Terence, Mephisto & Viscera Eyes Page 6

  Ogu strode forward; the boy he advanced towards had backed himself into a corner between the step and a small alley. Sweat and tears bombarded the boy’s face as he begged for his life. Ogu again read his verdict.

  —Ucheoma Kālu, you are guilty of disrespect. You are born from a family of whores and bastards and Slave State informants. I curse your name. I curse your existence. You will be sad. You will be alone. You will die before you’re twenty-one.

  Ogu pulled something from his trouser belt, a wand composed of fetishised caves of skull and bone wrapped around a thick raffia palm cane. The stick clattered with beaded stones that were held inside. As Ogu chanted, he shook it inches from Kālu’s sweat-saturated face. To Obi’s amazement the act of “juju” seemed to be having its effect on the boy. Kālu quaked in fear while his extrasensory dominator tried to force the lock of his soul to embed his curse. Obi was surprised by the Black Axe leader’s mercy. Not a day ago he’d seen Ogu decapitate another human-being like a farmer tearing away at his livestock in preparation for October’s agricultural yield. The gang laughed at their victim’s frailness before Ogu craned his neck one last time to spit in the direction of Kālu.

  Obi approached the boy as he struggled up the main steps.

  —Hi. Are you all right?

  Obi, in his new state of mind detested the false, snivelling pretences.

  —Yes—Trembled Kālu—He had a grey woollen jumper on but it didn’t mask the fact he was savagely thin.

  —Why did they attack you?

  —I owe them money.

  —Why?

  —Why do you care?

  —I just do . . .

  —Ogu’s father was a simple native of Ogoni, mine was an oil worker, mining petroleum in the River Niger Delta. Eventually he was promoted to ICE-9 manager and supervisor of other thin films and interfaces. I am in debt to him because of how the NNPC and Slave State has supposedly treated the locals of his area. But I will not pay. I have no money to do so.

  —Why doesn’t he kill you?

  —He will eventually. He has cursed me with his black magic.

  —How did he come to be in the gang?

  —He’s been in it since his first semester. Ogu was once a decent student but a prophet believed him to be a witch, and so was sent away by his father. I don’t know anything else.

  —But . . . how do people who want to be in the Black Axe go about joining?

  Obi sensed now that the boy was becoming confused by his questions.

  —Why would anyone want to? You need to pay them eight thousand naira for starters.

  —They charge you to join?

  —And that’s not all they want. You have to show what you’re made of. A statement of intent to prove you deserve to be in their gang.

  Obi spotted a detached water duct. He walked over to salvage it with the purpose of making his defining statement to the Black Axe.

  The decision was easier than he originally anticipated. Obi dropped the metal cylinder onto the unsuspecting Kālu’s head. Fragments of bone broke away from the skull and by the end of the beating Obi was covered in Ucheoma Kālu’s brain fluid. With great relish Obi smeared the blood of his kill over his face and turned to see if Ogu and the Black Axe had seen him. It hadn’t matter to the boy that those around him condemned his actions with shared disgust, for Ogu and the gang had witnessed the murder.

  —What do you think you’re doing?—Ogu posed.

  —I . . . —Obi hesitated as his idol approached, mesmerised. His eyes were milky, substance-packed, full of viscera. There was a scar that traced from his cheek to his neck that had scabbed over like spun sugar.

  —You WHAT?—Ogu’s aggressive tone hurried the boy into response.

  —I did this . . . for you.—Spluttered Obi.

  —For me?—Scoffed the commander to his fleet. The Black Axe boys cackled. Ogu straightened up his smile before answering back.

  —And why did you do this for me, freshman?

  —I want to be in the Black Axe

  Again the group of boys erupted with laughter. Ogu silenced them with a raised hand.

  —You can’t just “join” the Axeneb

  —Oh, I know . . . but I’d do anything.

  Ogu looked interested by the loyalty Obi was willing to supply him with.

  —You can kill—He gestured to Ucheoma Kālu’s lifeless body—But how do you feel after it? Can you do it again?

  Without a trace of doubt Obi replied—Yes I could. I live to fucking kill.

