Foregone (Fiction)

Foregone

Fiction

It is abominable, that which I do.

But I hurry to it anyway.

I follow the stream by the white light of the moon, stilling myself at every sound of crunching leaves or rustling bushes. I have wrapped myself in the darkest Ankara, on top of it, is my father’s hunting tunic, darker than night. I have smeared his tobacco and spice behind my ears to ward off any strangers or their dogs.

A traveling stranger is less interesting if she smells of tobacco and roots, than of hibiscus and lemons.

In my hand, is my shepherd’s crook. It whacks and chokes, whether it be sheep or person.

This is no man's land, distant from mother's watchful eye. Any assailant would be out of range of father’s arrow.

Now well into the forest, I hear the faint roar of the waters and my heart races. Quickly, I begin to climb the hill.

It is dark but I know where to place my feet, where to grip and brace, where to heave and lift. The darkness amplifies the thunder of the rushing waterfall of Arè. It surrounds, it terrifies. It is enough to fail a heart.

I remove my sandals and wade into the river, she welcomes me and draws me in along the current. I hold unto familiar stones, slippery and some tufty with growth, my feet find ground on the sandy bed. I feel for the rocks and climb out into a cave.

At last.

He is there waiting.

He rises to his feet. My heart thumps, my belly flutters.

Tórę.

The face of a god, of a slight frame and the hugest boyish grin. I run into his arms and remain.

His scent is warm with cloves, and leather and fresh with zest.

By now, he should have come to my home with his kinsmen to ask for my hand, instead, we meet in secret, in a dark, cold cave.

It is destined not to be, this love of ours, for etched deep in my father's aging cheeks are the markings of the Iwui dynasty and right next to Tórę’s clear, searching eyes is the mark of the Ara tribe.

It is an abomination to love this man, as every Iwui man and every Ara man is required to kill the other by law.

---

We are lying now on the floor of the cave, atop a blanket. Our passion which burned bright is now a simmer. His skin is like new leather. His back glistens as I rub shea butter into his skin. His back muscles relax. Like father, he is a fighter, a warrior, one doused with honor.

His body is marked so, with scars, long ones, short ones, ugly ones, curious ones.

I run my fingers over a repeating pattern of incisions over his back.

They are like little sticks. Eighty-five of them.

“In Iwui, these markings are meant for protection,”I say. “Put by the Water priestess on the backs of our fighters.”

He says nothing.

“Your priestess must be beautiful.” I frown. ”Is it why you visit her all the time?”

He turns around and catches me in his arms, “If old, wrinkly Baba Rimi is your idea of beautiful that would concern me.”

I giggle as his lips meet mine.

“I want you to meet my father. I can come with him next time.” I say, pushing him off.

He raises a brow.“It would be a challenge getting around your old man for a kiss—”

“I'm serious. We can't do this forever.”

“You know that isn't possible. The moment he sees me he will kill me. I am Ara, he is Iwui.”

“I am Iwui!”

“You are different,”He twists my hair around his finger,”You are very different.”

“You and father are the same,”I slap his teasing fingers away from my chin. Unthetered by duty, father would roam the ends of the earth, searching for the sweetest waters, and the finest company, those who ponder deep and search for truth. If he were not fifth in line to the throne of Ara, Tórę would roam the ends of the earth seeking the quietness of the night sky and the heavens beyond it, seeking the voice of the wind to steer his path.

Either way, they both would roam and search.

I tell Tórę this.

“Let us remain here. We don’t have to think about Iwui and Ara,”He sighs.

“Why don't you meet him? He will love you.”

He is silent.

“Say something!”I grunt in frustration, “Can you not speak to your father—the king? If he hears you have found love in Iwui, he might consider it and try to build us as allies.”

“Nothing would bring him more joy, honestly. He has been talking about an alliance with Iwui for years.”

I sit up excitedly.

“So, what’s stopping him?”

“He treads carefully. Change is difficult to sell.”

“But he must try.”

“There are some who want the throne,”He says,”And this change is the makings of a rebellion. He says it often, that he may not see this alliance in his lifetime or me in mine.”

He falls quiet and I am lost in my thoughts.

The Ara and Iwui have hated each other for decades. Our affair was not going to change this. So I choose to be present in every breath and I collect our moments like shells at a shore.

---

“You are in love.” My father smiles at me.

“No!” I laugh. It is all I can do to prevent from fainting, as my father has found me out. He sits beside me on the bench. I am running my fingers through the wool of my sheep, checking their bones and wool.

“Is it the son of Ajani? He visited with his father yesterday while you were away with the sheep. He seeks your hand.”

“Roti? No! Never. How can I be in love with Roti?”

“We will send back their gifts tomorrow night.” Father sighs.

“Thank you, Father.”

“You are away so much with these sheep. Let me buy you a fishing net, only a small one. You will find more opportunities at the river—”

“Father, I am content with my trade.” I smile at him, lifting a lamb into my lap,”And you mean I will find a husband at the river.”

After a long stare, a smile tugging his lips, “No matter how unsightly, you must know your mother and I will never stand in the way of your choice. For a man.”

I smile.

“Roti is the fourth man we have turned down,”He continues, “Even the princess Demori hasn't turned down as many as you.” He stands to his feet. “When you are ready…”

I want to tell him about Tórę. About how this son of Ara rescued my sheep with his arrow in the heart of a wild dog, about how I know our love is so real that it breathes. That the water helps me to our cave. She makes my feet steady with her sandy bed, that she watches over us in the water fall as we sleep and sprays at us to wake us up so we aren't found out.

Instead, I smile at him.

“Yes, father. It won't be much longer.”

---

I wake with a start to the feeling that we are being watched. Tórę awakens too. His dagger is in his hand and he is on his feet. The thunder of the waterfall and gush of the waters surrounds us.

There is a presence, we know it is there. It is watching.

“Let us get you on your way home,” Tórę hurries, “Follow the river and stay close to her.” He rolls up our blanket and throws his quiver across his chest.

He bends and ties up one leg of my sandal, as I struggle with the other one.

Of a sudden, he jumps to his feet, plucks an arrow. It whizzes past my ear. It strikes. Something heavy falls out of the tree to the ground.

I run to it.

“Stay back,” Tórę yells at me.

A person.

I see the tribal marks first on the man's cheeks. They scream loud. Iwui!

It is Roti.

The one whose hand I had turned down.

He lay on the forest floor dead.

---

Tórę drags Roti’s limp body to the river. Roti stares at the sky through unblinking eyes. I steady my breathing. With weak knees, I catch up to Tórę and with trembling hands, I grab Roti around the ankles and lift, so he doesn't drag in the dirt. We ease him into the river and let her take him away to rest. Exhausted, I sit along the stony river bank and cry for Roti.Tórę sits on a rock beside me and rolls his tobacco. His hand is steady as he brings it to his lips. He sinks into his quietness, tapping off ashes and looking at the waterfall.

I shiver.

I don't know why.

Tórę drags on his tobacco.

---

The news of Roti’s death spread. I had hoped the river would cover for us as she always did, hide this deed and settle him in a peaceful place but she took him downstream right to the banks of Iwui, where the fishermen and girls washed and children squealed and played.

He is recovered and the whole land whispers about the arrow head that was found in him—that of the Great Terrible of Ara.

That was what he was called—my Tórę.

The Great Terrible.

---

In the weeks that followed, bands of Iwui men would go out at dusk, fresh with incisions from the priestess and return bloodied and fewer in number.The Water priestess was clear. Roti’s death was a sign from the river. The river demanded blood. Ara blood. A new decree was issued that we all remain inside. All cooking, planting, traveling, visiting, all of life stopped right before sun down. Father has picked up his bow and arrow. The lengendary archer of Iwui has picked up his bow. Steady as his hand may be, they now tire with age.

“Maybe my greatest feat would be to pin this Great terrible with an old man's arrow?” He laughs, my mother places his quiver across his chest. My heart sinks.

“You can't go, Father,”I stammer. “He..They are favored by the wind. His arrow will hit you first.”

