The next morning, things were fairly normal, because surprisingly, no-one had discovered him yet. I arose to the familiar, musty smell of sleep sweat-coated male bodies. When the whistle, the usual morning wake up call, tore through our eardrums for a moment I felt that the night before hadn’t happened. But I was born too knowing and the sand dry mouth, the humming in my temples told me otherwise. Soldiers padded about barefoot, nicking their rough feet on stories from the previous night. My uniform shirt had dried and there were no incriminating stains on the brown khaki. I did my best to avoid Emmanuel and Obi, despite us sharing sleeping quarters. We did not look at each other, as if we knew the thing we did would be mirrored in our faces.
I went to breakfast. The cook was in his usual dirty green vest serving hot akamoo, stale bread and butter.
“Oya, oya, don’t waste time,” he said shoving our plates into our hands as we formed winding queues.
By afternoon, it felt like only a matter of time, and so it was. I had already picked up on officers querying soldier Mohamed’s absence. I noticed the buttons on my uniform jacket looked red, or maybe they were always red and somehow I had missed it. My uniform felt too tight. During our training drill, the sergeant had to shout an order to me four times because I didn’t hear the first three despite standing nose to nose. A confusion settled in my brain. And then late afternoon, the news of a dead soldier came from a sergeant and with it, the order of the day scattered. A hum rippled through the barracks, and the soldiers separated into packs, only to be assembled before higher-ranking sergeants who poked and prodded us for more information. We were told in a wide, dark room, our bodies crammed in like sardines in a can, that we were our brothers’ keeper. To have our eyes and ears open, report anything unusual. Standing there, in the room, the continuous drone of a large grey portable fan was the backing track to the senior officer’s voice. He stood lecturing us at the front with his dirty collar and rumpled uniform. How he expected anybody to take him seriously looking that shabby is a miracle. The men were coiled strings attempting to stand still, but shifting from one foot to another, their unease obvious in their tight shoulders, low grumblings and weary looks. I caught the tail end of rushed conversations. How could this happen right under everybody’s noses? One of us? Was he made an example of? How was it nobody had seen anything? Or did somebody just look away? We were warned that whoever was responsible would be caught and punished severely. A shudder ran through me. I spotted Obi and Emmanuel near the front row, their backs straight. If backs could be read, you would never be able to tell what they were guilty of. In that moment, I felt reassured; maybe they knew something I didn’t. By this point, most of the soldiers began to get even more restless; you could see it in their glances towards the doorway. Eventually we were dismissed with the reassurance anybody holding information could go and see a higher-ranking officer privately.
It is such a terrible thing, the death of the young.
Today I received a gift from General Akhatar, wrapped in old, yellowed newspaper. I sat on my bed looking at it for several minutes before opening it, somehow daunted by what would lay within. I removed the layers of newspaper to find a brass head in perfect condition. It is a beautiful piece, life-like with its proud, defiant expression. I am guessing that it is quite ancient, a collector’s prize. In his brief note that came with it, which amounts to two lines, the General writes that it is his favourite piece. I have no idea why he has chosen to give it to me in addition to what will be done. I know a good man would not accept this gift, but life is not so simple and I am not necessarily a bad man for taking it. I will keep this brass head because I am selfish. I want it. I will not mention it to Emmanuel and Obi. I can write a version of the truth, so I will say that for a long time I will not have to worry about money and that the terrible night binds all four of us together; me, Obi, Emmanuel and the General. I will live with myself because I can and because I have to. I cannot undo what has already been done. Still, information I would rather not know has begun to circulate through the barracks. People say that Mohamed was a good soldier, a quiet man who mostly kept to himself, that he had a pregnant girlfriend waiting for him back home. And that his mother had been reluctant for him to join the army. Things that paint a picture you try to look away from. Now more than ever I avoid going to our prayer room, though I should. I am frightened that the blue-eyed Jesus’s head will snap and roll on the floor before my feet, that I will have to be carried out of there. I will send some of my tainted money to my father. It will make him happy, the irony being if he found out where it came from, he would be disgusted. This is why I want to share some of it with him, so he can unwittingly spend my burden. People will let you down; I have been feeding on this slab of truth since childhood. As I grew, it grew. It is still excreting its blood stained bits under my fingernails.
Throw For Loop
Filo was gradually turning to stone before the dismissive eyes of the palace, after their words that had been knives to her skin, driving her to check her body for cuts, had finished their assault. Her skin began to thicken into impenetrable layers of shame and loss. Now the laughter behind her back bounced off and the pitiful glances slipped through her fingers like tiny grains of sand. She still mourned the loss of her children, child after child and suffered all the heartbreak that came with it. She resented the role she occupied in the palace of the damaged, troubled wife. Even the Oba had completely lost interest. Then Omotole had become pregnant, and she could not find it within herself to pretend to be happy. Her blood ran cold in the punishing heat for no reason, and the other wives looked at her as if questioning why she could not pull happiness from inside herself and dangle it before them. It was selfish of her not to share in their joy. But when she thought of this all she saw was her gunk-filled hand, drenched in slime clutching the remains of her battered womb. So her heart had hardened, lodged within her chest, a fortress trapped within a fortress.
Meanwhile Oba Odion refused to step in. He did nothing to help his forgotten wife. He caught distorted, miniature reflections of himself in her black pupils and believed it to be an attempt to suck him in. So he would skulk away, his face in a scowl, mouth disapprovingly grim. Filo’s anger grew. It was then that Filo realised waiting for one person to breathe life into you with guilt-soaked breath could break you, just a little, each day.