Exit Wound

When I saw the video of prisoners jumping out of Oko prison here in Benin City I laughed.

“How foolish do these people think we are?” I asked my friend Femi who was sitting beside me in front of my shop. Distractedly, he peeked into my phone screen and exclaimed.

“See how that guy just jumped down!” It was true. A prisoner who had managed to extricate himself from the barb wires on the not less than ten feet tall walls landed ceremoniously on the ground outside the prison.

There were armed men around, hoodlums who were bent on sabotaging the Endsars protest for their own selfish and savage purposes. One of the prisoners ran towards the camera and prostrated, thanking the hoodlums for breaking him out of prison. Other prisoners walked past, one of them even had a traveling bag and headphones shining newly on his head. I laughed out loud again.

Later, I learned that prisoners can have as much as a personal apartment in prison so long as they can pay for it. Another evidence that our country is failing. Nevertheless, I was sure it was staged. Those prisoners could not be real prisoners. Three thousand criminals could definitely not be running around freely in the state where I lived but they were.

They were walking freely and with guns. Guns got from breaking into police stations. Police stations that they burnt afterward, making sure they would be able to have full rein of the state. These police stations remained empty for a long time. They remain empty till now. It is like they are trying to teach us a lesson, say, you people said you do not want Police brutality, let’s see how well you fare without us.

The sun was shining well that day and I was making a video call on the bus I was in. The vehicle was moving too fast so I looked forward, to check the face of the driver and know if he was alright in the head. The driver was one of those boys who look so young you wonder how they got a driver’s license and even then, how come they are allowed to hold the lives of some ten other humans in their hands.

I was on my way to ring road to do some Christmas shopping. It was not like I had a lot of money to throw around. We all felt the hotness when 2020 was showing us pepper. Yet, I needed a few things for the festive season, especially something to make my hair with. The bus I entered is the one that drops you inside ring road, as opposed to taking you inside Central Park and making you take the long trek out of Central Park and into ring road proper.

I am not saying that I did not trek, I still had to walk towards Lagos street under the hot scalding sun, walkthrough Oba market looking for the right fabrics for my shop. Being a tailor is a weird flex, in my one year of being on my own two feet, my one year after graduation, I have found that the learning process is continuous and you can never know everything. This knowledge has both humbled me and given me the zeal to keep learning without fail.

I was done purchasing everything I needed and was walking back to the park to get a bus home when I heard muffled cries from the shop beside me. I looked over and my eyes connected with those of a rugged looking man. His eyes looked evil and devilish and I would have turned quickly away if the woman hadn’t whimpered again.

Her hand was over her mouth but her eyes were begging me to save her. A quick look back at the criminal showed me that he was turning and might soon begin walking towards me. My feet moved immediately and I moved with them. Soon I was at the junction and breathing hard. The criminal had not followed me. I knew he must have robbed the woman blind and I had mixed feelings about not helping her. I was ashamed on one hand and relieved on the other. What if I had been killed while trying to help?

My mom applauded me, quoted the Bible verse that says “flee from every appearance of evil”. “I will not lose any child to this country” she pronounced. Her lips squeezing in a bitter expression. We children used to joke that of everyone in Nigeria, my mother had been hurt by the system the most. After bagging two Masters degrees ten years ago, and dropping CV’s in countless places, my mom was yet to secure a job for herself. It was a very pathetic story.

My sister entered the sitting room from the right and went over to sit carefully on one of the sofas, her belly protruding away from her. The not yet healed bruises at the corner of her face dark like purple henna. Just one week before, my mother had gotten a call at 9 pm, when every sane person who knew how dangerous Benin was becoming was already in bed. My father was already fast asleep.

“Mommy, Segun will kill me. He will kill me” Charlotte said through the phone. It was her tone and the exhaustion in her voice that made my mother scramble out of bed. This was the second time the beast of a man was laying his hands on her daughter and it would be the last. Without waiting for her husband to struggle into his trousers, my mother revved up the car and drove across town to where the newly wedded couple lived.

She said when she landed the ground shook. Her shouts and bellows woke the whole street up and soon strong men were breaking into my sister’s house and carrying her out. She was bleeding from multiple cuts on her face but luckily still pregnant. When she came home she cried on my shoulder for hours. At that moment I hated men and even considered breaking up with my boyfriend Adeolu. The sweet man, he understood how I felt when I told him what happened and was in a bad mood for days.

With the way the country is now, it is difficult for women to not conclude that all men are the same. I met Ade on my way back from school. I was walking down the road and the rain began to fall. A few moments later, as I was scanning the street for shelter, a Honda car sidled up to me. Like a good mummy’s baby, I shifted away. Self-preservation told me I should not enter a strangers car so when he beckoned with his hand I pretended not to see.

Unfortunately for me, the rain came down with vengeance, and jumping into the car became less than a choice and more like a necessity.

“I’m sorry, I’m getting your chair wet” I apologized, I kept one eye trained on his face and another on the door. Somehow always expecting him to switch up on me and become a monster.

“That’s okay,” he said, “You are mummy Angel’s last card” he murmured after a while. I was shocked.

“How do you know my mom?”

“Angel was my elder sister’s girlfriend,” he said.

“Wow! How’s your elder sister now?” I asked. A dark cloud passed over his face.

“She has gone to be with her maker,” he said, waving off my condolences.

