THE CLAWS OF SHADOWS 4 (FINAL EPISODE)

  TAG:  Fiction, Historical, Mystery.

  click here for Epsiode 3

“Yes, madam,” affirmed Pastor Solomon, and I was struck with disbelief. “As I was saying, he is presently in this state. It was a deliberate concealment. There is a reason behind his action, which wasn’t revealed to us. Your husband shall return sooner or later, and whenever he comes, never regard him as a ghost.”

I stared shockingly at Mum as if to ask, “Am I dreaming? could this be true?” Mum stared at my face with the same questioning look. But then, I wouldn’t doubt any revelation from Pastor Solomon, for he had prophesized many things that had come to pass, to other church members.

“During our prayer,” he continued, shaking his clenched fists, “we saw that this young lady just crossed a devilish fire….”

“Yes, pastor. That is why we’re here. She is my first child.” Mum interjected sharply, amidst her lingering doubt and wonder about Dad.

“Hmn,” He grunted and nodded his head. “That same fire is after your other children. It is the work of the enemies; some satanic people wanted your family destroyed. The seed you are sowing from the little you possess, with your husband’s intervention, saved your daughter from this disaster. ”

“Oh, glory be to you, Jehovah,” Mum spread her palms upwards. Then with a burning apprehension, she said to the pastor, “I hope nothing will happen to my other children. Right now they must be preparing for school, and….” Mum halted and jutted her index finger, confusion flashed across her face like a desperate firefly, “My husband’s intervention. How is that possible?” Mum eventually asked what had blurred my mind like the haze of harmattan.

How could Dad have intervened? Pastor Solomon must be speaking in parables. I guessed he actually meant Dad had been praying for us—if truly he was alive.

Pastor Solomon said he wasn’t in the best position to answer Mum. As for divine protection on our family, he emphasized that we must all fast for seven days and nights to rise above further evils. We thanked Pastor Solomon excessively before departing.

****

In the evening, Tunde and Rachael were left between elation and shock when we unfolded the pastor’s revelation. Three of us were seated in the room with Mum. It was around 5’oclock. We did not prepare fish. Customers had been coming to buy the remaining ones upstairs. “Today is for thanksgiving,” Mum had said. We wished Dad was really alive, and that he would reunite with us soon

I missed everything about Dad. I missed the way he used to take us to the beach on Saturdays, the way he used to brag to his visiting friends that I was a queen, that I was just as beautiful as Mum when he met her. He was my first boyfriend, so to speak—since he was the first man to make me blush and feel good. I couldn’t forget the way he used to tell us many interesting stories, especially the story of war and Yoruba folklores. How would I forget those days when five of us would make a complete family in our royal sitting room? Laughter and Joy would make us seven.  As friendly as he was, Dad would scold and torture us if we did something wrong.

On the three-seater chair across, Rachael was holding Daddy’s framed military picture, staring mournfully at him, tears burning down her cheeks. We must have restored her sadness. Tunde was seated next to Rachael, gazing at the ceiling as if expecting Dad to descend from there. Perhaps he, too, was still skeptical about Dad’s possible arrival. I was seated at the bedside with Mum. She urged Rachael to stop weeping. I went across to collect the picture from her. I resumed my seat beside Mum. Looking at the picture, I felt my hand over it. Daddy’s uniform was different from some soldiers.’ I wondered aloud.

 “Your Dad was holding a colonel rank in force.” Mum responded.

“A colonel rank,” I repeated the word, as though I had never heard it before.

“Don’t tell me you’ve not been taught in school,” she said calmly, but in a reproaching tone, “You should have known the ranks even from your form one.”

Before I could tell Mum I was a little familiar with the ranks, she had started explaining them to me, stage by stage—Dad was actually among the commissioned officers. He had to obtain five more ranks before attaining Field Marshal—the highest in command. He was above five commissioned officers, meaning that he was an authority figure. Meanwhile, I had always assumed that, “A soldier man is always a soldier man, irrespective of the ranks.”

That reminded me of our primary or standard school days, whenever an older pupil wanted to bully us, another would warn, “Ha! If you beat any of them….Don’t you know their father is a soldier man? He would soon come and carry them home in his soldier car, and they would report to him, and he will flog you with a soldier koboko.”

****

Over a week later, I had not resumed work at the restaurant. Although, a day after the incident, Mum had gone to meet my boss, to inform her about it and that I wouldn’t come for a week. Now that the fasting was over, I wanted to spare myself some days before resumption.

