Papa Jumbo was tough, stubborn and too difficult to please. He's not the type that can say words like thank you or I'm sorry, no matter what; a retired soldier of the defunct republic of Biafra who witnessed the Civil war. On many occasions, he had told us how he became a soldier at fourteen; how he rose through the ranks in the heat of the war, only to prove his mettle, becoming the brave arm that kills at a single stroke; how he meandered through enemy lines with a vest full of grenades and mark four rifles; thus, earning an aura of fearlessness and brevity from his platoon including the name, Ogbunigwe: meaning someone who was born to kill in thousands. His khaki uniform, an old rag appended to the wall, handed credence to his tale. His face, a map of scars, was also a visible proof that he was a serial killer in the military. The most prominent of them was a long streak of scar that stretches from the left side of his mouth up to his left ear. Candidly, in his happier moments, Papa Jumbo made us dizzy with stories; creepy and jaw-dropping tales which kept my head orbiting round unexplored planets at a cosmic frequency. Vividly, he once told us nerve-racking tales of spirits who borrow bits of human configurations to partake in human reality; pointing out that these disguising spirits do it because they get so bored of being just spirits in a speedy paradox of life. Sometimes, they would want to feel or hunt through the slow senses of humans in borrowed realities of pain, drunkenness, laughter and most importantly sex. There's this particular tale that he used to tell us when I was younger. He had repeated it countless number of times without recognizing it; much to his forgetfulness. Usually, he would tell it in the evenings when there was not much else to do; those evenings when NEPA had taken light away and there was no telling when they would return it. After he had taken a good dose of wee-wee from his ignited pipe, I would sit on a small stool (too small to keep your legs up), next to him; watching the content of his pipe glow in clusters of red flames through the darkness.

“Long time ago,” he began, clearing the fits of phlegm in his throat, “when there were thick forests interconnecting many of our villages. Then, there were high possibilities of someone being eaten by lions or some wild dogs. Then, one can only identify a rich man by the size of his barn of yams plus the number of chieftaincy titles he holds in a clan. Categorically, male circumcision was regarded as a sign of bravery and stoicism. Again, any young girl who looses her virginity was better dead: no marriage. At this era, Mazi Nwadike was a village wrestler and a small-time potter who had four wives as well as many children but he could barely make ends meet. Like every agrarian community of the old, farming, wine tapping, livestock rearing and hunting were the few means of survival. Peasants who lacked arable lands resort to itinerant bush meat business in order to eke out a living. Then, men took pride in the riskiest escapades of adventure. Rarity was regarded as uniqueness while repetition was tasteless. In this regard, feathers belonging to rare birds were used to adorn the revered red caps for chiefs. Long horns belonging to wild beasts of the forest were used as reputable goblets for drinking. Even skulls belonging to other rare animals were stationed at strategic corners as certified proofs of masculine gallantry. Such was a time when men respected the moral codes and conducts of the traditional African society.”

