When there is no mediator, two fighters battle to death – Yoruba proverb
Mersee sits gloomily in a corner of the hot, dank cell #20 at the women’s prison at Kirikiri, Lagos. Her eyes are misty and red with grief. She has been weeping with intermittent sobs ever since she arrived at the cell early that morning. She’s unable to clearly observe the other cell mates in the poorly lit room. There is a power failure in the prison. The main source of light comes from the sunlight that peeps through the thick five iron bars close to the concrete ceilings. The cell reeks of the putrid smell of urine and stink from the pit latrine five rooms away. As she sobs, Mersee tries to remember the incidents that took place in September.
“What are you here for?” a deep voice from the opposite corner of the cell fills the 10-by-10-foot room.
At that instance, Mersee looks in the direction of the huge woman who shares her cell. Mersee squints. The woman is a towering presence with an aggressive demeanor.
“Hello. I just asked what brought you here,” the deep-voiced woman asks again with authority.
“Murder,” Mersee replies curtly. She glances at her cellmate, looks around the cramped quarters and catches her breath. There are six other people in the room—eight occupants in all.
The woman stands up, struts forward, and tenderly grabs Mersee’s cold hands.
“The same cruel fate has brought us here together then,” the woman says huskily. “By the way, my name is Defia. And here has been my home for the past 10 years. And here is where my soul will be until I die.”
The other occupants in the cell approach Mersee and shake her hands to welcome her into the fold. As silence fills the space, Mersee bursts into chattering sobs.
“Who was that fortunate person whom you dispatched to the great beyond and why?” Defia asks. Mersee continues sobbing and gasping spasmodically. Then, she swallows hard and breaks down again. Defia wraps her arms around Mersee and tells her to stop crying. Tenderly, she takes the tips of her fingers and wipes the tears from Mersee’s cheeks. Mersee gradually regains her calm, and recounts what happened on a dismal Friday night that she will never forget.
She and Jeri had been married for a year. September 30 was their wedding anniversary, and Mersee had expected Jeri to return home early after the close of business so that they could go out to the restaurant to celebrate. However, Jeri came in around 10 p.m. with stray hairs on the shoulders of a rumpled shirt. He reeked of the perfume of a strange woman. After kissing Jeri passionately on the lips, Mersee asked him why he hadn’t returned earlier or picked up her numerous calls. She said she was worried something was wrong.
Jeri replied that all was well, and that he had a backlog of work at the office. Mersee knew this was a lie. Even when Jeri was busy, he accepted her calls. A whiff of the strange perfume hit her again. She decided to keep calm as Jeri went into the bedroom.
Still in a caring and loving mood, Mersee followed him inside. She was surprised when Jeri kicked off his shoes, and laid down on the bed.
Patiently, she sat down by the bed and asked about the special outing they had planned for that night. He answered curtly that it was cancelled and he wanted to rest. Mersee couldn’t believe it. She demanded to know why? Jeri took this as an affront and slapped her on the face. The impact flung Mersee to the floor. She tried to get up. She was not ready to be a punching bag that night. It had happened before, often after she had queried her husband about his whereabouts, and she was afraid of it happening again.
As she tried to pull herself together, another slap from Jeri’s big palm snapped her from her thoughts. Mersee staggered. Her eyes traveled to the half-filled wine bottle close to the bed lamp. She had drunk some early in the night. She went straight for it and grabbed it. Mersee smashed it furiously on Jeri’s forehead. It shattered into pieces as the liquid splashed into the air and drenched Jeri’s white shirt. The impact dazed him for some moments. Mersee, still consumed with ire, held on to the stump of the bottle. With a heavy heave, she stabbed Jeri on the left chest. He staggered like a drunken monkey. Mersee still held firmly to the bottle stump and stabbed him in anger as he landed on the rug.
