The Bridge

Friday, 12^th of October 2011

Chief Temitope Sijuade’s Residence

I love this room. It is probably the only one in this entire house that I have to myself. I picked out the furniture myself; the only room where I was allowed to do so by my wife and her overpriced decorator. They had argued with me for a long time till I threatened to withhold her cheque (imagine the idiot, trying to tell me what I can and cannot do in my own house). It is supposed to be my study but lord knows I hardly get any studying done here. A tall bookcase covers one end of the room; it is filled with books from all walks of life, from philosophy to architecture, politics to acupuncture. I like bringing a few of my close friends here to have them marvel at my collection of first edition paperbacks and hardcovers. It shows them how intellectual I am; not like they need any more reason to respect me after passing through my car collection in the garage and the exquisitely furnished living room to get here.

This is where I come to rest after a long day of meetings and deliberations at the office or the state house. I can take off my shoes (more like get Akpan to take them off really ) and sit back on this wonderful couch and forget about my troubles for a while. At times like this I can close my eyes and shut out the world. No one disturbs me here.

“Oko mi, these construction people have started again oh.”

Sigh. Well, almost no one disturbs me here.  I had not heard my wife walk into the room. Didn’t she have anything better to do like shop for new clothes, plan holiday trips or think up new ways to spend my (not so) hard earned money?

Monday 21^st October 2011

Good morning ladies and gentlemen:

I’d planned to speak to you today to solicit support for the Democratic People’s Alliance in the upcoming elections, but the events of earlier today have led me to change those plans. Today is a day for mourning and remembering. Today is a day we put aside our individual agendas and come together as a people to mourn our brothers, fathers, uncles, colleagues and friends.

Rebecca and I totally shocked and pained to the core by the tragedy of Kama-Oke Link Bridge. We know we share this pain with all of the people of our country. This is a great loss, not just to Kamanda Construction Company but to the entire community.

“Which construction people again?”

“The bridge people now. I can hear the sound of their equipment from my bedroom and I’m trying to watch the Ellen.”

“Can’t you just turn up the volume?”

It is with a heavy heart and the deepest of regrets that I announce the closure of the bridge that was supposed to connect the Kama and Oke districts. The bridge was conceptualized with the intention to reduce the traffic congestion at the Julius Berger roundabout and expedite the distance traveled to reach the expressway by serving as a shortcut for drivers.

The bridge was also to serve as an avenue to improve businesses and increase profits for everyone, as the Kama district has a popular market named after it, a popular hotel, a church, school and fuel station all within the range of two kilometers from the bridge. There was also supposed to be improved road construction to compliment the bridge as well as check the erosion occurring within its general vicinity.

“*sigh*. There’s really nothing I can do about it honey. My powers as District Chairman are limited. Besides, the construction should be completed in about six months or so.”

“Six whole months? Tope you must be joking. You and who is going to stay in this house all day listening to such noise?  Irό o, I won’t have it.”

All in all, the bridge was a positive addition to our community. Every morning for the past ten months, the bridge was the first thing I’d see when I draw my curtains. It felt reassuring to see the daily progress of its construction and equate it to that of our community. Its completion and unveiling were events that I personally looked forward to. However, fate determined that it would not be so, as you can see behind me.

“Calm down honey. I am just as opposed to the building of the bridge as you are. Dr. Arogundade is using it as his ace-in-the-hole to win the people on his side in the upcoming elections. Do you think I like to be reminded every day that I am losing the gubernatorial race?”

“Then do something about it. Arogundade is working you are here sleeping, o ma sѐ o. If I didn’t know any better I would say you didn’t want to win these elections sef.”

According to the damage reports, there was an accidental explosion at the pillars supporting the bridge fifty meters in both directions from the middle. The dynamite was to be used for blasting rocks at the river bed to allow for smooth water flow. According to reports, the explosion was too close to the surface, making it destructive to the structure itself. This caused the structure to come crashing down, killing several construction workers.

I cannot stress enough, how much of a tragedy this is to all of us, not just structurally and financially, but also the loss of human life as the others are replaceable. I pledge right here and now to compensate the families of the victims as a small comfort to help ease the passing of their loved ones and also make a donation to replace some of the lost equipment to also expedite the reconstruction of the bridge. All these are at my personal cost, apart from my government’s official relief response.

