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About Dead Mad Men pt. 4

There was a moment of silence, followed by receding footsteps and more silence. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t plead, he didn’t even know why he was there. Why was nobody talking?! Finally, the lanky man took off his blindfolds, the night was lit up by stars. He looked into John’s eyes, one minute, five, ten… John started to imagine how Tunde must have felt back then with The Holders. This was more than an inspection, the man was reading his soul. Without a single word or change of expression, the man moved away and sat beside John on the ground, looking into the distance, vigilant, his gun in his lap. They just sat there.

Minutes passed into what seemed like hours, John sat there, thinking about his life, and possible death, his mouth had begun to itch. The lanky man sat there, motionless, his unwavering gaze far off into the distance. Surely, morning should have come by now.

Footsteps… there were footsteps approaching! The lanky man quickly got a blanket from his bag and wrapped it around John, peeling the duct tape off his mouth. The footsteps got closer, slow and unsteady footsteps, like the person was limping. Both of them had their eyes trained on the distance, waiting for whoever was approaching. The footsteps got closer and closer, then they saw him: a thin, haggard man, his torn shirt clinging to his bent back. He got to them and stopped abruptly, surprised. Then he just walked on.

“Hey!” The lanky man called out under his breath, standing up.

The haggard man stopped, looked back and continued walking. The lanky man reached out, grabbed him and placed his hand over his mouth, pulling him towards where John was seated. Like a well practised ritual, he bound the man’s hands and feet, placing duct tape over his mouth. The haggard man struggled weakly and finally gave up, watching the lanky man apprehensively. The lanky man then went to get the polythene bag and in one swift motion placed it over the haggard man’s head and tied it. The haggard man struggled, gasping for air then went limp.

He was dead. John sat there, shivering despite the blanket his captor had thrown over him earlier, everything was happening way too fast. I’m next he thought I’m dying next. The lanky man bent over, taking the bag off the now dead man’s head, using a knife to cut off the duct tape. John was breathing so hard, he thought he would soon have an asthmatic attack. He then squatted in front of John, his gun in hand, his index finger on his lips. He peeled off the duct tape from his mouth and unbound his hands and feet.

“Am I next?” John whispered.

“I don’t kill innocent people” He replied.

“You just killed an innocent man!” John’s voice rose slightly. The man raised the gun, reminding him.

“He parades the streets at night, making sure the spirits are sleeping well. We were waiting for him, that’s what we were doing… I just killed a mad man.”


“You want answers? Here! You were meant to die tonight! I was meant to put that bag over your head and wait for you to suffocate. Then leave your body in that well!” He pointed at the dilapidated well. “But it took one look at you to know you couldn’t have done it. So I substituted a lunatic’s life with yours. You are welcome! Hand me your jacket”

“Done what?” John took off his jacket.

The man laughed, bending over the corpse and passing its arms through the sleeves. “A man’s wife is sleeping around, he figures you are the lover, he decides to have you killed. I decide not to. Stop asking questions.”

“But he’ll know I’m still alive!” John said under his breath.

“You think he even knows your face? We saw his wife get down from your car and followed. You are as dead as I say you are.” He grabbed the corpse and dumped it in the well, got an iPhone out of his pocket and took pictures, evidence of the kill. “And stay away from her and that car.”

John stood on frozen feet, afraid to breathe. He was overwhelmed, he was confused and tired. And Mrs Ali? He couldn’t even think about all that. Now that he wasn’t going to die, he just wanted to go home.

“But the dead man, the police, his family!”

The lanky man had packed up, discarding all the pieces of tape, the polythene bag, everything. He ignored John and walked.


The streets awoke to the sounds of excited children—on their bicycles, on bare feet, running and walking children, both naughty and nice. Nobody knew what happened last night, nobody will ask. When the smell of decay finally gets noticed, when they finally see the rotten corpse in the well, they’ll call the authorities to handle it. But nobody will cry, nobody will mourn, nobody will ask questions.

Nobody cares about dead mad men.


