Best Laid Plans

Just a short story I wrote months ago while I was waiting for invitations to job interviews. I'd posted it at Nairaland before, but I felt folks in blogsville wouldn't mind a copy of their own. Basically a robbery gone awry seen from the robber's point of view. Enjoy!


The large pendulum clock inside the bank manager’s office struck 11:00am – eleven ominous strokes of doom. Standing in front of the huge reinforced-metal bank safe was the bank manager himself, his brows beaded with perspiration, and his fingers trembling as he tried to open the safe’s combination lock system. The manager’s fingers were trembling because the muzzle of a black evil-looking Beretta Desert Eagle was leveled right behind him at the base of his precious medulla oblongata. And standing behind the Beretta, with a finger resting gently on the trigger, was me.

Long story cut short: I was robbing a bank.

Long story cut shorter: I didn’t get away with it.

You see, robbing a bank is never an easy task. It almost always flops – the point man might fail to spot a potential danger; the escape route might be poorly constructed; the bank manager might delay too much and jeopardize the venture; one of your men might get trigger-happy and set-off an ugly chain-reaction; or some dude might decide to play hero – anything, just about anything could happen. And only one of such unforeseen incidents is enough to send the entire mission to hell in a hand-basket.

But I didn't reckon such a thing happening in this operation. I was in-charge this time, you see, and that meant that the mission would go exactly as planned – or so I had thought. Like clockwork, that’s how I described it to my men last night while I was detailing the plan to them. Zeke, at my side, had listened and nodded. There were five others: Osumo, who looked like a boxer, Atanda, Uchman, and the Alaye twins. And myself, of course, the C-in-C.

The plan was watertight. We had the complete building plans of the bank, with the three egresses marked out in red. The positions and number of security personnel in each part of the building was also indicated. We even had a man inside, one of the security guys named Okoro; his job was to disable the metal-detector entrance doors. Besides this, we also had a hand-drawn map of the network of roads and streets surrounding the bank, with the best escape route marked out. When I finished explaining the plan to them, Zeke nodded again and smiled. “Exquisite,” he said. The others were also impressed by the brilliance of it all.

And now, as I stood inside the bank manager’s office, gun-in-hand, watching him empty the bank’s safe into the large plastic bag I’d given him, I couldn’t help thinking, exquisite indeed. Outwardly, though, I was frowning enough for two. “Hurry up,” I urged, neither too harshly nor too gently, just with the right inflection to remind him of who was boss. Downstairs, I knew Osumo and Uchman would be doing the same thing with the cashiers, while Okoro and the Alaye twins would be minding the exits and monitoring the hostages, lest someone decides to play Jackie Chan. It was simply going like clockwork. It was too good to be true.

Well, hindsight never did anybody any good. After all, if Achilles had known about his heel, he’d have bought an iron shoe before going off to war. My Achilles’ heel turned out to be Osumo; who could have imagined that that gorilla of a human being had a soft spot for babies? Our undoing came in the form of a bawling seven-month-old baby.

The manager had almost cleared the safe of its contents when the loud report of a .38 Magnum pistol blasted away the tensed quietness of our mission. Only Zeke and Osumo had pistols, I thought rapidly, the rest had shotguns. Instinctively, I knew it was Osumo who’d released the shot, and as much as I hate to admit it, I actually prayed that he hadn’t hurt someone. Pushing the manager ahead of me along with the naira-filled bag, we hurried downstairs. The first sight that greeted my eyes on reaching the bank floor was a male cashier slumped backwards over his seat with a bullet-hole in between his eyes and the back of his head missing. The manager promptly keeled over and puked his half-digested breakfast into my bag of money.

A terrible racket was going on. My men were loudly ordering everyone to the ground and threatening to shoot anyone that as much as moved a micro-millimeter. The women were keening and screaming their lives’ worth. Some of the men were cowering with their heads down; those who had the courage to look up had murder in their eyes. Amidst this organized confusion, I managed to piece together from Zeke what had happened. Osumo was supposed to be watching the male cashier, but he got distracted when a little baby in the crowd of hostages started to cry. The tearful mother tried to hush the baby, but it only intensified its shrill protests. Completely engrossed in the baby’s pitiful bawling, Osumo forgot the cashier. Then Uchman suddenly shouted, jolting Osumo out of his trance. He looked back to see the cashier furtively slipping his cell-phone into his pocket. In a fit of shame and anger, Osumo pointed his gun at the cashier and pulled the trigger.

The ear-splitting din raged on.

