by Ngozi Razak-Soyebi

Special to G21 AFRICA

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Ngozi
Razak-Soyebi

LAGOS, NIGERIA - They call me Weré ... madman.

In my homeland, no one gives someone like me more than a fleeting glance. My life is like a rolling stone. I gather dirt and grime as I go, enriching my 'glad rags.'

Wherever I lay my head is my home, usually under the bridges, at bus-stops or by the roadside. I am not particular. I eat from the dustbins of the very rich and have been known to drink water from the gutters. I am like a time bomb, waiting to explode into bursts of fury. I have very little worries, if any. Indeed, my fellow humans are my biggest headache. They treat me like dirt. A lot of them will hastily step over to the other side of the road rather than pass by me. They care little about what they say in my presence. They forget I have moments, even days, of lucidity when my mind makes that forward journey in search of self-expression, and I have learnt from what I hear that they are no better than me. They are like cassava; they get 'better'as they decay. I know now that the world is full of madmen. Not all in tattered clothes like me ... .

---

'Religious riots claim six hundred lives in Kano,'screamed the caption of one newspaper.

'Senate, House approve emergency rule in Plateau,'declared another.

'Religious intolerance a source of growing concern to the government ... '

A handful of people gathered round the newspaper vendor at the popular Ojuelegba bus-stop, perusing the headlines.

'Na wa for this our country,'one man said to no one in particular in the local vernacular. 'So so fight fight.'

'We dey kill each other everyday because of religion,'the man to his left said, picking up on the subject. 'Na craze be dat.'

'Our country don turn to battleground,'another man put in. 'Christians dey kill Moslems, Moslems dey kill Christians, cult killings for our universities, hired assassination ... Na wa-o-o.'

'Na devil work,'said yet another.

'No, my brother,'the first man disagreed vehemently. 'Make we no blame devil for our own wickedness. No be mad people like dat madman wey stand for there -- 'he angled his head towards the madman loitering behind the vendor's stand ' -- wey dey kill each other. Na people like you and me wey dem head correct wey dey kill each other like chicken.'

The second young man nodded his head. 'Na true you talk, my brother. All dis fight get to stop. Nigeria no belong to one person or one religion. Na we all get dis country.' The newspaper vendor, who'd stepped away briefly in search of change for a customer, returned just then and gave them his fiercest look. 'Una wan'buy paper abi una wan'talk?'he growled.

---

I walk away in search of a wall or pole to scratch my back. I shed these lice everyday and they just crawl right back on.

One dead man? Six hundred dead men? What difference does it make?

They make so much noise about the death of six hundred men, and yet everyday they walk past the bodies of dead men that litter the streets of Lagos without a backward glance.

Is one life more important than another? Is six hundred deaths more important than one?

Vultures feed big in this land. When I die, they will feed on my body, giving way to the rabid dogs that share my bed after they've had their fill. Only then will someone notice the stench and call in the men from the state waste disposal unit. Heaven help me if I die on a federal road.

One? Six hundred?

I have seen thieves 'roasted'alive without fair trial, ritual murder victims left to rot by the roadside and hit-and-run victims abandoned to their fate.

One? Six hundred?

I rub my back vigorously against the twisted electric pole.

Madmen do not kill each other. Even animals kill only for food.

The world is full of madmen. Not all in tattered clothes ... .

---

The young man in the canteen wolfed down the rice, unmindful of the swirling steam. 'You must be starving, Chike,'the older man sitting across from him remarked. Chike glanced up and nodded. 'Yes, Uncle. I ... I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon.'

His uncle frowned. 'What happened to your brother?'he asked sharply. 'Don't you live with him anymore?'

'I do, Uncle,'he replied, 'but he is going through a rough patch now. The textile company he works for is downsizing, and he took a salary cut recently. It was either that or lose his job.'

'I see.' He glanced at Chike's nearly empty plate. 'Some more rice?'

Chike nodded. 'I won't mind, Uncle.'

As his uncle ordered loudly for another plate of rice, Chike reached for the bottle of soft drink and drank thirstily from it. He set the bottle down after he'd had his fill and belched softly. 'Excuse me,'he said before he resumed the conversation. 'I feel pained putting a strain on my brother's pocket at a time like this. I only wish his wife hadn't lost her provision store to fire.'

'Now that you bring it up, has the cause of the fire been determined?'his uncle asked. Chike nodded, smiling his thanks as the waitress arrived with the fresh order. 'Power surge.'