“I have been known to be favored by all the elements, both wind and water. Even fire! Look at your mother,” My mother slaps him playfully.

“Father, please.”

He touches my cheek lightly.

“Don’t worry, my love. No matter how unsightly. Your mother won't stand in the way…” With that he journeys into the night.

---

The same night, I leave Iwui, following the path I know by heart. There is no moon.

When I arrive, Tórę is waiting.

“What are we going to do?” I croak, wiping the tears off my face as he holds me.

“There's nothing to do. I want you to go back home, by the river. We stop seeing each other for now.”He lets me go. I search for his eyes but they don't meet mine.

“How can you say that?”My voice trembles.

“It’s not safe anymore. You were followed last time.”

“Tórę,” I say, “We can end this madness!”

He scoffs.

“How?” Now he looks at me, his eyes burrow deep into mine.

“I don’t know.” I say quietly.

Tórę freezes, he draws out an arrow.

“Shh.”He mouths.

I am still.

“Tórę!”A voice calls through the waterfalls.

“Uncle?”Tórę’s eyes dart around. He pushes me behind him as they come into view.

There are four men.

“Bring the girl out.” The largest one calls to Tórę .

We don’t move.

“Go and bring them out here.”He orders two of the men. The men wade in the river.

I watch and wait for the water to rise and sweep them away. But she lets them through and they drag us out of the cave to the clearing.

“By law, you are required to kill an Iwui, Nephew.” Up close, the large man has Tórę's large eyes, and high cheeks, but his face is wider and his form is heavy. He has the body of a wrestler and not an archer. And like a wrestler, he is bare chested. He has the same incisions that Tórę has on his back, only his back is covered in them and they are present on his shoulders also.

“Uncle, I am required to kill an Iwui man. She is a woman,” Tórę adds, ”My woman.”

“She is no woman if she births an Iwui.”His Uncle says. He appears bored.

I struggle against the men holding me.

“Well, you must do what you should, it is the law.” The man says.

“Tie her to that tree.”He orders. Two men grab and drag me.

I scream, kicking as I go.

“Leave her alone,”Tórę charges but stops when his Uncle holds a dagger to his neck.

“Please,” The man says, “Please give me a reason to cut out your throat. You are one too many in line for the throne anyway.”

“Is that what this is about?”Tórę says, straining against the blade.

“I’m just saying you’d only bump me up to fifth in line.” His uncle shrugs his heavy shoulders.

The ropes cut into my arms and my belly, as the men work quickly.

His uncle throws his bow and quiver at him.

“Live up to your name, Great Terrible, and make us proud as always.”

It is second nature, the way Tórę throws his quiver across his chest and picks a thick arrow.

He keeps his gaze low.

“Address your target, son of Ara!” His uncle yells.

Tórę stands there, bow drawn.

In a blink, Tórę spins on his heel, the thick arrow splits into three arrows. He sends them the way of the men. They drop to the floor.

His uncle is left standing. Immediately, his uncle charges at me. He is still holding the dagger.

Of a sudden, he lurches forward and jerks, then stops. His eyes are wide. They stare at me. Shocked. An arrow head has pierced him through, it sticks out of the front of his neck. Blood gurgles. He drops to the floor like a sack of flour.

I know that arrow head, with its serrated slants.

My heart skips.

My father.

He emerges from the bushes.

---

Tórę hurries to my side and cuts me free.

“Father,”I greet him, as he approaches.

“Son of Ara,” He addresses Tórę, his bow drawn, “You will step away from my daughter.”

“Father.” I step in front of Tórę.

“Move out of the way! Now!”Father snaps.

“Father,”I spread my hands wide as I can.

“You promised. No matter how unsightly…”I say.

He stares at us.

“Eki,”He says, “A son of Ara?”

“You said you'd never stand in the way.” I remind him.

He spits on the floor.

“Do you know they mark themselves with a tally of the number of Iwui men they kill?” He says. His bow is now across his chest but he unsheathes a dagger and holds it close to his side. He takes another careful step our way.

“No, that is not true…”My voice is low.

I think about the scars, the incisions. On Tórę. On his uncle.

Father takes another step, “You want me to bless a marriage of my daughter to an enemy?”

“How many markings does he have?”

My heart is beating hard. The air is heavy and I breathe quicker. I glance over my shoulder at Tórę.

“You are not a child,”Father barks, “How many?”

“I —”

“How many?”Father snaps.

“Eight-five.”

He is silent.

“Eighty-five of your brothers. Of your own blood.”

Something rages on the inside. It is akin to a darkness. A sorrow. The kind that suffocates.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”I turn quietly to Tórę.

“Let me explain,”Tórę reaches for my arm. I let him caress it, maybe I could feel the truth through his fingers.

“Why didn't you tell me what the markings meant?” I am tired from the thought. My fingers recall the tally.

“These markings have nothing to do with us.”Tórę’s grip is gentle but firm.

“They have everything to do with us!” I shake his hand off. “You tally the number of Iwui you kill?”

“They are my people!”I scream,”You killed Roti!”

“I was protecting us.”

“Is it a game to you?”

“It is nothing.”He pleads.

“It is not nothing.”

I lean against a tree and weep.

For a moment no one speaks. The roar of the waterfall surrounds us, birds chip and sing.

“The Iwui kill us too,” Tórę says. His tone is quiet.

He looks up and addresses my father.

“How many have you killed, Archer of Iwui?”

My father is silent.

I stand there and look at both men who I love. They are the same, they would roam and wander if they could, both with calloused hands for combat and temperamental fingers for shooting the arrow. Both have built a name for themselves on the annihilation of the other.

They are the same— my father and Tórę.

I am saddened by this. And never in any moment have I hated and loved them more.

---

By law, if an Ara man and an Iwui man meet, one must kill the other. It is the law.

But not today.

Tórę puts down his quiver and bow and kneels before my father.

Father stares at him.

“Two years ago, your arrow was found in the heart of my brother, Great terrible.”

Father’s older brother.

I remember.

He takes a rope from his pouch and binds Tórę’s hands.

We begin the journey along the river to Iwui.

I am in tow.

---

The envoy arrives at first light. A host of Ara men have come to negotiate for Tórę. His father— the king of Ara seeks an audience with our king. He remains on the border for an invitation. Day after day, I loiter as far as I can with my flock, hoping for a glimpse of Tórę at the palace where he is imprisoned, but he remains kept. On the fifth day, all of Iwui is summoned to the square.

For the first time since Iwui and Ara walked the earth, their kings stand side by side.

Behind them are the royal court, and the royal family.

The end had come to the killing of our brothers, the Ara, the wind tribe. Our king says. It was time we united wind and water. He talks about strength in unity and the power of clemency. He talks about binding Iwui and Ara with a symbol of our alliance.

With that our king steps to the side. Tórę makes his way to the front of the royal party. My heart flutters. He is alive. Someone else steps out beside him. It is Demori of Iwui, our princess. Our king places the hand of his daughter in Tórę’s. They both look down at their hands, and at each other. Tórę leads Demori as close to the crowd as possible. They raise their linked hands up above their heads.

The crowd erupts in a loud cheer all around me.

---

It is required by law. All peoples small and great, of both tribes, must witness the union of the Iwui dynasty and the Ara tribe.

The union of the water and the wind.

Of Demori and Tórę.

She is beautiful, our princess. She has woven gold threads into her hair, her skin glows like father’s drinking gourd, her neck is heavy with beads and corals from the shore lands. Her hand searches for Tórę’s. It finds it and fits.

He still looks like a god, with a faultless frame and the calmness of a lake.

The old Ara priest announces their union.

Princess Demori smiles up at him and he smiles at her.

The tribes roar with shouts and shrill whistles. The beat of the drums are feverish and frantic. Dancers somersault and songs are on the lips of the women of Ara and Iwui.

The joyful trong pushes me this way and that.

Songs have already been written about him.

Tórę, the Leopard of Ara, the Great Terrible, has become a singing Love bird, the Gentle Lover.

