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It is hard to kill your brother

To hold a knife to his throat and watch his blood pour out onto your palms

To look at his face and watch the life seeping out of his eyes

If you’re a first timer,

It is not easy to take a life

When that life is your brother’s

It is nearly impossible to make him die

~

When you woke up today, you were immediately aware of two things. One; that your name was Michael. And two; that you were a murderer. You had not merely killed someone; you were a murderer.

The concept of guilt is a very complicated one. Especially for you. On some days, you are strong. You are able to go out of your room and talk to the boys in the room beside yours; Jide and Malik. Maybe even play a game of football with the other guys. The evening ones are easier on your body. By then the sun is so far behind the darkening clouds that you are able to play 4 or 5 sets without quickly falling tired, your chest heaving up and down like a mad yoyo.

But some other days, you cannot get up from your bed. On such days, all you do is lie still, with your hands on your chest, staring at the ceiling. When you stare at the white ceiling with its peeling paint long enough, you begin to see his face, or rather, what his face must’ve looked like, because you did not see his face that night. You did not see anything, because you were scared.

But what was it you were scared of?

When you look at his face long enough, your left hand begins to wander down your body, down to your boxers, to your penis. Some things are too hard to face. It is better {easier} to run from them, from truth.

Your eyes always shed tears while you are masturbating. It is easy to blame them for the tears because it would be too difficult for you to agree that you are the one doing the crying. You are selectively aware of what is happening to you. You pick what parts of your life you want to be aware of, the moments you want to experience, and those that you don’t.

Like when you masturbate.

Most times, you are not even sure why you touch yourself the way you do. You know that it is not “konji” that is worrying you when you touch yourself these days. Lust’s allure has fled from your mind’s eye in the last two weeks. So are you masturbating because you are sad? Or is it for lack of what to do? Is it your guilt that pushes you to touch yourself like this?

But you cry when you touch yourself, and you’ve been touching yourself very often lately. When you go off, there is no pleasure in it for you. It is simply a means of escaping the worrisome images that are in your head.

But in keeping with the rhythm of moving your hand up and down very quickly, you start to feel something. What you begin to feel could be called release; the thing you would feel if a wrench was being slowly removed from your head. But just as you begin to feel free, an image flashes before your eyes, no, it envelopes you. His head is bobbing forward and back, his mouth wide ajar in surprise, red, warm, bubbling blood pouring out of it onto your palms. The release leaves you again.

There was one evening where you passed by the mirror close to your door and mistakenly looked in the mirror. Your eyes were red, like those of a rat caught in a trap. It shocked you how, in just one week, your face had changed entirely. Your beard was rough. And you were almost certain that if you continued to leave it like this, in a short while, it would begin to look like that of those homeless mad men you used to see as a child back home in Ibadan. You actually looked mad, like someone who was mentally insane and needed to either be placed in Aro Mental, but Aro Mental is in Abeokuta, and you’ve lived all of your life in Ibadan, so maybe you’d just be left to rot on the roadside. Perhaps that was why you blocked Nifemi on Whatsapp when she asked for a video call. Since then, you had ignored all her calls, and just yesterday evening, you’d blacklisted her number.

But it was not just because you looked like an animal that you didn’t want her to see you. It was because you felt like an animal, something so sinister and vile that you were less than human.

You weren’t sure yet what you would do about her. Nifemi had always been in your corner, for nearly 7 years now. She’d been your “guy” through everything; your secondary school days of lusting after everything in a skirt, to your 100 level days of trying to be a better man while battling ADHD and more lust. She had always been here, even after she found out that your gambling addiction had cost you and your mother nearly a hundred thousand Naira.

But now you had killed another person, you had taken a life. She would not be able to forgive you once she knew what you’d done. Your heart could not bear the pain. So you blocked her. You pushed her far, far away. She would be beyond bitter when she realised that you’d blocked her everywhere. She would feel that was reason enough to never speak to you again. Nifemi was a proud woman, just like you were a proud boy. But she also loved you, just like you loved her. She had become your sister, and your heart was doing something more painful than breaking every day that passed without you speaking to her.

It is hard to lose your sister. But it becomes possible to live with that pain when you have killed your brother.

~

He was not the type of person you would’ve liked. It might’ve been possible to tolerate him, but you wouldn’t have liked him. If you two hadn’t been brothers, you would have written him off as fake, a two-faced lying hypocrite. But because you had been brothers from the days of pushing around old tires with sticks and happily wearing undersized underwear all over the small neighbourhood, it was possible for you to understand him. It was easy to do so, because you loved him. 

