Superhuman: Sebastian Caine

It was January of year 2010 and it wasn’t such a great time to be a Corper in Plateau State. It definitely was  bad timing to have been posted to the otherwise quiet and beautiful village  of Kuru Karama. There had been an air of tension for sometime, especially following the burning of that Church at Christmas. That had been bad, Iyinola, another Corper whom Osemeke had known from a distance in Camp had been one of the victims.

Osemeke was on his way to the LGA Secretariat that Monday morning for his CDS like he'd done for 11 months. He was due to pass out in a few weeks and despite how much he'd grown to love the idyllic village whose children he taught maths and physics, he couldn't wait to go back to Benin City which was home. From the little chalet he shared with four other Corpers, he boarded a motorbike which took him the 15 minute commute to the highway. From there, he  boarded a bus that took him into Kuru town, another 15 minutes away or so.

He didn’t smell the trouble as he walked up the slightly inclined foot path to the Secretariat. He was even whistling under his breath, life wasn’t so bad, the sky was blue and everything was peachy. Maybe if he’d heard the screams soon enough, he would have been able to escape. Maybe he would have jumped over the low fence into the grove of mango trees on the north side of the Secretariat. Maybe he wouldn’t have even entered the Secretariat at all and would have escaped down the highway. Maybe he would have found a bike to whisk him off to safety. Maybe.

He walked right into the middle of a slaughter fest and all he could see was blood and flying body parts. It was like the marauders were systematically going from room to room in the quadrangle style layout and bringing people out to slaughter in the quadrangle. Someone shouted something in the local dialect he’d been trying to learn all year in a bid to communicate better with his students. It could have been the fear or even the adrenaline rush, but he couldn’t figure out what exactly had been said. All he knew was that two men bounded his way, brandishing machetes. He turned and made a  run for it towards the entrance but another machete materialized, blocking his path. He made a sharp right turn and stumbled down the path that led to the female toilets at the back of the Secretariat compound. Vaguely, he remembered the newly appointed female Assistant LGI complaining about the location of the female toilets as opposed to the male ones within the main Quadrangle. Funny how the most absurd things come to mind at the most absurd moments. He tripped over something and went sprawling. He caught himself just before he hit the ground. In horror, he saw that what he’d tripped over was in fact someone trying to crawl their way to safety. They were so bloodied that he wouldn’t have even realized they were human had they not been trying to put one  bloody stump in front of the other. One of Osemeke’s pursuers paused long enough to deliver a final killing blow to what had probably once been the head. Not believing the horror unfolding before his eyes, Osemeke stumbled into the toilets and barely made it into a stall before he lost his breakfast of akamu and wara. The Assistant LGI had been right, the place did smell like rats lived in there. Seconds later, he heard the door crash open as the macheted men came in. He heard someone start to whimper in the stall next to him.

Oh God, please don’t let them find me!

He heard the door to the other stall being pulled open and the distinctive sound of metal hitting flesh, of bones giving under the force of the blade, of blood and soft tissue splattering and hitting the dingy rotted wooden walls the Assistant LGI had spoken about with so much disdain. He heard the gurgling sound of blood flooding the victim’s throat as her cries were finally silenced.

Oh God, please, please…

The hacker existed the stall and took the step and half to Osemeke’s stall.

Please…don’t let them find me…please…

He kicked the door and it splintered. With an anger that was so tangible, Osemeke could almost see it, he hacked at it with the machete until there was nothing left of it. Osemeke looked into the eyes of his killer and all he could see in them was nothingness, a dark, bottomless hole that was going to swallow him up until there was nothing left. As he braced himself for the first strike of the machete, he sent up one last, faint prayer…please…

The hacker looked right through him and lowered his machete. He reached out a hand towards Osemeke who was crouched down on the floor beside the toilet bowl and lowered the lid. Stepping on the lid, he hoisted himself up to look out the tiny window above the water-closet  into the grove of mango trees.

