Camouflage Shorts, AK47s, a Man...and His Will to Survive

I have always loved camouflage designs and it has nothing to do with looking like a tough army brat as most people make of it. There’s just something artistically endearing about an overlapping cluster of brown, tan and marine-green patterns- especially when you combine them in articulate fashion wear.

         

My mum still tells me this story from when I was a kid; we were all waiting at this train station when one soldier in full military gear came and stood close to us. Six year old me stared at him with rapt admiration for close to five minutes and when he was about to board one of the coaches I grabbed his leg and began to shout:

“Soldier man, I want to be like you!” much to the amusement of people around.

He was surprised too, albeit embarrassed. It took a few minutes for my mum’s forceful hands to pry away my vice-like grip from his camouflage pants. I was still shouting “I want to be like you” when his train left the terminal. I don’t know, maybe that was when my fascination for camouflage “camou” design was formed. I know I have always loved them ever since, and today my wardrobe always contains at least four articles (or five) of camo clothing at anytime.

So you can imagine my disappointment that day, when I heard the Nigerian Army announce in a press statement that civilians should desist from wearing their traditional military gear as common fashion apparel; that their uniform of national servitude and sacrifice had been reduced to trivial fashion statements. Imagine that!

At first I felt disappointment…then anger. I didn’t blame them though, I recall once seeing a guy who wore an all camo face-cap, tee-shirt, pants and boots with chains dangling from his neck. It was a sight for sore eyes, a fashion faux-pas and to make it worse he was sagging his trousers. It was probably juvenile types like these that prompted the Army’s statement, notwithstanding, what about those of us who genuinely appreciated the beauty of its design?

Besides, the camou design was not exclusive to the Nigerian Army, think about the many countries that used it too. The pattern is generic and patent rights aren’t restricted to any military personnel alone. In that case, I could wear that of the British or American army instead. It was with this wayo mindset that I stepped out in a cargo-styled camouflage shorts, a black tight-fitting tee and green Converse sneakers that fateful afternoon.

I had just been with some friends at Ikoyi. We had a couple of drinks and shared a few reels of kukuye (If you don’t know what that is, sorry can’t help you). I left just before 5pm and decided to take a short-cut not far from Dodan barracks- my mistake. Before I realized what was happening, it was too late and I was being asked to pull over to the side by the meanest-looking set of soldiers I had ever seen. I glanced down at my camouflage shorts and said to myself “It’s all over”.

“Yes, identify yourself!” barked one soldier with a skin-cut. 

His eyes looked like they had never known laughter. Imagine Reuben Abati with smaller [dead] eyes and a muscular neck and you get the idea. Another soldier -this one was even beefier- sat on the bonnet of my car and immediately, I heard it dent inwards. Damn!

Dead-eyes and beefy meant business, and were not in any hurry at all. I suddenly remembered the story someone told me the previous week about an unfortunate guy who was caught wearing camouflage trousers by some soldiers. He was stripped to his boxers and made to frog-jump all the way to the bus-park where he hurriedly entered a taxi and fled home. Nah, that wasn’t going to be me, especially as my Hanes boxers were also laced with camouflage elastic bands. So I said the first most stupid thing that came to my mind:

“I am Sergeant Benjamin Edoho. What is the problem?” My voice was deep. I sounded so convincing that I almost believed myself.

“Huh?” This was Beefy suddenly looking confused. I almost laughed at the look on his face but I had to keep it real. I was in character, remember?

“Yes, Sergeant Edoho of 87^th Division. SAS team- squad 2” [Thanks to numerous Biafran war stories I had read…and Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October].

Dead-eyes was still not convinced. “So what are you doing here? 87^th Division is Abuja station”.

“What is this interrogation, officer- are you new on the job? I am on leave here in Lagos. My friend, don’t embarrass the intelligence of that uniform”.

My character development was so stunning, even Samuel L. Jackson couldn’t have been this good, I thought.

If Dead-eyes was moved, he didn’t show it. “Can I see your ID then?” He asked.

“My ID?” I hadn't thought of that. At this point I knew if I didn’t act up I would be in trouble. I had already come this far. So I pretended to “lose it”.

“Corporal I won’t show you any ID!” I shouted, “This is an insult to me! I am a Sergeant for God’s sake…Insubordination!!” I banged my fist on the dashboard.

“Hmm, okay wait here.” And he walked towards the Army truck parked in front.

“Wh..where is he going?” I asked Beefy, quite concerned now.

“He is going to check with our national records on the mobile electronic database. It will only take a few minutes”.

“Mobile electro…you guys have that?” 

He nodded affirmatively.

Great, I thought. The one time the Nigerian army had an impressive technology system; it was going to be used on me. Of course there would be no Sergeant Benjamin Edoho and even if there was, the image there would look nothing like me. I would be arrested for impersonation and tried by a military tribunal. I tried to remember what the punishment for impersonating an officer was; 25 years? Life imprisonment? Maybe firing squad sef…shit. 

I looked around for a possible escape route.

“Sergeant Edoho?” Dead-eyes called as he approached the car clutching his rifle tightly.

