We came into the world,
Empty handed.
Like tourists
At a viewing sight,
We take nothing…

Senator Gani of the United Nations Party had observed some activities going on in the country with keen interest. He would have sworn that the top echelons from the opposing party, All People’s Alliance were hiring hitmen to kill off some of their own men in the top position so they can create space for themselves, but there was a flaw with that theory. The APA was recording deaths as well. What was happening?

The senator stood up from his seat near the window and began walking about his sitting room. Who was trying to get them killed? As it was, some politicians were already making plans to leave the country. Even Senator Jerry who was on his way to his house at this moment. His advice to all of them had been the same: lie low, let’s get to the root of this matter.

The door opened and his security man matched Senator Jerry in.

“Big man,” the visitor greeted, beaming positively with smiles.

“Learned man,” Senator Gani hailed back.

They made a show of embracing each other. All the while the host thought of how hypocritical their actions were, a thought that had since ceased to be of any bother to him, dealing with it was like wiping the fog off the windscreen of his car, very easy. Some months ago, they had exchanged words, being the flag bearers of two different parties, before Jerry moved over to UNP.

The leaders of the party decided he was to be pardoned for all the insulting words hurled at the party under the umbrella of APA, a pardon which was not unrelated to the fact that he had a lot of money, controlled a lot of businesses and could sway votes easily in the middle belt. Here they were, greeting like old comrades.

“You actually look like you’re on your way to a big ceremony,” Gani commented.

“You mean I can’t dress well to see my friend again?” Jerry asked, and both of them broke into forced laughter.

The furniture knew the laughter was forced, the walls knew, and if the mirrors hanging around the senator’s waiting room could talk, they would tell the senators to shut the fuck up, using their own shadows.

“Have a seat, my friend, let me get something for you.”

“Actually, senator, that won’t be necessary. I came to tell you I’m leaving.”

“Oho, I said it, you were on your way to somewhere big before deciding to just pop in and pop out like the youths these days say.”

“It is not like that, my friend.”

“How is it like? Please, I will give you a little something to show oyibo that we have what they have there. I insist.”

Senator Jerry sighed, then smiled good-naturedly, before he sat down on the sofa in the room, tapping his legs impatiently. The host walked towards the mini bar, trying to move, his barrel of a stomach leading the way with him coming after, and somehow managing to take all the time in the world. He would pick up a bottle, read the inscription, decide it was not good enough for his friend to show Oyibo people and drop it.

On the sofa, senator Jerry continued tapping his legs impatiently. It took everything ounce of self-control he had to restrain himself from calling out to his senior in the politics business. To calm his nerves, he took the newspaper he saw on the table and began to turn the pages.

The first page he opened confronted him with a picture of the recently murdered DPO where he was smiling. He did not want to read it, but he could not stop his eyes from running down the pages where he gleaned details of the murder which took place right in front of one of the officers who got killed himself. All of the officers said they saw no one get into the DPO’s office and they had seen no one leave.

It was soon after this that the trail of political deaths followed, pushing the country precariously closer to the brim of an uprising. There was only one thing still keeping the country: the deaths were spread out over the ethnic groups.

Something caught Senator Jerry’s eyes on the reports. According to the reporter, it was alleged to be the murderer’s sign. He read it: I am karma. The murderer must really be full of himself to think he was karma. All they had to do was put more pressure on the forces and the idiot going about killing politicians would be dealt with. But he could not stay. He wanted to be alive when the criminal was brought to justice.

Footsteps from the door made him raise his head. The footsteps were not as heavy as that of a man, so he raised his head not expecting to see his fellow senator at the door. He thought perhaps it would be one of Senator Gani’s grandchildren, but he saw no one. The footsteps had suddenly come to a halt just as he raised his head.

His brows came together in a puzzled frown and he stared at the empty place where he had already imagined he would see a child. Suddenly, the blood flowing through his veins became icy. He could feel it, there was someone in the room with him.

“Senator,” he called hesitantly. “Senator!”

Gani did not hear him as he shuffled through his bottles of wine. He only heard an agonizing scream carrying so much pain within it that it made him spring up from where he was and dash to the big room.

His comrade lay against the sofa, a knife buried in his neck, his eyes wide with staring at death, hands grabbing at nothing. Beside him was that mysterious note again:

Karma is coming for all of you.


Samuel Ogechukwu thinks of himself as a writer, a superhero, a song writer, the prince in shining armour for some lady in his fairy tale. He believes this too, because well, his stories are his, and he can be anything in everyone of them.


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