Mersee couldn’t believe what had happened. She tried to scoop Jeri up. But he was limp. She wrapped her hands around him and tenderly called him. He didn’t respond. She shook him vigorously. Mersee ran to the door and shouted for help to the neighbors who rushed to her house and saw her hapless husband slumped on the floor. They lifted Jeri’s body and drove to the hospital. He died on the way. The police later interrogated Mersee, booked her and charged her with murder. At the first hearing, the judge decided she should be remanded in prison while awaiting trial.
“My daughter, you have done so much, and you couldn’t have done anything else,” Defia says after Mersee had recounted the story.
Mersee doesn’t utter another word. Finally, after a long silence, one of the cell mates, a soft-spoken woman named Rubi, offers sympathy. “When a pleasure is shared, the enjoyment is diminished,” she says.
“But I didn’t mean to kill him,” Mersee protests.
“Yes, we know. You only fought for your dignity,” Rubi says.
“I can’t pass judgment on you. We leave you to your conscience to decide. I can’t say what you did was wrong. But I’m sure you were right. After you have listened to my story, you can judge if I’m also right or wrong,” Defia says.
“Here’s my own tale,” Defia starts. “I’ve told it countless times to my fellow travelers in this cell. Many have come and gone, and some have gone to the beyond. But I’ll give you the gist.”
Mersee stands up from the bare concrete floor and moves toward Defia, who sits on a blanket spread on the floor. It is the only blanket in the cell, and as the “chairman” of the room, only Defia is entitled to such luxury.
“I married my husband when I was 23 years old. I had just graduated from the university with a first-class honor degree,” Defia recounts. “I knew he was a lecher, after all we attended the same university. Truly, he was my first boyfriend because I attended an all-girls’ secondary school. I never knew any man before I went to the university. Anyway, we married though I knew he was promiscuous. The mistake I made, and which many women make is this. When we marry wayward and unfaithful men, we think we can change them or time or old age will change them. Whereas the men strongly believe that we have taken them for what they were; that we are comfortable with their philandering as long as they still come home every night.
“Two months after our marriage, rumors began to filter to me that he was still keeping many of his old girlfriends. I was insecure then. I didn’t want to lose him. I was not prepared for a divorce. Not that soon. Then we had our first child ─ a boy. The second child came three years later ─ a girl. We continued to live a cat-and-dog life, although to the rest of the world everything looked blissful.
“I never thought I’d lose my mind because of a man. He kept late nights, drank a lot. As he aged, he became more adulterous than a he-goat. But the day I heard he was having an affair with my best friend, my chief bridesmaid, I lost my head.
“It was a Friday, and he told me he had an official trip to Abuja; that he would be back on Sunday. So he left. I didn’t doubt him much because he had made such trips in the past, whether true or false. Some of those trips turned out to be true because I checked them out with his boss at his office. However, this particular trip was a lie, a big fat lie. Later in the day, one of my friends called me and said that she saw my husband sauntering, hand in hand, into a hotel in Ikoyi with my best friend.
“I left for the hotel. I knew my husband would sleep there overnight with the shameless woman. So, I decided to stake out. After about three hours at the hotel lobby, my nerves became very frail, and I couldn’t take it any longer. So, I approached the receptionist, a charming and dashing young man. I gave him my name, a wrong name. I told him Mr. Rawbadsin was expecting me and asked whether he had checked in. You wouldn’t believe it. My husband was foolish enough to check in using his real name.
“Anyway, the receptionist called him on the phone. But while he dialed the phone, I peeked at the numbers. I thought it could also be the room number. Someone picked the phone on the other end. The receptionist told me the person to whom he spoke with was not expecting any visitor.
“I was mad. I wasn’t prepared to let go easily. I went back to the lobby, sat in a corner, and ordered a bottle of Campari. I drank almost all of it. Then I stood and I decided to go, to nowhere in particular. When I got to the car park, I was confused about what to do. By luck, I saw my husband’s official car, a Toyota Camry. My head just flew off.