  —“I live to kill? Hmm . . . I like that. I cursed that traitor with “juju”, and the Gods sent me you to devour him.

  Obi beamed with pride.

  —Do you have the money to go with your balls freshman?

  —I can get the money.

  —You want to be MY slave? I mean, MINE, ME . . . not a slave of the State. You’ll be emancipated from serfdom and reinstated as my personal bitch. You want that?

  —Yes…

  —His own mind has turned on him. This kind of guilt and forced repression is incredibly dangerous. It’s almost like he’s succumbed to the baser impulses of thought, training himself to become something, preparing himself for something . . .

  ***

  The medical college students emptied. Obi waited patiently for Ogu’s arrival. He should have been in horticulture class.

  When the final body had evacuated the building, from around the corner came the Black Axe. Ogu halted his group and swaggered to Obi.

  —Well done on being here on time. It’s good you can be punctual.

  —Thank you Ogu—grovelled the boy. However, despite his gracious intentions, Obi had unknowingly angered the commander.

  —Thank you, yes, fuckin thank you! Thank ME, ME! D’you know this scar, this fuckin scar, huh? I shot myself, or tried to . . . the shot turned out not to be fatal . . . d’you know what I said to my devastated mother . . . what I’d intended as my last request?

  —No . . .

  —That she fetch me a mirror so I could watch myself die like a fuckin man . . .

  Obi stood silently.

  —I assume you don’t have the eight thousand naira yet?

  —Not just yet sir.

  —Well you can get me something as collateral. I’m giving you one chance; succeed and you will progress to the next stage of initiation.

  —Anything—he reassured humbly.

  —Asa Taiwo. You will bring her to me by sundown tomorrow evening.

  —Of course sir.

  Ogu’s cruel yellow eyes were like a reptile’s. No matter how obliging his new disciple seemed to be, Ogu continued to leer like a child focusing the sun into a magnifying glass over an unassuming ant. And that’s what Obi felt like—an insect. He perhaps expected his induction to be glorious, but he had since felt anything but.

  Ogu dismissed the boy and returned to the Black Axe.

  Obi hadn’t spoken to Asa since her boyfriend was murdered. Approaching her was difficult. She still possessed that same warmth and glow even as she collected her books sadly from the library. Her empty stare told of a heart-breaking reality. Obviously pre-occupied by Wilson’s untimely end, Asa barely reacted at all to Obi’s greeting.

  —Yes. Hello little one. How are you?—Asa spoke softly and with more than a hint of distance in her gaze.

  —I’ve been fine. I’m very sorry about . . .

  —Please don’t. Don’t say his name—Pleaded the girl as a solitary jewel of moisture dashed down her cheek, leaving a trail in its wake.

  —I’m sorry Asa. I actually came to ask you for help. Mr. Abayomi wants students to pick a post-grad tutor to help them in research—his face not meeting her eye—will you be mine?

  —I’d be happy to—her face displayed its first signs of hope. Obi had succeeded in duping the mourning girl. He could not deny that he felt bad; Asa was the only person who had shown him kindness when he first arrived, but the Black Axe were all that mattered to him now. His employment meant the world
to him.

  As Obi guided Asa into the Black Axe’s lair, the girl became curious.

  —Why have you taken me this way? I thought all post-grad tuition had to take place in a teacher’s class?

  Before Obi had the chance to lie, Ogu turned the bend and into sight. He smirked knowingly in her direction. She realised quickly the young boy’s deception.

  —Oh Obi . . . —she wheezed desolately. Asa was then led into the hostel. Four Axe members carried her limply as the girl wept in hopeless despair. Her thin forearms were held securely between two sets of thick bestial clamps. Dragging her feet along the sand, Asa’s head flopped in bleak submission. With no remorse for his betrayal, Obi was pleased to see Ogu satisfied with his work. He followed the group back to their enclave.

  Asa was taken into a draped room. Ogu addressed Obi without looking at him. After loosening his jeans and then his underpants he explained what the boy would come to expect.

  —You have done well maggot. Captain Cannibal will explain to you the stages involved in passing your jolly INI. He is strong breed.