“You know gorillas are close relatives of human beings,” he gestured as he spoke, his hands; a patchwork of arthritic nerves. “In captivity, gorillas can display intelligence and can even learn simple sign languages. Unlike other primates, gorillas also love newborn babies especially those belonging to human beings. Whenever a child is born, a mother gorilla uninvitingly pays a visit to that particular house to coo and pet the little born baby. They can talk or grief; thus showing that they empathize. Apart from our opposable digits, they are not too different from us. Above all, they are generally calm and non-aggressive animals unless they are disturbed. Mazi Nwadike and the lots of his polygamous family were all starving to nothingness. After learning that the large chunks of meats from an adult gorilla can feed his haggard family, including other deprived relations in his clan. Nwadike decided to hunt for wild animals especially gorillas. However, he had hoped to lessen his economic burden and probably earn enough cowries so as to take chieftaincy titles in his village. For chieftaincy titles were cachets of honour and authority which separated men from boys. Little did Nwadike knew that he was about to kiss some untutored demons. Soon, he solicited the help of his male friends after a drinking spree. Upon consent, they acquired some local guns, heavy artilleries, cartridges and other hunting armaments. Together, they built a network of noxious baits; collectively linked along by tying nooses to several tree branches and bamboo stalks. With the same rope in hands, Nwadike and his hunting gang pulled trees downward; bending them to stand at a snappy angle. Then, they equally used sticks and pegs; pining the nooses to the ground while keeping the branches very tensed. A sprinkling of vegetation and other dried leaves were also used to cover up the noose. When any animal accidentally bumps into the any of the pegs, the affected branches would spring upwards; closing the noose around the prey while also hoisting it in the air. Categorically, a trap like that is highly lethal and would squeeze any strayed animal to instant death including human beings. Each new day, Nwadike would take hold of his sharp cutlass while plying the dirt path leading to the forest. There, he would carefully peep into the snares while checking for trapped animals. Yet, he seemed unlucky. Back home, Nwadike would pour libations in prayer and offer sacrifices to his local gods; hoping to make a good catch someday. One morning, he visited the forest as usual. As he took sights into the traps at a distance, he noticed that the trees were no longer tensed. His heart briefly hopped in expectation; a probable hint that he was in for a catch. On getting closer, he noticed that there was no animal trapped within his web of baits. Meanwhile, a mother gorilla was lying on the floor. Its pulse was still. Fits of blood shots were on its arms. She was badly wounded yet dead in a decoy. As soon as Nwadike touched the animal in a bid to axe it to pieces, the mother gorilla quickly seized him. In one swoop, she disarmed Nwadike of his cutlass. Boiling in pain and anger, she bundled Nwadike upon her hairy shoulders and carried him further into the deep parliaments of the forest, where no one could possibly rescue him. There, the raging ape grabbed a bush rope and tied him to a huge tree. In tears, Nwadike sang for mercy to the annoyed animal but his pleas and supplications fell on deaf ears. Moreover, she could not understand Nwadike's cry for leniency. Sadly, she was not just incensed by the deep cuts she had sustained; she also knew that such baleful traps had been killing many of her own kind. So, Nwadike by virtue of hunting was indeed her foe. Reaching for a long twisted whip in the forest, the animal irately whipped on Nwadike. As she lashed and lacerated him, Nwadike bellowed and yelled for succour but unfortunately, no one could hear him in the deep jaws of the forest." Before he could finish the last sentence of his story, we laughed out aloud, throwing our heads aback; never minding that we are not the only race in the whole world.

In the following weeks, as more reports filtered inwards, that the militants are using the missing maidens and children as primary weapons for terrorism; that the said girls are been subjected to forced marriages, forced labour and rape. Papa's condition reached new proportions of took intensity. He smoked more often in his regular disquieting gaze; refusing to meals upon lips. Even his gayety became the fantastic mirth of a disordered brain. He was always detached and in a pensive mood, maintaining a mute regality; perhaps imagining the displaced girls been raised within the ranks of those 'bazukaars' as suicide bombers opposing western education, combatants, cooks, look-outs, porters and sex peddlers for soldiers; numerous daughters of variant parents thrusted forward like slaves in barbarian war booty, only to be forcefully trained on how to use guns and deadly explosives in order to decimate innocent lives. On two different occasions in the absence of everyone, Papa Jumbo lost control of his demented mind and attempted to take his own life by diving into a village stream. Fortunately in each case, there were fishermen who fought so hard, putting their lives at risk to resuscitate him into consciousness. To this end, I or mama would lay him down on a fold-away sofa. Then, we would take a sit to do some house chores while keeping an eye on him; afraid that if left alone, he would hurt himself again.

One evening in the month of July, we were about to prepare dinner which were Fufu and Egwusi soup. There was scarcity of kerosene. The cost of chopped fire woods was high. The kitchen was bare of fire woods. Obviously, it was required to speed up the much odious task. Hours before, mama had sent me on an errand to buy exactly four litres of petrol from the filling station, stressing that it would be used to power up our small "I pass my neighbour" generator, particularly at night; which I did. Afterwards, she glided her way to the market to buy some ingredients for the soup. She's tall and lanky, a bit too thin to be identified as ‘mama’. Her face was devoid of makeup; no powder or her palm kernel oil was applied. Her skin looked rough like that of a roast yam: scaly, dark and hoarse. She wore a long gown, reaching to her ankles and a pair of black rubber flats. Her hair was braided in thin strands and held together in a bun at the nape of her neck. Despite the searing conditions around her, she's so gifted that she knows the smell of farts even before it comes out.

However, Papa Jumbo was reclining on his regular wicker chair stashed at the veranda. His regular pipe was in between his left fingers. Its acrid smoke spiralled into the ceiling as he meditatively smoked; prompting curlicues of ashes dropping to the ground. He was wearing his only pair of socks, which were full of holes. Categorically, I could measure the sadness of his thoughts from the way he dragged and exhaled smoke from his pipe. His eyes, dazed in silence seemed like the mood of an ancient grudge. Hours before, I had swept the surroundings clean with a long broom; the native kind, crafted from raw stems of palm leaves, tied together at the end with a rubber string. Afterwards, I took Papa Jumbo to our squalid bathroom. There, I sat him down on a wooden stool; barring his body which were so wrinkled like the skin of an over-aged tortoise. Moments after bathing him, he was garbed in a long grey singlet, a small short and a woollen cap; only to be stationed on his regular wicker chair at the veranda.

