How do you tell the people that you are not the god they think you are? How do you remind them that you are a human too and your hands are tied? This land reeks of evil and crime. Of young girls with hungry babies. Of fathers with throngs of wives. Of children who expect money at every turn. Of so much sweat and so little gain. What should one do in this land?
Yesterday at the school a child had fainted, falling head straight under the cashew tree that served as primary one classroom. And this morning I paid the family a visit. I wasn't happy with what I saw. The family lived in a small shack, constructed with bamboo sticks and old corrugated iron sheet. The shack had only two rooms. One for the father and the other for the mother. The boy was on the small bed in the mother's room. The room was so cramped that I had a tough time maneuvering my way to the bed. Walking carefully as my eyes feasted on the household properties arranged haphazardly. ''How are you son?'' I asked, on stopping beside of the bed. The boy's eyes pulled open. I noticed they were pale yellow. I noticed the ribs on his exposed stomach, how they stood out evenly. I felt that anger again. The anger for the people who had sent me to this hungry land. "gbahara anyi....'' came his tiny voice.
What? ''forgive us father. You don't deserve to be
treated so'' came the voice again. This time it had a tinge of regret or should
I say pity? Fifteen minutes later I was on my way to the parish. Driving the
dust-eater Peugeot car which I was so fond of. I still couldn't understand what
the boy meant by 'forgive us father'. I still couldn't understand why the mother
had rejected the money I pressed into her palms. It was very much unlike the
people here. They don't reject money, no matter how small. They need it. For the
meals. For the water. For the rents. And I knew the boy's family paid for that
shack which they lived in. They had to.
The landlord was a greedy man whose goats were always
an offering to the parish. What he is thanking God for is what I don't know. He
was among the wealthy few in the land. He had been the first to visit me when I
came here last month. “You aren't old” he had exclaimed when I walked into the
sitting room were he had been waiting for some minutes. “Yes. But I'll soon be”
I replied, amused. “I like that. The young blood I mean. This land needs young
people” he said, his eyes twinkling. And after then, came the offerings of
communion wines, of goats and chickens. The parish didn't lack. At the parish I
met a commotion. The cook was completely berserk, running helter skelter. “Father!”
he shouted when I pulled the car to a halt in the garage. “What is it?” "I
caught two men stealing our goats'' he said, waving the ladle he held. ''where
are they?'' I asked, alighting from the car. ''they escaped. But I saw them. I
know one. Emmamo. He lives beside the giant Iroko tree near the village
square''. ''Are you sure?'' ''yes. They stole our goats. I cant be lying''. ''How
many of the goats?'' ''Five''. I noticed how his eyelids twitched. I noticed how
nervous he looked. But what could I do? ''Should I call the town security
chief?'' ''er mm... Yes. Five goats can feed the whole village. Five goats can
sure do that'' I remarked, shaking my head. I hadn't expected this turn. Theft
in the parish house? What else lay ahead?
The town security chief was no one else but the
Famous landlord. I was surprised, but I was beginning to put the puzzle
together. He made his money from diverse ways. The community paid him for being
their chief and he paid them by providing exorbitant shantels for them.
Shantels that merely served as goat pen in his house. '' I know this Emmamo. He
is my tenant'' He said when cook gave him the description. ''Good. Lets go to
the place'' I remarked. When we got there I was surprised that Emmamo was the
poor boy's father. It was that same shack, that same room. But new faces now.
Smiling faces with oily lips. Emmamo leaped when he saw us. But he wasn't fast.
The men with the sherlock landlord held him down. ''Father please. Father
please.'' he pleaded as he was dragged outside. The wife came to me pleading.
''Father please, our son needs protein. There was no help anywhere. He had to
steal the goat. Two of our children died of kwashiokor. Two children father.''
I was touched. Although it wasn't an excuse. Which father would give a son a
stone when he needs meat. Which father? Emmamo stole to save his son. The cook
added four. Two for himself, two for the Sherlock landlord.
That's how it works
here. Crime heaped on another crime. Peasants paying ten times for what they
had stole. So between this three men who deserves the hangman noose? Who? The
first man had plotted with his wife and surviving child. I had come on my free
will. The second man-the cook- obviously worked with the third man.
Who deserves the hangman noose?
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