The Plea

The boy stood barefooted before the elders of his village. A remarkably thin and bronze complexioned youth, he was tall for his seventeen years and cursed by the devil with an effeminate kind of handsomeness. Blood gushed from a wound under what remained of his nose. A strip of black fabric knotted at both sides covered his privates. The wise old men of the kingdom; all naked, save for red damask wrappers tied around their waists, sat on low wooden stools. Their sombre expressions and a noticeable absence of either kolanut or palm wine bore witness to the nature of the boy’s crime. They had decided on his guilt, and this was judgement—what to do with him and how to do it. The mutilated, decaying remains of his father lay exposed on a dirty brown sack. No one recoiled from the stench. To his right, his mother, stripped bare, sprawled on the sand, pleading for mercy. Her long, intricately woven braids were scraped off and her breasts hung loose like full buckets of water. They plastered her with ashes from her head to her toes. Three women stayed behind her, dispensing slaps whenever her crying caused a distraction. Pa Osagie; the most senior in the group cleared his throat. Satisfied everything was in order, he commanded: “Speak Nosakhare.” The accused ran his palms over his chest. “It happened during the early hours of Oba market day. Baba’s shouting woke me. At first, it sounded as if he and mama were having their normal arguments, but his voice grew louder and angrier. When I got to their room, I saw him squeezing her neck. I grabbed his legs, begging him to free her. She was making strange sounds. He colour began to change. He said we wanted to kill him with juju but he will ruin our plans.” “Lies, Oghogho,” Pa Osamuyi yelled at the boy’s mother who seemed to have an unlimited supply of tears. “Tell us what you did to my brother or I swear, the gods will strike you down by nightfall. You killed him before he could take yams to Idahosa’s house. Because your son has been testing the daughter. Eating from his father’s plate. Coveting his own father’s betrothed.” Two drops fell from the swollen eyes of the unfortunate soul and he brushed them off as if their presence shamed him. His demeanour changed, and the thick lips parted. His mother’s heart pounded against her breast as with her very being, she willed him not to confess that truth. Nosakhare recovered fast. He frowned at the rotting mass beside him and his uncle. In his look, a clear warning. “Allow him finish,” Pa Osagie grumbled, aware that he had lost a golden opportunity to discover the reason for this madness. “Papa left her and dived under their bed for his cutlass. I sharpened it that morning. He looked at me weird and somehow, I knew he meant for us to die. I dragged Iye from the floor and begged her to run away fast. She disappeared into the bush and I, Idemudia...me, his first son...he chased me round and round our house. At the back, he tripped on a stump from the mango tree and fell on our grinding stone. His whole body shook and went still. There was no reason to call for help since he was died on the spot.” As if as an afterthought, the accused cried out: “How is his death our fault? Idahosa knows I have never been alone with his daughter. I can swear to it. When I go to their house, it is not to see her. Why should you punish us for my father’s misfortune?” He untied the cloth around his waist and let it drop the ground. Limping a little, he grabbed his mother by the stomach and lifted her from the sand, supporting her weight with his injured shoulder. “Continue,” Pa Osagie instructed, choosing calmness in the face of such defiance. “Get to the end.” “I left to get mama. Together, we brought him into the bush and cut him. She put the parts into a sack while I dug the hole. We buried him as fast as we could.” Horror plastered itself across the face of the old men when the boy finished his tale. Their red eyes, like admirers of a mural in a studio pierced into him, seeking perhaps, a glimpse into his soul. Only Idahosa looked unfazed. He drew shapes on the earth with his biggest toe. Pa Osagie was the first to break the silence. “Osifo was as wicked as two devils but where did you and your mother find the strength for such...wickedness to his corpse?” “Tell it again,” he whispered in his bird-like voice. “Maybe I will understand this time. You are leaving out something or perhaps there is a hidden meaning to your words.” Hearing this, the boy’s mother heaved a sigh and fell. It was clear she would never rise again. One flick of the old man’s finger and the women dragged away her corpse. “Now it is just us men, Nosakhare. Tell me the truth, but mind that your life depends on it.”

