The Doll that just won't Go

She lay in her bed, scared.

She knew it would come again tonight; every morning her mum 

would put it inside a carton down in the basement but somehow 

it always found its way back to her room by midnight. 

How it did that she never knew.

It was a two feet tall dark-haired plastic doll with large unblinking black eyes, dressed in a red frock and plastic white shoes. She had received it from old Aunt Verna two years ago on her sixth birthday.

Everybody thought it was the quaint cutest thing.

Everybody but her.

For some reason she had never taken a fancy to the dreadful old doll. Maybe it was the way its big black eyes stared at her unblinkingly or maybe it was the way it walked when (it thought) no one was watching, like it had a life of its own. She was never sure of which.

But she had a new doll now; one with pretty fluffy hair and beautiful blinking brown eyes. One that she loved, that didn’t creep her out. But it didn’t get the message that she had moved on to a new doll…no, it just wouldn’t let go.

She heard its tiny footsteps, pit, pat, pit, pat…in those little 

plastic shoes coming up the stairs to her bedroom. 

Mother was asleep and couldn’t hear it.

Only her could.

Her bedroom door opened ever so gently with a soft creaking sound. 

Though it was dark, she could make out the shadow of its horrifying 

heady figure, trying to squeeze itself through the ajar space. 

And in spite of the narrow gap, it succeeded.

She shut her eyes tightly and wished she could sleep immediately instead she felt its smooth cold form getting into bed beside her and tucking itself in; its large unblinking stare, almost boring a hole into her forehead.

Too scared to open her eyes, she soon fell asleep.

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

In the morning, as usual her mother came to wake her up for school and was surprised to find Aunt Verna’s old doll in the bed. Even more surprising was that the prettier new doll was on the floor… as if knocked over.

This happened every morning and she could only wonder how it got there. 

She turned the back of the older doll, opened it and sighed; 

it still had its alkaline-cell batteries.

They were Duracell, sorry…DURACELL PLUS®.

She left them inside and took the doll downstairs, back to the basement.

 

It smiled.

Some things were never meant to die…

                                               Photo cred: Bastet2329

The Return of Kiliwee Powers

As children, we all had something we loved doing so much and for me it was watching wrestling. No matter how many times my Reverend Sister Aunt (who came around occasionally) tried to stop us, I always found a way. My favourite WWF character was 1-2-3 Kid; his ‘fine-boy’ features and ring acrobatics won me over and it wasn’t long before I was playing dress-up and diving off table-tops. Needless to say, my sister’s large stuffed teddy bear suffered the brunt of my newly acquired wrestling skills.

That was until I found out that wrestling was all ACTING! How horrible that felt, it was probably the equivalent of an American kid finding out that there is no Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy. I still remember that day, my Uncle Benjy was taking me home from the hospital, (I had broken my arm during one of my acrobatic exploits). Even with my arm in a cast, I kept arguing with him and refusing to believe it till he showed me a wrestling documentary.

I don’t know where he got the tape, but it was an expose on behind-the-scenes of wrestling and I saw my beloved 1-2-3 Kid reading his scripts and rehearsing with arch enemy Nikolai Volkoff. They were even laughing together! How could he? Nikolai fought for the dark-side! I was crushed beyond anything; I couldn’t eat or sleep. I nursed my heartache for weeks and Uncle Benjy decided to introduce me to something more interesting than wrestling: girls…

That was several years ago anyway, I would later find out that girls brought even more heartache than 1-2-3 Kid. But I haven’t even begun my real story yet…

So last week while I was at the villa I saw a poster on a tree: ‘The Return of Kiliwee Powers’. The name sounded familiar and when I saw the photo of a man posing in traditional wresting attire, I remembered the story of a local wrestler my mum used to tell me about.

Cleytus Nwaozuzu alias ‘Kiliwee Powers’ started his teens as a cement-blocks carrier at Onne wharf, carrying 400 to 500 bags of cement each day. Soon, the effect of such rigour began to tell on him because at just 17, he towered over everyone and was as built as the hefty blocks he carried for a living.

One day, two men tried to cheat him off the day’s earnings by lying that they would give him their share if he stood in for them but when they refused to pay him afterwards, he lifted each by their necks and threatened to snap it until they gave in. That single act earned him popularity among other wharf labourers and they began to call him ‘mgbaji olu’ (neck breaker). It wasn’t a big surprise when some men in oversized suits approached him with an offer to make him rich if he joined their wrestling club. He accepted.

During those years, Kiliwee Powers, as he was later called (mgbaji olu was probably too native for his now growing brand) fought briefly in local wrestling matches, no different from underground fight clubs of today until he put a man in coma during one particular event. He later withdrew from active fighting claiming that his church Rev. Father advised him to. He continued his tours, performing acts of superhuman strength like pulling buses with his teeth and crushing cement block with his head, for a fee at local gatherings in Owerri which was probably where my mum watched him.

Kiliwee thrills an audience in Owerri in the1960's

When I showed her the poster she laughed and told me that Kiliwee would be in his seventies by now (maybe even dead) and this was some tyro trying to cash in on the fame of the local folk hero. Nevertheless, I made up my mind to go to the event. Maybe something in me still yearned for the 1-2-3 Kid type admiration, or I was probably just curious.