David was not a liar. There was no way for you to prove it when the other boys said so, but then again, they knew not to say so when you were around. So you could really choose to believe that they never said so, even if that was impossible to do. But you could not ignore what people thought of your friend. And you could not ignore it because you were the reason why they thought he was a hypocrite. You were a “razz boy”, the type of boy that David should be preaching to and inviting for the incessant midweek services that these mushroom fellowships were always holding. You needed saving, the kind of saving that people like David claimed their Jesus offered.

So it was perplexing to most people that you two were friends, or at least, were seen in public together. There’d been a few occasions when he’d told you of spats with his fellow fellowship members over his “continued alliance with a son of darkness”. He was a child of the light, and light should not mix with darkness. There was nothing they didn’t say to him about you. Heck! He’d even played you a voice note where his cell leader had berated him with a Yoruba proverb that said “Aguntan to ba ba aja rin, a je igbe”.

But like you, your brother was stubborn. It was something your parents were always flogging you for in the old days; knowing that such and such was what was required of you to do, but still going ahead to do what was in your heart to do initially. It was a headiness, a need for freedom and the absence of boundaries. A need to not be boxed in.

So David had ignored everyone’s warnings and remained your friend, coming to your off-campus room during weekends for a few cups of alcohol and a retreat from the rough pace of campus living. And you would go over to the campus during the week to take evening walks with him that would last late into the night, spilling over into the early hours of the next morning.

There was nothing about him that you did not know, and as much as you had to hide the darker depths of your life, he knew a lot about you too, at least stuff that could get you in huge trouble. But you could trust David to keep his mouth shut, just like he could trust you to solve all of his woman problems. It was funny to both of you how he would never look in the direction of the girls at his fellowship, but was always running after wicked women from Law, or emotionally unavailable witches studying Medicine.

He was a handsome boy, and your money ensured that he always had enough to spend on himself and whatever new girl was showing him shege at the moment. You two would always laugh about it, not because it was funny, but because the alternative was crying. And he knew damn well that you wouldn’t pet him if he cried, but would loudly laugh him to scorn until his embarrassment turned into anger and he got mad enough to throw a punch in your direction, just like the old primary school days.

He was a handsome boy, much more attractive than you were. In fact, you knew that many people did not find you pleasing to the eye, you were scary looking. He humanised you, David, made it easy for girls to approach you whenever you two were walking around campus together.   

What else was there? You could trust him to listen to you, to pray for you when life’s problems were swallowing you whole. He knew things about you that no therapist would’ve ever gotten out of you. It is always so easy to open up to someone who has mastered the art of shutting up and letting people bare their souls to them. There was never a night where you felt he was distracted, even if you suspected it, by the time you finished and it was time for him to talk, he would ask a piercing question that would make you decide that you had left off a few valuable details in your confession. He was that real.

Maybe the problem that everyone had with David was that he wouldn’t pick a side. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to dress corporate and follow Jesus on Sunday, or if he wanted to wear too much cologne and baggy sweatpants feeling on women’s bodies by 1am in the dark corners of AngloMoz on Tuesday morning.

He was that undecided. It irked you sometimes too, but you knew to allow it, because you were undecided too. You would read something in your Bible and call him to talk about it for half an hour, but then forget to practise it by the time you woke up the next morning. So you could understand his indecisiveness, but only wished he’d own his identity a bit more often. But you were thankful that he always owned you, any slight chance he got. It was so good that one day you asked him about it in cussing Pidgin, and whether it was because he liked you that much, or if it did something for his stubborn streak. He did not give you a direct answer, but rather smacked you across the back of your head.

Your love was like that, boys’ love is always like that; afraid to say “I love you” to one another, but ready to jump in front of a moving car on their behalf at the slightest need.

~

There is a memory of him that always chokes you like water filling your nose.

Both of you are labouredly pushing around a ball that is bigger than your heads combined. It is morning, too late for breakfast, but too early for lunch because the warmth of the sun is still too timid to be called afternoon. The two of you have been playing since morning, immediately after breakfast, but your mother isn’t saying anything. It is the midterm break, and neither of you is six yet.

