Star Elite Traveller

I’ve always been a regular Joe when it comes to travelling. I jejely buy my economy tickets, go through the awful queues at MMA1 and moan and gripe along with everyone else about how crappy our dearest airport is. After going through the whole palava of checking in and all, I sit patiently and wait while they call the different categories to board and I’m almost always with the last group to board. I’m used to it. I hardly even think about it anymore. I guess it’s one of those things your mind just blocks out as part of its coping mechanism.

Then recently, I had the opportunity to travel with a couple of friends who had what is called the Star Elite Traveller status. You know, all those times that you go online to look for the cheapest tickets, and you see things like Air Miles blah, blah, someone like me just goes straight to sites like Opodo to go and look for the best deals. Who cares about buying from KLM just to get some Air Miles? So these guys have not only been jetting around the world like boomerangs, they’ve been accumulating these points and now they’re Star Elite Travellers. I feel like saying it one more time, just to…okay, I digress. So these guys are like the VVVVIPs of travelling. I guess somewhere in the periphery of my mind, I knew there were such things as Lounges at Airports but when you’re a gbogbo ero like me, you don’t allow yourself ponder such things too much. But because I was travelling with these guys, I was allowed a sneak peek into the Elite life.  At Heathrow, we just breezed through the whole check-in process, no long queues, no waiting around. My friends just flashed their cards and the airline staff simply opened up the retractable barriers and we waltzed through while the other passengers on the queue eyed us with jealous eyes. Even our luggage trolley was wheeled in for us and we were all checked in in a matter of minutes. Ah, this is the life! Then we were ushered into the Elite Lounge. I saw places I never even imagined existed within Heathrow’s Terminal 2! There was a never-ending buffet, free drinks, seats big enough to swallow me up, it was lit! Then when it was time to board, there was no walking through those zig-zagging tunnels (which get me claustrophobic). It was like they parked the plane right at our backyard and we just strolled on. No squeezing through miniature aisles, looking for your seat number and then trying to shove your carry-on into the tiny cubicles while the person already sitting on the aisle seat gives you the stink eye. We strolled onto the plane, sat in out mini-flats, stretched our legs (no annoying passenger in front of you pushing their seats in your face) and the drinks were on the ready from smiling hostesses (even those smiles were different from the ones you get in Economy, true!).

You know, by the time they asked the gbogbo ero to start boarding, I was probably half way through a movie already! And through the partly opened curtains that separated we the Elites from them, I could see them lumber onto the plane, looking really bleurgh with their tired grumpy faces, squalling toddlers and their gbogbo ero Economy tickets gripped in their hands as they started the weary task of settling in for a seven-hour flight in cramped quarters. That was them and this was me. I wasn’t one of them anymore, I was an Elite Traveller. I’d been invited into ‘The Club’ and it was oh so easy to see all that was wrong with those gbogbo ero. It wasn’t hard at all to point (and maybe even smirk) at how crappy and razz it was back there and to say to myself, thank God I’m not with that bunch. I couldn’t help my nose crinking up in distaste thinking of how messy the toilets get or how two people have conversations at the tops of their voices while everyone else is trying to sleep or how people would be taking silly selfies (okay, I’ll confess, I did take a photo or two in Business class, but who wouldn’t, eh?). It was really easy to distance myself from the common people.

This whole experience brings me, in a kinda weird, not-necessarily-logical way (I’ve come to realize that my mind doesn’t always work in a conventionally logical way) to the Pharisees of Jesus’ day. The Pharisees are probably some of the most un-liked people in Christendom. We talk about them and their shallow lives and I bet they’ve had their fair share of sermons preached about them. They’ve got a Rap sheet more than a mile long and it is really easy to dislike them, in fact, that’s the default setting. The thing however is that, after my one stint at Elite status, I’ve started to kinda find it hard to point the accusing finger at them. I don’t know about everyone else but I’ve realized (the Elite way no doubt) that once we get invited to the inner circles, it’s so easy to turn around and see what’s wrong with everyone else on the outside. It’s easy to forget how unpleasant the feeling of being the outcast is that we start to ostracize other people who we deem not up to our status. I can stand here and say with all the indignation in the world that the Pharisees were the ones who accused Jesus falsely, cooked up stupid lies and bribed false witnesses to have Him condemned. I can shout all I want that they were the ones who stirred up the crowd to demand for Barabbas’ release and all, but the truth is when Jesus hung on that hideous cross, just as much as the Pharisees, I put Him there. One bitter truth I’ve been having to chew and swallow lately is that I probably spend more time being a Pharisee than I’ll like to admit. And that picture I’m seeing of me ain’t pretty at all. What am I trying to say here? (Hey, I have absolutely nothing against being an Elite Traveller! In fact ehn, I’ve been hinting at those friends to you know, let us take another trip). My point is I constantly need to search my heart so that even when I stand and point fingers at the hypocrisy of the Pharisees, I’m not being a finger pointing Pharisee myself. I need God to put me in line so that if given even half the chance, I don’t become worse than the Pharisees I so easily condemn (you know, that thing about the speck and the log?). In my own little way, am I judging others or placing unfair burdens and standards (yeah, the Ten Commandments according to Yours Truly Tipsy) on them? Do I try to replace God’s grace and mercy with my own sense of right and wrong and judge others by my self-righteousness? This is just a heart-check for me so that as I go through this life-journey, whether I’m lounging in the Lounge (hehehe see rhymes!) with a Pina Colada or shuffling through those tiny aisles to the nightmare that the toilets become after about five hours into the flight, the only banner I want to be blazing through life is one that screams in capital letters: GRACE, GRACE! AMAZING GRACE!

