I

SPRING 2006

Before Mum died, she had become the proverbial mute who was bound to be unfortunate. Father's hands were around her neck as always, his glare on her face as he growled, “Am I a joke to you, bitch?” Swing! >> Brutal swipe. Rattled jaws. Glass centre table >> crash. Shards of thick glass. Gored flesh. Blood suctioning. Red pooling. Father sliced a hen’s neck and left the knife stuck halfway, to watch the writhing, the squirming. Father grabbed a fish out of water and dipped it back in and fetched it back out and dipped it back in and fetched it back out and left it on a chopping board.

Mum = dying fish, squirming half-beheaded hen.

By the living room door, I shivered, gripping the curtain. Just before Father began kicking ribs manically, I rushed towards his prey, snatched her arms, and shook her. 

“Mummy, tell Daddy to stop,” I screamed. “Eh? Tell him now.  Shout. Tell him to stop!" 

I just wanted to hear her scream 'No' for once. Yet, she remained mute. 

Father—fuming, coal-eyed demon. He targeted me too, growling the same words—“Am I a joke to you?”—and kicking furiously, ignoring the egresses of blood… the cracking of bones… the expulsion of life… ensuring that Mum lived a pummelled life, even in her death. 

The fish. It died outside the water.

II

SUMMER 2006

On Father's way to life in prison, his eyes darted around as if desperate to escape the grip of the police officers outside the courtroom. Tall and burly, he was seething and swearing. And just before the cops squeezed him into their van, he strained a look at me, a lopsided smile on his lips, as if to signal how lucky I was. I gripped my maternal grandparents’/new parents’ hands tightly as they flanked me; and the tears rolled down—not because I was watching Father disappear, but because I’d realised that even in the abyss, a demon could still smile.

I blinked away and buried my face in my grandma's bosom. Her soft hands patted my back as we watched the exit, the van veering away, the air of gloom billowing in its wake.

III

AUTUMN 2006

My grandparents had begun to talk too much, more out of frustration. They would often mention Mum's name, blaming her silence. Then they'd argue, then blame Father too, then curse him; they had to—it wasn't normal to bury a child who was supposed to stand over your grave.

The last time I heard them discuss this, I was standing behind their bedroom door, eavesdropping. Grandpa's voice came lethargic, jagged. “The police station called,” he started. “He was stabbed to death. The prisoners were fighting. Strange. A knife… inside a cell?"

That moment, my silence, their silence, they mixed and bloated, till Grandma's words punctured them. Trigger >> a stench in my nostrils, burning lungs, burning eyes. I grabbed my throat. 

“They should burn his corpse, that evil beast,” she said. "He must not reincarnate and affect that girl's life, eh.” Her voice quivered with the same torpidity in Grandpa's, “That girl must not share my daughter's fate. Evil souls just don't know how to rest in their graves.”

Grandpa spat. “Olorun ma je!” God forbid! “He’s gone now, and that’s his end.”

That’s his end. End.

I compressed my lips, sighed, and turned away from the door. My footsteps, tap-tap. 

I went into the kitchen, reached for the water jug on the cupboard, gulped it down. My mouth: couldn't house all the water: spill, over my jaw, down my chin, neck, and shirt. The floor turned wet. I stood there looking at it. Then I crouched down and touched it, the wetness, felt the texture >> thick, the viscosity of blood: water-white blood. I put it under my nose; it smelled abstract, like blandness, like emptiness. My face metamorphosed vaguely within the static puddle as if claiming ownership of the water-white blood, the emptiness that had come from me. 

I should mop it up, however I didn't know if wiping such a significant thing was right. So I left the kitchen and retreated to my room. There, I had a deep sleep. A good rest.

The beast was stabbed… to death.

IV

SPRING 2021

This current life felt aeons away from that life that was hell, and the more I gazed at the one before me, the better I realised how far I had sojourned. How far I had clung to… hope.

He sat at the dining table with the likeness of Michelangelo's David but without the cap-like, curly hair and the fierce-warm eyes. Calmly, he adjusted the neck strap of his silk apron; his face beardless and beautiful; haircut a high-fade afro. He jutted out his chest and glanced up. Our eyes locked.

