Count them one by one,
Many more to come, many more to come.
Inscribe their names on petal-adorned stones;
For martyrs they shall be.
Destined by God, destined by men.

There are fifty of us – white, brown, black, yellow. Our hands are raised to the sky, knees buried in the sand, necks cold from the lustrous metal thirsty for some red, fine liquid. We’re singing the song of the twelve gone before us – our words whirling and bumping, knocking violently on heaven’s gates. The air is thick with the putrid stench of hopelessness, the cloud wailing and weeping like a young widowed woman adorned in a dull, gray robe.

“Nyammiri, step forward!” the ebony-skinned man says to me. I lift my wobbly feet up, marching hesitantly across the rows and columns of fear-stricken humans. I peek at Bello’s blood-stained jellabiya, his remains now a detritus for ill-mannered decomposers. The young, shrivelled man nudges me to kowtow before their bald-headed leader, and I bury my forehead into the sand, an abominable fear rising within me like an inferno – that my entirety would soon turn evanescent. Images of mother’s scrunched-up face flash across my vision; “the road is unsafe; the road is unsafe.” But existence in itself is unsafe, I think to myself.

“Do you seek conversion? Do you seek the truth?” a gruff, mellow voice rings out.
I lift my gaze from underneath the earth, staring weakly into his shrewd eyes, outlining the non-visible edges of his moon-face.
“I am atheist,” I say, silently hoping he can fathom all the unsaid meanings behind my statement.

He adjusts the white kufi perched on his head, then tugs at the bandana tied around his neck. He clears his throat loudly, visibly unsure of what to say. Five seconds of silence pass, and he gestures to the shrivelled man to return me to my spot.

My body trembles slightly at the companionable cold left behind by the ardent rainfall. I kneel again in the muddy sand, hands raised towards the sky, goosebumps crawling up my skin at the return of the lustrous metal on my neck. Beside me, a young, dishevelled woman tries to stifle a sob, muttering endless prayers that ricochet across the swaying palm trees. She is called upon by the moon-face man, his gaze darting restlessly, lingering on mine before its retraction.

“Do you seek conversion? Do you seek the truth?” he asks, squatting to her level, peering deeply into her soul.
She shakes her head relentlessly, muttering like a nursery rhyme, “I’m not converting, I want my Lord. I’m not converting, I want my God.”
He stares in amusement, stretching his hand towards his stoic assistant, gesturing for a machete. “Do you seek conversion? Do you seek the truth?” he asks again, gratuitously offering salvation as he rises to his feet.

A miasma of impending grief hangs over the tall palm trees, seizing the chirping of the birds and our intake of breath. She shakes her head again, sobbing even louder, trembling violently like a lone leaf in a storm.

“Turn around!”
An invisible tread snaps, and the cold wind turns sultry.
“Convey your last prayer!” he mutters coldly, silently teasing the back of her neck with the glistening machete.
Her bloodshot eyes scrutinise the faces of the captives and the captors. She draws in a deep breath, shutting her eyes tightly. “Lord, have mercy on my soul and the forty-nine more that might join mine soon.”

I turn my head quickly, hearing the ‘swoosh’ sound, followed by the loud shriek of disparate voices. The gale wind uplifts the rusted zinc roof lying atop a worn-out, incomplete building, as if in grief for the lost.

I have always imagined death to be a slow, painless transition into nothingness – the grasses swaying atop a white casket and an unalive soul laid breathless, immovable in deep rest. A roadside accident, a fall in the bathroom, a deadly illness; all have I imagined except the brutal disenchantment of my head from its rightful place, like a cock getting prepared for August visitors.

“We’re walking in the footsteps of John the Baptist.”

My brows crease in confusion as I turn to find a pair of inquisitive eyes staring into mine. The men dressed in long, tattered robes are seemingly engrossed in a nonetheless fruitless conversation. I lower my hands onto the wet sand, shut my eyes briefly, then open them again. I turn to the lady whose scorching gaze drills mercilessly into my soul.

“Do I know you?”
“You’re not truly atheist, are you?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, bemused by her brazen presumption.
“You just don’t look like it,” she says, and I let out a shrewd laugh.
“You don’t look like one who’s about to be slaughtered either,” I retort, secretly admiring the glow of her skin despite the tenebrous presence of death.
“What stirred you away from God?” she asks, and I feel the gruesome palpitation of my heart against my chest.

Rage. A consumable rage that threatens to feed off my organs washes over me. Memories bitterly folded and stored away for so long begin to unfold themselves – father’s body beneath the debris of our burnt-up building; Omale’s hoarse voice whispering goodbye before the out-take of his last breath; Pastor Alfred’s fingers grazing up my skin in consolation at the funeral service.

The closer I was to death, the more I felt the raw, accursed weight of hoarded up emotions – it was mine to make peace with or take along to the grave. There wasn’t any grave, though, just an adulterous polyether leather that would contain a head of matted braids and a body filled with abundant flesh.

“I was never together with any God,” I reply solemnly, and for the first time, I hear the sound of doubt in my own voice; unsteady and fog-like.

