Musa’s Martyrdom – Salau Anthony
July 12, 2024
The door opens violently. She pushes it as though she intends to rip it off its hinges. Her eager tongue sweeps circles in my mouth, desperately exploring. She begins to undo my belt buckle. She pulls a gasp out of me as she glides her tongue over mine, my heart threatening to rip out of its cage, i can still smell the cigarettes on her breath. My trousers drop to the floor and she descends, slowly, shooting me sultry, nefarious stares as she introduces my briefs to the Earth.
“have you done this before?” i ask,
“no, you are my first,” she says, mockingly.
“don’t die on me, amateur,” she adds
“i won’t”
She takes me in. all of me. stroking, hot breath, tongue and saliva on engorged sponge, her hair swaying back and forth as her head moves. I can hear pianos in the distance, i can see my skull now, I can fit her entire head in my mouth now, my legs begin to give way beneath me, she is pulling gasps out of me, this might be my last breath, i am in a canoe and the water is translucent, she is with me, we are both clothed in white regalia, i smile sheepishly, the air is warm, atmosphere could sanctify the devil, i do not wish for a crescendo to exist, my soul has departed my flesh, drifting, alive, pure, mud angel, all at the same time. but the growing pains i feel in between my legs will not permit me to feel divinity anymore. i look down at my whites, and i see a crimson outline spreading all over, sharp pain and recoil….
“ah, fuck!” i yell, pushing her off
“what the hell?” she asks, confused.
i am breathing heavily, pleasure is transmuted into pain, but i am not bleeding. she sits at my feet for a few seconds, perplexed, i notice she is bare, pristine clay now, the ritual was about to commence fully.
“if you no get mind you for talk am,” she says, getting dressed.
the chick is pissed.
“oh hell,” i stammer, “sorry, i thought you b-b-bit me, I felt pain”
she casts me an annoyed glance as she slams my door and exits, cursing under her breath. pidgin becomes her when she is irate.
“i thought she bit me,” I say to no one in particular, still resting against the wall. i look around the room, reacquainting myself with my surroundings, speechless. what just happened?
“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” i mutter as I reach for my briefs
i look down for a second, and his glaring eyes meet mine.
i cast him another glance and I swear I hear him slur, “amateur, retarded cunt.” i deserve it.
i have to sleep, i walk towards my bed and I can still hear him groaning disappointedly, i should text her, no that would worsen the situation, go to sleep.
i groan, pull the pillow over my face and ponder what just happened. Fati would never talk to me again, that’s for sure. I get lost in a maze of thoughts and i do not know when I drift off.
****************************
“and now, you shall bear witness….”
i open the door, and I am ushered into a room. It is flooded by a dazzling yet ominous white light. The purity that whispers evil, nefarious intent. A few meters ahead of me, standing in the shape of a pentagon, a few shapeless figures, maybe human, maybe not, look towards me. They have no facial features, but I can tell that they all wear looks that are either dumbfounded, murderous or both.
“flower bleeds, the cross is an insignia…..” the head of the ritual, i presume, says to me. he pauses midway the sentence, as it is an utterance meant to be made halfway, and completed afterwards by the person to whom it is made, cult utterance, esoteric. i shoot him a confused stare, and I can tell he is doing the same, he has no face.
“flower..bleeds,…the..cross.
he reiterates, slower this time, more intentional about each word, oblivious that the nonresponse is not as a result of inaudibility, rather blank headedness and my incoherence of the emblem. he sighs deeply, somehow I can hear it. the other figures, clothed in full crimson regalia, with upside down crosses etched into their foreheads, sigh in unison. as if to say, ” o boy, your own don finish.”
“who are you?” he, it, inquires wryly
“where am I?” i retort, uttering the words before I am aware of their existence
he picks a scythe from the porcelain altar and begins walking towards me. I am unsure as to whether it is fascination, fright or both, but for some reason, I stand fixated.
“flower bleeds, the cross is an insignia, blood cleansing, mud baptism, the shepherd is the sheep no longer.”
the other figures begin to chant rhythmically, in a language I do not understand.
“and now, Musa, you shall bear witness, you are our saviour,” he says, as he approaches me.
i try to run, scamper, but all efforts to move prove futile. i am stuck. and this figure just called my name. i begin breathing heavily. he is a few metres from my face now. he lifts the scythe, “amen,” he says, and swings it at my neck.
“ahhhhhhhhhh!”
everyone in the mosque turns towards me. the recitation is halted and Imam Ali burrows inquisitive eyes into mine.
“are you okay, brother Musa?” Quadri asks, he is my younger brother.
beads of sweat take hurried strides from my forehead and nestle on my mat.
