Blurb
Udoh is a typical boy with a burning passion for football; nothing else comes in between except the unwavering hand of his mother!
His passion eventually puts him in a precarious situation that leaves him with two options:
1. Endure Punishment
2. Risk His Life
Oblivious to the severity of it, he chooses number two! Read a haunting tale that will take you on a rollercoaster ride of emotions!
Story: A Long Night
“GOAL!” Akpan yelled in my ears.
Shame washed over me like a cold sweat. Tears burned in my eyes and blurred the sight of the slip in my palm.
I looked up. Before me was the old box television, the benefactor of everyone’s attention at that moment. I squinted through tears, only making out the jubilant reds on the TV screen, and in the background, the blues sauntering off, crestfallen.
“See, Udoh is crying!” a violent nudge shook me, and their mocking laughter pressed me from all sides. I snapped to recompose myself, and quickly wiped my face although it was too late. The boys closer to us were already turned in my direction—their gloating faces surrounded me, taunting me.
Irritation took over and I barked feeble threats, “I will break your square-head oh!” I shook my fists in a boy’s face. His carefree laughter stung in my chest. He shoved me, and the other boys joined in the roughhousing. I was tossed about helplessly. Was I really the only Chelsea fan in this place?
“Stop it!” I shrieked, but mentally refrained when I heard my voice. I sounded like a wounded puppy.
Still, I threw wild fists, meaning to defend my pride, but my charade was met with more laughter and taunting. I finally folded my arms, resigned to the mockery and avoided eye contact.
I watched the rest of the hall erupt with gyration; a few boys jubilated like grasshoppers, prancing about like kings; I found it all to be so annoying. I went green with envy as I watched them, and their cheery smiles made me want to gag! Some other boys gyrated aggressively, throwing curses and obscene names at the players on the TV screen as if they could hear them. Some of the other boys remained silent, glancing up at the TV from their white strips of paper now and then like secretaries.
Jerome was amongst them; he was one of the older boys and the son of the town’s famous wealthy politician. He squinted down at his paper for a moment, his beady eyes protruding from their sockets and halfway covered by his eyelids; I always thought he resembled a chameleon.
Suddenly, he screamed!
“Boys, my game don enter! Free bottles of stout for everybody!” he announced as he rose from his chair, towering over every other boy in that viewing centre. Most of the boys cheered and others who fanned the losing team managed a weary smile.
I was one of them. I had only taken beer a few times before, and although it was richly bland, the taste was also soothing. Papa and his brothers always drank beer at every event; It was a man’s drink and it made me feel older and stronger.
“Udoh, look at the time?” My little brother stuck his hand before me, presenting the small face of his toy wristwatch. His name was Imoh.
“It is two o’clock and we haven’t done any chores at home! Mama will be coming home soon! Let’s rush home and do something before then,” he whined, tugging the hem of my shirt.
I shot a glare at his small round face, which had the resemblance of a bloated tomato; his cheeks and neck still had baby fat, and his eyes were small and pinched like a cat’s. Our relatives called him ‘African China’ all the time. There was no nickname for me—just plain and common ‘Udoh’. Although my little brother’s face was appalling to me, he had an oblivious way of attracting favour from my parents and light change from our visitors.
“Okay!” I sighed reluctantly and led the way.
Our home was just a few houses down the street from the viewing centre. I plodded in despair, evaluating my losses. Next to me, Imo skipped happily, pleased his club had won. My thoughts drifted to the money I had spent on the betting, and in the back of my head, Mama’s scowl loomed. I shuddered, remembering my deeds the previous night. I wondered if Imoh had been awake. Had he seen me take that money?
Possibly not. I had held out my dirty sock long and hard over his face while he slept; he could never endure the smell of a week’s worth of dirt and sweat so he would have shrunk away if he was pretending to be asleep—but he didn’t. He remained cozy and asleep, with the only movement of his body coming from his expanding and deflating chest.
“Udoh! Imoh!” Mama’s voice sent lightning through me and I paused to feel the thunder. It came sharp and heavy! A smack to the back of my head made me stagger forward, but her claws grabbed me by the collar and reeled me back. I trembled in her grasp and gave a tentative glance at Imoh. Maybe she had realized that her money was missing and Imoh had only been waiting to rat me out; I know he wouldn’t miss out on the chance to be portrayed as the holy child, the favourite born.