About Dead Mad Men pt. 3

John listened, mistaken identity. Well here he was, a very middle class male, fulfilling the prerequisites for both schools of thought. Had he ever been mistaken for someone else? No. From preparatory school to the university, had there ever been any such incident? No. It might have been fun though, at least it would have given him a story to contribute to this conversation. But he had no story. Had no encounters. So he just listened. Apparently, the said Sadé had thought Teelé was the naked girl she saw all over her boyfriend’s phone, hence the malice, it had taken till the end of camp before she finally believed it wasn’t Teelé. Nkoyo had never had any such encounter, but besides him being rich, his arrogant ass would be hard to confuse with someone else. Mrs Ebere had never really been involved in any such case, but Mrs Ali attributed that to her big buttocks, just like wealth, big buttocks were a very distinguishing factor so she said.

The conversation went on and on, moving on to Christmas hampers, sports, sales, news, religion, etcetera with a few moments of thoughtful silence, usually preceded by Tunde saying something deep and insightful. His mother would go to the balcony every now and then, coming back perfumed and looking guilty. John would join in from time to time, agreeing with this person, disagreeing with that but basically just enjoying the food and listening.

“Thanks a lot ma for a great evening” said Nkoyo, rising from his seat, holding Teelé’s hand. “We should be heading home now.”

He shook their hands, Teelé hugged them and they left. John checked the time, 10:12pm. He went into the kitchen to drop off the last of the dishes while the rest of the company continued to chatter. He had planned to sleep over earlier but Mrs Ali was having car trouble and he offered to take her home. Might as well get home in the process. John kissed his mother goodbye, dropping the chocolates he got for her on the kitchen counter. The perfume didn’t do much to conceal the smell of tobacco but he wouldn’t say anything. He walked outside, Mrs Ali was already waiting in the car. He got in, started the engine and drove. Mrs Ali turned on the radio, The Beat FM was playing oldies. They drove on for 15 minutes, Mrs Ali drifting from her reverie every now and then to sing along to this line or that, reminding him of how her time was indeed the good ol’ days. Good music was so hard to find these days.

“John…” Mrs Ali said, in the middle of Misty Blue.


“Something good will happen, you know. Something bigger than Chioma.”

John smiled “Okay.”

Ooooh Honey, it’s been such a long, long time, looks like I’d get you off of my mind… Mrs Ali had gone back to singing along. Ten minutes later, John dropped her off at her home. He turned off the radio and drove, taking the longer journey through Festac. Something bigger than Chioma… He didn’t want something bigger than Chioma, he couldn’t handle it… look where Chioma had got him. He was still trying to settle back into his old life. He couldn’t go into all that again.

John had just gotten out of street 148B when he felt the impact. A car had run into him. No, a car was running into him! His anger quickly gave way to panic. This was no accident, the person was doing this on purpose. John sped up, tried to outrun the car but it was no good, there was only so much his Peugeot 406 could do against the attacking Tundra. Eventually, his car engine gave up. These parts of Lagos used to be safe, what’s going on? John thought to himself as he arranged all his valuables, wristwatch, money, car keys, he didn’t want the robbers to think he wasn’t co-operating.

A tall, lanky man opened the car door and dragged him out, there was a gun in his free hand. John could see the silencer.

“Please, I’ll co-operate, please. Everything I have, I’ve placed them on the passenger’s seat.” John begged, trying desperately to sound smooth.

The man just looked at him, his face devoid of emotion—he almost looked bored—as he pulled him towards the truck.

John started to panic, they weren’t robbers. What were they then? “Please, please, I’ll give you anything, everything I have! Just don’t hurt me, please.”

Shut up!” The man hissed, pushing him onto the back seat of the truck and placing duct tape over his mouth, binding his hands as well. They had company, another man in the passenger’s seat. All John could make out was his bald head, with folds around his neck. The lanky one got in the car and started the engine.

