Our Father by Rodger Munthali

It is not that Chisomo wasn’t enthusiastic. Nor is it that she was afraid to inquire as she had told herself countless times, that to hit the head of a nail depends on the size of the nail’s head. Moreover, who could she ask? Her brother, Thumbi, wasn’t the boy one would dare to engage in such a gruelling narration. Thumbi was confidently assertive and very observant. His intuition wasn’t something she dared to play with. For sure he was very aware of the emptiness in Chisomo. He knew she was in great trepidation; a thing he always referred to as ‘a greatest weakness man possesses’.

Chisomo had finished peeling the bananas but the idea of letting her body crawl in that darkness to the kitchen located some yards from the veranda of the house, grated on her nerves. She took solace from the life’s plights in the smoke that formed such a rare curve, as it rose from the top of the kitchen roof – clearly visible due to the fire from the kitchen lighting the insects basking in the night, though she now and again contemplated her predicament. She felt completely dead from all life’s digressions. Thumbi however, was probably enjoying the whistling of the birds and the protracted tranquillity. To Chisomo though, tranquillity wasn’t even in the vicinity, her worries formed a veranda on the surface of her heart. She knew something had to be done. But where could she start from? There was one thing she had learnt. She learnt that desperate situations call for drastic measures and that even self-confident hearts need to let out some of their worst encounters. I have to formulate something that can startle him she thought, and was driven to make that rigorous exercise into the kitchen and then into the house where Thumbi was.

“I need an answer Thumbi, and I need it now! What killed my father?” Chisomo asked while moving about in the sitting room.

Thumbi was surprised! How on earth can such a forlorn soul question with such vigour? Thumbi was shot of words. Where would he start from? Was it the appropriate time to do it? Could she wait till morning? The flickering candle flame blurred his vision as he desperately fought to get a glimpse of her face.

“Can you not wait till morning?” Thumbi yelled out after deliberation.

“No! I will have gone through a lot of torture by then!”

“You have to cook, at least cook first.” Thumbi said trying to delay, he has hardly ever talked about his father’s death, if hardly may mean ‘in few sentences’.

“I will cook. There is enough time. Just tell me then I will go and finish the cooking!”

Being the assertive man that he was, he nearly just said ‘I don’t want to tell you’, but his insight told him not to, so instead he tried another tack and said “It is of no use, it is past... he won’t come back! You will just evoke lost memories!”

“At least I need to know. It isn’t right to live in total ignorance of what exactly happened to our father, is it now?”

“I agree. But one has to be strong; courageous... it takes much more than just enthusiasm to stand such temptations.”

So there are even temptations? Thought Chisomo, while still holding that altered tortuous face. The look amazed and touched Thumbi. He went outside to rethink his decision, but Chisomo followed and he relented.

“Okay, okay. Have a sit Chisomo. I will tell you.”

The look on Chisomo’s face was so frightening that there was no possibility of her leaving the question unanswered. She sat down while gradually loosening the constricted muscles of her face.

“My sister, this is how it could have come to nothing. Those privileged enough, capable of tilling mother earth, were secure. I wasn’t an authentic friend to anyone because no one was worthy of trust. Our souls were crippled with darkness and chopped with stinking loneliness.”

This wasn’t what Chisomo was expecting. She wasn’t expecting something so meandering.

“How, why?” She questioned.

“They were dark hours of ordered hypocrisy. Our very relatives offered to sacrifice us. Our grandmother, I heard, became a victim of the gallows the day I was born. They had no mercy dragging her on the rocky road to the gallows, where blood was viewed with contempt. I was alone then, with nobody to hold on to. My relatives had either been recruited to conspire against us or been hanged in the gallows for showing antagonism.”

With this Chisomo began to acknowledge why her brother may have been silent on the issue all these years.

“Take a deep breath sister” he continued. “And then imagine, imagine the act of cutting a life short when it is at its apex, the act of sending a soul home or plucking a soul when it is not ripe, sacrificing your own kind, and most hated, despising your kind.”

“Do you need to ask me all, all these?” Chisomo asked, being very anxious to know what exactly happened to her father. All these digressions the narration was taking brought such discomfort she wished to bark at Thumbi angrily to get on with it.

“That’s exactly what was happening! Oh God! I saw it. I saw it with my own eyes. A pregnant mother, my uncle’s wife, her belly was cut open while she was alive! Operated on, I should say.” The memories were deeply moving and tears sparkled in the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t tell me,” exclaimed Chisomo.

“Don’t tell me? I saw them. My other uncle was there. He brought knives of vengeance, of horror and hatred just because my uncle who was the husband was very rich. He had already left Malawi by then. My uncle’s wife was striped naked and sexually harassed, the baby ripped prematurely, before she was slaughtered.”

“Can people be so bad?”

“It was horrible sister. The next day I was in class, learning. It was knocking-off time when my older nephews came. They stood on the door and looked for those who possessed any lightness of skin.”

Why would they be so troubled to hunt for these people? Thought Chisomo.

“It was a crime to be so! It was well known that black people, especially women, lightened their skins with Ambi to resemble our white bosses. And some women lightened their skins to attract men. Everyone found became a victim of the gallows. My dark skin was my refuge, where I would hide my sorrows. We were victims of our own soul, our own colour. We had nowhere to run to. I was surprised with what I read from a history book that no one really knew the horror that was taking place then”

“Wasn’t there anything to show that such things were happening?” Asked Chisomo.

“Of course there was this area, where the convicted were burnt alive! They were burnt in the vicinity of thousand dark souls. Souls so drowned that they had no idea what they were watching. It was like a relay race; your friend’s tribulation today became yours tomorrow – no question about it. Now no vegetation grows on this cursed land, the land where living souls were further crippled.”

“Is it that place where we have a football ground beside it?”

“Yes, the very place you know… a seven-meter height brick pillar, a bicycle chain and five litres of petrol were enough to burn a living man asunder.”

“But you aren’t telling me what happened to my father,” said Chisomo, beginning to worry the whole narration would never lead to what happened to her father.

“Oh my sister! Never cross the bridge before you reach it. I was about to tell you that. Be quiet then, for they might be eavesdropping from somewhere. Real men, I tell you this. Real men came shouting at the top of their voices that they were tired of this act. Men who were brave enough to put their lives on the line for us. I wonder now why we forgot these brave men. Moreover, our worthy king was behind these dark deeds.

One of these great men said ‘God forbid! People... you drink and eat out of your own sweat yet they drink and eat out of our sweat. They whip with no mercy yet we entertain them. We are butchered by our own kind. May God have mercy on us! Should servility become a sporadic disease? For why should a King conspire against his own people? Our skin, this colour of mine has no mandate at all. It is time my people, it is time we get our blunt panga knives and face this… let us show them that no prison can hold all it’s prisoners forever…’ It was a cry of hope, a shadow of freedom emancipating from one mouth. Know this my sister. That man was our father.”

“Are sure it was our father?”

“Yes my sister, our father. After he had worked for the regime for years, he realised it served only the rich, to augment their degree of opulence while the poor enhanced their degree of indigence. It was murder, not euthanasia, because souls were subjected to harsh conditions that left them to die. People worked to get nothing except their life for a few days more.”

They sat for awhile in silence before Thumbi continued in a sorrowful voice. “Our father was murdered sister” Tears ran down Chisomo’s cheeks and she wailed uncontrollably. After all, a man should not be ashamed of tears.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. At least he died a good man.” Thumbi tried to comfort her while in total awareness of the emptiness left by the death of his father. “He spent his last days helping his people. I was there my sister, it was all betrayal. We were called to witness betrayal, my dad and I. It was gruelling believing what struck our eardrums. Memories betray much more than that betrayal was.”

Thumbi looked up at that very same curve formed by the smoke rising from the kitchen before resuming. “The king my father insulted that night sent his emissaries to call us to a meeting of which we were told he was to reveal steps which we were to follow to bring the regime down. My dad was reluctant to go, but it would be worse if he didn’t or sooner than later, we would be mourning his death. We could be told he had tried to poison the king, and such acts were worthy of hanging. So we went to witness it. Mother was pregnant then with you my sister.”

“How troubled mother was carrying a baby during such a difficult time” added Chisomo.

“The room we met the King in was very hot; our clothes were drenched in perspiration. Though there seemed no possibility of having rain that year people were still busy tilling mother earth in hope. Some speculated that the foreigners were the ones retarding the rains since they had big bags of maize, probably two hundred kilograms each, scattered on the ground. Who could have the courage to expose his bags of maize like that during the rainy season? You have the answer my sister. The King was as ruthless as the foreigners themselves.

‘You better stop your nonsense or you will become a victim too. Who told you we need freedom? The soil has to be fed to produce; will you give us food for the soil when you even fail to feed yourself? What an abomination! Are these acts of mendacity or what? Do you know what it takes to have these people?’ the King proclaimed.

We could not stay any longer for he could have sent us to the gallows. But my father was not an ordinary man you could change overnight. He was strange in appearance and manners. He seemed a hermit yet garrulous, aloof yet nimble. He criticised the people overtly and managed to recruit his own people. We started telling people how free we could be if what we produced was ours. We rescued a thousand black souls. But no matter how agonising a situation was, solitude was considered when targeting these predicaments. You cannot conceal it though I may declare. My sister they caught us!”

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiii…!” Now this is what she thought had happened.

“They dragged father on the same rocky road they dragged grandmother to the gallows. Tears formed tributaries on the faces of dark souls just redeemed. Father was no more. The rope used for the hanging was specifically made to cater for him. Every part of his body was subjected to immense torture, then cremation. Only his clothes were recovered by his supporters. Thus you never had the chance to eye our Father,” said Thumbi, but this only enraged Chisomo further.

“After this they thought they had what they wanted, unopposed coercion.” said Thumbi. “They imagined a land where no one was free to do anything, where hazardous experiments would be done on dark souls and where black and dark souls would be traded overseas. But they were wrong. Contrary to there expectations, several dark souls were redeemed in the subsequent days. Several of those recruited to amputate their own kind went on strike because my father, our father, had been killed. I was delighted my sister… but not for long. Some indifferent hearts remained adamant. They wrestled with the rescued dark souls, us. But they were defeated. Our home was the most targeted house in the area. The feeling of being alone ricocheted in my brain and gave me the conclusion that it was better to be antagonistic but noticed than to be in concurrence but unnoticed. Mother was nowhere to be seen. I was further isolated, hiding in my black hide. Morally, I was stupid, a criminal for that matter, subversive. Mother returned years later while you were still a toddler. No one saw her, the pain she had gone through in forest delivering alone without any help. She struggled with you and survived to her amazement. She was happy naming you Chisomo for you were really the dawn of life.”

“I think you weren’t supposed to tell me. No!” Chisomo sobbed.

“That is how it emerged sister. At last we are safe. We exhaled the dark hours, which sheared the white ones. The darkness is confusion, which is the colour of my skin. You may say I am insane or my thoughts are dark but that’s how others see me. They don’t see me as I go to church. Isn’t my invisibility, or my loneliness the power of my survival? You may say so my sister for even Nelson Mandela said that there can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children. Don’t get confused with the ‘darks’ and ‘blacks’. To me, they mean the same. Oh! It’s too late now, let’s go inside the kitchen prepare those bananas; Mother must be arriving any moment.” They escorted each other into the kitchen.

As he went inside Thumbi thought, now we are perfectly normal sister, enjoying the same tranquillity like everyone else. We are living in total awareness of the events that led to the calmness we enjoy, that blood had to be spilt.

Our Father was written by Rodger Munthali.

Copyright © Rodger Munthali 2011.