Dele pivoted his head, stuck out his lower lip like a cute little girl, like kpop idols. I giggled at this and leaned over one of the chairs, my gaze lingering.

“There are roses in my eyes, no?” Dele asked, his eyes brightening as he picked up his phone, raising it across his face like a mirror. "Durling," he drawled, peering at me and squinting, "since I'm so beautiful, com’an touch my face." He cupped his chiselled oval face and pouted. "See now, it's itching for your touch."

Suppressing the urge to laugh, I decided to try something fun. 

I looked over Dele's shoulders. Farther up. Farther away, as if I'd just seen a sceptre. Then I let my jaws drop, let my brows furrow, let my hand ease up in the direction of my eyes. My index finger pointed far, my nose flaring. 

I screamed.

Dele flinched, whipping an abrupt look behind him and rattling the utensils on the dining table. I rushed at him, slinked behind him, grabbed his shoulders the way you hold someone losing their senses. He shivered. His throat throbbed like that of a maniac savouring the smell of lust. My lips touched his jaw. I slid out my tongue and lapped at his ear, breathing softly against his nape. My hands slunk down his chest, parted the folds of his woollen pyjama top, and stroked the baldness of his broad chest. Breathing against his neck again, I rubbed my face against his. "Dele," a moan. My hands felt his sigh dribble through his lungs and sink down his chest, into his belly. "You are my life," I groaned with a jagged voice and crept up across from him, kneeling and looking up at him like one submitting to a hot saviour.

"Gawd, I almost died!" Dele gasped. "I was chilled." He splayed out his hands and trained his eyes across his arms. "See… See the bumps."

I laughed hard and growled like a horror-movie zombie. "You married an actress. Lemme act for you, beiibi."

"Oh, dear, yes, do that again.” He laughed, caressing my hand and face. 

I repeated it, then lapped his ear, and I growled and growled, shaking him and climbing his chair, straddling him from behind. 

"Help!" he screamed, laughing hard. "Somebody!"

"You will save yourself, beeibi," I replied, rocking him.

He feigned a cry. "No, durling, I can't." 

"Try."

"No."

"Try!" I yowled. 

He snatched my upper hand and, with a deft movement, pulled me over. Soon, I was sitting straddled over his throbbing groin, facing him. In this position, we laughed into each other's faces. Dele tucked a braid behind my ear and cupped my face, pulling it close, slow-ly. I swallowed. He closed his eyes, stayed, planted a kiss on my lips. Eyes snapped shut, I waited for his tongue to part my lips.

"The food must be cold by now," Dele muttered, laughing.

"Oh no." I punched his chest mildly and poked his forehead. "That was unfair."

"Let's be prudent, huh? We have all the time after dinner," he teased and  hummed as I walked to the other end of the table to dish out the meal.

I smiled at the dinner I made. Wraps of pounded yam so white and soft each morsel would easily glide down the throat. A full serving of meats and fish, livers and gizzards. Two servings of assorted vegetable soup baked with diced ponmo and prawn and more gizzards and stockfish. And bottles of water and wine sweating cold. My smile deepened. Dele will love this.

He washed his hands, pulled the dish closer. Then, he began to eat. Silently. Calmly. While I watched, exchanging cute glances. 

Soon, I also began to eat. 

However, by the time I looked back at Dele, he had stopped eating. 

V

Dele was working his index finger in the soup as if stirring a dead aroma back to life. His face was crumpled, his lips curling a smirk, slowly, robotically.

He shivered visibly—as if something had crawled into him. An image flashed past me.

I dropped the morsel pressed flat between my fingers. The expression on Dele's face, the smirk lingering on a crumpled face… I've seen it before.

I fumbled for a glass of water and emptied it down my throat. Dele was still working his hand in the soup. The smirk on his lips lingered like a tattoo. I gazed at him. I leaned forward. "Beiibi, are you okay?"

His nose crinkled. He shook his head. "The pounded yam, it's salty."

"Oh dear." I pulled back. No one adds salt to pounded yam.  This soup was the same I served him the previous night. He was licking his fingers and praising my skilled hands. I made no changes to it, except microwaving. So, how did it become salty?

“Please, dear, eat up.”

He shook his head and pushed the dish away, smirking, his forehead pleating.