“yes, sorry,” I say, unsure of my own answer.
I place my head back on the mat and close my eyes. the recitation resumes and i can hear it light years away. it sounds like a distant memory. my eyes begin to close, my heart stops singing, no thoughts inquiring or screaming profanities. I feel nothing. I am an archaic newborn, cobwebs dance in my heart, spiders perform a strange ballet on the strings and tickle me as they perform their routine. i hear everything, feel everything. I look above me and see a guy, dark skinned with a luscious afro, being led through a garden by a lion. like a fading polaroid, that image blurs out of existence. then, i see, suspended in mid air, a blade and a rose. i float off the ground until I am on the same level as the sword and rose, and I reach out and take the rose. and then….
“Hypocritical PIGS! I do not understand Nigerians. You deem me the plague, the scourge, I am but a speck compared to the rot that you bear in your souls! Evil men! I sit here and beg, is that of my deepest volition? Bloody bastards, depraved politicians, callous pastors, devil worshippers……”
some guy stands a few meters from me. he is yelling hysterically, filled with ire. he is clothed in rags and his stench runs circles around my nose, despite the distance between us. i look around and this place is very familiar. this is definitely Oshodi.
“Pure water! Pure water! Fanta! Gala! Gala!”
“Bata! Rá Bàtá! 3k! Aunti, fyn geh, na your customer na!”
“Jesus is coming soon, repent from your iniquities!”
“Mile 2! Second Rainbow! Ijesha!”
“Subaruuuuuuuuu!”
i had not visited Lagos since I graduated from secondary school, three years ago. what am I doing here?
“You!” the beggar calls abruptly, startling me and yanking me violently out of my thoughts. he throws me stares of disgust, as though the mere sight of me elicits an intense distaste in his soul. he scrunches his face in accordance with the fabric on his skin, and he looks like he will vomit any moment from now.
“You judge me, don’t you?! Do i irritate you worse than the pigs we cohabit with??”
he starts walking towards me, taking long strides, strides imbued with murderous intent. he is equipped with a stone as he approaches, and my middle name is not Steven. i begin to retreat, then i turn around fully and take to my heels.
“It is your sacred duty to erase my obscenity from the surface of the Earth, Musa!” he screams, picking up the pace.
Did he just call my name?!
i begin to increase my speed, breathing heavily, turning back to gauge the distance between us and crashing into hawkers and passersby. my thoughts are foggy, i cannot comprehend what this is. am i still asleep?
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall see God!” He calls out, his voice sounds distant, i have put some space between us.
“Repent, Jesus is coming soon!” Another voice echoes.
No one seems to pay us any attention. They are in a sort of trance so they are totally insensitive to the pandemonium which ensues from the pursuit. I crash the wares of various traders to the ground as I try to escape, but rather than curse me, or utter slurs or profanities which they typically do as effortlessly as breathing, they look away. and keep walking.
“BLESSED ARE THE………”
POW!
I stop dead in my tracks at the sound of a gun going off. i look closer and lying on the floor, bleeding from his eyes and forehead, the pursuing beggar. He gasps for breath, mouthing incoherent utterances as he chokes on his own blood.
BLAM!
A shiver runs down my spine.
Standing over the corpse of the man, a man dressed in a white suit, holding a Bible and followed by a crowd, inhales the smoke from his gun, and tucks it away into his pocket.
“Isaiah 13:11,” he says, gleaming with excitement, “And i will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity,” he concludes, then sighs deeply. “Brethren, we are God’s seed, Amen!” he screams, and his followers reciprocate.
“You truly are the messiah!”
“Messianic arrival!”
They begin stomping their feet, rocking their heads violently, some are kneeling on the floor and bashing their heads against the concrete, some etch crucifixes into their palms with a knife. The man in the suit collects the knives from them and they kneel before him. They open their mouths, stick their tongues out and he tears their tongues with a knife, imprinting crucifixes into their flesh. They scream in agony, yet remain kneeling. In all of this, every being, apart from the me and the congregation is a living corpse. The music of agony and anguish, arousal, excitement and desecrated flesh emanates from the congregation. i am chilled to the bones and shivers poke the innermost crevices of my spine. Sweat trickles out of my body in gallons, yet, i cannot move. i cannot help but watch. i question my sanity, reality, this all feels surreal. phantasmagoria.
all of a sudden, the images begin to blur in my eyes, and my knees feel numb. i crumple to the floor, and the music from the congregation, far from euphonious, can still be heard. i put my hand on the floor to support myself, and a little creature walks up to me. it looks like a baby, definitely no less than two years. she looks at me, places her tiny hand on my chin, lifts my head so my eyes are locked with hers, and she asks,
“sword or rose, Musa?”
