Crime?
It's just like escaping from within the boundaries of moral restraints. The deviation from this moral factor doesn't necessarily denote aggressiveness or some dark manifestation; crime can always be innocent—especially if there is a psycho out there who doesn't hear the whispers of composure. We ourselves hear these whispers—all of us, except we are like them, the criminals, the psyschopaths, the bloody highlifes who can't bear to pull a briddle.
Yet we are like them. We may try to deny it. We may try to argue that we can never kill, never manipulate, never rob and burgle and cause wreckage; we may argue that we can never rape, that we hate the sounds of torture, that even if the world be swarmed by beasts we will remain humans. Where is the lie?
But you know, every 'human' is an animal with a sense of morality. Take away the morality and you'll be unleashing a full-blown psychopath. Remorse is gone. And responsibility? To hell with it. Since this rot is a part of us (merely restrained), it is ever thrilling to explore what lies hidden in us yet exposed in a fraction of subhumans. It is ever thrilling to read and write CRIME and the many shades of it. And that is why I write crime.
The nature of the psychopath, though dark and evil, is rather intriguing and a bit of some 'nice' feeling. Why do we feel a murder isn't intriguing enough? Why do we feel a serial killer needs a crazier fetish to make them compelling and different from the others? It's in us. That powerful wisp of evil. Imagination's only doing its part; MORE of US appears when we think wild. We think deep into ourselves and see our dark sides and write them as though they are reflections or paintings of some evil stranger far away. I write crime to let out these darkness that I wouldn't dare bring to real life. And you're happy to read, ain't you?
For me, it's not to correct any societal ill. Literary fiction can take care of that. And it's not to emphasise morality or the poor clichè that good wins in the end. I rather find it easier and more precise painting evil the way it is. Many evils go unrewarded. That is reality. I write crime to show reality. To show the darkness shrouded in pretense, in unconsciousness, in the intentional ignorance we've given ourselves away to.
Jenny is the central character of my short crime, 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙯𝙚. And I've made her a grpping representation of this darkness. You'll find Fire in the Maze in the 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙁𝙒𝙄𝘾 𝘾𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝘼𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙮, 𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙚, featuring five (5) other crazy crimes. When you meet her, take your time to study her. Get lost in her world. And savour the thrill of darkness.
The Anthology will be out on the 6th of May, 2022.
You can pre-order now. Details are in the comments section. Let's be happy!
For the love of CRIME FICTION!!!
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| 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.
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| 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
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| 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)
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| by Elisha Oluyemi |
Who can be powerful enough to
enter the house of a strong man
and plunder his goods,
except he first binds him?
Except the invader be exceedingly mad.
--Mark 3:27
8 MARCH, 2021
ASO ROCK PRESIDENTIAL VILLA, ABUJA
UNTIL NOW, PRESIDENT Garba Lai didn’t see this day coming. He didn’t see the cloudy mass hanging in leaden sprinkles about the skies. But he has always been prepared. He always has a special weapon.
Right within the screen, the news anchor breaks a stirring news:
“A leaked and viral video of the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, Garba Lai, stabbing the Inspector General of Police to death, has surfaced. And now the nation is plunged into an uproar.
“The Inspector General, Lateef Chukwu, is filmed on his knees pleading frantically for his life right in front of a man, shown to be the current Nigerian President, Garba Lai, alongside his aide de camp, Baba Tairu, and a few other armed thugs. The president is then seen to stride behind the trussed Inspector General and stab him twice in the back, after which he kicks his remains, leaving him for—”
“Kill that thing, Tairu!”
Without protest, Tairu grabs a glassware from the center table and hurls it at the TV.
“Done, Your Excellency,” he says, eyeing the messy floor. “But … it could be dangerous next time, sir.”
President Garba downs a cup of wine. “I have three orders.”
“Please go ahead, Your Excellency.”
“What TV station was that?”
“MBS, sir.”
“Well, force them into my media blacklist.”
“Yessir. Em … I trust you have a stronger order to give.”
“You’re in no position to rate my words.” President Tairu waves a hand. “Tell the Chief Security Officer to block off the press; they’d be flitting around anytime soon.”
“Yessir. And the last one?”
“Call the office of the Chief of Staff. Right away.”
Tairu leans close. “Your Excellency, do you trust him?”
“Okon will always be a confidante. Just do as I say.
PRESS CONFERENCE, PRESIDENTIAL VILLA
Chief of Staff, Okon Dimba, tall and lean in his X-sized suit, swaggers to the platform, head high. But the curious glares from the excited reporters force his eyes down onto his manuscript.
