Friday, December 30, 2011

TALES OF DEATH: A Nightmare, A death; Another Headless Body

It’s almost 6 (Six) O’ Clock in the ancient city of Ilorin, the state that has won itself the nick of the harmony state, devoid of any religious over-extremity, waxing in religious tolerance with Unity and Challenge cohabiting like neighbor that they are.  

While local traders at Oja Oba scuffle to pack their wares and pack back home before the sun sets, the Igbo immigrants selling clothes at Challenge are getting ready to do the same; even the almajiris are not left out, everyone is scampering away from the impending death that a night in Kwara on days like these heralds; holding their lives with a tight grip wherever they last kept it and dashing forth to the welcoming warm abode of their domiciles. While the scared mortals dash off to their houses, the men of the dark get ready for the day’s business; night is when the business thrives, machetes in place, sickles on check and just waiting for the farewell of the yellow sun to unleash the next thread of terror.   

It’s Half past 7 O’Clock; the last of the reddish-yellow sun is finally seen for the day; shop opens again for the earth-lightener tomorrow. All you can hear in the ever busy Challenge Road is not the voices of bargaining men, one trying to outwit the other. Instead, it’s an eerie sound of desolation. As a deathly silence hang in the air, the sun slowly giving to the insistent night, darkness leisurely bestride the inhabitants of the land, bringing death and an attendant cry of dying men who could not make it home on time.

What exactly do we have here? A state going by the name the “state of harmony”, now slowly and gradually, fear has become the chief comptroller, creeping in like a slithery reptile into the chicken’s homestead to pilfer the eggs and generations waiting to harsh – the sons of men.

So what’s the story? They said Terminator is back in town, this time not with an assault rifle, but with a shiny silver axe and a well equipped bag of machete. Heads are daily deserting their natural compartments finding succor on the tarred roads of Post Office and the dusty paths along Tanke. Few weary heads that made it home alive still nurse the fear of the night, for as they lay in their bed with heads in place, another head is migrating tonight, nowhere else to look but on the streets of our acropolis.  

The state of the harmony is about to lose its grip on peace and I can see WB Yeats turn in his grave as he recites his favorite poem – The Second Coming, as the falcon has decided to play deaf with the falconer, death is now posing nude at our doors and a mere anarchy is staring us straight in the face like a recalcitrant 5 year old.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned”

Alas, things have fallen apart and the center holds no longer. Kwara, killing with passionate intensity fills her morgues with headless and lifeless bodies, she is painting her street in gory dark blood of the innocent, and even her air is painted in an acrid smell of death, how bad can it possibly get?

When I received the call on that Monday morning, death was far from what I was thinking about; all I expected was a man to tell me what he thinks about fuel subsidy, how surprised I was when the man at the end of the line screamed out blue murder; a body-minus-head is laying on his front porch. How did it happen? When and Why?

I could almost hold the fear in his tone of voice with my hands; shaky unstable stutters coming from a man whose fear has driven a dark bottomless vortex right through him. I couldn’t identify with him because I was then speaking from a padded radio room with all the securities in the world, but all I had to do was close my eyes and run some thoughts through my ten gallon head; what I saw scared the daylight outta me, now I could connect because sooner than later, I will be leaving this room onto the streets too under scorching harmattan sun looking out for Hitman Jason lest I be caught unawares.

My caller said it all and I heard it all but why it all seems like a dream I still do not know. Was it not these same streets where headless bodies now lay we trod weeks back singing Hakuna Matata till the small hours of the morning? Now it’s only 8pm and our bolts are firmly in place, padlocks clicking, keys jangling, and perimeter sensors on the alert with security lights beaming brighter than the sun.

But who will blame who? No one is about to donate a much loved head to a fetish bank. We all, locked behind our perfectly secured locks wait for the eastern early riser to displace the dark night and get people; weary and scared back out and on the streets.

We are all so scared, we are more than petrified; the Kwara we knew is fading fast becoming a Gotham City we never thought could be. But where is Batman? What is the CSO of the state saying about this? Hmm, alas, I can only nurse my thoughts. The falcon has totally refused to hear the falconer, and the center is caving in now more like a pack of cards.  As the state of the harmony state currently reads anomie, we can only wait behind our lock with bated breath for tomorrow as another head goes down tonight.

Side Note:

Please pray for Kwara… they are sending out youth to the grave. We are scared; scared to walk and scared to trade. This is really serious.

Merry Xmas in advance friends, *let's get ready to deliver mary of Emmanuel* lol....(something to lighten us up) XOXO