Justice According To Vengeance: The Unravelling

The Toyota Corolla stood out like a sore thumb, or more like a shiny Schauss pink one. It was way past 2 a.m. and Apóngbòn Under Bridge isn’t the usual hanging out spot for blinging Toyotas, especially not at foolish-o’clock.

The driver brought the car to a stop just at the ascent to Èkó Bridge by a cluster of makeshift sheds that looked deserted. In the dark, two forms peeled themselves from the shadows and approached the car. The thugs wondered at the audacity of the person who had dared wander onto their territory without invitation.

One of the thugs went over to the driver’s side and grabbed the door handle, trying to force it open. When he couldn’t, he slammed the tire iron he had with him into the window in anger and it shattered. 

        “Ògbeni, cooperate, àbí you wan chop bullet!” the thug said to the driver, his voice hoarse like stones scraping over slate.

One by one, like moths drawn to a flame, more thugs slunk out of the shadows, surrounding the car and before long, there was more than a dozen of them.

The first thug thrust his gun in the driver’s face, ready to start spewing more threats. His gun stopped a hair’s breadth from the driver’s nose and they stared at each other for a few moments, one face registering a mixture of shock and fear, the other deadly calm and unflinching.

        “Kílónselè? What’s happening now?” one of the other thugs demanded, already impatient.

        “Ask him to bring out all his money.” another said.

        “Abeg give am bullet if he no wan cooperate jàre!” someone else said, slamming the metal rod he had in his hand on the side of the car and denting it.

        “Shey he get powder àbí booze?”

        “How much we fit get for the car? Na tear rubber!”

        “Commot am for the car before you shoot am oh, make him no dirty the seat.”

The gunman didn’t reply his cronies. He simply slid slowly to the ground with his free hand clutching his shirt over the bullet hole in his chest and his lifeless eyes forever frozen in their shocked mask.

It took a moment for the others to register what had just happened. Blame it on the rounds of weed they’d had earlier. Blame it on the excess Apeteshi they’d already consumed. Blame it on the fact that the script had never gone that way before. But that tiny bitty moment saw another three thugs hit the ground in quick succession. The others scattered then, scrambling for safety but not quite fast enough. Another one took a shot to the head and one in his kneecap. He dragged himself over a low barbed wire fence, screaming for his mates to help him. Of course, no one waited to offer any help.

The driver sat calmly in the car and watched them scamper away. With the same unhurried movements with which he’d shot at the thugs, he disconnected the silencer and put it and the Glock into the glove compartment. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes. He got out of the car and surveyed his handiwork. He took one disinterested look at the body lying about three feet in front of his car and blocking his path down the road.

As if nothing had happened at all, the night remained dark and quiet and not a soul stirred. Absently, he took out a pack of Mentos gum from his breast pocket and popped a couple into his mouth. He got back in the car and started up the engine, Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze starting to pour out of the speakers. He hummed under his breath as he cut the wheel all the way to the left. He drove on towards Ìgànmú, his front right tire narrowly missing the sprawled body in his path.

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The Citizen

The story of the Prodigal Son is another story I’ve read, heard, been preached to, name it, a million times. Sunday probably made it the million and one(th???) time and it’s one of the stories I never ever get tired of. You know, usually the emphasis is always on the fare-thee-well see-you-later-alligator son and his father. Sometimes, we talk about his pissed clean-as-a-whistle brother and that’s it. Everything and everyone else in the story don’t really seem to matter. They’re all jus props, part of the setting. However, there might be just one character in this story who deserves a bit of a closer look. He gets just one mention (probably just about three words in most Bible versions) but he just might be one of the really important characters in this story.

In Luke 15:15, the prodigal son “went and joined himself to a citizen of that country, and he sent him into his field to feed swine.” We don’t know anything about this citizen guy other than that he gave the broke, out-on-his-luck son a job in his field. Hey, we might even say he was a great guy who at least gave him a bit of a break during a bad time. Then we just skip on with story, painting elaborate pictures of the reunion to follow. We don’t pay that nameless, faceless guy any attention and that in itself might be a huge mistake, it might be dangerous even. Let’s look at this guy beyond his being the good-Samaritan-citizen. Is he really one of the good guys in this story?

