by Chris Kelso
to sway. He pushed his face into the oncoming breeze and
descended from the apex in a starfish formation towards the
tarmac below . . .
Truth
The Black Axe headquarters weren’t really based within the university. Obi discovered the truth soon. Captain Cannibal arranged to meet the boy to show him the true location of the group as well as the origins of its leader.
—Boy, you do not seem certain of your place here.—boomed the captain as he led Obi away from the campus enclave.—You lack the will to kill for what you believe in. Only once I have shown you the truth will you have proved your devotion.
—Come Pigeon—he demanded, but the boy was hesitant to respond to this title anymore. Obi still carried the heavy burden of guilt.
The two travelled deep into the heart of Lagos. Scammers opened their long trench coats to reveal numerous knock-off purchases for sale, but the captain barely blinked an eyelid. Obi did not speak a word. A black dog free of its leash had suddenly wrapped itself around the boy’s leg. Obi found it difficult to muster enough anger to smite the animal that had mistaken his shin for a bitch. But after he became aware of the captain’s doubtful glare looming over him, Obi lifted his leg free and kicked the stray away. The black dog’s stench stayed with him.
Now at a dark narrow alleyway, Captain Cannibal gestured to the boy that they were almost at their destination. Obi looked back through the crack that showed the city fully and glimpsed young children carrying granite blocks on their heads from stall to stall at Oshodi marketplace. Moleu buses vomited black clouds of greenhouse gas that rested on layers of burning biomass, hovering above the city ominously. For the first time in a while, it affected him greatly.
Obi was presented on the other side of the alley by a small grey building block with weathered concrete walls. Surrounding it was a cast iron fence that protected the modest fortress within. Above, the clouds stuck together in the shapes of two albino horses and a swelling bald eagle. The weather soon changed. Bolts of lightning cut through the clouds, dispersing the misty remains of the fogged animals across the canvas of the sky as a bank of rain teamed from their exposed wounds. Obi lifted up the hood of his jacket.
—This is it boy—admitted the captain who used the cape of his anorak for shelter.
On the gates, two traversing axe blades displayed the movement’s crest. Spray painted across the emblem was “Blackism is real. You wouldn’t understand.”
Captain Cannibal explained that a rival gang had covered the entire headquarters in graffiti as an instigation of war.
The two armed policemen guarding the premises were built broad like huge mechanical soldiers. One had a row of broken teeth like piano keys. The other never blinked. However, they both allowed the captain and the boy to enter.
Cutting odours of sex and alcohol moistened the inner recesses of the clubhouse. The boy choked on the dirty oxygen filling the hallway. Obi stuck close to the captain as he ventured up several flights of stairs; past comatose policemen with white powder smudged over their nose and mouth; past hookers being beaten and abused; past laughing figures playing poker, swearing and looking suspiciously important in their suites. When the final set of stairs had been defeated, the captain signalled to the boy that they had reached the end. The boy was led through a set of teak bamboo-beaded door curtains. Inside, a golden cauldron bubbled and filled the chamber with steam. From the walls hung pots, tarps, and weapons. Resting on a mantelpiece were precious Faberge eggs above an ottoman upholstered in jewels.
Obi saw something that shocked him instantly.
Ogu was bowing, bowing on his knees to a small man draped in a loose-fitting buba blouse and a filla head cap; the small man sported several overweight crowned heads on his knuckles. Ogu kept calling him “Doctor Chopin”.
Obi was clenched with fear. The doctor was surrounded by minders and fully-armed policemen. His fortress was bathed in a thick smoky chaos of cigarette fumes. Through the vapour Ogu stuck out like a sore thumb, utterly humbled by this mere mortal. The captain waited by the door until Doctor Chopin was ready to see him.
Obi couldn’t help notice how pathetic his idol seemed. Despite having let go of Pigeon, it took this image of Ogu kissing someone else’s charms to completely bring an end to his doubts. Chopin seemed to be in charge of everything the Black Axe were responsible for. Swiftly, the doctor pushed Ogu’s head away and advanced towards Obi and the captain.
—Cannibal! Who is this?
—This is Pigeon sir.
