THE CLAWS OF SHADOWS (EPISODE 3)

click here for EPISODE 2

 TAG:  Fiction, Historical, Mystery.

He cocked the gun.

Thump, thump, thump… My heartbeat quickened, loud in my ears. Yet my breath was running quicker. “Please, please, please d…d…don’t kill me.” I started vibrating so violently I almost wet my panties. How on earth did he get into the car? Did he use magic or hide behind the car seat or…..

Ka-ka-ra-ka-ka

Another cock broke my thought. Then the gun was released from my head. Meanwhile, my bad Samaritan had increased the car speed, his foot pressed heavily on the accelerator after reinforcing the gear. So the engine roared and roared along. The car was now swerving towards a bush-flanked way along Oshodi road.

“Don’t panic, baby,” said the voice from behind, surprisingly calm, “whose pic is this?”

His hand thrust across my face with a picture—my picture of over five years ago. I stared at it with my eyes popping out, and I wondered if to deny my own image.  She was smiling at me. But here I was, shedding tears of terror. Very confused, my thought ran faster than the car. Where did they get the picture? How did he know I would be sent on an errand? Did he strike a deal with my boss or what? Who sent them, and….

“Is this your picture or not?” His voice struck my heart like a thunderstone.

“It…it…it’s....”  My lips trembled wildly, as if threatened by cold.

“Good girl,” he said.” It is yours. Right?”

“Ye…Yes, sir.” My head nodded frantically.

He traced his fingers from my hair to my cheeks, then to my collarbone and gently down my cleavage.

  My body vibrated the more.

“Tony! Wetin you dey try do for that side?” yelled his partner.

“Wetin you mean by that?”

“Is that our mission? And you call yourself a professional.”

“Abeg, forget that one,” he said, his fingers still poking my cleavage, “We no go fit waste her like that nah. Park somewhere make we do something.”

“You must be crazy!” He glanced at him, “Make we do wetin? You know chief doesn’t take nonsense. If we try anything, it might fuck this operation up, you know.”

I wondered who the chief was. I hope they were not going to use me for rituals. Oh, Lord!

“Bobby, you no get eyes at all. This girl na fine girl. We suppose go ‘down-town’ before getting there!”

At that instant, Bobby wound down the glass, throwing fearful glances at the rear-view mirror. He muttered a statement. Two cars, Volvo and Benz, had been trailing behind us before he diverted to this road. His accomplice hurriedly left me, to confirm. I stole a look at the rear-view mirror. The Volvo was leading the way.

“Take another turning or slow down.”

“I have tried that before!” He spat, forcefully wheeling the steering sideways, taking another turning.

The car was following again and when our car slowed down, both cars also did. My tension was beginning to melt at the prospect that they might be police officers.

Our car gathered speed again, overtaking one lorry and two yellow buses. My captors started deliberating on how to escape the stalking cars which they also regarded as police vehicles. But shortly later, the road was free ahead. Then the Volvo skidded at a turning behind us, followed by the Benz which raised cloud of dust. Oh, the Benz was actually trailing the Volvo. What a coincidence!

“Thank God O!” Bobby rubbed down his chests, and cleaned his eyeglasses. He started driving at a relaxed pace.

With that, my fear rose back from ashes and stood with arrow of terror. Tony still insisted on sleeping with me, urging Bobby to park. This time, the sun had already lost its brilliance, leaving yellow freckles on the purple sky.

When Bobby refused to stop, Tony pointed the pistol at his ear and barked, “Now, park this car at one corner! Otherwise, I blow off your head!”

Bobby smirked and shook his head.

They argued for quite a while. And in the process, Bobby was stating his effort on the operation at hand. He expressed how long he had been stalking me till this day. It was up to a week, he said. I was shocked to hear that. But much more puzzled, “Who sent these people?” was the question that craved an immediate answer in my head.

Between my thought, Tony had clambered to the front seat, dragging the steering with his accomplice, causing the car to sway so dangerously.

I bowed my head on the dashboard, picturing heaven or hell in my head. Before long, the engine began to silence. The car was decelerating, and came to abrupt halt.  Both criminals suddenly pushed the door open.