“Err…you see…” I began.

“I am very sorry for the embarrassment.” He saluted me. “I had no idea you were in Special Assault Squad. We have to be very careful these days; you know Boko Haram  now impersonates officers and such…”

I was now confused. Even Beefy was busy trying to fix the dented bonnet of my car as they apologized. The whole situation was surreal.

“That’s alright," I replied. “You just clear your truck from the road and I’ll be on my way”. I was in a hurry to leave.

Just as I was making a detour, Beefy stepped in front of the car.

“You are SAS right?”

“Yes, uh we established that, didn’t we?” I answered, hoping he couldn’t notice my shaking hands on the wheel and the sweat that popped across my forehead.

“We just received radio intelligence now that all SAS teams active and on leave should report at Aso Rock ASAP. There is an expedite mission that needs rapid response”.

“Expedite mission, rapid wha...?”

I didn’t get the time to finish because at that moment, several soldiers ran out of the barracks and entered a military truck. Dead-eyes opened my car and pulled me out, I was forced to run along with him and he pushed me into the back of the truck with other soldiers. They were armed to the teeth and ready for battle. Me? I was in tee-shirt and designer Camo shorts with sneakers looking more ready for limbo-dancing at a beach party.

“This is all a big mistake!”

I tried to explain but nobody cared. None so much as looked my way. The truck sped all the way to this spacious air field at Briscoe Helicopters and soon enough, I was in a humpback Apache helicopter with real soldiers en route Aso Rock, Abuja for an “expedite mission”.

As we approached Abuja main City, I could tell it wasn’t a small mission; explosions rocked the Rock. One of the helicopters flying with us was hit, probably by a Surface-To-Air mortar and it began to spiral dangerously in thick fumes towards the ground below but not before some soldiers dived out with their parachutes. I gasped in horror because that was when I knew shit was real.

A soldier handed me a dark-green silk-nylon bag with several cross-belts. He didn’t say a word.

“What’s this?” I inquired as I tried to open it with shaking hands. I yanked at a cord poking from the side.

“No!” He shouted, but it was too late.

The parachute opened inside the helicopter and almost filled half of its rear end, knocking down some soldiers to their feet. One of them deflated it with a knife before it could fill the whole interior- and maybe crash the copter with us inside. By now they were all aware that I was not their average kind of soldier…or any kind of soldier at all.

Fortunately for us (me actually), we didn’t need to use the parachutes as the pilot was able to land without being shot down. But the explosions and exchange of gunfire continued sporadically. Apparently it looked like Aso Rock was under siege and we were the last resort- the SAS- sent to save the national residential icon of our sovereign country.

A soldier thrust an AK47 rifle into my hand, obviously he wasn’t in the same helicopter as mine or he would have known that if I couldn’t tell what a parachute was, then what use was a deadly assault rifle in my hands? I watched closely as he loaded his own gun and tried to do the same, dropping my magazine a couple of times. I soon got it right and watched with caution, the gun was now active. Okay so what next?

At that moment two speeding bullets whizzed past my face and someone dropped beside me with a loud grunt. It was the soldier who had handed me the gun.

God!

I quickly ran to join a team of two soldiers taking cover behind a concrete median. Shots were fired in our direction and they responded in kind with their weapons. I pointed my rifle in the same direction and pulled the trigger. It was on automatic setting; I was immediately thrown backwards into a stall behind, shattering a few window panes and possibly my spine. I had often heard of the AK47’s recoil power, but nobody told me it was this strong. At this rate I would probably kill myself before the enemy did.

By now it was past 8pm and dark, save for some working street lamps and the repeated fire explosion in the sky. Heavy gunfire could still be heard in the distance. From where we were, it wasn’t clear if Aso Rock in its entirety had fallen or who exactly was the enemy attacking it.

 Suddenly from above, a swarm of superior gunfire from approaching aircrafts began to strafe the enemy line and the remaining SAS team cheered loudly in appreciation. Someone shouted: 

“Charge!”

We began to run forward, bolstered by this new support and shooting towards the direction of the enemy lines. I found myself running too, by now I had got the hang of the gun. I shot at some Jalabiya-clad figures running away in the distance -they were armed- and I was glad to see them fall. Although I wasn’t quite sure, something told me that they were our enemies. I chased more of these people into an alley and shot at them, knocking down three more. In my excitement, I got carried away and didn’t realize that I had become separated from my team. I was lost. 

Shit.

I turned and started to re-trace my steps back to the origins when something hit my side. I knew what it was before I fell. Before long, there was a fast spreading wet spot on my tee-shirt, I put my hand to it and watched it turn purple; the orange light from the halogen street lamps made the blood appear so. Surprisingly, the bullet wound didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I lay there on the ground mortally wounded.

Some people approached with their rifles pointed at me, they wore Jalabiyas and had full shaggy beards. I couldn’t understand what they said but I guessed the ‘leader’ shouted at one of them not to shoot me again. I could smell them; they reeked of sweat, old tobacco and hate.