“Dan iska! He climbed out the window.” He called out to his partner who was making a search of the other stalls and he turned and got down from the toilet, his bare foot missing Osemeke’s head by mere inches.

Superhuman: Sue Richards

Nkem prayed fervently as she literally pushed her 1995 Nissan Sunny down Ozumba Mbadiwe. The thing was no more than a junk heap that was falling apart around her, but it was all she had and she had no choice other than to pray to God that it wouldn’t break down on her again tonight.

It was already going on 11 and it had been one of those days at work. All she wanted was to get home and just simply drop. At Sand-fill, the lights stopped the dánfó in front of her and she rolled to a stop behind it. Her engine idled like a sine wave, ear-splitting groan then pathetic whine, over and over again and she intensified her prayers that it wouldn’t die because starting it again would be a herculean task. When the lights turned green, she sent up a Hallelujah and shifted into two because the thing always died on one. The dánfó sped through the intersection while her car crawled forward as if to say to the dánfó,”Slow and steady wins the race!” She pumped the gas pedal furiously and shifted the gear up to three but the only response she got from her car was a groan.

“Come on, come on!” She muttered trying to coax the car forward. The Prado Jeep behind her started to honk loudly, impatient with her snail’s pace.

“You can start flying oh!” she retorted hissing and getting even more pissed by the realization that the guy couldn’t hear her.

Just then, the infuriating sounds of his horn were drowned out by the roaring of an engine from her right. She looked towards the sound and was blinded by the glare of a Mack Truck’s headlights. She froze with the realization that the Truck was moving too fast and her car too slow for her to make it through the intersection before it got there. Everything seemed to slow down then, like life wanted to offer her one last, long look before it kicked her skinny butt out. She looked up into the Trucks cab and saw her shock mirrored on the driver’s face. She watched in a daze as the head lamps of the Tanker, which was now just a few feet from her, shattered and blinked out, spraying tiny glass shards everywhere. Next, the bonnet crumpled like a paper fan and she heard the distinctive scrapping sound of metal folding and warping under massive force. She flinched involuntarily as the radiator burst and a spray of hot water went up like a firework display, even though she was shielded somehow from the spray. The windshield cracked and fragmented and the driver was thrown forward by the force of the collision like a rag doll. His seat belt held for a few moments before the frayed fabric gave way and he continued on his forward flight. Though she couldn’t have possibly seen it, his brain started to hemorrhage at that point from the almost 10,000 Newton force it was subjected to in just a little over 2 seconds. The initial snap back by the seat belt fractured his ninth thoracic vertebra and shifted the tenth by a quarter of an inch, and when it gave way, three of his ribs were snapped on the steering wheel.

As if someone had flicked a light switch, life snapped back into focus and she became aware of everything else around her: the shouts of the crowds and the shocked, incredulous looks on their faces. The long line of cars exiting the Oriental. Mr Prado Jeep’s headlights rapidly growing smaller in her rearview mirror. The nauseating smell of exhaust gasses from her leaking exhaust pipe.  The groans of her Sunny’s engine as it finally made it through the intersection. What she wasn’t aware of however was that she had involuntarily created a force field so strong, it was  enough to crush the truck and shield her and her tin-can car from certain death.

Superhuman: Jean Grey

“I keep going to the river to pray…”

The radio perched atop the walk-in freezer was going at full blast and it still managed to be heard above the din in the kitchen. There was a hot food station in the center of the kitchen, around which flowed several other workstations. Closest to the entrance was the cold food station and to the rear were the stoves and ovens. In the far corner, an industrial sized coffee machine brewed gallons and gallons of coffee for the guests sat out in the massive tent and a 75-liter hot water urn stood on a stainless steel stand beside it. It was the Wimbledon Championships and Tennis enthusiasts had come from all over the world to watch to and enjoy the beautiful summer sunshine.