His uncle shook his head. 'I should have known, what with the erratic power supply we have in this country. Anyway, I would have asked you to come and stay with me, but as you know, I already have my younger sister and two of my in-laws living with me and my family.' He paused for a moment. 'It's a tight squeeze some days.'

'I know, Uncle. You do enough for me already.' He pointed to the fast-diminishing plate of rice. 'Not only do you buy me lunch whenever I stop by your office, but also you tell your friends about my search for work.'

His uncle waved away his gratitude. 'So what happened at the last place I sent you?' 'Same story, Uncle. No vacancy for now, but he promised to keep my application in view.' He let out another sigh. 'I wonder when I will stop pounding the streets in search of a job.'

'It will end soon,'his uncle said reassuringly.

'I hope so, Uncle. I really hope so. It's hard to believe I've been at it now for over a year.'

His uncle appeared somewhat taken aback. 'It's been that long already?'

Chike nodded.

'Never mind. I feel certain you will get something very soon. You must understand that it isn't easy to secure a job these days. There are far too many people competing for the few available jobs.' He shook his head sadly. 'It saddens me to see what has become of this country. In my days, it was so much easier to secure a job. Now ... ' He let the sentence hang.

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A brief silence followed during which Chike chewed slowly on a piece of meat and swallowed. 'I feel as though I've let my parents down,'he finally said. 'They almost sold the clothes on their backs to give me a university education, and now I can't even get a job and send some money home.'

'You will ... in time.'

'What makes me so mad is that the government is doing virtually nothing about the continuing rise in unemployment.' His voice became passionate. 'They complain about the rise in armed robbery and advance fee fraud and yet they do nothing about the high rate of unemployment. They forget that an idle mind is the devil's workshop.'

'I know, Chike.'

'There are days I'm too depressed to get out of bed,'Chike confessed. 'I have almost forgotten what it's like to be happy. I feel as though I'm losing my mind, and I've often wondered if I should put an end to this suffering by taking my life.' He glanced up and caught sight of the madman loitering a few feet away by the canteen door. He locked eyes with him for a brief moment before the madman looked away. 'I will never again look a madman in the face and wonder what drove him crazy. Now I know.'

His uncle followed his gaze. 'Now, don't be so melodramatic, Chike,'he admonished. 'You could never be like that madman. We all go through difficult periods in life and we don't go about talking of taking our lives. Only a madman would do that, and madness does not run in our family.'

Just as Chike opened his mouth to speak, the proprietor of the canteen glanced up and spied the madman through the swirl of steam rising from the huge pot in front of her. She let out a loud hiss that sounded very much like a deflating tyre. 'This madman has come again,'she said to no one in particular. She turned to one of her waiters and added harshly, 'What are you waiting for to drive him away, Akin? Do you think I opened this canteen to cater to madmen?'

---

I refuse to give Akin the pleasure of shooing me away like a chicken this time. I saunter away, poking more holes in my trousers as I go. All that smell of good food has made me hungry again.

As I rummage through a nearby dustbin, my mind, or what is left of it, keeps running on the conversation I just overheard. No one will take the confessions of that young man seriously until he makes the journey over to the other side. Then, it will be too late. I should know, because it happened to me. It makes me mad, or should I say madder, when people look at me and assume I was born mad or that insanity runs in my family. Nothing could be further from the truth. I once had a life like that young man sitting in the canteen until it all went horribly wrong.

I am a madman -- what can be worse than that? -- and I have never thought to take my life. Perhaps I don't even know how. That young man has considered taking his life, and yet no one will take his confessions seriously.

I have never travelled out of my homeland -- and I guess I never will until my soul makes that final journey to its resting place -- but I feel certain this is the only place on earth where someone like me is allowed to roam the streets freely, mingling with the sane. They don't want to be like me, and I sometimes wish I could be like them. But then, on second thoughts, isn't my life better than theirs? My life is one dark void, broken only by intervals of lucidity, so the erratic power supply doesn't bother me. I drink from the gutters so the lack of pipe-borne water in most areas isn't my headache. No one will ever allow me board their bus even if I have the correct fare so the bad roads don't hinder my journey. Indeed, the world could grind to a halt for all I care. I stand by the roadside and watch our leaders zoom past in heavily guarded cars with tinted windows. Their loud siren reminds me of the pulsating strains of the orchestra

I often hear playing in my head. I can't see them, but I know they see me, and I wonder what they make of me.

What a hopeless madman!
His ancestors must have offended the gods.
Thank goodness he isn't my son!
I'm sure he smokes hemp and it made him mad.
How is it possible for someone to be that dirty?
I bet he stinks ...

