I met a girl today. No, that's not right, I saw a girl today; a girl I haven't seen in a long time. Her name was Adanna. Dark, slender, and beautifully endowed. Her waist curved in ripped jeans, and nipples outlined on bright yellow top. She was perfect; the type one would breakneck for. It might be her dried-leaf pupil, or the way her cheeks sank when she smiled, or her short curly hair with strands lapping over her face. Something...something had to attract you. But I wasn't kidding myself, she was the centre of attraction here; everybody's eyes were on her; It was her birthday.
I adjusted on the couch, trying to get comfortable. The half-caste girl on low-cut beside me had a cigarette clipped between her fingers. The stench made me uncomfortable. I adjusted again and flashed her a stern look, but her expression didn't shift; she didn't care. There was this uneasiness in her; the way she inhaled the smoke and puffed, trained eyes would notice that she was new to the habit. I clenched my teeth and swallowed my anger. I had to maintain calm if I wanted to pull through with my mission. I would anyway, but I wanted it as quiet and peaceful as ever.
Brenda Fassie was Adanna's best artist. Brenda's music cuts through Adanna's soul and gives her peace. And peace was all the artist, orator, self-proclaimed assassin, and noble prize-winning author wanted. Especially on her birthday. She hosted her party in her art gallery, and Brenda's Vuli Ndlela played on repeat through speakers hidden in muraled walls.
Her alias for her noble prize-winning books was Eyerite. Nobody understood the reason for the name. Her genre was, thriller, mystery, and paranormal.
The poster of her books pasted on the wall greeted the guest at the entrance. Four in number. Earlier tonight, before Adanna wore her ripped jeans and yellow polo, she knelt, naked, by her bed and prayed to her muse, please give me an idea.
Now, in her ripped jeans and see-through yellow top, she moved enthusiastically through the crowd. Glass of red wine in left hand, her right hand shaking, and face smiling to her diverse guests. From rappers in gold chains and flashy dressing to gentlemen in suit and protruding stomach, to Arab men in jalabiah. They were totally different but had one thing in common: they all wanted a piece of her.
She didn't have any female guest, as she didn't seem to know any of the girls next to the men, I observed. it didn't matter. What mattered was how to complete my mission.
Apart from the fact that she was my high school sweetheart, there was something about her that attracted me. Those nipples for one, but there was something else. Normally, I would have found a way to stop the pumping of her heart, but I sat there, with my eyes following her as she enthusiastically moved amid her attendees, pondering about our teenage relationship.
Back then in school, they called us Nerd-collusion. They said we would be parents to depressed children if we ever got married. We ignored them and carried on with our love affair, which looking back, was kind of weird. How we had specific time to kiss, hug, and 'touch each other.'
That summer, her parents decided to move and we were just collateral damage. Our lives carried on. The years passed and I gradually forgot about her, until the night I saw the email booking me to kill her.
The half-caste smoking cigarette stood up and moved to a painting of a malnourished man, carrying a well-fed-chubby man with full beards, over his neck. I stood up, and as I moved closer to the painting, my eyes caught a familiar face. I reached for a butler's tray passing by, and stalled, asking the name of the wine I was swirling in the glass. In reality, taking cover behind the light-skinned butler to observe Franco. He was the Jamaican I worked for three missions ago. He wore a white jalabiah with a red scarf over his head. He was laughing with a white woman. I turned and strode the opposite direction with a glass of wine. If one thing, I had to stay out of recognizable sight. I looked around and saw a painting of Fela with his two fists held up. I strode in that direction.
The thing dangerous about Adanna was that no one knew she was an assassin. It was something she did to muse herself before writing a book.
All her previous short-stories before fame were events that had happened, either to her or to others. On a rainy day, she got an email informing that one of her short-story was shortlisted for the Wole Soyinka's price award. Her work drew international attention and won. Ever since then she remained in public eyes.
I didn't see the reason why someone would want her dead. I never really asked, It wasn't my business. All I had to do was get it done. Isn't that right...God?
"Do you know what I believe is immortality?" A female's voice came from behind, breaking my focus on Fela. I craned and a woman in red gown and dreadlocks was smiling, approaching.
"I'm sorry?"
