Heaven or Hell

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. For you are dust and to dust you will return." the lanky Revd Fr Ubi said; he stood at the other side of the irregular hole, his black Gucci shoes covered in red earth.

Nneka and Josiah stood shoulder to shoulder, and beside each one stood a family member or friend who comforted them, even though they themselves could use some good comforting.

They all sobbed uncontrollably as the life of a dear sister, friend and colleague with a bright future had been cut short.

Nneka however couldn't believe she lived with Jesus all the while, someone who would eventually die in her stead.

Nkiru was Nneka's twin, and it was she who was being buried.
She was a programmer and a believer who nursed the dream of building a telecommunications network that will provide unlimited free data for Nigerians. At her workplace she was nicknamed: 'the men'; because she had a dream men were scared to pursue.
What a man can do, Nkiru can do better, or perhaps, she did it best.

To her colleagues she was a man. It was Nkiru's world, and every other person just followed.
Nkiru was the 'go-to-the-man' kind of person; who knew almost everything about everything, and she was only 25 years old.

A great child with such huge potential --GONE.
Nigeria always loses her finest.

The hole in which her remains were being buried reminded the mourners  of the whole brouhaha surrounding Nkiru's death.

Poor Nkiru was burnt to ashes by a ferocious mob led by a badass drug lord and alleged rapist nicknamed Ìgara Lion.
The clause "ashes to ashes," brought about a great wail when Revd Fr Ubi recited the famous funeral poem.

Nkiru's body was already in ashes even before it hit six feet; hence, it was just swept into an urn and thrown into the hole.

Nneka, strangely was exceedingly grateful that Nkiru died in her stead. She vowed to turn a new leaf.

A fortnight ago, Nneka disappeared. She handed her smartphone to Nkiru before leaving, warning her against switching it on or picking her calls.

"It's on auto on and off," Nneka said to her  grim looking mannequin. Although Nkiru was more feminine than her twin, and that was because she used accessories and effects made for her sexes, unlike Nneka that was a hoyden.

"Once it comes on, please switch it off immediately. No time." she added.

"So where are you now going na?" Nkiru asked.

"I'll call you when I get a new Sim. I can't talk now. My small phone is still with me." Nneka said and flagged down a bike.
"Garage?" she said to the bike man.
"Hundred naira."
"Oya go go go go abeg..."
"See you later Nne.... I'll call you." Nneka said and disappeared into the noisy chatter of Lagos.

Two days later, after Nneka's phone had powered itself on again, Nkiru was just about to switch it off when a text message popped up and it was immediately followed by an incoming call from an unknown number.

"What type of ringtone is this one again eh? Aah!... Nneka!..." Nkiru said to herself with raised eyebrows; the tune was PENALTY by Small Doctor.

She listened to the ringtone with keen interest only for it to stop within a minute.
It rang again the second time and Nkiru swiped the green icon right.

"Hello..."
"hello?...." She looked at the screen to be sure it was still connected, it was.
"Hello?" she said again, and after a while she disconnected it and switched the phone off.

Some few minutes later, a tender knock kissed the wooden door to her one room self-contain.
"Yes, who's there?" Nkiru said softly.
"Aunty Nkiru it's me Shola," returned a little boy. He was her neighbor's son. Nkiru opened the door.
"Somebody is looking for you people," Shola said and pointed to the small gate.

"Okay thank you," Nkiru said.
"How is your mommy?" she asked as she played with the little boy's puffy cheeks just before he left.
"She's fine ma. She has gone to the shop." Shola replied.
"Alright no problem, I'll come and play with you people later, I'm not going to work today." Nkiru revealed. Shola leaped for joy and hurried towards his flat. He knew that Aunty Nkiru's visit to their flat always brought chocolates and other sweet and juicy things.

She shut her door and traipsed towards the gate.
There she met two hefty mean looking men on special marshal polos tucked in on blue denims.

"Nneka?" one of them said,
"Yes, what happen?" Nkiru replied.
"Nneka is..." she was saying when they shushed her.
"Shut up. Just move." one of the men ordered.
"Move to where? I am not Nneka o, Nneka is..." Nkiru was saying again when a thunderous slap opened the flood gates of heaven and it rained stars.