The Persecutor Preachers

I have a feeling this title sounds a tad confusing. Bear with me a moment while I attempt to explain to you what I had in my head when I came up with it. Hopefully then, it starts to make a bit of sense and you’ll see the picture I see. Hopefully.

It’s Easter time again and I was in Church for Easter Sunday service and there was one thing  that jumped out at me this year that I’ve probably never ever thought of or considered the uncountable times I’ve read or been preached to about the crucifixion.

When Jesus was crucified, two robbers were crucified with Him, one on the left and one on the right (Matt 27:38, Mark 15:27, Luke 23:33, John 19:18). As Jesus hung on the cross, the crowd hurled insults at Him, including the thieves that were crucified with Him (Matt 27:44, Mark 15:32). However, Luke’s account adds a little more detail. In Luke 23:39-42, we see that there seems to have been a shift of some sort. One thief goes “Oga, how far nah? If you’re really this amazing guy who’s supposed to be the Messiah and all, do your thing biko and get us out of here.” The second thief on the other hand rebuked the first (vs 40-41). Now, I have no idea how much time had elapsed between their being strung up on their crosses and this particular bit of conversation. I don’t have all the details of everything that might have transpired between this thief’s joining his partner and the crowd in insulting and mocking Jesus, and his suddenly defending Jesus to his partner and then taking what is probably one of the biggest leaps of faith ever, and asking Jesus to remember him (vs 42). Was it minutes? Hours? What did he see or hear that changed his entire perspective? Was it the stark realization of his dire situation, like omo, na kpai I go kpai today oh! Was it a last moment of terror or was it resignation at his fate? Or  was it that his cross was at an angle to Jesus’ and he saw the inscription ‘King of the Jews’ and had an Eureka moment that wow, I’m dying right beside royalty! (If the guy had been Nigerian, he would probably have been pissed he couldn’t get a selfie with the celeb beside him!) Maybe it was hearing Jesus forgive the ones who had wrongfully nailed Him to a cross that did it for him, like Say what? How can you even forgive the people who put you in such excruciating pain? Or maybe the guy heard all the insults hurled at Jesus and all the mockery coming His way and he was blown away by the tidbits of info:

He saved others, let Him save Himself if He’s truly the Christ…He trusted in God, let God deliver Him now…He healed so many others, why can’t He heal His own wounds now…He claimed He would destroy the temple and build it in three days…the insurgent claimed to be the Bread of Life, imagine…He called Himself God, greater than even Abraham…He had the audacity to forgive sins, the nerve of the man….He claimed live-giving waters flowed from Him…He said anyone who believed in Him would have eternal life, now He’s dying like a common criminal! Oh the irony…

The crowd of mockers must have rehashed the many sermons and parables and sayings of Jesus over and over, having a good laugh at Jesus’ expense, throwing His words in His face, literally rubbing salt to injury. But in all of that, maybe, just maybe, that thief heard the words that changed his life. Maybe hearing about Jesus’ life-changing miracles, His audacious claims, His words on the cross, shifted something inside of him and he came to realize what the mocking crowd had missed. And in that moment when his eyes were opened (I guess he did have an Eureka moment after all) and he cried “Lord remember me when You come in Your kingdom”, the unbelieving crowd (which ironically included the Pharisees, scribes, chief priests and elders, who were Jesus’ greatest persecutors) had inadvertently become very effective propagators of His gospel. They had indirectly preached the word (preach it preacher!) with outstanding results!

