The morning my brother died, the sun was bright and beautiful, a total contrast to the event at hand. I stared at the book he tore as I woke up with anger and pain in my heart, at the same time I felt sorry for him, I knew he was trying to channel the pain of losing his dog towards and my silence tortured him inside, my brother had a morning ritual, he woke up with a loud bang! My father bought him our deafness, he would wake up every weekend and blast his speakers so loud, when he finally decides to come out, he would run down the stairs like a stampede of wild buffaloes, straight to the kitchen to harass the chef, and remind her how horrible a cook she was. That morning was the last time the chef was going to hear her early morning weekend rant, as my brother slipped from the staircase and died, by the time we found him, his head could spin around like a bird 360 degrees, his tongue was white and his eyes folded in, my mum swooned with shock on sight, my dad looked up at the gold ceilings of our cathedral-like house and whispered to himself, my sister sat on the staircase lost, it was like I was a director filming this Oscar winning performance from my family, I watched their reaction and look over at the dead body of my brother and thought what a short life, sat on the foot of the staircase between my sister and my parents and watch the pain and agony they were going through, I didn’t know if I was to pretend like I was sad or just be myself.
The chef was a nice woman, she had been with us for years, she fed me all my life, cooked different continental and international dishes in her power, being the asshole my brother was, he always saw the need to mess with the weak like he did me, and she took in all in good faith, once he put a rat in a pot she wanted to use for cooking, the woman freaked out and ran away from work for two weeks, I am not even going to lie, it was funny as hell, but all the same, that was just a part of the constant torture my brother put her through.
On the day my brother died, she looked at me with a strangeness that was so piercing, like she could see my heart and soul, she knew something was wrong, I didn’t react the way I should have reacted when your own blood dies, her eyes pierced me so much, I felt like a vampire in sunlight, I got up from the place and walked up the stairs, my hands on the railings sliding gently and our eyes were locked in a battle of master and slave, she knew something was wrong somewhere, in the next hour the ambulance came and wheeled my brother’s lifeless body away, my mother pulled the stretcher as she tore herself in pain and screamed so loudly like she had just been raped, my father sat on his grand chair, made of gold and the best Italian leather, he watched them wheel out his flesh and blood, I was at the top of the stairs at this time sitting and watching from a bird’s eye vantage point, suddenly the chef started walking up the stairs. I always thought I had the bird’s eye view overseeing and watching everyone in the house studying and analyzing my family members, the chef was my blind spot. It never occurred to me to take note of her, most of the time I felt pity for her due to the way my brother treated her, but she was a professional. My father always compensated her with enough to shut her up.
She climbed towards me, my heart was beating like a bass drum in a march past, she looked at me sternly and said “Thank you” as she placed a ceramic coated ball in my hands and walked back downstairs.
I was shocked! Perplexed, how did she know? My perfect accident wasn’t so perfect after all, I got up and ran into my room to think and salvage the situation, to know my next step, the chef had discovered that I murdered by brother.
There was a little mistake in my plan that lead to a fatal outcome, my brother always wakes up first because after he gets hungry from smoking marijuana the night before, the chef takes out the trash every night before she retires to her chambers, I was pretty sure that I checked the trash can in the kitchen I saw that it was empty before I went up stairs to the top of the stairs and left little ceramic balls on the top the staircase, stole a necklace from my mother’s box, some cream necklace made out of ceramic coated balls, very retro, common in the 1950’s, the chef didn’t see me with the necklace as I waltz passed her, so I thought, I cut it and spread the balls on the floor of the staircase. The next morning, very early I heard the rumbling sound of someone falling down the staircase, sounded like a drum rolling down a hill, every dump was a dose of euphoria for me. I grabbed my pillow in excitement knowing that the animal had taken the fall, it was thirty minutes later that I heard the screams of my mother.
I could not look at the chef face to face for days; I saw her talking to the police man and glancing sparingly towards me at the same time. My mind was turning in confusion like a driver losing control of his vehicle, couldn’t sleep all night, thinking of what to do, should I go talk to her and find out her stance? Or just kill her instead? But If I killed her, what had she told the police? Then I heard a knock on my door, I opened and it was the chef, she tied a wrapper round her chest, she was short, had thick arms and a pretty face “Edward, may I come in?” still in shock I let her in like she hypnotized me, walked towards my bed and sat down “don’t worry, I didn’t tell the police anything, your secret is safe with me” I didn’t know if that was some kind of mind game to get me to admit to the murder or make me comfortable around her, she looked up at my ceiling and down again as she rubbed the tip of her wrapper, I was standing at the door, my heart in my mouth, like I was watching a man about to be guillotined “Your brother deserved what he got you know, he used to rape me!” she burst into tears as she blurred that out, I felt sorry for her, didn’t know If i was to go hug her or tell her everything will be alright. I stood there by the door, my back rested on the polished Mansonia wood, as my sweaty palms greased through the door handle, I just felt like running out of my skin, she suddenly got up, cleaned her face and looked at me “Thank you, once again, for saving me” then she moved closer to me and switched personalities like schizophrenic patient “You murderer! I demand you give me a sum of 500,000naira every month or to the police I go, she suddenly switched back to calm self ”am sorry but I need the money” she switched back again, ”I am very sure your stupid dog of a father has lots of naira notes, you are lucky i am just asking for a piece and not the whole pie” my heart stopped at that moment, she brushed me off the door, looked back as she held the handle and said “you are the only man who hasn’t had me in this house, you are probably gay or you didn’t inherit the animalism in your father” she wiped a tear off her round reddish cheek and stormed down the stairs to her chambers, I stood there in shock.
