40

Life can be very mysterious and death, even more so. It’s the mystery of death that makes it so intriguing, so exciting, so unpredictable. I think it was one of my favourite rappers that said “people fear what they don’t understand, hate what they can’t conquer…” How very apt.

He sat at his usual table; The one close to the windows, from where he could view the cars as they sped home to one or more family members after a long day at the office or wherever it is they had been. He often wondered when he would have that sort of life, have someone to go home to. Not tonight though, he must have thought as he gulped down what remained of the drink in his glass. It had become a sort of routine for Nonso to come to this bar on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, relax with an expensive bottle of red wine and stumble out afterwards in search of some lady of easy virtue to spend the night with. Nonso was a top executive at Santi & Santi Construction, up until he was discovered to have falsified the accounts brilliantly and stored up for himself a large chunk of the firm’s earnings.

I really don’t blame him you see, the rains had started and I had only suggested he save for the rainy day.

If you could venture into Nonso’s mind as he sat there at his favourite table, you would discover that he wasn’t just looking at the cars and wondering, he was also remembering. Yes he was remembering from whence he had fallen. You see, Nonso was quite the collector; He had the vintage cadillacs and Bentleys in his garage back in the day and these were just a fraction of the automobiles he had. No he wasn’t robbed, he didn’t have his vehicles impounded by the government, Let’s just say he made an investment and it was time to pay.

“A promise is a debt, and a promise unkept could lead to death.” Don’t bother googling that or seeking out who coined it, beloved Google doesn’t have all the answers, trust me. I digress…

It’s really not as bad as it seems, afterall the bottle of vintage wine is proof that Nonso is doing a bit well for himself. Having that bottle at least twice a week must be a luxury that he can afford? Or isn’t it? Having expensive tastes can be quite… expensive and Nonso wasn’t about to allow his craving for the good things of life dwindle. To his ‘benefit,’ he had a tab with this bar to which he added all his purchases. What they didn’t know was that he couldn’t afford the paper on which his debt was recorded, how much less the payment.

Where am I going with all this and how did Nonso get here? Calm down, read on and you might just learn a thing or two.

Nonso wasn’t always one to patronise the hot girls that stood under the neon lights. Matter of fact, he once had a girl who was the cynosure of all eyes and the envy of many. Kate was her name. She had flawless skin that glowed and eyes that stared deep into your soul. Her lips held secrets that your lips wanted to hear and her hour glass shape must have been the prototype when creation was created. Oh and she was Nonso’s, up until that night when number four was struck off the list. He looked at his glass, probably hoping he would see her through it, walking into the bar with a smile and a “Happy birthday” on her lips.

Twenty three years earlier…

“…and I sha.. I… I… I shall keep the secrets of this society an.. and.. take them to… to… to the grave…” “Read out that line again before I slap you, idiot!” The words barked out of the mouth of Ringo were like thunder claps and the seventeen year old boy shuddered again as he did as he was told amidst teary eyes and snort dripping nose. He still wasn’t sure how he got here; this was an innocent Matriculation party just minutes ago and now it seemed like a scene out of some Nollywood movie. The slap that his face attracted jolted him back to reality. “READ OUT THAT LINE AGAIN!!!” Nonso would swear an oath of secrecy and eventually be furnished with details of membership of “the Diablo.” It wasn’t just any other cult; they didn’t involve themselves in campus violence or any such things. This was a strictly sacrificial society; ensuring that the storehouse of meat never ran dry. As their motto stated: “…that there be meat in the storehouse.” There were benefits of course and these were listed…

1. Prosperity in business and Stupendous wealth
2. Property
3. Protection
4. Beautiful partners…

The list went on and on and ended at number 40.

Number 40 was blank.

It was on number 40 that Nonso had appended his blood smeared thumb print.

I was there Twenty three years ago. Matter of fact, I’d been here long before all of this. I’ve watched Nonso and the others rise to the zenith of their careers and eventually plummet all the way down into nothingness. It really is a beauty to behold. Lots have gone before him, all of a sudden just wiped off the face of the earth like they never existed. You see, the agreement was clear (or so I thought) but I guess the slaps and tear filled eyes do not exactly aid clear vision. Our motto is “…that there be meat in the storehouse.” Our storehouse cannot be empty and when this seems to be the norm, something has to be done.

No, don’t start thinking I’m the Devil. God forbid. How evil and vile. Have you forgotten so soon how I contributed to where Nonso is today? It was I who suggested he save for a rainy day, it was I who caused his path to cross Kate’s. It was even I who eventually struck her name off the list. Yeah, number 4 had to go because, hey, meat was needed.

I’m watching Nonso sip the remnants of his drink and I smile to myself. Whoever said “the things you don’t know won’t kill you” is probably dead out of ignorance now. Ringo and all the other guys who were members of this cult have breathed their last. All going down the same path, having all they had taken from them till they became shadows of themselves. It was an agreement marked in blood and as such, much more sacred than any other. Nonso had exhausted his 39 benefits. He had agreed to leave this earth on his 40th birthday. He just didn’t know it.

Number 40 was blank.

His blood was shed on that number. That day. Today.

He put down the glass and stumbled out into the night…

I’m just a collector.

Cruising

Marriage is not for the lily-livered. As a matter of fact, many things concerning this union are just beginning to become clear to me. The fuck was I thinking when I got into this? What grade of Mushrooms was I overdosed on? You know how it’s referred to an Institution and shit? That’s just what it is; a mental union dedicated to driving you crazy! I’m not cut out for this together forever life, Who was the lonely nigga that thought this all up and made it part of the journey of life? Had I known, I would gladly have avoided this street.

