COLON ROAD.

This was my entry for the “African Writing Flash Fiction Contest”. I guess I see why I didn’t make the shortlist in hindsight.
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The colours red and yellow bring one place readily to my mind- the ancient city of Benin. They remind me of the commercial buses in that city, with their lousy conductors and music playing very loudly that they could damage eardrums.

I have lived and schooled in this city for about four years now, but the prestige that comes with living in the capital city of a state is almost non-existent. I have experienced the people of Edo state on several platforms, yet I still find some aspects of their lives, quite incredible.
I still don’t understand why they have to scream their words when communicating with you, even though they are not in conflict with you. I also can’t explain why the Oba of Benin is less popular but more respected than the governor of Edo state.

Right across the street where I live, on Colon road in Edodosa village; there is a lady in a shack with her three children. They don’t live there; she just cooks and keeps some items there. She has a yellow plastic table surrounded by a few plastic chairs, all under a big green umbrella. She sells airtime vouchers for various phone network providers. Every morning by 6:45am, she is at her spot, sweeping the area around her shack with her youngest child tied to her back, making her look like she has a hunchback. He is still a baby, about six months old. She calls him Nonso; but everyone else calls him Aminu, including Sani, her husband and their two daughters, Rabi and Mariam.

Mama Rabi, as everyone calls her, is from the Igbo speaking part of Delta state in Southern Nigeria. Her husband, Sani is from the Northern part of Nigeria. He rides a motorcycle for a living, transporting people, students mostly, to and fro the village, sometimes beyond. After Mama Rabi is done sweeping and setting up, she sits down to feed herself and her children breakfast. Sani usually joined them later, after he had transported several students to the gate that leads into the University.

A week ago, after Mama Rabi’s usual morning rituals, while she was seated, gossiping with a couple of hugely idle girls from a neighbouring apartment. A black jeep pulled over in front of the apartment beside Mama Rabi’s spot. The occupants of the vehicle stepped out, five young men all dressed in black from top to bottom, carrying firearms, the type you only see in a Sylvester Stallon movie. One gun shot in the air and the whole street ran into frenzy, people scampered in various directions, seeking places to hide. Mama Rabi gathered Aminu and ran into my apartment. Her two daughters had gone to school.

The armed men went into building across mine, besides Mama Rabi’s spot, clutching their guns tightly to their chests. About ninety seconds later, we heard the first gun shot. It was very loud. I had never heard a gunshot from such close range before. Then the other shots followed, four of them in all. There was a brief silence afterwards, and then we heard their footfall as they made their way out of the building, stumping hard against the concrete floor. When they got out into the streets again, they fired a few more shots into the air, perhaps to scare off any brave ‘super-hero-wannabe’ who might want to give them a chase and save the day.

There was an even longer moment of silence after they had gone. Then people started making their way to the scene, creeping out of their tiny holes where they had hidden in fear for their lives. No one was brave enough to enter yet, even though they knew they were people who just got shot in there, who may yet be alive. The other occupants of the apartment started running out, asking no questions and answering none too.

When the police came much later to take the bodies away and ask questions, only one person was willing and able to answer them. She said she got a glimpse of one of the armed men and so on and so forth. Eventually we discovered that four students, suspected to be rival cult members, were shot in a girls room in the hostel.
I haven’t seen Mama Rabi since that day. Her shack has been locked and Colon road has become a dreaded place.

“Eventually we discovered that four students, suspected to be rival cult members, were shot in a girls room in the hostel.” - this part was added after sending my entry.

Related posts:

1. The Red Road
2. THE NYSC ROAD
3. ROAD TO MARTYRDOM