MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'

THE MIGRANT

WELCOME TO CHAPTER ONE OF THE MIGRANT

PLEASE FOLLOW THE LINK TO READ THE PROLOGUE

An African teenager chasing after a dog with a slipper in its mouth, cursing good-naturedly. A curvy woman with a full bosom, an ample cleavage visible to entice customers, hawking oranges and tangerines, swaying her hips to the whistling melody emanating from her lips. The local mosque alive with chants from devoted barefooted Islamic brethren. The jangling of the worn-out public pump and the clanging of metal pails as neighborhood folks gathered to fetch water.

This would have been the ideal Friday. But no. Not today. I bit my nails nervously as I resumed reality.

I needed some distraction from the surrounding atmosphere of doom and gloom. So I searched for something, anything. As if by cue, a small indigo bird perched on a haggard, harmattan-subdued branch outside my house, and chirped, oblivious to the amalgam of distant sporadic gunshots, smoky air of ominous apprehension fueled by the beastliness of beasts that looked like men, and the overpowering stench of helpless uncertainty. The lean dry twigs reminded me of my wrinkle-faced, hunched, bald grandfather and the makeshift chewing sticks he snapped off the hedges that fenced his big clay house. Once upon a time, while spending afterschool holidays with him, I had asked why he didn’t use a toothbrush like regular people. He had replied by saying regular people with toothbrushes were less healthy and that civilization would be the death of us all.  Papi Oldskool, a nickname he got for his eccentric traditional views, was dead now. Perhaps it was for the best as I was unsure a nonagenarian a few years away from one hundred would have the fortitude to endure the events out there.  Suddenly, my room’s door burst open pierced my ears, restoring me to the present, insensitively jerking me off memory lane and planting me on reality. The suddenness and the craziness outside made me and fear one. My heart skipped a beat. Before spinning around to find out the instigator, I noticed that the little feathery creature on the twig had disappeared. The face that met mine was familiar and I heaved a sigh of relief, even though the lean, fragile looking man in traditional danshiki was clearly agitated. It was Mohammed, father’s close friend.

‘You startled me,’ I scowled. ‘Where’s Father?’ I asked.

Mohammed ignored the question. He seemed to sag under the weight of his attire. His eyes appeared to have retreated even deeper into their sockets as he stared through me for some seconds.

‘Have you gathered your things? Remember you are travelling light.’

‘Yes but –’

‘Let’s go. Time is of the essence,’ he interjected.

I was not a kid. I was twenty and very much aware of the recurring tension and adjoining bloodshed wrought by the religious extremists in Jos. So the word urgent couldn’t be stressed any further. But I was going nowhere until he answered the question I had asked him a couple of times before I was told to get my belongings. ‘Answer or leave without me,’ I uttered.

Something loud boomed and I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to stick to my resolve if Mohammed decided to leave me. But would he? After all, Muslim friends did betray their Christian counterparts. I told myself I was being silly. Mohammed was family.

He muttered some words in Hausa, clapped his hands in a manner I had come to associate with frustration, before saying, ‘Please Francis, I’ll tell you in the car. Let’s go. I can tell you for sure he is not coming here. And that he wouldn’t forgive me if I let any harm come to you.’

I had detected subtle tremors in his voice. Something was off. A lump rose in my throat but I obliged all the same.

The potent smell of scorched tyres and what eerily smelt like burning human hair permeated my nose as we approached Mohammed’s car. It reminded me of my grandfather. How hares and grasscutters smelled when he placed them over kerosene-induced naked flames to facilitate the shearing process. I shuddered at the thought of humans being treated as rabbits or grasscutters, roasted alive in an inferno that was once their homes. A bilious feeling settled in the depths of my belly as the possibility of father being one of the victims of the inferno found its way to my mind.

‘Get into the car.’ I looked at Mohammed. His eyes darted here and there nervously as he slammed shut the door to the driver’s seat. ‘You belong to this drama group in university, right?’ He asked, turning the ignition, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

The relevance of this question to the tensed atmosphere befuddled me but I answered nonetheless. ‘Yes, but I don’t see the point.’

‘You are going to act now. Your life may very well depend on it.’ The car had begun rolling onwards. The streets of our estate were deserted. I caught a glimpse of a lady peeking through her window at us. She probably thought we were mad to be taking such a risk. ‘There is a roadblock upfront manned by some extremists. You see that look of frustration, pity and sadness written all over your face? Get rid of it. If anyone of them asks you a question about your parents, say you are my son.’