First off, this guy give a Jew a job feeding pigs. Pigs. This is probably one of the very worst things you can do to a Jew. In fact, it is a great insult and the prodigal son, had he not been as desperate as desperate gets, wouldn’t have taken the job. As one Jewish writer puts it, there is no animal more disgusting and repulsive to a Jew’s sensitivities as a pig. Taking the job must have meant that the prodigal son was in a bad place, as in he’d reached the very bottom of his barrel and then even that had fallen right from under him. I can’t imagine how demoralizing it must have been for him. He hadn’t just lost all his money, he’d lost all his values and the very fabric and foundation of who he was. He’d lost everything. Why on earth would the guy even offer him such a job in the first place? Why not “Go and plough my field” or “Go and do some back-breaking work cutting stones.” Or even “Go and feed my cows or chickens or whatever!” it had to be pigs! Now, this Jew became even more desperate to the point of wishing for the pig’s food. I mean, how much lower could he fall? With every moment that passed, it would have become harder and harder to even consider returning home. Not only had he insulted his father in the worst way possible (asking for his inheritance was as good as telling his father he was dead to him), he had become defiled and an outcast to his people. I’m sure he would have figured that staying with this Mr Citizen was his only choice because he’d reached the point of no-return, he’d passed it by a mile.

There have been times in my life when I’ve felt like the prodigal son must have felt, like I’d messed up too much to even think of talking to God. There are those times when I don’t feel like I could even show my face, those time I’ve thought how can I expect forgiveness for that? Even I wouldn’t forgive me. And even when I know deep down that I’ll be forgiven and accepted, shame, deep, self-loathing shame, keeps me away. I’ve learned that the longer I wallow in this place, the harder it gets to approach God and accept His forgiveness. And you know what Mr Citizen says in those times? Yeah, you’ve messed up real bad this time. You can’t possibly go back now.  Stay right where you are, I can help you. You can even snag the pig’s food once in a while if you want…

I don’t know what it was that got through the thick fog (more like thick skull) and prompted the son to go back to his father and take his chances, but I’m guessing it couldn’t have been an easy decision. Who knows how many versions of that famous speech he discarded before coming up with the final draft. Who knows how many times he changed his mind. Who knows how many times he got to the bus stop (or donkey stop) and turned back? But there was that turning point when he realized taking Mr Citizen’s help wasn’t well, helping. He upped and said to his angel-in-disguise-not, “Thanks, but I think I’m gonna be on my way.”

A lot of times, we really are blind to who the real adversary is and until we can see him clearly for what he is, it is impossible to get away and return to our Father. The devil will rather have us live in ignorance of the ways he manipulates and ensnares us. He’ll rather have us believe we’ve messed up too bad to return. Sometimes, he’ll even plant the fear of failing again and doing the same thing all over, in our heads (I think I’m class captain here!) because he knows that if and only if we can just come to our senses like the prodigal son did, then we can have life, “the best robe, a ring on his hand and sandals on his feet.. and…the fattened calf…”.

When The Fish Fished a Man

I’ve always loved the Jonah-fish/whale/sea creature story. As a kid, it gave my wild imagination a lot to chew on (we shall not go into my, err, very crazy wild imagination today). So when I got to Church today and my pastor asked us to turn to the book of Jonah, I was like preach it pastor! After having read and heard that story countless times (I even remember a picture book in which Jonah had a desk and a candle in the belly of the fish!), I was quite surprised at the whole new level my pastor took it to and I had several Eureka moments.