They dragged her to the other side of the street where a yellow and black stripped commercial Lagos bus was parked. As they were about to hurtle her into the bus, Nkiru played Jackie Chan; she abruptly twisted her abductor's hand backwards and struck him with her fist as hard as she could on his neck. The second man dashed towards her to recapture her, but Nkiru's left leg had a mind of its own; it groined him which left him writhing in pain. She then fled towards the highway.

"Olè! Olè! Olè!" the first man screamed after gaining consciousness and chased her; he was later joined by his partner who still held onto his groin as he ran like an injured hippopotamus.

"Thief thief!" "Olè! Olè!"

Nkiru on getting to the highway looked back and saw six men now chasing her.

She quickly crossed the first lane and looked towards the other side of the expressway; there, she saw about five devil-sent men already gathered with planks, stones and bottles. They had heard the cry and were ready for her.

"What have I gotten myself into?" she cried and lamented.
Then she summoned courage and decided to face the demons at her own end.

"I'm not a thief! I'm not a thief!" she screamed as she watched people begin to gather in twos and threes. The look on their faces was far from friendly.

Two resounding slaps from behind got her writhing on the floor --the devils from the other end had joined the demons on this side.

They dragged her to the roadside, beating and stoning her mercilessly.
The two men on special marshal polos then grabbed her and wanted to take her away, but the mob refused.

"We go kill am here!" someone screamed.
"Let her burn in hell!" another yelled.

Nkiru cried, but the tears didn't  come from her eyes; it came from other parts of her body, and they were thick thick sticky red.
She only saw scenes like these on TV and had argued more than once that it wasn't real. "Things like these do not happen in Nigeria. Come on that was back in the days! Now we are civilized. A learned people!" she once said then.
But now that had changed; deep down in her heart of hearts, she admitted that she was wrong. Nigerians are animals.

"Oooohh! I hate blood! I hate blood! Make we burn this ashawo!" One diminutive haggard-looking alcoholic said and threw two tires over Nkiru's head; one went down on her waist the other on her neck like a necklace.

"No wait... Make we never burn am! Wetin she thief?" another person said, but before they could calm themselves the diminutive drunk had brought petrol and he sprayed it all over Nkiru as though he were a prophet spraying holy water on a possessed member.

Everyone instinctively stepped back so not to be bathed in fuel.
They still argued whether or not to burn her when the fire descended from above like in the days of Elijah.

BOOM!

"EEEHHHHHH!!!!" The crowd charged.

The fellow that rained fire that day however was not Elijah; his name was Ìgara Lion.

Revd Fr Ubi was the first to sight him. He had been briefed about who led the heinous barbaric act, and they had informed the police.

The police arrested some suspects, Ìgara Lion being one of them.

But here he was at the memorial park, bringing back grave memories. He was dressed in black, a customized shirt that read: "A MINUTE SILENT IS ENOUGH FOR THE DEAD."

Revd Fr Ubi's silence however was more than a minute and it caused curious mourners to stare at him and then follow the direction of his impetuous gaze.

"Ìgara Lion is here," someone whispered.
The news spread like wildfire. A sudden silence enveloped everyone as though Ìgara Lion's shirt had jinxed them all.

Then rage crawled in.
Nneka turned towards him; after all, they were in a cemetery.
Two men will today meet their lords in heaven or hell.

~Angel Messi~

Things Fall Apart.

" Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things Fall Apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world" W. B. Yeats

**************
"MAKE WE SCATTER THIS PLACE TONIGHT. DANCE AND SWEAT LIKE SAY NA FIGHT; WE MUST TO SETTLE THIS THING TONIGHT..." a seven year old Cynthia sang and danced to Tiwa Savage's ALL OVER as it oozed sweetly from the Barber's shop opposite her house before her mother burst out from the house.

"Cynthia! If you don't do and bathe and enter this house now I'll be all over you like Aboki perfume!" she scolded from the passage.
"What thing do you know that you want to settle? Nonsense" she said and turned back in.

