Sometimes, you just grow bored with the endless fuckery of a typical day and decide to give Satan the Devil a little bit of room to let him use you. Which is what happened one evening way back in ’06.

I should run you through a little bit of info on our compound before I go further. 

We were the Ntwadumelas and were just three. All males. First two had left for the university. So, it was technically one. Me. 

Then there were the Sokinis. The Sokinis were a deranged bunch, sweet Jesus! They were eight, but really, were technically five. Two rarely came home, one came on occasion, solely to pick locks and gbab  fowls, and the other five ranging from two years to thirteen were wilder than a clan of baboons on a bloody mutiny.

The Rugorumes were seven. They were a more educated, conservative bunch, but once or twice, their shittery showed and let’s be honest, one can’t always stave off the influence of their environment, no matter how hard they try

There were the Ghaghas. Three of them. All young. All hellish. All wild. Probably wilder than the aforementioned baboons.

And there were the Yoloyetas. To this day, I still do not know how many those folks were exactly. My estimation puts them at something like nine, tho. Outside reports said they were more like 13.

That evening, I slipped through the first crack I caught in my father’s attention. He’d been wary of my restlessness, but he too had become tired of the whole DBS clownery, leaving me to retire to his bedroom. 

In a quick moment I was outside, cutting through to the dark hall. On the left were the Ghaghas. All indoors. On the right were the Rugorumes, whom we were simply amicable with, and then the Sokinis, whom we were friends with. It meant I was likely to fuck with the Rugorumes. And I sure did.

Now, the Rugorumes were all indoors, watching some movie or something and it was like 7pm. No serious human being should be watching a movie at 7. What I was gonna do, therefore, was look for a padlock and then lock them in from the outside so they could watch all the movies they wanted since movies were their problem in this life.

I searched the whole damn house and the whole damn compound and would’ve borrowed some funds to buy a padlock if anyone was foolhardy enough to lend me some, but I saw none, so had to effect a plan B. 

I found a bar of iron, tiptoed to their door, slowly landed a part of the lock on to the other but found out, much to my annoyance, that I had to apply some pressure to get it to latch so I could wedge my iron bar in. It was this annoyance – and I should say, desperation, too – that had me making more of a sound than was necessary.

WHO BE DAT? An irritated voice called out.

Nigga, I fled! Fled like a field nigga with a good ten toes, an extra pair of lungs and a hefty bounty on his head. 

But less than four minutes later, I was back at the door. 

Yeah, that same door.

Let me tell you about our compound back in ’06: Shit was a hovel and a warzone. 

The Rugorumes were lone wolves and fucked with no one. In their estimation, everyone but them were uneducated ass scratchers and crude root eaters. They regarded everyone with a disturbing, if not ridiculous, measure of suspicion and especially hated the Ghaghas and the Sokinis (who happened to be strong allies). 

The Yoloyetas and the Rugorumes hated each other, too, and on several occasions, had had fights over some piece of land where several machete cuts had been administered with heads split, blood spilt and a finger/part of an ear chewed off and swallowed.

Anonymous petitions over perceived grievances flew about almost every month, seeking to urge the eviction of one family or the other and at least on one occasion a dead chicken had been thrown into the communal well simply to corrupt the water for everyone. 

So, you could understand why that WHO BE DAT? had sounded so vexed. 

But fuck that. And fuck who said dat. Because this boy was going to stick to the plan. 

I was much more silent at the second attempt. But the lock still made some sound, which was accentuated by the silence from their telly now turned low. 

I say na WHO BE DAT? Na who be dat BORN BASTARD!!?

The voice was way madder this time, bruh. And I fled way faster. Cause you kinda have an idea the hell you’re likely to get into when you hear a certain kind of tone. 

BUT… I was soon back. Again. 

And because I somehow had some suspicion that whoever had yelled was at the ready, waiting for whomever was knocking, I made no attempt this time. I just crept, tapped that shit and fled, and true to suspicion, someone popped out almost immediately, swearing by the name of his maker to fuck something up. 

Now, Ms Sokini who had just come back from her God’s Grace Ministry service with her white and white, was still tryna hold on to the holiness she had come with. But it’s one thing about temptation: e no jus send anybady papa!

As a Rugorume was walking around, speaking in parables and talking about “mischievous prophets in false garments of white trying to spiritually tamper” with her “doors of blessings”, Ms Sokini decided, rather swiftly, that she had heard and had had enough, that she could always go back for a holiness refill because this one was about to get exhausted (and because God’s Grace Ministry wasn’t going anywhere, anyway), and that she had to show these fuckin’ Rugorumes once again what was up and who could be madder in this piece of God’s brown earth. 

And she did. 

See, all I wanted was just to lock in a few muh’fuckerz in their own home for fun. Now, shit wasn’t quite it. What began as light-hearted mischief had now turned into some full-blown clan war. Because no way was a Sokini gonna fight and the Ghaghas not pitch in. And no way were the Rugorumes gonna fight and not rope in the Yoloyetas as the third of the trio of booty scratching Devils bothering them. And no way on earth were the Yoloyetas gonna let that kind of call out slide. 

I’mma tell you something now. I ran back home, because all my terror-stricken mind could imagine was getting identified as the instigator and killed off. 

But when I got there, I discovered, to my surprise and anger, that the door would not yield. Yeah, that shit had been locked in my face like I was one of the five foolish virgins. I ran to my father’s window and asked him to come help me open the door quick, but he spoke thus: I know not thou, ye son of woe!

I thought: Ok, listen. You gotta come help me fast else you’ll know tonight that you indeed know me, I swear. 

So, I began to bang. 

BANGED so hard for so long he had to come over to open, but it was so dark in there when I ran in that I tripped over a foot and fell hard, and there’s nothing worse than falling hard and having a cane as thick as two thumbs getting smashed to pieces on your head for being troublesome and stupid. 

I slept in pain that night but that little war I started lasted for, perhaps, four hours (?). Then continued the very next morning. And that was all the consolation I needed. 

Thank you.

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