Category: Heroine tales

The Nice and Similar Travails of Asemota Jane

Too be very honest, this story is not completely based off a true one. The operative word here is completely. However, it is really a cliched, Evil Irumi kind guy meets the Beauty type. You do know the story of the Irumi right? The one where the really handsome guy comes to marry the girl with all the money and then halfway on the way to the guy’s house, she discovers he is actually a monster with his face at the back of his head and she regrets rejecting the other suitors? Basically, the original African story from where Shakespeare’s modified Taming of the Shrew appeared from. Okay, too long an intro. Just read will you…

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The Nice and Similar Travails of Asemota Jane

When she first met Eric she had been sitting at the side of a pool in Sapele. It was a sunny day and she and her friends had decided to come out to play. It wasn’t often that the sun decided to shine in Sapele and whenever it did, everybody came out. Everybody young and carefree that is, most of those who did not care or had no friends stayed in anyway. The truly unfortunate thing when she thought back to that day was that she had been alone. Perhaps if she had been with her friends, a fully clustered bevy of buzzing bees, the young men would not have come to her. But as it was, they did, and for her, that is how most of the story began.

Continue reading “The Nice and Similar Travails of Asemota Jane”

Zelophehad’s seed

So, I was reading the Bible in church the other day – yes, I do study, and I sorta stumbled on this. And a story grew. Enjoy…

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Zelophehad’s seed

Her father stood at the summit of the mountain, his arms spread out as though to fly or to catch a draft of the wind. The base wind tore at his robes, the air smoky and dense with ash and flinty sparks. At the foot of the mountain a fire seemed to rage, the reddish glow a foreboding backdrop to the man who stood with arms outspread.

“No…” she breathed as she ran towards him, the mountain seeming to become steeper with each step. Below she could hear the sound of jubilation, raucous laughter, the shadows of what seemed as waving arms all reaching for her father. Zelophehad grinned in the light of the flames below, the tongues dancing in his eyes, then he stepped off the edge of the mountain, his robes flapping wildly as he fell.

“Noooo!” Milcah screamed, her hands clutching the empty air as she reached for her father, to see him fall into the fiery darkness, and jolted awake.

It was dark. Looking through the flaps of her tent, she could see the sky, billions of lights danced across the dark blue floor of the firmament, Jehovah’s eyes; the portents of things to come. She got up from her bed, her clothes rustling as she made her way through the mess of pans and skinning knives to the entrance. Standing there, a willowy silhouette, she stared at the night sky and wondered what portent her dream might hold. I wonder how long Father has to foray this time. When would he come home?

Then she heard the scream.

*****

Mahlah held the rabbit by the ears and slipping the knife into the flesh at the throat, skinned the entire animal in one cut. She dropped the skin into the bowl, and began to dissect the rabbit to remove the entrails. On the floor beside her was a narrow tipped, red fletched arrow, one of Noah’s. Several other animals lay on the dirt beside her, their eyes almost lifelike that one would almost believe they lived, but for the arrows sticking out of their throats. Thank Jehovah for Noah’s aim, and the extra food. Noah was easily one of the best shots among the people, everyone knew her aim was uncanny. Not once had she put many a boy to shame in an archery contest, her arrows finding mark in whatever she set her sights on. Oh, that she would find a man soon. Already she was eighteen.

The knife twisted through Mahlah’s fingers, her mind absent, yet her fingers deftly skinning the rabbits in expert strokes that broke no blood. Strange how she should be bemoaning Noah’s insistence that the time had not come to find or even be found by a man. She herself was to be twenty come next Hannukah and yet to be joined before the tabernacle. Though for her, it wasn’t a matter of decision, circumstances beyond her control had dictated it so. She thought of Obed then, and that fateful night as he stole into her tent, his scent filling the small space. She had awoken to his smell, the male virility that poured off him, washing wave over wave upon her desire. Her nostrils had flared, drinking him in, as she reached for his body, her body taut and stiffened peaks of need. Oh, how she had wanted him that day. The knife slid into the furrows of the last rabbit’s neck. But for the scream. Mahlah shook her head. And now, she could not marry. Not anytime soon.

It had been four months now and Obed rarely came back to camp, always out scouting the Promised. She knew he avoided her. Mahlah, put the skin into the bowl.

*****

Tirzah sat upon a rock overlooking the camp. It was a favourite spot of most of the teenagers. The cliff-face of the rock gave a birds-eye view of the entire camp; tents and tents stretching to the lip where the earth kissed the sun. At night with the sky dotted with light, and one could see clearly through the crisp desert air, the beauty of Jehovah in the pillar of fire that rose into the sky. Oh hallelujah! Those were the best times. The camp lights flickering below her, the people moving about like gaily arrayed ants, above the angels flitting about the stars making them twinkle and sparkle, and from her father’s harp sweet melodies even the LORD could not ignore. Then they would dance, light feet skipping on the rocks, Zelophehad was the nimblest of men, his feet barely touching the floor as he twirled and spun, dancing from rock to rock. Tirzah blinked back tears. She said she wouldn’t cry again.

“Look! There she is, the sinner! Daughter of a sinner!”

Tirzah turned to see the boys as they walked towards her. It was Becher and Tahen and their brothers.

“Crying again? Your father was an evil man, perhaps your tears might save your own soul,” laughed Becher.

Tirzah got down from the rock, her back stiff as she tried to ignore them and walk away.

“Look! She is running,” it was Tahen. “He has to be in hell now. Only the souls of those whose hearts are pure may go to paradise. But those the ground swallows up are doomed forever. Cursed!”

Tirzah whirled, her plaited queue flying as she spoke. “You are an ugly fool, Tahen, and all your brothers. My father may be dead, but better than yours. Cursed is the man who lies with an animal, and surely your mother must be a pig because that snout you have can belong to none less ugly.”

Tahen reddened, his face contorting into a snarl as he lunged for her. Smoothly, she sidestepped to her left, her right hand reaching to smack the back of his head almost playfully as he sailed into the dust.

“I may be wrong,” she danced on the balls of her feet. “She may be a clumsy goat after all. Who else would fall for an oaf such as your father?”

The other brothers, all growling now, surrounded her, fanning into a semi-circle pushing her backwards towards a large rock that jutted out of the ground. Tirzah backed up. They were all larger than she was, but she wasn’t scared. Dan, Tahen’s older brother, brought out a switch, his evil face in a grin. That was when she knew they must have planned it before coming. Tirzah backed away some more, her heart beginning to race now. Maybe she had pushed them too far. Going into a crouch; all her weight on her left leg which she kept backwards, she kept her right foot forward and ready to be lashed out. Tirzah drew up her dress, exposing toned thighs the colour of warm caramel. Maybe she could take them, they were only seven. At that moment, an arrow whistled through the air and thudded firmly into the ground mere inches from Dan’s toe, the red feather fletching waving in the breeze.

“Don’t you think seven is a bit too much for one girl,” her older sister’s voice drawled.

Tirzah glanced up at the rock behind her, grinning widely. Noah sat there carelessly, a man’s breeches showing from underneath her dress as she swung her legs over the edge, another arrow already nocked almost lazily to the bow.

*****

“You shouldn’t tease them so,” said Noah as they walked home, the line of sullen boys in the distance ahead of them.

“And you should teach me how to shoot, then I may not need to,” replied her spitting image of a younger sister.