They drove for about 20 minutes, what seemed to John like eternity—and stopped. They both got down, the lanky one placed blindfolds over John’s eyes and they continued on foot, shoving him in this direction and that. John would have cried if his brain wasn’t working overtime trying to figure out what the hell was happening. The frustration of it all, the silence, the darkness, was mind-numbing. All John could sense was the dull pain in his wrists and the offensively strong smell of oranges.

They stopped. The bald man was panting somewhere in the distance. John could tell it was him because he could recognise the scent and the skeletal hands of the man shoving him as the lanky one. The lanky one then got out a polythene bag from his backpack, getting duct tape and binding John’s feet, laying him flat on the ground… John could feel the sand.

The lanky one looked at the bald one “You can leave.”


About Dead Mad Men Pt. 2

It had been months since that evening he’d showed up for dinner alone. He had noticed the curious sideways glances, the awkward smiles, they knew, they just didn’t know what to say—except for Mrs Ali.
“So Chioma left?” she asked, not so questioningly.
“Personal reasons, I guess.”
“Hmm… shame.” She said, passing him scotch instead of wine. Mrs Ali had always been his favourite, her subtle way of just getting it without prying too much and being there without doing too much.

“So there was this report at work today” Ebere announced, her voice jerking him back to the present. “A man coming from church yesterday evening got mauled and beat up, almost to death. You should have seen the pictures, broken ribs, black eyes, a dislocated knee, horrible. Poor man was about to be castrated—“

“Ebere! I’m sure I don’t want to have dinner to stories of a man being castrated” Demilade cut in.
“About to be castrated” replied Ebere, highly indifferent. “According to our sources, the knife had already been heated red and right next to his balls when this police man walks in and intervenes. And guess what?”
“He saves the day, and you are interviewing him tomorrow on being the hero that saved a man’s future generations?” Nkoyo’s arrogant drawl was always less contained whenever he got impatient.
“No, actually” she took another piece of chicken. “Mistaken identity. It was a case of mistaken identity! So the police man—his name is Yemi by the way—rounds them all up to the station to get their statements and the knife bearer who is already in hand cuffs says: This bastard raped my sister!

I have no idea what you are talking about! Jesus! Exclaims the poor man, bloody and sweaty. Well long story short, Yemi calls the girl in to identify the supposed rapist, and he’s not the one! she admits, the resemblance is uncanny but he’s not the one.” Ebere laughs and takes a sip of wine. “Poor man was about to lose his balls over a girl he’d never even met.”
“A young man coming back from church on a Friday night… poor virgin” replied Mrs Ali. They all laughed.
“So tomorrow, we are discussing mistaken identity and I wanted your opinions… sorry, I brought work with me.”
“You always do honey” replied Mrs Ali “but unlike the others, I actually find this one interesting.”

Tunde chuckled. “Back in the university, I always got harassed by this cult group, The Holders, terrifying boys. On one of such incidents, one of them—their leader maybe— looks me in the eye, the longest stare, and says He’s not Lanu. The others take their time to inspect me and after what seems like forever, they concur. The said Lanu finally gets killed a month later and as I see the Gone too Soon posters, I don’t see a random guy, I see me.”

There was a unanimous moment of silence. Tunde wasn’t known to be much of a talker, but the few times he did talk, he always left them with something to think about. Some of his clients even claim, till today that their children behaved wiser, deeper after a visit to his clinic.

Demilade’s, brows furrowed in thought “I’ve never been involved in any form of a mistaken identity.”
Everyone at the table looked at her and smiled. Teelé started laughing.
Demilade looked bemused “What?”
“Mistaken identity! You can’t—” Teelé went into a full fit of laughter. It was probably the alcohol, it wasn’t that funny.
“I think what my daughter is trying to say is” his mother cut in, back from the balcony. She still hadn’t quit smoking “Look at you! It’s going to take a lot for you to be mistaken for someone else.”