He laughs at something our king whispers to him. He hails the crowd by raising the hand of his bride. The sound is deafening.

I will him to look at me.

Look at me, Tórę.

Please.

He does not.

He kisses the hand of his new bride.

The End

Written by Ike Adegboye

The Prophesy (Fiction)

The Prophesy (Fiction)

“A prophesy is not destined to occur,” Nané says. She stares out of one good eye at Mother and I.

“It is only one of the possibilities the spirit man sees.”

Mother is silent. She bends over and jabs a piece of wood into the fire underneath the pot bubbling with ewedu. I busy myself sieving the yam flour, shooing my baby sister from the powder every other minute.

Nané gestures with her cup of palm wine,”It is the choices we make that help those visions along. Even the spirit man knows this.”

The spirit man. The one who sits in the circle of white pebbles, himself dressed in a white robe held up by a white snail shell. On the outer circle, are a company of white owls.

It is believed that the more the necks of the owls turn, the clearer the vision is to his shut eyes. By the time he has seen enough to speak, all the owls have turned their necks into the spirit world and they stare. Unblinking. Knowing. Channeling.”

“A prophesy,”Nane hisses into her cup of ferment, “is only a possibility.”

An event chanced.

O le je. O le ma je.

It may happen, it may not.

“The father of your children will die.” This is what the seer said to mother. This is the prophesy.

My father is to die.

Maybe it is the smoke or the smell of boiling leaves or Nane’s sweet ferment, but I feel sick.

“Mother, could father live by chance?” I ask as we eat supper, “Could Nané be right?”Mother says nothing.

Nané picks up the fish head in her bowl and after sucking out its eyes and chewing them, she begins to sing to the fish head.

Mother looks at me.

There's your answer.

I sit with father.

The fever has returned. He shivers, his lips tremble, and whispers nothing into the stillness. I touch his body with the damp cloth. He is whispering mother's name. Mother does not look at him.

The spirit man saw death and she is present; loitering, breathing the air and giving none back.

Death is here but so is Life.

She is sitting by father, drawing out his breath, and breathing it back. Her song is light on the night air.

---

You will live. She is saying to him, fighting for him and so I join the chorus.

My mother does not sing with us. She has sent word to father's people three towns over. They must prepare to bury.

The harvest is ready.

Mother is packed for our journey. My sister is nestled on mother's back, chuckling at nothing. Nané helps tie up some farming tools in burlap and they both lift and place them on mother's head. I carry three baskets on mine.

We begin our journey. Without my father’s strength and stories, the path stretches on. We are tired and quiet.

Nonetheless, Mother walks briskly, and I keep up.

I am happy to be away from father, from the gloom of the illness and from the smell of his unwashed body.

We arrive at dusk. Already Faluyi is counting the crops of harvest, his sons are around him and his wives are chattering idly. His side of the farm has been completely harvested. So has ours.

“Olaide,” he greets my mother, “hope it is well. How is home? How is my friend? I did not think you would come.”

“Your friend is at home, if you bothered to visit him, you would know how he is.”

None of his wives offer to help my mother bring down her tools from her head. She is too proud to ask. She squats before me and I help her with the burden.

“The harvest is great, we would not have gotten this far if I made a visit.”

Mother eyes him.

“Give us our share and we will be on our way.”

“How do you propose to carry it?” He asks.

“Do not concern yourself with it.”She says.

“I keep telling my friend to marry another wife. Many more. To have sons and more sons. To till his ground and carry his produce.”

He looks at me and then at my mother.

He takes a step closer to her, and I step behind her, as he towers over us. I smell the herbs and chewing stick on him.

He whispers, “The sickness will take him. He can not come out of it.” His tone drops lower. “Come, let me give you sons.”

“May sickness take you!” I snap at him,

“My father will not die,” Mother catches his raised arm before it swings at me and closes the small space between them in one step, her nose almost touching his.

“Name a place.”

His anger dissolves.

“At the hut by the rock, in the forest.”He presses his lips close to her ear.

He says it so I can hear.

He steps back and orders his wives and children to divide the harvest. Down the middle.

In seven days, his sons will carry the produce for us.

My mother does not thank him. She steps by him and lays my sister down in the shade. The wives stare at her.

It is night when she leaves my side. “Watch your sister,” She says.

“Where are you going?”

It is a stupid question.

She will not be long. It doesn’t take that long. This is all she says.

I should say something but I don’t. I lay there, determined to wait for her. Soon I am dreaming. In my dream, I am on a path at night, surrounded by tall yam plants. In the distance, there is a small, yellow flame and it is moving. A person is carrying it. Suddenly, the wind snuffs the light out. I wake up with a start. Mother is back, she smells of herbs and earth. I wrap my arm around her and she pulls me close.

She sings a quiet song of two friends: time and chance till my lids weigh down and I am asleep.

A prophesy isn’t destined to occur. That is what Nané said. It is the choices we make that help it along. If the prophesy says you will have fields, then by a hoe. If the prophesy says you will have children, then you must lay with a man. If the prophesy says to you a slave that you will be king, then serve your king, and kill his sons.

Mother will become Faluyi’s wife by the next harvest.

“We will starve” she had simply told me, “With your father gone.”

A prophesy isn’t destined to occur. That is what Nané said. It is the choices we make that help it along. When my father arrives on the farm it is night. He had walked all day. The fever stands far off, offended by his strength, and death has turned away to return the path along which she came. When he arrives, I am watching over my sister because mother has gone to Faluyi.

Father will find them at Faluyi’s hut in the forest. He would freeze at the sight before him.

His fingers will seek a lifeline and will drop to the scabbard hanging from his waist. They will close around the hilt of a sickle. His eyes never leaving their bodies.

Death will stop in her tracks, her sagging shoulders will be lifted, and slowly she will turn and look upon Faluyi’s hut.

The father of my mother's children will die. That was the prophesy.

But a prophesy is not destined to occur. It must be helped along.

My father has crossed the threshold.

The End

Barabbas: Beautiful Exchange

Beautiful Exchange 

(YouTube Reading available at the end of post)

It is dark. The streets are deserted and market stalls are closed for the night. The air is still. My breathing—steady, shallow, paced. 

The kofir’s sandals scrape against the cobble stone in haste. I watch his shadow slither on the stone walls, his panicked dark form hurrying ahead of it. It is one of those nights bad things happen. Death is here, she is present, hard pressed along the walls of the narrow alleys. Peeking. Waiting. Thirsting. Her breath is stale. Her stench, putrid.

An early riser will discover a body at dawn. Blood. Insides on the streets, exposed. Secret, personal things now laid bare to eyes, to birds.

My face stretches into a smile, but there is no mirth. The cold hilt of the dagger cools my palm. I follow. He glances behind him, not slowing down. 

Easy now.

Was he going to the playhouse? To play their games? To frolick with the soldiers? To do things that bring the spit up a person’s throat. He smells of spices. Strange foreign spices. Of the heathen. Not ours. It is mixed with his sweat, the odor is maddening. It causes me to leap, and I grab him by the back of the neck. We land on the stone streets—him beneath. His strength is small. The blade thrusts. Deep. Into his side. His screams are familiar. They are awful. It is like a song, an awful song. My heart pounds. The blade comes out and pushes in again, breaking another layer of skin, and another. I am screaming too. We make a horrible medley. He stops first. He isn’t moving. I bring my hands to my face and they are red. The warm liquid trickles into the lines and grooves of my palm, running over the hilt to my sleeves.  A light wind carries around my feet. An unrushed breeze. It whispers, faint but sure. 

Murderer. It says.

My breathing is heavy now. I stare at my hands, already the blood was beginning to crust underneath my nails. The air I breathe tinged lightly with the metallic smell of blood and spices.

I look down at the boy. At once, his face is of the kofer—the betrayer—then again, it is of my child. My son.

Abiel?

A cry tears through the still night from a strange place. It is my voice.

Abiel.

