The Death of John Okro (2)

Read Part One here. Without it, this post makes no sense. Read everything else John Okro here.

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“Una serious at all?” Bento snorted at his two cohorts. Osho especially, had never been so happy to see his field marshal.

John Okro froze on the floor at the sight of the sub-machine guns as they shone under the glare of the headlights.

“Haba. Una fall our hand. Una just call now now say una don see de babe…” Bento trailed off as he saw Miriam’s body lying on the floor. Motionless. He drew in a breath and lifted his shoulders in shock: “No tell me say una don kill am o!” Osho spoke up immediately.

“No oh. She never die. She faint. I wan help Labi beat this fool…” as he said this, he kicked John Okro with his unbitten leg. John didn’t even wince, his eyes remained trained on the men with the guns. “…das why I jus knock de babe out.” Osho finished.

“Ok. God save you. Cuz you know say Uncle Terry wan end de girl by himself.” And if he wasn’t sure before, now he was sure that Miriam’s penultimate words to him were true: “Well, I think they want to kill me!” He stole a glance across the floor to where she lay. Somehow, he suppressed the urge to reach out to her and try to make it all go away.

“Who are you?” John wasn’t even aware he was the one being addressed. As payment for his silence, Bento sent his palm into a rough collision with Okro’s cheek. “Osho, empty him pocket.” All Osho found was a wallet. A knock-off labelled ‘Marlboro’. Bento took it from Osho and the first thing that caught his eye was the oversized I.D. Card. He started to laugh. Osho chimed in:

“john Okro abi?”

“Yes. How you take know?” Bento asked,

“I hear am dey tell de babe. She shout ‘Whaat?'” Osho now looked down towards John, “Guy, no dey use dat name scope woman. E no dey pay.”

“Oya load dem inside de motor make we dey go,” Bento barked. The other man with a gun nodded. They called him Steering. Because of his excellent skills at the wheel. He was always the designated driver. It didn’t mean he was any less fearless though. He hoisted Miriam’s limp body into the back of the van. Okro was made to walk in on his own. At gun point.

“Na your type Uncle Terry dey call ‘bonus kill’,” Osho sneered at John once he was in the back of the van. The van itself sat three in the front: the driver and two others. The rest of the van was the carriage section and it was sealed off from the passengers. It was empty save for a small stool. John was made to sit opposite it. Beside Miriam.

Once John had taken a position, Bento promptly slapped her. She started awake and tried to sit up. She opened her mouth to scream but the sight of the tip of Bento’s SMG silenced her. Bento beckoned on Steering with his head and the driver proceeded to produce two small sacs…

A few minutes later, John and Miriam were bound by their wrists and ankles. The sacs were also thrown over their heads and secured. Once they were done, Bento barked out orders:

“Labi, you no fit. Enter front wit me. Osho, stay wit dem. I trust you but I go still padlock the van in case of in case-ity.” Labi looked a bit stung by the demotion but he understood. Now though, they could be reunited with their guns. Osho wagged his at Okro even though John could barely see through the sac. He got in the back as well and sat on the stool; facing John. Before closing and locking the door behind them, Bento warned in a stern tone. “From here to Ekiti, you get like four hours. I know say your mind na to beat this guy. Beat am but no kill am.” Since all the four men wore balaclavas, they were able to at least see Osho’s lips widen with delight.

However, the sac on his head didn’t allow them see John Okro smile as well.

Thirty minutes into the trip though, the smile was gone. Osho , it turned out, was quite adept at torture. John ached all over but his mind was racing all the same. Miriam pleaded with Osho to stop, Osho asked if she would like to take over receiving the beating and the three others in front shared a huge bottle of dry gin. They could hear absolutely nothing but heavily muffled sounds of body hitting metal because the van, in its former use, had been padded to carry fragile materials.

Gratefully, Osho tired out soon after. John tried to roll himself up and gauge what part of his body hurt the most. It seemed Osho had done a decent job of spreading out the pain but it was nothing John wasn’t accustomed to.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Miriam wept in John’s direction.

“Oh, it’s fine,” John managed to reply, suddenly glad that the goons hadn’t deemed it necessary to gag them. “But promise me something…” Osho perked up at John’s words. He had his eyes on something else before but now he stared at John intently as he moved.

“What?” she asked. John manoeuvred himself till he was kneeling beside her. Using his shoulder, he felt about for her face and then stooped to whisper in her ear.

“Promise me you’ll have sex with me when all of this is over.”

***************************************************

The van screeched to a halt inside Uncle Terry’s compound. Steering cared little for it being past 1am. To him, there was no point driving if one parked noiselessly. Three men alighted. Bento looked at Labi: “Go carry de girl come drop for ‘lab’.” He pointed at a door roughly fifty meters away. It was a massive compound. “I go go arrange de chair dem. Tell Osho make e carry d guy come too.” As he said this, he handed Labi the keys to the back of the van. “And heyss! Close your mouth in front of Uncle Terry. You know say you no sabi speak English and hin dey hate to hear pidgin.”

“Ok,” Labi and Osho were yet to actually meet the man they were hired to carry out this operation for. Bento only contacted them early that morning. The last thing on Labi’s mind was to create a bad first impression. He headed towards the back of the van.

The ‘lab’ was Uncle Terry’s private torture chamber. Bento had already called to update Uncle Terry on things. He let himself into the cellar and proceeded to set the chairs up. Steering stood back and watched.

Meanwhile, Labi unlocked the door to the back of the van. There were no floodlights on in Uncle Terry’s compound so visibility was extremely low. Barely seeing into the van, he called out: “Osho, where the girl abeg? Bento say make you carry the guy dey come. The way she was hurled at him, he practically had to catch rather than take her. It seemed to Labi that  what little activity she had left had been beaten out by Osho. Once he had her balanced on his shoulder, he proceeded towards the cellar. “Do dey come oh!” he yelled back towards the van, “Make we do finish. Sleep don dey catch me.”

