SAINT MICHAEL'S ROAD

I stepped down from the keke, paid the driver and walked into St. Michaels road.  The day was clear and promising.  The orchestra of diverse 'I-pass-my-neighbour' generators hadn't started.

     Phone merchants were still setting up shop and the narrow road was yet to be crowded on both sides by assorted cars.  Adam, the dark, spiky-haired man in dirty rags smiled at me, raised his left hand and waved, just as his other hand continued its tour of his crotch.  It was hard to ascertain if the colour of his skin was his natural complexion, the effect of the sun or just an accumulation of unwashed filth garnered from over the years.  I shook my head, smiled but did not wave.  I had no alms for him.

     My phone rang.  I fished it out.  A text from my boss demanding to know if I had submitted the financial statement to our client.  I hissed.  As I hurried on, I noticed my shoe laces were loose.  I adjusted my backpack and bent down to re-tie them.

     "Hey you, get up from there and keep moving," a voice barked.  I was done already.  I stood up and looked in the direction of the voice.  The first thing I saw was his bloodshot eyes, round like ping pong balls - dancing in their sockets - and then, the deep, long tribal marks on his cheeks.  They looked like the wicked act of an infuriated witchdoctor whose pitiful customer had gone back on their agreement.  While looking at him, I tapped my chest and motioned with my eyes.

     "Yes, you!  Na me, you dey ask that foolish question, idiot?  Bloody civilian.  Your father," he replied as he advanced toward me, slinging his rifle over his left shoulder and brandishing his horsewhip in his right hand.

     I was rooted to the spot.  What was my offence?  Not walking fast enough?  I imagined a thousand and one ways a power-drunk military man could humiliate me.  But God, I prayed silently, I thought I had committed today into your hands.

     No still small reply.

     At that point, as far as I was concerned, God was busy with the earth-shaking prayer of an international gospel minister, while this green uniformed terrorist with a red beret and a license to kill was about to ruin my day.

     I braced myself for the worst ordeal of my life.

     He was fifteen yards away from me.

     Then ten yards.

     Then five.

     I was still rooted.  I could see his name on his uniform: AHMED YUSUF.

     I would never forget that name.  Never.

     Three yards.  He raised his whip. I closed my eyes, bent my knees and lifted my hands to shield my face.

     "Corporal!  Corporal, get back here," a rich bass voice ordered.

     I waited a few seconds, opened my eyes and saw Ahmed's back as he walked toward a hefty man.  From his confident and fierce countenance, I deduced he was Ahmed's commanding officer.  I felt as Isaac must have felt when God prevented his murder.

     Ahmed and the commanding officer conversed in a tongue unknown to me.

     I looked around. Many people were staring. Pitiful stares.  There were four others dressed just like Ahmed.  Their uniforms were so well starched and ironed that they seemed to shine.  They were positioned on different sides of the road.  Their necks turned ceaselessly like wind vanes caught in a heavy wind.  They were not the army, or the navy, or the air force.  They did not have that aura.  But I knew they were not the police either.  There was something about their red beret.

     I looked down the road and saw a white Toyota Hilux parked right in front of the NOKIA Care building.  I walked past it and saw an insignia and a name inscribed on its side: ANTI-TERRORISM SQUAD (ATS), ABA ZONE.

     The driver wore the same uniform as Ahmed.  I turned and saw the commanding officer walking toward the vehicle with a small white Nokia polythene bag.  Two of his men were behind him.

     I understood the situation and was piqued.  I was almost disgraced just because someone with an over-bloated ego wanted to buy a phone.

      I looked at the tallest building around and imagined a sniper with a Ramington-700 double assault rifle well-fitted with a silencer, hiding behind a window in the seventh floor, aiming at commanding officer's slight pot-belly.  The thought made me smile.

     I continued walking to my office as I remembered my early teenage years and what I wished to be, after spending time with so many cartoons: A painter...the kind that paints only in blood.