Born Millar Munthali on 5th August in 1990, later named as Rodger Millar Munthali by a Zimbabwean residing in Malawi, he has lived half of his life in the district he was born in, Rumphi, in Northern Region of Malawi. Rodger has been educated in poorly developed schools with few teachers and hardly any books until in 2004 when he moved to Blantyre mainly due to parents moving to the commercial city. He attended his final year of primary school at Blantyre Baptist Christian School, where he was selected to Chichiri Secondary School. While at Chichiri Secondary School, his interest in writing became apparent. He was very influential in a Drama club at the campus in his final years at the campus in 2007 and 2008. During these years, he was also involved in the establishment of Writing and Literature club in 2008. Rodger owes most of his improvements in writing to his Literature teacher at Chichiri Secondary School, Mr Kingsley Kapito. He was more than a teacher to Rodger then, now a very good friend of him and still helping him.

As a writer, concentrating much in prose, Rodger has participated in many national and international competitions mainly to improve his writing skills. He has participated in The African Performance, run by BBC twice and also in a Malawi Writers’ Union (MAWU)/First Merchant Bank (FMB) Short Story Competition. He is still perfecting his writing skills.

Academically, Rodger is now enrolled with the University of Malawi (UNIMA) pursuing a Bachelor of Science degree in Civil Engineering, contrary to the expectations of many in his closeness. Many expected him to pursue Language studies, but he defied the expectations mainly due to his family background.

Matador by Uko Bendi Udo

This time the car almost hit him. What was he thinking? Like the matador you must know where the bull is, Ufan reminded himself. You must be in charge of your immediate surroundings, and your reflexes must be as sharp as a cat’s claw.

Ufan stood ramrod still and shot the driver of the Honda Accord sedan a stern gaze. The driver jammed his palm into the middle of the wheel and let loose an ear splitting blast. Ufan slapped the hood of the car defiantly, daring the driver to run him over. Not today, not you. I will be the chooser of my taker.

“Matador, Matador! Wait,” someone called out. He recognised the voice but chose to ignore it. Whatever it was could wait. He had to make this sale. As he weaved through the thicket of slow-moving vehicles, he wondered if last night’s dream was short-circuiting his thought process and reflexes. Whenever he had those dreams, the next day was a mess until he’d told someone about it or delivered the message to the individual in the dream.

“Pure water, pure water!” Ufan shouted as he moved towards the yellow taxicab a few feet away. This time he announced his wares as if he was cursing at that uncontrollable force that propelled him forward. That force and the dreams were the reasons he was banished from the village. One of these days he’d put an end to it. Dead boys don’t dream.

“Get away from here!” the rotten-toothed cabdriver said as he waved his bony fingers at Ufan. The riot of human and vehicular noises at the Lagos Motor Park faded in for a moment: Ufan looked around briefly and noticed in the shadows of dilapidated brick buildings standing shoulder-to-shoulder, man, woman and child, in both Western and traditional buba and sokoto outfits - looking as stressed as the buildings - were conversing in Yoruba, Pidgin English, Ibo and a thousand other local languages.

He joined them as they hustled along the dusty road, weaving in and out of buses, cars and market stalls as they aimed to beat the clock to their destinations. Just as quickly, Ufan tuned out the sights and sounds so as to focus his scattered thoughts. He barged through the sight and smell of black exhaust fumes and arrived at the side of a yellow cab. That’s when he saw the Dada (dreadlocked) woman. It was her! She was the one he saw in his dreams last night.

A bejewelled hand with long, tapering fingers reached out of the passenger window and flashed a naira note at him. The exchange was smooth as usual: he snatched the note out of her hand and shoved into hers a sachet of cold Sweet Pure Water.

However, something else happened that wasn’t supposed to. He dropped the rest of his bags holding the sachets right there in the middle of the traffic. “Abasi mmi, my God!” he muttered under his breadth in Ibibio, his native language.

A bully of a bolekakaja (get off and let’s fight) public transportation bus snarled at him from a few feet away. The driver behind the wheel trained fiery eyes on him. Overflow passengers clinging to the sides of the bus slapped the corroded sides of the bus impatiently.

What to do? Ufan wondered. Pick up the water sachets and flee the scene, and let Dada die, or run after the cab and tell her? If he picked up the bags and ran away from the scene, Asah, his uncle, might never know that he dropped his sachets of water. But that Dada lady would surely die, as revealed in his dream.

The big, raggedy bus blew its horn at him again, just like the big, bloodied bull snorts at a matador when it prods him to make up his mind.

“Kuro lono jare, oleshi, get out of the way, evil thief,” the bus conductor wearing a fierce look and tattered buba and sokoto outfit yelled at him. Ufan went after the cab. When he caught up with it, he tapped on the passenger window.

“Small pikin, you dey craze?” the driver asked incredulously.

“Stop the car,” Dada said as she rolled her window down.

“Madame, he’s a thief. He want to thief your bag.”

“Stop the car, driver.”

“Madame, abeg make you no do am.“

“Please stop the car.”

As the cab slowed down to a crawl, angry honks and shouts from surrounding vehicles came down on the driver. With a vexed look on his face and a fist waved back as retort, the driver drove the car to the side of the sandy tar road and stopped. Ufan trudged up to the cab and waited. He frantically waved at her to step out of the cab. With a little hesitation, she obliged, stepped out of the car and smiled warmly at him.

“Did I owe you anymore money?” Dada asked. She wore a dazzling ensemble of multicoloured traditional Yoruba dress, and her locks were held together by a gele (head wrap). She reminded him of Winnie Mandela.

“No, ma,” Ufan murmured. He wanted to look her in the face and tell her about his dream, but strangely he remained tongue-tied. He lowered his gaze to show respect.

She bent down to meet his gaze. “What’s your name? Why are you not in school?”

He inhaled as a wisp of her floral perfume cut through the open sewer’s stench. “Matador,” Ufan answered, putting on a steely front.

Her brow creased. “Matador?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Madame, I dey go, abeg,” the cab driver warned. “Time na money o.”

“Please give me one minute.”

She reached into her purse and took out a ten naira bill. She offered it to Ufan and said, “Here, take this.”

Ufan shook his head no. “No worry, you pay me already ma. I want to tell you something.” Behind Dada, the cab began a slow roll back into traffic.

“Hey. What’s he doing? Hey, wait!” She waved at the cab to stop, but the driver accelerated and drove off. “Can you believe that? I paid him already.”

A deafening sound reverberated back to where Ufan stood, freezing both he and Dada in place. As if in slow motion, he watched as a molue bus smashed into the cab, half of the cab crumpled in as metal screeched against metal and window glass flew everywhere. A car’s horn stayed on as flames from the engines shot up into the air, sending pedestrians and passengers fleeing in all directions.

Dada stood still, a look of disbelief on her face. Ufan’s thoughts spun out of control. Worried about the taxicab driver, he thought about running up to the burning car to see if he could help. But he also needed to tell Dada that he saw this in his dream last night. What to do?

Thoughts of running into the village hunters flooded his mind, so he was glued in place. Dada might talk to the police. The police might then question him, and that might make it possible for the hunters to find him. As Dada ran towards the burning taxicab, Ufan took off running in the opposite direction.

He ran away from the scene like he ran away from the house in his village when angry grown men with machetes had chased him. He had gotten away from them, but his mother was not so lucky, he was later told. His fists balled up as he jumped over baskets of fruits and yams in his haste. He cut through a market stall, catching the wrath of a trader who cursed at him in Yoruba. He knocked naira coin and paper currency out of the grip of a customer and – for a split second - saw the paper twist wistfully to the ground.

Ufan smelled the pungent scent of Rose’s peeled oranges just before he bumped into her. Her flirty smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared when she couldn’t hold onto the tumbling balls of skinned fruit cascading down her shoulders. “Idiot boy! You don craze for head?” he heard her say behind him in Pidgin English. His feet felt the prickly stings of the rocks and objects on the ground as he ran. He’d lost his flip-flops. It didn’t matter, he had to keep running. The village hunters might be closing in on him.

“Matador, wait,” he heard Pastor say to him as he charged through a group of boys selling the day’s newspapers. “Ole, thief!” a woman said. He ran even faster. He’d not stolen anything, but running the way he was in the eyes of Lagos pedestrians, was evidence he’d done something wrong.

When he got to where the road poured into an open sandy area dotted with rocks, he slowed down and then stopped. Exhausted, he doubled over and looked between his legs backwards. No one within his sight looked threatening. He straightened up and circled a spot wearily, before he sat on the big rock by the roadside and carefully studied each pedestrian that came close.

Here the pace was slower and the pedestrians looked more relaxed and happier. The area sat close to a residential neighbourhood populated with one-story brick houses punctuated with wooden market stalls. He put his head between his hands in an effort to calm his nerves. When he raised his head again, he felt calmer, safer, so he stood up and walked away.

*

The blow caught him square in the face. He reeled backwards and slammed into the kerosene stove, knocking it off the counter.

“Where’s the rest of the money?” Asah asked in Ibibio, his eyes as red as the pepper Ufan used in cooking the rice stew yesterday. Asah again curled his right hand into a fist.

“Asah, mbok, please, master, “Ufan pleaded. “That’s all the money I made today.”

“I gave you a lot of bags. You’re two hundred naira short. Where’s the rest of the money?”

Ufan slowly rose to his feet. The put-put-put sound of the generator was distorted by the blow to his head. His face throbbed with so much pain he wished that he could get his hands on a sachet of pure water to rub it with. He braced for the next blow. He could dodge charging cars easily, but running away from a grown man’s punch demanded far quicker reflexes.

“Speak up!” Asah demanded. Soaked all over with sweat, his gut hung out of his white singlet like blubber off a walrus’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Ufan said.

“Sorry for what?”

“I dropped them.”

“You dropped them? Where? How?”

There was a loud knock on the door. Both of them turned to gaze at it. Asah walked up and cut off the generator, which in turn stopped the water filtration process he used in making the pure water for the Sweet Pure Water sachets. “Who is it?” he asked in English.

The knock repeated, this time louder.

Asah turned to Ufan and said in Ibibio, “Are you expecting anybody?” Ufan shook his head no, pain preventing him from opening his mouth.

“Matador!” was the reply from behind the door. “Matador, na me.”

“I thought you said that you were not expecting anybody?” Asah yanked open the door, grabbed Pastor by the arm, and pulled him into the house. “What are you doing here? Who are you?”

“Oga, abeg,” Pastor pleaded. “I come see if Matador dey okay.”

“Matador?” Asah asked derisively. He pulled Pastor by the collar and leaned into his face. “May be you know where the rest of my money is.”

“Let him go,” Ufan said in Ibibio. Both of his hands were balled into fists. “He does not know anything about it.”

“Oga, abeg,” Pastor said. “No vex. I come see if Matador dey okay.”

“Shut up!” Asah turned to Ufan and said in Ibibio, “What did you say to me? You’re talking back now, eh?”

“He didn’t do anything. Leave him alone,” said Ufan.

Asah let go of Pastor and then moved towards Ufan. “What would you do to me if I don’t, eh?”

Pastor took the opportunity and ran out the door. Asah went after him. Ufan yanked out the cabinet drawer and tossed out utensils as he searched for a knife. Asah returned a few seconds later empty-handed. When he looked up, Ufan had a knife in his possession. Asah’s brow tightened. “I don’t believe it. What’re you going to do with the knife? Stab me?

Through the pain, Ufan opened his mouth and said, “Don’t hit me anymore. I’ll find your money and pay you back.”

“How?”

Ufan didn’t know, but somehow he was going to find a way to recover what was lost when he dropped the sachets on the road.

“How?!”

