Brotherhood of the Skull and Crossbones

Marcus Aina found it hard to believe he had survived again.
What could have been saving him? It was his fifth attempt to end his miserable life. The fifth failed attempt.
As if Congo Mongo was reading his mind, he spoke:
  ‘You can not die now. It’s not possible. Only Tam Matanga can permit you to die. And that only happens when you’ve paid all your dues.’
Marcus gazed at him with sad, weary and angry eyes; then, he shot a brief glance at the empty plate on the table.
The grains of rice and peas and chicken bones reminded him that he ate the food and had survived. It was not a dream.
The quantity of poison he had added to the food would make survival impossible but for a miracle. Marcus did not desire one.
Congo Mongo arched his brows, ‘You think that you can eat your cake and have it?’
  ‘Leave me alone! I’m sick of you! All of you!’
Congo Mongo nodded slowly, a smile of mock sympathy was on his face. ‘You can be tired of us with all your strength after you’ve paid your dues!’
Marcus had been familiar with the expression. But on this occasion, it produced more irritation that it usually does. ‘I’m not paying any sort of dues to you!’
Congo Mongo momentarily moved near him as if he intends to slap him immediately, the he stopped at about six inches from him:
  ‘Then you will keep living in hell.’ He snorted, and stormed out of the room.
  Marcus wondered if he could keep living in the sort of hell he had been experiencing for the past two weeks. Days of hell which started when he had refused to follow an order given by Tam Matanga, the head of the Skulls and Bones Brotherhood, a cult he had joined more than a year ago.
Before he joined the cult, his life had been plagued by poverty. His salary as an Undertaker at that time was not enough to feed him for a week, let alone feed his wife and eight children which we would say 'blessed' the marriage.
It was not his fault, neither was it his wife’s; the woman had quadruplets twice. A set of girls and a set of boys.
In the days that led him to his current situation, he would sneak out of his two room apartment at Levels district of Mushin at night, with torchlight in his hand, to a nearby refuse bin.
There he would hope to find left over meal packs or mouldy bread that a nearby bakery usually dumps.
There were times he would wash toilets of neighbors for a fee. The neighbors were only slightly better than him in material state, but none of them had to cater for nine dependants.
The first time he washed a toilet, he had vomited as soon as he entered the particular toilet. Maggots and flies were on every space on the floor of the pit latrine, which was shared by twelve families.
At times he would be insulted by his younger sister who was convinced that his state was a product of his laziness or foolishness. His sister, whose rich husband made lazy by giving her all she needs, would sit on a high moral chair and lecture him the disadvantages of laziness and foolishness.
No one would know that he was four years older than her.
  ‘I am tired of feeding you!’ she would say, ‘Can’t you get yourself a decent job? It’s your fault! When your mates were pursuing their education and career with diligence and purpose, you were busy chasing girls about on the streets! I thought your libido would pay your bills!’
Marcus would scratch and lower his head, he would try hard to suppress the urge to burst into tears;  he would still wait to take whatever her sister had to offer, no minding the stinging rebuke from her. He hated himself for that, but a poor man lacks a desirable choice in things that matter most.
Eventually, his landlord got tired of waiting for him to pay his accumulated rent. Fifteen months of excuses and begging. He gave him a quit notice, and got him evicted after a week of its expiration.
The landlord could not be blamed. Many had said the grey haired man was too merciful for his own good; he has been too patient with the wretched young man who has been stupid enough to have eight children.
The street became the Aina’s abode. They would have to endure the stinging rays of the sun by the day and the biting cold of the night, till they get a place to live.
After six days of living on the street, he saw Jassy Akanmi.
That was the boy the whole class called bald little thing in his secondary school days.
Baldlithing! Baldlithing! Baldlithing!
He got the name because he was the shortest pupil in the class and his head was always shaved.
When Marcus saw him that sunny afternoon as he was getting his car filled with fuel at the filling station, he saw a different Jassy Akanmi.
He still had a shaved head, but he was taller, well built and his skin glowed like that of one having the opposite of his experience.
  ‘Oh! You have changed! You used to have a big stomach!’ Jassy exclaimed after they were done with the usual pleasantries.
  ‘How can I have a big stomach when there is no food to fill it?’
They both giggled.
  ‘So what is happening in your life?’
  ‘Like what?’ Marcus asked, knowing what he meant to ask. He wished Jassy will not make him tell of his misfortune. His life seemed like an accumulation of all human problems, and living it gave him shame. Talking about it would doubtless bring a worse feeling.
  ‘I mean, what have you been doing?’
  ‘Oh, I have been out of job for the past three months.’ He lied. ‘I was a manager of a shopping mall in Victoria Island before I was relieved of my position.’
Jassy had a look of sympathy. ‘Did the management give any reason for that?’
  ‘No good reason, Jassy, it was just because the old hag that owns the mall suddenly stopped admiring my administrative style.’
Jassy shook his head slowly. He looked at Marcus from head to his feet, taking in his shirt which was supposed to be white but for age and dirt; and his faded blue jeans; and the yellow bathroom slippers on his feet. All he could afford to look better than a begger.
  ‘I can see.’ He said, almost whispering. ‘Life has been hard for you. Life has really been harsh on you.’
Marcus felt more shame. The fact that his situation could arouse pity, from Jassy who wouldn’t dare speak anywhere he was in his secondary school days, made the feeling of the moment more difficult to bear. He wished the ground would open and swallow him.
  ‘I am on my way to a meeting. I should be there by three.’ Jassy said, glancing at his wrist watch. ‘If you don’t mind, give me a call.’ He brought out a business card from the breast pocket of his shirt and added: ‘Then we can talk about your situation.’ He spoke with an expression that seemed to mean: ‘This miserable life of yours can be given a shine by my magical touch.’
Marcus took the card and almost bowed his head. He had taken in the metallic green Escalade, the Armani watch and the Gucci shoes.
Jassy did not wait to hear him respond.


