Flaming the trend

Fatou

I had held the privy position of the latest student in the Senior Secondary Two class until the new boy came by. He was annoying all the way; with his perpetually sullen face and perhaps obviously sulking. He walked alone, avoiding everyone as if there were contagious plagues. In all his distraught attitudes, I knew something was not right with him, nevertheless I cared less.

I sat quietly in my corner, fiddling with some innocent paper. I had no idea why I squeezed life out of the innocent paper. It would have been understandable if I was nervous, excited or agitated. I was none of the above, however. I was lax and probably empty minded- a moment that I like to share only by myself.

I should have said a word or two to Fatamata, my closest ally, probably because she was my seatmate but that insecurity my classmates called arrogance overwhelmed me again. So, I decided to keep to my corner, hold my peace and interact with the paper I was fiddling. The noise from the scruffy paper permeated through the crevices of the tranquil class, annoying most in the process. Some of the girls in the class stole dead stares at me, wishing they could smack away the rattling infernal paper in my hands.

The class has been quiet since the long break as most of the boys were still in the field, training hard for the national games. The silence of the class spoke eloquently, the one that has to do with the boys and their annoying ways of emitting unnecessary noise in the class. Most girls in my class would almost altruistically share my sentiments with me as regards the boys and their reckless noises and since they were not in class, tranquillity reigned supreme and sovereign and that made the fiddling of the paper even louder. Soon, I felt the drabness of that said tranquillity as everywhere became boring and dry, the negative evidence of their absence. We were still basking in the euphoria of their absence when all over a sudden an indistinct and vague victory chants moved closer to us until upon a short sudden became distinct. The boys plodded into the class in troupe with a rather strange spectacle swaying loftily above them. I was stunned as much as everyone else. The sight of that annoying new boy in the midst of other boys was not enough spectacles; the real sport was him, carried high above shoulders.

I was lost and so was everyone else in the class. “What happened?” I saw in the eyes of the other girls. We watched them carry him like a king to his seat, where he was set down carefully amidst cheers and giggles.

“What is this all about?” I heard Fatamata ask Essiet, one of the famous boys in class.

“We found a football genius... and to think he is been hiding all this while!” I saw him clap like a woman, remonstrating and postulating.

“Football genius...?” She asked in confusion.

“Poor Fatamata,” I thought. She must have been confused by the word genius.

“That new boy... a genius...? Whatever that means!” I concluded to myself.

I stole glances at him to check if he was carried away by the accolades he was amassing but there it was... His face was straight as ever. He was neither fazed by the encomiums nor was he stirred by his inner pride. He seamlessly flowed with his normal self. Something I wish I had. I watched him courteously with my blind eyes, hoping he would flinch so I can accuse him of arrogance and critically judge him in the court of my heart but he never failed to disappoint me.

The rest of the talk that day by the boys was how good he was at football and how they could win the national games. Chunks of discourse swayed until the bell chimed indiscriminately for closing- much to my relief. Since the clichéd story had become overbearing and boring. Despite my relief at the chiming of bell, I took my time to pack my books and neatly stack them into my expensive pink bag. I hated the bag for its colour. I boiled with fury when Alhaja brought it home and announced it was mine. I wanted to reject it but I feared Alhaja, she was the definition of meanness and strictness. She forced her will on all her children, and that includes me, her last child. I picked up the bag and strapped it to my back, wishing it was made of black colour. Black had the aura of neutrality. It despises the description that cuts across the borderlines of gender. That was the colour, I wanted, not the stereotyped pink. I wondered why they chose that miserable colour for girls.

I marched silently out of the class, following the stream of students exiting their classes. I joined the stream in the lawn that led to the huge school gate. I wanted to see the Self-acclaimed genius and watch his steps, if they were any evidence of haughtiness in them but I was not all fortunate to judge him. He was no where around the lawn.

I did not move much farther to the gates before I remembered my food flask. I thought I had carried it along but it appeared my wanton scrutiny of a boy, who cared less for my existence, had overwhelmed me, so much that I forgot the flask. I quickly hurried back to the class before someone else notices the flask and personalized it. I was lucky enough to see it still lying beside my locker, exactly where I had kept it.

