A Story Series
The repeated hammering of the construction worker took my mind back to the night of 15th April, 1983, the night that bullets battered the walls of the governor’s house and spoilt my Spiderman shirt which my younger brother was putting on. Even though I had had that shirt only for five days and had never put it on, I loved the shirt.
When I got to his badly perforated body, all I allowed my eyes to see were the gaping holes in the shirt. The eerie silence that followed was sickening as nobody knew what to do; I did not know what to do. Finally, mother started screaming and yanking at her hair, shouting at father to do something. In my state of shock, I still saw that father was bleeding and dying but not yet dead, mother’s hysteria blinded her to that.
I was thirteen, far from the age of eighteen when driving was found necessary. Mother could drive but I had a feeling that if I let her behind the wheels of the Camry, she could drive us all to our deaths. Besides, the hospital was not far, so, I decided that our feet would do a better if not a faster job. I helped father up and convinced mother to carry Junior, my only sibling in the world. Stepping out of the grand house in which we had only lived for two weeks, I looked around at the dead bodies and the other people trying to save their loved ones.
For the first time in my life, I acknowledged that the world we are born into is indeed a wicked one.
My name is George and that is the account of an event that happened five years ago. I was born to a Nigerian father and a German mother. I still don’t understand the how of their attraction and relationship. My conclusion has always been, “unlike poles attract”. This relationship was conceived during the colonial times when the black skin meant an automatic slave tag and the most demeaning treatment imaginable.