When Marcus called Jassy, a meeting was arranged. They sat on a glass round table in a bar in the premises of a Sheraton hotels and towers.
Marcus only hears of Sheraton in the news: some conference to be held at Sheraton; some concert; a memorial lecture in honour of some academician at Sheraton Hotels, this and that glamourous even, to be held at Sheraton. Sitting in a restaurant in the complex was like living a dream.
Marcus wore his best cloth, the only one slightly better than rags. As men in well tailored suits and briefcases walked around and sat on tables he couldn’t help but feel like an intruder. He observed their cultivated demureness and acquired foreign accents. He was not too eager to tell his friend of the series of misfortunes he has suffered. Jassy was eager to tell him of his travels and business meetings and material acquisitions. Jassy snapped his fingers and a waiter came and took their orders. Jassy wanted Heineken, Marcus wanted the same. If he had been offered cheap locally made beer he wouldn’t have rejected it. The waiter came with two bottles and two mugs.
Soon their conversation drifted to the main purpose of the meeting.
  ‘Like I told you,’ Jassy said, ‘If you decide to be rich today, you’ll be rich.’
A frown formed on Marcus’ face. ‘How can you say that? Do you think I enjoy eating from the bin and sleeping on the pavement?’
  ‘You are talking to someone who may have all the answers. Your decision is the only obstacle.’
Marcus cleared his throat and decided to endure what he felt was arrogance on Jassy’s part. ‘If you tell me what to do, I will do it speedily. That’s why I’m here.’
  ‘I’ll take you to a place where your poverty will be dead.’ Jassy said, almost whispering.
  ‘When will that be?’
  ‘How much does being rich mean to you?’
  ‘Very much. Of course you know that my life has been hell in recent years. Doesn’t is show on my skin?’
Jassy emptied the contents of the mug before him and had a supercilious smile on his lips. ‘The brotherhood is the answer you need.’
Jassy’s eyes widened. ‘The brotherhood? What is that?’
Jassy told him the advantages of joining the brotherhood, the power and influence of the members and the seemingly endless opportunities that the association offers.
The brotherhood is a club for influential members of the society. The deputy governor, the state chief judge, two of the three senators from Lagos state and fifteen bank executive are members. The club members would determine the flow of business benefits.
These were the benefits Jassy exaggerated as much as he could. Marcus was too desperate to think about the cost of the offerings.


