by Chris Kelso
Obi started with his arrival in New Lagos city, and finished the story with him lying in that very hospital bed. As predicted, the boy felt suitably relieved of his burden. His injuries throbbed less. Even so, N’gozi, while nodding intently, couldn’t hide that her awareness was drifting in the after effects of poor health. She stifled numerous yawns to be polite but it was obvious she didn’t have long. The brownness of her cheeks ran paler with ruined blood. N’gozi had drunk her unreasonably short fountain dry. And still she listened to the boy’s story, determined to mask her weariness. By the end of Obi’s accounts, N’gozi found that, even as exhaustion threatened to prevail, that her opinion on her neighbour was not a negative one.
—Do you think I’m a bad person?—he eventually pleaded.
Now being swept away from the living, N’gozi uttered—
—No Obi. You don’t have the viscera eyes.
The girl and her unborn child closed their eyes gently. Then they were gone.
Obi could not see her die but sensed both souls leave the room. The girl had died alone with no family by her side. Obi wondered if her mother knew that her sister had caused her daughter’s death. Obi wondered if N’gozi’s mother would care. There was something unpoetic about her dying and his continuation. He felt guilty again. Minutes later he saw paramedics and doctors hurry past his bed. Obi heard the main nurse cry. A time of death was issued before her under covers were placed over her body. N’gozi was then wheeled away to the morgue. There, her child (Daniel/Anne) would be cut from her stomach having never breathed a drop of air into its lungs.
Obi realised something. Maybe he was alive for a reason. Right now, it was difficult to determine what his purpose could be, but he was filled with a new sense of himself.
6.
Over the coming months, Obi regained the use of his arms and worked his way back to fitness. Often he would think of N’gozi. He started writing a letter to his father in Okpella. It read—
Dear father,
Lagos is a big city. I miss Okpella and the farm. I hope you won’t be angry or disappointed but I have left university. Hopefully I’ll see you soon to explain. I hope you’re keeping well. I miss you very much. I promise I’ll find a way to make you proud of your son again.
Love
Obi
And so the boy sought to exorcise himself of his afflictions. Obi glowed in the presence of the city’s lights. Daytime brought a beautiful luminosity. All at once the bright chutes poured in, N’gozi navigating them in his direction. Of course, with the good, there were equal measures of the bad. Sometimes there would be rain and bleakness. Sometimes N’gozi’s pardoning words seemed nothing more than the morphine-prompted slackening of a dying girl’s jaw. Asa, Kālu, and Aliyu would visit him to deliver disturbing truths about the pain of dying. When the ghosts came, Obi buried his head inside a pillow until they disappeared with the parting black clouds. Chima came to look at the boy responsible for killing him. Obi hadn’t felt it was his fault, but then Abayomi would shuffle from the dark corner of the room to remind him of his blame. Abayomi presented the most unpleasant phantom. When he materialized, Obi rarely spoke. When the professor called him “Murderer”, “Judus” or condemn accusingly that he was “A disappointment”, the boy never gave a reply.
The nurse brought Obi a plate of food. He picked at it with a plastic fork. N’gozi had a boy—Daniel was its name. He knew because it had suddenly started showing up at night when Obi was preparing for sleep. At the end of a good day he‘d appear. A happy day would never have a happy night. Almost as if young, unborn Daniel had to remind Obi Bamgbala that he wasn’t ready to live a life free of guilt just yet. Daniel, while undeveloped, represented what should have been. N’gozi should have had a richer existence. She should have nursed a rag doll bought for her by doting parents, rather than harbouring the foetus of a doomed bastard child. Her adult life should have been simple but full, deserving of all things good. Daniel was the silent, ghostly reminder that the Slave State was everywhere. If the universe no longer felt someone merited life, then it would tear it away in a blinking instant. It had grown tired of young, innocent N’gozi. Obi would have to do a lot to prove he earned his breath.
