UNTAMED

Part One

{Men groan from out of the city, and the soul of the wounded crieth out : yet God layeth not folly to them.}

He had once hated the unbearable pain and rage that came from seeing her dead body every night. He had stayed up most nights for fear of sleeping and seeing Abigail's body on the floor with blood seeping out of a hole in her forehead. He had always woken up screaming her name. Over and over again, the nightmares were exactly the same. Some days, he would find himself driving as fast as he could to get to her on time, but the car would be running backwards, then he would see himself looking at her dead body, screaming her name, hoping his screams would take away the reality of her death. But now he was yearning for those days. Then, he could feel pains of loss, he could wake up with the feeling of his heart being sliced with a razor blade, he could feel the rage that pushed him to wipe out the existence of those involved, then he could still miss her. Now the rage was gone, the pain was no longer there. What was left was a bottomless dark hole, it was as if the part of the heart that produced feelings had been sliced out and had been replaced with emptiness. There was nothing there, only a taste like a drug addict remained. That part of his heart that escaped the blade hungered to shed blood. There was a thrill that came with it, it was the only feeling he had. And somehow he craved for it, he was craving for that opportunity to feel something. There was no point to existence if someone could not feel at all. The short thrill killing gave him was something he could not do without. The fear his victims exhibited before they died made him high. He had enjoyed watching Lord Nero beg for his life before he sliced his throat. He had participated in the fight to stop another Nigerian Civil war. He had felt again as he watched his opponents die. He had felt something as he sliced through a defector's throat. Then, the fight had ended and that was months ago.
After the feelings stopped, he had lived his life reading his mother's diary. He had lived his life with a sense of duty. He had sought out criminals on wanted list and killed them. But at the moment, he was not sure he would be able to differentiate the good from the bad if he was given a gun.
He had held in his taste but the beast in him was becoming too pronounced. He was losing himself. It took remembering so many short notes on his mother's dairy to spare the life of a woman he had almost killed. He had followed the trail of a known criminal almost three days back and had discovered he had a wife and two children. After killing the man, the wife who from her expression knew the husband was an armed robber rushed at him to pull off his hood. He had thrown her to the wall and held her throat with the intent of strangling her, he could hear the voices of their children begging him not to kill their mummy but he was enjoying the thrill of watching someone die. Suddenly, he had remembered many quotes from his mum's diary and had stopped.
That day was when he decided he was too far gone. There was no redemption for him and he would prefer going against his mother's belief than to kill an innocent person. He had made up his mind to end his life. All he needed to do was put a pistol on his head and pull the trigger. Maybe one day, a Circle member would have the boldness to visit with the hope of convincing him to come back, then his body would be discovered. He knew it was an abomination to take one's life but somehow, God would have to understand his case. The Circle would never come for him except he killed an innocent. But he would rather be dead than let himself to get to that stage. He had been using the past two days to apologize to his mum. He was now ready to end his life's journey. He just had one more thing he wanted to do. He wanted to feel his mum's presence again. Somehow, when things got tough during missions, when he was still with The Circle, he had prepared a bush meat pepper soup, his mum's favorite meal, then he would turn some into the small native pot his mum had bought for him fourteen years ago, when he had just been accepted into Nigerian Defense Academy at Kaduna, after easily passing the zonal exercise in Benin. His mum had a lot of those native pots. According to her, soup tasted better when warmed with a native pot. Preparing and eating his mum's favorite soup, using his personal native pot had always made him feel his mum was watching him like other times when she was still alive. They had always eaten in the same native pot all the time, from his childhood till he travelled to Kaduna.
He was going to use that to make his final appeal, he was going to prepare her favorite food and he would imagine his mum sitting down and laughing while he consumed almost everything, then he would beg her for forgiveness, he was going to go against her principles. He hoped his mum would understand that Abigail was a balm after he had lost her, but now that Abigail was gone, he could not find any reason to live.