We are being led in a single file along a narrow path and into a thick forest that seems impenetrable. Forty-nine souls; forty-nine souls on the brink of perdition. The men light their lamps with a match stick’s fire, howling “God be praised!” Their voices piercing the eerie night, their accent lacking the prestigious ‘p’ alphabet but blessed with an abundance of the ‘f.’

I think back to Bello’s body sprawled in blood and mud; his only crime being that he resisted, and resistance, according to the worn-out pages of the dull book, was an unforgivable sin. To resist repentance was to die the death of the enslaved. The enslaved of the devil.

We arrive at a compact-sized village, with huts well-lit and set around in a circle – a final abode for the many souls that had come and gone. Ten in each hut; ten in each mat-floored hut designated for torture rather than comfort.

We sit on the mats facing one another, our hands and legs bound by a steadfast, green tether. A man named Yusuf erupts in a sanctimonious prayer, stretching his wide, calloused palm towards us, urging that we all engage in intercession. I stare at his tightly shut eyes, his washed-out skin, and the violent movement of his head – left then right; right then left. I scoff, turning sideways to find those inquisitive eyes boring into mine again.

“What do you want?” I ask, an irksome, distasteful feeling rising within me.
“What stirred you away from God?”
I groan impatiently, turning again to watch Yusuf continue his fervent prayer, now joined by two other women, pale in complexion, perhaps from the misery that awaited us all at dusk.
“Do you think He would answer their prayers?” I ask, quietly fiddling with the rope around my wrists.
“All things work according to His will,” she replies firmly.
I chuckle, throwing my head back and gazing at the half-roof made of dried palm leaves. “This perfect will entails our death?”

She presses her lips tightly, blinking her eyes incessantly, confirming my suspicion. A curious soul she was blessed with, perhaps a sprinkle of compassion too, but largely burdened by a dangerous lack of knowledge. Knowledge of the word.

In a bid to redeem herself, she adds, “I can tell they do not know what to do with you.”
“I can tell too,” I retort.

Belief they can try to coerce into conversion, defiance they can shut off, but never absenteeism. Never nothingness. Never the lack of a stance.

A wiry-looking man with a jaunty air around him says he has been here before. His Igbo accent grates against my nerve; a single glance at him and one could tell he was a trader, with several plots of land in the village and an extended family that relied heavily on his assets.

“Na customer you be, oh!” a teenage boy, with hair like breadcrumbs, responds.

We all burst into laughter, an invisible veil sliding off the air, letting the gentle warmth of humanity rest on us.

“You’ve been here before?” Yusuf asks anxiously, eyes widening as though discovering the presence of a precious gem long hidden in the hut.
“This is God’s answer to our prayers,” he says, slapping his thigh, his lips spreading into a wide grin. “Don’t you all see it?” he turns to look at the confused faces staring intently at him.
“All we see is death,” I answer swiftly, and he rolls his eyes at me.
“This is the Lord redeeming us through escape.”
I burst into loud, long laughter at his words, uncontrollable tears streaming down my eyes.
“What exactly is funny?”

I open my mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by the brisk movement of the tattered-looking men. Their machetes glistening even brighter and stretched forth towards Yusuf. It cuts into the thin air, moving so quickly, slicing through every obstacle. Yusuf’s head bounces off his body, his eyes wide open in horror, mouth sputtering that abominable, red liquid.

I shut my eyes tightly, so tight I fear my retina will tear. One, two, three; One, two, three, I count.

“No one is permitted to escape!” that gruff, mellow voice again. That gruff, mellow voice sends chills down my spine.

One. Two. Three.

“You think you’re doing the Lord’s work? You’ll all end up in hell! All of you!” a firm, feminine voice screams.
“No,” I mutter in realization of whose voice it is.

I open my eyes to those inquisitive eyes once more, a dreadful feeling washing over me. The moon-faced man tightens his grip around the glistening machete, walking slowly towards her. My body moves in response.

“Do you seek conversion? Do you seek the truth?” he asks, raising the machete above his head, lowering it gently, torturously, and straight into my sides.

My body quivers slightly atop hers. I stare into her widened eyes, holding so many readable questions. Perhaps, because I was on the brink of death, I could now read what the eyes held.

I feel warm liquid gushing from my side, and I hear that gruff voice again yelling, “No! She’s not meant to die!”

Several hands on me. Several hands attempting to get me off her.

“What is your name?” I struggle to ask, and I watch her tear-stained face tremble slightly.
“Ojoma,” she mutters hurriedly, as if afraid of not fulfilling a dying parent’s last wish.
I smile painfully, closing my eyes and whispering, “I know the truth, Ojoma.”
Her grip around my slippery hand tightens, “You’ll be alright. You can’t die, hold on to hope!”

Her words ring in my head as I feel the parting of our hands, and the lifting of my body into unknown arms.

Hope? What was life without hope? What was hope without faith? But what if fear still remained a residue in faith and in hope?

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Patrick Langwallner on Unsplash