Red + Yellow Should Be Orange

“MAKE UNA WAKE up o,” Mother said in the well-rehearsed tone with which she said it every morning.

“Ayo, Yemi, stand up. Oya! Dìde, dìde, dìde,” Mother continued as she tried to wake my sleeping sisters. 

“Remi! Remi!” Mother called. 

“Ma, I’m dressing up already,” I screamed from my bedroom. 

“Ehen! Pele, e ṣeun ọmọ mi. Ayo! Yemi! Should I pour water on your head before you wake up? Ehn?” Mother continued with her mumbled chiding as she went about her own preparation for the day’s service. 

Mother never had to fuss over me when it came to Sunday services like she did with my two elder sisters. In fact, it was safe to say that I was more eager to go to mass than she was. My outfits for each month were usually set by the end of the month prior, and depending on the power supply, the dress for each Sunday would usually be ironed by Friday or Saturday of the week. Never would it be seen that Remi went to church with a rumpled shirt. 

The women at my parish—St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church, Owo—fondly commended my neatness, which showed in my well-ironed clothes, shiny shoes and my well-carved regular haircut. Even the young girls were not excluded from the admiration. 

I’d slowly come to notice the subtle eye-and-mouth battles that went on around me. Some would try to sit next to me and then pretend they were oblivious to my presence, while others couldn’t hide their excitement. Some of them took to hanging around me after rehearsals or making up choir-related excuses to see me within the week. For example, after rehearsals last week Monday, someone walked up to me and said: Brother Remi, I wasn’t really getting my part for that first song we rehearsed today. Is it okay if I come over to your place later in the week so we can rehearse together before the next rehearsal?

“I don’t have a keyboard; how do we get the rhythm?” I asked the young lady. 

“I can download the instrumental, and we can sing it together. That way, it would be easier for me to get the rhythm. It sounded like you found your part rather easily. Can you help me, please?”

She could have gone to the choirmaster or the organist with this request, but she chose not to. But this was the least absurd of all the excuses I’d received in the past, and while I relished the unsolicited attention and affection of the ladies, my eyes were made for one woman only—Olaoluwakitan. 

Kitan was not a part of the choir like I was. She was more of an actress than a musician, and as such, she was a part of the drama unit. I saw Kitan everywhere I went. It was as though there was an artist in my brain who made a portrait of her and tucked it safely behind my eyelids so that I couldn’t escape her whether my eyes were closed or open. My favourite of the mental portraits was of Kitan in the Jewish costume she wore during Easter when she played Salome in the reenactment of ‘The Passion of Christ.’ Granted, Leonardo da Vinci did a great job with the Mona Lisa, but my mind took the artistry thing a step further—it could make the picture move; it could make her smile or wink really slowly.

Kitan and her mother, Mrs Ologunagba, joined our church earlier in the year after relocating to Owo after the death of her father and two brothers in a tragic motor accident.  

Call me delusional, but the first time I saw her, I wondered if mermaids truly existed. She fit the usual description of one, although, in contrast to the yellow shiny skin mermaids were famed to have in the folklores I read as a child, Kitan had skin the rich dark colour of fertile loam and as smooth as the pebbles we retrieved from river beds during GEO 211 field excursions. Her face was enviable—flawless, with no traces of scars or pimples, and framed by glistening black hair which extended from the top of her forehead down to the nape of her neck. 

On that day, the soft black strands of hair were held in a ponytail, and the tips were coiled like ugwu tendrils. Kitan had lips that were barely wider than her eyes, and they glistened like she had just eaten a plate of rice and stew. If her mother did not have matching pupils, I would have assumed hers, which seemed to hold a rainbow on fire, were artificial like that of the girls in my school. 

Kitan was quite short, which I considered perfect, and her body was shaped almost like a bowling pin—small on the upside, with a long, slender waist and fairly wide hips. 

I wasn’t exactly the shy type, so it wasn’t difficult to strike up a conversation with her. Soon, we sat together during youth meetings and meetings after the close of Sunday and weekly services. We talked about everything—our other friends and school, but I never told her about the rumble in my chest whenever she walked into the church building or the currents that flowed through my veins whenever she touched me. She did not know that I had to wear double underwear whenever I knew we would be close. I planned to tell her all this eventually. It was one of the things I planned to do before I died. 

---

“YOU ARE INSANE!” Timi said amidst bouts of laughter when he saw my ‘must-do’ list.

“Ride a bicycle, okay. Learn to climb trees, okay. Attend a WWE Wrestle Mania event, witness a World Cup final, visit Brazil, attend a Cuban music festival.” Timi continued in his laughter as he read out the rest.  

“Guy, you no well o. Na this life you wan take do all this one abi you dey plan to come again? Have you forgotten what we were taught about goal setting? S.M.A.R.T—Specific, Measurable, Achievable, ehm, Realistic, Timed. This your list na fairytale without song na,” Timi said. 