Your family’s compound is fairly large, especially now that your father’s car has been driven to work, leaving a little more space for you to “dribble” David. You have both begun to grow aware of your bodies, and the fact that girls shouldn’t be allowed to see your penises, so you’ve graduated from wearing just pants, to covering them with short knickers that your mother is always begging you not to get too dirty. You are both barefoot, the tickle of the brown sand against the insides of your toes sends spurts of pleasure up your leg to your brain, keeping you alert for when he will try to kick some of the sand at you so you have to look away from the too-big-ball.

The game is going well; you are pushing David, he is pushing you back, when he “dribbles” past you and kicks the ball a little too far for him to reach in time, you pretend to be too tired to run after him, so he has enough time to reach his prize, he returns your kindness like a tennis serve. It is back and forth, this flow, this love, this cord that binds both of you in the innocent, unspoken oath called brotherhood.

Then it happens, he leans in to push you, but you slightly shift to the left. He has leaned in too much, he was pushing to fall you down, to hurt you. He broke the silent rules of your game, of your love.  A stone wraps its hands against his leg in punishment, and with a cold finality, drags him to the sandy ground.

You are sure that he can see the shock in your eyes, just like you see the surprise in his. 

It becomes quick, he is on the sandy floor, a moment, then a loud scream, spilling, spurting, bursting, out of his mouth {lips}, your mother is tumbling out of the house. It is all too quick for you, and you just stand, watching.

She is beside him, lifting him, petting him, rubbing him all over and saying “pele, pele”. She is hitting you, pushing you, asking you, “kilode, shey o fe pa ni?”. She does not call him “omolomo”, because somewhere between the endless nights slept over at your house and your incessant breakfasts at his father’s red bungalow, he has become as much your mother’s son as you are, you have become as much his father’s child as he is. You two have become brothers, there is no dividing line anymore, visible or invisible.

You are standing, ashamed, until you see the side of your friend’s face that your mother’s body has been blocking all this while.

Bleeding.

You become overstimulated, and begin crying. Your mother is incensed at you, your friend feels betrayed by you, even though he was the one to first betray you, but you begin crying. You didn’t know why then, you did not know why even fifteen years after, when you turned nineteen.

But now that you have killed him and you have seen what it means to spill your own blood, you know why you were crying that day, you know why he stepped between you and your mother with his gashed forehead, begging her to not hit you any more, telling her in tearful stammers that it was he who pushed you first and that it was all his fault.

~

The air was cold in his nose that day. It was early in the morning, around 2am or so. He was with his brother, drunk, staggering towards the junction where an okada would carry them back to his brother’s hostel.

Teslim’s birthday party had been enjoyable. There was booze, girls, weed, more booze, but most importantly, Molly. His brother was slurring something about how he’d been glued to Chioma’s fair body towards the end of the party, but he was not really listening. He was slightly annoyed with him for making them leave early. Maybe if Michael hadn’t been in such a rush for them to leave, he would’ve been in bed with the girl by now.  But he also knew to be reasonable. It was late, and there would be a Chemistry test tomorrow evening, so he’d need enough time for the hangover to wear off. Yes, that must’ve been why Michael had made them leave early.

It was quick when it happened. It was dark, but he was certain he’d heard the threatening footsteps cornering around them.

Four boys surrounded the two of them. He was drunk, but Michael was here, so he was safe. Instinctively, his hand found Michael’s, he gripped it, afraid.

But Michael was here, his hand in his, they would fight and beat these stupid guys. Shebi Michael was a cult boy too, ehn, nothing spoil. He was safe.

Then Michael prised his own hands away from his, and joined them, and he wasn’t so safe anymore.

He called out to him, “Michael, Michael!!”

The words “wetin you dey do?” did not find their way out of his mouth, couldn’t find their way out of his mouth. The fear in him was so thick that it filled his throat with saliva and mucus and tears that would later pour down his face when his brother began stabbing him.

The time was moving too slow, the waiting was killing him beyond what was waiting for him.

He broke, ran after Michael, gripped his arm,

“Bastard, wetin you dey do?!!!” he shouted this time.

His voice was shaky now, the fear drowning any facade of manliness he’d been trying to show earlier.

Michael turned to face him, something sinister was on his face. It was not a mask, it was just… a look, something he’d never seen before. His eyes were heavy, far away, the boy did not look like he could recognise him. He was sure Michael could see him, but he wasn’t seeing him. He was not seeing his face in his. A film of pain flashed across his brother’s face, quickly covered by decision, the face one holds when they have to swallow bitter Agbo jedi jedi.

Then something sharp entered his stomach, a gasp escaped his mouth.