Deja vu. What’s this feeling? What has changed?

Dele didn’t look at me. His gaze meandered away as though he'd seen something noteworthy.

Realising the situation, I sighed and and giggled. Dele had been playing a prank. Yes, it looked like that prank I played earlier.

"You almost got me.” I burst out laughing. "You'll have to do better."

But Dele failed to react. He failed to hug and grope and lick and kiss me like I'd done to him earlier.

"Why did you laugh?" His voice, a block of ice. 

Dele, if this is a joke, you’re playing it well. 

"I'm asking why. What’s funny about the bad food you prepared?" His eyes glowered. Deep little eyes sitting in their sockets like iced nuts. Dele thumped the table, rattling the glassware and and spilling liquid. "Am I a joke to you?"

Image. Flash.

My head throbbed. A shiver racked my fingers.

Am I a joke to you? Am I a joke to… I shook off the image that had just whizzed past me. No. I compressed my lips, I sighed. "No, no, no!"

"Why were you laughing?"

Father?

"Why were you laughing?"

Father, no. I raised my hands, cupped my face, pressed them to my ears, snapped my eyes shut. The image flitted in my consciousness. I shook my head. No. And arose, pushing back the chair with the back of my knees, and I rushed out of the dining room.

"Am I a joke to you?!" their voices coursed after me.

VI

Dele asked for sex as soon as his back kissed the bed. I wanted to believe the dining-room incident was an accident, one of those fucked moments in marriages. However, I'd suddenly become wary, against my will. It was like… seeing fire burn just after you almost died in one.

Dele's fingers coldly undressed me. I kept myself from looking at his face, at those eyes. I was scared of what I might see—an old face with a lopsided smile?

So I kept my cheek glued to the pillow, gazing at nothing as he thrust and dug into me and groped my breasts. After the boring sex, he pulled out, he wiped, he rolled the blanket over himself… Then, he fell asleep. 

Something wasn’t right.

Something wasn’t right because Dele never snored; however, tonight, he did, and I couldn’t sleep. Tonight reminded me of that demon whose drunken snores always kept Mum awake, my mum who was silent. The spirits of evil men don't lay peacefully in their graves, my grandma used to tell me. They turn into evil spirits, roam the night, and terrify the world. They’re like parasites that need hosts to survive. To reincarnate.

Am I a joke to you? Where did Dele learn that question from? Who taught him to use those words?

I crawled up to him as he slept with his mouth open, and I gazed at him till my eyes ached. "Dele," I whispered in tears, "you have to remain you.” Please. “You have to."

I took his hands and grazed them with my eyes, observing keenly, his nose, his hairless chest, his biceps, his legs, his ears. My hot, beautiful man. This is the Dele I know. This is the Dele I own.

VII

It was evening. I'd just had an early dinner.

I licked my souped finger and reached for a glass of water. Gulped half the content.

As I put the glass away, the door creaked open. Dele had just returned. My heart lurched.

He had returned, and he looked mad. His hair was rough, his face scrunched up, his throat throbbing. Without a word, he trudged around the dining table. Shot me a glare. Then he dashed to the kitchen and back, fuming. It had never happened that Dele would come back home and the first thing he’d do was rush to the kitchen—except something was burning. 

He sighed, his shoulders slacking. He eased towards me, face levelled across mine the way a lover would tease their partner. His eyes fixated on my face, then on my neck… then my throat. 

He grabbed it.

And started to crush it as if to squeeze out the content of a water bottle. Struggling, I grabbed his wrist with my hands; yet his grip stayed, pressing my airway shut. I have something to say. I shook my head so that he could figure it out, but he didn't yield. I’d made plans to surprise Dele with a meal served in the bedroom with all the allure of incense, the backdrop of fairy lights and a litter of rose petals. I wanted to talk, to tell him to calm down and see the rainbow arc, the end of which was in our bedroom. However, his hands were too tight around my neck, pressing hard. He pulled me away from the dining table and shoved me against the wall.

"Am I a joke to you, bitch!" Dele finally growled. "Just because I complained about the food yesterday doesn't give you the right to starve me! Am I a joke to you?"

"Fuck," I cried, my voice raspy and strained, muscles tensing with pain and mouth sucking in air. 