In the infirmary Obi’s room was beginning to look more and more like purgatory. N’gozi’s bed remained empty. No one would occupy that bed again. He hadn’t seen a doctor in what felt like weeks. The fruit bowl beside him rotted away to degraded soft mass. On all sides of him, the hospital chamber felt like a prison cell. Its walls contracted, creeping narrower, boxing him in. Soon, Obi felt, he would be squashed like a sardine in a tin. There hadn’t been any traces of light for days.
Obi only hoped he was being purified in preparation for Heaven. He hoped he was hallucinating. Panic struck as he realised there was no one else in the room. N’gozi smiled deeply, half covered in shadow. While thoughtful looking, there was something nightmarish about her.
—Please—Obi cried—I don’t want to be the Butcher anymore. Please leave me alone . . .
The girl kept smiling, unruffled. From the blackness of the sheltering shadow, N’gozi brought Daniel into the light, cradling him softly. His face embalmed in oily rags.
—Why do you haunt me? I want to die in Un’s friendship. Please!
—Un? Obi, you are one of the grossly mislead. Forget about mortal sins and cleansing fire because what you’re experiencing is something much more . . . —N’gozi struggled to find the word she wanted—Much more . . . —The sentence lingered uncompleted until Abayomi came forth, submitting his guidance— . . . much more tangible.
He spoke dryly, placing his one undamaged hand on the girl’s shoulder.
—What am I experiencing?—wept the broken boy who gushed an intense waterway of tears.
—Do not cry. Your soul has come as close to death as it will for years. You forgot who you were, boy.
—Only those of strong mindedness can overcome temptations of the vice. You are the folly, I am the death.
—What do I have to do to save myself?
—Admitting your transgressions is not enough. Feeling a glimmer of guilt is not enough. Crying in the direction of visiting ghosts from your past will not be enough either. Slave State society will fail to punish you. Though there is no God or Heaven or Hell, you must be punished to save humanity. Look into my eyes. Look into this girl’s eyes. We will never leave you. Till the day you die, we will never leave you. The most effective punishment is done by the self in the prison of the mind.
Death was leaving. When the hospital room began brightening up again, life seemed to re-appear from the immense black cape of the reaper. For now at least, the fruit in the bowl was round and seasoned. Doctors and nurses started to emerge from the halls into intensive care wards. Some wheeled carts of IV drips and dialysis equipment to patients who no longer looked like ghosts. Reality had returned. Rain descended from the parted clouds, drumming against the window ledge like the sounds of a furious locomotive.
He learned to walk with the aid of a mental health nurse. It took only three days until his knees were strong enough to support his thighs. Obi knew he had to return home.
The Holiness of Home
Obi didn’t bother discharging himself from university the proper way. Too many forms. Too much hassle. It wasted too much time, time that he felt he was short of. It also ran the risk of crossing Ogu or the Black Axe again. If they knew he was alive they would finish the job there and then. University would not be missed. All his belongings locked away in his dorm room were things he did not need. Obi was keen to leave the disgrace of his New Lagos University experience behind for good.
As the rapid transport bus pulled into its terminal, relief swept over him. The chariot had arrived. He would be taken straight along the Benin highway to Edo state. On board the bus, Obi threw his empty food cartons under the seat before dropping himself heftily onto the window side. He strained with vague memories of his mother. Soon the driver brought the automatic door clos
ed, un-creasing flat out from its half sail. Obi’s mother was taller than most woman. She was young, only nineteen when his father impregnated her. Obi remembered the silky whisper of her nightgown as she cradled him in his cot. He remembered arguing. Soft organs leaking from eye-hole cavities.
The bus engine revved and rumbled into life. Backing out of the depot, he was well on his way to freedom. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. Obi believed her to have been beautiful. His father told him on many occasions his mother was the toast of Okpella, that even the State wouldn’t send her to an enclave. He sensed that his mother had hurt his father greatly by leaving. Perhaps not as saddened as he would be if he ever discovered his son’s behaviour.
Lost in his work, ensuring the farm thrived, this was his new lover. Obi knew that he was lucky not to have known her or he would have shared a similar torture with his father. The boy slipped into a slumber. He dreamt of nothing.