I looked at Osumo; there was a manic glint in his eyes. I looked away, raised my gun and squeezed the trigger twice into the air. A tensed stillness fell immediately. I walked over to the dead cashier, bent over him and took the phone out of his pocket. Its screen read MTN NG. I hit the redial button with the butt of my handgun, and a normal, harmless-looking mobile phone number showed up. Could belong to anybody, I thought, probably a sweetheart or friend. I checked the time of call; it was more than three hours ago – long before we’d even arrived at the bank. I shook my head, looking up. Everyone had their eyes on me, Osumo most of all, expectantly awaiting my verdict on his action. Then I had another idea. I hit the “Menu” button on the phone, selected the “Messages” icon, and scrolled down to the “Sent Items” option. I soon found what I was looking for; the time of the last sent message was sixteen minutes ago. The destination number was a contact listed as “SARS”.

“Red line!” I screamed, dropping the phone. That was our prearranged signal for a fast get-away. The hostages started screaming and making noise again, but we ignored them this time, hauling our bulging bags of naira notes. We had to get away, fast.

Well, by now you’d have probably guessed that we didn’t make any fast get-away. We didn’t even make it out of the bank; the police were waiting for us at the gates. Those few minutes we’d wasted trying to calm the hostages had been a few minutes too many, and the SARS cops had, for once, responded rapidly to the dead cashier’s message. Talk about going to hell in hand-basket.

A shoot-out started out between us and the cops, and Uchman, Atanda and the Alaye twins went down. Zeke, Osumo and I made it back into the bank building where the hostages were still screaming their heads off. We thought of using them to bargain our way out, but at that moment dozens of tear-gas canisters burst in through the windows. Holding my breath – a painful business, I might add – I turned and dashed up the stairs to the manager’s office. Slamming the door shut and quickly bolting it, I ran to the end of the office and looked around, my breath coming in gasps. There was no other exit from the spacious room, no windows, nothing. Slowly, I realized the inevitable fact: this was the end.

Already, I could hear gunshots echoing downstairs. Exquisite, I thought, smiling and shaking my head grimly. The large pendulum clock overhead struck 12:00 noon. Exquisite indeed. A couple of gunshots echoed of the door of the office, cops yelling in the background. I let my handgun clattered to the floor, and turned to face the wall, legs apart, arms raised up in surrender. What the hell, a living dog is better than a dead lion.

The door suddenly tore away from its hinges, and the cops poured in.

The best laid plans of mice and men go aft a-gley…

The Fish Sword

When I was eleven years old, I choked on a fish bone. My mum used to make iced-fish stew for dinner every Sunday then, and my favorite part of the fish was the head. Only God in heaven knows why l liked it – I certainly don’t remember – but after that episode with the bone, my love for it diminished considerably.

We were having supper that night – mum, dad, myself, and my three elder brothers. As usual, I was playing with my fish, dissecting it like a surgeon performing an operation. Now, there is this bone that no little boy who ever ate a fish head misses. It looks like a sword. When I got to it, I carefully extricated it and waved it at my brothers.

“The fish sword!” I proclaimed happily.

Chidi and Ifenna, my eldest brothers, ignored me, but Emeka got interested at once. He hadn’t quite lost his fascination with fish heads.

Dad sighed from across the table. “It beats me what you boys find exciting about a fish head,” he said.

“Stop playing with your fish,” mum chided.

“It’s a sword, mum. A fish sword!” I told her.

“You’ll soon choke on it,” she replied, looking away.

Thinking how dense mum was, I plopped the bone into my mouth, chewed slightly, and swallowed. Seconds later, I choked on the bone.

“Get a cup of water!” mum cried, rushing quickly to my side. I was gagging and coughing and holding my neck, trying effortlessly to dislodge the bone. Ifenna suddenly appeared beside me with a cup of water. “Drink!” he screamed.

I drained half of the cup in an instant, and then stopped to check if the bone was gone. It wasn’t. “It’s still there!” I cried.

“Finish the water!” mum told me. “Swallow it forcefully!”

I upturned the cup into my mouth, swallowing hard.

“Is it still there?” mum asked, visibly worried. “Is it still there?”

I felt my throat. Yes. Yes, it’s gone… no! “No, it’s still there!” I shrieked, getting scared now. “Mummy, it’s still there!”

“More water!” she cried, and my brothers scrambled to get it.

“Easy!” dad said with his deep voice, getting up from his seat. “No need to get hysteric.”

