Tales from the hills; shadow of the hill

Errand

Mazi Okolo knew that trouble was brewing in the air when he saw the cluster of vultures circling in the morning sky a great distance away. His suspicion increased when he spied the figure running up the winding trail that led to his farm lodge. He had noted the runner’s gangly gait and knew him to be Nta the head man’s swift second son.

Then it must be a missive from Meze, he thought.

He had heard from his brother’s son that Nta, who was known as the fastest long distance runner in the whole of the seven hills, had pledged his service to the lion Guardian after Meze rescued him from drowning in the twin forest.

Mazi Okolo smiled admiringly at the young man’s steady phase. Youth, he muttered, one can’t beat that vigour. He paid heed to Nta’s progress a while longer then turned his attention to the heap of burning fire wood upon which a large tuber of yam smouldered.

Unsheathing his hunting knife he pushed the point gently into the yam, testing the texture. Withdrawing the knife, he gave a little shake of his head and turned the yam over. A sudden gust of wind blew smoke and char into his eyes.

He coughed hoarsely pressing thumb and fore finger to his eyelids as tears streamed down his face and cussed good naturedly while fanning the air with his free palm. After a while, he pried the smouldering yam from the fire and repeated the test with the hunting knife again, pushing deeper this time. Pulling it out, he nodded with smug satisfaction as the fluffy white particles that stuck to it indicating that it is well cooked.

Satisfied, he bent low and started scrapping away the soot, his right hand moving in a swift up and down motion while the left turned the yam slowly. Soon he had all the soot off and lifted the yam up, the morning sun reflected of the almost glossy, golden brown streaked surface. His eyes shone proudly at his handiwork. That is how everything is with Mazi Okolo, perfection at it highest, he always found ways to turn even the most mundane act into a work of art.

Whistling merrily, he rummaged inside a large clay pot nearby and pulled out a flattish calabash and a smaller, more rounded, variety.

By the time Nta called out greetings from the base of the twin palm trees at the outskirts of the shelter, Mazi Okolo was already seated before a meal of roasted yam and salted palm oil mixed with fresh ground pepper.

“Your legs are good Nwanna-son of my father.” Mazi Okolo began, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth. “There is water by the side wall over there, hurry up boy or there will soon be very little for you to eat.”

“Mazi Okolo, Ekenemgi. While not rejecting your offer, permit me to say that my mouth is heavy with the missive it bears and I rather not delay its delivery.”

Mazi Okolo paused, his hands caught somewhere between the calabash and his mouth. He looked at the boy strangely, his beady eyes conveying more than a mild form of annoyance, briefly though, and then he smiled and laughed out loud.

“Son of my father,” he said when he had gotten hold of himself, which took awhile. “Wash your hands and seat down. The yam will not stay your mouth from telling its tale, will it?” his eyes shone with a mischievous light.

“No Mazi Okolo it will not.”

After Nta had eaten a few slices Mazi Okolo looked up. Why does the lion guardian seek me? He asked

Nta started at the question, wondering how Mazi Okolo could have known who sent him, but he recovered quickly enough to answer.

“The swamp dwellers are on the war path. Meze asks that you return to your kindred and moderate the deliberations. The Ikolo will sound before this sun goes to the land of the spirits and he wants you home before then.”

“Asks or needs?”

The boy jerked with surprise “he said you will ask that, but begs you remember who your father was.”

“He would, the silly boy.” Mazi Okolo laughed, startling the young boy who wondered at the man’s audacity to call the lion guardian a ‘silly boy’.

“He would,” Mazi Okolo continued, his eyes going dreaming with fond reminiscence “forgetting that he was still a boy, who only knows about my fathers exploits from the songs of the hill maidens. No, even his father and I were yet toddlers when my father led the seven hills to the great victory over the swamp people.”

“Will you come?” Nta asked, pulling the old man from his sudden reverie.

“Will I came,” Mazi Okolo said, favouring the young man with an amused expression, “and who will lead the seven hills to war if I don’t? Surely not that runt Akidi, His father never brought back any human head from all the wars he went to, and Akidi is trying to make up that omission. He forgets that a battle is not won by bravery alone. No I will return, that rabble roaster shouldn’t be allowed to lead the seven hills.” He paused to accord Nta a sly wink, “don’t tell anyone, but it gets lonely up here and I have being seeking for an excuse to leave my yams for awhile now. I think this is as good as any, no?”

Nta nodded his head affirmatively, he knew the old man is known to be loquacious when he is happy and that is most of the time. It is said in the hills that though he loved his wife dearly, he only cried out twice when he learnt of her demise and by the time he reached his home stead he was laughing with his friends who accompanied him home from the twin forests where his farm stead was then. That he refused to remarry, even when he had no male child to bequeath his vast farmlands, attests to how deep he loved her. This was way before his daughters came off age and the younger of the two; to her father’s initial chagrin, decided to stay back home, rejecting the institution of marriage, and bear children for her father. She has two boys breaking calabashes in her father’s homestead now and the village rumour has it that she is still the most sought after bride in the seven hills.

Nta looks up to find the old man still talking and cocked his ear to catch the tail end of it.

“... We will go after this meal digests and the sun behind the devils rock, the rock’s shadow will provide shade enough from the sunrays.” Mazi Okolo slurred, closed his eyes and leaned back on the large tree they were sitting under, apparently awaiting the digestive process to run its course.

Nta had wanted to head back to the village immediately after delivering his message, but he guessed he can not disobey the old man and it will be impolite to take his leave now.

He washed and packed away the calabash and settled down to await the sun’s turning.

They got to the obodo-communal meeting place- much later in the day than Nta had hoped, for Mazi Okolo insisted on branching to his homestead to see his grandchildren. Though slightly annoyed; Nta could only watch with an impatient air as the old man squatted on his haunches before the two boys, who though lacked his dark coloration have the same hawkish features, who were engrossed in admiring several giant grasshoppers he had just unwrapped for them.

“Father,” the elder one began, has the forelegs been broken? They will escape if they are not,”

“I did the next best thing. I tied them with strings, this way you can allow them fly a little way, the strings will make sure the don’t fly further than you want.”

The younger one immediately pried a sturdy looking grasshopper from Mazi Okolo’s hands, clutching the string tight, he threw it up and ran happily after it, drawing a steadily growing crowd of children.

As they walked away from the homestead, Nta looked across at Mazi Okolo and noticed that he was smiling broadly; the years appeared to have falling of him, giving him the features of one ten years younger.

Nta shook his head sadly, probably, he thought. It was all worth it.

**********************************************************

The war with the swamp dwellers was a forgone conclusion. The question of whether a warning should be given was negated since most of the gathered warriors agreed that it was not necessary. A greyed out old-timer who was carried into the crowded Obodo by his grandchildren said mischievously “why warn the swamp frogs that have already struck the first blow?”

Though Mazi Okolo had no expected his war like tribesmen to seek a peaceful settlement, he still felt it his duty to remind them that though the stretch of hillocks and sandy grass land the swamp dwellers had encroached on – as they always do when a new crop of warriors raise up in their villages with the brave notion that they can face the wrath of the hills – Ugwunasa had never had cost to farm it and may never do so since its great distance from any of the villages of the seven hills is prohibitive.

