I love stories God knows I do. Being a lonewolf, I grew up enjoying my lone company and exploring the out-of-reach land of fantasies.
I was so disconnected from realities that my worldviews came from tales from books—fictions and factions. The more I never questioned my narcissistic tendency to keep to my reasoning the more I found the whole humanity insane.
Whenever I was caught in some spontaneous conversations with those, who passed as acquaintances back in high school days the more obvious my warped thoughts, was made known.
Occasionally I did go with the boys and had some precious moments, then I had to be drawn out, and some fellas saw to it that I was always drawn along.
This precious company soon grew sour thanks to my far-fetched tales. When boys shared exploits and conquests— that’s called gisting as against the indulgence of ladies-gossip, but I never saw the difference if both include taking about an absent person—I was handy to link each person’s story to a character I must have read about. Should I be blamed, when every nuance of life seems to be a slice from my fictions?
They grew weary and requested original tales of my escapades, or am I a coward? I took exception to being a coward; of course, I had feelings and my hypothalamus was secreting necessary hormones. I decided upon giving a tale for the boys at out next gathering. I picked a story I shall dish out regularly as progress of my dalliance from my latest fictions. I picked a lady as the object of my attraction. That, I discovered was going to be my greatest undoing.
I spilled stories about Anne, my dreamed girl that could only be true in my dreams and watched how other boys gleefully relish every detail of the experience. Envy grew; admiration simmered but I stuck to my plot. Anne is the fairest of all girls in our high school who cared as much for me as one would for the desks in the classes.
It came to a day I told them my success in getting her phone contact from her—another great feat, for no boy has been flattered with such attention from Anne.
Naturally, I came back to the boys to tell them the conversation on the phone the previous night; I recounted her delight to hear my voice that I even stretched my luck to declare my intention to own her. The boys held their breathe to hear my deserved ‘No’ but I was not ready to burst the bubble… I will let them decide what the situation is when they see us pair up at lunchtime. The bell went soon after.
‘Hey, Charles what were you saying on phone last night’ Anne’s voice barred my way into the café
‘Hey you!’ I blurted out, spilling drinks from my mouth. Must this be here, I thought looking around. Nicholas was in hearing shot and loosely hung unto my next utterance
‘Yeah, the network was poor but I sent a message, didn’t you get that?’ I pleaded for mercy. Anne cannot possibly expect me to ask her out here and now.
‘I did but I didn’t get the drift’ She demanded matter of fact
I wished the ground to open and swallow me. I stuttered for words and the bank of it failed me.
Nicholas, hurled a bowel of laughter at me…’I thought you were involved with her? Fool!’
‘Who, me? Only in your wildest dreams!’ Anne said, casting a venomous shot at me
Sure, it all happened in my wildest dream.
Need I say I never shared tales with no boy but only my blog?
Laying on a two-and-half inches mattress in this four-by-four feet cockpit my life whizzes away. The event that brought me here faints in the background of that coming ahead of me.
I am among the one hundred and twenty eight prisoners awaiting death at the Agodi prisons, Ibadan. I am detailing my steady, frightful and sure journey to death on these pages.
The life of a condemned criminal is quite different from that of rehabilitatable criminals. Our outfit are different as sure as our chores. We await but one ultimate visitor, they expect as many cheerful news harbingers. They count their days to life, we strike ours to a sure death.
On the fourth of July, 1997 when the supreme court finally upheld the decision of a lower court and passed death sentence on me I had taken it with stoic forbearance hoping it was a cut and dry issue. I did not look forward to the next day. I almost count myself privileged to know the day of my death other than to die a sudden death.
The executor is the one visitor I have awaited for the last fifteen years of my life. The man, if he is one, is as elusive and mysterious as are many myths about him.
Dying in the hands of a hangman beats all imaginations of heroic death. It empties your courage, and you get to die a hundred times before your final execution.
Postscript: This story shall be completed on Friday after the Friday Fictioneers’ Cafe