, and a quick scan of the one hundred successful applicants told Ado he had lost out. Hot tears beclouded his sight as he watched Alhajis in flowing babarigas congratulating their wards and the officials they had connived with. He didn’t know how he managed to make it to Mallam Shamsu’s office, who was just leaving his office with three or four coloured pieces of paper in his hand. His father lay flat on the floor near the door, blocking his way and heaping entreaties on him, begging him to include his son’s name. He got there and joined in, tears and mucus flooding his face as they jointly begged the embarrassed Mallam Shamsu, who knew that no miracle could ever cause Ado to be in Scotland, at least that year, even if he wanted to do anything to help. By now, a handful of people had thronged his office entrance. He simply clutched the papers along with a file to his chest, standing at the open door, as his massive frame made sure no other thing in the office was visible from the outside. ‘Me ne ne?’ Haji Shamsu?’a baritone voice suddenly boomed from the crowd. He was a simple, stately young man, not more than thirty, around six feet tall. Though humbly dressed in cheap but heavily starched white brocade with which he made a fitting kaftan, he looked important and smelt of wealth. He had Fulani slimness and artiste handsomeness, his oval face being sharpened with a pair of dark Gucci aviator sunshades. A pointed nose shot out from between the cleft of the sunshades. His hands were not left out in decoration either; on his left hand was a gold Brietling sailor wrist watch, and his right hand was decorated with another gold bracelet, and the big gleamy aitch on the keys he shook at intervals would easily tell any observer that it belonged to a 2008 Honda End of Discussion saloon car. Mallam Shamsu’s mouth moved, but sound failed him; he had nothing to say. His smitten eyes moved from the wailing and begging Ustaz to his friend, and no solution came. Alhaji Nuhu came forward. ‘Baba, ya isa. (It’s okay). I know it’s about your son, isn’t it? He wants to go to Scotland, isn’t it? Don’t worry. Let me see his result.’ ‘Subahanallahi. I didn’t even make this much when I wrote mine! Please come and see me in my office tomorrow’, he said, handing Ado his card. ‘These are the kind of people we need, to strengthen the North. Your talent and intellect must not waste, my dear. I will personally sponsor you to doctorate degree level. Have no fear, cry no more.’ Reactions at the mention of the last statement but one were spontaneous, and more pronounced than could be imagined. Mallam Shamsu’s shoulders shrunk with relief, Ustaz Abdul who had refused to be pacified looked unbelievingly up at the young man. Voices, and occasional clapping of hands applauded Alhaji Nuhu. The rest being history, two weeks later, seventeen-year old Ado was two hundred thousand feet above sea level, speeding in a Boeing 747 airplane en route the Energy Institute, Aberdeen. ……………………………………………………………………………………… Owing to his high-flying academic record, Ado did not need to go through the compulsory one-year refresher course that foreign students were often subjected to, to prove the veracity of the results they possessed. He was swiftly admitted to study Aeronautic Engineering, and even got a generous slash on his tuition fees. Alhaji Nuhu made sure he got his allowance regularly, and Ado could hardly believe his larger-than-life luck, not knowing him from anywhere, except that day at the scholarship office. Alhaji Nuhu paid several visits to Scotland on business or seminars, being a top oil magnate who was involved in the importation of refined petroleum products into Nigeria. Saying he was rich was needless; he was involved in almost every sphere of dealings in the Nigerian Stock Market. He had even promised young Ado a top managerial position in one of his firms, and his venture into politics sooner than later held even more potential for him, he had told him. One day, after a hard day at lectures, he received a call from Alhaji Nuhu. ‘Yaya gajiya?’ he asked gaily from the far end of the line. ‘Ba gajiya’, he replied. ‘I will be visiting Scotland in two weeks, so I need you to meet me at the airport’, he said casually and hung up. There was something unusual about the way he said the last sentence than struck some uneasiness into him. On the said day, he arrived at the airport thirty minutes before time, an i-Pod earpiece sticking from his ears like a white earring. He had become a music ardent in the three months he had spent in Aberdeen, and he was enjoying a soulful Jagged Edge track in the lobby of the airport, when the announcement blared from the loudspeakers. ‘We wish to welcome to Scotland, all Nigerian passengers aboard Welsh airlines, flight no WT401. We do hope you enjoy your stay, and visit again.’ He quickly moved over to the arrival section to look for his benefactor. He found him rolling a large traveling bag, chatting with a mulatto engrossedly. He didn’t even notice Ado gently collect the big bag, after failing to respond to his numerous efforts at greeting him. The discussion went on unabated, and they seemed to be talking in slangs and some unintelligible language, for he could not grasp a word of what they were saying. The uneasiness returned. ‘Prince Hotel,’ he told the cabman, as he concluded with his mulatto friend, and motioned Ado to put the bag in the boot of the taxi. On the thirty-minute drive to the hotel, he had transformed appreciably, asking about Ado’s welfare, his academics, extracting a promise from him to make no less than an upper division in his course, asking if his monthly allowance was enough for him, and such caring questions. Inside the hotel room, he unpacked the bag. Designer shirts, shoes, various textbooks he had requested for which he thought were cheaper in Nigeria, and a classy wrist watch, were Ado’s. He received the gifts with profuse thanks. ‘Thank you very much, sir ’, he said, kneeling down. ‘I have told you, I am doing my duty. No need to thank me’, he said smiling. He stood up from the bed and inched closer to him, still kneeling. Ado thought he heard a faint rustle in the closet. Ado was still admiring his Griffin naval sweat shirt and hearing Alhaji talking. ‘You see, I know you are bright and the moment I saw your result, I recognized potential. Just do your best, graduate with a good grade, and I assure you the sky is your platform’, he said smoothly, his hands already running over his face and cheeks. Taking advantage of the unsuspecting Ado, he gently eased him onto the bed. The door of the wardrobe burst open and two hefty, halfclothed men jumped out. The red lights flashed in Ado’s head on sighting the men, just as Alhaji Nuhu made to pull off his tee-shirt. In the split second he was blinded, he had gotten up from the bed and pushed the Haji hard. He hit the refrigerator with the side of his head, giving him a bad laceration which wept of blood. The two men made for him immediately. Alhaji’s intentions dawning on him, painfully, he braced himself for the worst. The sight of the bare, pulsating chests and thick biceps of the knicker-clad men, and the naked lust in their eyes gave his heart a jump, and he assessed the threemetre distance to the door. Could he make it? In his three months at Aberdeen, he had seen a lot of action movies, and he never thought he would have to make use of some self-defence tactics. The first man charged at him, and got a right hook on the ribs from his powerful hands for his effort. He flattened, wincing in pain. The second made a crying dive for him to which he ducked, and as the man landed painfully on his belly, Ado brought his foot down hard on his neck, and sent him to a temporary death. Alhaji stood motionless at a corner, as Ado got safely to the door, and looked back. ‘I am disappointed in you. I pay so much for you. I lifted you from the gutter from where you would have had no hope of rising, had you not met me. You have a bright future waiting for you, and I ask for a little fun and you deny me? Ask your conscience, are you being fair to me? Who in Nigeria do you think can sponsor you this far, for free? You can as well pack your baggages and go back to that slum you came from, if you insist on refusing to lay with me, for I will not put a dime into your education anymore.’ His earpiece already in his ear, he slammed the oak door shut and raced down the stairs, and out of the building. Head still spinning, he trudged listlessly along Poker Street. So this was the reason this man was unbelievably good to him? So he could have a gruesome threesome with him? But he knew he could as well kiss goodbye any dreams he had, for all hope of continuing his education had crumbled in his mind’s eye. Should he go back, apologise and accede to his request? Was it worth it? Islam had deep-seated condemnation for homosexuality, and his father was a custodian of such. What would he tell his father? These thoughts and others were vying for prominence in his mind, until he didn’t notice a blue Lincoln Navigator jeep honking for him to quickly cross the road. Moving at a high speed, the driver had already hit him before he realized his brakes had failed. He landed unconscious near the side of the road, blood trickling from his mouth. The driver was a Nigerian, and a Muslim from Borno state. He came to a few hours later, to the relief gasps of four or five people monitoring him, including the doctor. His eyes rolled upwards and shut again, and when it opened minutes later, there was a lovely female face among his sympathizers. The sight of her thrilled him, and he liked what he saw. That was how he got married to Hadiza Ahamed, whose father compassionately helped him finish his programme, and with his formidable clout, secured him a place with the Ministry Of Science and Technology. With a sheer dint of hard work, he rose in less than seven years to Permanent Secretary. …………………………………………………………………… Hadiza, Ado’s wife, made heads turn anywhere she went, and she belonged to that class of women who knew what they possessed, and felt no man deserved them. True to her feelings, she was blessed with the best proportion, shape and complexion of every imaginable feminine body part. Therefore it was no surprise that Ado, who had now added the title of Mallam to his name, adored and worshipped the very floor she stepped on, and the very fact of her father ’s instrumentality to his present status made his situation precarious. It was thus very easy for her to get whatever she wanted from him, without asking twice. She decided what she wanted, how she wanted it, when she wanted it, and of course got it. Practically and unfortunately, she ruled the home, and Mallam Ado’s say in the day-to-day running of the house was reduced to advisory and suggestive. She never had to raise her voice or anything of the sort to have her way. She only had to roll her lovely eyeballs at him, and like one charmed, he would capitulate to her whims without a word. Such was the magic wand she had over her husband, and she made full use of it. She decided on how many children she wanted to have, and the question of getting more wives, which was Mallam Ado’s right as a Muslim, did not even arise, as he was too obsessed with her, for age after age, she remained and even improved on her spotless Shuwa Arab beauty. Their ten-year old daughter, Hauwa, was even beginning to toe the same line, sporting a ravishing shock of jet-black hair that tapered a good distance down her back. It was soon time for her to begin her secondary education, and Hajiya Hadiza, as usual, had her plans for her daughter. ‘Honey, where do we send Hauwa for her secondary school? You know she is of age. I know a good one, El-Hameed Demonstration Secondary School. It is owned by a former state governor. They take their students in air conditioned Coaster buses. Good facilities and nice curriculum, fit for our princess’, she purred in her soft, cat-like voice that rammed a million jitters down the Malam’s back. He regarded her for a while. ‘I am thinking of Al-Zhuna International. They have excellent facilities and teachers’, he answered. ‘You are a Permanent Secretary in the Ministry. How can you allow your daughter to attend such a wretched school? My daughter will never attend that glorified primary school’, she said with a tone of finality, rolling her large eyeballs and turning the other way on the king-size bed. ‘Do you know how much they pay in that school? More than three hundred thousand naira. How much is my salary as a civil servant? Have you forgotten we have Habubakar to cater for? I can’t understand why you are so insensitive and elitist. I have no such money to spend on secondary education alone.’ That discussion marked the beginning of more than two weeks of persistent nagging from Hajiya Hadiza, and his pleas of insufficient funds for such a venture fell on the dead and deaf part of his wife’s ears. He knew what he had to forgo if he was to stand his ground on this decision- his wife’s beautiful, heart-piercing smiles whenever he pleased her, sumptuous dishes, and of course his right of conjugation, and his wife knew he could not hold on for long, as always…………………………………. He did not know he had spent the whole night thinking, without eating or leaving his seat. The shrill ringing of his BlackBerry mobile phone, consistent knocks on the door by the security man to check if there was still anyone remaining in the office, did nothing to lift him from the travel his whole being had embarked on. It was the axing of the locked office by plain clothes operatives of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission that brought him back to the present, the table and the papers being covered in a mess of tears and sweat. He was immediately handcuffed and led away. His wife was not even present at the hearing of his case two weeks later. The courtroom was moderately populated, and the magistrate wasted no time in treating his case. His father-in-law had managed to help him secure the services of a lawyer, who tried to argue to the best of his ability in Mallam Ado’s defence. But the evidence was too glaring, and as a first timer in the embezzlement act, he did not cover his tracks well. The prosecution counsel produced his facts, and marshaled his arguments faultlessly. He knew he was done for when the judge’s voice boomed his sentence: ‘I hereby sentence you, Mallam Ado Buba to five years imprisonment for conspiracy and defrauding the State to the tune of twenty million naira, without the option of fine, and with hard labour.’ His face fell. As soon as the pronouncement was made, at the last seat in the room, a handsome young man planted a kiss on the cheeks of a fair, tall woman, and the rich long hair that ran well down the back of the lady was an eyesore as they were the first to leave, hands interlocked. 2. MY BELLE OOO, MY HEAD OOO It was evening, and Andrew was sitting on a long wooden bench, bare-chested, with just a wrapper round his waist, fanning himself laboriously with a knitted hand fan. The heat in the two-room apartment he lived with his wife and three children was a little comparable to an oven, and he knew unless the weather condition improved in the next few hours, he was likely to spend the entire night outside. Some minutes later, his wife, Angela, joined him on the bench, similarly dressed, drenched to the skin in sweat, and as she tried to snuggle close to him, he shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He was familiar with this trick of hers, and was not going to be fooled, not this evening at least. He knew she wanted to make a request. On other days, he knew she would rather bear the killing heat in the apartment than share his bench, and the quarrels they had been having in the past few weeks made matters worse. He was determined to pretend no one was sitting close to him. He surveyed his environment as the late afternoon faded into dusk. Why did God create him a poor man, poor as this? He watched two boys in dirty brown pants which scarcely covered their scanty sensitive regions rolling an old motorcycle tyre past him, without a care in the world. The colour of the pants blended well with their brown skins, and the holes on it made it look like some fine artwork on their buttocks. Directly on the point where there was the line separating their butt cheeks, there was a large hole, among others, making it look like the hole was created forcefully and deliberately by the proceeds of either defecation or gas. At a point, they stopped, regarding themselves closely. One of them looked at his mate, and smiling broadly, started smacking off the phlegm that ran freely down his nose and smote his friend with it. Knowing what was to follow, he quickly took to his heels, and of course hotly pursued and out of eyeshot. Andrew’s attention was then drawn from this by the deafening bass of pounding from the room close to his. Mama Joke had commenced the evening cooking, he immediately realized. The sound of that unmistakable mortar evoked memories of village life, and he regretted to the minute that the life he was living now in this slum was no better than what came to his mind. He was just beginning to brood about his misfortune of a life. Something smelly and liquid flowed on his bare back. It came first slowly, and then with more force. When he turned, he saw a little boy on the floor above theirs, baring gums that had less than three teeth, unclothed, and enjoying himself. He was simply speechless with anger, and was going into a fit. ‘What have I done, O Lord, to deserve this kind of life? WHAT HAVE I DONE?’ He shouted when he finally found his voice. The effusive begging of the mother of the child could not even pacify him, and it had to take a combined team of the father and several neighbours, with spirited pleas, to get him to go to the nearby general shanty they used as a bathroom to wash off the urine. He, with hate in his mind brewing about his life, braved the early evening heat and dashed into his room and threw himself on top of the now one and half inch-thick mattress in the inner room. Even in his state of hot anger, he was sane enough to lay on the bed carefully, so as not to fracture a bone, had he flung himself on it the way he used to when it was bought two years ago. The depleted mattress had been the subject of a heated argument between him and his wife a week ago, and he felt good with himself to have found reason enough to meander out of his wife’s demand to replace it immediately. Hands on his head, he thought long and hard about himself. He had come a long way, and little or nothing was there to show for it. Ever since he was booted out of Dama Exploring Nigeria, an oil and gas firm where he had a plum job as a chief driver, for diverting fuel meant for their fleet of Toyota Hilux vans, things had taken a steady downward turn for him. He wished he never knew Doyin, his colleague who had introduced him into the racket. Sadly, Doyin was still in the employ of Dama, and it made him want to kill him each time he remembered it. The incident was still fresh in his memory. That day, he had closed from work for the day and was about going home. Stepping out of his office and into the well-tiled compound, he had noticed a strange animal jumping about the compound. On close observation, the spiky scales on its body matched than of an idiot. From his little knowledge of animals, he was sure that part of the country was not its natural habitat. Curious, he moved towards it to capture it, but it made an energetic leap, and landed more than three feet away. Two more leaps brought it to the loading bay where trucks were supplying gasoline to their underground storage system. His subordinate, Doyin, was supervising. ‘A-a’, Doyin, are you still here?’ Andrew asked, ignoring the idiot that had made a huge leap across the high fence, sat on it a few seconds, and bidding the compound goodbye by dropping a surprisingly large load of excreta on the interlocking tiling. On sighting his boss, Doyin knew what ye was doing could not be hidden any more, and prayed his eyes would not wander. A guilty look appeared on his face, and lingered. He gave the truck driver a conspiratorial look for a split second, and lowered his eyes, the liquid fuel gushing into the pit under enormous pressure and creating a gas film just above the large hole. Ten seconds later, whatever God he prayed to for secrecy decided to give him away, for the supply to the pit suddenly stopped, and there was still a gushing sound somewhere in the compound. He didn’t need to walk far before realizing the reason for the defeated look he saw in Doyin’s eyes. Fitted out of eyesight behind the 33,000 litre capacity truck was a large blue plastic drum, and the product was also being fed into it. He gauged the drum and found it could contain roughly five thousand litres of petrol. ‘Oga, I no come here to look people face o. From today wey you don know, we go dey arrange your egunje give you. But if you wan join, you fit.’ She emo,’ he ended in Yoruba, winking at his boss. Doyin’s impunity awed Andrew, and he watched his junior officer, mouth agape. The shock was heightened when Doyin brought out a fat wad of one thousand naira notes and shoved it his way. The temptation was too much for Andrew, who, though handsomely paid, was never content with his position in life or where he was, and always sought the wrong means to any end. He remembered having being severally warned by his now late parents, and wished he had never collected that money. But he had snatched it greedily from Doyin and stuffed it into his pocket. Having been initiated into the racket, it had become a weekly affair, and in connivance with the truck driver, they continuously diverted petrol and made brisk business. The records of the transactions, thanks to Andrew’s position, were always watertight and nothing was suspected. There was always ready market for it, and in no time Andrew had erected a comfortable three bedroom flat in a secret part of town. He had also taken delivery of a Honda Academy, which he drove only to church, and never to work. Life was jolly good for him, and because he had money flowing in, he rarely spent his salary. Within that time, he had started having an affair with a certain woman, even though he was already married, and never knew Doyin was also seeing the same woman. When Doyin got to know, he knew he couldn’t confront his boss on such a matter. He thus secretly plotted to have his pound of flesh, and the opportunity presented itself one Monday evening. For some reason, he had told the team he wasn’t going to be around for the evening’s round of diversion. He made sure everything was in place before alerting the General Manager of what was going on. Thus when they were caught in the act, Andrew didn’t need to go to the office the next day to be given the humiliation of his life. As if fate had bad plans for him, he got home one afternoon a few weeks later to find his wife and four children wailing in front of the burnt and blackened rubble that used to be his house. He knew the game was up when he rushed to the garage behind the house to find his car also consumed in the same inferno. The garage was not spared, too. Neither having any questions to ask nor knowing where to go, they had immediately relocated to the village. While there, the evil and diabolism which had given his town so much notoriety, had claimed his first son, whom just developed a fit of coughing, slumped and became limp and cold before their very eyes one afternoon. He had thus scraped everything he had in the world to make sure they left the squalor and savage living of the village. So here they were in this dinghy two roomed apartment, Andrew doing menial labourer jobs to eke a living for his family…….. His mind returned some six hours later to the present, and he looked at the ramshackle wall clock nailed to the sandy wall with the aid of a small Tilley lamp. He saw the minute-hand at ten, and the hour-hand closer to five than six. The second hand travelled forward three seconds, and went backwards four, again and again. Realizing the futility of relying on it for the time, he stepped over John, his son, to reach for his shirt on the hanger. The wrist watch he wanted from the shirt had long stopped, and he became frustrated. He looked out of the small window of the room and saw the sun just coming up in the far horizon. He quickly put on his only trouser, a three-holed singlet, an oversize white shirt and an old, faded Kangol cap. Not intending to wake anyone, he gently tip-toed to the door, over his three children scattered on the floor, deep in sleep. When he got to the door out of his room, he saw what proved to be a bad start for his day. He did not have a kobo to leave for his wife that day, and in fact he had not for the past three days. His wife, determined to extract either the money or a fight that morning, had taken a position strategically by the door. In fact, to go outside, he had to cross over her. As he watched her lying on the Ghanaian mat, her chest heaving up and down in peaceful breathing, he decided to try his luck. Moving carefully forward, with his footwear in his hands, he was thankful he had ordered that the torn carpet on the floor be burnt the previous week, for his movement was as soundless as he wanted it. He pushed his fortune further and got near her without any mishap. When he opened the torn and dirty curtain and made sure the crafty woman had not pocketed the door key or hid it anywhere, he thanked the high heavens and as noiselessly as he could, turned the key in the lock, and it responded with a light click. He opened the door a crack. He then lifted the first foot to cross over her. It was successful. The mosquito that gave him away couldn’t have chosen a better time to strike, for it quietly flew to the nape of his neck, and stuck its mandible deep into his flesh. He couldn’t help slapping his neck, and the reward was a disaster. The second leg was already half-way gone, but not out of the reach of Andrew’s agile wife who quickly grabbed it, and he crash-landed in his bid to get away. By the time he was up, she had already tied him by the shirt and pulled him back into the house. ‘You must give me money for food today or kill me,’ she said, tightening the grip on his shirt and choking him. ‘Leave me alone, woman’, he warned, hot and angry tears clouding his sight. ‘You will kill me first’, she retorted. ‘I will do that’, he replied. One, two, three, four slaps followed in quick succession and his shirt became free. His wife, Angela, was the recipient. Crying loudly from a torn mouth and the sharp pain on her cheeks, she groped around for a weapon, but found none. By the time she came out from the inner room wielding a large butcher ’s knife, he had already run out to the full glare of neighbours and passers-by, and bowed his head in shame as he negotiated the bend that led him out of the street. Her cries and curses followed him in his mind, and sat deep. ……………………………………………………………… Andrew sat under the neem tree that served as the meeting point for most labourers in his part of town. The day was just like others: uneventful. There were three or four other people near him, bemoaning the fact that nobody had looked their way, even though it was past one o’clock in the afternoon. Andrew opened his thick lips and formed a big ‘O’ in a long, tired and hungry yawn, and in five seconds, the three muscular men around him had all done the same. They looked at themselves knowingly, and shook their heads in regret, and half-smiled. In each of the four minds that afternoon, one thing was common: life was the unfairest thing that had ever happened to them. Each travelled down memory lane to the circumstances that had brought them to where they were, and were oblivious of the hustle and bustle of the ever-busy Christy Essien Igbokwe junction. A Toyota Prado jeep stopped and honked. Four of them dashed to the young gentleman, who simply slid the windows down automatically, dropped a handful of complimentary cards, and in a moment the windows had gone up, the powerful tyres screeching away. The issue of accurately reading what was written there caused a little rift, but they all came to an agreement and resolved to meet at the venue the next day. It was some blocks away, the site of the construction of a new hotel. Andrew was in high spirits as he leisurely strolled the one kilometer distance to his house. At least, with this impending job, he was sure of two thousand naira on daily basis, for upwards of the next five or six months. He knew the site in question; it was a widely talked about project. The owner had spent many years overseas before returning to settle in the country, he had been told. Angela……..he loved that woman, no doubt, and he knew she loved him too. He knew that the quarrels they had been having had only one cause, which was money, and he was determined to make up for the shabby treatment he gave her, in front of their young children. He wondered how she was feeling now, and about him, and felt sorry for her. He remembered the short-lived days they had shared happy moments, and bit his fingers, cursing whatever force or fate that had put him in this beggarly state. He would go back to her, apologize to her on his knees, promise her everything will be alright soon, before breaking the good news of what had transpired. Three bends before he got home, he turned off to the left, the direction of his friend’s house. When he got there, he knocked repeatedly. ‘Oshez, I need five thousand,’ he said urgently to his friend, who was a trader in the town’s main market. Andrew’s friend regarded him for a moment, still at the door, and noticed an unusual twinkle in his eyes. He opened the door a little wider to accommodate him. At ten that morning, Angela stepped in to the house to find her three children sleeping wildly, in a variety of positions. Their young, innocent faces were contorted in apparent pain, as if replicating their true-life ordeal in dreamland. Knowing painfully that they had hardly eaten anything reasonable since the previous day, she dropped the polyethene bag she had returned with, and proceeded to adjust their lying positions. The concrete floor on which they were sleeping was bare save for the torn wrapper they were sleeping on, and the floor was even bumpy and had holes in so many places. When Andrew came into her life some twelve years ago, though he didn’t have much, but he had held so much promise, and this was hardly the kind of life she had envisaged. She loved him, and had never stopped, but this suffering was too much. She had thus fallen into the arms of Leonard, a young hunk of a guy who had a heavy wallet. Being fairly young and reasonably beautiful, it was not difficult to attract his attention, and of course the benefits of her association with him were not little at all. She was a little surprised and happy that Andrew either did not, or pretended not to notice the little changes in her appearance, hair, and face. She sometimes felt a pang of guilt at her doings, but her mind became steeled when she remembered Andrew’s condition and his irresponsible attitude towards his manly duties. Her whole being became charged up with fury when she remembered this morning’s episode. Andrew, slapping her on top of failing in his responsibilities? Three days earlier, she had a quarrel with Leonard who thought her demands were becoming too much, compared to the amount of time they spent together. Immediately Andrew left the house, she had gone to Leonard’s, made up, and after a bout of physical satiation, he had parted with a handsome amount, but not before extracting promise from her to follow religiously the rooster they had both drawn, for the time and venue of their meetings. ‘Andrew will know me,’ she said to herself, as she adjusted the legs of Joy, her last child. Thus, she set to work, preparing a good meal out of the wares she bought from the market, turning thoughts over in her mind. Her thoughts switched from her relationship with Leo, the unpardonable sin she knew she was committing, and was not ready to desist from, how long and far she had come with life, and so many others. As the tears streamed to her ducts, it coincided with the cleaning of the stomach parts of the large chicken. Somehow, the green liquid seeped out of its glands, unknown to her. When she finished, she drained the pot of soup of every imaginable piece of meat, and scooped them into a secret plate. Andrew was not having any share in this meat. She would make sure of that. She then dished the portions meant for three of her children. From the inner room, she could not mistake the shuffling of feet. Her face crumpled into a scary frown as Andrew stepped into the room, bearing the suya and delicacies he had bought for his wife and children. With beaten eyes, he removed his slippers, and went to sit beside her on the slim layer of a mattress. She turned away, propping her legs up and resting her back on the wall. ‘I’m sorry, Angela’, Andrew said, looking directly at the side of her oval face. She started sobbing, drawing in phlegm into her well chiseled nostrils at intervals. Taking cue from having broken her, he drew her into his arms. ‘I will never lay hands on you again, I swear. I promise you. You know I will give my life for you. I was just a little under pressure. Things will surely get better, and we will stop living this way. I am sorry, once again,’ he pleaded further. Her sobs picked tempo, and Andrew, equal to the task, did his job, which graduated from comforting her, to far beyond it, and did it well. Ten minutes later, she was moving in and out of the room, setting his food. In it was two large pieces of meat. ‘I secured a job today’, he told his wife gaily as he swallowed his first bolus of fufu. We will have enough money for ourselves for the next six months at least. So when I tell you it has started getting better, you had better believe me’, he said, enjoying the meal. ‘Wooooow! Is that so? O Praise God’, she shouted. There was first a surprised look on his face, which deepened into horror as his pupils dilated and rolled into an unnatural part of his eye. He clutched at his stomach, and as he fell to his right, a round, brownish ball of fufu rolled through his teeth and out of his gaping mouth, followed by a mass of saliva, and then blood. His wife rushed to him, called him twice. No response. She took his wrist and gripped it for a second. No pulse. Her loud scream woke all of her three children. 3. IRONY The hall was tense and there was pin-drop silence. The tall invigilator stroked and pulled at his goatee, which marked the rallying point of a thick mass of black hair that flowed from the side of his head, while eagle eyes popping slightly out of large eye sockets scanned the length and breadth of the hall, praying to set an example with some scapegoat. The sound of the sixteen whirling ceiling fans took their place as the singular sound that could be heard in the whole hall, while more than two hundred and fifty candidates buried their heads in the question paper, struggling against all odds to supply answers to the very challenging questions the West African Examinations Council had decided to punish them with that year. Ekene, a part one student of the First City University looked up from his script for the first time in two hours, after tidying up the simultaneous equation that brought the total number of questions he had answered to the required five for the first section. Mathematics was always a scare to many students Ekene’s age, but he always wondered what the big deal about it was, and even took personal pleasure in solving ambiguous mathematical problems. It was thus little or no wonder that at eighteen, he had already gained admission by merit to study Statistics at First City. It was the first Semester holidays, and he had seen his result before leaving for the break: it was a record-breaking 4.89 GPA. He had parents who were more than comfortable. His father was a retired investment banker who had set up his own private practice, and his mother was a top diplomat with the Nigerian Embassy to Belgium. With the promise of going to stay permanently in any country of his choice in Europe being the least of the promises made to him upon his graduation with a good class of degree, Ekene had seen his future already, and being the last child of the family with four elder siblings to beat in terms of success, he always felt good with himself anytime he thought about himself. He looked at the identification section of the answer script, shook his head slowly, and smiled at himself when he saw the name on it: Chinenye Ndukwu Rosemary. Here was this girl he had fallen for, hard and fast, without any effort apart from her beauty, in fact no effort at all, passing flawlessly in a subject that had proven so difficult for her for the past two years. He was sure she would get no less than a ‘B’ in it. Rubbing his chin and pretending to rack his head for answers, he momentarily shut his eyes as pleasing thoughts of Rose streamed through his head. He had gone with his friend to the only coffee shop in their neighborhood, and while reliving the last week’s adventure, this beautiful girl had walked past them. Pinching themselves to be sure they were not dreaming, they opened their eyes to still see her sashaying her way in the distance, and the question of who among them should go for her proved to be even tougher to resolve than agreeing conclusively the planet she had fallen from. She had been so pretty. Now Ekene’s friend, Emeka, being more worldly wise, had felt he deserved her more, and had on a mutual agreement, decided to try his skills. He was overjoyed to have chanced on her one day as she was coming from the dry cleaner ’s, bearing a load of crisp, smartly ironed clothes. As usual, she was dressed in simple, elegant clothing, and her young but killing curves shot up his heartbeat, and made him lose some pounds of confidence. He managed to walk close, keeping step with her as she made to move. ‘Hello, beauty,’ he complemented, trying to make his accent sound American, but was disappointed by what he heard himself say. ‘Hi,’ she quipped, neutrally. “Slow down………I just want to get to know you……never seen anything so lovely……….but though turn around……and bless me with your beauty…..” he started singing, smiling, mimicking the moves and charisma of Bobby Valentino, the original owner of the song. When he noticed her naturally red lips break into a smile, his confidence soared. She took the next bend, and he followed. ‘My name is Emeka, by the way, and I would really like to make your acquaintance, possibly see how we could go from there. You see, you will really enjoy being with me. I could draw up a week long plan of how to make you feel good. My father is a top management staff with the Capital Development Authority, and I don’t need to explain further what that means. But just in case I need to, his position affords him the opportunity to get fabulous kickbacks from contractors, and some he imposes on them the way he likes. One construction company once offered to construct a bullet-proof house for him in Obe, in return for a five-year contract for maintaining all the roads in this state. He also gets to travel overseas at will, and I only just returned from France three days ago. My mum is the senior special assistant to the Minister of Petroleum Resources, so we are pretty comfortable. Do I need to tell you that every girl in this estate wants me? Of course not. But just for the records, I was beginning to grow tired of them all, when out of the blues you appeared. In fact, I have a get-together with the governor ’s son and his friends at the Government House this evening by five. Wanna come?’ he finished, and took a deep breath. ‘Before you answer, can I have your contact?’ he chipped in, and his fair, smooth, diamond-ringed hand dipped into his jeans pocket to produce a gleamy black Samsung Grand. He thrust it at her. ‘My name is Rose, and I am happy to hear all that you reeled out. I will think about being friends with you. As for my contact, I am sorry I don’t have a phone yet. But say hi to your friend Ekene for me’, she dropped, and at the mention of the last statement, Emeka could feel his head swirling around him, like he had been in a speeding centrifuge. So she knew him? He stood rooted to the spot, and the girl he had been talking with did not even glance back. He had been there more than twenty seconds before realizing that they were just a few metres from Rose’s compound gate. It dawned on him that that day had been a disaster when a black Range Rover HSE Sport glided out of a huge gate nearby, and the well endowed female driver which turned out to be her mother drove close to him, slowed, gave him a menacing up-and-down look, and vented her disapproval on the throttle as she blew away into the distance and out of the estate. …………………………………………………………………………………… Ekene eased in to the present very gently, and noiselessly. His eyes opened to fall on the invigilator doing his routine identification checks, in preparation for the end of the paper. He was not afraid of this, neither had he for once spared a thought for how he could possibly spend twenty one years in jail should he be caught for examination malpractice. In fact, he had been doing it countlessly, impersonating in examinations for his friends who were less academically endowed, sometimes for money, and at other times for the kick of it. He had handed so many people admission into the university on a platter of gold, and the people who had acquired flawless School Certificate results courtesy of him were legion. As such, he always knew how to wangle his way out of any difficult situation, and whenever things got messy, his athletic and trim frame was always there to the rescue. He had one thing to his advantage: the new policy of embossing passport photographs on question papers and answer sheets had not taken effect yet. Confidently, he perused the answer script to effect last-minute corrections, and to cross-check his calculation results. Calculators were not allowed, but his brain was more than a match for one. ‘Young man, can I see your answer script?’ the invigilator had reached him. He looked up, and this man’s face was really intimidating. Innocently, he handed it to him. Being a mathematics lecturer, this was the first script he had perused that contained all the questions correctly and accurately answered. Overtly impressed, but not willing to show it, he looked intently at Ekene. He got nervous. ‘Have I not made it abundantly clear that everyone should write his or her name on the question paper? Will you do that now, before I penalize you?’ he boomed, still holding the answer script. Ekene didn’t know what was happening to him. He had never felt this way before. He put his pen to the question paper, and had written E-K-E-N-E before realizing his folly, but it was too late. The invigilator had quickly compared both answer script and question paper, discovered the contradiction and raised alarm. The armed mobile policeman was already approaching from the other hall. Ekene knew he had to choose between twenty-one years in jail or doing something fast, in the split second that remained. As he shot up from his seat, he made his head deliberately hit the chin of Mallam Uba, who was leaning over him to secure him before the policeman got to him. The Mallam screamed as two front teeth clattered lightly on the floor. All eyes immediately forgot about the daunting mathematics questions and focused on the unfolding drama. Grabbing his answer script and question paper, the other candidates were treated to a long-jump display as Ekene stretched his long, practised legs and got to the nearby door in one large bound. He looked back to see Mallam Uba groaning as he clutched his bleeding nose and mouth. The policeman cocked his pistol and charged at him, just as he reached the door. He managed to knock the heavy gun off his hands, and made for the staircase. ‘Stop, or I shoot!’ He was on the railing, with his arms raised in mock-surrender. He judged the height of the building, and wondered the extent to which he would be injured if he jumped. The policeman advanced, and released the safety catch. He had already decided he couldn’t start life all over at thirty-nine. He jumped. It took him ten seconds to greet the floor, and the ongoing construction of new classroom blocks on the ground floor made his landing easier and softer. He had chose the part that had some large volume of sand, in addition to some good landing skills he had learned. But he yet got a fracture on his thigh, and the policeman, who was a bad marksman, knew he stood no chance at nailing him, though he fired some two or three in consequential shots downstairs. Ekene limped away to safety, and later paid someone to submit the script on his behalf. On that same day, a month later, he had gone in the company of Rose to a cyber café to check her results. She got distinctions in all her papers, and a credit in Mathematics. The next year, it was time for the Universities Matriculation Examinations and Rose had, of course, chosen First City. The executor was of course Ekene, again, who was now friends with not only Rose, but her sisters and parents as well. They were drawn to his intelligence and soft ways, so her parents loved him, and he was welcome to their house at any time, as against the standing rule that no male visitor was allowed to visit the house on any account. Though her parents never knew of Ekene’s role in the academics of their daughter, they had come to accept him as a part of the family, and he had blended well. The relationship was of course strengthened when they discovered the noble status of Ekene’s family, and soon both families began to exchange visits and gifts. Ekene performed what he was known for, and literally blazed the trail in Rose’s Matriculation examinations, grossing a whooping 370 out of a possible 400. When it was time for the Post-Matriculation examinations, he repeated the same feat; though this time he could not do the physical writing due to the sophisticated security arrangements, offering logistical help from outside. As such Rose only shaded the options that were sent to her from her ‘raw materials research and development department’, and the net result was that she far surpassed the cut-off mark for her department, and made the first list of entrants into the Faculty of Sciences that year. Now Ekene was a very handsome boy, tall and well built, and to cap his physical features, he was more intelligent and smarter than his twenty years of existence. His cumulative GPA was inching towards 4.95, as he just got better and better by the semester. On that account, he had a lot of lecturers and professors as friends, who regularly advised and coached him at intervals, and even took him along to functions. A contingent of the United Nations team had already interviewed him, holding statisticians in very high esteem, and, confident he would not fall below a second class upper division on graduation, had shortlisted him, requesting he join them immediately after the mandatory one year National Youth Service programme. Life could not get any better for him at the moment, and he adored his girl Rose. Expectedly, the girls swarmed around him like moths to a source of light, if not to share his seat during examinations, it was to have him put them through one difficult course or the other. His male friends, of course, benefitted from him in no small way, too, being comfortable four-pointers in their grade points. First City had, on the contrary, turned Rose from the respectful, sober beauty to a rough, aggressive and subtle imp. Unknown to Ekene, she had met a group of spoilt brats whose parents were top-flight politicians, and she had mixed well, laying aside her enviable manners in order not to be at the receiving end of the tantrums she was sure to receive when she declined to put on the figurehugging hipsters, take shots at heavy alcohol, or go with them to the nearby night club in the town. Academically, she depended heavily on Ekene, who had made sure she lacked nothing, and on the education of Ela, Sandra and Tomi, whose boyfriends serviced and pampered them regularly with overseas trips and exotic gifts, she regarded everything she was getting as her right, and saw nothing out of the ordinary in Ekene’s sacrifices for her. On her first day in school, he had given her the surprise of her life. ‘Hey, Rose, let’s take a walk’, he had suggested. Holding her hand tenderly, they had strolled to Feelings, the eatery reserved exclusively for those that had cash to burn. He had already made arrangements in advance with a waiter, and when they got to their reserved table, what she saw made her heart melt with love and admiration for him. Her large eyeballs which spark had now been improved with a touch of mascara, surveyed the candle-lit table, the wrapped seats, the pink background which matched the pink Mayon wine in the transparent glasses on the table. The throaty, combined and merciless voices of Boyz to Men were just rendering the chorus to ‘Water Runs Dry’ as they walked in. She thought the floor had been sprayed with confetti, pink in colour, of course. She looked at him. They sat down. He chose shrimps with stew, while she had settled for brown rice. They ate in silence, each wondering what to say to impress the other. Nothing much happened over the date, except Ekene’s hand which reflexively strayed to Roses’, back and again. When they were through, she said a brisk ‘thank you for the meal’, and followed him out. ‘Crooner Close’, Ekene told the cab driver as he braked to a halt. They hopped in. Once in a serene part of the environment, he motioned the driver to stop as they approached a marble duplex. Rose was quick to notice the shiny tiling on the floor, the well-trimmed lawn, and the general aesthetics of the compound. ‘Is this your house?” she asked inquisitively. ‘Wait and see’, he dropped. She could hardly believe her eyes when they entered the room. The large oblong room was covered with a thick blood-red carpet, and two large leather sofas faced her directly. On one side of the wall, a Sony Bomba melody set, complete with woofers, stood imposingly, the demo lights glittering in the evening under a pencil-slim Sony DVD player. Directly above it, fastened to the wall, was a thirty-inch Sony Bravia plasma TV set. She melted when she saw, just next to it, a pencil-sketch replica of herself that made it look like a mirror was there. By her right, a twenty-inch mattress stood, near the wall. ‘I paid two years in advance for you’, he said, fishing out the door keys from his pocket, and handing it to her. ‘Your neighbours are out; you will get to meet them later ’. Weak with joy and gratitude, she collapsed into his arms. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you’, was all she could say, and he smiled knowingly. Suddenly, she made an energetic tug at Ekene’s shirt, and the six innocent buttons could not help falling apart and to the floor helplessly. Better than a practised shot-putter, she flung him far to the bed. He thought she had become mad, but relaxed when he got to know her real intentions. ###################################### Two days later, Ekene was returning from lectures and felt so hungry. In the company of two of his closest friends, they had gone into the eatery close by and ordered food. Discussing the day’s business heatedly over the food, it took a generous slap on Ekene’s back from a fellow customer to make him realize that the slim attendant had been referring to him for the past five minutes. ‘Dat man say make I collect money from you for him food,’ she said, curtseying while pointing in the direction of three heavily-built men not too far away. She trembled a little. The first man was in sky blue combat jeans that had no less than eight pockets, scattered in various shapes, and the tee-shirt he wore covered only about a quarter of his thick biceps, which fair skin held the tattoo of a large tiger head. His eyes had dark shades on them, and though he had good facial features, it was in a tough sort of way. Jutting straight out of the side of a black Kangol cap was a thin, crisp line of darkened hair which joined his chin in a sharp ‘L’ shape. The sharp contrast between the dark hair and reddened fair skin on his face was something of an eyesore, and it provided room for a shady guess of the handiwork of a bleaching cream. Together with his friends, which looked no less frightening, they chatted away over the mounds of salad and eggs they had ordered, never once looking in their direction. He assessed what they had ordered, and knew it was not less than three thousand naira. One of them mentioned something funny, and they burst into roary laughter that made at least thirty heads turn their way. Ekene refused to be intimidated. ‘What do you mean, who?’ he asked, pretending not to see them. Asama’u pointed again. ‘I don’t know him’. He would forever regret that statement, for no sooner had he uttered it, than two sharp punches from nowhere stung him in the back, and all he ate came out and made a mess of what was remaining on his plate. Ekene’s two equally well built friends rose to the occasion, but were given diagonal designs on their backs with the knife, that would remand them in the hospital for over a week. There was another kick, and the threat of a punch, and he surrendered, and was led to the counter like sheep to the shearer by five other men, a kitchen knife to his neck. He paid for their food. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the three men were still talking and laughing, never noticing them, though by now the place was completely empty. At the door, as he made to go out, a large hand stopped him, and the smokestained mouth to which the hand belonged said, ‘Capo likes your girl. This is not what we really intended, but a word is enough for the wise’…and with one kick at Ekene’s butt, he propelled him to speed out of the hall and away to safety. ‘Who is Capo?’ Ekene asked hotly. ‘Relax…….what are you talking about? I am just returning from lectures, and trust me, it was a sapping one.’ She said tiringly, throwing herself on the sofa. She reached for the remote controls for the DVD set and pressed a button. Sisqo’s long and sustained introductory scream filled the room, followed by heavy percussion which vibrated the walls a little, as he started rendering Is Love Enough. ‘Are you listening to me at all? Somachi and Bill were given knife cuts yesterday at the eatery, and the boys mentioned you’, he blurted. ‘Mentioned me?’ she asked, looking really surprised. ‘Yes! I got the beating of my life from those boys, and they even forced me to pay for their food!’ ‘Listen….i am sorry for your injuries….but you see, the truth is that I need a strong figure to protect me from these bad boys, and that, my dear, it seems, you cannot provide’. Ekene turned the music down to hear clearly. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, moving closer to her. ‘Please, try and understand…….it is not the way you are looking at it……’ He hardly realized he had smacked her face, hard. She crashed to the floor. When she slowly got up, she turned aggressive. ‘You can go to hell for all I care! You just boss me around because of this miserable house you rented for me that has no airconditioning. Do you know what reasonable guys get for their girls? Posh cars………..’ Ekene could stomach it no more. He stormed out of the room. ‘I know you don’t believe me, maybe when I say, I will always love you, but say that you love me, is love enough…………….’ Sisqo had continued, much louder this time. Ekene could not contain his hate and disappointment for himself, and when he remembered all he had done for Rose, he felt like stabbing himself. The message had been clear: he was no longer relevant in the relationship. A mental calculation put all he had spent on her at about six hundred thousand naira. Could this all go down the drain, just like that? He conferred with his friends for a way to punish her. But could he match Capo? He wanted to let everything go, but something kept telling him Rose deserved recompense. Soundlessly, a masked man reversed a Toyota Hilux van to Rose’s front door, a week later. He had made sure no one was around, and the timing had seemed so perfect. With a Master key, the room lay open before Ekene, and he began to divest the house of its contents. The television set, refrigerator, table, chair, rug, music set, all were comfortably sitted in the carrier of the van in less than thirty minutes. As he opened the driver ’s door to climb in, something stung him on the neck. Little as it was, it was surprising to note that it had spurted blood out of his mouth. He touched his neck to discover a dart stuck in his jugular vein. The minute he pulled it out, he knew he would never make it, for a vigorous gush of blood poured out, staining his shirt and shoes. He fell to the ground, and so did the van keys. Congratulating himself, the sniper climbed down from the tree nearby. He moved closer, armed with a kitchen knife. ‘I warned you’, he said as he ripped his stomach open, and continued with other body parts. 4. LIVING RIGHT ‘If you are an armed robber and bring your tithe to this church, may God punish you’, Pastor Nick boomed into the microphone as he jumped down from the altar and walked right into the audience, after reading the day’s opening Scripture. Shouts of ‘that’s right’, ‘Amen’, followed this pronouncement almost immediately. Emboldened by the urging on of his members, he went on, ‘I don’t have the conscience to collect tithe from you when I know little or nothing about you. The Bible says, ‘Shepherd, take heed of thy flock. That is why I pity these Pentecostal pastors that pride themselves in millions of church members. Do they know them all? And may I add that truth never gathers crowd. Our Lord Jesus Christ preached three and a half years and got only one hundred and twenty members. Noah preached the antediluvian destruction for hundreds of years, and could only get his family members, eight of them to believe him, yet I know of someone who has been in operation for only three months, and boasts of more than seventy thousand ‘converts’. You want to tell me a servant can be greater than his master? Is he sure he told the truth? With the kind of gospels we hear these days, I wonder. They ordain women as pastors, baptize infants, endorse marriages that are far from honourable, harbor women who wear men’s clothing, preach the doctrine of three persons in one god, and so many more which have no placing in the Scripture. But as far as this church is concerned, I was sent to tell you the truth, and that I will do without minding whose ox is gored………….’ On and on he went, dishing out as much as the anointing of the Holy Spirit gave him utterance. By the time he had served the congregation the hot gospel dish, more than three-quarters of them raced to the altar, asking for grace not to be left behind when the rapture would occur. ‘If you are worshipping with us for the first time, could you indicate by raising your hand, so we could welcome you in the name of the Lord?’ the pastor asked, mounting the pulpit after the flurry of supplication. His expressionless, large and dreamy eyes scanned the audience, a sly smile playing on his lips to reveal a well-set dentition. The hands that went up were five in number. Three sisters, and two brothers. Each stood up, introduced themselves, and it was followed by a reasonable volume of applause. They were welcomed and shook hands with as many that sat close to them. The pastor looked down at the pieces of paper, in a bid to make certain announcements, and when he raised his head to talk, he saw him still standing. He stood at about five feet seven, with a slight stoop. The striking thing about his face was his moustache, which reminded one vaguely of an Indian Hindu worshipper, else he was moderate in appearance, and had an air of an important man. The ushers had told him to sit down, but he had pretended not to hear. ‘God bless you sir, you can sit down now’, the pastor said light heartedly. ‘You all know the owner of this land we are occupying is running out of patience’, Pastor Nick said concernedly. ‘We must raise three million naira in six months to move out of this place. I therefore urge you to contribute generously to this cause, and the Good Lord will bless you richly……Deacon, have we taken our building offering? Please put your hand deep into your pockets, what you cannot add, don’t subtract’, and that smile that always disarmed aggression and endeared him to his congregation appeared again on his face. James’ hands worked the jazz drums while Brother Emmanuel gave a good account of himself on the piano, as ushers passed the bag round, receiving the offering. Bodily twists and tweaks dotted the audience as members danced to ‘Alpha, Omega, you are worthy of my praises’ for about ten minutes. Pastor Nick walked into his office, Bible in hand. He locked the door, dropped the Bible, and lay face down on the floor, paying obeisance to God for having anointed him adequately for the day’s service. He then dusted himself, cleared his table of two large books and several pieces of paper, which contained bits and pieces of announcements. He tucked them neatly into the drawer, he had hardly settled down before Brother Jesse, his deacon, came in to announce his first beneficiary of his weekly routine counseling. It was the man with the funny moustache. ‘Pastor, I enjoyed every bit of the service today, except for some points you raised’, he said, settling down to a seat and placing a large Bible on his table. ‘Oh, Brother Azu, you are welcome. I am happy you enjoyed the service. Please may I know what part of God’s word for today made you unhappy?’ ‘Are you implying by your sermon today that it is a sin for a woman to be a pastor or preacher?’ Pastor smiled wanely. ‘You see, brother, what we are talking about is the Word of God, not the word of man. It is clearly written in the Scripture, precisely in the first book of Timothy, second chapter and the twelfth verse. If you are using the authentic Bible, which is the King James version, It says, I suffer not a woman not to preach or to usurp authority from the man, but to be in silence. The reason was even given…………’ ‘That is one thing I do not like with you extremists’, Azu replied, his temper rising. Don’t you know that revelation of God is progressive? How can you come in this day of grace to say a thing like that? Let me tell you, anointing does not discriminate, and besides, in God’s eyes, we are all sons, male or female. I own a church, and I have female ministers, that are doing wonderfully well. They even pray for the sick, and they get healed, instantly………’ ‘Sir, if I may be allowed to speak, remember that when you talk of anointing, it has to be the right kind of anointing. The anointing which goes contrary to God’s word cannot be the right one. In Hebrews, the Bible says Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever. His word does not change. Do you know that Apostle Paul pronounced a curse, in Galatians, the first chapter, on anyone who says anything contrary to what he has said, under inspiration from God? You don’t understand………………’ Up and down the discussion went, and each held strongly to his point, presenting scripture quotations at intervals, though the pastor ’s seemed to hold more water. It was not until the better part of one hour that things simmered down for Brother Azu to state his reason of staying back to see Pastor Nick. ‘I need you to help me. There is this difficult deliverance case I have been handling for the past one month, and it seems to be getting worse as the days go by. It is a violent one, I must tell you. But I really want that sister to be free. Can you help me?’ he stated, relaxing back on the chair. He waited expectantly. Two days later, Pastor Nick was cruising leisurely in his cozy Nissan Altima 2.5S on his way to Jesus’ Deliverance ministries. He was not known to embark on journeys as this, unless clearly instructed by his Maker. He thought of Brother Azu and smiled to himself. Sincere as he seemed, he knew and saw how far off they were from the reality of the Christianity they professed. May God help these ones, he prayed silently. The oval shape of the right rear trafficator started winking, and seconds later, he negotiated beautifully into Obande street. From outside he could hear the combination of voices raised in prayer, and when he found his way in, there were more than eight men surrounding a young lady, whose age he put at twenty-five or so. To the right, near the altar, was a young woman in her thirties, looking like she needed something urgently from the Lord, by the way she spread her hands and was shouting at the top of her voice. Around the young girl, hands were gesticulating as mouths searched and voiced out various portions of the Bible which said she must be free. The lady jerked forwards and backwards at intervals, and when it seemed like some unseen hand had overpowered her, she flattened, mouth wide open, and though her mouth was taking in air, her abdominals made no sign of breathing. Prayer continued in earnest, and subsided a little when a sister moved into the middle of the circle, requesting space to conclude the deliverance. The woman at the altar had asked in, and she got more than she bargained for. The minute her hand, which fingers was painted blood-red, touched the head of Jane, the possessed girl, in a bid to round off the prayers, a new burst of energy seeped into her, and her eyes shot open, to the limit of the eyelids, and revealed spotless white pupil. Her hands which were slim and tender just some minutes ago, took on the shape of a man’s biceps. It was havoc time. In a matter of seconds, she was on her feet, and Jane’s hands went straight for her waist. A cracking sound followed, and the sight which accompanied it was that of her jeans trousers which had been ripped to shreds, to reveal uncovered pink and stretch-marked flesh. Her loud, guttural voice shouted, ‘YOU? DELIVER ME? YOU CAN’T!’ As the lady turned to run away, Jane immediately caught hold of her Brazillian false hair and pulled, of course making her automatically bald, for her real hair came off with it with such force that it drew blood. The next port of call was her lips, which was painted with a mixture of purple and shiny black. Holding the lady’s bloodied head fixedly, she set her long, emergency claws and prepared to tear her lips. ‘I rebuke you in the name of Jesus!’ As if something drained out her energy, Jane let go of her, and collapsed on top of the already unconscious Meg, and Pastor Nick pounced on her with a hail of prayer. The other men, who were watching from a distance, summoned up courage and returned, when they saw the pastor making slow progress. Two or three had returned with a wrapper to cover Meg, and clean up the mess on the concrete floor. Some minutes later, she had been totally subdued. ‘She is okay now’, Pastor Nick told the men reassuredly. ‘The demon was a violent one, but she is free now. God made sure of that. That lady shouldn’t have attempted coming near her, appearing like that. Demons are sensitive, and they know the Bible better than most of us. I pray it isn’t severe, the injury she sustained’. The men moped unbelievingly at the pastor. Just then, Brother Azu came in. ‘How did you do it?’ he asked, surprise mixing with admiration as he saw the peacefully sleeping Jane in a corner, and the bundling of Meg to the nearby sick bay in the compound. ‘It is God, not me, sir ’, Pastor Nick said humbly. But we must be very careful when conducting deliverances as this. You don’t defeat the enemy in his territory. That sister was badly dressed, and you need to be pure, because you have to be stronger than the strongman to subdue him………..’ ‘How was she badly dressed?’ he enquired. Just as I told your ministers, the devil knows the Bible better than any of us. He knows you are in his territory when you flout God’s laws. He knows, even better, that it is wrong for a woman to put on man’s clothing, or paint her face. He knows……………’ ‘Before we start another round of striving and arguing, can I thank you specially for your assistance?’ He said, dismissing the pastor ’s speech with a wave of the hand. ‘I am very grateful. My house is within the compound, not too far. Let me entertain you a little……’, he started, grabbing the pastor gently by the hand and gesturing towards a semi-detached bungalow adjacent them, and the wonderful sight of the house it presented was spiced up by a sleek, shiny Honda Oddyssey which peeped out at them from the half-open gate. Pastor Nick liked the house. ‘I would have loved to, but church service is in another two hours, and I need to study’, he said, hoping the brother would understand. ‘Alright, and I sure would be in your church next Sunday. I am beginning to want to know about this kind of God you talk about that is so different from what we are used to here’. Ten minutes later, he was appreciating the Almighty God for the victory he had granted him in his heart, as he eased out of the estate. Feeling good with himself, he switched on the air conditioning, and the six-loader CD player was the next gadget to serve him. The bass, but soft voice of Byron Cage filled the interior, as the side glasses slid lazily upwards. His foot began to tempt the gas pedal, and the car had no choice but to fall for it. It screamed to speed, hitting ninety kilometers per hour in less than ten seconds. How he loved this car! When he climbed the causeway that was to get him home in the next twenty minutes, the sea of brakelights he saw made him really sad, for the traffic jam stretched more than two hundred meters. The only option he had was the dirt road that passed Macaulay street, which he rarely used, but today he had no choice, if he was to get home in time for service. He quickly made the detour. The bumps and potholes which grew from little, to very large ones were the signs that announced Macaulay street, and the car was thankfully equal to the task. On and on he went, wishing the car could turn to a plane. Then he saw her. She was standing with arms akimbo in front of a large shanty, and for once he felt his frustration for the bad road melt away, and he didn’t notice that his leg had instinctively left the gas pedal of the automatic –transmission vehicle, and was inching towards the other one, the brake pedal. She excited everything within him, just as he immediately felt something massive leave his system, draining him of that usual steely power with which he often survived sights such as this. She was not skimpily dressed, but everything about her exuded a certain irresistibly inviting pleasure. To say she was beautiful did not even measure up for a description; she looked like a specimen from a human creator ’s laboratory, having perfected all, was waiting to be exhibited at some human fair. She combined, in a fascinating way, the height of a model with the physique of an A-list actress, and the pleated gown she had on not only worsened matters, but it made her unsuitable for the environment she was, for the contrast was too glaring. For once, Pastor Nick wished he was not in the Roman collar profession, for he knew nothing would have made this damsel escape him. Feeling the growth in his groin, he even smacked his lips as he remembered his hey days in the world. A large bump was his savior. The suddenness with which he sunk into it made the Altima’s shock absorbers cry out for injustice, and the pastor was jolted to himself, and became thankful his steel had returned. It was then he realized he was just inches from a nearby gutter, and that people had been screaming on him to watch out. Quickly swerving, he straightened his course. ‘Pastor pastor! Well done!’ he told himself and laughed pitiably at himself. The next time he looked at his rearview mirror, she was no longer there. The thought of that lady’s face never left his mind the whole of the service, even on his dining table later that evening. ‘Daddy could you please help me with this homework?’ Daisy, his three year old daughter asked. He playfully swept her off her feet with one scoop, and the exercise book she was holding fell to the floor. ‘Who am I to refuse my baby such a request. Go on, bring your pencil’, he said smiling, and dropped her. She tottered happily to her room. ‘Hey honey, how was your day today?’ Pastor Nick asked, balancing on the sofa beside the fair, dark-eyed beauty that was his wife. Her reply of ‘Fine’, was drowned by a shattering scream from the direction of Daisy’s room. She was holding tightly to her neck, and her eyes were rolling upwards. ‘Daddy! Mummy! Help me!’ she screamed. Her mom ran to her, and massaged her neck, yet she screamed and cried all the more. Pastor Nick, clueless on what to do, raced to his room for a bottle of anointing oil. Seconds later, he re-appeared, and what he saw frightened him. A vision broke forth, and in it, a coal-dark, naked, towering man had a large twine round his daughter ’s neck. His eyes blazed of deep far fire, and his clenched teeth leaked slightly of some red liquid. He was pulling the twine with all his strength, as his arteries and veins shone in the dark background. ‘In the name of Jesus!’ he shouted, flinging the bottle at him in rage, and it crashed against the wall, spilling its contents. His daughter stopped screaming. Her tongue had elongated out of her mouth, three times its normal length. She made some life-clinging movements, and stopped. Just as the man was leaving, his face changed from Jane’s, to the impeccable beauty he met at Macaulay Street, followed by the loud guttural laugh he had heard somewhere that same day. 5. THE CANNIBAL Abu had been hearing the phrase, ‘as silent as a graveyard’ being described by people, and had seen it in the few books he had read in his lifetime, but he never knew he would come to experience it first hand and real-time, as he was doing now. He was crouched on a tall tree directly on top of a freshly-dug grave he had discovered in the afternoon, on a tip-off. His informant had given him specific details and instructions on what to expect, and though disbelieving at first, he was determined to get to the root of whatever it was. His curiosity had been aroused, when he combed the grave yard earlier and found a large hole, but half-filled with earth, deep into a secluded part of the yard. There had been foot marks leading away from it for a few metres, and nothing more. Time was ten minutes to eleven, and the wind was howling and pulling the leaves of the trees, threatening to behead some of them. Alone he was on the tree, with only silence for company. He had heard countless stories of ghosts rising from their graves, but he had not seen any sign of such. He drifted into a half-sleep minutes later, and was treated to an exaggerated version of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video in his dreams. The ghosts there had large horns and looked taller, and when they got to his girlfriend, they actually caught her, and tore her torso from her main body, amidst heart-rending screams. Michael Jackson stood nearby, laugh-shouting in a barbaric way. Abu then woke with a start, half-thankful it was a dream. For the first time since he arrived there more than four hours ago, Abu became really frightened. He fingered his gun and pulled it from the holster. His hands felt numb against the police special as he double-checked it. Then he heard a sound. While he had his eyes closed, a small Toyota Tercel had pulled up under him, without headlights, and a fat man had disembarked. The sound he heard confused him, for directly under him, was a large camel whose neck was longer than usual. It sniffed around, first, to be sure it was perfectly alone, and then proceeded to uncover the grave scoop by scoop, till it saw what it came for. Under the folds of sand, not up to a metre deep, was a two-day old baby, whose legs were still kicking feebly. The placenta lay by his side, in the full northern moonlight. The camel, sighting it, grunted loudly in approval and glee, and its mouth widened to the limit, to accommodate the placenta first, then the baby. Moments later, it was chewing and masticating, and settled down to squat, enjoying the meal. The baby’s shin was just about to be crushed, when there sounded a large thud, not so far away. Abu had fallen from his branch. Abu groped for his gun, and picked it, as the camel, wondering what it could be, started for him. Boom! Boom! Two shots went off, and Abu saw how useless it had been. He took to his heels, and the camel pursued hotly. Abu, thinking he knew camels well, figured he could easily gain advantage of speed over the camel, but was simply wrong. In leaps and bounds, it measured up to him, and was about to give him a side kick when he ducked, and ran into a grave that had shelter. On bursting open the door and locking it securely, a glass casket with a body standing erect met his eyes. He thought the eyes opened a crack at his entrance. The airconditioning in the room suggested the man must have been wealthy. The palpable fear that had enveloped him was at least merciful enough to allow him inspect the shelter, which was actually a two-roomed apartment, moderately furnished, but was quickly reminded that his stay there was not safe by some furious banging on the metal door. When there appeared a razor-sharp tear on the door at the instance of the camel’s claws, he started looking for other options out of the shelter, and was grateful for a small glass vent at the very top. Breaking it, he jumped out, and was relieved to see the fence of the cemetery a little way ahead. He got there successfully, scaled it, ran the remaining two hundred metres to the nearest expressway, and was soon in a taxi, home bound, seconds later. For the next two months, neither the doctors in the specialist hospital nor the expatriate physicians could decipher Abu’s worsening health condition. ‘You have been noticed, ‘Ya’u, so it can’t be done’, he explained, lifting the glass of champagne to his mouth. ‘But my face was not seen, Mallam, it was just my front. You know how badly I am in need of this position. You know how I have suffered in this life. This is the one and only chance I have to better my lot. It has been ingested; everything is complete, except for that little incident. Besides, I have made sure whoever it was will not hold on for too long. Please Mallam, complete my job’. ‘It is unfortunate that despite how long we have been in this together, you still do not understand spiritual principles. What gives life to what you ate is the shroud of utmost secrecy. Yes, your face was not seen, but because a soul saw you, the soul of that little child could not die, as expected’. ‘So what happens now?’ ‘It will have to be repeated, my friend. Don’t worry, I have something I can give you to make you completely invisible, even during the act. I don’t mean to weary you, but I am also interested in not only your success, but safety as well. I can even arrange for the suppliers to bring one to the house, so you don’t need to go anywhere’. ‘Boka, I know the risk I took the last time I did this. I don’t want this to fail. I was already discovered, I just escaped by a hair ’s breadth. You mean I have to go over this all again?’ he asked, as memories of the sordid things he did some few days ago flooded his mind, bit by bit. ‘I am afraid, yes’. Boka Imam dropped the glass from his mouth, and stared fixedly at the man sitted opposite him. Ever since the rudiments of this trade was handed him by his father some thirteen years ago, he was yet to see a client such as Mallam Ya’u. What was proving to be so elusive to him was something he did for other people with such ease, and they all came back testifying. This was the fourth time he was returning, complaining of one mishap or the other in the course of carrying out the instructions that could give him what he wanted. The Boka’s resources were depleting and his contacts were being unnecessarily exposed, and he didn’t like that. Besides, Ya’u had not paid a dime for any of his services. But pity for this man couldn’t let him do what he would have otherwise done, and speedily too. He picked up a Samsung Galaxy. ‘Hector, take some supplies, to an address I will text to you in a few minutes time’. To Ya’u he said, ‘It is alright, he will meet you at home later. Be more careful this time.’ As soon as Ya’u was out of earshot, the Boka spoke into the phone again, and for far longer than the first time. Two nights later, the clock chimed twelve o’clock in Haji Ya’u’s dark room. He had been lying awake, praying that this was to be the last time he was to go through the chilly details of the ritual. He was alone in the two-storey duplex, having sent away his wife and two sons on a makeshift journey. He then travelled the long distance to his bathroom to check on his object of sacrifice. It was there all right; two day-old babies that were bloodied all over, their placentas sticking right out of their bellies in a very messy sight, lying in a carton. He was sure they were stolen hours after delivery. Tears streamed down his eyes when he remembered that he had swallowed no less than eight babies like this in the past one month. Was power really worth all this? Before he could travel too far down the lane of pitying himself and regretting all he had done, and possibly changing his mind, a loud and persuasive voice quickly reminded him how far he had come, and that every imaginable opponent he was to face were doing the same thing, if not worse. Dabbing his eyes clean and forcing his eyes away from the babies, he proceeded to his room, and appeared minutes later, dressed in a hooded black gown alone. Then his mobile phone rang. Cursing whoever was the cause of this distraction, he reappeared in the bathroom minutes later, only to find the babies mingled into one, and they materialized into an average-sized boy, that sat on the bathtub, looking intently at him, his eyes bleeding profusely. With every blink, his eyes widened and spilled more blood, till the tub was reasonably filled. Then the mouth opened, bloodied of course, and with every blink, the voice came up a notch, till it became an ear-piercing scream. He did this for five full minutes, and disappeared. Ya’u held the walls for support, but his body was proving to be too heavy for his legs, as they buckled under the weight, and the ground received him. Delegates from all over the country had invaded the town, feverishly preparing for the showdown that was sure to turn the face of democracy in the country. Every hotel that had a name and rooms had been occupied, as they busied themselves with last-minute consultations, erection of structures, and doing their best to assure the people they would not have made the wrong choice in choosing them. There were five contestants in all, and they had equal stakes in the party. ‘I tell you, Alhaji Isuhu will carry the day tomorrow’, Emanuel said to nobody in particular, holding a copy of The Evening Herald close to his face, ingesting the contents of the first page. There were more than twenty people at the vendor ’s stand that morning, each engrossedly looking for points to raise an argument with. The vendor shouted above the din: ‘If una know say una no go buy paper, make una shift go one side! Una dey block my customer! Wetin!’ He might as well have been talking to himself, for more than five people made immediately for a copy of The People, that was fresh from the suppliers, and contained what seemed promising information about the talk of Ihu town that morning: the gubernatorial primaries of the Achieving Party. But when its contents were discovered to be more or less no different from what was already on the stands, the almost creased and crumpled newspaper dropped on the wooden table. Not knowing who to accuse, the vendor, seeing it minutes later, accepted his fate, and did a good job of straightening it out. ‘Captain Umaru is the man’, a voice came from the other end. ‘He has no rival in this primary election. Look at his pedigree, for God’s sake. Do you know how many children his non-governmental organization has fed in the past two years? How many women can claim not to have benefitted from his loan scheme in this town? How many farmers will deny his contribution to the fertilizer subsidy this season? He even gave about two hundred students secondary school scholarships………….’ ‘Before he was convicted for embezzling one trillion naira of taxpayers’ money’, Emmanuel cut in sharply. ‘Do you know that about him? You are not even ashamed of holding up for such a corrupt misfortune of a human being. How much has he paid you?’ By now the other bystanders had thronged them, and were listening intently. ‘Not up to two thousand naira, I guess. And after you do all the campaigning for him, that is the end of the need he has of you. You people are the type of countrymen we are ashamed of. You are the type that mortgage your consciences for a little pittance. That man fix-deposited the salaries of the workers under him when he was the Quartermaster General for close to two years, and stashed the dividend in a Swiss bank account. What has he done, compared to the money he stole?’ ‘You people are the critical type of people this town does not need. You are the type that subscribe to cheap grapevine tales. He appealed that judgement and won after six months. And to think you claim to be informed about happenings in this town! I wonder if you read these papers with your mouth, or brains, that is if you read at all’, Isaac retorted. “If that was actually so, why did his own screening take longer than the two weeks stipulated by law, and which his co-contestants went through? He must have been spending a good part of that time bribing his way through. I know his type. What happened to the Ihu Investment Development Agency he headed directly after retiring, by the way? Where is that body today? Where is the handsome amount of money committed to helping young widows find their feet, after more than a year, since you are so interested in his philanthropic feats?’ They were now close together, and bits of saliva flew to and from both mouths inadvertently as both hands gesticulated spiritedly to make his own point the most pronounced, and the most applauded. When Isaac asked, ‘Come to think of it, was I even talking to you in the first place?’ both of them realized themselves, and the folly of arguing over a man who hardly knew them dawned on them, and they both faced the ground for a few seconds, as the handful of people were beginning to disperse. Emmanuel was the first to break the ice, and his hand lifted to pat Isaac on the back to reveal his smile. But it was not to be. The whirring of ambulance sirens stopped Emmanuel’s arm in mid-air, and when their attention was drawn to the source of the sound, they knew it could be only from one source: the Minnows Hotel where the primaries were holding, not too far away. Both of them sprinted to the hotel, only to find it cordoned off with police tape. Crossing the tape, they were just in time to see the Red Cross volunteers loading bodies into body-bags. They recognized Alhaji Umaru, Alhaji Ringim, and many delegates who had varying degrees of injuries. ‘What happened?’ ‘The election was almost concluded, in favour of Alhaji Ya’u Ibrahim, when some thugs appeared on power bikes, and asked for the ballot-box at gunpoint. Some delegates resisted, and were hit with the butt of the gun on their foreheads. They thus made away with the boxes, some minutes ago.’ A loud shout was heard in one of the rooms. Emmanuel and Isaac moved through the rooms, turning tables which made the hotel room so forlorn, and finally found him under one chair, writhing in pain. There was a deep gash on his forehead. They heaved Alhaji Ya’u up on their shoulders, and almost collided with the Continental reporter, totting a large microphone, as they took him to the ambulance. In the ambulance, the Alhaji made sure the paramedic was not looking his way when he feebly reached for some gentian violet he had gleefully discovered. To his chagrin, he was too late for the agile middle aged man, for the purple liquid just grazed the surface of his lips, and never made it to his throat. 6. FOR PATERNITY’S SAKE Margaret’s hands knocked repeatedly on the gate of the house that marked the end of Jesse Street, the numerous bangles on her wrist jangling in the process. She wondered why there seemed to be no response, and a kind of frustration she didn’t like was beginning to build up in her. She sometimes wondered how she had come to become so short-tempered. She stood back for a few minutes to listen for a sound in the house, but heard none. She thought she felt a little pressure on the handbag she was carrying, and when she turned, her little boy was sitted on the muddy ground nearby, munching away on a large piece of bread. When he looked up and saw he had been noticed, he smiled, revealing cheeks that had been stocked full, as well as small teeth which obviously had been overloaded with work, hardly visible in the white background which was his mouth. He adjusted his position, ready for what he knew was to come. Margaret stared at him, and thought of the pains she was going to go through washing those white shorts for the third time that week, and simply felt sorry for herself. Her hands subtly and slowly reached down as her long legs bent, but Junior, surprised his mother still thought he was that foolish, had already gotten the message. He jumped up and fled, before her hands could reach her high-heeled shoes. Comfortably safe at a distance, he stopped and turned. ‘Mummy, shoyi’, he begged. Pretending not to hear him, she stood aside and regarded the house for a while. It was no different from what she had expected. This man had really some money, she thought, and there was no stopping her from getting her hands on whatever she considered her share of it. It was a penthouse of some sort, and the fact that it was situated in the highbrow Government Reserved Area made it even more alluring. She thought she heard some splash of water in the distance, and was sorry she could not make it to the back of the house to check for herself if, supposing it was what she actually suspected. Built in a cozy British style, she was taken aback by the lattice-type interlocking flooring, the polished oak doors, the well-kept lawn, and the general grooming of the house. When her eyes finally fell on the logo that announced the Mercedes Benz trademark, just beside the shiny lettering of the GL 55O plastered on the gleamy black back of a jeep, the greed in her shot up several notches, and remained at that level. The buffered 2008 Toyota Highlander parked close to it completed the damage in Margaret. ‘Yes, can I help you, madam?’’ the middle-aged man had since answered the gate, followed her gaze to the cars, and looked back at her. He wondered who she was. ‘Yes please. I hope this is the house of late Mr Badmus’, she said, with a serious expression on her face. ‘ Of course. But who are you?’’ ‘You mean you will not even allow me in? That is very good for some manners’’, she said sarcastically as the gate immediately opened to admit her. If she was reeled at the sight of the outer building, the sitting room impressed her, all the more. The tall, slim young man, and the sobbing woman sitted on the sofa gaped at her in a mixture of surprise and expectation. The silence continued, even after her eyes had had their fill of taking in the room and its contents. ‘I need a drink of water ’’, she demanded. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, barging into our house like its yours, and even making demands like that? What-‘’ the sobbing woman had now stopped crying, and motioned to Tochi to go get her what she wanted. ‘I knew you would be reasonable. But there is a point of correction I have to, and need to effect, though. It is no longer your house, as you will later learn, but our house from now on. Now jump to that order, boy’’, she quipped, as the words streamed out effortlessly, and without emotion. ‘Could you explain that, woman, please?’’ ‘I am sorry I couldn’t make the funeral, I was away on some pressing business. I suppose you never knew your husband too well….i can understand that, given the kind of men we have these days, and their ways. Your husband had a son by me, and……………..’’’ It was then she remembered she had not seen Junior the past fifteen minutes. She frantically searched for him all over, and when they heard the zoom of the Mercedes in the garage, she knew she needed no more guessing. The three of them ran there to find little Junior crouched under the steering wheel, in the driver ’s compartment, the door wide ajar. He was using his hands to press the accelerator pedal, and was obviously enjoying the sound, from the look on his face. On seeing the party, and knowing his fate, he pushed down on the gas pedal once more with his hands, to the limit, and the ground around them vibrated with the loud response of the engine. He struggled out, and quickly weighed his options of escape. ‘’Mummy, eeees shweeet. He hehehehehehhehehehehe..’’, he laughed. His mother ran towards him, but the only thing she saw of him when she dove for him and missed, as usual, was the outline of his little bottom printed boldly with mud on the white shorts some distance off, as he evaded her and reached the gate. Tochi climbed in, killed the engine with a punch of the button, and slammed the door shut. He remembered he had not locked the car minutes ago, and effected the correction. The car system assured him with two short honks. ‘I am sorry…..’’ Margaret started. ‘Is that the boy?’’ Rose asked, when they were all sitted in the living room. Ignoring the question, Margaret went on, ‘As I was saying, your husband had a son by me, and I am not surprised you don’t know about it. I expected it, actually. When is the asset declaration, please?’’ Rose got up, fuming. ‘You don’t come into my house to tell me that. I hardly know you, I even gave you the privilege of my water, and you dare come to my house with such an allegation! If you must know, if at all you even need to, I knew my husband to the last dime in his account. My husband has never spent a night outside this house, being anywhere I don’t know of, not to talk of having a woman with a child. As you can see, I am still in mourning, and murder would not be the best addition to my situation. That is the door, you scruffy gold-digger!’’. A mirthless laughter greeted Rose’s response. It was long, loud and spilled so much sarcasm. The way her face switched from laughter to straight showed the depth of the laughter. ‘A woman, vouching for a man. This is really something.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, since you wouldn’t tell me the date of the declaration and sharing, I think I know just where to find out for myself’’, Margaret replied, slinging her bag and walking towards the door. ‘But I just came to prepare your mind, so you wouldn’t die of shock when I sit next to you on that day, probably inherit more than you’’. Her mock catwalk as she got near the door offended Rose more than what had just transpired, and she charged at her. Margaret, however, got outside the compound safely, and banged the gate hard as she stepped out. Outside, her eyes immediately caught sight of Junior on top of the fruit tree directly opposite the house, his mouth, face and shirt a real mess. ‘Get out of my office now before I set the police on you. How did you get to know my office?’’ Barrister Ayinde barked, banging the table with his fist and jumping up simultaneously. Margaret quickly shifted her head a bit to avoid being hit by a flying pencil that came towards her eyes. She had made persistent enquiries, and some bit of luck had handed her the Barrister ’s address. She had thus gone there that morning, and was just beginning her proposal, and got the answer she was just expecting, a complete rebuff. ‘’Relax, my man. We could make a lot from this. Just play according to my plans, then watch and see what happens in the next few days.’’ ‘’Young lady, do you know that what you are saying is being recorded? How can you come in here from God-knows-where, and ask me to do something that is not only against the ethics of my profession, but also immoral and corrupt? What are you still doing here, by the way? In fact…….’’ he reached for the intercom. She was not to be intimidated. ‘’Listen Barrister, don’t be a mule. Other young lawyers in your shoes will just jump at this offer. I know, and rightly so too, that you need what I am offering as much as I do, judging from how far and well your profession has taken you,’’ she said, her eyes roving knowingly to the rusty wig that hung on the wall, just above a dark faded gown that looked like he taught a group of school children with it, judging by the sheer dustiness of it. She had earlier assessed his shoes, which did not give a good account of his standing at all, apart from his toe, which peeked its head curiously, trying to experiment the world outside the socks, on either foot. He thought he had effectively hidden it with his legs under the table, but was mistaken. She stood up to go. When she got to the door, she shot him a look. ‘’Just in case you happen to change your mind, you can contact me’’. She dropped a white and red striped card in the visitor ’s note hangar on the door. ‘’Get out and stay out. I am not in any way like other lawyers, neither do I relish being like them. And I think I would like being called a mule in this matter. Thanks for the nice language’’. He was still standing, though his expression was now a little agreeable, and only when the door banged, shaking the hinges, did he have his seat. ‘’Do you know who you are talking to? You think I am like other people you intimidate daily with this cubicle you call an office? Get out of my way, this minute. If for any reason, I miss my appointment with the doctor, I will most certainly make sure you lose whatever is left of this glorified slavery you call a job. Try me and see’’. The burly dark man kept talking in plain but firm terms. ‘’Madam, my boss does not want to see anyone now. He is in the middle of a deep research. He does not want to be disturbed’’, he said, using his bulky frame to block the small passage to the hallway that led to the doctor ’s office. Her grunt gave an inkling of what she was going to say next. ‘’Since when did people in the middle of a research begin to engage in such a fit of laughter? Perhaps he is discussing and laughing with the paper, or his apparatus. Better still, maybe his voice has split in two, or my ears are deceiving me. Is he not the one talking with another man on such a high volume? Get out of my way………..’’ She was about to succumb to the rage which was consuming her, and the telephone receiver which sat a few feet from her hands was going to be the ready instrument. She had consulted several telephone directories, made series of verbal inquiries, and even Google-searched the late Mr Badmus’ family professionals, and with a dint of determination and persistence, she had thus landed in the Badmus’ family doctor ’s office. With what she had faced at the barrister ’s office previously, she had decided to do whatsoever it would take, to get what she wanted, and this little good-for-nothing had attempted to get in her way. She sized him up in that fierce and disapproving up-and-down look which made most of her recipients wish they were never born, and attempted to push him deeper into the hall. The attendant was so busy battling with his ego which was in dire need of a massage, and stopping this woman, to notice that her eyes bore some squint of frustrated moisture, and a tinge of red. ‘’What is going on here? And who is that woman, what does she want?’’ The doctor asked, sticking his head out from his office window. ‘’I told her you were busy, but she would not hear of it. She insisted on seeing you’’, Isa said in his defence. He regarded her a little moment. He knew he couldn’t apologize to Isa, right there on the spot. ‘’Let her come in’’. Margaret’s eyes could have pumped a load of bullets into the hapless secretary, had it the power. Once accommodated in the lush office that housed Dr Obalende’s thriving medical practice, Margaret made herself comfortable, sitting cross-legged on the chair directly opposite the doctor, who had sent his friend away briefly, at her request. The cool, direct and impersonal, expressionless stare the doctor received from her for two full minutes told him she had come on a mission that was far from righteous. When the nick of the second that marked the second minute ticked, she spoke, as if she timed herself. ‘’I have come to make you a proposal’’, she said. ‘’How may I be of help to you, young lady?’’ ‘’I have something which will be of mutual interest to the both of us. What you stand to gain from this will determine your next level in life. I’m pretty sure what you make of this outfit is not what you really want, at your level and standing in the medical field. This proposal holds a lot of potential, and I can bet my bottom naira you will pretty much kiss this level bye-bye’’. ‘’You have not said anything, and I am still all ears’’. ‘’It is about your client and friend, Chief Olamide Badmus. I understand he passed on a few weeks ago. I am quite aware of the closeness and camaraderie the both of you shared while he was still alive. I am also well aware that you have handled the health issues of the Basorun for the better part of twenty years, including details of things which you two have been through together, which are better not given front-burner attention here, that is if it qualifies enough as my business of being here today. I have specific interests and goals. ‘Now…..’ she leaned further and uncrossed her legs-‘When I say this, don’t look at me as a ruthless pilferer who just wants to reap where she never planted. Don’t regard me with that holier-than-thou attitude that made the Pharisees lose face in front of Jesus Christ when they meant to stone that woman caught in adultery. See me as a necessary means to an end. In fact, that is the best way to succeed in any business venture. Remove all forms of sentiment, and fix your eyes only on the prize. I want into his empire.’’ She leaned back into her seat, and the legs resumed their former position. She allowed it to sink. ‘Good lecture, sound wording. Where do I come into all of this?’’ ‘Good question’’. Quickly, a lean, but fresh hand dipped into her handbag, and out with it came a blue piece of paper. It had the logo and trademark of Crystal Health Centre, his hospital, excellently forged, and all the necessary columns that confirmed Chukwuebuka Francis Oleka as the rightful offspring of Chief Olamide Badmus had been duly filled, including the Deoxyribonucleic Acid (DNA) test results. ‘’You will see how easy it is to earn so much. For a simple appending of your signature in this column, you are already in millions of naira. The ball is now in your court, and once you play, either way you win, all the way’, she said, flashing a conspiratorial smile, with glinting eyes. ‘’Who are you?’’’ he asked simply, with a quiet and unmoved mien. With the speed of lightning, the flash of a smile on her face turned into the expressionless manner with which she approached issues that were not going in her favour. ‘’That is not important. What should concern you is the issue before both of us, that has the potential of making us millionaires in a twinkle of an eye. Forget about who I am or where I am from, and those trivial issues, they do not matter here’’. He got up, furious at her audacity. ’So you think a nonentity like you can walk into my office, without fear, to propose such a devilish idea to me? What do you take me for? If your friend did this to you, would you forgive him or her, even in death? I don’t have the kind of conscience you think, or expect that I have. Simply put, it is not possible with me, for whatever in this world it is worth. I will not even tell you to try another doctor. I see you near that man’s wealth, for any reason, I will make sure you are arrested, prosecuted and thrown behind bars for a good part of your life, which I know will definitely be short, seeing the way you are carrying on. If you have any health issues, please feel free to bring it up, for that is my legitimate field of endeavour. In the absence of none, may I crave your indulgence to continue my job, which your nuisance of a presence has bitterly interrupted?’’ Her face turned pale immediately, and like a practised actress, her eyes became misty all of a sudden. Swiftly, she moved round the table in the direction of the doctor ’s seat. She went down on her knees slowly and appealingly. In a voice heavy with emotion, she began to beg him. ‘’Sir, I have suffered in this life. I grew up in the slums after my parents died mysteriously at the age of six. Since then, I have been fending for myself by any means possible. I have done practically anything and everything to survive. I have five terminally sick children to cater for, with no source of income whatsoever. This opportunity is one I cannot afford to miss, as it would keep me comfortable the rest of my life. I hope to start something with my life after this. Help me sir, please’’. The doctor ’s brown pupils looked inquiringly into Margaret’s. A war ensued between his kind and gentle nature, and his visitor ’s cocky but innocentlooking front. His sword sliced through the cover, circum-navigated through its perimeter, prospecting for some dose of sincerity, but came out disappointed. The defeat was evident, even to Margaret herself, for she lowered her begging and expectant gaze, directing it at anything but where it had descended from. ‘I see your composure and articulation. What is your level of education?’’ he asked after considering her for a few minutes. ‘’I dropped out of the university in my second year, due to lack of funds’’, she answered. He went to the shelf behind his swivel chair, and searched carefully. When he turned, he had a large book clutched to his chest. ‘This is a copy of the Hippocratic oath. It is an oath that affirms your loyalty to both the government of the country, and even to your clients.’ Gold glasses appeared on his face, giving his look a bit of more elderly touch, and he flipped ten or twenty pages. Finding what he sought, he opened the page for her to read. When he was satisfied she had finished, he said, ‘So you see that I have both my medical licence and my integrity at stake here. I am sorry, young lady, but I cannot help you. What you are asking me to do is criminal, deadly, and abominable. But since you are in desperate need of help, I know a friend who works in this non- profit organization that could be of real help to you. They could really set you up, and help you finish your studies’. ‘That process will take longer than I want’, she said impatiently, her face pronouncing it.’ This is the quickest and best way to get my hands on good money. Help me sir, I am willing to do whatever you ask, give whatever you demand. Nobody will get hurt, unless you sing. Help me…..’ Her hands had begun to dare to wander, while words meant to pacify and break his resolve into doing the impossible continued to stream out in a practised and evidently rehearsed manner, of course coloured with appeal and panache. Her boldness took her some distance, though it never got to a level where it could both pass the intrinsic message on her part, or arouse awareness of her on the doctor. The doctor simply swiveled his chair into a working position, and began to leaf through a sheaf of files. The gold glasses came on again, and he stopped once in a while to consider some intricate detail in the file, which contained records of all the patients they had handled in the past month. This he did, as a way of communicating her receptiveness status, as he knew there was absolutely neither need nor urgency for what he had chosen to do. For all he cared, there was nobody in the room with him. Embarrassed, Margaret got the message, and stalked slowly out of the office. She was too beaten, this time, to slam the door in her usual fashion. She was fuming on her way home, in the bus that afternoon. How dare that doctor snub her in that manner! Who was he anyway? As far as she knew, nobody was going to hinder her share of Chief Badmus’ wealth, she was cock sure of that. Whatever it took her, she was going to make sure this chance did not slip by her. After a few moments of regretting the afternoon’s episode, she found her head joyfully and pleasurably swimming in thoughts of what a few millions could do to her life at that stage. Junior ’s future well secured, his education and settlement well planned for..A sleek car, good penthouse in the bourgeois Ojake district, summer vacation on the beaches of Malibu laced with sunbathing and some good fun, wardrobe decked with her favourite Atheer and Fendi designer dresses and jewelries, of course with Louboutin shoes, frequent visits to the beauty parlor and spa…Oh… what money could do to a woman! Probably when she had need of it, she might buy a man off the shelves. Of course every man had his price; she vehemently told the voice which tried to frown at that thought, as it flew past her mind’s domain. She caught the thought, and chained it down, and gave it a comfortable room to lodge and eat. In two minutes, it had grown to twice its size. But it had lost its wings, she had noticed, and she did not know whether to be very happy or just sad. Fate, or luck, seemed to hold some promise for her that afternoon. The smell of the wig on the lady’s hair seated directly in front of her rudely shook her into the real world. She looked up, and her nose was directly latched onto the black-and-brown mass of false hair, which age on the lady’s head she roughly put at two months. Cursing under her polluted breath, she expunged the foul odour quickly and sharply and turned her organ of smell elsewhere, to a region she felt held better promise of fresher air. In a bid to catch a glimpse of the face of the owner of this glorified cesspit, her eyes fell on her i-Phone as purple-painted fingers were fiddling with the touch-screen, displaying picture after picture. ‘Who is that handsome man there? Where was this picture taken?’ Kathy asked her friend. ‘That’s my uncle,’’ her friend said, and another picture of Barrister Ayinde appeared on the screen, this time in a pink suit, in what looked like a conference room. Can you imagine, the way our justice system is collapsing in this country? Do you know how much my uncle received for technically jailing that senator, in that ruling that made headlines last month? You mean I didn’t tell you my uncle was among the jurymen that handled that rife case?’ She said, when she noticed a tinge of ignorance on her friend’s face. ‘Three million naira. You know he likes and trusts me so much, and tells me everything, but he doesn’t know I loathe him. He is one hell of a stingy imp. I even have a recording of the transaction. Listen to it.’ ‘Na wa o’, Kathy said after the two-minute clip. ’So how much did you get from the deal?’’ she asked, winking and smiling. ‘’That is exactly the point. Apart from one stupid lunch at Fries, all I got was stories and promises. Can you imagine?’ A loud, long and battering sigh followed. Margaret had got as much as she wanted. The following issues they discussed after that did not interest her. Her ears full and her heart grateful, she waited patiently for the girls’ bus stop, passing her own in the process. When they alighted, she did too, attracting no attention to herself. Each turning they took, she did, too. The next evening, the mobile phone which showed that picture was declared missing for a surprising five minutes, and was discovered mysteriously on the sofa that faced the television set. When Margaret appeared in Barrister Ayinde’s office two days later, her confidence had climbed, and she was all smiles as she lowered her bulk slowly into the seat facing him, without invitation, despite his unfriendly stare. ‘I thought I said I didn’t want to set eyes on you again?’ he asked coolly after a few seconds. ‘I guess I am not the only one that is immoral and unethical,’ she poured out, stressing the last two adjectives, and handing him a wry smile. She quickly went about the issue at hand. ‘Take this bag’, the Nokia E-61 was saying. ‘’It contains one point five million naira. You will have the rest when you convince your fellow jurymen and the judge, and the ruling is given. I will teach that impostor that nobody steps on certain toes in this country. Do we have a deal?’’ ‘’Yes sir. But what assurance do I have you will pay the balance?’’ ‘Ask those who have dealt with me previously. Or do you want us to document it? You lawyers amuse me sometimes.’ The barrister ’s lips and hands were shaking. Who gave you that?’ he managed. ‘’Never mind that. But then you can expect anything from a desperate woman who has her ears to the ground. To think I was practically begging you, and even offering to be co-millionaires with you the other time! If you had cooperated then, maybe fate wouldn’t have kicked you out of the deal, the way it has done now. Will you tell me what I want to hear and do what I want, or do we do justice to this?’ She asked, referring to the recording with her eyes. ‘’21st June. Now get out of here’’. ‘’Not so fast, my dear Barrister. I want at least sixty percent equity share of his cash deposits, and no less than thirty percent of the tangible ones. Anything short of that, be prepared to face whatever you see. I don’t need to remind you that democracy has now taken a new face in this country.’ ‘’I will think about it. Out!’ ‘’Barrister! What is the meaning of this? I don’t understand. How can this gold digger swoop in on my father ’s property, before your eyes? What is happening here?’ ‘’I am sorry, Tochi. Your father asked me not to mention it till today, for reasons best known to him. The evidences are all here.’ The doctor lent his voice. ‘’You just have to take it in your stride, man. At least you have the companies. You can fend for your mum and yourself with that. I trust you will manage it well.’ Margaret collected the documents that entitled her to the London house, two posh cars including the Mercedes GL 550, and a promissory note of remittance of a million naira every quarter, among other benefits. She scanned the faces looking at her for a minute, gave them a knowing glance, especially Rose, and headed for the door. Rose could not bear it and charged at her, but was restrained by the doctor and the lawyer. From a little distance in the room, a little boy was tightening a rubber band on his finger, when he noticed Tochi shouting on his mum. He loaded it with a piece of paper which had been strong-folded. He pulled, to the limit, and released it. He hid under a chair. The piece of paper caught Tochi on the shin, which was bare, for he had on only a pair of shorts. Wincing from the sharp pain, he noticed Junior as the culprit, and a cat-and-mouse chase started, the little boy using his petite frame to full advantage, and not only denying Tochi the pleasure of having his own pound of flesh, but also making a funny show of him round the room. He finally landed in his mum’s arms, and they hurriedly stormed out. She did not know that her waterloo was this close. As soon as Margaret stepped out of the living room, Junior trailing her, her flat shoes stepped on the exterior slippery surface, which was caused by an overflow of water from the gardener ’s hose. Her speed and the frictionless surface combined to make sure part of her pelvis got punished in the resultant slip and loud thud of a fall. When the doctor broke the news of her permanent confinement to the wheel chair two weeks later, her sorrow multiplied when she discovered that Junior had, in one of his playful fits of mad spree, mistakenly burnt all the documents that proved ownership of most of her illgotten assets. 7. IT WASN’T ME The hot steam boomed into Alero’s face the moment she lifted the cover of the aluminium pot balanced on the pressure cooker. Along with it came the refreshing aroma of boiling fish stew which had, along with tickling her sense of smell, filled her with a feeling of satisfaction. As she stirred the stew with the long cooking spoon, her thoughts envisioned what business had been in store for her that day. She always felt good remembering how far Jollity’s Place had come, and how it was proving true to her mother ’s prediction on her dying bed. ‘Continue this legacy, my daughter ’, she had said. ‘Don’t let it die. Watch how prosperous it will be in time to come. I know I have fully taught you all I know about cooking. You know how to prepare just about any dish I can. I believe in you. But please never let this eatery down, for whatever reason. Promise me!’ ‘Of course I can’t leave this business for anything in the world, and you know it, mother. But please can you stop talking this way?’ That was the last she heard her mother say that day, and indeed forever. The next she saw of her was when she was wrapped in all white burial clothes, with white cotton sticking out of her nose and ears, succumbing to ovarian cancer. But the patronage she had received within the first two weeks after her mother ’s burial was enough to justify the insinuation that she had done something underhand or fetish. She had thus gone on to conclude her part-time Business Administration course at Favour University, and the proceeds from Jollity more than saw her two younger siblings through their Medicine and Pharmacy courses respectively. Being well able to combine the thoughts spinning in her mind with what she was doing at present, she felt so grateful she had heeded her mother ’s dying wish. She scooped some white rice on to a glass plate and garnished it with grated carrots. Next, she halved the contents of the salad cream container on to the plate, and baked beans followed next. As if it formed a hedge round the perimeter of area that was covered by rice, the hot steaming stew that bore a lap of chicken landed on the rice to cap it all up, and it painted the picture of a solid house built on top of a mountain. The steel tray on which the plate finally settled bore a bottle of distilled water and a glass. Carrying it and moving gracefully, she stopped at the kitchen door to survey this blessing of a venture. She smiled inwardly and thankfully. On the LG flat-screened television set fastened to the wall, which fulfilled the cravings of most football ardents that had turned her eatery to a viewing center of sorts, the replay of the previous day’s match where Arsenal was pummeled by four unreplied goals was being aired, and she noticed that most customers would rather not stare in the direction of the TV set, but quietly sip their drinks or eat slowly. She smiled at what that meant. At the far end of the table, her eyes was just in time to catch a young man dropping a gold ring into a glass of red wine opposite his, and the fact that nobody was sitted opposite him except a large Fendi handbag told her what was about to happen. At the reception, which doubled as the bar, the pale-faced twenty year old was responding to orders, as well as a generous dose of compliments showered on her by the male admirers she was wont to have. Omi’s loud voice, followed by the burst of hearty laughter which identified Keke, Chukwu and Madu turned her eyes their way. They were on their fifth bottle of Guinness, and the she was sure the effect would soon commence, judging by what she was seeing. The sight of Okwu, the young banker, always brought some feeling of well being to her heart, and today was no exception. She always felt good within anytime she saw that young man. He was not exceptionally handsome, but there was this air of peace and tranquil around him that was almost magnetic. What with the thick lush of hair that God had called his eyebrows. She thought she could outline his rippling bicep muscles within the sky blue shirt he was wearing and…..Lord! the barber that carved that ‘O’ shape on his moustache would not die a good death. Its sharpness and exactness to his face was simply killing. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind as he fiddled with his spoon, hardly grazing the tip of his meal. ‘You are married, sister ’, the voice within said sharply, and seized her eyes from doing further damage, and directed it to the latest customer. She carried his order to him. ‘Sorry sir, the stew got finished, and I had to prepare another ’, she explained apologetically. ‘No problems. I am quite sure the taste of your cooking, as always, will make up for the time’, he said, loosening his tie and placing it on the armchair. He settled down to his meal. Aware his eyes were all over her, she turned to go back to the kitchen. She thought of sharing a minute or two with Okwu, but thought better of it when she was sharply reminded of the results of previous attempts, how he never left her mind alone for other pressing issues, not even her family or business. What was this, a crush or just plain lust? He had improved on his eating a little, but the food was largely untouched. ‘Peter, could you please change the channel to Africa Magic?’ she entreated to her attendant. Two hours later, the clock surprised her when it put the time at 7.30pm. Intrigued by how time flew, she had gone to four men seated around a table to take their orders. She noted with dismay that the place was beginning to thin out. ‘What will you have, sirs?’ she had asked gaily. They had just handed her the menu, which was ticked appropriately to reflect what they wanted, without saying a word. Four mean, bloodshot but cool pairs of eyes converged on her, intently, like a tiger watching and waiting to pounce on a deer. The effect was not missing on her, even though she was studying their order. In the kitchen, she had just succeeded in erasing the scary notion of those men and the reason they stared at her in such a manner, when she suddenly felt an inkling which said she was being watched, closely this time. Whipping round, her unfailing feminine instincts had proven true for the umpteenth time, and the glass plate she had in her hand also did a fast turn, and turned to crockery just a few inches from the military boots of the six-foot-plus hulk of a man standing at the entrance. The sound of brittle shattering did not move any of them, as both had different intentions which had gotten the better of them. She recognized him as one of the men at the table. Surprisingly, the man had a voice one could never match with his appearance. In a soothing tone which reminded her so much of Mason Bertha, he said, eyeing her, ‘You have a nice place here, woman.’ The fear which had half-left her allowed her to blurt out only ‘Thank…’ and was still fumbling with her mouth to utter the remaining word when the next question popped. ‘Where do you worship, baby?’ Now she was really surprised. The contrast and intrigue in this fellow was worth studying and unfolding. Checking herself for a suitable answer, she realized she had been to church twice in the last ten months, but then this was no person to stab her with such guilt. It was only then she had taken time to regard him carefully, and assured herself it was a pocket New International Version of the Bible she saw sticking slightly out of his overcoat pocket. As if he read her thoughts, he reached into his pocket and fished it out. He leafed through it, and berthed exactly where he wanted- a verse in the book of Malachi. ‘Where you worship does not matter much to me, girl. What matters is your strict obedience to God’s Word. Read this portion to me, to my hearing’. He said when her hesitation was taking too long. Feverishly, she collected the Bible and read, ‘Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings.’ ‘Good. I was sent to collect a tenth, not more, or less, of your takings today, so make it quick, because I sense you do not pay your tithes. You can prove me wrong in…er…fifteen seconds’, he said, checking his stopwatch. No answer, as he had expected. ‘The safe, please’, he said, motioning with his arm, and enforcing it with a rough shove. At the safe room, the four men were already complete, to her bewilderment. She ran the combinations when she was further threatened and assured of their seriousness by the sight of two shiny revolvers. She punched in the passcode, and the safe opened. She thought she had had her fair share of drama for one evening. She was wrong. There was not a farthing in the safe. ‘I swear, there was more than twenty………’ she turned to the men. They were looking directly into her eyes, all four of them. ‘She is not lying’, Mason Bertha told his friends. As if on cue, they walked gently and noiselessly out of the room, out of the eatery and into the night, all four of them. Alero sat on the floor, and opened her mouth to scream, expecting sound to come out. ‘What have I done wrong to you, Peter? In what way did I offend you?’ Peter had sauntered into the safe room with a stash of one thousand naira notes, oblivious of what had occurred in that room some thirty minutes earlier. His mouth dropped open when he saw the safe wide open, and his boss spread eagled on the floor, hair disheveled. She looked like she had done some wild crying. ‘I don’t understand, Aunty’, he said, confused. ‘I have trusted you with my finances for more than five years since I brought you to this city. I even enrolled you to finish your secondary education. I pay you handsomely, and feed and house you well. Why do you repay me by stealing my money? You are the only one besides me that knows the figure combinations of this safe. Why, Peter, why?’ ‘It wasn’t me, Aunty, I swear, I came in here an hour ago and safely placed thirty thousand naira in there. How could I have stolen money in so short a time? I didn’t do it, believe me.’ Like some unseen force propped her up, she was up and on top of Peter the next second, with feline agility. Her hands were going up and down with such speed that it presented a picture of a motion picture playback that was being fast-fowarded. Andrew’s face, eyes, chest, ribs and general torso suffered as a result, and had been bathed in tears and blood by the time she was through, five minutes later. One evening three weeks later, Peter peeped through the kitchen door and found his boss sweating it out on a dish of vegetable soup. The atmosphere suited his intentions for the night-the waiters were overwhelmed by orders from ravenously hungry customers, Craig Davids was at his singing best, plying his trade and treating the air around the eatery to Rendezvous, courtesy of the excellently arranged sound system, with little but powerful speakers hidden around the hall. Good, he thought. His mind had been made up. Substantial sums of money had been missing three more times since that evening he got the spanking of his life, and his pleas of innocence had fallen on deaf ears. He was thus going to actually earn the criminal tag tonight. ‘So that when I get beaten again or even sacked, I will know what I did’, he concluded in his heart. ‘I can’t stand this anymore.’ Tiptoeing to the kitchen, he noted with glee that everything was the way he wanted it. He disappeared into the safe room. He opened the door. He entered. The door shut noiselessly behind him. He felt his pocket to be sure the thirty-five thousand naira he had was still intact. It was. He ran the figure combinations, and seventy-two thousand naira invited his vengeful hands for a jolly spree later that evening. He got to Poloma Fitness Bar sooner than he expected. Intent on making the most of the night, he walked straight to the bartender and ordered a tequila. Having had his fill of food at work previously, he went to a secluded part of the large room and sat on a large boulder. As usual, the club was alive with activity, everything around him spelling dirtiness, from music, to the dance, to the women and men he saw. Even the taste of the drink was becoming dirty, too. He stepped outside the verandah for some fresh air. He spent thirty minutes. When he got back, there was a slim, fair girl sitting on his seat, and sipping his drink. Knowing he was the original occupant of where she sat, she just looked his way, rolled her large eyes at him seductively, crossed her legs and took the last swig from the glass. She dropped the glass on the floor beside her. ‘Young lady, that’s my seat you are sitting on, and I don’t remember giving permission to have my drink’, Peter protested, growing angry. ‘You seem new around here’, she said nonchalantly. ‘Never seen you before…….’ ‘That doesn’t answer my question. Besides, I hardly know you. Why did you take my drink?’ ‘Take it easy, mister. Let me answer one question at a time. You do not know me, I agree. But how long does it take to know someone? What if I knew you? As for why I took your drink, you are soon to find out. Before you fire another round of questions at me, could you get me another tequila, please? It’s been a long while I had this, and you have really whet my desire,’ she attempted in a soft and appealing tone. She led him by the hand to the bar. Some boys who had been watching from a distance, talked in hushed tones. There were four heads which were nodding in agreement after about two minutes. They got to Peter. ‘What are you doing with my girl?’ a hoarse voice demanded hotly, with no trace of friendliness. Shock and resentment appeared on the girl’s face for a split second and disappeared, but it did not escape Peter ’s notice. He knew they had nothing to do with the girl. ‘Who are you?’ he retorted, not intimidated. With a frown, the girl disappeared into the far end of the bar, music drowning their voices. ‘You want to know me?’ He asked, moving closer and got to almost an inch of Peter. The height and build difference was too clear. ‘Yes!’ Peter shouted, annoyed. He got a push which sent him reeling towards the table, for his trouble. Regaining himself after two seconds, he realized his right hand was on a broken piece of glass. He plunged it into the abdomen of the man who was making a diving pounce on him. He stopped short, and rolled away from Peter, and collapsed, in a pool of blood, stone dead. Peter got up, and ran down the stairs in a bid to escape. But he was a second too late. Five thugs who had seen what transpired were waiting at the door. When he saw them, he ran back up, but a trip over a beer bottle hindered his best effort at a getaway. They got to him in an instant, and a Jack knife snapped to attention immediately. His bulging pocket had attracted their attention, and that was their first port of call. It was cut open mercilessly, nearly involving his genitals. Thirty thousand naira. Taking his two hands and feet one-to-one, they swung him, to a pre-practised rhythm, and hauled Peter out of the open sliding window, three floors down. Five seconds later, all that was left of Peter Anagbogu was a complete leg, and hand, then a mass of splattered brains and blood for the sympathizers and bystanders to stare, horrified, at, and for the police to clear completely the next day, to avoid infections. Some twenty minutes later that evening, while Peter was dying, three men were at Jollity’s discussing political affairs. Jona, a hunter, was among them. They had not been there more than ten minutes, when a light knocking sound attracted his attention. He swung round and observed its direction. It led him to the washing sink fastened to the wall behind him. Breaking free of the interesting discussion, he ran to the sink, and listened attentively. He recognized the sound. ‘Madam, there is something I would like to beg of you. There is something I would like to explore around your washing sink’, he was telling Alero minutes later. He coated his request well, so as to hide the fact that he had been looking for whatever it was for the past six months for an important ritual. It worked for him, after some effort. He was there as early as eight the following morning, with his tools. When he opened the sink under Alero’s direct gaze, and traced the piping, it led him to a track under the floor, which Alero could have sworn was a rail track. On following it for some centimeters, what he saw did not surprise him, but Alero almost fainted. A little improvised sand-door opened to reveal a large space, which floor was beautifully decorated with Alero’s new wrapper which had mysteriously disappeared two months ago. In the centre of the room was a small mud table which was covered with a tablecloth marked JOLLITY. Around it, a large bush rat was propped, surrounded by a smaller female, and three young ones. They all had their forelimbs on the table, and their mouths and noses were moving excitedly, as if they were in the middle of a do-not-disturb conference. Sizeable pieces of foam served as sofas, numbering about three or four, near the wall of the space. When their eyes fell on what served as stools, near the sofas, Alero gaped, speechless. She thought it was a dream. It was a pile of one thousand naira notes, close to each sofa, about five centimeters high, neatly arranged, and uneaten. The bush rats had been caught napping, and there was nowhere to run to. But the male bush rat put up his best shot at running for dear life. Jona, of course, was equal to the task. In one swoop, he caught all five of them. As he turned to go, a shiny eye peeked out of another hole in the room. When they traced the hole, it led directly to the wall that contained the safe. 8. CHEATED ‘The only thing that has not changed about you is your handwriting, and your dentition. Those are just about all that attracts me to you these days. I just can’t put a finger on what makes you bore me these days,’ Joe spat bluntly at his wife of five years. He got up, snatched his BMW keys, and made for the door. Parting the curtains as he pushed open the door, he murmured, ‘See you tomorrow’. The curtains closed, supported by a gentle closing of the door. Eyes brimming, Ada stared at the door woodenly. This was the second hour she was spending with her husband in the past one week, and it had ended just as did the first-laced with unkind words and the height of insensitivity. As the first two teardrops cleared the channel on her face for the remaining on their south ward journey, she shifted her glance to the vegetable soup which had taken her hours to prepare. It did not take her much checking to notice that it had lost just a piece of meat; it was barely touched. Joe had zoomed in that evening in his usual manner, entering the garage at five kilometers per hour and braking sharply and noisily near the door step. The tire squealing she was wont to hear only spurred her to begin her routine house setting and checking, to be sure there was no leverage for him to bark at her in his usual cruel manner and tone. When he had entered, he met her setting throw- pillows on the large settee in the living room. As she had expected, he had neither glanced her way nor replied her greeting, in a voice which she was careful to color with some touch of appeal and romance. He dropped his coat, followed by the bag which contained his laptop and other official odds and ends, and sank his weight into the settee. The next minute, the remote control was in his hands, and the LG flat screen television set was featuring Gerard Butler in ‘Machine Gun Preacher ’- a movie which premiere had been advertised on daily basis for the past two weeks, and for which he had braved the enervating evening traffic. His tie loosened, and his BlackBerry Tour clanged on the glass table in front of him as the movie progressed, and gathered action and intrigue. Ada had quickly retreated to the kitchen to steam the food which had been sitting untouched on the dining table for the past two hours. This took no more than five minutes, and she tweaked her hour-glass waist all the way from the kitchen to before him to set the food, using her enviable frame to deliberately block his view from the gadget, in another attempt to lure his attention her way, even though she had little faith it would work. She spent a little more time before him, using the opening of the Aquadana bottled water and the subsequent slow pouring of the water into his favourite glass cup as a pretext. Joe, familiar with this ploy of hers, patiently waited for her to finish. He successfully contained his anger at her for making him miss an important part of this movie, and the fact of the faulty recording feature on the decoder added tons to his climbing irritation. He started to fiddle with his mobile phone, immediately remembering the population statistical analysis he had left undone in the office, and launched the browser almost immediately. When the light from the screen shone on him again, he dropped the phone, and leaned forward to resume the part that she had left for him to continue on. ‘How was your day today?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘How are you today?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘How was work at the office today?” ‘What is the difference between my day and work? I spent my day at the office, working, and it was fine!’ He tore his eyes from her, and hardly noticed her cross to the bedroom to begin the day’s round of cry-prayer. The door opened soundlessly to let Ada into the room they shared., later that evening. Intent on making her husband notice her, whatever the cost, she had deliberately been clad in a see-through material, and stood by the door as soon as she closed it, looking at him directly. The blue bulb in the room, she was sure, would do some justice to revealing the contents of the gown. Joe was deep in his i-Pad, fingers tapping furiously as he surfed from one webpage to the other, when the door had opened and he looked up. His face turned from the glee with which it was wrapped, into a blank inexpression as he nonchalantly tore his eyes from her to stare at Maria Sharapova plying her trade hard against Serena Williams on the wall. Lawn tennis was never his favourite, but he just needed to stare at anything but the boring woman who either had refused to recognize, or did not know her receptive status as far as he was concerned. He logged out and pushed the gadget some distance from him, hardly noticing any presence. His hands got hold of the remote controls. He was simply tired of this woman, and she didn’t seem to get the message. Not that he himself knew the reason, but he just got bored of her as he days went by. In being fair, he sometimes pitied her, but he just couldn’t bring himself round to loving her any more. He thought of sending her packing, but he couldn’t bring himself to face her to tell her such, as her begging and antics would nearly drive him mad with pity. But the love which he thought they had shared, and the sweet little moments they had stolen, months before they had been formally engaged and walked down the aisle, seemed to have vanished like the mists of the morning. He thought of every avenue to let her off his neck, but none seemed appropriate. Something suddenly clicked in his head, as his hands felt the remote controls of the Aiwa CD player. Yes, he would do it. He pressed the button that selected the fifth track. Jagged Edge’s Girl Its Over. After five seconds of piercy violin display, Brian’s paralyzing voice began: Baby you can leave, you can leave, you can leave Cos I’ve been tired of you, even you, you tired of me But don’t forget one thing, thing drop, drop those keys I aint trying to hold you back, so go ahead with all of that And if you really wanna go, you can go You already know that’s the door, that’s the door It’s too bad if you are not for sure, not for sure I don’t wanna do it like this, but I’m losing every ounce of self control… As if they were waiting for some unwritten cue, the four of them burst into the bridge: You are just too scandalous You couldn’t handle this Give me back my rings Give me back my things Its over You keep listening to them haters So here’s your walking papers before serenading the little room with the chorus: Girl its over Give me my things back, you can keep your headache Just give me my keys back You aint gotta lie, no more We aint seeing eye to eye, no more Just give me my CDs You can keep the movies Aint no need calling I’m moving on completely You aint gotta lie, no more We aint seeing eye to eye, no more, nooooooooo more! Joe’s eyes were closed and he was savouring both melody and message, bobbing his head slowly to the rhythm and hoping the other party was getting the message he was subtly trying to pass across. His eyes opened when the music suddenly stopped, and he didn’t find it funny at all. ‘You dare turn off my music, my only joy? When did all this start?’ ‘Honey, what is this? Why do you choose to play this kind of music, in my presence, on top of not even recognizing that I have been standing here for the past fifteen minutes? Don’t you love me anymore? What have I done to warrant this treatment?’ She moved closer to him, and knelt before him, the tears and mucus gushing in torrents. ‘Are you so quick to forget how it was between us in time past? I am ready to make amends, any amends, to make sure we retrieve what we first had. I am sorry for doing anything to make you feel less of love for me. Please, forgive me……’ Joe looked at her. He was getting irritated, particularly with the mucus. He snatched his keys and walked slowly out of the room. ‘O Maker of the heavens and the earth, you created everything and everyone. As such, you have not created anything or anybody you cannot control. You created Joe, and made me from His ribs. Father, you said we should ask, and we would receive. You said we should seek, and we would find. You said we should knock, and the door would be opened to us. You said we should open our mouths wide, and You would fill it with the abundance of answers to our requests. You said we should call upon You in the day of trouble, and You would show us great and mighty things we know not. I lift up my darling Joe before you, O Lord. You are a witness to the kind of treatment I have been getting from him since the very month we got married. I have borne this for over five years. Lord, I am nearing my limit. Change him, O Lord. Let me have the joy of marriage for once, O Lord of hosts. Help me, O Lord, before I commit suicide……’ She went on and on and on, pacing the length and breadth of the room, and snapping her fingers to a rhythm as the words flowed endlessly from her. When it got to a head, she broke into some unintelligible language, and while the tempo shot up by several words every second, she continued like that for close to thirty minutes before collapsing breathlessly on the bed. She hardly knew it was morning, but for the caress of something soft on her bare feet. It tingled her nerve endings and she was about to thank God for answering her prayers so quickly, when she opened her eyes to tiredly become aware of Jack, their large American terrier, gently and affectionately slushing its tongue up and down the short length of her left leg, tail wagging profusely. It whimpered a little embarrassedly and stepped back, when she slowly withdrew her leg further into the bed, and Jack’s effort at continuing the early morning routine was met with soft but firm resistance. ‘Oh please, Jack…….I have had enough, thank you…Have you eaten?’ She painfully realized this animal was almost playing the role she had hopefully groped for in her husband for so long, but the effort had been as futile as trying to alert a truck driver by a tap on the steely body of the vehicle. Jack seemed to have this soft heart and manner, which was so different from other animals which had sojourned that house, and they had sure been a handful, Joe being an unrepentant lover of dogs. Standing at an intimidating two and a half feet, with powerful front and hind limbs, a growl that could make a tiger listen again, sporting a dentition that depicted his genetic makeup, he combined his duties well, guarding without sentiment the perimeter of the house at night, and playing the perfect and harmless good boy during the day. She looked at him and wondered if this was God’s version of solace for her, for the animal always sought to be more around her, as against the man who had parted with close to a hundred and fifty thousand naira on its behalf. His moist nose twitched left and right, and she knew the answer only too well. ‘Now run along, I am coming to make you something’. The dog obediently gave her a violent swish of his tail, and strolled excitedly out of the room to his kennel. She slowly stretched, got up, and the thick feel of the velveteen on her body awfully reminded her she had not changed into something suitable before drifting into sleep the previous night. The door of the kitchen opened to accommodate her moments later, and it took her exactly six minutes to mix his milk, dog food, and on top of the plate came his supplements lastly. Only one sign told her she should have used the one hour she had spent on spiritual exertion and tongue edification to at least get a good night’s rest: the two sharp punchings of the horn of her husband’s Audi A8. A portion of the garage was used as the dog’s kennel, and as the trafficators blinked twice at the remote-controlled locking of the car, her pace became shaky as she advanced towards the dog, who had been ravaged by both salivation and his master ’s return, and was barking excitedly. As soon as the gate of the doghouse clicked open, Jack was all over Joe in a profuse welcome, and it gave Ada time to slip in the plate deep enough in to evade her husband’s notice, for she had been warned severally to serve the dog before herself everyday. But it seemed she was either not smart enough, or trouble was destined for her that morning, for Joe’s next words told the story better. ‘So you mean you are just feeding this dog? I thought I gave strict instructions in that regard, you mummified dodderhead?’ he said, charging at her. He glanced at his wrist watch as he advanced, and the time he saw infuriated him the more. It seemed he had taken a full time course on insulting ever since they married, for he had them ready all the time, and particularly for occasions of her misdemeanor, like this. He reached her, intent on battering her psychologically, before creaming it with the physical. ‘If I had known you would be this dumb, I would have gladly accepted a bottle of Fayrouz, rather than be laden with an imbecilic drone as you. Listen to me, this dog is of more value to me than you, and God help you to repeat this trash again.’ Jack had stepped back, with an active tail, seeming to understand, and watched from a few metres, like a polite umpire. Anger and resentment welled up in Ada, and she managed to control it so that the words she was preparing would be audible and at the same time befitting of the man she was talking to. But it had proved to be a bad effort, as she was soon to discover. ‘You left me alone in this house for the past one week without a clue, Joe, and you are just returning, only to question me over a stupid dog? God is our only judge… carry on…..’ ‘You dare question my movement in my own house? Are you mad or something?’ He got close. Like a practised table tennis star intent on breaking his opponent’s unbeaten record, Joe’s backhand whipped across Ada’s face in a flash-smash, with some sure amount of power behind it. What happened next melted even himself, in spite of the hate and anger which had consumed him that morning. She reeled across the space and out into the open compound, and fell. Her nose bled, and lost a good amount of blood. It was that second that a positively-charged 240-volt power cable which passed over their house chose for its loud spark and subsequent fall, and its destination was no other place than Ada’s legs. A large voltage of electricity coursed through her body. The sympathy hovered around Joe, and spent only three seconds. He dashed into the house. ‘He is at it again, isn’t he?’ Pastor Obed asked, balancing on the executive swivel chair in his office, as he prepared to counsel the sister sitting directly opposite him. He balanced his chin on his hand and proceeded to hear the latest version of what he knew he was going to hear, for the fourth time that month. ‘Sir, I am at my wit’s end, and saying I am tired of my marriage is the understatement of the year. Look at me. Take a good look at me. You don’t need to tell me I am losing weight, on top of the signs on me of the latest beating I received two weeks ago. I only just came out of the hospital yesterday. The worst is that he never came to the hospital to even know how I was faring. He paid my bills electronically into the hospital’s bank account. Can you imagine that, pastor? Please, I want this marriage dissolved, before he kills me. If you cannot authorize that, please allow us to separate, at least. Maybe the distance will do the both of us some good.’ The pastor stared at her woodenly, with dreamy and tired eyes that were fed up with her stories. As if to confirm his suspicions, a vision appeared, and in it, he saw, as live as could be, Ada exchanging hot words with an elderly man whose relationship to her he could not place. Next, on what looked like a large multiplex TV screen, he saw her locked in a passionate embrace with a young man on a concrete improvised seat in a place that looked like a university park, and they disengaged and began to talk excitedly for a few minutes. She appeared yet again with a microphone in her hands, and was saying something to a large gathering of people whose mouths were all open, in an expression that looked like surprise. Her expression changed and a frown appeared almost immediately. Yet again he saw her jumping from a door that had a halo of light around it, straight into a downward cliff, and her shouts were drowned by the cloud of dust that trailed her unending fall. The pastor was introduced smoothly into the real world, and he was still able to pick what he had missed through the one minute revelation. She was saying, ‘Pastor, this marriage is not what I had expected. There is no day I do not get more than a fair share of insults, wicked taunts, beating or a combination of all. Maybe it was not meant for me at all to marry.’ ‘I am sorry, but I cannot support you to leave that man. If I do that, I will be compromising my stand and belief as a servant of God. The Bible says in the book of Mathew that God hates putting away. It will be suicidal therefore to approve of what God hates. If you cannot live with him as a husband, then live with him as a mere brother. In the event you cannot even condone him as a brother, even as enemies, make sure you are living together, if you do not want to incur the wrath of God. Remember, no one can save anyone from His hands, not even me. What people do not know is that whatever the provocation, God never built any divorce court to annul marriages. You two had better look for a way to sort yourselves out, while I advise you continue to table him before God in prayers, and you can be assured I will continue to do the same for you here, on my part. But if I may ask, did you enter into marriage with him according to the tenets of the Scripture?’ ‘Yes I did, sir.’ ‘Did he settle all commitments with his in-laws before taking your hand in this institution?’ ‘To the last dime, sir.’ ‘Did he have carnal knowledge of you before the actual consummation of matrimony?’ ‘Not at all, sir. Why do you ask?’ As if in confirmation of what he suspected, once more another sight appeared, in which a more intricate level of intimacy between the both of them was shown, coupled with another and another, the level of loveplay graduating with each clip. This took a mere fifteen seconds. ‘Why did you leave your former church? You know I haven’t asked you this before.’ ‘The pastor there hates me. Besides, as a born-again sister, who wants to do everything as ordered by the Scripture, I detest the politicking in that church. So, I had to run for my dear soul’, she rolled out. ‘I see’, he said. In the next clip the pastor saw, Ada was conversing with her former pastor. ‘That man Joe is the light I see, pastor, and I cannot live to miss being with him. Why do you want to jeopardize this chance I have now of getting married? I love him and I can bet my life he loves me too, if not more. What stops us from being together? Is that not the condition for marriage?’ ‘As your pastor, I am obligated to God for your souls, and not to you. I have seen more than five hundred moons, and you know I want the best for you. As such I cannot keep my fingers crossed to watch you mortgage your life for what I will best term infatuation. That man cannot take care of you, and is unfit for you. I will never recommend him not only to you, but in fact any sister in this church.’ ‘Sir, what is the yardstick for your measurement? Joe is gainfully employed, in one of the biggest multinational oil firms in this country. He loves me. He adores me. He is a Christian. He is good looking, charming and charismatic. He has a fat wallet, and as a plus, he is willing to spend it on me. What more can I ask for in a man?’ She did not wait for the pastor to complete his sentence, which unfortunately would contain the real reason he could not append his spiritual signature on that union. She got up and stormed out of his office. She didn’t close the door after her. She couldn’t understand why this man she had a lot of regard for could be doing this to her, at this time of her life. Two minutes later, she reappeared at the door. ‘I am sorry for walking out on you, sir, but any attempt from anyone at hindering my marriage to Joe, is like a cut to my lifeline. I am sorry sir, but I must marry him.’ She too, had an underlying reason which she didn’t want to disclose in a hurry to her pastor. She fumbled with her fingers naively for a few seconds. ‘I am heavy for him,’ escaped her lips. She wondered if she had done the right thing, and searched his eyes for the answer, but it was scarce. Ada braked sharply when the Audi almost hit the gate of the house, pulling her rudely from her mind travel. As soon as the gates slid horizontally open, she got to know that whatever devil had gotten her entangled with Joe was not about to have mercy on her, at least not this hour. Joe was standing in front of the main door, a three-mouthed horsewhip in his hands. His face told the rest of the story. His eyes were blazing, and they just followed her, and bathed with scorn, monitored her stepping out of the car, locking it electronically, walking with shaky steps towards him, past him, and into the main house. She didn’t expect any greeting, of course, though she managed a mumbled hello as the sparks from his eyes almost tripped her off her high-heeled shoes. She entered the main house, and Joe spent five seconds staring at the sky, before barging in. A loud scream followed, followed by desperate wailing and clanging of steely material. It was followed by a sound which resembled breaking glass, from the direction of the kitchen. It later lulled, and in a very frightening way. Bibiana sighed with a tired ‘God will help us’, switched off the TV, and covered herself with the thick blanket. 9. STOLEN The Dodge ForeRunner van meandered through Kessing Street gentlemanly, bumping slowly through the potholes that made the estate a shadow of its aesthetic self. The driver, James, adjusted his rear-view mirror, and in it, gazed with a mixture of feelings at the fifteen children seated behind him. He did a mental count to make sure they were all complete, before his hands stretched to the volume knob of the near-obsolete Grundig stereo set a few inches from the steering wheel. The volume of the bangy and drummy music, which seemed more Niger-Deltan than Eastern climbed, drowning the little pitches of fouryear-old voices arguing and playing with lunch boxes. Though it made the early risers of the estate turn heads to glare at the nuisance the sight of the noisy van created at this time of the morning, he did not care, as the children were at it again, circumventing his orders at keeping them shut. He had instructed each of them, just like he had smartly noted in the few schools he had been in the course of his research, to hold their lips with their thumbs and first fingers. But he was just learning how impossible it was to keep them under control, and was beginning to see the reason for the frustration he always saw on the faces of those teachers. ‘Uncle, Teddy is not holding his lips’, Jummai had reported. ‘It is a lie’, Teddy retorted, and he had to let go of his lips to talk. ‘Uncle, Okey is sleeping. Chidinma is looking out of the window. Ika’s hand is on his lap. I was holding my lip, before Jummai accused me.’’ ‘It is a lie, I caught you’, she insisted. In the next forty seconds, each of them had a story to tell and something to report as to why and who was not obeying the directive. A little pandemonium broke out, with Jummai stretching her little hands to scratch Teddy’s face who had tapped her lap to drive home his defence, and the rest trying to give their version of what happened, some telling them to stop. Okey seemed to have heard his name in dreamland, for he awoke with a start. ‘It is a lie, sir………’’ ‘Make all of una close dat una small small mouth make I hear word! Dem send una? Abi e dey worry una?’’ he snarled, baring eyes that had been reddened and bloodied by marijuana. The vicious look on his face created the desired effect, and the noise died down immediately. Two or three of them cringed with fear, and recoiled deep into their seats. Presently the vehicle came to a smooth halt in front of House 8, and the loud blare of the horn communicated to the occupants of the house. Some moments later, a smartly-dressed little boy was led by the hand by a lithe-framed but buxom girl, probably in her twenties. He broke free of his sister ’s grip, as soon as he saw his classmates, and ran towards the van. The door opened automatically, and he climbed the steps to join his friend, Teddy. ‘’Good morning sir,’ the girl greeted. ‘How are you, my sister?’’ he cheerfully answered. The instant change in his accent and manner was noticed by only one out of the now sixteen children, and Mumma started feeling uncomfortable, though she hardly knew why. ‘Fine, sir. You people came earlier today’, she noted. ‘Yes oo, my sister. You know what this government wants to turn us into. I want to get to the filling station before school hours, to fill my tank. I don’t want to behave like the other driver, who runs out of fuel in the middle of the road. I went to a reputable driving school, besides, I want to win the best driver award this year at Genius International.’’ ‘No wonder, I just wanted to ask if you were employed newly. You weren’t the one that came yesterday.’ ‘Yes, you are right. I resumed yesterday. You have a nice day. Children, are you all ready?’’ ‘Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssss!’’ Soon as the door was securely shut, the driver engaged the reverse gear, got in to a good position, and endured the potholes and bumps for a few minutes at a leisurely distance per unit time. He broke into frightening speed the minute he was clear of the estate, and ventured into the highway. A few more decibels of volume were added to the banging and drumming. Dark glasses now completed his criminal look, as his foot went down harder on the accelerator, his hands making slight variations of direction on the steering wheel, for no reason other than overtaking the cars which blasted past like cartridges from a gun. The children resumed again, but he hardly looked at them anymore. At a checkpoint some minutes later, he slowed to a stop. The two policemen hurriedly dismantled the two steel drums and two large stones that constituted the roadblock, rolled them into the bush, and peeled off their uniforms. They completed the three-man capacity of the front of the van, and pulled on dark gloves. There was a shrill ringing tone, and one of the men pulled out a sophisticated Sendo. ‘All clear, sir. We are on our way.’’ When they pulled up in front of the mansion whose boys quarters was to house them for the next two days, and Zubby asked for his Aunty Peace, Mumma shouted, ‘This is not my school! Take me to my school, please sir!’’ Her voice broke, and cut, when she saw the fifteen stout, mean male faces which appeared from the main door. At that instant, another Dodge ForeRunner bearing the shiny engraved logo of Genius International Nursery and Primary School, stopped in front of House 8, Kessing Street in Penthouse Estate, and horned. Mrs Chima stirred in her tired sleep, and her eyes slowly adjusted to the light that had threatened to blind her when she attempted to view the real world. She turned to one side, and was surprised her waist downward still felt numb, even after she thought the three-hour sleep must have worn out the effect of the anaesthetic. Oh, she groaned. This was sure going to be her last pregnancy, she was certain of it. Ola would have to swap positions with her, by whatever means possible, and have a feel of what she had just gone through, should he dare try this again. As her nerve endings began to force their way to access the blood vessels, a sharp pain that did not have any corresponding image of its origin in her brain began to manifest, trailing the return of life to the various parts of her thighs, knees, legs and feet. She opened her mouth to scream, but what came out was not at all equal to the energy she put into it. Suddenly, her whole body slowly and steadily began to become hers once again, and with every passing second, the particles that constituted her being began to nod heads of agreement, signing a truce to work in harmony once more. Her husband, a seasoned Remote Sensing expert in the employ of the country’s largest oil prospecting firms, was away on urgent assignment in the troubled Bisa oil field where the youths had risen up once again in agitation for better settlement, and had blocked the access to their newest discovery, a large oil well that held so much potential and promise. She had thus come to the hospital on the benevolence of their close neighbour, whom she was told had left minutes ago, after confirming the safety of mother and child. ‘’Í just died in your arms tonight…..it must have been something you said#........I just died in your arms tonight……must have been-‘’, the Nokia N8 close to her head on the bed, vibrated and sang. She allowed it for some minutes, to savour her newly-acquired ringtone. Tallahasse was about to begin the rap introduction when she punched the receive button on the screen interface. ‘’Hello honey’, she cooed tiredly into the phone. ‘’Hi wifey….what’s up? Hope you and my boy are doing fine…. I heard this morning…. I can’t wait for these helicopter people to whisk me out of this place. Does he resemble me? Why I am I even asking, I don’t need to ask, will he resemble you in the first place? Its my seed,’’ he joked. Interested in playing along, she added her bit of irony. ‘’It’s a she, honey, and there is not an atom of you in her ’. ‘’Then you would have to go look elsewhere for her father, my legs are too long for you to pull…’’. They both laughed. ‘Love ya….will be there in say…..thirty minutes……..’’He wanted to hang up, but she had stopped talking, and he wondered why, though he was never to know the reason from his wife, ever in this life. Her hands were on the cot that housed Ojo while she was on the phone, and somehow her hands had found its way in to the large shawl that covered him. Throughout the five-minute conversation, she had been groping around to feel his soft foot, but she just couldn’t seem to reach him. The phone talk was just about to end when she decided to employ her eyes to do the feeling, and the phone dropped from her hand when she discovered there was no Ojo in that cot. The N8 fell from two metres, and acquired a shattered screen, as well as an abrupt end to the hitherto lively tête-à-tête. ‘’Nurse, where is my baby?’’ She asked nurse after nurse, but on account of her dishevelled hair and distraught manner, they almost mistook her for one of the strayed patients of the psychiatric department, and she received no answer which she could make head or tail of. She could have been mistaken for a Nollywood actress, with the sorry show of sorrow she put up, and it convinced the people she had not lost her senses initially. She first systematically set her legs free of her footwear, and made a dash for the railing that protected the staircase of the building, and which also bared the way to more than two hundred metres of height, encouraging herself with a loud shriek. Two or three nurses waited for her at the steps, for she was intent on forcing her way down the three-storey building. Their combined strength and resolve thwarted that effort of hers, and they were leading her slowly back to her ward when she savagely elbowed one of them, broke free and ran some distance before bruising the skin off her knees, in a slide which was so reminiscent of Thierry Henry after completing an elusive hat-trick. At the end of the exercise, there was a large collision between her face and chest, and the thick glass on the door that separated her ward from another. She didn’t fall backwards immediately at the impact, but when her face was gently pulled out from the crack of glass into which her face had been stuck, five sharp spurts of blood pooked out of the deep holes the glass had made in her face. Still wailing, she kicked her first helper, who reeled backwards far, only to be stopped at the ribs by a sharp door hinge. The nurse’s fainting well executed, Valerie raised her two legs upwards to heaven, and her fat mass of a body vibrated on the little splinters of broken glass she was lying on, all the while wailing uncontrollably, and it tore into her skin the more and increased the damage index. She then simmered down, and so did her hysteria. One nurse took it upon herself to search ward after ward for her baby, to no avail. She proceeded to console the woman who stubbornly refused to accept the fact that her baby was missing. ‘My baby! Ojo! Where are you? Ola ooooooo! Are you on your way? I am finished oooo! What will I tell my husband? What will I tell you, Ola? Hoooooooo!’’ What Mrs Chima did not know was that the nurse who was consoling her was the same one who had given a package to a tall, hairy man who had hurriedly left the hospital premises that instant, on her advice. As if buoyed up by an invisible prompt, she quickly left supplying her words of encouragement and rushed out to stare out of the window three floors below. Her heart thumped furiously when she caught sight of him arguing heatedly with the security men at the gate, and their gesticulations alluded to her greatest fear: they were insisting on searching the package thoroughly. Her friend lived true to her expectations when he suddenly snatched the sealed bag from the man in front of him, and did a desperate dash to get away, madly trailed by two of the security men. She was confident he would make it, and his perfect knowledge of the vicinity helped him disappear two streets down the road, to the chagrin of the security men and some hangers-on. Her blood pressure slowly plummeted. When she returned to Mrs Chima’s bed in the room to which she had been taken, she was lying, open-mouthed, staring bizarrely at the ceiling, lifeless, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide hanging loosely from her right hand. The dregs of the colourless liquid flowed slowly out of the bottle. Some kilometers away in another part of the town, Azu tiptoed to the room next to his. He had come home on the pretext of experiencing running stomach, and he had claimed to his mate he could not endure it till the official closing time, and just had to rush home to ease himself. ‘You can go’, Emeka, his superior, had permitted, knowing he could not wait before going home, but Emeka was sure today’s excuse was no gimmick. Azu had thanked him and left, and of course he had closed for the day. He knew he could not advise him to use the toilet facilities they had in the office complex. The incident of his contacting a bad veneral disease that had nearly cost him his life, and fecundity, had also registered in his mind in the twinkling of an eye, as he watched the puckered face of Azu, and was convinced of the truth in the image he saw. Azu was mischievous sometimes, leaving the office earlier than usual to get a quick feel of PlayStation, the notorious game gallery close by, but today’s was no gimmick, the time being nearly four o’clock. Happy with his nascent skills as an actor, he made straight for Mmadu, his uncle’s room the minute he got home. He pulled out the key he had collected from the forger ’s the previous day. Boy, don’t you deserve an Oscar, he told himself. His access to that key, he concluded, was simply God’s way of allowing him his pound of flesh from his master, whom he considered mean to him. He had overheard his master clearly the previous night, on his way to the john after downing a good late-night movie in the sitting room. ‘Yes, I have the money. Thirty thousand. Of course now, you think I am a small boy? He can’t try that with me. For Pete’s sake Sam, it is in pound sterling. Do I need to spell it out to you? What do you take me for? After all the risk, to my life and person?’ There was a little pause. When they had resumed, the language seemed esoteric, for it continued strangely till he felt he had had enough. He had touched the door, and the cold feel of metal which was the key met his hands. He was thankful. He inserted the key in the lock and turned. Did this man do it to specification? The open door before him answered that. He stepped in. The three drawers, wardrobe, and rack suffered different levels of attack, and after the next ten minutes, he began to feel disappointed. There was no way this exercise was going to be a waste of effort. This man…..his repeated slaps…the cold nights outside….the deepening hate… ‘U-u-u-u-unde-r-rr-r-r ’, curiously lifted him from the frustration. He turned. It was Amo the parrot. How he got there was surprising, but it was the least thing that mattered. He would worry about that whenever he would. He stared up at him crouched on the lamp holder. ‘Under what?” He just got a continuous stare, for an answer. The black beak shook a little. There was a chair, bed, and a mahogany table. Under what? The other two clues had been explored. On his knees he went, and peeked the dark one-andhalf-metre distance to the wall under the bed. A polythene bag! Good Lord! His hand reached deep, but length cheated him, and he employed the longer length of a hockey club near him. He determined to resign himself to fate. He was really fed up. In the polythene was a small black cape, and a long piece of clothing, black as well, that looked like a night gown. In spite of himself, he peacefully and slowly folded them away neatly, and tucked it far where he had seen them. He fell on his master ’s bed like a vertical tree being pulled by an invisible rope, in a manner that made it look more like a dance stunt, than a product of intense frustration. Something hard struck his back, as he fell on the bed. The pain was sharp, from the way he landed. Lifting the mattress was the only option this time, to find what had done that to him. When he did, he found, unwrapped, bare and begging to be taken, piles upon piles of all denominations and currencies of bank notes. He believed his eyes. ‘Uncle! You are back? I didn’t hear you enter. When did you return? How long have you been here?” Azu threw at his uncle, and only realized he had been talking to an elder after the third question. He checked himself. After a long, searching and hard stare at him, he replied, ‘Yes….i went somewhere, and I just had to rush home. Why are you back this early?’ ‘Tony is still at the office. I had running stomach’, he lied, rubbing his hands together. Aunty, welcome’, he greeted, just noticing her. She was already on her way to the inner room, leaving little Jade in her father ’s arms. ‘How do you do?’ ‘Honey could you switch on the fan please?’ the head of the house begged his wife. Azu retired into his room, to be doubly sure of what he had done. Just then, Jade emitted a loud scream, and sustained it for close to two minutes. ‘I am coming, baby girl! Mummy’s mixing your food!’ her mother called from two walls within. Mmadu, Jade’s father, couldn’t remember when last he consoled a baby, but he decided it will be fun to try. He fixed the child’s midriff on his arms, and lifted her high. The screams did not abate. He threw her, and began to sing tenderly. The fourth throw scared the breath out of Jade, but the father, unskilled and inexperienced, did not notice the sharp drop that marked the fright in her cries. When he threw her the fifth time, she lifted her hands, not knowing she was so close to the ceiling fan. It sliced her hands first, and the centripetal force made sure her head did not survive the next whirring blade. On the white wall, his shirt, and all over the rug and chairs was splattered her blood, and whitish matter that used to be her brains. She dropped, headless and lifeless, on the thick rug, and it soaked in much of her blood. As if on cue, the curtains parted and the two plain clothes policemen stepped in, one of them clinging to the belt track of a half naked and badly battered man who used to be James. He managed to stutter to the policemen, ‘Yes…this is him’. To Mmadu he said, ‘I am sorry, sir, the beating was too much……’ ‘What more evidence do we need? He has just sacrificed the latest victim”, Constable Umar told his colleague excitedly. Take him!’ Mmadu got a slap first, and a rough tug at his shirt, shredding it. He was led away, in spite of his protests. 10. ADDICTED ‘Ike! Ike!’ The ball rolled to my feet at average speed, and with high prospects, I expertly controlled it to a stop. I looked up and there was Obi, the burly central defender, charging at me, trying to decipher my next move with the ball. His breath came in short sharp gasps, and could be mistaken for one that had been working out hard in the gymnasium. One weapon I had which I used to full advantage was my lanky frame which defenders thought they could always intimidate, but it turned out they were always wrong, and this case was not going to be an exception. I had already pictured in my mind how he would fall to my most usual ploy, and he had suffered similarly twice in my hands today already. He got to inches of me, and I made a fake, quick show of shooting the hard round leather in his face, to which he instinctively ducked. In that split second, his thickset, bowed legs had opened sufficiently to accommodate the ball, and I pushed it into, and past him that instant. It was a move that could not be resisted, nine times out of ten. Since he was almost on the ground, I jumped over him effortlessly, raced to meet my ball, and came face to face with my last obstacle: Didi the goalkeeper. He rushed two inches forward, and spread his hands while dancing like a large chimpanzee getting ready for his next leap, spreading his hands as if it would suffice the five-metre length of the goal-mouth. I chose my angle well, decided on it, but it was not to be. The last I heard was hard thumping of feet behind me, before my right foot became entangled with my left, and I fell. ‘Penalty! Penalty!’ was echoed from all corners, amidst cheers. Yes! This hattrick was complete at last! My head swelled. Quickly, I conferred with my fellow strikers, and we came to an agreement that I was to be the executor, since it was my move anyway. I collected the ball, rolled and tweaked it expertly before staring hard at the sky. As my face was descending, my lips landed on the ball in a diabolic kiss, and I would have savoured it for longer, had I not remembered it had been picked and washed from a nearby gutter just some thirty minutes ago. I placed it firmly on the penalty spot, and I was already ten inches from it two seconds later. I watched Didi. He was ruthless and had a reputation with penalty spotkicks. He belonged to the class of goalkeepers that tended their zones with everything in them, and he was without scruple when it came to securing the goalpost. He was using that trick I knew only too well-staring me deep in the eyes, then at the ball, to and fro, all the while remaining stationary, as if I had the entire span of the net to myself. Anyone who was deceived by this was sure going to be the worse for it, for it gave him ample time to note the directions of both the leg, and the ball, and he once caught a kick like that, with a single hand. I had long taken note of that part of him. I began to frustrate him, and hesitated, even after the referee’s whistle had authorized me to do my job. When I took the kick he went one way, the ball another. I don’t even know how I did it, but the net shook anyhow. There were cheers and screams everywhere, as I ran to my half, accompanied by my fellow strikers Ike and Raul, to await the kick-off. In the next ten minutes, passes were flogged and flung, circulating the entire perimeter of the pitch, courtesy of our high-wired and coordinated play. A cross and a header some minutes later, the score had become 4-3, the last goal coming from Lekky, our central defender. The referee’s whistle signaling the end of the training session sounded, and I was happy with myself. I had ended my two-week goal drought, and had done it in style. Boots in hand, I was strolling leisurely towards the end of the pitch, and in the approaching dusk, I made out the image of a woman who had stayed put, even after everyone had left, or were preparing to leave. It looked like she was trying to hide something, and as I took three more steps forward, I stopped short. ‘JESUS!’ ‘Mekoyo, wetin happen?’ Femi asked. The jerry can! The gatemen had already shut three of the five entrances into the pitch, and she knew there would be eventually one exit route, and she watched Mallam Sani shut the fourth entrance. What the woman was hiding proved to be that horsewhip I dreaded, and always put me in check. I knew the field like the back of my hand and toyed with either the idea of scaling one of the high fences, or losing myself in the milling crowd jostling for the only available entrance. I chose the former, and it paid me. Whether she saw me or not did not matter at this point. I had returned from school at roughly two o’clock, eaten, and was disturbingly told by my mum we needed water in the house. In my mind, there was no stopping me from training that afternoon, which I had already missed, but since I feared that whip, which she was wont to employ should I fail, I had grudgingly engaged the services of our large jerry can, and headed for the tap a little distance from the house. The queue I saw there was frustratingly long, and there were hordes of people who would rather not join the queue, forcing their way to the water supply which looked like it was becoming depleted. I dropped the jerry can resignedly at the end of the queue, having neither strength nor will to join in circumventing the line. There was a tap on my shoulder. I didn’t turn at first; I was too engrossed in my anger at missing today’s session. The coach had been emphatic about his threat. Missing the U-15 list for my district on account of forfeiting training that day was enough disaster to spoil one’s day. It came again, but this time with a shout deep into my ears. It tingled my eardrums, and jolted me prompt. ‘Mekoooooooos! How far now?’ It was Femi, the most sought-after midfielder in Dako. I always associated with the best legs in the round leather game, and their influence had rubbed off on me in no small way, turning me from nothing to one of the most enviable strikers around. He was due to travel to Turkey in three weeks. He had been invited for trials at the feeder team of Galatasaray. ‘What are you doing here? Are you not supposed to be warming up? Don’t you know the team is counting heavily on you?” he asked, watching my face ooze of dejection, as I sat on my jerry can, chin in hand. ‘Femoo, see me o. Today of all days, eh? I don’t need to explain to you what I am doing here, you can see for yourself. In case you don’t know, I was sent to fetch water. Which kain thing be dis?’ ‘That can be worked out. The way I see this line, it will not get to your turn in the next two hours. You can always leave it in someone’s care, and go enjoy yourself’, he put in. My face brightened. Why hadn’t I thought about this all this while? To ginger me further, he added, ‘Today’s session has been shifted forward to three o’clock, or didn’t you know? So you can always finish on time and return to fetch your water.’ I had quickly gotten home, crept in through the back door, extracted my good-luck-charm Nike boots, complete with hose and shin guard, and met Femi at our agreed spot, before we raced to the field. Nababa, the coach, motioned us to jog round the field in a warm-up fitness test as soon as he sighted us. This took fifteen minutes, and we were then allotted our traditional positions and halves of the field, for the kick-off. I used the joystick on the pad to give Roberto Carlos my favourite stuntdribble, and he slided in vain towards the ball, only to end up hitting the metal advert bar by the touchline, owing to his enormous speed. By the aid of the same joystick, I guided Ronaldinho, my favourite playmaker into executing his signature leg-over more than five times before clearly beating Patrice Evra and laying a through ball to Iniesta, amidst loud cheers from the TV set, and from hangers-on around the arcade. Miffed by my apparent upper hand, Femi deliberately swayed his hands to hit mine, and in that momentary loss of concentration, Rio Ferdinand forcefully swept the ball off my attacker ’s foot. The lousy referee did not even award me a free kick, even though it was close enough to make a case for a penalty. I glared at Femi. He giggled and shifted some inches from my wrath. I liked him, so my anger cooled off in no time. In the end, he had replied my two goals, and added his winner. ‘’So for your mind now you go say you don win now abi? I quipped, as we strolled out of the hall. ‘Wetin the scoreline talk?’ he answered. ‘How you take get the scoreline? Cheating abi?’’ ‘’Wetin you dey do wen I cheat you?’’ I couldn’t answer that. He knew he had me there. If I had concentrated, the distraction wouldn’t have mattered, but I had allowed it. This was one of the subtle lessons he always tried to pass across each time we were together, and that made him invaluable to me. Even though we were roughly peers, his approach to life and survival was much more on a mature note than mine. While I was impatient, vain and gave up easily, he was patient, perseverant and persistent, on and off the pitch. What endeared him to me was that he was never caught up in the pleasures and scandals that held most footballers like a vice, and, it was seriously paying off for him. Liking it, I vowed I must pursue my career in like manner. ‘’IF NO BE SAY I KNOW YOU, I FOR WASH YOU THE SLAP WEY I RECEIVE YESTERDAY!’’ Some one said behind me, gripping my hand tightly. It was Baba, my look-alike. ‘A-a, Baba-o, wetin i do now?’ Baba-o went ahead to regale us of the drama that had played out the previous evening, when, as one of the spectators of our training session, he was leaving through the remaining entrance when he was accosted by a certain woman. Make no mistake; it was as if Baba-o and I were let loose on the earth the same day and time, by the same mother, though he was older than me by a few months. We were more identical than twins, and even though I had not run into trouble yet on account of the similarity in our looks and his wayward manners, I always prayed night and day not to, for though he was an acquaintance of mine who fancied me too, he had friends and company I would rather call dangerous and mischievous, who participated in smalltime crime around the neighbourhood, doing some harmless pick pocketing and selling petrol on black-market basis. But the tables had turned, as fate would have it, and he was the first recipient of the dividends of our similar looks. According to him, the woman had slapped him resoundingly, having watched him from a distance, and was happy to catch him, before any reprimand came from her. ‘’Emeka, I sent you to fetch water, and you left your jerry can for thieves, only to come here to play football? What is wrong with you? Why are you so addicted to football? You will meet me at home!’ She was about to turn and go, when he had recognized her as my mum, and had replied in Hausa, ‘Mama Emeka, no be me ooo!’ my mum had turned to look, and didn’t know what emotion to display. Her lips which had been tightened in a fit of suppressed anger, slowly parted in a half-smile as she apologized, ashamed. Understanding what was on ground, he had willingly accepted, promising her to visit the slap on me for such wrongdoing. When he was nearing the end of the tale, I began to edge away from the threat, should he playfully try to fulfil it. I was lucky that day, for he would have been justified if he did. I also apologized, and he accepted, calling it nothing. It was Monday morning, and I had just finished my bath. I looked at the dining table and saw my sister munching away at my favourite: beans and plantain. As I shifted my eyes to the early-morning AM Express on the TV, I thought I caught sight of her hands leaving her food to explore the mound of beans on a plate that was supposed to be mine. When the mound lost its first piece of plantain, she was not done yet, and the furious stare I shot her made her check herself. I decided not to leave anything to chance, as I dove to the table, converting the food-mountain to a plain in no time. I looked at the time. 7.30 a.m! My God! I could not risk that prefect’s whip, no, not again today. He had done enough damage to my body already. I looked at my arms, where the neem branch from Senior Biodun had torn my skin, but it had been made more painful and nastily visible by a rather rough tackle I had received the day before, when I had made a public ignominy of a defender. I made for my room immediately, and reached for my underclothes quickly. The frustration began when I looked on the hangar and noticed my school uniform, shirt and trouser, conspicuously missing. I crosschecked, and my senses proved to be too real to deceive me. But I was cock sure I had ironed and arranged that uniform the previous night. Where could it be? In mad fury, I upturned the rack, my bag, the drawer, and every imaginable place where fabric could hide, but the frustration stared back at me the same way my freckled face depicted my plight. My mother had long left for work, my sister and brother had just left for school, so there was no one to direct my enquiries to. I heard a sound behind me, and I turned to face my father, all dressed and ready for work, brandishing his car keys. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked, rather too casually to portray any concern. ‘My uniform’, I was surprised to think I was sobbing. He took a long hard look at me, and then fired the salvo. ‘I have thought about your recent recalcitrant activities in this house, and I have decided, short of giving you a good piece of my palms and whips, to allow you pursue your footballing. But I will not waste my money on you any further. I have done my best, to guide you into becoming a responsible human being. To that effect, I seized your school uniform. I bought it, and I will keep it till Bill comes of age, since he is in the same school as you. Good luck, and may you make the English Premier League.’ I was speechless, and didn’t know what to think. He had walked out of the room. ‘By the way, don’t you have a training session today? You can go, and let me lock my house,’ he added sarcastically. Slowly, I put on my house wear, and started out of the house. No wonder he had kept mute all through that slap episode! Though I didn’t receive the routine flogging I was regularly treated to on occasions like that, owing to the funny drama which followed it, he had neither referred to it nor done anything predicated on that day’s happenings, which was unusual. Football was like opium to me, it was just not possible to talk me, flog me, or cajole me out of it. I just wanted more and more with each passing day. Getting any gratification from it was just so secondary, and I was ready to dare my father. I loved school, having the ambition to pursue a nice career, of which identity I was not just sure then, but anybody who thought he could use that to put me on edge just had to have another thing coming. I got outside, and he thought I was going to cry or beg, but I didn’t, not really out of defiance or any such thing, but I was just not sensitive enough to that kind of treatment. He actually waited for it, and when he saw he was beginning to lose face, he stuck the house keys in his pocket, and walked to his car. I watched the BMW cruise past me indifferently, and focused my attention on other objects of interest in the busy street. Some furious driving in the distance attracted my attention. There was wailing and shouting, and when I looked out for the source of the disturbance of the peace and quiet of the street, I saw a Hi-ace bus coming towards me fast, swaying from side to side, oblivious that some occupants were sitting on the windows, and even the roof. There were two or three flags sticking out of some windows, and when I saw the inscription, my brain clicked. The regional finals! Good Lord! So this was what I would have missed! Thank you, Lord! Can you imagine, I told myself. I jumped out of our balcony and stood in the way of the approaching bus, raising my two hands in solidarity. The driver gunned on towards me, but the bus slowed as he recognized me, like I expected. ‘Pillars for life!’ I shouted, and jumped into the bus. I got into the frenzy of the moment, and put one leg out of the window. I was not getting the feel, and in ten seconds, I was on top of the speeding and swerving bus with two others, shouting on the top of our voices and daring anyone who refused to support our darling Pillars. When we were ushered into the lush stadium, on which turf Femi and I had led several assaults, and were two trophies experienced, I settled for a pack of milkshake which was distributed free to every member of Pillars Supporters Club, and made my way to the ordinary section where we were led. As I sat down, someone dropped near me from nowhere. Femi. ‘Think of the devil!’ I exclaimed, hugging him. I was actually wishing you were here with me.’ ‘So, you are calling me a devil now?’, he asked, pretending not to get the message in my exclamation. Yes’, I said, playing along. He looked me in the eye, nudged me laughingly, and I treated his sneakers to some milkshake paint. ‘Ýou were in the bus?’ ‘Course yes’, he replied. Just then, the usher appeared with his milkshake, and I shifted uncomfortably as I began to fear he might do worse to me. ‘Don’t worry, its not time yet’, he said knowingly. The rise and fall in the cheers took our attention back to the pitch. They had kicked off, and our Salami had tested the visiting goalkeeper the second time. He was pretty good at his job, we had to admit and agree, though painfully. It happened three more times, and he simply frustrated our strikers, who got to him effortlessly because of his weak defence manning. In the 88th minute, Imeh, our defender took a goal kick. The ball soared high, and landed on the head of Uche, who contested it in the air with another tough midfielder of theirs. It was next on the chest of Uba, who laid it to Utok. From Utok, the ball felt the feet of Nna, who lobbed it to the centre forward at the far end, and its next port of call was Bashiru. He was the one who did the unbelievable. Like Houdini the magician and tricks expert, he dipped his foot under the ball, and it spun furiously forward. Immediately, three defenders who knew his reputation surged forward towards him with different intentions ranging from retrieving the ball to making him lose his ankle. He made a beck with a snap of his fingers, and the ball retraced its way back to him almost instantly, and the resultant collision of the defenders was legendary. We roared and cheered, and the cries followed and spurred him on to beating the last defender, and slotting the ball home coolly past the impossible goalkeeper. The net almost laughed, but covered its mouth in a smirk. Our end of the pitch erupted with screams like a volcano, and some of us spilled into the field to felicitate. Bash was carried sky high, even though there were two long minutes to the grasp of the trophy. The coach was on hand to reassure us it was already ours: no need to hurry the celebration. The kick-off was taken, and we showed better promise of increasing the tally. Nna got the ball deep into their half, and magically spun the ball above the head of his approaching opponent, and a ten-metre chase for the ball began. The dark, tall defender got to him, and, in the full glare of everyone kicked both ball and Nna’s legs in the air. When Nna landed, he angrily punched the opponent, and a scuffle ensued. His colleagues surrounded him, and so did Pillars players. Things were beginning to get messy, and the supporters were already on each other ’s necks. The referee and his assistants helplessly moved to a corner when it became clear his whistle could no longer control the crowd that was gathering. We looked round for the security men, but found none. We decided it was time to go. All of a sudden, a swishing sound was heard in the distance, and my Femi lay lifeless beside me, beheaded and spurting blood profusely. When my ears picked the sound of the resulting explosion, I looked back, and all the supporters sitting behind us were already killed. I dove for cover under a corpse, and after a few minutes, I made for the exit. We had been hit by a rocket launcher! The place was crowded as everyone scrambled to be the first to get out. There were two more explosions and the population at the exit doubled. Someone had axed the wall open to increase the door size. I couldn’t keep pace with the people struggling out, and I fell. Feet trampled on my small frame in the flurry, and my head, feet, and arms suffered injurious impacts. Then something hard impaled my head, and I passed out. I woke to the stern face of my father in the hospital, who hissed as I came to. My mother praised God. My love for football has not waned one bit, but I am more careful these days.