The show was a disaster.

To start with, the village town hall was scanty. Maybe not many people remembered Kiliwee, or they just couldn’t be bothered. I watched with disappointment as a grown-ass man in white briefs and raffia fronds around his elbows and ankles tried to put on a botched display of strength. First of all he couldn’t even lift his assistant that smoothly, his arms trembled slightly (common sense would have told him to hire a slim one or had she simply added weight overnight?) The kids he called to swing on his arms kept falling off… hadn’t he rehearsed at all?

When I felt I could watch no more, he drew a circle in chalk on the floor around him and called for volunteers to attempt pulling him out of the circle for a small cash reward. This was the real Kiliwee’s trademark performance. It was believed that till he retired nobody ever succeeded in pulling him out, in fact legend has it that at one show twenty hefty boys pulling each other from behind couldn’t pull him out of the circle.

I thought it would be interesting so I stayed a bit. Two not-so-huge boys came on stage, grabbed him by each arm and began to tug. At first he held firm, but when they pulled harder I saw his foot slide, it inched near the chalk line and people stood up to watch, this was getting more attention than previous displays.

Without much effort these boys pulled the now fake Kiliwee out of the circle and everybody cheered! But it didn’t end there; the mischievous boys pulled him off the stage and out of the town hall arena towards the exits. Outside, more boys joined and they kept pushing him until they got to his bus, where they tossed him and his equipment in and forced the driver to drive off. Even his chubby assistant wasn’t spared. The audience gave a big applause; apparently that final display was the most interesting part of his performance.

I later asked village elders about the real Kiliwee and they had different versions of what might have become of him. Some said that he got so powerful that at a festival, a jealous spirit in disguise of a masquerade challenged him to a fight. He won the fight but broke his heel bone and never fully recovered. Others said he got married and retired to Calabar as a simple family man.

Well, whatever the story, Claytus Nwaozuzu AKA ‘Kiliwee Powers’ seemed like the real deal and would surely have made a true wrestling icon…not 1-2-3 Kid.

Remember Uncle Benjy? READ HERE

 UPDATE:  After further research, scientists and Kiliwee scholars (yes there’s such a thing) have concluded that the palm oil he doused his body with to emphasize his muscles was the reason he never got pulled out of the circle. With oily arms so slippery plus such strength, it was actually a struggle between he and the first boy alone…the nineteen others behind never stood a chance. Did he know this? I guess we will never truly know.

Nneli's Confession

As a rationalist Ebuka had always believed that two and two made four, that life was simple and there was nothing really that could make it more complicated than that. Life had its rules and it followed them logically; well, that was until he met Nneli and found out that there was nothing simple or logical about life.

The first time he saw Nneli, she was washing her clothes by the village stream mmiri ndu which literally translates to ‘water of life’. In the past, barren women were said to have had their bath in a fertility ritual there at midnight on the first Sunday of April every year if they wanted to conceive. But that was long before the Irish missionaries brought Christianity to Umuoma and expelled such fetish practices.

That afternoon, the sight of Nneli scrubbing innocently at the stream bank, her anthill complexion glowing in the twilight sun, and her straight long legs modestly tucked to the side was a beautiful vision that stole Ebuka's attention beyond anything else he had ever seen. At that moment he knew she would be his bride.

Being a city boy with a buddng future he wooed her in only the way he could, with the promise of love and loyalty, in spite of several wealthier but older suitors who fell heavily at her feet. Unlike other rural maidens Nneli wasn’t materialistic; it was hard to imagine that a beautiful girl who could have asked for anything she wanted was merely contented with his fidelity. However, Nneli had just one request, to be allowed to stay in Umuoma where her family was.

This request baffled Ebuka very much, he couldn’t understand why his new bride wouldn’t want to join him in the city where his work and friends were, where the big dreams and opportunities lay; it was just the right thing to do. Traditionally it was the usual thing for the wife to do.

But Nneli insisted, it was the only condition if they were to be married. And without further ado, he eventually agreed. He would visit her every fortnight when he could.

The first two years were blissful; life was good, Ebuka made progress at work and rose quickly to management roles at his firm, a feat unheard of at the company for somebody so young. Somehow everything in his path seemed to give way to his good fortune. Soon enough he became quite rich. He had often heard of blessings that came with marriage but this to him was simply arcane.

Nneli remained in the village and his visits were as agreed, every fortnight weekend. They were however, yet to have a child. Before long, the excitement and distractions of being rich caught up with Ebuka and his regular fortnight weekend visits to Nneli became less fevered. There were months when she wouldn’t even see him and whenever she called, his excuses were always the same; work.

One evening while working late at the office, he noticed one of the new associates, Laide was working late too. Pretty and ambitious, she had her reasons for being at the office that late. Before he could think twice about his vow of fidelity to Nneli, Laide’s soft seductive charm clouded his consciousness and will-power. He gave in; after all it had been long…

He shouldn't have.

When Laide didn’t show up at work the next day everybody thought it was the usual flu or something, however news soon reached the office that Laide had never made it home the previous night, in fact she was brutally murdered in front of her house. Her assailants remain a mystery to this day.

