Today's Monday.


I don't remember much these days, but I have a vivid recollection of the happenings of the day before today, and I remember that it started with speakers and drums and incessant shouting in the name of worship: a church. They can only keep that energy on a Sunday, so today is Monday.


If you add that to the crowd in the evening at Solidas, then later at Edge, and then rounding up at the Witches Parlour, you'd know that could only happen on a Sunday or on festive days. Christmas and Easter and all the other stupid days are long gone. So it could only be Sunday. So, today's Monday. 


I read a statistic that said most cases of heart failures occur on Mondays. That's for people with daily jobs. Mondays are usually busy, but you know that already. I've never had a daily job, so I'm lacking in the experience, but every day I have a job, well, I don't know how to describe the feeling anymore. 


Truth is, I don't feel anxious anymore.


That's understating it. I don't feel anything anymore.


I haven't been sober since God knows when, and though today's Monday and it's 5AM, I'm on my second roll of weed, 900MG of tramol already coursing through my veins, a broomstick of cocaine already done and dusted, not to talk of the Emzo. I feel normal. That's because I can't recall my sober days.


Today's Monday, and I have a job today.


I've been on a drug run for more than a year, and I haven't had any decent sleep for like a week, but I still feel normal. My lifestyle is kind of lavish, and if you add two and two together, you'd realize whatever I do to fund this lifestyle, it's the direct opposite of legal. 


Don't even judge me yet. I'm not different from your politicians. Okay. I rob. Sometimes people die when they try to act tough, or they die to make a statement, but it's not premeditated. It's spontaneous, it's accidental, always. Your politicians make decisions that leads to the loss of thousands and thousands of lives, intentionally. I may be a thief, but I read the news. I don't remember Saturday's headlines, or I'm not sure, but I remember yesterday's. I'm not saying I'm good, I'm just saying clap for me the way you clap for politicians. When you catch me and lynch me, please administer the same treatment to your politicians.


Today's Monday. And we have a line. I and the rest of the boys. And if it's successful, we may likely have #7m each, to burn for the week. Dear Yahoo boy, don't you feel like swapping places? Oh, don't tell me your answer!


My apologies to whoever is going to read this. My name is JB. That's all I've been called for years. I don't remember being called anything else. JB could be for Johnbull, or John Brute or JagaBan or anything. All I know is I'm JB. I'm 20. I'm about 5'8 tall, with a chocolate skin which turns dark when I'm on cream strike. People say I have cute bow legs, I don't see it though. I dropped out in primary school, I know that, because that's when I first stole something. You never forget your first steal after growing a little sense.


As I squatted close to Effurun River, taking a dump, my head kept replaying what should be the day's activities. I have a job today.


And the schedule is like this: by 7AM, we'd have cruised the street for the 5th time. 7:30AM, the car should be backing out into the road from the plaza, and by 7:45AM, they'd be yelling "Thief!" up and down the road. By 8:30AM, we should be clear. And by 12PM, we should be in the hotel, getting high, waiting for our linkup to come, then we "Vasa". Life is easy, right? But like every plan, things are bound to go awry in the die minutes.


I completed my task, cleaned up, lit one stick of white Oris, felt the wind moving, and I could barely stand straight. The path that leads out is somehow hilly, but with as much voltage as I could muster, I moved ahead. Made it to the roadside without falling, I don't ever fall, no matter how high I get. I moved towards JJC junction, eyes barely opened, but very much alert: you don't stay alive in this game without it. I'd finished the stick of cigarette, and as I stood by the junction, I scanned the road.


I felt cold.


Cold as Ashe was when I touched his body and figured he was dead, dead from the OD. Or as Peter Obus when he bled out in my arms. Cold as the other dead people I'd touched after they'd moved on. And I feel that kind of cold inside, I smell like death inside, but outside, it smells like the air, untouched by the pollution that'll probably invade it an hour or so from now, and purified by nature from yesterday's pollution. I don't understand how that works, yet. I just knew one thing then: death is around the corner. 


