The 13-seater minibus danced roughly through Nelson Road. Somewhere in the backseat, a baby wailed as the bus back tyres entered a pothole making a loud thump. “Driver, abeg, take am easy,” the mother begged. 

“Madam, shey you no dey see this bad road? Abi you wan drive this motto?” the driver shouted back. 

Everyone held their breath and tightly held their belongings as some had begun to move haphazardly. Meanwhile, in the second seat beside a fair-skinned woman, he sat staring out the bus window. The mid-December morning breeze put his dreads in a fairly known dance and made his lips crack in the middle, but he was unbothered by it. 

“Mister, please close the window, it’s dusty.” The lady beside him beckoned. He had failed to notice her until now. 

“Eh!” 

“Please close the window; the dust is affecting my eyes.” He turned his head to face her as he could not move his whole body; his travel bag rested on his lap. Her eyes were somewhat red. 

“I’m sorry, Ma.” He spoke calmly, then turned back to the window and tried forced it close. It only went halfway. 

“Where are you headed?” she asked. 

He looked at her, but no words flew out of his lips. There was a ping from his phone, he pulled it out quickly and read the notification. Don’t come. My parents are staying over at the clan’s head’s place. He stared at the screen for what seemed like an hour before turning to the lady beside him, “My apologies, I am heading to my girlfriend’s family house. She invited me.” 

“Oh! Are you?” her eyes scanned his entire look, “Will you two get married?” 

“We will, eventually,” he replied. 

The bus had successfully meandered out of Nelson Road. He managed to sit still amidst 

The bus's jerky and unsteady movement. He was tapping lightly on his phone screen when the lady beside him stretched out a small container to his face. He looked at it and laughed, “Is that Vaseline?” 

“Take it jhoor, no woman likes a man with dry lips.” 

“Thank you,” he replied and took only a small portion of it and applied it lightly on his lips and rubbed the rest on his palms. “I’m headed for a wedding in Ndidem village.” she proceeded to say. He wanted to say, he was headed to the same village, but remembered he hated chatting in public buses, especially with someone he did not know. He was more concerned about the text message he had read a while ago, something different would have been fine. 

“My best friend is getting married to this handsome and rich Alhaji. Can you believe she was dating one poor moron like this in the city?” the lady continued talking. He tried to keep his face focused on the driver and the road ahead. They had till an hour before they were to arrive at their destination. 

Occasionally the lady tapped him while she continued her story of this mysterious man in the city her friend had been dating. He nodded once or twice to show he was listening and hoped she could focus on the other lady by her right who held her luggage and slept with her mouth open. As she explained further, this mysterious man began to feel familiar to him; a self-contained apartment in Calabar, a job at a Sandic hotel along the highway, beards like that of a bleating goat, a weekly stipend of three thousand naira to his girlfriend or nothing at all when things were hard. All these descriptions were strangely familiar. 

“We go soon arrive oh!” the bus driver alerted them. 

His palms suddenly became sweaty, his armpit too, and sweat trickled down his forehead. He took out his phone and dialled his girlfriend’s number and it rang out. He tried again and finally, she answered. “Babes, I’m almost at your place”, he started. He had expected an answer filled with surprise and excitement.  

The other end was silent for almost two minutes, before he asked with the worry on his face evident in his voice, “Babes?” 

“I told you not to worry, who said you should come?” 

“But you…” he was speechless for a second. She hung up leaving the rest of his sentence hanging in his dry throat. 

The fair lady turned to him, her eyes held genuine concern, “Did she say you shouldn’t come?” she asked. 

He sat silently, lost in thought; he knew their relationship had progressed. He recalled his girlfriend saying, "I am only staying at my village for a month," and then it became three months. For the first month, he had received only three calls from her and then nothing in the remaining two months. He remembered his brother telling him, “Edim, fear African women” when he had complained about their dwindling communication. He had suggested the visit, and she had initially agreed or so he thought. As he looked at the dusty roads, the lady beside him ogled him like a hawk watching its prey. He wondered if his girlfriend had thought he was joking when he said he had wanted to meet her family. 

The bus halted at a small park that only had three old-looking buses in sight. He searched his bag for the sheet of paper he had written the address of the hotel he was to lodge. Other passengers struggled to get off the bus with their things, making weird noises, and cursing here and there. 

“Here is the invitation card to the wedding. You can come. We need a handsome man with a beard like you there,” the fair lady chuckled. 