But he was standing next to her, unharmed and untouched. This made anger well up inside me, and I wanted to protest. But once I looked up at those glaring eyes and that signature scowl, my fear subdued my anger and discipline took over.
“Mama, good afternoon,” I blurted like a mare.
“Where did you take your little brother?” Mama snapped, ignoring my greeting.
“He wanted me to escort him to his friend’s house. He forgot his textbook at Akpan’s house yesterday.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed and darted from me to Imoh. Imoh eyed me in a way that made my heart lurch. I tried to convey unspoken threats with my eyes; I bobbed them profusely at him. He looked at Mama and then looked away fearfully.
Anger welled inside me again.
“Udoh!” Mama blared in my ear and my anger jumped out a window. “I have been waiting in the house for over an hour. The front yard hasn’t been swept!” her grip on my collar tightened and I feared she had not yet strangled me because we were in public. “The plates from last night have not been washed! And the waste bin has not been emptied!”
She shook me like a leaf and it felt like my brains were jangling in my skull. “I will ask you one more time. Where have you been?” Mama blared.
“Mama, I told you the truth,” I mumbled, not daring to look at her. I waited to feel another smack, cringing for impact—but it never came.
“Okay.” Mama suddenly let go. I gawked in dismay. The whole world must have stopped. “You are lucky. I am in a good mood and we are expecting guests soon. Quickly now, let’s go home and clean up. Then you will go to buy drinks and ingredients for soup with that money I keep in your father’s beer bottle.”
My heart shrunk and withered. This was the money I had spent at the betting shop.
“Udoh? Do you hear?” Mama barked as she walked away, leading Imoh by the hand.
“Y-yes, Mama,” I stuttered but I did not move. She kept heading home without turning back and so did Imoh.
I was shivering like I had just been doused with cold water. This was a crossroads; I could turn the other way and hit the road, pumping my small feet as fast as I could and not look back, Or I could follow her to the slaughter.
I glanced in the other direction; it beckoned to me. If I started running now, I’d have the element of surprise and a full head-start before she even noticed that I was gone.
Twenty minutes later, I collapsed under a mango tree. My legs burned. I had turned my back on Mama and had taken flight. I did not hear Mama shout, maybe she had not even noticed that I was missing but I knew that luck wouldn’t last for long. I also knew that soon, Jerome would come looking for me.
That tall, silver-spooned bully was the town’s private mercenary. After four years of failing WAEC, his father had given up on his son aspiring to any blue-collar job, so Jerome was stuck with staying in town and learning a trade; forever a terror to the smaller boys: which included me.
Under this particular tree was my favourite spot; a silent sanctuary for me away from the world. No one ever came here and I doubted anyone except the hunters knew about this Mango tree in the forest.
I leaned back against the tree and tried to relax. It was cool and silent, so I let my thoughts shift from Mama and her unwavering hand to the low grumble coming from my stomach. I wondered how long I would remain there until Jerome came along to drag me by the ear. Maybe I should hide in the bushes and wait till sunset, when Jerome would be tired of looking for me and Mama would be worried sick about me, then I would go home.
She would be too relieved to think about punishing me. Somewhere in my head, doubt panged and worry lingered; Mama was not like the other mothers. She had the grip of a man and a heart of stone. She would wait up mercilessly for me through the night, especially after the embarrassment of not treating her visitors well.
I shivered. Not because of the cold but the impending doom. Then I felt it. Something liquid and warm dropped on my forehead. I raised my hand and smeared it. Then I held my hand out before my eyes. The fluid was red and thick; the smell was foul and metallic.
“BLOOD OF JESUS!”
I bolted to my feet and shrunk away from the tree, trembling. The words had just come from my lips. Words I barely remembered during prayer. Half of my consciousness screamed at me: Get away! Get away!!
But the other half was curious. What was it? Was it really blood? There was no denying that it was blood. Just where I had sat, there was a small sand-caked puddle of blood; I had not noticed it before.
Maybe it’s an animal. Maybe I should look.
CRACK!
I froze.
Crack! Crack!
My knees quivered.