“It is left for us to live now” he would tell me later. “Those that have gone before us are counting on us to live”

We didn’t even plan to date each other so first he became my standby chauffeur. He would ask me when I was coming back from school and be waiting for me at our junction. In the beginning, he refused to come to our house and see my sister. He said seeing her would remind him of his sister and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face that.

Lucky for him, Angel got married and it was now only me and my mom. He would park his car and follow me in to greet her. They would spend hours talking about real estate investments and money. My mom would feed him his favorite meal of yam and pepper soup to silence him for a few minutes. It was always lovely to watch. He was always lovely to me.

Ade convinced me that all men were not the same. He was kind, courteous, and soft-spoken. No ulterior motives were lurking behind his actions. Just kindness. So much that it baffled me every time. This man would stay up all night with me when I was ill. Feeding me fluids and singing softly in my ear. He gave the best hugs. When I cried in his arms after that monster beat my sister into depression he hugged me tight and grieved with me.

“My father used to beat up my mom. In those days when he was still a “strong man” he used to beat her so much, my sister and I would hug her around her legs and cry” he said.

“Why are they still married?” I asked. There was a painful smile etched on his face, echoing my anger.

“I don’t know. I wish she left you know? Now I have anxiety. When I see violence I freeze” he said, a tear snaked down his eyes and it was my turn to hold him close. I was weeping inside for all the beautiful boys and girls made to suffer because one of their parents chose to remain with their abusive spouse.

Loving can indeed hurt but it isn’t that kind of hurt. Not bruises, a broken arm, or a broken spirit. The society that forces people to remain in abusive marriages should be destroyed and rebuilt. That was what I told Ade and he agreed. There is nothing like staying in it for the children. These children get hurt irreparably and lose their purity and innocence on the altar of perseverance and long-suffering that might lead to death.

Although our upbringing was quite different, I was raised by a single mother and he was raised within a dysfunctional family, we had similar values. We wanted many kids. The first time I told him I wanted five kids he asked, “Is that enough?” And I screamed. He was laughing, running away from me so I wouldn’t playfully hit him.

“I just love a full house,” he said, I would always remember him stretching out his arms like that when he said “full house”. You see, my Adeolu was a handsome man. Not drop-dead gorgeous but so handsome and with homey features. He also liked to wear finely tailored and colorful shirts that accentuated his manly build. I used to tease him that If we were getting married, I would be marrying him because he would be able to help me lift heavy things around the house.

When I said that, he would shake his head and turn his face away with faux disinterest. It would always end up with me jumping on his back to reclaim his attention. We always ended up tussling on the ground.

“Are you a baby?” He would ask. “Why are you hanging on my back like a monkey?”

“I’m your baby monkey” I would say and kiss him on the cheek. If we were at my house, my mom would shout from the living room “keep it down, kids!” And we would stare wide-eyed at each other, like children caught playing with the new toy their mom forbade them from touching.

The scan revealed there were twins inside my sister, she didn’t care to know their sexes but we were overjoyed. Two new members of the family! My mom did a victory dance around the sitting room, pulling my tired sister around the small space.

“You’ve done me proud,” she said and cupped her face in her arms. My sister burst into tears and fell into our mom’s arms. We all know what she was thinking about. The babies would be born without their father and it was hurting her. She however knew the truth, having no father is better than having an abusive father who would hurt them and make them feel less than they are.

We were going to go on a long trip to celebrate our quiet engagement. I was someone that rarely traveled so I was delighted at the prospects of seeing so many new places and with the love of my life. We saved towards it for months. Creating tip jars for our forthcoming wedding too.

We had our engagement party in my mother’s small living room. There were only four people in attendance, apart from myself. Ade, Ade’s mom, Angel, and my mom. Let’s not forget the babies too, although they were still in their mother’s womb. All the people that meant the most to me in this world in one room. It was glorious.

It was the morning before we were supposed to travel. I had packed all my things and was ready to figuratively set sail. As someone who rarely traveled, the journey held high prospects for me.

Adeolu came up behind me and pressed his forefingers into my sides. I jumped away from him.

“I told you to stop tickling me!” I growled at him. He was laughing, leaning against the door.

“You are too..” he wiggled his shoulder to describe how he thought I was. “You have too much current ah”

“Whatever. That’s the last time I’m warning you” I said pointing my finger at his face. Before I could pass by him safely, he leaped again at my side and sent me running through the house, screaming for my mom to come to save me.

When I got the news that he was gone. I sat down and pondered on it. I was educated enough to try stepping back from the situation in a bid to assess it thoroughly. Yes, he had left the house. He was only going to drive two streets away to the filling station beside the main road. He was supposed to come back early. The policeman should not have hit him violently.

His father should not have hit his mom and traumatized him to the extent that he couldn’t speak or defend himself when they treated him like a criminal. EndSars was still trending on Twitter two months after and here was my husband to be, a number, a mere statistic. Adeolu, I called his name as I walked through the house. I was searching for him.

My sister entered labor the minute she heard what had happened and when my mother pushed me into the car, I followed because maybe Adeolu would be walking down the street. His death was as spontaneous as birth, as violent as the travails of a woman pushing out a newborn and then another. My sister lay on the birthing table, her legs thrown out in abandon.

There was a gaping hole between them that mirrored the deepening canyon in mine. Both of them red, angry exit wounds.