Mazi Ude, whose village of Amaorji owns the land in question, stood up slowly as was his nature.

“Mazi Okolo,” he began, drawing his words out slowly, “I have great respect for you and we all know who our father was. I know you are not suggesting we carve out a piece of Ugwunasa and make it a present to those swamp scum who have being so befuddled by inbreeding they all look alike. No! We can’t give them an inch of the seven hills.” Here he paused briefly to look around the gathering, his eyes laughing, “at least not for free.”

“ and we know those thieving mud crawlers will gladly accept and after one or two season will run away with the harvest without paying any tribute, after that continue their surreptitious thieving.” Meze offered, prompting a general laughter.

As if he knew the conclusion will be to go to war, the chief priest Utu who alone is allowed to wield the dreaded Ikenga of Amisi, made his entrance at about this point followed closely by the war god impersonation.

The sight of the war god’s fearsome face and full battle dress which consists of several human skulls hanging in a bone and string necklace across his bull neck and stuck to various parts of the leopard skin vestment he wore, caused a mild stir among the younger warriors who still bore healing scares, a token from the most recent initiation a few market days ago.

Their unabashed dread for the personified war god brought quick smile and quickly controlled chuckles from the old timers who recalled their own first encounter with the fierce god with more snickers.

With the god seated on the blood stained stone throne at the entrance, the real preparation for the coming battle began.

The approach of the hill dwellers to war and conflict is mostly elaborate and full of ceremony. Their weapon of choice is the machete since they all prefer close combat, the bow and arrow is usually seen as a weapon for defence rather than assault and it is carried by the new initiates who act as rear guards, and even they are all itching to drop that and take up the cutlass when the battle heats up, to claim their a human head or two which invariably elevates their status.

The warriors of Umueze, who probably on account of being first born of the hill clans – a point some other clans debate in private – are allowed the privilege of being the first to bow before the war god and receive the ritual sprinkling of blood. The other clans follow in their wake, each accepting the purifying blood with dignity that befits the occasion.

The war gong had already announced the war gods retreat and the older warriors had already left for the place of leave taking. The young warriors who were supposed to wait for them to conclude the ritual were all set to leave when a young warrior of Umumba remarked that Alika the giant and his bard friend Obele Okwu were not amongst the gathering.

Meze who is friend and consort to the two rascals remarked that Obele was around earlier and had gone back to the cross roads to coax Alika to come for the battle. This explanation brought scattered laughter and bright smiles to the assembly, for if anyone can convince Alika to come, it is his loquacious friend Obele Okwu the bard who can out talk a fish wife.

***********************************************************

At this very moment the two friends in question where weeding a small patch of cocoyam that belongs to Alika’s mother. Beyond them Alika’s sister Chinwendu blew expertly unto a smouldering kinder as she prepares to cook the midday meal.

Obele Okwu who had long grown weary of the back bending labour excused himself and headed to the pathway, to ease his bloated bladder, He said. A few moments later the sweet melody of his flute floated back to a sweaty Alika who shook his head sadly, wondering when his friend will stop seeking ways to dodge work. This being the fourth time in half a shadow’s pass that he is heading to the bushes. The funniest thing being that he is usually the first to offer his help.

His heart lifted as Obele threw in his praise name as his flute called to mind the heroes of the seven hills. Lifting his hoe, he danced a little jig that made his sister laugh out loud.

Then the music changed, suddenly becoming more melancholy though retaining its sweetness, digging deep into his heart to unearth sadness that he only feels when Obele played this particular tune. It talked about death and how it eats up heroes in the end.

Before Alika could stop it, a wayward tear ran down his chin, evading his hastily raised palm before he could stop it flight. He looked across his shoulder at Chinwendu and noticed that she too was affected by the song; her half peeled yam lay in front of her forgotten in her desire to capture the songs essence.

It is a song they all know, all too well, for it is a song for funerals, sang when a great man is being put to rest or when a great battle is coming and warriors are sure to die, a song of farewell. Alika wondered why Obele will choose that particular song this sunny evening. It is also not a song to be interrupted, so Alika allowed the song to run its lengthy course.

Obele stared into the greyish blue clouds as the echoes of the last note of his flute receded into the surrounding forest, his flute still poised on his parted lips.

Slowly he dropped his arm and turned to face his friend.

“Obele,” Alika said. “You have out done your self again, but why that particular choice of music?”

“I can see why you are at the crossroads weeding your mother’s cocoyam patch. You must not have heard of the impending war with the swamp people, right now warriors gathered at the Obodo receiving blessing from the war god of Amisi.” Obele said, looking quite serious.

“You mean the rumours we heard yesterday is true?” Alika asked, incredulous.

“You mean you even heard a rumour? And I was swearing your ignorance at the meeting of elders,” Obele complained, eyes blazing.

“Is it the first time we have heard rumours of war that never came?” Alika rid the last ridge of its clinging weeds and walked with his springy stride towards the oil bean tree under which his sisters was preparing dinner.

Behind him Obele blew an angry blast from his flute and followed, as usual not allowing anger to keep him away from a meal.

“Alika, this is for real. The swamp people have encroached on Ugwunasa land and even you will admit that that slap must be answered,” Obele smiled up at Chinwendu, as he squatted down beside his friend. She turned her face away, but not before favouring him with a quick smile in return.

“It maybe so, but I do not think it is my duty to seek out if all rumours I hear is true.”

“No, but you should have stayed at home like most grown men did. You would have heard the Ikolo and I would not have had to come wading through dew drops to fetch you.”

“To fetch me, am I a child that Obele Okwu will be sent to fetch me?” Alika bellowed, his quick temper getting the better of him.

Shifting back a little, Obele tried to make himself smaller. As usual Alika’s temper is a thing to fear. “Who said anything about being sent?” a smile spread across his face. “I left the gathering of the elder ones to bring my friend news of a battle the maidens of the hills will sing about for eons to come. I did not want you to miss out in the fun.”

Alika appears to relax visibly. He looked towards his sister, shame flowed through him as he realised he had broken another recent promise to her. He shrugged, every one knows he has a short temper, they also know he is working hard to control it. “Obele, you know I hate the spilling of blood and gore that characterizes the wars you are apt to sing praises to.”

“I know Alika the great, but we did not invent the laws and one must not run away from the taunts of another just because he wants peace to reign. If you do that, the weak and cowardly will size even the very wife at your loins. We fight not because we like it but because we have to defend our family and clan, and at times it is better to teach someone a lesson in other for others to learn from it.”

“Are you still talking about the war with the swamp dwellers?”

“What? Oh, not necessarily. I am talking about you and your pacifist views on conflict resolution.” Obele said pointedly, producing a small wooden ladle from the deep pockets of his travelling cloak, he dug into the herb encrusted yam porridge Chinwendu offered him.

“What is wrong with seeking ways to resolve a knotty issue without resorting to bloodshed?” Alika challenged.

“Everything, like I said before, seeking for settlement leaves you vulnerable. Your enemies will think you cowardly and attack with greater force, and while you are seeking for more humane resolutions, they will be eating your first yam in your own hearth.”