We all looked at him, hoping he knew something we didn’t. Dad picked up an unfinished plate of rice, scoped up some with a big spoon, and asked me to open my mouth. I did. He upended the spoon’s load into my mouth. “Chew the rice a little and swallow hard,” he advised me. “It should force the bone down.”

I did as told and swallowed.

“Now drink some water.”

I did.

“Is it gone?” dad asked, looking expectant. “It’s gone, right?”

I started to nod my head, but a sharp pinch in my throat stopped the motion. Everyone was on tenter-hooks, looking at me eagerly. A whimper of pain escaped from my lips – and they all started scrambling around again.

A bout of coughing seized me and I doubled over, holding my neck and chest. Dad suddenly grabbed me and smacked me hard on the back. Instantly, something gave in my throat, flew out through my open mouth and hit a glass cup on the dining table. And I stopped coughing. Everyone was silent for a while. Then, Chidi picked up the glass cup and pried the thing that had flown out of my mouth off it. It was the fish sword.

“Still want this?” he asked me solemnly.

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. Emeka giggled nervously, and soon everyone was laughing.

The Stranger

(I)

Many years later when Akwugo would tell the story, she would always begin by referring to the Stranger’s method of entrance. Like the approach of evening, she would say, that was how he came. Like the transition from twilight to darkness. It just sort of creeps up on you; you never really notice it until it has happened. That was how the Stranger came to live among the people of Ogba-ede village. None of the villagers could say exactly when he arrived; none of them could remember precisely the day they saw him first. No one, that is, except Akwugo.
It was an Nkwo-market day, and the Ogba-ede village square was brimming with people, men and women selling their wares under small raffia stalls. Akwugo’s stall was in an isolated corner, near the end of the market. She didn’t mind, though; people tended to avoid her these days anyway. The sun had just begun its downward descent when she began to park up her wares. It was quite early to be going home – in fact, farmers from the neighboring Itere village, who were the market’s major customers, were just arriving. But Akwugo was going home all the same. She wanted to avoid the late evening’s rush by the market women who would want to get home quickly and prepare supper for their husbands and children. Akwugo didn’t want to meet these women because they would be sure to ridicule and make mockery of her along the way. They always do.
Akwugo was an outcast. Sure, no one would say it to her face because she wasn’t born that way, but they thought it all the same. They didn’t have to say it out; they just acted it – in the way they looked at her, half-sneer, half-pity; in the subtle condescending way they talked to her; in the way they avoided her at the village stream, laughing it off and pretending nothing was wrong. But Akwugo knew better. When her husband and three sons had suddenly died mysteriously two seasons ago, everyone had branded her a witch. It was only after the village oracle had declared her innocent of the deaths that people began to talk to her again.
But things were never the same again. Akwugo became a stranger in her own village. Perhaps that was why she instantly sensed the alien-ness in the tall young man who nodded at her on her way home that fateful Nkwo-day. Slowing to a stop with her load of wares balanced delicately atop her head in a raffia basket, Akwugo stared – brazenly, shamelessly, unabashedly. It was as if some spirit had taken hold of her. Long after he’d passed by and walked beyond her vision, Akwugo was still staring, the young man’s image replying itself on her retina. And as she stood there rooted like a stoned rabbit, Akwugo knew it without being told: that young man was definitely not from these parts. He was a stranger – a real stranger.