I heard rushing feet.

BOOM-BOOM-POW! BOOM-BOOM-POW…. (Gunshot)

Magazines discharging fast.

I never raised my head.  I buried my face between my thighs. My ears rang, rumbled, practically deaf.

When the shot had died off, I was still shivering and panting—my heart hung in the air, awaiting me to catch back. After what seemed like forever, I revealed my face only to see the previous Benz and Volvo making a ‘U’ turn—about twenty feet ahead. They sped off, taking the next turning. The road was flanked by tall bush, commercial vehicles zooming up and down. I stepped down from the car, horrified. My captors’ body sprawled on the tarred road, in a pool of blood. I stared at Bobby, my nightmarish dream man—four bloody holes in his chest, his spectacles was intact. His accomplice was lying on his stomach, five breaches on his back, head damaged as if crushed by a speeding lorry. Aside from the civil war, I had never seen such fatal slaughters.

“What is happening to me? Am I dreaming?” I muttered to myself in confusion. Those people could not be military men. Otherwise, they would have at least taken me away. I walked away from that bloody scene. Along the road, I wheeled my hands in the air for taxi, but they wouldn’t stop. I proceeded to the crossroad taken by those cars. There I found a lorry that just dropped a passenger. After climbing up the lorry, I felt a fresh air on my skin, washing away my sweat.

***

The lorry stopped at Mushin market, where I boarded the bus to our area. Getting to the front of our house, Mum was asking why I’d returned so soon. I sat on a bench behind her counter, speechless. When I decided to speak, my eyes did before me—I was blinking to suppress the peppering tears, but it finally flowed like a river. My lips began to tremble. I wondered what would have become of Mum if I had been reported lost or dead. Perhaps, she would mourn and mourn and die of depression. My younger ones would become orphans. Tunde would probably become a wayward. Rachael might turn a prostitute when her studies must have stopped, and our landlord would send them packing, since there would be no helper. Our grandparents were no more, apart from our maternal grandmother who lived in the village, at Ondo state. We had no cousins in Lagos, except for our father’s relatives who had enmity against us.

I told Mum it was a private matter. I rose up and headed upstairs. Some of our neigbours were seated outside, asking what was amiss. All I could do was shake my head.

Mum soon joined me in the room. After narrating all that happened to her, she grabbed her chests, and opened up her palms in glory to God. She embraced me with tears, patting my back and praising God the more. After then, she wondered where the evil must have come from. She kept heaving a sigh like a person about to commit suicide. And she suggested that we had to consult our pastor on the next day. I gladly embraced the idea—for thanksgiving and prayer for protection on our family.

***

 

We arrived at our pastor’s house around 7:45am. We met Pastor Solomon studying Bible with his three grown-up children in his majestic sitting-room. He was attired in a blue shirt and black trousers—probably in his late sixties. He had a mushroomed white hair and beard that defined wisdom and holiness in a peculiar way, his eyes peeping behind a wide-rimmed spectacles. As a regular member of his apostolic church, he quickly acknowledged us. I greeted him on my two knees. Mum curtsied behind me.

One of his children, a slim young lady, ushered us to the guest room. We settled on a white couch. Before us was a table carrying a white vase of red flowers. Shortly, Pastor Solomon joined us with a broad smile. I fell to my knees again, and sat back. He exchanged banters with us for a moment. When Mum was about to explain the matter, he asked us to kneel and cover our heads for prayer. Ironically, we had scarfs on our heads already. Anyway, he was used to the statement.

After the prayer session which we powered with mighty periodic AMENS, Pastor Solomon stood in silence for what seemed like a lifetime. Then he sighed, asking us to resume our seats.

“Praise the lord!” He bellowed three times, to which we responded thunderous, “Hallelujah!”

“I can see a great calamity before these servants!” He said, pushing the air with his right fist,“where is your husband, Madam?”

“He died about six years ago sir, during the Biafra war.”

  Pastor Solomon shook his head and said, “Your husband is not dead. He is very much alive in…..”

“My husband is not dead?” Mum interrupted in a devastating voice.



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