What Happened On June 12.

An Illustrated Short Story by Obase-Sam Ikoi

Edited and published by Knots Stories

Caveat

All names, characters, events, and settings portrayed in this short story are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual names, persons, events, and settings is deeply regretted.

Blurb.

Jide is a man on the move. Amid his infidelity and political uprising that plunges the city into chaos, he would stop at nothing to reunite with Mendy, his wife.

1. Fola

The first time Jide visited Fola’s house, he felt at ease, like he was home. He'd expected everything he saw; the wooden pieces of furniture, the embellishment with plants and the wide spaces. He and Fola often bonded over furniture compositions and interior decoration. Fola was his go-to person when he needed unconventional furniture design ideas. They often met up in open spaces. But today, in Fola's apartment, he felt free, free from Mendy. Fola's congenial stares eased him more. He loved the open windows blowing the lace curtains that touched the tiles. He was conscious of a crawler plant wrapping its fragile stem around an antique table lamp, careful not to suffocate it. This was the exact way Fola’s life intertwined intimately with his. She smothered him and now, he had come to love it like an affectionate cuddle. His desire to see the lamp turned on led him to the wall table. He punched a button with an index finger. It did not come on.

“Wait, I have to switch on the wall socket,” Fola said. When she did, the lamp snapped on. The plant’s leaves fell under the bright yellow light and glowed lemon, exposing its sinews and veins. 

“What plant is this?” He asked.

“Ivy. Some people say it’s poisonous,” she giggled but Jide did not find it funny. He punched it off and knew instantly that his relationship with Fola was like the poison Ivy. Although aware of its poison, he was willing to amuse himself with it.

“Come, let me show you around, then we eat and brainstorm about the designs,” she said. 

He followed her. He tried not to compare her shapely figure with Mendy's. The short yellow dress with flowery patterns grabbed her body and accentuated her rounded figure. When he looked up, her breasts stood erect on her chest like watermelons. Her legs were hairy in an alluring way. Everything about Fola was appealing to him. He wanted to grab her and empty his wild imagination into her. She walked like a proper woman that needed a man like him. 

“This is the kitchen. My aunty made the cupboards and doors in the UK and sent them down here. She said Nigerian wood was not properly treated and we have too many termites. I laughed at her. She couldn’t be serious.” Fola shot a questioning stare as if she required him to confirm her last words.

“I remember our primary school days when termites ate our desks,” Jide’s response seemed flimsy to her. It was rather ladened with a sudden surge of nostalgia. Back in school, he frolicked in the sand-patched field and abhorred Mr Tom, the mathematics teacher who flogged students on the head.

“I used steel desks in my junior and middle school,” Fola responded and he recalled that she was raised in a foreign land. 

Jide observed the wide windows and doors studded in pale orange wood. He loved the craftsmanship of the house. He ran his hand over the wood, wanting to feel something. He always felt something when he touched wood; its strength, texture, weight, the blade that cut through and smoothened its bark. Yet, with Fola’s wood, he felt nothing. A stack of ripened tomatoes was sitting on the kitchen sink, and the boiling turkey's aroma subdued the kitchen. He breathed deeply. Now, he felt famished.

“So you live here, alone, right now?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“The entire compound?”

“Yes.”

Jide went out through the front door while she followed behind in a hurtle. 

“Where are you going?”

“I need to have another look at the compound.”

She burst into spasms of laughter, a sharp and subtle pitch, anchoring her palm across her lips. He caught the laughter and indulged. When he closed the door behind him, she sunk into the grey sofa, one leg over the other. He wondered what she was protecting. Her fair laps were in his full view. She was silent, flipping through her phone. Her long nails were painted in a mix of orange, blue and red. 

“Have you seen the Twitter trend?”

Jide sunk into the sofa, beside her. She did not wait for him to respond.

“...General Itoti has resigned from the presidency.” 

"That cannot be true,” he sat up. “Why would he resign? Just a year in office?”

Fola began to read: The president was last seen at Aso Rock villa yesterday when he suddenly revealed his request and was taken to the Judiciary Court where he signed the release documents. He has since refused to comment on the events that led to his resignation. “Nigerian Twitter is on fire,” her eyes glowed so wide, he could see himself through them. 

She continued to read: Itoti was last seen leaving in a private jet. Everyone stuck out their phones to catch his fleeting frame as he disappeared into the white jet with the inscription “Fly Kola”.

