The Visitors
The gunshots sound like loud bangs from a three-round firecracker. At first, you think it’s playful fireworks, but then you hear the fourth bang. The sound is distinctive. They are here.
You fling the cover cloth off your body and fly out of bed, knocking over the glass of water on the bedside table. You look around the room, spin left and right in confusion, then you make for the light switch. “Oh shit!” you say as you rush back to flip it off, almost tripping on something. It’d be stupid to have your lights on right now.
You scurry into the bathroom and shoot the bolt behind it. It is dark in here too but you can’t risk turning on the lights in case some of them are around back. You sit on the closed toilet lid. Your chest rising and falling as your heart pounds rapidly against it, you can hear your heartbeat bouncing off the tiles in the bathroom. A drop of urine trickles down your right leg but you’re too scared to even get up and pee. The sound of urine hitting the toilet bowl might attract them.
Another loud bang sends jolts through your body, making you jump in fear. This one sounds closer than the ones before. You can hear muffled screams through the wall. It is one of the things you hate most about this building, the thinness of the walls. It is impossible to do anything without the neighbours hearing it. You have heard all manner of things while walking past people’s apartments — loud moans during sex, which happen to be the most frequent, constantly reminding you of your boring sexless life, you have heard couples arguing, sometimes things get violent and you hear glasses breaking and slaps landing heavily, one time you heard your neighbour gossiping about you. A loud scream brings you back to the present, it is followed by muffled shouts and another gunshot. They are going from house to house, it seems, as they had promised in their letter two weeks ago.
Mr Oludare, your neighbour downstairs, is the one who read the letter. He said he found it tucked into his door handle. It was a letter from ‘The Robbers’, that’s what they called themselves. They said they would visit in two weeks, and that all of you should be ready. They said they would come with guns, and that they would kill people. They did not give a specific date, so you conclude during your compound meeting that they would come exactly two weeks from December 1. You and some of your neighbours take the letter to the police station at the junction of your street, they tell you that yours isn’t the only compound that got the letter and that they’d look into it. You go back three days later on Monday morning, the officer at the counter tells you not to worry, that they are investigating. “Investigating what?” Mrs Coker, one of your neighbours, screams, startling everyone in the station. “Investigating the letter, madam,” the officer replies, nonchalance noticeable in his voice. “We can’t be too sure the letter is real,” he adds, his blithe tone underlying his indifference to your concerns. In your mind, you reach over the counter and knock him senseless with your fist. His reply to Mrs Coker throws the delegates into a frenzy, most of them echoing each other, “How dare you say that nonsense?” and “Why are you people so useless?” An officer emerges from the door beside the counter. “What is going on here?” he asks, his raucous words bouncing off his potbelly. You all turn to him, his demeanour implies rank superiority. Mrs Coker steps forward and narrates everything that happened. “Ehn ehn?” he says at the end of her story, “Okay,” then he turns back inside. You are perplexed. But before you can start another shouting contest, he drags himself back out, holding out a sheet of paper. He fixes his gaze on Mrs Coker, as if the rest of you are irrelevant. “Madam, write your statement so we can take it up with the necessary authorities.” Mrs Coker looks shocked. “Aren’t you the ‘necessary authorities’?” Your blood is boiling so you walk out, pacing the veranda. Five minutes later, the crowd comes out and you try to find out what happened. “They said they will handle it,” someone replies you grudgingly. On December 13, the police set up checkpoints around your area. Four officers assigned to each street. By December 15, most of the people in the area have travelled. They do not want to be around to find out. You stay back, you have nowhere to travel to. By the morning of December 16, nothing happens. The police checkpoints disappear despite your pleas for them to stay. In the wee hours of December 17, they arrive.
Your eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness, your pupils wider than the stretch of night. Sweat beads that first congregated on your forehead now roll down your neck and unto your chest. You place your hands on the bathroom wall for support, but even they feel like they’re falling apart. The walls don’t hold you for long. Boom, boom! It’s coming from your bedroom door. Pause — your heartbeat pounds the bathroom wall again. Boom, boom! “We know you’re inside. Come and open this door.” The voice you hear is as coarse as gravel. Your heart skips a beat. Up until now, you haven’t asked yourself what these people want. As much as knowledge would enlighten you, you were not aware that any wealthy person lived in your compound. Mrs Coker seemed to be the richest among you, but even her wealth was rather passable.
Bang, bang! You hear metal clinking on metal. They are done talking. Two more shots and your door bursts open. Your heart beats faster than ever, you can feel it rising up and getting stuck in your throat. “Where are you?” You can hear them breathing loudly now. “If we find you ourselves, it won’t be good for you. Come out now,” another voice says, the first time a different one is speaking. The bathroom door handle turns but the door does not open.
“Here.”
They shoot the handle off and kick the door in. You make out the silhouette in the darkness, his frame is heavy and he towers over you. He reaches out his hand and grabs you by the neck, dragging you behind him. The other one is sitting in your chair, swinging the gun in his hand. “Where is it?” he asks. You’re puzzled, at first you cannot speak. “Where is what?” you manage to say. He seems shorter than his partner, but you cannot tell from his reclined position. He eliminates your questions as he stands up, he is shorter, but he swaggers with authority. He is the mastermind. “Where is it?” he asks again. You repeat your prior answer. He lowers himself to your kneeling figure so that you see eye to eye. He stares into your eyes as if searching for hidden secrets. When he finds nothing but fear, he rises again and points his gun at you. You’re staring into a black hole, your throat is dry and you can feel the cracks on your tongue. Your heart is pounding viciously and your head hurts.
The black hole you’re staring into lights up and you fade to black.