Reluctantly, he took the invitation card from her. Something struck him as he concentrated on the names on the card. The names written in a finely printed font style read, ‘Sandra Duke Udoh & Alhaji Mohammed Salaudeen’. His eyes popped wide open, and his jaw dropped as one that had suddenly seen a ghost. 

“Do you know them?” the fair lady’s voice was like a whisper before blackness swallowed him. 

"Do you truly believe the plagues can be stopped?" Asha had asked her mother, her eyes wide with wonder. Her mother had patted her head gently and replied, "Perhaps, my dear, but I might be onto something." That was the last time Asha had seen her mother. Sometimes, she could barely recall her mother's face until she looked at the drawings. 

The plagues were like dark shadows concealed in ominous, toxic clouds. They could expand at will and take various forms. Today, the sun blazed fiercely, and even the dusty winds left Asha's skin burning briefly. She peered through her binoculars, observing a sandstorm approaching, prompting her to mount her bike and speed away to escape it. Going beyond the walls would upset her father. 

Asha was born to the Tillmans, a distinct bloodline somehow capable of fighting the plagues and surviving. Their family had ruled for generations, protecting the people. It often felt as if victory was within reach, only to end in their relatives' deaths and the plagues growing stronger. With ease, Asha evaded the oncoming storm and made her way through a small gate on the south wall. Her childhood friend, Meera, closed the gate quickly behind her. "Your father has been searching for you," Meera said, watching Asha park her bike. 

"What is it about this time?" Asha scoffed, shaking out her thick locs. "Today is your induction, remember?" Meera shrugged. Her eyes scanned their surroundings before whispering, "Did you find what you were looking for?" 

Asha gave a quick nod and darted away, Meera following closely. They made their way back to the Fort towards the north side of the wall. As they climbed the stairs, they heard voices approaching and noticed two tall figures, Asha and Meera's fathers. 

"Where have you been, Asha?" her father raised his left eyebrow, waiting for an answer. 

"Just taking a stroll, Papa," Asha replied, restraining a smile. "I apologize." 

"Get ready. Everyone is waiting," he said, eyeing Asha's satchel briefly. He knew Asha was much like her mother—too curious. 

Meera waved briefly at her father, who smiled back at her before they went their separate ways. Meera's family also resided in the fort. Her father, Jacob, was a representative of the people and beloved by all because he was kind and a good listener. He was also a member of the council – a ruling body with five seats, four of which were occupied by Tillmans. The induction was an event for the Tillmans only. 

As they sat on Asha's bed, she revealed a small stone tablet from her satchel, about the size of her palm. She let her fingertips brush against the cold, rough surface as if trying to memorize every dip and crack. The inscriptions on it could only be read by a Tillman, and every child was taught how to decipher them. Asha had tried to teach Meera in secret when they were younger, but her father had forbidden it. That hadn't stopped her, and they had continued whenever possible. 

Asha stared at the tablet, turning it over in her hands until Meera took it from her. "What's wrong? What does it say?" Meera examined the inscriptions for a moment, her eyes widening. "Do you realize what this means?" 

Asha rushed to the door and shut it properly. "The plagues could have been stopped a long time ago," she said, an ominous shiver running down her spine. "Just relax, there might be more to this. It's incomplete." Meera pointed to the edge of the tablet, which was missing a crucial piece as the inscriptions stopped halfway. "Asha—" 

"Don't say anything," Asha got to her feet again. "Don't tell anyone. Pretend this never happened. I'll come to see you later." She opened her door, and Meera, though hurt, nodded before leaving the room. 

Alone, Asha crouched at the foot of her bed and sobbed. Her mother had held the missing piece of the tablet when she last saw her. "Only the end of my blood or balance," she had said. Her mother had been a staunch advocate of freeing their people, a passion they had shared until she was killed by the plagues. Suddenly, everything started to make sense. Each time they neared victory, the younger generation would die, forcing the remaining elders to remarry and continue the line. Sometimes, an elder on the council would suddenly pass away after transferring their responsibilities, maintaining the lineage's security with trusted members. According to the tablet, their ancestor had made a pact with an unknown spirit, gaining power in exchange for ruling and keeping everyone else trapped within the walls, believing the Tillmans were their saviours. Asha understood that her mother had discovered this and had been eliminated because she wasn't a true Tillman. They wanted to maintain their rule and conceal the truth. 

