The Second Part of a Pretty Long Short Story in Three parts | Fiction

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_{The Second Part of a Pretty Long Short Story in Three Parts}

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_{see here for the first part!}

So when they all came out trying to wake the baby I just stood there on the large rock, supporting my chin, and when they left for the herbalist’s, I sat there still holding my chin.

The rock where I sat was just in front of the house, before where the bushes started.

Opposite me a dwarf goat was sucking its mother’s breast so hard I thought at first it was a fight, until another brown one came over and it really became a fight. I threw two small stones in their direction, making sure I hit one of the babies right in the stomach, and they all scampered away.

Then I heard a shout from one of the men. They were all standing up straight now and two of them had both their hands on their head. The other had a phone to his ear and shook his head vigorously. Next thing I know they were all moving towards me, their eyes terrifyingly ugly. I got up immediately.

"What’s the problem?"
I said, moving towards them.

Neither of them said a word.

"What’s the problem!?"
I asked again, feeling my heart beating fast almost bursting out of my damn chest.

"The baby’s dead."
One of them said, his voice poignant and hoarse.

He coughed.

"The baby’s dead."
He said again, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. The disbelief was all over his face. They tried to say some things but they couldn’t so I knew what I had to do. I took off both my shoes, clapped them on each other, and before you could say Hallelujah, I was outside the premise.

Now if you had started saying the Hallelujah you would have only finished saying the "Ha" when I left the premises, and "Le" when I got to the uncompleted structure beside it, but you would have only begun to say the "Lu" when I ran into Botilolobo and his gang just after the uncompleted building.

They appeared from a corner shouting and hollering and ahead of them was Botilolobo still shirtless with tears on his face. Some members of the gang had cutlasses handy, which they raised in the air as they ran. Some had woods and planks.

To my left were bushes, same to my right. I couldn’t go back, so I chose the bush to my left. Thorns pierced my flesh as I rustled through the trees. I hadn’t taken three steps inside the bush when I found myself tumbling head first into a thorny shrub. Then I found myself bundled onto the shoulder of a man whose face I didn’t see. He was shirtless too, and he carried me as though I had somehow achieved, through my fall, weightlessness.

"Take him to the house,"
Botilolobo shouted; a shrill cry propelled by darkness. Darkness of sadness.
"Today’s your last day on this earth," He shouted. "I’ll send you to meet your ancestors you murderous bastard. I’ll appease the land with your blood."

Getting to the house the shirtless man flung me off his shoulder and I landed spat on the floor like an excretion. I had barely landed when I felt a hard kick on my stomach and before I knew it they were all kicking me in the ribs, on the head, everywhere and by the time they took a break half the bones in my body were broken and I was covered in blood.

So they all took a few steps and I couldn’t really see any of their faces for the blood that obscured my face. I could hear them, though, charging and clanging metals and hitting planks on planks and a few of them shouting, Murderer, murderer, and I noticed I couldn’t hear Botilolobo among them, so I managed to clean a few blood off my face, and I’d be damned if it wasn’t the hardest thing I ever did all my life, to move my hand from where it was curled up to my face and wipe a bit. I thought I’d die for sure.

So after I’d gotten a few blood off I saw Botilolobo, quiet and motionless, sited on the large stone where I’d sat. His eyes were free of tears but I’d be damned if they weren’t the saddest thing I’d ever seen. He had his hands covering his mouth and his vacuous eyes stared into vacuity. A little to his left I saw his wife, sitting on the sands, half-naked and crying. A couple women carried something resembling a log of wood wrapped in a white cloth into the house. Two crows circled the sky.

"Let’s burn him!"

I heard a voice from the rear of the crowd say. "Murderer. Let’s burn him to hell!"

It was a woman’s voice.

"Let’s burn him!"
I heard again, from the same solitary voice. I can’t ever forget that damn voice. The way evil engaged the bearer through it, and the people through her; how it transformed it from a single tentative voice to a confident one which they all echoed.

"Burn him!"

It became a song.

I looked up to the sky from where I laid, paralyzed, I looked up to the sky, to my God, and I said within me, If this is how you want it to be, Lord, if this is how you want it. You alone knows best.

And I’d be damned if, before I had finished talking with my God, everyone didn’t scatter away. I mean I’d always had faith in my sweet Lord but even I couldn’t believe it. I thought, God really does work in mysterious ways. But I’d barely finished saying that too when suddenly they all started to reappear, angrier and more ferocious, each holding kegs of kerosene, of different sizes.

I tried to scream but I couldn’t; I tried to scream, not to beg help of those filthy heathens, but to try to preach to them their evil ways; to try to preach reason but my throat constricted and only groans came out.

I wondered to myself the bitter irony of it all—take the poor baby to a church and let the Lord heal her, what’d they say? They said no, there’s no money to pay offerings and to sanctify the alter, and there they were, ready to waste gallons of kerosene in burning a man to his death; a poor innocent man whose only crime was his good intentions.

The first one to pour was the shirtless one who carried me on his shoulders earlier. He emptied about five liters of kerosene on me and a few more got inside my mouth and I couldn’t even spit it out ‘cos my jaw was broken. Then they all poured and I was soaked and heavy and hungry. I managed to look up again and I said within me, If this is how you want it Lord, if this is how you want it.

"Get the matches."
Someone shouted. "The matches!"

"Here. Here."

So this is it, I thought. But not quite, because then I heard a big car pull over, a van, I found out it was, a police van. They all scattered away, remaining but a few, and two men in black, who came down from the van, came over and stood in front of me. They each had a plastered AK-47 slung over their shoulders.

Botilolobo stood up from where he sat and called one of them to side. They held a conference for about five minutes, then they reappeared. I could hear laughter and the next thing I know the van started and off it went.

So I found myself looking up to Botilolobo and the crowd gathering behind Botilolobo, who was still looking at me. He didn’t say a thing, though, he only stared at me, searchingly, and through the veil of my blood I could see the specks of pain in his eyes, like cuts from a knife, deep and serrated in his eyes, and I felt bad and I felt sorry. I couldn’t say it, but I made sure I groaned it. So finally I looked up to my God, If this is how you want it to be.

tHe enD

_{Yes, that is the end. Yes, yes, I know, I know I said this was a A Pretty Long Short Story in Three parts | Fiction. Yes, yes, sure I know it says that clearly in the damn title. But see, I did what was best for you! And for the novel, of course. And most importantly, I did what was best for me. But no, don't thank me, you don't have to! I love you!}

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_{Oh and um.. All characters, names, places and blah blah in this work are completely fictional and resemblance to any persons, places, blah blah in real life is completely arbitrary and not meant to blah blah blah...}