Baba is prancing about in Okene market, stark naked, walking in circles, and guffawing like a wounded hyena. Market women are staring confusedly at his testes, which look like bloated garden eggs. Some shake their heads while others murmur and laugh. It would be difficult to convince them of Baba’s abhorrence of madness when he was sane, and that he hadn’t even been mad for two months.
Baba used to be sane, my sane twin brother, whom I did everything with. Nowadays, when I reminisce about the days we donned similar attire and rocked the neighbourhood, the days when people gushed over our striking resemblance, I’m grief-stricken by how badly our world has shattered.
The sight of my twin now repulses me. I now feel ashamed of someone I used to be proud of, someone I used to cling to his side. The mere sight of him dancing naked with dangling giant testes in Okene market causes tears to well up in my eyes. His huge member dangling alongside his thumping buttocks is a hilarious sight, but laughter is a rock that never rolls out of the mouth of a grieving brother.
I don’t know how to laugh at my twin. Our people often say a madman’s dance is entertaining only to those who share no blood relations with him.
Though Baba’s madness has erupted without a prelude and has worsened every day, he’s still my brother, my blood, my family, someone I can’t deny or afford to betray. However, moments like today, when he walks naked in the street, stab my heart. They immerse me in excruciating pain, and I can’t help the downpour from my eyes. Sometimes, I wonder how and why Baba’s madness has swiftly progressed up to the apex position there is in the pyramid of madness.
Whenever Baba strips himself naked, an unseen force pushes me deep inside the confines of despair. My heart bleeds, and my soul weakens. Sometimes, I’m empathetic, testing Baba’s grief and tribulations with my soul. Other times, I’m embittered, pathetic, furious, and would storm off from the market, or the odd places where Baba now loves to dance naked, to pay another visit to the football field where it had all begun. Each time I go there, I hope to uncover something tangible, something I can accuse and hold responsible for everything, for Baba’s madness, for the shame it has caused me and my family. But nothing was ever found.
“Si…, sister!” Baba whistles out to a voluptuous lady, who has her trousers accentuating her impeccable figure. The lady turns to look and springs off when she beholds a dangling penis coming for her.
Baba hisses, laughs, turns back, and beckons to a schoolboy, begging him to have a look at his manhood.
It’s shameful to hear such vile words from the mouth of one who shares a striking resemblance with me. The passers-by laugh heartily, enjoying the free amusement show. I find an empty shed in the busy market and crouch in there, crying my eyes out.
I still can’t believe Baba is mad.
My twin brother is mad?
…
I remember the two events preceding Baba’s madness — an after-school argument with Nuru and a disagreement with a teammate on the football field. I’m not sure whether there’s any link between the two events and Baba’s madness. Oddly, I’m also convinced Baba’s madness has everything to do with the two events.
We were trekking home from school. Baba and Nuru were engaged in an argument. Nuru was our friend and classmate, and our neighbour’s son too. The argument between the duo intensified with every passing second. While I don’t vividly remember what was being argued, I still remember it was about football. Both were quoting names of players, teams, coaches, and stadiums to buttress their points while I stared in awe. I wasn’t particularly interested in football and only knew redundant information.
Baba or Nuru summoned me often to either veto or verify a claim, which I never did anyway. All I did during their argument was remain mute, maintain a neutral stance, shake-nod my head, and beam a forced smile until they both forgot what had been requested of me and refocused on their argument.
During an argument, Nuru is fond of writing off his opposition, especially in the face of defeat, with his annoying signature slang: “You’re a madman. Go and sit down. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
It’s supposed to be funny, but many, including me, don’t find it amusing. It’s one of Nuru’s expressions I detested passionately. Nuru has even nurtured a demeaning way of uttering the slang such that it comes out funny yet debilitating to his opponent’s psyche, making them lose for words and uninterested in furthering an argument with him. When Nuru had used his annoying tactic on me at school, it was vexatious but I had kept my cool.
But Baba is a different breed. Though he looks as much as I do, he’s not as reserved. He’s a blunt and stubborn boy who says things the way he has seen them — no sugar-coating or fondling with words to ease the impact.
