Tit For Tat: Good For Bad

It was Friday evening and I was exhausted because AJ had plunged me into his weekly coaching classes with the people of Ikare, again. I should have been upset by his never failing ability to disrupt my schedules, which I loved to follow religiously, but as I lay on the sofa in my room surfing Pinterest for a new hairstyle, my heart warmed at the thought of AJ’s selflessness.

Let me tell you a little bit about AJ and why I could never find a fault in him.

In my first week at Ikare, I was drawn into a community development scheme, organized and facilitated solely by one man. Every time I ran into him at the market or on the street, he was either hurrying to teach the youths tech skills or the women financial management — not that he called it that, especially to the women who were barely educated, but AJ improved commerce and skill in Ikare at no cost. He packed up his life in the boisterous city of Lagos and convinced himself that life would be more meaningful if he gave back to society and one as astern as Ikare.

This mindset hit me in so many ways and before I knew what was happening, I began attending some classes and helping out where I could. I gradually grew to love the people at Ikare and settled down permanently. The village was lively and peaceful, with every family poke-nosing into their neighbour’s business to ensure that all was well.

It was the perfect location for me as a freelancer. My introverted nature hankered for a calm town with constant light, a strong network connection, and good water. But Ikare added the perk of a local market, which prospered with many local condiments — I had a weakness for local dishes as opposed to continental and bland foods. AJ brought that urban and sophisticated air into the rural village, giving them childhood dreams of a bigger future and images of bigger cities. In a more antique era, AJ may have been crowned as King or awarded a prominent title. But for now, AJ was just a selfless young man who wanted to make an impact.

After just a few hours, I finally found the perfect hairstyle and decided to call it a night, switching off my phone. It had been an exhausting day but I still had a busy weekend ahead to manoeuvre.

I let my mind wander and made a mental to-do list of the things I was going to do;

– Send the remaining files to the client after editing and proofreading.

-Call Dad, I had forgotten for the third time this month.

-Going to the salon, was a day’s job.

Somewhere between hoping that the stylist will do a good job and how long the hair will take, I slept off.

I woke up to the startling shriek of my alarm at 4:10 am -ten minutes later than I wanted to. My to-do list rolled in my head like the closing credits of a movie but I prioritized calling my Dad knowing that he was going to keep bringing up new topics just to keep me on the call long enough. The thought made me smile and my heart squeezed in my chest. We were still talking when I hit the road because the salon was quite a driving distance from Ikare.

For a Saturday morning, the roads seemed unusually quiet and bare. Ikare always had busy mornings as the market women would come out very early to start selling. I drove through the market taking in the empty stalls until I noticed a small crowd. The men were in deep conversations with creased brows and worried expressions while the women were wailing and crying in deep anguish. Some pointed to something on the ground and shook their heads as if rejecting a bad omen. Something terrible had happened but I didn’t know what. I wasn’t the type of resident to indulge in street gossip, but something kicked me out of my car and onto the curb.

At first, it didn’t register. I took in the scene without deciphering the image before me. Someone was lying on the ground. The face was barely notable, and blood painted an artistic splash around the pavement.

I shook my head and looked at swept the crowd recognizing my vegetable customer. Her eyes were brimming with tears as she shook her head in response. I looked back at the mangled body on the ground and saw something that only one homo sapien wore so beautifully in the whole world — a bulging birthmark that made him stand out in a sea of handsome men.

I pointed to his body askance, my finger shaking like an electric fish, but I couldn’t form the words. My heart raced a thousand steps ahead of my brain.

AJ?

I thought he had coding classes with the youths today, why was he lying on the floor?

Was he really dead? Or is this a scene in one of those dramas he always agreed to act with the children?

Why was AJ on the ground and why was nobody helping him up?

The more I stared at his body the better I understood the situation. Something burst inside my head and I let out a rage-filled cry.

AJ had been murdered in cold blood by somebody from the same village he had sacrificed his time for.

A bout of nausea hit me and I rushed to a nearby gutter and released my insides. The market women rushed to get water and splashed it on my face while patting my back. I couldn’t tell exactly what was gushing down my face — the water they were pouring or my tears.

AJ wasn’t just dead, he had been murdered. I tried to think of a fraction of the reason why somebody would kill AJ but I couldn’t come up with any.

My heart gave way that day and I gave up believing that the universe smiled upon good people.

Nneoma Godsdelight is a creative story writer and a child development specialist. She is a 300-level law student at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, Enugu Campus, Enugu State. She is actively interested in writing, early childhood education and development, and child advocacy.