Sefiyah worked quietly and quite by herself, huddled over the pot wash-up, hands submerged in the warm soapy water up to the elbows. Even within the crowded, busy kitchen, Sefiya still felt isolated. She generally kept to herself, not that many people approached her anyways. Not many of the other workers in the restaurant spoke to the weird Syrian girl with the scar on her face. Maybe if they did, she would tell them about the squalid conditions of the makeshift refugee camps, first in Lebanon and then in Jordan. Maybe they would look at her in a different light if they knew about the arduous journey across the Mediterranean and how she managed to survive. Maybe then they would see beyond the skinny, sickly frame and sunken eyes.

But she wasn’t complaining, not at all. She was grateful just to be alive. She was grateful that she had a job at all no matter the conditions. She was grateful to be able to afford at least two meals a day, clothes on her back, warm shoes on her feet. She was grateful to have a place to lay her head at night. Grateful was what Sefiyah was.

          “Sefiyah!” The Head Chef bellowed above the din. When she looked up, he motioned with his hands for her to bring him one of the saucepans she had drying on the draining board. She nodded, wiping her hands on her damp apron. She grabbed the pan with both hands, heaving under its weight and started to make her way gingerly towards the stoves where he was standing. Another one of the Chefs dashed around her to get to the walk-in fridge. He went around the corner too fast and slipped. Reflexively, he reached out a hand to steady himself and fell heavily against the stand that held the hot water urn. In horror, the entire kitchen turned to watch the urn topple and fall, starting to spill hot, boiling water onto the dazed Chef.

Sefiyah screamed and dropped the saucepan with a dull thud. She reached out a hand towards the Chef, an irrational part of her brain telling her she could shield him from the scalding water that was just inches from his face and body.

Oh God, he’s going to die! She thought, her mind starting to freeze up. Suddenly, the urn stopped its downward descent. It hung there in the air, suspended as if gravity had lost its hold on it, hot water swirling all around it.

Oh my God, what is happening! Sefiyah wondered, her hands quivering with the sheer force of holding up the urn and waterfall. The Chef looked from the hot water inches away from his face to the girl whose name he didn’t even know, arms held out with fingers splayed and scrambled for safety. A split moment later, Sefiyah’s quivering arms gave way and dropped lifelessly to her sides and the urn collapsed to the floor with a crash, throwing up a cascade of boiling water. The Chef grabbed a now limp Sefiyah and dove for cover behind the bain-marie before the avalanche hit.

“…give up the ghost, give up the ghost...” 

The radio continued for a few seconds before everyone recovered from the shock and the kitchen erupted in chaos.

The Retro Journals: Ojúolápé

04/08/2015

Little One, I promise you this one thing, we will never go through this again, ever. 

We're shedding the very last tears, we're breaking for the very last time. We might have done this a million times before, but it stops now, here, today. 

So grieve, and cry, and mend, and heal as best as you can because tomorrow we will rise up, shake off the dust, wipe off the tears, put on our face and conquer the world.

The Retro Journals: Oritsetimeyin

One of those nights that I’m up, prowling through the hours like a stalker. Can’t sleep, maybe I just don’t want to. Sometimes, I can’t see the difference. I think I’m too wound up to sleep, too much on my mind.

It’s exactly two weeks to our trip to Lagos and mummy and Fikáyò are so, so hyped about it and their excitement is infectious. I can’t help it, and I’m starting to get excited as well. They’ve mapped out this detailed and packed itinerary and I’m like it’s humanly impossible to do so much in so little time! They tried to get me involved in the planning but I’ve been too distracted. All I can think of right now is getting off that plane and finally getting to see you again after so damn long! I’m trying to imagine how it would feel to finally be able to touch your face, hold you, and when I finally let you out of my bear grip, how I would turn to mummy and Fikáyò and say “Mummy, this ‘Timeyin, my friend…” I can almost see the look that would come into mummy’s eyes and how she would size you up in a single glance. And the interrogation that would follow later ehn? Before the end of the day, she will not only have planned our wedding, but would have chosen the names of our grand children as well. Fikáyò on the other hand would never forgive me for keeping the hot, hot gist from her!