I find it to be very tragic that this bridge was to be the flagship to kick off Dr. Arogundade’s foray into politics and that this incident has occured near completion. I offer my sincerest condolences for his loss and encourage him to not give up on his efforts, for a strong man is he who rises again after falling.

“Oya I’ll think about it. Don’t worry, just manage for now ehn.”

I also stand firmly behind him in support of his good character to decry the dastardly rumors being peddled by ne’er-do-wells. Claiming that he sabotaged his own project to undermine my government and garner public sympathy is in poor taste. Again, I stand firmly behind him and gladly welcome him as a worthy rival in the forthcoming elections. I will always put the people first and will respect their choices.

Vote for me again as your Governor and I promise to bring peace, prosperity and progress to the state! Power to the people!

As the District Chairman, I remain your humble servant, Chief Temitope Sijuade.

Thank You.”

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.

Tunnel Vision

I can see her. She’s amazing to gaze upon. I rarely say this, but she’s perfect. Her body oozes sex appeal. She’s as slender as a stalk of wheat, almost like a gust of wind will carry her away. Just my type, like a supermodel.

I can see her beautiful long silky hair. Jet black. An oval face with almond shaped eyes and a button nose. Slightly full lips, sensual. Not a single spot or pimple. No makeup today again. She really doesn’t need it anyway. I could look at that face all day…well, it won’t be the first time. Or the second. Or the third.

I’m watching her from afar, and I know her habits. I know about her family members and friends. I know her favorite color, the type of underwear she likes, her obsession with ice cream, I see everything. I’m watching, unseen, like Big Brother, but all my focus is on her. Just watching her go about her business gives me a sense of calm and tranquility. It’s a nice feeling, as opposed to the usual impatience that comes with my job. It’s usually my fault though, but I can’t help but be thorough.

I like to gather prior information about the people I focus on, but that’s not just it. You could hack a person’s system, clone their phones and access their records, but that’s not knowing someone. It’s one of my little flaws. The need to know it all, to the minutest detail. I’m obsessive-compulsive. Hubris is another one. A ‘god’ complex. God said in the Qur’An: “I am closer to you than your jugular vein”. I’m that good. Well, I always got what I wanted from every woman I followed without them sensing my presence.

I watch them at home, at work, when they take walks in the park, I watch them everywhere. Sometimes, I switch things up and watch them up close to get the adrenaline flowing. It’s an amazing feeling to be in the same place with someone and remain unseen. I give myself trophies for every time I successfully do that. They include locks of hair for when they’re sleeping, bars of soap for when they’re bathing, underwear, scarves, you name it. I even stole a wig once; don’t ask.

But this is why she’s different.

I think I’m in love with her. She’s everything I would want in a woman, but who am I kidding? An average looking person like me will have no chance with someone of her caliber. I look like everybody and nobody. I look like a generic human template; that’s why I was chosen for this job in the first place. Normally, nobody takes a second glance at me, or even talks to me, but she did. She really did!!!

I just had to be get near her this particular day. The wind was carrying the fragrance of her hair: peach and jasmine. It had me fantasizing and for a few seconds, I kept my eyes closed. I didn’t realize that she had stopped walking and I bumped into her. Before I could beat a hasty retreat, she turned around and apologized. “No, I’m sorry; I should have watched where I was going” My brain formed those sentences, but the words kept dying in my throat as I froze, staring at her. I was in love. To my everlasting embarrassment, I didn’t even realize when she walked away, freaked out that I was just staring. Our little encounter was good enough for me.

I actually found myself changing some of my habits. I stopped the “up close” watching, stopped taking trophies from her place. I would look away if she was dressing up or undressing. She was a lady and deserved to be treated like one. My job wasn’t as appealing as it was anymore, all because of my feelings for her.

I bought an engagement ring for her but I couldn’t work the courage up to propose. I had been sending cards and flowers to her as her secret admirer, all in my effort to build the anticipation as I waited for the right time to reveal myself and make my intentions known. It was going to be perfect…….

It was a perfect failure. She had a boyfriend. He had been out of town, but he just got back. She actually thought that the flowers and chocolates were from him. I guess it was too good to be true in the end. I’m such a fool. Story of my life. I guess it’s time for my little fantasy to end.

I’m letting her go, but that doesn’t mean she still shouldn’t get the ring and in the quickest possible manner. I can’t help but look at her again, trying to accept that I have to let her go. She’s looking out of the window, observing the sights and sounds around her.

