Terence, Mephisto & Viscera Eyes

by Chris Kelso

  —Once you have recited the Axe code of secrecy your name will be added into the secret scrolls. Repeat the following, freshman—‘I do solemnly swear to pledge my entire future to the cause of the Black Axe confraternity’.

  Obi repeated through bloody coughs.

  —‘I devote my existence to the great leader Ogu for as long as I remain mortal. I love my master. I love his group. My beliefs are now that of the Black Axe and I belong to the Black Axe. Ayei Axmen!’

  Obi duly echoed his superior’s oath. His painful spluttering and sombre smile betrayed the extent of his joy. When he finished saying the final words ‘Ayei Axmen!’, the men began cheering and congratulating the boy. Ox lifted Obi onto his shoulders and danced in a circle like a wild horse. Even through the throbbing bruises of his beating, the boy’s smile could not be contained. Ox dropped him to his feet and the captain and Bloody Son stuffed shavings of hashish into a highly-crafted bamboo water pipe. After siphoning a cloud of smoke from the conduit they offered it to the boy. Obi sucked the vapour from the draw pipe and threw up. He’d never tried a Jam Cap before. This only caused further rowdy screams of pleasure. Now, they were all high and Obi, staring into the thin brew of vomit and blood, ceased to feel his physical agony. Some of the psychoactive fumes had caused him to become euphoric. Soon he was laughing with the others. They fanned the bonfire with their hands like tribal dancers. Bloody Son perched himself on a small cluster of rocks by the shore and consecrated the new boy into office.

  —You have passed your initiation. What do you wish to be?

  Obi thought for only a second before blurting out.

  —I wish to be a butcher! Just like Tom and Mephisto and every evil in the cosmos!

  —Very well! You will now be referred to as Pigeon!

  Obi didn’t care that his nickname wasn’t as impressive as his new friends. There would be time to earn his respect later.

  4.

  Obi returned to the university campus where Ogu was waiting for him. His arms embraced the boy with approval. Obi savoured the moment. He was officially a member of the family. The night before he had celebrated long into the early hours of the morning with Captain Cannibal, Ox, and Bloody Son. His eyelids weighed down with fatigue, dangling like a sack of Kobo coins. But he was fully awake once more.

  —Pigeon, my new butcher!—cried Ogu triumphantly. He placed the Black Axe bandana around the boy’s head and taught him the secret handshake of the group (Under, over, shake, snap, and slap). Obi couldn’t help notice that the same flowered broche Asa once wore now slid up and down Ogu’s forearm. The realisation that she had been seized of her beloved bracelet deflated Obi’s soaring balloon of optimism.

  Briefly he returned to his forgotten state of mind. He thought of his father, what he might make of all this. He’d say—Sometimes a father does all he can for his boy. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough to the boy. Sometimes the boy feels the father has been really rather neglectful, in fact, but very rarely do fathers ever truly neglect their boy. How can a father not love his son and want to do everything within his power to see good by him? Exactly, it can’t be the case, not ever.

  It pleased Obi that he would soon be taught how to silence compassion completely. Currently, it stabbed him with a guilty nausea.

  Children played outside the university gates. The only thing they had to fear in the near future was deciding diplomatically which games to play on that day. The Slave State hadn’t consumed them yet, although they would inevitably be conscribed in the end. Obi saw a small boy gun down his friend with a toy gun. A little girl then kissed the gunmen on the cheek as if he was a hero and his prey was a mythical beast.

  Obi knew he wasn’t just a child with a toy gun. He knew his country wouldn’t benefit from any of this. But it wasn’t long before he returned to selfishness. To Ogu this entire fiasco seemed merely a part of the bloody theatre of life, to which he was in charge of its entire artistic direction. The boy needed to belong more than anything.

  Ogu had called Pigeon into a circle with other Axe members. He was delivering plans for their next target.

  —Aliyu, who leads “The Daughters of Jezebel”, must be taken down. She prostitutes her members for money. Then uses that money to bribe teachers. As a result the female grades are better than the male. We must put a stop to this.