"Immortality. Do you know what it means?" she was now standing shoulder to shoulder, looking straight at the painting of Fela. Over her carefree facade, I noticed slight nervousness in her movements. I calculated how fast I could reach the knife clipped to my belt hook, which was completely obscured behind my suit. "Maybe," I said casually. From her slanty face, high cheekbones, and midnight-dark skin, I guessed she was from the north. She didn't say anything for a while, and my eyes watched her movements. The fitted red gown she wore, flowed down her ankle with a slit that ran up her thigh.
"You believe our bodies can last thousands of years?" she asked, but barely enough time for me say anything, she continued, "That we are able to die and resurrect...and rapidly regenerate..." An involuntary chuckle escaped her lips. "I mean it's crazy." For the first time she looked at me, and her pupils were ash. She had a kind of eerie beauty.
"Yea, I believe that's the concept...Are you an atheist?" I asked.
"Born Christian turned Moslem. I think it's forbidden for a black African to be an atheist."
I nodded, imagining the threat one was in Nigeria to say he doesn't believe in God or Allah. "And you don't believe there is an afterlife?"
"No, I don't mean that," she playfully crossed herself, "I am talking more of Alchemy."
I never expected a Nigerian to talk about alchemy, especially, one from the north. "Alchemy?" I asked, expression flat, but inwardly appalled.
"The belief that there exist a philosopher's stone that can turn anything into gold, and give immortality through the creation of an elixir."
I didn't say anything. I wondered how long she had thought of that, and the joy she must be feeling to finally tell it to someone.
She continued. "Fela was a great man." She craned back to the painting, "Do you think Fela would be forgotten?"
"Of course," I nodded, "with time."
"Everything is forgotten with time." She stated, then stopped a butler carrying wine in a tray over his shoulder. She picked a glass and smiled at the butler, "So many things are buried by time," she sipped, "so many name, gods, and beliefs has been covered by dust."
I didn't say anything, the whole time I focused on Fela, but from the corner of my eye, I watched her. She continued, "Fela was a great man and his name would stay a while. Michael Jackson...Muhammad Ali...Benjamin Franklin... Bob Marley...Nelson Mandela...Pablo Escoba..." She sipped her wine, "I know these names I called flashed recognition in your mind's eye. The list goes on..." She took another sip. I had to admit, she was right. "Now that is immortality," she added. "All those guys are dead, but their names...their names... I think immortality is leaving a scar on earth."
I silently pondered what she said, then her voice rang out again, "Do you know the celebrant of today?"
I craned and locked gaze with her ashy eyes that were already on me.
"Adanna?" I asked comfortably.
"Yes." she smiled and for the first time, she touched the tips of her dread. Another nervous move.
"Where is your curator?" she asked looking around. "Every guest has a curator assigned to them that guides them through the gallery discussing each painting. Like I just did with you now."
My eyes caught Franco over the shoulders of many guests. He was in a deep conversation with the white woman he was initially laughing with. At first, I thought I was the only one without a partner, then my head clicked and I remembered the half-caste that sat beside me smoking the cigarette. She didn't have a curator. "Oh that," I said confidently. "She is around the Corner." I looked around, hoping to see her. "I had to answer a business call." I retrieved my little Nokia from my pocket and waved it before the dread-head.
Out of the corner, the girl appeared flanked by two girls. I could see relief rest in her eyes the moment she saw me. She pointed to me as if to point me to the two girls behind. She smiled and approached hastily.
"There she is." I told the dread head beside me, pointing.
"Moses." The half-caste called me, and it became my alias. "I have been looking for you around." She said reaching for my arm.
"The call was much more important than I anticipated." I played along, "How about you tell me about that painting?" I was pointing to something that looked like a three-year-old played with watercolor on canvas.
"The Bizarre," the half-caste said, pulling me out of the women that encircled us. "Drawn by Alfredo Garcia in 2007..."
So close, I thought. I wanted my mission to be without a scene and those female guards seemed pretty determined. To die.
The women didn't follow us. We stood before the Bizarre, and the half-caste girl gestured as if she discussed the painting with me.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"That's not important," I said pointing to the painting. "Who are you?"
"I won't tell you that." she replied almost immediately.
"Fine, at least what do I call you since my name is already Moses."
"Alice." She smiled as if she was impressed by my knowledge of the art. What a good actress. Alice was my late mother's name, but I didn't let my emotions shift my expression, it was probably a coincidence.