On a Saturday afternoon, Rachael and I were seated at Mum’s counter, attending to the customers. Perspiration soaked our cloths for the raging sun. Then a man suddenly overtook the queue of buyers. Rachael insisted that he must join the queue. Or else she wouldn’t sell to him.

“I’m not here to buy anything,” said the young man, producing a brown envelope from his pocket, “I have come to deliver this letter to the woman selling here. Where is she?”

I told him she was our Mum and she’d gone to the market. Then he handed it to me. While collecting the envelope, I looked up at him—a dark mighty man on yellow shirt, brown shorts and hat.

We’re still busy with sales when Mum returned from the market. I gave her the envelope as the buyers awaited the next round. I described the person that brought the letter. Seated beside me, Mum was unfolding the letter with a smile. The letter was from her friend who stayed at Victoria Island, she guessed.  While reading, Mum dilated her eyes, clutched at her chests with left hand and shook her head. I dare not crane my neck to see the content. Mum detested such habit. I wanted her to reveal it to me.

“Oh, at last, thank you Jesus!” Mum rose to her feet, shooting her hands heavenwards, with the letter in her right hand.

She handed the letter to me and shouted, “Rachael, leave what you are doing. It’s a letter from your father!” Mum was so excited that she started dancing and singing praise and worship song.

Rachael jerked to her feet and nearly fell down while rushing to us, as if pursued by a snake. Mummy had not finished reading. Together we held the paper at the edges. We started reading as if the letter was a JAMB question and the invigilator would call “Time up!” in a few seconds.

The first paragraph began with an assurance that the letter was from Rufus Adeoye, and apology that he had left us for over five years without prior information. His absence was for the family safety, he said. When he was nominated by his superiors as one of the inspectors at war-front in early 1969, he consulted the pastor of our former church, reverend Mathew, about the journey. The reverend recommended that he left the country for a while if he wanted to live long with his family. The reverend said his comrade who envied his rank was planning to murder him on the battlefield. And some of his relatives who resented him were also planning to destroy our entire family, so as to inherit the wealth.

The second paragraph proceeded with the exile period mentioned by the reverend. It was actually five years, so the enemies would believe he had died at war. And consequently they would reveal themselves. (I smiled and shook my head. The enemies had indeed shown themselves. Mr. Ojubanire was certainly their leader). The reverend said he shouldn’t inform any living soul about his journey. He said the day he supposedly bade us goodbye for the war, he was secretly heading for South Africa. He stayed with his friend who resided at Queenstown in South Africa. There, they were into import and export trade.

Third paragraph—he said he’d returned to Nigeria with his friend for past a month, at Lagos Island. After a thorough enquiry, he had located our present residence. He was aware of our condition and realized those that afflicted us. But he would leave them to God. He actually decided to hide himself until his mission was accomplished. One of his missions was that he went to the military office and tendered a formal resignation letter, but they pleaded his return for his great service in the past. They thought he had been murdered by the Biafrans. But now they believed he survived and purposely left the country. So they wanted to promote him.

Fourth paragraph—he said he again consulted reverend Mathew, who then asked him to assume the office. My siblings and I were still in danger, but he would keep praying for us, the reverend told Dad. Dad said he deployed some securities to watch over our day-to-day movements. He mentioned how those securities had combated my abductors, and how he forewarned them to leave no trace behind. The securities had come back to survey the Peugeot car, and investigation proved that the assassins were sent by Dad’s friend, Lieutenant-Colonel Godwin, now a Major General. Dad said he had taken legal measures on him with all the proofs at hand.

 (I recognized that man quite well. Dad used to dominate him with one rank, but now he was leading with two ranks. He was a regular visitor in our house then. Dad used to bring out our photo albums for his visiting friends. That accounted for how he must have gotten my picture. I believed he decided to destroy us when he realized that Dad was alive. I took a long sigh—a family member and a close friend? We should just beware of those that are close to us like shadows, for they are prone to do us evils. They might have claws on their fingers.)

The conclusion—Dad said we should to start packing our necessary belongings. He would come on the following morning. We’re relocating to the new mansion he bought at Lagos highland.

“Oh, my God!” I burst into a scream.

Rachael knelt on the ground, stretching her hands skywards with tears on her face. At that moment, Tunde was coming with football in his hand. After reading the letter, Tunde started jumping around the way he usually did when Nigeria had re-equalized a goal at African nations cup. The waiting customers, including our Amebo neigbours, began to look as if we had gone mad.