Demilade still didn’t get it. At 35, she still didn’t get that she could easily be the most beautiful woman in Lagos. She was breath-taking! Her grandmother had been Russian, probably responsible for her straight nose and flawless fair skin. She’s what the tweetosphere would call Light skin Hunnay, I’ll bet she’s the reason skin bleaching became a thing. See, the truth about Nigerians is this: We are African and proud, but when you are light skinned, you get a little extra; a little extra attention, a little extra free rides, a little extra how-do-you-dos. It’s just the way it is. She used to have the most glorious hair as well, but cut it in her 20s, when she was still finding herself. She never quite felt like growing it back afterwards. But while it would have been easy to just objectify her, Demilade was as intelligent and thoughtful as she was beautiful, a real catch, a million yards of wife material. Every now and then, John would catch Tunde watching her too intently, holding her hand too firmly, like after over two children and ten years of marriage, he still wasn’t sure she was really his… like she’d soon realize her worth and leave him. With Demilade, Tunde reminded John of himself, being with a woman that was clearly out of your league, having her say I love you. He used to fancy himself making it that far with Chioma. But he hadn’t been so fortunate. He refused to dwell on it, he was having a swell evening.

“You are one of a kind” John points out. “You are beautiful, unique. It would take a lot to look like you. It would be really difficult to mistake you for someone else.”
Demilade was flattered and embarrassed.
“I think, this whole mistaken identity thing is more common among the lower class.” Ebere says thoughtfully. “When you are rich, you are more… expressed, distinguished. People easily know your name, your circle, you have an identity,. But the less privileged… have you ever been to the real Mushin? I swear they all look alike. Same accent, same torn clothes, same desperation in their eyes. By default, they all look up to no good. Easy to mistake one for the other”.
“You have a point there.” Mrs Ali says “Look at Tunde and Demilade, Tunde had a middle class upbringing at best—true positive. Demilade had a very upper class upbringing—true negative.”
“I think gender also is an important factor.” Demilade replies. “You rarely see females get caught up in these things. Probably because the average female is more private than the average male.”
“Or maybe we just get caught up in cases less criminal, cases that may not be worth reporting” Teelé had switched from wine to mango juice. “In NYSC camp back then, there was this Sadé girl, I would catch her looking at me all the time with this grim expression, watching me. It was creepy really, especially as I didn’t even know her name at the time. Then a day comes and we…”


About Dead Mad Men pt 1

It was a place, a dirt road, dark and dusty—the government funds didn’t reach these parts, the tar wasn’t enough. An unnamed street, just a right after the farmers’ market, the citric smell of lemons and oranges forever in the air. It was in the time of harmattan, when children would go to bed with petroleum jelly in their nostrils and wake up parched, their noses thirsty for a little moisture in the air.
It was in the time of Christmas carols and wish lists and pot-bellied Father Christmases with fake beards. The President had restructured the school calendar so that all schools would be on vacation by then. It was in November, the streets awoke to the sounds of excited children—on their bicycles, on bare feet, running and walking children, both naughty and nice. These weren’t streets that never slept, they had slept through it all.

John Dio woke up to a very ordinary Saturday morning. Corn flakes for breakfast, pick up laundry by noon, get wine at Spar, go with wine to dinner at his mother’s, come back home in time for The Weakest Link, sleep. This had been the routine for months now, since Chioma left him in June, a week after his birthday, two months before their traditional wedding was to hold in Aho-ada, her hometown. He should have been in shock, devastated; but he wasn’t. John was just weary.

In a way he had seen it coming, he had seen it in the way Chioma looked out of their bedroom window and stared vacantly, distantly, imagining someplace else out there, with someone that wasn’t him. He understood. What he could never understand was why she was with him in the first place (Chioma could get anybody—and they would be fortunate to have her. Yes, she was that great), but she was, and you never really question your fortune. So after a year of basking in her magic, he popped the question and she said “Yes”.

