Notes From Prison

Dear reader, please be advised that this is a long read of over 5K words. Despite that, we are certain you will have a blast with it. – Sleeicktales

He opened his eyes and stared at the blurry images on TV. After a few seconds the words reached his ears “On the news today; it has been three months since the horrendous escape of Nigeria’s Number One Most Wanted: McCallugen Kola Otunba from the All Saints’ Prison. M.K.O broke out using brutal tactics. The police authorities are promising Nigerians that he would be caught with immediate alacrity.” The nurse turned off the TV set with a hiss that lashed out with venom.

“You shouldn’t be watching that. I thought I told Cecilia to put the station on SuperSports or Africa Magic for you. I don’t want anything to traumatize you”

He wore a mask of confusion. The last few days, weeks, had moved too fast for him to grasp. He had no clue why he was lying on a hospital bed or why the Independent Detective Squad (IDP) and Special Crime Unit (SCU) kept swarming round him like bees around a honeypot. He understood though, and appreciated the constant bible study sessions and prayer retreats his mother had set up in his private ward. He would have to repay his mother for the kindness later, even though this was in her job description.

“Traumatize?” he asked, finally daring to brave the truth.

“Yes oo.” She removed his bed cover and flapped it in the air, making cackling sounds in the process. He let the import sink in, this was not a hotel, this was a local Nigerian hospital where bed covers, duvets, bed sheets are not changed; they are flapped. “I know you can’t remember because you have retrograde amnesia but you were attacked by that assassin bully fellow, M.K.O”

“Attacked? M.K.O? Isn’t that the guy on the news? Why would he attack me? What did I do to him?”

“Calm down na. According to what I have heard oo it was said that…”

“Hello nurse” Detective Okoro said as he walked into the ward.

“Hel…hello Detective. Wellcone. Welledcon. Welcome!” The nurse blushed, bowed slightly and all but ran out of the ward in girlish excitement.

The patient looked amused as he stared at the new visitor. He watched him walk towards the bedside table and drop some items on it. On his left index finger was a black tungsten ring. Clearly that was not enough deterrent for his obviously teeming fans. His mannerism during his last visits had pitched him at roughly 45 years of age, his looks though were that of a 32 year old model. His suit and tie did nothing to hide the effect of constant visits to the gym. In a land where accomplished men let out their stomachs as a sign of affluence, this man, big in his own right, has proven to be an exception to the rule.

“I brought some fruits for you Sebastine. How do you feel this morning?” he asked

“Do you care or are you interested in poking holes into my head” Sebastine knew Detective Okoro meant no harm, a seeker of truth who would go to hell to interrogate the devil for it, but Sebastine had made up his mind not to like him, good looks and all.

“Sebastine. I am here for your sake as well as mine. Truth is an uncommon gem that must be found and treasured” Detective Okoro had since learnt to deal with Sebastine’s crude and sarcastic remarks. He selected up an orange and tossed it to Sebastine, picked up a Get Well Soon card and burrowed his eyes into it. “So in the spirit of truth hunting I have come here again, dear friend. You see M.K.O’s escape is still a mystery. I hate mysteries. Like the mystery of O J Simpson or the mystery of God saying ‘Let there be light’ and what not. I like the unravelling of a good twisted plot to reveal a soft succulent interior, like unwrapping the leaves around moi moi.”

The Detective looked at Sebastine and immediately took a sharp breath. Sebastine looked aghast. He held the orange in his right palm and stared at it with the morose look of a hypnotised man.

“Sebastine?”

“He liked oranges”

“Who? M.K.O?”

“Yes. I remember the first time he had to kill. I remember it was because of an orange.”

Sebastine drew in a deep breath and exhaled as he looked out of his window, past the fluttering curtains, into the atmosphere, hearing his voice as clearly as the man next to him, reading his words as clearly as the scribbles on the window sill. These are the note of McCallugen Kola Otunba.

He remembered what the notes said like he was reading it right now.

I am McCallugen K. Otunba. My English spoken is poor. My English writen is poor. If you read this now without my know, I will kill you dead. If you read this now with my know, don’t judge me. I tell you in this notes some of me and experiences. If you read this now with my know and you judge me, I will kill you dead.

