The Millionaire

United Kingdom, present day.

‘They cant harm me, I live a charmed life. Told you before.’

‘Bello, let’s leave please.’

‘Don’t worry baby. This lot are pussies.’

In the dimly lit alley Bello Momoh sized up the three men that blocked his path. He could not make out their faces but he did not need the light to know they were hostile. Two had sticks and one had a pick axe. He had Laura. He felt her squeeze his arm, trying to drag him backwards to ‘safety’ but he resisted. Five years and seven months living as the lone minority in the Backwater council estate had made him well acquainted to animosity. He was never one to run from a fight no matter the odds.  So far he had come up trumps in two ambushes, sent two men to the hospital and killed a dog that had been set on him.

‘Danger and I are two lions born on the same day, and I, the elder and more terrible.’ He had once told his girlfriend, quoting Julius Ceasar from Shakespear’s drama.

‘We know how that ended up.’ She had quipped back.

With a Master’s degree in psychology among his repertoire, it was not foolhardiness that fuelled Bello’s belligerent nature. For one he had the body of a body builder and was a black belt in taekwondo to boot. But those were not the credentials he relied on. There was something else. 

They had been dating for a year when he revealed his secret to Laura.

‘My mother took me to a witch doctor when I was born and I was dipped in magic iron. I will not die until I have lots of money.’ He winked.

‘Bello, come on. Surely even you do not believe in that African voodoo thing. It is hocus-pocus.’

He looked at her with a smirk.

Hocus-pocus?  Only if she knew.

He did not think it was his chiselled frame, his honey coated words or his intelligence that had won her over. It was that ‘something else.’ Mama had assured him he would be able to have his way with anyone. But he was to use his powers wisely. He had spotted Laura at the University beauty pageant contest. The moment she stepped out on stage the other contestants had no hope. Bello promptly ditched his ex who he had gone there with and sought out the beauty queen. Since then they had been joined at the hip (a good number of times) and Bello held on. He was not going to let her go in a hurry. Never mind that he lived in a rundown area where men with nothing creative to challenge their minds took offence at seeing a stunning white girl in the arms of a black man. Bello savoured the attention and was bent on twisting the knife. Eat your hearts out.

They had gone for a movie and she wanted to get chewing gum on the way back. There was a shop open at that time of night. It was not quite on the route home and that meant they might chance a short cut via the dark alley. Hoodlums hung about the place and he had had a fight there before.

The shop was open. Bello waited outside for Laura. She got what she wanted and slipped her lithe hands around his biceps and they shared a joke. They had just turned into the alley when the men jumped out of the shadows. Bello did not know if the men had tailed them to the place or if they had been waiting for an unlucky victim to walk by. Either way he did not care.

The men advanced.

‘Hey black boy. You like white meat, do you?’

‘You think you can come to our country and fuck our women do you?’

‘If you come any nearer I am going to fuck you too, arsehole.’  Bello challenged. He unhooked Laura’s fingers around his arm and protectively stood in front of her.

‘You can talk, can you? I am going to shut your mouth for you.’ They were skinheads with tattoos plastered around their wrinkly skin. They wore sleeveless camouflage vests and jackboots. Every single one carried a sizeable amount of bulk that matched Bello’s but none had his muscles. The shadows retreated from their faces as they got nearer so he could see the hate in their eyes.

Soon, he mused, it will turn to fear.

Taking down two men was easy if one had the speed. The trick was to attack first, hard and with accuracy, aiming for some vital part – the groin or the windpipe – to incapacitate the first man.

Then turn to the second (who would be rattled on seeing he had no support).

Against three men it was not that straightforward. In the seconds it took to attack the first man, the other two would definitely charge. If they were amateurs it would still be easy work but if they were veterans of a good number of street fights then he would have to be fully focused.

The man with the pickaxe had the heaviest weapon. He needed time to balance it and swing. So Bello went for him first. He grabbed the man’s arm as he raised the axe, kicked him in the shin, punched his neck and followed up with a head butt. The man grabbed his throat in agony and sank to his knees.

From the corner of his eye Bello saw the other men already swinging their sticks. He had just enough time to dodge one. He expected to be hit by the other. But by charging at his adversary, he shortened the arc of the man’s swing and reduced the force of the impact. It caught him on the shoulder. He had felt much worse in his lifetime. He punched the man’s stomach and drove his elbow into the grimaced face in front of him, breaking a nose and drawing blood.

The man went down.

Bello did not spin around fast enough. The third man seized him in a choke hold and locked his hands behind Bello so there was no way to reach them easily. But it was far from hopeless. Bello had earned his black belt fighting stronger opponents. He tucked his chin in to ease pressure on his neck.

‘Hey Johno, get up, get up damn it, and get the girl. I have this sucker.’

Laura!

Bello heard one of the fallen men scramble to his feet, then he heard his girlfriend scream, and at that point he lost all reason.

He kicked, he lashed out, he dug his teeth into the flesh of the man pinning him and bit hard.  The man yelped in pain and released him.  Laura had gone but he could hear her voice from down the alley, shouting for help.

She was on the ground spread-eagle. Scattered strands of her hair billowed across her face.  Her tee shirt had been torn in two and her bra was pulled down so her exposed breasts bobbled free. The man that had pursued after her was seated on her torso, pinning her down. He moved from side to side to dodge her fists with which she pummelled his body.

‘Stop struggling, bitch!’  He slapped her face.

Bello reached them just then.

“He controls the world who controls his emotions.” He had learnt that phrase in training and it had served him well. There was always a solution to seemingly impossible entanglements if one kept his heart in check and calmly used his head.  In the moment though, seeing his girlfriend unceremoniously exposed and being assaulted, that advice went out the window. In a fit of rage he seized the man by the collar, yanked him off Laura then knocked him down with a punch.

If he was not so intent on punishing the man he would not have followed up with incessant kicking, and stamping, he would have paid attention to the scurrying sounds behind him and he would have heeded Laura’s warning shout.

At the last moment he turned. Too late.

The stick caught him across the temple. Pain! The impact made him stagger. His knees went wobbly and his vision blurred. He swayed from side to side, struggling to stay on his feet, somewhat wary of the second wave of attack that was sure to come.

They gave him no chance. He doubled up from a punch in his stomach, reeled backwards from a knee in his face and finally fell from a sharp pain in his chest. It was pain like he had never known.

The world went still. From afar he made out voices.

‘What have you done? You just killed the man.’

‘He deserved it.’

‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

‘Help us. Somebody help us.’  Laura was screaming.

‘I call ambulance and police.’

Bello recognized the voice of Mr Wong, the Chinese shopkeeper from where they bought the gum.

He felt himself having spasms.

‘He is shaking. Please do something.’

‘Ambulance come soon. Wait.’

And then his world went black.

Africa, twenty five years ago...

‘This child will not die! I say he will not die!’

Mma Nana quivered at the shrill incantations of the witch doctor, doubting the wisdom of bringing her newborn son to the old hag revered in the village for her mystical powers. After two miscarriages though, she had to insure her successful birth.

A small log fire burned in the centre of the room. The flames cast moving shadows on the walls, giving the place an ethereal feel.  Mma Nana coughed from the smoke that filled the interior of the little hut. Her eyes watered. If she felt such discomfort she wondered how bad it was for her baby boy. He squealed his protest as hard as his lungs allowed. The witch doctor held him by one leg so he hung upside down, dangling like meat at the butchers. She raised him towards a shrine of ostrich feathers and cowries. Two human skulls impaled on sticks driven into the ground, stood sentry on each side of the shrine and rattled as she screamed.

‘Amadioha!  Ebeeeeee.’  