Things didn’t fare well for Ebuka either, the office security revealed that he was the last person who left the office with Laide the night she died and autopsy tests confirmed he had had sex with her too. In order to avoid the scandal of the investigation, the company fired him. After exhausting his savings on numerous litigation fees he lost everything and had to lie low in the village for a while.

Nneli didn’t ask for much explanation, he was even surprised at how understanding she was. He had after all failed to keep his promise. Instead she maintained her wifely duties and went on about her work without so much as bringing up the topic again.

One dry harmattan morning, when Nneli had gone to Afo’oru market Ebuka decided to change the sheets and noticed that there was a single muddy footprint on her side of the bed; at the time he didn’t think much of it until he saw it again few nights later. Perplexed, he meant to ask her about the muddy foot prints that kept appearing on the bed-sheets but he forgot.

One night he woke up to notice that Nneli’s side of the bed was empty, assuming that she had got up to use the toilet he went back to sleep. Another night he woke up suddenly again, or maybe something had woken him…it was the sound of Nneli leaving the room. As he watched her, he observed the odd manner in which she walked, it was the way someone would walk if they were in a trance and he decided to follow her, wondering why he had never noticed her sleepwalking before.

Nneli was barefoot; now Ebuka’s mystery was solved but was that all?

As he walked behind her he became worried, if she was asleep should he wake her? He had often heard that people who sleepwalked were not to be woken suddenly or it would affect their mind orientation severely. With that in mind he resolved not to wake her up but to guide her carefully back to bed, but that was going to be hard as Nneli was already several steps ahead of him. She didn’t walk like she was sleepwalking anymore, she moved like someone with a purpose…a destination.

Curiosity got the better of Ebuka and there in the dead of that moonlit night he decided to follow his wife’s trail which now led outside into the forest. With her extremely long hair draped over her white sleeping gown, Ebuka shivered at how ghostly Nneli figure had suddenly become now that they were in the darkness of the village forests. He didn’t bring a torch, he hadn’t expected them to walk this far. He was also finding it hard to keep up, she seemed to hover rather than walk.

She walked past the empty village square, the town halls, farms and further into the bushes where there were no more houses or living quarters. He recognised the route she was taking and suddenly realised her destination; Nneli was going to the village stream…mmiri ndu.

When they finally arrived there she slowly disrobed from her sleeping gown and began to walk naked into the water. The moon light bounced off the waters, shimmered over her smooth skin and accentuated the softness of her delicate curves. Her moonlit nudity was a glorious apparition of womanhood. All this time she had never looked back once.

Ebuka hid himself behind a tree and watched his wife, hoping that only he could hear the sound of his pounding heart. Midway into the stream when the water had risen to the level of her hips she paused and began to sing. She sang a sweet soulful tune; Ebuka had always known Nneli had a beautiful voice but this was different, the voice he heard that night could tame ferocious lions and put rabid wolves to sleep. It was truly mellifluous.

Immediately, three other girls like her emerged from the waters and they all began to dance. In the moonlight Ebuka could see that their wavy long hair did little to cover their mango-shaped breasts. They were just as beautiful as Nneli, in fact they could have been sisters. Somewhere at the back of his mind he wished he was dreaming but he knew he was not. These were water nymphs just like Nneli; he had married a water spirit, an mmuo mmiri.

He watched them dance and splash water at one another, and afterwards they groomed her hair; combing those long tresses he had always played with while they made love. Then it hit him, the realisation of it all; that for more than two years he had shared his bed with a spirit being. Aru! 

The panic came in strong and he tasted it on his tongue, it was bitter. He flinched backwards and accidentally snapped a dry twig, drawing the attention of the nymphs. He quickly withdrew into the forest and began to run…

He ran so fast, he ran so hard. He ran like a pack of wild dogs were after him, he ran like he had never run before. Most of all, he ran from the truth; the truth that he knew running was futile, unfortunately. The knowledge of this increased his fear even more and his head seemed to expand on his shoulders, and by the time he got home he could run no more. He opened the door to find Nneli in the sitting room, waiting for him.

“We need to talk”, she said matter-of-factly.

He couldn’t find his voice, either because of fear or from running so fast, he wasn’t sure so he nodded his agreement. That night Nneli confirmed what he had just seen and more.

Years ago her ‘human’ mother was barren and couldn’t have any children so she went to mmiri ndu one April night and dedicated her loyalty to the water spirit. Nine months later Nneli was born, she had reluctantly left her ‘water family’ to live in the human world but the nne mmiri (Water goddess) had allowed her to come back every three nights to play with her sisters whom she loved so much. She could also marry, and whoever she chose will come to great wealth and fortune, granted that he remained faithful to her otherwise he would suffer a grave misfortune. That was the fidelity vow Ebuka had failed to keep.

“As it is now, you can never succeed anywhere outside this village, you shall stay here with me and farm. Our destinies are tied together; if I die, so do you. Every three nights I shall join my sisters for the night and there is nothing you will do about it.”

“What if I tell someone about this?” Ebuka asked

“If any harm comes to me, be assured that you will suffer the same fate too.” She answered coldly.