“I was still in this miserable state when I saw the outline of two people approaching the car park. It was my husband and Lesty. I quickly hid behind a palm tree about 30 feet away. They kissed, held hands and embraced. That’s when I backed away unnoticed. I went to where I parked my car and drove home—in a deranged state of mind.
“On Sunday evening, my husband returned home. He told me he had a very successful trip and the contract was signed. I thought to myself, signed indeed. I had prepared his favorite egusi soup with pounded yam and placed them on the dining table. I told him I had already eaten, so he ate alone.
“After the heavy meal, we retired to the bedroom. There, I offered myself to him as a dutiful wife. And the fulfillment was mutually passionate. It had never been so fervent, and it would never be, again.
“Ten minutes later, we rested and laid down side by side. Suddenly, his body began to jerk, to jerk violently. It was like an epileptic seizure. He started to froth in the mouth, and he wriggled like the severed tail of a wall gecko. That was when I pinned him down and sat on his hairy chest while he begged softly that I should take him to the hospital. His eyes were misty, very cloudy. Five minutes later, he was dead. And I embraced him, and we lay there together in warm embrace for about 30 minutes. I then called the police.”
“That was so callous,” Mersee says. “How could you do that? Where is love?”
Defia looks at her indifferently.
‘“Love?” Defia replies. “The love was always there. I loved him with passion and hated him with the same destructive jealousy. And it was that same love that made me to save him from a demon that would have eventually destroyed him.”
“But wait a minute,” Mersee says thoughtfully. “Something is amiss in your story. You mean he died as a result of rigorous love making?”
“I wished it was that,” Defia retorts. “If that was the case, I wouldn’t be here for the past 10 years awaiting trial for murder. Anyway, I am happy that was not so, else the revenge would not have been as sweet as I wanted. I dutifully killed him with...”
Just then, a warder bangs the iron bars. It is time for lunch. The warder lowers silver bowls underneath an iron bar and slips them into cell 20. As Mersee lifts the lid of one of the bowls, the aroma of curry and ginger fills the room. The bowl is filled to the brim with watery bean porridge. Noticing that the beans are few and that the broth is primarily water, she sighs.
Defia glances at Mersee, who is not eating, and tells her to get used to prison foods because the quality wasn’t going to improve. Besides, she explains, dinner will be even worse.
Mersee decides to try a few scoops. After a few spoonfuls, she ogles her cell mates as they devour their meager, tasteless lunch.
“Where did I stop?” Defia asks, directing her question to nobody. At that moment, lightning flashes across the iron bars and illuminates her well-chiseled checks and lavish bosom. The sky is overcast and the wind is blowing furiously.
“You killed him with,” says a faint voice from a corner of the cell.
“Thank you, Orene,” Defia says. “Oh yes, I laced the egusi soup of the creepy, lecherous lizard with poison, and he ate it lovingly.” She ends with a wry smile, while the other inmates join with mischievous giggles. But not Mersee.
“That was indeed callous,” Mersee interrupts. “I ask again, where is love? Don’t tell me love and hatred are the same.”
“I didn’t say so,” Defia replies. “But where one exits, the other is also present. Both come from the same fountain, the same source; they are both creatures of passion. A woman can either love or hate with passion. And there is no middle course. And when the love of a woman is scorned, even a feather in her hand is deadlier than a sword.”
“Don’t you have any regret?” Mersee says in a quivering voice.
Defia pauses for five seconds, heaves and says: “No; my only regret is that I couldn’t kill the other woman.”
“Revenge is mine says the Lord,” Mersee says.
“Yes, I believe you. And when I meet my creator, I’m ready to stand in defense for helping the almighty God to avenge,” Defia responds brusquely.
“That’s sounds blasphemous,” Mersee replies angrily.
“And you sound like a hypocrite,” Defia says coldly. “Even the Lord blesses those who avenge for him.”
Mersee shakes her head in disagreement. She thinks that the man who turned this bright, charming woman to a brooding viper has indeed done a great damage to morality.
