Chapter 3: Another Chance, Another Wahala

Sharp scream scatter the bush. "Help! Rape o! Thief o!" My body jump, memory rush me like old cassette wey person dey play again. I dey see the young girl for flowery gown, agbero with black birthmark dey drag her inside bush. Her scarf don fall, the ground dey soak with dry leaves and old cassava peels. Her cry dey faint, dey echo for bush—sound cut like blade, harmattan breeze dey push me go.

For my chest, heat dey boil. Anger and hate dey dance for my blood, but I clamp teeth, force myself hold ground. Old pain dey shout, but I no go let spirit of wahala use me. I don live this life before. As the scene dey play again, I realize: na Rukayat—Lawal last born, the same family. Our people sabi each other, but no too play. Her mama dey sell okra and ponmo for market, her papa dey work for local government. Grandma always warn me, "No follow their wahala."

Last time, I rush with stone, voice crack as I dey shout, “You this useless agbero, no run! My guy don call police! Wait, dem go shoot you!”

Agbero run like wind, shoe cut for bush. People for road dey cheer. Rukayat sit up, dey cry, shame dey thick for air. I wipe her face with my old hanky, "No cry, nobody go hear. Make we just forget." My chest dey run, but I no know say na me dem go finish with gist.

I trust too much. For Ayegbaju, village tongue sharp pass cutlass. My kindness turn curse. As I wan waka, Rukayat kneel, crawl, hold my trouser, dey beg: "My exam permit and family card, that agbero carry am. Abeg, help me find am back."

Her fingers cold, tears dey cool for my skin. I shock, but I run chase agbero, slippers almost cut, chest dey burn. For we wey dey poor, university exam na our only road out. That permit na half of my life. If I lose am, na to dey farm remain.

But agbero don disappear. My body weak, sweat blind my eye. I rush carry Rukayat go exam centre, she dey limp, dey hold my arm. Sun dey slap my face. Five minutes to exam, gate wan close. I tell her, "Find aunty Iyabo, explain, maybe dem go allow you." She grip my hand, eyes red, but I break free, rush give my papers, enter hall last minute.

As I sit, pen for hand, I remember why I dey here—na for grandma and my own tomorrow. My mama wey city life carry go, papa wey heartbreak kill, grandma wey tie leg with old wrapper, bend back, but strong voice. Eighteen years, she chop bitterleaf, raise me with rice water and yam flour soup, sometimes just water and salt. Her pride na for my tomorrow. She dey talk everywhere: “One day, my Maodan go carry me go city, come back with big car.”

I dey read with lantern till cock crow, God save my eye. Postman come, brown envelope from University of Ibadan. My hand dey shake, leg wan fail. Only two of us for Ayegbaju get university admission that year. Me, na proper university. Chief Adewale raise him hand, beads dey jangle, everybody quiet. “No let village hold you back—go, make you fly.”

But before I know, Rukayat carry police come accuse me. Early morning, wahala land. She point, “Na him molest me, na him collect my paper, e dey jealous my result.” Her words cut like blade, village people dey look me with bad eye. Old women dey cry, young boys dey curse. My own don finish.

She show my dirty cloth, my name inside. Chief Adewale shake head, my own don finish. I dey waka police station, my eye red, leg weak. She send letter go university, talk my 'evil.' Reporter carry the matter for newspaper—my own face, big headline. University pursue me, I turn notorious agbero. Market women dey fear me, pikin dey piss for grandma door. Even my mama for city, dem call her ashawo. My head heavy, my body weak.

Grandma, body dey shake, cut her hand, beg writer make petition with her blood. As her blood drip, I remember the day she tie me for back, trek go farm under rain just to buy me new book. She crawl pass bush road reach local government. Kneel, crawl, shout my name. People gather, some dey cry. Na her pain touch chief, make him call for proper investigation. Rukayat story break, dem free me. But as I return, only burnt house and grandma ashes remain. My knees fail, I grab sand, cry till voice no come out.

After that, I waka like ghost. Gist about me full everywhere, even for city. My hope die. I no fit stay, I beg for bread, sleep for roadside, my name don spoil. Over ten years, I dey push keke, carry load, survive anyhow. Each time I hear fire or old woman voice, my body dey shake. I return village, wan dig ground, die for where grandma dey. Moon high, night cold, as I dig, Lawal Sulaimon stagger come, drunk, piss for grave, talk rubbish.

I grab am, force am talk truth. Na dem set fire. I kill am, then enter Lawal house, cut all of them throat, set fire. My mind blank, revenge dey lead me. Lie down for my pit, blood everywhere. Red glow dey sky. Grandma, na your pain I carry. My life don finish. Maybe spirit fit rest.

But when I open my eyes again, na the same scene. Old morning, dust, wahala. This time, I swear, spirit of village no go catch me again. My eye dey sharp. I still wan make am, buy grandma walking stick, take care of her old age. Her dream na my dream. I go fight till better come.