In The Jungle

Emmanuel was only nine when his mother sent him off with Mrs Obilor, a rich woman in her thirties who needed domestic help. He had travelled to the city with her and there, had become a cook, cleaner, gardener, babysitter, and laundryman. It had not been an easy task but when he remembered the weathered lines on his mother's face, he got the strength he needed. He was an only child of the late Mazi Mpi, the village palm wine tapper who had been doing quite well until he fell from a palm tree and died days later.

His mother always reassured him of her prayers and the weight of carrying on the family name rested heavily on his young shoulders.

Mrs Obilor had three children, a three year old boy and two daughters of five who were quite mischievous. They delighted in hiding his washing soaps or pouring salt into his food so they could see whatever creative punishment their mother deemed fit to give him. He didn't mind, even though his little body carried many scars. Until the day the twins happened to be playing around with the gas. He was sixteen at the time. The lick of flames that crept up from the cooker seemed to enchant them so they switched it off and on again and again. They left the gas unattended and wandered off to another play when Emmanuel came to prepare indomie for their lunch. The flare of gas had caught his shirt and burnt part of his hand severely before he was able to remove it.

Mrs Obilor had shouted on seeing the burn, then had given him an ointment to apply. The oil brought no relief. Three days later, the burn started to smell. His hand felt weak. That night, Mrs Obilor had come into his room, packed his clothes and sent him away quietly. He knew nobody in the city, he had no means of getting home. So he took to the street, begging alms. The money came in trickles. Nobody paid any attention to the boy on the street. Some days he didn't eat. It was on one of such days that he wandered to Orlu street. He hadn't eaten in three days, his belongings had been stolen in the incomplete building he had left them in. He had nothing. Despair tugged at his soul. He sat by a gate, crying silently.

Then the smell of freshly cooked soup wafted into his nose. His stomach grumbled in anxiety. He looked around, the street was quiet. It seemed everybody had gone to work or school. He walked through the bush to the back of the compound, scaled the wall and jumped into the compound. It was a small but beautiful house. He walked around to the back until he got to the kitchen. Leaning on the wall, he peeped in. The pot of soup was on the gas, steaming hot. His mouth watered and he opened the kitchen door, making a grating noise he had not anticipated. He darted inside to grab the pot. He didn't expect anybody in the house.

But Ochuko, the first son of the Belema family was inside his room, locked up and smoking marijuana. He had just returned from school. He heard the slight creaking of the kitchen door, stood up immediately and tiptoed to the kitchen. He peered in and saw the huddled figure of Emmanuel on the floor, eating straight from the pot his mother had just prepared before she went out. He grinned wickedly and grabbed the pestle by the door.

Emmanuel never heard the footsteps behind him, all he felt was the blow from the pestle that tore open his head. Blood spilled out, soaking his shirt and running into the pot. He slumped on the ground, his mind in a tumultuous whirlwind of pain. He couldn't move as Ochuko grabbed him and carried him outside the gate.

Ochuko, dumped him on the ground and began shouting thief. Soon, Emmanuel was surrounded by a small crowd. Ochuko grabbed a nearby wood and began hitting his head, the blood that splashed on his shirt added to his excitement. It wasn't the first time he was spilling blood. He had been a henchman in his cult. Soon, another hand grabbed wood lying about and joined Ochuko. A third hand materialised with a machete and joined the melee, the crowd watching with curiosity. Nobody thought to say or do anything. They all wanted to see what would happen to the thief. The thief lay motionless on the ground, unable to lift his battered hand.

After several minutes of frenzied beatings, Ochuko left the group and ran to the generator house. He grabbed the tin of fuel, snatched the matchstick on the gateman's window and ran back outside. The onlookers cheered as he poured the fuel on the unconscious body. They watched with morbid fascination as he lit the flame and threw it on the body.