Noah was beautiful in a dusky Midianese way, her olive green eyes wide and yet flinty, the long lashes giving them a smoky luster set off by the sensuousness of her lips. She was laughing now, her long limbs swinging as she skipped down the side of the mountain back to the camp.

“Father and I have already taught you Ramses fist, what more would you learn?”

“Milcah says it is more of a dance than an art of fighting”

“With Milcah, everything is a dance or a dream,” replied Noah.

“What has Milcah done now?” asked Hoglah, appearing suddenly from behind a rock outcropping, a basket of herbs under her arm. “And what have you girls done to the band of crybabies I saw walk past me cursing deeper than an army of Amalekites?”

The two other sisters, each a copy of the other, burst out laughing.

*****

“What are Shemida’s men doing here?” queried Noah furiously as she burst into her sister’s tent, her olive eyes flashing angrily. Mahlah silenced her with a look. Noah fell silent, and went to stand behind her sister. The five of them; Mahlah, Noah, Milcah, Hoglah and Tirzah, all stood hands clasped in front of them and watched the man sitting before them being attended by six others in leather jerkins, heavy wooden cudgels in their belts.

Shemida looked up from the ledger being read to him, “Ah, my daughter Noah. Good, you are all here.”

“Yes we are, now get on with it.”

Noah started, staring at Mahlah. She had never heard such intensity in her older sister’s voice. That was usually her line. Suddenly she was afraid, whatever would make Mahlah so angry must be really serious.

Shemida paused for a second, his ingratiating grin never leaving his face. “Your father has been dead four months now, may his soul find embrace in the bosom of our father Abraham, and I have allowed you enough time to put your things together. According to the law, since he had no sons, all that he had, including you girls now belongs to me,” he licked his wet lips. “I have decided to take possession after the tabernacle meeting tomorrow, where I will make my intention known to the people. So do well to…”

“No! Never! You will never!” spat Noah. “Our father did no wrong! He never cursed GOD! He was not swallowed up!”

“It is the law child,” smiled Shemida as he sauntered out, his men in tow.

Milcah collapsed on the chair, her head in her hands. Her two younger sisters sat at her feet, eyes all turned to Mahlah. Noah opened her mouth to speak, but Mahlah raised up a finger. “Milcah, go make sure they’ve all gone, then come back. I have a plan.”

*****

Eran crouched in the olive basket, his ears trained to detect the slightest sound. He had watched from the shadows as the little Zelophehad girl scouted the perimeter of their tent, then doubled on her to sneak into the basket. Heard when she announced triumphantly that there was no one about. Eran giggled to himself. No one indeed. Everyone knew who was the lightest footpad in all the people; trained by Caleb himself. He giggled again and listened to hear even further. They were hatching a plan just as Shemida had thought. Silly girls. Eran had to marvel at their bravery though, he almost felt sad for what Shemida would do to them.

*****

The tabernacle of the Ark of Jehovah stood in the middle of the camp, the other dwellings radiating from it for miles around. It was a large structure, the huge tent which housed the ark surrounded by heavy wood pillars which fenced off an area around it within which the white-robed priest and blue sashed Levites could be seen moving. It was the law, upon a certain day, all were to gather at the tabernacle as they made their offerings unto Jehovah and asked for forgiveness of their sins and received instructions on what to do next. Shemida gave his orders quickly to his men, each of them placing a hand on the ram as they filed away. There would be no sin and whatever might be committed, the ceremony started soon and once the priest took the ram, their sins would be absolved as the ram was slain, and with it all ties to the Zelophehad line cut from the world. He could remember his joy that night when the scream had woken almost the whole camp; Zelophehad under all those rocks, not much more than his arms the only things showing.

“He has been swallowed up!” he had screamed too, first in genuine shock, then in earnest as he realized what that would mean.

The Hebrew man drew his kaffiyeh across his mouth as a wind blew from the west kicking dust and sand. Oh, he could not wait to leave this godforsaken desert and live in a city again. It had been forty years now, and though he remembered little of Egypt, he had been little more than a child at the Passover, but it had to be better there. Oh, look what the girls were making him think. Jehovah forgive me. He slapped the head of the ram. Take my sin. He would not be swallowed up.

Take my sin.

*****

Hoglah walked in between the tents, through the back alleyways of the camp. Mahlah’s instructions had been explicit. For no reason were they to walk in the thoroughfare where they would be seen by all. As they made their way to the tabernacle, they would each go singly through the side ways in the shadowy corners, easy prey for those who would attack them. Or so it would seem.

Hoglah could understand. She had understood Mahlah’s motives without explanation, like Noah with her warrior’s mind, Hoglah thought herself to be adept with strategy. It had been their father’s bane to have no sons, but daughters. After their mother died, not long after the birth of Tirzah, he had begun to train them in the arts of the warriors and priests, and also feminine arts of music and dance, for Zelophehad had been a skilled dancer. Each of them could stalk a rabbit up to two paces, and could skin a bear if they had to, and kill a man when the occasion called for it. Her father, their dear father, all he had ever asked in return for the doting he showered, was obedience. Simple obedience. And that was where Hoglah had failed.

“Go get the herbs Hoglah.”

But she had wanted to play with her friends. It wasn’t like she couldn’t get the herbs and return. She had been stubborn. Disobedient. She hadn’t gone. And then there was no light left, and father had climbed the cliff face alone in the dark, so dark he hadn’t seen the crumbling handhold he had hewn in himself so long ago. So dark he didn’t see the fissure that had been growing in the rock. So late had he been climbing, so angry had he been at his stubborn daughter, it had been too late when he saw. And father fell, the landslide toppling rocks upon him, one after another, as his screams rent the night. Cursed is he who the land swallows. But it was the mountain who fell on father. And now, she would pick herbs all the time, for all who needed, all who asked.

Out of the shadows of one of the tents a figure leapt out, a tall man in leather, holding a cudgel and a wicked-looking knife. “Now girl, all you have to do is go back home, and I would not hurt you,” the man smiled.

Hoglah just kept walking towards him. The man lifted his cudgel to strike her. Moving with the swiftness of a cobra, she darted under his arm, the skinning knife flashing out from under her basket of herbs, striking him under his right arm. Twisting around his back, she tore the sharp knife across his back, ripping open leather, flesh and sinew. The man arched his back and neck as the beginnings of a scream began in his chest. Hoglah slit his throat from behind.

She was walking away, knife once more hidden in her basket of leaves when his knee thudded to the ground, his throat a gurgling mess.

“Make sure they attack you first,” Mahlah had said.

*****

Tirzah slid between his legs, her knees scraping the dirt, and reached upwards as her knife sliced off his manhood. The man made to scream as Milcah leapt into the air, the flat of her fingers slamming into his throat paralyzing it in an Anubis strike. The man’s face went blue as he suffocated on the scream of pain his lungs tried to force upwards through the constricted trachea.

Across the tents to their left, the people thronged on the thoroughfare, none looked in their direction.

“Make sure they make no sound, we will not call for attention,” Mahlah had said.

*****

Noah danced.

The five men came at a rush, their eyes furious, mouths open in silent yells. Maybe someone had told them about their fallen comrades. Good. They were afraid. Slipping an arrow out of the quiver strapped to her side, she gripped it in her hand like a dagger and waited. The first man came and she lashed out with her right foot, kicking him to the side, her left arm blocking the thrust of the second man, the arrow in her hand plunging into his neck. She retrieved the arrow, already moving before the blood spurted. She sidestepped the next blow, got under the arm of the attacker and using her shoulder, she broke it and twisted around to stab at his neck from the other side, before dancing in again.