  Ogu pointed to a brutish boy who wore white regalia and the confraternity headband. His face was stern but Obi swallowed his fear. Ogu unashamedly exposed his buttocks, then entered the draped chamber completely naked. It was clear he was going to rape Asa. Obi was surprised how little he cared. Captain Cannibal then picked up where his master had left off, elaborating the specifics of the gruelling initiation procedures.

  —First I will give you your interview. You will then come with me to “the island” where you will undergo a series of tests in which you will have to prove your manhood to Ogu. Should you succeed, there will be a celebratory ceremony.

  Obi shook with excitement. Spotting a 50-caliber M2 machine gun that rested in the corner of the room, Obi was compelled to ask questions.

  —Where do you get your weapons?

  —We get our guns from Akwa blacksmiths. We find ourselves with replicas of those used in the Biafran conflict so are well equipped with the best defences. There’s no intergalactic Slave State bullshit in our battalion . . .

  —Don’t you worry you will be caught?

  —No. We are funded by River State House of Assembly. A movement through which we exchange oil for arms. Some of our soldiers even go on to work for the MEND and we work closely with similar military organisations. We are not simply a “street and creek” operation as you may have heard. We are neo-terrorists who have divine prevalence. We live by the law of the jungle and train in ancient common tactics of physical combat.

  —This sounds so . . . —Obi’s enthusiasm was not well received by Captain Cannibal who proceeded to cut him off half way. Cannibal was young in the face; he had wiry hair and a bad complexion of craters and divots.

  —Speak less boy. Else I will cut out your tongue.

  Obi shut his mouth firm in embarrassment.

  —On the dead man’s hour you will meet me on the “island” for your interview.

  Captain Cannibal instructed his new recruit to leave and rendezvous at Bar Beach.

  3.

  In Obi’s dreams he was a slave . . .

  Baroness Un stood there with his small penis resting on the palm of his hand. Obi took off all its clothes and stood before him, face shamed, shoulders hunched up to his jaw-line, both hands covering his own sex. Shifting iotas of light ignited the tight, pink flesh of his legs in the darkened room. Un’s mellifluous jelly surged with excitement as the human’s fear became apparent. The Baroness said something in an alien tongue and squinted through the awning.

  —Did you hear about the dust explosion?—Un asked.

  Obi nodded.

  —They think it was an elevator cage at shaft three that fell onto the pit head, but more likely it was the ignition of methane by an exposed flame.

  Obi had been hewing sulphur by hand all day and wore the scars of his labour. A streak of dried blood weaved down to his left pectoral. Un strummed the visible tendons beneath the human’s wound.

  —I know you had family in that shaft, a son?

  Obi just quivered in fear and sorrow.

  —You know, on most planets your position here would be considered quite privileged.

  Obi gave a gargled response on account of his tongue being removed. Un chose to ignore the animosity of its tone. He placed a clammy hand to the back of the human’s neck and pulled him in, pushing an eager tongue into its mouth. The kiss ended with a wet SLAP sound and Obi’s mouth came away swathed in alien sputum that reflected like the spectral lines of mercury.

  —You people mine rock salt, gravel and clay, remove over-burden and debris . . . power up the arrastra . . . but you have other uses.

  The astonishing truth was that Un had love in his heart, sunken buried treasure that no one could stomach unearthing, to obtain his hidden wealth of heart. It was because no one would ever seek him out that he so frequently gave in to repugnant appetites. Even Obi sensed the goodness within such intrinsic, ugly evil.

  Un noticed that he was malnourished looking, every stark bone in his body visible through a thin lycra of flesh. He had once been a junky, a Jam-Capper; the malocclusion of his teeth gave that away. Un threw Obi a leg, shin to foot, and told him to eat it, enjoy it. Without a second’s consideration he had seized the primal cut and savagely mauled at its sinew. It didn’t occur to Obi that the leg might’ve once belonged to a former co-worker, a friend, a family member, a teacher . . .

  —It’s quite illegal, this I mean; it’s considered repugnant.

  Obi was so consumed by the part of his dream where he ate the flesh of his loved ones that he didn’t hear the dialogue vividly.

