I posted this story sometimes back, and someone (@kayceenj) asked an important question “What if it hadn’t been a dream?”. So I decided to give it a different ending. Hope you enjoy it.
You can read the original story here.
There is this popular belief that if a mad person bites you, you become mad instantly. I guess today I would know for certain.
The mad woman clung tightly to my left hand. She flashed her teeth and I knew she was about to sire me into madness. I dug my right hand into her hair and pulled with all my strength but she held on fast. I struggled frantically, kicking violently as her teeth sunk into the flesh on my wrist. The pain was deep and sharp. I screamed and wondered why nobody had stopped to help.
She extended her bite to another part of my hand, my upper arm region. She must have thought my hand was some peppered barbecue or drumsticks. I felt my skin crack, and I knew she had drawn blood with her second bite. I struggled to move her body off me as I jerked my knees up, and twisted the lower region of my body. She was now positioned across my upper section like a wrestler waiting for the referee to make the 1-2-3 count, only that this time, there was no referee, and her teeth were buried in my arm. She raised her head and I saw a drop of blood trickle down her lips, my blood. It was then it occurred to me that she might not be an ordinary madwoman. A certain Clifford Orji came to my mind and I wondered if this was how his victims felt just before he made dinner of them. If she wasn’t a cannibal, she might actually be something even worst, maybe a vampire.
She brought her head down again, and this time she came for my neck. In a flash of insane genius, spurred by fear of becoming a vampire or madwoman’s dinner, mixed with frustration, I attacked her in the manner in which she attacked me. It wasn’t palatable and I knew I must be at the verge of insanity. I numbed my taste bud and sunk my teeth into the dirty layer of rags that covered her neck. It didn’t work, it tasted like spoilt gala with urine flavour. I ignored the taste and the pain in my neck and bit deeper into the rag and hoped to leave a permanent mark, or even come away with a chunk of flesh. She gave out a painful shriek, sprang up and tumbled into the gutter. She stood again and ran away, back to wherever it was she came from.
I sat up on the floor, and I for the first time became aware that few people had gathered on the other side of the road and they had watched as I battled with the madwoman, and nobody raised a finger to help me. That is Lagosians for you, they can gather and look on even when somebody is dying. I inspected my arm and my wrist; the skin was red with deep sets of bite marks. I rubbed my neck and my hand came off wet with what must have been her saliva. As I sat on the edge of the gutter, I ruminated on what just happened to me and it dawned on me that I had just bitten a stark raving madwoman into submission. Doesn’t that qualify me for an award or special recognition? A madwoman biter. Does it then mean I am equally mad, or even far superior, since I defeated her? I sat there on the floor and laughed at myself, and all of the sick jokes my mind made of the whole scenario. Then I noticed the people that gathered on the other side of the road pointed their fingers at me. Some shook their head and others just watched. I laughed harder. I laughed at them and their chicken courage. A man amongst them shouted “Bobo yi ma ti ya were niyen” – this boy has ran mad- and I laughed at him too and his folly for thinking I was mad.