by Emmanuel Iduma
You think that he entered the wall and disappeared forever. For that's what he said to you, we will all disappear forever, we will all fly free; I am free, you can be free. And that's what he did; flew free, poured his venom on you.
First, you were on the wall and his body pressed yours, rubbing, throbbing, jamming. I can jam you in here, I can jam you in here; I have control over your body, nothing is private; stop shouting. He said. You shouted no more. He had you. Owned you.
This wall he died from your dagger. Yes, the wall spoke to you, you saw it in dreams, in anytime you closed your eyes. His image splashed with red, his words oozing red from his mouth. The wall calling to you, you can jam him in here, this is your act of godliness, jam him in here. And that's what you did. Jammed him there.
This is what you did, cut him through the chest until the dagger touched the wall. And while his body drops, while he sinks into the wall, you no longer see the wall oozing red, or talking to you, or saying jam him in here. You’re only here yourself now wailing, when the wall has buried him.
So, this is your wailing wall. While you wail, you know you are free. Free to live. To live. To live. Ah. To live.
(Emmanuel Iduma, born in 1989, has been published online and in print. He is the author of the memoirs, Alphabets of a Small City and Have You Been Honest with Me? forthcoming later in 2010 as e-Books. He is the co-publisher of Saraba. While studying for his LL.B. and B.L., he is also working on a novel.)