Ufan remained quiet. Asah quickly stumped off in the direction of the living room closet. Ufan knew why he was headed that way. Just as Asah reappeared with the long, snake-like cane, Ufan dropped the knife, ran into the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind him, and slid the bolt into its lock.

“Open the door so I can teach you a lesson, you little thief!”

Ufan heard the cane slam against the bathroom door, prompting him to double-check the bolt. He slowly backed away from the door, bracing for the worst, but only heard silence.

A cell phone rang, followed by the Sweet Pure Water ring tone Asah had created for the business. Ufan hated that ring tone because it mimicked the late Prince Nico Mbarga’s popular “Sweet Mother” song reminding him of his mother, which made him sad. “Hello?” a voice said through the cell phone’s speakerphone.

“Yes?” Asah answered in English.

“I’m at the airport,” the voice said in Ibibio. Ufan recognised the voice but could not place it.

“Etuk, afo ke do, is that you, Etuk?” Asah asked.

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Wait for me. I’ll be there to pick you up. Don’t take a cab.”

“Mme kob, I hear you.”

The cell phone tone cut off. “You little thief,” Asah said. “You better have my money by the time I get back.”

Ufan uncoiled his fists when he heard the front door close. He trudged up to the cracked mirror above the rust-stained ceramic sink and studied his features. Unkempt hair topped a choir-boy face now distorted by a swollen eye smeared by a smudge of blood. He could not recognise himself. He seemed to be getting skinnier by the day.

He once was told that he had an angelic smile, a smile that could soften a heart of stone. He’d not flashed that smile in a while. How could he? He was evil. Evil ones were not supposed to smile. Their calling card was a scowl, a scowl like the one gazing back at him now in the mirror. He tore off a piece of toilet paper, dipped it in the toilet tank’s water, and dabbed his face with it.

He may be evil, but he was not a thief, he reminded himself. His mother taught him to keep his hands off other people’s possessions. And it was one lesson he intended to keep until his death, a death whose time he was going to be the dictator of, not Asah. He would not allow Asah or anyone else beat him to death.

Seeing that the wet toilet paper did nothing to temper the pain in his face, he threw it into the toilet. He wiped the blood off his right foot, and then slipped into another pair of flip-flops. He emerged from the bathroom and cleaned up the spilled kerosene on the floor of the kitchen.

Ufan reached into a cabinet and retrieved the oversized Los Angeles Raiders cap a customer once threw at him from a moving car in lieu of payment. He peeked cautiously past the window curtain, and then exited the flat.

*

It was dusk when Ufan arrived at the outskirts of Surulere, a suburb of Lagos, miles away from Asah’s flat. As he trudged along the sandy tar road, he forced himself to take in the scenery. It was a mechanism he used occasionally to keep his mind away from the pain and misery he was enveloped in.

A car’s horn blew. He turned to look. He’d walked right into traffic. A danfo’s (public transportation) conductor slapped the side of the vehicle, urging Ufan to get out of the way, but he continued on the side of the road.

He walked past shiny and expensive automobiles like Mercedes and BMW sedans. Their drivers honked impatiently as the cars crawled past slow-moving pedestrians. New and raggedy-looking Japanese imports like Toyota and Honda sedans, used as private cars or taxi cabs, moved along more patiently.

A shirtless private courier, dripping with sweat, dragged a wooden trolley loaded with goods behind him as he weaved through traffic. Candle lights, standing in for interrupted electric power, shone from one and two story brick buildings on either sides of the road. Washed clothing hung on strings that lined the balconies of the buildings. Ufan noticed that because the landlord of the building where Asah and he stayed had warned them against hanging clothing on the balcony, Ufan always hung his clothing in the back of the house.

Ufan’s flip-flops slapped against his feet as he trudged closer to the wooden shack ahead of him. The sounds of crickets punctuated the air as a stray dog ran across the street and then barked defensively as it stood in the shadows of an abandoned building. The sign on the wooden post in front of the shop ahead read “Bababeji News Depot.”

Ufan kicked up sand as he tried and failed to avoid the heap of dirt in front of the shack. He walked to the back of the building and retrieved a key from its hiding place. He slipped into the building, locked it behind him, found a candle, and lit it. The light revealed a room furnished with stacks of national and international newspapers and magazines. Ufan picked up the fallen bundles and stacked them up neatly on the table.

When he finished tidying up the place, he took out the raffia mat and spread it on the floor. Using a stack of newspapers as a pillow, he laid himself down and stared at the ceiling. His eyes briefly traced the configuration of the wooden planks that hugged each other to form the ceiling. Hoping to lull his restless mind to sleep, Ufan stared blankly at a spot on the wall. The biting hunger in his stomach and the pain from Asah’s blow made it difficult.

He thought of his mother. She would not have let him go hungry like this. She would not have let him suffer like this. The angry tears welled in his eyes and he began to remember how the village hunters had come to their village house in the middle of the night. They pounded at the door. They had repeated the pronouncements of the village preacher: claiming that Ufan was a witch because he’d dreamt of a villager’s death before he actually died. The preacher had ordered Ufan be removed from the village.

They called for his mother to hand him over, but she would not obey. She roused Ufan up and led him through the back door. She ordered him to run, run as far as his legs would carry him. Run until he saw a face that did not belong to his village. Instead he stood there and cried. He did not want to leave his mother. He would rather die alongside her if death was at hand.

The village hunters then kicked down the door. They turned out to be grown men with machetes. Ufan recalled seeing the lead man’s face. He had deep set eyes contorted by hate and anger. He would never forget that face. His mother pushed him, and so he began to run. He wanted to obey his mother so he ran knowing that behind him his mother was in imminent danger.

As he ran, he brushed against prickly bushes, and stepped on sharp objects jutting out of the ground. He wanted to stop, turn around and go see if his mother was okay. But he’d never disobeyed his mother before, and so he continued to run. When Ufan finally turned to look, flames shot up from the roof of their house. And that’s when he stopped. Even though Asah confirmed it to him later, he knew then that she was dead. He’d refused to believe the dream he had about her.

He turned and continued to run. He had wanted to run beyond where his mother advised him to run to. He had wanted to run to the end of the Earth, and may be even beyond that. As he ran, he came upon a man on a bicycle in the darkness and collapsed in a heap, because he couldn’t run any longer. The man on the bicycle bent to check on him. Ufan, exhausted, looked up with frightened eyes but did not recognise his face, and that’s when he knew that he was safe.

Ufan snapped out of his trance and felt the wetness on his cheeks. He’d been crying. Maybe he should end it all sooner. He wiped the tears, but then tensed up when he heard the sounds of footsteps on the gravel outside the shack. Someone was at the door. Who could it be at this time of the day? The stray dog outside barked furiously. Why was Bababeji, the owner of the shop, back so soon? He was supposed to be out of town until tomorrow. Had the men with machetes followed him to the shop? He jumped off the mat and pressed against the back door. There was a knock on the front door. His heart pounded frightfully in his chest.

“Matador,” he heard someone whisper from behind the door. “Ufan, na me, Pastor.” Ufan sighed with relief and let him in.

“Wetin you dey do here?” Ufan asked as he threw searching glances around the street.

“Wetin you dey do here?” Pastor asked. “I look everywhere for you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why? You be my friend, Matador. You run from the bridge like you do something. Wetin you do? Wetin happen to your face?”

“You ask too many questions, you know?” Ufan looked away defensively.

“Why your uncle beat you?”

“Don’t worry. I am fine.”

“You no look fine. You look sick!”

“I am hungry.”

“I bring you food.” Pastor opened an aluminium foil wrap to reveal a serving of moin moin, a bean cake.

“Thank you,” Ufan said repeatedly as he took the food from him and began eating ravenously. He offered Pastor a piece of the cake.

“Eat. I fine.” Pastor leaned against a desk and watched him eat.

“You need to go home, you know? Na night. Your master must dey look for you,” Ufan said.

“I fine.”

“He no safe here, you know?”

“He no safe for house.” Pastor pulled out a chair and sat down. “One woman dey look for you today for bridge.”

Ufan stopped chewing. “Which woman?”

“She get Dada hair.”

“Why she look for me?”

Pastor shrugged. “Wetin you do am?”

“I dream about am. She no know. I been wan tell am.”

Pastor sighed and leaned against the chair. “The accident.”

Ufan nodded and then continued eating. He looked at his friend and grinned.

“Wetin?”

“Nothing.” Ufan found it ironic that his best friend was a street hawker like him, but who also doubled as a street preacher on the side. He always overruled the voice in his head that advised him at times to shun Pastor because he was a Christian preacher like the woman in the village who’d sentenced Ufan to the harsh life he was now living. Not all preachers were wicked; he’d learned to tell himself.

“The owner of this place no mind sey you stay here?” Pastor asked.

“No. I clean the place for him. And na my school.”

“Your school?”

“Yes. When I finish selling water, I use to come here to look at the magazine and newspaper. Bababeji, the owner told me that I suppose to pay to read the paper. But I no have money. So he say anytime I clean the place he go give me newspaper or anything I want to read.”

“Why you call am school?”

“He think say I play wayo (tricks) with am, so he tell me to read to am one time, you know? But I no know how to read well. So he say that he go teach me how to read. I wanted to know how to read so I can go to university, you know? My mother been want me to go to university...” He looked away as his eyes moistened with tears. “But I be evil.”

“You no be evil, Matador. I told you that.”

“That’s why I want to go away.”

Pastor stood up. “Go away? Where?”

“Away, Pastor. I tire. I want to go home.”

“Who dey home?”

“My mama. I want to go meet am.”

“Your mama don die, Matador. Na wetin you tell me, abi?”

Ufan stood up and produced a National Geographic magazine. He flipped through it and showed Pastor a page.

“Who be this?”

A glorious smile stretched across Ufan’s face. “This is a matador.”

“Which one? The man or the cow?”

“Cow? Pastor this is not a cow,” Ufan said, continuing with formal English. “It is a bull. And that man is not a man.” Ufan struck a pose. “That is a matador!”

“The cow look like cow to me. Wetin the man dey do?”

“He is fighting the bull. With his life! Stand up.” Ufan stood ramrod straight and held both index fingers up like daggers. “You be the bull.”

“Mooo,” Pastor said as he crouched low to the ground. His face lit up like a child’s on a playground.

“The bull no dey say ‘mooo,’ Pastor. He breathe like this.” Ufan made snorting sounds through his nose. “Rush me. Come on.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Rush me.”

“Mooo,” Pastor said as he charged at Ufan. Ufan sleekly side-stepped his charge and then stuck both of his index fingers on Pastor’s back. For a while both forgot about their desperate situation and played the bull and the matador like two kids on a play yard. Afterwards they both sat still to catch their breath.

“You are a strong bull,” Ufan said.

“Thank you. And you be tough matador.”

“Thank you.”

“That is where you get your name, abi?”

Ufan nodded yes. “I am a matador. The cars are my bulls.”

“That is better. He no good to kill the animal like that.”

“I agree. But he no good to kill little children on the road who are trying to sell something, you know? You know that the drivers try to hit us for nothing.”

“Na true.” Pastor sighed as he stood up. “I dey go, Matador. Come with me.”

Ufan shook his head no. “I dey fine here. Pray for me, Pastor.”

Pastor’s brow creased. “You never ask me to pray for you before. You say you no believe...”

“I ask now.”

“Okay. Stand up.” Pastor brought out a turn page from the Bible and read from Psalms 121. He talked about the meaning of the passage, and then asked Ufan to repent his sins. He then prayed for him, and soon after he left the shop, prompting the stray dog to bark loudly. Still tired but feeling better, Ufan walked up to the center of the shop, took off his T-shirt and practiced his matador moves for several minutes.

