A FISTFUL OF CLOUDS

PAY ATTENTION! The grasses may be greener on the other side, but it might get even more poisonous. A Nigerian boy wins it cheap for an exploration beyond the horizon. His dreams, to make enough money for himself and his family, is about to become a reality. But his fate is sealed even before he finds out what the job entails.

I wonder what I have become, and what has become of me. But I don’t wonder how I got here because I know exactly how it all happened. I remember exactly how it all began. I could start from the day Francis broke the news to me that I finally got the visa. I was drinking hot beer as there was no light that afternoon, when he came running into the house almost crashing into Sopuru who was just about going out.

“Izu! Izu!! Guess what?!” He screamed in elation.

“What?” I asked, standing up to match his excitement.

“Oohh, guess please!” He persisted.

The first time he asked me to guess I didn’t really give it any thoughts. Because that was how it usually was in the movies. “Guess what?” “What?” “No, just guess.” “Ohhh you know I’m not good at guessing just tell me what it is already.” And the bearer of the good news would spill the beans. But I paused for a moment to think about it. To not ruin the fun. I immediately clocked there was only one news I was expecting, that we were all expecting, and hoping that it turned out well. So, I spilled the beans myself.

“I got the visa?!” I asked aloud as the beer in my hand spilled over and decorated the floor in unsteady fashion, almost drawing a map of Africa without Tanzania.

“Yes!! Yes!!! Yes, you did!!!” He screamed repeatedly.

My heart was pumping something better than blood in an instant. Sweat of excitement immediately ran out my forehead to celebrate the news with us. Sopuru, who had turned around initially, was now jumping up with us and singing “come and join me sing alleluia!” It had been two whole months since the agency that Francis had found, or that had found Francis, said they would get back to us. Two whole months that my heart had been restless. But the news finally came and boy was it good? We threw a small family party to celebrate it.

I could also start from the day Papa and I went to survey the farmlands for the final time before they were sold. It was in preparation for my travels, the visa costs, tickets and everything I needed. The first time Francis brought the agency people, they had told us how much it was going to cost us. And knowing fully well how difficult the country was, we also were aware that going through the normal process of obtaining visa would cost at least five times the amount that the agency people told Papa, and that was without any guarantees. It was Dubai after all, a onetime opportunity. Papa was not going to let me miss the chance for anything. He was determined to sell whatever was sale-able to buy the application. The whole family pulled every string they could and got me the opportunity that we all dreamt of. Finally, I was going to Dubai. Finally, I was leaving the dirty hopeless country that was Nigeria to a place where there was constant light and good roads and oil and… money. I was going to make money and get my family out of poverty and out of Nigeria. Finally!

But the perfect place to start would be the day we arrived in the land that flowed with oil and money. I still remember the date, February 14, 2021. Yeah, that’s right, valentine’s day. Everything was so valentine when we arrived that I could not believe my eyes. The guy who received me at the airport, Rakim, took me to a luxurious hotel where I spent my first night. I say luxurious because I could not think of any other adjective to describe the beauty and ostentatious nature of the hotel. It stood so tall I believed it touched the sky. In short, I knew that if I stood at the top of it and reached out that I would definitely get a fistful of clouds. Almost everything about it was white. The paint, the paintings, the curtains, the bed sheets, the cupboards… white. It was like heaven. At first, I had tried to explain to Rakim that I had no money to spend on such a place with such foods and such wines; but he immediately calmed me down that everything was already paid for. He said I should not worry.

“Just enjoy yourself” was how he put it, with his Dubai accent. So, I calmed my nerves and enjoyed myself. That night, under the cozy bedsheets and platinum air conditioners, I had dreamt of me, Papa, Sopuru, Chiudo and Francis in our own mansion somewhere in Dubai. Sitting around this expensive looking dining table and chatting and laughing exotically about how far we have come. That night, was the best night of my life.