*


Idika had always had his eyes on Akwugo, even before her husband had died two seasons ago. And he had taken his time too – two years was enough time to plan for anything. It was now or never; Akwugo must spend the night in his hut tonight, whether she liked it or not. Most probably, she would not like it. Idika smiled grimly at this thought, his crooked walking-stick striking the ground at regular intervals, while his old wizened frame tried to keep up. Oh yes, Akwugo would most certainly not like it at all; after all, what young woman would like to make love to an old man? But then, consider the flipside: what old man would not like to make love to a young woman, eh? Idika chuckled and his smile widened, exposing an almost toothless mouth.
It was almost dusk now, but Idika didn’t have any problems walking. He knew these paths like the back of his right hand. It would be a real bad omen if he ever stumbled on it. Soon enough, he got to the rendezvous point, a three-path junction under a tall ogbu tree. Idika stopped and looked about him; there was nobody around. Quickly, he veered into the bush behind the ogbu tree. Turumbe was waiting there with two other men with chest sizes even a gorilla would envy. No introductions were needed; Idika just gave each of them a dirty look, and they returned the gesture.
“Have you seen her?” Idika asked.
“Yes,” replied Turumbe.
“Eh-eh?” the old man prodded, casting for more information.
“Do you want her or not?” one of the men asked gruffly.
Idika gazed at him with enough hatred to drown the devil himself. “And what if I do?”
“Then pay up! She is in her hut right now, preparing her supper. Alone.”
Idika slowly swung his gaze back to Turumbe, and the big village ruffian shrugged. “He is right. You pay us, and we’ll get her for you. There are four of us; there is no way she can get away. And she is alone.”
Idika looked on for a while longer, and then nodded his head. But as he was dipping his hand into his bag for the pouch of cowries, he saw someone walk by along the three-path junction. Even though it was now quite dark, Idika still saw the person’s face. Some trick of the night sky, perhaps. It was a man, a young man by his features, tall and fair in complexion. Idika thought he had seen that face before – perhaps during one of his numerous travels. A stranger, no doubt. Probably from one of the neighboring villages, probably… No, this man was from afar. But what was a stranger to Ogba-ede doing in the forest at this time? And who was he?
“Old man, you are wasting time!” the other man interrupted gruffly again. “Are you paying us or what?”
Idika turned and threw the pouch of cowries at him. “Make sure you bring her to my hut tonight!” Then he turned and wadded out of the bush and into the path as quickly as he could, intent upon catching up with the stranger. The fair-skinned man was already getting away. Huffing and panting, Idika chased as fast as he could, his walking-stick making clip-clop noises. He didn’t know what he would say to the stranger when he caught with him, but that could wait. First he had to catch the man –
Suddenly, Idika tripped on an exposed rock and went sprawling on the dusty footpath. His walking-stick clattered away to one corner, while his bag emptied itself on the ground. It was quite an undignified fall, quite undignified indeed. Shocked to his core and very hurt – both inside and out – Idika slowly rose to his hands and knees, and looked ahead. What he saw made his heart miss a beat. The Stranger was standing less than a stone-throw’s distance away – standing straight and dead-still like a tree – and gazing steadily at him. Like a reptile. Like a snake. The Stranger’s gaze speared through him like venom-tipped sunlight. It was not natural at all.
Idika felt goose-pimples popping out on his skin. No man should look at another like that. No man should dare look at another like that. Suddenly, Idika felt a wave of fury flood through him, and his temper flared.
“What are you looking at?” Idika demanded loudly, his voice echoing through the forest. “Eh? And who are you anyway? I said, who are you?!”
But the Stranger didn’t bother to rely. He just turned and walked away into the night.
Idika felt a shiver run down his spine. With his hands shaking horribly, he picked up his stick and bag as fast as he could, and hurried home. As much as he wanted to deny it, Idika knew deep down that the rock he’d tripped on had not been there before. It had never been there before.