“Obele, I hope you are not trying to play tricks with my mind? You of all people know I am not slow of wit. I choose not to fight people who are not worth the effort just because they wake up thinking they can test their strength against Alika.” He slowly accepted a bowl from Chinwendu wondering why she had served Obele first, but kept his feeling to himself.

“About these swamp people, I do not agree that we should go to war with them, if I remember right, the land in question belongs to Amaorji and they have never farmed it.”

“I do not understand your reasoning Alika, should we allow strangers to take over our birthright just because we have more than we need. Should we not protect what we have for our children’s sake?”

Alika laughed long and hard, his antic causing his sister to look to Obele in askance. “What’s wrong with him?” she mouthed.

“Nothing, I think.” Obele said, looking worried, “probably a piece of locust in his food tickled him somewhat.”

Alika stopped laughing and his face became serious. “I am tickled actually, but not by your delicious locust spiced yam, dear sister, like my canary friend will have you believe. I am laughing at his presumption of wit. Suddenly Obele Okwu the bard thinks him self a philosopher.” He gave in to more laughter, doubling over.

Obele, trying hard to keep a straight face in the midst of Alika’s infectious laughter, turned to face his friend fully. “Does this mean you are not coming to war with the seven hills.”

“Obele, my mother is ill, her vegetable patch, the one behind the river oracle, has taken to weed, and her cassava farm is reeling from an invasion of nchi. I believe that is enough battle for one man this moon.”

“And your mother will be the last person to buy that excuse,”

The argument would have continued had Chinwendu not interjected that the long shadow of dusk was upon them.

They quickly cleared up the used utensils and started towards home. Though they both acted like the issue was done with, Chinwendu knew that as soon as they reached the village, the argument will start again only this time more people will join them.

Obele’s flute soon kicked in, creating a raunchy matching beat that gave strength to their legs and lifted their hearts.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Kalu the jackal, the war chief of the river brotherhood who are known as the swamp dwellers by the people of the seven hills and elsewhere, reclined in a dyed crocodile skin mat in his newly built stilt house, deep in the mashes, looking out at a pair of seagulls performing a mating dance.

If only the females of our species can be impressed by a simple thing like plumage and dancing abilities, he thought. Things will be much more different.

He had just returned from a heated meeting of leader of the twelve swamp clans. Though he knew that the outcome of their deliberations will be favourable, he still felt it is right to savour the pleasure of that small victory.

It’s been five years now since he became the war chief. In his eyes and in the eyes of his clans men -he is sure- he reign have being insignificant. There is no song about his exploits during the annual boat festival, the human teeth necklace he wore even now around his neck is his father’s –his by right as the only male heir, though he is renown for his skills in the arts of war, he is yet to put this skills into much practice –he refused to count the occasional raids into the territory of the nomadic herders as practice.

The coming war is more of an ego thing for him, he needed a reason to be seen and the complaint by the hill dwellers gave him an excuse.

It is not like his people have not being farming the slopes of the hills, they have for years now, though not at the scale he initiated. Knowing the hill men seldom come as far as the palm forest of Amaorji, he had used to closure of the sea market as a reason and gathered all the young warriors he could summon on short notice and matched to the hills. They cleared as much land as they could in tree weeks and planted it with yam and cassava.

A scout, left in the hills to report any movement of the hill men around the fields, returned yesterday to report that a small contingent of hill men had been around the slopes, inspecting the cultivated fields.

He had immediately called a war council and with the help of the younger warriors shouted down the little opposition to his plans.

That was a small victory, he mused again. Wait until they behold how swift and sure my victory will be against the hill men. People fear the hill men, believing them to be fearless and brutal, but he knows that is not true. No man is born without fear, not the hill men not the plain nomads, no one.

He has heard stories of the lion guardians that protect the hills. Lies! He suddenly exclaimed, Lies that are sold to cowards to feed the natural fear. He, Kalu the jackal, will not fall for such trickeries. And even if they turn out to be true, does he not have a serious surprise awaiting them.

Suddenly he laughed out loud. A harsh sharp edged laughter that broke across the surface of the mud coloured river and startled a group of young maidens gutting catfish on the banks.

On the river, the mating seagulls took to flight. Their sudden flight whipping up a mass panic the affected all the water birds in the immediate vicinity, sending crisscrossing ripples across the river.

Before the troubled water had settled, Kalu was already half way to the large stilt platform that is used as the village meeting place, the ripples from his paddle adding to the general confusion as he pointed his canoe towards the waiting warriors.

Obele Okwu hates hurrying and the pace that Alika set is sapping his strength. Alika had insisted on being the point man, something that he rarely does when they are walking along a dew covered bush path like this one. Obele had happily given him the point, which entails wading through the dew first and soaking up most of the water, leaving the person behind relatively dryer. It was after a little while that he understood Alika’s reason for wanting to be in front, he wanted to hurry and set this murderous pace expecting him to keep up.

That is the problem with Alika, Obele mused. He always forgets that being the strongest man in the hills as well as the tallest, most people can not match him stride for stride.

Not that Obele was averse to speed, he too knows that they need to reach the warriors before they cross the Nmamu River, but Alika does not believe in rest and that is the one thing he needed now.

They sprinted across the grassy plateau of Eziagu and skirted round the south peak of Enu-Ejima hoping to cut their journey by half by following the banks of Nmamu to the place of crossing.

It was Obele’s insistence that they stop at the devil’s brook for a rest that actually save them. Alika had stopped to argue and as he was waiting to catch his breath a faint jingling reached their ears. It was coming from the direction of the stream ahead of them.

Suddenly wary, the keen eared Obele had frantically motioned Alika silent, bidding him listen. They crept closer to each other.

“What do you hear? I can barely make out any sound other than the jingling of loose metals.” Alika whispered, long association had thought him to trust Obele’s Hearing.

Obele cupped his ears and leaned into the wind, which thankfully was blowing back towards them. “I hear more than the jingles, which I believe is from ornaments, I hear guttural murmurings, and the language is strange but I can make out some words,” he paused and glanced up at Alika who was watching him attentively. “I think we should take a closer look.”

Alika nodded his agreement and they left the bush path, creeping into the undergrowth, as silent as night. Alika was in front and Obele wondered again, like he always does, how someone this big can move with such supple grace.

Making their way carefully, they arrived at a slight overhang that overlooked the devil’s brook. Alika slowly parted some branches and they found themselves faced with a shocking scene.

Below them were about two dozen swamp warriors, clustered around the deeper part of the brook. While some were apparently on guard and alert, the majority were watching the three that were immersing a root like vine into the water. The vine had being beating to a pulp and as it made contact with the water; it started oozing a greenish pigment that immediately spread downstream.

Alika and Obele exchanged shocked looks.

“Is that not the poison vine that fishermen use in the marshes?” Obele asked, his voice a fierce whisper.

“It is,” Alika agreed. “I wonder what they are doing with it, there are no fishes in the devils brook, and only the lions come here to drink.”

“The lions!” they both exclaimed, still mindful enough to keep their voices low.

Contract Killer

The big shiny black Mercedes crawled lazily through the night slowly bypassing packed cars of diverse make lining both sides of a single lane potholed street. It was late, at about 1am, a time when most of Lagos lay a’ slumber.

