Walking Tall Among the Dead

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The man who raped women now rapes the dead.

He goes through all the cadavers inserting fingers. He loves their tightness so. He is the last to taste them, he boasts, even those who seemed untouchable in their life.

The man debuted in his career after the home he lived ostracized him. Kith and kin slaughtered bulls and chicken for his getting job at the morgue. With the dead he couldn’t hurt anyone, they said. He had raped and sodomized way too much.

He was in primary school when he raped his seat mate, an autistic girl he found himself smitten with. He was barely circumcised when he raped the village’s oldest woman. The granny died of heart palpitations.

The man now challenges all those who have evidence to bring it forward. The people want him dead and gone, perhaps a cadaver himself he won’t hurt anyone.

“I will wash your defied corpse and gurney it to court to testify,” he boldly says. “And if I get acquitted, leave town.”

He walks tall, free, in the streets. 

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Most Sundays, for forty years, I would wake in the arms of the woman I love, the mother of our two kids, debating whether to wake up or not. After

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War cries rage amid Allahu Akbars, machine-gun fire roars like a raging river, bombs engorge smoke rings as they shoot into the sky, turning to dark smoke in one moment and belching flame and crackling with lightning the next. As I look around, all I see are stray limbs and dead creatures—once fine young men, no longer recognisable—others splayed like rag dolls on the morning dew.

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