by Elisha Oluyemi

HE WITHDRAWS HIS PALM from the dog's mane as though irritated. Seconds ago, he was chuckling as he tickled the dog and caressed its mane, the happy pet wagging its tail. But now, his gaze bores firmly at it, and his eyes are void of emotion, like one caught between good and evil.

The dog returns the gaze with the most innocent look an animal could offer. In the CCTV footage, the pet's eyes are two balls of sheen gazing out of their sockets, right at the young boy standing in the corridor, as though saying, 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦... 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘥. 

Only that the boy isn't able to hear those pleas; or he can hear them but just finds them difficult to understand. His blank gaze turns into a deep frown, and he backpedals, swinging a sharp kick right at the dog's belly, sending it crashing against the near wall in the corridor. The dog growls—a husky whimper—writhing on its sides for some seconds, before it struggles back up its limbs to return to its master—this master who used to be kind. 

The boy withdraws another step and whips back a glance. A fire extinguisher container hangs on the wall. He backpedals towards it, hoists his both hands, and retrieves it. Head tilted, he slows a turn back at the dog whose eyes are now glistening the more, mopping at him as though wronged. He doesn't regard that either. He only trudges closer to it. In his eyes, this pet is nothing but a beast that must be crushed to the bones, a nuisance that must be murdered.

The dog moves closer, too. It stretches, face pushed upwards, begging understanding, telling his master that he is still that sweet pet from minutes ago. That he is still that obedient companion that wouldn't resent the chain around his neck.

Expectedly, this master doesn't know the colour of loyalty. Or he has been blinded by the evil that has just found him. The evil that makes a mother forget the allure of a baby's innocence. Everywhere she looks is darkness. Everything she hears is evil, ghostly whispers that rattle the heart, painting the seeable and perceivable world the colour of the blackness she has become. Everyone has a moment of discovery. A wisp or a mass of 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘴. And this boy's fate  can't be more interesting.

He pulls along the iron container till he is a couple of steps away from the beast. At once, he hefts it and smashes it on its head, forcing a yowl from the pet. Swiftly, he hefts it again and rams it against the face so that the dog growls and staggers and quivers, but returns, jaws slacked, tongue dripping slime, head bowed yet in submission and loyalty. 

The predator isn't ready to halt his kill—his fresh awakening. He hefts the weapon for the last time and crashes it on the dog's jaw, bashing the animal to the ground in a sanguinary fit. The dog sinks down, mashed head flat against the ceramic floor, writhing like a mortified leviathan.

After the kill, the boy doesn't drop the murder weapon. He doesn't stagger; doesn't shake his head frantically like one who's overwhelmed by regrets. Instead, his shoulders quiver—just like when someone giggles hard, satisfied with what they've just done. He slows a turn back, eyes on the nail in the wall. He trudges back to that nail and hangs the murder weapon back in its place. He wouldn't clean anything up. Not the bodily fluid. Not the carcass. Not the traces of darkness he has left here in this short while. He only stares in the direction of the CCTV camera right in the ceiling. And he walks away.

If this is his first murder, he'll never be an invincible killer. He is one who doesn't care. He will be like those who fail to go far with their display of supremacy. What a waste of talent! 

But I care. I have a lot to do for him. And I will start by erasing this footage from the mall's database.

 

by Elisha Oluyemi

IT BEGINS TONIGHT.  But he doesn’t know it.

    So he pulls his zippers and slings a rucksack across his shoulders. He rakes a glance across the room; smiles at the litter of panties and stockings strewn over his old sofa. He grabs a few and presses them to his nose, eyes rammed shut. He is inhaling their smell. The fragrance of his victims. He rechecks a trapdoor leading to a basement, pats the lock, and heads for the door.

    One more glance sideways, and he reaches for a plank; bats it against a cat trotting alongside him, sending it sprawled out and writhing on the carpet. “Screw Mum! I never wanted a goddamn cat!” he growled, tossing the weapon aside. All the while, he wears a blank look. Like nothing matters.