 My eyes snap open. It is dark and my yell echoes in a small room. Slowly, the room takes shape. I am here. I never left. I sit up on the cloth which separates me from the stone floor of the dungeon. My chest heaves in pants. The breeze around my feet ceases. Mice scurry away from my toes, climbing over one another to scamper into their holes in the prison walls. The air is heavy with dung and urine and some vomit. 

The chill I escaped in my slumber returns and my teeth chatters. The shackles around my ankles are like an ice vice. The shuddering can not be tamed. The ropes around my wrists cut into my skin. 

I still remember his eyes—grey and deep, like an overcast sky over the sea. He was a boy, barely growing his first chin hair.  I still hear the cry, I see the veins about his temples as they strain in shock. The foul odor of excrement filling my nose as his body jerked in spasms. 

Excrement and foreign spices. 

Murderer.

The end of you is near.

The image of Tovi, who led the last revolt flashes through my mind. The birds pecking at his decomposing face, the wild dogs jumping to nip at his legs as he hung on the tree. 

My shoulders quake as the fear slithers down my back. The chains rattle. The quake spreads to my hands, my feet, my lips tremble.

“Surely God is my salvation”, I mutter. “I will trust and not be afraid.” 

But I am afraid.

The price for joining the revolt is crucifixion. The brothers tell you this at initiation. It is a life of sacrifices, of purity, of hunger strikes until every last one of the unfaithful—the kofers who corrupt the people of God with their detestable ways were removed. It is a life of death. It was the brotherhood who would prepare the way for the Messiah. 

My teeth chatter. I rub my hands over my arms in a hug. 

“ The LORD himself, is my strength…”

The voice snickers.  

“He is my strength, my defense….”

Murderer. You have no defense.

The boy deserved it. Him and all the others. A Jew who knew not who he was, deserved whatever came at him. A Jew who played the Roman games, and worshipped the Roman gods; who stroked Roman soldiers; who reeked of foreign spices; who knows not his God. He deserved it.

It was the fifteenth day of the fast. We would not eat until all the traitors were dead. 

When Tovi was arrested, the brothers had made an attempt to rescue him. Twelve of them had been caught. Thirteen bodies hung off the city walls. All for one. 

There was nothing as glamorous in the days after my arrest. And nothing now. I would die. Alone. One for One. 

Suddenly I look up at the ceiling. I catch my breath. There is a  low rumble. Like a thousand bees swarming. There is  Thumping. Rumbling, a quaking. An earthquake. I still myself. No, not an earthquake. It is distant and from the ground above. 

Ra-ra-ra. 

That is the sound.

The mice squeak in the walls. 

Ra-ra-ras. 

Now it sounds like the rumble of thunder.

A door above opens and lets in the sound.

BARABBAS! BARABBAS!

It's voices.

A crowd is chanting. 

BARABBAS.

Why is a crowd out there? Why do they call my name?

They are calling for your head.

My bowel comes loose. A warm dampness spreads across my undergarment. 

I sit there, like prey.

They want your head.

BARABBAS.

I hear footsteps. Unhurried, unified, precise—the march of Roman soldiers. They stop at my cell door and the door flies open. Hands throw me to my feet.

“ The Lord has become my salvation." I whisper as I step into a formation of six soldiers, two at my side, two before and two behind. They walk in perfect pace, carrying me along in rhythm.  I must be strong. The end is near. The corridor is dark, the brisk stomps of the soldiers feet strike the ground in determined unison. ***They seem only too eager to get me to my place of retribution. 

Maybe the brothers have planned an escape. My heart beats faster in hope.

BARABBAS!

The crowd yells as we approach the upper corridor.

The morning sun is blinding, and at first, all I see is a dark circle in form of the sun behind my closed eyelids. A roar of cheer erupts as I emerge. 

Men. Women.

They scream BARABBAS.

A few fights break out in the crowd and the soldiers push them apart. 

GIVE US BARABBAS.

The high priests are here—vultures. Bribe lovers. They are all we have left of our truth. They stand dressed in black close to the stairs, hurdled together, whispering. The air is cloudy with dust. More people join the crowd. Another fight to the right. The brothers? Was it a diversion? I stay ready. I search the crowd. For Yavi. For Gabvriel. 

“Should I release the king of the Jews?” The voice comes from my left. It is Pontius Pilate, the Roman. He is sitting on a stool. Soldiers flank him—three on each side.

GIVE US BARABBAS!

It is then I see him on the right hand of the Roman prefect. 

A man. His hands are bound. He stands surrounded by soldiers, like me. A soldier hurls a stick at the back of his head. Another spits at him. They cackled as he lunges forward.

He gains his balance. He is silent. 

A man speaks into the ear of the Roman and he looks at the bound man on his right. 

GIVE US BARABBAS! 

This man…Surely he isn’t of the brotherhood. Then he looks at me. 

All cease.

The cries fade into the background. I hear nothing. I see nothing. Just his eyes. His eyes…Did they glow like a flame or had I been in the dungeon too long? 

He does not smile but his face is kind. There is something else. A calm. A gentleness. A Peace. All peace. What manner of man is this? To be at peace in chaos. For a moment, I doubt if he is a man at all.  

Wait! I know him. He is the miracle man. The healer from Nazareth. What is his name? It escapes me.

The one who healed old Amar at the temple. 

“He heals anything,”Old Amar had said, “Even those who dream bad. The ones sick in the mind.” Old Amar eyed me. 

Those eyes.

 Flame.

 Fire.

 I blink. He winces. 

The soldier hits him again.  

The sound of the crowd rushes back.

“Take him away! Have him flogged.” The Roman says loudly more to the crowd than his soldiers. 

CRUCIFY HIM! They crowd yells. 

CRUCIFY HIM!

The Roman speaks in rapid Latin. He looks at the man again, his palm catches his chin in thought. But the man is looking at me.

“Take him away to be crucified. I will have no part in this.”

They push him away, tearing his gaze from mine. A soldier kneels to remove my shackles and another cuts off my ropes. 

They push me down the stairs. My hands are free. My feet are free. 

Now I see them—my brothers: Yavi, Gavriel and Simon. They are in the crowd. I am glad. I walk towards them. I stop. Yavi stands between the other two, he covers his head with his hood, the other two do the same. 

The sign is simple.

 I am no longer a brother. I had been caught. Yavi had spoken. 

They blend into the crowd, their cloaked forms soon vanish.

I stand frozen.

None for one. 

The crowd begins to follow the soldiers and the one who is like a man—what is his name? 

The Roman Prefect gazes after them. 

“Get out of here”, A soldier swears at me, “You are free.”

Free.

At the cost of a life. 

“The Lord has become my salvation.” The words escape my lips.

I begin after them, out the city gates to a place they call the Golgotha. I keep my distance, threading the crowd, watching him carry a wooden beam. The whips of the soldiers eat his flesh, breaking it open with every lash. I want to rush out and help him, to carry this beam but I can not. I am free but the soldiers could grab me again. I follow close behind and watch them nail him to the beam with other offenders. I stand afar off in the noon sun, but close to his cross where again I will smell that sweet, metallic scent of blood—raw, pure, divine—and where one has been crucified in my stead. His skin broken, his blood poured out as an offering. 

Jesus.

That is what they call him.

The Saviour. 

The Ransom. 

Me for him.

Him for me.

One for one. 

One for All.

It is good Friday. Barabbas is in prison and is waiting execution after committing several crimes within the Province of Judea. He is a member of the Sicarii...

