BROWN 7 (THE END)

Iya and Lade’s father throw themselves out of their home, and the neighbours join them to form a hostile barricade against these strangers whom they instinctively know will turn their celebration of good ‘foreign’ things into little more than a good story punctuated by wistful sighs.

“Lade no go follow you!”

“But she’s a thief!”

“Na you wey be tif dia, idiot! How you get your own money?? Eee! Oloshi!!!!”

“You are defending a killer??”

“Killer ke? Wetin dis idiot dey talk?”

And on they go, enjoying the rare opportunity to show these entitled women that despite all their money, they had nothing and were nothing. Gradually though, they begin to notice how quiet Lade is, how willing she is to go with her accusers.

“Lade!!! You kill pessin???” Iya asks slowly, panic slowly sinking into her heavy, dark features.

“She kill my pikin, oooo!!!” This last wail comes from Madam

The mother’s sorrow sounds true enough, is strong enough to part the sea of flesh which the police couldn’t penetrate, despite their threats that they “go shoot now oo!!” Her defenders see her guilt and condemn her.

“Aaaah…” Iya collapses and Lade’s father rushes to her side, calling for help that is reluctant in coming.
They don’t give her up. But they don’t stop the police from dragging her and beating her even though she doesn’t resist, from shoving her into their Black Maria so roughly that the skin above her left shin tears off.

When her body is returned to her parents, Iya screams and wails and throws herself on the floor. Baba cries and asks what they have done to their only child. She died in the hospital, they say, she fell ill and she died.

No one believes him; her corpse is battered and looks more like a garbage sack than a body that once held a soul. But no one would fight for the baby – killer.

God forbid.

-   -

“Stories, for some reason, have always had a life of their own, separate from their maker and even their characters; they remind me of the air – invisible enough to be taken for granted, yet so vital, so alive, its continued absence will seep out life from your soul.

My story won’t be remembered by anyone Baby, because you were the only one who knew it.”

The writer,  Afoma Chief okay is a prolific writer with an ardent sense of humanity which can be seen and felt through her writings. She runs a personal blog called omachies.blogspot.com.