Today, I killed someone. His corpse still lay at my feet; with his blood splashed on the curtain and the door. I stood still and looked on. Mama too was lying in a similar state in the sitting room. It was such a sad moment.
It’s a really awful feeling when you kill someone. I felt like a devil in human skin. With this kind of feeling, I wonder how Hitler managed to kill six million Jews during the holocaust. I don’t think he has a heart. If Hitler doesn’t have a heart, then Josef Stalin was a beast when about thirty million people died due to his anti-citizen laws.
I stood still for a while, and then I began to shiver. I couldn’t believe what I just did. I knew I might never recover from it. It’s still unbelievable that I killed someone.
Let me tell you how it all started.
June 20, 2014.
The moonlight broke through the cloud filled skies and managed to remain visible as the cloud raced to the horizon. Soon the sky was clear and the moonlight filtered unhindered upon the city of Accra, Ghana. I was at the balcony of my house enjoying the cool June breeze as it soothed my face giving me a relieve identical to a thirsty caravan seeing an oasis. It was really a wonderful pleasure that I went inside and took a mat, and then I spread it on the marbled balcony floor to enjoy the breeze even in my sleep.
Tega woke me up. Blood was flowing from the edge of his mouth. His face looked pale and white like a ghost seeking revenge. Drawing out his hand, he began to say, “Retaliation”… continuously. I was rigid like a statue. Tega moved towards me. The blood from his mouth had now flooded his jaw. He kept on saying “Retaliation Retaliation Retaliation.”
I jerked awake. I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was rapid, like an athlete who just ran 100m race. I put my hands against my head, nightmare again.
That wasn’t the first time I would have that kind of nightmare. I had it almost every night with the ghost of Tega always saying ‘Retaliation.’ Even though I wasn’t responsible for Tega’s death, I ought to honour him because he took my death. Few friends can ever do what he did.
So that night, I broke the promise I made to Mama, I wrote. I switched on my Acer Laptop and I opened a new word document. The title was, “A friend like a god.” I wrote the article like a memoir. I started from Dr Adegbite and the Machismo assignment, and then I wrote how I was kidnapped by the Machismo and how I escaped. Sergeant Akingbola and his connection with the Machismo didn’t escape the article, so was the great night, the aftermath, when Tega took my place amongst the dead. I sent it to the editor of Punch Nigeria, with high hopes that it would be published. And for the first time in months, I had a nightmare-less sleep.
One thing still troubled my mind though. I had disobeyed the promise I made to Mama never to write again. After ‘the aftermath’, I ran to Mama, and explained everything to her. She like any mother saw to my protection and took me to Ghana, where one of her friend lives. I enrolled into Regent University College of science and technology with the promise that I would never write again. But keeping the promise didn’t stop Tega’s nightmares. I felt I owed Tega. The world needed to know he was an unsung hero. But little did I know that I was about to stir the hornet nest because Tega wasn’t ordinary like I thought. He was an Alora-Sealord… A buccaneer!
June 25, 2014
The Kapol sat on the one-seater cushion chair in his self-contain hostel, reading a Punch newspaper impatiently. After reading a few lines, his anger began to rise like a geyser, it raised more and more as he read. Impulsively, he clapped his hands, squeezing the newspaper in the process. Then he grabbed his cell phone, a Samsung galaxy IV, and called Whizzy.
Whizzy was the record keeper of the Machismo. He kept record of members, hits and monetary contributions of the members. He also had a spying network, which gets Intel for the cult, annexed to his office.
Whizzy didn’t waste time in coming, and was soon knocking at the Kapol’s door.
“Who is it,” a voice called from the room.
“It’s me Whizzy,”
The Kapol opened the door a bit, then he checked the visitor. Seeing that it was truly Whizzy, he opened the door wider. Whizzy entered.
“Kapol, I got your call telling me to bring the files of the year 2011. Hope there is no problem?” Whizzy asked as he settled down on the single bed in the room, stretching the file to the Kapol.