*


Make no mistake about it; Turumbe and his friends knew their business.
Akwugo was outside her hut, putting out the cooking-place fire when they arrived. She was completely taken unawares. The only thing she heard was the sound of fast approaching footsteps. Her instincts jumping to attention, Akwugo whirled around. There was a blur of movement in the periphery of her vision just before the stick connected with her skull, and then she was seeing stars revolving round her head. Someone punched her in the stomach, and Akwugo gasped. Then she slumped over and threw up her supper.
“Stop hitting her, you idiot!” Turumbe cursed, emerging from the darkness behind the hut. “If you keep doing that, what good would she be in bed?”
The man sniggered. Dropping the stout stick in his hand, he produced a rope from under his garment. Then silently, he and another man who’d also emerged from behind the hut, bent over Akwugo and began to tie her up while Turumbe kept watch.
Akwugo moaned painfully, her mind slowly clogging up with darkness.
It was Turumbe that saw the Stranger first, and the sight gave him a bad shock. The other men looked up too and were struck dumb by the sight of the fair-skinned man standing motionless in the cluster of shrubs a stone-throw’s distance away, staring steadily at them. But they didn’t remain dumb for long. Slowly, they stood up and beckoned at the Stranger to come closer.
Unblinking and motionless, the Stranger continued to stare.
“I don’t like the way he is looking at us,” one of the men said.
Narrowing his eyes, Turumbe hissed. “Let’s kill him; he might tell tales.”
Moving with a frightening singleness of purpose, Akwugo’s assailants encircled the Stranger. Soon, there were sounds of fighting and struggling – men grunting and pushing each other, punches flying. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched scream, and then another. Sounds of trashing around followed as someone tried to get away, but was caught. A last blood-curdling scream echoed, and then all was quiet.
Akwugo had passed out in the middle of it all. When she came to, she was inside her hut and on her bamboo bed. Her bruises had been cleaned. Slowly, she sat up and looked around in mild confusion. Standing in front of her was the fair-skinned stranger. Akwugo felt alarm course through her, but the Stranger made soothing gestures and she slowly calmed down. Then memory flooded back, and Akwugo jumped up again, her eyes wide with fear. With deliberate slowness, the Stranger shook his head from side to side, and she immediately understood. He had taken care of them.
For a long while, they stood like that: Akwugo staring at the Stranger, and he staring back with a deadpan expression. At last, Akwugo grew curios.
“Who are you?” she asked gently.
If the Stranger understood the question, he didn’t bother to show it.
“Who are you?” Akwugo repeated after a while, and got the same stony silence.
Maybe he doesn’t understand our language, Akwugo thought, and tried a different tactic. She pointed at herself and said “Akwugo”; then she pointed at the Stranger and gave him a questioning look.
The Stranger just kept staring.
Akwugo fleetingly wondered if he was a deaf-dumb, but decided against it. He didn’t look it. She tried again. Me, Akwugo; you, what?
Suddenly, like the breaking out of sunlight after a fierce thunderstorm, the Stranger smiled – and Akwugo felt the smile envelope her in a sea of warmth. She smiled back, uneasily at first, but slowly her nervousness dispelled and left in its wake a soft, fluffy feeling that was at the same time soothing and mesmerizing. All the pains, insults and rejections people had meted out to her seemed to pale away under the Stranger’s hypnotic gaze and dazzling smile, leaving her feeling sluiced. Akwugo tried in vain to shut out the image of the eyes; they seemed to doing things to her insides. A flash of intense yearning suddenly coursed through her body, and Akwugo gasped. Leaning on the wall of her hut for dear support, Akwugo stood powerlessly while the Stranger worked his magic on her.
At last the Stranger blinked and broke the connection. Then slowly shaking his head again from side to side, he turned around and walked away in the night.
For a long time, Akwugo stood there in her hut, catching her breath and staring at the doorway through which the Stranger had walked out. A single tear welled out from her left eye and coursed down her cheek. Slowly, she wiped it away and went to bed.



(II)


The Stranger lived in Ogba-ede village for exactly seven months, and then he vanished. During that whole time, he never uttered a single word. There was something unnatural about him that seemed to distance him away from ordinary people.
No one knew exactly when the Stranger left. As he didn’t have a hut of his own, each person assumed that he was probably staying indoors in someone else’s house. Then after a while, everyone began to notice that it had been a while since they had seen him last. Finally, it dawned on them that he had left for good.
Some of the villagers were happy to see the last of the Stranger. Of these people, none was as happy, and as relieved, as Idika when he learnt that his nemesis had finally left the village. The old man had never gotten over the effects of his encounter with the fair-skinned young man over seven moons ago. Ever since that fateful evening, Idika never left his compound again after sundown.
Fleetingly, Idika wondered if he should try and get Akwugo again, now that the Stranger was gone. But a quick flashback of what had happened to Turumbe and his friends caused him to dump the idea. There are some things in this world that are meant to be left alone.


*


Akwugo walked around morosely liked someone in grief. Somehow, over the months, she had come to take the Stranger’s presence for granted – like the way one expected the sun to rise every morning. Now, all of a sudden, the sun had failed to rise; it wasn’t even there anymore. The Stranger was gone, and Akwugo felt like he had taken away her life with him.
People no longer shied away from her like they used to before – she even had a few friends now among the market women – but that was not enough to overcome the devastation she was feeling. It seemed as if the wind of good things the Stranger had carried with him into her life had blown away with him again.
Then one hot afternoon, many days after the Stranger had left, a man walked up to her stall at the Nkwo-day market. Listlessly, Akwugo looked up at him – and her lethargy instantly evaporated. There was such pain in the man’s eyes that she wanted to reach out and hug him. But instead, she stood rock-still and stared at him, her mind going blank.
Entranced, the man stared back.
For how long they stood like that, Akwugo couldn’t tell, but she suddenly felt very tired, and blinked. Her mind went back to the night the Stranger had “stared” her pains away, and she briefly wondered if he had done something else to her that night – if he had perhaps left a little bit of himself inside her.
Slowly, Akwugo looked up at the man again. He was still staring at her, but some of the pain had left his eyes. A smile slowly spread across his face as he stepped closer to her and touched her left shoulder.
“Please, what is your name?” he said.
Heat rushed to Akwugo’s face, and she quickly looked down. Somehow, she knew her life would never be the same again.

