Njoya always knew his life would end in such a tragic
manner. He wasn’t sure how he knew – he just expected it to be that way. He
sometimes wondered if there was invisible cloak of bad luck shrouded over him,
following wherever he went. As he stared dizzily at the angry mob surrounding
him, he began to make peace with his impending fate. One of the men in the crowd with
large veins coursing across his forehead and neck produced a hammer, grabbed
Njoya’s right foot and crushed his toes in one quick swat. Njoya let out a blood-curdling scream and tried to tuck his other limbs under his body. The angry mob
cheered and jeered. As the pain intensified, Njoya closed his eyes and let his
mind wander away from his current predicament.
He was eleven years old again and sitting at his
mother’s side at her small shed in the market. Every Thursday, she and many
other business women like herself would hop on the back of a lorry to go to the
“bush” market where she bought traditional African spices in bulk. She had also
begun growing and drying some common green vegetables as well as drying fish because
these items were in high demand by “bush fallers”. They were by no means rich
but she made enough to keep her only son in school. After school, he would join
her at the market shed where his mother always had a warm meal waiting. When he was done eating,
his first task was to complete any homework he had, before carrying a small tray
of goods from the store and hawking them around the market. After his mother
died, his luck in life seemed to have turned for the worse. It was tuberculosis,
they said. His mother had taken ill as he was preparing to write his GCE Advanced
level. While his friends were attending study group and revision sessions, he
was at his mother’s side hopelessly watching her shrink to skin and bones.
TU-BER-CU-LO-SIS. Such a funny word for a disease so terrible. He sighed and
let his eyes open against his will.
The mob was bigger every time he re-opened
his eyes. How did this type of news travel so fast? A large woman who was new
to the crowd since the last time he'd looked noticed his open eyes. She
walked up to him, shouted something about “Les Bamendas” and hung an old large tyre
around his neck. He stared closely at her features – she wore her hair short
and had a couple of curly hairs sprouting out of her chin. She wore trousers
almost too small for her wide hips. She said something again with her raspy voice
and he wondered if she was a mother. What kind of woman would let something
like this happen to him? She opened up a bottle of kerosene and dumped the
contents over his head.
Njoya did not see where the lighted matchstick came
from. He leapt up quickly and begged for mercy as he felt his skin begin to
blister from the flames. In his panic, he began running away as quickly as he
could but then realized this was only helping to fan the flames. He dropped to
the ground in desperation as the smoke made it harder and harder to breathe or
see. He felt his mind blacking out again and he welcomed it this time.
When it became clear to his mother Aisha that she wasn’t
going to survive her disease, she sat Njoya down for conversation whenever she
could muster enough strength to do so. While he felt these conversations were
necessary, he dreaded them because they seemed to be an acknowledgement
of his mother’s impending death. He did not like that feeling. He stared at his
mother as she fell in and out of sleep. Even on her deathbed she was a beautiful
and graceful woman. He wondered why she never left this village. Why she never
married. He had asked about his father once and his mother’s response burned a
hole in his heart. Njoya was the product of a brief affair with a married man.
When Aisha told him about the pregnancy, he asked her to get an abortion and to
go to confession for having slept with a married man. She never spoke to him again
and his family never found out. Njoya fantasized about confronting his father
often, but he knew his mother would be disappointed in him if he did. He continued
to nurse resentment against the man even after his mother passed.
His mother’s only living relative, her older brother
Musa came to the village after many years for her funeral. He was a successful business man who imported and sold cars. He was called Uncle Dollar because all
he did was talk about America. The American markets. American cars. American government.
He had never made it past the American embassy but to hear him talk of America
one would think he was from there. Prior to her death, Aisha had asked him if
he would take Njoya with him to the city to complete his studies. She was worried
about the worsening Ambazonia crisis. Njoya did not trust Uncle Dollar. He talked
too much and he never gave without expecting something in return. His wife treated
his family like they were lepers. Njoya wished he had other options.
Njoya came to on a narrow, squeaky gurney. He was in a
hospital room and noticed he was handcuffed to the side rail. He tried to reposition
himself and immediately regretted it. One of his feet felt like mush and his entire
skin stung like it was on fire. Ah yes, fire, as he remembered the flames, he
saw the last time his eyes were open. The policeman who was seated in a corner of
the room rushed quickly to his bedside asking him not to try anything stupid.
He apologized and promised he wouldn’t. Later that evening he provided his
official statement to the policeman.
Njoya had moved to the city with Uncle Dollar who instead
of enrolling him in school felt he would be better served if the boy learned a
skilled trade. Njoya had been walking home from the garage where he had been a
mechanic’s apprentice for the past 3 months. He heard someone scream “Au voleur!”
just as he turned around to see a young man running towards him. Before he
could figure out what was going on, the young man dropped the stolen goods at
his feet and disappeared. As he stood frozen trying to figure out what was
happening, a crowd gathered and quickly identified him as said thief. He had
started to protest and explain his innocence, but his cries fell on deaf ears. His
pleas were drowned out by the angry mob. It did not take long for him to resign
himself to his fate. Afterall, this was the kind of luck he had.
Njoya was eventually released from police custody when
a witness corroborated his story. He boarded a bus heading for the village that
same night without telling Uncle Dollar he was leaving. He did not know what he
was going back to. He wondered what his bad luck would bring him this time. He looked
down at the scars on his arms that reminded him of his near-death ordeal. Perhaps
he wasn’t entirely unlucky. He had gotten a second chance at life, and he was
going to make the best of it. He closed his eyes and welcomed the escape of
sleep.