So, when Nuru had employed his usual tactic that day, when he was arguing with my twin, Baba stopped, took a deep breath, and roared a laughter, dangling his forefinger at him.
“See pot calling kettle black.” Baba started to clap, a kind of mocking clap. “It’s your family that has a history of madness. Mine has none. My friend, you’re the closest to madness here, remember?”
“You’re a madman, Baba. Just go and sit down,” Nuru reiterated playfully, enjoying the moment.
Baba frowned, irritated. “I can see your sister’s madness has begun rubbing off on you. Why won’t it rub off on you when you people, you and your parents, still eat with your mad sister from the same table?”
I froze. Though Baba has always had a sharp tongue, I never envisaged such straightforwardness from him towards Nuru. Referencing Oweyi’s madness — Nuru’s elder sister — was an inhumane straightforwardness.
As expected, Nuru’s face began to turn sour, laughter disappearing from it, replaced by surprise, then hurt, and finally anger. His chest spasmed like a rickety old van undergoing ignition. His eyes flashed orange-red. His demeanour spoke volumes of his suppressed urge to get physical with Baba.
As the event unfolded, I felt awkward, not knowing the appropriate arbitration to employ at the moment. I was unsure of whom to support or reprimand. But I subconsciously reckoned that Baba’s words were mean. He was my twin and elder brother, and I couldn’t outrightly reprimand him publicly before an outsider. Also, I’m saddled with an innate responsibility to support and protect him should he get into a fight, just as he, too, would do for me because we’re twins.
Nuru was wrong, too. It was inconsiderate to have used his vexatious slang on Baba when he knew that, apart from hearing parlances like Christiano Ronaldo was a better player than Lionel Messi, what Baba detested as much was being tagged mad. Still, Nuru was a friend, our friend, who had lived with us at Karaworo for a long time. Should misunderstandings ever arise, our parents expected us to iron them out amicably, like siblings do. Baba ought to know it.
Then, suddenly, like a burst of flame, in my moment of indecisiveness, Nuru charged at Baba.
Baba doubled back immediately, threw away his school bag, and posed a praying mantis fighting stance, the one he always posed when his goal was disallowed in the football field on the simple premise of offside.
“You mocked my sister?” Nuru asked as if he was unsure of attacking and needed confirmation to fuel his rage.
“Is your sister not a mad girl?” Baba was toying with Nuru.
I was sure he was enjoying every counter-effect he had made on him. If I were Nuru, Baba’s nose would be bleeding by now for mocking my sister. But if Nuru had dared to touch Baba’s hair, I would have snapped his neck, punched his chest, and broken all his bones.
Then Nuru began to back down, to shape-shift. Like a shea butter melting under a furious heat, Nuru’s fighting intent waned. His spasming chest became calmer, and he broke out a disappointed cry and wept for a fleeting second. I was perplexed. I had never seen Nuru cry.
“You’re evil,” he said, pointing at Baba. “My God will punish you, Baba. Since you have mocked me with my sister’s madness, I wish madness upon you and your family. Sooner or later, your family will taste the sweetness of madness.”
Baba hissed. “So, there’s even sweetness in madness?” he teased. “Tell me more, ambassador of madness.”
I broke into laughter. I swear, I couldn’t hold it back. Baba’s comment was hilarious. Nuru glared at me, and I ducked my head, hiding my laughter. He stormed off angrily, leaving both of us behind. When I looked up, he was far gone. He was lucky to have left because I was planning on confronting him and punching that dirty mouth he had used to wish madness on my brother and family.
…
We got home that day and resolved to end our friendship with Nuru. We can’t be friends with someone who wishes us bad. Never. We hurled insults at Nuru — how his mother is a chronic debtor, his father a terrific drunkard, and his mad sister a phenomenal waste of beauty.
Shortly after, Mama came in with lunch. We rushed for the food, barely acknowledging her presence.
She smacked our heads, glaring hard at us. “If only one of you loves books the way both of you love food,” she said, dropping the plates. “Metcheww,” she hissed, took a long look at us, and continued, “After this food, nobody is leaving this house. Both of you’ll stay here and read your books.”
