Qurantine Episodes by Festus Destiny - HTML preview

9. Her father was the first touched she felt. He taught her to stand at the edge of the road to attract the centre of attention. Her father was the first religion she believed in. The god she saw every evening. She worshipped the altar between his legs. Her tongue paid obeisance noon and dawn.

Her father was the first man she ever knew. He had imprinted himself on the scars on her thighs.

"Beautiful women are never hungry" He said. The only form of kindness she knew was pain. Every evening, even when the saints failed to match in, he didn't pass her by.

My father taught me that beautiful women are never hungry. I was three years old then and he had just finished his daily exercise of practising his martial art skills on my mother. This exercise was one sided. Only my father enjoyed it. My mother was usually left with swollen eyes and bloated

 cheeks. Some days she cried, other days the bruises took the colour of dark red that there was no need for tears to show her hurt. My father did not practise his exercise in the early hours of the day like normal men did. He did his exercise after work. In the evening. When the clouds would hide behind bright stars. When our brown skins would burn under the comfort of the moon. The pungent smell of alcohol and dirt would attach itself to the body of my father. Being a lawyer that he was, he turned every mistake into an offence and didn't stop punching my mother until justice was served. Some days it was because of two instead of three meats. Other days it was because she refused him money. One day after beating her he told me that my mother was the one at fault.

He said she didn't use the gift of God well. "Beautiful women are never hungry" he said. "If your mother really cared for this family, we wouldn't be hungry and he wouldn't be angry" he said. I was young. I believed him. My father's exercise grew stronger by the day. My mother hid it behind smiles and scarfs. When people noticed she was getting leaner, they blamed it on malaria. "Her husband is a lawyer" they said "So it's definitely not hunger. When they noticed that I had stopped going to school, they put the blame on the shoulders of pride. "They live as though they are exquisite. They must think the local schools are not doing enough for their child" they said. When my mother died, they all trooped into our house. They consoled my father. They didn't hide the pity when they looked at me. Unanswered question in their faces. "The doctor said it was an accident, she fell down the stairs. So many scars and blood. She must have suffered before God claimed her soul" they said. My father started to touch me when I was eleven. "Don't be like your mother.

Submit" He said. He was the first man that felt me everywhere. He taught me to stand at the edge of the road to attract the centre of attraction. I submitted. My father was the religion i believed in.

The insatiable god that I lived with. He taught me to worship the altar between his legs. He taught me to praise his groins with my tongue. Noon and Dawn. I submitted. My father was the first man that knew me. He imprinted himself on the scars on my things. The only form of kindness i knew was pain. Every Evening, even when the saints failed to March in, he didn't pass me by. I lived with my father till I was eighteen. I had lesser scars than my mother. "She looks like her mother.

A fine young woman." They said. I never gave him a chance to practice his martial art skills. Even when he enrolled me in school, In his absence I heard his words. "Own no relationship and submit only to me". I was a hermit. The recluse. I took the words of my father with me into the university.

In school, I missed his touch and his warmth. I walked on the thorns of my father's commands even when other men laid roses and bed sheets on their path. I ate the kernel her gave to me and i wore his burns. I never sought for the comfort in hands of others. It would be different. Never the same.

It would be wrong.

Festus Obehi Destiny.

Beautiful women are never hungry.

10. At dawn, they smoked marijuana. They allowed the smoke sleep longer before they puffed the ball of smoke in the air. Blood in their eyes, smoke in their lungs, they walked. At dawn, they talked. They exchanged looks and asked rhetorical question. The ghost of their quest kept them from asking questions they didn’t know the answer to. There were enough unanswered questions.

