The Squatter

I had no friends, and even if I did, they would all call me Owl. It was one in the morning when the top of my phone screen slid down to notify me of an unsolicited caller. I blinked at the nameless digits, sneezed, wiped my nose, and rejected the call.

Lowering my head back on the chair’s arm, I resumed watching my Blumhouse movie. The stranger called once again, disquieting my solitude, and I swiped at my screen so hard my finger left a scratch.

“What?” I bellowed. I should have probably asked who it was.

A raspy voice exhaled from the other end, and when it finally spoke, I recognized its owner.

“Tammy,” said my brother’s friend. “I did not see you at the party… you home?”

I sat up, my heart rate spiking.

“Is anything wrong over there?”

“So you are not at the party. I knew it!”

I face-palmed. Now Boma would know I was one of those closeted people. Lucky for me—I had a solution to every problem.

“I just left with one of the server girls,” I replied. “We are at her place now.”

“I hope you story is true,” Boma laughed. “You do sound like someone still in bed.”

“Yes,” I said. “We just got in bed now, that’s why I ignored your first call.”

Pause.

Before he could respond, I ended the call, sighing in the shady sitting room of my brother’s apartment. The only light came from my phone screen, bathing the underside of my face with its glow. This two-room space was all his money could afford, and I was but a squatter—one of his parasites.

It is a wonder how my brother gratifies all the girls herding toward him like cattle. They must be already moneyed—those girls—or they genuinely loved my hustling brother. In these parts, girls only want your money.

Once my movie had ended, I drank some water, went to pee, drank more water, and collapsed on the couch to look up my brother’s apartment on Google earth. While zooming in on Africa, lights from outside probed through the front window, and I jumped to close the curtains.

A car dawdled to a halt in the street, and three shadows alighted. Peering through the window, I gasped as a shadow pointed in my direction. Who were they? My brother mentioned nothing about visitors before leaving for his stupid party.

They left the car running and jogged themselves. When I confirmed their trajectory, I dove behind the curtain, glad I was an owl and all the lights in the house were off.

A hand gripped the door handle from outside and shook, flinging it open. I almost choked on my spit. I had left the door open!

A tall man came into the house first. He had on enormous boots and reeked of weed. I prayed to God not to make my silhouette visible. My phone still lay on the couch and the big man saw. When his comrades filed in, he had already slipped the rectangular device into his back pocket.

“Bruno,” said the shortest of the trio. “Is everywhere stewing?”

“I never check,” Bruno grunted in his thick voice. I heard his heavy footsteps in the bedroom. Bruno slammed the closet and bathroom door and returned.

“Everywhere is stewing,” he replied.

“Good,” said the dwarf, whom I assumed was their leader. In the gloom, I could see none of their faces. My eyes studied the open door. If this was a burglary, I could escape before they saw me.

“We must plant it before the brother returns,” the third musketeer chipped in. “It’s two o’clock already.”

“Okay, let’s move.”

Unlike in the movies, the three intruders ran out to the car, leaving me in the house. Lock them out, screamed my brain, but I did not. My wobbly legs were by then leading me into the bedroom I shared with my brother. A car boot banged in the street, and I hid in the closet, crouching behind the hung-up clothes. I heard groaning. The intruders were pulling something heavy into the sitting room.

“Tamuno,” I whispered in the claustrophobic space. “What are you doing in this closet… even after all the movies you have seen? Do you have a death wish?”

I became Prometheus after stealing the flame, an Olympic torch-runner. I emerged from the dank closet and ran into the stinky bathroom I also shared with my brother. The rusty showerhead above dripped brownish water. At once, I regretted my decision.

The men wobbled in with their load just as a tiny scorpion came crawling from the drain on the floor. Tiny scorpions are the most dangerous; I almost heard Bear Grylls singing in my head. I closed the bathroom door, which unsurprisingly could only be locked from outside.

“Arrange it on the bed! Quick!” the dwarf commanded, and I heard shuffling.

“You cannot unzip an ordinary body bag? Abeg move!”

I heard an unzipping sound and more grunting as they dumped their load on the bed. The scorpion began crawling like a deranged cockroach in the bathroom, so I sat on the toilet, resting my legs on the walls. What were these sickos doing in my brother’s house with a body bag?

The tiny scorpion ran around in circles and as I watched it, it disappeared. I sucked in the stench of putrefying waste. It was crawling up my toilet seat.

“This blood has stained my gloves now,” Bruno groaned.

“Which blood?” The dwarf inquired. “I thought there was no blood. Let me see.”

It was true. The possessed scorpion had really crawled up the toilet seat. I pushed my legs higher on the wall and shuffled back until my neck touched the cold cistern.

“It must be another person’s blood. You know we borrowed the bag.”