“Haven’t you read about one enraged woman in the Holy Book,” Defia says. “This is not a story about a jealous lover, but about a passionate zealot.”
Mersee is not sure what story Defia has in mind. Defia then moves toward her blanket and pulls a small black-covered bible from underneath. She flips the pages, and stops at Judges, Chapter 4. She gives Mersee to read from verses 15 to 23.
Defia moves toward the faint light through the iron bars.
Mersee reads: “And the Lord discomfited Sisera, and all his chariots, and all his host, with the edge of the sword before Barak; so that Sisera lighted down off his chariot, and fled away on his feet.
But Barak pursued after the chariots, and after the host, unto Harosheth of the Gentiles: and all the host of Sisera fell upon the edge of the sword; and there was not a man left.
Howbeit Sisera fled away on his feet to the tent of Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite: for there was peace between Jabin the king of Hazor and the house of Heber the Kenite.
And Jael went out to meet Sisera, and said unto him, turn in, my lord, turn in to me; fear not. And when he had turned in unto her into the tent, she covered him with a mantle.
And he said unto her, give me, I pray thee, a little water to drink; for I am thirsty. And she opened a bottle of milk, and gave him drink, and covered him.
Again he said unto her, stand in the door of the tent, and it shall be, when any man doth come and enquire of thee, and say, Is there any man here? that thou shalt say, No.
Then Jael Heber's wife took a nail of the tent, and took an hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him, and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it into the ground: for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died.
And, behold, as Barak pursued Sisera, Jael came out to meet him, and said unto him, Come, and I will shew thee the man whom thou seekest. And when he came into her tent, behold, Sisera lay dead, and the nail was in his temples.
So God subdued on that day Jabin the king of Canaan before the children of Israel.”
Defia gingerly takes the bible from Mersee and flips the page forward.
“Ha, ha,” Defia says, “I want you to read particularly this. Chapter 5, verses 1 and 2, then, verses 24 to 27.”
Mersee reads: “Then sang Deborah and Barak the son of Abinoam on that day, saying,
Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when the people willingly offered themselves.”
“Verse 24: Blessed above women shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be, blessed shall she be above women in the tent.
He asked water, and she gave him milk; she brought forth butter in a lordly dish.
She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workmen's hammer; and with the hammer she smote Sisera, she smote off his head, when she had pierced and stricken through his temples.
At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed, there he fell down dead.”
Mersee is stunned.
“My pious friend, I’ve tried to find a true meaning to that—to love and hate, but I’m lost and confused. If the Lord is jealous, who am I to deviate from his omnipresence?” Defia says stoically.
“But everyone has a duty to obey the law of the land. For in that we create a just society,” Mersee interjects.
“I’m solely accountable to my treasured conscience and not to any earthly law,” Defia replies. “And the noblest of all duties is to obey your conscience.”
Mersee regards her quietly, then shakes her head. “Perhaps this is a time for the renewal of souls, a time for you to beg God to forgive you and purify your outrageous, arrogant conscience,” she says after a long pause. “For God is just, although the justice of man is unjust. And it does not profit the almighty to destroy a soul which man has unjustly damned. I’ve regretted what I did. It was at the spur of the moment. I’ve asked God for forgiveness, and I’m paying the price now. I’m against the shedding of blood, because it is evil. I’ll also continue to pray for you for the good Lord to soften your heart.”
“So, does that mean you support infidelity?” Defia asks.
“No. I truly believe partners should be forever faithful to each other,” Mersee replies. “What I’m against is shedding of blood because a lover has been jilted or because of infidelity. And the way you did it in cold blood. How can you kill him and continue to embrace his corpse?”
“You see, my daughter, my friend, even when two snakes fight they embrace each other. And sometime it may be till death separates them,” Defia says coldly as she looks intently at Mersee’s cherubic face.
To this day, in this dingy cell, a penitent soul and a vengeful conscience continue to discuss the true meaning of absolute good and absolute evil until death separates them.