A COLD WALK HOME

A COLD WALK HOME

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Well, here you come. Tired and hunched forward under the weight of stress and a persistent headache. It is only 10:30 at night, and it has been a very long day. From signing up your course forms to sitting for hours in the clinic where you were assigned to have your x-ray done. You managed to get five out of seventeen courses signed. 

Two of your lecturers are dead.

The virus got them. But you know it wasn't a virus. You know that whatever got those men was looking for you. It was the same reason you were shipped from Abuja to Ibadan; to escape whatever it was pulled out of a private university where you were studying Medicine. Now you study Micro-biology in the University of Ibadan.

Late Dr. Rotimi was your father's friend. He was to keep a keen eye on you. The son of a Nigerian politician could never be safe. If your father had his way, he'd have sent you abroad. But that's too late now. The airports nationwide are clogged with angry youths, protesting in snarls and brandishing placards. They have had enough of the daily massacre, the pouring of fellow youths blood as libation in every tarred streets.

The thought of all these pulls at the strands of hair on your skin. This is much anticipated since you are all alone, walking down Heritage park to the gate. 11:00. There is a slim chance you'd get a cab. The thunder is rolling behind you. Apart from this, everywhere is black and dead in silence.

Until the death of Rotimi, you have looked forward to socializing with new people every day. You are very much taken to photography and football. 

There are many beautiful ladies you'd like to wink the camera light at. Believe me, every woman loves a photographer. And every boy adores a deft athlete. Being young and swashbuckling pumps your blood with this eerie kind of joy, even though your father had warned you to be wary.

Your father is new in the game of politics, so he is a bit as good as gold. He just belongs to the wrong party, who were out to get his hands dirty. You are the first son. The heir to his, a good deal of wealth. The one, he told the happenings in the Assembly and his views after dinner. You were his confessor. You knew the secrets his enemies wanted. He cannot let them get to you.

Your father. You wonder about him. Is he still safe? How does he sleep? But he has told you countless time not to worry. Dr. Rotimi will be your guardian and relay messages across to you. Well, Dr. Rotimi was dead now. And you are certain that whatever got him was coming for you. 

You can hear the footsteps.

They are crushing against granite. You are not alone. Who was it? 

You walk a bit faster. Don't panic, your mind tells you in your daddy's voice. The footsteps grow in pace. 

Faster. 

Louder. 

You break into a jog and stop abruptly, as if too shy to show anxiety. What if it is a girl who was lost and needed your help? When you glance back, you see your company copying your previous move. It is dark, but you can see the huge frame and prance is unladylike. He is closing down on you. There is something sharp and shiny in his hand.

You walk. You walk…faster. Not only that, but you dash off in a speed of lightning.

The shadow curses and the footsteps come rushing loud and clear. Your eyes are wide, lips parted. Your heels are barely hitting the ground. He is chasing you hotly. You can hear him panting. 

“Stop, or I'd shoot!” he barks

Your heart is pounding, sending heavy lumps to your throat.

Well, look at you; all tired and scared. I wonder if you would make it to the first gate alive.

-IFY FRANCIS

        

                  The Black Dialogue

LITTLE BLACK BIRD

The white eagle has rested on the Everest's crest.

Its fluttering wings have roamed the depth

of that blue-roof above.

Hear as it shrieks aloud ragingly, like a stormy wave.

 

But mother bird,

When will my tiny wings mount the Kilimanjaro

and my drony chirping from far, be heard?

When will my blackness, in the space, glow?

 

 

MOTHER BIRD

Little black bird!

Despise the screams of that white eagle,

coming afar off; from behind the sea,

though it scares and boggles like a roar in the jungle.

Like a mourner, do not become shattered

because of that plunderer in holy raiment.

Its filthy claws birthed my wings' ailment

Then; when I was blind and could not see

My little black bird!

Can you espy that big black bird,

winging beyond the blue-roof's depth?

That's you!

When your wings are fully grown

and your infancy, thoroughly gone.

Little black bird, that's you!

When you will glide higher, higher beyond Everest's top

with your blackness—your strength

and seal the white eagle's flop.

-Owoeye Tobiloba Moses