The Evening Programme

( This short story is about the ugly effects HIV/AIDS can have on people's lives, especially when the people in question are from poor families or/and have little or no access to adequate health care)

Jerry sat in the darkness behind the lit-up stage and surveyed the audience. It was mostly made up of young boys and girls. Just the right age, he thought, letting his thoughts drift. The coordinator of the programme was standing in the stage’s limelight, microphone in hand, trying to get the evening’s show afoot; the audience suddenly laughed, and Jerry guessed the man had made a joke.
He looked away.
He had once known a young boy like these ones here, looking at the coordinator with such happy and expectant faces. A young boy full of life and promise, newly discovering the joy and beauty of maturity. But the beautiful symphony of the young boy’s life had broken up abruptly, fragmenting into disengaged, jagged pieces…
The audience laughed again.
Jerry shook his head and sighed. There was a paper-flyer on the ground next to his feet – one of those distributed to advertise the evening’s programme – bold, screaming words that said something or the other about HIV/AIDS being real and having no cure. Jerry thought of the first time he’d heard of the deadly disease; that was some sixteen years ago. Thinking of this made him think again of the young boy he’d once known – the boy whose life symphony had broken up.
It was one dreary April afternoon many years ago when the young boy walked into a clinic, looking nervous, and asked to see the doctor. The receptionist – a poker-faced elderly female – took a long look at him and asked what he wanted the doctor for.
“I want to do a blood test,” the boy replied.
Ignoring his initial request, the receptionist directed him to a room where a nurse took down his name, sex, age, and all other whatnots. Obediently, the boy complied, supplying all the requested information. Then the nurse took a sample of his blood and told him to come back after two days – oh, and don’t forget to deposit two hundred naira with the receptionist.
The boy did as told and went away, his nervousness barely dispelled. Two days later, he came back. There, in a harshly lit room with peeling yellow paint and scary pictures of emaciated people – more like skeletons than like living human beings – the young boy received the bomb-shell that shattered his life.
He was HIV positive.

Abruptly, the stage went dark. The coordinator swore softly, and screamed at the technicians to do their jobs. Jerry scratched his head, and slowly slid back into his reverie…
The test result had been printed on an A4 paper. Hands shaking, the young boy read it again and again and again. Finally, he looked up with a strained look on his face. “Nurse, what is this?”
The nurse was visibly uncomfortable. “I’m – I’m sorry…”
“Sorry? I said, what is this?”
The nurse sighed. “I’m afraid you are HIV positive; you tested positive to the AIDS-causing virus. I’m sorry about that.” And she got up somewhat stiffly and left the room.
And that was it. He was HIV positive, and there was nothing she could about it – so, goodbye and have a good death! What about his life? His ambitions? His future? For God’s sake, he was only eighteen!
I’m afraid you are HIV positive…
What was he going to tell his parents? His friends? His relatives? His teachers? What would he say when they find out? And for that matter, how did he manage to contract the virus? Ah, but he already knew the answer to that one. A wrenching sensation seized his entire body as he remembered nights of burning passion. Biting back a painful cry, the young boy bowed his head, and felt his world – his entire world – go down in ashes.
An hour later, the young boy shuffled out of the clinic, ashen-faced. On his way out, he thought he overheard the poker-faced receptionist muttering about “irresponsible” boys – and the boy felt his heart constrict. That remark was a killing blow that marked the last note on his broken symphony.

As abruptly as it’d gone dark, the stage lit-up again; the audience cheered, and the coordinator threw in his two cent’s worth. Sitting in the darkness, Jerry ignored them – just thinking, thinking…
Shattered and devastated, the young boy went home. After three harrowing, horrible days and nights, he made a critical decision: He decided to tell his parents.
The young boy was lucky.
His parents were also devastated by the news. But being educated and enlightened, they eventually got over the shock, and diligently went to the task of helping their traumatized son. With the aid of caring friends, relatives, and a teacher who had a talent for seeing the silver lining behind every dark cloud, the young boy began to find joy in life again.
But it wasn’t easy; it wasn’t easy at all.

Time may not heal, but it mends.
Years passed, things changed, and the young boy became a young man who was now sitting in the darkness behind a lit-up stage. Jerry sighed and shook his head again, trying to push the thoughts away, but they wouldn’t go.
The audience of young boys and girls began to clap; it seemed the coordinator had made a pronouncement, because he was now looking earnestly at Jerry, making hand signs at him to come up the stage, that it was time.
Taking a deep breath, Jerry got up and walked into the stage’s limelight. The clapping intensified a little, and then faded out as the audience readied itself for the evening’s programme.
Such young faces – such young, young faces!
Jerry smiled, tapped the microphone slightly, and spoke into it: “I have a story to tell you.” He paused. “My name is Jerry Uzoma Obiezina, I am thirty-four years old, and I have AIDS.”
The audience went deathly still.
The Evening Programme had begun.