I crossed the road to the other side, wounded through raggedly positioned buildings, and ended at my colleague William's one room apartment. I didn't bother to go inside, but we were shaded from outside view by an extension put together with planks and net. There, we oiled our guns again. We have been doing just that for more than half the previous day too. They were ready for use. 


I took my personal Berretta, tucked it in-between my pants, it was already loaded, safety off. Combined, the team of 4 have a total of 9 guns - 3 double barrels, 4 locally made sawed off shotguns, and 2 pistols. And as we did all this, codeine and skunk never left our side. High as the heavens. 


Onos came to join us by 6AM, he was the fifth man, and the tricycle rider. He's around 5'4 tall and lanky. Once we got on a scale and dude was in the 40s. Could you believe that? Lightweight and yet part of an armed robbery gang. And he's really soft looking, compared to the other guys. 


Then we loaded up our tools into his tricycle, and we left. We patrolled and our road was clear. The morning was an uneventful one, even with the robbery still to come - the robbery didn't even look like it was going to be interesting. Time came, the cream coloured Toyota Camry 2.2 rolled out of the plaza, and we were parked ahead of it. We started moving before it got to us, and beat it to the junction. 


As the car slowed down to watch the intersection, Onos blocked it with his tricycle. Before anyone would say Jack, I was already out with the corked double barrel pointed to the head of a scared shîtless driver. William or someone fired two shots and the street that was filled with pedestrians suddenly became dry. Vehicles and humans retraced their wheels and footsteps respectively without any chaos. 


"Open the door! Open the door!! Open the door!!!" Kelvin's voice rang out from my right hand side. He said it in quick succession, that I took no note of how many times he said it. He tried to open it but the door remained lock. Apparently, scared driver wanted to be a hero in a robbery situation. He'd locked the doors from inside before the car came out, and whilst his hands were on the steering wheel and shaking, he wasn't ready to open the doors. All its windows were up. I had no choice. 


I wasn't not sorry about it, but he had to go. I pumped the window without thinking twice, jacked another  shell into the chamber, opened the doors as Kelvin and Williams emptied the car as quick as they could have. It may seem long, but it barely lasted a minute. We took off from the scene with William and I throwing shots into the air. 


Successful robbery. 50 million naira in our possession. A confirmed cut of 7 million for each of us!


Still, the cold lingered. 


We were holed up in our usual hotel, waiting for the Policeman who'd given us the link. Smoke, soft drinks and drugs were heaped on a table in front of us, as we smoked and 'high-ed' away. And with each inhale and exhale, it became clear something was wrong. Music boomed from Onos's MP3 Bluetooth player, but it was not enough noise to conceal what was to come. 


Something was amiss, I looked around to see if anyone felt the same with me. And as I scanned their faces one by one, I noticed Onos's eyes were fixated on me. He felt it too.


Or he didn't.


I wouldn't know, because the door crashed, then shots rang, and he was the closest to to the noise. He was dead before the door touched the floor. Opian never even had a chance. He was stunned as the rest of us were, and was too slow to react. He didn't even know what hit him. The time taken to drop the 2 dead bodies gave us a life line. 


The doubles we had had 8 rounds each. I picked up the one closest and emptied the 6 at the space previously occupied by the door. The 3 policemen scampered away for safety. The windows of the room were protected with steel gates, so we knew we have to come out through the door. 


It was interesting, the fact was. The 3 policemen were on mufti. How did they know exactly where to hit? Our linkup has either been caught, or he's betrayed us. And I found out exactly what, a few seconds later. I'd picked up another double barrel, William and Kelvin holding the last ones. We went through and fired left and right through the corridor. The police were already running out, so they weren't hurt. 


Right before the corridor emptied, I saw our linkup. On mufti. As with all the other policemen. 


Death is here. 