To Adanna her guest were her pawns. They were there for her manipulating. All she was praying was, please give me an idea. Her first novel, Altered, was about a military man who had just completed his tour in Iraq. On return, he suffered PTSD for months and a year later, he saw someone die in his dream before the tragedy occurred. It happened twice, so it didn't reach charm. The first time was a woman with breast cancer. The second was a notorious gang leader that was shot in his stomach, so it was tagged coincidence. Even his brother said it was coincidental and probably his traumatic stress.
One night, he saw his brother in his dream get shot.
Knowing his brother wouldn't believe him, he tried everything in his power to stop it. Only to realize he was the killer in hood that mistakenly shot his brother thinking he was someone else.
Nobody understood, but she told a story of killing her best friend as a teenager; the first life she ever took. The plot was geniusly twisted, mixed with a bit of paranormal. The only reason the man was able to foresee his brother's death, was because she knew she was going to kill her best friend.
That night will forever be fresh to Adanna. How she watched her best friend drink a poisoned coke. Later that night, in the midst of seventy bunk beds, Adanna laid on her bunk, waiting. She pressed her Mickey Mouse watch and the led illuminated. It was almost time. She held her cover to her chest, and the moment she closed her eyes, a piercing scream echoed around the hostel and people began to wake.
By the time Adanna walked-sluggishly-to the location bordered by spectating students, her best friend was already lifeless with foam pouring from her mouth. All the poor girl did was call her boyfriend a nerd. Reflecting on her actions, Adanna regretted ever killing her. That was the reason her character in Altered tried his best to save his brother from his foreseen demise, but in the end, killed him.
"How did you guess to mention me as your curator?" I asked Alice.
"Curator?" her ears spiked. "They kept asking me, 'where is your subject? Where is your subject?'" she paused and looked around, "Funny how her guards are females."
That I already noticed but,
"Subject?" I muttered under my breath but not out of her earshot.
She shrugged. "I suppose that's what the guest is."
The guest? I pondered, Then what are you?
I looked around, but there was no way I could spot a guard. it wasn't as if any girl was standing with her hand clasped behind her back, with a smolder. They all dressed luxuriously. The dread head was out of sight; I only let that happen because her color was shouty and could easily be spotted. The two other girls that flanked Alice were still in sight. The one with an Afro was chatting with a bearded man enthusiastically. The other leaned next to a forged Mona Lisa painting, talking to a man smoking a cigarette. My eyes swept back to Alice, and a surge of possibilities swirled my mind.
"So what is your mission here?" I asked Alice holding her gaze with smoldering eyes.
She didn't seem fazed by it. "Mission?" she chuckled, "What are you talking about?"
guessing the game she might be playing, I motioned and held her forearm and squeezed on it. Smiling, I asked again, "What is your miss-" she whimpered.
"Nothing." She fell into me, probably to ease the pain, but I tightened my grip.
"I just want an autograph." She took my other hand and made me feel her stomach. There was something hard there. "I just want her autograph on my copy of Altered." She whimpered. "And... I am supposed to be working in the kitchen, please don't get me busted." She said, eyes pleading. She was lying, I could sense it.
When I looked up, I caught the eyes of the dread head on us, standing visibly in her red gown amid the crowd. When she took her first step forward, my heart leaped. One, because I was getting angry, and it was about to turn to a shit show. I am going to kill her if she touches me.
As determined as ever, she approached.
A clinking sound echoed around the gallery, and my eyes momentarily brushed to its direction; It was Adanna, using a fork to hit her glass. The dread-head had stopped in her tracks, and her gaze on Adanna, as everyone else.
The Orator with all the attention on her now, began her birthday speech, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for making it here. I want to thank everybody, my sponsors, publishers, and editor. Also my family, of which none is here tonight, because death is a bitch and wouldn't let them come..."
Laughter waved around. "I also thank God," she continued but was interrupted.
"You are damn fine Adanna!" someone said from the crowd and applause waved around.
She smiled, "Thank you...thank you," raising her voice over the laughter, she continued, "Just make sure you enjoy the wine, and please drink it all, it was flown in from France. Cheers."
"Cheers!" The crowd bellowed.
For an orator, her birthday speech was damn short. She was about to leave the spotlight, but I couldn't miss that opportunity.
