Young Writers Society

"He wore a hood His face was hid And as he fled I heard him say With laughter low, 'Nobody knows' " Solomon John "The Ghoul Man of Keffa." Oldtown Valley is th oldest house standing in Doomtown. It dated back to the years before there were computer games and mobile phones. Back to the years when the small town was then called Harro after a mad dog which held its then eight hundred or so inhabitants hostages before a disgruntled citizen blew its brains away with his rifle. Back to when it was renamed Doum Town by the local government council sometime in the middle 80,s, then finally to when a certain musical genius with her roots deep in the town called it Doomtown in he famous 'Doomtown Anthem' which would become the inspiration for hundreds of other songs about the heartbreaking place and the impetus behind another unofficial name which stuck like glue on cardboard paper. The house stood three stories high, the first of its kind in its era, and decades later, it still stood out, towering over the nearest two stories and bungalows like a lumbering giant in an assembly of ordinary men. It's an old house. Flakes of sand crumbling from the cement, the tin roof that jangled a stay-awake chant whenever it rained, paint that had had several retouches through the years told the story. Yet, despite its age, the house gave even the untrained eye an impression of strength. The impression of a rock standing immobile. A frozen figure in a time that moved on. And on. A permanent fixture in a landscape that can only wear away. About two hundred and twenty people lived there. There were families in flats, couples in one-room apartments, juveniles bunching together in cramped quarters. Smokers, heavy drinkers, fistfighters abounded on every floor. Men with eyes for the young, budding girl next door with an oversized bust or the married one next floor whose husband was always out of the house, trying hard to provide. Thieves who made away with whatever was left outside doors that they thought had value or simply needed,(the most common stolen items being bathroom slippers, kegs of kerosene, spoons and when it was really scarce in 'Town, water ). There were creeps, punks, old fags and a few good men. A few years ago, an incident happened that got talked about for months. A man who worked in Motor City and visited his forty-something wife only on weekends showed up unexpected one Thursday and met his wife getting a vicious pounding from behind on the sofa. Her lover happened to be a young UNIPORT graduate who had called in sick at work that day. There had been a brawl. The man had broken a Coca-Cola bottle on the young undergraduate's head, but the young, strong dude had fought back admirably, inflicting injuries of his own on his much older opponent's hand and face before fleeing the room naked, a laugh riot covering his crotch with one hand and his butt with the other. The woman hadn't been harmed. Immediately her husband launched himself at her lover-who had been too engrossed in his back and forth dance to her the door open till a bottle exploded on his head with a crack like windows shattering in a storm- she had grabbed her dress and bolted. She drew wide-eyed stares as she ran through the street covered with sweat and smelling of good times gone bad. She never stepped a foot in OldtownValley again. Her husband had gotten the grad fired from his job, but afterwards there wasn't much he could do. He carried a scar on his forehead, a souvenir from the fight with the youth who temporarily left his residence, understandably afraid of more wrath to come. He however returned a couple of weeks later when the hue and cry had died down to whimpers. Got another job. A better job, according to some sources. And contrary to expectations, nobody moved out. Not the randy Fred and not Baba Oriade. Life went on. The world moved. Dusk fell and dawn broke. Children were born and they grew into savages who tripped over rubber balls in the passage, spilled other people's pails of water and made enough noise to drive the old people nuts. Christmas and Eid-El-Fitir were the most celebrated occasions in Oldtown. The former with more pomp and definitely more fanfare. On each occasion, a new spirit invaded every corner of the mammoth house. A spirit that was a gift from the Gods; Allah and I Am Who I Am(A mischievous muslim punk had scrawled 'mo isu nkan ti mo isu' on the entrance wall. It's Yoruba for I Yam Who I Yam!) The spirit of the season which invaded not only Oldtown Valley but also hundreds of other houses in Doomtown and made friends out of enemies, reconciled warring neighbours, brought separated families together-even if briefly-and served as a guaze for old wounds and broken hearts. During Christmas, that spirit was more evident. It was as pronounced as the scores of chicken and turkey feathers that lined the lined the trash bins and bags in front of almost every door. During Christmas, steaming plates of jollof rice, fried rice, waka rice, any rice with chicken, turkey and even beef toppings were passed traditionally from door to door. Love offerings and kind sacrifices. While 'O Come All Ye Faithful' and 'Hark, the Herald Angels Sing' played softly in backgrounds. Occasionally accompanied by Peeping Mary's 'For Unto Us a Child is Born'. The town's Christmas anthem. Christmas in Doomtown was something to look forward to. And not even the Oldtown accident of December 2009 could change that. That Christmas, things had been going on as expected: trays of food changing hands, visits being made, gifts being exchanged, children comparing clothes, watches, shoes and demanding the long lost uncle or married older sibling take them to Mr. Biggs, Kiddies World, Sweet Sensation and wherever there was sure to be ice cream and a clown wearing white and red. As well as