leather tires

Zimuzo K. Okeke

YESTERDAY, A MAN DIED ON THE STREETS of the junction behind our house. He was crushed by the tires of a heavy-duty bus. Later, Mummy said she heard the zealot upstairs on the third floor lament that both drivers were over speeding, and ignored simple traffic rules. Daddy even snorted, in solidarity, maybe—that it is Nigerian to ignore traffic rules. The driver of the bus had injuries.

WE WERE AT MAMA NDIDI’S BEANS agwọ-agwọ stall across the road trying so hard to win an extra spoon of salty palm oil to the stewed mashed beans, our backs turned away when it happened. You felt it immediately, though, like you always notice things first; chaos as it erupted, a deafening crash of steel and somehow, somewhere underneath the din, squelching flesh. You grabbed my hand when we felt the brush of exploding air and I was sure of my heart sinking, or stopping, and then speeding up when we turned and saw his mangled body sprawled on the coal tar, blood spray where his head should have been, like a blast of fireworks for happy nights. I did not scream, but I realised with terror how so close, so ripe, and just a few ticks from the sharp edge of a reaping scythe we were.

I did not remember his name, but you recognised him. To the neighbourhood, he was one of many of the okada riders who plied that road; the only one courteous enough to return greetings and laugh at sad jokes. 

TODAY, HOURS AFTER THE POLICE FINALLY CAME TO THE SCENE, you beg me to sit with you by the window of the passageway of our building and look out to the street below. The droves of people who had come to “see” what happened have dispersed. But anyone who passes by that place gives it a wide berth, as if Death would leap out and drag them screaming, down if they stepped too close.

You are quiet, but I hear you ask if his son would lie awake that night, and every other night regretting the many things he didn’t tell his father before death came riding leather tires. I wonder if his wife had quarrelled the night before, and asked for a life outside of a promise; you say she will now spend the remaining nights of her life alone, I shrink. We do not know if he loathed early mornings and his life of unfulfilled dreams, but you say he must have wished in his next life, ụwa-ọzọ, to dance on marble floors. I do not argue, but I ask now, if the reckless speed of the okada was a retort to the dictation of a pathless future, and if they feel the fright that somehow threatens to crush my heart whenever I ride their quaky bikes. You shiver, so hard I see tiny seeds on your skin; I wince.

We wonder if he thought sunsets were proof of new beginnings. And if he and his family had laughed as often, if they belonged to that category of people who didn’t have it all but were happy, as opposed to the other that had opulence but deep sadness. Or maybe he was sad as well but just smiled himself to numbness each day. I wish he had found home where he was; made something sweet out of the lemons he’d gotten. You smile and nod at me.

We’d never get to find answers to those questions, you sigh—he was packed into a bin bag with tin tomato cups borrowed from the garri seller, and just like any other person, his story will float around for a while, then fade like ash tumbling from the tips of a burning paper. You suck your teeth and say there are so many ifs that chase the breath of man. I concur, and we say nothing else till the sky overhead turned black and Mummy called us in to help make dinner. When we tell her all about it, she purses her lips and simply says that it is not in our place to ask these questions.