Uncle Terry was mumbling to himself triumphantly as he walked down to the cellar where the fools were being held. How many times did they need to be told, beaten or killed before they knew not to mess with him? He spoke out loudly as he walked into the dingy, dank room.

“The name ‘Uncle Terry’ wasn’t given to me  because  I loved cartoons ,” he started. Opposite the door he entered from, two struggling people were tied up with black sacs covering their heads. A male and a female. The four others in the room wore balaclavas and held sub-machine guns. MP7s. Bento and Steering stood to his left. He assumed the other two men to his right were Bento’s mercenaries.

“So who’s the unlucky fellow?” As Uncle Terry asked, he took his Beretta out of its holster.

“We heard him telling the girl his name is John Okro, Boss.” Bento said

“Whaat?!”Uncle Terry was clearly bemused and tried not to laugh.

“Unfortunately for you Mr. Okro, I have no interest in idle bad guy chit-chat where I explain all my schemes and plans before leaving my incompetent hatchet men to finish the job. Tell God I said… ‘wassup?'” With a smile, he pointed the gun and released two bullets into the man’s chest.

“And as for you Miriam, deliver the same message to God in case your friend goes to hell.” Two more shots rang out.

The sound of the bullets made Uncle Terry freeze in mid-motion. He turned around just in time to see Bento and Steering drop to the floor. One bleeding from the head, the other from the neck. His next instinct was to point and aim in the direction the shots were fired from. Labi was a deer caught in headlights. Dumbstruck by what he perceived to be Osho’s madness, he could barely react as he was pushed towards Uncle Terry. He felt the Beretta’s bullets before heard them.

Uncle Terry was swift, sidestepping Labi’s frame as it fell towards him. Labi’s lifeless body fell on Miriam, toppling her. She shrieked with fear. Uncle Terry looked around the room scouring it for the traitor. While Labi fell, he saw movement but now he couldn’t tell where the last man was.

Then he heard his voice from behind: “You guys could really use a chic in your crew. As Uncle Terry made to turn he felt the bullets sear into his right arm. The Beretta dropped to the ground as he yelped in anguish. John Okro tore the balaclava off his head.

“Two reasons. One: these masks are soooo uncomfortable. No woman would allow anybody go around committing felonies in this. You gotta keep it fashionable.” He tossed the balaclava to the floor “…and two: a female would notice that I was wearing someone else’s clothes!” Okro pulled at the obviously loose-fitting tee shirt he was wearing. The one he’d taken off Osho after he’d choked him unconscious in the van. He thought about how much fun that was and smiled to himself. Especially the part where he stuffed Osho’s own socks into his mouth. He watched as Uncle Terry tried to grab hold of the fallen Beretta with his other hand. John shook his head as he walked towards him and kicked the gun away.

“Uncle Terry,” John started in an informal tone, “the Lord said I should tell you something…” the man clutching his arm as blood spurted out began to whimper.

“Fall down and die!” And yet another two shots rang out.

*********************************************

She put the key in the van’s ignition and turned. The engine roared to life. She navigated the vehicle out of the open gate. She had no idea where they were headed but she drove anyway. Once she had somehow steered them onto a highway, Miriam turned to John.

“Explain to me how it is that you can do what you just did, but can’t drive a freakin’ car.” He took his eyes off the road to look at her.

“I just can’t. That’s why I do what I do.” John answered,

“And what is it that you do?”

“I’m a bus conductor…”

“What the?!” Miriam almost jumped. For ten seconds, she juggled between staring at him wildly and looking at the road.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” John said. It did nothing to remove the look of utter bewilderment on her face. John tried to make her a bit more at ease.

“It’s a long story,”

“Wow, you are…” Miriam trailed off shaking her head in disbelief. She was still having trouble taking it all in. John saw it as an avenue to change the subject.

“Okay. So now will you have sex with me?” John smiled exaggeratedly.

“Like I told you before: NO!” Miriam began to giggle. If he wanted to have his wicked way with her, he would have done it ages before they got in the van.

“Come on! I just saved your life. You should be both grateful and scared of me! I kill all the bad guys.” That last statement was delivered in Okro’s best attempt at an Italian accent. It was lame but she got the idea. She was laughing now.

“Touch me and I’ll kill you…” she threatened. John widened his eyes in mock-fear. He straightened himself and looked out the passenger window to his right. With a mischievous grin, he brought his left palm to rest roughly on her shoulder. She guffawed heartily.

“Oh, you’re a dead man…” she said.

The Death of John Okro.

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Ilawe-Ekiti, Ekiti.

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He was mumbling to himself triumphantly as he walked down to the cellar where the fools were being held. How many times did they need to be told, beaten or killed before they knew not to mess with Uncle Terry. He spoke out loudly as he walked into the dingy, dank room.

“The name ‘Uncle Terry’ wasn’t given to me  because  I loved cartoons ,” he started. Two struggling people were tied up with black sacs covering their heads. A male and a female.  Hands bound behind the chairs they’d been forced onto; legs tied together. The four others in the room wore balaclavas and held sub-machine guns. MP7s.

“So who’s the unlucky fellow?” As Uncle Terry asked, he took his Beretta out of its holster. One of the others answered:

“We heard him telling the girl his name is John Okro, Boss.”

“Whaat?!”Uncle Terry was clearly bemused and tried not to laugh. One of the others chuckled as well and replied:

“That’s what SHE said, Boss! It’s even the name on his National I.D. card.”As he said this, he held it up to display.

“Haha.” Terry laughed as he released the safety on the gun. He was now two feet away from the male. “Unfortunately for you Mr. Okro, I have no interest in idle bad guy chit-chat where I explain all my schemes and plans before leaving my incompetent hatchet men to finish the job. Tell God I said… ‘wassup?'” With a smile, he pointed the gun and released two bullets into the man’s chest.