Mohammed could actually have easily passed as a relation of mine, and I knew a few of the dialect to get by so the act should have a potent effect. However, there was a flaw to this plan. ‘And what if one of them recognizes me?’ I asked.

‘Then we are both dead.’

The car zoomed further and in a few minutes we drew closer to the roadblock. It was right in front of the entrance that allowed access into the estate. There were two heaps of burning tyres, with a pathway between the ruffians, just enough to fit a car. I couldn’t help but wonder how they could cope with all that heat. Their noble cause had sucked out all the common sense in them, I reckoned.

My heart was racing now as our automobile stopped a meter from four scary-looking guys: turbaned men in tattered clothes, wielding machetes. Manic excitement flashed from their eyes. My hands gripped my thighs, trembling with trepidation. Mohammed pushed the automated button that instigated the glasses to shrink to a level that would allow a face in. One of them walked up to us, brandishing his weapon with gusto. I forced the lines of my face into a state of indifference. Mohammed drummed the dashboard with his fingers nervously. At this rate, he was going to give us up.

The man was grinning as he settled his cutlass on the top of our car. Up close, I noticed that he was missing a few teeth and that his attire had fresh blood stains. He looked and smelt like death. Feigning indifference to this became even harder but I held myself together. ‘Banasaren ko Musulmi?’ He interrogated; the question directed to Mohammed. I knew enough of the language to know that meant Christian or Muslim?

‘Allah sarki,’ Mohammed answered jovially without mincing words although I noticed that his hands were now gripping on the steering wheel as if his life depended on it. I prayed silently that he didn’t notice Mohammed’s hands. He had just proclaimed his affinity to Islam. I hoped the scary extremist would drop the questioning and let us through.

But he didn’t. He asked the same question from me, his eyes seemed as if they could see through my facade and into the depths of truth lurking in the shadows of my soul. For a split of a second, I considered telling this man, who wielded the sword that could decide life or death for me, the truth as I wasn’t sure I could pull off this lie. Perhaps my death would be swift, and not long and agonizing, if I was truthful. But what would he do to Mohammed for aiding me. The truth would be betrayal of the highest rank. My only chance at survival, and I sure as hell wasn’t ready to die, was to act the role and hope to God that I was deft at lying or that I was giving the man too much credit at playing detective. ‘Ɗan’uwana, Allah ya sa maka albarka saboda aiki ba,’ which meant he was doing a good job.

He was too easily pleased, thank goodness. ‘Mun bukaci da fid da banasaren dabbobi.’ This meant that Christians had to be exterminated. Grinning from ear to ear, he turned to his men-at-arms and signaled them to let us through. As the car rolled through the opening, I felt like I had betrayed Christianity like Judas did Jesus. But immense relief also flooded my entire being for being alive. Mohammed said nothing as the car gained speed. And then I remembered father. ‘Mohammed, where’s he?’

Mohammed sighed deeply. His eyes appeared to be staring into some abyss. A knot tightened in the pit of my stomach. Whatever emanated from his mouth now was bound to be bad news. Now, I wasn’t so sure I wanted an answer to that question. But he spoke nonetheless: ‘I’m sorry Francis. The factory was burnt down. There were no survivors. Your Dad was in there.’

My head felt feathery light and my neck didn’t seem to have the will to hold it in place. As if by response to stimuli, my hands flew to my head and held it in place. ‘Stop the car, please’ I pleaded.

My father’s friend didn’t decelerate the automobile not to mention stopping. ‘I don’t think that’s a wise idea,’ he replied calmly.

‘Stop the fucking car!’ I yelled.

He pulled over. I got out of the car and sank to my knees, on the sandy twigs by the roadside. And I sobbed. I remembered losing my mother to a ghastly road accident. I wept. The memory of my dad resorting to the bottom of an alcoholic bottle for weeks struck. I cried. And now the only close thing to me had been taking away by powerful, murderous idiots trying to prove a point. Our vacation to the UK was supposed to begin today. Vengeful rage overwhelmed me but cowardice, or helplessness or perhaps self-preservation took over a few minutes later. I screamed. I cursed God, sobbing some more. I was a man but there was nothing I could do about my situation. Eventually I got on my feet and returned to the car. Mohammed drove on for the rest of the journey in silence. I didn’t say anything either, allowing my tears to cascade freely.

Kreate is a budding Nigerian writer with a flair for fiction. Writing for him began sometime in secondary school where he dabbled in poetry and plays. He has authored two self-published short novels.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.