“Holly Christ!” She sat up with him, hardly relaxed like before. “Has such a thing happened in the country before?”

“Fola I have to go!” He hurried out of the door, down the staircase, and into his car. 

“Why are you leaving?” She followed behind him. 

“You should get some cash and fuel.” He jumped into his Venza and drove out of the compound. The country would be in chaos. He had to withdraw some money first, then he would buy some petrol.

#

The first time Jide met Fola, he was at the airport. He had driven Mendy down there and waited at the passengers' lounge. He pilfered long breaths of half-burnt jollof rice that filtered from a restaurant close by. An email notification dropped on his screen. It was the Head Office. A review of the new Kente chair designs had been rejected. He sighed. He despised the stifling pressure from work. Oga Dan always had a thing or two to say about his designs. He simply loved making furniture and Oga Dan loved to question his skills. He knew it was the creator's curse: No one intimately understood and lived with your creation like you. Oga Dan was blameless. Yet his proclivity to resist such depleting energy remained.

“So Kemi has no one in Lagos to pick her up from the airport?” 

“She has me. You don’t like that I want to help my friend?” He caught Mendy’s eyes that looked through his walls and shattered his defences.

“There is nothing wrong with it. It shouldn't be to my detriment. You know I am supposed to be at work right now. It is 8 am. You should have booked an Uber or something.”

“I told you she is returning with expensive jewellery. How do you expect her to board a commercial transport with it?"

"Then you should have driven her yourself."

"You should buy me a car then.”

“What happened to the Camry parked in the compound right now?”

“That dead car?”

“What is dead about it?”

“I will not argue here with you and look stupid. Just keep a smiling face until Kemi arrives,” she sighed and hissed and in that moment, she did not look affectionate to him.

He hated that these days, they argued more. He hated that Mendy had too many friends. Some he knew, some he did not know. He did not have a brain as catalogued as Mendy’s. As much as he tried to keep up, he could never remember all her friends and acquaintances. She had a friend from the church, a friend from the saloon, a friend from her catering class, and friends from yesteryears. Some, they met under absurd circumstances, like the friend who had exchanged a similar purse with her at a women's rally. She admitted that they ended up as friends because the bag in question was a rare Coach design. He still remembers the bag today. It was her only purchase from the five hundred and fifty thousand naira he had sent her when his December benefits were paid. He did not blame her that she spent so exorbitantly on material things. She was there when they had nothing; it wasn’t just cliche talk. Yet, he did not appreciate it when her escapades took the time he would rather spend working. Today, he frowned as they waited; 9 am and still no sign of Kemi’s flight. 

“What is going on?” A smartly dressed woman, probably in her forties, was fiery. “Why are we never on time in this country? Where is the flight? Did it get swallowed up in the sky? What sort of country is this? I have a meeting in 5 minutes and need to see my son. It’s been thirteen years.”

“Madam, calm down,” a short, muscular porter with a stubble beard and a few security officials persuaded her back to her seat.

By 9:30 am Jide and Mendy decided to eat the jollof rice from the food vendor. The fiery woman had since left. The restaurant had no empty seats, so they shared a table with Fola. Her charming eyes always caught his attention so he avoided it squarely. He had lost his appetite for food, perking into the rice and turkey with the silver fork. Dike was calling on the phone. “Jide how far now? Head Office don call the second time. They want us to schedule a meeting today based on the chair designs you approved.”

“Dike, Abeg, just stall for me. I dey airport with my wife. It is urgent.”

When Dike called again an hour later, he got off the phone and left Mendy at the restaurant. He heard her quarrel under her breath but he did not wait to listen. That was who he was. A man on the run. He later learned that the flight arrived at 1 pm. But as he cornered out of the car park, he saw Fola, the girl from the restaurant, pulling her box by its wheels and scraping the coal tar in a rash sound. Her eyes were even more appealing than when they caught his attention earlier. He pulled to a halt and some driver behind honked and cursed vehemently, “You are blocking the road, Mr. Man! Why do you park like that?”

Jide let him pass with a plea. 

“Hello, where are you going?” 

“I’ll get a ride, sir. Thank you.” She sounded polite and began to walk away.

He drove further. “I know the airport cabs can be expensive. I could drop you off outside the airport and then you can catch a ride.”

