BY MARVEL CHUKWUDI PEPHEL I rose from my mat and turned to pick up a cup of tea on a wooden table. It was morning and, from my window, I could see the flock of sheep in the farm nearby. I knew exactly what this meant. My neighbour Fanta Manta had unleashed his sheep again, and that farm belonged to me. I felt a molten magma of anger rush down my spine. I could see the lambs, those ones whose fleece were as white as snow, eating my shrubs and vegetables. Infuriated, I dropped my cup. Then I picked a wooden club and dashed out towards my farm. I swear I didn't know what I was doing. I flung my club, killing some in the process. I have been a no-nonsense person from Day One, Lord forgive me. Now, the older sheep had managed to scamper off towards the house of my adversary, bleating as loud as they could. I stood and watched the destruction brought upon my crops with eyes of pain. I had struggled to make these crops grow at a time rainfall was at an alarming minimal, often watering them with fetched buckets of water. For the water, I had to trek to the closest river which was not close at all, God knows. But now, in the blink of an eye, my labour seemed to be almost in vain, and I didn't know exactly what to do. I shook my head — a heavy head — and picked up the dead lambs. I had tried to wipe off a trillion tears when something in me told me to confront Fanta Manta at the dead of night. When the idea first came, it wasn't as lucid as I now wish it had been. Well, I, myself, wasn't often clear-headed. As a matter of fact, I was only but a farmer — and having little education was also a handicap. The only thing I had inherited from my deceased father was his little hut and the love for hunting. Sadly, he died when I least expected it, and left me with derivative poverty. I was only seventeen, and my own mother had moved away No. 137 to live with another man. Everything did hurt, but I learnt to live with my circumstances. Well, I don't know what hurts most — if it's being saddled with poverty or being the only seed of my father. A terrible thing, if you ask me. Well, I did well to finish my cooked lamb's leg. I, afterwards, took copious amount of palmwine and waited for the dead of night to approach — the idea still plausible in my head. The streets are crazy, and the street I grew up on was crazier. I won't try to fine-tune anything here — not a single bit. This is the story of my life, the story of how I sought out Fanta Manta. Just before I stepped out for his place, again, I took copious amount of palmwine. There was a thing about this palmwine that I could not explain. A thing so inexplicable that it hurts my soul. But all the same, I loved it — this palmwine, I mean. Quickly, I wore my shorts and hastened up. Matters like this needed not to be delayed — at least so I thought then. I wore the only pair of shoes I was proud of and set about to lock my door. Really, the night was cold and the bats were numerous in an unusual way. I swallowed hard and put the keys in my pocket. I checked the time — it was the right time! I sighed and hurried out towards the house of Fanta Manta. Things that needed to be done needed to be done as quickly as possible. In my hand was a kerosene lamp which burned with the faintest light ever, but I was grateful for it. At least Fanta Manta wouldn't know what hit him even if he had the slightest premonition. Satisfied, I smiled and walked quietly — but with easy steps — towards the house of my adversary. By God, I knew he would be shocked by the visit, and I was willing to offer him the surprise — the most horrific of his life. I cleared my throat and traced the patterns of the underlying plant matter HEATHER REYNOLDS, SHEEP
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