She grabbed a handful of powered chalk from a calabash and blew into the body of the squealing baby, coating him white. The flames rose higher. Mma Nana shrank backwards.

The witch doctor seized a dagger from a low stool beside the shrine. Gently she lowered the tip of its blade to the little feet of the child. Mma Nana covered her mouth to stop herself from shouting. But if the woman harmed her baby this would have to stop.

‘What more do you want for the child?’

‘Em...’

‘Woman,’ the witch doctor called out in a high pitched voice that reverberated around the room. ‘What more do you want Amadioha to do for this boy?’

‘Mama, I do not understand.’

‘The spirits have favoured your child. He has protection but they want to give him more. What else do you want for him? Choose well so it does not become a curse to him.’

‘I want him to be a leader among men. People will listen when he speaks and I want him to have money.’

‘Money?’

‘Yes, lots and lots of money. He must not die a poor man.’

‘Then so be it. He will die a rich man.’

She pierced the soft sole of the baby’s feet. Mme Nana covered her mouth again as her son wailed in pain. The witch doctor dropped the dagger and held the baby’s bleeding foot over a broken eggshell so the blood dripped into it. She placed the baby on the ground beside the fire and cupped the eggshell in her hands. When she opened her hands again it was not a cracked eggshell there but a whole egg. It had mended itself. Gingerly she placed it beside the shrine, and then she picked up the baby and handed him to his mother.

‘It is done.’

United Kingdom, present day.

Laura rested her head on the doctor chest, drawing strength from his hug. She had been treated for shock, bruises and a few cuts and asked to go home but she had stayed in the hospital, waiting for Bello. He was in a coma, strapped to drips and machines and adorned with bandages. Most of it was wrapped around his chest where the pickaxe had pierced him. The surgery had taken the better part of five hours and finally she was allowed to look at him through the glass window.

The doctor walked up to her and she fell against him, overwhelmed by it all. He held her.

‘Be honest with me doctor, will he make it?’

‘ Tonight is most critical. If he can make it till the morning then he will likely survive. It is a fifty fifty chance. Time to pray.’ He held her at arm’s length and looked in her face.  ‘And time for you to go home. There is absolutely nothing you can do here and you need to get some sleep and rest your wounds. Come back in the morning. He should be up by then. If anything changes during the night I will call you. Okay?’

She nodded. It was for the best.

But sleep would not come. Horrific scenes of the attack harried her subconscious. A hot shower did not help and it was too late to go the parents. So she switched on the telly and turned the volume up. Some TV challenge was on. Though she stared at the screen she barely took note of the game show host grilling contestants with question after question. It was soon over and something else flashed on the screen. Six numbers. 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7.  

Where had she seen that before?

‘Oh, no number five.’ Mr Wong’s voice entered her head. Of course, the Chinese man at the shop!  

A sudden cold gripped her, making her hairs stand on end.

She had gotten a fiver from Bello to get her gum. Mr Wong hadn’t change.

‘You buy lottery ticket? Maybe goodluck?’

‘Oh go on then.’ She smiled back.

‘1,2,3,4,6,7.’ He read out the numbers from the ticket he had printed. ‘Oh, no number five. Good numbers this.’

She winked at him, took her booty and skipped out to a waiting Bello.

Where was that ticket?  

With shaky hands she rummaged through the pockets of the dirty jumper she had had on earlier, pulled out the piece of paper and help it up to the light. There was no mistake – 1,2,3,4,6,7. The winning jackpot number combination. They were millionaires.

Her world collapsed. She fell on the bed, curled up and wept. There was no need to answer her ringing mobile phone. She knew it was the doctor. And she knew his exact reason for the call.

Somewhere in the world an egg cracked open, spilling its bloody contents.

Time to Speak out Nigeria.

If this comes out as a bit random, it is because I have just read online, the appointment of Salisu Buhari as a member of the governing council board for federal universities. Now where do I start? Doesn’t this just typify the mindset of those at the helm in Nigeria?  Federal universities are crumbling and who better to return them to their days of glory than a man shamed for falsifying a degree certificate from the University of Toronto? Now the famed Reuben Abati defends this appointment stating that he had been pardoned by the then president and thus his sins wiped clean.  Let’s humour that argument for a moment and agree with the ‘esteemed’ Reuben Abati (who always knows what he is talking about) and say they looked at the evidence and found the former House of Rep. Leader no more wanting, found that he had served the party well (for that is more than a enough criteria to get a reward in their books) and decided to give him something back. Let’s say they arraigned a meeting and asked each other how they would defend, to Nigerians, the reward to a man whose fall from grace was witnessed by every Nigerian and who, in any other country, would be a convicted felon. Surely, surely there are more than enough governing boards he could serve on (prisons – if there is one – for example, would not be a bad idea). But no! It had to be the one he was definitely least suitable for, and then they send their faithful stooge to present the pile of filth to the people in a beautiful package of bewildering words.

I would laugh if it did not have far-reaching dire implications, for certainly it has got to be a joke.

This is not about Salisu Buhari for that would be cutting a few leaves from a tree in an attempt to uproot it. He would not be the first disgraced Nigerian, deserving a long jail term, who is honoured instead. It is not about President Jonathan Goodluck; certainly not the first Nigerian President to go down that road. And very unfortunately, not about Reuben Abati now bathed in the oil, the stains of which he once tried to wipe off others. And he would not be the first.

This is about those who still believe in the face abject stupidity; those who still wait for that spark of light in the distance, not letting the quagmire of hopelessness that the country is well imbedded make them falter in their belief that the country will stand as it should some day.

The appointment of Salisu Buhari will not come as a shock to most Nigerians. On the contrary it is what many would expect, given the track record of all that has been in power at one time or another. This is ready ammunition for the sceptics who have long given up and I would not blame them.

Take away a man’s right to feed himself and provide for his family and you strip him of every ounce of honour and self esteem. It is a shame that a country with so much, whose citizens demand so little, are given absolutely nothing. Much as I do not condone corruption on any level, (as it has eaten deep into the pillars that hold us up as a nation so that we could implode at any moment), I empathize with the man who resists for so long only to see his colleagues feeding fat off backhanders.  Alas, high morals and lofty ideals, in the face of uncurbed corruption, do not feed empty stomachs. He gives in.

All it takes is a little taste, bitter at first then acquired. When a man first comes face to face with violence, crime, corruption (anything of horror for that matter), he is filled with revulsion and can barely stomach it. Over time, if ‘whatever it is’ stays, he rises to the level of tolerance; the abnormal becomes normal. And if the ‘whatever it is’ stays even longer, he embraces it.

There was a time in Nigeria when it shocked the system to hear a seemingly unattainable amount of money from people’s mouths. Worse when it was heard to have been stolen by some government official. Now it is common place to hear and, what is more, expected of any who ascends to a high enough position in the Nigerian government. Sadder still, complacency is expected; the bad roads, absence of basic infrastructure, squandering of public funds like it was their own money (Like the Uyo state governor shamelessly giving out gifts of cars) and on and on.

It will take more than a hundred years to sanitize the minds of Nigerians completely to the point needed to make the country stand shoulder to shoulder with any developed country. It seems like a long time. Trust me, 2013 seemed like an age away when our founding fathers bickered over who would get what, putting ethnicity before nationality and laying the foundations of distrust. It seemed a long time away when Kaduna Nzeogwu led young soldiers to the first coup, opening the doors to a spate of endless takeovers by whoever felt the most powerful. It seemed a long time away when the first gunshots ushered in an unwanted civil war, the telltale signs of which are still very visible. If we still reminiscence about the days of Idiagbon, Babagida and Abacha, trust me, these times will remain with generations unborn and as we judge the past, what we do now will be scored by our children’s children.

A hundred years is not a long time.