I’m six hundred yards away, but I can see her face like she’s right in front of me. I take a deep breath as I burn her image in my memory. I steady myself as I whisper goodbye, and then I pull the trigger of my Dragunov Sniper Rifle. I did say she’ll get that ring as soon as possible.

My next target is waiting. I hope she’s as beautiful as this one, or I’ll kill her on the spot. Who am I kidding? Either way, I’m still going to kill her on the spot. Why wait and risk getting hurt again?

To love is to die.

Art

Before the post, we would like to make a few announcements. As anyone who closely follows this blog may have noticed, Sawaleh has been somewhat erratic of late. We’ll ascribe this to the fact that every member of Sawaleh has been increasingly busy with the general running of our individual lives and work, not to mention our individual blogs. These are not excuses, the facts are just being stated.

Everyone of us here at Sawaleh believe in standards and quality, and in order to maintain the standards we have tried to set for ourselves, we have decided to revise our schedule. Sawaleh shall no longer post twice a week, we shall post only once a week henceforth, on wednesday nights at 8pm. Sawaleh One Tweet Stories (#s1ts) on twitter shall still hold once a week. #s1ts shall however move from friday nights to saturday nights from 9pm. All these take effect here and now.

Enjoy tonight’s story.

*   *   *   *

My dear, I need for you to understand why I need you.

I am an artist. A creator of fine things. This means I have a deeper perspective on life itself and the multivariate complexities that come with it as well as their many manifestations. The intercalation of beauty in the most ugly and macabre of things is one of life’s more subtle secrets. It is my gift as an artist to see this as clearly as you see the light from the sun. Unfortunately, it also means that I will be grossly misunderstood by the majority of our species who only concern themselves with the matters of food, sex and other such trivialities. I will be appreciated by a select few, those who have managed to transcend the putrid mass of banal humanity and elevate themselves to a state of higher understanding. Understanding the balance of ugliness and beauty of which I speak. To be completely honest, I care little about the unenlightened rabble, as it takes a greater level of understanding to even recognize my art for what it is, much less appreciate it. The rabble are condemned to be forever ignorant and I shall not spare more than a passing thought for them. I care only for those who understand.

If I were to attempt describing my work, I would say its bears many semblances to “still-life”, but it is so much more than that. Exponentially so. It alludes to the simultaneous hideousness and perfection that is immanent in all creation and all our lives in a way that I cannot describe using mere words. Just like a fine novel, there is… sub-text. You see, I aspire for immortality, works that will endure the ravages of time, last through the ages. I am an artist of the truest kind and I need you to understand this so I will bless you with the wisdom I know you are capable of absorbing but have refused to.

I will show you my art.

Every single one of my models is beautiful. A model for my work must be flawless, graceful and one of a kind to even be worth my consideration for a display. Failures are buried to be forever forgotten. My work is of the highest possible quality: there are no two of the same kind, It would be an offense unto the very essence of beautiful things just as it would be equally scandalous for a designer to mass-produce a unique dress in his exclusive fashion line. My art is surely tasteful, although I will admit that the taste is an acquired one for many and as a result, its value is priceless. These works of art are exclusive. They’re only for connoisseurs. People like myself with the appreciation for these things but without the talent and skill to create them.

Let me share the fineries of my procedure with you.

First, I take photographs of my model from every conceivable angle. All the details of my model must be captured precisely before I  gently carve away the parts I don’t need. The carving is done slowly, lovingly, painstakingly. One must be gentle with such delicate work lest one ruin a potential masterpiece. Precision always supersedes force. I then hollow my model out. Beauty is merely external, I’m sure you know this. ‘Inner beauty’ is a misnomer and even if it did exist, there is no use for it in my art. I apply my coating, adjust the model into the position I desire and then let my work dry for about seventy-two hours before I make my final fittings. I generally use that time to scout out potential models for my next work of art.

One must be proactive about such matters.

When I return to the now dried model to make the final fittings, my model would have become brittle, having a nice light sheen with a smooth texture that highlights the intricate contours. I add a dash of coating here, a spot of paint there before putting in a foam stuffing to fill out the somewhat collapsed parts and once this is done, my masterpiece is ready. Beauty that will persist beyond the ravages of time as long as they are in the right hands.

