BN Prose: For Free or For Sale (Part III) by Ethan Regal

{Read the preceding parts of this story here}

This would be the first time Rotimi is beheading someone. He plugs in his earphones for distraction, plays Consideration by Rihanna and SZA.  It’s his favourite song. Ade is on a business trip in Japan. He won’t return on time and this is urgent. Ngozi has been laid flat, motionless on the dining table. Eyes shut. Rotimi’s shaky hand is holding on to a sharp knife. Ready to cut her neck open. This is the man that doesn’t even have the mind to smash a cockroach. His heart is pounding vigorously, he can hear it with the beat of the song. Shutting his eyes, he takes a deep breath. He searches his mind for motivation, reminding himself that this would get his products stocking at Barney’s New York. If he does this his products would be on Net-A-Porter, right next to Alexander McQueen and Balmain. His eyes open to observe her neck. Just on quick swing of this knife, maybe a bit of sawing and the head is off. There would be splatters of blood. Brownish-red liquid everywhere. Maybe he should move her body to the bathroom. That way he won’t have to clean so much after.

Gosh, who knew killing would be this tasking? He never watched Ade kill. Even waiting for him to do the dirty work was exhausting. Rotimi whispers to myself, “You can do this?” the dining table is perfect for the angle. He lifts his arm to slice her throat, one quick swing but he stops a few inches from her neck. He heaves a loud exhale. “I can’t do this.” He paces around in circles, murmuring motivations. “You need to do this. You need to accomplish your dreams.”

Rotimi returns to the table goaded. Holding his breath, he swings the knife. It hits her neck. Instantly, he pulls out the knife. Jolted to reality by the sharp sting of the cut, her eyes pop open. The knife falls off his hand, bouncing on the tiled floor. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Her first reaction is to feel her neck. Wandering eyes, searching everywhere, trying to make sense out of everything. Her gaze meets the red stain on her hand.

The room is filled with her scream. It wasn’t a deep cut. Ngozi sits upright. Wide eyes gawking at Rotimi. She’s yelling, “Help me, somebody help me oh!” Rotimi is cowering back in fear. She jumps off the table and grabs the knife. She’s pointing it at him. Tears stream down her eyes, red crooked lines drip from her neck down to her bust.

They are moving in a circle and he is begging her not to harm him. He’s saying, “Please, I can explain.”

With one hand covering her neck and the other hand pointing the knife at him, she asks, “What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t touch you I swear,” he bellows.

“You wanted to kill me,” she roars.

“I’m so sorry, I can explain, please,” says Rotimi with a shaky voice.

She screams like a wild beast. For some minutes they race around the living room. Her eyes are filled with rage. He scampers up the stairs, into his room, locking the bedroom door. She dashes out the front door, drops of blood following after her.

Outside, she spots a woman under the big yellow MTN umbrella opposite the house. Rushing towards this woman, the woman asks, “You want recharge card?” as if she can’t see the blood stain on her hand. She starts yelling, pointing at the big black gate, “The man in this house is a murderer!” she yells loud enough for everyone to hear, “He tried to kill me!” She attracts passers-by. Just about four or five people on the street.

Rotimi walks out. He says, “Ignore her. She’s a prostitute.”

“He’s lying.”

“She’s a greedy slut. She slit her neck because she wanted more money and I refused to give her. Now she wants to accuse me of harming her.”

All eyes fix at the knife in Ngozi’s hand.

The recharge card seller says, “Wonder shall never end.” She literally dusts her hand off the matter, her lower lip jutting in shame or pity.

“Grab her, let’s take her to the police,” says Rotimi

Quickly, Ngozi rushes away from them. They don’t bother to chase after her. Only Rotimi races behind her. She throws the knife into a gutter.

She reaches a junction where cars are speeding pass. She yells for the first taxi that drives by. The driver kicks the brake. She approaches him, asking him to take her to the nearest police station. For some reason he drives off at once. Maybe it’s the blood.

Shortly afterwards, she spots another cab. “Please take me to the nearest police station,” she clamours. He leans over to open the passenger door and she gets in. Rotimi jogs to the end of the street, watching them speed off.

At the station, Ngozi informs the police officers of everything that occurred during her visit. They lead her into a vehicle while other officers rush into a pickup drunk. She is driven to the nearest hospital while the pickup truck heads to Rotimi’s house for inspection.

Rotimi opens the gate for the police officers who reveal to him a warrant to inspect his house. They are welcomed by red dots on the compound ground. “What happened here?” one asked.

Rotimi tells his story of the desperate prostitute.

They amble into his house. The heavy smell of Dettol fills their nostrils. Wandering through the house they find the champagne flutes, the room with the serenity blue backdrop, racks of clothes. Ngozi’s story checks out.

“Mr Rotimi,” said an officer. “You’re under arrest.”

Photo Credit: Dreamstime