So, hope you now understand the title? If you still don’t, remember that I tend to get a little crazy inspired sometimes and even I don’t always understand how my mind works! Hopefully though, you got the gist of the story ;)

Faith Like A Pharisee

Mark chapter 3 is probably one of those chapters that we’ve all built pictures around. Okay, that is if you’re weird like me and watch too many action movies and have a cuh-ray-zay imagination. Just indulge me for a moment.

The stage is set. The crowd is gathered. Enter left: Jesus and His crew. Enter right: the Pharisees with their flowing robes and chins in the air. They take their seats at the front of the synagogue, set apart from the common people.

Flash back to the sitting room of one of the Pharisees, say his name is Phineas. Three of four other top Pharisees are at this coded meeting:

PHINEAS:         That insurgent won’t be able to resist, it’s in his nature.

        AMOS:              I’m sure he won’t. He just can’t help himself.

CAIPHAS:          Yes he can’t help himself. (Gives an evil chuckle). He will help us wrap the noose around his own neck!

Back to the present scene. Jesus is doing His thing, probably reading from a scroll or teaching. All the extras are taking their cues from the director off the cameras and nodding and scratching their chins, as if discerning for the first time, the secrets of the universe.

Enter centre: the man with the shrivelled hand.

Flash back to Phineas’ living room again:

STEPHANUS:     We know that dude with the freakish hand likes to hang behind the crowds outside the synagogue.

AMOS:              Yes, he never goes in but he never misses Sabbath either.

PHINEAS:         I’ll make sure to rebuke him sternly on my way in for not ever dropping an offering in the bowls. He’ll be forced to go in. Guilt-tripping works like magic all the time!

STEPHANUS:     Even though God knows he’ll have nothing worth putting in the bowl. (Wrinkles his nose in distaste).

        PHINEAS:         And our dear little healer will be there to see him.

AMOS:              And everything will fall neatly into place! (Rubs his hands together as an evil smile steals across his face).

Back to the present scene. Jesus looks up from the scroll and stops mid-sentence. He looks at the man shuffling up the aisle, head down, withered hand hidden under his cloak. The poor dude looks like he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him. The crowd now turns with Jesus to stare at this man. Everyone goes quiet as if on cue. The only sounds in the synagogue are from the man’s shuffling feet. Some high-tension sound track starts playing. Camera zooms in on Jesus’ intent face. Then it picks out Phineas’ gloating, triumphant one from the front of the synagogue. It goes back to Jesus, then zooms in on the man as he comes closer and closer. We get a shot of Amos’ clenched fist in his lap, like he’s trying to use some Jedi mind trick on Jesus to make Him perform the miracle. The tension builds and the volume of the ominous sound track increases…..

…You know, sometimes, we need to have faith like the Pharisees. Yup. Those guys had such unshakeable faith in Jesus’ ability to heal the man with the shrivelled hand. Their entire plot to trap Jesus in a faux pas was hinged on this one fact. I wonder how many of us believe half as much as they did that Jesus can meet our every need, move our every mountain. Just food for thought. Sorry guys that I took you through all that drama just to tell you what I could have said in about four sentences. E ma binu! #okbye

This Little Goldfish

June 23, 2007

01:25 hours

The fog in my head clears slowly and the masked and suited policemen swim into view. I’m sitting on the floor of a Piccadilly train car, my back against a blue and yellow seat. I look around the car in utter confusion, disjointed bits of information registering in my brain haphazardly: the dot matrix display showing the train was at Finsbury Park Station; the half a dozen or so ninja-looking coppers in full assault gear spread around me; the ‘Going to Heathrow?’ Ad on the wall; the spilled fries that are starting to turn pink from soaking up the blood from the grey linoleum floor; the cackling of the radio on the shoulder clip of the policeman crouching a few feet from me; the drawn assault rifles that are trained on me; the blood that has soaked through my brown coat and navy-blue tweed jacket; the canary-yellow of the sweater the lady whose head is sitting in my lap is wearing and how matted with blood her blonde hair is; the bloody kitchen knife in my hand.

The knife…

        “Drop the weapon and put your hands where I can see them!”

Weapon?

I look at it, dazed, trying to figure out why it is in my hand and why both it and my hand are almost completely covered in blood. Then it slips from my numb fingers to the floor with a clatter.

*

00:34 hours

The lady’s iPhone fell to the floor with a clatter, missing the edge of the platform by just a few inches. She was propped up by the crutches under her arms and her right foot, which was cocooned in a cast, stuck out awkwardly in front of her. She cursed under her breath and tried to hobble towards the phone.