“And as for you Miriam, deliver the same message to God in case your friend goes to hell.” Two more shots rang out.

********************************

Gbagada, Lagos. Four hours earlier…

********************************

Miriam was tense as she walked towards the pharmacy. It was a typical evening in Gbagada: save for the ambient purr of expensive generators, it was quiet. She’d left the house in a hurry. Her roommate was very worried. Bunmi hadn’t seen her period in a decent while. A decent while enough to warrant a pregnancy test.

“When your pant will be going up and down like the escalators at MM2!” Miriam had chastised. Bunmi had somehow contrived to smash her little toe against the bed frame when power had been taken the evening before. Miriam knew that if she avoided going to the nearby pharmacy, Bunmi would suspect there was something horribly wrong. Hence, clad in loose shorts and a nameless tee-shirt, Miriam had ventured out aiming to procure a test kit. Surely she was safe in her own estate.

She barely observed him stroll past her on the tarred street. He was headed in the direction she was coming from and was as nondescript as they come. Average height, faded clothes. She was surprised at how he smelt when he passed though: good.

Nothing expensive but given the clothes he wore, it was surely a pleasant surprise. That was all the notice she took of him till his voice stopped her and made her turn around.

“Hi.” Manly voice. A little whiny, yes, but manly.

“Hello.” she had turned and was now facing him, “Can I help you?”

“Err… well not really. I just wanted to tell you that you look good. Really good. Even though you don’t have a stitch of make up on.” She widened her eyes in disbelief. Did he just say ‘stitch’? He didn’t look like the kind of person to be familiar with such vocabulary. He had a rugged air that didn’t fit with those kinds of words. She immediately scorned herself for being so judgemental.

“And I’m not asking for your name or number. Just passing a compliment.” He added, pulling her out of her thoughts. She had barely been able to finish blushing – or at least a done the black female’s equivalent  – and mutter a “Thank you” when he turned and continued walking.

Oh no you don’t. “Wait!” she half-yelled. Miriam was all kinds of intrigued. He stopped in his tracks and turned.

“Yes?”

“You don’t just… do that.”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know…” she struggled to gather her thoughts. “What’s your name?” He took a few steps towards her. When he was close enough, he spoke:

“My name is Okro.”

“Whaaaat?!”  for the second time that evening, she was bewildered.

“Yes. Okro. John Okro.”

“Oh.” Miriam blurted.

“Thanks for ruining my James Bond intro, by the way.” She laughed heartily before apologising.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. It’s just that…”

“Yes, I know. My name is weird. I get that a lot.” He interrupted. She stiffened suddenly and her sharp intake of breath made him turn around. Two burly men who had clearly been waiting in the shadows were moving quickly towards them from either side.

“Who are they?” John whispered. Suddenly brusque.

She squinted at him and almost seemed to smile while she put her hands out in resignation. “Well, I think they want to kill me!” Now it was John’s turn to feel surprised. “What???” From the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the men speak into a receiver. Calmly and defiantly, she looked straight at him.

“Run,” she said.

It was too late. In an instant, both men were upon them. Their heads were covered but their eyes and mouth were visible in the dimly lit street. The two men took a mark each. One of them already had his hand over Miriam’s mouth. The other wrestled Okro to the ground. Face down, John felt his assailant try to grab a hold of his wrists while trying to use his body mass to keep John down. John was now trying to twist free. And he was succeeding till he felt a heavy punch to his spine. Rather than yell, Okro’s instinct was to fling his head back forcefully. The other man’s grunt was evidence that Okro’s skull had indeed connected with his assailant’s nose. Okro couldn’t tell whether the dampness he felt on the back of his head was moisture from sweat, his cracked skull, or the enemy’s bleeding nose. He was at once sure it was a combination of the three.

“Labi, wetin you dey do there? Hold the guy down na!” It was his counterpart, the one holding Miriam. She struggled in his grip but he had clearly overpowered her.

“Osho, cool down. Mpph!!!” Labi was rocked once more as John Okro slammed the back of his head into his nose again. He lost his grip on John’s wrists as he tried to regain his bearing. A frustrated Osho was only able to look on as John tried to wriggle out from under Labi. In his head, Osho cursed the orders that stopped them from conducting the ambush with guns. He understood it was because they wanted to draw as little attention as possible but they did not expect to meet this hiccup.

Besides, Osho would be damned if he let go of the girl. He heard Labi stifle a yelp. He looked in his direction and saw John, still underneath him but now facing up, knee him in the groin.

Osho had seen enough.

A precise, calculated blow to Miriam’s temple knocked her out cold. He let her body slide to the floor as he walked towards the other two men. Once he got close enough to strike, that guy would be in for it, he thought.

Ooh, aah, ready to thump.

But John Okro was much too quick.

He pushed against Labi and used that as resistant force to propel himself across the tar towards Osho. He also led with his elbow. Osho buckled as his left knee felt the impact. That stunt felt ‘cool’ while he executed it, but Okro also felt his butt and lower back burn from the coarse friction. A second elbow made Osho buckle but he still managed to land a fist on Okro’s ribcage.

“Arrggh…” John Okro surely felt that one. He also felt Osho’s boot crash into his side again. But before the boot and the foot it covered retreated, Okro grabbed hold and obeyed his primal instincts.

He bit hard.

Osho’s muted groan was greeted, as if on cue, by the sound of screeching tires as a black moving-van hurled itself towards them at breakneck speed. The full on lights blinded both men momentarily. The van had barely stopped when the front doors opened and two men, dressed like Labi and Osho, stormed out of the van.

But these ones had guns.

 

To be continued…

 

Okro’s Spark (3)

I don’t know when the next installment of the Okro series will be released so….