“Yes, Ma,” Baba said.
I felt embarrassed and lost my appetite immediately. I curled away from the food. But Baba wasn’t bothered. He dug into the food, as soon as our mother exited, like a famished giant.
When I brought out my mathematics notebook and began to peer at it, Baba was done with the food. He laughed at me, saying it’s easier to scare me than to scare a chicken. He urged me to quit the pretentious reading and join in brainstorming ways to evade Mama’s prying eyes to enable us to participate in the training sessions of the forthcoming Ramadan cup competition. He told me of a plan and the part I was to play in it. I listened and forced a smile.
“Brilliant. It’s a perfect plan!” I said.
We threw Mama off by rushing out when she was escorting a debtor who had come to inquire about a two-week-old debt. When we passed by Nuru’s house, we hissed and pranced off. We didn’t beckon for Nuru to join in as usual. On the way, I wanted to remind Baba of Mama’s warning, to convince him to jilt today’s training session, but I was afraid of his reaction. I couldn’t afford to get him offended. Baba was like a demigod to me.
Earlier, before she came with food, Mama had ordered us not to leave the house, saying that she had an ominous revelation where she saw us bitten by a snake. It was an act. I knew. Baba knew too. We knew that it was merely a charade and how Mama operated. Mama has always forbidden us from playing football. She fears gravely for the unknown. Perhaps, she fears her only two sons could return home with broken ankles and dislocated joints after a training session.
When we got to the field, the selection of players had begun. We saw Nuru jogging around, preparing himself for selection, and I suddenly remembered his careless utterances. Blood rushed faster through my veins. Thoughts of punching and kicking his face clouded my head. If I had pushed forward, a fight would have ensued. Fighting in the field attracted a heavy fine, so I suppressed the urge. If we were playing for opposite sides, he better watch out for me.
The selection began after a few minutes. The modality for selection was by unanimously picking two goalkeepers who would then pick the players who would make up an eleven-man team.
“Baba, come to us!”
“No, Baba should come to our side.”
“I chose him first!”
“I don’t care.”
Baba was frequently fought for by the goalkeepers, both demanding to have him play for their sides. It happened all the time because Baba was exceptionally skilled with the ball. He did magic, absolute magic, with the ball, just like his Argentine idols — Diego Maradona did, and Lionel Messi is doing.
Because Baba was an exceptional player, he was often absolved from paying fines, including fighting fines. It didn’t matter how many times he fought.
After Baba’s fate was decided through balloting and other players picked, the game commenced with me playing on the opposite side with Baba, but on the same side as Nuru. A huge luck for him, I mouthed, as I mentally postponed the punching of his face to another day.
As the game unfolded, I allowed Baba to dribble past me. Though he was capable of it, I made it easier for him. This provoked Nuru after we conceded the fifth goal. He confronted me, snarling and pitching an option to me of either playing with sincerity or leaving the team. I shook my head innocently, denying being insincere with my play. As I spoke, mucus drooled into my mouth. I vividly remember this insignificant event because it served as a prelude to Baba’s madness.
When I turned to refocus on the play, Baba and a boy were exchanging words at the other end of the field. They were arguing and poking each other’s chest. Then, suddenly, Baba pushed the boy. He stumbled back, returned, and pushed Baba aggressively. It caused Baba to lose balance, staggering like a drunkard. He fell on the sandy field, sand clinging to the back of his head and arms.
How dare he do that to my brother! I fumed. I was burning with fury as I raced toward them. I swore to break the boy’s head when I got close enough.
On transit, I saw Baba rising from the ground like a Phoenix, dusting himself, and charging like a high-energy cosmos billiard. He charged at the boy, shoving mediators aside with a strength I never knew he wielded. When he got to the boy, he stopped. Baba began to talk rapidly. I saw his lips move a thousand times and wondered what he was saying. Then he stopped talking and began to remove his jersey, displaying his strong arms, chiselled shoulders, and wide chest trapped in a dirty brown singlet.
I finally got there. I stood back with the other boys, watching, awaiting Baba to deal with the boy first before I would come in to act as the faux mediator who would stylishly hold the boy down and let Baba deal him more blows.