~

The first time your knife tore into his flesh, it was quick. You were afraid, so you stabbed him violently, so that your blade quickly found its way through the baggy blue sweatshirt you’d bought him a month earlier. It had to pierce him quickly, before you could have enough time to consider the wrongness of what you were doing. You heard his gasp, the shock and surprise in it. You did not look at his face, not yet.

You stabbed him again.

The knife, facing less fabric resistance this time, pierced him more easily. You pushed it deeper, he gasped again, low this time, the air was leaving him. You did not look at his face, you were afraid.

You retrieved the ashy blade and stabbed your brother again, somewhere in the centre of his stomach. He did not gasp; you didn’t look at his face. He raised his hand to your shoulder, his shock turning to anger. The grip was like that of a man who wanted to fight, but as soon as his hand touched your shoulder, you both knew, that he could not fight you. You were kin, a body he could not beat. You twisted the knife to the left, his grip on your shoulder tightened, desperate.

You pulled it out and stabbed him again, pushing inwards until your fingers felt against his innards. The wetness of his blood against your already clammy palm was causing spittle to go up and down your throat, you wanted to vomit. His fingers slipped off your broad shoulder, and he started to fall.

Your body, on its own accord, followed him, his left elbow in your right arm, you guided him to the floor. Somehow, by the time he would touch the sandy ground, your hand was cradling his head, so that his newly locked hair wouldn’t be dirtied by the sand.

His face was purple peace and white turmoil, the faraway glaze his eyes had whenever he was smoking weed was there again. He was beautiful, with the blood spurting out of his mouth onto his face, his cheeks, your nose, your face, the life leaving him with each spurt of red water that spat out of his mouth.

He was beautiful.

Your “comrades” pulled you back from him roughly. You were pulled away from him roughly, it annoyed you, and you wanted to fight them. But there were five of them, with guns. They would kill you; David was dead already. It didn’t make sense, for both of you to die. Someone must remain to tell the story.

Lies!

You were afraid. You were afraid. You’d killed David because you were afraid.

You’d been afraid ever since they’d caught you trying to sell the Molly you’d stolen from Jasper to those dummy freshers. You knew that they would kill you.

That was why you’d ran from Alex Duduyemi lecture theatre down to ETF that December night. Had you even considered screaming that night? Maybe, or maybe the fear in your chest had shoved a towel into your mouth, down your throat, so that it felt parched by the time they eventually caught up and beat holy sense into you. You were afraid, that was why you agreed to exchange your brother’s life for yours. It was a pact you made in the heat of the moment; your left thigh was peeing blood from where Shali had slashed you with his jagged pocket-knife. Your eyes were dimming already, your nose was feeling heavier than your thumb too. You were going to die. You were going to have died. You weren’t thinking, you had to think fast. So immediately his face flashed across your mind, you blurted out his name.

~

And now? Now, David’s laughter is in your ear. The deep, boiling sound with which it always started from his lower belly, the high pitched squeal it always fell into. It is in your ear now. Nothing is funny, but sometimes, when you consider the absurdity of everything, you laugh. You laugh at him, with him, but finally, you laugh for him. He is dead, he will never laugh again. But you are alive, you can still laugh, you can laugh for him.

The days have slipped into one another, you cannot tell how much time has passed. But you know that too long has passed. Initially, you were certain that if you could sit with it long enough, the memory of his beautiful face would fade away from your mind. But you do not forget a face that was like a mirror, a face in which you saw yourself, even if that face is now pale and empty somewhere amidst the ashes it was burned to, dead. So it is, so it has been, that David’s is the first face you see when you wake up in the morning, and the last one you see in the reddened light of your bulb before you cry yourself to sleep.

Tomorrow, you will go to Ibadan, you will kneel before his mother and ask her to curse you with all the curses she knows, to condemn you to an eternity of suffering. You will kneel before her, and place her hand on both sides of your head, and ask her to press on your temples with her fingernails until red blood begins to creep and crawl down your sideburns. And under the voice of her pain and your sin, you will speak, you will recite. You will recite in muffled English peppered with desperate, penitent Yoruba, the tale of how you, forced by your cult “brethren”, murdered her son, stabbing him four times, burned his body and danced around the suya-smelling flames.

And maybe then, after you have atoned your guilt with the punishment of her curses, and the empty hollowness of a jail-cell. After your shame is spread in the open like your dirty, sperm-stained boxers hung out to dry on a clothesline, maybe then, you will find your peace. Maybe then, you will be free.