There is a long stretch of asphalt between the Yaba and Oyingbo markets in central Lagos. Known by the obsequious designation “Muritala Mohammed Way”, it had been around for as long as Lagos had existed. It originated as little more than a bush path for traders in the late colonial period and had now matured to the status of an important highway, linking a focal area of the mainland to the islands beyond. The road had seen good times in the 1980s; it had endured the crisis ridden wear and tear of the 1990s and had now been resuscitated to a more dignified appearance at the turn of the millennium.
Every day, the road delivered a one-way stream of traffic from Yaba to Oyingbo in a continuous torrent of commercial and private transportation. Danfo buses swerved in impatiently at the several bus stops that dotted the road, with their irascible conductors, half hanging out of the danfos, waving passengers in, shouting the names of the bus-stops: Alagomeji! Adekunle! Office! The commercial buses loaded and discarded passengers in simultaneous motion, while private cars, traffic-free, dashed onwards to Oyingbo and the Carter Bridge further ahead.
On the right side of the road, facing towards Oyingbo, the compound of the Railway Corporation bounded the road with a stretch of ancient wall that travelled a fair length of the road. On the left of the road were the spaced entrances into the colonial layout of Ebute Metta East—a crisscross pattern of streets whose activities were hidden from the general view of the Murtala Mohammed Way. The entrances were flanked by the walls of private compounds, the occasional petrol filling station and carwash, a couple of churches and other nondescript buildings. Apart from the few roadside traders, there was little or no commercial activity along the road—a situation resulting from the positioning of the road between two major markets. A person walking the length of the road would have little company, save the passing vehicles, to share the journey with.
When the sun begins to set, the homeward traffic gathers on the road in tight embrace for an hour or two, as the vehicles struggle to exit the road from the Oyingbo market to either return to the mainland or to proceed onwards to the islands. Once the traffic deadlock is loosened, the night settles in and the road goes to sleep.
In the dark, there is more than meets the eye and the road has a different mien. The Railway Corporation wall looms forbiddingly like a primeval barricade, casting dark shades on the sidewalks, and hiding even more shades along its edges. The walk is even lonelier and human movement thins to nothingness. The slumber of the road is disturbed only by the sporadic passage of a car and the resolute walk of a night crawler who has missed the last danfo buses from Yaba. The shadows along the road are much and mysterious and only the very brave walks the length of the road without the occasional shiver.
***
On such a night, when the evening lay still and the shadows of the Railway Compound hung over space, Michael, a young man in his mid-thirties, walked along the road as he made his way home to Oyingbo. As a clothes trader with a shop in the Yaba market, Michael ordinarily took the last bus home. However, in the past two weeks, he had made a habit of taking the long trek instead. The walk gave him time and atmosphere to sort his thoughts into a semblance of order. He was not a happy man and his posture hinted at the unhappiness within.
In the last six months, he had gone through the kind of pain that alters physique and psyche. His wife of six years lay dying in their village, and time was running out on her only option. His two sons were living away from him, as he could not watch over them alone. For months, he had agonized over his wife’s state of health and in the last few days, he had begun to crystalize in thought, the only way he hoped he could save her.
The road was long and empty except for Michael and a woman walking in his front. She walked rapidly, her gown brushing against her heels routinely as she treaded against the night breeze. Her presence was not strange to Michael as this was the fourth night she was sharing the road with him. She would catch up with him just after the Yaba market, bypass him and then walk on ahead. He had seen her a few times in the market. She was a food seller, providing late night meals for the tired bus drivers and other customers who shut down the night market. Originally, she was no more than a welcome distraction from the thoughts that plagued him, but now she had become a familiar landmark, as natural to his trek as the sundry vehicles that lighted the road at intervals. He had become conversant with the rhythm of her movement; her lithe steps stressed the gentle curvature of her posterior. She was small in frame, but a fast walker. Michael had never caught up with her before—not that he had wanted to. He marveled at her confidence in the gloom, the self-assuredness of her movements, seemingly certain that the stretch of road, dark and lonely as it was, posed no threat to her. A spark of life in the dead of the night.
Michael himself was no brave man, and his first attempt at walking the road after dark had been an exercise in self-control, for at every startling noise he had almost broken into a run. He had journeyed cautiously, watching around him for signs of unusual activity, constantly looking back to ascertain he was not being followed. There was no safe place in the night. It was not just thieves and robbers he was worried about, but also kidnappers and bloodsuckers. Michael was profoundly superstitious and he believed in a world that posed a thousand dangers to the unwary. It was on nights like this that the men of the dark plied their dreadful trade and Michael was unwilling to be a buyer.
