Psych Ward Diaries. Addendum 2.

I’m going to call Mr Dayo today.

I’m chilling in this alright apartment at Victoria Island. I have no serious doubts with regard to my sanity or mental wellbeing, and I’m plotting some schemes to enable me discontinue my enrolment at that soul-eroding university.

Life is good.

I call Mr Dayo’s number.

The phone rings for a bit.

Someone answers. It is a woman’s voice.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Good evening. My name is Mayowa. Mr Dayo gave me this number.”

We speak for a bit.

I mention how I know Mr Dayo. I say we spent some time at the Psych Ward together.

It’s his wife.

The one who he said left to go live with some guy.

Hmm.

We exchange some more words, and then she says something that completely suspends my thoughts.

“Mister Dayo is dead.”

---

Sorry What?

Mister Dayo is what?

It takes me a while to process the implication of that statement on all of the things I was initially planing to say.

Sorry What?

“He died late last year.”

I am thoroughly disoriented. And very sad.

I do not understand.

She says he died in his sleep. That the autopsy said it was some sort of a heart condition.

I feel so sad. And shocked.

We keep talking.

She says he got depressed when his friend died.

I recall him mentioning that.

After my time in the Psych facility- When I regained access to the internet, I googled his friend’s name. He was spoken of, as someone with a renowned reputation. Like someone I should know by name.

No results on Google.

Most likely for people in Mr Dayo’s generation, the establishment of their careers/reputations predated the prevalence of the internet. In Nigeria at least.

Dated newspapers, physical memorabilia, and collective memory are probably the places where they still exist now.

---

We talk a bit about their relationship.

She says his family interfered a lot. Says that was very frustrating for her.

I recall him mentioning something like that. He said his siblings were trying to turn him into a Pastor of sorts. Said he was like the black sheep the family.

I am extremely sad to hear that he’s dead.

I was looking forward to catching up, and laughing and recalling our shared experiences in the Psych facility. We spent a number of months as inpatients in the hospital. In such close quarters and insulation from the outside world, there’s little else to do but talk to pass the time.

This is so so sad.

My own life in like the past two years has been full of its own tumults I’ve had to navigate, and so calling or paying a visit hadn’t been anywhere in my plans until now.

---

We keep talking.

I mention that he was also pretty upset because she left. He seemed largely nonchalant about it in our discussions, but he had to be upset. He had to be.

She says she never left him. That she never went to live with any guy. That she had just one husband. That all she had always done was to go spend time with her children. With their children. That she’s a Christian. That she’s a Pastor, blah blah blah.

Mhm.

Oh now you’re a Christian. Now you’re a Pastor.

I’m not so surprised anyway. It’s not like I expect her to be so forthcoming with tales of her affairs, while answering a call on her dead husband’s phone.

We exchange some more words, and then say goodbye.

The phone call ends.

---

I delete the phone number. Mr Dayo is permanently unreachable now.

I take some time to try making sense of everything.

This was completely unexpected. Completely.

Damn.

---

This post is one in a Series. Feel free to view the other pieces here.

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Image: Random stretch of Lagos countryside road.

Lost at Night in San Francisco.

I am walking by a graveyard.

It is a military graveyard- the people buried here were likely casualties in some war.

I walk amidst the headstones, reading off the names. A lot of these people were young men.

As I walk through this throng of gravesite markers in the dead of the night, I begin to wonder what things were left undone by these people. Just how much was left undone.

Words never said. Ideas never conceived. Aspirations never accomplished. Lovers never met. Lovers never seen again. Children never had.

The graveyard feels loud. It feels loud with voices- voices destructively interfered with, by untimely death.

It’s in the middle of the night here at the Presidio in San Francisco, but strangely I feel somewhat deafened by the riotous voices seeming to bubble to the surface from the graves, and overhang the general area like a dark insidious cloud of suppressive heaviness.

In a few months I’ll be having dinner with a classmate couple in Berlin. One of them’ll mention something about how whatever happens in life is for the best. Even the very negative things, like untimely death. I’ll ask her if she really thinks that perspective is valid, or if it’s just palliative. She’ll say she’s not quite sure.

