The Making

It was a cold rainy evening. The clouds had covered the sun in the little village of Bawuno, making it seem later than it was. Not only was the gloom in the weather, it was also in the heart of a young boy as he sat on a stone outside his mother’s hut, staring into space.

The boy’s father was considered the wealthiest man in all of Bawuno, and one could clearly see it through the size of his farms and barns, the size of his compound which was as large as that of five families, the number of servants he had, and the quality of the family’s dressing.

He could hear his father’s booming voice inside the hut: “Why are you so useless to me, Mma? I picked you up from your wretched family and gave you wealth such as you have never imagined. I gave you everything! Now I ask for just one thing and you can’t give me that!”

“I have given you a son, my husband,” his mother quietly replied. “I am the only one who gave you a son of all the four wives you married! How is that not enough?”

“You call that a son? That disfigured wretch of a boy is what you call my son?” His father spat.

The boy shivered from the cold and fear, listening. He knew what happened when his father became angry and he was already getting to that point.

“If only Mama would keep quiet,” he muttered to himself.

“Then let your other wives provide a son for you! One that suits your --”

“Twaa!” the boy heard from outside. The beating had begun. He whimpered, clutching his useless arm to his chest with his good arm. He bowed his head, tears pouring down his cheeks. Ever since he was born, he had always been referred to as the boy with a withered arm—nwata aka okpo. That name has followed him around for all his short life and he was sure that it would be his name until he died. His father, who was overjoyed when his youngest wife gave birth to a son, deeply hated him because of his arm. He always made it a point of duty to come to his mother’s hut when drunk to yell at her, beat her, and then rape her, in that order.

“Everyone laughs at me, everyone” mumbled the boy, feeling powerless. But at that moment, a strange expression came over his face. He stood up, picked up the stone he had been sitting on with his good hand, and walked into the hut.

In the hut, he saw his father bent over his mother, her wrapper torn. He raised his arm with the stone and brought it down, hard, on the back of his father’s head. His father stiffened with shock and turned his head, but the boy was faster.

He raised his arm the second time, hit his father’s head, and then again and again. He stopped, and stared at his mother who was still halfway lodged under the now headless, immobile father, drenched with blood and brain matter. She was screaming.

The boy barely heard it.

Now, the boy drew himself to his full height and looked around. He looked a fright, with his clothes splattered with the same blood and brains that soaked the room.

But strangely, his eyes were calm. Peaceful, even.

“So this is power,” he thought. “Never again will I be a laughing stock.”

The boy had found his calling.

Outside, the rain poured.