I am orphan and no mother no papa. I learn to survive in on the street. I steal. I run. One day I kill. I will tell you of that one day. If you know about that one day, then you will see why I am McCallugen K. Otunba.

I have not eat anything for 3 days. I am 12years boy. Tired. My body paining me. Badly. I walk slowly in street and I see different people. But I am scared. I cannot beg anybody for food again. People look at you like shit is in your mouth. Some people even hit you if you beg them. 2 days I have not eat. Today 3 day. I remember in the orphan house there is food. But they beat you every time so I run away. One day they leave me outside to sleep at night in cold because I piss in gutter. I tell them toilet dirty. They say I not thank them for giving me toilet. Another day they put me in cupboard with rat because I eat slow. I tell them I sick. They tell me if the sick not slow my mouth to talk why it slow it to eat. So I run away. They wicked people. Wicked for no reason. If person wicked because, then it OK but if person wicked for no reason that is shit. My food supply have finished so now I am hungry. And then one man see me and give me one biscuit and say to me “Son, you are in luck. Today is Sunday”. I say to the man “So?” He smile and say to me “Today is church day. Church is where good people gather. If you go the church by that corner, sit at the side of the gate. When people come out, smile wide and beg them for food. They are church people and church people are happy and good people.” I smile. I no go church in orphan home. Sunday, Monday, Thursday, every day no different day. I can already see food in my stomach. So I run, I no walk, I run to church and stand by gate.

People start to come out. Plenty people. Very plenty people. I have not see plenty beautiful people all at once. Very soon they reach gate. I am very happy. I see them smiling, some laughing. Yes, church people happy people. It remain to be good people. And then they reach gate. One by one. I smile. I beg. One by one they pass me. I smile more. I beg more. One by one they pass me. Tears reach my eye. I cry. I smile. I cry more. I beg. One by one they pass me. They go to a place where plenty car is. I still cry. I still smile. I still beg. One by one they still pass me. Then my cry slow small. Gradually I get angry. More and more. My fist form balls. I am shaking in anger. “I thought church people good people. How can they see small boy crying and begging and one by one they pass?” I thought. I am vibrating. Foam form at my mouth from anger. I have not eat and all my hunger now plenty anger. And then I see it. One mother stop one orange seller boy. Buy plenty orange in black nylon. Two children beside her, she give them one one. “Orange. Orange. Orange.” I chant to me. “Aaaaaaaarrrrggghhhhh!!!” I scream. I become mad. So I run like mad man and I run to mother and children. As I reach I see the Papa run to stop me. He frown like I have shit in my mouth. I jump and punch him in face. He not expecting it. Then I punch him in stomach and kick his head. He look around and try to stand, I match him down and kick his head again with all my power. He lie down and not move much. I think he have die and I caIm small. All I want is orange. And then I see him move again. I mad more. I look around in madness. I see big stone. I jump and use stone to hit Papa in the head. Children are screaming. Mother is begging. They look confuse. I know they think I wicked, but I know they wicked. I look at the Mother. I look at the children. Their face make my anger boil. “Aaaarrrrrrrrrggghhhhh” I shout and hit Papa again and again and again and again. People running to stop me. One man tried touch me. I kick him in the balls and roll away from him. I quickly carry the nylon of orange and I run away. Orange. I am saved.

People say now McCallugen K. Otunba bad man. I say “Me bad? No. You bad. Hypocite.”

 

“How is he doing?” Detective Okoro asked the old woman. She sat cross-legged on the cold floor of the ward, peeling garlic and popping into her mouth. The Detective tried not to wince at the repellent garlic smell. It made his eyes water. She was a puny yet intimidating woman. An overly protective mother. This could be the reason why her mature son had still been living with her even before his ordeal. Her beady eyes swept him from toe to head and then she hissed.

“How else will he be? When you people will not let my son recover in peace”

“Madam, I’m sorry but your son is the only lead we have in this very important case and after what he said three days ago it seems his memory is returning gradually” the Detective explained calmly.

“Oga Detective abeg don’t blow me grammar. Look at my son! He’s a not like himself anymore. He was fine before oo and then you visited and he has been staring in the air like he is seeing Obanje. I bind every evil spirit in this place in Jesus name. Amen.” the old woman cried. “He never should have taken that prison job, as a janitor oo. But as work no dey nko?”