Lafia’s Dream: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Life was black and white before Simbi—life or death. She had found me underneath a rusty, grey-orange  tin roof, which sat discarded outside a welder’s shop in a settlement in Ibadan, which I would come to know as Beere. The rain had thinned out into a drizzle and for once, the usually busy market street gave off a strange quiteness. A peace. Or maybe I was fading out, slowly dying from starvation. A face peeked under the tin sheet. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. A wide face which ended in a pointy chin, curious eyes, her hair was woven away from her face in tidy, straight plaits to her nape. Soft droplets of water fell around her like a sheer curtain. On her head sat a tray of something covered by a large sheet of plastic. Sniff. Sniff. Fried fish. And fried yam. The acrid fragrance of a pepper sauce drifted along into my metal cave. She crouched to half her height, one hand holding her tray, the other reaching out, fingers—unsure but steady. We both stared at each other— woman and canine. My eyes watched her fingers inch closer. I tucked my head into my shoulders, waiting for it—a swat, a smack. It was what I was accustomed to— prods and slaps; kicks and stones. I waited. I flinched at her touch. She whispered something as her fingers gently ran along the grain of my wet coat. Light. It reminded me of something from somewhere long ago. A light. A calm. A tickle. Something. Something, life on the streets had taken away so brazenly and so long ago.

Lafia. 

That was what she called me. I loved it. It was the perfect name. We became inseparable. Her name was Simbi, omo Ìyá Eléja*. She gave me a bath. Dinner was fish bones and any scraps from her dinner. She taught me to stand on two feet(anyone could have done that with a piece of fish in their hands). I was by her side whenever she went out to work, her tray on her head. I’d tag along following her scent of fried fish and fried yam. Bliss. 

Then one day she met him.

Làfùn.

That was what he called me, through his missing incisors and canines. Every time he smiled, his mouth looked like a haphazardly eaten corn cub. She had met him one day when a thief tried to steal her waist purse—the one day I wasn’t by her side— I had been locked up in my cage because I had “borrowed” some fish. Ìyá Eléja wasn’t much of a lender. I heard Simbi yell. She must have been a few streets away. I barked and didn't stop barking until she came home. There was a new scent present. A stranger. He had brought her home. She was shaken. Ìyá Eléja let me loose because she thought the danger was still imminent. I followed at their heels. This man. This saviour. He had the undeniable scent of sweat and oil. Engine oil. A mechanic. The heel of his old sandal smacked my nose as I tried to sniff him out. It was the first time he referred to me as Bingo. In the same breath, “locah dog”, in the same breath “useless”. It was like I’d hated him before I met him. I snapped at his heels but Simbi spoke sharply at me. My ears drooped. She had never done that. Ìyá Eléja was full of praise for the mechanic. She packed a bag of fried fish for him, and that was the first time he startled us all with his frightening corn-cob smile.

He was back the following day. And the day after, and the day after. More bags of fried fish. More praise. Giggles from Simbi. Then some more fish. I had stopped barking at him by the sixth day. The way she looked at him...

After this, I no longer borrowed fish. I had to be with her all the time. Beere was a dangerous place. Sometimes, the mechanic would show up with his ugly vespa motorcycle, give her a ride and I’d have to run along side. 

“Lafun”, He’d holla. He’d suck his puckered lips and make a high pitched kissing sound through his teeth. 

He’d raise dust and I’d run blindly after her, after my Simbi. Sometimes he’d splash mud, screeching his tires. He’d laugh loudly. “Tètè, Làfûn!” His tone derisive. Locah dog. He’d say. 

If he must know, I was once a puppy owned by a professor and his family at the University of Ibadan. A canine of pedigree, until one day I got lost, captured and sold off as a lab experiment dog. 

Sometimes, she’d come home, slam her tray down on the concrete floor, she’d stamp her feet around and bury her head between her thighs and cry. I’d sit beside her, head on my paws. Eyes never leaving her. Other days, she was in the clouds above, skipping. Her tray full, with no purchases, which infuriated Ìyá Eléja. Now she locked me in the cage more often. Her new friend didn't like me watching, she said. 

And now she came home with bruises. One day, she came home with a burst cheek. The gash tore deep into her smooth face. She was attacked, she said. Mama Eleja insisted I go everywhere with her from now on.

It was late last night, when she snuck off her mat. I watched her. Her figure moved silently in the dark. I sat up, first on hind legs, eyes keen. She looked me and I followed. We walked quickly. I knew where we were going.  He lived three streets away. I tried not to think what she was going there to do. 

We got to his home, a face-me-I-face-you building— a house with six rented single rooms down the corridor. She stopped at the second door on the right. My ears cocked. A faint noise. His voice. My eyes looked up at her. I listened. 

A grunt. Faint. Then another.

And another.

She pushed into the room through the door and brushed aside the curtain which hung over the entrance. There he was in the dim light on a thin mattress which sat on the bare, cement floor. The woman wore nothing. Their skin glistening with sweat in the still room. He saw us and in an instant, landed on his feet.

He spoke Yoruba. 

”Who told you to come here?” He yelled. A low growl travelled up my throat. The cement floor beneath my paws felt cold. The hair on my neck tingled as the strands stood on end. 

Simbi stepped back. She stammered. 

“I told you never to come unless I call for you.” His voice rose again. My growl deepened. He looked at me for a second. 

“Who is she?” Simbi’s voice shook. “Tani ni yen?” She asked again.

”Se ori e buru ni?” He asked her if she was cursed; if she was in her right mind.

“Abi ori iya e buru?” His right hand rose above his head…

I had waited for this day…

I leaped into the air and in a flash caught his elbow between my teeth, sinking in with such relish. I even imagined it was fish. The naked woman screamed. Snarls. Growls. The sound of teeth crunching bone. Simbi gasped. He screamed. He begged. He even called me “Lafia”. “Goodu boy”, He pleaded.

All I saw was fish. Even his neck began to take the form of a silvery, crispy piece of Tilapia.

Yes. I had waited for this day. 

And it was here. 

The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

The Boy Who Thought He Could Dance: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

The Yoruba Boy Who Thought He Could Dance: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

The phone rang once. The second time, she picked. Folarin figured if he had to tell anyone, it would be Mom.

“Hello?”

“Mommy.”

“Fola, Fola. Fola boy. How far?” The delight in her voice was unmistakeable everytime he called.

“E kale ma,”He could hear the distant rumble of the generator in the background.

“Kale, my dear. Ba wo ni? School nko?”

“School is fine.” He switched to English. If he said it in English, it’ll sound less ridiculous.

“How is it? Hope not too cold?” She asked.

“No, ma.” In fact, it was 5 degrees in New York City tonight, but that wasn’t why he called. 

“Your sister is here, hold on.”

“No, Mom—”

Gbemi’s voice came on, “Mumu. So you can call home? Where have you been? Your IG page is just dead. How far?”

“I’m more active on snapchat, you know that.”

“Who wants to watch your boring life?” She snickered,”Have you told Mommy?”

“I haven’t,”He said the words through clenched teeth.

“Told me what?”

Laughter bubbled out of Gbemi.

Folarin cursed under his breath.

“Mommy, Folarin wants to start a new career o.”

“Ehn hen?” Her excitement was palpable. Her voice was clear now. 

“What kind of career? But you will finish school first o” She added, "Ha, when you are looking for funding, don’t fall into the hands of 419 oh. There are so many now…” She continued on about how Uncle Goke had been “dupped”. 

“Many doctors have second careers. Ònò kan o wojà. Dad will be happy that you’re building your own business.” Ever-supporting mom. Her voice dripped with pride.

Gbemi was now gasping for breath in the background, laughing uncontrollably.

“Why are you laughing?” Her mom asked.

Folarin cleared his throat, “Mom, maybe I should call back another time. I—”

“No o. You’ve finally called after all these weeks, don’t go. Let me leave this place where your sister is laughing like a drunkard. Ki lo n se omo yi?”Mom hissed.

He heard her feet shuffling, walking, until Gbemi’s scornful laugh drew further away. A door opened and closed.

“Eh-hen, oya gist me. What’s this second business?”

“Which business?” Dad asked. Dad was there. Folarin’s voice caught in his throat.

“Fola has a new business.”

“Well, as long as it doesn’t affect his studies.”He said,”Business wo ni? Meanwhile, I saw on the news… New York is minus 15 degrees Celsius tonight! Wow, man!”

Background noise filtered in—the swishing of fan blades, the rumble of the generator—mom had switched her phone to speaker.