When he realized he had taken the wrong path by deciding to join the brotherhood it had been too late. He had been in the premises of the club house. It was an unwritten rule that anyone who agrees to come to the club house would have no choice but to join.
Marcus saw three skulls on the table at the reception where members were to sign in.
When he had entered the waiting room he was required to drink from a black bottle placed on a wooden stool near the door. When he had taken the drink he was sure it was blood. He felt the urge to vomit, but fought hard against it. Then he had thought his horror was over until a smiling hostess told him of the next requirement: he as to go to a room labeled SOULFIX.
There was nothing unusual in entering a room, the unusual thing is the thing he had to do there. He had to be naked and wait for a masked and naked lady that will take him on a pleasure giving, pleasure taking ride.
The club house was cool; the air conditioned rooms provided a microclimate that would make one feel as if it was Jos. But Marcus was sweating like one placed in an air tight container.
Then he was asked to open a calabash and fulfill the request written in a small card inside it. He was asked to get three human heads.
  ‘How the hell would he get that?’ he had thought.
Then he remembered his job. Getting three heads from the hundreds of unclaimed bodies in the morgue was an easy thing, he thought.
  ‘This is cool! I never knew being rich is this easy!’ he had said. ‘I would have given Tam Matanga forty human heads if he wants it.’ He had told Jassy after the initiation rites were completed.
The night after the rites, Marcus bought a yellow Ferrari and slept in the presidential suite of Crown Hotel, the most expensive hotel in Victoria Island.
Marcus drove his friend round the city the following evening. ‘This is just the beginning.’ Jassy said to him. ‘You’ll still have enough money to buy a dozen more of this without bothering that little head of yours.’
Marcus’ change of lifestyle was not gradual. Two days after joining the brotherhood he bought a house in the most expensive suburb in Victoria Island.
The property was worth 12 million naira. A duplex with a king-size swimming pool, a gymnasium, green lawns and CCTV cameras.
He was soon speaking with the deputy governor, ministers, bank executives and senators on phone. Sudden wealth threw his years of lack into the distant past.
Every thing seemed rosy for nine months.
On the first day of his tenth month in the brotherhood, Tam Matanga told him of the need for the head of a baby.
  ‘Are you crazy? You think I’m a butcher with an expertise in cutting babies? I’ll never do that!’ he had told the cult chief with a calm and confident tone.
After then, neither his dream nor his reality knew peace till he had given the white bearded Tam Matanga what he seemed to desperately need.
He had gone to the city square to snatch the baby from her mother’s hand. Her mother was a crippled mad woman who lived in an abandoned public toile near the city square.
She had made futile attempts to standup as Marcus snatched the baby from her. She cried as loud as she could, hoping that someone would help her. Would anyone care to help her? They would probably think she was just being as mad as she was.
Marcus attended brotherhood meetings as required; every Thursday. On such Thursdays one person or the other would be compelled to meet a demand that would bring sadness and restlessness.
Tam Matanga would always demand things that would be as difficult and painful to get as a piece of meat between a crocodile’s teeth.
Marcus’ eyes seemed to have seen all the evil in the world: He has seen a man sacrifice his only son, a son he has been expecting after fourteen years of marriage and hope for a child; a man has been ordered to sleep in a cemetery for three weeks; a man has been ordered to swallow a life frog everyday, for two weeks.
Marcus would lay on his bed at night and fight hard to wipe the images of terror and horror that has afflicted his eyes since his first meeting after his initiation to the brotherhood.
On a Thursday that would afflict Marcus’ memories far more than the earlier experiences, Tam Matanga called him to the high table, a table usually occupied by three other stern faces apart from Tam Matanga.
  ‘Next week it will be exactly one year and six months since you joined the brotherhood!’ Matanga began.
Marcus thought about the words for a moment; it seemed he had been a member of the brotherhood from birth. He was smiling like a girl who had just been given an engagement ring before a crowd of competing beauties.
He had thought the cult leader intended to announce a party that has been organized in his honour- A celebration in Honour of Marcus Aina, a jewel to the brotherhood of skulls and crossbones.
His smile faded when his mind took in the words that followed.
  ‘There is one thing you can do to help the brotherhood.’
His heart suddenly started beating against his chest. He had been familiar with the words that always precede Tam Matanga’s usual scary requests.
Matanga’s eyes were on him with grim concentration. ‘I need your child’s blood.’
Marcus had wished he was dreaming.
His eyes narrowed, ‘Which child?’
  ‘I want the head of your last child on a plate. It will happen during the next meeting!’
Marcus snorted incredulously, ‘I can’t believe it! You sincerely believe that I will cut my son’s head? Are you, are you….are you…’
  ‘Cross and bones!’ Matanga shouted, it was the call that signals the end of the meetings.
  ‘Brotherhood!’ it was only Marcus’ voice that was missing in the response.
  ‘Brotherhood!’ Matanga shouted again.
  ‘Cross and bones!’ they replied in unison.
After the meeting, Marcus had been sure for the umpteenth time that he had made a mistake.
How could he ever cut the head of his last child? The last of the quadruplets to emerge from his wife’s womb? This is a boy he loved so much, one that had the most obvious physical resemblance of him, one who was the best pupil in his class, one who had won three state laurels. Even if he were a dumb and ugly child, Marcus would not have found it easy or even possible to cut his head.