But even a hundred years will be overly optimistic if we do not begin to lay the foundations now. They say a people deserve her government. If that is true then Nigerians deserve much much better. We are a resilient people, undaunted by insurmountable challenges, strong willed and highly innovative. Within the boundaries of the nation are geniuses whose skills have been suppressed by the mediocrity of those who have been in charge, trying to quench the light that would expose their short comings. By the law of averages, one day we will get a leader that will serve (which we have never had), one that will make us proud to be Nigerian anywhere in the world.

We cannot wait for providence though. If an unruly child is not scolded he will grow up spoilt. For so long we have turned the other cheek while we get slapped and asked to say ‘thank you’ for the abuse. I weep for those who died putting this government in place, thinking a change was finally imminent. They were wrong just as we all were. It is called a democracy and it takes due process so we shall wait. But when we see something seriously out of place we cannot afford to remain quiet, not any more. ‘The man dies in all who keeps silent in the face of tyranny.’ That, from a Nobel Laureate. And he is right. But the man in Nigerians live and we shall speak.

There will be many more gaffes to point out, for now though, in one voice, let us tell the President and his deluded mouth piece that Salisu Buhari, impeached for falsifying his credentials (the pardons do not clean the crime) is not fit to be a member of the governing council for federal universities.

Generations to come demand that we do.  

Shot of glory

I watched the famous Phil Dareck step out of his mansion to make his routine dog walk around the posh streets of Boulevard Be, shuddering in the fierce wind as he stepped out of the warm comfort of his opulent home. He jerked up the collar of his jacket. In effect, pulling at the greyhound he had on a short leash (just like he had most of his girls). The dog yelped in protest.
‘Oh shut up Ceasar. Weather’s bad enough without you complaining.’
Someone was not in the best of moods. I closed one eye and surveyed his features through my telescope, surveyed him surveying the weather and debating if it the walk was worth it. I willed him to make the move. My future depended on it.
It was the closest I had ever been to the film star and I could make out his deep set eyes, square masculine jaw and a fine crop of hair which he had not bothered to conceal considering the weather. Underneath his thick clothing was the body of a greek god which the world had been privileged to see in many of his movies. It was no wonder why the girls could not get enough of him.
I did not particularly watch movies and had not cared for the existence of this man until it hit me how he could singularly change my miserable life.
I had dragged myself through life to this point, just managing to hang on to my job as a reporter because I had been in the same class as my editor ten long years ago. Much as I was grateful for the favour, it was also painful to watch the celebrity reporters getting the mouth watering assignments that brought them even more fame and a lot more money. If I was lucky I covered some mundane pet show that got assigned to some obscure corner of the back pages (if it ever made the news).
Maybe if there was a girlfriend waiting for me back home at the end of the day it would have been more tolerable; maybe if I had a lot of friends to hang out with sometime or my parents, when they found time to call, did not remind me of how much of a failure I was next to my younger sister who was about to head a major corporation, life might have been a tad less bitter.
I have never been psychic, nor did I believe in all that nonsense before the ‘tip off’ came to me. I was walking along the Brandon bridge I think it was, contemplating jumping off the metal railings two hundred feet down into the icy waters, to end my ‘hamster in a circle’ existence. Some wandering passerby would spot my body floating in the river, the police would be alerted and then the papers would know. The breaking news would be assigned to another hot-shot reporter who would dash to the scene to add another feather to their cap. All this whirled about in my head and as much as I wanted to jump off that bridge, I really did not want to make the day for another big reporter. Then it came to me, clear as a reflection in a wiped mirror. A celebrity was going to be shot and I would be the first on the scene. I knew the person, the place and the time. This was going to be my big break. Wondering why it had not come to me sooner I prepared, tracking poor Phil Dareck day in day out as his hour of reckoning drew ever closer. What would he have done differently if he had known he had less than a week to live? Whatever it was, his demise was going to drastically change my life. I wonder if my editor would believe in hunches and swallow the story that something in my head had told me what was going to happen. It would be safer to lie and say I had been tipped by an anonymous caller.
Phil Dereck, to my relief, decided the weather was not the worst in walking the dog. My heart thumped faster. I had never witnessed a murder but there was no backing out now. The paper would be impressed. Better assignments would come my way (who knows maybe more hunches to give me more breaking news), I know I would get more money, more recognition and one or two girls would now look my way. Just what would the parents say then huh?
From my vantage point in the tree, I could see no other person was around. Good as that was, I wondered where the ‘murderer’ would emerge from when I reported to the police.
‘’Steady on boy!’ He shouted at the excited dog. ‘Keep this up and I would take you right back.’
They were nearly under my tree. I took one quick look around. Still no soul in sight. No matter.
I steadied my aim and pulled the trigger.

He who findeth a wi...wild cat?

