DELE’S CHRONICLES:

We would not speak of him, these hypocrites who knew…
I glanced down at the prone body of our dead uncle. A small hiss, barely audible to the gathered mourners, slid out from between my clenched teeth. I had this sudden urge to burst into laughter but knew that would be considered “inappropriate”. Let them mourn, I told myself. Let them weep until their eyeballs fell to the ground and rolled into the worthless gutters of their so-called mansion. I smiled inside. This was good. I took a deep breath and relished their pain, their suffering, their heartbreak. This was good. I glanced down again at the corpse, cotton wool stuffed in his orifices. Thank God for the glass cover on the coffin, the stench from his rotten corpse would have cleared the room in an instant. Then again, his rottenness had been clearing rooms in the years past, even while alive. A legendary “gentleman” who was well known for his “philanthropy and social services to humanity”. In the words of the clergyman who conducted the service, he was “a man with a good heart who was kind to all and sundry and spent his life being generous to people”. I laughed inward again.
I raised my eyes and glanced across the room at his widow, my aunt. My mother’s very own blood sister, who sacrificed me to this monster so as to keep her marriage. She knew what he was but she knew also what his money could do and so she made her choice. I was the lamb led to slaughter whose blood was shed to satisfy a god who demanded of a child things no one could or should demand of a child of ten. I watched her miserable tears fall and heard her shriek. I chuckled, always the drama queen. She really played the part of the grieving widow so well. People murmured their sympathy as they paid their respects, telling her to be calm and take it as “God’s will”. Fools!!! If only they knew half of her display was for decoration alone, window dressing at best. My dear aunt was probably dancing in her mind, now that the beast she called husband for over 30 years was gone. The idea of her freedom alone must have caused her to increase the intensity of her wailing. Appropriate sympathetic remarks followed. “It is well”, they said. “You will be fine”, they murmured. “Your children need you”, they told her gently. “You must be strong”, they advised her. All while quietly munching on the snacks provided for the reception. I chuckled.
I felt a hand slide into the crook of my arm and I smiled. I glanced down at the head of the beautiful, slim creature beside me and felt my heart shift at her smile, like it always did. My goddess, my fury, my balm, my amazon. I smiled back and she softly asked me, “shall we go Babajide?”. I nodded, no words needed to be said. I saw her glance at the coffin and heard her whisper, “devilish bastard, may your soul never rest in peace, you miserable paedophile!!”. My firecracker, she’d probably have taken an axe to the coffin and hacked the corpse to pieces if I allowed her but then again, that would bring her no satisfaction. We both turned and left, not bothering to greet the numerous relatives gathered. Not even to greet my aunt, who watched our departure with red eyes. I smiled briefly. My wife didn’t bother to stop. She passed through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, leaving space for me to walk behind her. No one dared speak, they feared her too much. Feared her spirit, feared her courage, feared all she was that they could never be. Those hypocrites who knew.
We stepped outside, navigating our way amidst the cars parked in the compound. As we got near the gate, I looked back at the house. Evil, evil, evil. I would not need to use them for any creature alive again. Evil was dead and gone. I stepped out the gate just in time to see my wife spit on the sandy floor and look at me expectantly. I shrugged and spat as well and felt a keen satisfaction watching her grind it into the dust. Poor shoes, we’ll have to burn them and I’d get her those Jimmy Choo reds she’s been asking for. These ones were gone.
“I feel the need for some ice cream and chocolate cake Babajide, shall we?”, she asked with a smile.
I smiled back. “Yes we shall, Smallie mi. Yes we shall”

It was a good day indeed.

(Sexual violence against young boys is just as rampant as against girls, these conversations should never end).

We would not speak of him, these hypocrites who knew…
I glanced down at the prone body of our dead uncle. A small hiss, barely audible to the gathered mourners, slid out from between my clenched teeth. I had this sudden urge to burst into laughter but knew that would be considered “inappropriate”. Let them mourn, I told myself. Let them weep until their eyeballs fell to the ground and rolled into the worthless gutters of their so-called mansion. I smiled inside. This was good. I took a deep breath and relished their pain, their suffering, their heartbreak. This was good. I glanced down again at the corpse, cotton wool stuffed in his orifices. Thank God for the glass cover on the coffin, the stench from his rotten corpse would have cleared the room in an instant. Then again, his rottenness had been clearing rooms in the years past, even while alive. A legendary “gentleman” who was well known for his “philanthropy and social services to humanity”. In the words of the clergyman who conducted the service, he was “a man with a good heart who was kind to all and sundry and spent his life being generous to people”. I laughed inward again.
I raised my eyes and glanced across the room at his widow, my aunt. My mother’s very own blood sister, who sacrificed me to this monster so as to keep her marriage. She knew what he was but she knew also what his money could do and so she made her choice. I was the lamb led to slaughter whose blood was shed to satisfy a god who demanded of a child things no one could or should demand of a child of ten. I watched her miserable tears fall and heard her shriek. I chuckled, always the drama queen. She really played the part of the grieving widow so well. People murmured their sympathy as they paid their respects, telling her to be calm and take it as “God’s will”. Fools!!! If only they knew half of her display was for decoration alone, window dressing at best. My dear aunt was probably dancing in her mind, now that the beast she called husband for over 30 years was gone. The idea of her freedom alone must have caused her to increase the intensity of her wailing. Appropriate sympathetic remarks followed. “It is well”, they said. “You will be fine”, they murmured. “Your children need you”, they told her gently. “You must be strong”, they advised her. All while quietly munching on the snacks provided for the reception. I chuckled.
I felt a hand slide into the crook of my arm and I smiled. I glanced down at the head of the beautiful, slim creature beside me and felt my heart shift at her smile, like it always did. My goddess, my fury, my balm, my amazon. I smiled back and she softly asked me, “shall we go Babajide?”. I nodded, no words needed to be said. I saw her glance at the coffin and heard her whisper, “devilish bastard, may your soul never rest in peace, you miserable paedophile!!”. My firecracker, she’d probably have taken an axe to the coffin and hacked the corpse to pieces if I allowed her but then again, that would bring her no satisfaction. We both turned and left, not bothering to greet the numerous relatives gathered. Not even to greet my aunt, who watched our departure with red eyes. I smiled briefly. My wife didn’t bother to stop. She passed through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, leaving space for me to walk behind her. No one dared speak, they feared her too much. Feared her spirit, feared her courage, feared all she was that they could never be. Those hypocrites who knew.
We stepped outside, navigating our way amidst the cars parked in the compound. As we got near the gate, I looked back at the house. Evil, evil, evil. I would not need to use them for any creature alive again. Evil was dead and gone. I stepped out the gate just in time to see my wife spit on the sandy floor and look at me expectantly. I shrugged and spat as well and felt a keen satisfaction watching her grind it into the dust. Poor shoes, we’ll have to burn them and I’d get her those Jimmy Choo reds she’s been asking for. These ones were gone.
“I feel the need for some ice cream and chocolate cake Babajide, shall we?”, she asked with a smile.
I smiled back. “Yes we shall, Smallie mi. Yes we shall”

It was a good day indeed.

(Sexual violence against young boys is just as rampant as against girls, these conversations should never end).

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