Mide’s Abor with Olamide Longe
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He made his way quietly down the street, his head down, no destination in mind. After walking for some distance, his legs began to feel heavy and he longed to rest. All around him, people were coming and going. Motorcycles and tricycles whizzed by. Cars sped past with their horns blaring. He ignored all. Finally, about the time he decided he would sit on the next kerb, just sit there on the side of the road, he came upon a garden and made his way into it.
He sat down on the nearest bench, not caring about the dirt that had piled up on it.
It was a desolate place. The ground was littered with dead leaves. It was a bit dark inside, yet it was only mid morning. The sun was having a time of it penetrating the dense canopy formed by the overgrown trees.
It was as quiet as a churchyard.
A gentle breeze heavy with the smell of harmattan blew. It was cold and biting. He let out his tongue; perhaps it would cool his parched tongue. He closed his eyes.
A cooing sound came intermittently from somewhere above him. He opened his eyes and lowered his head. He sat there unmoving, gazing at a brown leaf that had fallen near his battered sandal. His vision blurred and its rust colour for a minute, looked like dried blood. He lowered his head a little further. He shut his eyes and then opened them. He raised his head, and then looked down again at the leaf. He stooped and picked it up. It felt crisp, dry, and brittle. He held it gently at the tip and studied it.
In a not too distant past, it had been a lush green thing nestled in the midst of others just like it on one of these trees, he thought, looking up. He felt a kinship with it. He looked down again. This time, his eyes took in all the brown leaves scattered around him; then they took in those lying in the distance.
They were all dead.
It was carnage.
He gulped.
He remembered again that day. Not that he could ever forget, the day he died. It had broken without any ominous sign. Breakfast had been a hearty one, as usual. His youngest and only daughter refused to eat until he promised her a gift. The boys grumbled that he always fell for her ploy, as usual. His wife had on her frazzled face; they were running late. They made plans for the evening, as usual.
Then three pairs of soft hands had hugged him one after another, as he made to depart for the day. He held his wife and hugged her fiercely, declaring his love for her ears only. She had rolled her eyes, but responded with vigour, as usual.
One minute the small radio on the cabinet beside him was playing music that soothed the hot and dry atmosphere, the next, the music stopped abruptly and a subdued voice announced that there had been an explosion at a busy intersection and scores had been killed.
His eyes went to the clock. It said half past three. His heart froze.
The door to his office opened, and a voice asked if had heard.
Days followed of visits to hospitals and morgues.
Nights of walking from room to room, searching, calling out names and asking questions of walls, drawers, shirts, blouses, underwear and toys.
Instead of their faces, he saw his mother’s, his brother’s, his sister’s, and other people’s. The hands that held him and comforted him weren’t the ones he longed for. They were gentle and kind, but they weren’t the soft and smooth ones not yet made callous by passing years. They didn’t know his vulnerable spots; they could not heal him with a single touch.
He took turns sleeping on each of their beds. And, he always saw them. They came in the night and told him what they had been up to.
“What happened?”
“Where are you?”
“Why did you leave me?”
They never answered. They always said:
“I promise to be a good boy in school today.”
‘I want a new pair of trainers, these ones are getting tight.”
“I don’t like the dress mummy bought for me, would you ask her to take it back and get me the one I want?”
“I’m so glad I married you. Not one day of regret.”
He dreaded the coming of mornings. They always left him then.
His eyes became a flowing stream.
He never returned to work.
Their voices accused him. He didn’t do anything to save them. He wasn’t doing enough to find them. He had forgotten them.
He lived.
Their voices drove him out of the house.
He stared at the brown leaf in his hand. It would never be green again. He folded his palm over it and crushed it. He opened his palm and the wind scattered it. How blessed. To return to dust was surely a better state.
His eyes took in the other leaves strewn across the ground and he felt his heart quicken. He stood up. He knelt down and with his hands, began to gather the fallen leaves together.
He stood up several minutes later and admired the mound he had made. Then with a wild cry, he threw himself upon it.