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

After that night Ebuka accepted his fate. He couldn’t risk anything happening Nneli; he was trapped. When I went to the village last week he confided in me about his dilemma and made me promise not to get involved. Unfortunately after seeing my formerly successful friend tying wrapper and using chewing stick like a village farmer I couldn’t not do something about it.

Please if you know any way or something Ebuka can do about his situation without losing his own life let me know so that I can help. I just miss my friend.

If you enjoyed this story, you will like this one The Curious Case of Otenkwu Okeke

The Sambisa Raid: How We Brought Back Our Girls

Five Seahawk military helicopters swung in lower over the dense vegetation of Sambisa Forest Reserve, the estimated time of our arrival (E.T.A) would be 00:12 West African Time. The intelligence units had given us the precise coordinates to be 11.53333°N and 13.3333°E North East Nigeria. Our mission was simple: infiltrate base, nullify terrorist resistance and extract living hostages at all costs with as minimal casualties as possible.

                                        

Soon enough the aircraft hatchway opened and we began our 45,000ft jump into the middle of hostile territory; Boko Haram camp. The night was pitch black and the cold wind blew strongly against my face but like my fellow commandos I remained silent and adjusted my breathing to freefall. This mission was every bit as important to us as the hundreds of girls in captivity, stealth was key to its success.

As we approached ground surface, we pulled our rip cords and let the feeling of weightlessness take over as our parachutes opened, gliding us over the dense treetops of the massive savannah vegetation. My parachute got stuck in an elongated branch; no worries, I used my Swiss army knife to cut it out and slid down the broad stem of the tree bark landing perfectly on my boots.

Minutes later our unit converged at the designated spot, few kilometers from the main terrorist camp. Up until now our mission had gone accordingly as planned. I radioed HQ and informed them; so far so good.

The camp was actually a winding open space in the middle of the forest partly fortified by high brick walls and several trees which was surprising because we expected more in terms of fortification. We approached the main rampart of the camp, and deployed a Y-shaped military surround strategy about the walls of the base. While my unit (A team) was tasked with search and rescue of the hostages, B team was mainly to engage and neutralize hostile entities.

By now our night vision goggles had been activated and the first enemy casualty was a heavily bearded man in native jalabiya. I gunned him down with my silenced automatic and he dropped with an inaudible thump at his post. As we proceeded, crouch-running and holding our rifles at eye-level, we neutralized more unsuspecting threats along our path.

Minutes later we identified what could be the holding base for hostages (a very long heavily guarded tent) and approached it with caution. It was almost beginning to look too easy- at least I thought- that was until someone in B team triggered off some kind of alarm system (probably a booby trap). The whole jungle lit up and an electronic siren began to go off intermittently.

Shit had hit the fan!

Immediately, the calm of the forest was disturbed by sporadic gun fire, the all too familiar sound of several AK-47’s vying for attention. Our units replied heavily with more superior gunfire and explosions rocked either side of the camp. We had to shift to plan B; we had expected and prepared for it anyway but I hoped to God that we wouldn’t be needing plan D…

Stealth was no longer an option; but the element of surprise had taken us this far though. Now we were in full enemy combat mode and finding the girls amidst the utter chaos was what mattered. I asked three team mates to cover me from aerial shots while I ran and entered the suspected holding tent. What I saw inside would haunt me the rest of my life.

I have done several tours in Afghanistan, Liberia, Congo, Mali and Guinea. I have seen it all, the horror and bitterness of war death and even been confronted with the dilemma of having to protect myself against a high child-soldier wielding a loaded machine gun (don’t ask me how that ended) but seeing those hopeless emaciated girls in the tent that night drained me. It was a gut buster. 

An almajiri with a knife threw himself at me and lunged the blade in my face.  I grabbed his frail arm and broke it in four places aikido style before tugging him by the beard and breaking his neck. It was that easy.

I neutralized two other guards with my rifle and speared a third with the same knife his brother tried to stab me with. My aim was accurate, it pierced his cornea and partly exited his head pinning him to the tent pole. He died quickly, his face contorted in a horrific expression.

I radioed HQ and informed them of our exact location for back-up, then ordered ten alfa commandos to guard the holding tent because moving the girls right now would be suicidal I reasoned. Outside the tent, B team had managed to subjugate several hostiles and were trying to identify prime terrorist Shekau, (code name Houdini) which was as easy as separating salt from sand; their shaggy beards weren’t helping.

By the time C team commandos showed up, Sambisa games reserve had become a flaming forest. The conflagration lit up the Maiduguri skyline and what was once a calm vegetative haven for terrorists had been turned into a fiery mess of crackling trees strewn with bodies of the terrorists. The hostages, all 276 of them were guided into waiting HH-60G Pave Hawks, about fifteen aircrafts deployed for special rescue missions. Some were in terrible shape and had to be stretchered while five girls sadly were already pregnant.

The time on my GPS watch read 00:54. The whole operation had taken 42 minutes.

When the last of the rescue jets had left, a set of apache copters strafed the forest area with missiles one more time for good measure. Hopefully it’s the last time the place would be used for such an activity. I checked with my unit and confirmed seven injured and one in grave condition. It was not until our aircraft touched military base that I began to feel dizzy. I put my hand to my side; it was a soaked patch of red, I had been hit. When I stepped out of the jet my legs wobbled and I fell.