Asha was filled with despair, realizing that her father knew and had allowed them to kill her mother. A wave of uncontrollable rage washed over her, making her head spin. She sat, contemplating the cost of the nation's freedom. Death seemed to be the only way to end it all. Poisoning the ceremonial goblet they would all drink from during the induction was all it took. "Only the end of my blood or balance," Asha wheezed, closing her eyes as she thought about her mother one last time while everyone writhed on the floor. 

I am wearing a white dress. It is knee-length and strapless and exposes my cleavage just a little. Adorned with delicate floral patterns, it gently lets the breeze caress my skin. 

I bought it for you, you know. And I was waiting to wear it only for you. So you would look at me, saying my name with a passion and intensity that no one else can replicate, telling me how beautiful I am. Now that I think about it, I could have worn it on a regular morning before you stepped out for work, or on a Sunday after church when your brothers from the fellowship would gather in the house, cackling loudly at the items that made the news while pointing out the flaws of other unbelievers. 

I did not know what special moment I was waiting for, but I guessed I would know it when the time came. 

I know it now. I understand the time is now, Papa. 

When you can no longer say my name with the same passion and intensity as you used to. When you can no longer grope me while pulling me into your embrace. I know because you cannot beat your chest and claim with pride that I am your favourite girl child out of four others. I did not think this would be the special moment when I wear this white flowery dress, Papa. When you can no longer see me and grin with pride. But I know the time is right because I am happy. I can no longer hear your loud cackles across the room while you listen to politicians make silly comments on the radio. You will no longer look into my eyes and tell me to pursue a career in engineering because you had failed at doing so yourself. 

When Mama screamed my name from across the room and told me you had left us, I laughed hysterically. She thought I had lost it. I had. But how was I to explain to her that the only thing that was lost, in all gladness, was your hold over all of us, your subtle desire to be worshipped and your perceived superiority to everybody else? I wanted to hold her and tell her to wash her hair and apply all the make-up she wanted but could not because you had prevented her from doing so. I wanted to tell her that we could now live peacefully, because we did not have to fall over ourselves to please you. We did not have to swallow your words hook, line and sinker and act upon them even when we were all filled with despair. I wanted to embrace her – not like you did me – and tell her she did not have to be desperate for your approval. But I could not do or say any of that, Papa. Instead, I stopped laughing and sat at the edge of the bed where you lay, still exuding that air of pride, and touched your hands. This time they did not grip me like they usually do but like your heart, they were cold. 

Everyone looks at me with pity and whispers behind me, but I can hear all of them. They say I must feel wounded because I was closest to you. But I do not try to explain to them that it is good riddance because I know they must be thinking the same. Now that you are gone, I can almost feel the earth move beneath my feet when I walk; my heart no longer feels like it carries the weight of the world. When I breathe, I can almost taste the fresh air. But Papa, I wish you could hear some of the things your friends whisper now that you can no longer sit with them and cackle. They say that when you judge others who make mistakes at work or church, it is because your righteousness was the only standard and even Jesus could not please you. I heard your friend, Chike, say to the leader of your fellowship, that “his own idea of heaven was to make himself a god on earth”. I keep wondering if that heaven will exist beyond this place too. 

There are so many things I want to say to you, Papa, but they will come in here soon and carry your remains to be prepared for the final rites. We all get to say goodbye to you and not be afraid of your unending wrath. I see Emi, my older sister, smiles wider now, and her voice is more peaceful since your exit. Though no one wants to admit it, we are all at ease following your demise and are glad that we no longer have to hang a rope of righteousness around our necks. 

Papa, my first step to reclaiming myself is letting my hair fall behind my neck and enjoying the winds that massage my scalp. I know the ends of my wild hair would struggle to move along with the rhythm of the wind but for the first time in my life, I am ready to deal with it. I will buy a knee-length pink dress I saw in the boutique across the street where you never let us enter and wear it out on a date with myself. I know it will hug my non-existent features perfectly. 

I will wear black heels and embrace my femininity while I sway to the music in my head. I will give myself the chance to enjoy my own company and be open to that of others. I need to go, Papa. Tomorrow, I will have to coil with pain and appear wounded at your demise. And if I feel like it, I might allow a few teardrops to fall from my eyes and let my knees fall to the floor. But I know that after tomorrow, I will not be gripped by fear and uncertainty anymore. 