I keep walking.

At some point I come upon an asphalt road. I put down my skateboard and begin to skate.

---

I am skateboarding by one of the very interesting Revivalist buildings which populate the Presidio. Some guy walks out of one of these buildings. The room he walks out from, is very brightly lit. I think he’s security.

He asks me what I’m doing here. I describe my night. Went out for a walk, skateboarded a bit, found myself here, skateboarding onwards. He seems satisfied with my explanation, and tells me to go on and be safe.

I keep moving.

---

I am at the Golden Gate Bridge. I have absolutely no idea how I got here.

I began this night by heading out of the dorms at Nob Hill. I doubt I could find my way to the bridge during the day without a map and without asking for directions. I have no idea how I managed to do it at night.

A few minutes ago I was walking along a footpath bordered by some brush and some short wooden poles which had some sort of rope strung between them. I headed out of the footpath and voila, there was the Golden Gate Bridge right up ahead.

---

I am at some sort of a car park. I’m trying some ollies on the skateboard. I still haven’t gotten the ollie thing down.

A guy at the Sunset district expressed some humorous scorn when I told him I had been skateboarding for about a year. He was surprised I couldn’t really do any serious tricks.

I was somewhat taken by surprise. I still considered myself a young skateboarder- one who consequently deserved some slack with regard to proficiency at tricks. I was surprised by what he said.

He was an interesting guy. Steven. Steven with a South American last name. Said he was a jeweler. Looked like he was high most of the time. I was curious what his day was like as a jeweler. I wondered what his office/workspace looked like and stuff.

He expressed some sort of disapproval at Nob Hill as a residential location.

“Noise everywhere from the passing vehicles, homeless people…”

At that point I realized how quiet the Sunset District was. I had spent the past few months getting used to, and even coming to enjoy the auditory bustle of Nob Hill, but at that moment I realized there was definitely a point in his perspective.

He was riding this bike. Modified bike. It had large handlebars and a strangely low seat. He looked like he was riding a bike meant for preschoolers, but at the same time it looked cool. He said he built it himself. Said he intended to exhibit it at some event for modified bikes coming up soon.

---

I am at the Golden Gate Bridge. I have no idea how I got here. But that’s not so much of a problem. The actual problem is that I have no idea how to get back.

I have expended pretty much all of the impatient repressed energy that sent me bursting out of the dorms this night, to the amusing amusement of the Turkish-looking security guard. No way I’m skateboarding back to Nob Hill this night. I don’t even feel it. My body has no such plans right now.

---

I am in an office. I think it’s an interesting office, because it looks exactly like the movie depiction of American police stations.

I take some time to stare around the room, taking in the very interesting space while feeling like someone just threw me in the middle of a movie scene being filmed.

I walk up to an officer sitting by a window overlooking the bridge. He looks obese, most likely because of the sedentary nature of his job.

I explain my situation to him: Left Nob Hill on a walk, found myself here, don’t know how to get back etc.

He seems very nice and kind. He makes a phone call and tells me not to worry. Says someone is coming to get me. I feel relieved.

I ask him what he is doing by that window. It doesn’t look like he’s taking in a leisurely view of the bridge at night. It looks like he’s doing his job.

He says every once in a while someone comes along with the intention to jump off the bridge. He’s there to prevent that from happening successfully.

Oh wow. That’s pretty intense.

I wonder how computers could possible be equipped to carry out such a task. I don’t know, maybe there’s some sort of a pattern in the gait of suicidal people that computers could learn to pick up on. I don’t know, maybe.

---

My ride is here. I thank the kind officer at the station, and head into the car.

I’m being driven by a young police officer in his mid-to-late twenties. We’re engaging in conversation. He says he recently got married. Says some people think it’s strange he got married pretty early, but that he’s very happy with it. Happy with his marriage and his wife.

To be honest, I’m in the group that thinks it’s strange. I think he’s a loser for getting married.

Have some woman somewhere with whom you go snuggle every night. What a loser.

In the next few months I’ll find myself in love. And everything he’s saying will make profound sense to me. I don’t know anything now. I don’t know anything.

