SHORT STORY: The mad man has gone mad again

A sore plastered on the skin just above his right ankle, he must have fallen into a ditch or sustained a cut. It was dry and conspicuous. The right part of the faded blue trousers he wore was rolled up while the left bore multiple slits that turned what was once expensive jeans into tattered clothing.

He was initially talking to himself but proceeded to slap his lips shut with a soiled palm. He waved the dirt trap that was his fingers in the air as though he were possessed, crawling towards the entrance of one of the classrooms.

He scooped a handful of sand, threw it up, and swerved his head to the right to stop it from touching the ground.

Two men half his age stood over him. Dressed in short-sleeve shirts and pant trousers, they prayed without touching him and spoke in tongues for the deliverance of a man they resolved was under the influence of unclean spirits. As they raised their voices, he raised his voice too. He rolled within the confine formed by the two fellows.

The prayer continued without their eyes closed as he continually smashed the ground with his head. Blood dripped from the gash on his forehead.

He would look at their faces with confusion stamped on his as he uttered loudly in a mish-mash of Pidgin English and his native tongue: “give me money eh! I want to eat eh! My belle dey empty, mbọk.”

Deji, the leader among the two boys, summoned the courage to bend down right in front of him. 

“We are going to give you what’s more than food, one that you won’t hunger anymore,” he retorts.

I sauntered into the school’s vast cultivable land for the evening’s meditative walk to spot the two fellows with whom I had lived in the NCCF family house for the last six months. 

It was like the time of the Christian apostles all over again. We had read in the bible how the apostles raised the dead, healed the sick, and helped to restore the sanity of insane men. We were living real life.

I quickly join the spiritual battle. I could see a flare of conviction splashed on them once again.

Elated, my faith also crawled to the fore. The Thomas in me was dragged back into the hollow of unconsciousness.

We held hands and spoke in known and unknown tongues. We were three educated fellows, I could hear each syllable of the tongues sounding like an excessive sound from a Bata drum.

We quoted the verses from the Bible. I remember John, Peter, the steadfast attitude of Paul, and the foundational changes caused by Phillip. We had them all in our spiritual pouches. We continued for hours. Yes, we did.

After a short while, the madman stopped rolling on the ground. He had stopped his acrobatic feats. He was now somewhat attentive. He sat quietly on one side of his buttocks and stretched out his wounded leg.

It appeared as though something had been lifted off him.

He sat like a newborn baby waiting for a welcome-to-life smack. He rolled down his torn jean over the wounded part, smiled sheepishly, and looked with eyes filled with gratefulness.

There was joy in our hearts.

Deji spoke first. He asked him for his name. He responded with a name that sounded like Ubong. The other guy asked him the last thing he remembered.

“I dey waka pass road,” he said with unsureness on his face.

I stood there mesmerised by the work of miracle.

I joined others as we raised our hands in the air and shouted hallelujah with elation.

Ubong stood up tall, he still smiled sheepishly. He still looked in a way that appeared mysterious. We asked some more questions, to some he answered well, others not too well.

We held hands with him, prayed some more, and put a little cash together. We gave it to him so he could get something to eat. Deji ran back to the NCCF family house to get his clippers, a shirt, and a trouser for him. He gave him a haircut.

We took him further into a corner and helped him get dressed and saw him off the vast school back into the Uyo road. 

Barely two weeks after the incident, I just finished my daily prayer and evening meditation in the school where the mad man had been healed. I walked toward a bridge that adjoined the Uyo stadium. Behold, a man lurching toward me. The brown shirt given to him had become browner, with some buttons missing.

The trouser was torn, showing his wound again. The other half was rolled up, his hair had grown wilder. 

I walked closer while he sauntered toward me. We passed beside each other. It appeared as though he waited for a split second, struggling to recall where he had known me, but couldn’t remember.

He dashed off, speaking incoherently to the sky, and chasing flies that only he could see.