This is not Dele.

I stared painfully at his face. His eyes were glistening with tears and his fingers were quivering around my neck. He was trembling. And he said no more words. We were both silent, both sinking. Father was in his face, in his eyes, in his shaky breath. Father was making him do this. Yes. Because… Dele suddenly freed my neck.

He splayed out his hands and scowled fear at them as though they weren't his. "No, baby, that wasn't me," he denied with a ragged voice, frantically shaking his head. "I'd never do that to you, baby. It wasn't me." Whack. He slapped himself, his tears splattering over his crumpled face. "I'm sorry.” He kept slapping.

I lunged at him and hugged him tightly, both of us crying upon each other's shoulders. "Dele, I understand. I understand." Of course it's not you. It can't be you. I hugged him tighter and sniffed his smell and wanted to be lost in it, and wanted to squeeze out the evil that had crept into him. Because I understood it well, what this was.

We stayed like this for a while, until my eyes eased towards the electric fireplace mounted in the wall very low beneath our flatscreen and I observed the flames crackling forever in the hearth. I could feel my eyes glowering, my mind, too, as an idea came to me. An abominable thought. 

VIII

WINTER 2021

Night came, night passed. 

My husband hugged me tight and we kissed passionately. When he muttered, I'm really sorry for last night, cupping my face and locking gloomy eyes with me, it felt like he was really back to me, like there'd be no more darkness. However, I knew too much to court an illusion. Therefore, once Dele left for work, I stuffed some money in my handbag and headed for Ijebagi, my hometown.

After roughly four hours of travelling and wayfinding and buying a number of things, I arrived before my Father's house. 

Nothing much had changed. Just that people already deserted this area, and there was no one to greet except for a couple of half-naked thin children running around and rolling bicycle tyres. A woman's voice echoed from a distance. I turned around, saw no one. Just a sprinkle of small houses and big trees and many static things. 

Someone probably came to cut the grass occasionally, seeing as the compound wasn't bushy. However, mugginess hung thick in the air, and animal droppings were ubiquitous. Broken, overturned buckets, caved-in ceilings, cracked walls, the spectral serenity of a grave. Here lay a monument for my dreary past. How weird for something so seemingly insignificant to wield such a grand influence on our little lives. 

I was visiting Father's grave for the first time—I didn't come when his family members buried him. Even my maternal grandparents didn't visit. 

"You should avoid a dunghill if you can, else the stench clings to you," my grandpa had said firmly. Back then, I'd just wanted to confirm if Father was truly dead.

I found Father's grave at the back of his house. They buried him at the back—as if they were ashamed of him. His gravestone, a dirty concrete slab with zero engraving, stood before a bed of sand. And there were flowers. Flowers? Who could have thought it good to plant flowers on the grave of a demon? Maybe that was the only extra good his family could do him other than stuffing him underground. However, I didn't care now—a tangle of weeds already outgrew the flowers.

He was stabbed. To death. 

It felt surreal, standing by the grave of a madman. With his cruelty, how could he stay so calm down there? How does he manage it? Since the news of his passing, I'd lived with a fear of his return. I should have seen his body, his stiff, cold, black carcass. Tightly-shut eyes, dark, chapped flattened lips. Everything static, his breath, his fury, his mania. 

But I couldn't confirm anything. So, I always had to wonder, Father, are you really gone?

The solitude of this place worked for my goal, like a place of retreat. By my feet, I placed down my handbag and the stuff I had bought on my way. Eyes seemed to be eating at me. The backyard was open; there was nothing mobile in the distance. I looked at the backdoor, at the rusty latch and padlock. Trapped behind that door was a history of darkness. Of murder. A long painful death.

I walked to the door and stayed still, and I muttered through clenched teeth, "It all ends today.”  Then, I walked back to the graveside.

As if my movement were a cue, a rumble coursed underground, like that sensation when a train charges past you. 

I looked around. No train. No sound.

Surprised, I stopped and watched the grave. Then  crouched to touch it. The rumble morphed into thumps. By God, the playing children could testify if they were close by.