“I must wash it,” Bruno said. “Someone put on the fucking lights. Who knows what else I have touched.”

“But you have gloves on … ”

The bedroom lights came on, and a man shouted. Bruno was already in front of the bathroom. I could see two vertical shadows underneath the door. I flicked the scorpion away, hoping it crawled back the way it came.

“How did Kola manage to steal Friday’s babes while living in this shit-hole? In his next life, he will think twice before crossing the Two-skulls.”

Upon hearing my brother’s name, my eyes exclaimed for my mouth. The bathroom walls unraveled, and the air no longer held the secrets of acridity.

Bruno opened the door and burst in as if he owned the bathroom, house, and the entire street. His boot crushed the scorpion. At first, Bruno did not see me perched on the toilet seat, or perhaps my spread-eagled legs resting on the plaintive walls.

“This pauper doesn’t even have a sink in his bathroom,” he said. He grabbed at his groin and swiveled, and then he saw me. I stared at his mask, frozen.

“Jesus!” Bruno clasped his mouth and fell back. He lost his balance, probably from the scorpion’s juice, and bounced his head on the tiled floor outside the bathroom.

“What?” the dwarf yelled from the room. They must have come looking because the third musketeer let out a shrill cry.

“He’s not moving, why is he not moving?”

“John,” the dwarf said. He sounded calm. “John!”

“Stop fucking calling me?” the third musketeer replied.

I kept my eyes on the dead man in front of me. One hand lay on his groin, but the other was askew. Blood cushioned his masked head from the floor.

“Check the bathroom,” the dwarf said. “Bruno saw something before he fell.”

I let my legs fall in recollection. Friday was the real name of my brother’s friend. Yes, his friends mostly called him Boma and F-bomb, but his real name was Friday. The crook even called to know if I was home.

“Why should I check it? You want me to die, so you can collect all the money. Check by yourself.”

With a gimp, I got up from the toilet seat, wincing at the pain in my buttocks. This all meant my beloved brother was the one in the body bag. Bruno’s imposing figure blocked the entrance. But I had the element of surprise. They were unarmed and their monolith was down.

“I have an idea,” said John. “We can smoke the bathroom and leave, make it look like Bruno did it all by himself. There are probably nasty insects in there, and I don’t want to carry that beast back into my car.”

“Okay,” the dwarf said. “Bring out the can. You throw it, and I the door. Make sure you don’t touch him.”

I bunched my fists as the dwarf approached, hearing the blood pumping into my ears. What happened next would have amused even a lunatic.

As the dwarf came into view, I tried to attack him but could not move. There was a smallish gun in his hand. He bent to grab Bruno’s legs and saw me standing there. His head was sideways, so his jaw extended, and he tried to straighten himself. John crashed into him, screaming ‘For Two-skulls’ and they both collided with the wall.

There was a snapping sound, and when only John—the third musketeer got up—I attacked. My right foot caught him in the neck, and he fell. The dwarf’s eyes watched us from the floor, unblinking. His neck was at an odd angle, and the gun kissed his ear.

“You will die today, bastard!” John said, coming at me.

He tried sticking his thumbs into my eyes, but I grabbed his collarbone and pulled, flinging him into the bathroom. This masked man called John was as stubborn as John Wick. He jutted out his elbow, and it caught on the doorway. Then he kicked me as I reached for the gun. I fell on Bruno and the dead man exhaled, making me fear he had risen from his predicament.

John clasped his hand around my neck and gripped at my stomach, squeezing.

“This money,” he said. “Only I will eat of it. Your brother was a very smart fool. Even after stealing Friday’s girlfriend, the idiot went on to steal his money. Thank you for killing those two.”

He turned, sent me back into the enclosure of the nasty toilet, and threw in a small canister after me. Then he fastened the bolt on the door.

“Let me out!” I screamed, banging on the door. The canister behind me began hissing, and John chuckled.

“Enjoy your fishbowl, little tilapia, for very soon you shall be smoked.”

He grabbed some things off the dead bodies of his fallen cronies and ran, leaving me to die in the miniature gas chamber. In times of stress, I talk to myself. This situation was no different.

“Tamuno,” I whispered, as my mother would have before she died in that accident. “Your brother is dead, and you know it. John trapped you in here and you know the door it is new. How do you expect to break it down? Move before the gas kills you.”

I held my breath. My throat tasted bitter as it constricted. My eyes bled water.

“The window!”

I craned my neck. There was a small window in the bathroom, a few feet above the water cistern. I could break the glass, the gas would flow out, and maybe I could call for help. Outside, a speeding car left the street.

My cheeks puffed from the lack of clean air, and I took off my shirt. I ripped the piece of clothing in two and tied one around my face. The fumes persisted, hurting my eyes.

“You are going to die! Use water!”