***

In the morning, around 9am, two vehicles parked in front of the house. Three of us had been standing outside, so anxiously like children awaiting mother’s return from night-market. Dad was stepping down from a Mercedes Benz in a new military uniform. Together we ran to him amidst our states of euphoria. Dad opened his arms, apparently to receive us one by one. But we enveloped him at once. He wrapped his hands around our heads, expressing how much he’d missed us, with more apologies.

“We miss you more, Daddy,” Rachael said, sniffing, “I’m happy you’re alive. I hardly believed the letter you sent.”

 “I promise you shall all complete your education in the United States,” Dad was assuring us with a big smile, after we separated from him. “Oh, my goodness!” We all began to jump in utmost excitement. I felt my head spinning on my neck. Tunde must be a lucky boy. It was a chance for him to reunite with Tasha. I wondered how shameful Mrs. Lawrence would become. Indeed, no man could ever hinder a destiny.

I never realized Mum was standing behind us until I glanced back. She was wearing a blissful smile. The other car was occupied with soldiers. I saw the man that brought the letter among them.

Mum and Dad cuddled like a newly wedded couple. The whole street began to watch as if we’re staging a cinema. Our landlord was standing upstairs, unable to shut his lion mouth.




Other posts

When beauty becomes a crime
Turning a new leaf
The buried passion
Treasure and the lucky digger
The pride of a bride
The vengeance of omoge omi
Land of chaos (Novel extract)
Divine diary
Heron at desert
Flame of honesty 
Breaking the fear

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.



                                  Click here for Final episode







Other posts

When beauty becomes a crime
Turning a new leaf
The buried passion
Treasure and the lucky digger
The pride of a bride
The vengeance of omoge omi
Land of chaos (Novel extract)
Divine diary
Heron at desert
Flame of honesty 
Breaking the fear

THE CLAWS OF SHADOWS (EPISODE 2)

click here for EPISODE 1

 TAG:  Fiction, Historical, Mystery.

Tasha had come to spend a month holiday with her parents, from the U.S where she was residing. She happened to meet Tunde and immediately fell for him. Tunde’s first observation was this:

 Chief Lawrence asked him to give Tasha a glass of wine at the balcony. Then she was busy staring at him until she spilled the content all over her dress. Tunde was indeed a fine boy, just like our dad. His tallness, fair skin, well-built physique, cute face,  red parted lips, gripping eyes made him look like those American boys I used to see on TV. And Tasha, too, was a tall girl, with a bronze skin, a typical afro American beauty. After that day, Tasha would sit beside him whenever he was reading. She would insist on reading with him and sometimes snatch the book from him and run to her room.  She did that often, in expectation that Tunde would run after her. Tunde would not. And she would later return the book to him, and like that they became close friends. She applied some other tricks, like asking him to help her kill a non-existent rat in her room, and in the process seduced him.

“Come on! Am I not beautiful enough?” she would whine, “You don’t seem to like me!”

“No. I can’t do this.” Tunde would object, “See, I really like you, but your Dad is my helper and he likes me a lot. This might lead to something else.”

“Come on, dude!” Tasha would say in her sweet, sexy, American-accented voice, while holding his shoulders, “I know how to prevent that. Please, Just once. I can’t help it…My Pop aint gonna find out. And if he does, trust me.  I know how to handle that old man.”

Still Tunde would resist her, until a particular day she threatened, “Fuck! I will ask dad to get another help. Just bet it!”

 Knowing full well that she had the key to her father’s heart, Tunde surrendered to her. It was the day her parents went for a party.

After then, Tunde confided to Tasha that our Dad was also wealthy before our present situation. Tasha felt so sorry. She pleaded with her Dad to get another help and let Tunde finish his education abroad. Chief Lawrence protested and scolded her. But when Tasha refused to eat for days, he was compelled to prepare Tunde’s travelling passport. To satisfy his daughter’s whim. Tunde was very excited. He decided not to inform any of us, neither me nor Mum or Rachael, until it ever happened.

Mrs. Lawrence, Tasha’s Mum, decided to become the pharaoh, and Tunde, the Moses. She wanted to be an obstacle to the Promised Land. “A gold digger!” She would call him. After the failure to poison her husband’s mind, one day she asked Tunde to tidy up his room, after which Chief Lawrence said ‘Ten U.S dollars and N25/3kobo’ was missing in his room.