The sound was approaching in the distance. Someone was coming in my direction. I dived into the nearest bushes, scraping my hands and legs against jutting twigs and sharp leaf blades, engulfed in the nauseating grassy smell. I could hear the person’s soft thuds clearly. They had made it to the clearing; my secret clearing.
I was on my stomach, concealed in the bushes. Every atom in my body tensed. Before me, a leafy shrub blocked my sight, only leaving a few snippets of someone’s legs just a few meters away. It had to be a man’s legs. The jeans was tight, showcasing bulging muscles. He also wore brown sandals; the skin of his feet looked sun-etched and dry, his toes were stubby.
In the silence that followed, I could sift out heavy breathing from the chirping of crickets in the background. There was a rustling of leaves, then the jerk and sway of a branch:
Thud!
A bundled body dropped like an oversized mango before me. My eyes settled on the face. Milky eyes from a mangled face stared back at me. My body went numb. I knew that boy.
He was Laye, the shoemaker’s son. In the mornings, he went around collecting damaged shoes for mending and in the evenings, he would bring them back, all fixed, topped off with his cheery smile.
Now he was lying there in the dirt a few meters from me, staring at nothing, his ever-present smile was missing. I tried to breathe but I sucked on nothing and my head felt like a brick on my shoulders. A scream surged up my throat but my lips wouldn’t let it escape especially when I saw something sharp and fast hack down into Laye’s face…
*******
I did not know how much time had passed but I had been there through it all, trapped and shrouded by shrubbery, trembling and holding bile in my mouth while I watched Laye separate into many pieces.
Long after that, I was still there. Long after those big hairy hands had gathered the parts into a sack and tried to cover the puddles of blood with sand. Long after those haunting legs had walked away with the sack dragging behind him.
My skin sang in many places, especially on my legs where a million mosquitoes had bitten me. I was no longer trembling but the drive to escape had left me. I could not feel my limbs and I could not remove my eyes from staring at it, staring at the spot under my favourite mango tree where Laye had been butchered. It would take a million nightmares to expunge the sight of Laye’s entrails from my head.
Even now, I could still see him there, lying on his side, head twisted at an awkward angle with his limbs folded and bound to his torso. There was a sickness in my bones, a nauseating stain that would never leave my soul and I knew my nights would forever be haunted by that milky stare.
Mama and Imoh would be looking for me. The thought lingered in the back of my mind but it no longer commanded the fear it used to. The sun was setting and soon it would be dark here.
“I used to see him entering this place sometimes. Maybe he is here.”
“You better be sure. Mosquitoes are already biting me.”
The voices alerted me. I knew the voices very well. Jerome and his sidekick, Ubong.
In the distance I could see light, small halos from torches. I knew they were looking for me and if they pointed that beam in my direction, they would find me.
I willed myself to move, fervently concentrating on shifting my weight, little by little. My body finally moved after a laborious writhing and I crept away from the clearing, ignoring sharp twigs and blades that scraped my exposed legs as I went.
Ubong’s scream brought me to a jolting stop, draining the feeling in my legs. It was a shrill stab into the ambient din of chirping insects. I listened and there it was again! Another cry. My head spun wicked scenes before me; what if the killer had returned to find them in his butchering spot? What if that snarling blade had swung fast and hard, a terrific glint in moonlight that came down and disappeared into bone and flesh?
“That’s a finger! Look at it! Look at it!” Ubong wailed like a weeping widow.
“Jesus!” Jerome gasped and then a flurry of pattering feet and rustling bushes ushered silence again.
I did not move immediately, instead I waited and listened. The crickets resumed their orchestra and the night owls slowly began to hoot; Jerome and his friend had fled. The two strongest and most feared thugs in the village ran with their tails tucked between their legs and I was still here…alone in a dark forest with a killer lurking about.
The realization germinated in the back of my mind, suddenly I could see my Mother and Imoh standing over my small grave, sobbing. Maybe, just maybe, the killer would be there too, with an arm draped over my mother’s shoulders, looking down into her eyes, conveying hope and showing empathy.
I sprung to my feet! It was after dark but cracks of moonlight would show me the path back home. I began to grope and feel my way back, tripping and bruising until I came to another clearing; a few meters from the brush was a small hut. I frowned. I had never seen this hut before but I had visited my spot under the mango tree as many times as I could…could I have been venturing deeper into the forest instead of outwards from it? The thought haunted me.