My heart beat fast. I stepped back, gazing at the grave as it buckled like a wall hit by a battering ram. The thumps came faster, stronger. For a moment, I imagined the ground cracking and bursting open, dust and pebbles and rot scattering away in an ethereal blast so that I staggered and grabbed the wind for support. I imagined Father crawling out of the open ground. On all fours. Like a ram. I imagined him rising to his feet, his raggedy jalabiya exposing partial skeleton, partial rot, wormy mouth region curling a smirk and falling off so that his skeletal jaw could cackle. 

And he cackled.

I reeled backward. 

He walked towards me, the hollows of his bones dripping with sand and worms.

Instinctively, I rushed towards the door and pushed against it with my body. At once, a recollection overwhelmed me: me and Mum running into the house scared,  Father hurling beer bottles. “No!” I screamed. I palmed and battered the door till it gave way. I crashed into the house, against an overwhelming mass of cobwebs. My vision fogged and—

 

Whew.

Father's figure loomed over me like a stubborn bee. 

I crawled to the old storage room where he always kept his tools. They were still there, the tools we used on the farm when I was younger, the utensils we had deemed useless and had stashed away. The memories felt fresh. Tragic. Fuck it!

I defied the dampness, the oldness, the clutter of webs—and I seized a shovel. I could end him with this.

I scrambled out, my armpits tingling, but, but saw no one. It was as silent as it was when I arrived. The ground from which Father had crawled out now looked normal. The flowers and the grasses had returned, too—fresh, green. “This is… unreasonable.”

Tears crawled down my chin as I clenched the shovel's handle and began to dig, growls accompanying each thrust. "Give me back my husband!"

Dig.

"Return him to me."

Dig.

And I dug and dug and dug. Till the blade stuck into a mass of bones.

But I knew it already. My husband… he is not here. He never was. 

Father, too. He never crawled out of the ground. 

I crouched, then sat on the ground, my hands crossed over my knees. I picked a stone, fiddled with it, distracting myself from the shame that was creeping over me. How could I have let Father overcome me again? 

Back then, my grandpa had suggested that they burn Father's corpse to stop him from reincarnating. Only if they had done it. Seizing his ashes and spreading them over the sea. Then, I'd be with Dele by now, playing zombie, playing ghost and pranks, licking his face, kissing him, eating peacefully, and having sex. Without having to worry about a demon's return.

Resignedly, I reached for the stuff I'd brought along. They were were in a big leather bag. 

A gallon of petrol. A matchbox. A Zippo lighter.

IX

Standing on the edge of the grave I already dug, I emptied the gallon over the bones and rotting remains. 

Lighter. 

Fire.

My cheeks were damp with tears as I watched Father burn. Solemnly, clasping my hands together, I prayed, Be gone, Father. In this fire, be gone. Your soul and your spirit, your hold on Dele.

I tossed the keg into the flames; and when it exploded, I continued with tears, "Free my husband. Free his soul. Dele, you are free. We will be happy." Then I kicked at the dust and cursed, the smoke fogging my vision.

Father's corpse had finished burning by the time I discovered a throng of people watching me: the children I saw earlier, the black-market woman I bought fuel from on my way here, people I didn't know, people who didn’t know me. Busybodies. They probably believed I’d just struck a taboo. But this was a cleansing. This was a purge.

I hissed. Stared into the smouldering pit. Father was fading into the evening breeze. Yes, it was evening already. And I was tired.

I picked up my handbag and turned away, defying the encirclement of busybodies. 

Behind me, gossip spread in Yoruba. "Ọmọ yen ti sun òkú Bàbá Sophia. That child has burned Sophia's father's remains."

I cringed. These people still called a long-dead man by his daughter's name. Baba Sophia? No more my father. I won’t see him again. Fire makes everything become fire. 

I turned to them and nodded. "O ye k'a ti sun tipe. We should have incinerated him long ago." 

Then, I walked away. Away from Father and his everything.

As I walked to the garage, relief built up in my chest; and as I travelled back home, it bloated.  When I sighed, it gushed out like water from an open dam. 

X

While men slept, the enemy came and besieged the city. Luckily, there were men who didn't like to see the people panicking. Instead of sleeping, they kept watch, defended the walls as soldiers, and crushed the enemy at the gate before morning. All night, these men cleared the battleground of the blood, flesh, and ruins. Then they acted like nothing had happened; they returned to their kinsmen who neither heard the drumbeats of war nor saw the evidence of the carnage. And peace kept its place. Because these soldiers had fought a war in silence.