—Sir?—thought Obi, confused by the power this one individual owned over more physically intimidating figures.
—Pigeon? The coward I’ve been hearing about?—he said dryly.
Obi lowered his head, hiding as far behind his hood as he could. Then Ogu stood and pointed accusingly.
—Yes sir that’s him.
Obi was disgusted by the boy he once held in such high regard. To Obi, it was Ogu who was the real coward. Dr. Chopin was still reprimanding Pigeon.
—I know you boy . . . I recognise your stench.
Obi’s face was a portrait of guilt and fear.
—Oh, dear oh dear. This is unfortunate. You have not only disgraced the Black Axe small one, but you have disrespected your superiors and now you must be discharged.
Chopin’s eyes were like two brown dishes staring through the boy. As Obi had dreaded, he had been led into a trap to punish him for his unwillingness to kill. The doctor tore free Obi’s headscarf, tossing it behind him. Now stripped of his membership, the captain stood aside, allowing the doctor some space to approach further. The room, with its half-naked woman and army men, was almost like a gangster’s brothel. Chopin clicked his fingers and two guards jumped to their feet to tend his needs.
—Take the boy to the roof of Lagos University and teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget. Ogu, you conduct proceedings. I want a swift but educational operation. Go.
Obi now found himself being raised by his armpits into the air then backwards through the beaded door by the soldiers. Cannibal joined a brunette dancer on the couch, stirring the fatty witch’s brew of the cauldron with his finger.
Obi was dragged through the narrow alleyway rearwards and back into the bustling metropolis of Lagos city centre. Oshodi Marketplace cleared a divide so the army men could shepherd their prisoner through the chaos of commerce. The two soldiers ushering him violently into civilisation looked only forward, but behind them, in front of the boy, tramped Ogu. He smirked dimly, half intoxicated, blithe to his betrayal.
***
Obi knew he was near the university. All the people around him watched on, unconcerned by the soldiers who escorted the boy to the roof of the building. Ogu said nothing the whole journey. His facial expression remained stationary in the same casual smirk for several minutes. There was something even more terrifying in Ogu’s absent stare.
Obi’s shoes slipped off and the orange sand of the gravel football pitch burned the soles of his bare feet. Ogu’s pleasure was noticeably tweaked by the sight of the freshman’s agony. Eventually he mouthed, “I’ll swallow your soul . . . ” but Obi wasn’t taken aback.
The boy hated Ogu now.
On campus the university day was just ending, so the evacuating hoard of students left class just in time to witness whatever was about to happen to Obi Bamgbala. Teachers locked up their classrooms and came outside to the playing field to see what was attracting the students.
Greg Chima, Professor Abayomi’s replacement, saw Obi Bamgbala being prepared for execution. Rushing to the window, Chima dialled the principle but could get no answer. He abandoned his mountain of jotters and un-graded essays to join the rest of the campus population on the ivory tower arena.
Some students seemed to relish the thought of seeing an execution, turning up a storm of palm wine music from their boom boxes and cheering. Others, including Greg Chima, despaired helplessly.
Obi was carted over one of the soldier’s shoul
ders like a sack of potatoes. The landing hallway was a cold grey steel. Each step conquered was another stride towards his imminent demise. Their footsteps echoed in the empty hollowness of the reinforced passage. Ogu slowly lumbered behind the soldiers, still smirking emptily. Obi still wasn’t sure of his past idol’s true power. Even after his submission to Doctor Chopin, the boy still looked inherently evil. There was still a presence which surrounded him.
At the crown of the staircase, a metal door to the top garret was barged open by one of the men. Strong, sudden jets of air filled Obi’s lungs as the light of outside space blinded him. With a careless thud the soldiers unloaded Obi.
The boy’s trousers were removed, then the rest of his clothes until all he had left was his underpants to conceal his shame. Ogu supervised with a perverse concentration. He nodded and the soldiers took a step back. The evil Ogu backed his naked prey onto the edge of the building. Beneath, forty feet below, a baying populace of students anticipated Obi Bamgbala’s fall to the hard floor of concrete.