The scales are falling. “Marriage- a tying of knots” more like “the tying of MY nuts”

It was still the honey moon and here I was trying to get accustomed to this new status of being the husband. Forgive me but I had non-existent, prior experience on the job so I naturally felt fucking up some times came with the territory. Trisha seemed to have read the manual on Marriage 101 as she kept on telling me what was expected of me. This was in no way fun because I thought the union was all about fucking, making them little monsters called kids and just ensuring that the partner is fit enough for more fuck sessions. And based on my peculiar desires, kids were already out of the equation (at least for now) so this was just about the fucking. Fuck your opinions.

The honeymoon was a blast, we couldn’t seem to get our hands off each other and we made sure we left evidence of our presence in every corner of our suite in Ibiza.

From the kitchen to the bedroom, the terrace to the living area, I made Trish realize that sex is the best form of working out. We would take naps in each other’s arms and fuck our way into the kitchen just to make lunch, have some and then fuck all the way back. Needless to say Kevin Prince-Boateng is an Inspiration. If there is anything I pride myself in, it is my ability to go the distance. In all my 46 relationships past, I cannot remember anytime where I was the exhausted party when it came to sex. In Trisha, I had met my match… almost.

“If you can’t stand the heat, stay outta the fucking kitchen!”

Ibiza is a beautiful place to be and I recommend it highly to anyone who seeks a fun place to ease out and have the time of their lives. Naturally, it wasn’t my choice that we honeymoon here and I wasn’t much concerned as long as I could afford it. We would go out to the beach in the evenings and enjoy the beauty of nature (seriously, the beach?) On more than one occasion, I was caught staring at the ladies as they jogged by in their birthday suits, their breasts bouncing to the rhythm of the imaginary musical sequence playing in their head, their hair trying to catch up, tossed behind by the wind. This was indeed the beauty of nature.

“Baby, You need to stop staring at these women, you’re a married man now” the words would filter in through my distracted senses. Now I know I haven’t read any of the codes of conduct of Marriage and being the bad guy I am, avoided those boring as fuck counseling sessions but where the fuck is it written that a married man cannot admire the beauty he beholds? Fuck this shit! I was always quick to tell of how hard it is to be blind to the obvious. Of course, I’d get the silent treatment and we’d go back to our suite and fuck ourselves numb. Yes fuck what you heard, Dialogue doesn’t solve shit!

Ibiza wasn’t just about the pleasure for me, I had decided to make the most of my time here. On arrival, I had met Lord Cummings. You know his type; those stuck up British aristocrats that reek of money and pride. He was here for a little holiday and we had shared a couple of drinks at one of the bars on the beach. He introduced himself as a member of the House of Commons (although, nothing seemed common about him) and had come this way to purchase a cruise liner for his daughter. I must add at this point that Lord Cummings had made a pass at me, the fucker! winking his sorry English eyes at a nigga. I smartly rebuffed him and made it clear that I was here on my Honeymoon. I believe he caught my drift as he subsequently ceased further advances. He got me interested in the idea of the cruise liner and even offered to sell me a smaller one for a very fair figure.(I was going to surprise my love with it) It was these business dealings that would take me away from the arms of my beloved for most part of the afternoon. Of course, I wasn’t ignorant of the reason we were here, so I’d make it back just in time for us to have our beach-relaxing sessions and eventual fuck-olympics.

Trisha was a monster in bed. I mean, I wondered how she thought up the various styles we indulged in and she went the distance, never tiring. It was a Tuesday afternoon and we were at it again. I had tied up the deal with Lord Cummings so there wasn’t need for a meeting today, I would sign the papers tonight and have the certificate of ownership transferred to me. I was thrusting my essence into her being from behind and she was moaning oh so beautifully asking me to go harder while she dug into my ass in an attempt to give motion to her words. We were to leave Ibiza the next day and we had decided to have the most memorable of days. Trisha’s moans were so loud, it seemed like they were all around the house, like they were traveling from up the stairs all the way down to the adjoining room which is where we were doing it today. “I’m cuming!” She screamed and I giggled a bit concentrating on getting the work done this first session. “Oh my God, I’m cuming!” she screamed again. “Of course you are…” the voice bellowed. The problem was; it wasn’t mine.

I felt my dick go limp. Trisha was still pushing back to meet my thrusts seemingly oblivious of what was going on. Shit. Its afternoon, he shouldn’t be here till evening. We normally do this from 2pm to 5pm after my noon to 1pm meeting with him. Why is he home? Then it hit me. Of course, our deal was sealed, he was home early. Trisha Cummings was now aware of her father’s presence and she rushed to cover up with a blanket. I was just about to explain when I noticed Lord Cummings was just wearing the usual white English “Hings” underwear. He was the reason I felt Trisha’s moans were coming from upstairs, He was obviously fucking the brains out of someone as well…as the thought settled in, my ‘wife’ Larry walked in naked.

“A leopard never changes its spots, only its victims…”

47.

The Book of Sawaleh

The empty room is dark and musty. From all appearances, it has not been entered into in many years. The air is still, the floor laden with many memories and much potential. Suddenly, the lone door swings open, creaking on it’s rusty hinges. Dariel has arrived….