The next morning, at 8 o’clock, Rakim came to my room and took me somewhere else. Somewhere less luxurious but had luxury in its description regardless. There, I met two black men and a woman from Africa. They spoke French so it was difficult for me to understand what they were actually saying throughout my stay there. But Rakim would explain later that they were discussing my next line of work. That they were planning to give me a job. A job? Someone wake me up! I had not even spent twenty-four hours and these wealthy looking men were discussing how to give me a job. Who knew the kind of oil companies they owned? It probably stretched over long acres like Francis used to describe it. Perhaps, I would have my own office where I would sit in spinning chair and sip coffee while I worked. All those office works where one barely did anything and got paid high amount of… what is Dubai currency again? That was what it shaped to look like, first the luxurious accommodations, then these wealthy people. It was not Rakim who took me back though; it was another man. A tall, huge man with huge shoulders and huge arms and huge eyes and nose, in short, everything about him was huge. From the way he spoke he was tellingly American, and walked with the pride I would have been walking with if I was American too. His name was Sal. A name I considered too mundane for his huge frame. That was the last time I saw Rakim. That was the only time I ever saw those two wealthy men and woman.

Sal did not take me back to the luxurious lounge, instead he took me to what I assumed was his own apartment. A two-bedroom bungalow that stood alone in the middle of… I don’t know the names of these places. 

“You’ll stay here for tonight. I’ll take you to your workplace tomorrow.” He said. I nodded. I was happy I had gotten a job but somehow, I was not satisfied with how I got it. I had no idea what the job was and the way Sal said it made me think I was going to start the next day. And he hardly said anything either, which made it impossible for me to ask him any questions. I sat in my room, watching horse race on the tv while he made dinner of fried eggs and that American dish where they just mixed vegetables and fruits and this and that, and then sprinkled a little bit of red something on it that wasn’t palm oil before they dug in. To be quite honest, it was not bad, but it was still the worst meal I ever tasted, and that was saying something, considering the fact that we could barely afford good quality food back home in Nigeria. The next day, he took me to this house that was not luxurious at all. The floor of the house was dirty, and so was the sofa and the walls. Three men, huge like Sal, were waiting there when we arrived. So, I listened as they discussed with Sal as if I was not there. They talked about the job I was going to do, and from the way they spoke there was nothing bad about the job. I was wrong. One of them said he would take me, that I looked healthy and ready to work.

“How old are you?” He asked me.

“22.” I answered.

He nodded and muttered “I told you.” to the other men.

And that was it. They left me to go with him. Although, Sal was the one who walked us to the man’s car, like Rakim, I never saw him again.

We arrived at the house of this new man whom I did not know his name. He looked like he was in his late forties - his stature made it difficult for me to guess his age, and had thick ginger beard that was his sole purpose of living. There was a way he caressed it from time to time that made me uneasy; even when we were inside, he brought out a comb and began to weave through the beard and I felt like I wanted to cut it off. I was slowly becoming uncomfortable and angry. Nothing was being said to me, and I was the one who was supposed to be working. Normally, if one was going to be employed, that person gets to dictate the terms of the contract. But there were no terms for me to dictate, and no contract in sight. As though he could read my thoughts, Mr. No-Name-Yet walked over to where I was seated in the corner of his sitting room and started to talk to me.

“You look like a good boy,” he said, “I like you. You and me are going to make a lot of money together.” I knew it was my time to speak up and I grabbed onto it like a baby to a breast.

“I’m sorry, I have to ask, what exactly am I looking to be doing? No one seems to be interested in my not knowing what I…”

“You mean they didn’t tell you?” He cut me off. Who didn’t tell me what? I was confused. Was he not there with them when they were having the conversation? At what point did they include me in what the discussion?

“No one told me anything.” I said. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

“Well, I like to say that you and I are now partners. You’ll work for me three times a day and I’ll pay you huge amount of money. Do you understand?” I did not understand, and I made it clear.

“No. What exactly am I supposed to be doing for you, sir?” I asked in exasperation.

