Nightingale

I saw him put a ring on it,
I felt his loaded cheque.
‘Twas after dawn as he shut the door
That I figured, “What the heck?!”

I felt her peck my pouted lips.
I felt her kiss my cheek!
I woke up hurt, with blankets wet,
Oh my gosh! My dream was curt!

     *          *          *

We refugees knew that sticking together was our best chance for surviving in this country. So even those of us who arrived in Ghana before the camp was established made sure to keep ties with those who’d been granted asylum.

It was with Ed Thompson, a Liberian like myself, that I spent most of my leisure. He stayed in the camp, but I’d pick him up when I closed from work. We’d talk about issues home and abroad, until our glasses were empty.

But one Friday, Ed called me whilst I was working. He wanted us to go for drinks. He had something important to tell me. He feared his end was near.

“There is a young lady in the camp, Geoff”, he started. “Her name is Nightingale. Nightingale Black.”

He shivered as he spoke, looking round to make sure of something. I wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“Every dawn, she has a nightmare. And every time, she screams and wails, and wakes us all up.

“At first we thought the war must have messed her up, as it did us all… Indeed, gradually, her sleep deprivation began to tell in her demeanour. She looked mostly drowsy and tired.

“But each night, when she awakes from her torture, she mentions the name of a different person, and how this person will soon die. She sees every step leading to their demise, and so far, Geoff, all have come to pass.”

He took off his shirt, looked away, as though to conceal the tears I saw welling up in his eyes.

“At first she mentioned names nobody really knew. She mentioned people we could barely remember. A general here… a rebel there… but truly, we confirmed that those blokes died as she had predicted. All violent deaths.

“But over the last six months, her names have all come from within the camp. So far: Wellington fell on a spear; Jamison accidentally drank rat poison; Manfred died on top of his wife… Names and how they’d die, Geoff. Every day.”

Now I was disturbed. Those names were all from my gang back in Free Port, a small town in Liberia. Back then, we took charge of all resources, and only served families that showed allegiance to the rebellion.

Ed stopped to drink hard. His eyes got intense as his bottle emptied. He wiped off the sweat.

“You know how we all did something evil during the war Geoff… just to survive… I told you about the woman I raped… the one with green eyes… I think this is her daughter. You of all people can’t forget her Geoff…”

There was a pause. Then he looked me in the eye.

“Last week, she mentioned my name bro. She screamed my full name so many times… Edvard Gaius Thompson. She said a bullet will be buried between my eyes…”

Then he started weeping. I had never seen Ed cry.

Africans are superstitious. For us, nothing happens by chance or sheer coincidence. But sometimes we take it too far. I honestly thought this was the case here. I honestly felt Ed’s PTSD was boiling over.

So I called the waitress for another round of beers and a shot of tequila. If this didn’t work, I’d share some of my weed.

But as I bent over to pour him a mug full of Joy Juice, I heard a bang.

Blood splashed over my face and into my goblet, as Ed fell over with a hole between his eyes. I quickly hid for fear that it was a crazed gunman. But it wasn’t. It was a soldier who’d dropped his rifle by accident.

How that bullet missed me can only be explained with religion and diagrams. Now I believed Ed. But he was gone.

After dropping his body off at the morgue, I went straight to look for this Nightingale witch. I wanted answers. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything about it? If it was a condition, I’d purge her of it. If it was demonic, I’d make that spirit flee!

I was furious, as I marched there calling out her name. But her house was surrounded by faithfuls, hopefuls and the condemned. I knew the security guards would soon have me thrown out, which they did. But the lady I saw through the window was indeed no stranger to me…

Before I left Liberia, a lady paid me ten dollars and offered her body to secure her daughter’s safe passage from the capital. She had green eyes. She was high-born. So I didn’t expect her to be living in such pits. But there she was, wretched and desperate like everyone else.

But the war had gotten to that point where transportation was the preserve of the powerful, and a good meal was a flitting scarcity. At that point, my word was law.

I was a god.

On the day agreed to go for her, someone else offered five hundred dollars. I watched this woman and her daughter, standing doomed at the river bank, as I rowed the boat away. Hard times call for hard choices.

I never returned to Liberia. I never returned for her.

That woman was Nightingale’s mother. Ed had taken advantage of her too. Back then, it felt necessary. Now, it felt shameful.

Nightingale was a spitting image of her mother. But I was sure there was no way she could remember. She was just a baby then.

But that didn’t make her any less dangerous.

A month after Ed, Pierre was struck by lightning – he was my personal executioner; Gimly choked on fish bone – he was an informant; and Terry… Terry was decapitated whilst fixing a ceiling fan – he was one of my bodyguards.

Her nightmares never stopped. And she never moved on to another name until the last had passed. I started sending her gifts and groceries. I even added money. I thought these nightmares were just a figment of a wild imagination, you see. They could be manipulated and influenced…

So when she called out the name Ranley Herbert Taylor, everyone was happy: At least this person was not in the camp. And for the next three weeks or so, she narrated how she saw this Ranley being eaten alive by a stray lion. We all laughed a bit when we heard.

What are the odds, right? A lion in the Central Region?

But I am Ranley Taylor. Back then, I was nicknamed the Angel of Death. I changed my identity when I got here. I had to. So Geoff Marfo became that alias. Only former war criminals and victims remember my old name. And even they have forgotten what I look like. None have figured my guise out.

None, except Nightingale.

I give up. I’ve found God. I surrender. There’s a higher power. He redeems and forgives. So I’m cleansed.

But I will not wait to be eaten by a lion! I will not cower under the fickle whims of an unfettered twenty-year-old. I will not lose weight nor sleep over the guiles of a likely secret service agent. A witch?! I won’t!

I am going on a trip. Somewhere serene. Somewhere natural and special. I am going to enjoy what is left of the diamond wealth I amassed in that curse of a war. I’m leaving Ghana for awhile. I need to relax.

Off to Kenya I go! What can come can come!

– Nightingale
– Nightmare Disorder
– Inspired by a true story
– MyMindCrest.WordPress.com