So… my dear, do you now appreciate my art?

I am quite willing to wager a considerable amount of my possessions that if I were to unshackle you from your bindings, you would fall before me and apologize for calling my other works of art “Frankenstein mannequins”. I’m sure that now that you understand the love and effort that goes into them, now that I have apprised you of the unique nature of this work,  you regret making such a foolish statement. One as hideously beautiful as yourself should really appreciate these things, after all, you will soon become one of them.

Oh, please. You really should stop crying. The tears will mar your skin texture and make your face puffy, which would be bad for my intended design. You will ruin your own chance at immortality if you keep this ridiculousness up. I may even have to freeze you instead of drying you if you alter your complexion with these needless tears. That would not be ideal. I mean, come on now, it’s not nearly as bad as you are making it seem. I guarantee you that I will make it as painless as possible; you can even choose the manner in which your life will be concluded, if you like. Smile my dear. Don’t you see? I am a nice fellow. I really am. I honestly have no idea why you are so distraught about your present condition; you should be in a state of euphoria, relishing the chance to be more than you ever imagined you could be. I am going to make you immortal as my next work of art. This skin you worked so hard to keep blemish-free, the teeth you polished routinely, the eyes you have taken so much care of, they will all live forever. Be seen by those who can truly appreciate them.

You will be eternally beautiful!

*sigh*

Bloody Ingrate.

If only there was another artist of like mind and skill who could immortalize me as well…

Shaheed

This is a sequel of sorts to the previous story 46. You may read it if you haven’t already, to gather more insight into this story. Enjoy.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

I just heard about 46’s success. The newspapers all have it on their front pages. Even the infidel network – CNN has aired the videos of the destroyed building as well as the injured and dead victims being carted away into ambulances. 46 accomplished his mission. Allahu’Akhbar!! May he receive his rewards in Al’Jannah Firdausi and be constantly in Allah’s mercy. Now the infidels shall learn true terror. The whole world has been rocked to it’s rotten core by our daring. Our names shall be whispered in fear and awe. Of course, the lackeys shall try to save face. That south-southerner (may Allah curse him) has made speeches and is bowing to the infidels; anything to save face. They were caught unawares. They were unprepared for the first part but that was just the beginning. That is but half of our plan.

The president has called for a joint session of both houses of the National Assembly to deal with this huge security lapse. That is our target, and the Sheik (Allah bless him) has finally given his blessing. I am about to fulfill my purpose in life. I am to be the next weapon, the next messenger of death. Everything was for this opportunity to serve my God. I look forward to this, and I do not have to wait long. It is in seven days.

Like my predecessors, I have fasted and prayed throughout. I’ve read the Qur’an so much I can recite Surat Al’Baqarah by heart. I have read the biography of Ayatullah Ruhullah Khomeini, a great role model. I have also grown to admire Hassan and Hussein, the first martyrs for Islam and hope to be equally appreciated as they were for their faith. My time draws near.

I am at the secretariat. Security is heavy, but I don’t feel worried. They will never catch me. They check the car thoroughly, but they won’t find anything, inside or out. My suicide pack is securely bound inside my Kaftan, and I wore a Babariga for additional cover. The guards salute me; I tip them generously. They happily escort me inside, which serves my purpose. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Zakat before I die. The irony makes me chuckle.

I’m at the chamber now. Everybody’s in a hurry, as the president and even the vice-president are due to arrive in minutes. I walk slowly, serenely, gliding along with my sense of purpose and finding a seat, take it. We’re all seated but stand quickly as our leader arrives. We sit after he does and he gives a short speech. Then he calls for the chairman of the Senate Committee on National security. The time has come.

I feel proud, Allah forgive me, but yes, my heart swells with pride and I revel in the moment. I shall be remembered forever by the faithful. My family shall be proud to have a Shaheed. It’s the least they can get after their financial contributions to the cause. Yes, we have fought the battle with coin but now it is my turn to be blessed to fight for the cause with my blood, with my life. We may have come different backgrounds and social circles but 46 and I are one and the same in heart. We would both die for the cause for my faith is no less than his! I am now in position.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Good afternoon Mr. President, all other protocols duly observed. Before I begin my report of the findings of the committee on the terrorist sect that is responsible for last week’s bombings I would like to address a more pressing issue.”

“It has come to my knowledge that the sect has planned to carry out an attack on a major government building today and have already set the ball rolling as we speak.”