“Who be you?” The ‘leader’ asked, revealing several missing teeth and the few left behind had been blackened by snuff. His accent was guttural, definitely foreign. 

“And wetin be this?” He gestured at my clothing with his gun, obviously wondering what kind of soldier I was - with my ripped Camo shorts and now scuffed Converse sneakers. I smiled weakly. Right then I didn’t care anymore.

He gave me a hard resounding slap.

“Answer me I say!” And he shouted even louder, “Identify yourself!”

***********************

The slap was very painful. The kind that is used to reset anyone to their default setting as it did me. And immediately I was back in my car, in front of Dodan barracks facing Dead-eyes and Beefy once again.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Dead-eyes barked again, “Identify yourself!!”

My eyes cleared quickly from my reverie. K-jay had told me his kukuye had a delayed trip but this effect was nothing like I expected. Everything had been so real. I checked my side and it was fine; no wound or bleeding. I tried to focus on my surrounding and quickly sat up when Dead-eyes raised his hand to slap me again.

“Richard…Henry!” I stammered still confused.

“Richard or Henry which is it?” Dead-eyes inquired.

Beefy laughed, his whole body shaking and denting my bonnet even more.

“It’s Richard...err Henry is my baptism name.”

“Okay Richard, are you a soldier?”

“No, sir”

“Then why are you wearing Army colour?” He gestured at my shorts.

I came clean. “Abeg officer no vex, I no know say na Nigerian Army. I thought it was British Army patterns.”

He looked at me with a resigned expression and proceeded to lecture me on Civilian Use of Camouflage Wear in a Nigerian Environment: the demerits. He told me that that particular color I was wearing may not be their regular Army shade but it was actually Nigerian. In fact it was reserved for some Special Assault Squad. My eyes suddenly lit up. Huh? He also went on about how we young people always want to look tough but couldn’t match up.

“If I carry you inside Dodan barracks here now, give you small training wey we dey do, you no go fit survive.”

“Tell me about it”, I muttered under my breath, recalling my kukuye trip.

“But if na to buy okrika army colour una go rush enter market.” He concluded.

By the way, my camouflage cargo-styled shorts are designer-made -not okrika- and it cost me a cool £30 quid at Topman. All the same, I nodded in agreement just so he would quickly round up his seminar. He soon did.

That evening, I got home and took a long nap to clear my head. I don’t think I’ll be trying K-jay’s kukuye anytime soon. Dead-eyes may have let me off with a warning, but it doesn’t mean I am giving up my camouflage clothing. Nah, I wasn’t that rattled. It just means I’ll have to be more careful where I go in future. 

My bonnet is still dented though, from Beefy’s rock hard nyash. I will try to knock it out later…much much later.

The End.

What Would Craig David Do? WWCDD

If you live in Lagos, then you must know about its infamous traffic. That is a given. Unless you are a hermit. But even stories get around to hermits.

There are a lot of crazy things I see in traffic when I am driving to work in the morning. It’s unlike anywhere in the world. I once saw a man transform into a woman in the car right next to me. Okay maybe I exaggerate a bit, but after watching her doll herself in makeup and drape a wig over her head I was mortified to realize that the person driving that car was actually a woman. And she did all that with one hand on the steering. In traffic!

Mind you, I can barely eat a shawarma with one hand while driving; the car will start veering into the next lane. The other day, this particular dude took the time to wash his car- interior and all- in traffic… Okay, now you know I am just messing with you. But you get my drift; that Lagos’ traffic situation is hellish and you can just about accomplish anything you want to in it. No rush.

But you know what is worse than Lagos traffic? It is being stuck in Lagos traffic with a nagging girlfriend or wife or both in your car. I had this unfortunate experience and I had forgotten about it because it was a long time ago. Until I heard Craig David’s Walking Away on the car radio while I was driving to work yesterday morning.

I had just watched a guy fix his rear lights in traffic- apparently street hawkers not only sell car parts now but have also learned to fix them in record time, on the go. Who says the traffic is such a bad thing; do you know how many people feed off it? After that enlightening scene, I decided to switch radio channels for something soothing. I am a Classic FM person but I switch to Smooth FM when the ads become too much (which is ironic because I am an ad man) and Craig David’s Walking Away began to play on the radio. I smiled in recollection.

Flashback years ago, I was in my late teens. The Y2K scare was no longer a bother, something called “the internet” was getting popular and this cool 19 year old Brit named Craig David had just dropped one of the most popping RnB albums of the year: Born To Do It.

 

Fresh-faced me, I was a stark raving fan. Almost everything I did had a Craig David influence to it; my teddies were thinly trimmed to meet at my chin like Craig David, I spoke in cool dulcet tones like Craig David, and even wore turn-up jeans with white sneakers just like Craig David. If I could, I would have done my hair in that trademark twisted lattice pattern but I couldn’t. Not while I was still on a first name basis with my parish priest. It wasn’t only Galileo who suffered oppression from the church.

