[How about something to calm our nerves as we go out to exercise our franchise today? How about something really short but incisive? How about a story whose satire can only be pinpointed by the perspicacious? How about this? Have a pleasant read!]
At the centre of the crowd, a lady and a lad stood, slapping and scratching each other. Attempts to separate them proved futile, because they kept on running back at each other, as though some magnetic force were pulling them together.
Just as I stopped to enquire from an onlooker what the bone of contention was, I saw the lad clench his fist and drive it straight into the lady’s face. There was a loud impact. I stiffened. Blood and mucus streamed out of her nose at once, as if one wanted to outrun the other. I gasped, then covered my eyes with my palms.
“You must kill me o. I must die today. Shebi it’s because I asked why you always come home late? Go ahead and kill me. Womanizer! Shameless adulterer!” the lady was crying. She held on tightly to the lad’s shirt, twisted it into a knot, and shoved him back and forth.
“Woman, leave my cloth alone. Ehe, I say leave my cloth alone,” he warned the lady, shaking his head to signal he might do something rash soon.
He tightened his fist again and brandished it in her face.
“At the count of three, if you don’t leave my shirt alone… One, two…”
I turned and started running before he could count three. I didn’t want to witness what was going to happen next. I ran without stopping, like a prey would continue to flee even when beyond the predator’s reach.
When I got home, I collapsed on my bed and wept. I wept for the lady and for myself. If that was how men treated their wives, I knew I was never going to be a wife. And for this, I wept even more.
P.S: If you are registered and have your PVC, by every sane means, go to your polling booth and vote. Do not engage in violence. I wish I could tell you for whom to vote, but election in Nigeria is sometimes like tossing a die; you don’t know what side of the die Providence will thrust on you, and even if you do, you are mostly unaware of what is obtainable from it, for the mind of a Nigerian politician is the deepest I have ever come across, decorated with subtle ambitions and replete with ulterior motives disguised in the most colourful of garments.
In a quest for power, fairness and truth are often brought under the servitude of megalomaniacal obsessions, and thus trivialised. I am bitter because we are blind. I am sad because our blindness defies cure, for one who must be healed must first admit his indisposition and be willing to be made whole. I weep for the nation and for myself. I weep for us.
But a choice must be made, even on this very day. Peace is my message. Peace.