The first was the controversy surrounding the fish and how anatomically impossible it is for a whale to swallow a grown man. On one side of the controversy is the school of thought that the entire story couldn’t have happened, hence disproving the authenticity of the Bible. On the other side are the Bible scholars who, maybe in attempting to redeem the reputation of scriptures, say that scripture’s reference to the fish was just metaphorical and could have meant that Jonah went through a difficult and life-threatening situation after he was thrown from the ship. Now, what if it really is impossible for any sea creature at all to swallow a grown man alive? What if it is totally impossible for a man to survive in a digestive system for three long days without maybe getting digested? How was he able to breath? How did he survive three days without at least water? The questions are endless, all pointing to the impossibility of the situation but I think that is the very best explanation for that bit of scripture, it was impossible! And God is a God who shows up and makes the impossible possible. Maybe we don’t need an explanation for the fish or whatever, maybe that is where exactly faith has its work, believing in a God who makes the impossible possible. Maybe it is exactly when we reach the very constraints of reason that faith steps in.

Next Eureka moment was when the pastor said this: there is a BIG difference between discipline and punishment. In fact, they are two totally different things. Punishment is the infliction or imposition of a penalty as retribution for an offense. Discipline on the other hand is training that corrects, moulds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character. The purpose of discipline is to teach or train, to mould and build character. It is easy to say that God punished Jonah for turning tail and running in the opposite direction, but what God did instead was discipline him. That was huge for me. I can now get rid of the picture in my head of God being this man with a stern look on His face and his fist raised, waiting to punish me when I sin. Instead, I should see Him as a Father who disciplines me in love when I go wrong because He knows that my sin hurts me just as it hurts Him. And besides, God does not need to punish us for our sins anymore because guess what? Christ already took the punishment on Himself on the cross. It is finished already.

In Jonah 2, Jonah cried out to God from the belly of the fish/whale/sea creature and in verse 1 he said “in my distress, I called to the Lord, and He answered me.” The original Hebrew word translated to “distress” here is Tsarah which actually refers to the distress a woman goes through during labour. It seems like an interesting term for Jonah to use but you know what? He described his pain as one that had a promise at the end of it. It has been argued that the pain you feel when you have kidney stones is the closest thing to labour pains but you don’t get a baby at the end of that! Lesson to learn from this? Jonah prayed with understanding, he didn’t just say a prayer of hopelessness. It is one thing to cry and say “Oh God, I don’t have a job and my bills are pilling, what am I going to do? Life is hard.” It is something else entirely to say “Oh God, I don’t have a job and my bills are pilling but I know You’ll supply my needs. Life is so hard right now but You’ll always make a way and You’ll never leave me nor forsake me.” I realized today that it isn’t just enough to cry out to God, it matters how I cry out and what my understanding of God is as I cry out. Am I crying out hopelessly or in bitterness or in faith, even in the face of the most impossible of situations (ask Jonah, he knew a thing or two about impossible). One thing I need to always remember is this: God will ALWAYS come through, always. I don’t need to stress about the how or the what, He will. Who knows, maybe it just might be an ant swallowing a man next, what does it matter? God will always come through!

Metallic Yellow Ferraris

        “Stop picking at it!” my sister Ese says. “You’ll get a really ugly scar.”

I ignore her and continue to worry the wound that sits just under my jaw. I look at the purplish skin surrounding it in the mirror above the dresser. The almost two inch long gash that is beginning to itch as it heals fascinates me, and contrary to my sister’s fears, I think the scar it will leave behind will be beautiful, the most beautiful one I wear.

        “I’m just so happy you finally made it here.” Ese says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m proud of you.” She says and starts to tear up.

I smile at her through the mirror and lay a hand on hers.

Thank you I mouth to her and she smiles.

        “Get some sleep.” She says. “You’ve had a tough couple of days.”

That is true. I am thousands of miles away from home, farther than I’ve ever been before, and I am drained, both emotionally and physically. I caress my wound one more time as I get up from the dresser. It will add to my eclectic repertoire of scars. I got it a week ago, but I’ve been collecting scars the last thirteen years. This scar I know I will wear like a badge. This one I know will make my head stand high.