He who findeth a wife, the bible says, findeth a good thing. I found her on the streets of Manchester peddling her ‘crown jewels.’ She was a prostitute and I was a bible tottering born again Christian. It was the perfect match. Okay, so I was love struck after giving in to temptation twice but Christ’s most ardent disciple was Mary Magdalene. Guess what her profession was. So if Christ never judged her, or the other one who he saved from being stoned to death by pricking the conscience of her prosecutors, then who was I to judge Sheila? Not to mention she was the prettiest being I ever set eyes on and I blindly refused to believe her docile demeanour had anything to do with merely wanting to please a customer. She was not cut out for this. This girl was meant to be someone’s wife. My wife?
‘Why are you doing this?’ From the moment I negotiated a price in the streets, before we made it to the hotel room, that question played around in my mind. I finally let it out after the urge that harassed me for weeks had been killed in a climax. She was already standing by the mirror, putting back on the skimpy, tell tale, clothes of her trade. It was still early evening. Prowlers would still be about and she could definitely bag a couple before the morning came.
She froze in mid action, her fingers stuck to her chin where she had been dousing talcum powder. Through the mirror it was her reflection that stared back at me in a puppy dog look which made her more endearing.
‘You haven’t told me your name.’ I added. She relaxed into a smile and carried on applying her make up like I had just pressed ‘play’ after ‘pause.’
‘Didn’t yo mama tell you never to ask a lady her age and a whore her name?’
‘I like you and God loves you as well. We don’t see you as a whore.’
She turned round to look at me, with a smile of mischief playing around her lips.
‘I am sure you mistook me for a sex education teacher that needed payment for her sessions.’
‘Listen...’
‘Hey, its okay. For what its worth, thanks.’ Her expression went sullen. She grabbed her bag and was out of the door before I could shout her to wait. She had vanished from the face of the earth by the time I threw some clothes on and ran outside.
It was for the best I decided, to keep me away from the devil’s path. But thoughts of her would not vacate my mind. She needed to be brought into the light I decided, I would just go there and preach to her, nothing more.
I found her after three days of searching; in the same spot I had first met her. She showed no sign of recognition, beckoning in the very same way she had the first time.
God she was fine, but, strictly business this time around. I whipped out my bible and encouragingly she gave me an ear until a car pulled up. The driver leaned out, leering at her. I wanted to break his neck.
‘You working honey?’
‘No she is not!’
‘What, yes I am!’ I had managed to make her eyes blaze. What right do you have to interfere in my affairs? She began to walk round the car to the passenger side.
‘But I was here first!’ That stopped her. She looked at me, I looked at her.
‘Do you want me tonight sweetheart?’
‘Yes.’ The driver had forced my hand. I planned then to pay for her time then preach instead of what she would have expected.
‘Are you getting in the car or what?’ The driver revved his engines impatiently.
‘No darling, I am with him.’ She had chosen me. He screeched off.
‘So why have you been wasting precious time with all this God talk. Come along love.’ She trotted away. I was going to call her back, that I was going to pay her to listen and we would not be needing a room, when my gaze fell on her well rounded buttocks, accentuated by the mini skirt, rising and falling with every step. I followed. No harm in spreading the gospel in a hotel room. She gave me no chance to catch my breath as soon as I had secured the door behind me. Save for her G-strings, every other clothing and jewellery she had had on formed a pile at her feet in a flash. I wanted to tell her to put her clothes back on, that this was not why I had come to seek her. Then she climbed on the bed, walking on fours like a cat stalking prey and looking at me all the while in the most sensual manner. Dear God I just had to get my money’s worth.
‘Right, so what is your name?’ I had only just climbed down her body, still very much covered in the sweat of copulation. I panted out the question, wondering how she could still look as fresh as morning roses.
‘Sheila.’ She answered curtly, gazing at the ceiling.
‘Is that your real name?’ She looked askance at me. Take it or leave it. I took it.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘What do you care? You just want to fuck me like every other man.’
‘I really care, believe me. And God cares as well...’
‘Oh shut up about God.’ It was the only other time I ever saw her angry. She jumped out of bed and slipped into her clothes like she had slept through the chiming of her alarm clock.
‘Sheila...’ I sat up, a tad confused. She had listened to me out on the street.
‘My money.’ She was not in the mood for any speeches. She was not in the mood for me.
Deflated, I picked my trousers from the ground, took out some notes and pressed them in her outstretched hands. She headed for the door, not bothering with make up this time. The very next few seconds would determine my future. For if she had not stopped at the door to look at me in the manner of a homeless child robbed of her last coin before she sauntered out of sight, I would not have risen from the bed to the balcony to watch her walk away and I would not have seen her knocked down by a van screeching too late to avoid a collision. The driver did not stop.
For shock, I honestly cannot remember running down to the stairs to her side. I do remember feeling awash with gratitude for whoever had called the ambulance that zoomed into view just as I reached her unconscious body.
‘You know her?’ In the heat of the emergency the medics had allowed me into the ambulance with her. Now one of them looked up from resuscitating her. I had a feeling I was not going to be allowed far if I could not give a good enough reply.
‘I am her fiancée.’ I do not know why that popped out of my mouth but it seemed natural at the time. That confession affected my actions for the next three days. Maybe I was trying to affirm to the hospital staff that I was who I claimed to be or maybe I really felt overwhelming love for this call girl that hovered between life and death. Whatever it was I played the part, spending every free second at her bedside. And getting whatever she needed. The moment she woke I was there.
It took two more weeks before she was ready to leave. In that time I bathed in the praises of the nurses, telling her just how lucky she was to have someone like me. She smiled weakly in response every time, and, as soon as she could, petered me with kisses at every opportunity. Bliss.
She invaded my home and inevitably invaded my life. I nursed her in my bed, cooking what she wanted. The highlight of my day at work was when I closed to run home to her. Soon she could move around the house without aid. We celebrated with a bottle of wine. There was to be no sex, not anytime soon. The doctor had warned her to give it a break for at least a month.
What struck me as odd was that no one had come to visit her in hospital and no one anywhere was looking for her. Neither was she bothered about some relative somewhere agonizing about where she had vanished to. The girl was alone in the world. I had her to myself and now she had me. Perfect.
The healthier she got, however, the less hold I felt I had. She stopped paying attention to my stories; I was now the only one laughing at my jokes and too often she replied with a nod or an uninterested grunt when I asked how she felt.
‘Is there a problem darling?’ She had been quiet, looking out of the window as I had been trying to engage her in a conversation. She did not turn around to acknowledge my question.
‘Sheila...’
‘What do you really want from me?’
‘What?’
‘Tell me what you want from me. Why are you doing all this?’ Then she turned around. She had just taken a shower and looked casual in one of my big sweat shirts that stopped at her thighs, showing off her smooth long legs. I learnt she was particular about how she looked most times, using her spare time to do her manicure and her toes. She had left out make up and her frazzled hair fell over her shoulders giving her a look that stopped my heart beating.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why am I in your house? Why are you looking after me? Why do you care?’
‘Isn’s it obvious?’ I could feel she was overwhelmed with all I had done for her. I was about to do even more. ‘I love you Sheila.’ I did not know what I expected of her reaction. She turned to the window again, as cool as if I had just told her the sky was actually blue.
‘Okay.’ It was hardly the right response to a declaration of love and I might have taken a hint from that at the time. But I did not care. It would do for the time being.
She recovered, being her old jovial self again and I thought nothing more of it. I thought nothing of taking her along to a get-together party I was invited to by an old friend and goodness, was I proud of her. She dazzled everyone and made me the envy of nearly every guy around. That is until Goni grabbed my hand, whisking me off to a corner of the room to talk in private.
‘My God, Thomas, I know that girl. You say she is your girlfriend? She comes to my hotel you know.’
My friend managed a highbrow hotel in town. Sheila might have gone to meet some of her customers there. All that was yesterday. Not worth mentioning.
‘Goni, before you say another word. I know she used to be a prostitute and I am not going to hold it against her. We did not all have the privilege of been raised properly. It does not make anyone better than her. Look at her, does she look like a prostitute?’
She was intently listening to some guy telling a story across the room but as we turned to her she caught my eyes and gave a cheery wave.
‘For my sake, Goni, keep that information to yourself.’ I patted him on the back, leaving him still gaping, stupefied speechless, to join her.
After a week of living the perfect life, I felt it was time to make things permanent. I had saved a bit for this very day and on my way back from work I stopped by H.Samuel’s to get a ring. The moment I touched the door knob to enter the house, however, I knew something was wrong. The eerie silence confirmed it.
‘Sheila!’ No answer. Her things were still there, giving me some sense of hope. So I sat down to wait. I jumped at every sound, expectant. By the time I heard a loud knock on the door it was well into the night. I rose slowly, my legs heavy. That had better be her.
‘Hello.’ She casually pushed past me to the chair I had been seating in for nearly five hours. ‘What have you been up to? And why do you have that look on your face?’ She asked. I was very angry but awash with relief. She had just taken me through five hours of how empty my life would be without her.
‘Where have you been? I have been waiting for you since I got back.’
‘Just out to see friends love. Got tired of staying in. Did you miss me?’
‘You could have left me a note.’
‘Yes daddy...what’s that in your hand?’
I looked at my hand. It was the little H.Samuel bag that housed the ring. I had held it all that time. I should have waited, given her some story or simply said it was nothing, at least until I had probed her enough. But I fell on my knees, just as I rehearsed in my mind a million times.
‘Sweetheart you have come to mean so much to me.’ I pulled out the ring from the bag and stretched it in her direction. I could have just offered her a deadly spider for the way she shrank back.
‘Tom, what is this?’
‘I want you to be with me forever.’
She got up and walked around me, keeping a distance. I stayed on my knees twisting my neck to hold her gaze as she arched her way to my left. This was not going to plan.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Her voice had gone hoarse. She regarded me like one in the presence of an alien, not knowing if the strange being was friendly or hostile.
‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’
‘Okay,’ She whispered, tiptoeing forward to make me the happiest man in the world at that hour. The ring slipped seamlessly into her finger. I rose and squeezed her in a hug, not caring that her grip was less enthusiastic.
One month. It was a month that night, since her accident. That meant she was free to ply her ‘trade’ again or...be with me (if you know what I mean).
We had just clambered into bed when she turned to me with that puppy dog look.
‘I have something to tell you.’ Her voice was sad. I sat up to listen, not fearing anything major. She looked at me and the light came into her eyes. I think she changed her mind, leaning over to kiss me instead. Now how do I describe the sex we had that night? She gave and gave and gave, bringing all the skills of her erstwhile trade to play, taking me to places I never imagined existed. I don’t know why, but the whole session felt like she was repaying me for all I had done in the one way she knew how. What I did not know was that she was planting a yearning which no one would be able to fill. I slept off with the widest smile on my face. Life could not have been better.
The next morning I woke up alone in bed. The session had gone on well into the morning so the sun was well up by the time I managed to open my eyes. I was very late for work so I focused on cooking up an excuse for the boss. Sheila might have gone to the shops or something. Her absence was not something to worry about. I freshened up, left her a note and dashed out.
For being late I was forced to stay back at work two extra hours. I bided my time knowing what awaited me at home. If every night was going to be like last night then my life had just been transformed into heaven. I felt pity for everyman on earth. Sheila was exclusively mine now.
The door keys were still in the flowerpot where I had left them for her. Could it be possible? It was. The house was exactly as I had left it in the morning. Sheila had not returned.
I sat in the same chair I had waited for her last time and I sat there until the first light of dawn broke through the curtains. Something was terribly wrong. Something bad had happened to my baby. With that thought I sprang into action. I called work to let them know I was dying of leukaemia that might vanish in a few days, put on the news in case there was any breaking story that Sheila might be in, then called every hospital and police station within the locality. Nothing. she was not at her usual spot where I had picked her up the first time and no other call girl would give me information about her or they did not know. I remembered my prayers then, imploring God to keep Sheila safe wherever she was and bring her back to me.
He answered my prayers two days later. Sometimes I really wish he hadn’t.
I jumped at the ringing phone as I had been doing since Sheila disappeared. And as the other phone calls, it was someone else, killing my spirit instantly. But it was Goni and he was frantic.
‘Thomas, Thomas, I have seen Sheila.’
‘What? Where? Where Goni?’
‘Quick, you have to come now. Meet me outside saint Christopher now now.’ He hung up.
My hands shook as I replaced the mouthpiece in its cradle. Goosebumps broke all over my skin. Saint Christopher was a hospital two blocks from the hotel where Goni worked. What had happened to my girl? How bad was it? And God why? Why was she so accident prone?
I paid the taxi driver as he pulled alongside the hospital. As soon as he stopped I was going to sprint inside.
‘Thomas.’ Goni was there he promised. He spotted me as I got out of the car.
‘Where is she?’ I asked, trotting through the automatic sliding doors.
‘Wait, where are you going? She is not in there.’
‘What?’ I allowed a little hope nudge my confusion.
‘She is back at my hotel. Come with me.’ I could not read his expression, and I could not come up with any reason why Sheila might have gone to Goni for refuge if she wanted to leave me. And why had she been hiding? She had a lot of explaining to do.
We walked through the plush lobby, Goni nodded at the overly friendly receptionist while I looked in all directions for signs of Sheila. He reached his office and turned the keys in the lock. Had he locked her inside?
‘Is she in there?’
He raised a hand to indicate I be patient. There was no one in his office. He closed the door, then picked up the remote control to a large screen telly at one corner of the room. Just what was he playing at?
‘Goni, where is Sheila?’
‘Shhh, now listen, you must not tell anyone what I am about to show you now. It is top secret and the hotel might be closed down if it ever gets out. I will certainly go to jail. I just could not hide this from you.’
‘I am no snitch Goni. Now please don’t make me ask you again. Where is Sheila?’ I was going to throttle him if he made me utter one more word.
‘Right, brace yourself.’ He pointed the remote at the telly and it clicked to life. It was some kind of CCTV unit with goings on within a dozen mini screens. It was all in black and white.
‘Every screen is for a room. From here we secretly monitor what is happening all around the hotel.’ He explained. I looked from the screen to his face. He caught my eye. ‘Room 231.’
Every mini screen had a digital number tag. I searched for the one with “231” and gasped. My legs wobbled and I fell to my knees. It just was not possible.
‘Is that Sheila?’ The question raised doubts in my head and I suddenly got the urge to find out for myself. I picked myself up and dashed out of the office.
‘Thomas...’ Goni must have sensed what I was up to. ‘No, come back here man.’ I raced up the stairs to the second floor. I could hear his chasing after me but a bulldozer would be hard pressed to stop me now. Room 231 was easy to find. I was expecting the door was locked but it opened when I turned the knob.
‘Thomas, no!’ He probably had the same expectations as well and, I am sure, was horrified when he saw me disappearing into the room.
There are defining moments in the life of a person, an occurrence or experience that completely transforms ones character. One of such moments was seeing Sheila in bed with three men. They were all stark naked and drugged stupid, barely conscious. The ground was littered with used condoms, dispersed clothes, cigarette and whisky. The strong smell of weed hung over the room like a cloud. Two of the men were on either side of her while the third was curled up between her wide open legs, using her thigh as a pillow. He reacted to the noise of my entry, stirring and repositioning himself closer to her private part.
‘Thomas, lets go man.’ Goni grabbed my hand. I vaguely heard him saying something about keeping it to myself, as he let me out into the night wind. I don’t remember crying but there would be dried tears on my cheeks in the mirror. I left town two months later. There would be subsequent call girls, even prettier ones, but I went to them, did the business and left, not bothering with converting them. I guess some things are the way they are for a reason.
I never saw Sheila again.