The hut had small oval windows barely the size of two adult heads, and I could see the glow of candlelight from within. Its thatched roof sagged awkwardly to one side, spilling reeds and exposing the rafters. From one of those jutting shafts, a machete hung.
A shiver wrung me. The machete was wildly familiar. Its sinister jagged edge and ominous snarl mocked me. It was the very same machete.
I SCREAMED. An explosion that rattled my insides and travelled far into the forest. A silence swept in over everything and all was still…until something on the ground stirred before me, a sprawled mound that could have only been a human being.
I took flight! And everything blurred as I went, thrashing through waving leafy branches and ignoring the crunch of hard stones under my aching feet until I stepped on air and the ground slammed into my face. The impact knocked me empty and sucked vigour from my limbs.
For a moment I remained there, tasting dirt and blood, seeing haze. My head throbbed madly for a while—I cradled it with my hands. I groaned, slowly rolling onto my back, blinking several times before I could place the features around me. I was still somewhere in the forest, lying on my back, holding my head and staring up at the laced arms of tall trees.
I scrambled back onto my feet, gasping as memory slowly returned to me. There was a hut back there…something had moved, I was running and I fell…why?
I looked down and found my answer. I had dipped my foot into a shallow hole but something next to my leg snatched my attention. I stooped slowly, staring at it.
Breath left my lungs again when I realized what I was looking at. Smiling wide in the moonlight was a sharp-toothed metal mouth, lying not more than two inches from my foot. I stared blankly, visualizing the horrific picture I could have starred in.
The hole was placed just four meters from the trap. It was far enough for me to fall right into it. Could this have been the reason why Laye’s face was mangled? I shuddered.
Approaching cracks reeled my attention and I knew someone was coming. I delved again into the nearest brush, lying flat on my stomach and holding my breath as the orange glow of firelight approached where I had been standing.
Those same jeaned muscular legs strolled into view and the heavy breathing was present. I could hear his breath hitch as he stood there, in the same place I had been standing. He knelt over his trap and made a small tsk-tsk-tsk as he inspected it. A dreadful question filled my thoughts. Had he set the trap for an animal or a human being? I feared I already knew that answer.
Suddenly, I could no longer hear his breathing but I could still see his bent legs from where I lay. My lungs strained for more air but I held onto my will. An eerie feeling followed; I could feel his twisted gaze sweep over and right past me. The moment seemed to crawl, and the strain in my lungs began to reach my head. Then I could hear him breathing again, just as suddenly as I had not heard him. He got up and walked away, taking the fiery light with him, leaving me alone in the dark again.
I did not move, even if I willed it, I could not get myself to move, something fat and heavy sat over me, pressing me numb into the earth; it was fear.
*******
An hour later, I moved. It was a shiver. The temperature had dropped drastically since sunset and I was out there in the forest in nothing but a t-shirt and shorts. I figured it had at least been an hour since the butcher had left, still, alone in the dark, I could see silhouettes of him, conjured images of a towering form with a snarling machete.
The moonlight was pallid and only filtered through the dense canopy in splinters and cracks. Slowly, I rose to my knees. I was still concealed in the bushes as I surveyed my surroundings. I didn’t know where I was, the realization frightened me. I must have strayed from my usual route to the mango tree, and I badly wanted to go home to my mother. I wanted to go home to my punishment.
The thought of any punishment Mama had in store paled in comparison to being strung up from a mango tree and then minced to pieces.
I thought to myself, what if I could pick my way through the forest until I found the edge? Or maybe just go as far away from the hut as I could? Then in the morning, I’ll find my way home.
A familiar picture resurfaced in my mind; a gaping mouth of horror. I shook. What if the butcher had planted those traps everywhere in the forest? I would just be walking right into a slow and excruciating death!
Tears stung my eyes before they began to flow and I let them come freely, my whole body racked and shuddered as I succumbed…
*******
The hooting of the night owls woke me. My skin itched in a thousand places and my hands worked fervently, scratching and soothing. The moon was still overhead and illuminating a bit of my surroundings. My mouth was parched and my stomach grumbled. I found my feet and wobbled blindly, careful to move in the opposite direction from the trap.