When Obi awoke, he was entering Okene-Abuja federal highway. The familiarity of Okpella loosened him up. It would not be long until the bus would pass Utayoke Primary School.
In the station, Obi remained seated for a few minutes after the bus came to a stop. He thought about what he would tell his father. He wondered if he could ever forgive him. More importantly, Obi wondered if he could ever forgive himself. Asa came into his mind. She was such a unique, delicate creature. When she showed him undue kindness in the beginning, she had been compelling even then. When she kissed Wilson, Obi felt waves of resentment stronger than anything he‘d felt before. As she mourned the death of Wilson, Asa had appeared more brittle but retained something inwardly strong and alluring. Obi had never been so attracted to a woman like that before. It felt as if it had been a different person brainwashed by the Black Axe. But it was he. It was he who led the unsuspecting, grieving girl into the hands of a murderous cult. What had happened to him at university?
—Hey! You in the back! This bus stops here. Off!—the driver hollered at Obi, fixing his driving cap and looking as eager faced to leave the vehicle as a petulant child desperate for privacy. Eventually the boy stood up and disembarked along the deep meandering curves of the coach corridor. Obi did not share a glance with the leering driver.
Obi was a virgin. He was what his father called “a late developer”. His hair was cropped but un-styled. Eczema wreaked havoc on his under ears, pillaging his brow and forearms. He wore elbow length t-shirts with pictures of smiling faces or tropical palm tree silhouettes on them. His eyes were childlike, big and unassuming. In Okpella he fit in because it was such a small town. New Lagos found him out straight away. Exposed him as immature. Unready. Obi realised that Lagos demonstrated how he had grown up quick but chosen the wrong route. This was something he had to live with. The Black Axe lured him too easily. Obi worried he might’ve been seen as stupid instead of barbaric. If truth be told, Obi just wanted to belong to something. With his father miles away in a different state the boy longed for guidance. He was prepared that no one would understand this. It didn’t excuse his actions.
As soon as Obi had arrived in the marketplace his mood changed. He felt at home once more, settled. His heart never really left. Every stall was neatly arranged, full of healthy foods sold by friendly people he recognised. Not like Lagos. His auntie’s friend Laila waved from behind her stands of maize and lentil. Her wide smile, affectionately remembering Obi’s face, was something which almost reduced the boy to tears.
Obi tasted an apple offered to him by a vendor.
—A bit under ripe—Obi confessed.
—It’s the season. You should stock up before there’s none left.
—No fruit?
—Most farms had their stock destroyed by the oil.
—The oil?
—A ruptured pipeline spilled gallons of crude oil onto Okpella. Didn’t you hear?
—But my father owns a farm in Okpella!
—Not anymore he doesn’t. What’s your father’s name?
—Kayode Bamgbala.
—Bamgbala? You’re Bamgbala’s son?
—Yes why?
—Come through the back. There’s something I must tell you.
Obi followed the vendor behind his stall. His stomach was clenched in a tight ball.
—I knew your father. He was a good man. A hard-working man. That is why it difficult to tell you this information.
—What is it?
—The oil spill contaminated our drinking wells. Your father drank some of the polluted water. He died of dysentery. I‘m sorry.
***
Obi travelled to his father’s old farm. It was worse than he’d imagined. A line of dead goats lay on the burned grass. Sure enough, an old well overflowed with thick crude oil, flowing into the reservoir which led into town. Obi felt his anger return and felt the utter futility in striving to be good . . .
His eyes burned. Parabolic mirrors ran red, vestigial organs reawaken, head throbs with enough anger and fire to turn a migraine into Transmatica . . .
Blowtorched eyes, brilliant sequins sewn on a shroud, angles of light dancing in the diaphragm . . .
BIRTH, SEX, DEATH, STIGMATA
Lizzy Stride . . .
. . . and then she became the first woman. Regenerated from basic cells, stardust and clay, she was a miracle of beauty, a template mould hidden behind a burka and oppressive Djeballa. Her mouth silenced by a veil. She had been born then instantly hidden and shame was her first definable emotion.