Salako could barely contain himself in the space given to him on the defendant’s side. One time, he had stood while the plaintiff spoke, and the judge had said with gritted teeth, “Sit, Mr Salako!” He sat, hissing. His eyes remained glued to the plaintiff’s lips, the way the words danced out of it, the way his mouth moved as he said, “Wicked, yeye man of God.” Another time, he stood, saying a long incantation, nearly falling from where he was, but the judge only made a dissatisfied face. 

“Do you have anything to say?” the judge turned to look at him with a stern gaze. 

“Your honour, that man is a liar,” his fingers pointed to the robust-looking plaintiff who had been accused of killing his wife, Mariama. “Your honour, I am innocent…” The court’s door opened, leaving the rest of his sentence lodged in his throat. “Your honour.” the prosecutor said, directing a young lady to the witness stand. “She can proceed," the judge replied... 

*** 

Salako came from poverty, the kind that made people shake their heads and say, "Tah! God forbid!" He was the only child of a cancer-stricken mother. “No matter our situation, son, live life as a Christian, and heaven would be yours.” Those were his mother's words. To him, heaven was to make those that rubbed mud on his face fall at his feet. His idea of heaven was to make himself a god on earth, so he built the biggest church along Eastern Highway when his first ritual money landed. Members trooped in like sand. He called it “The Perfect Miracle”. The compound was big enough to host two different clubs' matches. 

“Yekabooo!” The members would respond when he gave a long sermon about them sending 50% of their salaries to him. “Yekaboo” to them was for outstanding praise and worship. 

“Yekaboo!!” He would open his mouth so wide, as if to swallow flies, shaking as if possessed, then he’d proceed to say, “Fall, all ye mortal men”, and the whole church would be in an uproar of different cries with members falling from different angles like heaped bags. This was a pleasure to him, their strong faith. 

“Papa, have you received the transfer?” 

“Papa, my daughter will be coming to your office for her first blessing before she is married.” 

“Papa, I am yet to receive your handkerchief from last Sunday. I heard it cured Mama, this child...” all their humbled voices always made his day... 

*** 

The atmosphere in the court was tense for what seemed like hours before the witness spoke, “I am Ngozi, your honour.” Salako sank into his chair, his sweaty palms shaking. At that moment, Salako was forced to recall how the husband of Mariama had stormed into his office like a beast some months back. 

*** 

“Papa, my wife is pregnant.” His voice was broken. 

Salako had looked at him with a steady gaze and administered the “Yekaboo!!!” 

“No! I’ve had a vasectomy, Papa. She is a cheat,” the husband had been crouched on the floor, “Papa, your prayers will send her to where she belongs.” 

Salako's face had been as bland as water. How dare he stand there and not thank him for blessing his wife with a seed. 

“Where is she?” he had asked after a while. 

“Papa, I sent her packing.” 

*** 

Staring at the judge’s long face, he remembered Mariama walking into his office with her luggage the day after her husband visited, while he lay in bed with Ngozi, a member of his church. 

*** 

“Papa, how dare you betray me?” she screamed. “You said I was your woman, and you would marry me, regardless.” 

He had looked at Mariama with piercing eyes. Who was she to tell him what to do? 

“Get out! Filthy prostitute, leave before I call security.” 

Mariama had turned her head this way and that, confused, her mouth flung wide open, hands on her waist, “Emi, Pastor!” you call me a filthy prostitute? And ask me to get out? Hehe you have not seen something, I will expose you today,” she snapped her hands twice before storming to his cabinet. 

Like a flash, Salako was up from the bed, the blanket falling to the ground, exposing his manhood. He succeeded in pushing Mariama to the ground to keep her from exposing the power that controlled his members. “How had she known of his secret cabinet?’ he wondered. Without thinking, he tried locking it. Somehow, Mariama had found her way to her feet and began pounding her fist hard against his back. She had finally pushed him to the ground and opened the small cabinet. The head of a woman sat there, underneath it, a white paper that read, “Mariama's head is next.” 

“I found this earlier this morning when I came here,” her voice was shaky, “I have given so much to you, and now you betray me and want to use me as your sacrifice to grow your church,” her voice broke in tears. 

He had managed to get up from the ground and pulled a gun from his wardrobe in the minutes she was talking, "I am only sending you to where you belong, it’s your husband's request," and he pulled the trigger, “You will not be the devil in my ministry.” 

*** 

“Your honour, I will tell you all that I know,” Ngozi's voice brought him back to the present. 

“Your honour, Papa, I mean Mr Salako is a very sweet man, he cannot have murdered Mariama; he can barely hurt a fly.” 