    I can see all that from my smartphone because I hid a spy cam in his room. As for who I am, he probably will never know. I’m like a brother. I’m like a foe. I’m like a god he’s never known.

    He grabs the animal by its flurry tail, dumps it in a bin, and stops again to relish the scent of a disappearing soul. I know it.

    Now, he steps out.

    The night is a deeper shade of grey today. He melts into it, now hooded, back hunched, hands buried in his pockets. And begins a steady walk down Kyari Avenue.

    I rise from behind tall blades of grass. Puff a sigh. And lingers a gaze at his disappearing figure. What pleasure could be greater than in frustrating a demon? Than in making them obedient to you? He will never know. Huh, when he returns, it will become my turn to savour the aroma of his wrath. I will just watch at a distance while he does just what I expect. Just what makes me ex-excited!

    Now I grab a gallon of petrol, leap over a gutter, and zip across the street, over to his house—the abode of death. No need for unnecessary surveillance. No need for a damn rethink. I just pour the fuel over his isolated building; break a window and dump the keg in. I retreat a few steps, fish out a lighter from my pocket, click it on, and toss it through that window. Fire booms and blares and burns and spreads. Soon all will be razed down.

    And he will return. Return to find his trophies gone. Return to find his treasured basement exposed to the world. How thrilling! Hahaha.

    Then he will look for me. But he doesn’t know me. So he will murder more to sooth his anger. To reawaken his dying trigger. I can imagine his wild countenance, his little eyes glaring at the unseen enemy. Ah, more will die through him. And he will think he’s doing that all by himself, but I’m the one who will make him do it. Who has made him do it. That is where I find my pleasure. In ruling him.

    And my reign. It begins.

About the Author:

ELISHA OLUYEMI is an undergraduate, Lagos-based writer, and fiction manuscript editor from Nigeria. He's the founder and Editor-in-Chief at Fiery Scribe Review, a literary magazine; and the founder of Fiery Fiction Writers Alliance (FIFWA), an online writing community. He has contributed short stories and poems to literary journals including Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, African Writer Magazine, Sledgehammer Lit, Mystery Journal, Adoxography, The Shallow Tales Review, Paracosm Literary Journal, Arts Lounge and many others. He's a Korean language addict and a big fan of classical music. Follow him on Twitter at @ylisha_cs : Instagram @_lishakim ; Facebook @Elisha Oluyemi. And read his works via https://contentscribe.blogspot.com

 

by Elisha Oluyemi

I HONOUR RIGHTEOUSNESS IN all things—even in murder (as some critics would tag my benevolence). But at least, that is my patients’ sole possibility of relief and a painless exit.

    Today, it’s all about Bala, a colon cancer stage IV patient, bedridden, and sure to disappear in three weeks. I see him grip his belly again, face crumpled and teeth clenched, probably to ease his ever-enduring pain. After holding out for four years that seemed like eternity, his perseverance is simply a worn elastic. Unable to hold back his agony, he blares out a groan, forcing looks of concern from other ‘awaiting-death’ patients, who are also, at the same time, anticipating their own inevitable episodes of pain.

    I puff out air as I rush to Bala’s bedside. He is drenched in sweat, and his limbs are the outstretched arms of a drowning child. Once he sees me through his half-closed eyes, he stretches out an arm that wasn’t so engaged in the struggle and his clenched teeth parts a bit. “D—doc—tor! Ki—kill me! Please ki—”

    “Don’t worry, Mr. Bala; it’s your turn today. You’ve endured a great deal, and now you should rest.”

    He gazes at me, this time, seemingly unconcerned by agonies. His voice calms and a smile spreads across his face. “Thank you, doc—tor!”

    I run my hands over a litter of instruments on a tray and single out a bottle of euthanasia drug, labelled ‘Freedom’. And in a minute, Bala becomes a free man.

    Now, I turn around. Other terminal patients are staring. Similar looks of envy and desire. . . . Of course, they’re all entitled to this same deliverance—just like Bala.

Written by Elisha Oluyemi

(Originally published by League of Poets)