        “Here, I’ve got it.” The man in the brown trench coat said, picking up the phone and handing it to her.

        “Thank you.” She said, giving him a relieved smile and he nodded at her.

The train arrived then and he stood aside for her to get on. At that time of the night, the usually busy Leicester Square Station had quietened down and there was only a handful of passengers waiting on the platform to board the train. The man took a seat adjacent to the doors and absently registered the other occupants of the train car. There was the young kid, who looked no older than 16 or 17, in a hoodie and with Beats headphones clamped on, two seats away from him. He wondered what the young boy was doing out that late. Further down on the other side of the car was an old couple, holding hands. Beside them, a blonde woman dozed, her head starting to loll towards the man. A quick glance at his wrist watch told him it was 12:36 a.m. He had just six stops on the train and he hoped to be home by 1 a.m. He picked up a discarded copy of the Evening Standard from the seat beside him and started to flip through absently….

*

02:21 hours

….Shhhlapppppp.

The sounds the papers make as the Police Detective flips through them yanks me to the present. I shudder, imagining this is what it must feel like to teleport from one dimension to another; disorienting and utterly confusing.

        “Mr. Adewale?”

Her voice sends another jolt through me and I swallow to push down the bile in my throat. She pronounces the name as Ah-dee-wally and it takes a moment to realize she is addressing me. I shake my head, trying to clear it. My mind feels woozy and I can’t seem to gather my thoughts.

How long have I been sitting here in the hard plastic chair?

I look down at my clasped hands on the table. They look raw and grey, like I’d been scrubbing at them real hard. There are still traces of blood around my finger nails.

How did I get blood on my hands?

The hand cuffs are cold against my wrists and they look so out of place, like ill-fitting bangles. I stare at them, unable to find a logical explanation for why they and my hands have anything at all in common.  I’m wearing a pair of grey joggers and a black sweat shirt. I have no idea whose they are because they are several sizes too large.

What happened to my clothes? Why am I wearing these things with someone else’s body odour on them? Why have I been cuffed like a criminal? What exactly is going on?

I rack my brain for answers but come up blank.

        “Do you want to tell me what happened on that train?” she says giving me a patient look that I do not trust.

Sarah Burns. The name jumps out at me. I’m not sure how I know that’s her name. She has probably mentioned it to me at some point.

Why then don’t I remember her telling me?

I look away from her and my eyes hit the clock on the wall above her head. It is 2:24 but I have no idea if it’s afternoon or the middle of the night.

        “I….” I started.

What train is she talking about!

I clench my eyes shut and try to concentrate. Everything is fuzzy.

“I…Leicester Square…” I shake my head.

Come on, remember!

“I got on the train at Leicester Square…”

        “Okay. Then what happened?” she asks.

I look from her to her partner who is leaning against the wall, arms crossed across his chest, with an open look of mistrust on his face. I reckon he’s the bad cop in this crappy movie that I have found myself smack in the middle of.

        “I…there was a…”

I look at the little recorder on the table between us. It is making a quiet whirring sound which is rather distracting to me. I look away from it to DCI Sarah Burns and try again.

        “After I got on the train, I …”

 I what?!

I want to tell her what happened after I got on the train but for the life of me, I can’t remember. It feels like it is just there, on the periphery of my mind and that if I can only just stretch far enough, I’ll be able to reach for it!

She raises her eyebrows and leans in slightly towards me expectantly.

        “What happened after you got on the train?” she asks.

        “I got on the train at 12:34 a.m.” I say, gripping the edge of the table, desperate to remember. “She was asleep, at the other end of the car, beside the old couple.”

        “Who was?”

        “The…” dead woman.

My heart starts to pound.

Oh my God, there is dead woman.

        “Who are you referring to Mr. Ah-dee-wally?”

I do not want to think about the dead woman, I can’t bring myself to.

        “We arrived at Covent Garden at 12:37.” I say instead, ignoring her. I vaguely remember seeing the time on the dot matrix display as Julie Berry’s voice announced the station.

        “Then…”

I hit a brick wall. There doesn’t seem to be anything else after that point. It is like my entire existence has been whittled down to those moments between 12:34 and 12:37, an entire lifetime reduced to a mere three-minute window. I grip my face in my cuffed hands, the metal cold against my lips, and will myself to remember.

        “Tell me about the woman who was asleep on the train.”

I raise my head and look at her.

