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.

Friday's Epiphany

Friday Omokhudu Momoh resolved at exactly six pm on Friday, the twenty fifth day of September, not to die. He came about this decision not after any deep thought as to the consequences or serious planning. Rather, while singing along to the tune of “All Things Bright and Beautiful” flowing into his room through the open window; from the enthusiastic choir of Miracles and Blessings Ministries- Center of Overwhelming Breakthroughs. He could pick out his wife’s voice; the loudest of the lot. This was to be the day of her deliverance from him after all. Of course, this is not why she suddenly became a believer. It also had nothing to do with the money she being a widow and all, would get from his office or his gratuity that was expected to follow; everything had been discussed in nerve wrecking detail. Bedridden and completely paralyzed on the right side from a stroke, Friday had pondered over his affairs a great deal in the last three months. He used to be a dark complexioned, middle aged man with big bulging eyeballs almost at opposite ends of his fat face, a small flat nose and thick Negro lips. Now, one of his cheeks was sunken like an inverted rainbow. His yellow teeth; from chewing too much tobacco, were tiny as a baby’s with an extra set jutting out from the upper jaw. A protruding stomach and very thin legs added a twist to his five feet, ten inches. The room in which he lay was bare, save for the bed and a calendar from last year hanging by a nail on the wall. It stank of piss but Friday was immune to the smell by now. Some tiles were missing from the floor. As he counted down the seconds until eight pm when his son would put on their generator, he saw them. The door opened an inch and a pair of red eyes peeped in. “What?” “It is six o’ clock. I have mixed it. Should I bring it?” Using his one good hand, Friday pulled out a note on which he scrawled haphazardly, “Wash trouser. Change bed sheet.” The boy folded his arms across his chest and a grimace slowly covered his face. This was not the answer he expected. He shut the door with a bang. Friday could hear music resonating from the living room. Returning his gaze to the crack, he observed a troupe of ants as they marched in and out of the hole. He seemed to blend into their lines which then spread out before him. He blinked. Friday was unusually tall for his sixteen years. He worked as a clerk in one of the big consumer goods stores in Ibadan. He looked distinguished in his "Employee of the Month" portrait hanging above the cashier's head. The job was simple, match whatever is on the shelves with the books. Sometimes, he took an item he fancied and wrote it off after all, one must eat from where one works. Every day, he made two trips wading through an assortment of sweet smelling perfumes, sweat and body odor as he joined old and young inside death-trap taxis setting off for different parts of the big city. “Bodija! Bodija! Enter with your change.” “Bodija before market. How much?” “Two-fifty oga.” “Two hundred nko?” “You get change?” “I get.” It was inside one of these infamous taxis seven years later, that he met Oghogho; the woman he would eventually marry. The first thing he noticed was how she looked too bourgeois for her environment despite the bathroom slippers she had on at seven in the morning. It took him twenty minutes before he asked, steeling his mind against her rejection; “Can I have your number?” He had startled her and she stared at him, surprised. The taxi went quiet; you could hear a pin drop. All eyes were on him and her, his face itched in one thousand different places. She looked him over before taking her slender palm off an expensive looking bag to collect his phone and key in the digits. He exhaled a sigh of relief. The passengers resumed their idle talk. The conductor gave him a thumbs up. For the rest of the journey, neither spoke and when she alighted, he paid her fare. They met at restaurants and parties and hotels. Life for him, became broad strokes of color. Everything and everyone was exciting. He liked looking forward to seeing her. He ditched buses and taxis for cabs and if a chauffeur fussed over money, he gladly abandoned his change. She never invited him to her home. He never asked. He gave her all he could spare and she never requested for more. If she slept off after they made love, he stayed awake and watched over her, running his fingers down her black velvety skin. When she told him she was pregnant, he wrote home and said he had found a wife. He blinked. Friday emptied the bowl of eba and well stocked egusi soup his wife laid before him. He reclined on the sofa and started to pick his teeth with his tongue. The triplets slept on a mat by the baby cot, inside which one of the twins slept. Oghogho sat on the chair opposite, cradling their only son and her growing stomach. “Give me more drinking water.” She leaped out of the chair and hurried to the drum were the tenants of 101, Olumide Avenue, stored water outside their face-me-I-face-you apartment. Skillfully pushing away dirt, she filled her husband’s stainless steel cup and returned. “How was the market today?” “Hmm, everything is so expensive. I bought half mudu of garri because the money was not enough. The way these children eat, it is only God that will save us.” “Hmm.” He knew she went to see her father. Had the old man finally capitulated to his only child? Since financing their wedding, they had not gotten a kobo from him. “Try and bring something home tomorrow o.” "From where? Did Chief Ovie keep money somewhere for his son in-law to collect? See, don't just annoy me." He turned away, feigning sleep. He was angry. It was a deep despair at being unable to provide no matter how hard he tried. He blinked. It was close to ten pm on Thursday, tenth of June. Friday had been on the highway for almost seven hours. His pocket was filled up with petty change; enough to hit Area One bar and spend on his new girlfriend before returning home. He took off the black cap and fanned his head. “This police work no be beans o” he admonished Aliu; his understudy. “Take over. I dey go rest small.” He sat on a log of wood under a tree and emptied his pockets. After months of begging and heavy spending, today he must seal the deal with Jennifer. While musing over their proposed date, an unusual sound caught his ears and he squinted. It was Isiaka, racing down the road in a crazed fashion. “Thief o. Thief o.” Ojo and Aminu on the other side, disappeared into the bush as shots cracked the tension filled air, putting an end to Isiaka and Aliu. Friday tried to move but his feet were frozen. The boy had bought them drinks for his birthday that morning. Blood pouring out of the hole in Aliu’s head got to him and formed paths on both sides of his feet. He felt nothing as bullets pumped into his chest and he collapsed writhing, a few centimeters from the now still bodies. He blinked as his eyes tore out of the crack. Friday realized he was naked. His trouser and the bed sheet lay on a heap by the door. His son, dressed in a white singlet tucked into super tight jeans held halfway down his buttocks using an imitation designer belt, stood by the bed holding a stainless steel cup. As the boy brought the cup close to his lips, Friday screamed incoherently; “Ahhh ahhh naaa naaa naaa wan da.” A teardrop rolled down his cheek as the cup jammed his teeth and its contents spilled unto the bed. The boy was furious. He pulled the pillow out from under his father and held it over his head. Their eyes locked for no more than a second and Friday could feel the boy's hatred. "I am sorry" he whispered, before the darkness crashed into him causing his ears to ring. Although, he struggled, it was useless. When his soul left his body, he shat and pissed himself.

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