  Obi was so wrapped up in Ogu’s confident manner, the absurdity of his request didn’t cross his mind.

  —Pigeon, you, me, Ox, Panther, and Captain Cannibal will go. Panther, I need you for your pace. She’ll try to run when she catches sight of me. Once she has been caught Ox and the captain will restrain her. I’ll then rape her body while she‘s down, then Pigeon the Butcher will cut her head off from the neck. Here, pour this on her body to help it dissolve.

  Ogu handed Pigeon a beaker of acid.

  —Were going to work closer with Black Axe members from Obafemi Awalowo University in our attempts to completely eradicate the female confraternities forever. For too long we have allowed whores to behave like men.

  His crowd cheered.

  —We begin tomorrow at sundown! She’ll be outside Yaba campus with the rest of her whores. But they won’t give us much trouble!

  That night Pigeon the Butcher practised chopping lumps out of a cottonwood tree. As the chunks of silky bark and sap yielded at the hands of his machete, Obi felt ready to accomplish his gruesome deed the following sundown. His thoughts were primarily of being seen in public with Ogu. Little time was spent preparing the execution, mentally or in technique. Obi was determined to complete his second murder without assistance.

  By now, the boy was addicted to all kinds of counterfeit drugs that he believed to be real. Tonics for malaria shipped in from China or India seemed to possess a certain psychic charge that gave him the closest thing to an apathetic state of mind. When the Nigerian government decided to abandon the city long ago, a hoard of these pretend drugs found circulation among the Lagos marketplace. With the Pharmaceutical Society of Nigeria distributing the pills from their base in the very city Obi occupied, getting your hands on a cheap high was easy. Only after consumption did Obi the Pigeon feel fully prepared.

  The blood plasma which hammocks my lazy red cells

  Sways, sways north bisecting the stoned soma

  Disrupted alpha waves

  The altered state of psycho-active conscious

  —You can’t . . .

  —We can rearrange the stars to advertise in the sky. There is nothing we can’t do.

  In his transcendent state everything else seemed underwhelming. He experienced no sadness when walking through the garbage-filled streets of Lagos, or beholding the sight of five million struggling, corrupted fellow Nigerians. Their impoverishment was his gain. As far as he was concerned they were flesh and bone separated from him by divine right. He convinced himself it was ambition that gave him superiority, not just the Slave State. Obi fell asleep still wearing his bandana, clutching his weapon close to his heart.

  The Black Axe all assumed family roles in Pigeon’s head. Captain Cannibal was the strong older brother. Ox was the playful cousin. Bloody Son, the strict but protective uncle. And Ogu, the God, his mother, his lover.

  Pigeon woke bright and early in his dorm room. Bloody Son, coincidently, lived just a few chambers down from his, so he wasn’t surprised to find his hulking silhouette fill the frame of the entrance when he pulled open the door.

  —Are you ready for tonight young one?—asked the looming lummox.

  Obi replied—You bet I’m ready—then signalled to the hacked cottonwood outside his window.

  —If you’re sure—Bloody Son then returned to his room quietly.

  As the sun began to hide itself behind the horizon, the boy’s anxiety was growing. No matter how many drugs he took, his worry had started to manifest.

  The journey over to the Yaba campus took longer than anticipated because of his sudden bout of stage fright. The stage floor seemed to last the full half m
ile walk, until he was finally presented with his audience. There was Ox pinning down the girl’s left arm, judging him silently, his playfulness gone. Bloody Son held down the other arm and leered at Obi expectantly, unsure of the boy’s ability as a warrior, almost hoping he might fail. Then there was Ogu tying his trouser belt back up, having just purged the girl of her dignity. He seemed to be the only Axe member whose eyes proved he had faith in the youngster. Aliyu screamed at the peak of her lungs, pouring sweat and tears over her captors. Her large brown lips rounded her mouth wide open, exhibiting a front set of immaculate teeth and deeper still, the emerging off-pink dimensions of a sandpapered tongue. This sight disturbed Obi. It didn’t help that her skirt had been pulled to her ankles and was expected to stay there during and after her murder when the soul had left her body. This would be the final image people would have of her as she was placed perfectly in a ditch for some group of villagers to stumble across and mock.

