It is a cold evening here in Texas. Alone, I am sitting on a dark cane chair at a corner of my little room. There is a big, shiny wooden table before me, a portion of it bearing the weight of some scattered text books, a bottle of sedatives and all manner of useful rubbishes. I am holding a pen and a green diary crested with the Nigerian coat of arms is opened before me. Behind me, my bed rises like a sleeping elephant. There are pictures of Banjo, pictures of Benedicta, pictures of Mama and Dada scattered all over the bed, where I had sat a few moments ago crying and staring at the pictures.

It is now three months since I arrived America, the land of dreams and opportunities. But I am yet to start dreaming, yet to start dreaming because I have not overcome my gloomy past in Kingida, Bauchi. Although America has plenty of sleep in the air, I have not been very lucky to pluck enough without swallowing some sedatives. Banjo is the cause of these calamities but Benedicta and I warned him sternly. Banjo would never listen to anyone; he follows his own mind, now to our destruction, to his own destruction. I see Banjo in the pool of his own blood now, a hefty dagger left in his hairy chest. I now turn to this green diary to tell the tales of why I cannot pluck enough sleep in America to this day:

One remarkable Friday morning, while Dada and Mama were away at the Kaka Market in Kingida Bauchi where Dada had a big provision store, Banjo rushed into the sitting room. He was panting like a water-starved deer. At once, I knew that he had been running. I rose to my feet, peeping through the window to see whether a masquerade was pursuing him.
"Sam, Sam," Banjo coughed, "you would not believe what I heard on my way to the field."
"What did you hear, Banjo?" Benedicta who was reading a novel, answered. "You are always full of stories."
"What did you hear?" I asked eagerly, returning to my sit.

Banjo shut the door behind him, calling Benedicta and I to himself. I felt the weight of Fear on my shoulders. Banjo was naturally a lousy person; it was therefore strange that he did not shout what he wanted to say from the door where he stood, sweat gathering on his bearded face.

"Listen carefully, Sam and Benedicta," Banjo whispered, bending himself, "I overheard two Hausa speaking boys, whom I suspect to be Boko Haram members, saying that they would bomb St. James church in two days. One of them suspected I heard them, so they stopped me and spoke Hausa to me. I pretended not to understand, telling them to speak English. So, they left me alone but they were suspicious.
"Jesus, Jesus Christ," Benedicta screamed and staggered backwards. "Jes..."
"Hold your peace," said I, moving forward and covering Benedicta's mouth. "What shall we do now?"
We were Catholics but St. James was not our parish. We worshipped at St. Augustine, opposite Kaka Market.
"I want to inform the police," Banjo said. "I want to drink water."
"Never," Benedicta and I chorused simultaneously, as if we had rehearsed our answers. "Don't inform the police. They'll twist the story. They'll implicate you and even tell Boko Haram whom the whistleblower is" I held Banjo by the shoulders.
"Let us tell Dada and Mama, so that they will tell the priest in St. James and his congregation to watch and pray." Benedicta added.
"Good advice, big head." I teased Benedicta. "You made sense."
"I will tell the police. Police is our friend." Banjo insisted. "There is nothing the priest can do if the police does not help him. I will tell the police."
"Don't tell the police"
"I will tell the police."
"Don't tell the police."
"I will tell the police."
"Stop these arguments," Benedicta came between Banjo and I. "Please, don't tell the police. I don't want trouble."
"There will be no trouble. I will tell the police." Banjo left Benedicta and I, his white kaftan flapping in the Friday morning wind.

Mama and Dada did not return from the market before we ate supper, the last supper. But unlike the Last Supper, a cup of wine and bread, that was ate by the Lord and his disciples, ours was a plate of delicious rice and chicken. Benedicta cooked the meal excellently; the chicken was so delicious that I chewed and swallowed the bones. Banjo ate in silence. He did not say anything when I asked him whether he told the police anything or not.