“Oga you dey cause traffic for here!” A man was slapping his Venza and it annoyed him. A motorcyclist drove past and shouted, “Drunkard!” and Fola burst into laughter. She liked to laugh, especially when she did not understand why Nigerians behaved the way they did. That was after he had offered a one thousand naira bribe to airport police for wrong parking.

“Let me help you,” he said, logging her box into the trunk. He drove, and the breeze softened the sweat forming on his forehead from the cursing, honking, persuasion, and airport police ordeal. Fola’s skin was clear as day; supple and glistening from the morning sun. He thought about Mendy and felt guilty, even more so, when Fola brought it up.

“The woman in the airport with you, that is your wife,” it sounded more like a statement than a question. She charmed him some more with those eyes. Of course, he was not going to lie about Mendy and he wanted nothing more than to help a damsel in distress. But he knew, deep within himself, something unexplainable attracted him to Fola. He would be restless if he let her go.

“Yes, she is my wife.”

“What do you do?”

“I am a Furniture Designer. You?”

"Interior Decorator."

"Bless God!"

He watched her cough out her laughter.

“Look, honestly, you seem like a decent man but I don’t want to come between you and your wife. I would rather we do business together. I could get furniture designs from you.”

“Beautiful. I agree,” he said, trying not to reveal his displeasure. Yet, he loved their unspoken connection, like their souls would ache apart. She would glance at him for a protracted time and he would catch those eyes, “What are you looking at?”

“I can bet your furniture designs are good-looking.” 

He would let out a peal of throaty laughter and reveal in her sarcasm, something Mendy lacked. 

2. General Itoti

Jide dialled Mendy’s phone number. It rang twice and she did not pick up. A queue was building up in NNPC's Filling station down the junction. He unknotted the tie from his neck and untucked his shirt. He could breathe better now. Why was he in Fola's house? She lived not too far from his office, yes. But they could have met in their usual place, Allen Bistro down the street. Now he would have to drive to Ajah in such uncertainty. 

He withdrew some money from a POS merchant who charged exorbitantly for it. A hundred naira charge for each thousand. He stuck the thirty thousand naira in his pocket and cornered into a petrol station teeming with boisterous voices, dragging their legs and kegs along while battling to remain on the lengthy, meandering queue.

“Madam this is not your line!” A young man exclaimed. Soon, he kicked her gallon and a fight ensued. Jide manoeuvred his car and drove steadily, winding down and turning off his air conditioner. The heat and stench of sweaty bodies in the air instantly hit his face. Their voices were even louder. He turned on the radio. He found a channel. The newscaster talked with contrived eloquence. He cranked up the volume, “...Several Ministers have also resigned: Tata Ado, the Minister of Finance, Bala Mushifat, the Minister of Interior, and Eze John, the Minister for Justice. They all tendered their resignation an hour after the President’s sudden announcement. No one is making any comment regarding this fascinating trend of events. My name is Julian Bob, and I am reporting from Daily Rise Radio, Abuja.”

“What is going on?” Jide was bewildered. He turned off his vehicle and alighted from it. He still felt a sharp pain in his back. He had strained it on the weekend when he took the new Kente cupboards down to a delivery store at Yaba. The security official had halted them by the entrance, forcing them to buy a nose mask from him before they ventured into the building. Jide insisted that it was an act of extortion and bullying. When the manager heard the commotion outside, he came to the door, and Jide was let in without a nose mask. One of the men who mingled with the crowd further ahead looked like the security man from that day. Jide approached him. 

“Good day, sir.”

“Well done my friend.”

“What is going on?”

“They just increased pump price now now.”

“How much?”

“One thousand, eight hundred per liter.”

“Why?”

“You no hear?” The man in a tricycle slotted himself into the conversation. “President don resign. Ministers just dey resign, one by one. Nobody dey talk anything, everybody dey panic.” He sat in front of a yellow tricycle, and had one passenger in the back seat; an elderly woman who was mostly silent.

Jide thought of Mendy. He took out his phone and dialed her number again.

“My friend, put your phone inside your pocket. They just snatched one girl phone here,” the first man said.

“Hear watin them talk,” the man in the tricycle was reading from a smaller phone: The Legislature claim that a handwritten resignation with name of the successor is not submitted in the time of president resignation. The silence of president successor still ba.ff.ba.affles the country.”