“Good morning, fellow Nigerians,” he says, making a bow. The ramming of fingers against keys seems to impede his focus. “We understand that the tension stemming from the presidential scandal requires our immediate response; hence, I am here for that on behalf of the President.”
Murmurs rumble like a plane in the clouds and flashes from camera shutters are everywhere. A reporter rockets her hand. “Why are you here instead of the President?”
Okon sports a faint smirk. Not unexpected. I’ve been prepared. “Let’s just get straight to the point—”
“Did Mr President truly murder the Inspector General?” asks a reporter from the far corner.
“Does Mr President admit the video evidence is valid?” another asks.
“I think the President shouldn’t be deflecting his duty of addressing the country at heated times as this. What do you think, Mr. Okon?”
Okon juts his jaw, eyeing the reporters as they take turns throwing their hands up and blaring questions. The outcome of this press conference really would have no negative on him. That fatuous president must be in his study now, watching him play according to the script. But he is prepared to disappoint him. You’ve given me a rare privilege to toss you down the cliff, Mr President.
An MBS pressman jolts up his seat as if stunned. “The people are currently running riot, don’t you know? The mass reactions are incensed on media platforms. Won’t the President give a statement?”
Okon drums his lean fingers against the lectern. He can only keep his calm this way. “Let’s take this slow. I’ll answer every question posed, so let’s be gentlemanly.”
“Okay, go on please.”
Okon waves the manuscript he brought with him. “The President expects me to play according to this script. He forgot it isn’t easy to put up with rubbish—”
“Are you trying to expose the President?”
“I’ll continue. Please don’t cut in,” Okon retorts. “I have a top secret to gift to Nigerians.”
Camera flashlights flicker on as the pressmen type wildly. Okon dips a hand in his pocket and fishes out a USB stick which he waves at once. “Herein lies the full surveillance video of President Garba Lai’s horrendous murder of the Late Inspector General Lateef Chukwu in the late hours of Tuesday the 1st of March, 2023.”
“Outrageous it is, and we assume you know a lot. So please say, why would the President kill the Inspector General?”
“There’s classified information on the President’s financial support of terrorists. Late Lateef Chukwu was out to investigate when—”
“Would you defend the authenticity at all costs?”
Okon nods at the reporter. “I did the recording myself.”
ASO ROCK PRESIDENTIAL VILLA, ABUJA
Baba Tairu rushes into the President’s study and flings shut the door behind his burly self. “Are you watching the press conference, Your Excellency?”
President Garba Lai rolls his eyes at the aide. This is what ten years of familiarity can cause. Disrespect. Anyways … “You’ve been serving me since my days in the Ministry of Works; say, have you ever seen me panic?”
Tairu flickers a brow. “Never … Your Excellency. Em, pardon my lack of calm.” He sights a new TV fitted to the wall. “You changed it so fast. How come I didn’t know?”
“Huh?” President Garba waves his hands and points at the screen. “Okon Dimba seems to be in the spotlight this time. All Nigerians are watching him as he stabs me in the back.” He drains a bottle of beer.
“What’s your plan?” Tairu asks.
“You should just wait and see what my grand plan is this time.”
“I know you never disappoint. But em … considering—”
A cell phone rings and President Garba hands it over to Tairu. “Put on the loudspeaker and answer it.”
A voice creaks from the phone’s speaker. “Target marked, Mr President.” A pause. “Do we move now?”
Lips parted in a full feral grin, President Garba springs to his feet and starts to pace around. This intended move isn’t the last resort, he thinks. But it’s the best and most timely. Sacrifices, no matter how outrageous, are necessary for the big picture. Who forced me to a corner in the first place? Screw that! “At the count of three,” he says. “Strike the target. Not just Aso Rock needs to feel the effect, all Nigerians must.” He draws close to Tairu and blares into the hush speaker. “One! … Two! … Three—”
BOOM is the sound, but soon, sounds of burning and clanking and falling follow.
Tairu staggers backwards, falling upon an also staggering Garba Lai. And as he struggles to get up, a beer bottle trips him over. He struggles to his knees this time, face crumpled and mouth parted in disbelief as he rams a glare onto his master who remains on the floor. “Did … did you order a bomb blast?” he asked. “Did you—”
“Sacrifices—”
“That’s too big!”
“Nothing is too big to be foregone in the face of the big picture, Baba Tairu.” He eases his obese mass onto a sofa chair. “Swallow your fears, uh.”
“But how is this sacrifice worth it?” Tairu asks, eyes bulged.
This time, the TV breathes a third party between the duo. And President Garba signals for Tairu to pay attention to the news.
A grey-bearded man clad in buba soon fits into the screen.