NIGHT

"You're bleeding, Mike. What's your problem? You could have just given him the damn phone. Let me go get help," I shouted, starting to rise.
He held my arm. "Please don't go. Don't leave me here. I feel so cold inside."
He was sobbing like a baby.
I was adamant. "You're bleeding too much. I can't let you die. Your wound appears deep. Please just let---"
He clenched my sleeves tightly. "Victor, please don't go. Just hold me. I know I'm not gonna last long. I know---"
"Mike, stop! Just stop. You're gonna be okay. Let me just get to the hostel...the clinic. Anywhere." I said, trying to dash off again.
But he still held me. "Just stay," he whispered. "Please."
I settled on the wet ground. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him.
It was drizzling. The guys that had tried to to rob us were long gone. I hadn't seen their faces. The night was moon-less; the deserted walkway, light-less.
With my small torch I checked my watch for the time. The hour hand was at twelve, the minute hand was at two. Where was I gonna get help? I switched off the torchlight.
"Victor," he whispered. His breathing was fading.
"Yes? Mike, I don't know...I can't believe I'm doing this." I was feeling frustrated, confused and a vast range of other emotions I couldn't describe.
"It's so...so dark. I feel lonely. Please...please don't go." He coughed, blood gushed from his mouth and splattered the collar of his shirt. His white shirt was turning red from the stab wound in his belly. The pungent coppery scent of blood was thick in the air. "I hear whispers. Stay. Just stay with me. Don't
walk out on me the way she did. Please. Please."
I sat on the floor, cradled him on my laps like a child, hugged him tightly, letting his blood soak my clothes too. Then, I let the tears flow.
He hugged me too.
"What whispers?" I asked.
He was quiet, then said, "Thank you, Victor. Thanks."
"Shut up, idiot. I can't believe you talked me into going back to the lodge by this time. I can't believe I'm here with you instead of looking for help. But I don't know why been here feels so right. So, just shurrap."
He tried to laugh, but coughed instead and spewed more blood.
I grabbed his phone - I had left mine in the room - and started making frantic calls. Why hadn't I thought of it earlier? None picked. It seemed sleep and death had an agreement .
His breathing grew more erratic. He said something.
"What?" I replied, lowering my ears to his lips.
"It was...it was...good, good knowing you," he stuttered. His voice bore the mark of a man who was at that veil separating life from death. "Just let me go," he continued. His voice now was unnaturally firm. A bit too clear.
His breath ebbed away slowly. I heard a guttural sound from his throat, then his breathing stopped.
"Michael. Michael? Can you hear me?" I shook him. "Michael? Answer me!"
I placed my right hand on his chest. No pulse. Like hot lava rushing from its confines, a scream rose from the depth of my being.
"Nooooooooo!"

When Faith Speaks.

The doctor looks at the report before him. Then at you. He tries to smile but both the attempt to smile and the smile itself fall flat and evaporate.
He clears his throat, sits up and leans forward. He peers at you from the top of his eyeglasses.
He coughs, but you know it is another false start.
"Sir, let me be straight with you. And speak in layman's terms. From the results of the test we conducted, you have cancer of the---"
It is enough that the intruder is cancer, the organ it lays claim to is insignificant.
All your life see to summarize itself before you. You wonder if this is how it will all end. You sigh. Then you remember something, you look up and smile at him. He stops talking and begins to stammer and fidget. He fears that the news he gave you has scrambled your mental radar. But there is something restful, celestial about your smile.
"Doctor," you begin, "I heard what you said. But this is what I understood: the spirit of cancer is in town and it wants to know if my body is available for permanent residence."
With a determined look on your face, and in a sonorous voice, you declare, "No, I'm not available."
The doctor picks up the phone and begins to dial with shaky fingers.
He's certain you've lost it.

She entered the room for the nameless dead. The moment I saw her, from
where I sat by the window sill, I knew her. We had never met. But her
presence bore the same aura of the voice that spoke to me earlier. The voice
whose speaker I couldn't see. She had come to identify me, give me a name
and place me among the named dead. She lingered at the entrance for a
while, worry painting its wrinkled brush across her brow. Then she walked
briskly to the metal table where my corpse lay. I watched her from the corner
of the dim-lighted room. She kept muttering to herself: "But I warned you.
Didn't I? Why did you ignore my warning? Why?"
Her eyes grew misty, her voice tightening.
Who was she? Why would she weep for me? How did she know? How? How?
I started walking toward her. She tensed, looked in my direction and drew
back toward the door. She couldn't see me. But she could sense a presence.
My presence.
"Wait," I beseeched.
She turned and fled.