To sow with pain

‘Please help me sir’
She stretched her hand towards the stranger. He stopped and frowned at her. Hoping, she gently rocked the baby in her other arm, possibly to draw the man’s attention to the little one and evoke pity enough to make him generous. It did not work. He scowled even deeper to remove any doubts she may have had that he was mad at her for daring to stop him and ask for aid.
At any other time before Lami was born she might have been deeply embarrassed. Her daughter’s survival however depended on her boldness.
‘Please sir, one pound or two and God will bless you.’
‘Well, go to your bloody god and leave me alone!’ He walked off.
She looked around for another target, and her heart sank as passersby avoided her eyes and slunk away as she approached. Being avoided was sometimes worse than being insulted – at least one was acknowledged if spoken to. She wished there was some way to let them know she was more than what they saw of her, that she had lived a good life, complete with her own house and cars back in Zimbabwe. Before her husband had dabbled in politics and she has been made a young widow and had to flee to the Europe in search of refuge. She wished she could tell them that their system had failed her and refused her asylum, setting a date for her deportation and likely to her death. She wished she could tell them she had escaped to the streets solely for the sake of little Lami.
But no one would give her a chance. She did not need their pity, but how she needed their money. Lami had not had a proper meal for two days. She looked around for a potential target that would give her something to buy baby food. The baby wailed in her arms. Dear God there had to be someone.