One Saturday afternoon my girlfriend (at the time) and I were heading to Ikoyi from Festac. We were going to a party and got stuck in this mad traffic. The air conditioner was broken and the heat was unbearable. The weather was oppressive and to top it up my girlfriend picked that time to have a fight with me. I can’t remember what she was on about but it mostly had something to do with a forgotten anniversary and a gift I didn’t buy. I was gutted.

I didn’t want to argue back, I hadn’t the energy to. So I did something I usually did whenever I was in a jam like this; I asked myself “What would Craig David do?”

As if in answer to my question, one of Craig David’s songs came to mind. Yes, it was Walking Away. The lyrics go on about CD (as I liked to call him then) telling us he was walking away from the troubles in his life. I also recalled the music video where he was in a similar situation as mine and he simply got out of the car and walked away, leaving the girl.

I pondered this option.

A part of me considered doing it. It was bold, it was daring and it was what CD would do. I almost did it too but then I had a reality check.

Well, for starters I was the one driving; I just couldn’t switch off the engine and abandon the car there. Secondly it wasn’t my car- though I would have liked to see my Dad’s face if I told him that I simply left his car in traffic at Apapa and walked away because my girlfriend was nagging me. Heaven knows I wouldn’t have hands to be driving my own car today.

The next thought that came to mind was the cost of a tow truck. So let’s say I left the car in mid-traffic and walked away, what next? If I was lucky a Lagos tow-truck would tow the vehicle to the nearest police station and I would be forced to pay through my teeth afterwards (my Dad wasn’t going to pay for sure- my problem my solution) and I couldn’t afford that. If I wasn’t lucky, I may never see that Mazda again. After all that was Tincan-Apapa, much less-attractive cars have been known to get “lost” along that route.

These thoughts flashed across my mind and I shook my head, nah it wasn’t worth all the trouble. Maybe I wasn’t Craig David enough. But even CD must have his own off days. So I sat in the car and took that nag, traffic, heat and all, all the way to Ikoyi. There was no Walking Away for me.

Whenever I think back to that day, I feel glad that I didn’t take the Craig David way. You see, facing my ‘troubles’ prepared and made me stronger for more girl problems I would face ahead. Sometimes simply walking away isn’t the best option.

As for Craig David, he went on to release just one more dope album before he washed out. Some say he put all his talent into the first album which in music circles isn’t such a good idea. Others say he “gymed” away his voice and couldn’t perform anymore. The last time I saw him he was looking like these prize fighters people place bets on in underground fight clubs. Yeah I know, sad really.

I switched the station back to Classic FM when the song was over, hoping to get a more uplifting sound from the nostalgic reverie I had just come out of. The traffic had eased a bit and I drove fast so I could beat the red light changing in front of me.

Click play to listen

P.S: I’m still a fan of CD. Born To Do It was my coming-of-age sound and nothing can change that. I get goose bumps when I listen to Fill Me In, and Rendezvous is my all time favorite Karaoke choice- when I indulge.

Pounded Yam and Leopards

This is not a story about pounded yam and leopards, or maybe it is; just not quite the way you imagine. But it is definitely a story about a couple- a couple whose marriage is threatened by, not unfaithfulness or lack of love but by the monotony of stereotypes and old-fashioned beliefs.

Cupid is thought to be accurate, pairing hearts deserving of one another. But sometimes- and nobody knows why- probably for his own private amusement, he sets two seemingly contradictory characters together, settles back with whatever passes for popcorn in his world and watches. Just as he did with Romanus and Ezinne.

Romanus 42, an international textile merchant with an ego the size of Owerri’s own Grand Canyon (that deep gully erosion after Egbu, along Mbaise road) is great at what he does. An astute businessman with ties spanning across Singapore, Malaysia and greater China, Romanus controlled majority of market share for imported lace and similar woven fabrics in Eastern Nigeria and some parts of Lagos. With his amicable charm and tenacious attitude, there was no doubt he could sell fire to a dragon as he often boasted to his numerous Chinese dealers.

Evidently, he was rich and successful, but that was business. Unfortunately what Romanus gained in wealth, he lacked in domestic matters. For starters, he was an absentee husband and father. Not to be mistaken, he loved his children and was very affording, but his idea of family was merely providing all that they needed as long as money could afford it. However, raising them was not his responsibility…after all that was why he had a wife, right?

Ezinne, his young wife, a first-class graduate in Physical Ergonomics (not economics) and a former Miss Federal Poly Nekede was now a modern stay-at-home mum. Not by choice though, they had both agreed (well, Romanus mostly) that it would be far more suitable for their children to be brought up by their mum rather than unknown nannies with questionable backgrounds, as he put it. Not one to argue much, Ezinne gave up her promising 9 to 5 job to manage their home.

For many, it may seem that to Ezinne, life was good. And it should have been, they lived in a mansion on Nollywood side of Owerri, complete with a swimming pool, several white Grecian columns and enormous leopard-head sculptures carved into various parts of the impressive edifice. This included the entrance to the house which was shaped like the open jaws of a leopard. For some reason, Romanus was obsessed with leopards; and had even once considered having one as a pet but Ezinne had to put her foot down on that.

