The Day We Died-a short story.

The evening wind came as usual. The sun was almost down, casting its orange ray on the louvers of our house; forming a mirage on it. I was at the veranda, watching the activities of compound people: the boys were playing a deflated football, the girls talking excitedly about things I didn't understand, the women held group discussions; some with their husbands talking in low tones and laughing intermittently. On a distant mango tree, near the entrance of our compound, birds in their nets, making their presence felt with defiant melodious songs.

I was alone watching, trying hard to resist the persistent urge to pull my shirt and join the boys playing football. I was only adhering to Papa's instruction. I didn't understand why he barred me from associating with the compound children. Since Mama joined Mother Earth, Papa had been bitter with our neighbours. He said they were all devils, and that I must avoid them as flies avoid kerosene. I avoided them as he instructed.

A tall man in a faded jean and black T-shirt, carrying a medium sized brown bag, walked in. He wore a powerful smile on his face that contoured like a rumpled dress. I recognized him. Everyone recognized him. The compound people called out his name.

'Ibu!!'. The man who would never quit discussing politics. No one had seen him for a long time.

The boys abandoned their deflated football and the girls their whispering; surged forward and encircled him. He gave them some notes from a wad of notes he pulled out of his hold-all. They thanked him and dashed out of the compound, laughing loudly like demented antelopes. He glanced impressively at the spectacle.

He called the adults together and began to address them in low tone. They gathered like people planning to set up a private business enterprise.

I titled my right ear towards them. He was telling them about his political party in which he was an agent. He promised them money. Plenty money!. He made other luxurious promises in which he added, would be fulfilled only if they attended, en-mass, his party's rally holding in our street in few days time. They gave him their words.

From his bag, posters and banners emerged, he distributed the banners and the men helped him in pasting the posters on the walls of our compound, while the women argued about the financial status of the two men on the posters.

The children soon returned with their noise, brandishing biscuits, sweets and other snacks I could not decipher their identity from my position. One of them, Emeka, my classmate, came close; made a mock at me with his biscuit and dashed away. I sneered at him.

There was a loud crack from the landlord's room, followed by the click of the key in the inner iron door.

I stared at his door.

The landlord thrust his head out of the slight opening and gave a thunderous shout.

'What are those things doing on my wall?....which kin madness be that?....Who instructed.....?'. His door went ajar and he swayed him self out like a mad lion and went after the men pasting the posters.

They abandoned their voluntary job and sought temporal asylum at the backyard. The children and the women scattered in different directions. There was banging of an iron door as people surged into their rooms. A child was crying in a room adjacent ours. Madness was aboard.

Ibu went after the landlord who was almost pulling off the posters. He held the landlord with his huge palms and the landlord cried, 'So you have come to kill me....did I do anything wrong by giving you a room..?'

'Oga landlord calm down, we can settle this. We no dey fight!'. He let go the landlord. The landlord swallowed and looked like a defeated dog.

Papa came out and approached them. He asked what was wrong and none spoke to him. He became enraged and cursed them.

'If you like look at me like rabbits, nobody should disturb my peace in this house again!'. He walked towards me,  and stopped. I held my breath. He turned towards Ibu and the Landlord.

'Devils!, pests!!'.

I surveyed him with my left eye as he walked angrily into our room. He didn't talk to me. Perhaps, he didn't notice me.

Both men stared at each, then Ibu dragged the Landlord into his room and shut his door. The compound people soon emerged from their hideouts. All of them, hovering around Ibu's door.

Minutes later, Ibu's door opened. Who to first bounced out was our landlord, with an amusing smile on his old wrinkled face, whistling, holding within his lazily tied wrapper, a brownish envelop. He gave suspicious glances at the faces of his tenants, secured the envelope tightly in his wrapper and went into his room.

Ibu soon emerged, pleaded with everyone then promised the men some bottles of beer. They went back to work, pasting the posters from door to door, window to window; then troop out to the street.

Days came, weeks came; we didn't see Ibu's campaign train. Expectations were high and rising. People no longer talked about other things but politics. They were excited and expectantly discussed only about the luxurious promises made. Everyday, every time, Ibu would bent on explaining to some angry neighbours why his party men hadn't visited. Sometimes they would believe him and sometimes they would accuse him of deceit. Those days wasn't bright for Ibu.

