The Evening Of The Morning

008

Some years ago, Agbo wouldn't have believed that his skin could be bulletproof, or that Juju, Voodoo, Jazz, Monye, or whatever you call it, was real. He thought they were superstition made to put people under dominance; under control. Even the church, he thought was fiction, the Bible; a scrapbook of a disturbed writer. That virgin birth and resurrection was impossible. And when the camp pastor said it was divine power, Agbo kept quiet but, deep down, he doubted it. Until that night on the road; the night he died. Maybe not died, but was as good as dead with three bullets lodged in his stomach.

He was shirtless as usual, perched on a bench, smoking when a pickup truck carrying a load full of armed men approached. The truck didn't bother to swerve through the roadblock, it swerved to the right and rode off-road. It was June, July—the heart of the raining season—so the truck's tires splashed the water on the sidewalk. Goba took out the driver with one shot and the car swerved into the bush and crashed. They-Agbo and Goba-looked at each other, indecision smeared of their faces. Boga, who was in the bush shitting, emerged from the stomach.

"Did you get them?" Boga asked.

"The driver, yes. Come on." Goba said, taking the role of commander. They had no night vision, no device to detect thermal heat or any sophisticated gadget. (Something that wasn't supposed to be lacking in an oil-rich state like Nigeria. I mean look at what Dubai did with the little they had) They stealthy moved, making their way to the point of the crash. The first bullet kissed Agbo's left ear before hitting a tree. Agbo shielded behind a tree, cocked his gun, and shot in that direction; his hands vibrating as the rounds went off. He stopped and it fell silent. Swiftly, using signs, the Squad advanced to the sight of the crash, confirmed the driver and the boy Agbo apparently just shot, shooting him again.

"Let us head back and call for back up." Boga said.

Normally, when robbers or armed outlaws encounter with soldiers and get out alive, and the vehicle conveying them appears broken down; they take to their heels before back up arrives. Something told Agbo not to let his guard down, but the voice was weak. He let his guard down; he brought down his gun and his nerves relaxed.

"He smells strongly of Alcohol." Goba, who was searching the driver's corpse, said.

"Small boys. This one isn't older than my son." Boga said, looking at the boy he just shot. "Come on, leave that corpse, let us call for backup."

"A broke corpse indeed," Goba said after finding only an empty wallets filled with plastic ids.

"Probably richer than your mother in the village." Agbo said, "When last did you send that woman some money eh?"

Goba rushed Agbo and threw a right hook, Agbo - knowing it was play-ducked and lunched a minor blow to the stomach, and locked his arms around Goba's neck.
"Is your mother not poor?" Agbo laughed. Tightening the grip.

Boga laughed and said, "We all know..."

"That woman died yesterday." Goba said.

At least that would explain his soggy mode. Since he arrived for the shift, he hadn't said more than ten words. In fact, he shot up to four times before he got the driver. It was unlike him, and when Agbo asked, he said, I get headache. Agbo knew he was lying. Headache had never stopped Goba from making vulgar comments.

Agbo gently released his neck. They knew Goba didn't like his mother, but the loss of a mother always hurts, Agbo for one could testify.

"Let us head back." Goba said and made the way forward. When Agbo took his first step, gunshots rang out and he ducked behind the crashed Hilux. It took him a while to notice the slipperiness between his skin and his shirt.

"I am hit!" Gabo, who was beside Agbo, touched his bleeding thigh "I am hit!" He repeated. He looked at the blood on his hand and anxiousness filmed his eyes. Boga was still shooting. He ducked and reloaded. The men shooting at them started shouting, and the unmistakable sound of bones breaking followed. Like a switch been flipped, It fell dead silent. Literally.

"Oh shit! You are bleeding." Boga saw Goba's bleeding thigh before noticing the three bullets lodged in Agbo's stomach. And from the position of the bleeding, Boga suspected that it penetrated Agbo's liver. Boga took all this in within the seconds, and it was only possible with the aid of the effulgent moon. His gaze quickly swept forward, where he heard footsteps approaching, branch creaking. He aimed in that direction; crouched behind the Hilux.

Inside his head, a voice told him, don't shoot. It felt eerily real.
"Don't shoot. I can see your friends are wounded. I can help."

Boga shot until the bullets finished and the gun started clicking. He ducked, reloaded; the last clip, and sprang up with intent to shot, but the voice—Still inside his head—yelled, "I said don't shoot! You are scaring travellers!"

This time it was a mistake; his hand mistakenly pressed the trigger and one bullet went off, hitting The man in the eyes, but as though it hit a wall, the bullet fell to the ground. The man picked the bullet and for the first time truly spoke, "I told you not to shot."