JUMP!—Yelled one boy only to be clouted behind the ear by a bemused professor Chima. Two visiting Slave State missionaries were shocked by the events taking place but did nothing to prevent it.
Ogu moved closer. Obi sweated nervously, both by his nakedness and how close he was to the edge. Some girls wolf-whistled up at him. The boy could not control his embarrassment. Chima tried dialling the police from his cellphone but abandoned the idea when he caught sight of the militia men on top of the building helping Ogu. Obi had lost, then regained his purpose in lifeX—now, it was disappearing once more.
He contemplated jumping. Just like Abayomi, Asa, Kālu and Aliyu, no one would care if he died tonight or not. His father was miles away. His mother was long gone, pursuing a job as a canoeist for tourists in Onitsha. She left shortly after Obi was born. As Ogu sneaked closer, Obi snubbed the easy escape offered by the key holder to the kingdom of unconsciousness, choosing instead to fight for the privilege of life.
Obi, lunging forward like a vicious cat spreading its paws and presenting its knives, managed to back himself out of the corner. Ogu was chanting again. His eyeballs spun to the back of his head as his grin widened.
Professor Chima was growing impatient, and was growing tired too, of being bullied into submission by corrupt authority. The missionaries watched as Chima ran into the front door of the building, gasping at the courage they did not possess. Groups of students continued cheering, but were disappointed that Obi had escaped his position near the edge.
Back on the rooftop, Ogu had retrieved the beaded wand from his belt and was nearing the end of a spell. All the boy could do now was charge. Both militiamen looked decidedly unfazed by the art of “juju”.
Chima struggled to seize a breath as he loped up each step. He was motivated by a desire to save an innocent life. Greg Chima did not know that Obi Bamgbala was not such an innocent life.
At the foot of the stairs, the main door which led onto the roof was locked. Chima tried yelling, then barging with his shoulder. The teacher had very little energy left after climbing the stairs, and the door would not budge. Chima noticed a hole in the brickwork where the fire escape used to be. It was now covered in palm leafs and flourished with plant life. He wasted no time climbing onto the ledge. The undergrowth was thick and lush after being used by botany students as a test area for growing shrubs. Chima crept to the side of the building where a ladder hinged along a track would take him to the roof.
The only problem facing Obi was that he was unarmed and naked. Ogu’s fingers were outstretched antennas dredging through the summer air, wiggling and teasing like eight long cylinders of dark magic. His eyes were still blank white, save the odd blossoming of viscera.
Obi took his chance.
Pouncing with his left foot in front of him, he sent his hands around Ogu’s throat. His former idol choked and ceased his ritualistic chant.
Chima pulled himself along the ledge of the New Lagos science dept window and up onto the top garret. His presence had been made known. While one soldier tried to help Ogu free him of his attacker, the other noticed Chima’s arrival and bounded towards him.
—Stop! You are under arrest!—warned the soldier, but the professor did not stop. The soldier pulled free his pistol and fired once into the air, then concentrated the gun’s aim in the direction of the intruder.
Obi was now on the ground. Ogu rubbed the area of his neck which had been throttled. The crowd below grew impatient. They demanded blood.
Having landed fiercely on the concrete, the boy hadn’t even heard the two gunshots. It was only when Ogu began laughing maniacally that Greg Chima’s corpse, silent and wilted into a ball like an unopened flower, was realised. The soldier who had shot him approached unperturbed.
—We don’t have time for this. Kill the boy quickly so we can get out of here.
His colleague nodded in agreement. However, Ogu was adamant on personal retribution.
—Come boy. Do your thing or I’ll shoot him right here, right now - threatened the more robust of the two soldiers. Ogu did not answer.
—Boy! Do as I say—His voice boomed.
The crowd below took a step back at the rumbling thunder of his demand like some angry voice from Heaven. Finally, Ogu resigned himself to the colossal warrior’s order. He walked up to Obi almost dreamily uninterested. Lightly, he dusted off the boy’s naked shoulders for him. He placed both palms on either side of Obi’s chest, before thrusting them into his body and sending the freshman over the side of the university building.
