by Daniel Nkado
Chikwado thinks himself an honourable man.
Even today he did something extraordinarily honourable.
He’d killed a man.
God’s work he called it.
The young man he strangled to death was abnormal after all. Behaved more feminine than a Victoria Secret model.
He swayed when walking, flapping his hands, rolling his eyes, his face smothered in makeup, dark long hair permed.
Chikwado knew well about his kind. The same kind of people, as his Bible told him, that caused the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
He’d always seen him pass by his shop, laughing and parading with friends, sometimes singing one stupid song about ladies getting in formation and slaying.
Despite his thick sin, he liked showing himself still. Chikwado was beyond mad.
So tonight when as he was locking his shop he caught sight of the boy again, he snuck around a dark corner.
He watched him, calculating.
The effeminate boy was alone today, ambling rather unemotionally along. Not like the usual dramatic way he passed.
He crossed the road and entered the lonely street on the left.
Chikwado quietly followed him. And that way all the way into his apartment.
After killing him, Chikwado walked back home in great high spirits.
He felt he had done the world a favour.
He had saved us all from the imminent wrath of God.
He didn’t quite understand why more and more sinful people are rising up at this time in his country.
He blamed Obama, the current president of America, for it.
Just like his mother always said, he is the antichrist, the great evil sent to stain the entire world.
But to Chikwado, even though the antichrist might have been succeeding far away in America already, it is his duty to save Africa now.
Armageddon is upon us and his country must not be part of the places to be destroyed.
At home, he met his mother in the sitting room. A brown scarf was wound round her head as she mumbled along the words on the heavy Bible in her hands.
Chikwado greeted her and she responded only with a nod.
‘Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters—’ the old woman read through Colossians 3.
Upstairs, in his room, Chikwado called out to the young girl they lived with.
He demanded a glass of water.
Adanna, just 6 and half, a distant cousin to Chikwado, soon knocked and entered the room with the glass of cold water.
‘Uncle, take,’ the little girl was passing the glass.
Chikwado’s eyes were on her as he collected the water.
Because he’d come in this evening in an especially high mood, desire quickly took form in him.
He stood, walked to the door and pushed in the bolt.
Even as the clank of the metal bolt was heard, Adanna’s entire countenance has changed.
She managed to turn.
Chikwado’s boxers has dropped from his waist, his erect 32-year-old penis projecting into the air.
The little girl trembled in fear.
‘Come,’ he told her.
She shook her head.
‘Come to Uncle now, dear, will you?’ Chikwado said.
Adanna shook her head still.
Chikwado walked up to her instead.
‘I will buy you biscuits, don’t you want biscuits again from Uncle? Don’t you?’
Adanna was still shaking her head.
Chikwado reached and forced the little girl’s jaws apart.
And then he pushed his hard self in.
Too bad
This is over bad