“Ha! Minus 15 ke? Make sure you stay warm o. Drink tea”, Mum said, “Very soon, you will marry one omoge that will be making you pepper soup in that your winter, ehn?” Mum chuckled,”One babe. Abi how do you people say it?”

Folarin took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Mum. Dad. I have good news and bad news.”He said.

“God forbid. God will not give you bad news in Jesus’ name,” Mum prayed. She began to speak in tongues.

“What is it? Tell me the good news first.”Dad said.

“I said there is no bad news in Jesus' name” Mom reiterated. 

“Ok, give us the news—the double good news.”

“Well, I proposed to my girlfriend...”

“Which girlfriend?”Mum asked. He could hear the shock in her voice.

“Se mo kpe o ni girlfriend ni?”Mum asked Dad. 

“Her name is Larah.”Folarin said.

The tension eased as mum chuckled excitedly.

“Ha. Praise God o”, There was a smile in her tone, “Omolara.”

“Omolara mi,”Mum broke into a song about a girl called Omolara, she was pretty and had a good head. She’d make a beautiful bride one day.

“Well, not exactly. Her real name is Yu Yan…”

The singing ceased. Silence.

“You kini??” It was mum’s voice,“Real name bawo?”

Folarin cringed.

He continued,“Everyone calls her Larah…She said Yes. I proposed just last Sunday at the ice rink…So we are thinking about visiting in the spring.”

“Wait…” Dad's voice.

“You kini?”Mom.

A door opened and shut hard on a wooden frame.

“Has he told you guys about ‘Youuu’?”Gbemi’s cheerful voice said. She burst out laughing.

“Gbemi? You knew about this?”

“Ok—let’s be calm,” Folarin started,”She’s Chinese. She owns her own cupcake shop—”

A shrill cry vibrated through the speakers in his phone. Mom was crying.

“Ha! Aye mi!” She wailed. Gbemi laughed. Dad didn’t understand. He said this twice. They were talking over each other.

“She’s really the best person you’d ever meet, Mum, Dad.”

Gbemi squealed in delight.

“Shut up, Gbemi—”

Dad’s voice was stern,“Fola, I’m coming to New York next week. We must not rush—.”

Mum cut in, “Omolara ni mo kpe! Ha!”

Folarin skipped his breath. The second news was best served as soon as possible. 

“The lesser good news is that I am dropping out of my program. Medicine…isn’t for everyone,”He rushed, “Most importantly, I found what I love, Mum, Dad. I love dancing. I've never been happier. And it’s not just dancing. It’s Rumba. It’s a style of—”

“Ehn?”

“Baba Fola…mo daran.”

“It originates from Cuba—”Fola continued.

“Folarina, the ballerina toh bad.” Gbemi’s laugh rang out until she began to cough uncontrollably.

“Gbemi, so you knew…”Dad said.

“No o—”Gbemi had stopped laughing,”I didn’t know anything o.”

“You knew that he wants to become a dancer? And be selling cupcake and meat pie?” Mum wailed.

“Gbemi! Come back here!”, Dad’s voice thundered.

“It’s a dance from Cuba and…”Folarin’s voice struggled in the chaos. 

“My life is finished,” Mum yelled.

“So my son will not become doctor?”

“After I've told everyone in church that Folarin will be a neurosurgeon.”

“Aye mi, temi bami!” Mum screamed. She clapped three times and wailed again.

The chaos was palpable. Fola drew a deep breath and disconnected the call. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror outside the dance room, his hair slicked back, glistening with too much ecostyler gel. His sequined ballroom outfit glimmered in the light.  

That wasn't so bad. A successful conversation, really.

He pushed through the doors of the room into practice. It was time to Rumbaaa!

 The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Koot: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Koot: A Short Story

It was that moment Rufai lived for—that sliver of a second when his eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. True, he had grumbled when Uncle Jubril fell ill, and when the old man had promised his Oga* that he trusted nephew—Rufai would show up in his place. Just when he finally saved enough money to go to the local club to see Adeola Montana and his Fuji 5000 band. Still, Rufai had arrived at the address in Ikoyi, dressed in his severely ironed shirt and trousers—Uncle even made him wear deodorant.

Number 16, Roland street was an unassuming house hidden behind a small, black gate and lost in the shade of dozens of trees. There was a gateman, David, and two househelps. Rufai didn’t learn their names. Madam had her own driver, Festus, whose trouser gators were sharp as a blade. Oga left for work at 7. Lunch was served at noon. Some tea and sliced bread served at 4pm.

A damned cycle.

Then she happened. She had stepped out of the house barefoot, dressed in a long maxi dress that flapped around in the hot Lagos air. And in five seconds, she vanished into the house.

If God was fair, Uncle Jubril would remain sick. But God had a different standard of fair. Uncle Jubril recovered. So Rufai sprinkled a little detergent into Uncle's Yellow Label tea on most mornings now, just to keep the old man down a little longer. 

                                  ⭐️ 

Her father’s schedule tapered off around noon. Rufai would bring him home for lunch. They returned to the office about 1:30PM. He’d set his briefcase and gym bag next to Oga’s feet in the elevator, keeping his eyes available but not fixed on Oga. Once the doors closed, he sprinted through the reception, out the revolving front door into the car, back to the house to take her to the little bungalow in Lekki, where she took piano lessons. It was the best 30 minutes of his day. He stole glances at her. Her dark skin glistened in the sun and her eyes stared out the back window into the Lagos traffic, lost, sometimes troubled, other times her eyes focused on nothing, other times they cried. If he was sure of his English, he'd say something. He had practiced saying"Hi" but his brother said his nose twitched whenever he said it; that his"H" was too heavy. He could try? Yes?

Her music teacher was a tall, light-skinned man with a glistening scalp. His beard was shaved close to his jaw and his eyes twinkled whenever she stepped out of the car. Sometimes they both giggled and spoke in hushed whispers. The man would open the car door for her, other times she stalked in front of him and didn't say goodbye. For two weeks now, she stalked ahead. No goodbyes. Then the bearded man stopped walking her to the car. She cried now whenever they drove home from Lekki.

Today she was restless.

She looked away from the sparkling Atlantic. Her attention fleeting around the car for a minute, She looked at her phone and smiled. Restless again, her eyes, magnificent, large, framed by long, thick lashes-rested on his in the rear view mirror. Rufai’s heart stopped. His eyes dropped to her lips— plumped by a sheer rose gloss, haloed as the light bounced off of its sheen. Rufai had never seen anything more beautiful.

He parted his lips, but they trembled.

Just say hi.

"Mr. Rufai,”She broke into his thoughts,“Please can we go back? I think I forgot something in Lekki." She said, rummaging through her huge handbag.

Rufai's lips quivered lightly,"Ok." He stammered, his eyes found the road. He cleared his throat in a low grunt.

"Hi", He muttered under his breath. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

He cleared his throat again. It could be better.

"Hi."He muttered. “Hi” was hard. He could tell her that he thought she was sweet like honey but his brother had said, the rich people used “cute” not “sweet”.

“Ki n sę ‘Koot’!” His brother had fallen off his chair laughing,”Not koot. Cute! Cute!”

Koot.

You are Koot. He just couldn’t get it right. He could tell her he was in love with her. That Kolade Gbenro was teaching him to play the keyboard now. He could teach her music, teach her to play. She’s never have to go to Lekki again. She’d never have to cry.

He pulled up in front of the teacher’s gate. The light-skinned, bearded man was outside before Rufai turned off the engine.

His hand was on the car door as she stepped out.

“No! I didn’t come here to talk.”She snapped, “I left my sunglasses. That’s the only reason I came back.” She pushed past the man.

Her teacher grabbed her elbow and muttered to her. He handed her the sunglasses case. His voice was barely a whisper. His hands traveled along her arms. Rufai frowned. In an instant, the teacher dropped to the floor on one knee. From his pocket emerged a ring. It sparkled in the sun.

It happened all too soon. She jumped around, nodded her head and fell into his arms. The embrace was forever and a year. The kiss, eternal.