“Morale! Morale!!”

It was my deputy commander; he rushed forward to catch me.

I didn’t feel the ground when I collapsed, I was already suffering from shock; but I smiled weakly through my dark aviator shades.

What did it matter? We had brought back our girls…

Have you read about Morale before now? Read here if you haven't.

Life and Love in Times of Ebola

Ever since news broke out about the scourge of the deadly contagion, things have not quite been the same again. It didn't help matters that the one recorded case into the country had been contained albeit unsuccessfully treated. The people are now a paranoid lot, one can't be too sure if somehow an afflicted person had managed to slip through the radar undetected. Read about how the lives of four individuals are affected as they try to live and love during this time of growing mistrust, uncertainty and overcatiousness…

Omoregie, 37: Ikoyi, Lagos

He thought about his wife, his two kids and how he had been an absentee husband and father for the past six months. He couldn’t even remember the last time he kissed Efe or helped Omoregie jnr. with his homework. Maybe this was for the best he pondered. Yesterday, Nora his work colleague and mistress had returned from Monrovia, Liberia where the company had commenced plans to open a new branch.

Nora was the consulting manager in charge of expansion and had spent only two days there; the trip was cut short as a result of the Ebola crisis. But two days was enough for Omoregie, in fact it was more than enough to reflect on his marriage, his shortcomings as a father and more importantly…his health. He wanted to remain healthy. While he sat at the office desk, looking at his family portrait, he concocted various ways to break up with Nora.

During Lunch break, she came excitedly into his office for their usual afternoon romp. He looked up from his desk without even standing:

“Hey Nora, we need to talk”, He began…

Chiggy ‘the gee’ Chigenye, 20: Maryland, Lagos

It was another Sunday at Happy Campers Bible Church; the praise and worship session was more fevered than usual and the prayer warriors were all over the place, kicking and yelling their veneration in full force. Chiggy sat at the end of his pew, a good several meters from the next person, observing in detail the spectacle before him.

He was in church for the second time this year; his motivation was not salvation or the fear of eternal damnation but love. Chiggy had come to church because of a girl. Unfortunately for him she seemed absent today but he waited with optimism. Minutes later, the pastor announced from the altar:

“Look at your neighbor, shake their hand and welcome them to church!”

Chiggy watched anxiously as a happy ‘camper’ approached him with a smile and open arms but he would have none of it, instead he maintained his distance and performed the ‘peace’ sign followed by a ‘thumbs up’ and bumped his chest twice with a fist in true ‘gee’ fashion. God would understand he reasoned, after all heaven helps those who help themselves. When will people realise that Ebola is real? He scanned the church perimeter once again wondering when Nnenna would show up.

Iya Risi, 50: Obalende, Lagos Island

She was the envy of other food vendors. Her stall boasted of the tastiest assorted meats this side of Lagos; grass-cutters, alligators, antelope, monkey… you name it, everything and anything was available at Iya Risi’s stall. People came from as far as Festac to enjoy her famous spicy delicacies. But today was different.

Today, Iya Risi’s usually crowded stall was a shadow of its former self. It was empty and for the first time in twenty years, her large matronly hips could pass between two tables without knocking over someone’s head. She was worried.

Across her stall, Iya Badejo, the fish vendor struggled to maintain the crowd at her stand. What has happened? She wondered; has everybody suddenly become vegetarian, abi her kini don expire? But she saw Baba Ifa Karade just few months ago. As she watched the bustle at Iya Badejo’s stall, her worry soon turned to anger and that was when she made up her mind to visit her hometown Ile Ife once again, for the Baba’s wise consult…

Jenny, 29 and Vincent 31: VGC, Lagos

“What do you think you are doing?” She asked recoiling, as he leaned forward to peck her. It was a long day at work and he needed her warmth.

“Honey, I just had a tough day…can I at least kiss you?”

“Not before you have a good shower”, she replied.

“By the way Aunty Ebi stopped by with the Dudu Osun soaps as promised. She said they are even more effective than those cleaning agents at your hospital”.

He hated how she believed every word Aunty Ebi said over his, yet he was one of the smartest surgeons in Lagos. Shrugging, he dumped his clothes in a plastic tarp at the back of the house. Jenny always insisted that they had to be separated from the other family stuff for washing. After showering with the smelly black soap, he came down for dinner and…surprise!

“What is this?" He asked, confused.

“Cous cous…Aunty Ebi says we should avoid meat and similar foods this period. Did you use the hand-sanitiser after your bath?

Arrgh! If he heard that name one more time he would lose it. The food was insipid but he ate it anyway. Later in bed that night he attempted to cuddle his wife but she withdrew.

“Sweety, can we not try for a baby tonight? I don’t want to get pregnant this period; Aunty Ebi said it is riskier…”

At that point he zoned off and left the room. He wondered who was more dangerous to his life right now: The Ebola virus or Aunty Ebi…

THE END

A Nigerian Horror Story

The Pee Partner

Jide! Jide!!

He whispered as he shook his bigger bunk mate awake. The whole dormitory was dark (the generators were off) and everyone was asleep. It was 1:30am and he had a pressing urge to empty his bladder but he was too scared to go alone.