*

An hour later, while Ufan lay on the raffia mat trying to go to sleep, there was a knock on the door. He frowned. What had Pastor forgotten? “Pastor, na you?” No answer. The knock continued, prompting Ufan to call out Pastor’s name again.

“Please open the door. It’s me.”

Ufan recognised the female voice but remained frozen in place. “Who be you?”

“Ufan, ami ke do, Ufan, it’s me.”

Mother? He rushed up to the door, but then stopped. It couldn’t be; his mother was dead. He opened the door. Standing on the other side of the door was Dada. But she was not alone. A black Mercedes Benz sedan sat on the other side of the road. Ufan noticed that a bald-headed man sat behind the wheel.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Dada said in Efik, a language close to the Ibibio language.

Ufan paused. It could be a trick, to see if he spoke the language, to see if he was the one they were looking for. He stuck to Pidgin English and said, “Why?”

“You saved my life,” Dada said in Efik.

“You welcome. Now go, please.” He closed the door and leaned against it.

“Ufan, open the door. I know more about you than you think. Your uncle told me everything.”

He flung the door open. “Na wetin he tell you?”

“May I come in?”

Ufan studied the man in the car. “Who he be?”

“My friend. It’s okay, Ufan.”

“He no nice here, you know?”

“I’ve been in worse places.”

“How you know where I live?”

“Your address is on the sachet you sold me.”

“How you find this place?”

“You’re very popular amongst your friends at the bridge. May I come in?”

Ufan let her in and closed the door behind her. “You speak Efik. You no be American?”

“I’m both. I live in America, but I was born in Uyo. I’m here to do a research on kids like you. I was once one of you.”

She would’ve known by now if she wanted to see if he understood Efik, Ufan thought. But she’d not hurt him yet. However, he would continue to speak to her in Pidgin English. He was not completely sure about her. “Why you study me? I no be animal, you know?”

“My studies are with humans, Ufan. People. Children like you,” Dada said in English.

Ufan stared at her probingly. “Wetin you do for America?”

“I teach at a university,” Dada said, returning to Efik.

Ufan’s eyes widened with excitement, and then relaxed. “I want go to university.”

“You can still go to a university.”

He was surprised that she didn’t laugh out loud at him. Everyone else did when he told them what he wanted to do with his life. That was before he came up with his new plan. Ufan studied her closely and then sighed, lowering his guard a little. “I don’t know why you want study me. I no do anything, you know?”

She gesticulated excitedly and said in English, “Yes, you did!” She sighed, and then continued in Efik, “You saved my life. What happened to your face? You didn’t look like that this morning.”

“I fall. Wetin my uncle told you?”

“That you owe him your life.”

Ufan nodded yes.

“How?”

“He bring me to Lagos. He give me house to stay, you know?”

“May I sit?”

“Not nice, madame.”

Dada pulled a chair and sat down. “I’m okay.” They were silent for a moment. She looked about the shop. “Whose place is this?”

“My friend.”

“My name is Miss Idara, and I used to be like you, Ufan. I was nothing. A relative brought me to Lagos with the promise that she was going to put me in school. I ended up a house slave.”

“You no be like me, you know? I am evil.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Asah no tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Ufan paused. He studied her for a minute, and then sighed audibly. “I see people for my dream. I see them before them die.”

Miss Idara stood up slowly. “Did you dream about me?”

“Yes, ma.”

She sank back onto the chair.

“I tell you say I be evil.”

“You’re not evil!” She said in English, cupping her face with her hands. “You’re not evil, my son.”

“The village preacher say I be evil.” Ufan’s jaws tightened angrily. “She say I be witch, you know?”

Miss Idara frowned. “A village preacher?”

Ufan nodded yes. “Yes. She say I be evil, you know?” He said it in a monotone. “The men come to my house with knife. My mother say ‘run.’” Ufan’s breath became audible, angry. “I run. But they kill am.” His right foot shook nervously. They kill am. They kill my mama. She no do them anything, you know?” He slapped his chest for emphasis. “Na me be evil. Na me they suppose to kill.”

“Come, come,” Miss Idara said in Efik as she sank to her knees.

Ufan waited, burning her with a gaze both focused and distant. He took two steps towards her and stopped. Tears flowed down his face. He clumsily swiped at the tears. She crawled on her knees towards him and then gently reached for his hand, and pulled him to her. She hugged him for a long time. He did not want to leave her embrace. She was warm, and safe.

“You are not evil, Ufan. What you have is called a gift.” She hugged him so tight that both began to cry.

He pulled away from her and said, “Gift? Wetin you mean?”

“What you have is called a gift in America and all over the world, even here in Nigeria, Ufan. They’ve even made a movie about kids like you in America. It was called The Sixth Sense.

“I no see am. I read about am. The boy see dead people, you know? He different.”

While she held onto his hands, Miss Idara stood up and glanced at the newspapers and books around her. “Yes, you are right. He had a different gift. Nevertheless, you have a gift, and no preacher in the world should condemn you because of it. You are special, and you do not deserve all that has happened to you because of your special gift. On behalf of humanity I apologise to you.” She threw glances about her. “But you can’t stay here.”

“I safe here,” Ufan said. Miss Idara stayed with him for a while and then left.

*

The man, big and menacing in frame, entered the house and quietly closed the door behind him. Asah, groggy with sleep, trudged into the living room and started screaming at the intruder. Asah told him to get out of the house. They had a heated exchange and then the intruder pulled out something from his coat pocket. It looked like a knife. He jabbed at Asah and then watched as Asah fell to the ground. Ufan bumped into a chair as he slowly backed away from where he had stood. The intruder turned to look, and that’s when Ufan saw his face. He looked familiar. Ufan screamed…

Ufan woke up with a jolt. He jumped off the mat, folded it and was soon out of the shop. With his Raiders hat on, he walked right into the early morning activities of the neighbourhood. “Eka aro, good morning,” a pedestrian called out to a neighbour. He repeated the same greetings to any adult that made eye contact with him. It was a habit he brought with him from the village. Somehow he was afraid of getting a beating at home if an adult reported to Asah that he failed to utter the appropriate salutations on the street.

A car’s horn blew, prompting him to move out of traffic. He pushed ahead, the urge to get to Asah and tell him about his dream propelling him forward. Since his mother’s death he’d made it a point to take all such dreams seriously. Ahead of him, a Toyota sedan bobbed and weaved over bumps and pot holes that littered the muddy road. None of the sounds and activities did anything to calm Ufan’s jumpy thoughts. Should he tell Asah about the dream? It was a question that ate at him even as he pushed on past the human and vehicular traffic on the Lagos thoroughfare.

It was early afternoon when Ufan walked onto a commercial street where electronic shops dotted the landscape. Loud apala music blasted off a speaker positioned to entertain and draw in customers. The song “Matador Special” by Chief Osita Osadebe seeped out of a shop as Ufan walked by. He stopped to listen to the lyrics, but moved on when the owner of the shop approached him menacingly.

A television broadcast in one of the shops caught his attention. Miss Idara was on a TV program talking about her research. He stopped and moved closer to the television set. Teary-eyed, Miss Idara talked about her life as a child, and then she mentioned Ufan without giving away his true identity.

“Comot here!” the owner of the shop said as he waved at Ufan to move on. Did he know that he was the one being talked about on TV? Ufan moved on knowing that by his looks he deserved to be waved away like a stray dog.

When he arrived at Asah’s flat, he took off his hat and then stood in front of the door and fought the urge to turn around and go back to Bababeji’s shop. He could tell him that he was ready to sell his papers on the street. He knocked on the door.

“Aniewo ke do, who is it?” Asah asked. It sounded like his mouth was filled with food.

“Asah, ami ke do, it’s me,” Ufan replied.

The door flew open. With his mouth stuffed with food, Asah said in Ibibio, “Where have you been?”

Ufan braced for the blow but it didn’t come. “Don’t be angry, please.”

“Don’t be angry? Are you insane? You stayed away all night and you tell me not to be angry?”

“I have something to tell you?”

“And I have something to tell you. Get in here.” He waved Ufan in and shut the door behind him. “Sit down.”

Sit down? Ufan was confused. He expected Asah to hit him or hurl an object at him by now.

“Sit down.” Asah waved Ufan to sit at the dinner table across from him. “What’s wrong with you? I think that Lagos is getting to you. When you first arrived from the village you followed directions I gave you quickly.”

“I’m sorry.” Ufan sat on the edge of the chair, ready to evade any sudden attack.

“Where did you go? I was worried sick. I went to the bridge to look for you.”

Ufan remained quiet.

Asah poured Ufan some cocoa and then pushed some sliced bread his way. “Why didn’t you tell me about the accident at the bridge yesterday? It was in the papers today. Now I know how it could have happened that you dropped my sachets of water. Here, eat something.”

Ufan grabbed the cup of cocoa and sliced bread and got ready to go into the kitchen. “Thank you, sir. I will pay your money back.”

Asah waved at him to remain at the table. “A woman came here looking for you yesterday. Who is she?”

Ufan shrugged his shoulders as he ate hungrily.

“I don’t want anyone to think that I’m not treating you right. I bought you some new clothing. When you’re done eating go and try it out.”

“Yes, sir.” Ufan sat up and cleared his throat. “I’d like to tell you something, sir.”

“That you’re sorry? You’ve said it a million times. I accept. Go and sell my water today. That will really make it up. It looks like it’s going to be a hot day.”

“Yes, sir.” Ufan finished his food and then cleared the table. The urge to tell Asah about his dream still ate at him.

“Go and change into the new clothes. I want to see how they look on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ufan quickly cleaned up the dishes, and then he picked up the green and red buba and sokoto outfit on the couch in the living room and went into the bathroom. He took off his tattered T-shirt and then paused to gaze at his reflection in the mirror. His swollen eye looked less swollen, but he still looked beaten-up.

He put on the top and marvelled at how less haggard he looked in it. He heard a knock come from the front door. He wondered who it was. He wished that it was Miss Idara. But the voice he heard was that of a man. Asah welcomed him in Ibibio, and then began to explain the water filtration machine to him and how the pure water business could be very profitable in the village. The visitor thanked Asah for inviting him to Lagos, and that he looked forward to partnering with him in the water business.

Ufan was about to put on the pants of the outfit when he froze in place. The voice in the living room was familiar. It was the voice on Asah’s cell phone yesterday. It was the voice of the visitor at the airport.

Ufan dropped the pants when the voice in the living room triggered another memory. He quietly opened the bathroom door and peeked. What he saw made his heart race and his legs buckle. The owner of the voice was the man he saw the night his mother was killed. He slammed the bathroom door shut, and then sagged against the door. The village hunters were here. He’d never get away from them.

He stood up and quickly slipped into the new pants. His heart raced like never before. What to do? He could slip out through the bathroom window and escape, or he could walk into the living room and confront the killer of his mother. If he slipped out of the flat, he could run until he ran into someone who was not from Lagos, and so make another escape. If he went into the living room, he could confront his mother’s killer and serve her memory well.

“Ufan!” Asah called from the living room. Ufan remained quiet. Asah called him a second time. Ufan opened the door and walked into the living room, his eyes trained on the visitor. Yes, it was him. “Have you forgotten your manners? Get down and pay your respects to the visitor.”

Ufan stayed on his feet, his fists balled-up. “He’s not a visitor. He’s a killer.”

Asah frowned as he exchanged bewildered looks with the visitor. “Are you mad? You do not talk to my visitor like that.” Asah turned to the visitor and said, “I apologise. I hit him yesterday. That might be affecting his head.”

“He killed my mother!” Ufan shook with a combination of dread and anger.