After five minutes of hobbling, I realized the frequency of mosquito bites had tripled. I sobbed as I slapped, cringing from the pain, frustrated by my screaming nerves.
A dense amount of mosquitoes means there’s a water body nearby!
I remembered Papa’s crude voice clearly. It almost seemed ages ago since we had ventured out on hunting trips together in his motherland.
I hobbled on, ignoring the painful stabbing in the soles of my feet; sharp twigs had been caught in the soles of my sandals making trekking an uncomfortable feat. As I neared what I hoped was my destination, I could hear the soft tremor of still water. I gasped for joy and began to run until the forest gave way to open air and a wide stretch of water. It was the lake!
Water!
If I was at the lake…then I was a long way from home. The realization dampened my spirit and slowly I sank to my knees.
A wet thud slapped the damp sand near me.
I turned as the air swooshed over my head with the wicked glint of metal. I shrieked and tore into the water, scrambling on all fours. The water came up to my face, blurring my senses, and filling my nose. I gagged but I pushed in farther until the ground below
floated away from me.
I balanced with sweeping limbs, gaping back to the banks. A tall form stood out there with a machete slung over one shoulder. I could not see his face but he remained blindly still, looking back at me. He did not follow in after me. He would not follow me, why!
I struggled to stay afloat and he watched me. A terrific moment passed between us. He stood stoic with his weapon, and I struggled to stay afloat, fighting the fatigue in my limbs, trapped in the cold.
Finally, he turned and walked back into the shadows of the forest. I did not return to the banks, fearing I would not be so lucky the next time. I remained adrift. The cold of the water seeped into my bones like a sickness, weakening and numbing me.
There was a flash of firelight from within the forest. I fought the weariness taking over me, and the slow burn in my eyes.
“Udoh! Udoh!” I heard my name and I tried to yelp back.
I kicked life into my limbs, but they weighed heavier than usual, refusing to function and propel me back towards the banks. I mustered everything my muscles had left and pushed towards the bank. But even as my head dove below and broke the surface, it seemed the bank was not getting any closer, and with every dying effort, fear constricted me. With the last throw of strength I had, I screamed.
*******
I roused to the warmth of blankets and the heat from a hearth. I slowly stirred, blinking as my surroundings morphed to reality. I knew the old cracked table in the corner of the room, and the Muhammed Ali poster hanging on the wall just above it. I knew the sweet smell of fresh Akara wafting in from the slightly ajar door. I also knew the fat head that poked into the room and stared at me.
“Mama, Udoh is awake!”
And just like that, the peace and quiet dissipated into a crowd. They all rushed in from outside. Mama was the first to come in after Imoh. Her eyes looked hollow and the bags under them were red and tender. Tear stains ran the length of her cheeks, her wrinkles made her look older and her usually combed hair was tousled and unkempt. She collapsed on her knees beside my bed and squeezed me tight against her bosom. I felt her body tremble and reverberate onto mine. She sobbed against my head and I cried, overjoyed to see Mama, happy to do any punishment.
Next, relatives and strangers I had never seen poured into my room, asking a lot of questions. I wanted to tell them all I had seen and suffered but those memories were like jagged shards. They cut deep whenever I tried to collect them, so I kept shut and gave blank stares in return for those jabbing questions.
But my resolve came tumbling down when they brought up Laye. A ripple swept through me and next, the guttural sobs came, racking me. I curled into a ball and shut them out. Mama drove them away until it was just me, her and Imoh; all three of us holding each other in a tight embrace.
The topic of the beer bottle money never came up; not even three weeks later after I had told the Town Head and the police everything. It was a misdeed that was banished from existence as if nature acknowledged that I had already been punished for it.
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Author’s note on ‘A Long Night’
I really hope you enjoyed this A Long Night! It took many nights to write. I had four different endings for this story but I had to settle for the one you just read!
How did you feel? I would really love to know! Leave me a review.
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My name is Racheal Asikpo. I can take the creative weight of completing your stories. I can also give you 70% distance from the writing and research. I offer ghostwriting, developmental editing and copyediting services. How about you allow a fresh pair of eyes give you a fresh breath of air?
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