‘What?’ Jide asked, he sounded a bit angry that his sleep had been interrupted at such an ungodly hour.

‘I need to pee, come with me, please.’ Chidi whispered.

Jide grumbled as he roused himself reluctantly from the bed. The request was not unusual, they were both JS 1 students and on previous nights, Chidi had done the same for him. It was an unwritten agreement among most juniors, to have a pee partner at night.

When they got to the darkness of the long corridors, Chidi switched on his torchlight and Jide quickly admonished him.

“What do you think you are doing?’ He asked, still whispering.

“We need light naa” Chidi replied, switching off the torchlight.

“Ehn..so that they will see us?”

Chidi didn’t need to ask who they was, he knew Jide was referring to creatures of the night. The lost spirits of Federal Government College Ijanikin, doomed to haunt the hostels in search of their lost purpose and scaring hapless students while they were at it. They only came out at night; that was when their powers were allowed to work, it was believed.

He wondered why these beings would need light to see them, weren’t they ghosts after all? Their eyes didn’t operate with the same optical laws as humans. But he didn’t bring this logic to Jide’s attention, lest he got angry and left him alone.

They walked all the way to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, managing the scant moonlight that filtered its way through the open quadrangle. One of the boys in room 5 was snoring deeply; it had to be Wogu, the oldest and easily the strongest boy in Usman Dan Fodio dormitory.

When they got to the toilets, both boys peed from the door, directing their urine in a noisy watery projectile, not daring to go inside the darkness for fear of what awaited within. Their piss may have been missing its mark but neither boy cared. It was at times like this that Chidi was glad his hostel chores didn’t include cleaning the toilets. Nevertheless, they finished their business and quickly made it back to their beds with a little over 3 hours left to the waking siren.

  

A Week Later

The boys had just got back from night prep and Sukanmi the room clown had decided to start a belching competition, they were JS I students so their idea of fun wasn’t far-fetched from such frivolility. It of course involved drinking a lot of water and eager throats which was in abundance that night. Soon afterwards the boys were tired and it wasn’t until 11:30pm after lights out that the last of them fell asleep.

Chidi! Chidi!!

It was his friend Jide (more like pee partner) rousing him from sleep.

I am pressed! Jide whispered, his discomfort was evident in his voice.

Okay, Chidi agreed. He too was suddenly pressed to pee. That damn belching competition…

He looked at his watch. It was 1.30am. Again? His bladder might as well have a timer, he reasoned.

The night was windy and moonless as they walked that long corridor to the toilet; Chidi’s torchlight remained off, he was trying to ignore his fear of the dark which kept tempting him to switch it on. As usual both boys directed their projectile pees towards the general area of the toilet.

Suddenly something hooted (probably an owl) and a dark feline creature leapt from the darkness towards them. Jide shrieked and ran -pyjamas unbuttoned- leaving Chidi who was still halfway through. It is always difficult stop your micturition halfway especially when in panic, in fact it is painful (ask any boy).

Somehow Chidi managed to recover and started to run after his friend Jide who by now was at the end of the corridor. Unfortunately for him (Chidi), he stepped into a puddle of water and slipped, slamming his head onto a stone slab that covered the drainage area.

Blackout!

Minutes or so later he came to, his pyjama was soaked and wetness dripped from his head, he hoped for his sake that it wasn’t urine. He was angry at Jide for leaving him like that; they were supposed to be friends or partners…What kind of pee partner was he? He would tell him what he thought of him. Angrily, he picked up his torch, the glass was broken and he wondered if it still worked, damning the consequences he hit the on switch…the light came on. Mistake!

That was when he saw them.

Two pale looking boys in pyjamas walking quietly along the same corridor. They saw him too and cried out. Their screams drowned his as they turned around and began to run. He ran after them too, calling for help and trying to explain but they wouldn’t hear him. They ran faster. He tried to catch up and suddenly noticed his legs had left the floor, he had begun to float.

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

The Next Morning, at the quadrangle in Usman Dan Fodio Hostel, two boys Nosa and Amanam recount their ghost encounter to the other students who gathered in astonishment to listen.

Nosa: He had blood all over his face and pyjamas, they were soaked red. He had a torch too and kept calling out ‘Jide’…

Amanam: And when I turned back he was flying, it is the most horrible thing I have ever seen. I can’t stay, I just called home. I will be a day-student instead.

The House captain, an older boy who was listening affirmed their story and told them that what they had described sounded like Pee-boy Chidi, the urban legend of a JS 1 boy who died in the hostel several years ago.

They say he went out to urinate one night with his friend Jide, somehow he slipped and hit his head on a stone and died. Jide who was with him then said they were running and he thought Chidi was right behind him, only to find his bloody body on the slab the next morning.

Today his ghost is believed to haunt the hostel corridors with a torchlight; sometimes it enters the room, waking a boy up, calling him ‘Jide’ and whispering into his ear:

“I need to pee, come with me…pleeeease.”

Will you be his new pee partner?

THE END

No Country for Dull Men (3)

This is the concluding part of the trilogy recounting my interesting but harrowing NYSC experience at Kogi camp. If you haven’t read the preceding stories or need a refresher, you must catch up here.