The tall boy was cowering but stood his ground, ready to match Baba’s fury. Baba circled the boy, stopped before him, smiled coyly, and began to remove his singlet, socks, and shorts. Save for his underwear, Baba was standing stark naked seconds later.
I was astounded. I didn’t understand what Baba was doing. Other boys didn’t either. They stared at him, mouths wide open. It appeared to us that Baba was running mad, not real madness though, but mad with fury. My heart palpitated at the thought of Baba going mad.
A howl startled me. It came from Baba. He was now squatting, posing like a frog, and leaping in circles around the boy. His eyes were red. I became overwhelmed with fear. I dashed to him, holding his face in my palms. I examined his eyes. His corneas had bulging streaks of red. I shook his face vigorously.
“Baba. Baba,” I called out. “Are you okay?”
…
From the shed, my blurry eyes refocus on Baba as he continues to ask passers-by to behold his manhood. My eyes are teary, and mucus is dripping from my nostrils. I swiftly wipe it off, dab the back of my palms on my clothes, and compose myself. I don’t want anyone to come asking what’s wrong with me.
Nobody in this market would believe me should I told them Baba’s madness began as a laughter on a football field and then swiftly became full-fledged madness within the space of eight weeks. They wouldn’t believe that over these weeks, Mama had parted with a huge sum of money I never knew she had. The huge sums were never enough to restore Baba’s sanity or compensate for the numerous damages caused by him.
It infuriates me that Baba doesn’t care about the severe hardship he has plunged us into. I wonder if he thinks about Mama, how she has taken up a new job of crying because of him. Does he know that whenever someone knocks at our door, Mama prays for a debtor rather than an aggrieved neighbour coming to report the damages suffered from his madness? Does he know that Mama is dwindling fast in health, size, and sanity like a lighted candle?
Mama is yet to come to terms with Baba’s madness. Irrespective of the number of times I recount it, she doesn’t believe that madness can creep in like a ghost and snatch away sanity from a boy playing football.
I can’t believe it either. It still feels as though Baba is playing and will soon come around. However, he’s not. He has done and is doing odd things not expected of a sane human being.
Last week, during the tussle of tethering him to our cashew tree, Baba flung a stone at me. Though it missed, it shattered a neighbour’s car window. Afterwards, he overturned a palm oil trader’s table in the market, barricaded a busy pathway, and threatened to kill any living thing that trespassed. It took five strong men and one hour to recover the pathway from Baba.
It doesn’t matter if we tether Baba or not. If we do, he breaks out and goes around causing mayhem. If we don’t, he still goes around causing mayhem. We’re at our wits’ end on how best to incapacitate him.
To minimise the damages caused and the money Mama spends in paying them off, I’ve been following Baba for three weeks, at a considerable distance, ensuring people don’t notice our striking resemblance. I’m not ashamed of my twin brother. I just don’t want people to mistake him for me.
Also, I follow Baba because I believe a miracle could happen, and he would return to normalcy. When it eventually happens, I want to be nearby, to be the first to bring him clothes and guide him home, assuring him that he hasn’t been mad for too long. However, considering how madness has aggravated his ferocity and transformed his personality, I’m beginning to tuck my hopes deep down inside my pockets. Baba might never be sane again. Even if he does, his garden-egg testes might never deflate.
Baba strays away from my sight. I stand, and he becomes visible again. He’s moving eastwards, towards home, when a young boy in a green uniform passes by. Baba turns, studying the schoolboy. He prances toward him, whistling. The boy turns and stops. I step out of the shed, moving closer to have a better view. Baba appears and grasps the boy, begging him to come close and examine his testes. The flustered boy fearfully wriggles out of Baba’s grasp and doubles his strides. Baba pursues him with his dangling heavy testes. I close my eyes. Tight. Tighter. I bite my lips, biting shame on Baba’s behalf.
When I reopen my eyes, Baba has grasped the boy again. The boy tries wriggling out, but Baba’s grip is firm now. Realising that this could be another disaster, I emerge from my cover and dash forward to help the boy, whom I recognise now as a neighbour’s son. Baba scares me off with a stone, and I back off, embarrassed. I stare around, noticing people’s reactions.
