Smoke, Pepper, and Dancing Scars 

I like the smell of smoke and pepper that sits in the air during Christmas. And now that I am telling this story, you should know that that was the only thing I loved about Christmas this year.

It’s December 27th. I’m sitting cold and mad at the psychiatric hospital here at the Lagos Teaching Hospital. Oh yes, real mad, not angry mad. But I’m telling this story, so jokes on them, whoever they are. 

Mum used to call me her prophet, and I always hated that. I asked her once why she called me that and she said I’d only understand if I knew myself and paid more attention to what happens around me. 

I never wanted to come home for Christmas.

…

I lost my train of thoughts. Maybe because the nurse came to torture me yet again, injecting me with ugly liquids. I’ve lost count of how many times she has asked for my name. Today, I answered by reading her name to her from the name plate pinned above her chest. I thought it was funny. She thought it was further proof of my mental instability. Heck, she wrote something down. I regret it now. Let me continue. But I’m not mad. 

…

Christmas had become a religion in my family. It was so systemic and methodical, you could almost say it like a prayer. The harmattan dust clung to the cars outside, pale skies above, windows and doors thrown open with complete disregard for my photosensitivity, curtains tied back, plastic chairs rented from our Muslim neighbors stacked outside, big coolers and big pots everywhere, our loud generator ravaging in the background because NEPA hates festivities, and of course, children running in and out barefoot, some crying like viragos, some spilling food like retards. But for the smoke and pepper. 

My name is Tayo and I’m a prophet. I see things. I went home for Christmas from school, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, by 3 p.m. on the 25th of December. The house was full of both familiar and unfamiliar faces, all parts of the annual rituals in this Christmas religion. Mum was so happy to see me and started the showoff party to people asking if I remembered them, telling tales of my three-year old self. I guess that was my most adventurous year. I saw my sisters, Tolu and Glory, then my dad, sitting in his special chair with his phone in one hand, then his brother, Uncle Deji, then mum’s best friend, Mrs. Odedele, then dad’s half brother, Uncle Jackson. Now, Uncle Jackson. 

…

My head hurts now. I might pass out. Read the previous paragraph fast-paced because that was how I wrote it because that was how I saw it. Faces flashing past like a film reel on fast-forward, naming them one by one, then suddenly the doctor lunged out at me. They say I started shaking a lot. Another ugly liquid. Where is the nurse? I need another paper. 

…

When I saw Uncle Jackson, he was snacking on the chin-chin the maid, Tolani, placed on the stool in front of him. He looked like a mafia boss lost in thoughts, deliberating his next move, mindlessly like that. He looked different from the last time I saw him, which was four years ago. There was a scar on the left side of his neck, like a burn. I started walking towards him and when he noticed me, it seemed like the scar was alive, breathing, noticing me too. It reached his eyes and when he smiled at me, the scar stiffened. I didn’t like that sight. I reached him and greeted him with a slight bow and a handshake. But Uncle Jackson is a cool uncle, so he hugged me instead. We talked about school, my work, his work, his wife, mostly his wife. But that scar. He noticed me struggling to take my eyes off it, but he didn’t seem to be interested in talking about it. He’s a cool uncle, so I figured maybe I should ask him. “Uncle, what happ…?”

 “Tayo! Tayo! Tolu go and call your brother for me.” 

That was my mum, almost screaming louder than the ravaging generator. He gave me a nod like he was giving me the permission to go to my feisty mum who wouldn’t hesitate to knock my head with a turning stick if I didn’t respond on time, even with my big age. So, no, I didn’t need his permission. 

On the way to meet mum, I knew with the confidence of a seer that something was awfully wrong. She was at the backyard, in the company of the women she hired to help with the large cooking. There was a big pot of water boiling on the firewood, and that too looked wrong. Mum said to pay attention to what happens around me, to know myself. I wasn’t putting my ears to the ground or my eyes to the invisible. I’ve never really been able to pay attention to anything. But something was calling out to me, telling me to look. 

Mum was half-smiling and half-frowning. That combination makes a fake smile and a deadly frown. Thank goodness the smile, though fake, was directed at me. She asked if I had freshened up, why my bag was still on me, called Glory to take it from me. Glory. 

…

Something is dancing in my head. I’ve felt it now for a long time. I keep hitting my head to get it to stop, but it wouldn’t. “What do you remember about the 25th, Mr. Tayo?” “At what point did you ‘realize’ and how? “Mr. Tayo, are you here?” I hate the questions, and of course, the air quote on ‘realize’, but what I hate more? “Mr. Tayo”. 

…

I looked intently at Glory when she came to take my bag. I looked intently because I saw the same scar Uncle Jackson had, on her right hand. It was the ugliest scar I had ever seen. It was breathing too. But hers was worse. It was dancing. I could see it move for real. I was about to ask her about it when mum interrupted me again, the one who asked me to pay attention. She told me to go in and freshen up so that I could eat and help her deliver food to our Muslim neighbors. 

I went in, walking fast, my feet matching the pace of my racing mind. I wondered at the oddities. Christmas was a religion here, but this was a different prayer. On my way to my room, I saw toys littered all over the passage. Water was all over too. They looked untypical. They were creepy, shapeless,… charred. 

…

Smoke and pepper. 

…

I picked one of the toys up and my fingers turned grey with ash. It felt warm, too warm, and soft in the wrong places. 

“Where in the world did these children get ashes from?” I thought.

I got to my room, opened the door, walked in, noticed how carelessly Glory dropped my bag on the bed. Did Glory drop my bag? Had I seen Glory that day? Then I remembered the scar, then Uncle Jackson, and dad, and the women cooking. I started to smell smoke and something else. It wasn’t pepper but something horrid. I dashed out to find out what it was. When I got to the passage again, I didn’t see toys. I blinked hard, but the shapes stayed the same. They were limbs. And the water? It was blood — thick, dark blood. I heard sirens and tried to rush out, but I tripped over a body. Uncle Jackson’s body. Then I blacked out, and now I’m here.

Edit: 

“Mr. Tayo, I read your paper. I am so sorry about the incident, but all that you explained could never have happened. You got a call while you were still in school from the Muslim neighbor you mentioned, telling you there had been a fire accident in your house. That was why you came home. The news must have hit you so hard that you started hallucinating at that level. I am so sorry, but everyone was lost to the fire. The fire was triggered when your late uncle was drunk and threw a knockout under a car.”

She paused for a long time.

“I will leave you now.”

She left.

It was the nurse who kept asking for my name. They let me keep these papers. They say I should keep writing. But all I can think about right now is smoke and pepper and dancing scars.