Salako watched the plaintiff rise to his feet. “Ngozi! Ngozi! This is madness. What has he offered you?” 

“Sit!” The judge yelled. In the heat of the moment, Salako wondered how Ngozi had managed to leave the room that day unnoticed. She must have been terrified. 

“Did he shoot the woman?” the judge proceeded to ask. 

“No, your honour.” 

Salako heaved a sigh of relief. Last night's credit of five million Naira to her account had done the job. 

Every morning, on her way to school, Aina would wait outside the gates for her father. She had grown accustomed to having this slice of time as her ‘quiet time’, and there was something intimate about studying the world – the mundaneness of the people that walked past, men in starched-out shirts, women in skirts too slim, children in uniform eating hot puff-puff. Recently, the Buka across the street had bought a small dog. Aina could not tell if it was a big-sized puppy with a case of malnourishment or a grown dog stunted from malnourishment. The dog was chained to a small iron pole. At first, it had growled at passers-by and gnawed at the iron restricting its freedom, but these days, it sat with a mellowness Aina didn’t quite understand. But she watched it watch people too, its head resting against the iron pole. Aina could not tell why her fascination with watching the people had shifted to this dog. Maybe it was the curiosity of how its brain functioned; was it the same as hers? But sometimes, when the dog’s eyes met hers, it gave her what she knew was called a bombastic side-eye. But like most things in her life, Aina grew bored of it. Every morning, as she waited for her father to look for something he had lost because he always did – a tie, the left leg of a shoe, his glasses – she and the dog will stand opposite each other, watching people walk by. 

Her father was always in a rush. The minute he stepped out, looking prepped for work in his well-starched shirt, usually oversized for his skinny frame, and tucked into his endlessly long trousers, he would grab her hand with one of his, and use the other to scroll through the news on his phone. “Did you hear what happened at the Senate today?” He would ask. There was always a question he would ask, to which she would respond with a shake of her head, prompting him to share the latest news with her. Her mother had told him off about this habit of his before, but he had said, “She should know the kind of world she is growing in. There is no use sugarcoating it for her, is there?” And so, Aina now knew the different kinds of murder; manslaughter, genocide, and homicide. She was aware of the insecurities in the North, where refugee camps that had home for some. She had learned about politicians with an unquenchable appetite for wealth, and with pockets as deep as abysses they filled with the country’s wealth. “One person,” her father would often say. “We need one person to change things. That’s all.” And he always, always ended it with, “We say democracy granted us freedom, but we are chained.” However, Aina couldn’t help but wonder, will that one person who sparks change live to lead the nation? Or would their tea be poisoned, or their car targeted in an assassination attempt?  

The dog’s ear perked up as someone threw a piece of Akara its way. It devoured it in a single gulp, its long tongue sweeping over its mouth, its gaze fixed in the direction the person had taken, hopeful eyes lingering on the man’s retreating form. The Buka made a variety of meals every day, but Aina had only ever seen the dog eat at night once, one night when she walked out with her mother to blend pepper. She watched it stare into the shop, the steam from the hot food rising in the air, its throat bopping, a whining sound escaping its lips as it tried to move, but the chains held it back. Aina didn’t hear her father as he appeared by her side. He was angry this morning. He couldn’t find the documents he had brought home the night before, and he could have sworn that his wife had taken it to force him to leave her some money for food. “No freedom to even breathe in my own house,” he grumbled as he tugged his daughter forward. “Papa,” Aina began, glancing at the dog, “what is the cost of freeing…someone?” Her father was confused. “What?” “Freedom,” she repeated. The word didn’t ‘taste’ English. It felt foreign, and she didn’t know why. “If you want to buy it, what is the cost?” 

Her father’s face cracked with a smile before bursting into laughter. Aina hadn’t intended it as a joke, and as far as her understanding went, one can pay the price for anything in the country, they just had to have enough money. “My dear, some types of freedom are expensive,” her father finally replied. He held his phone with his other hand, perusing the news. “Very expensive.” “But what if someone has lots of money?” Aina asked. “Can our house be a home for a freed dog, perhaps?” Her father had laughed again. “But you always said everything had a price.” Aina was frustrated. She was grown, she could understand the news he read to her. “Yes.” “So, if you want to be free, what’s your price?” Her father smiled at her this time. “It’s not that easy.” Why? Aina wanted to ask, but he tugged her hand forward as he crossed the street.  