I wanted to hurry back but my eyes fell on the new self acclaimed genius. He was busy shading away on white cardboard paper. I wondered what he was doing. My curiosities urged me to inch closer and catch a better glimpse of what he was on about. However, before I could satisfy my urge, he had already raised his face to ascertain the intruder that was tormenting his brief privacy. Ours eyes met for some numbers of split seconds before I flinched and scurried off in the selfsame manner I came into the class. I did not know what I felt when ours were locked. His eyes were blazing like a scarlet. I once heard Aunty Khadija protesting that the eyes are the windows to the soul and if that assertion was anything to go by, then I would judge as the most passionate I have met and those blazing eyes were testimonies to that fact.

There were so many puzzles to decipher as I walked through the now half empty lawn. “What was he doing there alone...? What was he shading on the white cardboard... so much that he was lost in the temporal world? ” I kept asking myself as I joined Bara’u, my chauffeur. I was sure he had been waiting patiently for me to come out.

“Ina oni, Bara’u !” I greeted.

“Gwud aptanoon... small madam...” he replied, frowning indignantly. Something told me he was angry with me for keeping him waiting. But he never smiled to anybody anyways. He always wore a very long face like the world was crashing down on him. At times i wondered why he loves to delving into English that was well beyond his grasp.

I said no more than that as I entered the car. I was preoccupied by the events that occurred earlier in class. The annoying boy, now regarded as football genius, his unflinching attitude all through the day and his cardboard paper, the shading as well as his blazing eyes however nothing puzzled me more than the question: “What was he doing in class alone, after everyone had gone?” I was overtly curious but something reminded me that curiosity induces interest but by God, I can never be interested in him. He was such a loser.

Flora

Talking to my husband never rescinded. It was like a bargain we struck, which I have refused to renege, even after death. I always felt his presence heavily scented around me. He appeared to be watching over me ceaselessly. People believe I have lost my mind but I can't blame them. They hardly know how much we have laboured on the garden of love. We have planted, watered, nurtured and then watched as the tree budded with multiple choice fruits.

But death is one crazy furious bitch. So envious that it snaps the neck of your most cherished one out of time and space. Painfully, the deceased transcends, only to abandon loved ones to the clutches of pangs and melancholy. I knew, I was of a victim of death’s incivility but the most gnashing horror of them all is losing Fabro, my son, who thought I have lost my mind. He pitied me incredulously and watched me half the time with so much concern.

I wished he could listen to the yearnings of soul, I wished he could scrutinise the templates of my heart and examine the letters inscribed on them but he would rather join the world to label me mentally unfit. I had spoken to my childhood love, once or twice. I had felt the heat that exuded from his anguish, the one that told the tales of ruptured and deflating star, which crashed down, almost immediately it sat at the centre of the earth. The whole world had celebrated a fearless gem but the matters that concerned him most were left unattended to and saved for the last. Life is cruel and I often wondered what the afterlife held for him. For me, his memory was ever present. I talked to him at odd intervals, hoping he would respond, maybe once or twice. I think that is the reason they connived with medical or psychiatric practitioners to label me with underserved names. The conspirators often times conspire to associate me with mental disturbance ailment.

Those who took my husband, also took away my job but my joy, I was certain they cannot lay their filthy gross hands on. I sat up from the sofa, situated in the pent house. The romantic spot, I shared with him time and time over. His presence was always heavily scented there and I felt them tenaciously. The scent that I hoped would banish my grave solitude and offer me respite. But I guess it haunted me more than I thought it would soothe. I must now, be strong for my son or he would slip into the miry clay of depression. I did not believe it took me so long to muster that thought. It has been a year and some fractions since I thought of anyone lived. Some part of me really died with him, I must confess. Little wonder, I chose to care more for the loving dead than the miserable and the cruel living.

I looked round and caught a glimpse of the setting sun from the pinnacle of that pent house. There were enough memories to either soothe or haunt but I decided to choose the former that day because I knew I was the only person that can heal me from the crushing dark oblivion of fate. I smiled as I felt the gentle touch of the misty evening breeze upon my face. For a long time, I have ignored that feeling, for long, I have pretended to be alive while I was dead within but today was not going to be one of those gloomy days. I was determined to help my son and it had to start from that day. I gathered myself and limped to the sitting room, determined to make a choice, the one that would test us both for a long time.