---

We’ve reached my stop. I can get a bus to my destination from here. I think the police officer, wish him goodnight and head out of the car.

---

Image: A different night. With a skateboard borrowed from a Chinese classmate.

A Carnivorous Beach/Meeting Aurelio.

For accompanying (interesting Cape Verdean) music, click play 🙂

Badia, by Mayra Andrade.

I am drifting through the desert of Terra Boa, on Ilha do Sal- one of the islands comprising the archipelago of Cape Verde.

At this current time, I do not know the name of this desert region. I do not know it is called Terra Boa- not yet. In about ten months, my apartment at Santa Maria will get burgled, and I will be forced to relocate.

I will move into a remote house located in the middle of the desert- in the middle of this desert. My neighbour’s name will be Timothy. He will pronounce it something like: “Timurtiu”. Probably something to do with the Portuguese accent- I will find it amusing.

About half of Timurtiu‘s right index finger will be missing. I will wonder how that happened. I will not live at the remote house in Terra Boa long enough to get to ask him how he lost half of a finger.

---

I am drifting through the desert of Terra Boa.

I’ve been having some strange thoughts flowing into my head recently. A while back, I was at a store. There was this bicycle for sale outside. At some point I found myself thinking:

Hmm, what if I spend the last few euros I have in my account on purchasing this bike, and then ride out far into the desert?

There’s this mountain visible in the distance. I could ride out to the base of the mountain and just like chill there for a while.

Hm, how do you get food out in the desert? Water? Shelter?

I don’t know, I don’t care. Let’s just buy the bicycle and get the hell out and into the extremely inviting desert.

I didn’t buy the bicycle. I later thought against that plan.

I stop to sit under a tree.

Except it’s not really a tree- its this very sparse shrub-like piece of vegetation that looks like it would be more like a tree if it wasn’t out here in the desert.

As I sit here on the floor, I soak in the view of the city. From the outside.

As I sit here and watch, a new awareness dawns on me very heavily:

I realize, experientially rather than just cognitively, that buildings are a human construct.

Initially there was just land in this place. Just land. Desert land.

And then at some point some human beings began to move about. They erected buildings with concrete blocks for shelter. They built roads, they set up electricity– They generally put together the structures and amenities that have now come to be perceived as an intrinsic foundation for, and a non-negotiable shaper of, human existence.

But I’m here right now, sitting under a tree in the desert, looking at the distant colony of humans up ahead.

I am not dead. I am alive. And I believe I am alright- I am okay. I am generally healthy, and not in any immediate danger.

Hm, so it is actually possible to exist outside all of these human-introduced conceptual and physical structures, and still be like alright? Hmmm!!

I take some more time to soak in this realization.

---

I am drifting through the desert of Terra Boa.

At some point I come upon a shelter. There is a man in the garden, tending to some plants. I call out to him, and we begin to talk.

His name is Aurelio. He is a considerably friendly guy. He has a farm of corn and beans at the back. Corn is used to make Cachupa- Cape Verde’s flagship meal. Beans is called Feijão. Feijão pedra.

Hmmmm. Feijão. Feijão pedra.

We keep talking. He talks about São Vicente- a different island in the Cape Verdean archipelago. Says parties are thrown there all the time. Party is Festa. I’m listening and learning with excitement.

Sao Vicente. Festa. Alright. Alright, I see what you’re saying.

We keep talking. We talk about me. I tell him about my studies in the US. He mentions his son who he sent to the US for studies. He talks about his son with pride.

We keep talking.

He asks me where I’m headed. I hint vaguely in the direction of the general desert area beyond us.

I mention to him the mountains I’ve climbed so far. He mentions that he also repeatedly climbed a number of mountains. When he was younger. I’ll spend some more time thinking about that clause. I’ll spend more time thinking about age. About age, and aging- and what that does to people.

He talks to me about Fiura. Fiura is the deserted shingle beach at the northernmost end of the island of Sal. Aurelio says people die there every year. Drown. People drown there every year. He says it’s almost like a part of the calendar.

People die at Fiura every year. People will die this year- it is expected.