With the usual power outage in effect the only sound came from a few generating sets that have been left to run late by their obviously affluent owners in an area where only a few can afford a generator and its fueling, and the distant hum coming from a far off night club.

As the black car turned into a side street, only the neon light of a closed supermarket and the luminous eyes of a stray cat marked its passage. Continuing up the street at a more leisurely pace it finally came to stop opposite a ramshackle building that had apparently survived countless battles over the years; its rear tires dissected a puddle, spraying mucky water on grim ridden perimeter fences.

The surrounding darkness made it hard to make out the outline of the building, but the little light from the few stars twinkling above showed clearly the rots from years of disuse. Barely visible is a makeshift wooden bridge spanning the length of a flooded compound, connecting the top stairs to the broken pavement. Even in the dim light the bridge feels ungainly and apparently was not built to carry more than one person at a time. One only calls a bridge for want of a better word to describe it, for it is more or less a haphazard coupling of broken pieces of wood and rusty iron sheets.

The silence within this area lay largely unbroken as only the faint ping of the car’s thermostat and the deep resonance of an adult male’s snore coming from the house opposite broke through the night’s air. After a few minutes of idle waiting the mild chink of the driver door opening brought brief new sound to the sleeping neighborhood.

A middle aged man steps out of the car, illuminated by the light shimmering through the open door. As he made to close the door, something metallic gleamed in his left hand and his face, which previously was shadowed by the too large bowler hat he wore low in his forehead, is battered by the light from the car.

His expression is one of intense determination mingled with disgust. He lifted his head sharply as the loud bang of a window closing somewhere down the street startles him. His left hand swung towards the sound automatically and the gleam seen earlier turns out to be a gun. Fear clouded his face and his eyes dimmed as he sought out the cause of the disturbance.

Relaxing after he had ascertained that the sound bore him no ill, he closed the door and straightened up.

Balogun Kasim is a practical man and being no stranger to danger he looks out for it, reasoning if one sees it coming he can prepare to meet it in his own terms. About him is a cautiousness that caresses the edge of fidgety. He once again looked around him, paying more heed to the dark window behind him, they appeared devoid of life. He nodded his head as if to acknowledge that all is well and started towards the ramshackle building, walking slowly while keeping his head low.

His eyes darted briefly to the area under the gangplank. Grim and scum battled for prominence within the fetid water amongst which petulance from dead rats and other vermin struggled to find relevance. He shuddered at the thought of falling into a place like that and almost lost his balance when the smell stung his nose and made his eyes water. He looked across the gangplank and nervously measured the distance left to cover. Seeing he had already gotten halfway across gave his limbs the needed vitality to struggle across and into the unknown safety of the pitch-dark building.


From within a dark window two storey above, Sola watched the bully man walk gingerly across the makeshift bridge. Turning to his left, where the dim starlight illuminates a rickety table, he reached out and grabbed a gun and a wicked looking jungle knife, both of which he placed on his person before stalking out of the room. He let his senses guide him as he made his way downwards towards the first floor, keeping the tinny torchlight ready in his hand.

Balogun Kasim did not hear the man enter the spacious but dirt clustered ground floor but had a distinct feeling that he is not alone. He turned sharply unto the full beam of torchlight.

Sola saw the man’s outline as the Chinese torch swept before him, throwing shadows into disarray as darkness receded. Though he had not met him physically before, there was no denying the slight slouch and arrogant droop of the shoulders. That Balogun Kasim is a powerful man is evident in his carriage, that he is slum breed is detectable in his demeanor-that is if you know what tell tale signs to look for.

Sola keep the light beam away from his person facing towards but not directly at Balogun Kasim who was still trying to get used to the iridescence after his sojourn in the dark. This way, he can observe without fear of the complement being paid back.

Apparently noticing and not liking the trick of the light, Balogun Kasim spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “Please” he said a request not a plea.

Sola turns the light off, darkness swept back with the click of the switch, though not as pervasive as it was earlier. For the late moon had at the interval found its weary way from among the scattered rain clouds.

The Balogun coughs, a prelude to speech making that is peculiar to him. “It is said that a man can get things done hear if one knows the right way to ask,” he said, reciting the password that his contact has forced him to memorize all afternoon, with the solemn promise that getting it wrong will avail him nothing but the quickest ticket out of the known world.

“It depends on how it is asked” sola said

“I believe a million is the way, local that is, for a passport out of town.”

“Hmmn, I see you have done your home work.” Sola said, Breaking the code.

“I believe a million is the way, local that is, for a passport out of town.” The Balogun repeated, ignoring the error.

“Oh, I see you are a stickler for details” sola said, the darkness failing to mask the laughter in his voice. “Ok, is it a permanent trip?”

“Yes it is”

“Details?”

“Yes” Balogun Kasim said with open irritation as he pulls out a small envelope from his pocket. He holds it out in the semidarkness “here”

Sola turns on the torch, this time aiming away from the Balogun. He reaches out and collects the envelope and transferring the torch to the crock of his neck, proceeds to open it.

“Can you do that later?” the Balogun said, shifting from one foot to the other, impatient.

Sola looks up at him from his work, no, he says and goes back to the envelope. The Balogun shrugs and turns to the window.

“I was told you are the best there is.”

“So they say. I just get the job done with a little fuss as possible.” Sola said as he pulls out a color photo. He did not look at it before putting it into his pocket. He shone the light into the envelope and moves it around as he counts the bundles of money inside.

“She is my wife you know.” Chief Balogun said offhandedly turning back to look at sola “the only one I have ever trusted my life with.”

“I don’t usually care who a victim is or why they are marked for death, so keep that info to you.” Sola said, cutting him off, “you will get your result in a weeks time and not any sooner, so don’t come back here.”

Chief did not answer, though the heaviness of the air could be attributed to his rising anger, he only shrugged, turns carefully on his heels and stalks out of the room.

Sola walked silently to the open doorway and watched the chief walk gingerly across the gang plank back to his car. Only then did he pull out the picture, it dropped out of his hand as soon as the light of the torch hit it. Stunned, he stood there immobile, looking down at it where it lay face up on the floor.

The sound of the car starting shook him out of his lethargy. Picking up the picture, he ran across the gangplank with the ease of long practice.

The car was beginning to pull away by the time he got to the street, sprinting up, he caught up with the car and tapped on the driver side window, keeping phase with the car.

Balogun Kasim heard the tapping sound before he saw the figure running beside his car, panicking, he was about to increase speed when he noticed the photo held to the window. Recognizing it, he looked up and saw sola.

He stopped the car and rolled down the window. “What?” he asked.

“This,” sola said, holding up the photo, “who is it?” he asked averting his face.

“I thought the code is ‘no questions asked’?” the Balogun asked peering out from behind his bowler hat.

“Yes, but there are exceptions”

“Well I wanted to tell you earlier. You didn’t seem interested then, so I wondered at your interest now,” the Balogun said, looking intently at Sola who was trying to maintain a calm exterior. “She is my wife.”

“Your wife!” he said sharply, turning to look the Balogun full in the eye.

“Yes my wife. That surprises you doesn’t it? But, the most intriguing thing that should be the fact that I still love her.” The Balogun said, smiling a bitter sweet smile.