"Let us toast," I said loudly, moving towards her, "To long life, to prosperity, to good health," as I spoke, people raised their glasses, and were inadvertently paving my way. Standing some feet before her, my smile tore wide, hoping she would be pleased to see me. "And that this birthday blesses you with more ideas than you could ever imagine." I finished and raised my glass higher. "Cheers."
"Cheers!" the innocent attendees said in unison. Applause waved around again.
As expected, Adanna's face curved surprisingly, eyes wide, and mouth slightly agape. For more than ten years we haven't set eyes, or spoken to each other.
After her parents relocated, we tried to keep up with chats and timed video calls. But as the years went by, my feelings -not that they weren't there before-faded completely. I would forget to call for weeks going to months, and when I decide to call, her voice wouldn't convey any interest whatsoever. Most of the calls were spent in silence.
The years past, and five years later on a sunny morning, I was getting prepared to hit the gym, when a Deja Vu hit me and thoughts of her strolled through my mind. I decided to call out of basic concern. Just as I pressed the phone to my ear, my mother's scream echoed and my heart sank. Just as I assumed, when I ran down the stairs, my mother was crying over my ailing father's body. Burning tears enveloped my eyes, and as I moved to calm my mother, they rolled down. "We were talking and he just slumped...he just slumped!" she cried as I tried to separate her from the corpse.
Two months later, my mother followed. I fell into depression, but I didn't let it get the better of me. I moved in with my uncle. He was living comfortably in Lekki, Lagos. It was a four-hour drive from Delta. The estate was quiet, and as my cab drove by, I admired the embellished duplexes; each with its own outstanding feature. When the cab stopped by a green painted duplex barricaded by a short white fence, I cross-checked the address on my phone and it was the same.
I paid the cab, and as it drove off, I read the sticker behind: you re free to be the greatest you re alive, but free is locked up, and you can't see-her.
Somehow it became funny to me. Just as I pondered it, a call hit my phone. When I brought it to view, it was Ronke; uncle Tunde's wife.
I slid to answer. "Aunty I am outside." I informed.
"Push the gate." Ronke told me. I did, and it quietly opened and I stepped in. So many nights I wished I never did.
Just as I got to the front door, the knob turned before I could reach it, and Ronke materialized. She was above average, but still not as tall as I was. When she smiled, she revealed braces. "Welcome," she motioned and relieved me of some luggage. Her skin was smooth and coloured brown like Nutella. I followed her up the stairs, and my eyes roamed everywhere else except behind her. We strode down the hallway, and as I paced, It felt as if my shoeprints were defiling the white tiles. As expected, when I craned, I saw my steps following me. We stopped at the last door in the hallway, and she opened it and stepped aside. "This is you." She smiled. I couldn't hold her gaze. Beneath her present friendly facade, I sensed a hint of hostility, and she appeared more revealing than one would think of a wife.
"Freshen up and come downstairs. Your uncle will be back shortly and we can have dinner together." She left, and for one lustful moment, I gazed at her revealed thighs as she strode down the hallway. Abruptly, she stopped and said over her shoulder, "Please make yourself at home."
Later that night, after we must have eaten dinner, I stayed on my bed, hands entwined on my chest and thought of Adanna. Uncle Tunde had sparked everything up.
I was downstairs watching TV with Ronke when he came in. Surprisingly, he ran to me and hugged me-his bereft nephew. At the dining, he recalled the last time he saw me, "Then you were on low-cut and used to walk with this tiny faced girl." We all smiled, but it made my heart sink, and I never stopped thinking of her.
The thing interesting about tonight was that Adanna knew someone was here to kill her. Even with her grounded skills in programming, she couldn't still hack through the Dark Web's firewall to see who her killer was. She knew her life was in danger, because she ordered it, and paid the killer through an untraceable digital currency address. That was why she hired guards as curators to guide her guest. To personally justify her recent likes toward the feminist movement, and for the essence, she searched for an all-female security company and she found one. Luckily for her, they were more than amateurs.
Three nights ago, within this same hour, Adanna was standing at the centre of her gallery. it was already a decoration on its own, consisting of paintings and sculptures; no part of the wall was mural free. The only difference was that she stood before her female guards informing them how she needed them to function. She explained that they needed to blend in and should shuffle every twenty minutes among the guest. It was a new addition to the long list of things she asked for.