“This is a strange place, this room. Stranger than most rooms I have been in. No matter, I am here to meet with the rest of the children of Hedon, my fellow tellers of tales. While I wait for them, I will tell you what I am. I am everything and I am nothing. I am a cosmic joke. As life is the opposite of death, so am I the antithesis of everything good. No, I am not lucifer – that fucking pussy. I was not created, I just am. A rip in the fabric of reality. And as to why I am here – my purpose is purposelessness. I possess, plunder, plague and pillage at will and as the fancy takes me, I tell tales. Which is the only reason I congregate with this lot. I revel in the glory of a good story. I would tell you more but it seems the others are arriving. She is here. Maqam. Damn those hips, I’m going to plunder the pleasure of those thighs one of these days”…

“I won’t indulge this thing staring at me. Probably won’t be worth the fuck.

Where are my manners? Excuse my french! I get like this when I’m testy and irritated. I have been summoned here to present myself to you all. Called by my fellow hedons to speak. And so I shall.

I am the tune you dance to at the nightclubs. I am the voice you hear over the radio. I am the sound of the trumpet at the parade. I am the notes, connotations, clefs and melodies you hear.

I am a lover of music. I hear the lyrics and turn them into tales. I would go on and on but I hear someone else coming. He’s handsome and I get the air of a brooding and serious nature. Let him speak.”

“Finally, the sun sets, and with it, my slumber. With the advent of twilight, the images of the transition of my metamorphosis are displayed behind my eyelids. I am the one who appreciates art, for life and death are art. Flawless, grosteque, divine. I am the one who cherishes love like no other, as to love is to die. I have died, but yet, still walks the earth. Darkness falls, the moon is bright, and I open my eyes. I will drink my fill of red wine and toast my immortality to the cosmos. I will live forever. I am The Count.

Within this sub-rosa world, where supernaturals exist is another transcendent being, neither man nor spirit, but both. I give you Eze Mmuo”

“King without a throne. I reside in the depths of your mind, that dark place where all your fears reside. I am the sum of stories told, legends in the making and fables to come. Cut from the same cloth as the ones in this room but of a different pattern. We’re all the same yet different.

I find a seat, an easy chair in the dark corner of the room. I feel at home here, amongst my family. The only ones who understand me. Re-incarnated too many times to count, but no body has been able to fully contain my essence. Older than the Odinani, king of the spirits, king of evil, king of death. The last title being one I share with my brother, fully mortal yet feared by even the gods. He is never far from me.

The room gets cold as he walks in, the screams of those departed echo in the minds of those seated here, announcing his entrance. Osiris…”

“The screams of the faded ones turn into screeches as I step on the dais. Building into a crescendo as if heralding the entrance of their lord. And that I am.
Some call me an assassin. Asinine cretins is what they are. I do understand though, that simple minds cannot possibly comprehend through logic who I am. No, only through the primal fear instinctive to all creatures can you begin to fathom who I am.
Birthed in blood and carnage, I was sired by hate and depravity. Silent. Dreadful. The embodiment of all things feared and loathed. The chill you feel spreading through your flesh, penetrating to the marrow within your bones tell you I am real.

Like the one after whom I am named, I am that which destroyed me. I am death. I am Osiris.”

“Shalom Shalom. Blessed are those who come under my voice this day for they shall experience boundless wisdom. Several years have I graced the surface of this world and much knowledge have I acquired from far and near corners. I have dined with the damned, made love to the cursed and fought war with the oppressed. Many years have passed and still I remain. Son became student; father became master and now the world calls me The Rabbi. Destiny married faith to purpose the day I met The Legion. Together, we have forged an inextricable brotherhood. I, my brothers and sisters are leading a battle by putting modern ink to parchment and teaching the pusillanimous mortals of this world from our amaranthine wealth of knowledge. I only hope there is yet some time for our words to reach you before the end of days. Hope; I share this emotion for I was also once hoped for but I can not say the same about he who comes after me. Monkii”

“The fear. The excitement. The sex. The blasphemy. The me. The him. The her. The we. I remember the day they found me, walking away from Princess’ house at three in the morning with tears washing my face. I remember the face of darkness that opened the door and welcomed me. One face, one man or woman – the androgynous enigma that I am now because I am joined. He kissed me with the lure of a woman and took me home and fucked me. Next time he fucked, I fucked through him as we all did, all we that are her and him. Spread your legs nigga, bitch, be fucked up the fucking arse and be us. She comes again for a taste of purple poison, she’s kissing me. I’m kissing myself, we’re touching us. Fuck! She’s just like me, sometimes. Or not. I give a fuck for Ibiere”

” Ibiere, but I’d rather you called me IB. No otherworldly, dark, mysterious name for me. You see, I am mortal. Like you. But unlike you, I’m good enough to dwell with the legion.

I need to stop fooling myself.

Dariel, Maqam, The Count, Eze Mmuo, Osiris, Rabbi, Monkii; Mayhem; Little Miss Molly; The Widow; my friends.

…the antithesis of everything good…
…king of the spirits…
…son, student, father, master, rabbi…
How can they be my friends?

Daughter of hedon, Hankerina Moody, I take what I want, when I want it and how I want it.

I don’t belong with them.

These immortals need me to operate.

Need me? Look at them, they’re all gifted. Me? I’ve got nothing. Nothing.

Without me, they are just spirits and demons without expression. It is I who makes them real. I give them shape and form and character. I give their soulless eyes colours of green, yellow and red. You see, I am you. Your mind. You.

I do not even have definition outside them.

I love these people.

Do they love me back though? Can they even?

And I am fiercely loyal to them.

Traitor!

They care.

