by Tobias Wade
Mrs. Neggels, the home teacher, is the sweetest old thing I’ve ever seen. Imagine a sugar plum in a home knitted sweater. She’d been in remission for four years, but lately her doctors have suspected her breast cancer might be coming back. She anticipated needing to miss quite a few classes for the testing, and was so happy I was there that she brought me straight into the classroom to meet her children.
I had to buy as much time as I could. I don’t know when they will strike – if they’ll strike at all – but it seemed like Dory killed her children the same day she was speaking with them. If she was going to try and collect the rest of the class, then it would have to be during school hours.
I made up every excuse I could to stay. I sang with the children in their music class, and volunteered to supervise recess. I helped the cafeteria lady prepare lunch, and even picked up trash with the janitor. By the afternoon, it was clear that they were trying to get rid of me, but there was still no sign of the ghosts.
I was sitting in the art room when Mrs. Neggels finally asked me to leave. The children were just filing into the room from their math class. I immediately volunteered to help them painting their wall, but they already had a guest artist who was going to help out. It was getting late though – maybe they would be alright until tomorrow. I started packing up my things, and that’s when I heard the Malthusa girls.
Come and play with us.
The voice was coming through the air conditioning vent. It was as soft as death which visits in a deep sleep.
“That’ll be all. We can take it from here. You may go now.” Mrs. Neggels was using her stern voice – the one which made children with the attention span of a rabid squirrel jump into line with military precision. I walked as slowly as I could for the door, desperately looking for any excuse to stay.
Can we paint the wall too, Mommy?
Of course you can, my darling. What colors do you think will go there?
Umm… yellow. And orange. Like leaves.
There! A can of paint sitting on the edge of Mrs. Neggels desk. I gathered my purse, swinging it carelessly behind me.
“Watch out!” Mrs. Neggels was too slow. I hit the can hard, sending it spinning across the room to burst against the far wall. Red paint EXPLODED all over the carpet, and the shrieks and giggles from the children drowned out the whispering voices.
“I’m so sorry!” I said. “Here, let me help.”
“You’ve done quite enough, thank you!” Mrs. Neggels snapped. “Don’t step in it now – hey! Stop that!” The children were running wild. Shrieking – laughing – red foot prints everywhere. Red hands on the walls. If one of them was cut right now, would I even notice? I had to get them out of here.
“Let me at least watch them outside to give you space to clean up,” I said.
“Fine – just go! Get everybody out.”
“Do you know this game? It’s my favorite.”
We were all sitting in the recess yard. I managed to get them all sitting down in a circle around me, but I was at my wits end. I don’t know how to keep them safe.
I want to paint more, Mommy. The voice was getting louder. The kids were looking in all directions, trying to find where it was coming from.
“Who said that?” one asked.
“Please children. Please please listen to me. We’re going to play a game. All you have to do is lie very quietly – that’s it – just like you were made of stone.”
I’m going to paint something for you now. It’s going to be bright red – even brighter than the paint.
“Don’t even blink. Don’t even breathe. And whatever you do, don’t tell them you’re playing a game.”
The children were all lying down. Their eyes were closed. At least if they were to die now, they wouldn’t see it coming.
I want to paint with them! Why aren’t they painting?
“They’ll want to play with you, but you mustn’t let them.” I was on the verge of tears. But I couldn’t break down, or the children would know it wasn’t a game. And if it wasn’t a game to them, they would begin to cry too. And if they cried…
Mommy, make them paint with us!
“Not a word. Not a sound. Still as stone.” I held my breath. The children were all quiet. There was nothing left I could do.
They’re boring. Mommy make them stop being boring.
Play! Play with my children!
A few eyes opened to peek for the voice. A few hands began to rub the drying paint on their skin.
“Still as stone. First one to move is out.” I said. The hands stopped moving.
Mommy, this is stupid. Let’s go back to the park.
Don’t you want your class to come with you?
No, they’re all boring. Let’s go see the ducks.
Of course, my darling. Let us go watch the ducks together.
I’m a full time teacher at the school now. I haven’t heard the voices again since that time, but I don’t feel right leaving the children alone. If the Malthusa girls ever do get lonely and decide to come back, I’m going to be here ready to play a game. It’s very easy to play. All you have to do is lie very quietly, just like you were made of stone.
Mother is Back
Love is blind, and so is hope. But something doesn’t become true just because you want it badly enough. I don’t know why IT is in my house, but I’m not going to be fooled.
I say IT because she isn’t my Mom. She looks like her, and talks like her, and smiles like her, but IT isn’t her.
The worst part is, Dad doesn’t even notice. I saw them dancing in the kitchen when I got home from school. Frank Sinatra was playing on the stereo, his smooth voice propelling their tangled bodies in a slow waltz across the room. My Dad’s eyes were closed as his head rested on IT’s shoulder, and he seemed genuinely happy – happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.