Asah rose to his feet. He took a step towards Ufan and then stopped. He slowly turned to look at the visitor, and then returned to Ufan. He sank back onto the couch, confusion written all over his face. “Etuk, do you understand what this boy is saying?”

Etuk shook his head no and then said, “You got me.”

“What are you talking about, Ufan? Have you lost your mind?” Asah asked.

“Asah, I remember his face from the night my mother was killed. He was one of them.”

Asah turned to Etuk. “Is he telling the truth?”

Etuk stood up and laughed. “What is this, a joke? This little boy insults me and instead of disciplining him you turn to ask me a ridiculous question as such? What has Lagos done to you people?”

Ufan moved up closer to Etuk. He looked him in the eye and said, “You should not have killed my mother. I was the one you were looking for. I am the one you should’ve killed.”

Etuk slapped Ufan hard in the face. “Shut up, boy! You do not talk to adults like that. If your uncle here won’t discipline you, then I will.”

Asah rose to his feet. “You are acting like the boy is telling the truth.”

“And you’re acting like a fool! This boy would never talk like this to me or you back in the village!”

“Yes, if you were successful in killing him. You swore to me that you were not a part of the party that went to my sister’s house that night.”

“He killed my son!” Etuk rubbed his temple as he paced the floor. “The preacher said it. God can not tell a lie.”

“But humans can,” Asah said. “May be the preacher was mistaken. The preacher is not God!”

“But she speaks for Him. I will believe her any day over this evil boy!”

“I am not evil!” Ufan said, standing his ground. “All I did was dream about your son’s death. I did not kill him. You killed him.” Etuk charged after Ufan. Asah charged after Etuk. A fight ensued. Etuk wrapped his hands around Ufan’s neck. Asah let out a mighty grunt as he lifted up the coffee table and hit Etuk on the back with it.

Etuk released his grip on Ufan’s neck, but then grabbed a knife and plunged it into Asah’s stomach. Eyes blazing with murderous anger, Etuk lunged at Ufan with the knife. Like a matador, Ufan sidestepped just in time to avoid the knife’s blade, causing Etuk to stumble forward.

Ufan ran into the bathroom and bolted the door shut. He shoved the window open, and then lifted himself onto the ledge. The bathroom door was kicked in, and Etuk, sporting the blood-drenched knife and a crazed look on his face, lunged for Ufan. Ufan felt a sharp sting in the calf of his right leg just as he slipped through the window. He fell to the concrete ground below and cringed as pain like he’d never felt before coursed through his body.

He stood up and limped away as Etuk swore at him from the bathroom window. As he ran towards the street, he saw a black Mercedes crawl to a stop in front of his building. But he kept running. Behind him he left a trail of blood.

A car honked. He saw the car out of the corner of his eye. Using his matador reflexes, he swung slightly to his right and avoided being hit. And then he stood in the middle of the street as a bolekaja bus approached. This was the chance to end it all, he told himself. Right here. He’d chosen. It will be the bull of a vehicle coming at him that will take him home. Take him away from all this pain and suffering. Take him to his mother.

“Ufan!”

Mother? From the corner of his eye he saw Miss Idara. She stood at the edge of the road yelling and waving at him to move away. He was not evil, he now knew. But he didn’t want to live this life anymore. He would never escape the village hunters. They would pursue him to the ends of this Earth.

“Ufan, mbok, Ufan, please,” Miss Idara pleaded.

Ufan chose. He started to move away from the screeching bus, but it was too late.

This time the bus hit him.

It was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to one-half of him. An immense pain seared through him as he heard screeching tires and briefly saw something yellow try to swerve away from him. He fell to the ground and blacked out.

*

When Ufan woke up twenty-four hours later, he thought that he was in heaven, and that the woman steering down at him was his mother. Miss Idara smiled at him and then made a sign to say to him that he was safe. He tried speaking but found it difficult. He lifted his hand to touch her. She grabbed it and began to cry.

“Mba mo, where am I?” Ufan asked in Ibibio, the first time he’d spoken to her in his native language.

“Aba ke ufok ibok, you’re in the hospital.”

“Asah?”

Miss Idara never replied. That’s when he knew that Asah was dead. Ufan teared up. “It’ll be all right,” Miss Idara said. “We’re together now.”

Ufan closed his eyes as the power of the anaesthesia washed over him. As he drifted back to sleep, he squeezed Miss Idara’s hand to signify his acceptance of life. He was not evil after all. The fact that he’d cheated death twice confirmed that. It will be all right, he told himself. He went back to sleep.

Matador was written by Uko Bendi Udo.

Copyright © Uko Bendi Udo 2011.

I’m a microbiologist by education, but can’t remember what the heck that word means now. Blame it on writing. I caught the bug in college (just before med school) and have been deliriously sick with it since (don’t want no doctor). I enjoy creating fiction, and would do it for zip. I was born and raised in Nigeria but now reside in the US.

I took some time off writing to start a family, and let me tell you, it’s far from what the books say. Being a papa to two precocious angels and husband to the most beautiful woman in the world is the hardest endeavour you’ll absolutely ever love and cherish. I like to read fiction populated by characters and settings I’m familiar with. When I’m not able to find such stories, I pick up my pen (or pencil) and write.

Craving for the opportunity to spend more time with my family I got out of the corporate world and now work with kids in the education field. I’ve published works of fiction and feature articles in newspapers and magazines here in the US and UK (The Beat, The Trumpet, etc). I’ve also written radio plays for a Los Angeles radio station (KPFK FM). I love traveling, and a peculiar habit of mine is to hop on public transportation at my place of destination and traverse the city and meet the people. Any other bus or train hoppers out there?

Mules of Fortune by Samuel Kolawole (Part One)

TOLBERT

Rebels pounded on the front door of his parent's shack, cursing and shouting, “We know you are in there!” and proceeded to smash the door down when no one answered. Once, then twice, the blade of a machete chopped through the plank door and retreated with a force that produced a dismal screech. Screws and nails flew off. The door leaped against the door frame and hinges. Light from the rebel fires outside sprang through the chinks into the darkness of the room.

Tolbert covered his ears to shut out the grating butchery of the door, perspiring and shaking like a wind-buffeted tree. Warm, pee trickled down his legs, flowing into the pool of urine already on the floor. He clenched his jaws to muffle his own sounds but instead his teeth chattered with the compulsive shivering of his chin. So great was the tremor in his body, his teeth pierced through his lips and salted his saliva with blood. Tolbert's mind groped for meaning and tried to ward off the fright assailing his soul like hordes of demons. His father and his mother, who was heavy with a child, were outside. They had told him to hide under the spring bed while they searched for a safe escape route. He heard mama screaming. He had been able to make out her voice even in the midst of the pandemonium. Until now, he had never heard mama scream, not once.

Mama had learnt to bear her burdens and shoulder her responsibilities in quietness, concealing her pain. What was happening now was greater than what she could bear.

The lock burst and the wreck of a door collapsed inward. Two boys with naked upper bodies bespattered with blood entered, machetes in their hands. They couldn't have been older than Tolbert. They were dressed in shorts and wore no shoes, their faces gaunt and hair matted with tiny twigs and dry leaves. One of them had a swollen eye, red and crusty with pus. They pulled the shaking Tolbert from under the bed through the piss and dust, and dragged him out into the open, his feet kicking in a futile struggle.

Phebe County was filled with people scampering and screaming. The conflagration of torched buildings billowed thick dark smoke towards the heavens and also flung well defined shadows bounding to and fro, blending, figures brightening and fading as they moved; There were ghostly male figures lugging off their trousers and rocking their buttocks over pinned bodies, forms leaping in a final dance of death, engulfed in angry flames before falling to the ground, machetes choking out prayers of repentance offered on trembling knees, sorely contorted forms still twitching, bayonets impaling bodies as though they were watermelons, staccato bursts of gunfire ripping the air. The reason for Mama's screams was known to Tolbert as soon as he was dragged out. He saw Papa lying on his back, one arm doubled under him, the other limp across his body. Blood oozed from the back of his head in a halo that widened with each passing moment. It was as though the blood seeped out of the ground itself, from an endless source.

Mama was on the ground too, seated in the dust with her legs splayed. Her face, glistening and swollen with tears, turned upwards and her arm stretched out as if she were trying to stop her husband's departing ghost from drifting to the point of no return. Again, a scream broke out from her throat, and she began to rock back and forth. The executioner, an adult with unkempt dreadlocks, and a pair of worn out tennis shoes, lumbered toward Tolbert, the murder weapon, an AK47, slung across his chest and crouched to face him. Tolbert was wedged between the two boys, transfixed.

“We making yor a big boy! Yor fighting for great Mr. Rasanga,” Rasta said as he thrust his face at Tolbert, his blistered lips parting in a crooked smile. What wafted from his mouth could pass for the stench of a pit latrine but Tolbert hardly perceived the odour. His sense of smell was numbed just like every other part of his body by the shock. Rasta tossed Tolbert this way and that, scrutinizing him as though examining a chunk of beef in the abattoir to determine if it had more meat than fat, then pulled him close.

“You expecting baby brother soon, eh? Or baby sister? Yor Mama belly big, eh” Rasta asked.

Tolbert did not answer him. He simply stared. Rasta reared back and slapped Tolbert's face. Pain surged in his head. Fresh blood filled his mouth, seeped out and dribbled down his jaw.

“Baby brother or sister?” Rasta asked again.

“I na know s-sir.”

“You na know?”

“Ye- yes-sir.”

“Then we go know, man! We go know!” Rasta said aloud as though announcing it to everyone. With brisk movements, half a dozen boys assembled, murmuring excitedly. The boys fished out crumpled dollar notes from their pockets and began to gather their bets, flipping them to the ground. Those who didn't have money supplied looted wristwatches, crocodile skin wallets, necklaces, pens, little wraps of marijuana. Three of them broke out of the motley group. One of these three whipped out a dagger from a filthy rucksack in his hand then handed it to Rasta. The other two pounced on Mama and pinned her down. Mama twitched from side to side, her legs stabbing the air like a ruminant trying to escape the knife, shouting Tolbert's name. Tolbert wriggled out of their grip and leapt forward, bestirred by the prospect of his mother's annihilation, but was restrained.

The disembowelling procedure was quick, as though it had been mastered. Blood gushed: deplorable scream rent the air. Tolbert was made to watch his mother go under the knife. His face turned away to avoid the horrendous scene but was wrenched back and held still. With one hand, Rasta pulled out a blood soaked, unborn infant, limp and lifeless and the boys cheered. Mama, half dead, gasped and foamed at the mouth, muttering something deep and guttural. The moment of decision came. Rasta calmly raised the finger of his free, bloodied hand, made a gesture with it in the air and laid it on his lips. The boys kept quiet. For a few moments they waited intently for his pronouncement with eager faces like tail-wagging mongrels.

“A girl! It's a girl!” he roared finally and the boys hollered. Immediately those who won the bet scrambled for the stuff on the ground. Clawing fingers struggled to pry away the precious reward as the urchins pushed and kicked and raised dust and laughed. Tolbert doubled up and retched. Again the boys roared in laughter, making silly faces. Tolbert's head spiralled in sickening loops. A new feverish tremor shook his body. A gust of air blew across his face and all objects in his physical world seemed to vanish, leaving him enveloped in darkness.

Tolbert came around to hear the grumbling of a truck engine, birds chirping in their nests, the sounds of insects and the stirring and crunching of leaves as the company crushed their way through thick undergrowth.


Rasta's name was Captain Tennis Shoes. That was not his real name. No one answered to their real names; everyone had a special name. They preferred names of people in American movies. Names like Junior Rambo, Captain Schwarzenegger, Tarzan, Admiral Stallone, Chuck Norris Baby. The boy with the swollen eye, one of the two that pulled Tolbert out of his house, was called Chuck Norris Baby. Chuck Norris, the Hollywood actor. Chuck Norris, his hero. Chuck Norris, the man whose footsteps he earnestly followed.

