Quagmires of Life

Copyright © 2013 by Imoh Essien.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

DEDICATION

I’m dedicating the book to God Almighty and to my Parents, Rev. & Mrs. Michael Essien.

They inspire me.

PROLOGUE

Most people go through life dogged by misfortunes at every turn, hardly succeeding in any venture. Consequently, they end up switching from one profession to another without achieving expertise in any, sharply bringing to mind the age-old adage ‘Jack of all trades, master of none’.

Of course, it may be that fate lends a hand in the various misfortunes they experience, or they may breed from the evil machinations of malevolent fellows who, unable to attain success no matter how hard they try, in frustration and envy, stand in the way of others to debar them or at most ruin their chances of success in life through witchcraft and other sinister means. This they do to stop them from attaining the societal level they, despite their own frantic efforts, could not reach.

However, in most cases, it is a result of the victim’s own carelessness and, sometimes, the inequity prevalent in societal distribution of wealth. Under this system, only those on the higher rung of the social ladder can contribute to decisions of government, while those below remain silent, suffering suppression, neglect, and endless frustration.

This thesis may not be wholly accepted, but what can one say of a system where (behind the mask of power, wealth, and high social status) few steal and many feel pain, a small number seize power and the greater bulk die in silence under their tyranny. Few have the power to sack, yet a great number would be thrown into dire penury and times of lack. Few do not sweat at all but get more money; those that toil and sweat only get less pay and more load of worry. Some live large, others do not know that word save with want to cry; a small proportion of men hold tenaciously to power while the rest cower in fear. Lastly, few make or influence policies, yet a majority will suffer if reckless or wrong decisions are made.

Yet everything terrestrial is sheer vanity as all mortals must leave their tiniest possessions here and dash away in answer to the call of death. Even the planets themselves will melt away in the end with matter returning to nothingness at the instance of an intense heat never yet experienced. Then deliverance will come only to the incorruptible and God-fearing people. So let those who thrive wickedly in secrecy to soar above their fellows know with all certainty that things will never remain the same. A time of change is expected sooner or later.

Some stay passive under stress doing nothing. They complain to one and all, blaming their known and unknown enemies or fate for their lot. Nevertheless, some hate to stay under pressure but must search for and find a way to break out of the frustrating circumstances surrounding them whether they are by the hands of malignant fellows, or as a result of fate, or economic disequilibrium.

Villages—for instance, the very rural types—are known for much hardship and malevolence. They are good soils for gossip and scandals to sprout, with the insidious going about telling tales. Though some may be true, most are just hearsays and others insinuations—presumptions and assumptions make delightful pastime stories to bud, thus becoming a norm jealously guarded. Wicked villagers take pleasure in others’ pain—sadism does nothing else—and, hiding in lugubrious guise, mock the mourning. In their mischievous hearts, malice holds court.

Moreover, livelihood in these poor rural communities is an uphill task; even with enough cash, one can find the unavailability of desired commodities a nauseating experience. Oftentimes, there is an outright scarcity of little necessities that make life meaningful such that a typical African village is an epitome of a bustling gigantic grave coupled with occasional ‘hush’.

Still struggling, the resolute succeed in breaking out and scaling the social ladder to the peak simply through hard work and honesty, not by foul and crooked means—dirty indulgences that give only superficial and false satisfaction. Odudu possessed enough mental strength and resilience that enabled him to cut a neat path to wealth and fame. But love, that sweet ethereal feeling, surprisingly brought untold suffering, uncertainty, and heartache to his world and that of his close associates.

The object of his love, Clara Umar, was a Hausa princess and fiancée of a ‘big brain’ within the underworld. With the inebriety of love beclouding his sense of reasoning, this young man took no cognisance of the risk surrounding him in his affair with the princess. Here was a guy born, as they say, with a ‘silver spoon’ in his mouth, but later got acquainted with poverty due to his father’s fall from grace to grass. Odudu, in the course of time, achieved greatness, thus restoring the family’s fortune; he achieved love next, and light seemed to shine with a greater luminescence on his world. Yet danger was lurking around the corner, inching nearer, closing in on him.

He was kidnapped and whisked away by unknown persons, and his family was thrown into chaos. In the hands of his assailants, he suffered starvation, torture, degradation, and finally he…

Let’s follow the course of this young man’s life from the beginning, anyway.

CHAPTER ONE

Odudu, fair-complexioned, young, and relatively tall for his age of twelve, stood in front of their family house—an eight-room bungalow that had once been an outstanding architectural feat in the neighbourhood of Itokon village and the surrounding hamlets. Having just left the comfort of his bed, he was busy wiping remnants of sleep from his eyes. Moreover, he was temporarily blinded by the sunbeam, bright and glorious in its golden morning hue.

Turning back into the house, he got water from a plastic jerry can and washed his face, rinsed his mouth, and began to brush his teeth with a chewing stick. This he did while sweeping the open space between the building and the dusty winding main road a few yards away, making use of an improvised broom made of brush from the bushes around. This was his daily routine, and he was always up before others to carry it out.

‘Good morning, Dad,’ Odudu greeted Mr Evans, who had just come out of the sitting room yawning and heading for the side of the house obviously to urinate.

‘Morning, my son,’ he called back. Mr Evans was a man of about forty-five, although he had the looks of a much older person; he was dark in complexion and had a fast receding hairline. Moreover, he spotted a few grey hairs on the sides of his head.

The boy swept the compound, whistling a tune to himself. And as he laboriously battled with the small twigs and dried sun-scorched leaves, which had accumulated in a thick pile all over the compound, he broke out in sweat: there were some trees lining the open space to the right and left while a mango tree and an almond fruit tree stood in a straight line in the middle of the open space in front of the house.