The Detective sighed. His mother had shared a similar faith with this old woman. A strong overbearing faith that seemed to equate every occurrence with the existence of God. An existence which He had chosen to hide from his faithful servant Sebastine. Else, why would a chronic sinner attack God’s own, did He not declare that no one should touch his anointed and do His prophets no harm? Religious nonentity. “Please ma, let me quickly have a word with him.”

The old woman stared at him like she was only just recognizing him. “Eh ehn. So this is really your plan, to kill my son finally finally. Jesus saved him from that M.K.O fellow and now Okoro wants to finish the work of the enemy. You will not succeed. Get thee behind me satan Okoro.”

Detective Okoro decided not to engage in this battle. He grabbed a seat and settled in. He would wait this one out. Sebastine had only just started remembering. The bit of the story he said the other day shed light on M.K.O’s person. Unfortunately, it shed only a little light like a lady’s mini skirt, short enough to be provocative but long enough to be decent.

You are lucky to be here. Just in case you don’t fully understand, you are the only man in history who has survived an attack from that Timothy fellow. You should be thanking your stars.”

I work at All Saints’ Prison, Lagos. I got the job when my mother, who was working two jobs at the time, spoke to her amebo friend about her over-age housemate. “He sits on the settee, which I bought, moping in space like a couch potato sometimes and other times typing into his laptop, which I bought, and doing nothing. The only good thing in his life is that he watches Trinity Broadcasting Network, Discovery Channel and so on. It’s not even showing in his body sef. He does not even have a lady that he is toasting, even if it is somebody’s wife. Is this what Obodoyibo does to people?” For some outlandish reason the word America had refused to stay in my mother’s vocabulary.

I got the job after ‘some strings were pulled’ and began immediately. Baggy dark blue overall, big boots that give ants nightmares and a moping stick serving as a cleaning tool and a defence weapon against the prisoners that always seemed to have itchy fingers was my getup. It is a drab job and my countdown to the end of the day always begins the moment I wake up. These days though, I have been super excited about work. Mother noticed immediately and asked me if I was doing runs with some prisoners, on the side. Typical. “No” I replied, hurt “I am dedicated to my job and don’t have time for frivolities” I am such a bad liar.

The truth is, I stumbled across and have been reading a prisoner’s diary. Any prisoner and it might not have been intriguing but this prisoner – is as evil to the evil villain world as Father Christmas is to the good children world, a print in the sands of time, a biography in our social studies that would forever be told. The media is worse than lawyers, well that is what a political prisoner said the other day when he read the newspaper, a luxury in the prison world, and saw a bit of news concerning a former politician. He claimed to have been in cohorts with the accused and knew the actual events and he exclaimed that it had been distorted in the media. I know the tabloids would not be kind to this prisoner’s excellent tale, I know they would bend it to suit justice and so I see that my life mission is to extract the truth – which I have pursued by reading bits and pieces of the prisoner’s diary whilst he was out for lunch or out for free periods.

Today, the prisoner is being taken to his execution. McCallugen Kola Otunba is to be killed, permanently and diaries will be open for public perusal where I alone am the people.

The bus going from Ojuelegba to Surulere is a 20 minutes journey. Today, on this fine day filled with rosy anticipation, there is a blockage which has kept us for over an hour. I am edgy. What if the authorities get the other janitor to clean out the gold mine? What if the stash is discovered where it is properly wrapped under the squeaky clean water closet? I have to calm down, I tell myself – so I do what every other rational man who pries into the lives of other men would do in the circumstance. I pull out from my sling bag some photocopied notes, which I had managed to photocopy in the Registrar’s office, after bribing him handsomely.

Notes of McCallugen Kola Otunba it read.

The bus conductor has still not given me my change for paying him 100 naira for a 50 naira bus fare. Pompous prick. I know I would punch him in the face if he keeps this up. It is true that evil communication corrupts good manners. I am not exactly an epitome of morals, I mean I might unwillingly lead my friend’s son into doing diabolical but in all I am not a violent man. Yet here I am, sitting in this bus, fantasizing of how I could punch directly into the conductor’s chest to alter his breathing, kick the side of his knee to tweak his balance and while he is reeling I would pull his head down to meet my elbow. I have never done it before but I know I can. All because McCallugen Kola Otunba can do it. I sigh in disappointment as the bus conductor stretches out his arm to give me my change.