“Whatever happens, leave them dead,” Mahlah had said.

*****

Mahlah walked into the congregation, her head bowed. The black shawl she wrapped around her head doing little to hide the determination in her eyes. Behind her, she led a small goat, the neck bound with sacrificial hempen. Two men dislodged themselves from the crowd and came at her from both sides. Giving no indication that she had seen them until one of the men made to grab her arm, she twisted her hand suddenly like a snake, her nails digging into the man’s flesh as she pulled him close. The force of the pull jerked him downwards and her knee caught him at the underside of his throat in a sickening crunch. The other fellow produced a knife. She dodged his thrust, leaning backwards, letting the knife hand sail in front of her. Then using her left knee to the small of his back, propelled him forward and yanking on his knife hand, plunged his knife into his throat. The man fell.

The crowd scattered, some running to the side, most yelling for Moses. Mahlah stood still as a loose circle of space opened up around her. She stood still even as her sisters joined her and the soldiers surrounded them, spears leveled at the ready. Her sisters seemed uninjured, though their clothes were bloodied and Hoglah was without her bag of leaves. All the while she had not let go of her goat. Moses stood before them, his eyes an angry white storm. “What have you done?” his voice was thunder.

“We have committed no sin here,” answered Mahlah, her voice cool. “We were attacked by men who would kill us and steal from us, would we not defend ourselves? These men were hired by him!” she pointed at Shemida, who had been trying to disappear into the throng. “And we have brought a sacrifice to plead for mercy.”

One of the soldiers, the son of Nun, grabbed Shemida out of the crowd and threw him at Moses’ feet. The white bearded leader ignored the pleading man. Moses glared at them for what seemed to be an eternity, then he gestured for Eleazar the priest to collect the goat.

“We also come with a grievance before the LORD, and we shall not enter the tabernacle to say it,” added Mahlah.

Moses raised a white eyebrow.

From the fourth book of Moses also known as the Book of Numbers, what comes next is found in chapter 27 verses 1 – 10.

Disclaimer

  • This is a work of fiction, all characters however are based on actual persons though dead, as recorded by the Bible
  • All events may or may not have occurred however, depending on if one would attribute the source of my inspiration to the Holy Spirit of GOD
  • I have never been accused of feminism, and in fact may be the most chauvinistic man alive

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GOD bless you, and GOD bless Nigeria. Peace.

Codename: Strike Back [a Mrs Adebowale story]

The Beggar got up and stretched. The sun was still shining, but the road was so empty. He had heard gunshots a few seconds ago, but there was silence now. Probably started loading the merchandise. He retrieved a black handgun from his Ghana-must-go bag. It was a Glock P29, the dark green polymer grip belying the fastidiousness of the owner. He checked the magazine. It was full. In his pockets were two other magazines. It was usually enough.

Ehm..first of all, lemme say it has been a while since I wrote here. Been uber-busy, started a strategic solutions company this year and with Masters and stuff there’s hardly ever any time.
But I have some stuff for us. Right Teleola?

T-baby: Yelz…

So just be ehm..expectant. In this story, I revive and bring in proximity two of my favourite characters: Mrs Adebowale and the enigmatic Codename: Ali. So ehm..I want you to do me a favour, while dropping your comments, do mention any of mine or Teleola’s more popular characters you would like to see again. Fastest finger or most mentioned character gets it.

Deal? Correct. Oya enjoy…

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CODENAME: STRIKE BACK! [A MRS ADEBOWALE STORY]

Thursday, 6:05am
Upper Siluku

Mama Dotun didn’t look like what anyone would call motherly. Her surly mouth with its downward corners and the constantly disapproving glint to her eye, marred at the edges by the scarred lines of native BIni tribal marks gave her instead a look that bordered on gargoyle. But when the well-dressed young man apparently on his way to work that morning stopped to help her carry one of her coolers into the taxi, she almost smiled; an expression which took her wizened face to full gargoyle.

They shared the taxi, she and the young man, and he helped her bring down her coolers when they got to her stop; hopping out of the vehicle and over to the boot before she could lift her 123kg bulk out of the taxi. Out they were, and neatly arranged in a row, five coolers and she could even smell a whiff of the beef stew she had prepared coming from one of them. Before she could turn around to thank him, the young man had disappeared. So she simply mumbled a small prayer for him, wishing him success his endeavours and a pretty wife who would be obedient and bear good, respectful children.

“That boy just now, na your pikin?” asked one of the soldiers breaking into her thoughts.

Mama Dotun looked at him, the force of her baleful glare at full beam. “Ehen na! I have children everywhere. You no go do go marry, Sule,” she replied without missing a beat. “Make you for get your own pikin.”

The other soldiers guffawed at how neatly Mama Dotun had slammed Sule.

“Haaay! Sule see how Mama Dotun just finish you. No levo! Go marry oh!”

Sule for his own part just grinned. “Oya Mama Dotun, give me rice and stew with plenty beans and  kpomo oh!”

“AH! I no dey sell kpomo again oh! You no know say government talk say make dem no dey sell kpomo?” she replied with her gargoyle smile.

“Na lie!” the soldiers chorused in their early morning ritual as Mama Dotun opened one of the coolers to reveal a steaming bowl of kpomo, glistening in red stew. The same cooler Sule could swear he saw Mama Dotun’s son open earlier. But it was her son, so no problem.

“Na me ask first oh!” he grunted, setting his rifle down and moving forward.

******

Across the road, the tattered umbrella above his matted bushy head throwing a shadow across his dirty face, a beggar sat on the walkway pavement, in the shadow between a small hedge and the abutment of the wall behind him. Clutched tightly among his rags was a dirty Ghana-must-go bag, his black gnarled fingers curled around it in a powerful grip. His only possessions, he would die if any tried to take it away. The soldiers ignored him and so he watched the drama in front of him, keen, intelligent eyes missing nothing.

He had been sitting in front of the building for two weeks now and the routine rarely varied. And he didn’t miss anything. He had seen the young man slip some droplets of an odourless, tasteless liquid into the stew. But he had made no sign.

The plan did not call for it.

2:12pm
Sapele road

 

Mrs Adebowale drifted.

The Rav-4 slid around the bus and into the Ring road. She had been thinking about work again. These blasted people would not kill her. The Managing Director had goofed again, but rather than admit it, he had called her phone and told her the payment she had authorized at the Bank that morning had to be rescinded. He had just discovered the Senate committee was coming to review the projects on Monday and the project had not been completed. If the contractor got the money, the backlash would come to them. So could she rush back to the Bank before end of work so the payment could be stopped before it was approved, and be a dear about it. Thank you. Like he probably hadn’t collected a bribe from the contractor to approve the payment and was only now trying to cover his ass.

She had been thinking about what words she would need to convince the accountants at the Bank to stop the transaction or to rescind it if it had already occurred when the bus in front of her had stopped abruptly, close to the junction. Without thinking, she had yanked her steering to the left and then all the way to the right while slamming on her brakes and somehow the SUV slid to the left and away from collision with mere inches to spare.

Mrs Adebowale kept driving without sparing a word for the driver. Maniac! Only immature people exchanged retorts on the road anyway. She had more important things at stake. She wondered if the man had ever seen five hundred million naira before, even in words. Nonsense! That one no just be person.