I had no idea why I limbed but something told me a lot had happened when life was choky. I limped unsteadily until I came down to the centre of the sitting room. The house reeked of mixtures of odious and pleasant smells. So much had happened in the past months but I was determined to remain focused and undeterred. I roamed through the corners of the sitting room with my eyes, searching for the only thing that mattered most in those perilous times but I could not find him.

“Where might he be?” I heard myself ask. I searched through the walls until my eyes settled on the gold clock, sitting relaxed on the wall, showing six: twenty. The eye contact with the clock was a swift glance because something else caught my attention at the far end of the sitting room, a touch of class on a canvas. I had known Fabro as a painter but I was unaware he was such a class. I felt the pulse of the beauty in the canvas, drawing me closer. My movements were intricate, calculated and utterly controlled by the painting. I felt that same force dragging my hands towards the canvas as if to feel the beautiful woman in it. I stuck out my index finger, twitched it and let it glide slowly to it, with my eyes shot gloriously.

“Stop, Mom!” A voice so familiar impeded my venture. “It's still wet!” His voice faded systematically. I knew it was him and I was highly obligated to listen and obey him. I turned steadily and beheld the mild horror in his eyes. He had anticipated a messy ruin of his work with me standing there. Such was his distrust for me. But who could blame him? I had wrecked more ruins in the past than this, much I can remember.

“Are you okay, dear?” I asked, trying my best to assuage his horrors.

“I am!” He answered, calmly dropping the numerous white folded papers that were stuck under his armpit. I saw the struggle to keep them balanced underneath his armpit until now. For a long time, I watched him with pity. I knew he must have suffered, emotionally, mentally and psychologically but something assured me he was definitely up to the situation as I watched his white apron, which was soiled by cacophony of conflicting colours. There, I saw strength in my weakness. I also saw a strong lad, who was already taking up responsibility for himself.

“It is beautiful...” I quipped. “Never seen a work so real...” I turned, trying to have a feel of the paint...

“You might want to be careful with that...” he warned again, rather softly, this time.

“It’s beautiful...” I said again.

“What are you doing down here?” He queried with a mock in his face.

“I was bored...” I smiled.

“That would be the first time you did that in a while...” I saw him grin, taunting my miserly poor smile.

“I do that quite a lot... But you are always surprised.”

“With a good reason...” the words flew from his mouth with careless abandon. He regretted it, wishing he could take it back but I was unmoved as I stepped out of the way, allowing him to resume his work. I stared into the empty space ahead of me, although he thought I was studying the chandelier. For him, I was still a pale shadow of sanity. But something was definitely changing. The mundane beauty had started making sense to me.

Cheik

His feet was steadily dusty- the impact of scathing trekking across the dusty paths of Aruko, something that has passed for a road to them for so many years, a clear evidence of negligence by the various government that had come and gone. He remembered the various promises of the incumbent ruling party under the scorching sun, on that cursed day of their infernal political campaign. He had went there to witness the glamour and spectacle of a massive gathering led by the local council chairman, who had come along with the current governor to mastermind various lies, the ones, so thick, knives can cut through. He had not paid any attention to what they had said because he was innocently uninterested in whatever they had to say. Perhaps the crowd shouted so much with vigour that politicians failed to say anything meaningful. As always their shouting were met by paid ecstatic voices, yelling out their brains. Those were people Mallam Bashid called sycophants in that spit of land, he called a kiosk. Over the years, that kiosk had become the centre of political thoughts and arguments. He was the most learned man across their clans. Many believed he attended the big school, what they thought was higher institution and upon his return he has been against the various injustices of political criminals. Hunger, starvation, disease and lack of social facilities had been his point of call in every argument he led.

For Cheik hunger was the major problem. Getting food was a massive problem, even when his father was alive, how much more after his death.

Cheik was not the only child in that predicament. The men of Arauko had children in numerous strands, as if they were ordained to water any hole that was close to them. Some of the men were jobless, they had no sustainable income, no source of livelihood and yet horrible sense of the future. However, they were Champions in producing bastards: the ones that have grown with the local name Almajiri or street boys, to be more kind with words. Most men in Arauko had as much as three to four wives and terrific numbers of concubines and divorced wives. Moreover their children crawled as much as twenty to thirty.