I cross the express way and walk to the prison. It has a false appearance of being very small from the outside. The early builders were blind visionaries who planted big mango trees just outside the fence to provide security they say. These trees, instead now provide shelter to several bread and butter, sweet and chewing gum, orange and mango, boli and groundnut, biscuit and plantain chips hawkers who had come to the most desolate place in the city to make money. I stride past the sellers, greeting the ones who know my face and nodding to the others who meet my gaze. In Nigeria, you have to be on speaking terms with everybody, at least. You have no idea where the next bullet would fly from and who would point the right direction of escape out to you – you also have no idea the day you misplace your wallet and need to eat of the various delicacies showcased, a good reputation will get you a treat on credit and a bad or worse, no reputation will get you curses.

I walk into the small one-room, one-window lounge which serves as the security post. Abu’s face lights up when he sees me. “Person pikin” he exclaims. At first, I revolted the vulgar reference to my father. Though I never met him for mother said he ran away after jetting his seeds into her and realizing one had parked, I did not tolerate allusions to him that might be even a tad bit derogatory. But as time went on, I realized Abu never even had my father in mind when he gave that greeting. Never. It was what it was, a salutation. “Ah, better pikin. You look like your mama pikin. I sure say you go sabi the thing. Fresh boy. Sesy boy” He laughs so vulgarly you would think he just cheated death. “How paroles?” It is common in this part of the world to have conversations filled with rhetorical questions. Some, downright stupid. “I am good sir. How’s the fam?” I reply, bending over the register to write my name down. “We are hustling na, my brother. God go punish this country. You believe say bus price don increase?” he lamented, lucky spittle escaping from his mouth. His gist sparks a burning fire in me. “Yes oo! I entered the bus today and the bus conductor told me 50 naira. I said shuo, when did it increase from 30 to 50. He just shouted at me. I for slap that guy spirit, reset his medulla oblongata.” “Oyibo! Grammarian! English speaking somebody” he hails me enthusiastically. I laugh as I walk out of the lounge towards the main building shouting a “see you later” to him.

The building itself is an architectural mistake. The guest room is the first room you enter before the guest registration room. The room is a small 5 x 4 in a country where criminals are checked in like it’s a free education program. In a way though, it is an educational institution for in the Nigerian prison you are taught to be brass and tough – and to bath with your eyes open, never dropping the soap. I think of my man MKO and how lucky he is to be tough and known, for if you are tough and unknown you would have to prove it in the prison, he does not have to. The guest room is filled as usual, filled with strong mothers who put their tears in the fridge at home and come here with smiles and prayers fresh from heaven at the tip of their tongues, filled with fathers with shame in their eyes telling the knowledge that they had failed somewhere somehow, filled with hungry police men and prison wardens who know their children school fees had better come out of the nettled community before them, filled with brothers with admiration in their eyes knowing their imprisoned brothers are cool, filled with sisters looking like they had other places to be, other men they would rather have stare down their low-top dresses and exposed laps. The guest room is filled to the brim with gravidity and it is only 5:45am.

I wonder if anybody has come to pay his condolences to MKO seeing that today is his last day on planet earth, if anybody does care about him – as much as I do. When I first encountered his diary, I tried picking his story up as a conversation with some of the guards and countless rumours rolled in. One said once upon a time McCallugen asked a fruit seller if he had any fruits with liquid because he was thirsty. The boy had replied yes and rummaged his sack for a wanton amount of time. When he brought his head up he said he did not have any, and in a fit of rage MKO punched the boy’s skull, smashed his head with his two palms and drank his brain. Another said one time he was in Sterling Towers in Marina and had to snipe a particular fan in the National Stadium in Onikan. He said McCallugen pitched himself in his sniper position and begun humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The fan was said to have noticed the red dot on his chest and kissed his daughter’s forehead just before the bullet ripped a hole in his heart. “Ludicrous” I screamed for the positioning of the two locations made this tale impossible. Besides who would know what a man hums as he carries out a solitary kill.