The market women are whispering and pointing from me to Baba, from Baba to me. Are they twins? Are they twins?
I break into a run, running past Baba and opting for a pathway that leads off the market. I block my ears, barricading the faraway questionnaires of the market women.
The schoolboy had sustained an injury on his forehead, I was close enough to notice it. I reckon that Mama is going to have a bad day. The boy’s mother would storm our house, demanding justice for his son or an equivalent payment for the damage. Our neighbours are inconsiderate beings.
I run faster, fuelled by the urgency to acquaint Mama with the forthcoming trouble. I stop and take a long, last look at the vanishing image of Baba and the market. I try obliterating images of his dangling penis and bloated testes from my head. But such nudes aren’t so easy to purge, especially nudes of ones with whom you have had memorable moments.
…
Inside the kitchen, I sniff my palms carefully. Satisfied with the stench, I wash them before walking briskly to the cashew tree where Baba is usually tethered.
Today, he’s free. And he sat under the tree in tattered clothes, humming silently and moping at the sky. He’s unusually calm and sober today. For a fleeting moment, I saw my lost brother in him. An overwhelming urge to discard the food I was bringing him and hug him tight swirls in my head, but I rebel against it.
Baba loses his calmness when he notices the plate of food I’m clutching. Wearing his newly found characteristic ferocity, he impatiently gestures for me to drop the food before him. Carefully, I drop it in between his thighs and dart back sharply. I watch as he attacks the food. I find it utterly ridiculous how Baba always remembers home when he’s hungry, but doesn’t remember the bond he shared with me and Mama.
Perhaps this is what madness does — obliterating memorable memories and replacing them with a strong appetite.
I smell my palms again, ensuring I sniff them for a long time. I’m pleased with the smell. My palms hold the smell of freedom. I look at Baba who is munching his food. He’s still as greedy as he was with food. I shake my head and hold back my tears. Baba looks so unkempt. I wonder how he’s able to sit comfortably with his garden-egg testes. It appears walking barefoot can enlarge one’s manhood.
After eating, Baba gulps and smiles at me. He gesticulates, the way he always does when he wants water. I reluctantly strut inside the house and appear later with a bowl of water. I hand it over to him and notice there are still leftovers on the plate. That rarely happens.
Baba drinks, slurping and belching. He peers from the leftovers to the water and my face. He smiles at me, offering me one of his numerous dirty spoons. I take the spoon, processing his offer. I move back and smell my palms again, ascertaining for the third time the evidence of the freedom in them. The pungent stench is a testament to the additives I’ve added to Baba’s food. The additives are special, exclusive for mad people.
Baba suddenly jerks up, picks up the plate, and ambles toward me, wearing a mischievous smile. Underneath his face lies something indecipherable, something like a glint of suspicion. Was Baba going to ask me to eat the food? Did he find out? I sigh and stand my ground, awaiting him. I remember the smell of freedom and began to make a countdown from ten, casting furtive glances around and praying for the freedom effect to set in quickly. A log of wood lies beside me. I pick it up and flail it gently to keep Baba off.
“Don’t come here,” I say with a stoic gaze.
Baba laughs and keeps advancing.
“Stay there,” I yell.
My countdown is nearing one, and I’m yet to notice any significant change in Baba. No physical change. No tangible evidence of the emergence of freedom. Is my experiment unsuccessful?
Baba suddenly turns back, returning to sit under the cashew tree. He smears the leftovers on the floor and begins licking grains of rice mixed in the sand with his tongue.
I stand there watching my twin brother comfortably eat from the floor. I smell my palms again to reconfirm that I have initiated the freedom ritual. Yes, the evidence is there. But the effect doesn’t seem forthcoming.
Why is he showing no reaction? Are mad ones immune to freedom? No, that can be. After all, they are humans too.
Shortly afterwards, the rustling of a bush jolts me out of my thoughts. There, in the middle of the footpath, which leads off from our house to the market, is Baba in his tattered clothes, happily gathering empty malt cans from the bushes which flanked the footpath.