“Is a handwritten resignation necessary?” Jide asked.

“Yes,” the first man responded. “Listen, these things are in the constitution. But you know us, the same person wey make law fit break am and nobody go cough.”

“The cars don dey move!” Someone exclaimed. They all jumped into their vehicles and doors shut with several thuds. The man who looked like the security drove a rather impressive 4 Runner Jeep, but a 2008 version. Jide could tell from his accent that the man who rode the tricycle was from the North. When they assembled again after a long pause in the queue, Jide asked, “What will happen now?”

“The president is already in Aso Rock. They are waiting for the right time to announce him,” the first man, the way Jide had now come to describe him, said. The other in the tricycle hissed and said, “Why we dey always deceive ourself?”

“My son, I hope say war no dey start?” The woman in the back seat of the tricycle voiced her concern for the first time.

“How do you play clean politics and win?” The first man asked, ignoring the woman's question.

The man in the tricycle ignored him too, whilst flipping through his phone as if searching for the solution to their problems.

“My friend, people full here. Put your phone inside your pocket. You were here when they snatched that girl’s phone.” Then he began to quarrel when the man would not heed his advice. “This is the problem with us. We never learn. We keep falling for the same mistake every time... Look at what is happening today. I tell you, our country has seen better days. I remember the time of Obasanjo,” there was a smirk on his face and Jide caught his wrinkles. “We had money. I bought this jeep for change,” he tapped his 4 Runner by the back door. 

“The line don dey move,” The Keke man kicked his engine and it rattled and settled into a cranky sound. Jide jumped into his vehicle. He would not alight until he neared the pump. The attendant had gestured for an extra tip. Jide wondered why he obliged. The man in the tricycle rode away first. Then the man in the 4 Runner who was ahead of him, stuck out an arm from his vehicle and waved. Two honks and he zoomed off. Jide cranked up the volume of his radio, searching for any channel that related the affairs of the nation. He would not panic. He had some millions in the bank. Eighteen million. Relocation crossed his mind and so did Fola. She was preparing for a professional seminar during the summer in Cyprus and Jide had planned to take an excuse from work to accompany her. It would be their little secret even though he vowed to maintain their professional line. He would tell Mendy it was job-related. Of course it was. Then he felt guilty. How did he become such a liar? He throttled his vehicle and pressed forward.

#

Mendy was Jide's heartthrob, their love, forever written in the skies. Nothing in his life functioned without her. She was a perfect blend of a mother and a businesswoman. She took charge of his showroom at Ikoyi Plaza and tended to the house with little help. Most times he lent her a helping hand with the dishes, the laundry, and quick meals. The other times, the cleaner tended to them. On such occasions, he usually initiated some romance that could end with them intimately intertwined in bed, but Mendy was too mechanical. And he was the grease to her joints. Fola complemented his fluidity, like interlocking streams. Yet Jide knew that some women come into a man's life to fulfill a purpose whether he takes them to bed or not. Suddenly, the bulb in his head lit up. Had Fola come into his life to ease his relocation in a case of great crisis? He dialed Fola’s number and she picked up immediately. She always picked. That was why he always ran to her like a suckling child. Yet this was the first time he’d visited her apartment. Only stolen pegs and kisses, but he’d never laid with her.

“Jide, where are you?”

“I just got some fuel, I’m driving home.”

“Heard the breaking news?”

“What?”

“The Vice President has been assassinated."

"Yassam Kabiru?"

"Yes. General Yoko Tom has taken control of the country.”

“A military rule?”

“Yes.”

“Christ!”

There was a brief silence before Fola said, “I’m leaving for Ghana. I’ll find a flight to the UK once I’m settled in Accra.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

"I'll call you when I get home."

"Alrighty."

The traffic spanned across Yaba roads. Vendors and bootleggers sold all sorts of things, ranging from drinks and snacks to puppies. His phone was running low and he frantically searched for any car charger vendor. The gridlock did not seem to move and Fola’s voice tattled on. "I'm packing a small travel bag. I should be done in an hour." A boy with braided hair came and waved a bunch of phone chargers across. There was no iPhone car charger!

“Fola, I have to go.”

“I think it would be good advice to move with me. Take your wife along. We better leave now before things escalate.”

“I’m stuck in traffic and unsure when I’ll get my car out of here.”