The previously silent hall was now buzzing with gasps, hushed words. The noise continued for a few more seconds before the president interrupted.

“What measures have been taken to counter their plans and why wasn’t I informed earlier? What are our chances of stopping them? Have you briefed the secretary of defence?”

The hall was dead silent as they waited for the senator’s answers.

“I am sorry to inform you that they cannot be stopped sir….”

The buzzing began again….

“The righteous shall always prevail….”

Now they were confused and agitated.

“I am the tool. The instrument of liberation.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

I pull out my detonator, shout “La’ilaha Ilalahu” and press the button firmly. The last thing I see before everything goes white is the flabbergasted expression on the president’s face.

My name was Senator Moses Oyinlola aka Tijani Umar. Rather than being called Volunteer 47, the Sheik (Allah bless him) gave me an honorific: Qubt Ut’Allah.

The Fist of God.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sawaleh in no way condones terrorism or sympathises with terrorists. We, in fact, frown on all acts of violence.

This is entirely a work of fiction and should please be regarded as such.

Red Wine

I love red wine. It’s amazing. I’m totally addicted to it, obsessed with its taste; its texture as it rolls down my tongue. I savor every mouthful, swill it round my mouth and glorify in that feeling of my teeth being set on edge. Its crimson color is simply aesthetically pleasing, giving an enigmatic pull to make you want to explore it. I smell my wine too; a connoisseur must have standards, you know. I, however don’t exactly have an age limit for my wine; I believe in sampling across the gap. You’d be surprised how delicious fresh wine could be as compared to say, 30-year old wine. I’ve tasted red wine from all over the world, and my passion has allowed me to visit exotic places and meet exotic people too. I’m a people person, you know?

Many women say that I’m definitely a book that shouldn’t be judged by its cover. I’m average looking, nondescript, and the kind you’d forget after a glance. I’m quite proud of that ability to be anonymous; it’s a prerequisite for my habit, especially after I lose control due to intoxication. I never said I was a perfect gentleman. Anyway, what is the big deal about me? What makes me attractive? It’s my voice. It’s beautiful, sonorous, yet soft. It’s hypnotic. I’m also well versed in the ways of charming women. I’ve always bedded whoever I desired. Sometimes, they don’t even know how it happens. They look into my eyes, hear my voice, and the next thing, they’re naked. I have to be great at seducing women, as they are an integral part of my obsession.

I have a fetish, naturally. There’s nobody with my level of obsession who wouldn’t have one. As much as I’m in love with red wine, it only feels sexual when it’s running all over a person’s body. That’s the last and the most important aspect about my love for red wine. There’s something very raw and uncivilized about using a woman’s body as a cup. It’s exciting to see her expression as I lick my wine off her breasts. I’d lick her nipples slowly, in loving circles, and suck them gently as I don’t want to waste a single drop of my wine. I’ll kiss her down on her chest, licking between her cleavage down to her navel, tracing my wine down between her legs. I enjoy building the anticipation; I feel powerful knowing what she wants while I make her wait. I’ll lick her down there too, and watch her squirm and moan with pleasure as I French-kiss her down there. It’s almost time……

Tonight, it’s a beautiful African. I can’t remember the last time I had an African. It’s a refreshing change; I need to take my time and enjoy this. Flawless caramel skin, toned muscles, trim figure, a figure of perfect health. Her breasts are swollen, nipples painfully erect. Her skin is hot, her breathing deep and heavy; she’s dripping wet and near the edge of her sanity. She’s beyond ready, just the way I like it. What’s left of my wine is drying up on her body but I don’t mind: I’ll get a lot more very soon…….I just need to wait just a bit longer……. I enter her slowly….. Her moan is low, long and deep……her back is arching…..she tilts her head back…….her neck is exposed………I bite gently……she likes it……good…..now I bite hard…………. Dinner is served, and I’m very hungry.

I guess I lost control again. I guess I love my red wine too much. I really need to stop playing with my food too; I leave it messy at the end and waste the rest. I’m spoilt but I’m not greedy; at least I’ve had my fill for tonight. I should go to sleep soon; it’s almost dawn. Bad sleeping habits, I know…… Tomorrow night is another night. Maybe I’ll try Chinese food………

Oh dear; where are my manners? You can call me the Count. Better yet, just “Alucard”