No they don’t. Nobody does. Nobodii…”

“Me random. Can’t be fathomed. I seem incapable of passion, yet, I am action. Handsome is the eye that beholds this phantom. Doomed to greatness. Oxymoron. Constantly hands upped, yet hands on. Faceless. Mask on. This is my fashion. I am no one. No woman’s son. Not the first one, not the last one. Passed on her mansions to the beholder of the grandsons she would never meet. Amazonian feat. Draconian. Is this woman’s heat.

Through the veil, I breathe. See through eyes sheathed. Her insight to me bequeathed. Timid spirit quashed beneath the feet of the bereaved. Defeating defeat. I rise. Phoenix. Now. Behold the one who follows 46”

47

“I entered this world as ‘one’ to start a journey of ‘two’ extremes: a birth and death date, a void between..a loner on a mission of discovery, a student of ‘three’ things: women, figures and mystery. My love ‘four’ the created antipode of man cannot be explained in ‘fives’ and ‘sixes’ as things that require perfection usually take ‘several,’ carefully, calcul’eight’ed steps. Am I about to explain? Like the Germans say, ‘Nein.’

Very few things fascinate me or make me wonder. One of such is what defines me…and you; Numbers. Ever wondered how many make up this gathering? Yes, you have but it remains a mystery still. Numbers have become the bane of my existence, matter of fact OUR existence. You are all probably too fickle to see that life is just about numbers: dates , time, money, locations, IP addresses, accounts… Figured it out yet?

Why am I here and who the fuck am I? Would it help if I referred to myself as “the One?” No. Too many wannabes done already desecrated that. Well, I am he that continuously evolves, aging as days pass by +1, living in between numbers separated by slashes or dots. To some, I’m a first, an ex or a next. Still just a number…to you, I can’t be bothered to explain. Do the math… and enjoy Mayhem as you attempt”

“I am he. I am me. They say I’m a maniac, I say & know I am sane. Life is real, situations differ, Life is beautiful, people contort that. I stay focused, I stay challenged, I have dreams, I have hopes. The abyss looms, I need wings to fly. I like to see myself as a gift to the world but people like to call me ‘Mayhem’. Again I am him, he is me. I am misunderstood but I am loved. I do not know what the world thinks of me but I am certain the world thinks of me.
What do you think of The Widow? I’ll let her tell you…”

“I lay on the floor and stare at them all, waiting for the purpose of this summon to be revealed.  Hedons, the lot of them. My brethren. a widow’s only companion.

I do wonder sometimes. Who am I! Who am I not? Surely you must too, don’t you? I’m everywhere and yet I’m nowhere. I have everything, but alas I have nothing at all. Lost it all to gain it all. A pretty fine mess, if you ask me. Fret not. I come bearing gifts. Riches and pleasure and joy and life. Choose carefully what you desire. Quite honestly, it matters not. Everyone ends up paying the same price anyway. Little Miss Molly for instance…”

“You know me; you’ve known me since you were two…or is it three? Your first doll. I remember it clearly. You had a great fall once; hence you broke your first toy. You cried and whined till your mother brought you to see us; here at the mall. You stood, eying us all, teary eyed…and then you sighed. There was no one…

…till you saw me. Pretty, with a head full of flaxen locks and lace trimlets tucked to my cuffs. Ruby lips and cheeks; a beautiful dress down to my feet. Minutes later, we sat down to tea. Then you lay me down on the floor, with eyes full of curiosity. You put your thumb in your mouth, and began to suck. First you took off my shoes and giggled at their size. Then you let my hair down; took off my dress. Little trickles of spittle dropped from your lips, making me wet. The look that you had when you saw I came with pretty knickers…I stared on with glassy eyes as you peeked underneath. You are still peeking”

Peeking…

The room is full now. Of imagination, personality and presence. Much presence. The door swings shut. Illumination is introduced and a melding begins. As it has many times before. As it will many times again.

“We are Legion”

Thanks to @Cumical, @Sirkastiq, @D3ola, @0Toxic, @MallamSawyerr, @EdGothBoy, @Weird_oo, @ekwem, @Aeda_, @miafarradaily, @The_Daywalker, @JibolaL, @thetoolsman. For the contributions.

Justice

The assailant had come in through the kitchen door while she had watched her mother make dinner. She would never forget how her mother screamed when he grabbed the knife from the kitchen table after he had refused to identify himself. She would never forget how her mother’s screaming had suddenly stopped when he plunged the knife into her over and over and over again. She had wrapped her tiny arms around his leg, tears running down her face, trying to stop him. Screaming at the top of her young lungs ‘Leave her alone, please, leave my mummy alone’. He had flung her aside with one fluid motion and she had hit her head against the kitchen cabinet. She had laid there on the floor slowly losing consciousness as she watched a pool of blood surround her mother’s lifeless body. She had passed out.

She had awoken after, confused and silent at first and then the screaming began when she felt herself being ripped open as he forced himself into her. One swift blow to the head knocked her out again. She had lain there semi-conscious as he rammed himself into her tiny frame until he finally convulsed with perverse pleasure and defiled her with his seed.

She had probably lain there for an hour or two before regaining full consciousness once more, the pain forcing her back to reality. Her insides grumbled as though repelling the thoughts that swam around her mind. Her legs still trembled. Her left eye swollen shut from the punch he had dealt her and worst of all, her pride taken, her vagina still bruised, bloodied and wet with the souvenir he had left behind.

Unable to move, unable to speak, she had just lain there, curled into a ball and let the tears flow in unrelenting waves down her soft ten year cheeks. The pain crushed her, held her heart like a vice, she could barely breathe….she didn’t want to, she wanted to lay there and die. Somehow she stayed alive. That was how her father how found her, a few feet away from his mutilated wife. A sight that would make any lesser man lose his mind.