She kept driving, rolling into the Akpakpava road just after Sakponba and the first gate there. She horned before the soldiers came to open the gate, which was odd. They were usually so alert. Well, look at that sun. Who can blame anyone? She drove in.

 

2:54pm
Ring road, Benin city

 

Situated at the centre of the modern Benin city, the ring road has always been there since 1472 and the advent of the Portuguese who first called Benin a city. A massive roundabout, the biggest in Africa, it was connected in a radial pattern to the major roads which ran like arteries through the city, serving abutments as streets and minor roads. Behind the ring was the palace of the Oba, royal and spiritual leader of all Benin, giving life to the saying that all life flowed from the Oba who was the centre and all life flowed to the Oba who was centre. Aerial views of the city showed cars scurrying back and forth and around the ring in their hundreds and thousands like cells in the vessels of the huge organism that was Benin City.

One of such cells came to an abrupt stop on its passage around the ring, right in front of the Prince Aruaran statue that dominated the Sakponba road junction. The Toyota Tundra with closed-bed truck, emitted a groan and a sputter and belched out enough smoke to rival your average Asian volcano, then shuddered to a still. Two men exited the vehicle, their stocky, well-muscled physiques and loose-fitted t-shirts making them almost identical. They began waving their arms and arguing indistinctly obviously trying to blame each other for the car’s mechanical failure. One of them proceeded to open the bonnet while the other protested in alarm. In an instant, the air was filled with the steam which issued from the bonnet in a whoosh engulfing the vehicle. Other commuters negotiating the ring quickly gave their distance from the vehicle which looked like it wanted to explode any moment.

“Okay, that might have been a little too much,” one of the men muttered under his breath, his hands still gesticulating wildly.

But it was almost time anyway.

2:59pm
Akpakpava road

 

Fifty-nine…fifty-eight…

 

The well-dressed young man strolled down the road at a steady pace. Above the sun beat mercilessly upon the pavement. Benin city at the end of the rains was always the worst. The heat threatened to drive one mad as it heat up body, soul and mind. This afternoon, the streets were almost empty as most hid themselves in the cooler indoors beneath barely stirring fans and air conditioning units, the only commuters; students and parents just done with school run and scheming excuses not to go back to the office. Artisans and traders crouched deep in their stalls enjoying their quiet lunch while prepping for the evening rush when the sun had gone down in the horizon.

The young man kept walking, his left hand holding his backpack to his side, striding past the Total fuel station, with its frontage of empty yellow and red taxis and buses, passengers preferring to wait under the shade of the fuel station or the umbrellas of the women selling Bole, than to swelter in the burning hot metal boxes. With mere seconds to the top of the hour, he walked past the UBA bank with its front of Bole sellers haggling with customers on the prices of the dry roasted plantain and groundnuts. He walked up to the food stall where he had left Mama Dotun earlier in the morning, her stall now long since locked up as she sold all her food and went to the market to buy more ahead of the next day. He rounded the armoured tank parked beside the stall on his left side, his mind doing a mental count down now.

Five…

The Central Bank of Nigeria, Benin city branch loomed in front of him, the magnetic gates manned by a quintet of guards all in various stages of dozing. To a side, under a shade in front of the main building which the young man knew housed the banking hall, he could see two other guards.

Four…

“Hey you!”

Three…

*****

Sule looked up from the shade in which he sat through bleary eyes. His eyelids felt so heavy and he was so tired. He couldn’t explain it. He had slept early yesterday, so why was he so drowsy this afternoon. Curse this stupid Benin sun! was that Mama Dotun’s son? What was he doing here?

“Hey you!” yelled one of the soldiers at the gate, his voice rough and cracked with sleep. “You can’t walk here. Go back and cross the road”

Mama Dotun’s son simply reached into his bag and retrieving an already cocked Uzi, shot the man in the chest.

Then everything broke loose.

2:59pm
Ring road

 

Odion was driving his father’s car for the first time. Since passing his driving test on Monday, there had been little else on his mind. He had been waiting since he was six for a chance to drive the Mercedes AMG, and now the government had finally agreed that he could. The problem was, the Mercedes was his father’s pride and joy, and possible heir. Odion and his sister often debated quite seriously who would get the last third of their father’s wealth after two-thirds had been willed to the Mercedes. So it was surprising when his father summoned him to the office that afternoon, handed him the keys and after buckling up in the front passenger seat, pointed the way to Ring road. It was a test, Odion knew.

As he negotiated the ring, his head and shoulders hunched forward, his eyes peeled and darting about in careful glances – rearview, side mirror, left, right, forward, repeat, he noticed on his right a man standing beside an obviously faulty truck, smoke or steam issuing from the bonnet. As Odion gave a wide berth, he noticed the man suddenly check his watch, give a sort of signal to his companion across the car from him and both of jump into the car. The truck started up immediately. If that wasn’t odd enough, the men drove off immediately without waiting to put down the bonnet.

What the hell? “Dad, did you just see that?”

“What?” asked his father, absent-mindedly.

Odion watched the truck as it swung into Akpakpava road, pedestrians on the Ring road screaming and jumping out of the way. Crazy people, he thought as he turned his focus back to the road. Then, he heard the gunshots.

3:00pm
Akpakpava, road

 

Sule watched in astonishment as the sergeant dropped to the ground, blood issuing in bubbles from his chest. Mama Dotun’s son? No he couldn’t be Mama Dotun’s son, continued to shoot the ill-prepared soldiers, the Uzi fast against his hip as he made his way into the premises. No, this man was a thief! He was an armed robber! The soldier beside Sule who had recovered, tried to pick up his rife and was instantly felled by a fusillade from a truck that swung out of the Ring into the road. A man was hanging out of the passenger side window and firing an AK-47. One of the bullets took Sule in his side, slamming into his flesh and tearing out the other side into the intricate brickwork of the building behind him. Sule moved then. His body responding slowly to his commands, he grabbed his rifle and tried to run into the building. His body protested as he moved, bits of flesh and gouges of blood splattering to the tarmac. He fell. He didn’t even bother to try and turn and aim and shoot. There was no point.

The well dressed young man sprinted down the ramp towards the main building, as he ran he slung his backpack across his back. On the ground, he could see a soldier trying to crawl towards the building, the well dressed man drilled three holes in the back of the soldier’s head without breaking stride. He needed to get to that door fast. It had taken fifteen seconds since the first shot and all seven soldiers at the gate were dead. He could see a guard through the bulletproof glass racing towards the door to shut it.

They got to the door at the same time.

The well dressed man pulled the door open before the unarmed guard could get purchase, causing the latter to stumble out the doorway and into his waiting knee. The powerful knee slammed into the guard’s gut, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to grunt, the man crashed the Uzi against the guard’s head at the same instant. The guard went cold. The well dressed gunman ran into the banking hall.

*****

Mrs Adebowale was with Thomas Ossai, the Assistant Director Operations, in his office when the first shot rang out.

That was a gunshot!

“Was that a gunshot?” asked the director.

“I don’t know,” she replied. Please find that transaction fast let me leave this place.

The Director’s hand strayed unconsciously towards a spot on his desk obscured from her view by the picture of two smiling girls at a matriculation or convocation in some foreign school. She could see a lot of white people in the background and foreign looking trees. Maybe it was her unconcerned mien as she focused on the picture, but as she glanced up, the director was focused again on his laptop. Then the other shots came in quick succession.