“Aunty Grace. I never stole that money,” Tunde had concluded the narration to me, tearfully, “That woman must have taken it. She hates me!”  

Afterwards, Tasha would come to our house to check on him. Before travelling back to U.S, Tasha bought some designer wears for me and Rachael. We never let Mum know that Tasha was Chief Lawrence’s daughter. “She is Tunde’s friend in school.” Rachael would lie to Mum, since I had also narrated the truth to her. All these happened about four months ago.

As for me, I’m still working as a server at a restaurant, from Thursday to Saturday. My colleague, Bukola, would take the shift from Monday to Wednesday. And we’d resume by 4: pm till late in the night.

Now I just finished changing into a white blouse and blue skirt. As I took my mirror to rub a powder, Tunde called me from behind.

“Yes!” I responded, without looking back.

“I was struck by one idea.” He said.

“What idea is that, aburo?” I said, clapping off the excess powder from my palms.

“Our science teacher hasn’t been coming for about a month now, and I leant that the school is looking for a new teacher. What if Mum applies for it? You know she is good at science.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I have suggested the plan to her before. As you know, she will be 52 next month. She said she no longer has the strength to shout.”

“Anyway,” Tunde sighed, “I think she is now used to that fish. It’s not that profitable, and it doesn’t just befit her…for her qualification.”

“You are right, but what do we do….” I said, not in a questioning tone. With that, Tunde left the room with a football.

Actually, there were older teachers in my school. Mum had lost most of her vigour, probably because of her worries. She hadn’t lost her beauty, but that agility was no longer much—not even because she was a little bit fat. Rachael and I took after Mum with our shiny mud-coloured skin. Our similar dominating statures, pretty oblong faces, curvy figures, round breasts, and bubble-like backsides made us look like twins. I was a little taller than her, and despite our age difference, her boyfriends in school would confuse me with her, until I started wearing skirt and blouse.

***

On the following day, I arrived at the restaurant at 4:30pm, and my boss scolded me for a few minutes before I set to work. The restaurant was on Oladipo Street, facing a highway linking to Mushin. It was just like a regular shop, but there was a ten feet verandah where deck chairs were arranged in circles. There was no customer as at the time I resumed, but now three old men were approaching, each with a tummy like a pregnant goat, and in their hands were daily times.

“Mama Eko, se Arewa mi ti de?” shouted one of them.  (Lagos Mama, has my beauty arrived?)

I was behind the counter, preparing a pepper soup. My boss was always addressed as Mama Eko. The man was actually referring to me. To retain customers at a pub, one had to be very smart and jovial. Many customers, old men and young boys, would ask me on a date and I’d cunningly turn them down. A man had spanked me on my behind before, and I scolded him and smiled shortly after. It was among the rules my boss had given me before I started the work.

 I walked to the men outside and curtsied. They flattered me, and I exchanged pleasantries with them for a while. “Bring me three bottles of Harp Lager and a bush meat,” The man said in Yoruba. He held out his hands to hear from his friends, and they requested for five Foreign extra stouts and a plateful of pepper soup each.

As I made to serve their orders, I heard them arguing over the content in the PUNCH newspaper. It was about our new president. “Look at what I’m talking about!” One of them said and read out the headline, “GENERAL MURTALA MUHAMMAD HAS INITIATED A COMPREHENSIVE REVIEW OF THE THIRD NATIONAL DEVELOPMENT PLAN.”

If I were to study socialism in the university, I would probably be the best student. The update on politics from our customers surpassed that of any radio station.

About an hour later, my boss asked me to get some ingredients at Oshodi market, and one of the customers, a young man on glasses, offered to drop me off, since he was heading the same way. He pointed at his car across the road. It was the latest Peugeot. I wonder what a rich guy like him had come to do at our local pub. Likes of him would rather go to places like The Londoners, La koreana, Benson Moore and others. To crown it all, he was extremely handsome—with his shiny dark figure, afro haircut, goliath frame, smart white shirt, flaring black trousers and brown shoes. He should be in his late twenties, probably a university student or graduate.

“Thanks,” I said shyly, intending to walk away, “I will get a taxi.”

“Do you realize you’re insulting me?” His said calmly. I turned back to him. On his face was that gracious embarrassment which befitted a gentle man.

“How…how is that an offense?” I said, watching out for my boss.

“Do you mean I’m a kidnapper or something?” His voice was still relaxed, a smile creeping on his adorable lips.

