Cockroach | By Carolyn Banks

It was in the early hours of the morning, when the heavens had just emptied her bowels and the early birds were out hooting and cricketing. I laid quietly on the iyunkhwo by the foot of a serpent which was tan, long and had five slim heads.

My eyes were accustomed to the yellow light that drifted into the room from the sun. It was windy and cold. My mind was occupied with the thought of Oshia, when he suddenly came in through the open space in the wall, walking on his toes like a thief.

I had aleady made up my mind a long time ago and I did not hesitate to use the idigun I had placed beside myself to strike him when he fell full weight on me. His old stench almost choked me. He groaned like a beast while holding his bruised head.

I did not stand up; I already knew that he would not survive the blow. Slowly, he fell and on his yellow blood his stiff swam. I did not look at him again. I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep.

Carolyn Banks studies English at the University of Lagos, Nigeria. She is freelance writer, a poet, a songwriter and a lover of anything art.


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