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Apocalypse

I zip up my raincoat, grab a cutlass, readjust an oversized helmet and double-check the torch hiding next to my privates. It’s not dark enough here to use it, I decide. My destination is a wide cave within the rocks behind my house. I pray I find it empty or somebody may be doing some dying. My mother says a quick prayer and draws the sign of the cross over my head. In Igarra, one of few surviving cities, the end of the world is an everlasting, moonless night pregnant with untold horrors. The black sky tears open in pain as waves of shattering thunderstorms give way to sparks of blood-red lightning. Powerful quakes burst the earth open, swallowing strong men whole. Ravaging flood pours—drops like spikes. Some people, lighting their way with various devices, speak of happier times. Of a once shining sun and scintillating stars. They claim God ordered Angel Jibril to blow his golden trumpet before time as a punishment for our sins. A young boy calls out for help whilst I’m hurrying past. I stop and ask where he is headed. Instead of answering, his tiny hands stretch out, enveloping my legs in a death grip. I shake my torch. It lights his fingers. They resemble talons. I stare at the blind, milky eyes for some seconds before shoving him off. A couple more steps and I stumble over Prophetess Grace’s mangled corpse lying by the roadside. She used to be my brother’s lover. Her hairless head resembles a pest-infested corn farm. Why did I ever lust after her? It seems like ages ago that I watched her from our hideout, dancing round a burning quarry. “Follow me and the spirits shall keep you safe from that” she cried, pointing to the ravenous pit. The devil’s soldiers donned in glittering crowns of thorns and riding giant, silver horses, gallop towards me. Satan himself, informs me that in less than three hours, I’d be damned enough to earn my place amongst his party. The coldness of his words causes a shiver down my spine. I fall to the ground and kiss the sand between his feet. He lifts me up by a single, blood-red, flaming fingernail and carves the infamous cursed letters into my forehead. I feel faint, but when I touch my skin after, it is uninjured. A blinding headache seizes me upon entering what was once my family home. There’s thick smoke like a midday shadow drifting out the open windows. I sense movement. Whether man or beast, I cannot tell. It excites me, though I run off as fast as my legs can manage. I convince Baba, Mama and Ayo to make the journey as soon as I return. We stay on a line; palms latched onto shoulders of the person in front. I remain in charge of our only weapon. The torchlight flickers, stays on for two seconds and dies. Halfway through, Mama suddenly stops and starts crying. Something cold has wrapped itself around her feet, she mutters. I sense a kindred spirit. Deep in my subconscious, I order the snake to seek another victim and it vanishes. She begs us to try our luck out of town. Somewhere like Okene where there’s still a little daylight, at least. We’d have to deal with the pygmies; mean spirited imps ready to devour anything with a heartbeat. She and Baba have a fierce, low-toned argument which ends with Ayo smacking her hard on the face. “Sorry,” he whispers. We arrive and they race inside, leaving me to play sentinel. Baba used to say while massaging shea butter into my misshapen knees; “Fear is your only enemy. You must fight for your rights, Yomi.” It’s a different man who envelopes Mama in a bear hug, terror splattered all over his sixty-three-year-old face, cheeks hanging loose like full buckets of water. I watch their heads bang, teeth gnash, and listen to a steady stream of prayers flow back and forth. They disgust me. My fingers twitch around the cutlass as hate courses through my veins. I lift the weapon and strike.

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Fear (A Poem) #repost

 Have tasted my fear?

Fear that creeps from the edge of your toenails to the tip of your tongue, vivid like bitterest gall.

Fear that plays on the chords of your soul like an accordion, offering on a platter, salvation laced with damnation.

Fear that sings an ode to your life: a fleeting, tasteless, undeserving memoire.

Fear that forces you to anticipate the hours, minutes and seconds before you die.

Have you tasted a fear so dire, your heart sizzles in its presence, swelling and shrinking like a frightened gazelle.

Fear which like a starved coyote, devours your mind until nothing is left of you but stale blood and withered flesh.

Fear which digs its rabid canines into your tensioned nerves making them bark in and out of tune.

Fear which swells and festers once the three hands of that old, grandfather clock strike the unholy hour, yet impotent, lies in wait from dawn till dusk.

Fear which stakes a claim as confidante and tormentor, carting you from the botheration of society into blessed solitude.

Fear which makes cockroaches of strong men.

I ask again: have you tasted my fear?

A Requiem for Izuafa

You did something evil ... mean ... wicked to he who was dear to me as my own self. You feasted on his naivety because you found him pliable. You were consistent and decisive in your words and actions. You made your victim’s life a torment while promising power. You left nothing but destruction in your wake. He succumbed so you sought out his kin to continue what you began. The world would have been better if were you never born. You were like a traveling salesman, only what you purveyed was death and destruction. 

Now years have passed. Boys have become men. The past is a distant memory. You are a new person ... a rebranded copy of your old detestable self. You have even found God. A couple children bearing your name and one could not imagine the new you used to be the old you. But you are mistaken in the security of self you feel. 

Old things have not passed away. Old things will never pass away. You must partake in the feast you laid out long long ago. How can it be that you do not suffer for your sins? If fiends who roam in the dark wish you well, surely the morning angels must snatch joy off your hands. I do not forgive. I refuse to forgive. Not for the sin of murder but for the torment that followed. You are cursed in this world and in your grave and in the hereafter. You are cursed for all eternity because your existence ab-initio is an anomaly.