What can make you kill someone?
For me it’s knowing someone who raped a girl. No matter who the rapist is, I can never allow the person to be alive. I can kill a rapist and I am sure I will never ask God for forgiveness. If that’s what will make me go to hell, then…
This has always been my mindset for years now. Ever since my first love killed herself because her aunt’s husband defiled her, I’ve had this blinding hate for rapists. To me, they are the worst thing to have happened to humanity; they need to be wiped off—permanently.
I finally managed to find a seat in the already crowded bus. Thankfully it was a window seat, so I just faced the road, as the stench of all the people inside the bus assaulted me. The bus was filled to the brim with students who had come for their registration and biometric capturing at the university. In the email we received, they had said that the exercise would start by 8:00am. I’d left home as early as 6:30am to be able to start on time, but when I got there by 9:00am, I discovered that the organisers hadn’t even arrived at the venue. We had to wait for another three hours before they started.
But thank God I’d finished mine today, as there were many students who were told to come back the next day. Those people are just heartless; many of those students had been there for over twelve hours, yet they couldn’t complete their aim of coming, and instead of giving them a little time to rest, they were mandated to be available the next day. Nigeria, every person who manages to get hold of small authority would always use it to torment others.
Suddenly, I felt something crawling on my waist, close to my pocket. I initially decided to ignore it, but as I remembered how I lost my former phone, I immediately slid my hand into my pocket. Only to discover another hand already there, which was on its way out with my phone. I grabbed the hand, turned to give the person a thorough verbal bashing, only to see a very beautiful girl behind me. I immediately dropped her hand, as I became confused. When did girls start being pickpockets too? was it a part of the “what a man can do, a woman can do better?”
I brought out the phone, pressed the power button, and noticed that the phone had gone off. Low battery. I just hope that my dad would agree to get me a new phone before I resumed school. This current phone has frustrated my life to the point that I was willing to sell it for as low as N10,000 if I found a buyer.
Without a way to contact my elder brother to let him know that I was coming back, I decided to stare out into the night. He was the only person at home, with the exception of our housemaid. The rest of my family had gone to the village for the burial of my father’s elder brother who had died of diabetes. My brother had been unable to get permission from his boss to attend the burial, so he was stuck at home with me.
As I watched the ghostly shadows of trees fly past the bus, I remembered Mirabel, my first love. I’d met her in my SS1 when she transferred to my school. She was the most beautiful creature I’d set my eyes on. She always kept to herself, never letting anyone know that she existed. She didn’t need to do that though, because her grades pushed her to the limelight. She became the best student in our class, beating me over and over again.
It was during the various competitions we went together for the school that gave me the opportunity to start talking to her. That was when I discovered that she was a lively girl, full of humour and intelligence. Back then, everyone had a girlfriend, and I badly wanted her to be mine, but I was scared of losing her friendship. In the end, I lost her to the cold hands of death, caused by her uncle. She had written a suicide note and put it into my Financial Accounting notebook. I guess the reason she put it there was because she knew that I hardly opened the note (I hated accounting). And before I could find the note, she had jumped out of the balcony of their three storey house. The note in notebook was discovered when the suicide note she wrote and kept on her bed has pointed out that the reason she killed herself would be found in the note she put in my notebook.
I was devastated for two years, I hated her uncle, who had disappeared when the truth was discovered. Three years later, I was still missing her badly.
The shuffling of people woke me up. That was when I saw that we’d gotten to the bus stop where I would get down and head home. I lumbered down and knew instantly that I would have to trek home as there were no keke riders available. I crossed the road and trudged home. As I walked, I imagined the food I would eat after taking my bath immediately I got home. I just hope that our maid, Anita prepared something and included me in the equation.
I twisted the knob of the door of the parlour and was surprised to see it open. Had something bad happened? I quietly dropped my bag and crept into the house. We had four rooms—two for my parents, one for the boys and one for my sister and Anita. I went to the rooms of my parents and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, then went to my our room, but nothing was amiss. It was remaining my sister’s room.
As I quietly placed one foot in front of the other, I heard the quiet whimpering of someone in pain. I didn’t know what it could be, and I quickened my pace. I pushed the door open and what I saw deflated my already dampened spirits.
My elder brother, Olisa, was on top of our maid, one hand on her mouth, the other pinning both her hands above her head. Her clothes were torn and he pummeled into her with so much force that although her mouth was covered, I could still hear her silent screams of pain.
I’d always said that I would kill anyone I knew that raped a girl, right?
This was the time to prove it.