  —We’re considered asexual for the most part, not fornicators. Sex is considered a rather humiliating ritual. We get more pleasure out of defecation, the strain, the evacuation process . . . the intense relief expulsion. Defecation is much more a practice of pleasure than necessity. We don’t have the genitals for fucking, you see. I mean, look at this measly thing—Un gestured to the shrivelled bulb in his hand—you couldn’t please yourself with a reproductive tool like this, never mind satisfy another body. But we do have perfect assholes, tight, tubular . . .

  When Obi even thought about this part of the dream his mouth filled up with saliva.

  —But . . . since arriving in this planet, I have become better acquainted with the instant gratification your species spends entire lifetimes in search of.

  Then . . .

  —When eating a human being, well, it’s complicated. We cannot consume the brain or spinal cord, which runs the risk of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. You slimy palefaces are crawling with sickness.

  And . . .

  —My confidante Moog advised against all this too, of course he did! He’s inhaled so much hay dust and mould spores to think with any rationality. He finds human flesh stomach-churning, your physical forms, both male and female, utterly repulsive. But I must admit, I can see the appeal . . .

  When Obi awoke he was up free again, but he missed the taste of flesh on his lips . . .

  ***

  Bar Beach wasn’t too far away for the boy to walk. He spent all day thinking about the Black Axe, preparing himself for the most important day of his life. The beach soon began to stand out. An expanse of blackened shore lined the horizon. Rows of reclining extraterrestrial holidaymakers roped a terminal contour like some open coastline morgue. Their shading umbrellas folded inside out, but were still in better condition than the tourists themselves. An accident had occurred nearby. A diesel-carrying stationery tanker collided with a luxury tour-bus—landscape of fire and mangled metal. By the shore side, the road wore a profound crater where the bus had buried itself meters below. The entry wound left scabs of vehicles and human remains by its yawning gorge. There was still the odd wheel trim or detached power train chromium-netted with the subtle pinkness of flesh. A multi-story car park almost toppled over by the speeding tankers bumping vibration, overhung the motorway gulf. The road had alre
ady been inundated with un-embanked water.

  Obi felt everything sat quite elegantly like a piece of contemporary art. These images were both horrific and satisfying to him in his new state of mind. Obi felt like he was able to wish destruction on innocent life. Now there were less people in the city, he could see just how startlingly beautiful New Lagos was. Multitudes of sandy coves decorated the sea. Wind-milled plains further south. Disinherited of more humanity, Lagos stood on its own two feet in an overwhelmingly apocalyptic way.

  Obi felt like he deserved pain and torture on a super conscious level. On an even deeper level of consciousness he’d trained his mind to repress the repository of all remembered experience—the brain stuck in a repeated pattern of conflict, the desire to punish himself and the intrinsic natural instinct of survival.

  As the Nigerian police and ambulance crews rushed to the aid of those injured in the crash, Captain Cannibal signalled for Obi to come onto the beach. He was accompanied by two other Black Axe members who stood over a throbbing bonfire.

  —This is Ox and Bloody Son. They will be your invigilators for your initiation. It’s almost sundown. Are you ready?

  Obi gulped and nodded his agreement. Families screamed in the distance.

  The captain made the boy kneel. Then a cup of red ritualistic punch was handed to him. Obi was told that the drink was concocted of alcohol, blood, and Ogu’s semen. The boy relished the thought of swallowing his hero’s nectar. He felt virile and strong when it passed through his body.

  Once that had been consumed, the captain declared:

  —The boy has solidarity. But does he have resilience?

  Obi’s cloths were stripped from him. The boy didn’t enjoy being so vulnerable and exposed when there was still a glimmer of day left. Young people sniggered at Obi’s nude body. He felt infantile and pathetic. But worse was to come. Ox forced him to the ground before Captain Cannibal and Bloody Son proceeded to beat his body relentlessly. The Captain untied his belt and lashed Obi’s bare back with it. None of the Black Axe held back in their vicious attack, but Obi did not release even a whimper. When Ox and Bloody Son were done kicking and punching him, the captain whipped him one last time across the face before the beating ceased. Obi was helped to his feet by the men.