At that moment, the Assistant Director of the CBN made a move which doomed the day. In retrospect, what he should have done seems like something common sense would dictate, but hindsight is always 20/20 and he hadn’t gotten to that position without caring in some respect for his staff.

So it was that Tom Ossai stepped out of his office to the balcony overlooking the banking hall and yelled, “Na here the gunshot dey come from?”

At that moment, the gunman from the Tundra shot the fusillade that crippled Sule, some of the bullets slamming into the bulletproof glass front of the building, and he had his answer. Then, he made his second mistake.

A button on his desk activated security protocols which shut down the entire complex, locking all doors – rest rooms, vaults and offices, for 24 hours, enough time for the authorities to arrive and establish control and uploaded all vital documents to the central database while scrubbing the computers at the branch. He should have run for that button, shut the doors; all the doors.

But sometimes, human reflex is a foolish instinct. “Get away from the windows, take cover under your desks and call or message your friends to inform the police!” he yelled, his hands on the balcony, his neck extended over the edge, his mouth open in a huge bellow. At that moment, the guard who was trying to manually lock the door fell through it and was replaced instantly in the doorway with the well dressed robber. The metal detector squealed.

The Bank officials and customers started screaming.

*****

The gate of the premises opened and the Tundra drove in, as men appeared from the passenger windows and put bullets into everything that moved. As they drove down the tarmac to the rear of the complex they met with half a dozen soldiers near the Vault building that put up a withering counterattack from behind a sandbag blockade. The bullets slammed into the Tundra, hitting the bonnet and pockmarking it. Instantly the driver swung the big truck around, opening the bed at the same time. A man hidden in the bed suddenly rose a six-round M32 grenade launcher shaped like a revolver in his hands. He fired once. The grenade tore apart the blockade, the sand and stones inside having long solidified over years of rains and hard sunshine, peppering the soldiers behind with shrapnel bits of sand and large boulders. The soldiers cried. Quickly before the sand settled, the three other gunmen had disembarked and made short work of the survivors. The Vault was theirs. It had taken ninety-three seconds.

*****

Mrs Adebowale grabbed the stunned Tom Ossai and pulled him backwards into the office as the gunman sprinted up the stairs to the side, heading for them. Heading for them. Mrs Adebowale began to feel the all too familiar stirrings of panic. Slamming the door shut behind her, she whispered frantically, “Do you have a number to call in time of emergency or a panic button?”

Realization dawned in Ossai’s eyes and he pushed her to the side of the door as he turned to round his desk. Bullets suddenly tore through the door, the automatic firepower shredding the door and the desk behind. Ossai jumped to the side, smacking his head against the wall in the process, the hit left a bloody smear. Mrs Adebowale shrieked, curling her legs under her and screaming as the splinters fell. The door banged open and the robber strode in.

“Who is the Assistant Director?” he asked.

Tom Ossai looked up from where he had fallen, his eyes still groggy. The robber just shot him pointblank, the sound of the single bullet echoing even in the noise. He walked to the laptop on the desk. He set his submachine gun down beside the laptop, the barrel pointing uncomfortably in Mrs Adebowale’s direction and within easy reach of the killer. The man’s fingers flew over the laptop at amazing speed typing in specific keystrokes. Then he straightened up and retrieving a flash drive from his backpack, inserted it into the laptop, before checking his wristwatch and smiling. All these he had done in a matter of seconds without even glancing in her direction.

“You bastard,” Mrs Adebowale whispered, adjusting her position among the wood fibres. “you could have just told him to shut up and done what you needed to do. You didn’t have to kill him”

The man finished his work and glanced at her, his face expressionless. Then he grabbed his Uzi.

*****

The Vault entrance slid open, revealing a long corridor with shelves of boxes on both sides of the aisle. One of the men from the Tundra, shoved his Kalashnikov to his side and strode purposefully into the corridor. He knew exactly which shipment he was after, which box to look for. The job was done.

****

It had been less than three hundred and sixty seconds since the operation started and Ring road and indeed the whole of Benin city was in chaos. The area in front of the CBN from the Ring road junction to the PHCN and Forestry road axis was a graveyard. Nothing moved. In the distance, he could hear sirens, but he knew they would get there late. The sheer destructiveness that the robbers had employed had left abandoned cars on the Ring and on the other side of Akpakpava road. He didn’t know how they planned to escape, but he bet on motorcyles. They probably had some stashed close by. Enough to get them far away from here. They were after the shipment. Pity. Everybody was always after the shipment. The Beggar got up and stretched. The sun was still shining, but the road was so empty. He had heard gunshots a few seconds ago, but there was silence now. Probably started loading the merchandise. He retrieved a black handgun from his Ghana-must-go bag. It was a Glock P29, the dark green polymer grip belying the fastidiousness of the owner. He checked the magazine. It was full. In his pockets were two other magazines. It was usually enough.

Ali walked across the road as the shooting began again.

*****

The robber whipped her across the face with the Uzi. The force of the blow snapped her head back so fast, she felt her neck creak. Dragging her by her hair, he tossed her into the glass partition of the balcony. The glass broke as she crashed into it, the shards ripping into her skin and falling down to the now empty banking floor below. All the officials had taken cover, hiding in the smaller offices and restrooms.

“Idiot,” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear, as she tried to scurry away. The robber grabbed her from behind, his arms encircling her waist as he pulled her to her feet. Bent over, Mrs Adebowale pushed backwards to the right to try and pull out of his grip. But he held on. Then she pushed to the left to do the same. The robber grunted, his grip tighter now, feet placed forward to steady himself as he tried to lift the woman and toss her over the balcony. At that moment, Mrs Adebowale remembered a technique from the self-defence class her daughter had started her on since her ordeal last year. Twisting around, she reached down and grabbed the feet of the man and lifting him, slammed him into the ground in one quick motion. As they fell, the man held on, his finger twitching on the Uzi’s trigger released a burst of gunfire before she fell on him, her head crashing into his and driving it into the tile floor. The Brazillian weavon absorbed most of the shock for her. The cracked tile beneath the unconscious head of the robber told a different story for him.

Mrs Adebowale fled.

*****

The men from the Tundra had finished loading the truck when the gunfire started again. Which was surprising, but not alarming. The plan called for each of them to finish their parts without bothering about the other. It was the only way they could be in and out in less than ten minutes. He was probably wiping off a bit of resistance. He would be waiting at the gate, and if not, he knew where the rendezvous was. Piling into the truck, they started on their way out, the bonnet down this time. The job was done.

*****

Mrs Adebowale stumbled out of the main building, her dark suit in bloody tatters, her hair frazzled and her face bruised. She didn’t want to stop to think, to wonder. To ask if she had killed him. She just needed to get out. Then she heard the engine of the Tundra start up. Ducking behind a pillar, right in front of where Sule’s body lay, the blood now beginning to congeal, she watched, her heart beating again, the tears welling up in her eyes. Oh God, let it just stop!

The Tundra reached the gate, pausing briefly, as one of the occupants stretched out his head and glanced in her direction. Me! Oh God, they’ve seen me! They know what I did! Then her mind told her, they were probably looking for their gangmate. Pity, he won’t be joining you, she thought with an odd sort of satisfaction. For a second, she wondered if they would come in to find him. In which case, she was sure they would kill everyone. But the man put his head back in as the truck drove out the gate.