The corridor was our only route out. The policemen had us surrounded, so we decided to wait a little - an error. As we panted, looking sideways but rooted to the door post, the room opposite to ours opened, so did gun fire. 


We never had a chance. 


I ran back inside, William too. Kelvin didn't have such luck and he died right there. I was sure I'd shot the man with the rifle from the opposite room, but I was too on fire to really know. My sides ached. The amount of high in my body suppressed it, but I was bleeding all over. So was William. 


"Oboy, e go be o" were his last words. He ran out and was riddled with bullets.


I stood back. My last minutes. Or seconds. They said when one is about to die, life flashes before their eyes. Life flashed. I saw it all. The inevitability of life and death. Everything became clear. HD quality. No, I don't think. Better than that. Too clear. I laid down, contemplated my death, wondering if God is taking notes, what they have in stock for me in the afterlife, if I'd reincarnate, if I'd have been better off leading a more decent life (I disagreed with this part though, my life was fun while it lasted).


I was too weak to even lift my hands by the time the policemen came in. I closed my eyes. It turned out I'd gotten more bullets than the others, so they paid me no attention.


Our linkup man issued orders to his fellow robbers, "Sergeant, clear the money first! Abel! Plant evidence say one escape! You! Go calm people for out. . ."


"Oga, this one still dey breathe o!" Yelled one of the men.


I smiled, although my strength was too weak to let it display on my face. 


"You dey look am?! Shoot am, you fool!"


I wanted to savour the moment. I swear. Dying and dead aren't the same thing. It was fast. I didn't even hear the gun shot that killed me. I was just. . .



Gone.


© Jeffery Ovedje

Me running to JJC junction to look for a certain Williams and JB like.......

I see

LUGER:
Me running to JJC junction to look for a certain Williams and JB like.......

Lol keep looking.

nauto5:
I see

What do you see?

JigsawKillah:


What do you see?

I see you love poems and saw your last battle, somewhat impressive.

Let’s do a flex, whenever anybody sees it, they judge.

PunFuMonQ:


I see you love poems and saw your last battle, somewhat impressive.

Let’s do a flex, whenever anybody sees it, they judge.

I no longer have access to my NL mail.
What's up? If you want, you could drop your mail and I'll message you.

Ndi Amaka




"As I dey follow you dey talk laik dis, she nor wan leave my troza!" Obuko yelled into the phone. He has been on the phone for 30 seconds and I'm sure whoever was on the other side is shaking terribly. He howled like he would kill both the person on the phone and Amaka.


“Make una telam o! I go kee person pikin o!” he shouted into the phone, whilst stealing a glance our way. Amaka didn't even budge. Neither did I and my clique. 


It isn't like we didn't want to help Obuko out. In fact, our hearts are bleeding for him. But Amaka has made it clear that whenever she's fighting anyone, we should steer clear. Adamson, my friend had received a punch that nearly blinded him once trying to separate Amaka and Ghenero fighting. That's not the worst of it. 


There was a girl called Chioma I was eyeing some time back. She had my mumu button for some time until Amaka unintentionally severed the battery connection by battering both of us. No shame. I admit Amaka has beaten me. And in my defence, she has beaten a lot of boys in the area as well.


 So Amaka and Chioma had a little beef whilst fetching water from the tap which supplies the whole neighbourhood with water. When NEPA decides to favour us, buckets and gallons are lined up in front of the three taps, and it was run on a first come first serve basis.


Amaka came later than Chioma. But Chioma can be lousy, so when Amaka had whacked a child's bum for spattering sand her way, Chioma exploded, since the child happened to be her, Chioma's sibling. She hurled all sorts of expletives Amaka's way. I watched the whole debacle within earshot. Amaka didn't wait for Chioma to finish her outburst before pouncing on her. A voice in my head suggested I sat that one out, and I should've listened. Chioma was pummeled so bad, she fell and crashed into the line of buckets and didn't get up on time, thereby receiving another heavy slap on her face. 


