All That Glitters

By Olufemi A. Togun

Smallie knew this was it. This was certainly going to be the end of his
career and life. It was an end hed had nightmares about in the past.
He had no fear of dying. He was hardened, dead to most kinds of
emotion. If it was going to end today, and this way, then there was nothing
he could do to stop it. He made up his mind to sell his life dearly to the
advancing men. Then it happened in a flash.
With a rush, Smallie burst from cover, and fell among the uniformed men
in a menacing crouch, a high pitch growl emanating from his lips. He
opened fire with the sub machine gun he had earlier taken from one of the
fallen anti riot policemen. Firing with terrible precision, and vengeance, he
sprayed blast after blast watching through slit eyes as the uniformed men,
caught completely by surprise fell one after the other in bloody heaps.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453593424

Olufemi A. Togun

Olufemi Akintunde Togun is a creative writer from Nigeria. He was educated at the University of Ibadan, Ibadan, Nigeria, West Africa, and holds a Masters degree in Educational Psychology / Guidance and Counselling. Presently, he works for the Oyo state government of Nigeria as a Guidance Counsellor, helping adolescents become more adjusted, productive, and relevant in their society. He is single.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A HUNDRED KILOMETERS south of one of the most popular capital cities in Sub-Saharan Africa, but just eight kilometers from another major city, stood a solitary edifice. The large building situated in the suburb sat alone at the crook of one of the most famous hills in the country. The hill, river, vegetation, animals, and ecology of the area at one time had served as a tourist attraction to foreigners. Unfortunately, the walls of woodland in that vicinity had given way to a pleasant parquetry of farms, cattle pastures, shacks, and lonely mansions of rich, influential socialites scattered here and there. Socialites who wanted to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life. Most especially from the odour of gas fumes and burning tires of the many vehicles that traversed cities. Most especially, they wanted a gap between them and the crass demeanor of city dwellers.

A two-lane dirt road cut a winding path through the rain forest like a solitary line on a giant’s palm. Here and there, domestic animals forage on knee-high grass, made thick and green from the rains of the wet season. The soil was sodden after so many days of downpour, had wisps of vapour hanging in the air as if from a giant coffee cup. At the edge of the tidy fields and lonely mansions, the jungle began again, dense and dark, rising like great green story buildings into the air. This was July, and the rains were just winding up. Occupants of the many farms and mansions in that area now had to put up with the stifling heat and clouds of mosquitoes. Those who could afford generating sets and air conditioners were, however, spared the torture nature could sometimes provide for mankind. The day had broken, and the occupants of a particular mansion were just getting ready for what the reality of life and existence in that crass society had to offer them.

That Saturday morning was exceedingly bright. It was like Mother Nature had made up her mind to be extremely generous with the sunlight. Onome could perceive how it had poured into her bedroom, waking her up as early as seven o’clock even though she normally preferred a long lie in bed at weekends. The birds chirped in the trees, giving out a loud musical staccato, as they seemed to disseminate some important information. The grass looked greener too as she peered behind the curtains of her bedroom window with everything within view having a glorious hue due to the morning brightness. She knew she would be unable to sleep if she tried to go back to bed, so she just sat at her dressing table looking into the makeup mirror till she began to hear the stirring of the other members of her household as they got out of bed. She could still hear the loud chirps of birds that nested on trees surrounding her home like a fence. She wished she could decipher the information they exchanged. She was aware that some humans could communicate with wildlife. Her great-grandfather had such gifts she had learnt from her mother. Unfortunately, modern trends and westernization had made the passing down of such gifts impossible along her family line.

Her parents, favouring Western education, had encouraged all their siblings to get the white man’s wisdom just like their forefathers before them, so such esoteric knowledge had practically ceased along the generations. It was unfortunate really. Maybe the information being disseminated right now held the answer to her problem only if she could decipher it. Since she couldn’t, she could only hold her head in her hands as her eyes got misty.

A glimpse through the window blinds took her vision to the great Moppol river that acted as a drain to the many tiny rivers and streams in its neighbourhood. It was a large river stretching from the foot of the hill into the vast jungle for over a thousand kilometers as it meandered its way to the Atlantic. During the wet season, the river dumped several cubic meters of water into the Atlantic. Its dense canopy of woodland, as high as storey buildings, dominated the entire region with its vast collection of diverse specie of plants and animals. That tropical jungle alone is estimated by ecologists to contain about 45 percent of the total number of specie reckoned to inhabit the entire country. Giant trunks of Iroko trees, Ogbeche, and the like soared, making a dusky colonnade to the living edifice. Vines hung down in a tangle, like telephone cables torn loose after a rainstorm. The forest itself exhaled a musk of decay while playing a muffled calliope of sounds. The undergrowth of the forest was painted in pastels and halftones, broken only by the dash of electric blue, green, brown, black, or red when the occasional parrot, partridge, or hawk flashed across the sky.