The fan in the registration room is old and bent and makes squeaky sounds as if a high voltage supply could make it spin out of its axis and slice some skins on its way down. I register my name, acknowledging the officer fiddling with his blackberry. Wetin concern baboon with jeans is a phrase used to denote an absurd relationship between two entities such as this old officer fiddling with a modern gadget. I do not need to change clothing for I came dressed in my overall. I have barely slept since my supervisor told me he wanted me to clean out MKO’s cell. “Clean out?” I had asked. I had never cleaned out any cell and had no idea what that meant. I was replied in a somewhat rude manner – O how I wish I could spin a kick on the side of that man’s head. I owe a lot to MKO. He is in some ways, my hero. The only man who has truly inspired me. Through his tales of victory and losses as he journeys through life in an assassin web he cannot escape, I am able to relate to the rat race life presents before us. When he talked about his first assignment after joining the underground Assassin Secret Squad (ASS) in Nigeria where he was meant to go kidnap some innocent girls, he stood and told his superior he did not think it was ethical to do that. He was nearly killed as a result. Over the years, as he bloodied his hands to save his own life, his conscience would never leave him and he would be a man torn by grief between the evil he does and the evil he knows not to do. I find myself in him. We humans are all capable of good; but that is what it is, a capacity. It requires a queer ability to tap into that well and do the good which satisfies your conscience, your conscience being a judge to himself and not to the other. MKO made this point when the target of his group was a little boy. A fellow assassin slit his throat a little and the child choked slowly leaving his mother in a hell of anguish. MKO shot the mother in the head though it was not part of the contract – in his rationale, he did good to save her from the unbearable grief and he knows others would not agree with his sentiment. I agree. I love it.

As I walk into his cell, I cannot help myself, I let out a wild whoop. I feel like a teenager left with internet and a hard on as I scramble to the back of the water closet to retrieve my morphine. The time is now 6:10am. He is scheduled to be executed by 6am sharp. My hero should be dead by now. It would be painless with a death shot from the Syringe Of After-Life. I had promised myself I would mourn him. Yes I would, after I read and re-read his memoir and publish it under the guise of an assassin cum investigative journalist yearning for truth and when I am sitting in my mansion in Banana Island with my Samsung 3D Smart TV which obeys my blinks, then I would mourn him. He is my hero, that’s why I would mourn him. After all, I should love my neighbour, but only as myself. Not more. I pick the memoirs up and quickly skim to where I stopped last week: the legendary fight between MKO and the equally frightening Hangu ‘The Beast’ Obeke. Hangu was the assassin who despite his enormous size was a master of stealth. He was adjudged to have snuck up on two guards during a mission while they were deep in conversation. Swinging his axe in a wild yet accurate motion he decapitated both of them – rumours have it that they were still conversing with heads on the floor. I took a deep breath and began reading.

 

…and to die. I am tired. Hangu too. I big man. But Hangu BIG MAN. We are both bend down. We have fight this great battle for about one hour now. I no use to fight long because I quickly kill any enemy. I think in my mind its same thing for Hangu. Blood on my body everywhere from many wound. I don’t know where wound is. My body paining me like train hit me. I squeeze my muscle. This pain I can reduce later. Now is fight. Hangu has blood on body too. I look around room slowly, still watching Hangu. People everywhere seeing us. Nobody say anything, no sound from anywhere, all of them afraid. Room very big. This warehouse for many import export item. I come to kill drug lord, drug lord hire Hangu to protect him. I have never fail mission before, this is tough one the most. I must kill Hangu and kill drug lord badly. Me and Hangu look at middle of room. The gun is there. On floor. I shoot five shoot before. So one bullet remain. First to reach it. Life. Second to reach it. Death. We no breath. Silence. And then Hangu move like lightening. He run. He fast. I faster. I dive and hold his leg. I bring Hangu down and jump on him, knee on his chest. Five quick powerful fist blows. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. I see one teeth break and another teeth fall from mouth. My fist tear. Hangu face swollen. Hangu hit my side and hold my head, bring it down and head-butt me. Then he push me away. As I fall he lay kick on my stomach. Blood leave my mouth. He stand up and run again. I use leg to sweep him to the ground. We stand up together and I rush to him. I know Muay Thai well. I jump and use knee to smash Hangu face. I kick the inside of his knee and punch his face. I jump again and raise hand high to use sharp elbow to smash Hangu back when he lift me up in the air. I am tired more than Hangu so he throw me easily on floor and match me immediately. He jump on me and use my head to hit ground two times. I no feel anything. My mind getting black with tire. Hangu hold my head with one hand and punch me with other hand. He punch me till I can’t count. I feel like death already. As Hangu stand from me I try to kick him but he fist blow me on my rib. My rib crack. I scream and fall. When I look up again Hangu bending down to pick gun. One day assassin mission was to ship and we learn about anchor. Anchor very heavy. My body feel like ship anchor on my chest. I know that if I don’t move now Hangu kill me. I run fast, forget pain, dive and catch Hangu hand as he turn around. I try to bend Hangu hand to face him. Hangu try to bend hand to face me. We struggle. Our breathing heavy. Hangu mouth smell. That kind of smelling mouth should no be in this world. I will remove the smell. Power for Power we struggle. But my power small because I am tired. But I tell myself I cannot die. I have suffer too much in this life not to enjoy too much. Hangu hand close to me. More seconds and he shoot and kill me…and then all of a sudden I remember joke amongst assassins…joke about how one woman save self when huge man hold her tight to squeeze her to death…joke stupid but might save me, I think. So I go forward and I do what man don’t do. I do what I know if I have mama alive, mama would not proud of me. I go forward and I kiss Hangu. On mouth. Hangu shock. That is what I was waiting for. I feel Hangu power on hand reduce. Immediately I bend hand. I put gun in his mouth and I…