The End.

Hanging Out

“The accused should approach the witness-box!”
Deedee stood up and walked morosely to the witness-box, the orderly keeping step behind him like a shadow. Briskly, the court-clerk walked up to him.
“Are you a Christian, Moslem, or pagan?”
“Christian.” The reply was slurred.
“Then place your right hand this bible and repeat after me.”
Deedee did as instructed, the handcuff links dragging his left hand along. Not that he cared though; nothing mattered to him anymore.
“I do swear that the evidence I shall give in this court shall be the truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Deedee repeated as told, and the clerk walked briskly away again.
“The prosecuting counsel may proceed!” a solemn voice pronounced, and someone along the rows of desks in front of the courtroom stood up. It was a man – a giant of a man – big, fat, ugly – everything about him shrieked, “Don’t mess with me!”
It was the Prosecutor.
“Thank you, my lord,” he growled, and lumbered out of his seat. Then he moved towards the witness box like a bear attacking its prey. He got to it, clamped a meaty palm on the wooden surface, and fixed Deedee with a laser-eyed glare.
“Young man, please tell this honorable court your name.”
A hush fell on the courtroom.
Slowly, Deedee replied, “My name is David Damilola Briggs.”
“Thank you,” said the Prosecutor. Then he flicked his hands into his jacket pocket and brought out a photograph. “Tell me, Mr. David Briggs,” he continued, sliding up the picture to rest right in front of Deedee. “Do you recognize this person?”
The picture was of a fair-skinned male who looked about Deedee’s age – seventeen plus.
Deedee glanced at the picture and quickly looked away, quelling his riotous emotions – emotions he’d kept bottled up for over six weeks.
The Prosecutor passed another copy of the photograph up to the judge, then he fairly turned and screamed at Deedee: “Mr. Briggs, do you recognize that person?”
The defense counsel jumped to his feet. “Objection, my lord!”
“Objection overruled,” said the judge in a voice hewn out Iroko – calm, passive, serene. “Answer the question, Mr. Briggs.”
A muscle twitched in Deedee’s forehead. Slowly, he nodded. Once.
“Please, reply ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” the Prosecutor advised.
Deedee remained silent, his face a mask of stone.
“Mr. David Briggs, what is the name of the person in that picture?”
The muscle twitched again, and Deedee replied, “Taye.”
The Prosecutor took away his picture and turned to face the judge. “The accused recognizes the deceased, Mr. Taye Adeniji.”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the courtroom while the defense counsel fidgeted on his seat. But the murmurs died abruptly when the Prosecutor suddenly rounded on Deedee again, bearing down like the Spanish Armada until his face was mere inches away – nose to nose, eyeball to eyeball.
“Mr. David Briggs, tell this honorable court what happened on the night of 7th August, 2005.”
Deedee began to breathe hard, the muscle in his forehead twitched uncontrollably, and his heart felt like it was bursting. Yet, he said nothing.
The Prosecutor straightened up and sighed. “Mr. Briggs, please tell this court what happened on…”
But Deedee wasn’t hearing him anymore. His mind was somewhere else, reeling back to a night so far away – a rain-soaked night filled with passion, pain and regret. The night Taye was shot.

Oh blessed Hindsight, it wasn’t supposed to end like that – it wasn’t supposed to end like that at all…


* * * *

It was 7.30pm.
The heaven had emptied itself, washing away the heat of the day and leaving the night air cool and refreshed – the muddy streets not withstanding.
“Deedee!” a feminine voice echoed from the sitting room, and Deedee sighed inwardly. Mothers! “Yes, mum,” he replied nonchalantly and tossed a black beret at Taye – who was smiling mischievously at his discomfiture. Mothers could be a drag, Deedee thought, and smiled back.
Taye was his best friend.
The two of them were dressed in black – black trainers, black RocaWear trousers, black Levi’s T-shirts – the beret simply completed the dress code.
“Let’s go,” Deedee said when he was satisfied with his friend’s outfit. They paused long enough at the kitchen for Deedee to collect two long kitchen-knives. “Just in case something happens,” he said, tucking one of the knives into his pocket, and urging his friend to do the same.
His mum waylaid them on their way out.
“Where are you two going, Deedee?” Mrs. Briggs asked from the sitting room, looking up briefly from a huge book opened in front of her.
“Oh, nowhere,” Deedee replied. “Just hanging out.” He knew his mother was just asking out of habit. His father was dead, and his mum was often very busy.
“Alright,” she said, her eyes going back to the book. “But it’s getting dark, so don’t stay out too long.”
“Sure, mum,” Deedee threw over his shoulder, dragging Taye away.
“And be careful!” Mrs. Briggs called after them.
It had begun to drizzle when Taye and Deedee stepped out into the night.
They were going to Taye’s initiation into the Black Axe cult.