My very first scar was a trilogy of 9.25 carat diamond stones. They sit in all their queenly glory atop a band of white gold on whose inside is inscribed mine and Káyòdé’s initials, always and forever. That scar I got the day we got engaged - the very first time he hit me. That time was a mistake, he reassured me of that. He had been going through a really tough time at work and had been very stressed out. I didn’t have to go and ruin the engagement moment by running off to call my sister whom he dislikes very much with the news. That day he broke something in me even though I didn’t realize it then and that beautiful rock-scar sits smack on the very centre of my ego.

 Àrínolá Fernandez is the scar disfiguring my self-esteem. We’d been married two years when I found out he’d been cheating with her. When I confronted him, he’d sneered and thrown it in my face that I was so lucky he’d married plain, ordinary me when he could have had any girl he wanted. He’d pointed out that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine that Àrínolá was more sophisticated than I was and looked at least a decade younger even though we were best friends and had grown up together in Ìkòyí.

My mother is the scar that used to be hope. Truly, there is no real despair without hope. When he broke my wrist following the confrontation about Àrínolá, I moved back home to mother in righteous indignation, hoping to get a sympathetic ear in my corner. Why would he cheat and then still knock me around? Mother had cut me short in my rant and had told me to wipe my tears and stop my whining.

        “Life is no bed of roses.” she’d said. “And marriage is no exception. You have to be strong because men will be men. Questioning his authority is not the way to go. The true strength of a woman is in her ability to still keep her marriage despite all these things. What will people say if they hear that the daughter of Chief Osemwenke left her husband’s house? Do you know how much I’ve had to put up with and all I took from your father, all just so you and your sisters could have a good life?”

One of the biggest scars I wear is thirty-five hundred pounds of metallic Yellow perfection. A majestic beast at just 47 inches high, with a twin-turbo engine packing over 600 horse-power, reaching 100mph in 6 seconds, one of Ferrari’s most exquisite creations. This was for the Baby we lost because he’d lost a great deal of money when the value of the Naira plummeted against the Dollar. That had been a very difficult time for him and he had been a little frustrated. He really hadn’t meant to hurt me or our child, he would never even think of it! I was his entire universe and our unborn child had been the very best thing that had happened to him. He had tried to prove that to me when he presented me with the keys to the car while I was still in the hospital. That car has its coveted position snug under my breast, where my heart used to be; it died along with our child that night.

A few weeks after I lost the Baby, I left Káyòdé for the first time. Or tried to. He’d found me after all of 13 hours and he’d reiterated what my mother told me, a woman’s place is with her husband. He told me the beating that came afterwards was totally my fault and that one was all on me; why did I go and provoke him that way right after he’d bought me such an expensive gift? How ungrateful could I be?

As I snuggle under the covers in the guest room of my sister’s Town house, I tuck my hands under my chin, not minding that my wound is still very sore. I know my face still looks stunning despite the discoloured skin and the bruising. In all our time together, Káyòdé never left a mark on me, not to talk of scars. Yes I’ve broken a few ribs, my wrist, my collar bone and my ankle, but nothing that left a permanent mark on the surface. He was always very careful about that, no matter how angry he was. He was a man who loved beautiful things and his wife could be no different. Heaven forbid that I didn’t look perfect along with his cars and designer suits and houses and his 140 ft. yacht.

A little smile relaxes my lips from their characteristic hard line and I heave a contended sigh. Two weeks ago, I left him again, right after I’d seen the lines on the stick. I’d known it was no longer just about me and that had given me the courage to get up and leave. Of course he found me, just like he’d warned me. But this time round, I fought back. I let him know I was done being afraid of him. I told him he might as well kill me right then because I would keep leaving until I was well rid of him. He’d lost it then. I’m not sure if it was rage at my audacity to talk back at him, or if it was surprise that I could actually stand up to him, but something snapped in him and he attacked me right there in the lobby of the hotel I’d been holed up in. That was the first time he would hit me in public, the first time he would do it without a care. The terrifying thought of losing my Baby again turned me into a crazed woman and I fought him. I scratched and bit and kicked and screamed and scratched some more. Until two policemen were pulling him off me. I didn’t care that the crowd around us was gawping. I didn’t care that he was still spitting threats and curses at me as the policemen took him away. I didn’t care that my face was puffy and bleeding and that my eyes were swelling shut. All I cared about was the little life growing inside of me.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I declined the policeman’s offer of a ride home. I declined his offer to call my mother on his mobile. I took what little belongings I had with me and got on a cab to the airport. I bought a ticket, got a plane and didn’t look back.