The posters soon accumulated dusts. Even some of them had been defaced beyond recognition. There were signs of children's creativity on the posters; the rough paintings on images of the two candidates with pencils and paints, the pricking of the eyes, mouths and ears and the meaningless words written on them. It pained Ibu deeply and often he pleaded with parents to caution their children.

At last, they came. Almost a month late!. People had seized talking about it. No one seemed to remember and Ibu had made new enemies. But now, things were different. There was a loud scream. Papa and I rushed out of our room, into the compound.

Ibu, dressed in an elegant agbada, embroidered with his party's logo; came racing up the path on a bicycle, flung it down in the compound and rushed into his room. The next moment he returned with new banners, and went door to door asking people to troop out.

We-Papa and I-followed the compound people into the street.

We beheld an open-backed van with microphones, loudspeakers and a group of powerful people. I spotted Ibu, talking with great pleasure, with two men dressed in a resplendent agbaja, their bellies a replica of the belly of our pregnant neighbour. I recognized them. They were the two candidates on the posters. On both ends of the van, were army of young men sporting ill-fitting suits and dark glasses. They had ear pieces on and were glancing at us with fierceness.

Soon, the street became crowded. Every available space was taken. There were people hanging on the poles, mango tree, and guava tree and elevated blocks.

Ibu took the microphone and introduced the guests. There was a welcoming applause. He taught the crowed his party's motto, when to say it and how to throw fist in the air saying it. It was not difficult to learn.

The powerful people on the van took positions, talking exuberantly, cracking our ears with beautiful promises and brighter living. They were hungry for talks.

Finally, the main candidate took position. He revisited all the pre-speakers had said, adding flavour and better taste to it. Intermittently, the DJ at the tail end of the van-a man with a miserable hair cut-would remind all of his presence. The main candidate went on and on promising; good roads, clean water; free social amenities, everything free! Hospitals, schools; foods, electricity.........and Power.

'Do you think we are deceiving you all?' The man asked, throbbing his voluminous agbada.

'My records are there. I am a man of the people.....'. A fair lady dressed in Ankara, holding a white handkerchief came forward, and wiped gently his face. He acknowledged her and continued.

'Yes my people, I am a man of the people. My action speaks louder than voice. Yes. Just vote for us. Vote we'll change your life. We have plenty money that will better your life'. He turned to his team, 'Am I telling lie?'

'No!!!!'. They roared. I spotted Ibu making gesture for us to clap. The crowd began clapping.

'A good politician doesn't talk too much. I said we have enough money'. He turned to his team again. Momentarily, briefcases materialized. Next, wades of attractive naira notes were in the air. As they descended: women, children; men-everyone went after them.

Someone pushed me to the ground and I felt the sand with my tongue. I got up, trying to get hold of a descending note; it was seized at once by a woman. I stared at the baby strapped on her back with a wrapper. His nose was bloodied. I called after the woman but she went after another note and I saw her more.

A distance , two men were in a serious confrontation. They dragged one another from one point to another. Soon it initiated into fighting. While the notes were descending, they were busy exchanging heavy punches, and kicks. No one noticed them.

The commotion grew stronger. Ibu took position, pleading for calm. The more he pleaded the stronger it became. People seized the rare opportunity to revenge on their enemies. It turned violent!.

The candidates stopped splashing the notes and began pleading for calm. No one listened and when it was evident that the crowd were surging towards the van the young men in suits; secured the van, pulled out their guns. I heard multiple deafening shots in the air.

Pandemonium!.

We scattered in different directions. There were stampedes. I saw a boy lying on the floor, struggling against the incessant stepping of people's legs. A huge hand held my shoulder. I turned. Papa!.

He lifted me above his head and made towards a nearby bush. The leaves ruffled my skin and sharp sticks injured Papa's left hand. Carrying me on his back, he ran bravely through the bush, taking sides, and corners until we found our path into our compound. Into our room. The night was cryptic.

In the morning, sixteen children, five women-two pregnant and two men were reported dead.

The police report added: Seven children, nine women and twenty men were critically injured.Most of them, life-threatening injuries. That was the day we died.

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