---

In a few months, I will find myself at Fiura. I will head out of Espargos for a walk, and find myself at the very end of the island.

The beach there will be dull and misty and desolate and full of lonely black pebbles and pieces of string and net and wood, washed ashore from the fishermen’s boats. There will be a number of crumbling wooden shelters at the shore, under which fishermen probably sat during fishing breaks, for shelter from the sun.

There will be a rectangular hole in the ground which looks like a grave. I will lie in there- inside the hole, curious what life feels like from that perspective.

Standing ankle deep in the notably rough waters of Fiura, I will realize I never had the time to properly grieve a painful event involving a sibling Nigeria, until that very moment. Life in the past year was a whirlwind of classes and assignments and internship tasks and discount flights. The autonomous expression of grief was repressed and delayed by all of that.

The belligerent waves will astonish me. The waves at Fiura will be notably more rambunctious than any I have seen on the island. I will wonder what exactly it is that kills people at Fiura.

Is it the waves? The menacingly unruly waves? Or the pebbles? The black, suspiciously mute pebbles? Are they devilishly slippery? How much danger am I in?

Or is it something else? Something I’m not seeing? Something I am not thinking about? Something I do not know?

I met a man from Poland camping in a tent one morning at Calheta Funda. He said he arrived Cape Verde by boat. Did he come through Fiura? Was this where he came through?

Palmeira is Sal’s shipping port. Palmeira is at the western end of Sal. I will not know that at the time. I will not have visited Palmeira then.

I will spend a considerable amount of time at Fiura.

At some point I will realize I have to head back. Nightfall will be approaching. I will turn away from the ocean and begin to trek the desert miles ahead, on my way back to the man-made colony of humans.

---

I keep talking with Aurelio.

At some point he shows me a dining room at the backyard. The extended family has dinners here every once in a while. I think maybe I’ll come along some time.

He works at Palmeira. He is the manager of the Oil terminal there. The gasoline and diesel and oil and brought in by the arriving ships, are stored at the terminal, prior to distribution around the island.

He says it’s a considerably demanding job.

---

In a few months I’ll be at Palmeira. I’ll remember a man I met at Terra Boa who said he worked at the oil terminal. I’ll visit the facility. The security guard will be unwilling to pay me serious attention. His disposition will change at the mention of Aurelio’s name.

At some point I’ll be let in.

Aurelio will be very happy to see me, and he’ll show me around his workplace.

It will be an interesting day at Palmeira.

---

Image: Another beach, another country.

Traveling across Lagos During the Violent #EndSars Protests in Nigeria. Part 5.

This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

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I am at the Circle Mall at Jakande bus stop.

(I will later wonder why it is called “Circle Mall”, after spending a number of minutes on Google trying to figure out the name. There is nothing circular about the mall.)

People are scampering about. They are scampering about with fresh loot from neighbouring shopping malls and supermarkets.

There are people with mountains of tissue paper on their heads. Bottles of wine. Foodstuff. All sorts of things.

Every once in a while I come across someone with a big transparent bag of the smooth paper that’s inserted into POS machines for the generation of receipts. I didn’t know the paper was all that valuable.

People are scampering about with loot.

There are a number of soldiers up ahead. They are standing by a pickup truck, trying to infuse the corporeal chaos with some sort of order. There has been an immense public outcry about forceful military intervention in the recent protests, and so these soldiers are attempting to get things under control, verbally.

It is not working.

There are crowds on both sides of the road. They are watching furtively, like mice hankering for some delectable cheese that’s being guarded by cats in military uniform.

Looting looting everywhere. I need to get somewhere please.

I find my way through the crowd.

I just hope some weird soldier guy doesn’t mistake me for a looter and decide to send a stray bullet my way.

---

I am at the Lekki toll gate.

I was here a few days ago.

I needed to get to the bank to make some modifications to my account details. All of branches in the state that I came across that day, had a canopy with about sixty people waiting to get into the bank and be attended to. Nigerian banks generally require you to visit the bank physically, relatively frequently. And the queues, God. The queues.

The branch with the fewest number of people waiting outside was right next to the national headquarters. I had to get there that day.