Men in reed hats still saw fit to leer from stalls, their faces stuffed like geese—or at least they looked like men upon first glance. Closer observations would reveal their true heritage. ‘The Broods’ they were called, extants of the original epoch. They were apelike creatures who roamed the desert pavements and dunes in travelling kiosks. They became gibbering atrocities in the presence of virginal perfume.
Lizzy walked through the ancient city still swathed in amniotic latex. Her bare toes wriggled through leather slippers and the Broods lifted from their stools and leaned in. She did not yet know her body but was aware of the pulse between her thighs. The entire Kasbah became aware of it too.
An aboriginal-looking vendor called Druitt appeared and began prattling in a primitive tongue. He was gesturing to a southerly protuberance. Lizzy followed his long, wart-thrown fingers and met the winking, weeping eye of his cock. This was the first time she had seen a cock. It coiled ever upwards in her presence; Druitt wanted to impale her with it. Slowly he moved towards Lizzy. He reached for her orange shawl and tugged it free of her shoulders.
—You fuck dogs, so you can fuck this?—Druitt said in passing indictment.
He tugged at the scarlet ball at the end of his shaft and leered.
—I don’t fuck dogs—Lizzy hated that these were the first words she ever released into the air. She wanted to stuff them back into her mouth.
—You fuck dogs. You have long hair and strange unnatural swellings and a smell of poverty about you… the kind who can afford to fuck only dogs.
—I . . .
—Touch it . . .
Lizzy obediently motioned her hand towards the cock. The arid planes were ghostly silent, viscera eyes watched without blinking.
—I have to fill you full of this fluid see, to fill the half-deflated doll of your body; the only thing that could breathe life and fullness into your wrinkled, comatose husk is my spermatic solution.
An inch from Druitt’s cock, the report of a rifle halted everything in its tracks . . .
A figure on a camel stood in the far reaches of a rock outcrop, a caravan of nomads trailing behind him with their flock. They came down to the city, The Broods glared hatefully as they made their way past the cordon of boulders. The men looked human. The figure with the rifle looked very human in fact, as did his followers. Druitt began furiously masturbating, swearing under his breath. He gushed forth a kind of ejaculation as protest. The group of men approached Lizzy.
—Druitt doesn’t know what he’s doing, and nei
ther do you. He doesn’t know shit from shinola, a sad student of impotent Ostrog’s teachings.
Druitt collapsed on a sand hill, exhausted and irritable.
—Fuck you paleface scum . . .
—My name is Cutbush. These are my partners, Deeming and Sadler.
Two of the nomads appeared on either side of Cutbush’s camel. Deeming was naked and his hands were cuffed, although he was clearly not a slave—certainly not a kept slave. Sadler was a tall man of about six foot seven with tan complexion and wiry hair on his chest and chin. The bunched biceps of his arms were a pale bronze. Cutbush himself was simian in appearance but was not of the Brood.
—We’d like you to come join our buggering party. Our world is a place of guns and rape and humanity. Leave these animals and copulate with your own.
His primate face grinned. Lizzy climbed atop Cutbush’s camel and locked her arms around his waist.
They about turned and left the city of masturbating monsters.
The moon quartered the sky. They had been travelling for hours on end. Eventually a gruff voice emerged from Cutbush.
—Do you have a name?
—I was given a name . . .
—Yes, and what is it?
—It’s not a common name, at least I don’t think it’s common in this world.
Cutbush gave a belly laugh. Lizzy felt the muscles in his stomach contract in a pack of six.
—Not common in this world? Were you born only yesterday?
—This morning, I believe.
—You are the fattest baby I’ve ever seen.
Lizzy looked off into the distant verticals of the nomad city.
—I can feel your pulse, smell your desire. When we get to the city I will relieve you, then my lovers will relieve you.
—I’ve never . . . that’s to say, I haven’t . . . ever . . .
Cutbush yanked on the reign and his camel stopped. The shadowing nomads stopped too.
—You have never . . . copulated?
Lizzy said nothing. She didn’t understand why, but she felt a great humiliation tugging at her every sinew.