        “What woman?” I ask.

        “You just said there was a woman asleep on the train, beside the old couple.”

When did I tell her that?

A frown creases her brow and I wonder if she thinks I’m crazy. Her partner motions to her and I look at him, my hands starting to shake. My eyes hit the clock again, and the long hand is between five and six.

2:28.

What is it about the clock that draws me so much?

I try to think but everything is a jumble, plus the blasted whirring of the recorder was getting in my head. Whirrrrrrrrr….

*

00:40 hours

Whirrrrrr went the motor of the mobility scooter at Holborn Station. The man in the scooter fidgeted around a bit after getting on before he could get it to rest against the wall. The lady with the crutches got off through the other set of doors and just as they were closing, two young men jumped in, bringing the smell of stale beer and sweat with them. Their football jerseys barely covered up their sagging denim pants and one of them had a horn which he tried blowing but was too drunk to.

        “Hey matey, care’t  gimme a blow?” he slurred thrusting the horn in Adewale’s face. He had a scraggly ginger beard that looked like it was home to more than just a few creepy-crawlies.

Adewale turned his face away from him, ignoring him and the other drunk guffawed.

        “Sure he’d love to give you a blow!” he bellowed, his face and bald head going almost tomato red.

        “Shut yer face numpty!” Ginger snapped.

Baldy only laughed some more and started to sing tunelessly. Ginger put the horn to his lips again and tried to blow, but he only succeeded in spraying Adewale with his spittle. Adewale wiped his face in disgust and luckily, Ginger left him alone and stumbled down the car.

        “Care’t help?” Ginger asked the man in the mobility scooter, trying to push the horn into his hands.

        “Get off!” the man snapped, slapping the horn away.

        “Aw come on, don’t be such a Nancy!” Ginger said, pushing the horn back at him.

        “I said get off!”

 He slapped at the horn again and it knocked off his bag of Mac Donald’s fries from the top of the scooter.

        “Now see what you’ve done!”

        “You’re not gone cry, are ya?” Ginger sneered and kicked at the fries.

        “Idiot!” the man spat at him, really pissed.

Ginger laughed and then put the horn to his lips and….

*

02:32 hours 

        “And?” Sarah Burns asks.

I look up from the table top at her.

        “I can’t remember.” I whisper.

She shakes her head in frustration. “You’ve got to help me here.”

        “He…he must have blown the horn again and…”

        “I don’t want you guessing.”

        “I…I need a trigger.”

        “What?” she frowns at me.

        “I need to trigger the rest of it.”

        “Mr. Ah-dee-wally…”

Acting on a whim, I push back the plastic chair I’m sitting on and it makes an awful scrapping noise, almost like an inebriated man depositing a mouthful of spittle in a horn….

*

00:44 hours

The sound from the horn made Adewale cringe and he looked up impatiently as the train pulled into Russel Square Station. The old couple got off hurriedly and he doubted very much that that was their stop.

        “Have a lovely evening!” Ginger called after them and he blew into the horn again.

Just three more stops he thought to himself.

Baldy went down the car and took the seat beside the blonde woman.

        “Hey Luv, would ya like’t give my friend here a blow?” he asked her and he laughed at his own dumb joke. She got up and swapped seats and he whistled at her. Ginger went over to sit beside her.

        “Come’n now Darl’n, don’t be like that!” Ginger said to her and when she attempted to get up from beside him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down.

        “Hey, leave her alone!” Adewale said. He’d had enough of the two idiots and to hell with the unwritten ‘mind your own business’ tube rule. They were taking things too far and it was high time someone stood up to them.

        “What’s it to ya?” Ginger asked.

        “Yeah, what’s it to you?” Baldy added, walking up to where he sat.

        “I’m calling the police.” The man in the scooter said, driving towards the red help button.

Adewale stood up and Baldy shoved him back into his seat.

        “Mind yo damn business Black Boy else, I’ll mind it for ya.” He said grabbing Adewale’s jaw in one hand and giving him a shake. Adewale knocked his hand away and they stared each other down, both breathing heavily. Finally, Baldy sneered at him and started to walk towards Ginger and the blonde woman. Adewale jumped up then and grabbed Baldy in a choke hold from behind, putting pressure on Baldy’s carotids with his biceps. He started to count quietly under his breath.

“Oi! What you doing?” Ginger said in a shrill voice but he didn’t dare go near Adewale. Adewale kept a steady gaze on him with his arm still around Baldy’s neck. Baldy went limp on the count of seven and he let him slip to the floor in an unceremonious heap. The blonde woman screamed and the kid took off his headphones and got shakily to his feet.