I was here a few days ago.

The toll gate was locked down. The entire expressway was empty. I was astonished at the coordination of the protesters. I wondered who spearheaded their activities. I was very impressed. I felt like locking down the toll gate would coerce the government into taking them seriously and paying attention to their complaints.

I recorded a few videos. Shared on social media.

And then I kept hurrying towards the bank. I had been on the road all day. It was almost 3pm. The bank would close soon. No way I was going to travel all the way here, and still not have stuff get done, no freaking way.

---

After I was done at the bank, I felt more relaxed. I sat down in the grass to partake in the protest experience.

I opened up my phone to chat up the very interesting looking Lithuanian woman I recently met on Facebook. She was studying to be a nurse. I sent her a video of the protest, asked how she was doing, what she was doing, and when she would be available for a video call. I need a girlfriend in my life.

That evening I perceived two distinct brands of marijuana. The first made me think of hipsters and music festivals in San Francisco. It smelt like relatively high quality weed. The ones in San Francisco still smelt somewhat more convincing, but at least this was close.

The second brand made me think of muddy, chaotic Nigerian bus parks and potentially violent thugs. Whenever I perceive that smell, I ask myself what in the name of God the concerned people are smoking.

They call it weed.

This thing does not smell like weed.

I honestly do not know what this one is, please keep your second-hand smoke to yourself and don’t cause any nonsensical problems for me abeg.

I looked at the people smoking the more offensive weed. They fit the profile.

---

Yesterday I was hiding from stray bullets behind a shipping container. I was in front of a gas depot, engaging in some interesting conversation with the security guards of the depot.

I learnt there had been a shooting at the Lekki toll gate.

Wait what? Shooting at Lekki? It’s a lie.

I was there a few days ago. Sitting in the grass. Feeling very safe. Feeling like the only protesters who were in danger were the ones at Ikorodu, or Oshodi. What do you mean there was a shooting at the Lekki toll gate?

I looked it up online.

There had indeed been shootings. And killings. I saw a before and after picture.

Before: Two people- one male, one female. Late teens or early twenties. Dancing. Smiling. Generally feeling cool about participating in the protest.

After: This one is taken at night. There are three people. On the floor. Evidently dead. Two of them are wearing similar clothes to the two people in the “Before” picture.

Wait no, not similar clothes. The same clothes. These are the same two people in the “Before” picture- Wait, what?

What?

They look different, in the way the indignity of death generally makes bodies look different. Their limbs are positioned unnaturally relative to the rest of their bodies. They have the immobility of inanimate objects. Even their clothes look paler.

---

I am at the Lekki toll gate.

I think I just walked past the spot on the road where those bodies lay two days ago.

The area is deserted.

The expressway is quiet and hollow and empty in the wake of the recent tragedy.

I keep walking.

---

I am walking by the Oriental Hotel at Victoria Island.

I thought someone said the protesters burnt down the place. It looks relatively untouched to me. I also wonder how possible it is to burn down a group of such large and imposing buildings.

Some soldiers are seated in front of the hotel. Guns in hand. Probably to prevent the rumours about the hotel being burnt down, from becoming reality.

I walk by briskly.

These are the people who are killing everyone.

I keep walking.

We go still come burn down the hotel!! All you corrupt people!! Na money all of una dey collect!! We go come burn down Oriental!!

Two guys are at the other side of the road, farther from the hotel than I am. I wonder why they are provoking soldiers with guns, who as very recent history has evidenced, are capable of indiscriminate killing with bewildering impunity.

We go come burn everything down!!!

They keep yelling at the soldiers.

What is the problem with these guys? Do these ones want to be alive at all? Don’t these ones know about the people who were killed like almost right here, two days ago? Ah ah??!! Are these guys okay at all?

I keep walking briskly. I have somewhere I need to get to. These ones should not put me in trouble with their brimming indignation.

There are gunshots. Apparently the soldiers have decided to respond.

KPA!!

KPA!!!

The gunshots ring.

I have spent the past day and half on the road. I have successfully traversed uncountable roadblocks. I have heard numerous gunshots. I have encountered one very legit dead body in extremely close proximity. I have heard someone else being killed live.