Anyway, here are the earlier episodes if you missed ’em:-

1. The Slippery Adventures of John Okro

2. Okro’s Spark (1)

3. Okro’s Spark (2)

 

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Lagos, Nigeria

****************

Dis work come be like say e go simple die,
thought Pinto. His mind was already circling in on what he would do with his
share of the goodies that was most definitely coming his way after this. He
looked at the two men standing in front of and beside him. The three heavily
built men faced each other as they talked.

Pinto had known Risky since they were kids.
They’d grown up in the same neighborhood and now, they were ‘handymen’
together. Pinto could kill (and had in fact killed) for Risky. Risky seemed to
be the smart one and kept moving up the underworld ladder. Pinto was always happy to
tag along. Risky was by no means lean or weak but everyone knew Pinto was the muscle
and Risky was the thinker. Eye Patch was a friend of the family. He was a fun
guy and they liked him tagging along. Plus, he was helpful when he had to be.

“Guy, wetin you tink na? Make we step abi make
we dey look till the place toast finish?” asked Eye-Patch (often pronounced
I-Pash by his friends).

“No o. We gats wait small o,” Risky intoned

“Ehn, but guy see time. After 2 in d
morrin. My baby don dey my house since around 7. She don flash me tire and I
sure say by now she go don dey crash,” Eye Patch pleaded.

“Ehen?” Risky again.

“Ehen? Guy konji wan tear my sumtin now.
Which one be dis ‘ehen’ wey you dey ask me? You be small pikin? No be your
fault now. Na because your babe no dey gree you rest abi?”

“Omo if na dat one ehn, Boma no dey gree me
see road o! Sheeeet! That babe ehn, if she don smoke weed come meet you ehn…”

Eye Patch interrupted: “God forbid, she no
go come meet me…”

“Shattap! Who dash you? I say if she don
gbana come meet me ehn, guy na die! I don dey find where dem dey sell correct
manpower drug sef. The one wey Oshogbo people dey do. Una get idea?”

“Manpower drug?” Pinto finally joined in
the conversation. The other two now stared at him incredulously like they just
found out that he was born fitted with female genitalia.

“Dis one na mumu sha,” Risky snorted,
“Anyway we gats go round just make sure say every every dey alright…”

“How every wan dey alright when we dey
TOAST person place?” Eye Patch butted in mirthfully.

Risky continued, “Me, I go go round this
side. Pinto, you take this other side. Eye Patch, you just relax here. When we
do finish we go begin step. Me sef don tire gan. D work dey boring na.”

“Ehn o, no action, no action! Ahh! Remember
that job wey we go do for Benin last month? Omo I never fight like dat for my
life. Wallahi tallahi.” Eye Patch was becoming slightly more animated now,
memories of a nighttime melee flooding back.

“Omo boy dat racking too mad. See where
bobos dey break bottle like say na egg. Omo I need dat kind moves o,” Pinto had
apparently regained the use of his tongue.

“Of which, eyin boyz cool down make we
yan,” Risky seemed to bring calm with his whisper and they all almost huddled
in close as he began to speak once more but in an even lower register.

“You see this envelope?” he started,

“Ehen. We dey see am,” the others
practically chorused. They’d been befuddled by it since the evening started.
While they had set about getting the flame up, Risky had stood back clutching
the envelope as if for dear life but they knew not to ask. If they needed to
know about it, they would get to know eventually.

“Oya make I yan una wetin dey inside…”

*****************************************************

They had dispatched themselves and were now
circling the building. Risky, still clutching the envelope, moved rather
briskly: money on his mind. This was going to be the easiest money he’d made
all year! When he’d gotten the text from his contact in the East, he’d thought
it was going to require more men and more planning. However, his preliminary
surveillance revealed that the place was completely uninhabited and there was
no security as well so two others persons was simply overkill. He just thought
to bring them along for companionship and to allow them partake in an easy
payday. He kept switching the manila envelope from hand to hand always feeling
that one hand was safer than the last hand that held it. He slowed down as he
approached the back of the building. It seemed like there was movement up where
he saw something like an opening in the wall for an air conditioner. However,
he couldn’t make it out properly even though he was almost directly beneath the
said hole. He now remembered that they had left the one and only torch brought
on this operation in the hands of Eye Patch who was manning the front. But wait
o… Risky thought. He remembered now that his mobile phone had a torch light. He
began to check his pockets with his free left hand. Realizing it was not in any
of the pockets on his left side, he moved the envelope to his right hand and,
head down, continued fumbling about for his handset.

He heard a swooshing through the air and
then looked up but it was too late to sidestep as an extra hard, extra
aggravated, extra desperate ultra high speed knee collided with his head and
neck… thus breaking Okro’s fall.

Risky went down almost without a sound,
collapsing in a heap under the weight and velocity of his assailant’s attack.
He was still conscious but only just. As he moaned unintelligibly, a torrent of
fists rammed into his lungs stifling even his whimper.

Pinto was at the right side of the building
daydreaming when he heard the noises coming from the back. His first instinct,
which he obeyed, was to call out: “Risky, wetin dey para?” When he got no
answer, he called out again. This time, he was louder, “RISKY, WETIN DEY HAPPEN
FOR DERE?” Still no reply, he began to run to the back. He found Risky sprawled
on the floor and writhing in pain. He quizzed his boss for the day furiously,
trying to find out what had just happened. Risky could barely mumble any words.
Pinto began to look around frantically suddenly realizing that someone else was
out here and worse yet, the person was dangerous enough to incapacitate Risky.

“Eye Patch! Eye Patch! Eye…”

“Wetin, wetin, wetin?” Eye Patch was
already bounding round to the back when he heard Pinto yelling his name. He now
knelt beside Risky. “Wetin happen here?!” he screamed.