I ran from my sitting spot to help Chioma. To save her, or so I thought. Brethren, I was pummeled too. Before another slap could touch Chioma who was feigning unconsciousness so as to get away from Amaka's beating, I held Amaka's hand, and violently shoved her away. She fell down, and when she got up, she gave me Edge's spear, Randy's RKO, Roman Reigns' Superman Punch! I pretended to look for a bottle or something to fight with, then disappeared into a corner, watching the remainder of the match. 


Chioma was picked up and used to scatter the long line of buckets and gallons. Nobody coughed. Nobody interfered. And after Amaka was done, she placed her buckets in front of the line instead of behind. Nobody opposed.


Amaka has a long list of victims who had interfered and came out different or berating themselves for not minding their business. So when Obuko kept screaming into the phone, and silently crying for help from us, we couldn't utter a word. He knew if someone doesn't step in and take away Amaka's attention from him, he's set for some beating. 


“Tok to am o!" Obuko yelled again into the phone. He then passed the phone to Amaka and said: “Your senior broda wan tok to you.”


Amaka collected the phone with one hand, her other still holding tight to Obuko's trouser. "Wetin happen?! So if me and my boyfren dey fight, na you be the judge abi? As I deh respect you so, respect yourself. Abi you wan buy this wahala?!" She terminated the call and placed the phone inside her bra. 


I watched the horror on Obuko's face and did nothing. He was dragged back into his one-room apartment like a child while he was shouting “I go kee you o! Make una telam o! I go kee person o!”


We didn't hear the door being bolted as Obuko wouldn't stop shouting. He suddenly fell silent as sounds of "DOO! GBOOGOON! GOOM! KPA!" replaced his voice. It went on for 30 seconds before the door flew open, Obuko out with it. He didn't stay on the ground for a second before he ran away, following one of the many corridors in our face-me-i-face-you habitat.


The rest of us didn't want to continue from where Obuko stopped. We disappeared, faster than even Obuko. 


Two hours later, we stood close to Obuko and comforted him. He had ice pressed to one of his eyes, a stitch on his head, one each on either side of his cheek, a torn lip with dried blood. Tears flowed uncontrollably from his eyes. 


"If nor be say dem temme say make I nor dey beat woman," he said, still crying. 


The boys and I looked at each other and nodded in pity, then replied simultaneously, "we know, bros. We know."

Haha Ndi Amaka is funniest stuff I've seen in a very long time.

The morning began with Peter walking down the road, trying to whistle to a tune.


"Neighbour wey sabi," I whispered as I watched him with interest.


He seemed as self-amused as ever as he galloped down. As soon as he sprung into clearer view, I could see him shortly attempt to whistle and then erupt in a burst of muffled laughter that seemed self-mocking. No sooner had he stopped laughing than he resumed his effort. His mouth pushed forward and his lips formed a close 'O' as his chest heaved and sunk in futility. Rinse, repeat. Only pausing to catch his breath.
I tried to guess what was going on in his head; perhaps he'd found entertainment in his failed whistling attempts, maybe a new girl at the office had him excited, or perhaps it was just a Thursday--another day in Peter's life. Whatever it was, it had Peter sticking to script; I had seen this routine playout for the past few days. With very slight variations.
I indulged my thought process in many possibilities, and let it take me to absurd inferences. Self-aware and revelling in how the "wake-and-bake" was stretching my imagination on the subject.


I was perched behind an uncompleted building I'd discovered days back as Peter passed by. This spot was especially comfortable. Everything happened with a peaceful, predictable choreography/rhythm. Bird chirps echoed as lizards occasionally rustled and leapt, through the walls and onto the carpet grass laid out across most of the floor. Sited at a good distance from the road, it provided solitude from the noise and entropy everywhere else. I was completely shielded from the outside while simultaneously having an unrestricted view of the road. This made for a great place to smoke weed and engage my faculties in the early mornings, away from prying eyes, sensitive nostrils, and busybodies, or as I collectively call them; neighbours.




