The Evening Of The Morning

001

Christmas in my city wasn't filled with snow or falsetto voices singing Christmas songs. Christmas in my city was filled with bright faces wearing red hat with blinking lights, as everywhere else, except, of course, Moslem states. Christmas in my city was filled with news of music concerts, dry breeze, love, kidnapping, home robbery, and ritual. They called it the Ember month; from September to December; when everybody tried to salvage what they could for Christmas. But personally, Christmas meant bonus. It meant killing a chicken and eating it with my family - My sister, mom, and dad-but not before making profit.

If I am to tell this story, I have to show you the road. On like so many other federal roads in Nigeria, the Owerri/Portharcourt road; bordered by bushes on both sides, was free from potholes. When traveling, the bushes pass in a blur and if you focus intently on the blur—having inconsequential thoughts—a vision might come to you. It doesn't happen always but if repeated continuously, with great intensity, it would surely come.

At specific positions on this smooth asphalt, police use tyres and large trunks to create checkpoints. Mentioning this road and not talking about crime was like eating bread without butter. I mean, people do it, yea, and don't get the real thrill of eating bread. They lie if they say they do. And if I do that, don't mention crime, I won't be giving you the real thrill of this road. It was known that Kidnappers use the thickness of the bushes as cover to double-cross their travelling victims. Things like robbery, and saddeningly, accidents happened there too. It held many untold tales, and this was just one. Although this has nothing to do with the things mentioned above.

There was this particular checkpoint that served as tollgate where police, armed with Aks, collect money from commercial and private cars. And if refused this offering; say the driver is unwilling to pay, or truly doesn't have; they are pulled over and asked to present a receipt to every pin in the car. A rare case that went viral on social media; where the police also asked for the receipt of the driver's phone.

Because of the traffic caused by this compulsory collection, hawkers were spotted everywhere, flashing their stuff through glass. Just as ants locate sugar, hawkers locate traffic. And this was where I was. I didn't locate this traffic; It had always been there and my mother could be traced to the early hawkers who had first sold there. My mother, now old but strong, stayed at home and cared for my ailing father.

It was morning, very early, and other hawkers were just arriving. I and my sister, Tani arrived long before now. Then, the sky was pale, crickets chirped and the day still held secrets. Immediately we arrived on our motorcycle, my sister ventured into the bushes to meet her lover. And I have been to the nearby stream and back, but she wasn't back as usual. My sister gave lots of thoughts to what other people thought of her, but lately, she seemed to careless. The day was getting brighter and other hawkers were arriving, in group, single or duo; alighting from bus or keke.

To my left, Agbo, the dark solider who remained shirtless even in a cold morning as this, ducked out of the thatched hut constructed off the road, almost at the hem of the bush, where he and his squad took shade, slept, and recreated. This was Agbo's third day working night. Every soldier preferred the morning shift; when the cash flow was abundant and the faces of the drivers were friendly. The familiar saying that darkness comes with an oblivious serene, more likely to be filled with dangers, (dangers that were not heard of because people were inactive) was obviously true. In morning shifts the soldiers play cards, smoke, and tell jokes inside the hut. But at night, they take turns sleeping.

When it had been Agbo's turn to watch the road Boga that night, the second man on the three-man squad, came into the hut and tapped him. Agbo, who wasn't in a deep sleep, woke up at once. He grabbed his Ak that leaned on the bench and stepped out.

"At least wear something. Don't give those innocent drivers heart attack. Take. Wear this." Boga threw a camouflaged vest to him. "You really need to start wearing clothes."

"Let me have that too." Agbo reached for the cigarette clipped in Boga's fingers and took a long drag. "I can't wait for the new year to come already. I am tired."

"Better don't be, tomorrow is Christmas baby!" Boga made a small dance.

Agbo could foresee the bountifulness already; the roads would be packed with traveller going to their village to spend the holiday with their relations. From where most of them came from, their church pastor called them to the side and told them not to forget that evil resides in the village, and they should be careful of wicked uncles who nurtured generational grudges.

Christmas was the major factor that influenced the sharing of the days within the two squads: Squad 4or and Squad Bee. Agbo fell in Squad 4or, the squad that was supposed to work mornings from 22nd and start a night shift on 29th till 5th of the new year, relieving Squad Bee from the dreaded shift. It sucked that they couldn't be with their families and keep them safe in a season as dangerous as Christmas. They, too, were human beings and needed holidays. But they knew what they signed up for, and never complained. But this Christmas was different. The desire to be with their families heightened, and to do that they had to compromise. They made an agreement and came to an understanding. One that would favour them all. Squad 4or would stay the first half, working morning and night, extended only a few days for the fact that their period fell within Christmas. Agbo argued that 1st was better, that people were more happy that they had seen a new year, more than the day Jesus was born.

"That is the thing," Boga said, "there is no difference. If the Skies became purple or something glorious happened on these days, then it would have been better." Then he sighed.

Something does happen, Agbo knew, but he kept quiet because Boga loved to argue — a means to kill time. It happens within you, Agbo knew, but Boga would argue, so Agbo kept quiet.

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