They met Bode at a prearranged rendezvous, and the three of them set off for the cult’s meeting place. Bode was about two years older than the two of them. It was he that introduced Deedee to the Black Axe; now he was bringing in Taye.
Deedee glanced at his friend, and the fair-skinned boy smiled bravely. Deedee nodded back and looked away; he was beginning to have second thoughts. In the Black Axe, your rank rose depending on how many years you’ve been a member, how many “assignments” you’d undertaken, and how many people you bring in. The first person on Deedee’s mind when he’d learnt of this was his best friend, Taye.
Deedee had met Taye in primary school. They’d both been the smallest in their class then. An incident with a bully had brought the two of them together, and they’d become inseparable ever since.
Now, he wasn’t so sure. If anything should happen to Taye – anything at all – he’d never forgive himself.
Eventually, they got to the initiation ground; it was the city cemetery. The “new” boys – Taye and two others – were called out and knelt down. Then the cult’s “Chief-O”, a huge fellow who’d fit the post of Macho Man, came out and yelled at them for the better part of twenty minutes. Then, the ceremony really began.
By this time, the drizzle had dwindled to a stop.
The new boys were harried, hustled around, and driven to the edge of exhaustion. A whip was produced, and the eldest members of the gang took turns thrashing the life out of the initiates. But through it all, Taye never balked. Even when he was asked to do fifteen extra push-ups than his fellows did, he just prostrated and pumped it out.
Deedee was proud of his friend.
And so, everything went the way it was supposed to. That is, until a rival gang showed up; then things took an ugly turn.
Deedee would never be exactly sure how it happened. At first, it seemed the leader of the rival gang and the Chief-O were having a little chat; then their voices began to rise. The next thing he knew, a free-for-all fight had broken out. Deedee was shoved to ground. Someone with a chest the size of a wall was about to fall upon him. In a flash, Deedee pulled out the kitchen knife and plunged it into the thigh of the big guy, struggling out before the big body could fall on him.
The initiation ceremony had turned into a mêlée.
Then, faintly, Deedee heard someone scream his name. He whirled around, eyes searching, but all the faces had blurred into one.
“Deedee, look-out! Deedee!!”
Someone crashed in him – it was Taye! – knocking him savagely to the ground. Simultaneously, a gunshot rang out. Deedee blacked out.


It’d begun to drizzle again when Deedee regained consciousness. Taye and Bode were some distance away from him – the former lying prone on the ground, and Bode bent over him, saying over and over, “Taye say something. Taye say something…”
The initiation ground was empty.
His brain sounded an alarm, and Deedee scrambled up, looking closely at his friend. Taye’s clothes were blood-soaked, a big gunshot wound gaped in his chest, and a pool of blood had accumulated around him.
Taye had pushed him down and taken the bullet.
Bode continued to croon: “Taye say something…”
Deedee felt his skin crawling. Slowly, the horror caught up with him, and he sat down heavily. Then, his mind closed up, shutting out the anger, shutting out the pain – especially the pain. Even when the police sirens began to blare – and Bode recovered enough of his wits to run away – and the cops came around and dragged him up and cuffed-up his hands – Deedee just followed like a zombie. His mind had shut out all external stimuli.


* * * *

“Mr. David Briggs, are you hearing me at all?” the Prosecutor bellowed.
“Objection, my lord!”
At that moment, something cracked inside Deedee’s mind. Bowing his head, he began to cry – heart-wrenching sobs of anguish and intense grief. Sorrowfully, Deedee cried his heart out.
At last, the judge coughed perfunctorily and looked at Deedee. “Mr. David Briggs, you are delaying this court’s proceedings. Could you please answer the question?”
Deedee sniffed and tried to answer the Prosecutor’s question, but the tears started welling out again. Bravely, he wiped them away, sniffed and tried again.
“We – we were hanging out…”


The End