fun, fights and laughter. That Christmas, a man had died. His name was Fred. And he fell from the third floor to his doom. And, hey-ho, he was drunk. Dead so. There was this broken railing on the balcony of the third floor. Its hinges had rusted with age and the top, vertical bars had worn off, leaving about fourteen inches of empty space that yawned. An ominous death hovering in space. Calling out; knock! Knock! Who goes first? It was a little girl who found the body. She had been returning from the beach with her two older brothers. Clutched to her chest was a large teddy she had won at the kiddies dancing competition. So she had run ahead, eager to show it to her mother. Her name's Bianca and she would later in life become a neurosurgeon. Something to do with her first encounter with a dead body. Maybe. She found him lying on the ground with his head split open and fragments of brain matter splattered across the floor. His mangled neck lay at an angle she had never seen before and never again saw. In the fading evening light she saw his eyes, open but unseeing. They stared at her in a way that made her clutch the teddy tighter to her chest. It was the grin that got her screaming. It was a big toothless grin. A grin full of blood and broken teeth coated with blood. The dead man had fell on the side of his face and nearly every one of his teeth had sprouted wings. It was as if his dentures hadn't wanted to be left behind while their owner joined the Hallelujah Chorus Choir of the City of God. She dropped the teddy and fled screaming. When the ambulance arrived, witnesses swore the scene reeked more of beer than blood and brains. 'It was like he had more beer than blood in him," someone later told his wife. "Drank like a fish and thought he could swim in the air. The poor fool." Another had said. They were right. When the guy Fred was staying with returned that night, he found nine empty cans of beer littering the room. A failed boxer lived in a scraggy one-room apartment in Oldtown. He'd lost a whooping Sixteen straight fights in his brief, unremarkable career. His name's Billy Hakeem aka the Bill. Short and burly. He had the build of a blacksmith and very few people would get into a fight with him without thinking twice. He had a punch that turned lips into bloody sausages and a very terrible kick that lamed opponents temporarily. A few months after poor,drunk Fred's accident,the Bill was sitting in a bar two streets away with three other men from Oldtown. It was a Friday and payday, too. The conversation centered around a National Assembly speaker who had been Impeached for dipping fingers into the country's treasury. His accounts had been frozen and his assets impounded. "Tit for tat, this for that," the Bill said. "Too right''Stanley nodded as he took a swing from his bottle. "Not that it will make much difference," Luku, always the devil's advocate chirped, " I can't see that stopping his successors. It'd only make them cover their asses better. Stealing more quietly '' '' Silent but deadly,"John said. '' Just like Stanley's farts,'' the Bill grinned and they all laughed as Stanley shot him a dirty look and signalled for another beer. '' Tell you guys a secret?'' They leaned close, their bottles back on the table and eyes shining. Stanley had a way of arresting attention. '' I slept with Baba's wife, too. Hell, I doubt there's a man on the third floor that hasn't had her.'' He paused, looking satisfied at their stunned expressions. '' She says her husband can't hold his spear for forty seconds before it becomes a rubber band.'' He broke off laughing. Nobody joined in so he went on. '' But that's not what I am getting at, the point is her farts,'' he rolled his eyes, '' God,my Father,she could do twenty different versions; the cat-call, the whistle, the alarm bell, the ringtone, the machine gun fire, the rolling thunder, the 21 gun salute and even the death rattle. My most feared is the rolling thunder. She goes cra-cra-cra-cra-cra-cra before capping it with a mighty GBOAAA that can strike you dead if you are lucky. And if you are not, well, a plastic surgery is not a bad thing.'' They were grinning this time. He took a swing and went on. '' And the smell! Mary, it's a miracle I got out alive each time. It stank. Boy,did it stink. She even had versions too.ooooooo the Chemical breeze, rotten egg special, Eau de Mess......" he broke off and started laughing again, the others joining him. Except the Bill. '' Nd she complains her husband can't hold it up long enough to stick it into her. Poor old dude, he probably did it holding his nose with one hand and a ball of cotton wool jammed into his ears with the other, and whenever she vibrated, he would think, shit,she done mess! She done mess! Laughter enveloped the table once again. Even the Bill smiled a little before his face took on a casual expression again. ''Hey Bill,'' Luku finally noticed. '' What's with the sour face?'' '' Tits for tat, this for that,'' the Bill was staring at Stanley. '' Didn't I just say?'' '' Whatever that means? '' Stanley shrugged. " You keep on like that and you will get what comes to you.'' '' Hey,man, lighten up...'' John was saying. '' My mother's sister visited me some christmas ago,'' the Bill continued as if John hadn't spoken, ''' Stayed all day, depleting my fridge. Good Lord, that woman can drink.'' He paused and stared around. They looked back with puzzled expressions. '' I almost shouted 'Hallelujah!' when she announced she was leaving.'' The others showed faint smiles. He gave a shrug and went on. '' I was by the window of my room, shutting the blinds when I saw Fred stagger out, probably on his way to the bathroom around the corner. '' The Bill fixed his gaze on Stanley. '' I saw him fall. The dude didn't slip. I repeat, the dude didn't slip. Baba pushed him.''