“Aminu Akanni, you are a danger to women, a menace in decent society and a disgrace to humanity. I hereby sentence you to twenty years imprisonment without option of fine.”
Cell 12 in Block B of Kirikiri Maximum Security Prison was a sixteen-by-sixteen misery chamber saturated with the stench of dried piss and stale vomit. It was also my home and will remain so for the nine years, ten months, four weeks and three days left on my sentence. Five comrades and I demolished kulikuli and garri soaked in coconut water delivered by a warder for eight times the actual cost. Every two seconds, they accused me of fetching too much garri. The mixture of smells from a faulty soakaway under the open window was forgotten. As we ate, we discussed tomorrow’s football match between our boys and the Block A. Rangers.
My hand froze mid-motion when the warden, Thomas Ajayi, surfaced opposite the steel bars. I dusted my buttocks and strolled towards him. There was laughter in my eyes and mischief on my lips. He rested his palm next to mine, the tips of our pinkies touched and tickled in a pleasant way. He said a new lead in my case popped up which we must review. My colleagues whistled and rolled their eyes. Everyone, except the ex-presido that I dethroned. Though he was the oldest and booked for lifelong residence in this shithole, power was transient. My roommates placed a value on stomach infrastructure and I never returned from trips empty-handed.
Inside his office, Mr. Ajayi double-locked the door, freed me from my cuffs and pulled out a seat. On his desk was an old picture in a square frame—he and his wife in a matching aso-oke on their wedding day, a walkie-talkie, and stacked files. He handed me a flyer advertising Miracles and Blessings Ministries: Centre of Overwhelming Breakthroughs upcoming action-packed “Fight Against the Sins of Your Flesh” program. “One pastor I met in front of the prison this morning gave it to me,” he said bursting into laughter. I was on the point of asking him if he wanted to attend, but somewhere around my throat, the words jumbled together, so I swallowed them.
He removed six packs of Chi Exotic from the mini fridge and placed them in front of me. The aroma of grilled chicken suya wafted into my nostrils. I unwrapped the foil, pushed the onions and cabbages aside, wolfed down the meat, and grabbed one pack of juice. Its cold mango flavour romanced my tongue. I guzzled until the paper carton was empty. He discarded it and hurried back. “I still have trouble sleeping,” I complained just as he lifted me from the chair, kissing me on the mouth—hard and ravenously. My body responded, and I recognized a familiar stir in my loins. He broke away as soon as my head dropped to his shoulders in utter submission. “Somebody is in the mood,” he joked, tickling me, then wrapped me in a solid embrace. I took off his trousers and fell on my knees, attending to his erection. In between moans, he whined about work, emphasising how overworked and undervalued he was. He reminded me as if I ever forgot that he lobbied his transfer to this troublesome prison because of me.
The lyrics to “Frankie” by Sister Sledge, blasted from his Samsung Galaxy S20 mobile. He stiffened. His wife, it seemed. I stopped, looked up, and we locked eyes. He didn’t pick up. “It’s not important,” he murmured, signalling me to continue. I did the thing with the roof of my mouth that he couldn’t resist. He came in a rush, shuddering. I swallowed. “My turn,” he proposed, reaching for my green khaki shorts, but as always, I declined. It offended him, but he hid his disappointment well.
It was way past dusk when I reached home, bearing gifts. My friends had taken the choice spots, except a tiny space at the corner of our freezing room. As soon as my buttocks touched the ground, my intestines pushed against my anus with their load. I squeezed my glutes and released simultaneous gaseous bombs which corrupted the already putrid atmosphere. One glance at our toilet made me reconsider. I thought “can sixteen days old shit kill me?” Scrawled across the walls with yellow chalk was a warning to “flush after use,” but the lever has since stopped working. So we transformed a bucket provided by the warders to ferry water into a substitute latrine—overflowing with faeces.
I resigned myself to another vigil. As discomfort became bearable, I hopped over my buddies to reach the window. Standing on my toes, the contrast of a brightly lit moon against the black sky was enthralling. I imagined Lagos. People on the highway praying to catch a few hours of sleep at least, or in hotels having transactional intercourse, or inside nightclubs dancing away their savings assisted by copious amounts of overpriced alcohol.
As usual, my thoughts veered to Caroline. That final day with her plays before me like a movie in slo-mo. As if I was a spectator in my own football match.
She screamed at the top of her lungs, calling me the vilest names known to man. She said I was a disgusting homosexual, doomed to the hottest part of hell, and my butthole was bigger than my brain because of that cursed sex I relished. “I will expose you to the entire Idumota then divorce you,” she threatened. “You said you don’t enjoy blowjobs. Only when I am giving them, abi?”
I begged and promised to end things with Thomas. Her brother’s friend turned my boyfriend, but she was red with vexation. “We are not that serious,” I lied. She grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contact list for his number. I pried the device from her hands. She lunged at me—slapping, punching and scratching. To free myself, I shoved her. A little more forceful than normal. A curse escaped her lips as her head connected with the wall. Even in my dreams, I still hear her skull crack.
Her body jerked before it slid to the floor, face contorted in pain – hatred? There was blood. So much blood.
My heart pounded against my chest. I itched in one thousand different places. An army of goose pimples invaded my skin. I dragged Caroline into the kitchen and threw a blanket over her. Unlocking my phone, I launched a UC Browser in incognito mode and searched: “How to make a corpse disappear.” First page results suggested acid, deep sea drowning or pigs; three things I didn’t have at my convenience. I squatted near the unresponsive form, begging and willing it to live.
I checked my watch. Two hours passed. I shifted the curtain and peeped. Our gateman’s eyes were fixed on my porch, but earphones were plugged into his ears. He was miming a song.
I dialled Thomas’ line. He picked on the fifth ring. “Hello. No, I’m not … fine.” I couldn’t go further because he interrupted me.
“There is an issue at my cousin’s workplace. I dey Idumota as we dey yarn so.”
“Oh, okay,” I responded. “Let me know how it goes. Once you are free, I will text my address.”
“But are you not sick sha,” he asked. Worry creeping into his voice.
“Nothing critical,” I answered, meaning it.
“Love you,” he said before hanging up, making me blush despite everything.
I stole a peek at what was once Caroline, and avoiding that area, marched to the fridge for a Coca-Cola when I heard banging on the burglary proof. My spirit vacated my body. I turned, ascertained she was where I left her, and rushed to the door.
Through the spyhole, I saw Thomas conversing with the gateman. I fixed the key in the keyhole and twisted it. He barged in before he saw me. He halted, stared, and all the blood drained from his face.
A wave of thunder and lightning broke through my reveries, driving me from my lookout. I fell back on my feet and grimaced painful shoots to my head. Drops of rain continued to hit the parched earth, marking an end to the dry season. I breathed in the aroma of scented wet soil. With the discernment of a night owl, I noted it was past midnight. Life wouldn’t be too miserable if time passed fast. Someday, I might even allow Thomas to have his way. “Nine years, ten months, four weeks and two days,” I recited non-stop while sitting against the wall, till of their own accord, my eyelids fluttered and shut.
Read – An Awkward Cultural Enlightenment – A Short Story by Tumisang Shongwe, South Africa
——-
The Writers Space Africa(WSA) Magazine is published by a team of professionals and downloadable for free. If you would like to support our work, please buy us coffee – https://www.buymeacoffee.com/wsamagazine