The armoured tank slammed into the truck without warning. Pushing into the side of the Tundra and crashing it into the side of the fence. One of the tires exploded with a bang. Without giving them time to orient, Ali leapt out of the tank and climbing onto the bonnet of the Tundra, aimed his Glock very carefully. Once, twice, five times. Two shots for the driver who tried to escape through a window and got one in the bottom for his trouble. The others had messy holes in their heads, chests and necks. One of them was already dead where the right-hand back-door jamb had plunged into his neck as the tank hit the truck. Jumping down, he walked around to the side started pulling the boxes out.

Mrs Adebowale just kept watching in disbelief as the sirens started to get louder.

*****

Epilogue.

The Police showed up a few minutes later. But by then, the boxes and the Beggar were gone. A deep blue Hilux truck had appeared just before the Police and picked him up. A uniformed Naval officer had helped the beggar pile the boxes into the back seat of the Hilux. The well dressed robber did not die, which was fortunate as he had uploaded a virus into the mainframe that deleted the entire video log for the past year which would have made it otherwise impossible to identify him. He had started to regain consciousness but was not able to get to his Uzi before being arrested by the Police. He wouldn’t have found it anyway. Mrs Adebowale had subconsciously grabbed the weapon as she fled. The National Intelligence Agency took over investigations of the robbery, though they reported nothing had been stolen. A situation which baffled Mrs Adebowale greatly, especially given her testimony about the Beggar, until she was advised by her friend in the Department of State Security to desist from questioning things she should rather not know. Mrs Adebowale was offered a job with the State Security service again. She declined again. However she was placed on a list and invited to take a course at the Institute of Strategic Studies in Kure, She did not decline that.

The beggar never sat in front of the CBN again, even after they reopened in a month. All mention of the beggar have been removed from public records. Mama Dotun now sells at Ibiwe junction in front of the Bob Izua park.

Mrs Adebowale shall return.

Disclaimer
* This is a work of fiction oh!!!! Products of this writer’s very free don’t-want-to-go-jail imagination. Abeg. .na joke I dey..abeg
*I have been in the CBN. Not for mission abeg. Abeg. .
*Ignore the above disclaimer. WordPress for Android won’t let someone be very great
*The actions and tinz depicted in this lengthy tale are obviously near impossible and were carried out by highly paid stunt men hidden in the writer’s mind. Forget how close it may seem to real life scenarios, you cannot do it
*This writer disavows himself of any nefarious use the contents of this post may be utilized for

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GOD bless Nigeria.

Mama

MAMA

Mama used to make sure we prayed every morning before she came down with the nameless disease. She would beat and bang on our locked door with a frenzy such that it was impossible for even a log to sleep through it. I don’t know why we kept locking it day after day because we stood up ourselves to open it though amidst grumbles and sometimes tears especially when we had stayed up till very late, peeping through the spaces in the walls at the prostitute next door grunting and sweating as man after man graced her bed.
When she had succeeded in rousing us, she made us brush our teeth, saying only over her dead body would we talk to our heavenly father with morning halitosis. She made sure we brushed twice always, the first round underwent inspection which none of the six of us ever passed. She said it was to wake us properly, and that she wanted to hear retching noises in the second. No retching, no coming out of the small badly lit bathroom crowded with all six of us making varying disgusting retching sounds, spitting phlegm and toothpaste foam at each other’s feet. Not a single one of us ever had bad breath, God forbid, where would such a terrible thing come from when we peeled our gums and tongues twice every single day? Not even when Kelechi at fifteen was dying with AIDS did his breath stink. He picked up his bones from the bed in the free clinic down the road where mama worked as a cleaner at five o’ clock every single day and retched till the nurses came running and the other patients cursed him in their morphine-induced sleep.
The prayers every morning those days were plagued with nods and mumbles except for mama and the unlucky person leading the praise and worship songs. Mama’s voice would shake the very foundation of our wooden shack and we would jerk out of sleep and bob our heads like fish out of water, slipping in and out of consciousness according to the tempo of the songs. Then we would cast demons and principalities and familiar spirits by speaking in tongues. Mama monitored our mouths as hers moved at alarming speed, so we spoke. Biola uttered Igbo gibberish mixing it with Yoruba while Yusuf spoke heavily adulterated Hausa which always earned him a pat on the head. The rest of us relied on consonants punctuated with vowels and she wouldn’t notice. Not because she didn’t want to but because she was too busy sweating and thrashing all around as she hit our sparse furniture atop where we perched to give her more room. The furniture with their sharp splint ends where they had broken and the nails that held them in place jutting out and tearing her ebony skin, the scars now numerous and interlocked like a badly drawn map. We only stopped praying when she stopped moving. That was when we knew that she had overcome, when we knew the demons had left and the principalities and powers had taken their leave. The knot of her wrapper always came undone no matter how well she tied it before the sessions and Ochuko and Emmanuel would cover her with their tattered shirts till she woke up from sleep filled with visions which she would explain in full details to remind us that the Lord was kinder and more powerful than evil spirits. Those evil spirits that made mama’s husband chase her out of the house because his mother had died soon after she and mama had a quarrel concerning the lack of salt in mama’s efo riro soup. They had both screamed at each other, mama’s husband’s mother accusing her of serving tasteless food to her son which she didn’t blame her for anyways because she came from a forsaken tribe where their women were just men with breasts who bewitched men into marrying them and mama retorted that anybody who wanted her to induce hypertension in her husband would die first. It happened the very next morning that mama’s husband’s mother did not rise. Witch, her husband had screamed, his kind eyes now hard as he tossed her belongings to the streets. Mama couldn’t go back to her parents. They had told her she had ostracized herself and become an outcast by marrying a man whose eyes watered when he spoke, a lazy man who didn’t have a farm but had the shameless job of making and mending clothes, who laughed and clapped his hands too much, why didn’t she just marry a woman instead? Those same evil spirits that caused a drunken taxi driver to hit her on the night she was chased out with her box of clothes on her head as she walked aimlessly on the streets. She had woken up in the hospital down the road where the matron had taken pity upon her after hearing her story and offered her the cleaning job. Three weeks and a cast after, she still couldn’t walk and that was when mama made the vow for her legs, the vow that brought us into her life. From Kelechi whose mother ran away and left him pink and screaming in the hospital after she discovered they both had the incurable disease to Yusuf who was part of a gang of hungry adolescent thieves that came to raid the hospital pantry late one night when mama had stayed behind to help with a worrisome patient. The very same evil spirits that caused the government to demolish the hospital during the construction of drainage on the street, the same drainage we had devoted a morning prayer session for to be attended to as the last rainy season had left us with guinea worms crawling out of all our orifices. Mama said the demons and spirits followed her because they knew she was a threat to them. They wanted to kill her with problems but she would stand strong, raise us to become warriors and show the Lord that she was worthy of a gold crown when she got to heaven.
All these happened years ago, and I am now married with my own children. I do not know where my four siblings live, we never ask for each other’s addresses or phone numbers when we go back home once every year just like now. We never bring our families because it is our alone time with mama and even the full-time help leaves. Kelechi’s tombstone is in the bedroom where we all sleep and for a whole week we are teenagers again though this time, mama is too old to rouse us for devotion. She doesn’t even know who we are half the time. She asks everyday when we go to greet her in her room, my doctor friend had said it was inevitable when I told him of our prayer sessions years ago. Your children, we always tell her. My womb is with the Lord, she would retort in our language, presented as a holy sacrifice, I never pushed or experienced birth pangs, who are you liars? And I, the eldest always give the final argument, we are the children of your kind heart and compassion.
We have awoken today and mama is dead. Rock solid and cold on her bed with her slackened breasts spread over her abdomen. There are no tears, what for? She has finally defeated the evil spirits, principalities and familiar spirits as we all intercede for others in places of prayer and we have all declined requests and pleas to lead congregations. One after the other we get our toothbrushes and file into the bathroom, now covered in tiles and fitted with a sink.