“Omo, I no know. I just hear something come
pick race only to reach here come see Risko for ground level,”

“Who go dey here? Wetin him do Risky sharp
sharp wey we no hear on time? Why anybody go wan do am like dis sef?” At this
point, they looked at each other suddenly realizing one possible reason.
Quickly, they frisked Risky. They found it underneath the injured man. Still
sealed, seemingly untouched. Risky seemed to gain strength seeing the envelope
in Eye Patch’s clasp.

“W-w-w-w one boy. E w-w-w wear only b-b-b
boxers,” he whispered in a stutter blinking furiously as he tried to battle the
pain.

“Where him go? Where e dey?” Pinto inquired
obviously agitated and ready to rumble.

“I no kn-know,” it was obviously a struggle
for Risky to even speak.

“We go get am. Boss, u just manage. We dey
come. We go get am.” Pinto now looked at Eye Patch, “Guy, give am d tin back.”
As he said this, his head motioned towards the man lying on the ground. Eye
Patch obeyed and Pinto continued, “As u dey front, anybody commot dis place?”

“No.”

“Correct. Dat bastard fit still dey unless
e commot as we dey here.”

The time for words was over. Pinto and Eye
Patch rose, eyes fixated on each other as they came to a wordless
understanding.

They both reached down into their shoes and
drew knives. Both were ensconced in leather which they almost simultaneously
peeled off and pocketed. Pinto hooked his finger indicating where Eye Patch was
to cover. He moved in the opposite direction. Both of them would go round every
inch of the grounds if they had to. The boy, whoever he was, was about to
breathe his last.

The midnight sky was blocked from view by
the smoke rising from the inferno which in turn created a sinister backdrop to
what was about to transpire. Pinto’s glistening blade reflected the devouring
flames as he crept around the side of the house Risky had initially asked him
to check. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins as were the marijuana he
did a few hours ago… and the ‘shepe’. His allegiance to Risky was
unquestioned and possibly unrivaled. Somebody had messed terribly with him and
that person, if he was still in the compound, would not live to mess with anyone
again.

Once again, suddenly seemed that he was
hearing sounds of a scuffle but he couldn’t be sure.

Then he unmistakably heard Eye Patch’s
blood curdling scream…

John Okro knew not to mess around with
people who were armed with sharp, lengthy, glistening knives. It was fortunate
to be given the advantage of seeing them before they saw you. And with Lady
Luck being fickle and all, you had to take full advantage of her when she came
around to your side of the bed. Out of the shadows, his knee came hurtling
towards an unsighted Eye Patch’s unprotected groin. The man yelped almost
quietly as the limb hit its target. Again. And again. Okro moved swiftly
clutching the man’s wrist that was attached to the palm holding the knife. He
then lifted one of his own legs till his thigh and lower leg formed a number
seven. He moved Eye Patch’s stretched arm into the corner of the seven till his
elbow and Okro’s knee were aligned. In one swift motion, Okro flexed his leg
muscles squeezing the arm while he dragged the wrist skywards instantly
snapping Eye Patch’s elbow.

And that was when Eye Patch screamed.

He bent down and picked up the knife that
had inevitably fallen. He heard running footsteps on the concrete floor and
looked up waiting for his next opponent to turn the corner.

As Pinto rounded the corner in full flight,
he barely had time to take in the scene before he saw the flying knife,
identical to his, making its way towards his neck. His reflexes were good. But
not good enough. The knife missed his neck but still managed to lodge itself
proudly in Pinto’s clavicle.

And then he screamed.

Okro sneered at the silhouette emptying his
lungs into the night sky. Pinto’s bloodshot eyes now assimilated everything on
ground. The boy with boxers, a crying Eye Patch, the knife in his shoulder.

He screamed again.

This time with anger, with venom, with
untapped vengefulness, with loyalty to his injured cohorts. He glowered at Okro
and tore the knife from his skin. Now he had two weapons. One knife smeared
with his blood, the other about to be drenched in this bastard’s.

Okro looked at Pinto’s expression. He knew
pissed when he saw it.

“Oh crap,” he thought out loud, “Here we go
again…”

Okro’s Spark (2)

Check out the earlier installments of John Okro before you read this one:

1. The Slippery Adventures of John Okro

2. Okro’s Spark (1)

****************

Lagos, Nigeria

****************

The volume of their speech seemed to
increase as abruptly as it had reduced. Now it seemed Okro could make out at
least some of the conversation. They were speaking in pidgin. He quickly came
to the understanding that there were three men involved in the discussion. The
fire had not abated so that meant he had bigger problems right now: he needed to
stay alive and not fracture half the bones in his body by jumping possibly 30
feet down. And he still needed to pee!

He was now hearing nothing. At least not
voices: footfalls. His breath caught in his chest not for the first time that
night as he began to try to piece it all together. He didn’t know how it looked
like from out front but given what he saw inside, the fire must be pretty
visible from where they were standing. And they were obviously not calling for
help.

That meant they were in on it.

But he still needed to pee. And really
badly at that…

*************************

Abia State, Nigeria

*************************

“General F. O. Uzodinma (Retired)”

That’s what it read on his complimentary
card. That a partisan politician without any other discernible source of income
had a complimentary card was a source of befuddlement to most of his friends
without ties to politics. But those within the mainstream political circuit in
Eastern Nigeria knew that a ‘compli cardi’ (always said in a heavy Igbo accent)
was as necessary as having a Special Assistant for Carrying Air Freshener. As
for the air freshener bit, no politician who wanted to be taken seriously
risked leaving a stinker at any toilet he visited in public. Granted, there
were many other pitfalls one could step into in this political terrain but it
seemed that the hole you trapped yourself in when you stole money was within
your control: you could siphon sensibly. And basically, everything else you
could do in moderation.