With guilt gnawing gently on her insides, Anita stood in turn at the cash machine, watching the beggar woman in the distance as a means of distraction. It was easy to decipher what was happening. She zigzagged from side to side towards people that sauntered away as soon as they sniffed that she was about to approach them. Sad. It was easy to see she was unkempt, with a jacket too big for her lithe body and jeans trousers most likely gotten from charity, to fight the summer winds with. Her baby was wrapped in a large roll of old cloth. Something about the woman did not quite fit with regular women beggars that used their babies as leverage when trying to extort money from people. Her carriage suggested she had seen better times.
Havent we all.
Anita thought back to how long it had been since she stood in front of a cash machine. Her bank account had been near red for the better part of a year and she had exhausted every source of aid and lost a few friends in the process.
There, but for the grace of God, go I.
The woman was determined, taking more insults from more passersby. With the queue moving Anita took her eyes off her to move a place closer to the machine.
After John Kinky (why did she still think of him with that nickname?) died in the car crash that nearly killed her as well, she had not quite been ready to face the world. It had been his fault. An engineer with an oil company did not need his wife to work, he insisted, and so she stayed home and made herself beautiful, churning out short stories in her spare time and indulging Mika, the little whining angel they had both created, now cuddle up in the buggy.
She had had to move from their lovely apartment into her sister’s, then into a council home. She sold their car and now had to search for a job that would let her look after Mika properly. There was so much to learn again and life did not give her time.
Soon enough the squeeze came and the bills overtook her. Friends she once gave money to for fun became benefactors. They probably saw her as pesky now. But most times she had no choice. It was simply unfair. Mika depended on her and she was going to be strong for her little girl. She fought.
The light at the end of the tunnel came last week – someone from the Cosmo magazine had called. They liked her portfolio and would she come for a job interview? It was the best piece of news since John’s death. But she had run out of resources to hang in. There were no supplies for the week. Mentally she had done a check on who among her friends had not yet contributed to her welfare.
Tunde! One of the many guys that had lost out to John. He had called her to say he was in town and could they meet up? She rang him back and agreed. It went well enough. He was on holidays, was married now and had his family holed up in Switzerland. She did not mince words. She needed money for her daughter. If he had anything untoward planned, that request killed it. It would take a man without conscience to demand sex in return from a close friend that needed his help.
‘I don’t travel with cash Nita, but I do have about eighty pounds on me.’
‘That will do just fine.’
He settled for a kiss on the cheek. And she rushed to put the money in the bank.

Finally it was her turn. Card in. Please enter your pin number. Dah dah dah and dah. Mika’s birthday so she would never forget it. Show balance. 80.58. She smiled. She had had just fifty eight pence in there before Tunde. Withdraw cash please. Other. Eight and zero. She pulled out the notes and planted them in her back pocket along with the card.
‘Oh Mika.’ Her daughter had kicked off her shoes and one sock. She bent over, put them back on and was straightening back up when she saw the bus pulling in. She would have to run to catch it.
‘Mika, our bus!’ She ran, pushing the buggy. The baby screeched with delight. It was a rare treat to move at that speed with the wind in her face. They whizzed past the beggar lady and both ladies shared a brief moment when their eyes locked. There was no time though. Those waiting at the bus stop had all gotten in and Anita had only seconds.
‘Wait, wait!’ She reached the bus just as the driver shut the doors. Nine times out of ten the driver, in that situation, would ignore her calls and keep going. This, luckily, was one of the rare ones. He opened the doors again. She heaved the buggy in, panting.
‘Day ticket please.’
‘Three pounds love.’ He even had a smile for her.
There had been a tenner among her bank notes. She reached into her back pocket and felt a sickening chill. The money was not there. She rummaged all her pockets, checked the buggy, searched Mika. No money. No, no, no, no, no.
‘Listen love, just take a seat.’ Most drivers would kick her out.
‘I will walk, I will walk.’ She whimpered, shaking all over and still batting her pockets in disbelief. How? She had come straight to the bus from the cash point. She watched the bus that was to take her home, drive away. Mika was laughing, craning her neck to catch her attention. People moved about their business. She was alone.
She retraced her steps, looking this way then that like a hawk searching for prey. She was soon standing in front of the cash machine having covered all the ground she had passed before. No money idly lying about. There were more than a handful of people milling around though. The money could now be resting safe in any one of their pockets. No familiar face. The beggar woman had left. What use was that anyways?

Eighty pounds! It was unbelievable. An answer to her prayers. it had been lying idly on the ground, looking like a plant in the low grass when she spotted it. Now Lami would have good food for a long time and she would not subject herself to humiliation for some time. She held the money to her breast and as the tears rolled down her eyes, she prayed for who had brought her a bit of good fortune. It was someone’s loss but she prayed for abundance, for happiness for the person. As she walked towards the nearest shops to silence her crying baby with food, she was still praying.

Anita gave it up. She did not know how she lost the money, would never know how. She was in for a long walk having turned down the good driver’s offer. She did not know where the next meal would come from or what she had to do next. She made her way home, pushing the buggy slowly in the windy evening. Cars zoomed past, shopkeepers hung up CLOSED signs, walking out of their shops in their large coats. She walked.
Half way there, while Mika laughed, she began whistling.

Another day at the 'office’ in Naija.