Leaves from a row of hibiscus and ixora flowers planted at the bounds of the cultivated farmlands at the sides also contributed to the litter. This gave the grounds down to the main road the look of a large spread of a spotted brown rug when viewed from a far distance off—a veritable mirage. The birds flew to and fro chirping and blending sounds to yield a staccato which helps soften the tension experienced each wakening day with the exception of Sunday—an apprehensive atmosphere considering the stockpile of tasks requiring attention, work that never seems to have an end on farmlands and the homesteads. He could just notice a chameleon, crawling in its characteristic sluggish and seemingly cautious manner on the branch of a guava tree on the left gradually adopting the full colouring of the tree—such a natural camouflage!

His father came out wielding a club in his right hand and a machete in his left. A moderate sized pouch dangled from his left shoulder. He adjusted its position while dropping the weapons in order to get a good grip on his wrapper which had hitherto clung loosely to his waistline. Having tightened the knot after drawing the cloth tighter and to his satisfaction, he quickly picked up the club and machete and strode out on his way to the forest. Odudu stood motionless for some minutes, watching him, distracted from his chore and apparently lost in thought. He loved and adored his father in spite of the man’s apparent mistakes and failure.

‘Odudu, when you’re through with the sweeping just help me fix the stakes for those yam tendrils in the farm over there and make sure that you don’t cut the tender shoots by mistake, okay?’ Mr Evans shouted to him from some meters away. Obviously miffed, the young man set about his chore energetically. He resented his father’s penchant for giving him tough jobs whereas his two sisters who were older than him would be idle all day. Moreover, they could carry out the task together, but he never sent them.

He could not understand why he chose him, and not the girls, for such jobs. Now he would have to forego his trip to the swamps, something he relished. He had plans to go frog-hunting with his friends in the swamps. Now that was history because there’ll be no time left for that. And he’ll be too tired to do so. Shrugging resignedly, he turned back to his job, sweeping the rubbish together in a heap which he set ablaze. The dry sticks crackled as they quickly burnt down to ashes.

On his way back to the house, he narrowly missed being hit by a juicy mango fruit which landed ‘plop’ on the ground a few inches behind him. Odudu could recall a day at his maternal relatives’ when a fallen avocado fruit had landed on his scalp, the pain that shot through his fibers that day can never be forgotten. His grandmother, God rest her soul, had quickly rushed out of the house and carried him, crying and writhing in pain, inside. A cold compress and the balm applied finally soothed the pain while the bump he’d acquired finally disappeared after about five days.

Happily snatching the piece of ‘good luck’, a little superstitious Odudu reckoned that better things lay in store for him that day as such goodies usually portend. He ran into the inner courtyard to announce his fortune to his sisters, who were busy sweeping and splitting wood respectively. Then he found a corner to sit and enjoy the sweet-tasting fruit. He stylishly bit into the succulent fruit, shiftily eyeing his sisters to see their reaction—he was sure they’ll be red with envy.

‘Hey! Nse, do you care for a bite?’ he called out to the eldest girl, handing out the mango at the same time. But as she made for it he withdrew his hand. This drew the girls’ ire.

‘Get away joo, glutton,’ Eno spat out while Nse only hissed and went back quietly to her task.

‘Okay, since you’ve abused me you are not getting any share of this delicacy again,’ he told them between mouthfuls.

‘Ehn, don’t give us. Go away with your greed,’ Nse chided.

‘I will not give any of you my mango. If you like…’

‘Shut up, you buffoon,’ Eno barked out angrily, striking the wood with added vigour.

Odudu chose to ignore that, and silence reigned except for the sounds made by the axe and the broom they were working with. In the end he left half of the fruit for both girls to share and went to relax in a secluded spot feeling gratified, especially as regards their surprise and subdued ego. He was soon brought forcefully out of his reverie by their mother.

‘Children, why don’t you learn to take care of yourselves better than that? Must you lick such a sugary fruit this early? And to think that you’ve not even taken any food yet? Look here, I just hope none of you comes complaining about stomach upset? If that happens, I bet you, you’ll be on your own.’

She was just back from the stream where she had gone to fetch water and had a jerry can balanced on her head.

‘Mum, you have only scolded the two of us whereas Odudu is the one who gave it to us and that was after licking half of it all alone,’ Eno informed her gleefully.

‘En-hen? And he is sitting there like an innocent boy. Anyway, I have said my piece. Just pray that nothing happens.’ She swept past them going in to drop the jerry can inside the kitchen.

The children burst into laughter. Mrs Evans was surprised as she could not fathom the cause. Such strange behavior only surfaced these days, and she wondered whether it was all part of growing up among kids like hers.

‘Children, can you tell me what tickled you so much you had to laugh like idiots?’ she finally asked when they had laughed to their hearts’ content.

‘Hey, Mummy, so you’ve actually bred idiots?’ Odudu asked in mock astonishment causing another round of laughter. She had to ignore them, heading back in to prepare breakfast.

Sitting before the hearth stirring her pot of foofoo, the predominant issue on her mind was how to restock her quickly depleting store. She feared for the kids and the imminent malnutrition that could set in if they failed to make adequate money within the next few days. The fire in the hearth burned brightly cackling and grey smoke spiraled up the chimney to freedom interspersed in the open air outside; the denser soot, black and solid-like, accumulated over time on the walls of the chimney and the fireplace in a thick black mass.

Odudu, who had come in a minute ago, sat at the corner just by the door striving hard to lure her into conversation, but she remained mute.

‘Mummy, didn’t you