Trials Of Men Episode 1
https://storycenta..co.ke/2017/08/story-trials-of-men-episode-1.html?m=1
The war had ended. The victors and the vanquished sought through the debris left by mortars, mines and bombs, for the remnants of their previous lives. Some had found scrapes of their humanity in the welcoming tears and smiles of their wives, husbands and children. Some had found hope in new jobs; reconstructing their broken nation and some walked – empty, broken, unseeing through the fading smoke.
The war prison opened its doors for the last and final time. Men long considered dead; fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, staggered into the sunlight – their hollow eyes seeing nothing but death and sorrow. They poured out of the big gate – a silent mass of broken humanity, holding their meagre worldly goods close to their tattered prison uniforms.
Omonigho was among the last to come out and it was not because he loved the prison, it was because he was scared of what awaited outside. Seven years was a long time to be away from society, friends, loved ones, family. He stood under the early morning sun staring at the road, filled with men like him, going back to a world that had moved on without them – a world that thought them dead. He moved his feet, and began his journey to find home.
Home was Warri, Delta State. Or was it something else now? The man had heard rumours that the states had been reshuffled again and out of the deck, new states had emerged. He staggered forward, his slippers scraping the ground in the prison shuffle – he had walked with his two legs chained together for seven years. He could not remember the last time he had stretched his long limbs in a normal walk or run. In his secondary school days, he had been the school sports prefect and had led them to inter-school competitions, where he represented the school in 100-metres dash, marathon, 400-metres, long jump as well as football. He had been a star then. Now he was among the dust floating in the wind.
He got to the junction and stood waiting, as other ex- war prisoners entered long buses that would transport them to the city centre, from where they will find their individual way home. Each of them had been given one thousand naira. It was enough for a meal or two but would take them nowhere. The bus filled up and moved away, choking the remaining men with black smoke.
Another bus drove up and the doors opened. The men filed in, one after the other. He climbed in and walked to the back, ignoring the empty seats on either side. At the back, he sat down near the window and drew the window shut – he did not want to feel the wind, he was not so sure that his body will forgive him that mistake. Two men joined him on the seat, and then the bus moved off, leaving behind a black cloud that hid the prison forever.
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Umuahia bustled with activity – children and dogs running, women with trays balanced on their heads, hawking food, drinks, water, cigarettes as well as themselves, men repairing broken buildings, drinking, fighting, and living. The bus drove to a junction and all the prisoners came down. Omonigho did not hurry down. He remained on his seat and stared through the window at the town. He placed his two hands on his laps and tried to stop them from shaking by gripping his knees. After the pressure of fear eased, he got up and climbed out of the bus. He stood there in front of the bus, unsure of what to do. He heard the sound of music coming from a side street, so he turned to it. He needed food and a place to sleep, while he arranged his thoughts.
The buka was made of wood planks nailed together. Old torn banners and rusting zinc had been used to cover some sides – an added protection against rain. It was empty except for a man sleeping near the door. The man’s head rested on the head of his chair, his mouth opened as he snored. Omonigho watched as a fly circulated above the open mouth then landed on the upper lip and started to wash its feet. He turned away as a girl entered the bar from a door hidden behind a long table that acted as the bar table.
Uju: “Oga wetin you want?” she asked, eyeing his threadbare clothes in distaste.
Omonigho: “please what food do you people have?” he asked, in answer to her rude question.
Uju: “Na only rice don ready. Bitter leaf soup dey fire.” She replied, walking to a tray filled with glasses covered with black flies, and picking it up.
Omonigho: “when the soup go done?” he asked.
Uju: “e go soon ready. You fit wait so?” she asked, as she walked to the door, she had come out from and stood watching him with her head bent to the side.
Omonigho: “I go wait.” He replied, then he turned to find a seat.
He moved round until he found a seat that was not too dusty, placed near a table that had less oil stains than the others. He sat down and looked up to find that the girl was gone.
