On the Run

Denilson was the light and joy of Frank's teenage years. Looking at him now, rolling on the ground and laughing at absolutely nothing; lost, insane, with no wife or kids, with no life of his own, deserted by his own people, mocked by villagers that had once looked up to him, Frank couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sympathy for him.

He began to wonder if he had the power to cure Denilson's madness. And when he came to terms with the fact that healing or exorcism wasn't one of the powers inherent in his immortal life, he began to wish he could help Denilson. How could he let the man continue this way as a madman? Was there something he could do now, right now, that would help the man start a journey towards full recovery, towards a life that he had completely lost 20 years ago?

"Denilson!" He called, "Denilson!"

The madman stopped laughing and rolling on the ground. He sat up and began to wipe his face with dusty hands.

"Ah, the madman knows my name! Ah, the madman has no shame!" And then he continued laughing.

"Denilson, stop! Please stop. Let me take you to my home. Let me look after you." Frank stared walking towards where Denilson was.

"Don't come near me, madman!" Denilson said, limping to the other side of the street. "Go cure your madness and come back!"

Frank ran towards him and grabbed him by his shoulders. Denilson began to struggle to wriggle free from Frank's grip. "Okol, please!" Frank said, " Stay still. Please listen to me. I'm Frank. Frank! Please let me take you to my home. Let me help you."

"Free me, madman!" Denilson said, "leave me be!"

Frank let him go. It was no use; the man was gone. His fate had been sealed for life.

While holding him, he had had to stop himself from breathing for some seconds, because the stench emanating from Denilson's body made his stomach turn.

"Bye, old friend," Frank said sorrowfully.

"I am no friend to a madman!" Denilson said, trotting away towards the river.

Frank watched him. He was saddened by how shriveled and old the man now looked, as though he was 90 years old.

Just then, as Frank was set to will himself away from his surroundings and appear in his house in Port Harcourt, his heard a hubbub of voices rising further down the street, opposite the path that led to the river.

He squinted at the distance and was shocked to see a small crowd of men walking fearfully to where he was. There was a girl among them. He recognized her as Jenna.

"Jenna!" he called, almost exultantly, as the crowd inched towards him. And then they stopped when they got a few feet away from him. Frank knew why they had come. They were scared. The whole town had been scared stiff since that massacre happened close to market square about a month ago. Now that a form of his humanity—or the semblance of it—had come back to him, he began to long to identify with these people and make them understand what had happened to him. To make them understand that he was their son, that he had grown up in his very town and had worked so hard to rise about the privation of his childhood days to a person of affluence— affluence so short-lived because his life was terminated before he could enjoy the fruits of his labour. He wanted to explain to them that what happened at the market square wasn't really his doing, but that of a force which dictated how he acted every minute. He wanted to tell them that he was murdererd in cold blood and immortality was thrust to him without his consent, without his making, and that it had now become a curse that clung to him like tendrils. Yes, they did not know he had carried out that massacre but he was willing to make them understand everything, to confess to them, to seek their forgiven. But he knew he couldn't do any of that. It would only frighten them the more and it would spoil his chances of ever becoming a part of the human race again. So he folded his arms and watched the crowd, knowing his had just one goal: To convince them that he not a ghost or anything of that sort, but he was human being just like them, a beleaguered man tittering on the very brink of depression.

A elderly man, dressed in traditional attire that was covered with charms, inched forward, away from the crowd, and looked straight into Frank's eyes. Then he turned towards Jenna and said, "Is that him?"

"Yes," Jenna replied, shivering slightly.

The man turned to Frank and said, "My son, where are you from?"

"I'm native of this village," Frank said, "My father's name is—"

"That's him!" A boy, possibly in his late teens, said, pointing at Frank. The boy jumped away from the crowd hysterically, and ran down the other side of the street. He had gotten a good distance away before he stopped and yelled out. "I swear that's him! I saw him that day! All of you should run now!"

"That's who!" The man wearing charms said in an angry voice.

"The one who killed those men during Umondi Festival. Everybody should run now!" And then the boy bolted away. Some men among the crowd also took to their heels, including Jenna, leaving behind just four men who were brave enough to hold their ground.

"Great man," the man with charms said, he tone had changed so much to one laden with fear. "Please where are you from? We the people of Ogudili are peace-loving people. Please tell us the crime we have committed and we will ask for mercy."

"You have committed no crime," Frank said.

"Then why are you here? Please, we beg you in the name of the gods, leave us alone. Stop killing us. We ask in all humility that you leave our town. We do not want trouble."

"I'll leave," Frank said, "but, first, let me talk to Jenna. She reminds me of the love of my life that I allowed to die."