The Evening Of The Morning

010

Agbo was the first to sit with Magaga in the thatched hut while Boga and Goba watched the road. They sat astride on a bench, facing each other. Agbo was scared. Magaga reached out, held his trembling hand.

“Don't be afraid.” Magaga said, “There are two things: Good and evil.

I want you to know that I am good.”

Agbo didn't speak. The silence hung above them for a while. Agbo started perspirating.

“You are wondering how I healed you that night and it has probably given you sleepless nights. I know. Your bags are more pronounced than the other two.” he rubbed Agbo's hand. “Relax...Relax...Relax...

And to Agbo's utter surprise, he felt relieved, the strings inside him stopped straining, and like rubber band took its original spherical shape. His perspiration dried and his racing pulse normalized.

...ehen...That is it. Good.” Magaga left Agbo's hand. “You already know my name. Another thing you need to know is that I am not one of you.”

The man went on to tell Agbo that he was as old as earth; about how he transfers his life, through sex to a woman. How he only remembered five hundred years of memories, and nothing more.

“This year coming would blur a very important memory.” Magaga said. It was still around August, and Magaga watched the year, day by day, pass by. Time was something beyond Magaga's sphere of understanding. One can only know what one knows, unless, of course,  one ask questions. Living with the norm, Magaga knew, without asking questions, was being enslaved by the system. And Magaga had always tried to comprehend time, had asked many questions. But they remained unanswered. But he never stopped. The only treasure he had as an immortal was time. And he hungered to understand it. (Not that he cared about it to ponder it every day. In some centuries he did, in some others, he didn't. I mean, he had time.)

Was time created, He had asked Pluto; this was one of those memories that time never effaced. Or, had it always been there?

Pluto was a scholar who twisted his mustache as he spoke.

“Time,” The short man; whose legs, while sitting, didn't touch the ground paused, arranging his words. “Time is time.” He continued, placing the horn crafted cup on the table, and went back to the very act of twisting his mustache. “But the concept was there before it was named. Unless, of course, you believe God created the morning and night. Or any other stories these religions hold.”

“You know, I was in the crowd when Jesus was processed to Calvary. Long before then, Jesus saw me walking the streets of Galilee, then, my name was John. Amidst the crowd, He locked gaze with me for a few seconds, a gracious smile on his face.”
It had been more than three thousand years and the memory of Jesus nailed to the cross was still vivid in Magaga's memory. A wound peeled the moment it dried.

He asked if Agbo was fortified.

And Agbo asked, “fortified? How?” his brows furrowed.

“Do you have protection?” Magaga asked.

“I don't understand.”

Of course, Christians were scared, Magaga knew, always scared. And if one day, they saw someone who was shot and not injured, they would say it was juju, so Magaga said, “Juju power. E dey your body.”

Agbo said, “No,” in that intimidated voice which was farfetched. Magaga laughed, so loud that Goba and Boga, who were also on edge, wondered what was happening and ran into the hut.

“And you are standing on the road at night?” Magaga laughed harder.

Boga said he was fortified. Magaga continued laughing and while he was laughing, Boga cocked his gun and gave it to Goba.

“Shoot me!”

“Shoot you...”

“Yea. Fast!”

Goba hesitated. “I won't be the one to...”

Magaga swiftly picked Agbo's pistol, corked it, and shot Boga. Twice. Boga staggered backward, then fell. Blood spread across his clothes and he chocked. Agbo and Boga, apart from flinching when they heard the gunshot, remained motionless. Magaga smiled and moved to Boga who was crying on the floor.

“Easy,” Magaga placed a hand on his chest and covered the bullet wound and from his expression, Agbo could tell that pain lifted off Boga. Magaga removed his hands and the two nuts were in his palm. Boga stood up, feeling both shy and terrified.

“I can see the shield filmed around you.” Magaga said, he bent the edges of his lips downward, shaking his head, as though trying to mentally weigh something. “It is mild. Really mild.” He paused then said in pidgin, “Power pass power.”

Agbo didn't, and have never seen any shield on Boga.

“I have to go now. I have something to attend to.” Magaga said. “Before your shift elapse, I will be back.”

Their shift finished forty minutes ago and they impatiently sat in their Hilux waiting for Magaga. The morning sun had risen. After an hour Boga said,

“He is not coming.”

“Let us wait a little longer.” Agbo said immediately.

The Hilux was parked off-road, resembling the standby cars with police lights above, ready to give chase if need be. Goba sat on the driver's seat, he removed his green barret and placed it on his lap. Agbo, who sat behind, focused on Goba's bald head that materialized. It was shinning in response to the oil he applied every morning. Boga sat on the passenger's side, his foot tapping constantly, serenading the silence. As if the tapping was on behalf of the Squad.

“Do you know Ezeohia?” Boga asked. He turned to face them. There was no response. He continued, “He is the greatest medicine man in Rivers state. He is the one that fortified me... I sacrificed five white hens! And that man said my protection is mild. That night that man healed you,” his voice dropped, “I was shot too but the bullets didn't penetrate.” He huffed.

“You heard the man, power pass power.” Agbo replied, then looked out the glass and saw Jure coming towards them for the third time.

“This stupid man is coming to say nonsense again.” Agbo said. “let us go, please. Tomorrow is another day.” Whisp of anger in his voice.

Goba wore his barret and turned the key. The car jerked but didn't start. Jure was now looking inside the Hilux. The car came alive on the second try.

“I even wan come ask why una never comot. Oya bye-bye.” Jure said.

“Stupid man,” Agbo said when they drove off. “Always finding a way to put his name in the story.”

“What story?” Goba asked, glancing through the rearview.”

“Don't bother.”

The topic retracted. “I can't believe that man didn't show up.” Boga said.

“What is there not to believe?” Goba said.

Boga's foot-tapping was drowned by the voice on the radio.

“Please turn the radio off.” Agbo said and Boga did. The tapping continued, and it harmonized with Agbo's heartbeat. They drove a few minutes only to ease the Hilux into a hideout, where the car camouflaged with the bushes. As Agbo sat there, he remembered nights when he had to sit in the Obscured Hulix, waiting for order to doublecross a car. One by one, they fell asleep. Goba was the first to wake, then he tapped Boga beside him before tilting to wake Agbo. Agbo saw on the dashboard that it was 6:30 pm, they waited the whole day.

“The man is not coming.” Agbo.

Goba wore his Barret and turned the key and eased onto the asphalt.

The sun had already fallen behind the forest flanking the Hilux. The day was pale, and drizzle swayed in the air. The whipper cleaned the tiny drops, waited more than ten seconds, then wipes again. They were now travellers on the famous Owerri/ Portharcourt road. Only that they had weapons and not money in their car. In fact, the camouflaged painting of the Hilux screamed warning. Unless, of course, one wanted to look for trouble. It wouldn't be the first time.