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.
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