Like many rape and murder cases before this, Lola’s was never solved. Her father did all he could to see that justice was served but it seemed the more he tried, the more the case went deeper and deeper into some dark abyss. Daily, he would go down to the Local station to inquire as to the progress of the case, daily he would return home, sink into his rocking chair and stare into nothingness. Lola watched everyday as the colour drained from her father’s eyes. What was once shiny black had turned to lifeless grey. It wasn’t long before she woke up one morning to see that chair no longer rocking.

******************************************

Eighteen years on and Lola Ajumobi had risen from the ashes of tragedy and clawed her way to success. Graduating from the prestigious Obafemi Awolowo University with a degree in Law, she proceeded to pursue her professional career in Criminal Law. Driven by a passion to see justice served as only one ho had been denied it could have, Lola delved deep into murder cases with the tenacity of a rabid bulldog.

“New case file just in from our padi’s at the state high court, Lola you might want to look at it” Femi said. Femi Olukanmi was a pudgy man in his thirties, a senior partner at the Chambers. However, he had a habit of tossing the dead-end cases with no prospective financial gains to the firm Lola’s way and taking all the credit if and when anything became of them.

“Is someone trying to clog my table with pro-bono work this morning?” Lola asked sarcastically.

“Last time i checked dear counsellor, I was responsible for acquiring all the furniture in this office,” Femi replied. With that, he flashed a smile and dropped the file on her table, walking away whistling some odd song under his breath.

Lola took her time to put her desk in order. She was a ‘neat freak’ as her co-workers had tagged her. She loved having her workspace in the most arranged manner as this helped her see things clearly. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she settled to read the file before her. Despite being a staunch believer in justice, there was a little ‘glitch’ in her belief system. Lola did not believe in the Death Penalty. This automatically made her the favourite in cases where the said law was involved. She had engaged in this argument one too many times, mostly with Femi. “Each individual life is sacred and the state has no right to take it.” She had said. “it is barbaric for the state under the guise of justice to perform premeditated murder, rather the defaulter should be locked away in an institution or prison without the hope of release or parole.” Femi had laughed and said “ and when new evidence is found or rehabilitation is complete, the man goes free and as usual, the victim is left forgotten.” Lola could go on and on. In fact, these arguments with Femi had become commonplace, she could almost recite his defence points off heart.

Taking the file in her hands, she slumped into her chair and opened it. A cold chill went through her spine as she read its contents.

The defendant had allegedly raped and killed a twelve year old girl. There was circumstantial evidence against him but the corpse had not been found and without this the prosecution could not prepare a air-tight case against him. They had no intention of letting this one get away without a conviction. This had thrown the family of the girl into daily trauma as they were frustrated in their desire to see their daughter’s body. The accused had requested a lawyer to take up his case.

“Piece of cake,” Lola muttered to herself. Picking up her car keys and taking the file along, she set out for the Station in which John Obot was being held. The drive through Allen Avenue was unusually smooth; she wondered where the usual traffic at the roundabout had gone. It was turning out to be a good day. There was little activity outside the station as she slid her gear into ‘park’ and pulled up the handbrake. She was ushered into the single interview room where she was going to meet John.

His hair and beard had grown wild, he’d been in police custody for a while without any hope of bail. He possessed physique of a trailer driver, deep set eyes and hands that seemed built to carry cement. Lola immediately found herself wondering how this man had forced himself into a twelve year old girl. The thought of it made her almost gag with disgust.

“Good day Mr Obot, I’m Lola Ajumobi and I’m your Attorney on this case. Please note that total openness is necessary for us to proceed so I crave your indulgence. Just tell me all I need to know and we can work on making sense out of this mess.” John didn’t seem ready to utter a word, he kept rubbing his knuckles as she spoke.

Eventually he managed one sentence “Why should I trust you?”

“Look, I’m the only choice you have. So its either you trust me or i can save you the trouble and walk out of here.” Lola kept a straight face all through. This was a familiar scenario and she knew that John would give in sooner than later. After what seemed like an eternity he started talking.

“I will not bore you with a tale of innocence, we both know I am not. The brutes at the police station have forced a verbal confession out of me already. It can’t hold in court as I confessed under duress but…” He paused for a moment gauging his next words carefully.

“….I want to cut a deal. I know I cannot win this, I know I’m screwed but I don’t want to die. The police want me to reveal the whereabouts of the body so i can be pinned with the murder. I’ll do it, but on one condition.” John exhaled.

“Why did you do it?” Lola asked.

“My motives are not important, dear counsellor. This is the life I’ve known since i took my first life eighteen years ago at Ejigbo. All I wanted to do was break in and steal but the woman in the kitchen had a knife in her hand. I panicked, I didn’t know what to do so I snapped, picked up another knife on the table and stabbed her…and there was that little girl…”

Lola sat transfixed as her mind searched through the rubble of years past to unearth that part of her life that she had until now, successfully buried. Ejigbo. Eighteen years ago. Here she sat face to face with the man who had killed her mother, had raped her and indirectly led to the death of her father, The man who took the colour out of her world. His life was in her hands. She snapped back just in time to hear him say, “…I want to cut a deal; I would reveal the whereabouts of the body in exchange for a life sentence rather than execution”

Lola sat startled. She was being asked to broker a deal for the man who took all her joy, all her dignity. She was being asked to stand for what she believed by a man who she had wished dead all her life. How? What was she to do? In all her years in the profession, she had never faced such a situation. In the end, common sense seemed to triumph. “I’ll do my best, but you have to realise that the State has the final say in.” Lola said, in low, hushed tones.