Things went south after that, she probably began to imagine being with him till death and didn’t quite fancy it. Probably figured that her magic wouldn’t be enough for them both on the long run or that the name Dio wasn’t one she wanted herself or her children to be saddled with. Her laughter became less musical, her smiles delayed, often rueful. He had tried, he had been charming, spontaneous, intense. June 5th came, she got him a red velvet cake and a black swatch for his birthday. And on the 12th of June, as Lagos went on holiday to commemorate the annulled June 12th, 1993 presidential election, he came back from work to find a note. Dear John… She was gone.

He should have been in shock, devastated; but he wasn’t. John was just weary. Chioma was gone, and in her absence, there was now room to feel the tiredness. All that spontaneity, intensity, that wasn’t him. It had been like an adrenaline rush really. You are in the heat of the moment, you run, scale fences, bleed, break a bone or two, but you don’t feel any of it, not until the moment is passed, you stop running, your heart slows down and then it all comes, the soreness, the tiredness. It had been five months and John was still tired.

You see, the thing about John is: he had always been ordinary. As a baby, his grandfather had walked into the delivery room, his walking stick assisting him with the arthritis; taken one long, dour look at him, didn’t even bother to pick him out of the cot—and named him John, not after John the Apostle or John the Baptist, not after JFK… but John, off the name tag of the attending nurse, who had had a big nose and the ugliest Yoruba tribal marks. He knew this because his mother had told him.

His mother had gotten knocked up by her 18 year old boyfriend when she was 16. Her mother wanted her to get rid of the baby—she couldn’t bear the shame of having a daughter pregnant out of wedlock, but her father would hear none of it, she had made her bed, it was time to lay in it. As her belly swelled, her father grew more and more distant, the obvious fact that his daughter had gone afornicating now rudely prominent. When the baby was born, his wife had all but forced him to make the trip to the hospital. It wasn’t just his name however, it was him in his entirety. John wasn’t funny or smart or charismatic, he wasn’t creepy or slow or aggressive either; John wouldn’t get the attention of an old woman alone at midnight on 3rd Mainland bridge, he was that ordinary. But he had gotten accustomed to it, felt safe within it. So when Chioma up and left with all her magic, he retired, back to safety, back to his regular breakfasts and monochrome colours, back to Saturday dinners with his mother.

At exactly 5pm, he pulled into his mother’s compound and walked to the front door. The door was always open but he’d knock anyways. His mother would open the door and hug him, retrieve the wine from his hands and place it in the wine bucket. She was perfect, his mother, always chirpy, always beautiful, always the life of the party. One of the few things they had in common was their love for her coconut rice and Rubis (a unique type of red wine that has this deep chocolate flavour).

And so it was tonight. He took off his denim jacket, embracing the rich smell of coconut rice, chicken, he could smell cucumbers so he knew there was salad somewhere–and was that cake? His tummy rumbled, he might have to sleep in tonight. You don’t just eat so much good food and still have the wherewithal to get into your car and drive 30 minutes.

They had company, he could recognize their voices, Mrs Ali: the rebel muslim, as her fellow NASFAT muslim women liked to call her; The Adeoyes: Tunde and Demilade whose Paediatric expertise preceded them; Mrs Ebere Clement, the TV presenter who could no longer tell the difference between being on and off screen and The Elkans: his half-sister Teelé and her husband Nkoyo Elkan the third who was basically a wealthy dick. He looked forward to the evening…

My Saturday with Mudi


So I had the options of (a) staying indoors all day, wandering around in my boxers and waging war on anything edible (b) going for a wedding (no invitation in particular, just arrive fashionable and fashionably late and someone will definitely know you-or want to know you) (c) going to my neighbour’s to watch soccer over beer (ribena, depending on the reader) or (d) going out on a date with my neighbourhood toaster   ̶  you know, I always fantasized about having a neighbourhood love, I would call him up when I’m home alone and we’d watch T.V., and cook and talk about what’s been going on around, probably make out. We’d walk back home from school, holding hands and stuff… but forgive me, I was 13… but I digress.