There was no sink, however, and the shower no longer worked. We had to bathe with buckets, and I left them outside after washing.

I ripped off the cloth. The gas was not letting me think well. I dipped the torn shirt in the toilet bowl, ignoring the pieces of flotsam bobbing around me. I wrapped the soggy cloth around my nose, and immediately the aroma of shit replaced the gaseous stench.

I wrapped the other piece of cloth around my fist. My vision grew distorted. Four iron bars were in front of the small window, and as I tried to punch the glass, my little finger hit one of them. It broke.

“Ugh!”

My eyes rolled back, and I almost fell. I gripped the guilty bar with my other arm, thinking of the things I never did, the stupid parties I never went to. If I somehow survived, I would be an idiot. Like my brother, I would live.

Groaning from the pain, my crimson eyes latched on to the white ceiling overhead. Asbestos ceiling tiles, the poor man ceiling, cheap and papery. Thank God for giving us this shit-hole.

My legs were heavy, but I somehow got onto the toilet bowl, trying to balance. My first punch went through the ceiling and some powdery substances got in my eye. I tore away at pieces of the material until I spotted a section of wood. Then, grabbing it, I hoisted myself onto the roof. Thinking always makes things simple.

Crawling through the dark on all fours, I punched through the sitting room ceiling and found the couch. My head throbbed. Using the wooden rafters as support, I got up, calculated, and jumped. I fell on the chair all right, but my right leg hit the floor before this happened.

A compound fracture is when the bone sticks out of the flesh after an accident. That happened to my leg. I almost died on that couch. I sat crying for a few minutes, hallucinating from lack of air. I tore away the wet shirt and wrapped it around my bone, daring and damning infection.

The front door was closed, and so were the curtains. It was probably three in the morning. If I had died there, nobody would have found my body until it started smelling. There is no neighborly love in Nigeria. Phlegm rolled off my lips as I tried to think. Then I heard the sound.

No! Please, God! No! I banged my fist on the chair, as the car stopped in the street.

“Are you sure you saw a boy?” Boma, alias Friday, asked as they came down. “What did he look like?”

An inhuman sound escaped my lips as I hobbled to the bedroom. They would never let me go… not alive! They wanted to see if I was dead, and I would give them dead. I fell into the bedroom and saw Kola arranged on our bed. He looked like someone sleeping, and I wanted to wake him. He knew how to fight.

“Move, you fool!” I cried to no one. My leg came alive.

They kicked the front door open. I expected more, but only heard two familiar voices.

“You don’t need that,” John laughed. “I already smoked the bastard.”

“When you smoked Kola, I had to suffocate him myself before he died. You said he killed Bruno and Obodo?”

“Yes, he was like a demon.”

“Let’s check then, because the Tammy I know does not fight.”

They came into the bedroom. The canister had finished emptying its contents, and I lay on the bathroom floor, praying they did not notice the unlocked door.

“You will see now that I have smoked him .”

Stupid John swung the wooden door open, and I shot him twice in the face. He fell on his comrades, dead as a dodo.

“Tamuno!” Friday said. “Are you in there?”

I laughed, weeping. “No. I am at the server girl’s house.”

“Tammy, I don’t want to hurt you. I swear! They weren’t supposed to meet you here.”

“What did Kola do to you?” I screamed. “He was your friend!”

Friday came, and I raised the gun. “You cannot understand, even if I told you. He messed with my pride, and if I don’t strike, my people will say I have lost my manliness.”

“Two-skulls!” My finger vibrated. “They your people, right?”

He leaped in front of the door and landed on Bruno’s hand, losing his equilibrium. We shot. His bullet hit the window, and the glass shattered. Mine hit him in the stomach.

“Tamuno, please…”

The second bullet replaced his eye, and four dead bodies littered the doorway, two of them murdered by my very hand. Thankfully, I was twelve, and it was only self-defense. I had only been protecting myself.

I slithered towards Bruno’s body and rescued my phone. I knew dad already kicked us from his house, but he sometimes picked my calls. As I rang him, I hoped he had not passed out drunk with his new whore wife.

“Tamuno,” my dad exclaimed. “Why are you calling me by this time? Are you mad?”

I was slipping from the loss of blood. Death and mother sang my name.

“Daddy, please come over to Kola’s place. I… think I killed some people.”

I fell, leaving his questions unanswered. Dad would come; he knew what it was like to kill people. My head hit the drain. Father hit her many times until she drove herself literally to hell. Glass shards pierced it. The phone escaped my grip, giving the man a chance to redeem himself.

I will not go to parties, mother. I will not associate with bad people. Push me away from thy bosom, ad let me live. Let me give the monster you married an olive branch.

The last smell I acknowledged in the tiny space was that of a rotten banana, and I wondered it had been my brother’s last meal.