Sola didn’t reply. Looking down at his hands, he noticed that they are shaking. He quickly hides them inside his pocket, hoping chief Kasim did not notice. He looked up to see him looking at him strangely.

“Are you still going to do the job?” Balogun Kasim asked.

“I will get back to you.” Sola said and walked away from the car.

Balogun Kasim stared after him for awhile then smiled his bitter-sweet smile and drove away.

Sola watched the car disappear down the corner. He stood staring down the street for a long time, and then he lifts the picture again and looks at the image of a young woman in her prime. She is smiling into the camera, a birthday cake with lighted candles in front of her.

Sola looks at the picture for a long time until his shaking fingers made him winch and place it back into his breast pocket.

As he walked down the street a slight rain starts to fall. He pulled his hood over his head as the drizzle became heavier.

He turns a corner opposite the one the chief took and disappeared, the street returned to its previous quietness.

Balogun Kasim pulled into his expansive compound and parked the car near the entrance; he didn’t want to wake the entire household. Once again he was grateful for his foresight in installing the new remote controlled security gate, there was no need of calling the guard to open the gate for him, not that they would not know when he came in but it saves announcing his presence before hand.

He peeked into his wife’s bedroom. Hell! He exclaimed inwardly she is beautiful. He enters the room proper and stood for several minutes looking down on her sleeping form on the bed. His eyes traced all the contours of her body, sought those places he liked putting his hands to, those places that she loved him touching.

Desire came upon him before he could check himself. He gently climbed into the bed and cradling her sleeping head, kissed her deeply until she opened her eyes.

“Darling,” she murmured sweetly, gently folding into the circle of his arms, “are you just coming in?”

How easily she lies, he thought to himself. He was sure that she spent the entire afternoon with her lover and yet she could easily pretend to enjoy his caress, returning his deep kiss with equal vigor. His usual doubts assailed him then. Could she have done it? Is there no mistake? No! His inner voice insisted, those pictures and videos couldn’t have been faked neither was what his naked eyes saw last week when she dropped her lover off at the bus stop. He did not care much about the man that is screwing his wife, well, not enough to want to know his identity, she offered herself to him so his sin is less than hers.

Pushing the bitter thoughts of her infidelity from his mind, he turned towards her again and drew her closer, stifling her playful protests with the force of his kiss. As usual her love making was explosive, only dampened by the fact that he suspected she put up a show for him, feigning the moans and quakes of her climax. If what he suspects is true, then his wife stands a good chance of winning an Oscar for acting.

Later, in the bathroom, he sobbed away his frustrations and emerged feeling more depressed and convinced that his decision is correct.


His phone rang just as he was about to retire to his room. He paused to contemplate the unknown caller id.

“Yes?” he said impatiently into the mouthpiece.

“Balogun Kasim?” a gruff voice asked.

“Speaking,”

“This is to let you know that your contract is on track. You are to send the agreed fee to the agreed location.”

Balogun Kasim stood still for a moment his body shaking. He did not hear the click of the phone being hung up on the other side. There was really no need for that for he had allowed the phone to drop from his shaking fingers.


That Bimbo Kasim is a beautiful woman is an understatement, her beauty transcends the descriptiveness of the European dictionary, it has an overly African feel that is expressed more or less by her amble bum and the fact that her boobs, though two sizes larger than average, still manages to defy the pull of gravity. Her well chiseled features go rather well with her ebony black complexion. Being taller than her husband, she has learnt to do without the high heeled shoes she had favored as a university student.

Now, walking towards the car park of her spacious spa, she reminds many a man of the fabled goddesses of Yoruba mythology. Her plaited hair and simple gown does more to accentuate her appearance than not. As she passed by, all eyes involuntarily followed her, the females with envy and the men with unabashed lust.

She stopped beside a big infinity four runner, painted a bright red with tinted glasses. The car had earlier being attracting as much attention as its owner is attracting now and both make for one explosive fantasy of most of the men that were watching. She had already opened the automatic door and was about sliding in when her phone rang. She smiled sweetly when she saw the caller id.

“Hello, sweetheart, how are you?” she cooed into the mouthpiece

“I am fine.” replied the voice on the other end.

“You don’t sound fine to me. What is wrong?”

“Nothing much, but we have to meet urgently.” The voice insisted, with tone of worry and tension tainting his speech.

“Honey, what’s wrong, I thought you were the one that insisted that we take a few days break so that you can have time to run a business?”

“Yes I did, but something just came up that makes it imperative that we see as soon as possible. Can we meet tonight at the usual place?”

“Aw! I don’t know about tonight I have this dinner with the Balogun at the government house.”

“Just find a way. It must be tonight and it is a matter of life and death.”

“Life and death, whose life?” she asked, alarmed.

“Let’s just say that it will do you a whole lot of good if you make it tonight. I will see you then. Bye.”

Hey! Hold on! Don’t disconnect, she shouted. CLICK, the connection was severed at the other end. She tried calling the number but it was switched off. Apparently he did not want to talk about what ever the problem was over the phone. Flustered, she looked around frantically aware that she had been shouting.

Entering her car she drove towards home wondering what he meant by a life and death matter. The thought of chief finding out about her lover entered her mind but she shrugged it off, she had been too careful for that, there is no way chief can ever find out. Aside from twice or trice when she had to unavoidably drop him off at the bus stop, she has not appeared in public with her lover. Even then, she only kissed him goodbye in the safety of her tinted car.

Aw! She mussed, recalling his kisses has a way off turning her on at the wrong time. Well, there is no problem there; all she had to do is endure the hot tightness that had seeped into her middle until tonight.

She noticed chief’s car in the garage as she drove into their spacious compound. This did much to douse her desire and raise the conflict in her mind. She sought for a reason to turn around and back to her spa but knowing he must know she is back and would question why she had to drive all the way back for whatever it was she forgot when she could easily send someone, she packed her car next to his and instead sat in it fiddling with her design book, delaying entering the house for as long as she could.

She must have sat there for hours, lost in the world of her work until an insistent tap on her window brought her back from design world. Startles she straightened up to find her husband peering at her over the top of the half wind down window.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said breathing a little easier, “You startled me.”

“ I am sorry, it just that you have being cropped up in your car since you came in about two hours away that I wondered what it was that is so interesting to keep you here so long.” Chief Balogun said, his voice though tinged with humor is flat and unreadable.

“Oh my God!” Bimbo exclaimed genuinely, “has that much time elapsed? Good God! I just wanted to check out some designs I had being working on for Nubian creations, I guess I got engrossed with it.”

“Well I am happy I am around to break you off it. Now I know your design is a big thing for you but if you don’t hurry, we will miss another big thing, the dinner in the government house.” The chief said as he opened the car door for her and elegantly ushered her towards the main house.

“Thanks darling, you know I totally forgot about that dinner I hope we can still make it in time.” Bimbo replied as sweetly as she could, while she cringed inside as her mind sought for avenues through which to meet up with her appointment with her lover.


Sola crossed over to the other side of the road, hoping find a vantage point to await his date. The night has gotten colder than he had envisaged earlier and he was beginning to rue his discarding of the jean jacket he usually wore on cold nights. Well, he thought to himself, it’s nothing a few swigs of brandy wouldn’t cure, that and a serious tumble in the sheets if the night goes well.