“I’ll give you the details of everything. Just relax yourself, Okay? We don’t need to rush this.” Relax myself? Why would he say I should relax myself? My mind began to race. I felt my spine tingle with fear. My head ached. My chest became heavy, so heavy I felt that I might fall if I stood up. Relax myself? I was so deep in the thought of having to relax myself that his feint “You should call me Mr. Young”(he was anything but) sounded like it was being said over a stadium speaker. It dawned on me that I was in the middle of nowhere, where I knew no one. When the agency people had brought their application, they'd told Papa that there were a lot of Nigerians and Africans here in Dubai. That I would meet my Igbo brothers and sisters and it would not be hard for me to adapt. But so far, I had met only three Africans who spoke French, and four Americans. That night, while I ate the sandwich that old Mr. Young served me, I felt like I was running out of breath. And I was really running out of breath because I felt myself fall asleep right on the dining table. As much as I fought, the sleep still ground me to submission.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of shaving stick scraping through my groin. Krah Krah Krah the sound went. As I opened my eyes, I saw Mr. Young standing over me with the shaving stick and working intensely on my generation area. He grinned when he saw that I was awake. That was when I realized I had been drugged the previous night. What happened to me? I asked myself. In that moment I had no strength to move any muscle in my body, not even my lips to ask what was going on. Mr. Young had since gone back to work on my penis area. I could feel his cold gloved hands as he lifted my balls to shave it. Krah krah krah he drew the shaving stick up and down the savvy skin on my balls. I felt nothing on the inside of me; on the outside though, I could feel my own rage and helplessness sipping through every orifice in my skin. Then he turned me around and proceeded to shave my buttocks lines and taint. Opening it wide for a better view as he did so. Krah krah krah went the sound of the shaving stick. What was he doing to me? I asked myself. I had no strengths in me to resist or fight him. Even if I did, one big blow from his huge fists would leave me lying unconscious in a moment. Was he going to rape me? If he was going to shave my body in this manner, why didn’t he do it in the night when I was still unconscious? What in the world did I get myself into? So, this man was going to rape me and pay me or what? I began my plan to run away. Yes, I was going to run away at the first opportunity. Even if I could not go back to Nigeria, I would rather die on the streets of Dubai than have another man rape me three times every day for money. No matter the amount, if that was the work I was meant to do in Dubai, then I would rather die than succumb to it. It was not, and thank God for that!

Thank God? When I finally regained consciousness, Mr Young served me hot tea and some slices of bread.

“How do you feel?” He asked as I ate. I did not say anything. In truth, I could not say anything because I did not know how to describe how I felt. All the hair in the lower parts of my body was gone, but I did not feel any relief like there was something that used to be in my body that was not there any longer. I did not feel lightheaded from the drugging as I was supposed to. I did not feel the rage I had felt in the morning when he was scraping my penis with shaving stick. What I felt was planning to run away, and there was no way to describe that feeling.

“When you are done with your meal,” he continued, “I need you to rest. We’ll start our work by 10. The second round by 2pm, and the last round by 6.” He said. My jaw dropped on the dining table and I left it there. Round? What the hell did he mean by round? I had already figured out that he was not going to rape me through the way he looked at me. Someone who wanted to have anything sex-related with another person would look at them loin-stirringly, he did not look at me like that. So, what did he mean by round? 

I finished my food and trotted off to my room where I lay for an hour or so, plotting my escape. The windows of the room were held with heavy metal bands so there was basically no way to get through them. I assumed that was the way the windows in Mr. Young’s bedroom were too, and if I remembered correctly, the sitting room windows as well; which left only the sitting room door as the only possible escape route. What was I going to do? I did not want to stay around and find out what my job really entailed. I did not want to stay around to find out what round meant. I decided I would pretend to go into the kitchen to take water then I would make a dash for the door and run away. No no no, I’ll pick up a knife in the kitchen, so that even if Mr. Young tried to stop me, I would stab him with it and disappear. I was still arranging my plans in my head when Mr. Young knocked on the door although it was open.      