In spite of all the extravagance, she wasn’t contented at all…why?

You see, Romanus had many positive attributes about him but the one thing that threw a monkey-wrench into the whole fairy-tale life of Ezinne’s marriage was his archaic, out-dated, old-fashioned, antiquated, obsolete (I have run out of synonyms!) way of thinking. And it was such a shame because he was exposed to several foreign cultures from his many trips yet neither of them opened his mind to more contemporary ways of luxury living.

I have often believed that Romanus strict traditional upbringing by his village-wise father is responsible for most of his ancient values and I may be right but that is a long parallel story that shouldn’t be told with this one.

One such belief Romanus held was that the meat in any household MUST be bought by a man. African men were hunters in the past, and it was their sole responsibility to handle the meat. Today, even though men no longer hunted food per se, it was their duty to buy. 

Because of his frequent trips, Romanus never allowed meat to run out in his home so he put up a large cold room which he frequently stocked up with large hanging chunks of beef, goat-meat and grass-cutters, antelopes and whatnots whenever he was in town. If for some reason they ran out, his family would have to feed on fish until he returned. Ezinne had been warned.

Another quirk about Romanus was that he always expected his “nri ji” (pounded yam) to be actually pounded in the traditional way. He disliked factory processed ones like “Poundo yam” and abhorred using pounding-machines; to him they never tasted like the real thing. This would have been okay with Ezinne only if he didn’t insist that she did it herself.

According to him, he couldn’t bear some stranger’s sweat dripping into the mortar while they pounded it. So it wasn’t unusual to see Ezinne, former Miss Federal Poly Nekede, pounding away in the kitchen with her polished nails and all.

There are a few other peculiarities which I hesitate to include in this story- one of such that includes Romanus’ bedroom habits but let us keep this mainly PG13 for now. So Ezinne’s dilemma was quite understandable and while her peers envied her lifestyle from the outside, few knew what was really happening within. And, whenever she tried to voice her discomfort about any of these issues, Romanus would get into a fit and yell; “Do you want me to give up my omenala (tradition)?” Or 
"That is how women always did it in the past; my mother pounded yam and so should you!” Such statements usually ended the conversation immediately.

And so it was, one fateful night just before Romanus went to sleep, they had just had an argument about Ezinne’s plan to start a yoga class for other stay-at-home mums in the Nollywood estate (remember her first class in Physical Ergonomics?). But Romanus who couldn’t understand why women would want to wear skin-tight pants and stretch all day turned it down; saying if it were in the past, women would be too busy raising hunters and warriors to think of “yogurt” pants.

Ezinne cried herself to sleep.

I know many people do not believe in karma but let me quickly say here that there is always a consequence for anything you do whether good or bad. It just has different names used to describe it. That night, Ezinne’s tears reached Aleruchi, the goddess of divine feminism- if you believe in that sort of thing- and she decided to give Romanus a taste of his own medicine via the phantasm of a turbulent nightmare.

It began as all dreams do, suddenly finding yourself in the middle of something or somewhere with no recollection of how you got there. For Romanus, he was in the thickets of a dense forest very much like his hometown, he didn’t know what to make of it but he knew something was not right.

In the dream, it is dark and hazy; surreal in a Lynch-esque manner. Romanus can hardly see clearly in front of him and while trying to make his way through the bushes his hand brushes something sharp and bristly, like the muzzle of a cat. The feeling is unpleasant and he begins to run blindly towards the nearest source of light.

Before long, he runs into a group of men who ask him if he has seen it. He doesn’t know what it is but he suspects that they are hunting something dangerous, because they all have spears and knives. As one of the men leans forward to explain, a large cat swoops down on him and begins to rip his neck apart. The hunting party yells and thrust their spears at the creature.

Romanus tries to break away from the pandemonium but someone hands him a knife and pushes him inside the mob. By the faint light of the moon he can recognize the unmistakable patterns on the animal’s skin. It is a leopard.

Blackout.

Most dreams come in phases which we often can’t tell where they begin or end. In the next phase of Romanus’ dream, he finds himself inside what looks like small mud hut with a thatched roof. He is with a heavy-set woman in her 40s (who is not Ezinne but is Ezinne). There is something unusually off about her.

The Ezinne woman asks him if dinner is ready. Submissively, Romanus offers her a bowl of what appears to be pounded yam. As she eats, he sits by her feet on the earthy floor and begins to pound more yams. It is never enough because she keeps requesting for more and he tries to keep up by pounding faster. But why is Romanus the one pounding yam?

He looks closely at Ezinne and sees why she really isn’t Ezinne; she has a beard on her chin. A beard similar to the kind he grows. It dawns on him then that the Ezinne woman is actually he. Which makes him wonder, who is he?

Romanus stretches his forearms; they are uncharacteristically feminine and covered in henna dye designs. On his left wrist he observes a familiar birthmark belonging to his wife, puzzled he walks up to a mirror and sees that his lips are also dyed black. He is wearing hessian fabric as a skirt to cover his hips…and breasts. He is a woman! At this point Romanus begins to scream…

He woke up to see his wife Ezinne (the real one now) staring at him. She looked scared. There was a patch of sweat on his pillow. Romanus was relieved to find out it had only been a dream. 