Their steps were burdened with their fate. They walked slowly. Glances fixed on the path in front of them. They stopped and exchanged glances, not with themselves but with the path ahead. ‘let me see it’. The leader demanded. He was a short man with uneven skin. He spoke with a hoarse voice. The second man shifted while the third man opened a bag. He opened it wide. The leader peered and saw the guns, he nodded. It showed he was content with the content. They turned in the next street and got into a peugot404. The colour had been given to rust and age and the once

golden blue was now a fading brown. They drove along a muddy path along a village. The houses had mostly mud thatched roof than bricks. There was no electricity and each hut had a kerosene lap. The water source was a river. The villagers took their bath, excreted and drank from the same river. The village appeared not to be on the map of the government constituency as the government had abandoned them. Each hut had a kerosene lamp. The men in the car drove along the muddy and uneven path, watching the grimace on the faces of the villagers, absorbing the heat from the car and squinting their noses from the odour of themselves. Indeed, it was a ugly picture. The three men in the car lived in the village. They graduated few years ago from one of the higher institutions in the country. Unemployment pierced their dreams. They claimed that lack of opportunities pushed them into armed robbery. Nobody knows if they were lazy, incompetent, or unlucky.

Perhaps it was just fate. They had been a team. Storming small shops with empty pistols. Robbing the poor of their money and happiness. They had never killed anyone. They stole money and left their victims with the memories. They all had kids and wives. Their spouses and spawns did not know the nature of their jobs. If they knew, they didn’t ask. There is something about poverty. It ropes its fangs around your lips. It breaks the weight of your logic. And finally, it snuffs out your morals. The men rode in the car, pursuing their lips to the song blaring on the radio. They nodded their head and smoked. The leader turned into a path that led out of the village. The air changed and the scent of wood and rust was replaced with flowers. The roads were smoother. The children went to school. There was no view to any of the houses because all houses had gates and huge dogs. The streets were paved with trees. The next turn that the driver took led him into a traffic congestion. He unrolled the windows and opened his mouth as the cool air enveloped the car. They all sighed. This was a world different from their world. The traffic held their cars for almost an hour. Ahead, the leader saw a checkpoint. They didn’t budge. They had passed through lots of checkpoint. If you give the right amount to the right person, you got a free pass. They drove slowly and glided towards the checkpoint. The leader was so confident in his ability to talk his way out of anything that he didn’t notice the different uniform.

‘Where to?’ the lawman demanded.

‘Nowhere in particular. We just want to hang out in a lounge’ he smiled. This was his usual routine.

Drawing the police into making him believe he was going to lounge. Going to a lounge meant he had money. Having money reminded the police of the meagre allowance that the government pays him. Meagre allowance locks the police integrity and makes him ask for morning breakfast.

Breakfast meant bribe. Bribe meant free pass. However, this lawman was different. The expression on his face didn’t twist into a smile. He held his gun firmly and the thief wondered if it was empty like his. A ploy to instil fear.

‘The lounge. At 6am?’ The lawman frowned.

‘Yep’ the leader replied. Trying hard not to expose his displeasure. The two men behind him maintained a bland expression. The lawman stared at them. They avoided his gaze. Sometimes the more you look, the more you see.

‘What is in the boot’ he broke away from his fixed stare

‘Sir?’ the leader faked a deaf

‘What is in the boot?’ the officer asked again

‘Nothing at all’ the leader stared at his watch and started talking frantically. ‘Officer. Is there any way we can settle this quick? I am late for an appointment.’ He opened his purse and picked his wallet. He appeared to be counting some notes.

‘I thought you said you were going to the lounge’

‘Yes. I am meeting someone at the lounge’

‘Bloody liar’ the lawman spat. ‘Open the Goddamn boot’. He hit the car with his gun and cocked it. Before the Leader could think of another plan, the lawman had started calling his fellow comrades. The cool breeze that was flowing in the car swam out as fear creped in. The lawmen asked them to come out of the car. They were asked to kneel down. The leader was called out and asked to open the boot of his old car. He fumbled with the keys. The lawman slapped him and collected the keys from his hands. They opened the boot. They found the guns. They danced. They laughed.

The lawman and his comrades asked the thieves to kneel down. They knelt from dawn to noon.

Afterwards, they were taken into the van of the lawmen. The leader was scared. His friends were.

They did not cry but the frown on their face had more colour than dark clouds. He knew that he was going to face trial in the law court. He would go to jail. He would be in prison for a long time.