This morning, the dog was unmoving. Flies descended upon it, and it didn’t shake them off like it usually did. One of the workers in the Buka checked on it, and she backed away as if shocked. Aina watched as she unlatched the chain holding the dog to the iron pole, and she went back inside and didn’t come back out. Aina stared at the dog. It didn’t run away. Her father was taking extra-long to come out. Aina sat on the concrete slab at the edge of the gutter, her eyes on the dog, its chains already removed, its body still unmoving.  

The knife’s sway. 

Its graceful dance. 

The familiar gush of a red liquid.  

The urge to gag heightened, and as she had done with each public execution, she stomached it. Giving a heavy sigh and a tight squeeze of her eyelids, she heard the loud thump of the body, as it touched the ground. Sniffles. Wails. Curses in their mother tongue, one that the white intruders couldn’t begin to understand. Thick growls. All expressing the deep anguish and despair the villagers had been experiencing for years.

Opening her eyes, Eseosa clenched her teeth, her gaze fixed on the pale-faced man who had slaughtered her kin. He let out an arrogant laugh. Who did think he was? A god? Simply because he wielded that fire-spewing tool with such ease? She rolled her eyes as she watched him slightly touch the heavy piece of metal stapled to his waist. Now that Alpha Teju was gone, who’d be next? Who would try to defy the authority of these men? These intruders? The men in the community were weakened and the women were worse. She rubbed the dagger hidden behind her waist fabric. It was the last thing her father held before he was killed with it. Oh, how he had wielded the small but heavy knife, swerving his body so gracefully in each battle, with the powerful dagger thrusting and unthrusting. How she wished she could wield that knife the way he could. But her methods were too rough. Inelegant. The Ida blade was to be treated with respect in each use. She might have been a woman, but her father always told her she had the heart of a man. And a man could wield a dagger the right way.

“Aargh!” A voice screamed from the crowd. All eyes turned and an old woman came into view. She threw herself on the ground and lamented at the sight of the dead man. Alpha Temi’s Mother. The Queen of the kingdom. “You have taken one more of us!” She cried. “May our God, Yahweh quicken your journey to the grave!” Regardless of the pleas of the people for her to stay silent, she kept cursing and screaming. Pulling herself from their grip, she held unto the leg of the executioner. Blast! The machine that spits fire sounded. The crying abruptly ceased as life left her body. A pool of blood was seen around her. Immediately, a number of the intruders came with whips, striking and chasing who didn’t leave the execution centre. As she ran, she contemplated. What would be the cost of her people’s freedom? She gritted her teeth and tightly gripped her dagger. Death must be the only way to end it all.… 

The night was cold and eerie. It probably knew of her mission. With fire torches situated at each corner, the intruder camp lay amidst the bushes. With each step, she wondered about what she was about to do. What was she actually doing? Murdering a man clearly more experienced? Who did she think she was to try such? What could she possibly do that was different from the men who had tried to revolt? Now she wished she had family to stop her. But the same white intruders were responsible for her not having any. Mama would have cried till she changed her mind. Sister Efe would have locked her in the house. Papa would have gone with her. Eseosa scurried towards the camp gate, bravery and fear rising in her chest, as she held her dagger. She must seek the vengeance that have eluded her people. She would kill just one today, preferably the one seething with arrogance from earlier. Her current issue was breeching the gate. As she paced back and forth, carefully weighing the options for leaping over without risking injury from the jagged iron shards above, she caught the faint rustling sound and swiftly redirected her attention. With haste, she sought refuge behind a nearby bush, her smile stretched wide. It was as though Yahweh had finally heard the cries of her people. She watched as the same man from earlier walked out of the gate, as though he didn’t want to be seen leaving. She pressed herself further into the bush as he tiptoed towards it. “Stupid people!” He groaned in his language as he unzipped his trousers. “I can’t even take a piss without sneaking out. Savages should stay savages. Why revolt when you can just be dumb and useful?” He groaned again and bent his head backwards. Eseosa, oblivious to his words, smiled as he relieved himself, his length directly in front of her. It didn’t matter that his urine was splattering her face. What mattered was how close her dagger was to her palm. Clean and smooth, she said to herself, taking a deep breath. “Aaahhh!” The man screamed with widened eyes. The sight of blood gushing out and an empty area was nothing compared to the sight of a grinning savage hidden in the bushes, squatting. How come he hadn’t seen her? Before he knew, she leaped out of the bush and lunged further, the both of them crashing on the ground. Her clean slice was a good distraction as he howled over the pain, giving her free access to his chest. Screaming energetically, she plunged the heavy dagger right into his chest, dragged it towards his neck and grinned as his blood splattered on her face.