I stop suddenly because the room darkened. Rain? It promised to be sunny. Strangely though, I cannot turn around. I am frozen to the spot I am in. My breathing comes in rasps – who knew air could be heavy on the nose. My sweat pores enlarge and my body flows with water. My logical senses tell me the only source of light is the doorway and if light has gone then either the source of light has swapped or the doorway has been blocked. My mind wills it to be the former. It has to be. God would not be cruel for it to be otherwise. No He would not. I remembered the words of some preacher I saw on TBN, he said “Jesus will save you. He is right there when you need him. Just call on him” “Jesus” I silently cry. Slow motion seems activated as I turn around like a maiden flaunting her poise, and I come into the full glare of my terrible idol – McCallugen Kola Otunba.

I piss myself.

I feel my trousers get soaked gradually as I stand there giving leaves a lesson in shaking. The feeling though is an out-of-body experience. I float away, rising with the hot air looking down on the two human creatures with disdain in my eyes and callous on my lips. I stare at my body swaying in the windless room and I gawp at the monster standing before me. He is a monster – terrible in demeanour, dreadful in aura. He is a thick set man with muscles in his gum, a scar running from his left eye to the right side of his chin. I shudder to think of how he got it. His square jaw looks perpetually set and the fire in his eyes are orange, a result from being overly red. I do a mental check to find out if I am soiled at my buttocks. My hero, MKO, is a terrifying man. I question the value of my existence, the size of my dust-size life comes into full glare. What have I lived for? The words of the preacher come again, “Jesus will save you. He is right there when you need him. Just call on him.” This Jesus, I wondered, was more powerful than MKO?

“Who you?”

The voice is so soft, so gentle, that it can easily be misconstrued for an open-arm invitation. I remember an occasion as this, happened a long time ago when I was just a little boy. My mother had gone to the market, I had heated up my food on the gas cooker. I blew a puff of air into the fire and it went out. When my mother got back in the evening, a sniff in the living room told her the whole story. She asked me in a calm voice “Sebastine, did you turn off the knob after warming your food?” It was so silent, so peaceful that I answered gleefully, almost rejoicing. I will never forget the slap I received. Now, MKO cannot deceive me with his voice, I will retain my high wall of fear.

“My name? My name. My name is Sebastine”

“Sabastein”

‘Correct him and die’. Stupid conscience.

“Yes” I squeak. I am vaguely aware of the smell rising from my person. I hope he cannot tell, cannot tell I am petrified, tell that while I am sickly delighted to see him: I am worried stiff that I will never have the opportunity to show my loyalty to his person before he does me in. I was once scared to death when I left that girl, who had diabolical plans for me, at the altar, because her dad was major male Obanje, I was scared he would send his spiritual army against me. But not nearly as scared as I am now – in the presence of McCallugen Kola Otunba.

“Sabastein, what you do?”