It was the night before the wedding of Chief Odigie Oyegun’s (Edo state’s ex-governor) daughter. I know because her wedding cake, which was magnificent by the way, was the cause of the horror that befell the house that night. We had since put the dog to rest since it got a bit wacko and attacked my youngest brother and there were no more guards after my father left office or we might have gotten a warning of what was happening outside the house – the harmless gateman (a boy really) and the corper that was in the middle of her service at my mother’s primary school had been taken hostage and were being paraded round the compound while two men with sawed off shotguns men sought an entrance into the house, skipping around the hedges and hiding behind trees, being careful not to alert anyone inside.
Inside we were in a jolly mood as we always are at a ‘cake gathering.’
One of our many traditions is my mother calling everyone into the living room to assess her latest creation when she finishes a wedding cake for a customer. She is quite the genius at what she does and we expect her to outdo herself every time. We gather round to wow if it meets with expectations or shrug if it is like anything she had done before. This was a definite wow – I am sure the Oyeguns still see that cake in their dreams.
My mother cakes are never ordinary and this one had a fountain running under for special effects. There was no water in the fountain at the time and though we had seen the cake in its glory we wanted to see how it would look like with the fountain on. The taps were dry – of all the times in the world that was the most wrong moment. There is a borehole in the middle of the field that feeds water into a well; the water gets pumped up a mini reservoir that sends the water into the house.
It meant that the reservoir was dry. Someone had to go outside and switch the pump on. Just how were we to know that the one thing we were not suppose to do then was open one of the steel doors which would have been near impossible for the vagrants to better if they had decided to force their way in. Nevertheless...
‘Endurance! Go and pump water in the borehole.’ My mother commanded my distant relative who helped with the chores. The very next scene will forever remain surreal in my memory. I can still see where everyone was positioned and see their reactions to what happened next.
There was a mini explosion but we were to learn later that it was the door being kicked in after Endurance had opened it and tried closing it back on seeing what was waiting behind it.
‘Everybody lie down, I say lie down!’
The chair I had been in had its back to the kitchen (through which they gained access) so I had to turn round to see what was going on. The man that ran in was not the kind who would stand out anywhere. Everything about him was average, height, build, clothes, looks. He was about my age I would say, or slightly older – the type I would shake hands with on the street or stop to have a chat with. Beside the wicked looking shotgun that he waved about, creating a sickening chill in me, he did not have that sinister look that one associates with armed robbers. My brothers and I would have been more than adequate to make him regret his sojourn with a few broken bones. The weapon in his hand banished that thought though. It was one of those moments you refuse to accept because this sort of thing only happens to other people; the sort of thing close friends tell you that happened to someone they remotely knew. I was half expecting him to laugh and say he was a relative that had thought it all up as some kind of prank.
‘You are still looking at me? I say lie down!’
No prank.
I would like to say that I jumped him right there, that I seized the gun and knocked him senseless, saving my family the agony of the experience. But I did not. I meekly obeyed, falling to my face quick as I could, hoping he had not noticed anything in my countenance that would rub him the wrong way.
‘We are seven of us and we have surrounded the house. If you misbehave we fire you! Put your face down, you want to look at my face abi?’
To my knowledge everyone had complied with his instruction the first time so I did not know who he referred to. I tried digging a hole in the rug with my face – just in case that had been for me. He had boasted about their number to deter us putting up a fight. They were just two but I sincerely doubt that made any difference. Not with the thought of fatally stopping fast travelling lead with our bodies, running through our minds. I did not see the other man – though he made himself heard a bit later.
He had stealthily moved through the house to see if people were in the rooms and, thinking of it now, that was a wise move (on their part). My cousin had been slow to heed to my mother’s call, taking time to groom himself just after a bath, instead. We learnt that he had just bent down to rub cream on his calves when the barrel of a gun was calmly pushed against his ears. He assumed it was my younger brother up to one of his jokes and without looking back, tried pushing the gun away.
‘Just maintain yourself and behave.’
‘Oh my God.’ My cousin muttered, bending down even lower than he had and raised his hands above his head. He was led into the living room.
‘Oya join them there!’ That was when I heard the second man. ‘Yes Mr man, we have come for you.’
I knew he referred to my father gauging from the distance my old man and the voice talking were. My heart sank. Were they assassins? Memories of Greg’s father filled my head then. Two men had invaded his house and shot the man at point blank range, killing him.
‘If you cooperate with us you will be fine. Where the money dey?’ Okay, some relief there, they wanted money. I prayed we had enough in the house to placate them. That was when my mother sprang into action. This was a bad time for robbers. She had lots of money in the house which was not hers and she was determined they were not getting their hands on it.
‘My sons, why are you doing this?’ She had been the only one not to lie down at their command and now I heard her imploring and hoped they were sane enough not to take offence.
‘Madam, na government force us do this work, oya where your money?’
Surprisingly they indulged her but not without some gruffness, making sure they kept the advantage.
‘The only money I have is from my shop. That is all the money we have.’ She lied. I thought she was mighty brave.
‘Okay wey the money?’
‘Endurance!’ My mother called out. Endurance looked after the shop and she kept the proceeds as well.
‘Endurance!’ The thief echoed. ‘Who be Endurance?’
‘Me.’ I heard Endurance answer, rising to her feet. She sounded calm as well. Strong girl.
‘Wey the money? Wey the money?’ He asked with more force than was necessary really. There was a lull – she was getting it. ‘Wetin be this? Madam you think say we come here come joke?’ They had not been satisfied with what Endurance had to offer. Now what?
‘My sons, that is all I have in house, honestly.’
‘Madam you think say we come play for here? Till we begin dey shoot your children one by one before you go take us serious abi?’
Besides being told about the death of someone dear, I believe those words made up the worst sentence I had ever heard. My stomach churned. That was the point my mother broke. She opened the bedroom door without another moment’s hesitation and gave them free reign to rummage. Only one went with her, the other stayed with us in the living room, keeping us in check. I heard my youngest brother cry out in sudden pain. He had been stepped on where he lay.
‘Sorry small boy, you dey behave well, na only your mama wan misbehave today.’ A polite thief as well.
I began to believe we might just come out of this alive after all. ‘Thief go come una house una go dey panic instead of make una cooperate, give them wetin them want make them commot.’ He said over our heads. It was the most superfluous sermon and if the situation was not so dire I would have laughed out loud. At the time I agreed with him.
‘Hey, see akara, see akara. Wey the gun?’ The man in the room had found the box of bullets to my father’s pump action rifle and he shouted the question at the living room. With hindsight I think they might not have had ammunition in their weapons and were thus eager to really arm themselves soon as they found the bullets. But we would never know – not that I would have been eager to test that theory had it occurred to me at the time. In their hurry they missed the gun as well, finding a harmless air rifle which was promptly discarded. We all kept mum. They found the money though and all of my mother’s jewellery to go with it. Job done.
‘Oya, everybody stand up, straight line!’ I did not know which of them gave the order. We rose to our feet and line up in a file. ‘Move!’ We were marched into one of the rooms in the house.
‘Wey the car key, the car outside, wey the key? My father handed that to them. ‘No worry, we no wan thief the car. We go leave am somewhere for una.’ Just what difference did it make? Strange that they should reassure us of getting the car back though. Turns out they were true to their word. The car was abandoned and found the next day. They locked us in the room and zoomed off. We gave it an hour before shouting to the neighbours for help through the windows.
All this happened about past nine since Kalu Otisi, not minding what was going on in our house, had been reading the headlines on NTA news. It was not that late and given the popularity of our house it was a wonder that no one from the neighbourhood stopped by to visit during the raid. Nepa that had been at their most erractic behaved that night. Maybe it was all for the best. Who knows what would have happened had all those factors not played nicely into their hands.
They visited the neighbours days later and though I called the police (no gsm then) no one came to their rescue. We waited till we were sure it was safe to venture out and I followed my father to see how much they had lost to the thieves. Those were fearful times. I hear it has gotten worse.

Madam na government force us do this work.

Work he had called it. My mother went to her own work the next day to present the cake at the wedding without jewellery and a despondent mien. Heaven only knows how victims cope afterwards, especially when all they have built up in a life time is taken in one night of ‘work.’
We only had words of consolation for the neighbours that had been robbed, just as they had had for us. Not much more one can do to help. I sometimes imagine the words thrown about by these men of the night after a day at the ‘office.’
‘O boy how business now?’
‘Very fine, very fine, thank you. I plan to expand sef and cover more areas.’

God help us all.

Ewatto

Looking back now I think it was because I was too distraught, as I walked out of the hospital room to the car with my father, that I did not hear the crickets chirping. A clear shrill dirge.
I did not hear the engine kick to life. I only heard his voice.
‘I remembered the day my father died and my mother cried and cried. The neighbours held her and tried to console her but she would not stop crying, beating her chest and asking God “why?” Now she is long dead herself and the slow sure wheels of time moves gradually on. ‘
Either Nepa had struck or bulbs in the streetlights lining the road had been stolen or damaged because I distinctly remember turning, with teary eyes, to look at my old man speaking and not seeing his face through the engulfing blackness. Though his grave voice rang clear in the small confines of the car as we made speed to go get a priest while a part of Ewatto died in me.
‘When tragedy strikes...’ He continued, ‘...we think we can’t handle it. We assume the world has ended...’ I sniffed then, not able to hold back the tears that now negotiated a path around my lips, and he paused for so long that I assumed he would not continue talking, that he had now been overwhelmed by the heartbreak that hung over our heads. We had only a few minutes.
‘But the world does not end in that second or that minute or even that hour. ‘
A car dodging a pothole swung into our path, blinding me momentarily with its full on headlights. My father took evasive action at what seemed like the last minute, driving into the bushes and out again into the road to avoid a collision. We survived. At any other time he would have complained about mad drivers who have no business behind a wheel. I think he just silently shook his head instead.
‘No, time moves on. It heals all and we continue with our lives till it is our turn to go. Everybody crying today will go one day as well.’ He did not speak again for the rest of the journey, leaving me to quietly digest the hard-hitting words he had offered as a means of consolation.
There were no priests for toffee at the seminary. It was either very late at night or very early in the morning and they had been called out for duties such as the one we came for. Blessed are you if you do not have to go in search of a priest at ungodly hours for that is the time most people ‘chose’ to do their dying. There was nothing more to do but head back.
The hospital room was still as packed as we had left it – six people with ashen looks standing or seated on the bed and the scant furniture. Barring the blur of a few in there, I remember my two uncles, my mother and doctor Samson. The good doctor (bless him), having been in such situations countless times, I am sure, was trying at light hearted conversation to uplift the sombre mood. He might as well as have used candle light underwater.
On the bed my grandmother, the reason for the rendezvous, still lay sprawled, looking wide-eyed at the white ceiling which she was oblivious of at that moment and wheezing out deep breaths, hanging on feebly to the last vestiges of life that sought an exit from her frail body. The drip had been removed. It had done its best.
Just looking at her made me shudder. I did not recognize the shrivelled up figure, dark against the white sheets, still, except for her heaving breasts, that had once epitomized the joys of travelling to the little village with its dense forests, little thatched roofed huts and a dusty track that tore through its centre like a healing scar. Ewatto; the village which time had abandoned for a while like an unwanted baby from the ‘mistake’ of a night of passion, left to die in the bushes.
The figure lying on that bed was a world apart from the ample woman, strong determined and fiery whose love for her grandchildren was like a magnet ever pulling us to her side so we looked forward to the holidays which would give us a week of two of her company.