I just dropped my backpack and stared. IT let go of my father and hugged me. I stood stiff as a board. Mom never used to hug me when I got home – she knew I liked having my space. But there’s no denying how soft and warm she felt, or the lavender odor of her shampoo washing over me.
We’re having homemade pizza with the cheese baked into the crust, my Dad’s favorite thing in the world. And seeing him so happy, I didn’t have the heart to say anything. I just went to my room like a coward. I just pretended everything was fine.
Maybe if I wasn’t a little happy to see her too, I would have fought against it harder. It’s been hard for all of us since Mom died, but that was no excuse to let IT into our house, just so we could pretend we were a family again.
But Mom – my real Mom – would put me to bed without staying to watch me fall asleep. She would hold onto my Dad’s arm when he talked, but she wouldn’t dig her nails in so deeply they drew blood. She wouldn’t forget to blink for hours at a time.
Two days have passed. I’ve been struggling to decide what to do – no, that’s not quite true. I KNOW what needs to be done, but it would be so much easier to just keep pretending like my Dad. Maybe in time I would even forget that a drunk driver T-boned my Mom’s SUV while she and my Dad were coming home from their date.
I’d forget the bloodstains on the asphalt and the hours I spent waiting for her in the emergency room. Maybe I’d even forget how it felt when she didn’t come out.
Then again, maybe those are the memories that aren’t real – they certainly don’t feel real when my mother – I mean IT – sits between us on the sofa to watch the evening news. But letting her be replaced, even if it was easier for Dad and me, wasn’t any way to respect my real Mom. It was for her, not for me, that made me finally speak up. “Dad we need to talk about Mom.”
I’d waited until IT went to the bathroom (which doesn’t happen nearly as often as it used to) to corner my Dad in his bedroom. He just kept reading, not even returning my gaze. He knew what I was going to say – he just didn’t want to hear it.
“Do you remember what happen
ed last month when she was in that accident?”
“It’s getting late. You should go to bed so you’ll be ready for school tomorrow,” Dad said.
“Dad this is serious. Please tell me that you remember.”
I heard a FLUSH from the bathroom. There wasn’t much time. I’d never get an answer out of Dad with IT here. Dad was watching the bathroom door too – like a kid praying for the bell to ring before the teacher collected homework. The shower began to run, and I let out a deep breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. Dad sighed too – there was no getting out of this.
“Yeah, I remember,” he said. He stared back into my eyes – I finally had his attention.
“Do you remember the hospital? And… what happened after?”
“Yeah. It was a pretty bad crash – we’re all so fortunate that nobody was hurt.” His eyes were keen and sharp. He couldn’t have forgotten – he was just trying to get me to accept it without having to admit it. For my real Mom’s sake though, it had to be said.
“She died, Dad. We went to her funeral.”
He didn’t flinch – didn’t even blink. He just smiled.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s in the bathroom right now.” I ran over to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. I shook him, but he didn’t fight it. He just kept staring at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“You’re lying. You know what happened – I know what happened. Why are you lying to me?”
“Aren’t you happier this way?” he asked. “If you think about what happened – really think about it – you’ll realize this is the best thing for you.” There. That was proof. He wasn’t trying to evade anymore. He wasn’t even averting his eyes in denial.
The shower stopped running, but he kept his eyes on me. That’s when I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I saw him blink. Dad had been in the accident too, why hadn’t I wondered why he came out unharmed? I’d been so busy mourning Mom that I hadn’t even stopped to think –
He must have seen it in my face, because his smile stretched wider.
“Now you understand. But you mustn’t let mother know that I told you. She wants to have a family so badly – I’d hate to think what she would do if she found out you didn’t think of her that way.”
The bathroom door opened. IT stood there, wrapped in a towel. She walked nonchalantly over to my Dad – or who I thought was my Dad – and gave him a kiss. They both turned to look at me.
“What are you still doing awake?” my other mother asked. “Is everything alright?”
“He was just going to bed,” my other Dad said. “Everything IS fine, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Come, let me tuck you in,” my other mother started moving toward me, but she stopped when she saw me flinch.
“Let your mother tuck you in,” my other Dad’s voice was tense with an unspoken threat. “Perfect parents like us deserve to have the perfect son. I hope we won’t need to replace him.”
He laughed at his own joke, and she put her hand on his arm as she laughed with him. I turned around and headed for my room so I wouldn’t have to see the blood dripping down his arm.
The Suicide Bomber
I will be going soon. The Muna Camp will be cleansed with fire. Inshallah – if Allah wills – I will die tonight.
I wish people would take the lives of the Nigerian people as seriously as they do their celebrities and invented characters, but my message needs to be told and I will tell it to whoever will listen.
My name is Abayomrunkoje (meaning God won’t allow humiliation), and I am ready to die for the Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’awati wal-Jihad (People Committed to the Propagation of the Prophet’s Teachings and Jihad).
Nigeria was invaded by Westerners who enslaved our people, our land, and worst of all, our minds. Children are brainwashed with Western ideals which pervert their morality and corrupt their spirits. You may teach your own children to believe in nothing and whore their bodies for the attention of strangers, but do not be surprised when we resist you poisoning our own against us.
