There are better ways to move in an ocean than kicking.
Trigger Warning: Rape, Gun, Death, Prison
The last time you cried was on the day your brother died. The day you held his body in your hands as he bled to death from the shot that came from your gun. You weren’t trying to kill him, you said, as the police came to take you away. You were trying to kill who you thought he was. You were trying to kill your uncle, not him. But no one heard that. Why would they? The lifeless body of your brother was enough proof that you killed him.
Sometimes, the action, not the intention, matters. So as they haul you into the black van, you scream and call for your mother. For your dead mother to save you. "Nne m ooo."
You see, the only thing that hurts more than losing is knowing that you would never get what you lost back. No matter how shrill your cry gets. And on days you remember what you've lost, you will find it hard to breathe.
"Nne m ooo. Biko …"
That was the last time you cried. The last time you bawled your eyes as you tried to explain your actions. It wasn't manslaughter. It was defence. It was the voices—the hallucinations. They got real.
*
"There's someone here to see you," the warden says as he unlocks your door. You were sitting at the left corner of the room, counting 7's and wondering what would be served for lunch. The prison is an unpredictable place to dwell.
"Me?"
"You dey craze. No be you I just call now?"
"Oh, sorry." You dust yourself and make your way to the door. You weren't expecting anyone. Who could it be? One way to find out, you mumble.
"What did you say?"
The warden's switch from the Queen's English to pidgin baffles you. "I was mumbling."
"Psycho." He shakes his head.
If you’ve been a warden long enough, you’ll know that the prison is one place where you meet a lot of people with different personalities. For some, being locked up affected them mentally while kthers were nutcases long before they got locked up. Some were innocent, but innocence never paid m in prison. It was strictly the survival of the fittest.
*
You see him before he sees you. The fold of fat on his neck and the scar running from his forehead to his left ear gave him away. You freeze. You weren't expecting him. You do not want to see him. But before you could turn around, the warden calls out to him: "Oga, na she be dis o. Remember, ten minutes."
He turns. And smiles. "Sure, thank you."
The warden nudges you to the empty seat in the waiting room and steps out, shutting the door with a click. You realize that you could get killed or maimed here in ten minutes and no one would be aware. Your knees buckle beneath you and before you hit the ground, he is out of his seat stopping your fall.
"Hey, go easy. Are you that dehydrated?"
His touch feels like fire and you push him off you and sneer. "What do you want?"
He laughs. "C'mon. We're not kids anymore. Have a sit let's talk things out."
"I do not want to talk to you. I need you to get out of this place as fast as possible."
"Well, I've got ten minutes. I could ask the warden for more—I know what to do. Sit or stand, your choice. I need to talk to you."
You sit. It's better than standing while feeling faint. You don't want that prick's hands anywhere near your body. "I'm listening."
"See," he adjusts his seat and clasps his hands in prayer, "I'm sorry about what happened between us all those years ago."
"Six years ago."
"Wha—?"
"I'm reminding you that 'all those years ago' was just six years ago."
"Oh, I see. Well, I'm here to apologize. I wronged you. I betrayed your trust and caused you so much pain. I hurt you."
"No. You didn't. You destroyed my life. You took everything I held dear and trashed it. You killed my brother. You took everything. Everything!"
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not. You're probably dying, that's why you're here. So you can ask this girl for forgiveness and go to heaven as a saint. You're not a saint. You deserve to suffer!"
"I've been suffering."
"You don't look like it. And let me tell you something, if I had a gun right now, I would blow your brains out without hesitation. I also need you to remember that I will find you when I get out of here. And I will kill you, I promise." With that, you stand up and knock on the door, signalling to the warden that you are done.
"So fast?" You give a tight-lipped smile and walk back to your room.
*
You used to think pastors were good people. You know, touch not my anointed nor do my prophets no harm. You thought once a person claims to be called by God, they cease to be sinners. They become saints, incapable of committing any sin. That's what you thought, until Pastor Chima.
Pastor Chima was your uncle and also the head of the church your parents—and by default, you—attended. He was a firebrand pastor who hosted koinonia sessions every Sunday evening and there were usually manifestations of the spirit.
These days you wonder if those spirits were the spirit of God. God isn't wicked and doesn't rape unsuspecting, little girls, does he?
You remember that night when you were twelve and you had to stay with Pastor Chima because your parents were out of town for an urgent meeting and wouldn't be coming home that night.
You remember the sweets he bought. The chocolates. How he asked you to lick his private part like a sweet. How he promised you he was going to buy you ice creams. How he made you promise not to tell anyone. You remember the screams. The pleas. Most especially, you remember the blood. There was so much blood. So much that he got scared.
Even now, in your nightmares, you hear your twelve-year-old self screaming. Begging to be saved. Uncle, please. No. Stop. Stop. Please.
*
That morning, two days after your eighteenth birthday, your elder brother had come into your room. You had just finished practicing how to fire a gun with accuracy and you were dying to try it out on someone.
"Look at you; your breasts are getting bigger. This new age fit you o."
You froze. Of course, you would freeze. Why would your brother speak to you like that? You were his sister.
"Huh?"
"You heard me," he laughed, coming closer. You were still holding the loaded gun. As soon as he reached out to grab your left breast, you reflexively fired the gun, hitting him in the middle of his head and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
You knelt beside him. "Jay, please. Please. It was a mistake. I didn't know. I'm sorry. Please, don't do this."
As you held his bleeding body trying to get him to stay alive, your mother walked in. She heard the gunshot. The scream she uttered when she saw you would never leave your head.
"Chimoooooo."
*
So you went to prison for killing your brother as a result of the sin of your uncle. A sin you've not been able to tell anyone. And sometimes when you think of dying—death doesn't scare you anymore—you imagine how your uncle will look like and how shrill his scream will get when you cut off his penis while he's still alive, and you smile. It keeps you going.
Though it may tarry, wait for it; it will surely come.