Mendy’s phone call intercepted the call with Fola, "Mendy is calling. I have to take her call." He said and dropped Fola's call. 

“Jide, where are you?” Mendy's voice was shaky.

“I’m on my way back home. I have been calling all evening. Did you not see my missed calls?”

“Military men were here in the showroom. They just left. There are hundreds of them on the streets. No one knows what they are searching for.”

“Listen, I need you to pack some things we will need. We are leaving the country.”

“To where?”

His phone beeped; low battery.

“My phone is low. Pack our jewellery. Tell Sunny to take care of the compound and meet me at Lekki Toll gate.”

“Don’t you think we are overreacting?”

“At least, we would be elsewhere until everything cools off.”

Time and again, he confirmed he was a man constantly on the run. He stepped out of the car and stretched. He flicked his iPhone and went on Arik Air. The flight tickets had soared high. Flight to Accra had climbed from one hundred and fifty-six thousand naira to double the price. He booked two economy-class tickets for 11 am. Then someone snatched his phone and disappeared into the crowd. Jide pressed through the bodies shouting and calling for help. No one bothered to listen. He quickly returned to his vehicle and kicked the wheels in exasperation. The sharp pain in his back returned. He slammed the door and sat still in it. Then his Apple watch pinged. Mendy was calling. He picked up.

“I am leaving the house now,” she said.

“I’ll see you soon.” 

He dropped the call. He could track his phone with his watch.

3. Toll Gate

Jide's map led him to an untarred residential street; Moshood Ijale. He strained to catch the signpost that glinted when car headlights flashed past. He heard the loud music of Naira Maley’s music long before he went through the front gate of the bar. He caught two girls dressed in salacious clothing and carrying faces caked in layers of makeup. They sat at the spot his map pointed to and resembled two baby dolls. He grabbed a chair a few feet away from their table and settled in it. This was a small bar that built its entertainment around two table tennis courts. A heated match ensued. Some men drank and gallivanted around with glasses and bottles in hand. Others cheered, especially for the man who had just unleashed a powerful smash that sent his opponent tumbling to the ground. That could be the man who stole his phone because the women cheered for him. He would not jump to conclusions. It would be unwise to raise an alarm in such a secluded place where he knew no one. 

“Sir, good evening,” a young lady dressed in a white polo and blue jeans was tapping her steel tray with a drink opener. Her lips beamed with red lipstick and her hair pulled backwards in a ponytail. He knew why she was here. He wanted the fried snails dripping in tomato sauce displayed in the show glass.

“What do you have?”

“Rice and pepper soup, beer, yogurt...” 

“Bring me water.”

“Yes sir,” she went to the next table. 

“So beer don costs overnight? Government no wan make we drink beer?” The man seated on the table, drunk, was talking to the sales girl. 

“Abeg if you don't wan to buy drink, commot for here.”

“Ewuuuu!” The man blurted out and ordered another bottle. The girl struck back, “It is your mother that is Ewu!”

Jide caught the phone moving again on the map. It was outside the bar. The man he suspected had just won a service and was yelling, "Game is 2-9!" The girls on the table had left. He hurried out of the bar and caught them walking down the untarred road and chatting, interjecting it with laughter. One was swaying her long hair that touched her butt. He approached them and grabbed one of them by her wrist. 

“Where is my phone?”

“Who you be?” One of the girls asked, startled and the other began to scream, “Thief O! Thief!”

In a heated wrangle, he snatched the first bag and found his phone inside, attached to a power bank. They held onto his shirt and put up a fight, “Thief!” Some men gathered and began to punch him. A ladened punch struck his ribcage and he felt it snap. After much persuasion to listen to him, he explained to them that it was his phone and his Apple watch was connected to it. It was evident and they let him go. His phone had charged to 67 percent. The women were cornered and harassed as he left the chaos behind him and raced towards the toll gate. He knew everything happened for a reason, but why did his phone lead him here? 

# 

The entrance to the toll gate was gridlocked at 9 pm and illuminated by military vehicles. He’d been in traffic for over five hours now. He turned on his data. Messages chimed. The State is on a lockdown and state of emergency. It explained the presence of soldiers mounted across the toll gate, fending off agitated citizens who wanted to go across. Jide squeezed through them. He was careful not to take his phone out again, even though it vibrated repeatedly in his pocket. He knew it would be Mendy.

