Silhouette

XXIII

Razor’s real name is Salomon.

All he ever wanted was to be a professional footballer. He was quick and skillful with the ball at his feet and just like his idol, Andres Iniesta, his small frame made him hard to mark.

But he was a nobody, so he was quite literally stumbling in the dark.

His father who was a roadside vulcanizer had died a month before his birth. His mother sold fish in the local market and her meager profit was barely enough to feed four children.

Salomon had grown up with a yawning hunger. He was neither content with his food nor his clothes which were mostly hand downs.

Applying to a football academy was out of the question. Salomon was almost 17 – the maximum age of entry into an academy – when a scout watched him play in a local field. He played barefooted with a cold hunger and fury that seemed to get bigger each day.

The scout invited him to train with the under-20 national team. It was a dream come true. He attended the training session and played like he had never played before. He would never forget the joy he felt when everyone in the stands stood up and applauded him as he came off.

Then the coach had called him aside and demanded for a bribe of half a million Naira if he wanted to join the national team.

He went home with all his dreams shattered, unable to tell anyone that he had dazzled in a tryout. He asked himself over and over how he was going to get that amount of money.

The answer came to him the next day when he saw the driver of a huge Mercedes park the car by the roadside with the key in the ignition.

Salomon slid as quick as an eel into the car and drove off. He saw the receding image of the driver as he ran after the car with his zipper open.

Salomon was arrested on Nigeria-Cameroon border just as he was selling the car to smugglers. Smugglers who turned out to be decoys working for the Anti-smuggling division.

He was sentenced to juvenile home and three months later, on his 18th birthday he was taken to jail.

His first months in jail were torture. He was beaten and bullied on a daily basis. He soon learned how to use his small frame to his advantage. He also learned the mastery of the razor blade.

He knew just where to slash and cut. He knew how to turn a grown man into a writhing and weeping heap on the floor. He knew what slash would send another into shock.

And he survived.

Until now.

Razor drags himself out of the door. He can’t feel his right leg. His left leg is a bloody mess.

Razor looks back, Sani hasn’t gotten up. Razor doubts he will. There is a bullet hole right in the middle of his head.

Razor swallows, suddenly nauseous. The shot that had killed Sani wasn’t from a stray bullet. It was an expertly ricocheted bullet.

He drags himself one arm after the other. The gravel under him is like a thousand hot pinpricks.

He hears footsteps behind him and he freezes. Black shoes come into his view, then the man crouches before him. Dave Coker.

His shirt is more red than white. He is holding a gun in his bloody hands. His eyes are cold and distant.

“Kill me already,” Razor snarls.

“Your kneecaps are all over the floor,” says Dave. His tone is oddly casual, like he is ordering a pizza.

Dave’s calm infuriates Razor. “What are you going to do? Torture me?”

“I have some experience with torture. It doesn’t work, not really. Any information given is suspect. If you were an expert, you would know that.”

Razor turns himself over, lays on his back. He shields his eyes from the afternoon sun with a palm. He strains his neck and looks down at his legs, the sight disgusts him. The tears that well up in his eyes surprise him.

This is the end and he knows it. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just take me to a hospital. Please.”

“People think that torture is pain,” says Dave. “It isn’t pain, its time and that sinking feeling in your chest as you slowly realize your life is over.”

Razor laughs. It sounds strangely like a bird’s cackle. He turns to Dave. “Carl warned us not to come after you. We should have listened to him or we should have brought more men.”

Dave tilts his head. “He did?”

Razor nods. “Do you have a smoke with you?”

“No.”

“Alright,” he says. He had always thought he would end up before a firing squad shouting his defiance as the bullets tore his body apart. He had never thought he'd end up like this. Never like this. “What do you want to know?”