Cynthia immediately began to scrub her back and legs and belly, covered with lather and poured water at the same time. She knew what would become of her should her mother decide to settle the matter with her.
Nonetheless, that didn't stop the seven year old from dreaming: "One day I will be on television and sing and dance like Aunti Tiwa" she always said to her friends in school and at the market.

Cynthia was an excellent pantomime that graciously entertains everyone around her. All she needed was a smartphone playing Tiwa Savage's songs and the rest will be history. This caused people to call her Tiwa Savage; she was in love.

Puppy love don't last. This isn't a fact; it's a prophesy. Albeit it's still a kind of love and Cynthia played it with her eight year old lover Uche; the most brilliant student in Logo Community Primary School.
Uche wanted to become a doctor and he loved Cynthia, puppy love.

The night was still and quiet as the moon wearily stood watch over the agrarian community that one would have thought the scorching sun had molested her all day before retiring to bed some few hours ago.
There was unrest in most communities, hence, unlike the sun, the people of Tombo couldn't go to bed peaceably with their eyes closed.

That night Cynthia dreamed of Lagos; Lagos was heaven. The roads were made of fine gold with gigantic bridges and electronic stairs hovering across them; houses built with glass; water was crystal clear like the springs of Iskaba. God resided in Lagos and so did Tiwa Savage; they played, they laughed, they merry-go-rounded. This was the life; the good life.

"Pow! Pow! Pow!" sporadic shots were fired from close by; guns called and fire responded. Red earth houses were razed down, their leaf-made roofs torched up. Loud noises and whistles were heard from different corners. The armed nomads were at it again; they flouted the rule of law unceremoniously, regarding themselves as the law.

These herdsmen with automatic rifles, swords, bows and arrows hacked down the people of Tombo like harvested yam tubers.
Cynthia stomped out of the house bare footed. The Barber's shop was already on fire. Her father and mother were no where to be found. Villagers skittered to safety only to meet their doom in haven.

"Papa! Mama!" she screamed with tears running down her cheeks unchecked.

"Allahu Akbar!" "Allahu Akbar!"
"I am the messenger of Allah cleansing the earth!" Two trigger happy herdsmen yelled in Fulani, appearing from nowhere and shooting randomly as though it were a sport.

Cynthia hearing the shots and screams turned just in time to be kissed on the skull by a machete. She writhed in the pool of her own blood.
" Allahu Akbar!" they sang and torched up the  house behind them.

Cynthia gasped; she took heavy short breaths and was awakened to a sudden reality --the air she breathed was limited.
She had been taught in school that air was in abundance; but that was not the case. On this night, everything was short and burned out fast; the air; Papa; Mama; Tiwa Savage; Uche --her dearest Uche.
It was not going to last anyway; puppy love, it never lasts.

~Angel Messi~

Mano di Dio (Hand of God)

The Crowd in the bleachers admonished their god as he walked out: "GOAT!" "My Hero!"  "Greatest Of All Time!" "Marry me!" "Let me carry your baby!" "Mano perffeta!" "Mano dị Dio!" "Hand of god!"

It was business as usual for Olusegun Madiba as he walked out of the 41,507 capacity stadium. He was Football Club Juventus number one goalkeeper and had saved two penalties in the just concluded match that leaves the "Old Lady" one point behind league leaders A.C Milan, and with a game in hand. A win in the outstanding match will make them league leaders, and eventually, champions.

Madiba was greeted by his team mates and coaches in the dressing room before stepping into the shower. A cool warm bath was what he needed as he turned up the temperature.

"Nice game mate. Great save this evening," Andrea Pirlo said and patted him in the back as he joined him in the shower.
"mille grazie Papi... You did well with the assist too." Madiba replied.

He got to the parking lot and wasn't surprised to see red and white rose petals sprayed all over his Lamborghini. Red hearts were also drawn on white cardboard and placed on the windscreen with a writing that read: "All heil Mano di Dio!"
Madiba grinned as he took the piece of paper, entered his car and zoomed off to the cheers of some teenage school boys who were watching from afar.
"Mano di Dio!" "the Hand of god!" they yelled excitedly.

