The Devil.

Photo by Dan Seanley on Unsplash

Voices. Loud sounds. Anguish. 

It metamorphosed into a nightmare far from reality.

A lot of people say that the devil is ugly. That he lived in a lake filled with fire and made people burn in anguish in a pit deeper than eternity.

But, I tell you, these are not true. I know this because I've seen him. I ate with him for fifteen years and lived under the same roof with him.

He didn't have horns protruding from the side of his head. Rather he had thick black hair he styled to the front and made into curls, occasionally.

He was bold, and he walked with his shoulders squared, taking his steps briskly. The Devil was pretty. Fair-skinned and bright eyes. I hate to admit it, but I am a spitting copy of his physical image. 

My Father was a Titled man. An Ozor in our village—one who decided the making of kings.

He wore the red cap and had people tremble at his presence. He would go out for a walk and have the people; young men and women alike, kneel on two legs. A few even prostrated to greet him. He was the youngest man to be given a title in our community. 

Reference was a thing I saw and felt in our home. I knelt down to greet my father since my knee could bend. 

I was barely seven years old when I developed fear for him. My mother had gone into his room to serve his food, and I heard them talk in hushed voices. 

Woman. Who is she. You are a father. The villagers will talk. 

These were the words I could hear even though I strained my ears hard enough.

The next thing I caught was a loud sound. My Father came out shortly after with his hands stained with what seemed like the Ofe Onugbu my mother had served me earlier.

He looked at me aggressively. I shivered in my seat.

I never had a relationship with my father, but he had never stared at me with so much anger like the one I saw that day.

The next sound I heard was the sound of water running in the bathroom and then the sound of his Toyota running on its wheels. 

"Mama!" My little voice grazed the building as I entered into the room.

Mama was on the bare cemented floor. Her braided hair loosened out as it fell on the ground. The white top was stained with oil, and her wrapper smelt of soup.

I tried to lift her hands while tears streamed down my cheeks. I called out, but I couldn't find anyone. My voice was too weak to attract the attention of even the closest neighbour.

I laid on her chest, hoping she dies with me if she ever considered dying. 

Comfort found me in that position until Mama Chidera, Mama's friend, who visits occasionally, came in. 

"Ehhh, Chimooo!" She moved around as she rubbed her hands on her wrapper like someone in a dance show. 

"How did it happen? What is this? Who did this to her? Naza, biko, stand up," She said all at once in one breath, lifting me up in one arm from my mother.

She kept me with her sister, who she called "Omah," until my mother returned from the hospital. 

And so from then, it grew worse. Each beating scarier than the last. Each anguish deeper than the former. 

It was on one of those days that it happened. A deed considered formidable.

We had moved into the bungalow my father had just built and I was sitting quietly on the leather sofa the villagers had gathered to see.

"It feels like soft akpu" one of them had said, showing his yellow teeth in a smile. I wondered how a chair looked like akpu and I had tried to reconcile the big brown furniture to the round morsel I shoved down my throat when I ate. It didn't make sense.

Another woman compared the texture to that of a new baby's bum. As our people say "Wonders shall never end!"

That day, the sun was bright. Bright enough to give you light even if your eyes were closed.

I was twirling my legs on the brown sofa, my body dancing to the rhythm that was playing from our radio. And then I heard them. 

"You dare insult me?" My father's voice was strong. It broke through the shielded walls of their bedroom and left echoes that I was sure could be heard at our compound gates.

Heavy sounds escaped the room. I rushed down the passage that looked like a hall to their bedroom. As I drew close, the sounds intensified.

Mama was crying. Her tears sounded like hiccups. I got to the door "Papa, it's okay! Papa, stop this." It didn't stop rather it intensified, and with each words I said, he howled back at me. "If I get you there, you will join her."

My throat went dry, and I swallowed hard. I turned the doorknob severally, but it was locked. The space beneath the door was wide but it could not fit a chubby fifteen-year-old boy. 

"I hate... I hat...t..ee yo...u," Mama stammered. Her voice lacked life as she spoke.

My mother was a strong woman, full of life, and had a very enviable aura. She used to tell me in her numerous stories how she shone like the night moon during her youthful days and how the suitors fell over themselves for her.

"Maidens and their mothers burned with jealousy as a result of my beauty," she had told me, "When it was time for me to get settled into marriage, the Umu Adas and my mother suggested that I pick the best because I deserved only that. They rejected every suitor until your father showed up. When he came with his people for our introduction, the multitude of the villagers confessed he was one who suits my beauty." She had explained to me with pride in her eyes.

I wondered if it was worth it. Papa was not worth her beauty and intelligence. She deserved more.

I couldn't help but imagine whether her life would have turned out better if she married an ugly poor man somewhere. Just maybe, her life would have been filled with happiness. Papa's looks and money was not enough to cover up for the pain she felt each day. 

"Kill me if you wa...n..t. My blood will hunt you until it kills you!" Mama's voice was shaky and I feared she would die. 

"Then watch me!" 

My heart left my chest for a second. I ran to our gate to call for help but it was locked. Our fence was so high that it was impossible for anyone to scale through. I rushed back to the parlor then a thought popped into my head.

Papa's Hammer!

It was right in the kitchen. He had tried to repair the kitchen cabinet that morning.

I ran into the kitchen like I was being chased and took the hammer. I turned to leave and caught sight of the knife lying on the kitchen sink. It sparkled.

I removed the knife and headed to my parents' bedroom door. The door was made of wood and a metal handle.

After two strikes made with the hammer, the wooden door flung open. My Father's back was facing the door, he was sitting on my mother who lay almost lifeless.

There was a metal rod by his side and a koboko made from raffia palm. I shouted, but he didn't move. I took the metal hammer and hit him on the head.

The way a long tree would fall was the way he came tumbling down from my mother. 

"Mama!" I rushed over to my mother.

She lay motionless. Her face bruised and her body lifeless.

She opened her eyes and cupped my face into her hands. "I'll be fine" Her face bore a weak smile.

Then the smile faded, and she laid still. I felt her pulse, called her name, listened to her breath yet she responded to none. 

Papa was lying down a few centimetres away. The pain on his head made him unconscious.

I looked at the knife laying calmly very close to my knee and picked it up. Slowly, I walked towards Papa.

I looked at his face. He seemed to be resting. He didn't deserve rest. He needed to be where mama was.

I stared at the shiny blade in my hands and pierced it deep into his tummy. I moved it deep untilI saw his bloodform.

I pulled it and then put it in again. Red stains soiled his white t-shirt.

I felt his pockets, there were keys dangling. I yanked the keys off, opened the gates and ran off, satisfied that the devil would go to where he belonged-hell.