Chuck Norris Baby got his bad eye while trying to fight like Chuck Norris with a boy called Black Jesus. The scuffle, which ensued over food ration at a Small Boys Unit Base, resulted in a gladiatorial fight. In the fight, a rod meant for Chuck Norris Baby's skull damaged his left eye instead. When General Goggles got wind of the incident, he asked them if they had applied herbs on his wound and gave him a shot of gin. He said it was good for the eyes to be single. He said a one-eyed man will spot the enemy better.

General Goggles was the commander of the Small Boys Unit Base in Thambo County. A cadaverous man in his thirties, dark as charcoal with a deformed right shoulder, which was a trifle higher than the left, General Goggles got his name from his dark spectacles. He never removed his glasses in the open. He was the only soldier in the base with a camouflage uniform, the only soldier allowed to wear one. He talked a lot too and always wore a big crucifix. He seemed to always have something to say about everything and demanded that people listen to him.

The County where the Small Boys Unit Base was located could no longer be called a County. It was now a mere clearing of bricks, beams buried in earth and overgrown with turfs of brown moss and grass, The only thing standing was the school.

Also, to call the charred, crumbling structure covered with tarpaulin, which served as Commander Goggle's administrative centre, residence, and the armoury, a school would be cynical. The remaining members of the unit lived in tents made of duct taped rags and sticks or in the open. Graffiti in severe characters of black and red defaced the cement walls of the school structure stating:

Small Boys Unit, General Goggles Special Forces

Up Mr. Rasanga, Up Republic of Wahala No Rasanga, No Republic of Wahala

So so suffering in Republic of Wahala

Even in heaven, God have an army

War business hard but woman business sweet

Captain Tennis Shoes will debidieyor if yor mess with him

Battlements of stacked sand bags with a slot in the middle for a heavy machine gun stood in front of the building. The dusty road that led to the base had two checkpoints a few meters apart. Tiny strips of ragged cloth flanked on each side by sticks and rusty metal containers for armed sentries to sit on, marked the roadblocks.

“The bad government soldiers kill yor people not we. They are the ones provoking. They are the ones suffering this country,” Captain Tennis Shoes said to the new boys and took a long drag of marijuana. He released the smoke in measured puffs, his eyes flaming like red coals, coughed and continued his lecture. He went on about death and revenge and corrupt government. The words rolled off his tongue like barbed arrows.

The boys, about eight of them, were sitting on the grass, some with their knees drawn against their chins, others sitting on their folded legs.

Close to the Commander's house, a group of boys huddled around a radio alternating between static and voice, its two wire transmitters stuck out like the antennae of a cockroach. They also smoked marijuana and bobbed their heads to loud rap music. Not too far away, some boys were hopping, crawling on all fours and somersaulting while an adult soldier rapped out orders. Two boys squatted over a heap of rubbish that stood close to wretched clothes hanging on clotheslines, their shorts drawn down over their knees, their rifles hung on their shoulders. They chatted and fiddled with their guns as they dropped their excreta.

Two scrawny girls with transparent tops and shaved heads, the commander's wives, stood in one of the doorways of the building, leaning on its decayed doorframe, observing the activities around them for the want of something to do. The rest either lounged about fingering their rifles or played cards or slept on wafer thin mattresses lying around.

Tolbert was seated amongst a group of boys being addressed by Captain Tennis Shoes. What came out of the mouth of the Captain was a mere movement of the lips. Tolbert's brain often reeled and visions flitted before him. Since the night of the grisly occurrence, Tolbert seemed detached from his physical world. He acted like a ghost, observing his environment without participating in it. He was mostly quiet, except when his head twirled and he saw things. Then he shouted and cried. Apart from that Tolbert hardly cared about anything else. He hated no one, even though he had every right to. Or rather he was not in the condition to hate. He made no enemies. He just didn't care. Not about the opium they forced them to smoke to numb their feelings or the meal mingled with gunpowder which they said would make them strong or the stripes he received from Captain Tennis Shoes for failing to learn how to take guns apart and put them back together or Commander's Goggle's growing interest in him.

Commander Goggle spotted Tolbert during their first parade as new recruits of the Small Boys Unit and since treated him specially. He said Tolbert resembled his long lost son, Thomas and named him John the Beloved after Jesus' favourite disciple.

Captain Tennis Shoes was still speaking when he was interrupted by a boy who came with a message from the Commander.

“Tolbert, Commander wants yor!” Tennis Shoes said after receiving the message. A black cloud of anger twisted his face. The interruption of his lecture was not what really annoyed him but Tolbert's association with the Commander. Tolbert a new boy, with no record of a slaughter, who had not fired a shot or fought in combat. Captain Tennis Shoes had known nothing but fighting and killing since he voluntarily joined the unit years ago and risen to become a superior officer. Captain Tennis Shoes saw the situation as one that could undermine his influence in the camp. For that, he hated him.

Commander Goggle was seated in the big brown sofa of his room, wearing only his camouflage trousers, when Tolbert walked in. The room was cluttered, dark and musty.

“Ah, my Beloved John, sit down!” he said, revealing teeth that were rotten black, teeth that would have at least been brown, had marijuana and opium allowed it. Commander Goggle filled Tolbert with stories and conjectures and how he reminded him of Thomas. Tolbert said little and pretended to be attentive, nodding.

He kept the Commander's company for the rest of the day, even when the soldiers gathered together at dusk to smoke marijuana and drink palm wine and play War Games to amuse themselves. He made Tolbert sit beside him while they watched this strange and macabre pastime.

Drums rolled as the boys engaged in acrobatic displays amidst cheers and shouts. They lighted sticks with fire and snuffed them out by putting them into their mouths. They took sharp machetes and swallowed the whole length of the blades up to the hilt then pulled them out again. The soldiers then went further to test how resistant their bodies were to bullets: Soldier A pointed his rifle at soldier B and shot him. Soldier B staggered around for a while as though drunk, then stood triumphantly with his hands on his hips as the audience applauded.

Lubanga, an itinerant witchdoctor and supporter of the rebel forces known throughout the region for his powerful magic and wickedness, always stayed close to the performers to gloat over the efficacy of his charms or quickly come to the rescue in case of any mishap.

Lubanga himself carried out the final act. He roamed around in circles for a while, leaping and chanting and shaking the gourd in his hand and then dragged someone out and stretched him over a mat. After a few moments of uttering incantations and casting spells, the subject sank into a profound slumber. Lubanga then pulled the boy's tongue out of his mouth and shredded it to pieces with a blade produced from a bag hung around his neck, throwing the bits this way and that like a farmer sprinkling seeds. The boy plunged into a terrible fit, foamed in the mouth, blood, saliva and all, his convulsion gradually ceasing till he was completely still. He then covered the subject with a dirty piece of cloth, said more incantations, danced round for a while and then removed the covering to reveal the boy and his brand new tongue to the amazement of the crowd. The crowd was always amazed at this last act. It always meant something new to them anytime it was done. Maybe it was the way they wanted the nation to be: shredded, completely destroyed, and then brought back to new life.

Tolbert continued to stay close to the commander, away from the reach of Captain Tennis Shoes. Because the commander hardly engaged in combat, even on the battle ground, Tolbert was exempted from fighting. All he did was to carry guns and ammunition. Although Tolbert was excused from shooting, he participated in their killings in a way. He strutted through the deserted streets, strewn with dead bodies and feasting vultures. He watched them hide behind bullet scarred buildings to lay ambush for the enemy and then slaughter them like chickens, without thinking or reasoning. He watched them cut out an enemy's heart and pass it round the base like a long coveted soccer trophy before cooking and eating it. He had been ordered by the commander to partake of that meal once.

“It's a strong charm. When you eat their heart, the power in them is yors. You become strong, you become unkillable. A general's heart is the strongest of them,” Commander Goggle told him.

The charms did not make Black Jesus immune to death. A shell exploded close to him during combat, hurtling shrapnel in every direction, some of which tore his head off. Chuck Norris Baby and five other boys also perished. They were machine-gunned down while patrolling in one of their looted, jalopy trucks, carrying an RPG 7 grenade launcher. Chuck Norris didn't die immediately. He was taken to camp and fed with roots and herbs that made things worse. His blood turned black and leaked through his ears and nose. The one-eyed boy died with his mother's name on his lips. Nobody knew who his mother was. Chuck Norris was the only one buried in the base. The rest of the corpses were left on the streets for vultures to poke out their dismembered parts.

Like a child recovering from the petulance of not getting his way, Tolbert ignored the worries of the past and became used to the life of guns, death, and human hearts. The drugs also took their toll. The more he smoked and sniffed, the more he felt fearless, powerful and drawn to the evil around him. He began to see everything as a game and people as toys. He began to like the commander's company, began to relish the privileges he enjoyed from his association with him. Other boys didn't like him because he was special in the camp, but he was not bothered. Captain Tennis Shoes wanted him out of the way, but he was untouchable. The Commander taught him how to sniff cocaine and said he was free to sleep with any of his two scrawny girls. But he was too shy to touch the girls.

One night, Commander Goggle woke up from what appeared to be a nightmare and everything changed. He told Tolbert first about the dream.

“I saw Mary the mother of Christ. She was weeping hard. She heard the sufferings of all people in Republic of Wahala from heaven. I swear I saw her, I swear,” he said, tears tumbling down his face.

Things happened fast. The next morning he gathered everyone together, narrated his dream and talked about his new found faith. He sermonized on peace and repentance and judgment. He said they were going to fight for peace. New graffiti was added to the literature on the walls of the school building:

Hail Mary, mother of GOD, have mercy

on us, pray for us

Accept Christ today, tomorrow is late

We be soldiers of Christ

People thought the Commander had gone round the bend but they obeyed because he ordered them to. He announced a ceremony the next day where they would burn their guns and ammunition and take up bibles and rosaries. He said they would invite a missionary to supply them bibles and rosaries, establish a church and erect a statuette of Mary. Captain Tennis Shoes now regarded him as a traitor, but much more than that, he saw a golden opportunity to be the boss. Captain Tennis Shoes disappeared that night and came back three days later with men from the National Patriotic Front headquarters. They spilled out of a truck with broken windows and chassis riddled with bullets, shouting and cocking their guns.

Commander Goggles was ready for them. He embraced death with dignity. He offered no resistance. He told the boys not to cry for him, although they were not sure what he was talking about. For the first time in the open, he removed his dark glasses, before stooping to be decapitated. Captain Tennis Shoes, now in the seat of power did not forget to teach Tolbert a lesson he would always remember. At his order, the rebels set upon him and pinned his right arm against a slab of stone and an axe was wielded as desperate pleas turned to loud cries, then whimpers that ebbed away into stillness, along with his amputated arm.


A few weeks after becoming commander of the Thambo Small Boys Unit Captain Tennis Shoes acquired the new appellation General Bloodthirsty. He became ruthless in every sense of the word and was famous for it. Killing became both a duty and a pastime. The desire to take people's lives to him was more natural than peeing. When there was no enemy to slaughter, he picked on one of his boys. He made it look as though it was punishment for breaking the rules of the Unit. He called the offenders, traitors. He talked about the gravity of their offence even if it was something as trivial as blowing snot. So when General Bloodthirsty was not in battle, his boys sought traitors to place before him, as though offering sacrifices to prevent a furious god from striking and were in doing so saved from being one. Tolbert knew it was a matter of time before General Bloodthirsty picked him so he found a way to escape. (To be continued... See Part Two)

Mules of Fortune was written by Samuel Kolawole.