Onome stood up and away from the dressing room mirror. She opened the windows wide and took a huge whiff of the fresh morning breeze that rushed at her. There was no wind, but the chilly wetness that emanated from the jungle penetrated to the very bone. There was no time for self-pity, she reasoned. Her mother-in-law had dropped by just yesterday, probably to spend the weekend with them as she was normally accustomed to do. She knew it was imperative to get her bathwater ready before making breakfast for the household. This included her husband and a distant relation of hers who stayed with them. She felt a little apprehensive as her mother-in-law had been cold and distant the previous day. She had an idea of what her grievances were but wasn’t in a position to dialogue with her. There was a bone of contention to grind. That was the main reason she went to bed earlier than usual the previous night. She saw avoidance as a sort of defense mechanism. However, she was well aware, and experience had taught her too, that this tactic never solved any problem.

In the guest room some meters from where his wife moped, Lekan Aditu-Ilu came awake slowly. He rolled to the edge of bed, sat up, and placed his feet on the cold floor. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his right hand, then sat up. He stretched, yawned loudly, then got on his feet. He opened the glass sliding doors a few meters from his huge bed and stepped onto the veranda. He sat on one of the plastic seats placed there for enjoying the fresh breeze that normally flowed in from the jungle and reclined in thought.

He had sat on the same seat the previous night, lost in thought, as he watched the vast forest before him. He was used to living in the city. He was a typical city dweller, not the suburb type, and had only moved to the huge building in that area on his doctor’s counsel. The medical man believed his wife needed the serene atmosphere and fresh air to help take her mind off stress. Stress that seemed to prevent her prompt conception. As he sat there, a little lonely, his mind conjured pictures of huge cats with wild eyes circling around and snakes coiling down from boughs in the entire vicinity. He listened for disembodied howls as he allowed his imagination to run riot, but as it turned out, the night was disturbingly uneventful. No great mammals prowled or bellowed, no snakes or scorpions crawled into his bedroom, and no witless inhabitant was swallowed by a python. However, the mosquitoes had a field day, and soon he was forced to bring out his bug repellant to send the menace on their way.

That morning, his eyes took in the many shacks with roofs of straw, owned by the farming community residing in the area. He could see footpaths no larger than what a mule could stand astride. The farmers were already up and were going about their various business. The animals too, as if on cue, wandered around in search of edible brush to munch as they mooed and bleated to the delight of their owners. Most of the mansions were surrounded by such shacks and animal life in the vast howling wilderness. The shacks and huts, made with red earth plastered together, sometimes inhabited a man, his wife, and six or more children living there in the midst of the forest and malaria. Most times, they work all day and, if they fall ill, may die due to their inability to afford adequate medical service. Among these local dwellers, only those with knowledge of herbs were able to survive the harsh environment. They perceived those residents in the few mansions scattered around as lords of the area.

After a while, Lekan got to his feet and plodded into the bedroom. He got to his knees to say his morning prayer. This was a ritual he was accustomed to. He had not failed to observe it for as long as he could remember. He remembered his father’s words clearly, Teach a child the path he should tread, and when he grows, he would never depart from it. How right he was. His father, a pastor in their village church, had taught them all to pray, to observe the tenets of the Holy Scriptures. He, being the first child and only son, had had the Bible drummed into his ears so many times he could recite most of the important passages by heart. After saying his prayers, he laid flat on his back and commenced on another well-rehearsed ritual, his daily exercises. This was probably why he was so fit. He had been able to keep the paunch and flab developed by his peers as they entered their midthirties at bay. Completing his exercise, he stood up and surveyed the room, nodding sadly to himself.

This used to be one of the guest rooms until I moved into it over a year ago, he murmured to himself.

He had shared the same room with Onome for over eight years of their marriage before making the decision. He shook his head slowly from side to side again as he reached for his towel. It wasn’t as if he loathed her or was tired of her, but he had to bow to pressure from his overbearing mother. Pastor’s wife or not, her only son was not going to remain childless while she watched with folded arms. Papa Lekan could go on being patient or continue with prayers, but she just had to have her grandchildren at all costs. Lekan would have to take another wife who would be fruitful and bear kids. If Onome balked against the idea, she would have to go, she decided. Her mind was made up on that.