That is why great Mohammed Yusuf opened his own Islamic school, and that is where I learned the truth of our oppression. A single school cannot save our people anymore than a single candle may banish the night however. As long as the Nigerian government sanctions this state-wide abomination of Western ideals, we will light a fire in our own skin and burn bright as the sun which will end this dark night.
An Islamic state is forming. Our group – also called the Boko Haram – has already chased many of the infidels from Maiduguri and into the refugee camps. Their false government has abandoned them, and they are defenseless.
There are six of us from the school who will attack. We carry incendiary explosives which will light the tents and spread for miles. I am afraid – but my love for Allah keeps me strong. I will be with him soon, and he will thank me for doing what is so hard to do. None of us are monsters or Demons. There are tears in our eyes as we say goodbye to our brothers.
We know we are going to our glory, and the glory of all those whose death marks their liberation. That knowledge gives me the strength to continue, but it does not hide the pain I see in the children’s eyes when they are slipping from this world. It does not dampen the screams of a mother holding her dead son. I wish I could tell them everything was going to be alright – that Allah will protect them now – but they will not listen to words. They will only listen to fire.
The six of us are splitting up to take up strategic positions around the camp. I say goodbye to my brother Isamotu Olalekan, and we embrace dearly. I am ready, but his last words take me by surprise.
“Abayomrunkoje I must ask you something,” he said to me. The others from the school have already gone.
“Anything my brother,” I said, still holding him close to my chest.
“Would Muhammad do as we are doing? If he were here today, would he light the fuse?”
“I know he would. Muhammad spent his life spreading the word, so he would not hesitate to give his life to protect it.”
We drew apart, but Isamotu did not seem convinced.
“I know you must be afraid,” I said. “We all are. But that is only the weakness of the body, and it is nothing compared to the strength of the spirit. We will not hesitate when the time has come.”
“You’re wrong,” he said. “I did hesitate when the time came.”
I looked at my watch. 3:45 AM. We were not set to begin until 4:30, so I do not understand.
“It wasn’t fear that made me pause though,” Isamotu said. “I heard someone crying, but I could not find them. I thought I had been spotted.”
“What does it matter if we are spotted? All you must do is hit the trigger. We cannot be stopped.”
“I didn’t want someone to see me do it. I didn’t want to see the expression on their face.”
“Did the cleric send you somewhere else before here? Were you caught?”
“I wasn’t caught.”
“Then why did the bomb not go off? You are not making any sense!” I felt myself growing exasperated, but I must be patient with my brother. I could tell he was trying very hard to speak something very sacred to him. If these were to be his last words, then he should have the chance to speak his mind.
“The bomb did go off,” he said. “And there was no-one waiting for me on the other side.”
I had so many questions to ask, but an explosion threw me to the ground. Then another – and another – five explosions in all. I kept my head down. What were they doing? They were supposed to wait for the signal at 4:30! But I checked my watch – and it was 4:30 already. How long had we been speaking?
I leapt to my feet, but Isamotu wasn’t there. He couldn’t of… not right next to me. I didn’t feel anything. But five explosions had already detonated, all some distance from me. There was fire everywhere. So many people shouting at once – they sounded more like frightened animal
s than humans.
I took off my incendiary jacket and walked away. I do not know who was speaking to me if Isamotu had already taken up his position. I do not know what he meant, but I finally found that I was afraid. I did not want to send those people to a place where no-one was waiting.
Astaghfiru lillah – Allah forgive me. My candle has burned out.
Post Office Worker
I want to share some of the creepy things I find being mailed through the US post office. And if you think we don’t look – yeah, we do. If we have any grounds for suspicion, we can run a package through scanners without even having to fill out a form.
Then if we see something in the X-Ray which might contain something illegal or a safety hazard, we’re allowed to open it. And yeah, pretty much anything can look like something illegal if you put your mind to it.
But that doesn’t stop people from still sending the weirdest shit. They count on the volume of packages being way too high to inspect each one, and usually they’re right. Here are a few times they were wrong:
A human finger.
It still had its wedding ring on. I guess one lady didn’t think divorce papers would send a strong enough message, so she sent her whole finger. At least, that’s what I’m assuming it meant.
Blackmail letters.
We got a string of letters headed to the same destination, all without a return address. Inside were pictures of a politician – sorry not saying who – naked in a hotel room with a girl 20 years younger than him, threatening him if he doesn’t cough up.
Drugs.
You have no idea how many people are using dark web websites to send drugs. If they’re packaged right, it’s pretty impossible to tell, but others are sloppy. A coffee can full of marijuana (which I could smell from a room away), a syringe full of heroin with a HAND WRITTEN LABEL reading “insulin” (lol), cocaine in a sugar bag, you name it.
The weirdest thing I’ve ever found was what came in two weeks ago though, and it’s why I’m writing this post now.
