More Tales

This isn't a very happy story. I worked around it and tried to not make it gory. Do read and tell me what you think.

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It was a game we used to play – Kayode, Murtala and I. We would sneak out every evening and head to the clearing under the mango tree, just behind Kayode’s house. We decided long ago to avoid the large field close to Mutala’s family house. His father disliked our Igbo and Yoruba blood so we made ourselves as scarce as possible. But Murtala was different. We would tease him about his tribal marks and charcoal black skin. We loved him.

That day, we began by setting up our monkey posts. We had planned to recruit more boys to spice things up. I stood with the ball under my armpit. In my left hand was a long stick. I had tied my sister’s old PE uniform to it to serve as flag. Remembering that made me wince. She’d punish me by refusing to teach me geometry until a day before exams, but then I would have a lot of fun, so it really didn’t matter. I grinned. Kayode had arrived earlier with red and yellow cards he made from the cover of his old textbooks.

Fifteen boys showed up. We decided to go with twelve – six for each team – and benched the remaining three. I stood by the side, holding the flag. The clearing wasn’t large enough but bumping of bodies wasn’t as frequent as I expected. The game began.

That was when it happened.

It was all a blurry flash. All I saw was images – dirty boots, raised voices, angry eyes, swinging fists, then blood. I saw the blood before I saw Murtala’s face. One of the boys had tackled Kayode and when he wouldn’t fall, had pushed him to the ground. Murtala wouldn’t have it. Everything happened so fast afterwards. We would later learn that the boy, Daniel, did it on purpose. We had refused to make him a part of our group several months before. He came at Murtala with a piece of broken glass. He wanted revenge.

That night was quiet. We waited for Papa to return. Mama wouldn’t stop crying. My sister grasped my hands tightly and pressed her lips together. When Papa finally returned, the look on his face told us it was over.

“To the car. Grab anything you can,” he said.

Mama sobbed harder. We left before midnight. Our street was already bright with fire. They got the boy, Papa told us when we crossed the bridge and made it to Onitsha, looking like refugees. The Muslims cut off his right arm and burned the rest of him alive. But that wasn’t enough. Every Igbo person must pay.

I don’t know what happened to Murtala and I never saw Kayode again. It’s been ten years now.

Like I said, it was only a game.

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