It happened on his usual job-seeking jaunt – like he was doing today. He chanced upon a merchant who had been robbed, severely beaten and dumped in a gutter by his assailants. Passersby noticed the dying merchant but offered no help. Clearly, a dead man did not need much help after all. No one dared report the incident to the police for fear that they would be invited as witnesses in court. Something people in the Big City dreaded. It was understandable as the court was adjacent to the prison. A false turn and one lands himself in jail forever.
The stench from the gutter struck Tsanga to a halt. He took a step closer. He, like the others assumed the merchant was dead. He decided to cover the face of the dead man with leaves as it was customary. Where he came from, it was considered wrong to bypass a dead man without performing the leaves ritual.
Tsanga's first week in the Big City was not devoid of strange-happenings – he had paid for a room only to be told what he actually deserved was a kiosk, he recently had received a slap from a man walking on the street for no wrong done and now this. He located a bush nearby and went over to pluck some leaves. He desired no ghostly torment in addition to his countless misfortunes. He hurried back to the gutter, recited strange incantations and was about placing the leaves on the face of the dying merchant when he was grabbed firmly by the fist.
“I am not dead, please save me”. The merchant whispered, tightening his grip at each passing second. Startled onlookers fled the scene. Tsanga himself was engrossed in fear but could not break free.
“Please save me”, the words echoed around the dying merchant. Noticing he had no way to escape the dying man’s grip, Tsanga carried the merchant on his feeble shoulders to a hospital about 2 kilometers away.
The merchant’s recovery was speedy. Most of the inflicted wounds were only skin-deep. In appreciation, he offered his youngest daughter to Tsanga for a wife. It was his third week in the Big City; Tsanga had little money for food, no job and resided in a rented kiosk with a beautiful but dissatisfied wife. His possessions were few but his responsibilities, many.
The dirt gathering on his boots interrupted his reflections. Tsanga wiped the dirt judiciously off his boots as he could not afford another just yet. He sought for job opportunities in every corner but even menial jobs were taken. On one occasion, he had opted to mow the growing lawn of his neighbor at no cost but was refused on the suspicion of foul play. People in the Big City hardly opted to do any work free of remuneration. However, all Tsanga needed was to find work for his idle hands. Tsanga did not expect life in the Big City to be this tough. Nonetheless, he discarded all thoughts of returning to his village. At night, he had his nagging wife to contend with, turning sleep into a hard-earned luxury. His wife continually threatened divorce but for an unknown reason never carried it out - perhaps they were empty threats after all.
One fateful night, Tsanga had a vision. In this vision, his late father handed him a talisman he had given him when he turned 18. His late father assured him that the talisman was his beacon of hope and the true means to his prosperity.
How could he possibly acquire riches by wearing a mere talisman in the Big City? He wondered. Out of sheer curiosity, Tsanga searched for the talisman and donned it. He mocked himself; desperate situations indeed demanded desperate measures. Perhaps it might bring him some luck. What if…? He contemplated.
Tsanga narrated the vision to a friendly mechanic across the street. Strangely, the mechanic was intrigued by it and unlike Tsanga, seemed to possess a strong belief in visions. The mechanic had no shred of doubt.
The mechanic’s subsequent request stunned Tsanga. He asked Tsanga to consult the spirit world and attempt a conversation with his late mother, letting her know that he had found a job in the Big City as a mechanic. He wanted to know if his late mother was proud of him. The mechanic offered to pay Tsanga a handsome amount of money if he was successful in carrying out his assignment. Noticing the seriousness of the mechanic’s request, Tsanga opted to carry out the requested task. He promised to return with answers after 7 days as he needed to carry out extensive ancestral consultations.
At home, he assured his wife that things were going to change for the better. He showed her the greasy notes the mechanic had given him as part payment for the service he was yet to render. Tsanga narrated the mechanic’s outrageous request to his wife who thought of it as absurd but urged him on to complete the task. She was in dire need of money and did not seem to care much about the means. Tsanga obviously had no idea what it meant to communicate with the dead. He was just fortunate to experience a vision once, which he thought was ordinary. Possibly the mechanic never had a dream in his entire life.
Tsanga retired to bed that evening with the mechanic’s request burdening his mind. Sleep was certain because the money had kept his wife's nagging into snoring. He imagined communicating with the late mother of the mechanic when he realized that he had no clue what she even looked like. His mind wandered away gradually into dreamland where he feasted satisfactorily on a large pot of yam foofoo with goat soup. For the successive six days, Tsanga’s dreams were a mere playback of his fantasy – to become rich by all means necessary.
The seventh day came and Tsanga reluctantly headed for the mechanic’s garage. He carried in his pocket a part of the money the mechanic had given him should a pay back be necessitated since he did not succeed in carrying out the task. He dreaded his walking to the garage but dreaded most the stout and oil-stained body of the mechanic, particularly the goatee he wore on his face making him appear somewhat stupid. Tsanga gathered what was left of his courage and called out to the mechanic who laid beneath a wagon he had been fixing ever since Tsanga knew him. However, what followed afterwards was unexpected. The mechanic rose to his feet at the sight of Tsanga and gave him a good-news embrace.
“Thank you! Thank you! It worked!” The mechanic yelled enthusiastically.
“What worked?” Tsanga asked, confused.