“So, where is the body…?”

****************************************

It had turned out to be long, sleepless nights for Lola. Images of that evening back in Ejigbo seemed to be the dominant feature in the theatre of her mind.

Despite this, Lola knew what she had to do. She was sworn to an oath of complete representation of her client(s) and was going to do her best in his defence. She suffered inside but was bent on making sacrifices for the sake of the law.

Lola met with the prosecutor and laid out the terms of her client. She was initially threatened with legal action if she didn’t reveal the whereabouts of the body as she was termed to be “withholding information.” Riding on the fact that society protects confidentiality between attorney and client, Lola easily got off. The parents of the dead girl were briefed on the development and agreed to the terms. John Obot, got sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

The day his sentence was read was a bittersweet moment for Lola. The tension in the courtroom was so thick, a knife would easily slice through. Lola couldn’t understand why she was sweating profusely. Could it be because she couldn’t bear to lose this appeal or because she really wanted John to pay for his crimes? She asked the warden to help get some cold water for herself and John. It was clear John was feeling the heat as well as he gulped down in one go. Mixed feelings. Justice was finally being served but she couldn’t help feeling angry as well. The sound of the gavel brought proceedings to a halt. This bastard got to keep his life after taking her mum’s, the 12 year-old girl and God only knows how many others in between. Still, she was glad she kept her part of the bargain and held strong to her belief in the fact that “the state under the guise of justice should NOT perform premeditated murder.”

It didn’t say she couldn’t.

As the guards whisked him away to the waiting ‘black maria’, she stared at him watching for something, anything, a sign.
With a look of gratitude on his face, John mouthed a ‘thank you’ before being shoved into the truck.

He died slowly. The first three days he screamed while the guards ignored him. Then he lay quiet as lost strength his insides burning, internal organs bleeding. After nine days he was dead. The prison authorities did not bother with an autopsy for a convicted murderer.

Water, known for its life giving ability had resulted in the death of John Obot. No one had seen her lace it with poison just before handing it to the warden and entering the courtroom.

Justice had finally been served.

46

It is here. I have waited eagerly for this day for a long time.

As is my usual routine, I have breakfast with my wife Halimat, my 6yr old daughter, Amina and my 3yr old son, Malik. I can only pray that one day he will grow up to fulfil his name, sovereign king. I can tell that Halimat senses something but she doesn’t know what. I see her hovering around me, wanting to say something but she is afraid. I chuckle inside my head; she knows better than to anger me when I’m in a mood. She’s a wise woman, my Halimat. The call had come last night when I was deep inside her, her legs clasped tightly around my waist, her fingers grasping the headboard tightly, her head thrown back in reckless abandon. The loud moan she was about to release turned into a whimper of annoyance as I extricated myself and took the call. When your name is on the list, you answer your calls. Always.

Breakfast over, I pick up my briefcase, not the usual one but the other one I had received a month ago, and stride towards the door. I pause midway, turn back, walk to my children and take them in my arms, squeezing them tight. They’re surprised but happy by this open display of affection from ‘baba’. Halima is clearly alarmed now. She follows me to the car silently. At the car door, I turn and take her in my arms. We stay like that for a few minutes and by the time we pull apart, there are tears in her eyes. Surely she does not know. She cannot know. How does she know?

“Don’t go.”

Two words. Those two simple words spoken quietly almost undid years of careful planning, training and resolve. Maybe it was not the words themselves but the imploring look in her eyes.

“Haba Halimat. I must go. I have to work.”

I get in the car, start the engine and drive off to the meeting point first before I start the journey to my end and hence my glorious beginning. I take special care not to look in the rear view mirror; I fear that if I look at the face of my wife one more time, I may lose my resolve.

My journey towards this path started some years ago, an unfamiliar route I never imagined I would tow but situations have a way of pointing us in the direction of our destiny. Born and raised in Borno state; Gwoza to be precise, I grew to appreciate the simple things and be content with what I had. My father made sure that I and my four siblings had the best of education. We were not poor but we were not exactly wealthy either; my father just worked really hard. Being his first son, I wanted to make him proud so I excelled in all my school work, particularly Koranic Studies at the local Mosque. My interest in the ways of Allah and my desire to pursue further knowledge resulted in a sponsorship by the local government. Baba then decided that the whole family would go along with me and so, gathering all his life savings, we moved. Thus my life in Iraq began.

I settled quickly into life in Iraq, completed my studies and got a job at the local library. By this time, I had moved out of the family house and was renting a place with my best friend from school, Khaled. I was still very close with my family though, paying visits to them ever so often. Everything was pretty much stable except for the tense political climate. I had little love for Saddam’s Sunni-led regime and was among those that prayed daily for its downfall. I believed in justice and equity and it was clear that this was missing. The Americans had promised to restore some semblance of peace to the land and as such, I wholeheartedly supported their campaign. I expected them to leave when they brought Saddam down but they stayed, and stayed. This was no business of mine, but the effects were biting hard and making the locals get really agitated. In no time, insurgents approached affected locals and urged them to join the resistance against the Americans. Khaled joined in. I tried to talk him out of it but he was adamant about fighting for what he believed in.