Later that night when she was alone with Ruth, the commander; a dread-haired dark woman with ash pupils, she told her, "Someone will try to kill me on my birthday."
Ruth, feeling a little dread rise in her said, "I am sorr-"
"Yes," she nodded, interjecting, "You heard right."
"Shouldn't you report to the authorities?"
"Aren't your guards able to protect me from that?" "Forty of them?" Adanna added.
"They can," Ruth said flatly. If not for anything, for the large check the company was getting.
"Then no need to panic," Adanna said, "besides if they follow instructions, the killer would be noticed at once."
Now standing before her high school sweetheart, she was appalled and felt a sudden surge of euphoria. And guess who my killer is? She smiled.
She is smiling, that is good. I didn't hesitate, I spoke, but we spoke in unison.
"You first," she said smiling.
"Happy birthday," I motioned into my suit pocket to retrieve my gift. The poison is inside. Just as she collected the pen, a fat man in suit interrupted. And as he spoke to her, his eyes kept brushing down her transparent yellow top. I stood by the side, listening.
Ruth looked over the shoulder of her bald subject, studying the man who posed as William Jake on the guest list. He is standing next to Adanna, her heart raced. She didn't understand what the author wanted to achieve tonight. It's was all a blur to her. She looked at the bald professor reeling out knowledge of the art before them. Adanna said they were subjects. She returned her gaze to the killer. He was taller than everyone around. She remembered how scared she was in their initial conversation. His hand twitched in agility, ready to wield whatever was beneath his suit, she remembered. She wouldn't go to close yet. The orders were not to touch or disturb him till he made an attempt to take her life. She didn't understand why and was incubating the idea of informing the police soon.
My ears abruptly twitched. What?!
"As you can see," Adanna gestured to me "I was with someone. If that's all you have to say, then I'm sorry I have to go." she said politely.
The fat man looked at me. What?! I said inwardly, don't look at me, I am as appalled as you are.
Not ready to yield, the suited fat man leaned in and spoke out of my earshot. Adanna was smiling, looking at me, while he whispered to her. I held her gaze, wishing I could bury my fingers in her curls. She had undergone profound change. She wasn't as bony, and manly structured as she used to be. Now, her curves were visibly shaped on ripped jeans, and her other features were palatable to the eyes. She nodded toward the spiral stairs by the corner. She smiled, and for the first time, I smiled too. "Deal with your problem." I mouthed to her as I moved to the stairs.
From the corner of my eyes, I spotted a red figure at the other end. She wasn't a matter of concern anymore.
Adanna reached the stairs when I was halfway up. I reached the head, some feet away from a glass door. She reached me in no time and simply pushed through the door. I followed into the seemingly empty space. Only a white desk sat at the extreme. The room was painted in a dull yellow colour that seemed washed up. Behind the desk was a large painting of a snake that hovered from top-to-bottom. The north side was top-to-bottom see-through, and Adanna was standing strangely close to the glass, peering down at her sea of guests below. I moved to her. Standing shoulder to shoulder I said, "You became quite popular for a nerd."
She chuckled, "I have my stories, and that's what I love doing...telling them." She turned and looked at me, but my gaze didn't tear from the view below. I knew no one could see us through the glass because of the metallic coating on it. This special metallic coating provides a one-way mirror effect, preventing visibility from the outside and thus preserving privacy. It was probably reflecting the painting that was hung at the other end of the hall. "So what is your story?" she placed her hand on my shoulder. My mind had already calculated a counter-attack, but I stayed calm, and only gazed at her. Her brown eyes brushed up so many memories that I had to look away.
"Okay," she removed her hand and looked around awkwardly. "That was tensed. I didn't mean it like that. How have you been?" she asked casually.
Although I had seen pictures, and videos of her receiving awards, I didn't feel the way I felt now. She eerily reminded me of my past, and my past was my parents. To think I actually tried calling her the same minute my father died.
"Jyide say something, you are freaking me out."
"I am fine," I said, then turned to her. I knew my expression was blank. I wondered what she saw through my blank facade. Only if she knew I was here to kill her. All these went through my mind as I said, "Tell me one of those stories, you know, the ones you have to tell."
"No silly, don't run away from it. Besides, you know where I learnt the art of storytelling."