Of all my scars, this is the only one I will wear visibly and I will wear it proudly because it is the one I got fighting back. It is the one I got getting my life back. It is the one that will make all the others fade away.

This story was written for the 5th Anniversary Writing Contest hosted by Short Fiction Break (with the theme Scars) and has previously been published here.

In Their Steps

I sit quietly, holding his tiny body in my arms. The fever that wracked his body last night has left him cold today. He hasn’t cried in days and I long to hear that sound that tells me my child is fighting, the sound that tells me he hasn’t given up, that like me, he is holding on for dear life.

I know some medicine will help him but Mataima won’t give him any. Even when I dared venture outside my uncle’s walls to go to the hut that serves as the health care centre, she turned me away.

Boko Haram Bride she spat but I didn’t care. The other women have called me worse. I clung to her shawl, begged for mercy, for the child I said, not for me but for the child.

She dragged me into the hut by my arm then, showed me the maimed, wounded men within, the stench of death and decay chocked me, brought fresh tears to my eyes.

They are the ones who deserve mercy she hissed. Your lot did this to them, to their families. I will not squander medicines on your bastard child.

I’d turned and left then. My little Boy did not do this I want to say but the words didn’t come.

As I returned to my uncle’s compound, I heard the whispers. I saw the fear in the averted faces.

They are afraid of me. That thought shocks me the most. Their disdain, repulsion and whispered Karuwa* I have somewhat come to expect, but the fear baffles me, how can anyone be afraid of me, I’m just seventeen, not much more than a little slip of a child.

You will bring them back here, you’re the ruin of us all.

Are we sure she doesn’t have a belt under her hijab?

You lay with a man who kills your people! How can you live with yourself?

I desperately want to tell them I didn’t create any of this, I didn’t ask for this, I don’t want to be damaged. I want to be fifteen again, dreaming of flying a plane in the open skies one day. I want my mother to hold me in her arms as I hold my son, but they tell me I killed her the day I left.

I feel it when my Baby takes his last laboured breath. I am too weak with anguish to take one of my own, so I sit still with his lifeless body in my arms, arms as empty as my heart.

I know the family will be relieved, jubilant even, that the blood of Boko Haram has gone from them. They will say it is God’s will, God’s way of exacting justice for the atrocities of Boko Haram, they will say it is atonement. I want to scream that I don’t believe God would punish a little child like they have, that the face of God can’t possible hold their self righteous sneers. But the words won’t come still.

Thoughts of the forest start to come to me. The longing for it is so strong in my empty heart that I think I will lose my mind. It both terrifies and draws me at once. I want to go back, go back to the rocky heights that make me feel like I’m flying, the leafy shea trees that provide respite from the sun. I want to hide from these people, from the family that has turned on me, from the friends that now hate and despise me. I can’t help but think that my son would still be alive had I stayed in the forest.

The thought of wearing a belt flits through my mind. The peacefulness of death would be better than this sham of a life I now live. Maybe then Boko Haram will hail me a hero, not the outcast I have become to my people. How ironic would it be if I followed in the steps of the ones who have stolen my life from me. By a twist of fate, I would also be following the steps of the ones who are stealing my future if I let my anger and pain take over, and I kill and maim them. Life sure is full of ironies.

Or maybe I should go like a coward, swallow some guba**. You never live beyond the day you become a captive. All you know is torment as you wait and hope for rescue. All you know is pain and shame if you survive and return. Same side of the same unfortunate coin.

One day, maybe I will forget. Maybe I will forget everything; the forest, the thoughts of dying, the hateful looks, the cruel words, the pull of my son’s lips on my breasts. Maybe. But today I am consumed by pain and anger and shame and confusion and this deep dark hole that seems impossible to fill.

*Whore  **Poison