“Com’on baby boy, it’s time for work.” He said. The way he said baby boy made me want to grab something and strangle myself to death already. I was terrified, but I stood up anyway, and followed him in trembling feet. He led me into a small room directly opposite his bedroom. In this small room, there was a step that led into a basement. We walked down the stairs and down into the basement where there was a set up camera, and lights all over. The basement was sparkling clean and painted white, and only when I was done observing the cleanliness of it did my eyes catch the dog lying in the corner. My lips began to quiver. I stopped walking. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I did not need anyone to tell me, I summoned all the strength in me and made the dash for it, turning around and breezing through the stairs like they were nothing. But Mr. Young was onto me in a flash. He was faster and stronger than I was. He grabbed me by the waist, I struggled to hold off his grip around me. Trying to flip myself around and somehow unhook myself from his stronghold. I could not. I began to scratch and bite and punch every piece of his skin my fingers and teeth and hands could reach. He dragged me back with force and threw me down the stairs. I hit my head hard on the base of the stairs; but even with the daze, I immediately jumped up. In that moment, it was a matter of life and death for me, and I was not going to give up when I still could breathe. I rushed up the stairs again, throwing myself into him as if that would make me somehow disappear from the room. He caught me with a huge elbow to the mouth and I tasted blood. I leaned over and rushed back towards him, as he made to catch me again, I kicked him in the nuts with every ounce of energy in my right leg. I felt my leg crash against his testicles and almost crushed them. He grunted like a pig, but I was not there to listen to the sound his pain. In seconds, I was already in the sitting room, scrambling through the couch and flipping the curtains aside. The door was locked. I turned around and dashed into the kitchen, searching for anything and everything I could get; any hard, sharp objects I could use to defend myself. I grabbed a small knife from the cup of spoons on the cupboard and made to run out to the sitting room to wait for him there. Bang! was the last thing I heard as Mr. Young’s ambushing fist met my forehead. I would wake up five minutes later.

I was tied to a chair in the basement when I opened my eyes. The ropes ran all over my body and glued me to the chair, and I sat there, face to face with the dog which panted heavily as if it had just done a marathon. A few minutes later, Mr. Young opened the door to the basement. I could hear the sound of his feet as he walked down the stairs and finally stopped right in front of me. He stood between me and the dog and said he was going to make one thing “perfectly clear.” I hissed at him and looked away. No matter what he said, there was nothing, no jupiter, no man, no woman, going to make me sleep with a dog. I swore that in my heart repeatedly.

“I’m going to not only make the money I spent on you; I’m going to get times two million of that, I promise you.” He said. I faced the floor, I wished I could shut my ears and not hear what he was saying. Oh my Mother, she must be turning in her grave, I thought. And Francis, and Papa, who knew the kind of work they think I might be doing. 

“So, you either cooperate or I make you cooperate.” He continued. I hated him. I hated his voice and his beard. I hated Americans and everything about them. I hated the way he said cooperate. “I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. But if you make me hurt you, you’ll regret it and still do what I bought you for.” I spat on the floor. I felt the size of my lips then and they were at-least two times bigger than they used to be. I was in pains. My whole body ached painfully. Mr. Young continued to speak and speak and speak. When he was done, he put his right hand behind him and drew out a small gun. I smiled. That is the gun I’m going to use to kill you! I said within myself. Then he went over to the left corner of the room and picked a black bowl which he carried over to where I sat. I watched him lift a small bottle and a syringe from the bowl, then he extracted the contents of the bottle into the syringe and walked over to me. “I’m sorry I have to do this.” I felt the syringe pierce into my left arm, and the contents emptied into my body. Slowly, I became weak, my eyes rolled up and my stomach growled. That was when he began to untie me, carefully observing if I was in any way dangerous. But I did not sleep off as I had done the previous night, I just sat there and watched on, lifelessly, as he undressed me; first removing my shirt and hanging it on a rope I had just noticed across the room, then he meticulously removed my trousers and boxers. I was stark naked; I watched the dog stand up as he hung my boxers on the rope. I prayed fervently for death. I wished heart attack on myself. I wished everything that could kill a person as quickly as possible. But I didn’t die, instead, I sat there and watched everything with my two eyes that I wished I never had.

Mr. Young approached me with the untied rope, this time he just tied my hands together around my back so that I could not hit him even if I wanted to. Then he began to stroke gently on my penis; he placed the flaccid lump in his palm and squeezed it gently. I sat there, praying that nothing would happen. He squeezed on and on, but my penis did not answer him. I heaved a heavy sigh when he finally gave up a few minutes later and dropped it. The sight of the dog, the sight of him, irritated the life out of both me and my penis. I was grateful that my body failed when it did and I smiled as Mr. Young walked out of the basement and up the stairs. I smiled at the disappointment written all over the faces of both him and his mysterious dog. I smiled so much that the crack on my lips drove a very sharp pain into my jaw and chin. I smiled too soon.