Ewatto was my grandfather’s house coming in sight as my mother drove up that dusty track to unload my siblings and me on her parents for a while. I will always remember being proud of that house – it might not have won any ‘best house’ prize in most cities but among the dozens of red earth huts it clearly stood out, being built ‘properly’ of cement and zinc sheets and painted green (that had well faded). My mother would jump out of the car and we would tail her through the open protector cage door and into the corridors while she gleefully shouted for a reception. On occasion, my aunties or uncles would come out shouting to meet us, having heard the horn, and there would be hugs all round. Most times though my mother met them inside and we received our hugs then. I don’t remember Mama or papa ever being around. They had to be sent for. I would run with my youngest uncle or aunt to the market to meet Mama and fly into her bosom – her welcoming laughter still rings in my ears. Ewatto was me laying claim to the village, preparing to optimize my stay as I watched my mother’s tail lights vanish around the corner, the car speeding off lighter than it had come, leaving a handful of admiring, bare-bodied, barefooted children and plenty of dust in its wake.
Ewatto was lazy mornings; waking up to the orchestra of Mama’s kitchen sounds – pestles slamming cassava and yam in mortars while the aroma of freshly prepared ogbono soup wafted in the air mixing with the pungent smell of dung and urine from the goats being led out by my uncle for an early morning forage. The window in the room I slept in with my brother looked into the open yard that separated the kitchen and bathroom from the rest of the house. I would always look out to see the goings on – Mama ordering my aunties and uncles to various chores which, as far as she was concerned, her grandchildren were exempt from. Sometimes she would open the door and poke her head in.
‘Goodmorning mama.’
‘You sileep welli?’ She would ask in that rare form of pidgin English which she reserved for us. I would nod and smile politely, wiping the last ruminants of sleep from my eyes and kick out of bed to get a nice tight embrace. A hot bath followed. We dipped water from a large cauldron balanced on the stove – three stones that had burning wood wedged between them, and carried our steaming buckets to the side of the kitchen into the roofless cement compartment that was the bathroom. Very few things in life beat hot water running down one’s body in the open on a cold Ewatto morning.
Breakfast was four or five of us sitting on the floor, in a circle around two bowls – one of pounded yam and fufu, the other of ogbono soup choked with beef, fish and mushrooms. Back in the city I was used to my mother refusing me a second helping if she felt I had over done it. With mama it was woe unto any who denied me as much food as I wanted.
Then it was time to follow Papa to the farm. My grandfather – the self styled ‘Impregnable Rock of Gibraltar’ was a phenomenon; a retired headmaster who more than impressed the more ‘learned’ with his command of the English language delivered in a slow self assured tone. His carriage, regal as a newly crowned king, was always nice to see. Recalling him to memory still has its pain. He took away the last shreds of Ewatto I still had left in me some years after Mama did. I can still see his brimming wide raffia hat which hid most of his smiley face as we ran circles around his legs, walking the distance to the farm and jostling to carry a hoe, a cutlass or the heavy yam which would be roasted over a small bushfire for lunch and eaten with peppered palm oil. I remember the pathways as we skipped over huge logs and fallen trees, beating back pesky tree branches and leaning grass, out of our path. The swish of dead leaves and the creak of dried twigs added to the soft noises of nature as we crushed them underfoot, making our way deeper into the bushes. At the farm we would play, skipping from tree to tree while we watched the glistening backs of my uncles and grandfather bent over mounds of earth covering yam seedlings, deftly weeding with their hoes. There were times when I tried my hands at it – to good hearted laughter from the Impregnable Rock, at my clumsiness. After lunch and work (and play) it would be time to check my uncle’s traps – dangerous contraptions hidden in the ground that snapped its teeth shut when stepped on. The most I remember them catching was the leg of a squirrel. I hope the three legged animal died of old age.
Ewatto was three trees of note – the massive avocado pear tree in the middle of Papa’s farm that we stripped of all its fruit – it filled more than six sacks and we ate pear with everything for a long time; the tangerine tree at the side of the house that spread its branches to knock intermittently on the window near the dining room where I spent hours poring over Papa’s books by candlelight – that tree had to give way to rest The Impregnable Rock in peace.
Then there was the pear (the small type soaked in hot water to eat with boiled corn) tree at the back of the house. Its sturdy structure gave shelter to the pit toilet, built with zinc sheets, and it provided a ready goal post for the times I kicked a football with dozens of village boys when we did not have to go to the farm. Many a time the ball would knock against the zinc sheets and a voice from within would promise pain to those of us playing.
Ewatto was the evenings when a cool breeze laden with dust swept through the village; Ewatto was sitting just within the protectors in Papa’s chair, watching the dusty track, filled with villagers returning from earning their daily bread, chickens and pigs scouting for a last swallow before their owners ushered them back into pens. It was when Mama returned from the market and pressed gifts of food items into our little hands. It was when we chased the randy hausa ram that had impregnated half the sheep in the village and kept exploring neighboring villages for potential mates.
Ewatto was the glorious night, after Papa’s generator, the closest proximity to electricity for a good number of the villagers, had been switched off and all the children around, who had come to catch a glimpse of some program on the only television within miles, had been sent home. Then we would steal out, prompted by my young relatives, to play with other children in the moonlight. Thus the carefree days, where time stood still, would pass and the future seemed like a million years away.
Ewatto was Sundays, the iron, hollow on the inside to house live coals which generated the heat for pressing the church clothes. Ingenious. I remember the catechist, a dark squat man with a swagger who stood beside the white priest to interpret. He looked very important in his long blue robes. So many little things made that place special but one shone through them all – the comfort of Mama being there, the strength of her love. Knowing that this highly respected woman dotted on me and thoroughly enjoying every minute.

With time I knew Ewatto would not last, not as I came to know it. But it was not meant to disappear. I planned to visit as a young man and drink in the pride of my grandparents showing off their grownup grandson. I would be the one to bring gifts of foodstuff now, make them smile. I would help mama carry whatever she wanted, showing her how strong I had become. The Impregnable Rock would nod in satisfaction as I weeded alongside him in the farm. I would walk the paths with my peers, drink beer and chase the girls we once played in the moonlight with. All that and much more. So much more.
Then fate dealt its hand. Mama fell ill and Ewatto gradually faded in the horizon. Her illness worsened and she had to spend more time in hospitals than she spent at home. Still I clung to the hope that she would one day get better and bring Ewatto back. The more we hoped the worse Mama got. But I shrugged off any eventualities other than her making a full recovery. This was Mama. She was a fighter. And so I hoped and hoped until that night we went for the priest because we had just been told that hope was of no use.

Her breathing increased suddenly like she had just finished a sprint. While doctor Samson still tried at small talk. Then, as if out of sudden relief, she let out a long sigh, longer and louder than usual, ending it very quietly.

‘Let us now pray for Mama’s soul.’ Doctor Samson broke in mid sentence to say that without turning to look at the figure on the bed. He reached out to hold the hands of my mum and uncle and I think it was at that time it hit the room what had just occurred. I will forever remember the picture of my young uncle standing still, gazing at his mother’s corpse and waving goodbye. He also tried to jump in her grave as she was lowered. I turned and seized my mother in a tight embrace. We were all too shocked to cry out loud. But we cried.

In the very early hours of that morning, Ewatto disappeared.
In the distance I heard the crickets chirp. A long drawn out dirge to welcome a new day.