Naija StoriesSuspense and Horror Stories

An Eye For An Eye

I stood right in front of him, my legs barely carried my body, but I stood. His gun pointed to my face that was covered in my own body fluids, with his trigger pulled backwards. He looked enraged, focused, with no remorse or anything that had to do with humanity in his eyes. “Any last words?” he asked. I was not sure if he wanted me to answer, or it was just a means of ‘giving grace’ as they call it. “I said, any last words?” he asked again with more fury in his tone.

“I don’t want to die,” I uttered, not knowing what else I could have said.

“Ok, you can go. Run and never turn back. If you no wan regret am!” he said. The last thing I expected from him was mercy or pity; he was not putting a bullet through my skull!

I pulled the collar of my white top that had turned brown from the mud I crawled into in the hopes of safety I didn’t get to, rubbed it across my face to reduce the sweat that covered it, that had turned my face mild.

“The next thing you will hear from me is your death warrant. I said run!” he ordered.

I reluctantly turned around, took a deep breath and then ran as fast as I could towards where I had no idea I was running to. I just ran. A loud sound came from my back, with the might of a thunder; that was what I heard at that moment, perhaps I was too scared to differentiate between the sound of a gunshot and a thunderstrike. I felt a sharp pain on my right leg and thought that was the end for me. Tears started to drop from my eyes. My bladder filled up with water, urine, whatever it was. I turned to face the man that signed my exit ticket (death ticket), with pain from every step I took.

“Whaa…!” I exclaimed. The biggest shock I have felt in my entire life. The armed man was lying flat on the ground with blood oozing from his head. His rifle dropped right in front of him. There was nobody around, besides me. So it only meant one thing, that the man had committed suicide. But why? The last thing I heard was his death warrant. I looked down to my feet, only to notice a rusted nail I had stepped on unknowingly in my haste.


October 5th 1943, there was a raid, a raid in the hood where I had lived. We called it ghetto. A notice came to us six months ago asking us to vacate our houses, shops, and any other structures we had on the said government’s land. But being domiciled in a place for years should have earned us the right to own it, we thought. The second notice came three days ago, stating that we had 24 hours to vacate the land. Just like the first time, we didn’t adhere to their injunction.

When the police came on a Tuesday morning, with tanks, bulldozers, dogs bigger than a half bag of rice I consume in three months, and hundreds of their personnel, they chased everybody out their houses and bulldozed every standing structure down to earth. Everyone fled for safety; I also ran and crawled in the mud I fell into to get out of sight. Mum, dad, sisters, brothers, we all ran in different paths. I ran into the man, a police, the man I had an eye for an eye with.

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