It happened fast. I must have been distracted by a lingering thought, as I autopiloted to light my quenched weed. But in a second I was jolted to the present by the sight of something amiss. Peter was on the ground with both his arms spread wide apart. Three strange figures towered over him and one seemed to be giving him a pat-down while Peter looked like he was writhing in pain.


It immediately registered to me that he just got robbed and was probably stabbed in the confrontation.


I upped out of hiding & made towards him as fast as I could, roaring "thief!" as I paced.
But I was too late. All three had dissolved into the corners before I was even halfway close.


I got to Peter and he was barely moving. His head was sitting in an unnatural position. A gaping wound on his throat was visible to the sun and the soil beneath the upper half of his body was drenched in blood. The slow jerky movement he initially had quickly eased to a halt as I stood there in shock.


And then I started shouting, looking left and right, moving from one spot to another, searching for any help, any vehicle to take us to a nearby hospital.
None was forthcoming. I got to the closest junction, saw a Police van some minutes after and I waved them down.


The policemen came and one observed Peter and pronounced him dead. This piece of news sent a bolt of grief down my spine. I wasn't left with ample time with which to register it before another policeman sent a slap to my face. A chubby one rushed to my back, bent my frozen hands behind and a metallic clink erupted, notifying me of the restriction of my hands. He ran his hands through my being and fished out a lighter, a halved bag of weed, a couple of Naira notes and my Nokia torchlight phone.


"Igbo smoker!" He said. "You done kill am abi?"


"Officer nor be me o!" I wailed.


"Shut up!" Yet another said, a slap accompanying the spittle he had sent to my face. "See igbo for your hand."


That was when I realized in horror that the weed was still in my hand. I dropped it and received a slap, then a couple of fingers forced it back into my palms.


"O your igbo! Ol am!" The chubby one behind me shouted, dishing out slaps to either of my exposed cheeks.


I tried my best to protect my face from their slap-trained palms, but it was useless. I looked at Peter on the ground, the Policemen hovering around me like sharks who had perceived blood and I knew my fate was sealed.


"See as your body dey smell igbo!" The officer continued. "Criminal! Where the tin wey you take shook am? Where am!"


"Officer na help i..."


Slaps, punches, and kicks rained on me then. I was at a loss. I tried to cry but the tears wouldn't come. I instead kept shouting for help that I knew wouldn't come until I couldn't. And when my body couldn't take the beating anymore, I passed out.


The next time I opened my eyes, I was being thrown into the back of the van and someone was saying "He kill am finish he wan pretend! God done catch am!"


My neck felt like a brick was placed on it, no matter what I did, I couldn't move it. I could taste the warmth and saltiness of blood in my saliva. I was numb. I drifted away.



#endpolicebrutality


© Jigs Lionheart

JigsawKillah please why did you stop posting. Your stories are amazing...

Jigsaw, going to keep reading. Post more or write your own book. God bless.

Therock5555:
JigsawKillah please why did you stop posting. Your stories are amazing...

I'll update this thread soon. Thanks for reading, champ!

purples25:
Jigsaw, going to keep reading. Post more or write your own book. God bless.

Purple! A sight for sore eyes! Thank you.
Hope you're holding your own?

JigsawKillah:


I'll update this thread soon. Thanks for reading, champ!



Purple! A sight for sore eyes! Thank you.
Hope you're holding your own?

Jigs I'm fine o. What's with laykorn? I can't get a chat with him. Hope you dudes from the poetry group don't have any grudge against me?

purples25:


Jigs I'm fine o. What's with laykorn? I can't get a chat with him. Hope you dudes from the poetry group don't have any grudge against me?

No, no grudges at all. Lol
It's been a long time since I heard from Lay. Last I heard from a friend, he's alright.