She hopped into the car after a long goodbye. She chattered on the phone as they drove home. She screamed calling one friend after another. He proposed! She’d yell. Followed by a scream.

Rufai glanced at her in the mirror, his brows still drawn together in a scowl. How did that happen? That man and his beard. What did the teacher have that he didn’t?! He watched her now, hysterical with joy in the backseat. She yelled. Giggled. Screamed. His frown melted away and a small smile softened his face. At least she had happened. At least he had loved. He’d hand the keys back to Uncle Jubril and stop feeding the poor man poison.

He’d work on his pronunciations and his keyboard lessons. Maybe one day he’d join Adeola Montana’s Fuji 5000 band….and maybe one day he wouldn’t.

He wished he could tell her though, that she was koot.

“Koot…Koot…” He shook his head as he battled with the alternate vowel word.

She screamed and burst into laughter in the back. Her eyes caught his in the mirror.

His heart stopped. 

She was so sweet though. She truly was. He thought to himself. Sweet and koot.

                           The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Oga* Colloqial Nigerian word for a boss or an employer

Love Bite: Finale

This fictional series contains Nigerian slangs and some inappropriate use of diction. This is for the proper portrayal of the character.

Love Bite: Finale

The bodies were no longer at the police station. After 56 minutes of chaos, I was directed to a morgue in Ogba. It was a cream-colored bungalow with a small, old brown gate with rusty brown bars. The rain had stopped and the cool air caressed my face, but even in its abundance, I dared not breath easy. He was in there. In a morgue. I drove him into a morgue. 

A short, dark-skinned man dressed in a worn short-sleeve shirt, faded brown slacks and leather slippers led me along the side of the house. My slippers dragged along the uneven cement floor.

The policemen said the accident had occurred near Sagamu. A trailer lost control…there was a commercial bus and a car... There were 5 unclaimed bodies. Three of them were women. The other two, a man and a little boy. He led me to a body covered with an old, navy blanket. 

“Oya, answer quick!” The short man snapped.

I had stopped walking and now stood about 9 feet away. 

I took an uneasy step and then another until I got near enough.

He yanked off the blanket. My breath caught in my chest. A man of about 35 years appeared, fair in complexion, with dark lips. 

He was not Leke. 

The relief was crippling and in a daze, I sat quickly on my heels. The short man had no time for emotional shows. Once he found out I wouldn’t be paying him any money he hurried me out.

Deep breath, Lani. Deep breath.

Leke wasn’t at the morgue. Where was he?

---

The next three days went by slowly. By now, Leke had been gone for 7 days. I prayed, and even dared to abstain from food, broke the fast at 6:59 PM, just like Leke usually did. All I had in the kitchen was 3-day-old bread. It tasted like old foam. Day seven was a Sunday, so I went to church. Pastor Remi spoke on restitution—fixing things I had the power to repair. 

That night, I sat on my bed, my laptop warm on my thighs and typed an email to Dami Pedro. I told him the allegations against Niran were false. We were having an affair. It was all consensual. It had always been. I was ready to accept whatever consequences came. Terse and honest- without rereading I hit send. When the email swooshed out of my outbox, I let out my breath. 

I drew the curtains and laid on the bed, desperate for sleep but it wouldn’t come, I thought about coming clean to Ngozi. I found her on instagram and began to type the message.

💬 Hello |

The cursor blinked.

She deserved to know. She was a victim here. But in my heart, I knew the only reason I wanted to tell her was to hurt Jare—to see his wife leave him and watch him sink into misery like me. I closed the app and lay there in bed.

She probably got messages like that every day anyway.

What about Abigail?

What about her?

The question gnawed.

I did nothing. She deserved nothing. 

---

Day 10 of Leke’s disappearance

I woke up with a start. The lights were on and it was dark outside. I had been dreaming that I was driving off a cliff. Leke was in the backseat. I rubbed my eyes with the base of my palms. My fingers found my phone. An email from  Dami Pedro. The investigation would be reopened, it read. A written formal statement would be required of me. He had also received an email from Abigail who described the video leak in great detail. She was on suspension for two weeks, and Niran had been suspended indefinitely. He advised that I clean up my CV. He wouldn’t be available to provide me a reference in case needed one. He wished me luck.

I fell back into bed and drifted off to sleep to the creaking of the ceiling fan. 

I woke up with a start yet again. It was a dull rat-a-tat. It came from the front door. Leke? Halfway through the living room, my blanket dragging through the apartment wrapped around my left foot, I realized Leke wouldn’t knock. He had keys.

I swung open the door. Abigail stood there, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. 

“What do you want?” My arms crossed each other. I kicked the blanket off my leg.

“I came over to apologize…” She took off her glasses, weight on one leg, and eyes focused on something behind me, “I’d like you to forgive me. I had no right to interfere—”

“No, Abi”,I cut in, “You had no right—”I threw the door shut and walked into the kitchen, pacing every two steps.

My chest heaved. My face felt hot and soon a lone tear ran down my cheek.

After about a minute, the knock came again. 

I walked back to the door and jerked open the door.

“How dare you ask me for forgiveness?!—” I stopped short. Leke stood there. Abi stood a few feet behind him, back leaned languidly against the wall. 

Leke. He had lost so much weight. His eyes were sunken, in them was no twinkle, no sparkle, none of the life that I had seen every day for the past four years. We stood there and stared at each other for what seemed like a full minute. 

I took a step forward, unsure. My eyes never left his.

What did his skin feel like? I couldn’t remember. His lips? It was a distant memory.

I took another step. Then another.

I flung my arms around him, his arms hung limply by his side.

A small smile tugged at Abigail’s lips. She pushed herself off the wall, shielded her eyes with her sunglasses and made her way towards the gate.

My eyes followed her.

If you seek forgiveness, you must first forgive. 

It was the voice again.

All along, all she wanted was this—me here, with Leke, doing the right thing.  In that moment, she looked back.

My lips mouthed: I forgive you.

Fresh tears made her swim in my vision, but not before I saw that huge smile spread across her face.

I didn’t want forgiveness. I whispered this in Leke’s ear. I needed it. Desperately. For a minute, I thought he didn’t hear me.

As my tears dampened his shoulders, I felt it—first it was light as a feather—a touch. His fingers grazed the small of my back, seemingly unsure, uncertain, hesitant. Then he drew me in—both arms—they wrapped around me like vines in an embrace that could only be called grace.

At long last, we were home.

---

Epilogue

Ajibade closed the gate and stepped into the quiet residential street. He walked about half a kilometer to the end of Garrison, and took a sharp left unto Kareem street, and strolled to where the road met with Bonva street. On the corner, sitting outside the old green kiosk sat Ernest. His shaven head glimmered in the dull glow of dusk.

Ajibade hollered at the woman who sold recharge cards a few feet away. She brought him a stool and reminded him that he owed her 500 naira.

He waved her away. She too like money. He told Ernest.

Ernest chewed on the white of a garden egg. Ajibade’s mouth watered. They talked about Jare and Ngozi. Ngozi had returned. With her, the hugest area boys he had ever seen! They found Jare in the BQ with some girl. Ajibade had taken Jare to the hospital; Ngozi locked the house and left with the children. 

But they wouldn’t need a gateman now? Ernest was worried for his friend. Of course, they did, someone had to let the gardener and cleaners to maintain the house. Ngozi would never leave the house unattended. Ernest was riveted. Where was Jare then? Jare was still at the hospital. The last time Ajibade had gone over to see him, there was a cheerful, young nurse present. He seemed comfortable.  

Ajibade asked about Lani. Lani had started a business selling “pancake” to women. Ajibade looked at him strangely then nodded—haa!  the things women put on their faces to look pretty. Leke had left the ministry- just for a while. Ernest had never seen them so happy together.

Ajibade wrinkled his nose. She’d never change—cheating women were all the same. 

He talked about the woman in house number 30, who was cheating with two brothers from Unilag. And Mrs. Salami too, Ernest piped in, mouth full of garden egg bits. They were both cheating, husband and wife—the Salamis, Ajibade corrected. The man in number 28 was dating the child of the Inspector General of police. Ajibade stared out into the street, at the houses, all seemingly perfect with Roman columns and French windows.