It’s time to talk to our heavenly father.

 

 

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God bless Nigeria and will help bring back our girls.

Mrs Adebowale helps a Stranger

I apologise that it’s been a while since we put up anything. Been busy, life and its works. But you know us, always ready to kill you with awesomeness. Right Tele?

 Teleola: *giggles sheepishly while reading text from lover*

Anyway. If you ever read the Mrs Pollifax stories by Dorothy Gilman, about the straw-hatted, grandmotherly, sexagenarian CIA superspy with a penchant for deadly judo, then you’ll know what to expect.

Enjoy abeg.. 😀

Introducing Mata Hari in 'I Spy - the movie'
Introducing Mata Hari in ‘I Spy – the movie’

____________________________________________________________________

Inspired by True events from the life of the greatest woman I know.

****

The figure darted out of the dark bushes to her right and right into the glare of the headlights. Mrs Adebowale slammed her right foot hard on the brakes, the 2004 Chrysler 300C, pistons charging angrily, slid sideways into a crushing stop.

Who the hell was that?

Forty-six year old Christina Adebowale was no stranger to danger. Born in Onitsha, Eastern Region at the onset of the Biafran war, her instincts had been honed from birth. And right now, her instincts urged her to lift her foot off the brake and zoom off.

Christina Adebowale pressed a button that locked the doors. The reassuring click as the locks all snapped shut buoyed her. Then she glanced at her rearview mirror. The road was dark and empty. Where was the person? All the way down for where she was up until perhaps Lagos, the Benin-Lagos expressway looked as empty and dark as the plains of Mor…

A figure slammed against her driver-side window. Mrs Adebowale let out a shriek. Her hands flew to her gear lever, and she almost zoomed off then. She wondered why she didn’t later on. But at that moment, something stilled her hand, and her heart.

The figure outside the window was a woman in her late thirties, (young by Mrs Adebowale’s standards). The woman was dressed in a dark green tracksuit, and she looked about to die. The suit was torn in several places and dark red blood stains coated her face, her clothes, and matted in her hair alongside a bramble of twigs and leaves and sand.

A madwoman?

“Please help me! Please!” The woman said. Mouthed more like, because the heavy density glass partition between them, allowed very little sound to filter through.

If one had asked her, before now, if she would stop on the road for a random stranger, Mrs Adebowale would have replied in a vehement negative. But here she was at 8:05pm, parked right in the centre of the Benin-Lagos expressway, at the section that leads through the Ovia forest, considering whether to wind down her glass to talk to a total stranger, who not only seemed mad, but was also probably dangerous.

But then Mrs Adebowale never did anything ordinarily.

Only a few hours ago, she had been rounding up a lecture on ‘Mis-accountancy and the future of Nigeria in the Global market‘ in Akure. The lecture had started later than scheduled, and at the end, she had to choose between sleeping in a hotel in Akure and entering her car for the two hour drive home.

Mrs Adebowale had driven into a hotel and asked the manager if they had a room with a big TV. The surprised manager had replied “Of course!” She had then asked if they received TVTV, to which the even more surprised man had replied “No. But we have DSTV”

Mrs Adebowale had walked out. Bad enough she wouldn’t be able to watch her TV show with her daughter in the comfort of her home, but not to watch Jumong at all?

She had entered her car, and called her daughter. “Hey, I’m on my way. In case I don’t get back on time, record the Jumong oh!”

Then she put her headlights on full beam, and drove into the road.

*****

Mrs Adebowale wound down her window.

“Please, madam! Help me! Kidnappers!” The woman in the tattered tracksuit blurted out, tears and mucus running down her face.

At that moment, a shot rang out in the darkness. The report all the louder in the stillness that was the lonely night. The woman in the tracksuit let out a short squeal and made to dart across the road to the other side. Mrs Adebowale made her decision.

“Get in!” She hollered.

The tracksuit lady needed no further cajoling. Jumping in through the open back door, she lay flat on the seat.

Spinning the car around in first gear, Mrs Adebowale once more pointed the nose for Benin as she stepped hard on the accelerator. The vehicle jumped forward, and not a moment too soon. In her rearview mirror, she could see two men run into the road, long, dangerous looking weapons in their hands.

Mrs Adebowale flashed instantly to the Korean TV series she watched with her daughter. What was that action one? Bridal Mask? Twisting the steering as she saw the muzzle of one of the guns flash, she tossed the nimble car to the left and then back to the right. The gunshots seemed louder and more ominous. From the back seat, the tracksuit lady was sobbing and praying, but it seemed they were unhurt. The kidnappers kept shooting, but the car was out of range.

The speedometer needle climbed up to 100mph, then 110mph. Mrs Adebowale held it there for five minutes. Then as the adrenaline supply began to taper off, she eased to 70mph.

“So talk to me! Who are you? What happened just now?” Her normal calm voice came out as a high-pitched cry.

“My name is Mrs Roberts, and those men kidnapped me.”

Jite Roberts told the story of how she had come back home from the gym after work (Mrs Adebowale nodded appreciatively), and while horning at her gate for the kids to come open, a trio of gunmen had suddenly appeared at her side. Wrenching open the door of her vehicle before she had time to react, they had forced her into theirs and drove off.

“They blindfolded me. My neighbours couldn’t help me! Everybody was scared. The kidnappers shot into the air.” Jite Roberts said.

While she talked, Mrs Adebowale listened, and kept a sharp eye on the rearview mirror. While she had no fears that the kidnappers couldn’t run her down, not while she drove this six-cylinder monster at least, she was however concerned that they hadn’t given chase. There were no tell-tale headlights in the rear. It raised questions, and whatever raised questions didn’t go well with Mrs Adebowale.

“Have they demanded a ransom?”

“Fifteen million,” Jite replied succintly. Her voice clearer now as the sobs subsided.

They had extracted her husband’s international number from her and demanded the sum. The man, his voice breaking in panic, had insisted he needed time to wire the money from the UK. So they had roughed her up, while he listened, till he almost cried over the phone. Satisfied he was going to pay up, and that she was comatose, the kidnappers had retreated to a corner to smoke a joint. That was when she crawled away.

Mrs Adebowale admired her courage, but a question nagged at her.

“How many of them where smoking when you ran?”

“The three of them.”

“But only two were shooting at us earlier.”

“Maybe the other went into town to get…” Her voice trailed off into despair.

At that moment, the roar of a powerful engine tore through the quiet night and powerful headlights, beaming at full intensity, cut a swathe in the darkness barely ten metres away on the right shoulder of the road.

There was no time to react, only action. Old age they say blunts one’s reaction time, but intuition is honed by years of experience.