Dada and Mama had not returned home before I went to bed. I was really tired. It was a few minutes past eleven when I heard heavy footsteps and woke up from sleep. I jumped to my feet and crept towards the window in our room. Shocked, I saw a group of about twelve men alighting from motorcycles. They spoke in hushed voices for a short while and then they started to scale the tall walls of our compound with a ladder they had come with. I could not see their faces because they were buried in the dark but I saw flashes and heard clanging daggers. The end has come, I thought.

I crept back to the bed, held Banjo's shoulders and started shaking them as vigorously as I could but Banjo did not answer me. He laid still like a log of wood. I slapped his hairy chest severally but he still did not wake up. He was a terrible sleeper. Mama used to tell us the amazing story of how she and Banjo, then five, had visited her sister, Aunty Nene, in Abeokuta. Mama and Aunty Nene caught some fun in the verandah well into the night. And when it was time to sleep, they realized Banjo was missing. After a thorough search, Banjo was found asleep in the boot of Aunty Nene's car which had been left opened during the day to dry from the rains of the previous night. How did Banjo get into the dammed boot? Dada would ask and everyone, including Banjo, would laugh gleefully.

I ran to Dada and Mama's room and knocked hard but there was no answer. I also went to Benedicta's door and knocked violently. There was no response. Just then, I heard a loud, crashing noise. The door of the sitting room downstairs had been overwhelmed. I knew I had to run for my life. So, I ran into the kitchen, climbed our standing fridge and disappeared into the ceiling.

The cry of "Kashesu gabadaya, Kashesu gabadaya, Kashesu gabadaya" kill them all, filled the air. The voices became louder and louder. Soon, I heard a loud noise in the direction of Dada and Mama's room. Their door had been overwhelmed, too. Screams followed. And then Benedicta's door shrieked loudly. Screams followed.

"Kashesu gabadaya" The beasts roared again. I did not hear any noise from the direction of my room. Banjo would have been stabbed in his sleep without any resistance.
"Infidels have no place in Paradise," a voice which, I suspect, belonged to the leader of the group cried in Hausa. "Infidels have no place in Paradise and here on earth in the midst of Allah's children."
"Alllah aku ba" the crowd roared.

At last the voices started to fade until I could hear nothing. So I climbed down my haven. Confused, I ran into our room. There, on the bed, Banjo was in the pool of his own blood, a dagger pinned to his chest like a school badge. I staggered backwards and ran into Dada and Mama's room. There, on the tiled floor of the sprawling room, Dada and Mama were, dead. A deep cut was left on Dada's face, face that smiled even in death. I did not even have the courage to look at Mama's lifeless body. Immediately, I ran into Benedicta's room. There, lying still and naked on the bed, was Benedicta. Her throat had been slit open, blood streaming from the cut. There was a blood soaked novel, partly covered by a pink gown, beside Benedicta and the title of the novel read, DEATH BY DUSK. I fainted.

David Ademule is a student of human society and crime; he lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying change (since APC has refused to give it) and his magical pen in his pockets.

Source:
http://ezekieltrisler.com/death-by-dusk

So touching. Nice write up. This story reminds me of 'Marigold', 'A Christmas Story', Scarlet Ibis...Thanks .

nice one. I feel tempted to post mine. but plagiarism

be alert and know when you are tag as a traitor in a crime prone area or community .. Create your defence system and alert people that it concern .

bad experience because of not being vigilant

Touching! Seriously this Hausas something else

nice one bro

Chinwe4real:
nice one. I feel tempted to post mine. but plagiarism

I wish the temptation to post yours overcomes you. lol

Hmmm

I see no change

In tupac's voice

Hmmmm

Divepen1:
So touching. Nice write up. This story reminds me of 'Marigold', 'A Christmas Story', Scarlet Ibis...Thanks .

Where can I read the 'Marigold' story?

Wow..nice one..
May the soul of victims of boko haram massacre rest in peace...Amen

Thumbs up

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