“Welcome to SBS Breaking News. Devastating airstrikes have reportedly rocked the inside and environs of Aso Rock Presidential Villa, leaving thirty-six people feared dead.”
The news anchor fades off the screen and is replaced by a live video of the disaster. A bawdy looking youth stands between the camera and the burning Villa, microphone raised below chin. “According to insiders’ report, Mr President could be safe since the attack didn’t touch on the very residence.
“But a press conference was being observed at the time of the blast and within the circumference of the strike. Few minutes ago, Nigerian Chief of Staff, Okon Dimba, had declared he’d be revealing a top secret. But it is possible that Mr Okon Dimba alongside the several pressmen have become victims of this outrageous attack on our dear state.
“What becomes of the top secret? What becomes of the presidential scandal? Is Mr Okon a part of this game? Was he really going to REVEAL a secret? Is it political opponents causing a ruckus? Are some overlords playing with the minds of we Nigerians all for the sake of political benefits? First a viral scandal.” The reporter turns to face the villa, pointing at it. “And now a grand attack on the President—”
“And that’s how it works!” President Garba Lai claps as he collapses in a fit of giggles. What an accomplishment!
“I see the real deal now,” Tairu says, noodling. “Soon everything is forgotten.”
“Right, right! Even if Okon survives this strike, I’ll end up silencing him. Brassmouth already placed a cage around his family.”
“So when do I need take action?”
“When all seems to be a waste.”
Tairu cocks his head. “What does Your Excellency mean?”
“This seems like a temporary solution. I trust it won’t end here. But when it happens, we always have our Plan B—the ones in my cage.” President Garba puffs a breath. “Madness does suppress madness.”
Tairu nods as he retrieves a beer bottle from a refrigerator in the corner. “Yes,” he says, turning to look at the grinning President. “The Inspector General was a madman, too.”
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| by Elisha Oluyemi |
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| by Elisha Oluyemi |
IMPERFECTION REMAINS AN INHERENT trait of man, and it reflects in
diverse areas of his interest. Sometimes
it's realised through a personal perspective, sometimes through some outsider's
assessment. In many cases, what a certain outsider tag perfect is condemned by
another. And one is left questioning the real nature of their results.
You stumble on a story idea
and begin to piece things together. You spend hours or days or weeks or months
or even years trying to make it appeal as perfect.
Now all of that's done.
Completed. Your chin up, shoulder high, you present it to the world hoping to
get some thumbs up, but then the reviews begin to stream in.
They aren't what you
anticipated, rather they are torrents of bladed, spiky remarks, tearing at your
efforts, goring your view of self.
You sink into your chair, bed,
whatever. Deep creases jab at your face. "I'm no good after all," you
say, looking so pained. "My efforts, my time, my experiences, everything .
. . they're all to no good!" Then you sob and beat yourself and . . .
maybe consider pleasing your demons or . . . maybe decide to wave it off and
press on.
If you decide on the latter,
you sure are in for good.
The fact is, the world—this damn world—expects too much from you. But can you give more than you've got?
There are times you come up with awesome contents and the world's like kissing your feet: you see the thumbs-ups almost poking your face; the hailing and applause have got no measure either.
But also there are times—blue,
gloomy times—when your content is as redundant as a cliche. As for that, you
know what follows.
Now that should never announce
your resignation.
Even exceptional leaders rack up bad
ratings at some point in time, at some naturally unfavourable season.
World best sportspersons,
though universally accoladed, are bound to exhibit flaws at some point.
It doesn't play down their
positive significance. It doesn't erode their abilities.
You see, that moment of
weakness is just a passing wind. And it shakes the feeble-minded. And it's
capable of hurling one against the rocks.
It all depends on your
attitude—your immediate response.
SHAKE IT OFF!
Even if the reviews are
stabbing, they don't play down your ability.
YOU'RE STRONG!
YOU'RE BRAVE!
YOU'RE A WRITING GOD!
When your best seems ugly, get
her some cosmetics. And you're good to go!
PROLIFIC FICTION WRITERS COMMUNITY (PROFWIC) is on the lookout for short crime stories to be published in its PROFWIC Anthology Vol 1 to be published this year.
Theme: Femme Fatale
Stories should be:
- Crime fiction
- Featuring a female antagonist
- Avoid ‘It’s just a dream’ trope stories.
- Of length 3000 to 5000 word count
Do you have what it takes to write such stories?
Spaces are limited.
Stories will be published in a crime fiction anthology by IfèAdigo Publishing Company.
Submit your story today to ifeadigopub@gmail.com
Feel free to send in your enquiries.
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