Only those who do not know, think that suicide is a coincidence, like a sudden spark that spreads wild fire impetuously. If you observe, you will notice that suicide occurs like a vocation. It takes the form of a call, but a lonely one, cold and deathly. It beckons like a summon of the void into the void, an irresistible summon. And when it calls, it is like an invitation to an eternal banquet, a respite, and that gives it a soothing allure.
Chimaije told me her story. She was in class one night. She needed to study. Her BioChemistry quiz was fast approaching and she had given more time to her sewing business than to any other thing. So, she stole the evening. She did it cruelly, amidst the endless calls and cursing messages from her customers.
She said, “now that I think of it, I wonder if it was my books that called me; if it was really my earnestness and diligence to academic excellence that lured me, or if it was something else. Because from the moment I stepped into the classroom, everything felt stolen, frozen, still.”
It felt like the evening had halted and no one was in class. It was like someone or something almost divine, stretched out its hands, paused time and ordained the moment, in order to initiate a process that would begin in time and drift into the timeless. She ignored this sensation and went on with her study. But it wasn’t up to an hour into it, when the actual conjuring began.
“Look. Vacate. Come away and rest. Let go of them.”
And then like an apparition, she saw a wire, curled at the left edge of the class, close to where the waste paper basket sat. She shut her books, looked left and right as if imagining someone was crouching at a corner of the class. She arose almost mechanically, walked to the edge where the wire was and snatched it. Straight, she went into the bush, where the voice was leading her.
She wasn’t determined to kill herself. Determination didn’t matter, there was no time for it, no time for deliberation too. All that seemed to matter was to follow, to obey. There was a tree up ahead. And the voice, like the star of the Magi, stopped just where the tree was. As she approached the tree, she felt a strange presence envelop her and her heart began to riot within its cage, throbbing fiercely. She looked up at the tree, someone was struggling, dangling between life and death.
“Jesus!” Chimaije screamed loud enough to wake the victim from his or her inglorious exit from the world. Then, she dashed to the tree and as if powered by some mystical force, climbed the tree and untied the rope in time. The victim fell with a thud, coughing, choking, crying. Chimaije looked closely at the vague figure veiled by the darkness. It was Okpalamadi. The same Okpalamadi that called her a witch, spited her and galvanized others to scoff at her. She couldn’t question her. Her eyes wide agape in bewilderment, she swallowed every question that threatened to leap from her mouth. For some fleeting seconds, Chimaije imagined that Okpalamadi had stolen her fate. She was the one who was meant to be dangling from the Udara tree, and possibly, no one would come. And if it was Okpalamadi who had passed by, it would make no difference, she might have let her die. Chimaije hugged Okpalamadi, removed the rope from her neck, consoled her with pats and led her back to her room. No one on the campus knew of it. It was an event scraped from visible history.
Two weeks later, Chimaije returned from work exhausted, frustrated and hungry. She had a scalding verbal rampage with one of her customers who tore the cloth she sewed for her and swore not to give her any penny. “Whore!” the customer shouted at her, and dashed out of her shop, sobbing. People are mysteries, Chimaije thought. To imagine that the one who reviled her was the one sobbing in victimization was an annoying surprise.
The whole experience was both traumatic and bewildering to Chimaije, the first of its kind. It weighed her down more than anything had recently done. She went into the kitchen to get some water to drink, and to wash her face before she could get some food. As she stepped into the kitchen, her hair bristled.
“Look. Vacate. Come away and rest. Let go of them.”
Ice fell on her senses. Her ears heard a deathly silence ring noisily all over the kitchen. Quickly, her eyes went to the direction of her knife, sitting aimlessly on the sink. “Pick” came the Instruction. She went straight ahead and picked up the knife. She lifted it up instantly and stared at it, its edges glistened from fresh sharpening. It looked inviting, by all means.
“Not here! Not in the damn sink. Move.” Said the voice.
And like before, it led her away, back to her shop. She hid the knife in her bag, and robotically walked in the direction of the voice. Like before, the voice settled behind Mama Jamike’s Bole joint. Chimaije heaved a sigh and walked briskly to the site. Providentially, Mama Jamike was not around that day. The air was hot and smelt of dull dustiness. The type that made you hold your breath in resistance.
There behind the shop, Chimaije beheld her customer, the one who called her a “whore,” raising a knife to the air, about to bring it down to her stomach. Her face was watery from sweat, tears and saliva. Chimaije did not scream. She dived straight at her customer, not minding what would happen to her if she missed. She knocked the knife off the hand of her customer and they both fell on the red mud, close to the gutter where all sorts of things were disposed.
Chimaije’s right arm was blistered. And her left arm felt momentarily paralyzed. Her customer had a scratch on her temple, and lay on the ground sobbing. Chimaije stretched out to her and held her close with a hug. The customer hugged Chimaije even more tightly as if she was desperately in need of a hug. Chimaije stroke her hair, looking into empty space, breathing quietly. The sob faded; they exchanged blank stares. Her customer smiled, then stood up and walked away.
Chimaije looked around for her knife, the one she put in her bag, but she didn’t see it. It wasn’t in her bag, wasn’t in the gutter, wasn’t on the muddy ground. It was nowhere to be found. She recalled that that was also the case with the rope. It disappeared after Okpalamadi was rescued.
The voice was no longer calling her. It had gone. It must have walked away with Chimaije’s customer. Chimaije got up, dusted her body and returned home. Waiting expectantly for the next time she would be summoned.