It was not as if he is expecting things to go bad, no not at this stage. It is just that he is use to being cautious about any and everything, the secret of his longevity in a business that have killed off most of his mates.

He entered the little bar at the junction and sidled up to the counter where a pretty girl of about eighteen smiled flirtingly at him before taking his order. Carrying a small bottle of brandy to a window side table, he began his vigil.

To a causal observer he will appear calm and collected, but a closer look betrays the slow grinding motion of his jaws, the only thing that shows his agitation.

He must have waited there for about one hour when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Even before he looked at the caller id, he knew who the caller was.

“Hello,” he said into the mouthpiece, allowing the impatience he felt to taint his voice.

“Hi dear, I am there but I can’t see you anywhere.” The sweet female voice on the other end inquired.

“Ok, I am on my way. I am just across the street.” He downed the remaining of his drink in one gulp and walked out the door.



Bimbo watched through the rain splattered windscreen as the tall lean muscled young man jumped lithely across the open gutter. The rippling of his muscles under his tight T shirt caused her heart to skip a beat, sending a flood of warmth through her.

As he neared the door she leaned over and opened it for him.

“How are you?” he leaned across the gear shift to lightly brush his lips across hers, drawing away before she could catch hold of his lips with hers like she is wont to do- turning what was meant to be peck into a deep French kiss.

Showing her displeasure at his treatment, she looked him full in the face but the seriousness of his expression drowned out the complaint on her lips.

“What is it dear?” a worried frown knitting up her pretty face, “Are you in trouble again?”

He shook his head slowly, a small smile dancing around the corner of his lips as a flitting memory of his ‘troubles’ flashed across his minds eye.

“Your husband came to see me,” he said simply, leaning back on his seat, his head resting on the door frame, and gauged her reaction.

He knew the news will affect her bad, but not as bad as she was exhibiting. She had started at his words, the steering wheel jerking in her hands; the car skidded, narrowly missing a car in the opposite lane as she swerved for the curb, bringing the car to a screeching halt.

Her chest heaved up and her eyes blazed at him, sudden fear dilating her pupils. He felt that had her skin being fairer, the color would have drained from them.

“He what?” she finally managed to ask, her voice a fierce whisper that was as incredulous as it was fierce.

“He came to see me yesterday. No, he doesn’t know me, not like that anyway. Some one directed him.”

“Why did he come to see you then?” the heaving of her chest appears to lessen at his words, but a tinge of fear still colored her eyes.

“It appears he have found out that you are having an affair. He took out a million Naira contract on you.”

He watched her as it sank in. if she had almost crashed her car before, this time she only bowed her head for a moment and straightened up, her face the picture of deep waters, still and controlled, without the touch of even a faint ripple, though the glint of steel in her eyes belied her calm exterior.

“He paid you one million naira to kill me, his wife, what did he say about the lover. I am sure when he finds out that he paid my lover to kill me he will have that heart attack he has been having nightmares about.” She said, smiling broadly, “I didn’t know he had it in him, yes I know he is dangerous, but I never thought he will go as far as killing me for being unfaithful. Here I am, scared of him finding out because of what a messy divorce will do to my image and he was planning to kill me.”

“I took the contract before I realized you are the target. I know I promised to leave this line of work, I needed money to take care of you when we leave the country.”

She did not respond, only looked at him fixedly, a strange light burning in her eyes. She had known he would not accept any form of help from her; he always wanted to act the ‘man’ and provide for his woman. “What did you do when you found out I was the one?”

“Nothing, I was shocked at first, and then I ran after him. I didn’t know he was your husband then. He had earlier offered to give me information on the target, but I declined. I caught up with him as he was about driving away. That was when he told me that you are his wife.”

“Hmmn, I hope he did not suspect your actions?”

“I don’t think he has any reason to. He drove off rather happy that his contract is on track. I think the question should be what do we do?”

“Nothing,” bimbo said, still smiling.

“Nothing, what do you mean nothing? I promised him result in a week’s time.” Sola asked, incredulous.

“And he will get results.” Bimbo responded, starting the car again. “I just hope he doesn’t discover your identity before then. He is waiting for me at the dinner, I feigned an upset stomach halfway through the party and he was kind enough to give me leave to go buy drugs from a pharmacy, but I think it will wise for us not to see each other until I decide how to handle this situation.”

Sola alighted from the car ten minutes later. Standing by the quayside near the lagoon, he watched as the taillight of her car disappeared around a corner before turning to walk the short distance to a bus stop.

5 o'clock in the morning

i am about to do something i haven't done i a long time, that is, write without thinking much about what i am writing about, with the hope of may'haps revealing something hidden.

i am awake and though the sun is still yet in its resting place, i bother not about illumination for my laptop screen show enough light to see through. i am sane and my mind wonders, to the truth about my situation and the question of what tomorrow brings. like my father before me i wonder, i wonder when my dreams will see fruition and when my anguish will give way to smiles. I fear my freedom might not come before my world turns dark.

upon my bed my woman sleeps, wondering too, i bet, when her waiting will be over.

I blame myself, perhaps I made too many mistakes, maybe i did the wrong things at the wrong times. but I still want to try, Perhaps I will get it right this time. ohhh, other interests are pulling me away form this write up.

RAIN

Rain is the fourth planet in the odious circuit; it is the only earth like planet orbiting an adult sun in the 14-planet solar system. Its distance of about five hundred light years from earth made it unattractive for all but the poorest nations who could not afford to pay the enormous amount for resettlement in choicer planets that are the preserve of richer nations of earth.

The United Nations, wanting to lay claim to the odious circuit before the anthropoid Wads, had undertaken to cover the cost of transport and supplies for any nation willing to send people there. That and other less important reasons was why Rain became the only planet with an entirely African population and that was how my great grand father, Ii, came to Rain, aboard an IMF charity linear.

Apart from her distance from her human inhabitant’s home planet, Rain, as its name indicates is a planet with peculiar weather conditionality, due to some yet unknown natural phenomena; it rains almost all through the length of its ten-month year, with irregular breaks occurring in the second and third months.

With wet weather and water logged terrain. Rain was of little interest to the rich nations of earth who have hundreds of more appealing planets to choose from-I hear that in New Eden the weather is so clement that wearing of clothes is now seen as a ceremonial practice that most people chose to do without- so they stayed away from Rain which was allowed to grow at her own pace, her human inhabitants only occasionally sending the odd representative to their home continent.

It seems I have run a bit away from you, but story telling is not my strong point, though I will try to tell as much as I am able before we all perish, for that is what the rich nations intend for the people of Rain. However, before I tell you how that come about I will talk a bit about the native plants and animals indigenous to Rain, which, I assure you, are an integral part of this tale.

Since Rain is a wet planet all its indigenous animals are herbivorous amphibians who unlike those of earth give birth to live young and are truly mammals in the real sense of speaking. Some of them are sentient to the extent of communicating among themselves, but the Manuts are an exception to this rule, they are, to say the least, as sentient as man. These Manuts, as gentle as earths dolphins though more intelligent, it was that changed the story of Rain and her inhabitants, for worse or better? I think it is time that will tell.