I am still alive. My limbs are complete. I am without injuries, save for a blister on my right foot from all the walking. Well that and just general pain all over my body.

I know of one strategy that has kept me safe so far: If you hear gunshots, duck and run for cover. Duck, and run for fucking cover until the gunshots stop.

KPA!!!

KPA!!!

My body begins to move automatically. I am a crouching position and my legs are moving quickly. My eyes are scanning for a barrier. I need cover. I need fucking cover.

The gunshots stop.

The tension begins to calm down.

Why this one dey run??!! Why you dey run??!!

The idiotic beings who provoked the soldiers, for some reason, are deriding me for breaking into a run.

My fury at them overflows.

UNA DEY MAD!!!!!!! UNA DEY CRASE!!!!! AHHHH UNA DEY MAD, TWO OF UNA!!!!

UNA DON CRASE FINISH!!!! MAKE I NO RUN!!!! MAKE I STAND DEY LOOK THE BULLET!!! UNA DEY CRASE, NA GOD GO PUNISH UNA FINISH!!!!!!

I BE BULLETPROOF????? ABI I RESEMBLE LUKE CAGE FOR UNA EYE???!!!!

UNA DEY MADDDDD!!!!!!!! UNA DON MAD FINISHH!!!! IF I DIE FOR HERE NA UNA GO BURY ME?????!!!!! NA GOD GO PUNISH UNA, TWO OF YOU!!!!!

Idiots. Fools. Repugnant brick-brains. Idiotic beings.

I shouldn’t run. I should stand there and count the gunshots. Because I’m Luke Cage. Because I’m bulletproof.

Abhorrent human beings.

One of them begins to smile. I think he is smiling at the Luke Cage reference. I don’t care. I am yelling at the very top of my voice. I keep hurling insults at him from my side of the road.

---

I am at Adetokunbo Ademola street.

I need to withdraw some money.

I need to get to the bank.

There should be one just around the corner.

I keep walking.

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Image: Obalende. A different day.

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This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

Traveling across Lagos During the Violent #EndSars Protests in Nigeria. Part 1.

Woop!

This guy is dead.

There is a dead body lying in the middle of the expressway. I was on my phone, making some displeased tweets about the frustratingly unreliable state of telecommunications network signals in the general country.

The expressway is deserted, so it was alright letting my phone have most of my attention. I did not expect to run into anything or anyone.

I almost kicked the body.

He is barefoot, wearing dull grey trousers and a faded dark green shirt. His upper body is buried under a heap of vehicle tyres. His head is either bowed down or his shirt has been pulled over the back of his head. Either way, his face is not visible.

His body parts have begun to swell grotesquely. I wonder how a body could have begun to swell after just a few hours of being out in the sun.

A guy is walking by. We begin talking about the body. I thought the dead guy was shot earlier in the morning. I learn the body has been in the middle of the expressway for the past two days.

Oh. Oh, now the swelling makes sense. Now it makes sense.

We keep talking. I attempt to ask some proactive questions. How do you think this unrest can be resolved, etc. I don’t really get anything definitive from him.

In the current situation, it’s not very difficult to become aware that a problem exists. Figuring out ways to expel the problem, is where the real issue is at.

I mean, I myself do not have anything very tangible to offer. If only there was a way to amicable resolve every possible kind of human disagreement. Then wars and any other sorts of violent conflict would just not exist.

---

Deserted Expressway. Burning Tyres.

---

I keep walking. There are a number of issues I need to handle. Things need to be put in place with regard to the fledgling technology company I’ve been building. Corporate email subscriptions are about to run out. Squarespace plan needs to be upgraded. Everything is generally just annoying. My motorbike has been languishing at the mechanic’s place for a while. I need to replace some parts.

Mechanic was avoiding my gaze a few days ago when I walked by his shop. I had to turn back, walk up to him and engage him in some conversation, to reaffirm my existence.

The owner of this bike still exists. It is not to be sold to anybody.

He had probably already begun receiving financial offers for my bike.