The first time Jare had handed him a wad of cash, he had wondered about it. He had brought in a girl to the BQ* successfully and since then, the wad came in bits. Every time Lani came by, his boss tipped him just a little more. And the day, he threatened to tell Ngozi, Jare placed N10,000 under his old mattress. It was when Lani shoved some money at him that he knew this could be his way out of poverty. Never had he had a more financially buoyant month.

As both men sat watching the evening activity on the street, the thought came to them both—gently and unrushed— they would buy and sell what they saw. They would sell their silence. They would start with the man who was cheating on his wife with the I.G’s daughter. Ernest offered his friend a garden egg, eyes focused on nothing as I’m a trance. They both chewed slowly— calmly. Ernest dreamt about a motorbike and Ajibade thought about his wife—the cheating one. Money would keep her at home, maybe? He took another bite, saliva flooding his mouth as he began to chew.

Yes, money would keep her at home. 

                            The End  

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Love Bite: Entry #10

This fictional series contains Nigerian slangs and some inappropriate use of diction. This is for the proper portrayal of the character.

Love Bite #10

Ajibade opened the peephole in the pedestrian gate.

His eyes darkened with a scowl, “Wetin?”

“Open the gate.”

“Oga no dey.”

“You are the one abi?”

“That what?”

“You are helping him with all this? It was you at the window that night. God will punish you!”

Ajibade opened the gate. He was dressed in old mid-calf denim shorts and a grey, distressed t-shirt with the words, “Over It” written in white canvas letterings. The ‘o’ was almost completely gone.

He muttered under his breath,“Na you God go punish…”

“So you are helping Niran record?”

“No o! No be me.” His face was straight, “I no help Mr. Niran with anything.”

“So who dey for window that day? With light?”

His eyes found the stones on the floor and shrugged.

I groaned. He made me want to strangle him. My fingers found two folded thousand naira notes in my back pocket. I shoved them in his palm; his fist closed around them in a crunch.

His dark, sweat-dampened face twisted in a frown, “Na me dey for window. Nothing dey der...I just dey look, but I no help Mr. Niran do anything.”

I felt sick. To think he was watching. He probably did all the time. 

“They tell me make I shine light next time wey you come.”

“Who?”

He looked to the ground again. He eyes looked for missing objects between the cracks in the cement. Another note. 500 naira this time. 

“Na one woman wey dey follow Mr. Niran here.”

Tayo?

“Is she dark? Big woman?” I wiggled my hips, trying desperately to describe Tayo’s curvy figure. 

“No. She no dark. Yellow like pawpaw. Dey wey glasses. Her eye pencil na super.” He drew an upside down tick in the air.

“She dey call herself Abimbola. Abi Abim…”

Abim? Who was Abim?

“Whether na Abimbola, I no no. Her name sha na Abi or Abim.”He shrugged.

Abi?

Abi!

My Abi?!

A light breeze lifted my top from my body, and in the distance the sky rumbled with thunder.  

The chill seeped quickly into my bones.  

Abi? It couldn’t be.  

---

Lightening streaked the navy Lagos sky as I stepped out of the dark gate of house 21. I heard the metal gate close behind me and Ajibade murmuring to himself. Abigail knew about this? I walked briskly to the Main Street off Garrison. Surely the okadas and napeps would be near-blind in the impending storm, but I took my chances. I got into the first napep tricycle I found and we drove to Abigail’s apartment. It was impossible. She is my best friend. She had always been there. Always...

By the time we pulled up, the rain was pouring. I paid the man, who muttered that he had no change. I stepped out into the rain, and walked to the gate under the gaze of the napep man. He was yelling about my change. She lived in the Boy’s Quarters of a four-flat building in Gbagada. The security man let me in and with unhurried steps I made it to her door.

The glass pane rattled as my fists hammered on her door. I knocked again. Now, I wouldn’t stop knocking. Soon, the knock became distant, drowned in the patter of the rain. 

“Who is it?” Her voice rang, “Don’t break my glass o! Moshood, is that you?”

The door swung open and she stopped short. 

“Lani. What are you doing here?” Her hand went to her chest. Her brows rose above the rims of her glasses.

“Come out of the rain! You’re drenched!” Her fingers grasped my arm.

Was that concern I saw in her eyes? How rich. 

“How could you do this to me?” I tore my arm away. My voice shook.

“Can you come out from the rain?”

“You’ve ruined everything.”It was almost a whisper. 

“I don’t know what you are on about.” She shook her head.

“You knew about the videos!” I wheezed.

Her lips tightened into a knot. Her fists sat on her hips.

“I’m not having this conversation in the rain. I just fixed my hair.”

Why did you do it?”I asked.

She leaned her weight on one leg, her hip popped. 

“I was tired of your whining. I was tired of Niran’s whining. You destroyed the guy, you know? And I had to hear all of it from him!”She snapped.

”You cheated on Leke before you got married”, She continued, “Then you got married and you thought you’d stop, like marriage is a wand that transforms cheats into saints!”

Rain water streamed into my mouth as it in widened in disbelief.  She continued, “Leke isn’t home, so you cheat. You reported Niyi. He could have lost his job. Lost his livelihood. Did you think about that? Do you even think? Do you think about anything other than yourself?  What about me? Do you ever ask me about me?!” Her voice rose louder with each word.

Her eyes blazed under the sharp arches of those furrowed brows.

“Do you know I started seeing someone?” She asked, “No. You don’t care. Do you ever ask about my work, my new business?”

”And this justifies why you just ruined my life?”I wiped away the rain from my eyes, or was it the tears…

“ ‘MY’”,Her eyes rolled,” It’s always about you. What about all the other lives that your selfish actions have ruined? Niran, Leke, Ngozi!”

“Abi, you are my friend!” My tears lost in the rain, “I don’t care how selfish I am. You don’t do this!” 

“It is what it is.”She shrugged.

“That’s all you’re going to say? You were going to post the video at Leke’s conference?”

She raised her penciled-in brow.

“But you called, text, held me, when it spread around the office… All this while…you were sending the videos…you sent it to Leke—”

“Sending it to Leke—that wasn’t my idea. You wouldn’t fess up to tell him. I told you to a million times. You’d never listen.”

“When Niran told me about what he was doing I tried to cover for you. But to be honest, I thought if you saw it…if you saw yourself cheating…you’d stop. If you thought someone knew, you’d stop. I told the gateman to scare you off a little.”

I scoffed, water splattering from my mouth.  

“You are probably solely and successfully the worst thing that ever happened to me—” 

“No, Lani”,She turned her body fully to me, “You are the worst thing that ever happened to yourself. You are caustic to yourself and everyone—”

“—Oh shut it! You are just sad. And what stupid business do you have? The makeup retail?! Really?! Well, I see you’ve built a mansion from that success”, I threw a hand at her rented apartment behind her.

She flinched, then she went back to stone. 

For a second, we both said nothing.

“Lani. Look, I’d apologize if I thought you deserved it.”

I took a long look at her, then turned on my heels and walked towards the gate. 

The street was lonely, save for a man in a suit running for cover from the rain.  A cab approached, and at the wave of my hand pulled up next to me. As we drove along, I thought about Abi. About Leke. About Jare, his life was fine. Mine was a mess.

He deserved the mess just as much. I wondered if his wife was on Facebook, then I wondered how Abigail slept at night.  

My phone vibrated against my thigh as I got out of the taxi.

Leke?

My heart sank at the sound of a stranger’s voice. He was calling with regard to the missing person inquiry. 

They had found someone with Leke’s description. Families were already arriving to identify bodies involved in the crash.

Hello? I heard the voice say. The line got disconnected and if he called back I didn’t know. My jaw hung loose. A cry escaped from my throat. It sounded far away. My knees buckled and hit the rain-drenched tar which paved Garrison street, just as the orange street light came on for the night. 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

 Love Bite Finale out soon!