"Sorry, I was having a bad dream", he explained. But she wasn’t worrying about that.

"I think somebody is in our house. I heard noise downstairs", she whispered.

Downstairs he found a flashlight by the stairs, for some reason he decided not to switch on the light bulbs; he went to the sitting room and into the kitchen. They were both empty. A kitchen window had been left open and the wind was blowing the utensils against each other like a wind chime. That was probably what Ezinne had heard.

Romanus often blamed the unwarranted paranoia of women for the stress many men suffered and this was one of them. He shut the window and started to ascend the stairs when he heard a sound. It was faint but repetitive like the idling engine of a car and it appeared to be coming from outside where his garage was.

None of his cars were on; he had gone outside to inspect them. But he saw a light on in the window of the cold room. Why didn’t Cook switch it off? As he approached the door, he discovered that that was where the sound was coming from. When Romanus entered the cold room, nothing in his 42 years on earth prepared him for what he saw.

All the frozen meat he stored was now alive; the hanging chunks of beef, headless suspended antelopes, pigs and even the birds- without their feathers- cried out as they swung from the racks on their iron hooks. A nearby pig with its hollowed-out belly and eyeless sockets clawed at Romanus as it cried for attention; they all appeared to be in pain. Everything was hazy and surreal…again.

By now you may have guessed that Romanus never really woke up from his first dream. In fact, he is in another phase of his nightmare; a dream within a dream…the worst of nightmares.

He is now on the floor crawling and shivering, more from fear than the cold. The horror before him can’t be tamed. Yet Romanus is aware of another presence. One that disturbed his assorted meats; an evil presence he doesn’t want to see but can feel. It lands noiselessly- on all fours- on the cutting table with precise feline agility and leaps at a suspended antelope, taking it down with its powerful jaws. The antelope’s cry is one of anguish and resignation.

Bloodcurdling.

Romanus watches quietly. He is trying not to draw attention to himself. At the moment it is backing him, feeding voraciously on the now silent antelope. The door is only a few feet away, if only he can crawl quietly to it… Unfortunately, the creature stops mid-meal and sniffs the air in typical cat-like fashion before turning quickly in his direction.

He has been seen. It approaches him unhurriedly with the grace of a patient animal; a deadly one that knows its prey can’t elude it, no matter how hard they try. It is huge, almost six feet high at upright length with a face unlike anything on earth. But the markings on its skin are unmistakable.

Oddly, the song that begins to play in his head at that moment is Bushmeat by Sound Sultan. Romanus had always liked the song but right now, not so much.

He is stiff in hypnotic shock as its bristly wet whiskers brush his neck. Then the only light in the room goes off and he is left in a staring match with a glowing pair of callous yellow eyes. A sharp pain surges through his neck as he feels its teeth cut through. The last thing he hears is the gushing sound of his jugular emptying its contents into the creature’s open jaws…

The first thing Romanus did when he woke up was not to pray for his Chi to bind the evil elements and principalities from his life. No, It was call his chief architect, Mr Wei Tin Chang. The Chinese engineer was to come and demolish all traces of ‘leopard’ from his house before the end of the week. From the building entrance to the leopard grotto he had set up by the pool, everything was to be removed.

Ezinne was surprised when a few days later she received a home delivery of a Yam Pounder from Konga. It had been signed by Romanus himself. He had also told Mr. Wei Tin Chang to include a studio in his new design, one where she can teach her “yogurt” classes. An elated Ezinne couldn’t understand her husband’s recent ‘strange’ behaviour but happily welcomed it.

As for Romanus, if anything, he now appreciates his wife more. The last time he attended the Ichies’ meeting in his hometown, the other chiefs noticed that his traditional Ishiagu shirt now had lion head patterns on it (which was the proper way) instead of his trademark leopard heads.

Maazi Romanus still feels somewhat uncomfortable about entering his cold room alone at night. Of course he wouldn’t admit this to anyone. He buys the meat in his house though, that’s the one part of his father’s nketa (legacy) that still remains. Maybe Aleruchi would have to come down herself and battle him on that.

-The End-

Click the audio file below to hear the song Bushmeat by Sound Sultan Ft Tuface

The Eternal Melody

(Originally: The Eternal Malady)

She was beautiful. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw unsullied beauty like hers. Her skin was unblemished smooth, it was the kind you wanted to touch, stroke lingeringly and appreciate, yet not so much lest you tainted it with imperfect fingers. He liked the way her dark hair fell over her left eye, keeping it a mystery to him. Her colourful Ankara skirt stopped shortly after her knees, her legs were tucked beneath her on the park bench where she sat reading a novel.

He had been watching her surreptitiously for close to twenty minutes hoping she hadn’t noticed. Surely he had to invent a reason to meet her or he would regret it by morning. The sun was beginning to set and it wouldn’t be long before she left, people were already leaving the park; a woman was putting her twin sons into a suburban van while their nanny gathered the basket and blankets. He heard her laugh and wondered why, was the book that interesting? He studied his dusty sneakers and fingered his sweaty hairline.

