₦airaland Forum

My interest was immediately captured by the latest topic on the just-refreshed page. It read, 'Gone before noon: a list of young lives lost in electoral violence'.


I was on the third page of the thread before I realized I had to stop. Someone had painfully documented a list of promising youths whose lives had ended abruptly as they got caught up with one form of electoral violence or the other. The victims had met with varying degrees of horrible deaths: beheading, roasting, slitting of throats , gouging of eyes and outright dismemberment.


A particular case kept replaying itself in my mind, more for its sheer proximity than its heinousness. A young, ballot box-snatching man was hacked down by opposition party agents. His pay-masters had promised him absolute security (as promised Bayo) only to abandon him at the mercies of the merciless. His father said he was only recently admitted to the state university and urged no one to cry for him because he had chosen to die...


Bayo... God!


I don't want to lose him. I met him at the orientation camp and we had gotten along really fine since then. We've always believed the goal of establishing the NYSC has been fulfilled in us, if nothing else. We, that is, I, Bayo, his Igbo girlfriend Chioma and my Yoruba girlfriend Temi.


Bayo grew up in a poor home and was determined to change his family's fortunes. I've often advised him to take things easy. I'm not from a wealthy family, but I'm desperate to be rich. I believe in doing what I
have to do. At a point Bayo questioned my roots because, according to him, he has never met an Igbo man who isn't desperate for wealth.


As thoughts of that young man crept into my mind again, I decided to attempt talking Bayo out of his potentially fatal decision. He may not listen, but what have I got to lose by telling him?


Just then, a Facebook notification popped up on my screen. It was a message from Temi: "Boo...sorry for being the drama queen. Will you be home tomorrow?"

My pulse quickened. I grinned stupidly and rebuked myself for it. I should be in school tomorrow. Actually, I have a test to give my students. But I could always call in sick and stay back... I'm going to be sick, I think.

The popping sound of the notification came again. "Sugar...you there?"

''Yes. Sure, I'll be home tomorrow. "

"OK...be ready," she replied.

"Hmm...for what?"

"Shut up...zzz..."

"Haha. OK. Good night."

My hormones started celebrating the good news. I thought of Temi, of the last time, and imagined the next time. I sent her an offline message to come early and surrendered to the numbing powers of sleep.

^^
I'll be expectant.

^^
I'll try not to. And come with the hoe, I'm alright with it.

What happened to the quote button on the literature section?

*****
I was scrapping off the last bits of meat from the helpless chicken bone when a knock came on the door, followed by a familiar voice saying he's brought the fuel.

"OK, Ali. Thanks. I'll see you later." He scurried away.

After disposing the takeaway pack, I fueled the small generator and put on an R and B selection. I plugged in Bayo's phone, plugged in mine, switched on the data connection and opened the tabs on the opera mini in the usual order: nairaland, goal.com, facebook.

Nairaland's front page was as eclectic as usual: a bomb had exploded somewhere in the north, some obscure group had given the president an ultimatum to resign, a woman from Florida had married her dog while one of the numerous prophets in Nigeria has released yet another unsolicited --often attention-seeking -- prophecy.


I scrolled further down: a bored teenager with cheap internet data at her disposal was asking whether the sex she had in her dream could deflower her... I hurried over to check the uninteresting activities of the winter transfer window. Wenger was saying nothing about a new striker yet, banking on Giroud to bring in the goals. His headache!


On facebook, Temi was online but hadn't replied my offline message since yesterday. She probably won't, until I explain why my ex tagged me in her facebook update, "Old wines are tastier". I prayed she understands that I didn't solicit the tag and have no clue as to why she tagged me. But since faith without work is dead, I dropped a lifeless "Hello, bae" and switched over to nairaland.

Truth24 thanks for following.

The door clicked open and Bayo entered, clutching two takeaway packs, a triumphant smile hovering over his face. I looked from his beaming face to the takeaway packs, praying that one was not for his girlfriend (unless he wasn't hungry). He stopped a few yards from the mattress and spread his arms dramatically.


"No hello to daddy?" he mused.
I closed the novel I was reading . "Where have you been? Chioma has terrorised my phone since morning. "
"Well," he pulled out a plastic reading chair and sat, keeping the waterproof bags on the table. "I've been meeting with Alhaji..."
"You can't be serious!" I exploded. "What's wrong with your head? We should be rounding up NYSC next month and all you could think of is some silly political meetings?"
"I know. After NYSC, what next?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm planning for life after service, OK? I won't finish service and still rely on my parents for upkeep. No."
"And you believe the best way of preparing for life after service is by getting involved in electoral malpractice?" I asked, reaching for a plastic hand fan to ease the heat on my body.
"Emeka, nothing will happen to me. The agreement is just to look the other way when the party thugs come for the ballot boxes...no exchange of words, no blow. No greetings sef! "

"This is Nigerian politics, bro. It's not always what it seem."

"I know," he said, in that way that way that makes you picture a cul-de-sac. I even think I saw the beginning of a frown before he got up to hang his shirt in the wardrobe. I turned to my book.

"What did you tell Chioma when she called?" His tone was commanding rather than interrogatory. He has sensed the stiff air our little argument has brought into the room, the thinly veiled moral distance between us, and he wasn't ready to wave the olive branch yet.

"I told her you went for CDS," I answered absent-mindedly.

"My battery died." He sounded half-explanatory, half-apologetic. He was was buttoning a fresh, crisply-ironed shirt.

"Have you charged it?"

"Just 20 percent. I'll take the gallon on my way out and look for a boy to bring back fuel with it. You'll help me and charge the phone. I should go and see that small girl."

"Alright," I said. "Your apology would have been sweeter if you took a bath."

"Get out," he laughed. "My perfume should take care of that."

He walked to the door. "In case you're hungry," he pointed to the takeaway packs, "one's for you." He gave me a wink and left the room. I waited until his footsteps faded, then I closed the novel and went to the takeaway packs, deciding to check out both for the larger piece of meat.

No part of this work may be copied or reproduced without written permission from the author.


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Ok. And you seem to be a Gunner like me. All the best.

It's not about begging. Take care of it as promised and you'll get more readership and comments, which I believe we writers all pray for.

No hard feelings, my brother.

When you write, you create your own world. When you fail to draw a line between the real world and the ones you create, you tend to believe there's no God.

Would you be angry if I say I find your story annoying? I couldn't read all those abbreviations and text-speaks. If you want to be taken seriously, please try writing decently.

I was attracted by the title your story and wanted to read it but your diction shut me out.

ROSSIKE I like your post up there!

What happened to the 'quote button '?

I admire Chimamanda. However, there's really nothing new in her writeup. Reads more like a short story than an article. I love it though!