Uratta Road is easily accessible, but this white-cloud evening something seems to have caused an obstruction, which Barrister Ezillo is trying to figure out. He is sensing the start of a headache, as he also thinks about the case involving his client, an evicted poor tenant. He had prepared so hard to win, only for the presiding judge to adjourn the case to March next month, for no apparent reason.
Ezillo sticks his head out of the window, hoping it is not a riot that has broken out.
Fifty or sixty yards ahead, a crowd surges excitedly, people running back and forth, squeezing through the little space allowed by the hold-up. Still ahead, wisps of smoke twist up into the air.
What is all this cacophony about? he wonders.
Voices shatter all round. Footsteps patter here and there. Cars move at snails' paces, almost bumper-to-bumper, belching fumes, blaring horns. Drivers, who cannot check their frustration, or impatience, or anger, spit out words like:
"Your mother's ass!
"Move that lousy scrap off the road!"
"Whoever issued you a driver's license should be thrashed!"
Ezillo still tries to work out the cause of the commotion, but the headache is now hammering behind his temples. And he feels so hot, so tired. His armpits are clammy with sweat, and he remembers he needs to shave. But most of all, he really longs to soak himself in a bathtub full of cold water and suds. He looks at his watch, guesses it is over twenty minutes he has been sitting behind the wheel, and prays that the road will open up.
Yet, it seems, all the cars are forever stuck in this jam.
I wish I could just snap my fingers and find myself at home, idling away the evening with my lovely wife and intelligent daughter! he says to himself.
As the traffic eases a little, Ezillo starts his car, following the Kia in front, cautiously, not driving too closely, to avoid a dent on his Mazda. He slackens the knot of his tie, turning his neck this way and that, then mops his sweating brow with a handkerchief. He notices the smoke is still wafting up, spreading through the air; vultures circling overhead.
The noise is now a frothy flood, as men, women, and children form a circle around something, which Ezillo just can't make out –
An accident?
A car has caught fire?
Where is the traffic warden?
Ezillo looks around, and tries to enliven his mood by thinking about his blessed family, his wife, Nkem, and Ola, his daughter, but the noise and heat swirl crushingly around him, making him feel more uncomfortable. He glances at his dashboard, wishing he'd fixed his car stereo as music would have relieved his stress this moment.
A few people stand on both sides of the road, some in front of their gates and houses, their voices rising and falling.
Ezillo looks at them and shrugs.
Maybe those vigilante boys are collecting some form of illegal taxes or…Well, you never can tell what they are up to next.
The Kia decelerates again, abruptly.
Ezillo decides at once to put off his engine, sit back, close his eyes, send his mind adrift to a more peaceful shore.
And surprisingly, the noise falls like a spent wave.
And silence rises.
And the scalding sun softens…
But Ezillo suddenly rouses out of his musing as the rickety Volkswagen just behind him, lets out an irritating honk, followed by,
"You think you're in your cushy bedroom, mister sleeper!"
Ezillo fires the engine back to life, glancing at the Volkswagen through his side mirror. Other cars are crawling along, tailing one another. Soon the Kia stops, once more. Ezillo grinds his teeth, pulling behind it, some feet away.
After a while, he glances at his watch, widening his eyes hopelessly.
Past four! he almost cries out.
What hell of a country, where nobody gives a damn what's happening anywhere!
Ezillo sighs and then stretches his arms, which now feel very sticky, and flaps them lightly. Then he rests his elbow on the window, clicking his fingernail against his teeth. His eyes fall on a tattered man by the gutter, a hand on his waist, while the other holds his penis. His piss, which is the colour of custard, is arcing into the gutter, mixing with the brownish water flowing languorously.
Ezillo shakes his head, presupposing that the man has STD because his face looks imprinted with agony, wondering why people no longer have any sense of decency, any scruples. He can still recall how one night he saw the silhouette of a man dropping shit close to the gate of a church. Ezillo thought of reproaching the fool, as he walked past, wrinkling his nose.
While he is wondering what his beloved country is turning into, wishing for the good old days of Idiagbon, when discipline was the norm, a motorcyclist zooms past, as if being pursued by law enforcers.
Where is he rushing to…?
Ezillo asks himself and releases his grip on the wheel, cracking his knuckles. He thinks of stretching his legs as a cramp seizes his feet, but becomes aware of a part of his stomach coiling wretchedly, as if something is wrenching it. He begins to hope that his wife Nkem has prepared dinner, when the revolting odour of burnt tires slams into his nostrils. His right hand reaches up instinctively, to press his nose.
He holds his breath a moment, then exhales, only for another smell, that of burnt flesh, to rush down his lungs, forcing a sudden lump to bob in his throat. He imagines his stomach spewing out his lunch on to his lap. Ezillo leans over the window and hurls out a glob of spittle.
"Ho, watch what you're doing!" a cyclist shouts at him, swerving his motorbike to the left, to avoid the spittle, and meandering in between the Mazda and Kia.
The tiresome queue begins to stir.
As Ezillo approaches the dispersing crowd, he glimpses something like a roasted goat on the centre of the road, which cars evade as they draw nearer to it.
Heat waves seem to ripple, misting up his windscreen, only briefly. The smoke is a translucent grey covering around this spot, bringing tears to his eyes. Pieces of glass and broken bottles shimmer on the road. Ashy remains of clothing and paper whirl about.
Suddenly, a painful wail slashes through the air.
Ezillo thinks the cyclist has flipped a passer-by over. He thrusts his head out of the window, as another wail explodes from the left sidewalk. He jerks his head around and sights a fidgeting woman standing nearby.
Why did she yell like a loony? he says quietly.
Her face is moulded in grief, her teeth rattling. Her wrapper is almost sliding off her waist as her chest heaves up and down. She is clutching a headgear while the other hand is slapping her thighs. Ezillo turns his head to the direction of her gaze, flinching at once. Gooseflesh spreads like spikes all over his body.
Is that a man in flames on the road? he asks doubtfully.
Ezillo takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs stretch out like a rubber band, readying to snap. But he is able to pull himself together in a while, and tightens his fingers around the wheel, trying not to look at the horrifying sight. Yet, he takes one final glance –
A man lies crooked among debris of glowing tires. His face is a barbecued blob; his belly has ruptured: the entrails have spilled on the asphalt, where a brown patch of blood has formed. His skin is a charred mesh. The burnt stalks of his fingers seem to twitch, inertly though, or so Ezillo thinks.
Disgust jiggles the pit of Ezillo's stomach, whipping it. His heart is threatening to burst, beating fast against his ribcage. As he drives on, his tongue feeling parched, he picks out from the strands of conversation of passers-by that the man was a beggar who pinched a handbag from a woman, but got caught.
Ezillo's head rings with strange thunderclaps as he takes a turn leading to his residence, wondering why no police were around to intervene, wondering how a man can set another man aflame with glee.