‘Fuck it’ he muttered and stood up towards her…

She had been aware of his presence the moment he jogged into the park. It looked like he had been running; his camouflage shorts and Nike sneakers confirmed it plus his sweaty top. He collapsed on the turf a few feet from her and seemed to catch his breath. He wasn’t overtly handsome but still attractive. He had a tall, fine build and was in great shape, obviously the running worked. Unknown to him, she had caught him watching her a few times and smiled to herself as she turned a page; now the book didn’t interest her anymore.

She often came to Muri Okunola Park when her 1004 apartment was too crowded and she needed the serenity; Temi her sister usually had noisy friends over on weekends. She wasn’t exactly introverted but then she liked her peace and quiet. Her park visits were quite uneventful, until today when ‘six-packs’ strutted in. He was adjusting his Ipod…Ipod? How retro, who uses Ipods these days? She wondered what songs he had in there ‘Return of the Mack? Or Keith Sweat’s ‘Twisted’? She chuckled to herself and stiffened when she noticed he had stood up. Uh oh! He was coming her way…

“Hi, mind if I sit?”

“It’s a free park”, She shrugged and smiled.

He adjusted the volume on his Ipod. Ipod.

She couldn’t help chuckling to herself again, but she kept her eyes on her novel.

“Must be very funny…the book?” He leaned in to read the title on the cover.

“Not exactly, I am just amused”. She adroitly hid the title with her hands.

She looked at him again. He had dark brown eyes; they were curious. He was no longer sweating as the wind blew gently. The faint scent coming her way was a combination of his perfume and perspiration. It was vaguely antiseptic.  

“I know, I think they are amusing too”.

“What?” She asked, unsure.

“The LASTMA officials over there”, He pointed close to the entrance gate. “Every evening at the close of work, they come here to share the day’s income. Expect an argument soon.”

She looked towards the gate and indeed there were four uniformed officials seating on the grass. One was counting a wad of notes while others watched with rapt attention. It was quite the sight.

She smiled, “That’s funny, but it’s not what amused me”.

“No? Okay.”

Awkward silence.

She struggled to read a few more pages, while he switched between songs.

“Can I ask a question though?”

“Sure”

“Why an Ipod? Nobody uses Ipods anymore…”

“So that’s why you were amused” He sighed, shaking his head in realization.

She burst out laughing. Her laughter was healthy, full of mirth and contagious. He liked it. In fact, he liked her already.

“Is it a bad thing?”

“No…it’s just unusual seeing someone use one these days, we now have these cooler things called Iphones.”

“Well, to start with this isn’t just any Ipod; it’s a 4^th generation Nano classic…”

She scoffed softly and rolled her eyes.

“No! Listen, it was the first of its kind and a game changer”.

“So you are a techie?”

“Not just that. I’ve had it for some time. Besides I don’t run with my Iphone. I get calls and it’s distracting.”

“Okay, so it’s just for workouts? Now that’s more like it”.

He shrugged, this one was naughty.

“What do you have against techies?”

“Nothing, why?” She sounded surprised.

“It’s the way you asked the techie bit, I was wondering…”

“Nothing oh I just w---”

At the moment the LASTMA officials began to argue loudly and soon enough there was a scuffle between two of them.

“I told you...Let’s leave here, we won’t hear them over there.”

As they got up he realised she was reading The Book Thief; nice. In his head, he bumped her up a few more points on the babe scale.

When they stood, she observed how much taller he was in comparison. She suddenly felt safe and smiled to herself.

“This is better, besides it has a great view.” He said as they settled down on the east end of the park overlooking the flyover bridge towards Ikoyi.

“Great view of what, the Lagos traffic?”

It was his turn to laugh.

“Are you always this skeptical?”

“No, just being practical”.

“You’ll soon see”, was his reply.

Now they felt more comfortable and were sitting closer to each other than before.

He could see that she had a tiny birthmark on the curve of her chin; perhaps the only ‘blemish’ on her skin, like a full stop used to mark the conclusion of a beautiful creation. On several occasions he was tempted to reach out and trace the spot with his fingers.

“…your name?”

“Sorry, what did you say?” He asked, waking from his reverie of thoughts.

“I said, since we are almost sharing oxygen space, we might as well know each other’s names. I am Oyinkansola”.

He smiled. She had a funny way of putting things.

“Zik”

“Zik as in Azikiwe?”

“No, you’ll never guess.”

“You are right I probably won’t. My knowledge of Igbo names is limited to Emekas and Chibuzos…”

“That’s because they are common. By the way it’s pronounced ‘Air-meka’”.

She had pronounced the E like A in Amen.

“Oh Sorry, Emeka”, She corrected, trying to mimic an Igbo accent.

“Don’t be” He smiled.

“So what does Zik stand for?”

“Don’t laugh, it’s Zikoranaudodimma”

“Say what?!” She shouted and they both burst out laughing.

