https://www.pexels.com/photo/flames-in-darkness-18923367/
Victor walked into the dark, quiet room. Slowly, the door behind him creaked shut. He stumbled around blindly, feeling the walls for the light switch. He was distracted from his search by a throbbing pain. He had bumped his shin against something, a hard surface, probably a stool. He cursed silently. An invisible lump formed in his throat, as it always did when he felt pain. He swallowed, and continued his search for the switch. A moment later, his finger touched it, and he pressed his fingers against it. The lightbulb blinked on, then off, then on again, and stayed on. The room was filled with the yellow light from the bulb.
He looked around; the room was small, and cramped. Belongings and a very little amount of furniture took up most of the space. But it was home. He sat down on the old wooden chair, which grunted beneath his weight. He set the polythene bag in his hand on the plastic table before him. It contained a plate of food, bought for him by a customer at the supermarket where he worked as a grocery clerk. She was a nice elderly lady who always smiled and asked how he was doing. He'd thanked her profusely, and she had waved it off, smiling. He brought out the container, and opened it. Jollof rice and three big pieces of fried beef drenched in a thick pepper sauce. The smoky aroma hit his nose, stirring up a growl in his belly. He reached into the container and took out the spoon. He planned to eat half of it and leave the rest for his mother to eat when she came back from the market.
His mother was a petty trader who sold vegetables and different condiments everyday at the evening market. She made very little profit, and he supported with the meager salary he got from his job at the supermarket. Barely, just barely, they managed to get by. He dove in, wolfing down spoon after spoon of rice into his mouth. In a matter of minutes, he had gotten to half of the plate. He took a piece of meat, and munched on it hungrily. Meat was a rarity these days.
He reclined, his stomach begging for more. The chair groaned even more. The room was getting stuffy, or was it because he had just eaten? He decided to take a chance and switch on the fan. A moment passed. Nothing. Then the fan whirred to life. He sighed in relief. About a minute went by, then the fan started acting up as usual. It buzzed, shivered and creaked, making so much noise and generating almost no breeze. Angrily, he shut it off. He took off his shirt, and waved it around his body to cool himself. Something gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Was it hunger? He opened the plate of food. He had wanted to leave two pieces of meat for his mother, but it seemed that wouldn't happen. In three bites, the piece of meat was gone. The gnawing feeling didn't diminish. If anything, it intensified. He squirmed in his seat. It was hunger, but not for food. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, and his heart thrummed in his chest. He knew what he needed.
With each breath, the feeling grew, a thrashing beast, desperate to be released. He stood up shakily, and went to a corner where he kept one of his bags. He opened it, and dug in between his clothes until he touched it. He brought it out, a small lip balm container. His hands were shaking as he opened it. He walked to the table, on which he dropped the container and it's lid. He looked around for a piece of paper, and when he had found one, he set it on the table. He poured a bit of the purple crystalline substance on the paper, and screwed the lid back on the container. His body hummed with excitement. He pressed the crystals with his thumb, and they crumbled into fine purple powder. He took a pinch and poured it on his other palm. He raised the palm up, bent his head down, and took a sniff. He gasped, and threw back his head. His head grew light and woozy; his body weightless and untethered. His mind was wandering in an endless sea of colour and lights. He broke out in a wide grin, and breathed a sigh of pleasure. His whole body shook and shook, his molecules singing the same song of ecstasy. The feeling faded, however, no matter how much he tried to hold on to it. He was back in the cramped one room where he stayed with his mother. He remembered the first time he had taken the drug.
It was given to him by a friend whose name he couldn't remember now. Azelon, he had called it. After he tried it the first time, he couldn't let go. Then one day, his mother caught him. She had been horrified. She fell on the ground, wailing and sobbing in their room, that her only son had become a drug addict, a ‘junkie' who would waste all he had on drugs. He had promised her that he would never touch Azelon again. And he had been serious, until a few weeks later when he could no longer resist. But he had to be very careful. He had convinced his mother that it was his first time, and she truly believed that he hadn't gone near it again. He planned to keep it that way. He had no intention of letting her down. She had been through enough already.
His father, a struggling commercial driver, died when he was about to finish secondary school. He had been involved in a tussle with the thugs who extorted the drivers at motor parks and bus stops. It turned violent, and weapons were drawn. He had come back from school to meet a few people sitting outside, his father's corpse strewn on the ground, wounds all over the body. He remembered not having said a word, but had thought about his mother. He remembered wishing she would never come back home. He had feared that seeing his father dead would kill her. He had taken his little sister, Mimi, into his arms, and consoled her. When his mother came back, she had almost run mad. She rolled around on the red sand, wailing at the top of her voice. At the sight, tears flowed freely down his cheeks. In the months that followed their father's burial, his mother would always tell him and Mimi that no matter what else they lost, they should never lose hope. Hope was the flame that kept the soul alive, she had said. Victor had held on to her words, and they comforted him each time she repeated them. Then Mimi disappeared.
Some said she was kidnapped, but after three months, she was still missing. No one heard anything about her. She just disappeared. She was only fourteen. After that, his mother was a shell of her former self. She never said anything about hope again. The flame in his soul had dwindled to a sputtering spark.
https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-in-light-in-black-and-white-18180536/
That was seven years ago. He took another pinch, and was about to sniff, when the door swung open, and Lara, their neighbor's teenage daughter burst in. “ Brother Victor, they're fighting at the market square! The thugs! They've shot your mom!" . Shit! He had forgotten to lock the door. Wait...... What had he just heard? He looked up, but Lara was no longer there. She had run out. He listened. Shouts and cries filled the air. His heart pounded vigorously in his chest. His head swam in a dangerous soup of emotions. He tried to think, but he couldn't string thoughts together. The last embers of hope in his soul had burnt out, and had been replaced by a inferno of hatred and rage. He stomped around the room until he found it. A sharp Cutlass he normally used to clear fields for people for a small fee. He moved for the door. As he did, something nudged him, telling him he would not return. It was, however, only a whisper, drowned out by the storm in his heart. But maybe he already knew. His heart was pounding like never before. One way or another, it was going to end that day. He stormed out.
Thank you everyone, for reading! Text written by me 😊
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