Again, I rush, but you must understand that I am in a great haste and have only a little time, so bear with me. I was talking about the Manuts, how they changed the history of Rain and the human universe, as we know it. Yes, it all began behind my house in the high plains of new Kano. As you would have guessed, Rain is a planet of swamp forests with few high lands reserved entirely for cultivation of the earth type crops that cannot survive the swamps. Since space is so limited and we chose not to compete with our farms for space, we live as best as we can atop the massive conode trees that grow for thousands of years and are hundreds of feet across with massive trunks on which we build our houses, or in new Benin where the Conodes are not available, in large stilt houses. A well thought out balance with nature. Peculiar you may say, but it works for us. Even our great port city of Grania sits atop massive stilt posts of the toughest alloy. And no, it is not a glorified town. I will have you know that Grania is fifty kilometers across her middle and almost ninety kilometers long with buildings as tall as the clouds, which is important if you must escape the humidity, which I assure you is prevalent and is checked by a special kind of skin suit made from Tania hide which everyone here wears. Now we go back to my house in new Kano.

It was the third year of the landing in Rain when my great grandfather discovered the trapped Manut in the back of his makeshift lodge. It had apparently been trapped there for days and since it’s vocal cords are too small, as was soon discovered, it could only make small piping noises which was lost to the noise of the constant downpour, it would have remained there until certain death had he not chanced on it. He promptly cut off the large trunk that was pinning it down and set it free. It had lain there for a long while staring with its solemn eyes at him, then after a long while it turned and lumbered off , three legs pumping in rhythmic unison, soon to be lost behind the curtain of rain drops, but not before turning to regard my grandfather with red pupil eye .

My grandfather forgot all about the incidence until two days later when he awoke to a loud racket outside the shelter, grabbing his ray gun and raincoat he had rushed out to investigate, to the distress of his wife who would rather he stay indoors and call the order officials on the telmi. Outside, he was shocked to his marrow by a scene that he retold a thousand times and which became a part of our oral history. All around the house, as far back as the eye could see through pouring rain, Manuts were assembled, males behind large females with imposing mammary glands prominent between their three legged torso. Had he been a less sensitive man he would have thought that they meant him harm, biological assessment or not. However, the mild air of peace around them checked him. As he watched, the lead female nodded her deer like head towards a large heap of fruits and herbs by her side and the males carried them to his side, moving slowly on their three legs, that done they turned and left, all of them walking slowly toward the sea like a large army doing slow time.

The import of that visit did not hit my grandfather until later when he went to report to the authorities. It appeared as though the Manuts had come to thank him for saving one of their own, a collective reasoning the hasty UN research team did not discover in their rushed pre-settlement analysis of Rain. This incident was not the last but the beginning of an enduring relationship between the Manuts and the settlers for they seem to record a good turn in their biological memory, and pays back same over and over. Unfortunately, they seem to forgive wrongs all too quickly. They soon learnt to speak galatic and some of us learnt to flute simple words of their complex language.

All was rosy between Manut and man until last year when an enterprising scientist on earth, discovered a cure for H251, a disease that has been running rampage on earth and other planets killing thousands within days of first outbreak. A good thing you may say, but to us a bag thing, for we have been spared the rampaging killer, as we get few visitors and our ambassadors are sworn to stay away until they are certified clean of the virus, an unnecessary precaution for most would rather die than bring sickness and death to Rain. Another more important reason is the one that turns our collective stomachs; the vaccine is a cultured Manut brain.

Now the UN is coming to claim their debt from our society, we are to give up the Manuts to certain slaughter for their large brains as a token of our appreciation for escape from the crowding of Africa and the inherent diseases and civil wars. Yes, we told them of the Manuts reasoning and ability to speak galatic; we even sent them tapes of the handless Manuts at work, play and study, all to no avail. They dismissed us as being sentimental, of trying to save our pets at the detriment of humankind. The council of state met last week and by tomorrow, the enforcement fleet from earth will arrive to herd the mild Manuts into slave ships for onward transit to earths’ labs.

We too have met, a decision taken, we have communicated our intensions to the docile Manuts who seem to take their fate solemnly since violence is alien to their culture. Anyway, we are going to resist the enforcement, we lack a functional army because we have never had any need for it, but we are far from helpless.

I sit in my room, a pair of my Manut friends watching with bemused interest as I sharpen my jungle knife in readiness for the coming battle whose advent bemuses them too. I know death will surely be the result of our folly, but like my grandfather would say ‘he who has been bitten by a snake knows it’s pain better than he who was told of the pain’. I await death.

my first girl and the heartbreaks therein

My first Girl

Dateline May 20 1995, I was 16 with an adolescents questions and drive for sex. It was my birthday and after several months of broken promises my then girlfriend-a girl two months older than me but who, though I dread to admit it, had much more experience in the matter-decided that my birthday treat will be for her to take my virginity. Having no allusion as to her being one herself, I happily set out to make preparations.

The venue was the room of our landlord’s older son who had years before taken me under his wing. I was there about two hours before time waiting with abated breath for her to show. She turned up looking like she always does then, sweet and fresh, without the makeup that I grew to hate seeing on women. I remember her hair was plaited in a simple, all-back corn rows and her dress was unusually tight. I recall trying to show more confidence and grabbed her before she even crossed the threshold.

Now, I am not trying to come along like some cool dude or something, but we have being practicing and I thought I should make the first move, Also the owner of the room had earlier cautioned me on speed-his dad might show at any time. My urgency was checked by something strange. For reasons I still don’t understand, she chose to wear another dress under the quite tight dress she had on.

I wasn’t daunted by that barrier as I struggled to pull it off. I recall starring at the wonder of her naked body which I was viewing fully for the first time. When we kissed, it was no first kiss, but the feeling was new.

Apart for a few awkward moments and initial indecisiveness, I am quite certain I did not disappoint the intense reading I had being doing on that subject matter and my years of listening to bragging older brothers and mentors. I lost more than innocence that day, so many commonly held beliefs where broken and new discoveries made. It was the beginning of wild adventures that brought us closer to trouble than ever before. Being too young to own a room away from home, we took to sneaking into enclosures and taking quick bites anyway we presumed safe. Being a medicine store owner’s son and an avid reader, safety was easy and our constant fear for unwanted pregnancy never caught up with us.

It lasted for a full three years ending in 1999 when she suddenly grew older than me and I became like the little pet that waits for her to come back from the job she just got then with a hotel in the GRA area. I recall it was the period of the under seventeen world cup and Kaduna was a host city. Initially I thought I was the one gaining from the separation, what with the need to be with other women and experience something new, but I was mistaken. I recall waiting for her to comeback from work and watching with racing heart as she alights from the Mercedes V boot that usually drops her off- I learnt it belongs to her boss- and almost bursting into tears when she walks by without a word.

Apparently I had erroneously believed then that our separation was temporary and that she will still come back to me. Hell! It took me two years of begging to realize that it was over, by then I was already in the university.

I nursed that silly heartbreak for a long while and even found myself drawn to girls that looked like her. I was initially attracted to my first girlfriend in the university because apart from a difference in height, she could almost pass for a split image of her.