He stared at his hands in the ray of sunlight that pierced through the holes in the plank behind him. He rubbed his palms together and listened to the rasping sound they made, as callouses rubbed over other callouses. His palm used to be soft once. The memory was like an old VHS film – he could not make out the hands or the sound. He dipped his hand into the pocket of his trouser and brought out the only property he had left prison with. It was a flat box, tied with a dirty cloth. He untied the cloth and opened the box. Inside it, was a picture, a wedding ring and a medal. He picked the picture and stared at the smiling faces staring back at him. The picture had been taken a year before the war. It was a beautiful time.
Uju: “you want foofoo or garri?” she asked, startling him out of his memories.
Omonigho blinked and stared at the girl for some time. The girl bent her head to the side and looked at him then she repeated the question.
Omonigho: “eba is fine.” He replied.
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The girl turned and walked away. Omonigho put the picture back into the box, then he picked up the wedding ring and tried it on his fourth finger of his left hand. The ring moved freely up and down. He had lost a lot of weight. He removed the ring and placed it back in the box. He closed the box and tied it with the cloth. He did not touch the medal.
The girl returned with his food and a cup of water. He thanked her, then he took the meat out of the soup with his right hand and hid it in his palm. He held the soup plate with his left hand, then he cut his garri and dipped it into the soup. As he opened his mouth to swallow, his eyes caught the flutter of the girl’s gown. He looked up to see the girl looking at him with pity in her eyes. He blinked and bent his head back to his food.
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Wale stood at the corner of buka, watching the man eat. His eyes followed each lump of eba from the soup plate to the man’s mouth, then watched the man’s gullet shake as the lump slid down. He licked his lips and turned his gaze on Uju. She had refused to leave. She had drawn out a chair and she was seated, pretending to read a folded magazine lying in front of her. He knew she was pretending to read because her eyes kept on shifting to watch the man and also – she can’t read.
His stomach rumbled. He had eaten a half cob of roasted corn the day before. Before that – he could not remember. He turned to go when a knock on his skull brought him to his knees in pain. He looked up from the ground in tear-filled eyes. it was Obum.
He had been avoiding Obum since he found himself in Umuahia. He had come to him, at first, as a kind hearted benefactor, giving him a mouldy bread and butter. He had slept with other kids his age in an old bombed ruins of a church – their tiny bodies – the only source of warmth. Then he had told him that he had to bring his own ration of food, items that could be sold – whether stolen or not, before he could eat. At first he had refused. He could not remember much about his parents but he knew someone had taught him that stealing was wrong and he also felt ashamed to beg for food. He had gone hungry for two days before he stole his first food – a bunch of plantain. He still had scars all over his body for the beating he received when the trader caught him. He still did not eat that night. But after that day, stealing became easy and begging was nothing. Two days ago, he was caught again by another trader, with her smoked fish in his hands. He had escaped with a black eye, a broken lip and bruises all over his body. He had not gone back to the church, knowing that Obum would beat him up too.
Obum: “what are you doing?” he asked, his grey eyes flashing in the sun.
The boy: “I wanted to go and meet that man but aunty Uju will not leave.” He replied, rubbing the sore spot on his head.
Obum turned to look at the bar. He turned back to the boy and shook his head.
Obum: “come there’s work to do. If you do this well, we will have food for all of us, as much as we can eat.” He said.
The boy got up and dusted his shorts. The two of them walked behind the kiosk and soon disappeared from view.
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Omonigho washed his hands and chewed his meat. A sheen of sweat hung on his forehead and his stomach was happy. Uju got up and came to his table. She picked the wash bowl and plates and placed them on the tray then she stood still.
Omonigho: “how much is your money?” he asked, putting his hand into his shirt pocket.
Uju: “two hundred naira.” She replied.
Omonigho searched then stopped – his face creased in a curious frown. He stood up and dug his hands into his trouser pockets – all of them, but they came out with nothing. He had lost the N1000 given to him at the prison or it had been stolen. The man sighed and looked at the girl.
Omonigho: “I am sorry – I have misplaced my money.” He said.
Uju: “I talk am. I talk am say sontin no clear for dis your waka. Oga you dey joke o. Just take am say na here you go sleep.” She replied, bouncing on the balls of her feet, obviously ready for a fight.
Omonigho sighed and stared out into the morning sun.
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