But the call of nature had a mind all its
own.  Whether it was at eateries, hotels
used to host the odd public dinner, higher institutions’ auditorium
conveniences, wherever. No one could tell where his political detractors were
hiding. They might be next in line to use the cubicle one stepped out of and
those evil doers stopped at nothing. The importance of those assistants came to
the fore most recently when Chief Egbukor was scandalized.

This was around 2002 when the United States
had intelligence people scattered all over the country, and the world in fact,
searching for even a whiff of terrorist activity in the wake of the September
11 attacks. In Abia State, for example, random politicians were being called in
for questioning at State C.I.D., Aba.

For some reason, Chief Egbukor was called
in as well.

The next thing Chief knew, the rumor mill
began spreading news that the Americans had uncovered Chief as one of the
financial backers of the famed ‘Bakassi Boys’ who, at the time, the United
States classified as a terrorist group. Essentially, that made him a terrorist
as well. Chief issued several press statements denying any ties to ‘Bakassi’
but no one seemed to believe him. Finally, the Commissioner of Police held a
press conference – with Chief in attendance – at which he unequivocally said
that Chief Egbukor was not a suspected terror monger.

When the conference in question ended,
Chief found himself to be ravenous. Consequently, he gallantly marched into a
nearby eatery to grab lunch. Still feeling boisterous from his recent victory
of sorts, he ordered large. Two servings of jollof rice, two servings of dodo
and the biggest chicken thigh his stubby fingers could point at from where he
stood. He sat while his bodyguard stood over him as he ate. When he was done,
he was still feeling peckish.

“Wetin dat?” he asked his bodyguard as he
pointed to the big transparent container the ice cream was swirling in. Moments
later, he was enjoying a cup of the white stuff. Then the reporter stepped up.

As he rushed towards Chief, the burly piece
of beefcake (also known as Chief’s bodyguard) stepped in front of Chief
blocking the reporter.

“Leave am,” Chief said almost
instinctively. He knew when trouble came calling but this man seemed like a
harmless one right away. Autobash 2000 moved aside slightly, allowing the
reporter access.

“Sir, my name is Simon Agu. I’m with the
Daily Clarinet.” As he said this, he held out the name-tag hanging from some
flimsy rope slung around his tiny neck.

“Gini ki cho?” (What do you want).

“Sir, given that you have just been sort
of… em… vindicated…”

“Sort of?!” Chief yelled. “Ya mother is
SORT OF smelling. Ya father is SORT OF stupid…”

“I’m sorry sir…”

“No o! Don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for
ya mother because her armpit SORT OF reminds people of ahurun!” (Ahurun = fart)

“Don’t be angry sir. Please sir. I meant to
say that since you were thoroughly and absolutely vindicated by the
Commissioner within the last hour as per your non involvement in the terrorist
hoola-balloo…”

“ Ehen?”

“…what do you have to say to your
detractors, sir?”

“Detra- gini? Nna, I don’t have farm now…”

“No sir,” he winced slightly then
continued, “I mean your enemies, Chief.”

“Oh, those foolish people? Well, tell them
that I feel, eh, very happy to have been cleared of all this stupid nonsense. I
am innocent and anybody who doesn’t, eh, like me can go and, eh, jump inside
Imo river.”

“Imo river, sir?”

“E ji’m mili n’onu?” (Am I carrying water
in my mouth?)

“No sir. Thank you, Chief.” He scampered
off before Chief could direct another missive his way.

“An’ofia,” (bush meat) Chief intoned as he
looked into his ice cream cup to see it had all but dissolved completely. He
silently cursed the reporter as he resolved to drink it. It still tasted great.
He decided to relax in the eatery for a bit. Partly to allow his food digest
and partly to see if any more reporters would happen upon him in the eatery.
After about ten minutes, Chief felt his tummy rumble… and he instantly felt the
need to go. And go viciously. He couldn’t figure out what could cause him to
metabolize the food so quickly and so thoroughly. He suddenly realized he was
sweating heavily. Even under the immense attention of the air-conditioners. He
contemplated holding it in. He had a tiny feeling somewhere that the moment he
stepped into the toilet, he would be missing another journalist. And to him,
all press was good press at this time.

Little by little, he began to lean on the
table in front of him more and more till he was suspending practically all his
weight on his forearm and elbows. His rear end was by now almost completely off
the seat.

Auto B spoke: “Chief, you know we can go
and come back in a few minutes. Anyone who comes to eat can’t be in and out all
that quickly.” He could read Chief’s mind like a book with giant print.

“Don’t worry. I’m ok.”

Chief now realized he was becoming a bit
obvious. However, he figured he still had to hang around for a bit longer
because from here he was headed to the Owerri airport to catch a flight to
Abuja. He would return first thing the next day but by then, the story would
have broken everywhere. He had to do all the press now and enjoy the discomfort
of his enemies. He changed his posture.

He now planted his fists into the space
around his buttocks on the chair using them to prop himself slightly as he
tried to ease his own suffering. This was not worth it at all at all.

Chief looked at Auto B and nodded in the
general direction where he imagined the toilet would be. Wordlessly, Auto B
helped Chief out of his chair.

Twelve minutes later, Chief was flushing.
He noisily let out air from his nostrils while he kept his mouth shut, afraid
to inhale the first-fruit of his savage onslaught on the toilet bowl. He shook
his head at himself. He should have known not to eat here, he thought. The place
was smelling Izal, Izal. Now see his tummy. And see the result. Rubbish.

He came out of the cubicle and promptly
proceeded to wash his hands at the faucet. As he did so, he heard quick
footfalls approaching the toilet. Autobash seemed to perk up like a guard dog.
The steps quickened and Simon Agu practically ran in the door. As he rushed in
the smell that assaulted his olfactories made him hit the brakes. As did Auto
B’s outstretched arm. He skidded to a halt as he expressed his discomfiture
with a loud: “Hmmmmmm!” He squeezed his face disgustedly, immediately seeking
out where to spit into.