The appointed Thursday came, and Tam Matanga had his order disobeyed for the first time since the brotherhood was founded. 
Marcus would not bring his son to be slaughtered; he did not attend the meeting and offered no apologies for his absence. He would rather die or lose all the wealth he had gained, this he has said more often than he had read the national pledge.
Tam Matanga threatened and raised his voice in condemnation of Marcus Aina, the ingrate, the coward, the rebellious son of the brotherhood.
The following night, Marcus’ could not figure out the state of his mind. He had experiences that seemed like dreams but also have compelling semblance of reality. There were time he would be sure he had seen a python by his bedside. After jumping from the bed and reaching for the switch, he would realize that nothing of such was there.
On one occasion, he was driving to his office for a meeting with three visiting foreign investors. He as sure he had seen a coffin in the middle of the road. When he stopped the car and went out to remove the obstacle on his way he realized that it was an illusion.
If he was not sure of the illusions, he was sure that a green snake that crawled out of his briefcase when he had gone for a business meeting with another foreign investor. He killed the snake.
He was sure the bleeding tiger head he had seen in the driver’s seat of his jeep on his wife’s birthday, was real. He cleaned the blood stains.
His dreams were not better. He would dream of humans with horns and tails, chasing him with an axe; there were dreams of big and sharp teethed animals balancing him between their teeth.
He would wake up with a jerk, sweating and panting.
He felt as though he was living in hell and ending his life seemed a bright idea.
When he decided to end his life, he went to the Lagos/Ibadan expressway and stood in the middle of the road, hoping that a vehicle would crush him. Just after the first vehicle roared towards him, he found himself in his room and could not figure out what happened.
Then he had gone to touch a naked electricity wire from a NEPA pole that fell after a storm, hoping to be electrocuted. He had to look in bewilderment to be sure he had already touched the wire. It gave him the feeling of a harmless twig.
He had gone to a shop that sold chemicals and bought a concentrated solution of ammonium chloride. He was sure it turned to water after he had gulped a litre of the solution.
An hour later, he applied a powdered form of Gamalin 20 to a plate of rice, peas and chicken; then he fell into deep sleep. When he woke up, Congo Mongo, a member of the brotherhood, from whom he has never heard a word, appeared by his side and confirmed his fear.
Congo Mongo had woken him up from his death, or sleep.
The signs said his life would be far more miserable than he had thought if he refused to please the brotherhood. Then it was 3:AM and Marcus had wondered how Congo Mongo had got into his room.




Marcus decided to surrender to overwhelming circumstances. Tam Matanga seemed far more powerful than he had ever imagined; and Congo Mongo seemed capable of passing through doors without the need of keys. After missing the brotherhood gatherings for three months, he decided to change his mind. 
  ‘It is my joy today to do something I have been doing for almost five years now!’ Tam Matanga began in his usual loud and threatening voice. ‘Receiving prodigal sons of the brotherhood. Marcus Aina, I’m happy that you’ve decided to turn a new leaf.’
There was silence, a sort that could be associated with the aftermath of a loud explosion.
  ‘Let the grim reaper come!’ Matanga yelled.
Marcus could feel sweat running under his cloth. His heart seemed to be beating in his ears, each beat felt as though it was a blow from a weak boxer.
He had made his beloved son believe he was being taken to an amusement park.
Now the boy was blindfolded, tied on his arms and feet with a white rope, and placed on well arranged firewood in the centre of the round table.
Tam Matanga was observing the boy from the high table like a vulture would stare at a dead body.
Three naked men had cutlasses with glittering edges, they moved slowly towards the boy.
Marcus wished for the umpteenth time that he could turn back the hands of time.
The tall, bulgy eyes Jassy was somewhere in the crowd, gazing at Marcus’ son with the same expression as everyone else.
  ‘Please don’t….don’t…don’t kill him, don’t kill…him!’ Marcus’ could not help the panicky tone. He was leaving his seat and hurrying through the crowd, towards the men at the centre who would cut his son’s head if not stopped.
  ‘Marcus! Stay where you are!’ Matanga’s voice was cold and loud.
Marcus stood still immediately, as if hypnotized by Matanga’s words.
One of the men raised his cutlass.
  ‘Stop! You can’t do that!’ Marcus barked.
  ‘Cut that head!’ Matanga screamed at the man.
A gunshot was heard. With the unthinking speed of reflex everyone was lying on the floor. From the floor, Marcus could see six policemen; one of them was saying something that would keep everyone gathered in the room behind bars for three or more years, but would save his son.




 
 
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