I returned home, too, after a silent war. My husband was standing by the door, his arms crossed as if striking a pose for an artist. Michelangelo's David. Arms and chest nude and healthy, round face beautiful and beardless, serene in a halo of warmth. With such a gift, my joy will see no end. I gazed at him, relief and joy welling up. We can enjoy the peace now. This is my husband. This is Dele. The enemy was gone.

Standing a few feet from him, I squinted and and observed. Couldn’t find an alien thing. My eyes tingled—the tears were coming. I remembered the fire in the hearth; that was where I got the idea from: the burning. Fire makes everything beautiful. It chases demons away. In paranormal movies, a flame on a torch would ward off the vilest ghosts. Fire, it licked up Father and restored my husband.

"Yes!" I muttered, spreading my arms to hug Dele— 

Thump!

A punch rammed my chest. I staggered.

My eyelids blinked. I began to cough.

Dele stomped into the living room. I struggled to get up and follow him, clutching my chest, panic slinking up my legs like bladed worms. 

In the living room, I reached for his hands. Dele batted my hand and struck. The pain cut through my cheek and burned into my face. 

I took a step back. Dele took one closer. I shook my head. 

“Look, am I a joke to you?” he growled. "Where did you go?"

Am I a joke to you? 

“Fuck…” My jaws dropped, my teary eyes burning with understanding. It still hasn't ended?

I took another step back. Dele swung for my face again, sending me falling atop the centre table. The glass crushed beneath me, cutting me, poking me, tearing me over and over again as I struggled to get up. I heaved my head amid the pain, amid the blood, amid the tears. 

And I saw it. 

Partial skeleton, partial rot, the wormy flesh on the mouth region pulling a lopsided smile. He cackled. Father's form. Dele's voice. 

A scream coursed from me, and my bloody hands pressed against my ears, preventing me from hearing my own cry of resistance. Dele and Father stood as one, watching me, frowning, their hands balled. But I screamed on, my pain numbing, my fear dwindling. I was now on my feet. 

Misfortune begins when one fails to act. 

I took a step forward, towards both men. They pulled a step backward like they shared the same body. Another step, and they retreated further, our eyes locked tight.

Until I cursed. In tears.

"Dele… Dad… fuck you two!" It was a growl, my tears a resistant brew of blood and flame. “You both should go to hell!" I bent swiftly, and rising, I plunged a shard of glass into their shared chest. 

They staggered,  andeasing a look at the defiance they didn't anticipate.

And at that moment, I was a birdling spreading its wings.

I gazed at my hands, at the shard lodged deep in their shared chest, and at their face. They weren’t trying to retaliate, weren’t trying to speak. Only looking sad.

Silently, I cursed the smell of dead things. 

I turned away and and faced the door. Once I latched onto the curtain, my eyes decided to see them one last time. 

However, this time, only Dele filled my sight. He stood there, gazing at me, teary-eyed, bleeding strong smelly blood. 

In those tears, I saw my innocent Dele. The uncorrupted man. Momentarily, I wanted to believe Father had left him. I wanted to embrace him and swear that it was okay even if Father still remained. 

But I stared again at my torn, bloody palms. What lies inside a man will come out in the end—the only mystery is how. I sneered painfully, “Fuck you all.”

Then, 

Then, I stepped out. Shut the door behind me. Bang. The best way to smother a stench is to get rid of everything that smells of it. 

Even if it means sitting nude in a desert.

X * 0 

WINTER 2023

I sit by my grandmother’s bed. The shrunken, ancient woman lies supine, eyes shut, hands crossed over her sunken belly. Her mouth parts, letting out words in a drawl. “Abike,” she calls me by my dead mother’s name. “I… had a friend, a fishmonger. She always smelled of fish. She couldn’t think beyond the sea.”

I glance at Kola, my newfound love who’s come to meet my only-surviving relative. He laughs. “Fishmonger, just like my father.” He laughs again.

Grandmother coughs painfully. “Abike mii. My friend always smelled of fish.”