“I’ll make it brief. So last night my Mama appeared to me in a vision and she told me how proud she was of me. She also added that I double the money I promised to pay you. She even insisted that I give you a third of my monthly earnings going forward”
“You are clearly out of your mind” Tsanga said under his breath amidst smiles to conceal his malice. He looked down at the rather elated mechanic with sympathy; all this mechanic desired was his mother’s approval. Tsanga genuinely felt sorry for him but noticing the mechanic’s hunger for mysticism treated him with mystic-food.
Tsanga shook his shoulders rapidly, throwing his legs about in all directions.
“My son,” Tsanga called out in a pretense female tone.
“Yes Mama, I’m here Mama! Talk to your son.” The mechanic responded.
Tsanga wished he could refer to the mechanic by his actual name to spice his act up but he had referred to the mechanic by the name ‘mechanic’ and had never bothered to ask of his name. He discarded the discouraging thought and continued;
“Do everything Tsanga tells you lest I disown you.”
“No Mama! I will do everything he asks of me!” the mechanic responded breathlessly.
Tsanga, already tired of his display shook as though recovering from a trance. He pretended to be unaware of his current disposition; “Where is this place? Where am I?” He asked.
The mechanic narrated the happenings to Tsanga, reiterating the demands of his late mother. He assured Tsanga of his promise to take good care of him.
“Ijoka! Bring Tsanga something to eat. Don’t forget to carry along the gourd of palm wine I have kept under the shed.” The mechanic instructed his daughter.
The mechanic's wife refused to come along with them to the Big City because he never overcame his mother’s demise. She could not bear sharing her man with his dead mother so she gave him away. It has been five years since he left for the Big City but she never bothered to pay them a visit.
“Here it is Papa!” Ijoka returned with a pot of soup in one hand and the gourd in another.
Tsanga was served a big pot of yam foofoo with goat soup. The meal was tastier than it was in his dream. Tsanga satisfied his yearning soul. He topped it up with a huge calabash of palm wine and left for home.
Tsanga's wife was pleased with his achievements. They rented a spacious apartment with his newly found continuous source of income.
Word had gone round that a man named Tsanga possessed a rare ability to communicate with the dead. The mechanic was good at marketing. Tsanga’ clients increased from a mechanic to 500 clients in the same year.
Tsanga developed a policy for his clients; Obviously, his clients knew their dead relatives better than he did so his only role, he explained, was to instruct the dead relative to appear to them in their own vision, like it was with the mechanic. A client would have to pay extra sums of money to get him to have the communication on their behalf, which was mostly the case.
Tsanga’s favorite client was a politician who desired to consult a dead politician. The politician believed that by consulting the dead, he would be taught the tips on how to remain longer in office. This politician opted to share his monthly earnings equally with Tsanga to experience what he might never experience. Tsanga humored himself at the extents his clients were willing to go and how foolish they were. Tsanga named his 5-storey building shrine ‘ETERNAL COMMUNICATIONS NETWORK’
Some days, his conscience begrudged him. He decided to explain to his clients that it was only normal that one tends to dream of what was thought about mostly in the day. However, anytime he tried, he was tagged as an unbeliever. Business was boomed and he had nothing to lose.
Tsanga marked one of the rooms with the words ‘SACRED’, painted boldly in red. In that room, he exploited naive female clients. He would as usual pretend to be in a trance and call out her name.
“I must go inside you to establish a stronger connection with your dead relative” He would say while unzipping his shorts.
Tsanga’s business continued for 20 years and his wealth increased enormously. His shrine had an Accounting Department, a Customer Service Wing and an Internal Audit Department where his first wife assumed the position of Chief Auditor. He owned numerous businesses and married 4 additional women with his first wife bearing the title ‘First Lady’.
The mechanic eventually lost his job and took to drinking. He came by Tsanga's shrine often but the macho security guards did not allow him entry as no one visited Tsanga empty handed. The frustrated mechanic took to the streets, announcing that Tsanga was a con artist he had created but who would take seriously the words of a drunk? The mechanic died in his frustration.
Ijoka returned from the University to bury her father. She seized the opportunity to rally the townsfolk and raised a demonstration against Tsanga and his business. She accused Tsanga of being a con man who had taken undue advantage of their ignorance and the women in the Big City.
Sensing danger, Tsanga emptied his bank accounts, sold his company assets and fled the Big City with his many wives who bore him seven beautiful daughters. He was gone and was never to be seen again.
Rumor had it that Tsanga had diversified into church business. He neither repented from his ways nor understood fully the concept of Christianity. All he was good at is to leverage on the ignorance people and sell to them mystical commodities that he himself would not buy.
Prophet Tsanga donned the talisman which now had a crucifix attached to it. It was time to address his congregation;
“Praaaaaaaaaaaaaaise the Lord!”
“Hallelujah!” The congregation of ETERNAL COMMUNICATIONS CHURCH responded.
“Hallelujah!” Tsanga screamed.
“Amen!” They chorused.
“Last night I had a vision…” Tsanga begun his pitch.
“Preach on Prophet!” An overly enthused congregant encouraged.
This unsuspecting congregant was Ijoka.
The End.
A Short Story by:
Atsu Dogbey
(Member of TDL)
www.letsallwrite.com
www.thedogbeyleague.blogspot.com
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