Folake found the lavatory rather quaint. The cold feel of the wall stung his back as he leaned, studying the room. Two small exit doors stood ajar at the extreme, the main large entrance stood behind him and the walls, thick enough to contain even the loudest of noise. He pressed his nose, reacting to the musky scent of ammonia that wafted in the room. A black leather hand-bag hung down from his shoulder.
“Chai! Ayo, my elder brother,” the words heavy on his tongue as he muttered.
Speaking of Ayo, he was the reason Folake was standing here in the hostel lavatory at this time.
What was with Ayo? Was he easing himself in one of the toilets while Folake stood waiting? If so, why was Folake wearing a long face?
As a matter of fact, some couple of months ago, Folake had to kneel beside the battered and lifeless body of Ayo, laid by the roadside, with hot tears trickling down his face. Now, Folake was all prepared to avenge his death.
Folake crested his left wrist up, and checked the time. It was 4pm already. He nodded. Perfect timing, he thought. An opportunity he had long waited for. Finally, all his plans fell through. But then he cringed when he remembered how James nearly ruined them. They had gathered in the school cafeteria. A round table accommodating six of them, with Ayo’s murderer seated right opposite to him. James—lanky framed body, dark skinned, beady eyes, with tiny teeth covered in chubby lips— was the spokesman of the group; his loquaciousness was second to none. How Folake managed to wheedle him and the others to chase after their rival cultists while he went to the lavatory with their Capon all alone still baffled him. It was a complete diversion, a trick Folake would always admit he learnt from Hollywood movies. And like magic, it worked.
On a second check, still leaning against the wall, Folake realized it was 20mins past 4pm. He ran the zip of his bag open in a flash and rummaged through it. Masking tape, dagger, knife and rope were the items he checked and was happy they were all intact. He wiped the sweat flooding his face with the back of his hand, heaved heavily and smoothened the frown lines on his face. He needed to appear as normal as possible to avoid raising the Capon’s curiosity or suspicion.
Folake jolted but caught his composure in time when a door tore open with a thud and the Capon—a tall and slim but broad shouldered man, dark skinned with a scoufled hair—emerged. He ambled towards one of the WC wash hand basins, holding up his loose pants by the hooks that held the belt in place. Folake flashed a sly grin when their gaze locked. He moved closer and stood behind the Capon, wielding a dagger which he completely hid from the Capon’s view. When he was a hair’s breath close, his jaw tightened as he raised the dagger before he struck. The Capon caught the dagger mid-air, but Folake had already wrapped tightly his other arm around his neck, frustrating his struggle.
With a rush of adrenaline down his spine, Folake pushed the Capon hard and pinned his face against the sleek walls. Realizing he had succeeded in disarming the Capon, and without wasting any second, he impaled him with the dagger. The blade of the dagger sank deep into the groove of his left shoulder, tearing the flesh with vengeance and lacerating major arteries that stood in its way. Blood spurted out with Folake’s white polo catching the splash. Folake palmed the Capon’s mouth, muffling his screams and groans.
The Capon slumped onto the marbled floor with a thud. Folake bent over and pulled out the dagger letting more blood out. Folake towered over the fallen Capon, blood dripping from his dagger. A bliss flushed through his skin as he watched him writhed in pain.