No one had ever killed an intruder. There were attempts, but no one had been successful. Somehow, they were always caught. Their defence was always strong and more advanced. So her tale that she had killed one was marvelling. As encouraged men ran towards the intruder camp with daggers, torches and a sense of hope, Eseosa ran with them, ready for the greater war ahead.

If you ask anyone about the lady who lives in the fourth flat at the back of Number 4 Olasikan Street, each person will tell you a different story. 

Pastor “Fire Fire” will make a pronouncement stating that she is not a virtuous woman. He will quote the book of Proverbs, or Corinthians, to remind you that the Lord and the Apostles are on his side. Sweat will pour down his face as he decrees and declares that she is now alone as a punishment from God for not honouring her husband. If you are a lady, he will admonish you to not get carried away by those stupid Western ideologies. He will remind you to always obey your husband. Not love, not respect, obey. 

The old ladies who gather under the mango tree in front of Pastor Fire Fire’s church will say that she is a witch. They will say that she wakes up in the middle of the night, adorned in black, and weeps into the night sky, yearning for more children that her womb can consume. If you're a lady, they will use her as a cautionary tale. They will warn you to try and “settle down” as soon as possible. They will emphasize that you need to give birth to all your children now before your blood dries up while reminding you that any husband is better than no husband, and your true worth is attached to your husband’s. They will say nothing about his worth. 

The women who own the shops littered around Olasikan Street will say that she is a man. They will say that she wears bright blue overalls like the men in the Dangote Industries ad you see on TV. They will say she sneaks out of her house every morning before the break of dawn and joins all the other men clad in blue overalls to fight for a bus at the bus stop. They will ponder why a woman who had a husband at home would opt for a ‘man’s job’. They will ask when she has time to satisfy her husband since she comes back home so late. Some of them will say that her job was probably the reason her husband started to beat her. The women will all agree. If you're a lady, they will also use her as a cautionary tale. They will remind you to keep your husband satisfied lest you invoke his anger. To them, the husband can do no wrong. 

The men who watch football at the beer parlour will say that she is wayward. They will say that she is proud and wicked. They will say that the small money she earns is the reason she could go and report her husband to the police after he simply ‘corrected her bad behaviour’. They will assert that the rubbish those wayward girls taught her while she was at university is what motivated her to take her husband to court and throw him in jail. Then they will begin to mourn. They will mourn the day their fallen comrade ever met this daughter of Jezebel who ‘ruined’ his life. They will mourn the bottles of imported beer they no longer consumed now that the friend who used to pay for them was languishing in Kirikiri jail. They will not question where the friend, who had not had a job in years, was getting the money from. After all, of what concern is the source of the money to their potbellies? If you are a lady, you should know the drill by now. And the men, they are the worst of the lot. They will advise you on everything: from how to honour your husband to sexual positions, and even how to properly manage your period, leaving you stunned at the audacity of these men. 

If you decide to talk to the lady who lives in the fourth flat at the back of Number 4, Olasikan Street about who she is, her surprise will be evident as she would have seen you going around the street talking to everyone. She would be eager to hear everything they had to say. She will sit down with you on her day off from work and continue to laugh as she listens to the latest range of stories that the street folk had to say about her. And then, she will start to speak. She will start with Pastor Fire Fire. The way his hands liked to stray during his deliverance sessions, the second family he is hiding in Ijebu-Ode, and the fact that he tries to sleep with every person in skirts he comes across. She will smirk as she asks you to cast your mind to the multitude of kids running around the neighbourhood that shared his oblong head. 

Then she will tell you how the old ladies had ignored her screams, and the women blamed her for her misfortunes. How they all turned their eyes away from the black eyes and bruises. She will tell you about the two pregnancies she had miscarried due to the violence. How she had started hiding money in her shoes when her husband started to sneak into her purse late at night. She will tell you about the moment she realized she could not continue to live like that. The court trial and the look on her husband's face when he realized he was going to Kirikiri. She will tell you everything. 

As for the men, she was not bothered about them. Shebi, they had come here before, and small hot water had sent them scampering like flies. And Pastor Fire Fire? Don’t worry. The last time he brought his useless penis near her, she had almost succeeded in cutting it off. If he tries again, she will make sure not to miss this time. 

She is not ready to leave Olasikan Street. It may not seem like it but women who hate you and men who fear you make for a very peaceful existence. 