It was hard, but I somehow got over her and moved on and now I can afford to look back and laugh at my blind pursuit of a girl that was already tired of me. I guess I now understand what is inferred when a woman says she wants a matured man and not a boy and why my good friend Sule Ali is still in deep pains several months after. Boy it will go away, I promise.

Now, thirteen years later, I still look back at my first affair with nostalgia; somehow I don’t dwell on our breakup. I rather reminisce those tender hugs and sweet nothings, the stroll around the Angwa and those brief stolen kisses that were the highlights of many a day.

I have been with several women since then and now know the difference and can say without fear that she isn’t my best lay ever, but there is definitely something about those days that hangs around my mind. I have forgotten the faces of several of my more recent women but her image remains stamped in my mind. No, I don’t love her or miss her anymore and I wouldn’t want to share whatever with her again, but I’d love to let her know that I forgave her a long time ago and wish her luck where ever she might be.

RECALLED MEMORIES

In pregnant silence sit

Echoic thoughts screaming within

Such sounds,

Know not which fret of life begin

Out of the sun's eye

Creep into my consciousness again

Strange face

Brings thou back forgotten pain?

Memories of spite

Into my heart plunged to reveal

Hollow space

Time and tears should heal

Across tense moment

I reach to touch feelings lost

A love, died

When its comet burnt out in space

What you don't know about me

What you don’t know about me

My earliest memories were of landscapes, or put in a better perspective, hillscapes, beautiful scenery of hills and valleys. The freshest green foliage infused with flowers of diverse make amongst the tallest palm trees imaginable, all swaying gently or violently, as the elements will have it, in a land that could rival any ever seen by man.

Both my maternal home and my father’s home town are situated in the hills. While my ancestral home sits atop a wind swept plateau, my maternal home was situated in a valley-the use of the word ‘was’ is acceptable here because as a result of the tragic influence of modernity, the people of my maternal homeland have moved en masse to a barren hill a few miles from the land that was their ancestors abode. Their new abode’s only importance is the fact that an asphalt road dissects its white soiled length.

I weep for the town of my youth that is now a ghost town, abandoned by its inhabitants, the only ghost town I have seen in Nigeria, but this story is not about it. It is not about my homeland either; it is about me, my life and my situation. It walks the path of my fears and caresses my elusive salvation, but to write about this topic I must travel back to those early days, I must call to mind those things that captivated my soul’s root, the sights that I saw cradled in my mother’s arm, looking out at the valleys that bestrides hills that seem nearer than they are.

I could tell you about the trips to Ezi-agu-the good farm, where spirits were said to abode, and where on moon light nights, farmers trudged to harvest the late yam that is meant for the barn. No! That will be dragging you into the mud bath of a long lost memory. I will rather prefer to talk at length about my childhood and its peculiarity.

But, where does one start? Yes, I think we should start from my very first and last act of stealing, not for any reason, but because it is a good place to start as any.

I was not caught stealing. Far from it, I successfully palmed the 5 kobo and bought ‘chart’ a banana flavored sweet with a sturdy wooden shaft that offers a good handhold while you battle with it (I have not seen the like of it in ages and wonder if they are still being produced). In addition, I escaped with the big ‘opiola’ mango left in a big iron pot to ripen. I recall that it was while I was enjoying the rather juicy fruit at the ‘bushward’ side of our mud compound wall that a thought struck me. Why not ask mother? I must have looked rather comical with a big wet dripping mango sticking out of my little mouth, my eyes so wide open it radiates the brilliant light of discovery. “Why not ask mother?” I know that she will not say no and even if she initially says no I can pester her until she agrees. I immediately set out to try out my hunch. It worked; I have not had any cause to steal again.

I recall the joy of running downhill to the stream to fetch water. That, is the easy part and not as fun as being allowed by the bigger kids to lug a can back up the incline. I remember vividly the several falls as we graduated from carrying 1 liter cans to 1 gallon and from that progressively to 25/30 liters ‘the ultimate for any adult’. At first, we needed help to lift them onto our heads-a competitive business if there was ever one-later on we could all do it easily and turned our competition to who can run or walk fastest with a full can on his/her head. The unwritten rule was for the age grade ahead to show the younger ones the way that we followed enthusiastically.

I recall the masquerade games, were I usually had the honor of wearing the mask. Yes, I was energetic and carefree, a leader of my peer group and a noted face at the moonlight games. But, all these were before polio came knocking on my leg’s door.

Before this, I have started playing football, a goalkeeper I was and people still remember the skills I exhibited at that early age. I was fearless and was always selected amongst the first six during our 4-6 year olds’ ‘monkey post’ matches.

I cannot recall all that happened or the sequence of events even if I tried because time and age has made all of it murky and tattered to my minds eye. Telling it like my mama tells it would not do much good either for she cries bitterly any time she narrates it that her tale is left with to many sob breaks to make much head of. The summary is rather simple and plain, as polio attacks usually are. She left me with a niece as she headed for the market one day and returned to meet me on the floor trying bravely to rise on a flabby leg to welcome her. She said that she immediately knew that something was wrong with my leg but did not know what it was then.

The story is that after some consultations I was diagnosed with polio and at about three and a half years lost the use of my left leg.

Mother did everything she could. I know she still blames herself to this day. She feels it is her fault, had she not gone to the market maybe, just maybe, she would have seen the sign before it is too late.

They did not know it was not too late, who was there to tell them about therapy, about the whirlpools, pedals and support straps that would have helped my strong spirit.

I see the look of intense sadness that crosses her eyes when we talk about things I can never do. I noticed how she looks away when the need to us a cane comes upon me like it does more often than not these past years. I know she agonizes about it day and night, I know but I do not say anything. I rather not say anything that will deepen the pain, hers, mine, and everybody’s’.

Yes, I at times get really mad at a world that fails to understand a handicapped person’s frustration. Yes, I could have being a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, an engineer, even a musician, but perhaps you should try to imagine a situation where I have a choice, what if I wanted only to be a soldier, a policeman, a footballer or even an athlete? No! Do not tell me I am lucky I am alive or that I can and have survived.

I still I wake up on certain days to the stiffness on my hip, I beg for sleep other nights as a numbing pain keep my eyes alight. The taunts that followed me from childhood are a part of me now, I have accepted the moniker ‘the lame one’ and it is who I am and that begs no lie.

I surprise a few people these days with the truth about my ‘swagger’. They thought my limp is a sort of fashion style that they would love to emulate. Suddenly my limp is now a fashionable style that is in vogue. Pardon me; will you like to learn my swagger?

You know, the funniest thing happened the other day, I heard over the radio that the government was trying to administer a polio drug to some babies and somebody, probably a traditional chief or holy man, advised people against the proffered vaccine. I laugh at his stupidity, I see him as a mental cripple who needs to see more of us around in other to convince himself he is whole. Agggggh! I wish I was close enough to hit him with my cane.

You know some diseases have cure, but polio once acquired is to the grave.

I look out my window in the concrete forest that I now live in, I wonder at the grit and scum that evades everywhere and wrinkle my nose at the nauseating stench from open drains. Yes I miss my home in the hills, there where the sunset is full of colors and the air is sweet and filling.

I want to go back, but sustenance keeps me tied to this wreck of an existence.

What else about me don’t you know?