It was no surprise, these children catered for themselves after their birth. All the men ever cared for was to do the bidding of Allah, multiplying the earth and the circle continues when these children grow up to men. The thought of his unmanaged life flickered as hunger knocked furiously on the walls of his stomach again. He felt like fainting or closing his eyes in temporary death, wishing the feelings would pass and afford him some respite. He would have gone to Alhaji Salisu’s house for the open daily charity but it was clear he had shut his gates, since the wanton attacks on Aruko began. His attention had been diverted to the countless people in the IDP camps. A place, Cheik would have loved to visit in order to abate his hunger. However, he hated the smell of the camp, which always reeked of odoriferous staccato. It was a dire discouraging factor for him. Yet the distance tormented him even the more. The camp was quite far, it was like a two days journey on foot, with all the queer and creepy creatures crawling up and down the route. Using the animal truck would have sufficed but he had no money to afford it, how much more the exorbitant fees the few commercial transport workers slapped on them.

He knew he had to do something fast about the excruciating hunger or his world will perish.

Cheik chose to continue the trekking- for two main reasons: one to alleviate his hunger, a superstitious belief that he had held for so long and secondly, he might be lucky with another charitable Alhaji. He hoped there were more benevolent ones other than Alhaji Salisu. That thought energised him and so set him out on an aimless but hopeful journey.

He had trekked to a considerable distance, somewhere outskirt of the clan when he heard indistinct rattling in the air. He was not sure about the noise because it was rapid, quick and short. He was turn in between the choices. His instinct was to run as fast as his leg can carry but his stomach spurred him on, encouraging him that they may be light at the end of the tunnel. He stood there for some minutes, transfixed, confused and rooted to a spot. He wanted evidences before he could run. Moreover he wanted to know the directions the attack would come from, if there was any as well as know where he would run to. He did not want to run a scattered race that might lead him into the harm’s way. He waited for a while and it appeared the whole scene was a miscalculated mirage, which was bent on denying him food. He assured himself all was well: there were no shuffling feet and scattered screams of people, just a short, quick rattling of the air after all.

He threw two steps forward and there was nothing, everywhere remained calm and fixed in its proper place. He took four more calculated steps and there was nothing. Then, he felt his infernal mind might have been playing tricks on him, a gambit to starve him to death. The quietness of the whole place made him hasten his steps under that scorching sun. He trekked with more determination, with the hope that he would return to Aruko before sunset.

But then, the rattling swayed again. This time it was not quick and short; it was rapid, steadfast and distinct. There were chunks of grenade drops here and there, assenting to indiscriminate booms and shaking of the ground. Cheik turned intuitively like a livewire. He had no second thoughts as he dashed into the bush and ran as fast as his young weak legs could carry him. He had no idea where he was running to. All he wanted was to run away from the impeding horror about to confront his weak, hungered frame. He ran for quite a distance, panting and lapping like a dog, wishing he did not obey the overzealous and selfish stomach of his.

He kept running, making no stops as he brushed past malevolent thorns and shot-out harsh barks of trees that stood in his way. Soon, the race began a little bit easier as he had to confront dwarfed shrubs and massive desert sands unlike the thorns and thick tree barks that impeded his initial race. Away from the rattling sounds and horrors of death clutches, he reduced his speed and began to walk weakly, with gnawing pangs in his stomach and bruised shoulders, face and rib cages. The blood trickled, sapping his energy and drawing him into untold weakness. He felt like passing out but he knew it was not time for that. So he kept him walk-running, waving through the seas of the shrubs and making stops where he felt strained. He kept walking faintly until he saw something that shimmered ahead of him in the sunlight. It was a major road. Where it led to, he had no idea. He stood transfixed, feeling numb and a desire to lie and sleep away his problems. The road was no longer attractive because it carved in lots of uncertainties and unknown future. He stood, observing with maximum frustration, when he felt a cold tingling sensation around his left leg. He looked down and the possibility was ever evident- a pale looking brown mamba, swerving through his legs with a malicious intent. He wondered why it has not struck its deadly venom into him but some strength welled up again in him and prevailed upon him to kick it as far as it can land.