I was finally defeated by his persuasive words. I walked after him to the car. I was examining my wears (a shabby pink blouse and black shirt) as if to confirm whether it would befit such a luxurious car. I quickly adjusted my ‘shuku’ hairstyle. Finally, I sat awkwardly beside him at the front seat, and he wound down the glass.

“Thanks for the gesture.” I said timidly, as he was about to start the engine.

“Never mind….Miss Grace…Am I right?”  

“Yes.” I said with a slight nod. He must have heard my name when Mama Eko was calling me.

For over two minutes of setting on the road, he didn’t utter a single word again. And his face was not what I saw earlier on. It was as if he was now wearing a horror mask, for the way his face was stiff and harsh. At that moment, I felt obliged to interrupt the silence, maybe ask him about his mission in that area or about his educational status. But a voice at the corner of my mind scolded me: “Don’t ask him any question. Let him do. You are a woman. Where is your pride? Show your dignity, even though you like him!” I obeyed the thought. Just then, he wound up the glasses….under this tense atmosphere? I wondered. I wanted to protest, but I heard a ruffled sound behind me, then a rough, menacing voice.

 “Don’t bother to look back at all. Just cooperate with us!” My heart flew away immediately I felt a cold metal against my skull. It was a gun, I guessed. Then a wicked grin erupted from the throat of my Good Samaritan. 


                                         click here for Episode 3

THE CLAWS OF SHADOWS (EPISODE 1)

 TAG:  Fiction, Historical, Mystery.

In the afternoon, thunder came in steady barks, crashing through my heart, and I was afraid my chests would burst open —pitter, patter, pitter, patter—the gradual beats of rain on our roof was developing into fast and furious drumming. Like a mad man, the wind banged our windows and tugged at our full-length curtain, so it started flapping like a tattered flag. After shutting the windows, I rushed out for my cloths at the balcony.  The wind almost pushed me off my feet—it pushed me, I pushed back, and I finally forced my way to the rail. It was a three story building and, of course, we stayed at the last floor. Above, clouds gathering so thickly like honey bees in the hive, and there was a short-term night.  While packing the cloths across my shoulder, countless times the rain flogged me, nearly soaking my dress.

 To my greatest surprise, across our untarred street, I saw naked children, plenty of them jumping around like excited toads in a swamp, collecting the water with their faces. Could they be stronger than me, I was wondering—as tall as I was, in my early twenties? I sighed. Oh. I must have lost my weight to fever, the fever that had shackled me for over a week, which only freed me some days ago.

Getting back inside, I groped through the dark for matches. I lit the lantern that sat on a stool beside the bed. Then the darkness exploded in my eyes, chunk by chunk, replaced by a glowing orange light. I stared pitifully at Mum who was lying asleep on the bed, a blue ankara wrapper shrouding her body, from her feet to the neck. She had been the one nursing my sickness, and now I had taken her place.

I gathered two iron pails and one basin from under the bed. I joined them with those that’d been lined at the balcony by our neigbours, for the torrent of water from our rust, tattered zinc. It was a kind of building where the balcony was extended far past the roof level. Our landlord was too negligent. The brownish and greenish decays on the cream-painted walls, plus surplus cracks, made the building appear scruffy and weak, just like the muddy ‘bird house’ I used to form with my foot when I was little.

“Baba oshi, you useless and selfish man!” was our neigbours’ blessings for our landlord every morning. Like our regular recitation of hymns in the missionary school.

I had been absent from school since Mum developed this malaria symptom. I volunteered myself to take care of her, as the eldest child. My two younger ones, Rachael and Tunde, were in form 4 and 5, respectively. Rachael was the baby of the house—eighteen-year-old. And right now they were both in school. We all attended CMS Grammar School, Lagos —a few miles from our home. Mum had rented this house five years back, eight months after dad was deployed for civil war and never returned.

He was a soldier. Alive or dead —we heard nothing. We saw no corpse. We all cried and cried until tears denied our eyes.  My Dad’s relatives sent us parking from our mansion. Mr. Ojubanire, the olori ebi or family leader, was the harness on their black horse. He claimed that Mum was a witch, according to his pastor, and so they sold my father’s properties, including cars—a Volkswagen beetle and Volkswagen K70.  Mum wanted to report the case to Dad’s comrades, but couldn’t locate those with whom she was acquainted. We’re helpless. Naked. Pathetic.

Mr. Ojubanire was always on glasses, just in his late fifties. He was a regular visitor in our house when dad was alive. And Mum would do anything to please him, for he would always come with a starving stomach. Pounded yam was his fixed demand.

