Cold - A Short Story by Su’eddie Agema
http://www.AfricanWriter.com/articles/551/1/Cold---A-Short-Story-by-Sueddie-Agema/Page1.html
Su’eddie Vershima Agema
Su'eddie Vershima Agema, a writer, reviewer and Development Enthusiast, lives in Abuja and Makurdi. He takes a special interest in the various faces of humor in life and literature. He is also into writing stories on, and for, children. His blog. By Su’eddie Vershima Agema
Published on August 21, 2010
Tarbo was shocked to see the Police. They were always at least thirty minutes behind. Obviously, the Inspector General’s reforms were already paying off. If only the Power Company could catch up with reforms too. As if on cue, a powerful ray of light caught him in the face. It was at that precise moment that he knew the danger he was in...
It was a dark chilly harmatan night. Tarbo, awoken from sleep by desperate demands, rushed out of his house to ease himself in a nearby bush. This sort of routine exercise always made him lament the absence of a toilet in his compound. He had rented the apartment after leaving the house of an elder cousin he had been staying with. That apartment had a toilet and that was something. He had also been able to eat twice a day at least thrice a week. That again was another thing. At the moment, those were not the issues to which Tarbo’s thoughts went.
His great uncle, with whom he had grown, never tired of giving his household several gems of wisdom. He would say that anyone who married the wrong (or a lazy) wife or had such children would end up dying at his door while knocking, before the sluggards could muster energy enough to turn the knob. He would end with, “This country is a very dangerous place. The rising number of stray bullets and ‘accidental discharge’ of trigger happy police officers do not help issues or offer any consolation.”
Tarbo had no wife and by extension, no children. So there was no way that sort of thing would happen to him. He looked in the direction of his room noting the stark darkness. The Power Holding Company of the nation was being just that, stingy and holding on to their light. It was one of those usual black outs. He sighed.
The atmosphere became tense suddenly as sounds of running feet became audible. He saw the dust first then a man in full flight. The sight was arresting and Tarbo focused for some seconds, forgetting the action he was undertaking. Two others followed the fleeing man in quick succession and two minutes later, the Police. Tarbo was shocked to see them. They were always at least thirty minutes behind. Obviously, the Inspector General’s reforms were already paying off. If only the Power Company could catch up with reforms too. As if on cue, a powerful ray of light caught him in the face. It was at that precise moment that he knew the danger he was in. The unfortunate lump that left his buttocks never made it to the ground as the frightened Tarbo put on his trousers. He had never been that scared in his life. Sweat immediately materialized as he raised his hands to the skies in surrender. He stood up and began to walk forward in the direction of the light. Two police officers ran in his direction. A million thoughts flashed through Tarbo’s mind as he froze – not so much to the cold that tore at his skin to which he was presently oblivious, but fear.
“Stand there!!” the first uniformed officer ordered, approaching him.
“Na one of them!” The other still a distance back shouted.
Tarbo opened his mouth in denial but discovered that he recognised the voice. He shaded his eyes with his hands and looked properly: “Orvesen, ka mo! It’s me o! Thank God you are the one,” Tarbo said, a smile to his lips as he relaxed his nerves. When one was meant to be lucky, it always went lucky for that person. It was one of his tribesmen. What luck! He was… KPOAAAAA!!! A shot rang out. Tarbo collapsed to the recently manured ground.
“What?!” The first officer, new to the force, asked in disbelief, “Wetin you do so?”
“Abeg, make we de go. Reave that one! We never kill all the thief finish.” The shooter called out in a heavily accented voice. The other shocked man persisted.
“But he bin talk to you for una language-”
“Abeg, make we go!”
They jogged away, a kinsman’s bullet leaving Tarbo in his excrement. The strong willed young man waited a bit, gathered all his strength and shouted, “Help me!”
Neighbors who looked on from slightly parted curtains turned to the first two passers-by in the Samaritan story. Slowly, guilt ridden hands turned faces away. For Tarbo the energy expended was too much and quite soon, stark darkness took over.
His great uncle, with whom he had grown, never tired of giving his household several gems of wisdom. He would say that anyone who married the wrong (or a lazy) wife or had such children would end up dying at his door while knocking, before the sluggards could muster energy enough to turn the knob. He would end with, “This country is a very dangerous place. The rising number of stray bullets and ‘accidental discharge’ of trigger happy police officers do not help issues or offer any consolation.”
Tarbo had no wife and by extension, no children. So there was no way that sort of thing would happen to him. He looked in the direction of his room noting the stark darkness. The Power Holding Company of the nation was being just that, stingy and holding on to their light. It was one of those usual black outs. He sighed.
The atmosphere became tense suddenly as sounds of running feet became audible. He saw the dust first then a man in full flight. The sight was arresting and Tarbo focused for some seconds, forgetting the action he was undertaking. Two others followed the fleeing man in quick succession and two minutes later, the Police. Tarbo was shocked to see them. They were always at least thirty minutes behind. Obviously, the Inspector General’s reforms were already paying off. If only the Power Company could catch up with reforms too. As if on cue, a powerful ray of light caught him in the face. It was at that precise moment that he knew the danger he was in. The unfortunate lump that left his buttocks never made it to the ground as the frightened Tarbo put on his trousers. He had never been that scared in his life. Sweat immediately materialized as he raised his hands to the skies in surrender. He stood up and began to walk forward in the direction of the light. Two police officers ran in his direction. A million thoughts flashed through Tarbo’s mind as he froze – not so much to the cold that tore at his skin to which he was presently oblivious, but fear.
“Stand there!!” the first uniformed officer ordered, approaching him.
“Na one of them!” The other still a distance back shouted.
Tarbo opened his mouth in denial but discovered that he recognised the voice. He shaded his eyes with his hands and looked properly: “Orvesen, ka mo! It’s me o! Thank God you are the one,” Tarbo said, a smile to his lips as he relaxed his nerves. When one was meant to be lucky, it always went lucky for that person. It was one of his tribesmen. What luck! He was… KPOAAAAA!!! A shot rang out. Tarbo collapsed to the recently manured ground.
“What?!” The first officer, new to the force, asked in disbelief, “Wetin you do so?”
“Abeg, make we de go. Reave that one! We never kill all the thief finish.” The shooter called out in a heavily accented voice. The other shocked man persisted.
“But he bin talk to you for una language-”
“Abeg, make we go!”
They jogged away, a kinsman’s bullet leaving Tarbo in his excrement. The strong willed young man waited a bit, gathered all his strength and shouted, “Help me!”
Neighbors who looked on from slightly parted curtains turned to the first two passers-by in the Samaritan story. Slowly, guilt ridden hands turned faces away. For Tarbo the energy expended was too much and quite soon, stark darkness took over.