“Hello! Can anybody hear me!” the man on the scooter said, jabbing his finger at the red button over and over.

“What you done man? You choked him to death!” Ginger gasped, deathly pale.

As if to answer him, Baldy let out a low groan and started to stir.

“You crazy man! You crazy nigger!” Ginger screamed.

“Oh God, oh God!” Scooter man muttered, still jabbing at the red button and the blonde lady started to whimper.

As soon as the train pulled into King’s Cross St Pancras Station, Ginger grabbed a hold of Baldy’s feet and dragged him off the train, yelling obscenities at Adewale.

*

02:38 hours

“So, you fought off the trouble makers?”

“Yes…I…” I rub my face wearily.

“What happened after that?”

“I don’t remember.” I say. “I need something to trigger the rest of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know!”

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.” I say in a calmer voice. “I’m having these spurts of recollections and they seem to be triggered by things…” I look at her earnestly, willing her to understand. “I need to figure out what the next clue is.”

“You can cut the bullshit!” he partner says, coming to stand beside her and she holds up a hand.

“So, you’re saying you’ve got some sort of amnesia that’s dependent on recreating the events of the evening?” she says.

“No! I mean yes, it’s not…”

“Stop with the BS and just tell us why you killed her!” her partner said, leaning towards me to glare at me, his hand flat on the table.

“I didn’t kill her!”

“John…” DCI Sarah Burns tried to interrupt her partner.

“Why did you do it? What did she do to tick you off that bad?”

“I didn’t…”

“Were you afraid she would come forward to accuse you of killing the drunk dude?”

“No! I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Were you…”

DCI Sarah Burns lets out a shrill scream, startling both I and her partner. Then, the…

*

00:46 hours

… blonde woman screamed and the kid took off his headphones and got shakily to his feet.

“Hello! Can anybody hear me!” the man on the scooter said, jabbing his finger at the red button over and over.

“What you done man? You choked him to death!” Ginger said, deathly pale.

As if to answer him, Ginger let out a low groan and started to stir.

“You crazy man! You crazy nigger!” Ginger screamed.

“Oh God, oh God!” Scooter man muttered, still jabbing at the red button and the blonde lady started to whimper.

As soon as the train pulled into King’s Cross St Pancras Station, Ginger grabbed a hold of Baldy’s feet and dragged him off the train, yelling obscenities at Adewale.

        “Is everyone alright?” Adewale asked shakily, looking around at the bewildered faces around him.

        “Oh man, what did you do to him?” the kid asked.

        “He’s gonna be alright.” he replied. “I just knocked him out is all.”

        “Hello?” a voice said through the microphone above the help button.

        “Oh thank God!” Scooter man gasped.

        “Is there a problem in there?”

        “There was a couple of drunk dudes messing around with everybody.”

        “Okay, please stay calm. I’m going to make a call for help to the next station. Are they being violent?”

        “They were causing a lot of trouble then this man knocked one of them out, chocked him or something.”

        “Did you say choked? Is he…”

        “He just went down like that!”

        “Sir, do you know if he is still breathing?”

        “He is, I mean he was. He was muttering when his friend dragged him off the train.”

        “They’re off the train?”

        “Yeah, the guy was screaming blue murder!”

        “Alright Sir. Is everyone else okay?”

        “Yeah, I guess. It was real crazy man!”

        “Okay, can everyone please try to stay calm? I’m going to call the next station so there will be security personnel to attend to us over there.”

        “Alright, cheers mate. So glad all that is over!”

So much for getting home before one, Adewale thought with a resigned sigh. He sat quietly while the kid and Scooter man rehashed the events of the evening over and over. The blonde woman was obviously still in shock. She stared at him with a dazed expression on her face, her hands clamped over her mouth. He wanted to say something reassuring to her but couldn’t think of any appropriate words, so he looked away from the haunted look on her face apologetically.

*

02:50 hours

“We continued to Caledonian Road without anything else happening.”

“Then what happened there?” DCI Burns asks.

“The driver came into the car to speak with us. A guy in a TFL vest joined him. He must have been security or something.”

“And?” This from John what’s-his-name. He really is living up to the Bad Cop image.

“They asked us to go to the station office to give statements. Our train left but we were promised there was one last train for the night.”

“What happened afterwards?” John asks.

I look apologetically at DCI Burns.

        “I need something to put me back on the train.” I say.

“You can stop wasting our time now, you do know we’ll have the evidence as soon as we get the coverage from the cameras?” John says and I look at him.