Sailboats, yachts, and cabin cruisers all bob up and down in the warm blue water. Two yachts docked ashore bore the name "MADIBA's Pride".
Madiba woke to the sweet smell of jasmine and cherry and water. He saw the silhouette of the shapely body of his drop dead gorgeous girlfriend, Francesca. She had prepared his favorite and brought it to him in bed.

"Rise and shine bluebird. Spread your wings and fly." she said and kissed him.
"Hmmm... Sweet lemonade, is that pasta alla carbonara and cherry juice?" Madiba said, sniffing the aroma.
"Yes honey your favorite." replied Francesca.

Tabloids and papers had pictures of him smiling triumphantly and he was also trending on sports websites with different headlines as he checked his phone: "The HAND of God has no WEAKNESS" "Emperor MADIBA" "All Hail de King of Gloves"

"These people, they won't kill me with these headlines." Madiba said boastfully with a victorious grin spread across his face.
"You are their hero let them adore you" Francesca said, and buried herself under the expensive designer sheets and comforter covers made from Irish Ostrich feathers and German sheep.

Then something caught his attention, it was a headline from an English reporter Emma Churchill. She had always suspected foul play and never ceased to be inquisitive whenever she had the chance to meet him and ask questions at press conferences. Her article was titled: "Pure Blood? Madiba's Mysterious Secret."

Madiba's heart beats furiously as he scans through the article. What d'hell does she want from me? He asked himself again and again as he read to his bewilderment the atrocious things she said about him.

"How can she even be allowed to publish this... this junk?!" he said out loud absent-mindedly to Francesca's surprise.
"Baby are you okay?" Francesca asked, startled.
"Yea sweets... I'm... I'm... Fine. Just one crazy reporter." Madiba replied. He tried to control his anger but failed.
"That Bitch's gone too far and I'm gonna deal with her." he blasted.
"calmati Madiba, non ne vale la pena (calm down Madiba, she's not worth it)" Francesca pleaded, but Madiba was boiling with rage he didn't hear her speak. He really wanted to show the damned reporter what it meant to be the Hand of god. He slid into combat shorts, black hoodie and a golf cap to match, and left Madiba's Pride in his fury.

He dallied ashore as he wrestled with the option of going in his Lamborghini or the Cardiac Escalade; he later opted for his pick up truck instead; he loved to blend in with commoners whenever he drove to his poultry.

People need to know where they belong, and if they do not, we'd gladly show them. He said to himself.

Olusegun Madiba was Nigerian but played for the Italian national team. "Nigeria is full of shit" he said to the scout that first came to invite him to the Super Eagles when he was sixteen.
"You'll regret it if you choose to play for another country but Nigeria." his former agent had told him, but here he was in Turin growing stronger at 31.

"You welcome boss," a security greeted him as he pulled up into the farmland.
"Morning Steve," Madiba acknowledged. "Have you seen Sebastien this morning?"
"No boss..."

Madiba shook his head in disappointment and drove past him into the heart of the farm. He reached for his pocket knife in his backpack at the rear seat and stomped into the poultry.
The fowls flew and skittered all around raising the dust. It was a battle of fastest feathers and feet because they knew what was about to happen. Madiba's weekly visit to the poultry brought about one thing --death.

He caught a cockerel and began to pull its hackle feathers off its neck. He took his pocket knife, slit its throat open and quaffed the cockerel's blood to the last pint.
"Aaarrrggghhhhh!..." he screamed with renewed vigor.

Just then his phone rang, it was Sebastien.
"Hello boss, I'm sorry I couldn't..." Sebastien was saying before Madiba cut him short.
"Shut d'fuck up you faggot. Where d'hell are you?"
"I'm... I'm at the Caa...cas... Casablanca" he stammered.
"Great. Stay right there I'm coming over." Madiba said and hung up.
"Pure blood huh? I'll show you pure blood." he said to himself as he squeezed the dead fowl in his hand.

He heard a beep and looked at the attic and saw a recording device. It blinked green. He stared at it in shock as the light turned red and went out.
"Emma Churchill..." he glared.

~Angel Messi~