Ah, I need to get some stuff done. I ordered that bike all the way from the capital- there’s probably nothing like it in this half of the country- nothing must happen to that bike. Nothing must happen to that freaking bike.

---

---

I am at one of the many towns along the Lekki-Epe expressway. There are gunshots. We all climb a nearby fence and scamper to safety.

We are in a roadside marketplace. It is entirely abandoned. Stalls full of tomatoes and pepper and onions and other foodstuff. Completely abandoned.

---

Abandoned Marketplace.

---

There are a number of women here in this ad-hoc hideout.

Oga, where you dey go?

Ikeja, I dey go Ikeja.

They begin to laugh and generally express immense amusement. My mentioned destination is generally perceived to be an impossible-to-reach location given the current unrest.

I’m not very bothered. I am already on the way. Some things have to get done. We’ll see how things turn out.

We keep hiding. Guns keep firing at the expressway.

There are some loud voices closer to the road. One of the women ventures out to see what is going on.

She suddenly begins to wail.

John!! John ehhh! Dem don kill John!!! Wetin him dey find for there??? Wetin John dey find for there??!!

Apparently a John was killed in the shooting. I think he was trying to disarm the unconscionable policeman who was shooting at the protesters.

The apprehension in the air is now joined by a tang of bitter grief. And fear. And a stark awareness of mortality.

---

Part 1.

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This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

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A Dead Man’s Exasperation.

It is yet another day in the middle of nowhere.

No one has found me yet.

It has been about three years since I got here.

Three years since my plane crashed here while I was flying over this stretching expanse of prickly brown sand.

Here in the middle of nowhere.

No one has found me yet.

My skin is long gone. I am all bones now. Formerly-white bones gradually turned dusty brown by years of enmeshing interaction with exuberant particles of desert sand.

It has been about three years since I got here.

It has mostly been quiet, just the waves crashing into the nearby shore and squabbling birds squawking up ahead every once in a while.

————————

One of the birds brought me some devastating news this morning.

Some severely debilitating news.

It is news about my wife. And my children.

I heard she just re-married.

I heard Nelida just re-married.

That is not such terrible news.

No, not really. That is not such terrible news.

What makes me want to marshal my dry brown bones back into action and charge back into the land of the living, is who she got married to.

 

Paulo.

Nelida got married to Paulo.

Paulo.

Of all people.

Of all people in the world Nelida!! Of all the men in the world?!

 

And that’s not all. That is not all at all.

She agreed to be his second wife.

 

Second. Wife.

 

Not his second wife because he and his first wife were estranged, no.

Not even his second wife because Paulo’s first wife died. That would have been better. I honestly do not care what happens to that repugnant human being and his family, but at least that would have been better than what I heard this morning.

Nelida is his second wife, in addition to his first wife. Paulo has two wives now.

Paulo has two wives.

And the human being who used to be MY wife- the most important person in my life, is now the second wife of somebody I viscerally detest, even in death.

 

AH!

 

My chest hurts.

My chest hurts.

My chest hurts and I want to die.

If I was not already dead, such news would make me kill myself right now.

Without a second thought.

I would jump off a cliff.

Without hesitation.

I would dive head first towards the craggy black rocks at the shores of Algodoeiro and let the riotous waves do whatever they wanted with what was left of my physical form.

 

Paulo?

Fucking Paulo?

I want to die.

 

I WANT. TO DIE.

 

HIS SECOND WIFE?

His second wife??

Nelida, you are now somebody’s second wife?? You??

 

AHHHH!!!

 

I need to die now. I do not think I have really been dead for the past three years. Dead people are not supposed to be able to feel this excruciating anguish I am currently experiencing.

 

AHHHH!!!

 

The waves keep crashing against the shore. The black birds up above keep fluttering about. It is evident I am not even making an actual sound because nothing is changing.

The birds keep fluttering about, unconcerned.

The wind keeps blowing inland, bringing along with it the distant bellowing of the ocean in the form of distracting sprays of stinging saltwater.

The wind keeps blowing inland, unconcerned.

Paulo is probably walking into Nelida’s room right now——

AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

 

 

Image Credits: upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/af/Cape_Verde_Sal_landscape.jpg