#Openjournal

Ohioleh
Ohioleh
Aug 23, 2017 · 2 min read

26–7–17

As the journey progresses, the driver folds his sleeve and exposes a gash. If you walked down his arm and reached the scar, it’d be to you a great, deep valley. We pass the Niger Bridge into Awka and find Ojukwu between the wide roads. He is raised up at least twelve feet, mighty and bronze, an AK slung over his shoulder. I’m launched through time by his presence there, thinking of all the peculiar agonies that have crossed this same route.

By this time I’m thirty pages into an untitled book, and past halfway to Nkwerre in Imo state. I’m going to camp there for the next twenty one days and I don’t care very much for my fate. I’m concerned for Bashir’s fate though. You see, Bashir, the troubled journalist from the book, has come down with a deadly fever and my worry for him is real. Which is unusual. I’m hardly ever feeling when I know a fate has been crafted, designed for a purpose. But this book, untitled and crafted by an unknown author is very much like life. Every sentence is ominous and suspect. Were Bashir real and I had to witness him give in to fever, would his fate be open for debate? With whom?

Na useless cult boys do me dis ting for here, right here, the driver says pointing to a curb on his side of the road. He must’ve felt to say because the bare face of his wound is a great unanswered question.

Say God, I say.

No be small ting my guy. I fight dem wit my life. But you no suppose get problem, jus hol yorsef. Na here you go drop.

)

    Ohioleh

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    Ohioleh

    Regular guy learning.