"Apprentice has surpassed master." I said inwardly then looked around the empty space. "Did you plan for us to stand here?"
"Ohh, you want to sit?"
"If I am going to tell you a story, I might as well sit." My rigor was fading. Just staring into her brown eyes was doing the trick. She huffed then scurried toward the door. The moment she opened it, two girls behind jolted. She spoke to them and they took off, returning with plastic chairs. The moment the door shut behind them, I moved to help her carry the chairs. I placed them before the glass so we could peer down at the sea of guests as we spoke, in reality, to keep an eye on the dread head. Right now, she was standing idle, with her phone pressed to her ear. Adanna sat and crossed her legs, then enthusiastically turned to me. "I am listening," she said smiling.
"Well," I stole one last glance at the dread head. "My father died," her smile gradually tightened. "My mother followed two months later." She placed her hands over her mouth.
I waved a dismissive hand. "It happened a long time ago. More than eighteen years." Her face didn't still adjust. I shouldn't have started with that. I swayed the conversation and told her how I moved with my uncle, Tunde, and started learning martial arts from him.
-He wasn't that good but he knew basic moves. His teacher, Ikogin, an old potbellied man, gave me some classes and when he saw I was learning fairly, he spoke to uncle Tunde about me. "I want to spend some time with the kid." uncle Tunde looked over his shoulder toward me. Ikogin continued, still not out of my earshot. "He has great abilities I would like to hone."
That was it. I started classes everyday-after I came back from school-from six to ten p.m.
The months past, and one Saturday morning when uncle Tunde rushed out for groceries, his wife came into my room.
Seeing Ronke in her voile nightgown, I averted my gaze at once. Shockingly, she walked up to my bed, eyes piercing seductively. "What are you reading?" she reached for the book to see the tittle. "The art of seduction." She looked up and winked at me. "Going through your uncle's shelves?" she touched my thigh and I twitched, springing up immediately. Trying to go farther than I was, but the wall wouldn't let me.
At that moment, uncle Tunde honked his horn, and my already racing heart raced faster. She didn't look startled. Instead, she looked at me with eyes that said, let's-see-who-he-believes. She stood up and walked away.
-I broke off the story and averted my gaze to the crowd of people below. Her red gown was hard to miss. She sat on the same couch I and the half-caste initially sat.
"Can I use your bathroom?" I asked Adanna.
"There is none inside here." she smiled innocently. "I can help you -"
"It's alright. I am a full-grown man." I teased, "I know a toilet when I see one."
Behind the door was deserted. I expected to see the two girls but they weren't there. As I descended the spiral stairs, a slight quiver ran down my body. What if she decides to use the pen? Without giving it much thought, I caught sight of who I was looking for. Alice. She turned her head like a periscope eager to locate something. As expected, her rambling eyes caught me and I nodded to the bathroom. I moved directly beneath the gallery above, out of Adanna's line of sight. As I strode to the bathroom, the dread head's eyes followed, but my facade looked ignorant to it. I wanted to kill her so badly.
The gender sign on the door was male and female. The walls inside were muraled with different colours of spray, looking like a holi battleground. Up ahead, there were four sinks before a huge mirror. From the mirror, I saw the door open behind me, and Alice stealthily slipped through. She ducked, looking under stalls, cautious to know If everywhere was empty before she spoke. "You entered her sanctuary?!" She asked looking as appalled as ever. "Who are you?"
I stretched my hand, "Let me have your book."
"What?"
"I have twenty more seconds to spend here. Give me your book if you want it signed." I knew she was lying but I still played along.
She passed her hand under her gown-that was not too tight to be tagged immodest, and not too loose to be whimsy- and retrieved the book. The moment she placed it on my hand, I stepped out. "You will find it in the third stall. Just keep checking." I said over my shoulder and left.
The self-proclaimed assassin was profoundly happy. She was praying for an idea to spark from today's event. Now she was getting more than an idea. "Jyide is my killer!" she said aloud, then stood up and moved to her desk. She pulled the drawer under it and retrieved her hardcover jotter and pen. Leaving to a fresh page, she wrote the day's date. "Jyide is my killer!" she said more excitedly. She was about to put her pen to paper again when she remembered his gift. She reached for the pen in her pocket. Just then, the door swung open and Jyide materialized, holding a very familiar object.
*Story continues in next part*