“You don see now say you no get sense?” I replied jokingly. 

“When you look the top of the list, wetin you see? You see goals for there? This is my ‘must-do’ list. Things I have to do before I die. No be goals, you goat.” I snatched the paper out of his hands, and we both returned to laughter and occasional banter. 

I looked at the list again when Timi was gone. It was incomplete. There was one more thing I was yet to write; something too sacred to be penned on paper for the world to see. 

The ‘must-do’ list was birthed by an event that happened about a year ago—the death of my cousin Rotimi. Before then, like every other human, I knew death was real, but the concept was to me like a phantasm, a myth—things you know are real, but they don’t seem real to you, or you find their reality incomprehensible because they haven’t yet formed a part of your existence; love for an example, or some psychological disorder—allergies, grief, vitamins. The event made me realise how fickle life was. It made me realise how easily ‘is’ could become ‘was’, how presence could quickly fade into absence, how dangerous it was to leave till tomorrow what could be done today. 

Rotimi and I had big dreams. Part of our boyish fantasies was attending Wrestle Mania together. Once, he confided in me about a girl he liked, and I encouraged him to pursue her. The girl was clearly interested in him and would willingly lay herself on his altar, soul, spirit, and body. There was little left to do. The table had been set. He only needed to take his seat and enjoy the meal.

“Next week,” he’d said. “That’s when my allowance comes in.” 

The next week saw his mangled body being laid in a casket and fed to Mother Earth. As I poured my own shovel of sand on his casket, I made myself a promise to never delay my aspirations. I began compiling my “must-do” list and started making conscious efforts to check off each item as soon as possible.

So, today, after the close of service, I would take Kitan on a walk. We would go to the mini fast-food joint down the road, get cold drinks, occupy the table at the left back corner of the restaurant, and in the middle of our chat, I would tell her that I love her and would want her to be mine.

“Remi, Remi,” Mother called out again as she walked around doing some last-minute packing—a towel, her Bible, a bottle of water.

“Abeg, let’s go. If your sisters are not ready, then they should stay here. Ayo, Yemi, ensure you lock the doors properly o. I don’t want to come back and meet an empty house. Remi, Re…” Mother stopped mid-word as I walked into the parlour.

“Ah! Remi, this shirt is fine o. How come I’ve never seen it before? Ehe! Turn, turn, turn, let me see. Omo daadaa, you made it in school, abi? The seams are so neat. That Emeka can never sew something like this.” Mother admired the shirt, brushing the imaginary dirt off my back and straightening out the already too-straight shirt. 

“Is it that I did not hear the announcement well? Is there a special program scheduled for today?” Mother asked. 

“No, mama. Does one need a reason to look good? Besides, today is Pentecost Sunday. You don’t want the Holy Spirit to catch me unfresh, do you? Plus, the cloth has been sitting idle in my box all this while. I just said I should warm it today. Ehn mummy, let’s go, we are getting late already.”

“Sunday, fifth of June twenty-twenty-two,” I mused to myself as I stepped out of the house that Sunday morning. This date would only be a subaltern to my wedding date. I would mark it forever as the day I claimed my love.

---

‘E BAMI PORUKORE

Èmi ni tin je èmi ni 

Olorúko nla 

Èmi ni ma sè beru’

In a Yoruba church, during a praise session, the first thing you notice is how the women dance as if trying to outdo each other—stylishly moving their legs and heaving their shoulders simultaneously to the rhythm of the music. They are always well dressed in varying colours of Iro and Buba. It’s difficult to tell who among them is genuinely wealthy by looking at them alone. 

From where I sat at the pew reserved for the Choir, my eyes sought Kitan, who held the flare of her dress with both hands moving with a one-two, one-two rhythm—left, left, right, right and left again. She wore her hair differently today—she had styled a portion to the front and held the rest up in a ponytail wrapped with the same material as her dress. The telephone wire curls on her forehead bobbed with her every movement. In that part of the brain responsible for imagination, I imagined this to be how she would dance on the day of our wedding, so I decided to dance, too, keeping my eyes fixed on her. All through the service, my eyes went to two places only: the clock and Kitan, so I knew the clock read 11:27 am when the Father said the closing blessing. I was like a bird set free and already poised to pick up my Bible, rise and run out of the church at the time the Father said,

“…Go in peace.”

Just then, something happened that made me go still. A very loud sound came from the church parking lot. Everyone and everything went still except eyes, which darted left and right within their socket, and ears, which widened as the people tried to discern what was happening. The torturous moment of stillness was broken by a man who hurriedly ran to and closed the big door which served as the main entrance to the cathedral, thus confirming the fear in the minds of many—the sound had not come from a spoilt tyre or from children playing with firecrackers. 