My mouth opens like Kanji Dam. I need this opportunity to show MKO I am on his side, and while I do not understand why he is standing in front of me instead of lying in the morgue, I would do anything for him. I need him to know that I felt his hurt and empathized with his loneliness, to know I am his brother. So I speak. I tell him of his sick demented childhood and added that it was similar to mine, in an ironical sense, whilst he was battling tests that pitched him against blood thirsty men, I was battling tests that pitched me against a tear hungry mother. The similarity, I argue, is in the solitude of our battles. He listens patiently, unmoving, to my tales. This is not in the least bit disturbing because I know he is a meticulous man, taking his time to ensure his kills are absolute. I tell him of the mission where he had to shoot whilst hanging upside down and how I laughed at this point or that point. And then I mention Claire.

I did not see him move, I did not see the black creep up – I did not feel the pain.

In a far way resort, a large man lay on the beach. He looked around him and saw people. People walking with people. People talking with people. People being with other people. People in pairs. He gazed at the birds up above. Even they were flying in pairs. A saddened look fell upon him. He picked up a set of notes from the beach sand. And he wrote the word Claire.

He picked some sheets from within his rock sack and he located a particular one and began reading.

 

I see Claire and her Mama when she be just ten years old. She resemble small boy when I see her. My eyes red when she hit me with that stick. Imagine me McCallugen Kola Otunba, twenty-fife years old and small ten years old girl hit me. I would have shoot her and her mama for there but I have mercy. First time I have mercy in my whole life. Her mama have rape. Sory. Her mama been rape plenty times by my men so she want to die. She beg me to kill her because she shame for Claire to see her like that. I not kill her mama. If I kill her mama, I kill Claire because I cannot care for small girl. I give them small money and help them to excape because Moruf boys still in the town will find her and continue to rape her before they kill her dead. I wear my big coat and face cap when I take them to bus-park. No one to see me. I cannot believe I do this. I know I no kind, I know I wicked man. Claire hug me tight like she no afear of me before she and her Mama enter the bus. Then she say “God bless you in Jesus name”. Who God in my life, I wonder. What Jesus do for me? I kill him dead if I see him. Rubbish.

 

I have not see Claire in long time. Since her Mama die and I come to burial. I stand in back so she will no see me. But she know I am there. She find me after the pasitor talk finish. She sit beside me and rest her head for my shoulder. Then she cry. I just sit there and hold hand. Claire is seventeen years old now. She have grow to beautiful girl, tall and slim like queen. She like to smile and I ask her why. Life not fair to her but she still smile. She say God have give us so much to be thankful for. I not understand but I take it because Claire say it. She call me her hero. Say I save her and her Mama. I tell her I am devil but she say “That means I’m your angel”. She go to UNILAG because she pass Jamb. She want to be doctor. I give her money for school fees and accommodation. I have plenty money. Plenty. Nobody to spend it on top. She say she will still get job. Claire is strong girl. That was last time I see Claire. Next time I see her she is twenty years old. She have boyfriend and I am angry. I want to squeeze his neck till his eyes leave his head. Claire grow more beautiful every day. I shame to stand near her because I so ugly. But she take me out to buka to eat fried rice, then she show me her classroom. We buy ice cream and I am shame to tell her it is my first ice cream in this life. I have to go because I have job in Abuja. She hate my job. I give her some money. She cannot phone me. Only me that phone her. Safer for her like that. I have plenty enemies. She hug me again and I smell her hair. She smell like lily. She tell me “God bless you in Jesus name.” and I want to say “I love you”. But I shut up. No use. She cannot love ugly bad man Otunba. She is angel.

 

Claire no answer phone. 20 times. I fear. I fear for bad thing. Claire no forget date with me. Ever. I rush to her school, then her room. I see door is open small. I remove gun. Fast. I enter room and my mouth open. House scatter. Everywhere look like fight. I search and search for Claire and then I see her finally in the wardrobe. Claire. My Claire. Rape and killed. I see paper on her body. Paper say

“A life for a life. You took mine, I take yours. What will you do now?”

The Castellos. The Frankie-Personni. The Hunnayas. The Farouks. Who do this? I touch her hair. I touch her body. I put my lip on her lip. It very cold. I hear but I no hear when roommate come. I hear but I no hear shout. I hear but I no hear when police come. I no fit even fight arrest.

I just cry.                                                                                           

 

This post has input from Cynthia Amande of https://alakoweh.com

Photo Credit: Alicesuffragette.co.uk/

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