Cashier's Tale


"If I see you here again, you'll regret it! I don't have to tell you how much I mean it!" The man I'd known all my life as my father said to my mother, his finger dangling inches away from her eyes.

His lifeless voice left a black patch in my head for the next few years. In one minute, Mom and I were back in the streets. I was 13 and in my 2nd year in secondary school. Before this, there was talk of us traveling abroad to continue our lives, it was an exciting prospect. I saw Dad hit Mom, a resounding slap across her face, for the first time in my life, and the next morning, we were homeless. Dad apologized to me, said I would understand in time, that mom had hooked him with pregnancy, and my 2 sisters and I share different fathers, with the two girls belonging to him. I don't think I said anything but cried and told Daddy I didn't want another father.

But that was years ago.

27 years to be exact. The road hadn't been an easy one. Mom's idea of who my father was was a soft-spoken alcohol abuser, who said the meanest things in the calmest way possible.

"My boy, my boy," he said one night, rubbing my head, "your oil-less head." He pulled me closer, and I could smell the alcohol in his nostrils, hitting me like the punch of a boxer, but only didn't knock me out but left me dazed but I stood there. "You are a bastard. You have no luck. You inherited your mother's tardiness. How are you going to go up in the world with a brain like that? It is difficult for us who are men and smart, but you," he shook his head, "you're stupid, my son, stupid."

Another time, he saw me emerge from the bathroom and said, "I sometimes wish scrap pickers like kids. I could make some change off you, you know?"

Another time, he came in and met me on the floor, sleeping. He woke me up. Asked if I was well, I said yes. Inwardly, I was surprised by the change and thought maybe I have a father at last. He then asked if I'd eaten, and I said yes. Then he added, "Feeding you is akin to feeding a useless dog. It won't guard you, it won't play with you, it won't do anything with you but eat your food and defecate around the place. You're a useless dog, my boy."

Then in my 3rd month in his house, he came home one evening. Sat me down and said, "You're not needed. Never. Were never needed. Now, your stupid mother knew that but what did she do? Keep you, give you to someone else. Greedy pig. Now, you're an inconvenience. I wish you would die, you know, accidentally? I'm not going to kill you and won't desist from your upkeep because, in the end, you're my blood. But I wish something would happen to you, you know? Or just run. How about that? I didn't plan for this. So, just disappear from my life if you can. Please."

I made his wishes happen. I disappeared. Picked up my few clothes, and went to seek my mother. There wasn't a phone at the time, so I couldn't reach her. She had vacated her last known address and she had as much as dumped me with my father, whose apparent manliness made her cheat on her boyfriend and ruined the life of her son, and maybe her daughters.

That was 27 years ago.

Today, the door swung open, sending a chime vibrating through the spaces of the mall I'd come to work at for the better part of the past 5 years, and I raised my head from my cubicle to see who the newcomer was. A fair woman probably in her early twenties strolled in. Her blue jeans trouser was ripped on her thighs and her flannel shirt was loosely fitted and its arms folded, exposing her bracelets on one arm and a watch on the other. Her hair was tied into a ponytail, no makeup on her face, and her shiny eyes were the shiniest part of her face besides its glittering skin. She was in a rush, her eyes darting from one shelf to the other. In futility perhaps, because she finally looked my way.

"Where can I..." She trailed off, halting her movement for the first time.

I couldn't picture where I'd seen her prior. But she was familiar. She went white, like blood had suddenly evaporated from her body. "Madam?" I called.

She didn't move an inch and kept staring. I wondered if she'd turned to salt. I waved at her, "Ma?"

"Abel?" She asked.

I sighed. She speaks. Yes. Well, she knows my name, obviously she can read the name tag. Still didn't explain why she froze but that's her business.

"How can I be of assistance, madam?"

"Abel?"

"Yes, ma."

"I can't believe it's you!" She threw her hands up and clutched her chest. "It's you!"