Lekan noted she came the previous day spoiling for a fight, but Onome had been tactful enough to leave them in the living room for bed. She extricated herself with an excuse of having overworked, which had brought on a headache. Mother and son discussed late into the night on their next line of action.

Lekan had always been able to persuade his mother to be patient with his wife, but this time, she was adamant. The tone of her voice showed she felt slighted by his wife’s early exit, and she spoke with a finality that depicted noncompromise. Mama Lekan was instrumental to her son switching rooms to prepare Onome’s mind toward having another woman under her son’s roof. After several years of indulging her patience, Lekan himself was no longer as rigid as he had previously been. He was getting fed up of being looked upon as half a man, and his mother’s advice was beginning to appeal to him more. In spite of his father being a church pastor, most of his uncles, both paternal and maternal, were polygamous. It was therefore not strange for him to reconsider his stand. His reluctance had been because of the love he had for his wife, but he was past caring now. Something just had to give. Something had to be done fast, or he could go bust. When they were through talking, mother and son retired for bed.

Lekan completed his toiletries, wrapped the towel round his waist, and proceeded to his bedroom. He could hear harsh voices coming from the direction of the kitchen. He ignored the uproar, closing his door sharply. He knew it was his mother giving Onome a piece of her mind. He made up his mind not to get involved. He dressed quickly in a yellow tee shirt over black cotton trousers, then slipped into his favourite crocodile skin sandals. Combing his cropped crown, he made his way towards the sitting room. His mother, her eyes still flashing, was waiting for him.

Oya dear, take me to the motor park, she called out as she sighted him.

He noted Onome was nowhere to be seen. She probably had dashed to her room to avoid Mama’s caustic torrents. Picking up his mother’s bag, they both exited through the back door towards where his car was parked. He decided to take Nkechi, Onome’s cousin who lived with them, along.

Tears streamed down Onome’s face as she sat on the edge of the bathtub trying to finish her domestic chores. She started by doing the laundry heaped beside her. The house was very quiet, and only sounds of moving vehicles on the nearby dirt road penetrated the building. Everyone else was out, so she was able to let loose the avalanche of tears that now threatened to drown her. She just couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to find a solution, and a permanent one at that to the predicament she faced in her matrimonial home.

Taking some tissue paper from its rack, she blew her nose clean and dropped it into the toilet bowl. Her mother-in-law had rubbished her before she left for the village that morning. Her words still stung. Mama Lekan, as she was popularly called, had said in lucid terms that she would get a wife for her son who would give him children if she remained unproductive. To drive her point home, she had refused her breakfast urging her son to take her to the motor park where she could board a vehicle to her village. She gave the impression she couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. Although her demeanor miffed her, she had seen it coming. She noticed the change in her character over the years, which had become more pronounced after five years of wedlock without an issue. When Lekan switched bedrooms, it was like the famous handwriting on the wall. There was one thing in Lekan’s favour though. His behaviour or attitude towards her had not changed. He was still his loving, caring self and did his best to allay her fears when she had worried him endlessly with questions about imminent intentions. She went into his bedroom for consultation or lovemaking at will, and her investigations showed there wasn’t any other woman. At least not yet.

By the time she was done with the laundry, her eyes were red and swollen from crying so much. She wondered whether it was her fault that she was still childless after nearly nine years of wedlock. After all, God was the provider of such gifts, and she had believed him for so long to do just that. Though pressure from in-laws, peers, and society at large had pushed her in various directions in an attempt to solve this persistent problem, she believed in God and had faith that he would eventually provide. In fact, she had made an appointment with the prophet of a white garment church for that evening over the issue. As she carried out the laundry, the phone rang. On the other end was her sister Nene who had called to remind her of her appointment with Prophet Zachariah. They exchanged pleasantries and other petty gossips women share on the phone, then hung up.

Nene was something else. She was extremely extraverted and more beautiful than Onome was. She knew practically everybody, what was happening to whom, at what time, and where. She probably authored the neighbourhood grapevine. She it was that kept Onome informed about the latest gists in town. She was responsible for making the necessary connections for her too. She was the one that introduced Onome to Prophet Zachariah after she had exhausted avenues opened up by peers and colleagues. Onome was glad to have someone like her in her corner. Nene knew the predicament she faced in her marriage so was ever supportive. She knew Lekan quite well too. She and her sister had been at school together when he came to the East for his National Youth Service. In fact, it was obvious she fancied him too, but Onome had been faster and more persistent so had won him in the end.

She took the laundry out, hung them on the line, then went back indoor to complete the remaining chores. When she was done, she had her bath and changed into something comfortable. Onome had on a loose-fitting flower print boubou that hung