I stand so still they must think I'm a statue on decay. But it wouldn't matter, anyway. T here is so much decay around, I would just fit nicely into the equation.

It is my turn to laugh at them, though, when I see them planting flowers by the roadside to hide the decay. They forget that no matter how beautiful a cemetery is it is still a place of mourning.

The world is full of madmen, I say. And not all in tattered clothes like me ...

---

'Alero!'the woman at the bus-stop called out to another.

'Chinwe!'

They clutched hands for a moment before embracing each other. It was obvious to onlookers that they were old friends who'd lost touch with one another. They broke apart, assessing each other critically.

'I'm so glad to see you, Alero.'

'Me, too, Chinwe.'

'You look well.'

'Thank you. So do you.'

They exchanged hugs again before they broke apart, holding hands loosely.

'I had no idea you were now in Lagos, Alero.'

'I am now. I left Warri last year.'

'I see. So how are your children?'

She smiled. 'They are fine.'

'And your husband ... Ejiro? How is he?'

Her face fell. 'Ha-haven't you heard?'

'Heard what?'

'Ejiro ... he -- 'her voice shook slightly ' -- he's dead.'

Chinwe's eyes widened with shock. 'Oh, my God! I had no idea.' She gripped her friend's hands tightly. 'What happened?'

'Road accident.'

'Oh dear! When?'

'Early last year. I only just came out of mourning.'

'You poor thing. It must have been a harrowing time for you.'

'Yes, it was.' She sighed softly. 'I went through hell, and I thank God I'm still alive to tell the story.'

'Hell?' She frowned her confusion. 'What happened?'

'Hmm! It was terrible. Each time I recollect what happened, I keep wondering if it was a scene from a horror movie, but the sad truth is that it happened to me.'

'What happened?'her friend asked again.

'My dear, I was still grappling with Ejiro's sudden death when his people started pointing fingers at me. They claimed I was responsible for his death.'

'That's ridiculous!'

'So I thought, too, at the time until I realized they were quite serious. They called me a witch, claiming that I "sacrificed" him to enhance my business and to prolong my life. My denial fell on deaf ears, and during his funeral, they decided that the only way to prove my innocence was to ... to drink the water used in bathing his ... his corpse.'

Her friend's jaw dropped. 'You ... you don't mean it!'

Alero nodded. 'I do. They said it was part of their custom. They claimed I would survive the ordeal if I was innocent. Otherwise, I would die and my wickedness would be revealed to the whole world.'

'You ... you didn't drink it, did you?'

She pursed her lips for a moment. 'What choice did I have? They made my life extremely unbearable. I was locked away in isolation in a tiny hut with only a mat to sleep on. I was refused company and access to my children. They wouldn't even let me take a bath. I nearly lost my mind and I did what they wanted just to put an end to the entire ordeal.'

'They ... they watched you drink it?'

'Every drop.' She paused for a moment as though reliving the entire ordeal. 'I shed bitter tears all the while, but no one cared.'

Her friend shook her head in disbelief. 'I have heard stories of such vile customs, but I never thought any of it was true.'

'It is, my friend. It happened to me. They fed me poison and waited for me to die. I was ill for days, but I thank God I survived.'

Her friend shook her head again. 'Why are our customs so harsh on widows? A widower is treated with great sympathy while a widow is often labelled a witch and made to suffer. It isn't right.'

'I agree with you, Chinwe. And you know what saddens me most?'

'What?'

'It is women like you and I who are at the forefront of such vile customs. All those old women stood over me like hungry vultures, their eyes glistening with madness, making sure I drank every drop of the poison they fed me.' Her face tightened in anger.

'Women ... we are our own worst enemies.'

They lapsed into silence as a bus pulled to a stop and the conductor began to yell out its destination. 'Costain! CMS!'

Alero released Chinwe's hand as the bus quickly filled up and pulled away from the bus-stop. 'Enough about me,'she said. 'How's it been with you?' She glanced at her friend's ring finger. 'Are you married now?' Chinwe laughed. 'My dear, that's another long story.'

---

I drag myself out of this self-inflicted stupor and, out of the corner of my eye, I see the two women retreat further away from me. I ignore them and reach into the dirty old sack containing my life's belongings for a half-eaten loaf of bread. I rub it against my leg before I begin to eat.

I drink from the gutters. I am mad.

They fed her water used to wash a corpse. They are mad.

---

'How was business today?'the young man in the bright red shirt and purple trousers said to his friend as they strolled down the street.

'Dull, my brother,'his friend replied. 'Very dull. How was it at your end?'