“Auto, throw this fool out of here. Idiot.
Don’t you sh-sh shit?” Chief’s stutter was clear evidence of his embarrassment.
Auto obeyed.

The next morning, as Chief strode into the
Owerri airport – back from a succesfull trip to the nation’s capital – his
aide, Chigozie, came to greet him. “Chief they want to finish you o!”

“Haven’t they tried enough already? They
should have learnt by now that nothing can spoil my name or scatter my image.
What is it, Chigo?” Chief asked,

“It’s all these foolish press people o!
They want to ruin you upon all,”

“What is it?”

“Chief they said you wreck soakaways and
public rest rooms o!”

“Ah ah… Who?” A solitary drop of sweat
danced from the back of his head, dropped on his spine and gave him mild shocks
while it coursed down, ending its journey down the back of Chief’s briefs for
he seemed to have an inkling almost instantly of who was responsible.

“Chief…” Chigozie trailed off as he handed
Chief the copy of the day’s Daily Clarinet. Then he saw the awful headline on
the front page:

“EGBUKOR
NOT A TERRORIST…

But
drops bombs”

Generally, when people told this story,
they always omitted the fact that Simon Agu was no longer in a job. They also
omitted the fact that his house was soon confiscated for seemingly no reason
and his civil servant wife was transferred to Adamawa without warning.

Well, the General thought, why not avoid
all this rubbish instead? Anyways, the General thought to himself, he had more
important things to worry about. He picked up his cell phone to dial…

***********************************************

“Onyeujo, you are welcome. Sit down… Not so
far away now. Come closer. Mgba nu, sit on this chair right beside me.” The
General still could not wrap his mind around the fact that this frail looking
vegetable of a human being was supposed to be the number one hit-man in the
East. The man wasn’t feared. No. He was revered. Because he left no traces. No
links, no evidence, nothing. And he did even the most well guarded people. But
today Chief did not want the Angel of Death to pay a visit to anyone.

“Onyeujo, I have called you here for a
reason.”

“Yes sir. What is it?” Onyeujo whispered in
reply. His voice (if you wanted to call it that) was more like a whisper. A
raspy, creepy whisper. It sounded thin, yet coarse and grainy at the same time.

“I have a different sort of assignment for
you this time. Fire. Can you do it?”

Onyeujo seemed visibly repulsed by that
question. “Can politicians tell lies? Please get to the details, General. I
have an appointment at a massage parlor that I wish not to miss.”

“Emmm… No problem. I will get to it. Do you
know any Mr. Uche?”

“Is that the man vying for your constituency’s
seat in the state house?”

“Yes. But he is up against my candidate.
You see the problem?” Onyeujo nodded and the General continued.

“Well, I don’t really see the need to, you
know, end him. He is a small boy. He doesn’t even have money but some people
like him because he uses big big English. The idiot doesn’t even have property
here. I could have sent you to burn his father’s house but I hear he is not so
close to his parents and it might not pain him very well…”

“So what’s the plan?” Onyeujo interjected,

“I learnt he is paying rent in a flat in
Lagos. I also learnt he will be in Aba here for Mike Ebere’s coronation. When
he goes back home, I want him to meet his house in ashes.” As the General said
this, he handed Onyeujo a piece of paper.

“That is his address.”

“Anything else?”

“Emmmm… No.”

“You know my rates and you have my account
number, right?” The General nodded as he groaned out an “Mmm hmm.”

“Keep your eyes in the papers then… or I
might call when I’m done. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see myself out then, General.”

Onyeujo eased into his Datsun Laurel 2.0.
He had found out long ago that a low profile was best. In his line of work,
innocuous was the watchword.

Nothing bespoke that better than an ageing
Japanese automobile.

He drove slowly while he pondered over the
General’s latest request. Crap. Irritating, mediocre crap. Meanwhile, his
massage appointment was not to be missed at any cost. It helped that the owner
of the place was hot beyond reasonability but he also needed those tense
muscles relaxed. The workload of a terror monger was pressure-filled. He pulled
his cell phone out of his pocket (a Nokia 3310) and sent a text message to his
friend Risky in Lagos. He suddenly remembered something and opened his glove
compartment. He took out a plastic encasement. Keeping his eyes on the road, he
extracted a small device with two knobs on the face of it. He depressed the
larger button.

On the 5th floor of Gozie Towers, which
also happened to be the offices of Jobitex Incorporated, three blocks of C-4
exploded.

******************************************************

Had to break this up in two so y’all wouldn’t get bored. Part 3 out on friday… Pls come back!

Okro’s Spark (1)

They were walking to her house…

She wasn’t strikingly beautiful but she was pretty in
an understated way. You had to know her to appreciate her. Or at least that was
how he figured it. She was about his height which made her a tall-ish specimen
and she wasn’t skinny. “Hello Perfection,” thought Okro

Skinny was not Okro’s definition of sexy. No. His
experiences made him form the opinion that skinny women obsessed about their
figure and were too concerned about what they ate and didn’t eat. He didn’t need
that type of fussiness in his life.

At her door, she put one palm on the handle and turned
to face him. He was standing barely a foot away with his hands behind his back
wearing his favourite tee shirt, new jeans and a childish grin. Words somehow
didn’t seem necessary at this point. She looked around as if to check that no
one was watching – somehow Okro figured she didn’t care either way – and then
took a tentative step toward him. He met her halfway, encircling her with his
arms as he did so. She interlocked her delicate fingers at the back of his
neck.

Then they kissed…

Oh shoot, he thought. The countless onions in the suya
they had shared was coming back to haunt them in the worst possible way. Or at
least back to haunt him. It was a weird vibe he was getting off her lips and
breath. He began to wonder whether she’d had beans earlier in the day. Or eggs.
Or both.