  This didn’t feel right.

  But now the moment of truth beckoned him to deliver a performance. He’d killed in the past—surely he could do it again? Hovering the machete above the girl, it was clear before long that he lacked the will. Hesitantly poising it, time and time again, pretending he was trying to make the perfect fatal cut. When minutes had passed and Pigeon the Butcher showed no signs of completing his task, Ogu swiped the blade from him and began chopping the girl up. Obi watched helplessly as Aliyu, stripped, exposed, beaten, and raped lost her distinctive physiognomy to her slaughterer’s razor-sharp cleaver. Leaning over, allowing a thread of spit to fall from his lips, Ogu tipped the beaker of acid over what was left. Aliyu’s body dissolved like a deforming ice sculpture coming into contact with a steaming hot Irish coffee. By the end the girl was unrecognisable as a human being. The massacre left both Obi and Ogu covered in a torrent of blood. Turning to face his idol, the boy feared the worst. However, all he was met by was a disappointed boy. Ogu’s eyes looked forlorn by his new recruit’s impudence instead of angry. In a way, this felt worse. Ogu handed the boy back his machete that was now swathed in viscera. Obi walked away, half expecting to be either called back and cast out of the Black Axe or attacked from behind by those who’d foolishly put faith in him. But they allowed him to leave.

  Obi felt like he had no idea who he was anymore. The dark spirit, which had possessed him, appeared to be preparing to haunt a new host. If the boy couldn’t belong to civil society or uncivil society, where did he belong?

  He comforted himself by promising to redeem the next day by whatever means necessary.

  5.

  On his way to school Obi saw a yellow school bus full of students seized by Nigerian militiamen. The driver was removed by the collar of his shirt and thrown from the vehicle into the street. After boarding the bus, armed officials told all the girls to get off with the driver before they opened fire on the remaining students, all young boys, all perhaps Inter-faith, before returning to their armoured cars and evacuating the area.

  This didn’t bring Pigeon the same satisfaction as the accident at Victoria Beach. Instead he worried that he may actually harbour some resentment towards the same government soldiers he was told he should respect and look up to. Again, guilty thoughts led his mind back to Asa, Kālu, and Aliyu. He cast his mind back to the fly.

  Obi’s schoolbag was now brimming with illegal items. He had replaced pencils with weapons and his packed lunch with cocktails of psychoactive drugs.

  —Obi Bamgbala!—cried a familiar voice from behind him. He tossed his schoolbag into the locker then slammed it closed, before turning to see who had called after him. It was Mr. Abayomi. He was half leaning out of his classroom, beckoning the freshman over. Reluctantly Obi went over to him.

  —Come in. Take a seat young man.

  Obi remained standing defiantly.

  —Or, you’re welcome to stand of course. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions Obi?

  —I don’t have to answer anything.

  —You’re absolutely right. But would you perhaps humour me?

  —Shoot old man.

  —Why haven’t you been in class the past week?

  —I didn’t want to go.

  —Why? Don’t you like my class?

  —I don’t like botany anymore. And I don’t like you either—Obi felt instantly cold. Looking at its effect on Abayomi, the boy tried to retract.

  —It’s nothing personal. I don’t like anyone.

  —I’ve seen you, you know, with those boys.

  —So?

  —I’m concerned Obi! You aren’t the boy I taught when you first arrived in my class.

  —No. This is who I really am!

  —No! It isn’t . . . People are saying you killed Ucheoma Kālu. That’s not you! Is this true?

  —What’s it to you?

  —Obi please!

  The boy grinned, but stayed silent.

  —You’re failing botany, boy. At this rate you won’t get enough credits to take you into the next semester.

  —I look like I care?

  —Someone has implanted behaviour, an ideomotor reflex in you triggered by a word or phrase. You’ve just been responding to stimulus. I’m going to attempt to override this programme, but I need you to trust me. Let me show you this.