Copyright © Samuel Kolawole 2011.

Samuel Kolawole’s fiction has appeared in Black Biro, Storytime, Authorme, Eastown fiction, Superstition review, Sentinel literary quarterly. His story collection The book of M will be in stores soon. A recipient of the Reading Bridges fellowship, Samuel lives in Ibadan, southwest Nigeria where he has begun work on his novel Olivia of Hustle House.

Definition of a Miracle by Farida N. Bedwei (book excerpt)

At breakfast Mummy announced that she was taking Emefa to Labadi Polyclinic given that she was still under the weather. Whilst preparing breakfast Emefa had been overcome with the need to throw up and run out to the bathroom, leaving the pot Quaker Oats on the stove unattended. Daddy was home, it being a Saturday and he offered to take us to the beach. We cheered loudly at this for we hadn’t been to the beach since we moved down, though we’d driven past it a number of times on the way to Tema.

Daddy said, “Why don’t we all go together, that way we can drop you and Emefa off at the polyclinic on our way and pick you up later?”

Mummy paused in the act of buttering her bread, pondering over the logistics. “Naah, you can drop us off but we’ll just take a taxi back since I don’t know what time we’ll finish.”

“But isn’t it just an ordinary check-up? It shouldn’t take more than an hour.” He took a sip of his coffee.

“There may be a long queue when we get there,” she replied. “Its alright, we’ll just take a taxi back, you and the children go on and have a nice time at the beach.”

Standing up, she picked up hers and my plates. “It’d be nice to have a bit of quiet in the house so I can catch up on my studying, so please don’t rush back on my account.”

Carrying the plates to the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, “Bash, when you finish eating, help Jalal clear the table and wash up the plates since Emefa is lying down in her room. I’m going to have my bath and get ready.”

“Hey Ayorkor, I forgot to ask, how was the convention last night?” Daddy asked, getting up from the table, carrying his plate to the kitchen.

Mummy appeared in the kitchen doorway with a guarded expression. “It was very nice, very inspiring and powerful. By the way it was a crusade not a convention.”

Coming back from the kitchen, Daddy said, “I stand corrected. I’m going to warm up the engine. I’ll be outside.”


A look of relief came over Mummy’s face. “Ok.”

Turning to us she asked, “Do you know where your swimming costumes are?”

“Mine are in my panties drawer,” I replied. “Mummy, may I wear the pink bikini?”

“Does it still fit? If it does, you can wear it. I’ll help you change when I finish taking my bath. Basheera, Jalal you didn’t answer me. Do you know where your costumes are?” she asked.

“I think mine is still in the suitcase with some of my clothes—those which will not fit into my wardrobe. By the way, when is the carpenter bringing my chest of drawers so I can unpack all my stuff and put the suitcase away? It’s getting tiresome, having to pull the suitcase out from under the bed to take out my underwear whenever I am dressing after having a bath,” Bash complained.

“The last time he was here, he said he had finished making your chest of drawers but wanted to finish the bookshelves for your room as well as the ones for the study so as to bring them all at once,” she replied.

“But that was like two weeks ago; shouldn’t he have finished everything by now?” Bash asked, tying the bread plastic.

“I’ll ask your father about it, maybe you can pass by his workshop on the way back from the beach since it is opposite the beach, around the Trade Fair Site,” Mummy said.

She departed for the bathroom then and leaving us (well them) to finish clearing the table. I crawled back to my room to dig out my pink bikini, lay it on the bed and waited for Mummy to come and help me change into it. Bash came in a short while after, pulling off her Minnie Mouse nightshirt as she entered. Looking at her kneeling and pulling the suitcase out from under the bed to remove the swimsuit, I could appreciate her complaints—it sure as heck was inconvenient. Mummy came in a few minutes later, changed me into the bikini and pulled my oversized Donald Duck T-shirt over it. It reached down to my mid-thigh, thus I didn’t have to wear shorts underneath.

Mummy said there was no point putting on the braces for me since they’d be taken off at the beach, so I left the crutches behind as well.

We all piled into the car and drove to the polyclinic to drop Mummy and Emefa off first before continuing to the beach. Emefa was looking really tired and sickly; I hoped it wasn’t anything serious. Mummy reminded Daddy about the carpentry works currently outstanding and asked him to pass by the carpenter’s workshop on our way back home to find out the status of our stuff.

We had a pleasant morning at the beach, spending about three hours frolicking in the water and building sandcastles. The beach was a bit crowded, littered with people of different stations and races. There were a few white people, who looked more red than white from sitting in the hot sun. There were also persons of Lebanese descent whose olive complexion wasn’t as vulnerable to sunburn as the Caucasians. Then there were my fellow countrymen and women, most of them the natives of the Labadi Township. Quite an interesting mix, I found. Jalal made friends with the Labadi boys, joining them in a football game a few metres away from where we were seated. There were two red flags mounted on the shore about 20 meters apart, marking the ‘safe zone’. The safe zone was the safest area and swimmers were advised to swim between the two flags. The waves were quite rough, paying homage to the ferocity the Atlantic Ocean is reputed for. Sometimes you could see tiny tidal waves forming along the shores which a small child could be sucked into.

Daddy took me into the water a few times, supporting my upper body whilst I kicked and paddled my legs as a form of exercise. Back in London, going to the pool once a week had been part of my physiotherapy routine.

Around noon, Bash started complaining she was hungry. Daddy bought some kebabs which we ate on the way to the carpenter’s workshop.

The carpenter wasn’t there but his apprentice showed us our shelves and chest of drawers which he said was still wet from the glossing sheen which had been sprayed on it to make it look polished. He assured us that by Monday it’d have dried and they’d be delivered in the afternoon.

Satisfied, we headed home, tired and still a bit hungry, looking forward to eating lunch and settling down to finish my Famous Five novel. Timmy was currently missing and I couldn’t wait to find out where he had ended up.

As we entered the house I could hear Mummy and Emefa talking in the kitchen, well Mummy was doing the talking, Emefa was just crying.

Standing in the doorway we could see Mummy looking crossly down at Emefa who was kneeling in front of her, clutching her slit, begging her not to send her away.

After handing me over to my brother with a, “Jalal here, hold Zaara”, Daddy entered the kitchen and asked what was going on.

“Why don’t you ask her, ask her what the doctor said was wrong with her.” Mummy went to lean against the kitchen counter, folding her hands across her chest looking down at where Emefa was still kneeling in the middle of the kitchen.

Noticing us hovering in the doorway, she shouted at us to go to our rooms. Not in this lifetime, we hid behind the kitchen wall to listen in.

“Emefa, what is wrong? What did the doctor say?” Daddy was clearly bewildered by the whole scene.

“Massa, I beg you don’t send me back. I have nowhere to go. I—” she broke off sobbing.

“Nobody is going to send you anywhere, now tell me what is going on,” Daddy said.

“Perhaps you should find out what is wrong with her before you make such promises,” Mummy chided caustically.

“Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to get out of either of you for the past five minutes?” Daddy said in exasperation.

Mummy tapped her foot a few times before saying, “She’s pregnant, about three months by the nurse’s estimation.”

Bash and I let out a shocked gasp; we knew only bad girls got pregnant before marriage. We’d never have guessed Emefa was a bad girl especially since she was usually seen reading a tattered Gideon’s Bible whenever she was idle. Jalal shushed us and we turned back to listen to what was going on in the kitchen.

“What?” Daddy exclaimed with a look of disbelief.

“Who? How? Where?” he stammered, clearly shaken by the announcement.

“What is annoying me most about this whole thing is she knew all along that she was pregnant. Yet, she made me go through the trouble of taking her to the hospital and waiting in the queue for two hours to see the doctor. Only for the doctor to tell us something she’s known for the past two months,” Mummy went on.

“Massa, please I didn’t know,” Emefa looked beseechingly at Daddy, wiping her tears with the corner of her dress.

“Oh please, I am woman, ok? I have had three children so you can’t tell me you don’t know after you missed your period the first month. You knew—”

“Madame please I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” Mummy shouted, pointing down at her for emphasis. “You knew and yet you didn’t tell me, not even when I asked you what was wrong with you. Now you are refusing to tell us who the father is, huh? Yoo, you will look after your baby all by yourself then, if you are still refusing to tell me who impregnated you.”

Daddy asked quietly, “Emefa, who did this to you? Who is the father?”

She mumbled a name under her breath, her head bent down.

“I didn’t get that, who did you say it was?” Daddy asked.

“Kodjo,” she repeated meekly.

“Pray do tell, who the hell is Kodjo?” Mummy demanded angrily, pushing against the counter and walking towards Emefa.

“Ayorkor, calm down. Let me handle this,” he gestured for her to move away from Emefa, since she had started crying again.

Mummy threw her hands up in exasperation and went back to lean against the counter.

“Who is Kodjo?” Daddy asked.

“Kodjo is the boy who works with the carpenter. The one who came to take the measurements for the bed and the shelves,” she said, sniffling.

I don’t know who was more shocked by this revelation—the parents or us, the eavesdropping children.

Recovering from the shock, Mummy let out a peal of laughter. “Aah, now I understand why the shelves aren’t ready yet. Why would they be? The one who is supposed to be making them is spending time, too much time, fooling around with the maid to actually settle down to get some work done, when and where did this encounter take place?”

“The first time it happened was before you came, Madame. It was when he first brought you and master’s bed from the workshop.” she replied timidly.

Daddy looked really flabbergasted now. “You mean, since then? But that was a couple of weeks or so after you started work?”

“Yes master,” she confirmed.

A sudden appalling thought occurred to Mummy. “Emefa, tell me something? Did you two have sex on my bed?”

There was silence, as the parents exchanged horrifying glances.

“Did you?” Mummy shouted, causing Emefa to jump and me to jump from where I was listening in.

She burst into tears, confirming Mummy’s suspicion.

“Sulley, get this girl out of my sight before I do something I’ll regret.” Mummy ground out between clenched teeth.

Realising how close his wife was to striking Emefa, he quickly dragged her out into the yard, where he continued to speak to her in hushed tones.

We fled to our rooms not wanting to be caught and be on the receiving end of our mother’s wrath. We heard the clog-clog of her heels in the corridor as she stomped towards her bedroom. Bash opened the door slightly, peeping down the corridor trying to see what Mummy was doing, when we suddenly heard her shouting for Jalal.

Opening his door, Jalal responded, “Yes Mummy?”

“Come and help me with something,” she called.

Passing our door we asked him what he was going to do. He shrugged and headed towards the master bedroom with the reluctance of one going to meet his executioner. We knew from past experience that Mummy had the tendency to take up her anger at somebody else on you, so we tried to steer clear of her when we heard her arguing with Daddy or scolding one of us.

Hearing the sound of furniture moving, Bash and I got curious and decided to brave the lion’s den.

“Oh good there you are, Bash come and help me remove the bed sheets.” Mummy and Jalal had moved the bed to the middle of the room and were in the process of stripping it down.

“Are you moving the bed?” Bash asked, pulling at the sheets.

“No, I am going to get a new bed,” she replied.

My siblings and I exchanged bewildered looks but we dared not utter a word.

“Do you want to come for the ride?” she asked, picking up her bag to leave once the bed sheets had been folded and put on the chair.

“Yes,” we said.

“Ok, let’s go.” Mummy picked me up, carrying me on her side as she walked outside to where Daddy and Emefa were still talking.

Emefa jumped back when she saw Mummy coming through the kitchen door, the mosquito netting door swinging back with such force the hinges protested loudly.

Not sparing her a glance, she said, “Sulley, where are the car keys? The children and I are going to get a new bed.”

Daddy looked at her in astonishment. “Is there something wrong with the bed? Has it broken down or something?”