I can imagine you taking me everywhere and mummy and ‘Fikáyò never seeing my break lights for the entire trip! We will go to the movies, hold hands and steal kisses in the streets, hang out with your friends and I'll finally get to meet your mum. We'll go to this place I’ve heard so much about, Ice Cream Factory and I would gladly watch you eat both our ice creams because of my lactose intolerance. You’ll take me round Lagos and I’ll see it through your eyes and my old, vague memories will come alive with your fresh experiences, creating this beautiful fairy-tale Lasgidi I’ll hold dear in my heart for all time. I’ll discover a whole new exciting world, walk the streets of ‘Gidi in your shoes, with your voice filling my ears and I’ll click with you on a whole new level. We'll go salsa dancing at the Galleria and I’ll come watch you play Basketball. I'll probably stay up every night chatting and talking with you on the phone and then get up in the morning feeling like a grumpy grouch! I’ll most def infect you with my love of coffee. Did I tell you how much I simply love the smell of coffee beans? Ah, heavenly!!!

I would probably show up at your office to drag you out for lunch every day and they would have to tell security, “don’t let that girl in!” We would spend so much time talking about everything and nothing, or not talking at all, just enjoying each other’s company, just being together. I'll get my fill of listening to you speak, fall in love all over again with the sound of you voice and your sweet accent, we'll take loads and loads of pictures together and I'll finally get to kiss you for the very first time. There’s so much we still have to know and discover about each other, all this time away from each other has just left these huge gaps in our colorful quilt of experiences and I’m thinking about how exciting it would be to unwrap each little nugget of info about each other like mysterious little gifts..…and then when it’s time to go back home, I’ll be so sad and heartbroken because I would miss you even more than before the trip. But probably not as much as I do right now because I know none of these things is ever going to happen…

It’s been 318 days since that call. 318 days since I heard that single shot interrupt your deep baritone mid-sentence. 318 days during which I’ve wondered if you would still be alive if you hadn’t been on the phone with me at that very moment.  It’s been 318 days, more time than I had with you.

My eyes hurt from the lack of sleep, or maybe that’s from the crying. I’m not too sure. I’m putting together a time capsule with what little memories we were able to make. We never even got to take any pictures together or listen to our favourite songs sharing the same earphones or to share a pizza or go on a proper date or have a lovers’ spat. I’ll probably fill the time capsule with all these silly letters I write you, make a CD with all the songs that remind me of you, put in the card you sent me on my birthday and the three-line letter you wrote me in your chicken-scratch hand writing, dunno, everything that reminds me of you and maybe I’ll write out just one single wish….a year from now, maybe nine or ten, I hope I’ll be able to open up the capsule without coming apart all over again…

The Retro Journals - Banshee

Some woman was wailing. She’d been wailing all night. It was a shrill un-worldly sound and it sent shivers down my spine. It was the deepest, saddest, heart-breaking sound I’d ever heard and it cut through your skin, right into your mind and touched something deep inside you. It made you feel like you were looking into a deep, wounded soul, like you could feel every pain it’d ever felt. It made you wonder about the evil that lives in our world, invincible from our human eyes. It scared me, gave me the willies and I wondered for how much longer I could bear to listen to her before I lost my mind as well. I’d never thought anything could beat the cackler’s voice, but this did hands down. I knew then that I don’t belong here, in this place of muddled realities and cruel illusions, in this place of deep pain. I wanted to go home, wanted to see mama and Eric and Ron. I didn’t want to be here, listening to some lost soul relieve some private horrors. I just wanted it to stop right now, this moment. I opened my mouth to yell at her to stop and another wail went up, right out of my lungs. Then I realised I was the wailing woman.

There’s a hole in my soul

that won’t heal,

There’s a rage, and a pain

even now I still feel,

Even though I’m a man,

still I don’t understand!

But that’s what happens

When you don’t have a Father…

                           Fred Hammond

                           (The Rebirth, K. Franklin)