I bounced casually towards the main area of the registration hall, the room was strewn with broken desks and long benches. I hated to think it was a classroom. Scores of newcomers (like me) sat around, they had a tired look about themselves and I wondered how long they had been waiting.

“Who’s in charge here?” I asked no one in particular.

I was obviously still high on Sergeant Nwafor’s words. I must have cut an intimidating figure (hopefully) because someone responded.

“The officers are on their brunch break, we are waiting for their return”.

The girl who spoke lay on her dusty camp bag and looked like she had spent a week getting here, maybe on camel via the desert? Her matted dry hair and harried face did her no justice. I nodded and sat down on one of the broken form benches.

During that time I took in the view of the camp, it certainly dulled in comparison to the army boot camp where I had spent the night before. There was an assembly pavilion, a large training field, several dorm buildings and corp members already donning white t-shirts and shorts; their faces a mix of both excitement and uncertainty about what was to come. Not long afterwards, the officers came back and proceeded to register us.

The first week of camp was alright, we spent the time getting to know each other and understanding camp rules. The soldiers were not so forceful then and even the drill exercises were ‘piece of cake’ to me. In fact, I had joined up with a merry group of boys whose highlight of the day was hanging out at the mammy market, drinking and making eyes at babes who passed our table. We were often loud, lawless and quite unpopular among the goody-goody types. But that was in the first week.

In the second week, things began to change. I didn’t mind being called an otondo, or showering in the open fields at night, or taking a dump in the thickets of the bush where scorpions and other poisonous arachnids dwelled. After all I had attended a Federal Government boarding school. However what I did hate was being forcefully woken in the middle of the night, in my boxer shorts for a head count. I also despised being told to lie down in the sand (in our white outfits!) or those pointless, interminable seminars we were made to attend…that was pure torture!

During those seminars, my friends and I would often sneak off to one of the stalls at the mammy market and spend time there gisting and drinking till it was over. The owner of the store, a robust Igbira woman did her best to conceal us from soldiers looking for ‘truant’ otondos. We returned the favour by patronising her stall regularly. It was a quid pro quo deal and both sides were satisfied with the arrangement. As a result, it was not uncommon to find some of us tipsy as early 12pm in the day.

Don’t get me wrong, those trysts were only done to avoid the annoying seminars (on my part), but when it came to the morning jogs and regular drills, I was often first in line for the call. Thanks to Sergeant Nwafor, I had acquired a thirst for adrenaline surge and fitness exercises. By now I had begun to add more stone to my weight and form to my physique which unknown to me hadn’t escaped the eyes of my platoon members, hence my nomination for Mr. NYSC Kabba camp. But that’s a narration for another story…

As fate would have it, one unfortunate afternoon during seminars, my friends and I were at our usual stall laughing and drinking when Morale reared his ugly head through the curtains and entered the beer shop.

And I knew immediately that we were- to put it aptly - FUCKED.

Now Morale was a fearsome soldier. No, fearsome was an understatement, he was terrifying; a bald-headed, 200 stone man of lean muscle with a penchant for dark shades. Nobody had ever seen his eyes, it was rumoured that he had none and what lay beneath those dark shades were deep empty sockets. He had served three tours in Liberia, Sierra Leone and led a team that that thwarted a coup in Equatorial Guinea, and the multitude of tiny stringed beads around his neck represented each enemy soldier he had felled. Even while walking, you never wanted to cross Morale’s path. It was bad luck.

Later, we would discover that unknown to us; Madam Igbira had gone to the market and left the stall to her teenage son who knew nothing about our arrangement, hence didn’t warn us about Morale…whom of all the sixty-something soldiers in camp had to walk into our stall that day.

PAUSE- Take a break- If you've been sitting, maybe now would be the time to stretch.

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

      PART TWO

‘What are you doing here?’ He whispoke; that is when you speak so softly, it almost sounds like a whisper.

It was the first time I had heard Morale speak and his voice was laboured. He sounded like someone who had more important things to do in life than talk.

‘We are drinking sir’. Obviously.

One of us had replied, for lack of what to say. The room was tense and we weren’t in the best frame of mind. Apparently intoxication and fear were a bad combination.

Suddenly with a quick swipe of his arm, the bottles and glasses on our table crashed at our feet in a shattered heap. Contents included.

We stood up hastily and faced the demon that was before us. Morale.

There were five of us and one of him. Two of us were taller than he. And a third was burlier than he.

He immediately spread his legs and stood on the balls of his feet (that wide part after the toes), such that it looked like he was tiptoeing. Arms were wide apart too. Fingers spread. I recognised the stance; it was a typical fighter’s poise for attack. It enabled you spring yourself in leaps and bounds when faced by attackers. If he were a viper, he might as well be barring his fangs. He was truly a combat warrior.

But Morale needn’t have bothered; we were too scared to confront a soldier whose deathly war trophies hung around his neck in hundreds of fine colourful beads. I was sure he could take on the five of us without breaking a sweat. In fact, even if we tried, our eye to hand coordination would have failed us, having had two pints of Gulder Max already.