When he returned, Mr. Young came carrying another bowl. He dropped it right before me and like he had done before, used a syringe to draw out the contents of a small bottle. He then injected me with it, and placed the syringe back in the bowl. When he touched my penis again, it did not hold back. He did not even have to squeeze it for long, the stupid thing just shot up in front of me and stood there like a stranded soldier in the middle of a desert in Jalalabad. I felt the hardness of it and the heaviness of my waist. I saw the wry smile on the face of Mr. Young, I saw the dog wiggle its tail in excitement. I saw my life sip away from me gradually, little by little.

Mr. Young dragged the sit closer to the dog, which was literally tapping its feet as my penis throbbed back and forth under its own commands. He then went over to the camera and turned it on and waved at it. The grin on his face made me throw up. I emptied my entire breakfast on the floor. I could not see my eyes but I knew they were red as Nile when Moses’ rod hit it. But my own rod was still standing, pedaling back and forth like it was being propelled by my heartbeat. Then I summoned my last ounce of strength and kicked the dancing dog into the bowl and it let out a loud cry. I tried to drag myself away, using every single muscle in me, but Mr. Young held me down. The drug held me down. I closed my eyes as he bent me over the dog which by that time, was already in position. Then he thrust my penis into the dog, pushing my waist back and forth into it. I felt dead. There was nothing worse than it, not even death. Because, at-least the dead had no idea they were dead. I cursed my mother for bringing me into this world; I cursed my father for selling his lands to bring me here, I cursed Francis for bringing the agency people to our home. I cursed and cursed until there were no more curses left in me.

When he was done, he lifted me up and carried me to the bathroom. Then he washed me clean with soap and running water and took me into my room where he lay me on the bed in the same meticulous manner.

“I’m sorry.” He said, and shook his head. Hot tears were streaming down my face but I made no attempts to wipe them because I had no strength. I heard the sound of the door as he locked it from the outside. A few hours later, he came in with a plate of food. He tried to make me eat, but he could only force the food into my mouth but not down my throat. He cleaned me up when he realized the futility of his attempts and went back out. I lay there, in hot tears, not thinking, not moving, not knowing what to do. When he returned sometime after, he placed his hands on my shoulder.

“Because this is your first time, we will go easy. With time, you’ll be able to do it by yourself without me having to force you.” I sneezed violently. When I realized that the sneezing was having some effects on me, I tried to force myself to continue sneezing but I could not. He left the room and closed the door for the last time that day. It was 12pm when he came in the next day, I knew because the clock in the room said so. I had watched the clock all through the night, as it clicked away at the ruins that was now my life. Tic toc, tic toc it continued on an endless journey throughout the night which I could not close my eyes. Not even for one second. I was afraid that I would see the dog in my dream, tapping its feet and wagging its tail at the sight of me. I was afraid that I would see Mr. Young, and his strange beard carrying a bowl and walking down the stairs. I was afraid of what I had become.

I see him now, Mr. Young, standing before me with a suitcase in hand. He asks me to sit up, I refuse. I’m lying here and watching him in his pretty suit and expensive shoes; he looks like a white monkey in the suit. He lifts me on the bed and sits me up, leaning me against the wall behind the bed. He opens the briefcase that he dropped on the bed. It is filled with money. Not just money, dollars. It is filled with dollars. How did he do it? My eyes stay the same even though I am astonished at the money lying in front of me.

“This is three hundred thousand dollars.” He says, “We have already sent two thousand dollars to your family in Nigeria. We also sent them a letter to let them know you’re fine. When you wish, you can speak with them.” He finishes and closes the briefcase, and then takes one last glance at me before exiting the room.

Now I sit here, in the same position as he left me, staring into the white wall before me. “When you wish, you can speak with them” ringing in my head repeatedly. I did not wish, I could not wish, I would never wish to speak with them. What would I tell them? How would I explain to them? Two thousand dollars is about a million naira in Nigeria, how do I explain that I made that kind of money in three days? At the same time, I wish they could hear me without me having to speak. I wish they could hear through the constant fear in my heartbeat, through the hot tears ceaselessly flowing down my face. I wish they could hear through the unending tragedy that is now my life; that’s now become of me.