Obi looked up as he flew backwards, preparing to be obliterated by the solid asphalt strip. Time decelerated. Above him the clouds dispersed. However, his whole life somehow failed to flash before him as he’d anticipated; broadening his arms out like a glorious martyred angel gave the boy one last instant of clarity. He could hear the soldiers celebrate, grateful for Ogu‘s eventual co-operation. He could see Ogu watching as his body fell, enthusiastically waiting for the big bloody finish. He sensed the crowd clear a grave for him. Obi landed.
Crucifixion
The boy’s tomb, while wide and willing, did not succeed in burying Obi Bamgbala. He dreamed, but his sleep was far from eternal. He dreamed of a faceless man being mounted onto a large wooden crucifix. His sweat was as blood. Battered, exhausted, and dehydrated, the man was scourged relentlessly by a long leather whip. Tentacled throngs descended onto his bare shoulders and back, blowing open deep wounds under repeated lashings. An unrecognisable bulk of bleeding skin and tissue cried an agonised wail. Two rusty nails bore deep into the frail bone of his wrist while another two nails pinned the metatarsal in his ankles and feet, fastening him to the crucifix. The man was then untied. Obi saw him wet with his own blood, unable to stand up. Slumped on the asphalt. Crowds of people stoned him to death. There was no mercy. And then Obi woke up.
Standing over him was a doctor wearing a surgeon mask. As he walked in and out of the boy’s view, Obi saw his own leg bandaged up, cast in a sling and strung up on a hoist. He quailed in agony, but could only raise his head fractionally out of a stationery position. The doctor came back, this time without his visor.
—You’re very lucky. Two missionaries carried you all the way to the infirmary. That was quite a fall.
Obi tried to talk but choked.
—Don’t speak son. Just rest. You’ve broken both your legs and your shoulder. There’s a neck sprain in there too. Any next of kin will be notified as soon as possible.
The doctor left, examining his clipboard closely.
A young girl looked on with a stretched face of illness. It was suspected some kind of yellow fever had torn through her system. Doctors later diagnosed the girl as suffering from the Black Dog. She gazed at Obi absent-mindedly as though she were scrutinizing deep beneath the seams of his soul. Her eyes begged for mercy, for something comforting. Obi could ignore her no longer. He sensed the girl’s eyes upon him.
—I’m Obi. What’s your name?�
��he began, clearing his throat.
—N’gozi. It means “blessing”—replied the girl without delay.
The girl was a streetwalker, Obi could tell. She was twelve or thirteen and provocatively dressed. Above her lip, puffing outwards with damaged tissue, was a large bruise. Using what she had to get what she needed. It became clear also that N’gozi was pregnant. The boy wondered if this was how she’d contracted the disease—working on the street. Either way she would never be allowed to keep her child. She was a child herself.
Sending a brittle arm over to Obi’s bed-sit, she studied his cast. Her muscles were wasted by the virus, which was slowly dismantling her body‘s immune system.
—What’s your baby’s name?
—If it’s a boy “Daniel”, and “Anne” if it’s a girl.
N’gozi spoke as if her child were a doll for playing with. Obi smiled stiffly.
—What are you in for?—Obi asked, as if he didn’t know. A searing current of pain surfed along his neck as he tried to see N’gozi.
—My mother left my father for Lagos a few years ago. An aunt of mine told me she knew where she was. She took me to the city and promised my mother would be waiting. But my mother wasn’t there. My aunt told me I would work in the slaughterhouse as a hooker to pay for her home instead.
—Did a man hit you there?
—No. Her husband is an evil man. He impregnated me. My aunt is infected. My cousins had been infected by her breast milk. They spat at me. Now I‘m ill.
Obi thought less about his own selfish pain.
—I’m sorry N’gozi.
The girl crossed her legs on the bed, swaying back and forth, rather pleased to have gained her neighbour’s sympathy.
—That’s okay. Why are you here then?
—There would be no harm in telling a dying girl the truth of my sins?—thought Obi in a somewhat triumphant return to his original selfishness. The truth was eating the boy up from the inside. Like a potent, highly toxic virus which attacked the heart and soul, Obi had to admit all before his transgressions could be fully absolved.