He would not see his wife or children till the court pleases. He bent his head. After a while, the lawman opened the car. He sat on the passenger’s seat and turned to face the leader and his men.

‘So you were on your way to kill people. Bloody ritualist’ The lawman taunted. He got no reply and it pricked him. The men turned their heads and said nothing. ‘You don’t want to say anything abi? No remorse’. He shook his head. They heard noise outside. Gunshots and noises. They heard a command. First vague then clear and deliberate. ‘Bring them outside. Bring them outside!!!’

Feet shuffled and lips pursued. Fear reigned. The men thought the lawmen would feed them to the crowd and watched them lynched. Jungle justice. People had already started to gather at the scene.

They were peering through the window. Vacant eyes asking questions nobody knew the answers to. The door of the van was swing open. The lawman dragged the first thief outside. Before the leader could say Jack Robinson they emptied two bullet in his skull and four on his belly. Blood oozed and stained the yellow van with touches of red. Before the leader could stand up to take a second look, the second thief was dragged out. He tried to run away. His feet moved two steps before they emptied eight bullet in his back. Eight bullets. The leader counted. He was appalled.

He wondered if in the course of his robbing, he had missed an important presidential dictate. When did the lawmen become the law, judge and jury of life. He thought his sins had caught up with him and gaol was his punishment. He thought that banishment from the society was the fruit of his labour. He closed his eyes and wondered what the difference was between him and the lawmen?

Before he opened them, he was dragged outside. He didn’t open them when the lawman’s hand gripped his shoulders hand. He didn’t open them when the first bullet grazed his knees. Or when the second one kissed his intestines. He closed his eyes till life kissed him goodbye. At the end, the people who had watched dispersed slowly and quietly. A public execution without jury. They

murmured and whispered their grievances. No one wanted to share the same fate with the thieves.

Slowly they went home. And later they would tell the tale at night to their children. And when the story ends, they would all stare at the fireplace. Watching the wood cackle as the fire burnt.

Watching their lips pursue after their little food and empty plates. And since the lawmen weren’t around they would scream with a loud piercing voice ‘An Unjust law is no law at all’.

Written by Festus Obehi Destiny.

Whispers, 02/09/2019.

A man once asked me "What does the future hold for my country?”

I said "The hands of the future is empty and it holds nothing for my country"

In my country,

 Our soles have fewer holes than our souls.

Our faith authors our fate.

The poor eat dust, the rich bite bread.

We plead and throw stones, we receive bullets as answers.

When we complain, we are offered a soothing permanent silence.

Children have started counting bullets in the place of alphabets.

The church receives alms and take from the poor.

Politics is a siren and the masses swim in the pool of delusion. The poor pray at the altar of broken oaths.

Teenagers are buried under the sands of depression.

Girls misinterpret ecstasy for happiness. You can see them at Long Street at night, selling their womanhood to the highest bidder. They stand at the edge of attention and hope to attract the centre.

The throat of tradition is held underwater by the stiff neck of neo-colonialism.

Morality stands appalled as the youth fight injustice with the lens of their smartphones.

The women carry protruded bellies with empty wombs.

The men walk naked. They do not guard their phallus against sight. it hides in their brain.

In my country,

Our waist jingles to tunes of empty sounds.

Mediocrity is exalted and ignorance is the national anthem.

The eyes of justice are in the pockets of corruption.

So when you ask me about the future I want?. Do I laugh? Because the words to describe it has not yet been invented. How can I see what the future holds when the hands of present are empty?

Written by Festus, Obehi Destiny.

The empty hands of my future.

Festus Obehi Destiny is a student of English in the university of Lagos and an author of four short story project. He lives in Lagos and works as a freelance writer. Since his debut collection in 2019, Obehi has shown carefully showcased how literature has can be used to showcase the political, moral, and cultural issues that are prevalent in African societies. Bullet holes, written in 2019, is his first project.

Email; obehidestiny9991@gmail.com

Twitter; @hugsandeyes

Instagram; @hugsandeyes

Phone number; 09031894107