Gbim, gbim, gbim, gbim, gbim, gbim, gbim—the sounds came again, this time closer and louder than before. Mothers held their little ones closer, heads joined, the eyes darting back and forth in search of a quick escape route. On my end, I was bent over—half of my butt on my chair, half out. My torso was slightly bent to the left, and both my hands were grasping the Bible, hymn book and jotter I had brought to church. It was the exact posture I had assumed before the sounds started, except my head was now up and turned towards the church entrance. Amongst the crowd, many held their breaths as though willing the time to stay still while some breathed frantically. It was easy to see the movement of rapidly beating hearts from bubas and danshikis. 

It’s amazing how much can happen in split seconds, how quickly ‘is’ transcends to ‘was,’ and how readily present fades into absence. Sometimes, things happen so fast that our brains cannot comprehend them. Even when we try to pin down some of these memories, they move so fast that they escape.

---

IF I WERE asked to give a statement, I would say the attack was as swift as thunder arriving after the brief warning from the lightning. I would say the men in black were like black fumes propelled by the speed of the wind. I would say the bullets were metallic pellets of raindrops raining at angles 180°, 97°,43°, and 35° like they were stuffed into insecticide bottles with big spray holes and were being sprayed around as the gunmen advanced to the front of the church. I was still too dazed to attempt to run. There wasn’t enough time to process the arrival of the men in black wielding fire sticks, the dropping of bodies, piercing screams from women, children, and young girls, and the loud grunt of men who were struggling to hold on to life’s slippery pinky finger—willing themselves to stay afloat over the valley of death. 

Having an accurate knowledge of the Pentecost story, I could matter-of-factly tell you that this is not how it goes. It was one of my favourites growing up as my then teacher at the children’s chapel made me and the other children make the whoosh-whoosh sound, which was symbolic of the sound of the mighty rushing wind when the Holy Spirit came upon the disciples in the upper room. 

My teacher would be very disappointed if she were to be here to see how poorly the whole event was being re-enacted, I thought to myself.

I still remember that after the sound of the mighty rushing wind, which has been changed from whoosh whoosh to gbim gbim, cloven tongues of fire rested gently upon the disciples from above; the fire had not come from little blackish things that were being thrown around, and it certainly didn’t make the limbs of the disciples burst like big fresh tomatoes under a car tyre, nor did it make a noise of its own. The only thing on par with the apostles’ experience is that people spoke loudly in new tongues: that of anxiety, confusion, fear, pain and loss. Secondly, there was a surprising transformation.

People who wouldn’t sit next to each other, who wouldn’t let the other person’s clothes touch them, were now lying atop each other; arms or legs flailed, eyes closed, thick red liquid leaking from different parts of their bodies. Those who could, were still trying to run through the big door at the back of the cathedral or the two front doors at the front side, one of which was close to the chorister’s pew. The delicate interior of the premise was in shambles; splatters of red formed irregular polka dot patterns on the cream-coloured walls and white pillars. What was left of the formerly pristinely set chairs were haphazardly placed. I could see Mama’s yellow slipper—the last present Papa bought for her before he died. The slipper, just like the cream-coloured walls and white pillars of the cathedral, was splattered with different shades of red. Red and yellow should give orange, I thought to myself. 

I wondered if that was the colour of Kitan’s dress now as she lay face down on the concrete floor with her left hand clutching her belly. The yellow material with blue horses matched her skin tone perfectly. I should go and try to save her, I thought to myself, but it was only when I tried to move that I realised that I had a bullet buried in the upper side of my left shoulder, the pain threatening to render the other parts of my body useless. I knew the rational thing to do at that moment was to find a way to stem the bleeding, but love does not sit in the counsel of the rational. What mattered to me most at that moment was to tell Kitan I loved her. She wasn’t dead yet. I could tell because the pinkie of her right hand twitched. Seeing that I could barely move, I decided to scream at the top of my lungs, hoping that the wind would bear my words safely to her ears, untainted by the sounds of bullets and screams. “Kitan!” was the last word I said (or rather—screamed) before someone targeted and hit the apple at the front centre of my neck. Bullseye, he must have thought. My words dissolved in the thick red liquid that flowed down to my chest and spilt out of my lips. It suddenly occurred to me then that I hadn’t seen either of my sisters in today’s service. I hoped they didn’t come. Otherwise, how would the world take the exposition that the father, wife and all three of their children died by the same plague at different locations and times? As I sank to the floor, I kept my eyes on Kitan. Her pinkie twitched again, and I made a decision. I will die first, so she will have someone to welcome her into the great beyond when her time comes.

---

Favour Evioghene Brown is an Aquaculturist and creative writer who specialises in short stories and performance poetry. Her literary accomplishments include the shortlist for the Shuzia Short Story Prize in 2022 and 2023 and the honourable mentions list for the 2nd Edition of the Pendustry Annual Writing Competition in 2021. Her pieces have been featured in the GPS Poetry Anthology and Shuzia Magazine. She is an Alumnus of the 2023 SprinNg Writing Fellowship Program and a fan of Crime thrillers and bread.