He tried to avoid being the one to pull out of the
kiss. A task made all the more difficult by the fact that he was somehow unable
to hold his breath long enough. Bleeping cigarettes must have snuffed the air
out of his lungs. Was today World Repercussion Day or something?

She finally pulled out but obviously something was
wrong, thought Okro. Because she had a look of content in her eyes. Oh wait,
was it content or longing? Content meant she had enjoyed that awful kiss: bad.
Longing meant she wanted another: worse.

She let out air and Okro thought his face would melt
from the sheer heat of it. And the stench. Dear oh dear. His desire to get laid
must have deadened his nostrils for a bit, he thought. She’d better have the
genius of Ghandhi in the sack or he would do everything even super-humanly
possible to ensure that the National Assembly passed a law banning onions at
all suya joints. He suddenly became very uncomfortable, shifting slightly in
her embrace. Then she closed her eyes and leaned in again. So what he saw was
longing. Dear God, he thought, this would be a fabulous time to visit vengeance
upon me for my sins: kill me. Kill me now. Then again, he figured this was as
malicious as the heavens could get. From warm to uncomfortably hot, the heat
from her mouth seemed to amplify as she got closer. And she had her mouth half
open. How could he escape? Their lips were almost touching now…

 

****************************************************************

He opened his eyes and the first thing he
observed was the sweat he was covered with. He had to blink spuriously and dab
lightly with his hand to get the sting out of his eye because some sweat had
trickled in. The second thing he observed was that he needed to pee really
badly. As he got up from the bed, he silently cursed the architect of the
building who put a toilet and bathroom to serve two bedrooms making him have to
walk to the corridor to do his business. And why was it soo hot, anyway? He
opened the door.

The third thing he observed was the fire.

 

Vicious flames licked the apartment like a
giant kid going at a tiny lollipop. It appeared the living room had been
completely consumed. He couldn’t be sure about the master bedroom but the flames
had entered the corridor and were now grubbing their way toward his room. The
toilet was out of the question now. He could barely make out an opening where
the door once was. He suddenly realized he was getting mildly scalded. He
scampered back into the bedroom, panicking. All at once he tried to think many
thoughts: how did the fire start? How could he put it out? Who could help? Was
there an escape route? He was suddenly thankful that his uncle had taken his
family to the village for some chieftaincy thingy. That meant all Okro had to
worry about was himself. At the same time, he became concerned; even scared. What
would his uncle say when he returned to meet his house in whatever state it
would be when this was over. No chance of getting water now since the toilet
and bathroom had been turned into brick toast.

Okro coughed loud and painfully. The smoke
was unbearable on its own not to to talk of the fast approaching inferno. His
thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the flames tearing at the door. They
made short work of it. Barging into the room like an overbearing trespasser.
Okro figured ‘panic mode’ would be of no help right now even though he was so
close to freaking out. He slid a glass window open cursing as he saw the
burglary proof fittings his overly paranoid uncle had deemed fit to install at
every door and window. Great. Now what? He couldn’t grasp why the compound
wasn’t fenced while the owner thought it necessary to place burglary proof
fittings everywhere.

If he didn’t figure a way out, his obituary
wouldn’t say he died following a ‘brief illness’ or a ‘ghastly motor accident’.
He figured it would say: ‘John Okro. Home cooked.’

He resented himself for thinking humorously
at a time like this. “Nice going, dude.” He muttered to himself as he looked
around for an option. He jumped on the bed as the rug was being eaten beneath
him. He figured the bed would ignite momentarily. Was this how it would end?
“I’ve not even gotten the chance to shag Serena Williams,” he whimpered. Then
he saw it.

The 1 horse-power A/C unit had been making
an awful noise lately so his host had called the repair man to have a look at
it. The verdict had been ugly. It appeared there were a lot of faults. So much
that Okro couldn’t be bothered to take stock of what precisely those faults
were. Bottom line, the A/C repairman got his uncle’s blessing to take it away.
To avoid mosquitoes, his uncle’s wife had used an old calendar and masking tape
to cover the hole left at the bottom corner of the room. And today, that would
be his escape route.

Amidst more coughing, he raced off the bed
at tearing off the calendar and putting his legs through in one swift movement.
In his haste, he forgot that he was climbing down a two-storey building. With
his body facing outward, he let himself go and in the same moment realized he
was going to plunge into the hard concrete ground. His breath caught in his
throat and all his ultra sharp reflexes kicked in as he somehow managed to turn
180 degrees in mid-air barely catching the same frame he’d just jumped out of
with one hand. His breath quickened considerably as the realization of what
could have happened hit him full blast. He steadied himself by bringing his
other hand up to hold the frame as well. His breath was now coming in sharp
bursts He flexed his neck muscles before looking downwards. He began to
contemplate his next move. Should he jump down all the same or look for a
ledge? He scanned for a ledge below.

He saw a window but it was shut and the
available space… well there was none left. He wouldn’t be able to cling. His
eyes kept roving, searching out a solution. Suddenly, he began to feel the heat
on his fingers.

Inside, the flames crackled with pleasure
almost like it was belching after a sumptuous meal of bed-post. It had guzzled
up the mattress and its frame and was now beginning to roast the walls. Thus,
the heat Okro now felt. He began to really panic now. He didn’t want his
fingers scalded; he couldn’t just jump down; he couldn’t…

Okro stopped in his thoughts – for he was
suddenly hearing voices…

They were clear and muffled all at once.
One moment it seemed like there were people yelling, the next they seemed to be
whispering. The sounds were coming from the front side of the compound while he
hung out the back. He couldn’t at once tell how many voices he was hearing; how
many people were speaking. They seemed to be arguing and conspiring all at once.
The voices abruptly subsided. Okro stiffened from where he hung, holding his
breath as the fear of the unknown began to seep in.

 

To be continued…