As is almost obvious, seeing as I put it last on the list, I went out with my neighbourhood toaster. Now this guy is really sweet and all (if you are into good morning, goodnight, just thought of you, breakfast, lunch, dinner…and sometimes brunch phone calls), but damn! Spoken English: zero, written english: zero, sense of sarcasm: -10, sense of humour: zero. I mean… damn! That dude is really just living testimony of my amount of patience. He’s the kind of guy you can’t tell to fuck off because you’d feel guilty afterwards, he’s also the type that you’d rather jump into Oba market gutters than risk being seen by any of your exes, or  toasters, or close friends, or classmates, or acquaintances, followers on twitter… abeg  anybody that may remotely know you jare.

I sha got dressed and met him at one of them fancy chinese restaurants in Benin (some people will just have money for nothing). We said our hellos and then he ordered… did I mention his bini accent? Lord! I was at least thankful for the fact that we sat in one of them private tables… no one was running into me this way! So he begins to yarn his sweet nothings (his name is Mudi by the way, Mudi as in Osamudiamen) and I’m all “really?”, “wow”, “I’m flattered”, “awwwwww” and after  a while, it gets boring and I tune out and I’m all “mmmmmmhm”, “mmmmmmhm”, “okay”, “yup!” mmmmmmmhm”. This goes on for a while and then  ̶  “I want you to be my girlfriend” Huh?

“I’m ready to move ahead on my heartbreak and start dating once more, I want a geh in my life and I want that geh to be you” Huh?

“What do you wish to that?”  hian! abeg abeg abeg! First of all, a brother doesn’t bring up a past heartbreak when asking a sister out! Do you hear the REBOUND Bells ring? Secondly, one more hour with this fellow’s english and my IQ will just reduce. I may feel guilty afterwards but what the heck?

“Mudi, I’ll need to be clear with you…nothing can happen between us”

“Why? you have a boyfriend?”

Do I need to have a boyfriend to not want to date you? “No”

“So, why wee you not friend me na? that day I saw you in the road, with your hair scattered, going to buy recharge, I just know I want you.”

Queen’s Primer for the pain. “You know, I’m the kind of girl that likes to follow her instincts and in this case… no, I can’t friend you”

So Mudi smiles and says “just give me time and I wee change your mind”.

Okay, I’m not usually blunt, only when my life or destiny is at stake…well, this seemed like a good time. “See ehn, you are a nice guy o, but the truth is, if I were to date every nice guy that ‘liked’ me, you won’t even be on the first page of that list. I am not attracted to you, in any possible way. We both deserve to be happy, and we will, with other people.” With that said, I went back to my meal.

“Wow… I feel stupid. So the main point is that you are not attracted to me. Like I’m not good enough for you or something” he downs his entire wine glass, probably for effect “and see as you just said it, just like that. Baby, I have a feeling for you, and you are not even willing to consider that… you gehs sha”.

I lost my appetite…it was a perfectly nice meal and he just ruined it. we ‘gehs’? after spending such a long time on earth, I’ve realized, we can never win with you guys can we? You say ‘hi’ and we ignore and we are bitches; we respond with a friendly ‘hello’ and we have given you the green light and the next thing we know, we are on ‘baby’ basis… I mean serzly? We tell you no subtly and you don’t take the hint, we get blunt and we are heartless sphinxes with no regard for the feelings of others. And y’all carry this unnecessary grudge with you so that even when a sister needs a small favour in the future, it becomes a problem.

I sha finished my meal, ordered take-out (take-away) and told him to take me home. I got to the gate and smiled broadly “Thanks, it was nice talking to you, but don’t call me again”

I know, I know, that was very unnecessary, the consternation on his face confirmed that. but well, I just figured, if I was going to be called a bitch, I might as well deserve it. so much for a ‘date’ though. I for just go watch match o.



Any typos you noticed are most likely deliberate…

I love Bini people, I really do.

I’m not much of a soccer fan, just enjoy drinking while I watch people have near-heart attacks  over balls J

And yeah, follow me on twitter @chemyca.