I am both relieved and terrified at the realization that there will be CCTV footage from both trains. At least, I will get answers and this nightmare in my head will be over. But what if I really did kill that woman? I can’t let myself consider that possibility, so I look back at DCI Burns. Please… my eyes plead.

        “This is Caledonian Road….” She begins in a not so good Julie Berry imitation.

        “This is ridiculous!” John says, throwing up his hands.

DCI Burns clears her throat and starts again.

        “This is Caledonian Road. Please mind the gap…”

*

01:12 hours

…between the train and the platform. This is a Piccadilly Line train to Cockfosters.

Adewale got on the train with just the blonde woman. The kid’s mom had come to pick him up from the station and Scooter man had called a cab. He said he’d had enough shaking up for one night. Adewale had just one more stop on the train, so he didn’t mind getting back on. Besides, he’d seen a whole lot in his eight years of living in London, so he really didn’t think there was much else that could faze him. The blonde looked like she had calmed down a bit and he was relieved. He hated to think that he’d spooked her out the way he’d tackled the drunk guy.

A feeling of Déjà-vu washed over him when he noticed the spilled fries on the floor.

Can this night end already!

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. It had been a long day at the University and he couldn’t wait to get home and zone out. His Graduate Research Team had had some huge breakthroughs with their work on Goldfish and they were gearing up to present their Paper to the Faculty.

        “You killed him.”

His eyes snapped open and he gasped when he saw she was standing over him. He wondered how he had not heard her approaching.

Crap, maybe she isn’t so calm after all.

        “No, he’s not dead.” he said gently, sitting up straight.

He imagined Chen, his Chinese housemate who’d taught him the move, having a good laugh when he recounted the events of the evening to him. Chen was the kind of guy who would find something like that funny.

        “I simply knocked him out. I’m sure he’s at some Pub getting even more wasted right now.”

        “I knew this would happen, I just knew it!” she muttered, swaying on her feet.

        “Are you alright?” he asked.

        “I knew it! I should have taken the dog out, but I never listen. This is all my fault! I’m such an idiot…”

        “Hey, do you want to…” he reached out a hand towards her.

She slapped the hand away and started to cry, still muttering incoherently.

Oh God, please help me!

        “You leave me no choice.” She said, swiping at her running nose.

        “What?”

        “I don’t have a choice, I have to do it now.” She said.

        “Do what!”

        “I have to…”

*

02:54 hours

        “Damn it!” I mutter in frustration.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Why can’t this bloody nightmare just end already!

        “Have to what?” DCI Burns asks earnestly.

I can feel her frustrations too. So close, yet so far.

        “This is a waste of time.” John says. “I’m gonna go check on the status of the videos.” He says and leaves the room.

        “What else was on the train?” Sarah Burns asks.

        “There wasn’t anyone else, it was just the two of us…”

        “Anything you can remember, a poster, a soda bottle, anything!”

        “Err… there was a diet coke can wedged between two seats….” I clench my eyes shut and try to think. “Her sneakers squeaked….I…there was a Tesco AD on the wall and…”

        “Tell me about the research.”

        “Huh?”

I open my eyes and stare at her.

        “The research you’re doing with the fish, tell me about it.”

What on earth is she on about? What has that got to do with anything?

        “What exactly were you working on?”

        “The memory span of Goldfish.” I say and she prompts me on with a nod.

“We performed a series of experiments where we exposed Goldfish to different stimuli over a period of time and then we took away the stimuli. We separated the fish into different batches and then re-introduced them to the stimuli at different times, some after just a few days and others up to six months.”

I look at her, wondering if I’m making any sense. She nods again and I continue.

        “We discovered that fish that had been trained to respond to certain sounds while in captivity were still able to respond to those sounds up to about five months after being released into the wild. Further study also showed that they can distinguish shapes and colour as well.”

        “So, basically, you debunked the three-second Goldfish memory myth?”

        “Yes, but not just that. We proved that fish are more intelligent than they’re given credit for. This could have huge implications for …”

        “The fish were able to respond to sounds, months after they’d been exposed to it?”

        “Yes…”

        “A particular sound that they associate with an activity?”

        “Yeah, usually feeding times, lights out…”

She leans in close.

        “That means if we can reproduce a sound associated with that exact moment when she died, you’ll be able to remember all of it, not just a few minutes’ worth.”

I go cold all over. Is she saying I have somehow become a metaphorical goldfish with a three-minute memory span? But that doesn’t even make sense!