  He trotted over to the collection of books in his library case, picking one of the spines out with a spindly digit. Throwing open the binder, the professor flicked several pages until he found the chapter he wanted. He began to read aloud.

  —The pineal gland. Essentially nothing more than a calcified region of the brain near the vicinity of the hypothalamus. Some claim it to be the source of all rationality and knowledge, and is said to allow an individual to see into the future when opened.

  —So?

  —So I want you to trust me for just a moment.

  Abayomi placed both his thumb and forefinger on Obi’s temples. The boy, staring into the old man’s determined eyes. instantly demanded an explanation.

  —What are you doing?

  —Trust me. I’m opening your third eye, boy!

  Abayomi reached over to Obi’s head and prodded it in the centre hard. The boy could feel a barrier behind his skull begin to lift away as if a huge flood of knowledge was preparing to tip into his head. It stung and made his ears pop. Obi’s nose began to bleed, and just as the third eye began to lift its lid, he pushed Abayomi away

  —Don’t touch me!

  —Obi, I . . . I’m sorry! I just want you to think!

  —You will let me pass botany old man!

  —No, I will not.

  —You will!—he became increasingly aggressive

  —No. I will not. I cannot be bullied.

  Obi pulled free his machete and severed the teacher’s hand from its wrist. Abayomi went pale with shock as his dismembered hand lay a meter or so in front of him, jerking like a wrinkled live grenade ready to detonate. Blood squirted at a passionate rate from its stump. Abayomi’s eyes and mouth fell open in disbelief. With his remaining hand the professor reached onto the table and retrieved something that he intended to give to his killer before the attack.

  —Here. Take this—spluttered Abayomi, handing Obi a book of plays—“The Trials of Brother Jero and The Strong Breed” by Wole Soyinka.

  —The last piece of literature allowed in this zone of the Slave State. You read that and you’ll see—After scanning the cover for a second Obi lowered the hardback novel, revealing Abayomi’s vacant stare. The old man was gone. Obi wept.

  —The reason I was unable to over-ride his hypnosis is because he used auto-suggestion on himself, no one implanted it there, he imposed this behaviour on himself!

  That night the moon was fat and full, raising the tides with its emission. Obi reflected from within his dorm room. Though the night was freezing cold, the very sight of the moon warmed the boy. Through all its familiar but remote canyons laden with minerals, the glowing body shone like a silver mirror, reflecting Obi’s wrongs back onto the su
rface of the earth for all to see. He conversed with it in the silence of space. After smoking a Jam Cap Obi released himself of Earth’s atmosphere and he found himself suddenly on the moon bed, sitting cross-legged and staring at its infinite black sky above, below and all around him. The moon was an individual—strange but wise. He was Nimrod and this was his Babel.

  Obi opened the book of plays Abayomi gave him, starting first with “The Trials of Brother Jero”, which told the story of Jero, a charlatan prophet who gave all his sermons on the beach. In an attempt to dupe unsuspecting locals into becoming his disciples, the preacher sought to capitalise on the rise of Nigeria‘s widespread adoption of religious faith. “The Strong Breed”, the second story, showed how the genuine healer, Eman, came to terms with his country’s history of symbolic sacrifice. While giving free medical treatment and advice to the locals of a rural community, because was is a stranger, Eman was chosen as a carrier for the New Year’s sacrifice that cleansed the village of sin. The boy saw. As Abayomi had promised, for the first time Obi saw. Comparisons between the selfish trickster Jero and Ogu were unmistakable. He felt ashamed.

  Soft whispers all around him sympathised and promised him there was still time to change. Obi listened intently while staring hard at the lunar surface the colour of Dijon mustard. Looking down, the earth sighed back at him. When the beautiful female murmur had lulled the boy into sleep, Obi Bamgbala awoke, only now he was fully willing to let go of Pigeon for good. The moon was keen to keep the Butcher . . .

  ***

  Pigeon stared down from the suicide barrier overlooking the

  medical complex—students buzzed around the facility in

  clusters. The air was still as dusk welted through the clear

  sky. He climbed over the barrier and stood erect on the

  ledge, the tips of his toes overhanging slightly. He began