Bad girl

This was your movie, your script, your plot…

The girls were going out, having fun, why not you? They invited you albeit perfunctorily. To their suprise, you said ‘Yes’…

You didn’t know what to expect, you liked that part best. Your heart kept pounding, almost as if knocking on the door of your senses…

They didn’t open.

You got dressed, let your hair down… goodie-2-shoes was wearing stilettos tonight. Goodie-2-shoes was going to play bad girl tonight.

It was a club, Kisses The loud music and the lights were distracting. It was as scary as it was alluring. You watched men watch you, hunger evident in their every stare, in every smile, every side-comment.

This wasn’t you… but it could be. You catwalked to the bar, your legs shivering, thankful for the crowd that somehow suffocated you but also kept you from falling.

You probably should have asked to go back home but no, you were not going back tonight. You didn’t give yourself that option

“Here, drink this”
You said okay and downed your glass, once, twice, times too many.
You were having a nice time. You remembered how much you loved to dance. You remembered how you’d dance for your kid sister whenever the power was out.

You did dance. You drew your energy from the overwhelming crowd. You loved the attention, many men coming to dance with you, you choosing who you wanted to dance with at every song. The DJ seeming to work with you, his playlist, your decision.

You felt like cleopatra who had just discovered a new earth.

There was this one. He was tall and sexy, good dancer, great body… You enjoyed dancing with him. Enjoyed getting cheers from the crowd as you both worked it on the dance floor. Enjoyed being admired, being envied.
In your enjoyment, you didn’t notice how you could no longer see the girls, didn’t notice how the beat slowed down and you were grinding up on Mr. Hotness. You didn’t notice how the cheer died down, you didn’t notice how the crowd was absent.
You didn’t notice how you two were now dancing differently…or not dancing at all. Swaying to a beat that existed only in your heads.

If you noticed the warmth that was his skin, you probably didn’t have what it took to consider it. You probably didn’t consider the weird feeling between your legs either.
What you noticed was the softness that was now beneath you and the hardness that was ontop… What you noticed was the frenzy that was your heart beat…

This is totally fiction, any resemblance to real life persons and/or events is coincidental.

Follow Aishat Abiri on twitter @Chemyca

That roof of 30th

If you had climbed onto the weak, damp roof of the old abandoned house, two lonely streets away from the tarred Durante road, you would probably have been an upset, troubled or heartbroken, maybe weird person or just a person up to no good.

You would have marvelled at how beautiful the town looked that night. You may have whistled or sung or written a poem, an ode maybe, to the roof of the abandoned, probably haunted house, the infamous number 30.

You would have crawled into the shadows as you heard the muffled sound of a girl’s cry. You may have wondered what she was doing out by herself. You would have considered, maybe tried coming down to help her.

You would have stopped, dead in stealthy tracks.

You would have noticed she was naked, bruised, bleeding. You would have noticed her pretty hair, her prettier face. Your heart may have stopped, for you would have known her. Would have known she was the head chorister of the big catholic church up town. Might have screamed when you saw the second character, the antagonist pointing his knife at her as he screamed: Fucking bitch! You shouldn’t have tried to blackmail me!

You may have screamed too because the voice was so loud it might have been right in your ear.

The weather would have suddenly become chilly, your limbs too numb to even bring your hands to close your ears. Your breath so loud and heavy you feared being heard.

You would have jumped as he plunged the knife into her belly, and pulled it out, and plunged again and again and again! You could have sworn he was matching the rhythm of your violent heartbeat!

You would have been scared, traumatized, amazed that your eyes were still wide open, awake despite all the chaos going on in your head, in your chest!

And you won’t believe it! He would turn around and look right at you… Through you actually for his wild eyes scanned the area and all he did was walk away. And you saw his face. Recognised it, recognised him. You should tell! You should tell! The pretty, pretty chorister was dead and you could bring her last justice…

But you wouldn’t… As your fear takes on a new form, a grave form. You know you wouldn’t tell. Couldn’t tell…

The crazy man… You would know he is your brother.

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