The Kapol snatched the file from him and started to open it with speed like he had limited time to get the Intel he was looking for.
“I think we might have poured water into acid, and to avoid the acid from splashing on our face, I must react,”
“What do you mean?”
The Kapol didn’t answer as he busied himself, searching through the file. A picture caught his eye. He stopped. Taking the picture and an identity card, he studied both clearly. Then he dropped them swearing,
“Shit… this means war.”
Whizzy was puzzled, “What do you mean by, ‘this means war’.”
The Kapol didn’t answer him as he started to dial a number on his phone.
“Dare,” he screamed into the phone’s transmitter, “come here now.” He dropped the phone on his bed, and moved to his wardrobe, searching for something inside. He soon found it- a semi-automatic pistol.
“Kapol, please enlighten me. I don’t understand this war thing. What—” his jaw dropped open seeing the pistol, “Please Kapol, don’t kill me… please…,” he begged, kneeling down.
The Kapol holstered the pistol on his waist, “It isn’t for you,” he said. The Kapol sat on the one-seater cushion chair.
“Dare has initiated a war,” the Kapol started, “and he won’t see the end of it. He deceived us all, and that deception is what will start this war,”
“Dare,” Whizzy uttered, “But he has risen to your assistant after the journalist hit. After that, he has continued to perform well,”
“That is the deception,” the Kapol snapped, regret veiled his voice. “Dare never killed the journalist, he killed someone else…”
“Here have a look,” the Kapol picked up the squeezed newspaper and handed it over to Whizzy. “Remember two years ago when the buccaneers almost fought with us, claiming that we killed their member, and we denied the claim since they had no evidence.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Dare didn’t kill that Journalist, he killed Tega, a buccaneer. And that goddamn journalist wrote it all here for the whole to see. Dare has disgraced us.”
“And you know the buccaneers’ now- its blood for blood. Th–”
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation.
“Who is it?” the Kapol barked, beckoning to Whizzy to check the door.
Whizzy stood up and opened the door a bit. Confirming it was indeed Dare, he opened it wider. Dare entered.
“Whizzy, excuse us,” the Kapol demanded. Whizzy left the room almost immediately and the door slammed shut.
“Kapol, you sent for me. Hope there is no problem?”
The Kapol was facing the wall with his back at Tega. Without turning his head around, the Kapol spoke.
“There is a problem. There has always been a problem, and that problem is you.”
The Kapol turned around, holding the pistol in his right hand, his second finger touching the trigger.
Dare began to shiver.
“Since I knew you, you have always caused problems. In was in your hands, that goddamn journalist escaped two years ago; it was still you who deceived us that he was killed; you didn’t stop there. You went ahead and killed a buccaneer, snapped his picture and lied to the Machismo that you’ve killed the journalist.”
The Kapol bent and picked up the DVD remote. After pressing few buttons, a heavy metallic music began to play. Dare began to tremble, trying to beg for his life.
“Em… it wasn’t so,” his voice shook as if it was affected by a quake, “I never intend to deceive. It was that Journalist. I swear. He was the one that deceived me. He—”
The Kapol interrupted, his voice louder that Dare’s, “All what you are saying are rants. You know it won’t save you.” he aimed the pistol to Dare’s head, “Like the buccaneers would say- let the devil that lead you guide you.” the Kapol handled the remote once more, and increased the music to the highest volume.
Dare eyeballs turned red. He knew it was the end. The gunshots blended with the music as the bullets pierced his skull. Air rushed into his brain. His eyes bulged like they would pop out of the socket. His tongue hardened and struck. He then fell to the ground, blood seeping out of his head.
The Kapol picked up his phone once more and called Whizzy. Whizzy soon entered. He was stunned.
“Kapol, wtf,” he paused; I should never question the Kapol’s actions.
“I want info on that Journalist. I want to know where he is now. I will personally lead the hit this time around. And beware; the buccaneers can storm at any time. Don’t go anywhere without a dagger and your pistol.”
To be continued…