Five minutes later we were frog-jumping all the way from the mammy market to the main venue of the seminar. The speaker paused to ‘welcome’ us and the whole camp seemed to find the spectacle funny. We were asked not to stop, so we continued, making an example for future truant corp members. By now our legs had begun to ache and muscles starting to cramp.

After a while, when it looked as if we were about to collapse, one ‘smart’ soldier thought it was a wise idea to make us lie in the sand, but not before he splashed water on us.

And that was when I SNAPPED.

I didn’t mind frog-jumping nearly 200 meters, nor the humiliation of doing it in front of over 3000 other corp-members among whom were pretty girls I had chyked previously or intended to. Hell I didn’t even mind doing it for another hour or so. But to make me lie down in sand, after wetting my clothes, whites for that matter? It was not going to happen, Combat soldier or not.

It had taken me a whole lot of time to make those whites shine.

I refused and urged my friends to stand by me. We were all in this together.

 In defiance, I began to sing the ‘Aluta Continua’ song. A popular student’s song rallying against oppression and tyranny of any kind:

“A luta continua, continua, continua…”

I expected my friends, even other corp members to join in the chorus as was the tradition among Nigerian students but no one did. I had forgotten that we were no longer students.

Morale began to walk towards us with a belt in his hand. My friends whom I expected would stand by me quickly fell to the ground. Even the biggest amongst us was face-deep in wet brown soil and if there was any way he could burrow further he would have done it.

This is Nigeria. I was on my own.

“Lie flat”. Morale whispered. I couldn’t see his eyes through those dark shades. All I saw was my reflection. I had come this far.

“No”. I whispered back. For equal effect.

“What did you say?” He asked, shocked. He was obviously used to having his way and this was a first.

He turned around and looked at the other corp members. Everybody was watching. I could sense his thoughts. Pride and respect were at stake here and he didn’t want to lose. It was me or him.

“I will tell you only one more time… Lie down”. The tension in the air was thick as cold pap.

Sergeant Nwafor flashed before my mind:

You have got grit…I saw it in you.

If fear and intoxication were a bad combination, try courage, anger and intoxication. It was a game-changer.

“No!” I whispered. Then I shouted loudly for everybody to hear.

“No! No, I will not lie down!”

Morale grabbed me by my belt and began to whip me. My feet almost left the ground and in order to maintain balance, I grabbed his waist belt and we struggled. He was extremely strong but I was tenacious. I held on. However his whipping got the better of me and when I saw that I was losing the struggle, I did the quickest thing that came to mind.

I knocked off his shades. 

Yes, Morale’s dark shades; his mojo, his identity. I knocked them off.

At that moment, the earth seemed to stand still. The people who had been shouting before now were quiet, even a lizard on a stone nearby paused and raised its head to watch. I had done the one thing nobody had ever done; I had de-mystified Morale.

In a fit of blind fury, he threw away the belt and pounced at me. What followed next can only be described as an annihilation. His fists were a blur of blows and punches mostly to my mid-riff; a rabid dog without restraints. I could hardly get any blows in so I curled up in a foetal position and held on wishing it would end soon. Fortunately, I was rescued. It took four hefty soldiers to wrest an angry Morale away from me. And even when they did, his arms and feet where still flailing wildly in the air.

I was a mess. Thankfully, apart from a few bruises and a black eye my face was in-tact but my sides were sore and I was asked to report to the camp infirmary. It would take days to heal.

Without dwelling too much on an already long story, I will cut some parts. During those days recuperating at the camp infirmary, my personal healer was a beautiful doctor who was also a corp member and I couldn’t have healed as fast as I did without her support, physio-therapeutically and otherwise.

Vicky became my camp girlfriend and managed to get me out of trouble in many ways than one. They say sometimes a beautiful woman can get you into trouble, but then it’s a beautiful one that gets you out of it too.

Following the Morale incident, the last week of camp was not as tough afterwards; my debacle had caused the soldiers to tone things down a bit and even lying in the sand was now prohibited. Needless to say, I became something of a camp hero; a personification of defiance against oppression, and de-mystifier of Morale. 

I could choose to exempt myself from rigorous drills if I wished, not that it mattered anyway as I was now an adrenaline junkie.

As for Morale, no one knew much what became of him except that he was re-deployed to another battle camp in the far north. Some said he was sent there to help curb a growing Islamic threat that called itself Boko Haram. The military commanders felt his aggression would be more useful there. I hoped so.

One evening while sitting with Vicky in the fields and watching some girls play volleyball in the horizon of a dull Kogi sunset, she handed me a wrapped gift. I couldn’t tell its content just by watching her smile so I opened it.

It was a belt, a marine-green belt made of hand-woven fabric. I turned it around and admired the texture of its fabrication.

“I noticed you lost yours in the...incident? I thought you might need a new one”.

“Sure babe, I do. Thanks”.

She leaned onto my shoulder, and as we idly watched the game, she filled my thoughts with the scent of her hair. It was the sweet smell of her perfume, a rich combination of vanilla and sandalwood…

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

Flash-forward six years today.

I folded the belt carefully into the duffel bag and kept it in one of the shelves of my store room – inside a box marked PRIVATE. It was probably an item that would remain there for a long time to come.

P.S. If you liked this story, you would enjoy this one MERI DUVIDHA.