I am standing on the edge of the cliff where these people empty their bins. All around me is the stench of death: rotting morsels of food, badly eaten fleshes of fish and meat. I can smell the grotesque aroma of baby dunk. I know it’s baby dunk because Alantawa says so. Alantawa is never wrong.
“Do you know the difference between baby shit and adult shit?”
I shook my head when he asked. He never asked questions to which you knew the answers. Alantawa smiled, a smile that said I am better than you, but somehow it didn’t offend.
“Baby dunk smells like poop but with raw milk.”
I did not understand what it meant, until he pushed my head into his nephew’s soiled diapers a day later. He laughed a devilish laugh; his voice was always too ancient for a seventeen-year-old anyways. “Can you smell it? Can you smell it? Can you smell it?” he chanted as he shook my occiput violently, his hands still pressing my face against sheer dunk.
We fought that day. Not that I could beat him, but Alantawa would have mocked me for not being man enough to defend myself. He fancied himself a master of some sort. So his actions were always philosophical. At least, so he thought, and when Alantawa thought a thing, then so it became.
“You are a man of mind. I did not think you would push back. You respect me. No, you adore me, this I know, but you are not one to be blinded by sentiments. I am impressed,” he said, after giving me a good beating that rendered me flattened, yet without sores. When he said this, baby shit remained smeared across my cheeks and nose.
I am shocked I remember his words because I was not listening in that moment. The search for water to rid my face of his nephew’s waste had clouded my mind. But then, it was Alantawa. He was like a god to all of us. We listened to him even when we didn’t want to listen. We fought for him when there was no one to fight. We loved him when we should hate.
“I know you are hurt, but do not let your heart think for you,” he went on. “Because of this, you will always know the difference between baby shit and adult shit. Look.” He pointed at his bleeding nose, “You have also taught me something. I now know what you can do.”
I felt proud of myself. For us, the greatest compliment we could get was a validation from Alantawa. In his words were respect and honour. Alantawa had acknowledged me.
I bragged about the moment to the others, and would go on to prove my new super power; to smell the air and distinguish which shit was which.
Sniff, sniff, baby shit.
Sniff, sniff, adult shit.
Then the rest would follow my trail, and soon it became our own game, where I let my nose lead, go through the pile of rotten waste and like gold found on a farm, I’d smile for I was always right.
Now, I am standing at the edge of the cliff where everyone drops the things they do not need, but I am not here to smell the air for shit. It is hard for the people emptying cans and baskets of dirt below to see me, but I see them clearly. It is the third time I am doing this today. Yesterday, I came here six times. On the first day, I visited the cliff four times, heart thumping, pores breaking sweat. On the second day, I visited the site twice. It made Alantawa angry. He called me names he reserved for people like Sege, his brother. I do not want to be at the receiving end again, so even though we agree to go four times a day, taking turns at the site, I have sworn to do an extra round or two.
I see different people come and go: old and young, black and fair. They all come, smell the air, wince, some vomit, hurl off their waste, and hurry off. For every grimace I spot, my heart takes a break from pumping blood. It feels like the more they linger around the heap, sniffing, the shorter my oxygen gets.
But like Alantawa has said, no one does more than grimace, or spit, or vomit. “They won’t find out.” He has said that for umpteen times. Sometimes it sounds like fear, like he doesn’t know what he is doing, but surely we are wrong. Alantawa is always right, and good, and does not exude such weakness.
I remember the night the cliff watch started. I remember how he cried. “You see I didn’t mean for it to happen. You know it is his fault, abi?” he asked through running nose, seeking validation from our innocuous eyes. It was strange for Alantawa to be at our mercies. We did not know how to react but we nodded. “So will you help me make this go away? Will you help me?” We nodded again.
We began to worry but things soon returned to normal. Alantawa, when he stood from the ground with his bloodied body, rose to his usual demeanor. He barked orders and dried his nose. He pointed at me, a trusting finger, and pulled me to his mother’s room. “Among them all, I trust you the most. So you will do the hardest work. Every day you will run to the site where we will dispose of the body and confirm if what we are about to bury is staying buried.” I did not nod. I said “Yes,” the word of obedience, because Alantawa was not asking.
I watch the last person leave the heap of dirt. Another day is rounding off and no one can predict the rancid smell of death. Alantawa will be happy when I tell him this. Strangely I do not feel good to be telling him. I do not think he deserves to hear this kind of good news. I begin to think of Alantawa, his brother, his mother and the orphanage. Would he care for us if we were not helpless orphans at the mercy of his family? Are we his friends or is he just twisted teenage boy taking advantage of little girls and boys like me?
I believe the others are wondering, too. In the dark, when we snuff out the kerosene lamps, I hear them whisper. I do not think they think Alantawa is the good grand master we believed him to be; he has not cried since the night of the incident. He is not sorry. And for this, I am getting exhausted.
I will soon stop coming to the site. I won’t stand up to Alantawa; I would lose. But I will head out and return home with false good news. I do not know for how long I can endure my thoughts. But his mother will return in two days from the Women Conference she has been at for five days now. She will ask questions. And I will like to see how Alantawa responds. I believe above all else that he would tell a lie when his mother asks, “Where is your brother?”
My gut tells me Alantawa will lie.
But I will wait until then, for what more can I do? What do I, a helpless nine-year-old orphan really know about family, and murder?
by Oluwatoba James Abu
Oluwatoba James Abu is a graduate of Law from Lagos State University, Nigeria. He is currently a program strategist at Merie Studios where he manages storytelling, branding and client relations. He thinks of himself firstly as a storyteller and believes the world is only as good as it is because human stories have been told from Day 1 of earth. In that light, Toba is convinced that a utopia where phobias, discrimination and oppression do not exist is attainable if more people chose kindness over dogmas and projections, and the only way this would happen is if more human stories are told from all perspectives with emotion and with truth.
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