I furrowed my brows, arced my head to one side, and pretended I was thinking. I looked at the tag on the right side of my shirt and then back at her. She seemed to catch on, her eyes widened.

"No," she said, "I'm not in any way referring to the name tag. I know you, that's what I mean."

"Yes, yes, people know me. I've been here for a handful of years."

"Oh, no, you're Abel! My brother!"

I tried to process the new information. My sisters, Martha and Ruth, which one of them could be this? Ruth was an infant the last time I'd seen her. "Ruth?" I asked.

"Yes!" She replied, clapping her hands joyously.

"Ruth?" I called again, unsure of her answer.

"Yes!" She repeated.

"Joseph the daydreamer!" My colleague's voice cut through my dream like a serrated sword. I raised my head from my cubicle to see the cleaner trudge past me, dragging her feet along the floor. She was so short I could see the center of her head from my sitting position. "Don't think of how you'll get married and start a family. Be shouting don't ever get married until your thing stops working."

I shook my head, put my palm through the button of my shirt, and caressed my shirt. Short people won't ruin my life, I thought. "Be calm, man. Be calm," I said to myself, straightening my collar. The shop remained empty. I looked at the time, a few minutes past 3 PM. Before the evening rush, I thought to go back to Dreamland. I adjusted my chair, put my legs on my desk, let my head fall on the top of the chair's backrest, and dreamed away.


© Jigs Lionheart

JigsawKillah:


No, no grudges at all. Lol
It's been a long time since I heard from Lay. Last I heard from a friend, he's alright.

Thanks.

Head-n-Heart


“Two briefs,” Endie said, panting, taking a second between words, “that’s what’s missing, ma.” If you had just walked into the shop at that minute, you would have thought she had just completed a 100m race and had chased Tobi Amusan’s record whilst trying to complete a task the simple task of taking stock of the underwear section of the small boutique.

“Thank you, Endie,” Mrs. Abotu said, seated on a chair on the side, and with a slight wave of a hand, dismissed her 15 years old sales worker and turned to face the other one who was twice the age of the small girl. “Start talking na, Johwo. Where did the briefs go?”

Johwo, a chubby 30 years old woman stood close to the entrance of the shop, her leggings looking like they’d rip off on her while the loosely fitted blouse on her seemed too tight. She intertwined her fingers as she spoke.

“Madam, truth to God, I never sell boxers since morning,” she said.

“I am not asking you if you sold. Where are they?” Mrs. Abotu asked.

“Truth to…”

“Shut up!” Mrs. Abotu said. “You Johwo! You…” and she caught herself, turned to Endie and sent her on a needless errand, and continued, “You don’t want to be wise? What’s wrong with you?”

“Madam…”

“You’re 30 for God’s sake! You have a child! I already overpay you! Endie is 15 and does the job better than you when I let her handle it. I don’t need you but I keep you anyway. What else do you want, Johwo?”

“Truth…”

“You’re mad!” She stood up and walked towards Johwo, “You’re mad. Johwo, you’re a fool! And you think I am a fool?! You think I didn’t count the things I’m selling because I buy them many? You don’t think I mind my business because I let you be present?! You’ll rather pay me back with evil despite all the good things I have done for you?! Answer me Johwo!”

“Nor vex, madam,” Johwo said, bending her knees for a second. “I know say you know book and you be graduate, but madam, you sure say you nor make mistake? I never sell boxers today, truth to God who made me.”

“STOP. LYING. JOHWO.”

“Truth to…”

Mrs. Abotu raised a hand as if to hit the other woman but it ended with just a raised hand, and Johwo flinched. She softened her voice. “Jesus. Stop lying. Clothes miss here all the time, and it only misses when you’re around. I don’t want to pursue you, you won’t get another job that will sufficiently take care of your daughter and you want to wreck it and go out of employment? Does it make sense, Johwo? Or do you think you have enough skill to land a job that pays you thirty thousand and weekly pocket money? What exactly is the color of your problem? You know what? Just go home. Think about everything, think about what I’ve done for you, if you have a good heart to, think about your daughter, think about the future, and think about what you want in life. After you’re done, sleep on your decisions. Come and tell me in the morning.”