Mummy shot Emefa a dirty look. “Well I find I cannot sleep in the bed now that I know it was first christened by our maid and her lover.”

“I think you are overreacting, I don’t think that is a justifiable reason to get a new bed,” Daddy protested. “Besides, you have slept in it for the past two months and it’s not as if you are in danger of catching a disease or something.”

She arched an eyebrow caustically and said, “After Adam and Eve ate the apple, they realised it was inappropriate for them to walk around as naked as jaybirds. Upon realisation of a circumstance unacceptable for the well being of humans they usually initiate a change. I am not going to sleep in that bed so you can either sleep in it alone or you can join me in the new bed. Now will you please give me the keys?”

A wise man knows when to concede defeat and Daddy was a wise man; he gave her the keys and asked her where she was going to buy a bed from at 2:00 p.m. on a Saturday, considering most shops closed half-day on Saturday.

“Don’t worry about that,” she replied, turning on her heel walking towards the car.

Putting me in the backseat (for Bash was already waiting in the passenger seat), she called, “Just make sure that girl has packed out of the house by the time I get back.”

With that she slammed the car door and started the engine, before reversing through the gate Jalal was holding open. After closing the gate, he joined me in the backseat and off we sped in search of a Queen sized bed and mattress. I would have thought it’d have made more sense to simply change the mattress instead of the entire bed, but my mother was an extremist, it was all or nothing for her. I guess that is what made her a good lawyer—the extreme she was willing to go, to defend what she believed in.

We drove to Auntie Kai’s place in Adabraka and enlisted her help in finding a carpenter who had a bed available for sale. Auntie Kai and Grace joined us and she directed Mummy towards a carpentry shop near Laterbiokoshie, another suburb not far from where we went for the crusade the previous night.

Fortunately, the shop was open and Mummy was able to find a suitable bed. After haggling over the price for about twenty minutes, they were able to come to an agreement both parties were satisfied with. The carpenter sent one of his boys to get a truck to transport the bed. At least the bed came with a mattress so we didn’t have to go traipsing around looking for a mattress as well.

After loading the bed into the truck, the carpenter and his boy closed up the shop and followed us home in the truck.

When we got home neither Daddy nor Emefa was home. It took about two hours to dismantle the old bed and move it to the guest bedroom before reassembling it as it was too wide to go through the doorway no matter the angle which was tried. The new bed was slightly smaller and didn’t have to be dismantled before setting it up in the bedroom.

Grace, Bash and I were playing in our bedroom whilst Jalal was hanging around the carpenter trying to help. Mummy and Auntie Kai were in the bedroom keeping an eye on things whilst conversing.

Daddy came back in a taxi soon after the carpenter had finished; we were sitting in the car, about to leave to go and drop Auntie Kai and Grace back at home. After greeting Auntie Kai, he told Mummy he had taken Emefa to the transport yard to take the Hohoe bus.

“Good, I don’t want to see the likes of her again,” she declared. “Kai was telling me one of the apprentices at her salon has a younger sister who’s looking for a job. So she’ll ask her to bring her when she sees her on Monday.”

“Ok, I was thinking of asking my mother or Fusena to send us someone from my hometown, but if you have it covered then that’s fine,” he said.

“Oh I definitely have it covered, there’s no need to bring someone all the way from the North when there are a lot of girls in Accra looking for jobs,” Mummy said firmly.

“Yoo, I hear you,” he replied. “Well I’ll see you when you get back. Kai thanks for everything.”

“No problem, I’ll see you next week,” Auntie Kai replied, waving as Mummy reversed onto the street.

“Over my dead body will I allow one of those Hausa girls in my home,” Mummy muttered as we drove off.

The excitement of the day rendered us too exhausted to wake up early enough for the eight o’clock mass at the Anglican Church we’d been attending, the following morning. So we stayed at home. Mummy took the opportunity to clean and rearrange the kitchen as she saw fit. She then enlisted Bash and Jalal to sweep the house whilst she scrubbed the bathrooms. The house was really dirty. After pushing the living room chairs aside, they found Emefa had not been sweeping under them as she had been instructed to do. This got Mummy enraged, with her mumbling how she wished Emefa hadn’t been fired the day before so she could fire her now.

By 2 p.m. the entire house had been swept, scrubbed and mopped. We had our bath, and then took a drive to Tema to visit Mummy’s father’s younger brother—Uncle Mark.

The following day, Mummy skipped class to stay home with us and receive the shelving and drawers being delivered by the carpenter. On their way to the transport yard on Saturday, Daddy and Emefa had passed the carpenter’s workshop to confront Kodjo—the apprentice, on his misconduct. The carpenter had returned and was brought up to date on the new development; he was equally appalled by his apprentice’s behaviour. After apologising profusely to Daddy, he gave Kodjo his walking papers, telling him not to show his face again.

He again apologised profusely to Mummy when he came to fix the shelving. He reassured Mummy that nothing like that would ever happen again. He’d personally supervise any visits rendered to our home. Mummy gracefully accepted the apology. After he had installed the chest of drawers, Bash quickly transferred her packed clothing to her new set of drawers. Jalal and Bash then proceeded to arrange our books and some of the toys on the newly mounted shelves.

In the evening Mummy got a call from Auntie Kai asking her to pass by the following day after her class to interview the potential house help, who would be coming to the salon with her sister in the morning. We were being dumped at Grandma’s in the morning so Mummy could go to school, since for one reason or the other the parents were reluctant to leave the three of us at home alone. Jalal was almost thirteen for crying out loud, what did they think we’d do—burn the house down?

*

Our new house-help’s name was Akua and she was from Koforidua, in the eastern region. Akua looked to be older than Emefa was, probably in her late twenties. She seemed more experienced and exposed, and had already been introduced to the desires of the flesh, for which the end result was a five year old daughter, who was living with her mother in Koforidua. Maybe this would make her slightly more discriminating and reduce the probability of her jumping into bed with sweet-talking workmen.

She was equally nice and serviceable and we got on very well with her. Another feather in her cap was her culinary expertise; she knew how to make all kinds of dishes, from waakye to pancakes. We started having pancakes and French toast for breakfast instead of chunky slices of bread slathered with tasteless margarine. I couldn’t believe my luck!

Auntie Sandra finally came back from Somanya after more than a month; her mother was much better now and had been left in the care of her cousin. Now that her mother was out of the woods she had the time and inclination to butt into my life again! She wanted to arrange the prayer meeting for me with her Prophet since we were unable to attend the crusade. Mummy, getting ready to write the Bar exam, asked her to postpone it for another week, till after the exam. Auntie Sandra, after consulting the Prophet, came back to say he was travelling to Lagos for a convention of Church leaders and would continue to Warri for a two-week miracle crusade. As such, he would be gone for at least month. She had booked us an appointment for the first week after he got back to Accra. I was grateful for the reprieve.

The ship carrying our stuff finally docked at the Tema Harbour after nearly four months on the high seas. It should not have taken this long but it had made various stops on the way. From here its next and final stop was Lagos, from where it’d return to London. It took Daddy another three weeks to clear our things at the harbour. After paying so much on import tax, he had to spend almost half of that amount greasing the palms of the Customs officers, clearing agents, dockhands, you just name it. Everybody wanted their cut and to get your things out quickly you just gave it to them. It was unethical, but that is the way things are done here and the sooner you adapted, the easier your life became. When the cargo was finally being offloaded, Daddy had to supervise the loading of the rented truck, lest some sticky fingers decided to help themselves to our hard-earned stuff. However, the fingers were stickier than Daddy anticipated, as whilst unpacking we realised they had helped themselves to a few sets of crockery, an iron and the pressure cooker and a few other negligible items.

Mummy cursed them roundly upon these discoveries, she was so not amused by all this and she blamed Daddy for not keeping a closer eye on the dockhands when they were offloading the ship.

Daddy, who was in the middle of unpacking a box of children books, whirled to glare at her, quick anger rising in his eyes. “Really? So I was supposed to, with just two eyes, keep track of the route every single box took between the ship and the truck, eh? Or perhaps you would rather I had carried the boxes myself from the ship to the truck.”

Mummy gave him a hostile glare. “There’s no need for sarcasm, I am just saying if you had kept better track of the boxes as they were being loaded into the truck, perhaps you would have noticed a dockhand sneaking off with my pressure cooker; it’s not exactly something which can be stuck in one’s pocket.”

“Well, pardon my negligence!” he said sarcastically. “Here’s an idea, next time, why don’t you do it, and let’s see whether you’ll be able to keep track of every single pin.”

Emptying a box of cutlery into a basin, she replied, “There’s not going to be a next time, because I am not moving anywhere again.”

“Akua! Akua!” she shouted.

“Yes Madame,” Akua said, hurrying through the kitchen door.

“Akua, come and take these spoons and forks and wash and arrange them in the drawer with the others,” she told her, pointing at the basin of cutlery at her feet.

“Yes Madame,” Akua replied picking up the said basin.

Daddy, rummaging through a box of books called, “Jalal, come and take this box to the girls room, they’re Zaara’s.”

Moving to the next box he used a table knife to cut through the cello tape, peering in he said, “Well at least your rice-cooker is intact. Basheera, take this to the kitchen.”

“Ooh goody!” Mummy clapped her hands. “Now I can cook all the rice I want, but alas without stew as my pressure cooker is nowhere to be found.”

Bash rolled her eyes at me on her way to the kitchen; the parents were at it again.

“Look Ayorkor, I’ve had it up to here with your snipping about the pressure cooker,” he snapped. “The pressure cooker is gone! Do you hear me? I said it’s gone! If you can’t cook without it all of a sudden too bad, we’ll just starve.”

Mummy walked over to arrange the framed pictures on the bookshelf. “Sulley, there’s no need to be melodramatic, we won’t starve without the pressure cooker. Besides I hardly ever use it,” she said airily.

“Wha-what?” Daddy sputtered.

“What was the whole tantrum for then, eh? Why have you been going on and on about the pressure cooker for the past twenty minutes?” he demanded, bewildered.

She turned to face him, with her hands on her waist. “I just wanted you to appreciate the gravity of the situation and not brush it aside with your usual nonchalance. Its not about the pressure cooker per se, haven’t we been managing fine without it for the past couple of months? No, it is the principle.”

“What principle?” he raised his voice in exasperation.

Wiping the shelves she said, “The principle of it being acceptable to have my things stolen simply because everybody’s things get stolen at the port. Well, I will not accept that and I have every right to be upset if even a pin is missing.”

Daddy looked very confused now. “So what? You are upset because of the idea of the pressure cooker getting stolen, not the loss of the pressure cooker per se?”

Holding out his hand he said, “You know what? Don’t answer that.”

Picking up the car keys from the centre table, he muttered, “I’ll be back shortly,” before heading out of the front door.

“Sulley! Sulley! Where are you-” Mummy was cut off by the slam of the front door.

She muttered, “Impossible man,” under her breath and continued arranging the books on the shelves.

Daddy came back a couple of hours later and resumed where he left off. Nothing more was said on the subject of the pressure cooker. Thank God.

Definition of a Miracle was written by Farida N. Bedwei and is an excerpt from her début novel of the same name.

Copyright © Farida N. Bedwei 2010.

Farida Nana Efua Bedwei (1979-) was born in Lagos, Nigeria, and spent most of her childhood in Dominica, Grenada and the U.K. before the family moved to Ghana when she was nine.

She got Cerebral Palsy when she was 10 days old, and was home schooled by her mother until she was 12 years old when she entered mainstream school for the first time. To the surprise of all, she excelled and has risen to become one of the top software engineers in Ghana.

Definition of a Miracle is her first novel.