“Please can you say it again?”

He did and once more they doubled up with laughter. The few people left in the park looked their way for a second.

“I’ll just call you Zik” She said when they had both recovered.

“That explains why you didn’t start with your name abi. So what does it mean?”

“No, not true. He laughed again. “Show the world that peace is good”.

“Hmm, I like it. It’s so thoughtful and nice”.

“Thanks. So what does Oyinsola…mean?”

“Oyinkansola, honey drops into wealth…but you can simply call me Oyinkan”.

“Sounds sexy. Yoruba girls often have sexy names.”

At that moment the LASTMA officials seemed to have come upon an agreement and began to leave the park. One of them massaged a swollen jaw.

“Do you run every day Zik?”

He liked the way his name rolled off her lips.

“Usually when I finish work early and on Saturday mornings.”

His earphones dropped and he picked them up. As he put them into his pockets she asked what type of songs he listened to on his "4^th generation blah blah Ipod"…Her words.

“Ice, Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice”.

“What? That’s even worse than I imagined!” She shook her head.

“Calm down”, He laughed. “Just pulling your legs…here, listen.” And he put one earpiece into her right ear.

“I like this song, sounds familiar.” 

“It’s On top of the world by Imagine Dragons”.

She nodded her head slowly to the song; her eyes were closed as he watched her. The other earpiece was in his left ear.

“I told you the view was great from here.”

“What?” She opened her eyes and looked to the direction of his gaze.

The sun was now halfway dipped in the horizon of the clouds; a fiery semi-ball of golden yellow, spreading its glowing streaks across the Lagos evening sky and highlighting everything in its path like a phoenix rising from its flames. It was a most beautiful sunset.

In that moment he knew it was right; the setting, the music and the sunset in her eyes. She suddenly had certain vulnerability about her as she looked back at him.

“So you are one of those guys?” Her voice was suddenly very low.

“What guys?” He leaned forward as if to hear her better.

“Those deep—“, She closed her eyes.

He kissed her there without waiting to hear more. He knew what she was about to say but it didn’t matter now. Her lips were soft like none he had felt before. She may have been caught unawares, yet she kissed back matching his rhythm. The music kept playing in their ears.

The moment she saw his eyes she knew it was going to happen. Heck if he didn’t kiss her already she would have boxed his ears. He was a deep soul no doubt, she had never done deep before but she liked him and didn’t mind. The kiss was passionate, almost too good to be real and by the time they separated she literally couldn’t feel her legs.

“Just like honey drops…” He murmured.

She giggled softly.

Are you coming to the park tomorrow?” He whispered and attempted to raise the bangs over her left eye but she stopped him.

“I don’t know, maybe. Why?” She whispered back.

“I want to see you again”.

In response, she kissed him again and the only thing on their mind was their entwined lips and the music playing in their ears. Over the course of the next few weeks or so they would meet at the park and watch the sunset…every evening.

                                               

                 ***************************************************************

Temi sat down by the bed reading her sister a book. The beep of the ECG was now a part of her life; it had been for two weeks now. Its lulling sound reassured her that her sister was still ‘alive’. She looked up from the book and regarded the peaceful look on her sister’s face. The Band-Aid which had been changed recently ran across from the back of her head and covering the left eye as well. The doctor had said the cerebral oedema caused by the accident had reduced and all they could do now was hope.

In the same room, a few feet from the first bed was another visitor, she too was visiting her fiancé who was also hooked to a life support machine. She often listened as the other woman in the room read a novel to the unconscious girl on the bed. She read the novel every day; it was titled The Book Thief. Her fiancé had been in the same accident and was also in a coma, like the visitor across all she could do was pray for a miracle. She switched on the 4^th generation limited edition Ipod he had always been proud of and placed the phones in his ears; his favorite song On top of the world by Imagine Dragons was playing. He smiled briefly in his coma but remained unconscious.

On the white-coated wall of the hospital room shared by both patients hung a huge art painting of a verdant park against the backdrop of a beautiful golden sunset. However neither visitor paid it much attention.  Instead, they were more worried about the condition of their loved ones and the strange phenomena that unfolded before them.

Two weeks ago, not long after the surgery an orderly had tried to move the male patient to another room and was halted by the loud warning screech of the ECG machines flat-lining, it seemed to be protesting the separation. It wasn’t until he placed the beds back together that the machines were restored to regular rhythmic beeps indicating life.

The doctors had observed that the machines strangely recorded not only the same readings of pulse rate, heart beat and brain activity for both patients but they moved in unison together as though they belonged to one person. It was unanimously decided by both families that their beds would remain close together if it would keep them alive.

What was really surprising though is that neither patient had known each other before the bus accident which occurred at Muri Okunola Park. The accident claimed the lives of four LASTMA officials, a woman, her twin sons as well as their nanny and a few other passers-by.

Although Zik and Oyinkan had managed to survive, unknown to their families, they remained trapped in the subconscious limbo of an alternate world; a false reality where they meet every evening and fall in love again and again to the eternal melody of beautiful sunsets and delightful sounds.

THE END.