After lifting her foot off the accelerator just a moment, her naked instincts urguing her to stop the vehicle, Mrs Adebowale stepped harder on the throttle. The big car lurched forward, the HEMI engine churning sparks from the exhaust. But it wasn’t fast enough. The front end of the Toyota Hilux slammed into the back of the Chrysler with enough force, it seemed like the clashing of rival Transformers. The Chrysler spun in a screeching circle, the women inside screaming for dear life. The Hilux went on, the engine barely clacking now, to smash into the median. The force of the impact caused the truck to roll back, headlights casting crazy shadows in every corner. Instantly two men jumped out. One of them, the one on the passenger side, was cradling a rifle. He stepped right up to the driverside window and smashed the glass in with the butt of his gun. Mrs Adebowale tried to drive off, but the crash had totaled the rear axle and some function that caused the vehicle to rise on its haunches had been disabled. The Chrysler merely groaned.

“Get out now!” The kidnapper yelled.

In the back seat, her passenger side door mangled from the crash, Jite had powered down the window and scrambled through it, all her thoughts on escape.

“Hey!” The gun man yelled to his accomplice who rather than be dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, was wearing a stylish-looking blazer over plain trousers. “She wan’ run!”

His accomplice darted around the car in pursuit of the rapidly fleeing Jite.

In the moment his attention was split, Mrs Adebowale had another of her Korean flashes. Unlocking and opening the door in one smooth motion, she slammed all of her 98KG weight behind the heavy steel door and into the knee of the kidnapper. She heard a satisfying crunch as he yelped in pain. Quickly, she drew the door back as through to shut it. The kidnapper, his gun harmlessly at his side now, reflexively bent to massage his hurting leg.

“I go kill you to…” He never finished the sentence.

Propelling forward again, all of her fear and anger, at the smashed Chrysler no less, converted into fury. Mrs Adebowale let out a war cry as she swung the door into his head. The sound was like the thud you hear in a gym when the weights are dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

Gboom! That’s the sound that best describes it.

The kidnapper crumpled to the floor. Stepping out of the vehicle, operating on pure instinct and healthy doses of epinephrine now, Mrs Adebowale picked up the fallen rifle. He assumed it was an AK-47, being the only rifle she was familiar with from the movies. On the other side of the car, dragging Jite by her hair was the well-dressed accomplice. His face slightly sweaty from the chase and oddly bewildered by the turn of events.

“What are you doing with that gun?” He asked stupidly.

In the spill of lights from the reflections cast by the powerful headlamps of both vehicles, it was easy to read the shock and confusion on his face.

“Let her go!” Mrs Adebowale stammered. “Please, for God’s sake, let her go! Or I will shoot you!”

Her words, perhaps the faltering nature of them, seemed to have an awakening effect on the kidnapper. Her tightened his hold and dragged his captive closer to himself. Jite yelped in pain.

“Let her go!”

“Hand over that gun.” He said calmly. “You don’t even know how to operate it.”

From his calm, measured tones, Mrs Adebowale surmised he was the leader of the operation. She panicked then, and very nearly dropped the gun. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Why are you doing this? Why? I don’t want to die,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want to have anything to do with this.”

In instant solidarity, Jite burst out in fresh tones of brand-new tears.

The man inched closer, oblivious to their cries, his eyes on the gun. He was around the boot of the Chrysler now, still holding Jite, barely five feet away.

“Just give me the gun, and then you can go your own way. This is not your problem.”

Jite started wailing. “No! Nooo! He will kill us!”

Mrs Adebowale gripped the gun by the barrel, her knees shook, fear in every fibre of her being. She extended it slowly, her hands unsteady, ready to hand it over to the kidnapper. At that moment two things happened, without which this story would have ended quite differently.

The first one. The kidnapper, in a definite state of amplified hubris, said; “No. Nothing would happen to you. Too much wahala this night sef. I just want to take my man and go. Both of you can leave too.”

Now, Mrs Adebowale held a position in Management at her company, and she had heard just about all the usual lies. And that statement was right up the charts with, “My car broke down” and “I think I came down with something last night“.

The second thing that happened was; the partner on the floor, the one with a broken knee and a crack in his skull wide enough to fit a Tecno Phantom®, suddenly stirred and muttered something. His well-dressed colleague glanced down and Mrs Adebowale’s hand swung up and sideways.

Now, the kidnapper had solid reflexes and a well-built physique, and his gaze was in the direction of the gun. So he saw it coming well in time. Time enough to raise his left forearm and absorb most of the (painful) shock on his bicep. He pushed Jite to the ground with his other arm and took a step towards Mrs Adebowale before the woman had time to take another swing, after all, she was probably in her fifties and a rifle is quite a heavy toy. It was impossible for him to know Mrs Adebowale plays squash every weekend at The Benin Club.

The rifle flew backwards and swung back in a two-handed swing that had all the ferociousness of a Nadal serve. 120 pounds of pure motive force swung into Kidnapper no 1, shattering his left radius and gouging a deep crease into the side of his skull. The man slammed against the side of the Chrysler and slid to the floor unconcious. Whirling around, before she had time to reconsider her options, Mrs Adebowale knocked the butt of the rifle into the groggy, unbelieving head of Kidnapper no 2 in a very familiar pounding motion and shut his lights out for the last time that night.

It was over. Eight minutes and forty-three seconds from crash to rifle-butt-in-head-of-woman-kidnapper.

Adrenaline still surging through her veins in quick bursts, she almost slapped Jite when the woman grabbed her from behind, and in between prayers of thanksgiving, began to cry and weep profusely.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, Jite. It’s alright.”

***************

In GRA Benin City, Candy Adebowale tapped a button on the remote control and the PVR TVTV decoder started to record the lates episode of Jumong. She wondered how long it will take her mother to get home.

Mrs Adebowale notified a friend at the Department of State Security (DSS) over the phone, about the events of the night, and a team was immediately dispatched in assault gear, and armed with FN F2000s, to the scene at the Benin-Lagos expressway, where a nervous and drawstring taut Mrs Adebowale stood sentry over two slightly comatose bodies of well-built men and a weak-at-the-knees, completely relieved ex-hostage.

After some cajoling, Jite Roberts directed the men of the DSS to the spot where she had been held captive, where after a very brief gun-battle, the kidnappers surrendered, bullets haven been exhausted anyway. The rifle found in Mrs Adebowale’s possession was found to contain only two shells in its clip and was identified as an AKM.

Mrs Adebowale got home safe the next morning at about 3:00am, haven been escorted home in an unmarked white police Hilux, her statement received and sent to Abuja. The Chrysler was taken to Lagos (causing a two hour traffic jam the next morning at it was lifted by crane) where repairs are currently ongoing. Jite Roberts began preparations to move with her family to the UK from where she would maintain a steady correspondence with her saviour. Both Saviours.

Mrs Adebowale looks forward to her next adventure!

THE END..for now.

___________________________________________________

Disclaimer

  • Based on actual events
  • I do not aim to make light of the situations depicted in this story. Kidnapping in Nigeria is a very real and present danger, and my heart goes to any and all who have experienced or known someone who experienced a kidnapping. We’ll get past this scourge I tell you.
  • The Chrysler 300C has been renamed the Lancia Thema but still remains the car I drive in my wettest fantasies
  • The constant repetition of the name ‘Mrs Adebowale’ is deliberate, a throwback from the old Mrs Pollifax stories and my amusement with Lee Child’s Reacher novels.
  • Mrs Adebowale drives a Toyota Rav 4 while her Chrysler is being repaired.

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Peace to Nigeria.

PS: Abi you see now, nobody died in this story! Before you people would be commenting on my psychopathic tendencies.

Peace.

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