“What is this bullshit!” A hunky man in a faze cap was talking. “I have a show right now. People got things to do. Open this damn barricade!”

The soldiers were ignorant of the request that drowned in a sea of commotion, outcry, and agitation. A riot was gaining ground. A group of men were chanting, “Nigeria jaga-jaga..” The more they chanted, the more people joined and their spirits heightened and elucidated the groaning of their hearts. Jide positioned himself at the edge of a truck and pulled out his cell phone: 11 missed calls in total. From Mendy, Fola, Pastor Mark, his mother, and a girl he met at a local gym house a month ago. He dialled Mendy’s number. It rang and she did not pick up. He began to fume. He dialled Fola’s number.

“Everybody step back!” A voice was calling out from a megaphone. “I repeat, step back. Disperse to your homes! This is a directive from the Office of the Federal Government. I repeat: Return to your homes!”

“Open the gate and let us go home!” Jide screamed among the appeal of voices that grew louder and pressed forward. 

“Jide, what is going on,” Fola’s voice calmed his soul. He tried to catch his breath.

“I will soon be at Ikeja with Mendy. I’ll lodge her in a hotel and find you.”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m at the toll gate. The army has shut down the bridge. Who knows what they are looking for.”

“They are probably looking for more politicians. By morning, the news will spill.”

“I have to go now.” 

Mendy’s call came through. He picked.

“I’m at the toll gate, but the military is not letting anyone through.”

Jide surveyed the barricade of trucks and military vehicles, “Keep your phone close. I’ll call you soon.”

#

Jide was never afraid to try new things. He was eight when Ugo, a bigger girl in the yard, dragged him into a shack that used to be a betting shop and kissed him. She said she would become his girlfriend if he got her some buns and akara every day. Jide strived to but relented when he began to starve himself to fend for her needs, mostly from the daily 50 naira lunch money allocated to him by his poor father. Even so, when he was twelve, he fought a boy twice his age because of Ugo and got shoved into a drain. His mother whipped him silly with her flip-flops when he returned home, stinking like a dustbin. The next day, Jide waited on the prowl for the boy and struck his head with a plank. The atrocious event left a scar across the boy’s left temple and Jide felt guilty for it when they met at a high school reunion party several years later. 

When he was fourteen, he crashed his father’s motorcycle into a woman’s fence and was detained by the police for two days. The mosquitoes stung hard and the police officers lashed out regularly, reminding him of how he had ruined his life. They returned on the third day with disappointment carved on their faces. His father had settled the bail and he was packaged like a brown envelope and shipped to a Missionary School on the outskirts of Lagos. The principal and teachers adhered to a strict routine and Jide was always caught on the receiving end. He found himself escaping into the bushes that engulfed the school to find solace. The trees, bushes, and the silent breeze slowed down his life and instilled some level of composure in him. He caught regular sights of locals saluting from the bush paths while returning from the markets and farmlands with long baskets of cassava and other farm produce. Long after they had left, the smell of fermented cassava lingered in the air. During subsequent holidays, his mother roused the beast in him. She would strike him at the slightest provocation and threaten to relay all of his shenanigans to their father who was usually away at Ibadan for work. 

When Mendy came into his life, she tamed him with the steely arms of his mother, yet, he was wild at heart. He still enjoyed the thrill of evading his boss at work and sticking up for himself in the oddest circumstances. But nothing prepared him for the encounter with the military man when he pushed past the barricade of barbed wires and burning tyres that sent thick black soot up to the scrutable sky.

“Stop there! Where you dey go?”

“I need to see my wife.”

“Stop there!” the military man warned repeatedly before he stuck out his rifle.

Jide scuttled towards the barricade and grabbed his rifle. A scuffle ensued. A bang went up in the air and another man joined him to subdue the military man. They wrestled him to the ground and Jide jumped on the barbed wire and began to climb up with haste. Only Mendy occupied his thoughts. A few others broke through the line in a haze and began to climb with him. Several gunshots struck the barricade and he watched himself hit the ground with a thud. People scampered across and over him. He settled himself and drew a calm breath. His phone vibrated in his pocket but the sharp pain in his back crippled him. It seemed like he could hear Mendy’s voice, or maybe Fola’s voice, calling on him to stay awake. Yet, his eyes faded into his eyelids like they had been bleached.