…
After Baba’s departure, I strut inside and lie on the bed. I will myself to sleep, but just like the freedom ritual, it didn’t come. My eyelids are heavy and refuse to flip as if they were starched.
I begin to think about Mama, her deteriorating health, her debtors, and her grief. Mama is passing through a lot. She’s the one taking the toll of Baba’s madness. She’s now a bag of bones, a shadow of her former ebullient self. When some of the neighbours, who had suffered damages from Baba’s madness, talk down on Mama, she’s usually complacent, absorbing all their disrespect. After such scenarios, I’ll come by her side to comfort her and tell her that all will be well with our family. That we’ll retrieve our lost glory.
Mama is hardly at home these days. She isn’t at home right now. She spoke about going to the hospital in the morning. I glance at the wall clock. She ought to be back anytime soon. I begin to brainstorm what to cook before she returns. Afterwards, I pray for her, for the strength to carry on without breaking.
Then, I begin to think of Papa — how he had died before we were even born. Baba and I didn’t know him, but we reckon we look just like him from the picture Mama showed us when we were eight years old.
I’m about to think of Baba, of his wide smile in a picture we had taken during last year’s New Year celebration, when frenetic knocks on the door jolted me up from the bed.
“Who’s there?” I yell, thinking it was one of the inconsiderate neighbours who had suffered damages from Baba’s madness. But no reply comes forth until another bang lands on the door.
“Bobo! Bobo! Bobo!” The person at the door calls my name with the loudest voice I’ve ever heard. I remember the voice vividly. What’s Nuru doing here?
I open the door swiftly, wearing a stern look. “Why are you here?” I ask immediately as I behold Nuru, whom I’ve not spoken to for two months.
He appears to have been crying, dry patches trail his cheeks, and mucus drips from his nose.
“Bobo, Bobo,” he calls again, sobbing and looking at my feet.
“What’s it? What’s it? Is Baba dead?” I ask without thinking.
Nuru raises his head sharply like he has been stung by a bee. He peers at me with a bewildered expression. When the reality of my previous statement dawned on me, I realised how much I was anticipating Baba’s freedom.
I clear my throat. “What’s wrong? Who died?” I ask again, carefully this time. I didn’t know why I was so sure someone had died.
Nuru wipes his nose and dabs his eyes. He stares at my face for a moment, looks down, and resumes sobbing.
“If you don’t have anything to say, leave!” I yell, closing the door, utterly pissed at his silence.
“Bobo, wait. Mama is dead.” I heard him say before the door was fully closed.
“What?”
“Your mother is dead. I… I… I don’t know how it happened. I wasn’t there. But people, people are saying she slumped on the road when she saw Baba and has refused to wake up.”
“She what…?” I try to ask, gaping at Nuru with smoky eyes.
He’s still talking, but I could no longer hear what he’s saying. He seems to have dissipated from my presence. I couldn’t see him again.
All I see of him is a wobbly smoke billowing into the atmosphere until I hear, “They said she’s not breathing. They said she’s not breathing. They said she’s dead…”
And then, I lost it. Nuru, who had morphed into a wobbly smoke, suddenly became a torrential downpour, raining darkness and anguish on my existence. I feel myself transitioning into a new realm. My body picks up a foreign scent — the scent of madness embracing me. ♦
Abdulrahaman Adeiza Jimoh is an Ebira-Nigerian creative and a chemical engineering undergraduate at Abubakar Tafawa Balewa University (ATBU), Bauchi. He’s the winner of the 2024 Academic Elite of Ebiraland (AEE) writing contest, champion of the AEE 2024 PPT presentation, a finalist in the 2023 Kikwetu flash fiction contest, and longlisted for the Abubakar Gimba Prize for Creative Nonfiction (CNF) in 2023. His works have been published in Blue Marble Review, Kikwetu Journal of East African Writing, SprinNG, World Voice Magazine, Above the Rain Collectives’ Final Passenger Anthology, Eboquills’ Our Girls anthology, and Poetic Africa (Issue 10). When not writing or solving intimidating calculations, he’s reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s works. Many fondly call him Jimmy.
