RED ZONE

This commercial bike rider in Benin City, Mid-Western Nigeria, is known as Jolly-boy for his persistent care-free life. Yet some said the illness bound to kill a dog begins by preventing it from sensing the smell of food. This eventful Sunday afternoon, he encounters another girl while drinking in The Red Zone, at the bustling heart of the city. He steals glances at her ample curves: shapely hips, dainty legs, and dimpled knees. Her delectable femininity is highlighted by her tight silk-cotton frock. He’s sizing her up to ensure her visit to his place will spark a flattering stir among his neighborhood friends. Among them, beautiful girls are babes, while the ugly ones are bush-meat. Jolly-boy doesn’t care to tarnish his image by bringing home a bush-meat. The girl is still within view, and Jolly-boy has guessed she’s seeking male attention. He knows also that, here, girls are hungry fish in the ocean, to catch which he must always use money as bait. He smiles wryly as he dwells on these “all-important” thoughts and strategies. Some men sitting around a table near him are discussing, their voices cutting through the public noise. “Electoral Agency rigs elections; Judiciary approves it; Labour Leaders take bribes and turn a blind eye.” “Corruption has swallowed up the companies that should be providing some wealth for the country.” Thinking about Nigeria’s eternal problems annoys Jolly-boy. Idle talks haven’t changed his condition as a jobless university graduate, forever riding a commercial bike to maintain a wretched grip on life. He shifts his focus to the “more profitable” venture of scheming to toast the girl. She’s pacing up and down the pub floor, as if she is exhibiting herself. Her eyes peep from under long artificial lashes as she glances about, like police high-way light flashing in the night. Jolly-boy beckons her, true to his habit. When she sits down, he buys her a citrus-punch drink on her choice, to make her sit with him for a while, and, then, he strikes up a conversation. He at last suggests taking her to his city-outskirts apartment, hinting that he will give her a lot of money if she agrees. “I don’t mind if a BEAUTIFUL girl chops my money,” he says. “Am not a protitu.” she retorts with an Urhobo accent. “How can I think you’re a p********e?” he says “Then, why talk about money?” she asks. “Rather, talk about love.” “Mirror in the sun;” he intones, “Nature’s beautiful harmony.” “Harmony? My name is Harmony.” She cries. “I didn’t know. But harmony is written all over your body.” Harmony laughs, swaying like spear grass blown by the wind. Jolly-boy laughs, too. His eyes stray momentarily to the wall opposite, on which painting patterns of blue and green blend with one another, looking like authentic ocean waves. Victor Uwaifo’s lyrics blare out: Guitar boy… If you see Mammy Water e-e-e, Never, never you run away. Harmony finally agrees, on the condition that he first takes her somewhere in town through Ring Road for an urgent errand. Before they leave, she says, “Give me the money.” After a short moment of silence and stillness, he says, masking his surprise, “When we get to my apartment, I’ll transfer it to your account.” “Transfer it now,” she insists. “Money for hand, back for ground.” “Don’t you trust me?” he says. “Can’t you understand I’m in love?” “Is no matter of trust, or love. I want the money now.” She starts fidgeting as if losing interest in the conversation. He opens his wallet and takes out his phone, saying, “Give me your account details…” Harmony receives the alert shortly, gazing closely on her phone’s screen to ascertain the amount. Then she nods with satisfaction. They afterwards ride off on his Suzuki bike. Jolly-boy is soon turning onto the Ring-Road roundabout, at the centre of which is the water fountain that never runs water, near which is the sculpture of a kneeling woman, her form badly contorted as if in terrible agony. The image curiously reminded him of how much he’s been neglecting his widowed mother by not visiting her in the village as frequently as he should, despite being her only child. His mind instantly senses the heavy gloom in the vicinity, as if a gray cloud has been cast over the sunlight. Harmony begins slapping him on his shoulders, shouting, “Stop! Stop! Stop me here!” She’s squirming widely, almost tripping the bike. What a girl! Jolly-boy steers the Suzuki to the vehicle-littered road side and parks it in a corner. Everyone around is standing still as a tree, gazing at the sky with their palms shielding their eyes from the dull but penetrating sunlight. He looks up and beholds an astonishing spectacle. Two birds are fighting in the sky! Each is dust-brown, like a gigantic sparrow hawk. Even seen from that sky distance, each is as big as an ostrich, with a fat, solid neck. They’re exactly alike except that one has golden talons and beak. Their powerful wide wings make clashing sounds like massive hammers striking monstrous anvils. Harmony runs forward, shouting, “Supreme mother of the ocean, save my mentor! Save my…” The sorrow in her voice echoes in the heart of the dull sunshine. Jolly-boy sees her now as the human form of all the countless dangers of the city to which he’s been heedlessly exposing himself. But he scarcely suspects that the battle in the sky is a mirror of the grim war raging forever in his internal world, between Jaunty Armors and Sacred Mysteries. Those birds fight savagely: they claw with sharp talons, peck with powerful beaks, and slap with metallic wings. They screech with fury and agony; and their blood fall like pebbles on the sun-baked earth. The one with golden talons and beak eventually loses energy and dynamism, hangs at a place for a brief helpless moment, wings flapping hopelessly. It starts falling. The other turn round and flies slowly and tiredly away, its wide wings moving slowly in its difficult and painful motion across the sky. Sorrow hangs in the air like doom. Harmony is running at a great speed, shooting like a bullet, screaming despairing, slapping her hips. The crowd is screaming, too, caught up in the chaos. Everyone is trying to avoid the spot where the wounded bird is likely to fall. Only Harmony is running towards it. She lifts her arms to catch it. Oh, how can she catch such a gigantic, metallic beast? Jolly-boy’s heart is pounding; his limbs are trembling. The bird’s shadow first covers Harmony and the ground around her, a passing shadow of terrifying darkness. The bird itself hit her on the chest, her hands still outstretched towards the sky, and they both crash to the ground inside the circle of the round-about. The thundering noise of the crowd this moment reaches the limits of the sky, echoing like the deafening sound of okpoko, grim killer of a stubborn grasshopper. It echoes inside Jolly-boy, like a mighty tree is falling in his interior world. As both Harmony and bird hit the ground, they dissolve and become a golden-brown skein of smoke, slowly floating away. What a strange world. People run into various directions. Engines rev. Vehicles and bikes zoom off. Panicked, Jolly-boy kicks his bike three frantic times before it revs into a screeching start, and zooms off in a flash.