On the day of his very first public protest since he joined the group, I decided to walk down to the school to observe. It was slated as peaceful but the gunshots that rang out as I approached completely drowned out any semblance of peace. My steps quickened and my pulse raced to the scene faster than my feet. A few paces away I stopped in shock. Khaled. My best friend, Khaled. He was dragging himself on the sand trying to reach some invisible sanctuary. Looming over him like a dark cloud of death were two gun-toting US soldiers. He was bleeding profusely from one leg and pleading for mercy. Deaf ears would have heard him. One of the soldiers pulled him by his bleeding leg and he let out a scream. Stepping, stomping and kicking, they enjoyed every minute of this torture. Finally, after Khaled had ceased pleading, they put three bullets in his head.

I watched in silence from my hiding point. I did nothing. I said nothing.

When I was finally able to, I dragged myself towards the direction of my parents’ house. I could not bear the thought of going back to my apartment. The apartment that Khaled and I had shared.

On getting close to the area, I noticed that something was wrong. The quiet. It was deathly quiet. Run in the opposite direction, my mind said. But my legs involuntary quickened their pace not for the first time today. Ya Allah. Please God. Please have mercy. I got to the house and met the gate flung wide open. Run. I walked slowly to the house and opened the door. The body of my younger brother was the first one that I saw. He was lying across the bodies of Zainab and Sa’adatu. As if he was trying to protect them. I turned in the corner and saw Baba. He was on his knees, with his hands tied at his back and his head lolling forward. He was facing Mama’s naked lifeless body. I could only imagine what they had made him watch them do to Mama before they made that bullet hole in his head that was still oozing blood. They. I learned later that ‘they’ had gone round the neighborhood searching for insurgents. They tortured families who wouldn’t give up the whereabouts of their sons. They. The western government had done this.

I grip the steering wheel tighter as the memory of the pain washes over me again. I have left the rendezvous point and am now on my way.

That same month, I signed up with the Al-Zakwi group of insurgents. Fueled by my anger, I quickly soaked up all they taught and my deep knowledge of Islamic studies helped me. My topmost desire was to do what was right, to right the wrong done by the Westerners and any other institution that supported their inhuman campaigns. The infidels had to pay. Over the next year, I participated in several assaults on U.S troops, becoming an expert at handling Machine guns and Ak 47s. I was promoted to the ‘rank’ of squadron leader after stories of my body count spread like wildfire. However, the thrill that accompanied the initial excitement of fighting for something I believed in dwindled as the days passed. After a while, I packed up all my things and came back to Nigeria. I got a respectable job as a lecturer and settled down. I even found a wife. But I still kept my affiliations. As long as Allah lived, I would keep on avenging my family and Khaled in this life or the next.

And then the first call came. It was from the ‘Jihadi’ group “Abu-Moussab”. They had watched me when I was in Iraq and now they wanted to know where my loyalties lay; if I had sold out, seeing as I was teaching in a western school. I assured them that the school was just a front to blend in; I was at their service.

It was two months before I heard from them again. They dropped a note at my door.

“أنت الآن واحد منا “You are now one of us.”

The waiting period is the hardest time. It is, however, not an idle waiting period. It is a time where the mind is disciplined and the soul is purified. I had read the Koran over and over before but I had to keep reading it alongside books containing the history of the jihad and books about others that had gone before me. I particularly liked Abdullah Azzam’s ‘The Lover of Angels’. They say he was also Osama Bin Laden’s spiritual mentor. I listen to tapes reminding me of the rewards that await me in Heaven.

I sigh heavily and turn left.

I know that by virtue of becoming a martyr, I am granted 70 spaces in paradise for people I know. I haven’t got my 70 names yet because I don’t know up to 70 people but I have definitely reserved slots for Halimat, Malik and Amina. It is this singular thought that helps me when I start to feel sad about leaving them. By doing this, I not only avenge the deaths of my family and Khaled, who’s screams of “spare me” hunt me most nights, but I also secure spaces for my family in Allah’s bosom.

I turn left again and continue at my leisurely pace. I am in no hurry.

It has been insinuated that some of us get intoxicated to go through with our missions. Such ignorance. Do you think we would want to meet Allah in a state of drunkenness or drugged? It’s unthinkable.

A red traffic light momentarily stops me.

It is almost time. The goose bumps arrive all over my body. A prayer should calm me. Allah, bless my mission with a high rate of casualties, purify my soul so that I am able to see you, keep my mujahedeen brethren who are already with you and allow me see them, above all, let me kill many westerners. I look at my hand chained to the steering wheel. I asked that this be done so that I won’t flinch at the last moment.

“The institutions represent the people”, I recite, as I take a final right and my target looms in sight.

Home never looked so beautiful. I revved the accelerator; the car responded and headed towards the United Nations building, Abuja.

We have no names. I shall not be buried nor have I a tombstone. I was Volunteer Number 46.

*******************

What you have just read is a piece born out of study and research and is NOT a personal stance on the subject matter.

Sawaleh in no way condones acts of terrorism or sympathizes with terrorists. This is simply a writer’s attempt at delving into the mind of a terrorist.

Altar Blues

‎​Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The rhythmic movement of the hands of my watch palpitate in synchrony with my heartbeat. A million and one thoughts swim across the ocean of my mind as I try, albeit unsuccessfully, to gather my thoughts. The atmosphere is thick. This seems too good to be true, too real to be reckoned with. I pinch myself on a regular minute interval to remind myself of this pending reality. This present madness.

I am about to get married. Barely two hours away and fucking counting. I drag on my ever reliable Dunhills, shit does come in handy at the nick of time. If only the exhaled smoke was a release of my fears and worries.

Why am I even worried? Why do I give a fuck? This is what makes me, This is who I am, a leopard doesn’t change its spots, only victims.