Eventually, after a few nights on the route, he had become less worried about the dangers of the darkness, but he still kept a careful eye open. Even now, as he hurried on behind the girl in the flowing gown, he walked with his mind alert to the environment; his left hand clutching at the strap of his tightly, his body moving sharply in a constant effort to prevent his mind from wandering. He walked on behind the girl, her dark outline a consoling presence in the middle of the night.
***
His wife had been diagnosed with cancer and she lay dying in her father’s house in the village. “Cancer” was what the Lagos doctors called it, but the native medicine man in his village had spat the word out in disgust. Cancer? What cancer? This is the handiwork of your enemies. They are jealous of your success. You will need to be vigilant and strong if she is to survive this.
It had been a long road to the village medicine man’s hut—if the modern bungalow could be called a hut—and despite his Pentecostal Christianity, Michael and his family had had no problems with consulting the traditional healer. Besides, his pastor’s advice had been on similar, if parallel lines: She can be cured, but only by fasting and prayer. The fasting had been easy, the prayer was useless, and eventually, the government hospital discharged his wife and recommend private care for her. Private care was expensive, and Michael, though he had a good business with two employees was not wealthy by any standard. After the money spent on expensive drugs had not achieved any significant improvement, his wife’s family had come for her and taken her back home to the village. The two children went to stay with his sister while Michael shuttled between the village and Lagos, desperately seeking a cure while trying to earn the money to pay for it. He had given in to the option of native medicine and on several nights, he had sat beside his wife’s bed, urging her to drink from repellent concoctions he would have gladly swallowed to ease her pain. For a long time there had been no hope of saving his wife and Michael had begun to give in to the despair of watching his wife die. He was almost resigned to fate when his father had called him aside three weeks earlier and in a “man-to-man” talk, advised him on the way forward.
***
Now as he entered the last leg of his trek, Michael considered his father’s advice even as his heartbeat quickened along with his pace. The gods would accept a life for a life. It was a paradigm which he understood and which he had never questioned. His wife could have her life but only in exchange for another. In this life, there’s more than meets the eye. His father had refused to say more, but had handed him over to the medicine man—who had carefully outlined what he needed and what Michael was required to do.
He had agonized over the right decision and the frustration had driven him to a mental paralysis that had threatened to render him incapable of any activity. The nightly walks from Yaba to Oyingbo was a search for sanity and in the course of his walks, the decision had come to him, along with a handy opportunity for its implementation. He was ready. He was prepared. His wife would be saved.
In the far distance, the pinpoints of the Oyingbo market lights were beginning to show, but around him, the night lay dark and quiet on the Muritala Mohammed Way. Michael shivered as he thought of the coldness of the night—the kind of night when kidnappers and bloodsuckers walked free on the road and innocent blood became the feast of the nocturnal. Again, he looked ahead at the girl and wondered where she got the courage to walk the length of the road. It was almost suicidal, the way she walked the night. It was as if she was daring danger, urging it to ensnare her in a private bet. Her vulnerability was heightened by her fragile look; she didn’t appear capable of defending herself in a physical situation. Michael wondered if she had parents or a husband who let her stay out so late, or if she was an independent girl living alone. He frowned at the idea; he didn’t like women who lived alone. Before him, the girl increased her pace as though aware of his thoughts, and the distance between the two walkers increased despite Michael’s hurry. He lengthened his steps, intent on catching up with her.
As soon as he was almost behind her, Michael slowed down so as not to alarm the girl. For a few seconds he walked on gently behind her, observing her back while he withdrew the object in his bag. If she sensed the proximity of her companion in the night she did not show it. She walked on purposefully, eager to complete her night journey. Michael considered her briefly before he acted. Then, in a swift, oft-practiced motion, he drew the machete in his hands upwards and slashed at the girl’s neck from behind. Time stood still for him as he watched the result of his assault. The torso wavered slightly before crumpling to the ground. The head bounced off the shoulders and rolled off the sidewalk onto the road. Michael bent down toward the road to retrieve the decapitated head; he deposited it into his bag without looking at it, almost shamefully, and then he hurried off into the night.