Soon, I dashed into a dirt path leading to the Ubaha forest so as to fetch some fire woods. A sharp cutlass was in my hand; ready to draw blood from anyone: bandits, snakes, disconsolate ghosts including the invisible residents of the air lingering within the earth's radius. The sun, an empty world on fire, sat behind the trees to the west. Two hawks were hovering in circles upon the sky while searching for prey. Butterflies drifted between tree trunks, dancing and bursting in incandescent colours. Downwards, a thousand-legged millipede was slithering to its destination. Lizards were racing up and down. Two adult hens squirmed about; zigzagging through the filth, jutting their necks back and forth, sniffing and pecking at a heap of refuse. Earwigs, praying mantis and multi-coloured grasshoppers were leaping beneath the blankets of some loopy grasses. Advancing deeply into the forest, variant sounds greeted my ears. The wind was sweeping through the dry leaves beneath the canopy of trees; something like the breath of the Creator, floating through the air. Birds sang in discordant tunes while flitting from branch to branch; the hunting melodies of bush animals, insects sizzling in the bushes as well as countless creatures weaving their sublime melodies into the parliaments of the trees. Categorically, it was like an orchestra programmed by the Emperor of existence. Several moments later while gathering distended fire woods in the deeper part of the woods, I felt that everywhere was too silent for comfort; silence that amplified the peal of one's discordant laughter in the distance, as if the silence around me had found a tongue. The deeper it echoed, the deeper was my fear. Frightened by this disturbing quietude, I quietly gathered the collected fire woods into a huge bundle and geared home in hastened steps. The sun was gradually setting behind a line of trees to the west. Dusk was in the horizon. As I approached home, I noticed an awful odour which was too strong to be ignored. The smell was sickly sweet and deeply unpleasant like that of a burning hair. Nauseated, I attempted holding breadths for several seconds yet the hovering odour lingered in the air. A few distance off entrance, a neighbour's son who barely go to school, ran towards me.

"Dede, Papa Jumbo is dead," he said, panting heavily like someone being chased by an army of vampires.

"Ehhh... No, this can't be true!"

Immediately, I ran aloose on bare toes, tossing the bundle of firewood to the ground. There, a few knots of people had gathered round his carcass. All faces were tensed, sad and laced with pity. About three teenage girls, who were Chioma's friends, were shouting and running in variant directions. An older woman, Adanne, was hitting herself on the ground, weeping in suppressed tears. Another woman, backing her baby, circled her hands three times over her head as a gesture of obscenity. Meanwhile, papa's lifeless heap was lying on the floor, motionless and silent in the similitude of a burnt rhinoceros displaying its teeth. His intestines, smeared with blood, had gushed out in thick curly swells while its repulsive odour filled the air. His flesh was so cauterized that I could barely recognize him. On one end of the surroundings, the black petrol jerry can was empty; a laden proof supporting the reports that he had doused himself with petrol in the absence of everyone and lit a match upon it. Sickened by the distressing sight, I sank to my knees in shame, feeling giddy as if I had tetanus in my brain; forcing my eyes shut, as if shutting them tight will prevent the stigma from making its way to me. Yet, the searing sores kept bleeding as every drop was tainted as it falls. At his burial, I felt so sorry for him; a poor witty soldier, whose life had been full of galls and wood worms. I knew he was deeply "broken" in a rotten land tainted by the dark pantheons of African politics; even as memories of him and that of his missing grand daughter, Chioma, are now like scenes in a theatrical display.



************ THE END
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John Destiny Onyekachi is a Nigerian word-wielding warrior, a poet and a philosophical teacher who has ravaging desire for knowledge. He began his literary career in 2009; splitting his time between books and his beloved soccer games. In April 2010, he authored an educational book titled, ‘The first step in reading;’ a beautiful piece nurtured for kids with poor reading and pronunciation abilities. Three years later in the month of March, his short story titled “A Colossal Loss” won the African Street Writers’ competition. He attended the Farafina Trust Creative Writing Program which held in Lagos from 16 June to 26 June, 2015. He has also being published, both online and in literary anthologies. At the moment, he lives in Lagos while currently working on the success of his first ground-breaking work of prose, belched in a divine temper. Additionally, he also writes for Cheq Entertainment Magazine in Lagos, Nigeria and blogs at www.johndestiny..com.