“huh?” i ask, barely hearing myself.
“wrong choice.”
everything fades to nothingness as my body slumps.
*******†*******
i am in a hallway. the floors and ceiling are pristine. the dazzling white lights wash clean any iniquities that may have latched onto the walls. as the jarring brightness dissolves, i realize that this is in fact, a galleria of art. memorabilia, from the souls of countless entitles. against my better judgement, i begin to walk. there are three doors at the end of the hallway, and my ragged breathing and irregular heartbeat offer prayers to Allah: may they be the way out of this nightmare.
“art is no nightmare,” someone retorts, as if present in my thoughts, and expressing displeasure with them.
startled, i look to the third window on my left, the one that i currently stand adjacent to, and there is a congregation in the room. their pupils dig holes in my soul. staring at me, softly, a boy, I can tell he is Nigerian from his accent and complexion. he has a luscious afro, and he is wearing a white shirt so bright, it almost rids me of my vision. there is a symbol of an “S” with a straight line dividing the “S” vertically on the shirt. he is holding up a piece of art: a boy covered in mystic runes, inscriptions, standing on a dinner; ritual table, he grasps tightly onto a sword and points it at the neck of a white haired man dressed in a suit. the man glares at him, his expression almost incoherent. behind the boy who is contemplating murder, a man whose ravenous hunger for flesh is evidenced by his stare drinks something from a chalice, there is a woman holding a gun, she covers her face shamefully….
“art is no nightmare,” the boy says calmly, redirecting my gaze. i stare at him, speechless.
“are you ready to die, Musa?” they all say, in unison.
i discard their eerie, unsettling inquisition and continue my feeble strut down the hallway. i ponder. i understood his art. i am not fascinated by troubadours or painters, but this art, congregation, bore an uncanny feeling of brethrenhood. i discard the thought and keep walking. i look through another window and I see a man in purple robes, he is uttering hurried prayers and repeatedly saying “alleluia.” he begins to release himself from the robes. on the slab before him, a woman lies, her hands and legs spread wide; there is no resistance, she is utterly bare. the tears flowing from her eyes contradict her pose, and i begin to wonder. maybe they are joyful tears, no, these are agony’s seas. maybe she is helpless, no, she is conscious and unbound, nonetheless, i cannot aid her. i stand and behold, dumbfounded. the man is bare now.
“you have waited your entire life for this, rejoice, you will be liberated, your saviour sees you now,” he says.
“amen, amen,” the woman responds.
he spits in his hand and runs it up her petal, she winces. her pose, however, remains unchanged. the man, evidently impatient, assumes a kneeling position, widens his eyes and plunges, defiling. she shrieks loudly at the completion of the intrusion, he cackles maniacally, and I decide that I am done beholding. blasphemous.
i reach the end of the hallway and a mirror stands there, between two doors. ‘sword’ and ‘rose’ are inscribed on both doors. i look in the mirror and an apparition of me appears. it looks like me, but it has no mouth. a three-eyed, mouthless apparition of me. it stares at me, unflinching. i touch the mirror, and the image reciprocates the gesture. i try to speak, but no utterance is birthed. none that I can hear, at least.
“speak the truth, and discernment shall be you,” a voice boomed, out of nothingness.
“how?” i ask, or i do not. i cannot hear myself. i mouth words, but nothing comes out of me.
“do not talk. communicate.”
“speak the dialect of the heart,” a feminine voice says, calmly.
i stand before the mirror, drenched in my sweat. i can hear my heart. i know, intuitively, that this reflection, i, hold all the answers. but how do i speak without a voice?
the hallway begins to darken, with the lights dying rhythmically. if darkness engulfs this hallway, i will be lost forever. somehow, i know. i peer into the apparition’s eye, and he stares back at me, emotionless.
“speak the dialect of the soul,” another voice says.
the darkness approaches the hallway’s end with an unrelenting swiftness. bile begins to rise in my throat, fright becomes me. i stare at myself in the mirror. i look deep in my eyes, this will not be the end of me. i am my saviour.
it all quietens.
i close my eyes, and i let go. the dread becomes inexistent. i recall the boy with the art. i have to die. i have to feel. it all comes to me now. i see it all. this phantasmagoric montage is reality. i understand now. I take a deep breath, and i let go.
“flower bleeds, the cross is an insignia, blood cleansing, mud baptism, the shepherd is the sheep no longer,” i recite, believing the words. they live, though unalive. they are my prayer, penance.
the apparition speaks,
“identity is a lie, metaphysical suicide, the body must die for the soul to thrive, the body must die for the propagation of the gospel, ye must be born again.”
my eyes open.
“sword.”
(end).