Within an hour, the pepper soup was ready, it was not difficult to shoot down a squirrel running around the palm tree not too far from the back of his house. He set the food on the table he had always eaten with his mum, then later Abigail. He then placed his customized Ruger LCP pistol on the table. Since that was going to be his last meal, he switched on the radio and tuned it to Delta Broadcasting Service. They were playing country music. He looked at his time, it was 11:15AM. That was the time they normally played country music every week days. 'I will always love you' by Dolly Parton was on play. It was as if the radio station knew what was happening to him. The song had all the speeches he wanted to give his mum and Abigail. He just ate and listened to the song and thought himself the one saying the lyrics. The song ended and just when he was about making his goodbye speech to his mum and Abigail, the next music started. He did not know the musician but the lyrics were too off. It was as if the singer was mocking him.
'Some broken hearts never mend, some memories never end, some tears will never dry......'
He did not allow the next lyric as he suddenly felt rage he had not felt for long. Before he knew what he was doing, he had sent the native pot containing his last food flying towards the radio. It had already left his hand before he knew what he did. He watched in horror as the small pot crashed on the radio. It destroyed the radio and separated into two. He was on his feet almost immediately. He rushed towards the radio and for a long time he just stood watching the broken pot. That was the last gift he got from his mum. His mum had never lived to see him become a soldier. She had prayed and advised him to channel his gifted strength for good. That was after she had returned from prison for a sin he had committed. That had somehow sobered him and he had applied to join the Nigerian army. His mum had shed tears of joy the day he travelled to Kaduna.
"Take this, use it to cook pepper soup anytime you miss me. Just know I'm eating it also like we use to do" His mum had said giving him the native pot a day before he travelled.
How was he supposed to know that his mum was seriously sick? She did not even wait for him to come back and show her that her son had fulfilled her desires. Now he was staring at the broken remains of her last gift. He bent down to pick up the broken pot but something caught his attention. There was something that looked like a steel wire dangling out of the edge of one of the broken parts. He tried pulling it out but it was too strong. He became inquisitive. He hit the broken part on the floor and watched as the pot disintegrated. The steel wire was now very visible but it was not put there by accident. The steel wire was bent and sealed together to form a word. 'HELP'
It might have been difficult for someone to create such word, fire would have been involved. He studied the steel wire, it must be galvanized steel wire for it to have lasted so long without disintegrating. He wondered if the person was playing a game, but then he shook his head. This was no game. Then why would someone go through the pain of heating wires together with heat of about 2,750 degree F when making a native pot just needed about 1,400 degree F? Because from the way the steel wire was sealed together, the person must have heated it almost to a melting point. He knew this because he and Wild, his former partner during his time with The Circle, had done things a sane person would not be able to conceive. There was no doubt the person who put it there made the pot, but why?
He carried the steel wire and placed it on the dining table. He tried remembering the day his mum had bought three small native pots a day before he travelled. She had travelled to Ologbo a community not far from Benin to purchase palm kernels in large quantities. She usually distributed it in wholesale to retailers who sold in the market. She had said that was the last set the company was producing.
"They had put it on display and the seller was shouting that the chief was selling out the last set because the Chief is going to be focusing on his other business. I had to stop the pick-up and I could only hustle three out. People were rushing and pushing to buy. I almost got injured" his mum had said.
"But mum you could have ignored them now. You can get clay pots somewhere else. I don't like the idea that you were almost injured." He had responded.
"Obinna you do not know about the famous Ologbo chief and his wife who made clay pots? He is the best, his clay pots are durable. I heard he has a boy with gifted hands"
"I still do not like the idea of you getting injured"
"I was going to buy a native pot for you any way. Here, take this one"
"Mum like seriously?"
"What is wrong?"
"You want me to carry a native clay pot to military training?"
"What is wrong with that? You can use it to warm your food before eating, it adds..."
"A special taste to it. I know that, but people would find me funny. And I don't think they will allow it"
His mum had still ended up convincing him to take it with him. He never used it until her death. What was now clear was where the clay pot came from. Ologbo was a very small community with fishing and farming as their means of livelihood. It took about two hours to get there from Asaba. He had followed his mum a couple of times to help load bunches of palm kernels on the pick-up van she normally hired.
His interest was already piqued and there was no harm in going to find out if that boy was still around. The message with the steel wire had a kind of pull he could not resist. It would not be hard, he just needed to ask around. Villagers always knew something about one another.
Within thirty minutes, he had cleaned up the mess from the native pot and was already on his pick-up van, on his way to Ologbo.