And then, she will smile. 

There were three things he stayed away from: alcohol, hard drugs, and most importantly, women. He had seen what the fairer sex had done to men he knew — important men, intelligent men and sane men. The first was his father. The man he looked up to and had thought was the next best thing after life. A mere woman had reduced him to tears, causing him to sway on his feet during the daytime, lost in a drunken stupor. The woman was not his mother. Even after these years, he could still recall her name: Kamilah. This wasn’t by choice, but because his father would mutter her name in the dead of the night, he would plead her name to the highest heaven and call her numerous times. Kamilah was an Egyptian beauty who had broken his heart and left it tattered; his old man never recovered. 

The second time he had seen women work their claws was at his best friend; the guy was a genius for crying out loud. You know, the guy who skipped three classes in primary school and graduated from university at eighteen? Those kinds of people. The person he had fallen for had been his student. 

“This has to end. She is using you,” he had pleaded, but his friend had to learn the hard way. He bought a car for her, paid her siblings’ way through school, and furnished an apartment and a shop for her. It made him almost doubt his friend’s sanity; apparently, love can make a man go mad after all. 

The day of reckoning came when she waltzed into his office, having met someone from the same tribe as hers in Nigeria. She handed her wedding card to his friend in front of his colleagues, inviting them all to the wedding. 

“But I thought you guys were dating.” A young lecturer asked, pointing to the girl and my friend. The girl had laughed, tilting her head back like he had said something outrageously funny. 

“I’m an Igbo girl. My father will never accept a white man,” she said, answering his question, but her gaze locked on his friend, and she turned her eyes to the young lecturer. “By the way, we have broken up. Don’t forget to come to my wedding.” 

She waved at them and walked away, but his friend sat there, mouth agape and hand still clutching the wedding card. He was at loss for words.  

The third time had cemented his resolve. The third person was an uncle. He had married a beautiful Ethiopian woman years ago, and he still recalled attending the wedding. Auntie Abeba had been younger unnaturally beautiful; they had been a couple that he had looked up to. A couple that made him dream that maybe, just maybe, true love existed. Everything came crashing down when his mother called. She called him every morning to chat. The poor woman had been left lonely after his father’s death; she usually told him the gist pervading the family. 

“Son,” she started, her voice booming with mischief. “There is something going on in the family.” 

Old age made his mother younger at heart, and her tone was always filled with playfulness. 

“Tell me,” he said back to her, curiosity etched in his tone. 

“You know Auntie Abeba, the one with skin like a shrivelled coconut?” 

His mother wasn’t a fan of African women, which was understandable considering what had ruined her marriage. Then again, he would beg to differ. 

“That Abeba, she has reached her limit.” His mother dragged on; this was the way she spoke. To cut a long story short, Auntie Abeba had engaged in numerous affairs during the marriage. None of his uncle’s three children were his. The last born was already a certified doctor, as was his biological child from his first marriage. This made him conclude that the fear of Women is the beginning of Wisdom. Especially those African ones. They will turn your heads upside down, and didn’t many biblical characters people fall because of women? – Solomon, David, and Samson – he could go on and on, and he wasn’t even religious. 

They could wield their beauty like a sword; they preferred to be called the softer sex. It was all manipulation. How many men had he seen succumb to their feats? He had lost count. It was as if the women brought those other two vices; his father had succumbed to alcohol, and his friend wasted away on hard drugs. 

So why was he sitting on a messy bed in an unfamiliar room with and the smell of a woman’s perfume clinging to him? 

Flashes of memories assaulted him, none more pleasant than the others. He remembered sitting down to have a drink with his colleagues as they assailed him with jokes about his virginity. 

Everything was a blur; there had been lots of drinking. There had been girls too, especially this girl. She was a black beauty with luscious lips and legs that could go for miles. She had was younger. Too young, he now saw. 

“I can make you happy, sir,” she had purred, tongue in teeth, sidling up and touching his lap sensually. 

“What’s your name?” he remembered asking, his head pounding with vehemence. There seemed to be a party up there.  

She hesitated, then smiled. 

“Aisosa,” she muttered. “But that’s not important.” 

He cursed himself vehemently at his stupidity as he got up from the bed in a bid to escape. He paused and followed her to the bathroom; the door was slightly ajar. He saw her on her knees, holding a red feather string tied to something that looked suspiciously like a condom. David’s blood went cold. He knew black magic when he saw one.