I wrote this last night.
‘It’s 1:25am and I’m awake. I’m up for two reasons.
• My friend, Modupe, just woke me up with a call.
• I’m plotting Ahmed’s murder.
Modupe is my beautiful, unassuming best friend who would never hurt a fly. She is however married to an imbecile of a man; Ahmed.
I have gotten countless calls like this in the past two years they have been married.
‘Ahmed beat me o! He will kill me’
‘Sophia, Ahmed beat me in front of Mariam. He beat me in front of my baby’
‘Ahmed pushed me down the stairs’
‘Ahmed used that iron part of his belt to scatter my head’
‘Ahmed pull all my braids out’
‘Ahmed boiled hot water to pour on me. Thank God I ran away’
‘Ahmed is cheating on me. And hear what he told me ‘do whatever you want. I have no need for you’
Ahmed will kill me o’
This night, it was ‘Ahmed kicked me out of the house (by 1:20am). Sophia, what am I supposed to do? He kicked me out of the house but not out of the compound. So I can’t even go anywhere.’
You can imagine that I’m tired of just listening to these complaints. I am a very practical, proactive, straight-to-the-point and in-control person. But it takes a situation like this for one to know that there are some things you can’t have control over.
I have told Modupe to report this issue to the police or at least an NGO that focuses on abuse. God knows I have even advised her to hire thugs to beat up the guy. I have given anonymous tips to the police in that area. The only time they acted on it, Modupe told them ‘oh… no. Definitely not here. All is well.’
So, in this kind of situation, I know I can only lie down on my bed and curse Ahmed.
He’s a fool; Ahmed. The God of the Israelites should look down on him and remember the days of the 10 plagues. I only request that He sends Ahmed the plague of boils. May boils take over his whole body. And if possible, his internal organs too. I won’t be surprised if his heart is already one big boil. Filled with nothing but pus. And maybe a little blood. I digress. May the boils cover his buttocks and may they itch. But his whole hand would be so weighed down by boils that he would not be able to scratch his buttocks. May his lips be melted together into one boil, so he would fully resemble the frog that he is.
He’s an idiot; Ahmed. May all the peoples of the world travel to Nigeria; to Ahmed’s house. And when he painfully crawls out of his gate to see what’s causing such uproar, may we all run towards him, trampling on him. Bursting his boils. A stampede to ensure that he is ground to dust.
He’s insane; Ahmed. May a powerful whirlwind come and gather up the dust / remains of Ahmed. May the whirlwind fling it into a sea (sadly, all the fish and sea creatures may die). May the sea then dry up and be swallowed into the ground.
This I wish; that nothing remains of the animal that was Ahmed.’
This morning, I picked up my phone (where I wrote this), read this and I was disappointed in myself. Not because I wished for someone else’s death, but because, to be honest, that write up was very childish, unimaginative (and at the same time over imaginative) and boring. There are several other ways the man can die. And I have just the perfect plan…