He saw it wriggle, writhing on an imaginary pain. In a minute that writhing turned to a full blown stretching. It did not take it long before it stretched out. Cheik did not feel sorry for the creature. He had acted in desperation, desperation to save his skin from an enemy he knew well that he could handle but he was struck by the fact that the lowly shrub was not an ideal safe haven for his young shoulders anymore. More creatures could crawl up and harass him to death and he knew the implications. He needed to go back home. His mother might be worried, if her sense returned momentarily as it did occasionally. He waded through the open field that was masked by shrubs and uncertain reptiles before heading towards the open shimmering road. It was ominous and marked by despicable uncertainties but he cared less. He was once again determined to move away from that scene. He walked through the road, with everywhere deserted. It seemed they had been a raid there, yet he was not deterred as he oscillated between fecundity and sterility of the uncertain near future. He picked his spot at the corner of the road, with his body steadfastly glued to the bush because he was sure its solace was imminent. He walked a considerable distance, with hunger taking its heavy toll on him. His body oozed with drops of blood but his expectation outweighed his pains. He kept walking, slowly taking his time and hoping his instinct was right about the direction it has taken. The sun over head was turning red and he knew it would not be long before the sun hides his coy face from the earth.

He felt pity for himself and wondered why he bothered about the futile venture in the first place. He had worked half the day hoping and searching for food but there he was, empty and bodily hurt. He felt a cringe, which momentarily turned to tightness around his stomach. He knew it was not hunger, yet he was certain it was anger, the type that is self- inflicted and almost inflammatorily suicidal. He chided himself, tickling his stubborn head with stern rebuke. Had he stayed back home, hunger would definitely not have killed him because he doubted if hunger had killed anyone at anytime at that point. He knew it came slowly and wrecked its havoc in the same manner but not the instant hit. At that point, his face synchronized with his thoughts and he could not help but to give in to a hardened frown. Things were tough for children of his age at that time. Help was elusive. They moved without directions as their lives and destinies were most often tied to the life others, especially those that wielded political powers. They lied to them. They made them believe the other tribe was the enemy. They used religion to set us apart for their own selfish purposes. The elders had fought and spilled mostly innocent blood for them because they made them believe they were fighting for a just course but all was a charade, a conscious attempt to cling unto power with their weakened paws.

Bitterness began well up on his inside. The hunger, the bruises and the weakness had been the inhumanity of man to humanity and had nothing to do with him. At least, so he thought. He was moving with this pent up anger that he did not realize he was standing face to face to what he thought was a military tank. He looked up and saw a looming nemesis standing before him. The first choice was to run but he had no time to deliberate with his instinct, although the momentum to dash into the bush was not farfetched as he geared to scuttle off. But right there, his legs grew numb and heavy. Cold, rapid sweat sprouted through the pores in his dry skin and his hot blood ran with cold fear. A voice so terrifying had had so much effect on him that he wished the ground opened up so he could slip away from the gruesome fate dancing menacingly before his face.

“Stof dere... or I shoot!” the voice thundered, sending shrill cold to his spine as he heard an accompanying cocking and crackling of the gun. Right there, he froze. He didn’t know why because he would have dashed into the bush, damning all the consequences.

“Kwum here!” The voice pierced his hollow skin and seared holes into his heart once again. He turned like a robot and began to move animatedly towards his anonymous oppressor. He hoped he was neither military nor the BSH, the demons that all demons feared. He wished he was just a gentleman, minding his business and was humane enough to feed him and take him home. His journey to him seemed like ages as he took stock of his life and the impending death hanging on his half-lived life. The scene became clearer as he moved and the visions were made plain. He was obviously part of the canonized demons wrecking havoc in all facets of the nation.

Aside the military tank, he noticed they were other vans and trucks littered vaguely around the sandy slopes. There were other militias marauding with so much gusto in the face of the setting sun. It was an amazing sight but the most intriguing was their age range. They were practically not older than his immediate elder brother. A lot others looked quite his age. They must have been in the same age bracket with him but the way they handled their equipments with much impetus made their appearance so stern, it could send objects prematurely out of the rectum. He got there in a record snail- time and without words or gestures, he was hassled into the back of the rickety truck, where he saw a number of other kids like him, basking in the solemnity of the dilemma. It was obvious they were new catches and fear was written all over their melancholic faces but strange enough, none bled like Cheik.

Cheik was forced to look outside the van as twilight had taken over, producing faint lights that fell on their captors. For the second time, he noticed there were scantily dressed despite the presence of their huge amours. He cast his eyes back on his fellow captives and noticed that they cursed underneath their snivelling breath and that was when he concluded that the worse was about to happen in full scale.