Dressed in smelly rags and torn clothes, he danced round and round the small fire made at the sharp little corner of the road.

Okaka was once a fine intelligentsia, a man of enchanting words and enthralling letters and all round beautiful soul until one fateful day he came out of his bathroom —- mad. Completely deranged. Began to speak lots of isms and incoherent jargons and had to be remanded into a psychiatric ward, as the tears flowed like raindrops from his mother’s eye.

Some people said he had previously indulged in having carnal knowledge of a virgin, an information everyone knew about in the village, one of the girls who was attracted to his sweet camaraderie and befriended him. He took her forcefully that night against her will and she cursed him with the blood coming from her ‘preciousness’ which explains his present predicament. Retribution in one word. His own karma came too early.

Others said before he was born, Oshimiri, the village seer have advised his mother not to cut the dreadlocks on his head. The missionaries soon came and brainwashed everybody. The locks were gone and his sanity too. There be many questions than answers. His mother died afterwards mysteriously from a strange illness. People spoke about that family in hushed tones and silent whisper.

But nothing bothered Okaka, the mad man.

He is often seen talking and laughing to himself. His special type of madness allows him to call people by their name. The clarity of mind when he greeted passersby make people wonder if truly this boy was dementedly challenged. Due to his gentle mien and calm temerity, little children often came by to taunt him.

“Okaka cannot do anything to us” The boy with the swollen tummy said to his friends as they approached him. “Let us flog him today…” the one on torn stripped shirt suggested and they all agreed. As usual Okaka was singing melodiously like sounds from a broken gramophone. His eyes glistened and shone like a million stars when he sang. His happiness seeped through to the earth like an hourglass…

“Who know they see,go hear…
Who know they hear, go see”…

He sang aloud and his voice reverberated like thunder shattering the stillness of the cool evening, his loud voice could be heard by all and sundry. What makes a mad man unique is his unpredictability. Okaka was as unpredictable as the Nigerian dream.

Okaka was astonished and stupefied at the loud fiam sound that kissed the small of his back setting him ablaze with unbridled pain. As the stick connected with bare flesh, he screamed out in pain. The boy with swollen tummy have just landed a neat stroke of the cane on his bare flesh as it tore neatly to reveal creamy, red liquid. Blood.

Red blood.

Okaka gazed at them and in a twinkling of an eye began to sing his infamous song which seem to make sense to only one man.

Himself.

“Who know they see, go hear…
Who know they hear go see…
Who know go see, go hear…
Who know they hear go see…”

A small crowd was beginning to gather at this point as the boys laughed heartily at the response of the mad man. One of the boys reached for the Iron in the bag of the mad man. That iron was more than just a tool for the madman. He spoke to it. He worshipped it. They communed together. One mad man and his god none must separate.

“Give that back” Okaka cried. “Who know they see go hear, who know they hear go see…”

He sang and began to dance near his small fire. The boys ran away with his Iron and chattered gleefully as they dispersed. Okaka, picked up his container and made for the house of the one with his iron:

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