'Hectic. We made quite a lot of money today.'

His friend flashed him a surprised look. 'How is that possible? The medicine business is so slow now I doubt if anyone is doing brisk business.'

'We are.' His chest swelled with pride. 'It's that new medicine my master imported,'he explained. 'It is selling like hot cakes.'

'The brand of paracetamol?'

'Mmm-hmm. It is now the cheapest in the market and everybody wants it.'

'How come it is cheaper than all the other brands?'

The young man in the garish outfit glanced over his shoulder, gave the madman walking a little way behind a dismissive look and leaned closer to his friend. 'My master has a contact in Germany and he asked him to make the medicine for him,'he confided.

'You mean it is imported and it is still so cheap?'his friend asked incredulously.

'Of course. My master is a very shrewd businessman,'he boasted. 'He told his contact in Germany just how to make it.'

'I don't understand.'

The young man's voice dropped a notch. 'He told his contact to reduce the quantity of the active component and make it up with white powder.'

His friend gave him a shocked look. 'Isn't that harmful?'

'The white powder is harmless,'he replied dismissively.

'What if your master gets caught?'

The young man shook his head. 'No way. That's why he chose paracetamol. People use it up quickly ... like water.' He laughed at his wit. 'Show me a person who doesn't have a headache in this country with all its palaver and I'll show you a madman.' His friend laughed with him.

'You have to be very smart to survive in this country. People are getting poorer everyday, so cheap products are in. It is the quickest way to make money now.' His friend was silent for a moment, and then he said solemnly, 'You're right, my brother.'

---

I step out from behind these two. I had been drawn to them by the young man's colourful attire, but now I'm bored with their conversation.

People say I wander through life, lacking in ambition. I make no pretence to that. Indeed, I think it noble to be lacking in ambition than to plot to harm my fellow-countrymen as a result of my greed.

These people are like cassava, I say; they get 'better'as they decay.

The prisons are not full of madmen like me.

The prisons are full of madmen like them.

---

My stomach gives a fierce growl, reminding me that even the mad need three 'square'meals. My foray into the dustbins today hasn't yielded much. Even the dustbins of the very rich yield poor harvests these days.

I spy a bread vendor across the road.

'Did you watch the late evening news last night?'I overhear one woman ask another as I prepare to cross the road.

'I'm afraid I didn't get a chance to watch it all. We were thrown into darkness halfway through.'

'Did you catch the report on the créche?'

'No. What about it?'

'There was this shocking report about a créche on the outskirts of Lagos that drugs t he babies in its care before hiring them out to unscrupulous elements who use them to beg on the streets.'

'That's terrible!'

'Mmm-hmm. So while the parents'of these poor babies are at work, they are unaware that the proprietor of the créche they have entrusted their babies to is using them to get richer. Naturally, she ensures that the babies are returned before their parents'arrive to pick them at the close of work. Can you just imagine that?'

I shake my head as I step onto the busy road.

Greed! Greed! Greed! The world is full of madmen. Not all in ...

I reign in my thoughts as I negotiate the busy road, careful of the oncoming vehicles. I often wonder why drunk drivers knock down perfectly sane people and never a madman.

I stop a few feet away from the bread vendor and watch her do brisk business. My stomach lets out another growl, and I wait impatiently for the last customer to step away before I approach her. I hold out my hand in silent appeal.

Her lips curl in contempt. 'Wéré ... madman. Go away!'she snarls.

My hand drop to my side. I act like I'm going away, and when I think she isn't looking,

I reach out quickly and grab the loaf of bread nearest to me.

I break into a run, weaving madly from side to side. Not that I expect her to give chase, mind. Still ...

I glance back in time to see her let out a loud hiss. 'Wéré,'she says dismissively. 'Madman.'

I stop running and rub the loaf of bread against my leg. No one takes the antics of a madman seriously.

I saunter away to someplace quiet to enjoy the spoils of my labour. I can feel my mind begin to make the backward journey into that dark abyss where there is nothing but emptiness and a continuous feeling of lethargy. I don't try to fight it. Perhaps it is even better not to, with all the decay I've seen around me today. The world is full of madmen. And not all in tattered clothes like me.

---

NGOZI RAZAK-SOYEBI - A full-time writer, Ngozi Razak-Soyebi's work has appeared on the internet website writershood.com and in the newsletter of the Women Writers of Nigeria (WRITA). More recently, her short story, The Passage, was chosen for publication in an anthology in the US. She lives in Lagos, Nigeria with her husband and seven-month-old daughter. This is her second article for The World's Magazine.