“You mean make I go house?” Johwo asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, madam. Bye bye.” She grabbed her keys and her small purse, and walked out, sliding shut the door behind her. She knew Mrs. Abotu was watching her from the door, and she had intentionally closed it to make it easy for her.

She knew what happened, she knew where the briefs went, but she couldn’t tell the younger woman she’d learned to call Madam, because she deserved to be called one. The woman was right, she and Ufuoma would be nowhere without the job because she ensured she deducted the school fees from her salary and also ensured they had enough to get by. But love had left her powerless; powerless to repay the good deeds of her employer with at least some security for the goods she sold.

Papa Ufuoma had dragged her to the shop after closing hours yesterday evening and collected two briefs, making his usual empty promises, promises she knew he wouldn’t keep but she took them anyway without saying a word. The man had been more of a destroyer than a helper; impregnated her and left her to fend for herself and the unborn child. After the baby’s birth, it was heard that he’d drunk himself to a stupor whilst celebrating. Her friend, Mrs. Abotu had helped her out and had given her a job that fended for both mother and daughter Papa Ufuoma was being the biggest leech he could be and terrorizing her, and she seemed powerless to do anything about it. Or was it powerlessness or reluctance? She didn’t want to let him go, she knew was a good-for-nothing smiling handsome man with all her buttons, yet. She harbored a tiny fading hope of a turn-around. She didn’t need much from him, just to be responsible.

She had gone in for the night when she heard a light rap on the door. She knew who it was and had anticipated it. She pointed her phone torch at Ufuoma, who lay peacefully asleep on the soft mat she had bought a few months ago since it was a better alternative to the one they had been using. Satisfied, she tiptoed to the door, as quietly as she can, slid open the bolt, and opened the door.

“My J J!” Onos hailed.

“Shhhhhh!” She whispered desperately, a finger across her lips although she knew for certain that the other guy couldn’t see her face.

“Nor vex,” he whispered apologetically, “but I nor fit dey fear my pikin na.”

She turned for a moment, thankfully, Ufuoma didn’t stir. “You go go outside abeg. I wan sleep.”

He touched her hands and she shifted backward. “Wetin happen again?” she asked.

“I wan see my girl na. I nor fit come see my girl again?”

She went out, dragging him along, and backed the door. They continued in hush tones, “Why you dey do like say you nor know wetin you do yesterday?”

He grunted, “na yesterday matter you still dey talk? That one done pass na.”

The audacity, she thought. “You nor know the igbese you put me yesterday? You dey do like dirty pant there. You put me for trouble wey I go face today, you dey tell me say e done pass. Na wickedness be that, if you think say you fit put me for problem and I nor get right to talk about am the day e happen.”

“Small small, JJ,” he said, your voice done dey loud.

She cautioned herself, that raising her voice would be counterproductive. “If nor be say this woman kind, she for done sack me.”

“And so?”

She wanted to hit his head with a pestle but then he felt his breath on her skin, warm and hot. He didn’t give her a chance to warn him of his proximity, he kissed her on the side of her neck, and she felt everything bad she knew about him evaporated. She let out a slight moan and pushed his head closer. She tugged his pants and whispered “shhh”, and pulled him inside. She quietly bolted the door and collapsed on the bed alongside the man who had caught her fantasies all those years ago, the only man she had given her body, the man with whom she had felt secure, the father of her child, the man who was once the bringer of light to her dreams. She knew it was time to get rid of him, and she knew once again, she’d need the help of her friend, the one she call madam. With that in mind, she dipped her hand into his shorts and brought out his manhood, determined to give him her all one more time, and hopefully, for the last time.




© Jigs Lionheart