        “What else was on that train!” she asks again, emphasizing each word with a light thump on the table with her fist.

Oh God, help me…

        “Err… there was… I… the train jolted and the soda can fell to the floor…”

She flies out of her seat and goes to the waste bin in the corner. She fishes out an empty Sprite can and tosses it to the floor…

*

01:15 hours

The soda can hitting the floor startled him and he took his eyes off her for just a moment. That was when she whipped out the kitchen knife from her hand bag.

What the hell…

He dodged as she lunged at him with the knife.

        “What is wrong with you!” he shouted, terrified out of his mind.

She took another stab at him and he caught her wrist, wrestling with her for control of the knife. He marvelled at her strength, considering how slight and frail she looked.

        “You killed him!” she said through clenched teeth. “You killed him and I need to make it right.”

Up close, he noticed her wild and glassy eyes, and her dilated pupils. Her lips were pulled back into thin, white lines which contrasted the red sores around her mouth.

The train went around a bend and they both lost their balance and went sprawling to the floor. The blade hit a pole with a teeth chattering clang and flew out of her hand. They both sprang for the knife at the same time but the train’s momentum pushed it down the car, out of reach.

        “You killed him and it’s all my fault. I have to make it right!” she said, clawing at his face and digging bloody furrows in his cheeks.

        “Stop it!” He grabbed her shoulders and tried to shake some sense into her. The sleeve of her sweater rode up to the elbow to reveal needle track marks on the inside of her wrist.

Oh dear God! How much longer to the stupid station?

As soon as the train stopped, he thrust her away from him and lunged for the doors. She made a grab for his foot but he kicked her off and jumped off the train.

Her blood curling scream made him whip around and he looked on in horror as her whole face contorted into an unearthly mask of rage. She raised her hands and pulled at her hair, like she wanted to yank her head right off! Before he could even recover from the frightening sight, the bum, who’d appeared to have been asleep all the while, dug the knife into the side of her neck. The bum looked at a stunned Adewale and gave him a wide smile, displaying brown, toothless gums. Adewale didn’t think, he jumped back onto the train and caught her falling body. He tried to clamp his hands over the gash in her neck to stem the bleeding but the blade sliced through his palm instead. The pressure of his fingers caused her flesh to relax against the knife and it slid out, causing the bleeding to increase.

“’Ave a nice night.” The bum said, forcing the closing doors open with his hands and getting off.

Adewale pushed his fist against her neck, an irrational part of him hoping to save her life. Even as blood spilled from the gash, she still continued to let out that nightmarish scream, blood frothing out of her mouth, as if possessed by some unworldly force. The sound filled the air and his ears and his head until it felt like it was ringing in every last cell in his body, spilling into every pore. Just when he thought it would burst his head right open, everything went black.

*

03:00 hours

I try to clamp my hands over my ears to shut out the sound, but the cuffs won’t let me.

        “Are you alright!” DCI Burns asks, her voice alarmed.

I hear her voice as if from a great distance. My chest tightens and I start to gasp for breath. I feel the pressure building in my head and my chest as my mind is assaulted by a myriad of emotions and sounds and smells and feelings, each one piercing through me, each one threatening to tear my mind apart:

the deafening chug-chug-chugging of the train on the tracks;

the flowery scent of the old lady’s perfume;

the wetness of Ginger’s saliva on my face;

the police swarming down on me, pushing me down to the floor;

the thumping of the crutches on the linoleum floor;

the kid’s high pitched voice and his Irish accent;

the bum sitting by the entrance of Leicester Square Station;

the knee in my back as my hands are cuffed behind my back;

Baldy’s tuneless rendition of ‘God Save The Queen’;  

the blinding flash of the camera as picture after picture was taken;

the flecks of green in the blonde’s blue eyes;

the ride to the police station, sirens blaring; my clothes being bagged;

the horrified look on the train driver’s face when he found us;

the tweezers picking hairs from the scratches on my face;

DCI Burns asking me if I want my lawyer present;

the bum slipping off the train after the drunks;

the over-powering smell of blood and how I can still feel its coppery taste in my mouth; the bum asleep at the other end of the train car when the woman and I got on;

that last violent shudder as the blonde woman breathed her last;

the deafening silence as her scream is cut off abruptly, like someone flicked a switch.

The chaos in my head dies out finally, its red-hot intensity fading out slowly until all that is left is the faint coppery-gold of a lone goldfish in the dark.

I wrote this for the 2017 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. I'm bummed I didn't make the shortlist but I thought I'd share all the same! ;)