My Father knew something was wrong somewhere, his instinct pricked him so much, there was something fishy going in his house. Three weeks after his son’s death, now his chef died through an explosion in the kitchen, two accidents in a month, something had to be wrong, he brought in a pastor, who prayed and prayed, cast and bind, loose and broke every evil yoke in the house, as my mother went into spiritual masturbation I stood and watched them like I was watching Mount Zion movie, it was most amusing, I know you probably hate me by now, but the chef had to go. Her death was imminent.
It was a cool Sunday afternoon, My parents went to church, that Sunday I called in sick so they left me at home. Our old drunkard of a security man had passed out with a bottle of rum and I gave to him the night before, I was very sure he was stone cold drunk. The chef came to knock on my door to remind me about our “Agreement” which was due at the end of month, I had a better plan for her, I watched her go into her room, then I moved swiftly to the kitchen and removed the gas pipe from the cylinder, turned off the stew that was on fire, so she would have to light a match that will make an instant intimate connection with the fire. When the explosion happened I was in the garden with my rabbits, after ten minutes I was sure that she would have been totally barbequed, so I called the fire service, before the whole house caught fire.
This one I was proud off, clean, looked like a total accident or death of carelessness. My father in the popular Nigerian fashion thought his enemies from the village were after him, he beefed up the security in the house, fired the old annoying geezer finally! and employed bodyguards for each of us, they followed us around like the presidential aids, my sister on the other loved the idea of the body guards around her, made her feel like the princess of our pseudo Osarome empire. I, Edward had taken a new path. I was the emissary of pain and death, I read many cold case files featuring accidental deaths which turned out to be murders and became a little passionate about it, ok maybe too much.
I was bored, my body itched for some action, it was like an addiction, taking a life gave a high that was unexplainable, and also the fact that I could get away with it was euphoric.
My mum was a wreck, emotionally, physically all the joy and glamour in her life was gone after my brother’s death, she never really got over him, I often looked her in pity, she wanted to be dead, she couldn’t bear the loss of her son, I wanted to give myself a reason to kill again, end the pain my mum was going through and send her to a much better place away from the suffering and pain, away from the claws of the bitter cold, away to the arms and warmth of the heavens where she belonged, It was my call not God’s to send her forth to eternal bliss and happiness. During the wee hours of the morning I walked into her room, and reminisced on the past, her beauty in retrospect, looked over at her chest of drawers and flashed back to the times it was adorned with expensive perfumes, jewelry, it was like a cave of lost treasure, now it was dusty and empty, my mother laid there on her bed, her hands on her chest, her face facing the ceiling like an Egyptian mummy, the perfect position for me to send her forth, I was convinced in my heart that this was destiny, like she knew I was giving her a gift, a way out, so I took the extra pillow, full of feathers, soft and white, placed it over head and suffocated, to my surprise, my mother didn’t struggle too much, her passage to heaven was quick and sharp, then she opened her eyes one last time and smiled at me, I smiled back and I knew everything was going to be alright now, she had to go to her resting place, I pressed the pillow over her head again to make sure she was dead, there she was dead, her body frozen, lifeless, she looked at peace, I felt good inside, I was sat by her side and smiled at her, I just had another dose of taking a life, it was euphoric, not just any life, my mother’s life, I took life from the person who gave it to me, that was the peak, I passed my hands through my hair in pleasure and took a deep breath.
Suddenly! I heard something drop and break! I looked up sharply and saw my sister standing, the bowl of custard broken on floor, her hands covering her mouth in shock and disbelief, she just witnessed a murder, her brother suffocating her mother. I looked at her like what I did didn’t mean anything, got up and walked towards her, gripped with fear she ran out of the room, I chased after liked a cheetah. Number one rule of Edward Osarume: leave no witnesses. She got to the foot of staircase, threw herself on the floor and started begging for her life, like a slave in the colonial times, her life was in my hands, I was a god at that moment; I had the power to give and take a life, my sister’s life, “Eddy! Please don’t do this; I swear I won’t tell anyone! I swear eddy please!! I swear! she burst into hysterically tears. I didn’t believe in cold blood killings, I prefer the untraceable, bloodless technical approach, no blood no clue. This time, I had to use force, as I walked towards my sister; I picked up a trailing golf stick on the corridor that my father had carelessly left on the floor. I walked towards her slowly as she begged and begged for her life, as a cheating wife caught by her husband would, I prepared myself to hit her, when I felt a huge whack on the back of my head.
I woke up in the clinical section of a psychiatric ward, to my left was a bottle of tranquilizer, I looked down to my feet, it was in chains like a slave to be taken to a plantation in the west indies, they thought I was mad, I questioned myself, because I killed a couple of people the thought me mad? Seriously? I decided to play along and act mad, my back felt stiff, like it hadn’t been greased of years, I decided to get up on my back when I saw my father and my sister staring at through the window of the hospital, like I was an animal in the zoo, I saw so much fear in the eyes of my family, especially my father, he couldn’t believe his own son would grow up to be a killer. I looked my dad and smiled at him, he hit the glass of the unit with so much anger and pain and it sparked some reaction in me. It made me happy to see him so angry and depressed, my sister stood there with him, blank and in disbelief, it angered me to see her alive, I had to kill her, it’s a score I had to settle, even it was the last I did, I have to wipeout the Osarome’s sad excuse for a family, we had to be an example for the world and everyone that hears about our story. it was my God given calling, to use blood and sacrifice to rid the world of hate, though harsh and bloody, people will finally see the need to love and show affection, see it as a rationale or anything, they just have to go.
My father made sure I got a life sentence to stay locked and chained in the mental home, might have to take a break soon from telling this story, I see the high beams of my father’s head lamps, will be back soon with the ending.