“You see, your mother and I suffered before acquiring this wealth,” I remembered Dad saying to three of us, the day Tunde was caught with bad gangs. It was after he tortured Tunde with koboko. “Are you getting me? You all have to be serious and face your studies. Your Mum was a teacher in a Methodist school when I met her.  If your mother returned from school, she would sell plantain at Idi oro market. So, little by little, we gathered money to build this house. But you, my children, shall never experience any hard life. And as for you, Tunde,” Dad paused and diverted his attention to him, “I don’t want to ever see you among those smokers in your life! Those rascals have no educational background. So, you want them to corrupt your life!”

That was Dad for us. He would always advise us. “Why did my father’s people treat us this way, after all Mummy had passed through?” was the question I always asked myself. It made Mum weep sometimes, for our present situation. Now, we owed our landlord two years rent.

“Mama Tunde, oni’gbese, mo tun ti’de O!”  (Mama Tunde, the debtor, I have come again!) Landlord would shout at our door, while ringing a bell. Same thing he did to every other debtor in the house, mostly on Tuesdays and Saturdays.

 “Mba! Foolish man,” a woman would gossip, among the Igbo neigbours, “When you die, dem go bury you with that bell. And God go make you the tank keeper for hell fire. Nenu…Ewu!”

 Rachael would hawk fried fish on arriving from school, and I would assist Mum in sales at home. Those were the things my father thought we would never experience.

Mum was awake when I again returned to the room, now lying on her side. I couldn’t breathe freely. The air was still intoxicant with the ointments I used on her in the morning.

 “You will be alright in Jesus name,” I said, sitting close to her by the bed, laying my right palm on her forehead, warm and sweaty, “I have collected the herbal leaves. Oh, I really trekked before getting them. I’m just happy I got them. ” Meanwhile, my eyes wandered to the shabby mattress lying on the wall, where I slept with my siblings, a dusty radio on the stool beside it, and a wooden table in the middle of our bare floor. By the window, an old black shelf which was meant for appliances accommodated our books alone.

“Thank you, my daughter,” She said in a voice so faint, and coughed, “your future children shall repay what you’re doing to me.” I exhaled very deeply. That was her normal statement. Either she was being angry or happy with us.

*

Two days later, Mum became strong and healthy. She woke up before anyone, to wash the trays, bowls, baskets and the pans we used in frying fish. We’re all happy. And I resumed school on the following day which was Wednesday. That very day, we returned from school by 4:45pm because of inter-sport. Rachael rushed upstairs after greeting Mum at her stall (two tables placed by the gutter). Rachael already told me and Tunde that she wanted to watch a soap opera (The village head master) at our neighbour’s room. Unlike radio stations who opened by 5: am, all the TV stations would start by 5pm. Even before any program could start, a grey spectrum would have appeared on the screen from 4:30pm, alongside music, followed by a national anthem and pledge. It was only our landlord that had a coloured TV. The neigbours that owned the normal black-and-white were 17 or so, in a building of 32 apartments.  Mum must not see us near any neigbour’s door except for her friend, Mummy Joseph, whose husband worked at Philip TV stall.

Tunde and I soon followed after Rachael to take off our school uniform. My uniform, as a senior girl in form six, was a stripy, white armless blouse and a green skirt. Over the years, Tunde and I had done petty jobs to assist Mummy in payment of our school fees.  Tunde had been a house boy to one rich man at Olateju Street, two streets away, until recently — Chief Lawrence fired Tunde from his house, and stopped paying his school fees.

”What happened?” Mum had asked Tunde on seeing his luggage inside the room. Tunde sat with his hand supporting his jaw, not responding. “Are you deaf?”

Then Tunde lied to Mum, in annoying manner, “I can’t work with the man again o. I have discovered he is a spiritualist. I caught him with a charm, and I’m afraid. I am just afraid he will descend on me. Maybe someday, he will use me for money ritual.”

On hearing that, Mum slapped her breasts, and snapped her finger over her head, “Ehn! God forbid. A spiritualist! How did you discover that?”  Tunde didn’t reveal how he found out, but insisted he would find another job. Mum didn’t probe the matter any further, because he got the houseboy job himself. Tunde later narrated the truth to me in details. Chief Lawrence’ only daughter, Tasha, was actually the source of the problem. And this was how it all happened…

                                             
                                          click here for EPISODE 2