Tonia was the sexiest creature I had seen in a long while. With a face seemingly sculpted by beauty herself, a body that could make trees greener, cause a monk to relinquish his service and even draw stares and desires from other women, She was the epitome of sexiness. Legs that went on for days got me imagining where they met and the juicy pleasures that exist in that graceland. I was going to get that!
At the time, my concerns should have been elsewhere other than what it would feel like to have this goddess moan my name in pleasure as I send spasms of ecstasy through her body with my every thrust. Unfortunately, in this game of concentration, I had lost out before we even began. Taking my thoughts and eyes back up to her face, I caught her gaze, she held me there. Our eyes did the talking. I could see it. She gave me that ‘eye-of-the-Tiger look’. You know that look that says “You know you want all of this, right? Come over here and ravish me now!” The words resonated in their silence.

I glanced again at my bride-to-be, my beautiful flower. What sane man wouldn’t want her? Yes, I consider myself lucky. I’m not one to bask in spirituality so I won’t say blessed. We’ve come a long way and its finally here. A lot of my friends never believed I would one day say the words but here we are, and few hours from now, I’ll be hers.

——————————————————–

She drank him in in long, longing glances, taking time to pick out the tiny thread detail on his expensive Hugo Boss suit. His cuff links gleamed in the sun, but it didn’t match the light in his smile. This man should be mine, even if its just for a taste. In a few hours, he would be married. Off the ‘market’. It was almost hard to believe, she thought. Not that she didn’t deserve him. Oh no. She was as hot as they came. The song ‘Beep’ by those six singer dolls had been her anthem since high school. He was definitely looking at her ‘Ah!’, judging by the size of that boner he was sporting. Her sister was just damned lucky. Shit!
She snapped out of her thoughts just in time to hear the pastor ask if she had her sister’s ring secured and she immediately remembered she was maid-of-honour and had to ensure all was ready before the ceremony, hence her liasing with the pastor out here in the garden. “Yes, it’s here in the box, He gave it to me earlier”, she fidgeted through her purse and felt it… sigh.
Her desire: Her sister’s husband-to-be. She looked at him again and this time, he caught her stare. She felt the pastor’s eyes had followed hers. She blushed and looked away quickly.
———————————————————

Finally she was here. Standing before me in all her hourglass glory. The drinks cluster my memory but who gives a fuck as to how we got here? Live for the fucking moment. I gently kiss on her cheek, taking my time to trace a path down the side of her neck, her head tilts back in appreciation.as I gently lift her onto the bed. I resume nibbling on her ear and then fucking the insides with my tongue. She let out an “Oooh” and I knew I had found a spot. I flicker my tongue around a bit more and she pulls me closer, her full breasts pressing into my hairy chest. Tonia pulls my lips to hers and they commune in language so heavenly it sent joy to my soul. As we kiss passionately, my hands grab on to her right breast and I squeeze as though venting on a pressure ball, I pull away from her lips and locate her nipple with my mouth, covering its fullness, I tease around the areola, till it emerges in its fullness, pinkish and pointed. I suck and gently tug and bite and her body says “yes” to my every move. She wraps her legs around my torso and with my hands still rendering worship to her boobs, my tongue glides down her tummy tracing another path to her navel. Her breathing becomes rapid. She must have thought it was time, but why rush perfection?

I find her mouth again with mine and this time, allow my hands to part her thighs till they feel her silkiness. She shudders and clasps my fingers tight between her laps. I slide in a finger and feel her wetness, she’s spread eagled now, her legs in opposite directions of the equator. In, out, in, out my fingers go. Tonia clutches my back and digs her fingers into my back. “Fuck me!” she whispers, “FUCK ME!!!” she screams.

I roll her over and go in slow, moving sensuosly to the rhythm of Kelly Rowland’s ‘Motivation’ on repeat in my mind. I roll my waist with every thrust. Teasing as I go, she pushes backward to meet my every thrust, we increase our tempo and she cries out ‘Jeeesus’ like he was the one doing the work… Cowgirl, missionary, 69, scissors, we did it all. Cuming in rapturous explosions that could only match the fact that we took each other to Heaven.

It’s now an hour to my wedding…Fuck it! I scan through the throng of guests that have accepted our invitation and are awaiting the main event- familiar strangers. I drag and puff out the last of my cigarette. Wiping ash off the sleeve of my Boss suit, I look up and catch her eye and then immediately, my mind asks: “Should you have fucked Tonia?” Errr…Why not? Never say no to available, willing pussy. Didn’t matter if she was the Pastor-in-charge of the wedding.

I smile at Jessica, my wife-to-be. Turn my gaze and then I see Sophia her sister staring at me. Hmmm, looks like another ass-tapping session coming up…

This is what makes me, This is who I am…Sawaleh!
“A leopard doesn’t change his spots, only victims”

My name is 47…

No Title! SO?

In the shadows they stand, masked by the brightness of the darkness. Staring intensely into the eyes of those watching their screen this minute. Laughing at the madness about to be unleashed…

DISCLAIMER: This blog will contain a collection of several events, occurrences and experiences as chronicled by the writers. It is a collaborative blog and an avenue for the writers to express their undiluted views through stories, rants etc irrespective of whose Ox is gored and whose eyebrow is raised. In Normal parlance, we don’t give a fuck! If you cannot deal with the drama, explicit nature and revealing content of this blog, you might wanna cross the street and pitch your tent with the prim and proper chaps on blogsville.

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What then are we going to be writing about? Nigga are you retarded? Read you not the first two paragraphs? Yo, you might wanna scroll back up and do that. Tha fuck!!!

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By the way, My name is 47…