Chapter 1: The Night Shame Enter Buka

That time, my family dey run small buka for Makurdi. One night, some people come chop, dem drink burukutu sotay dem forget say dem get house.

Makurdi that year dey hot for evening, everywhere dey buzz. Our buka na one of those street corners wey dey alive at night, lanterns for wall, generator dey hum, and the air just dey smell of fried pepper and roasted fish. Men dey talk loud, dey knock bottle, dey gist about politics and farm work. E be like say even the ancestors dey watch as life dey unfold for our small buka.

As my wife, Morayo, dey bring food come, she bend down. As woman dey bend, e sure say blouse go shift small.

She dey try arrange the plates well, the tray heavy with semo and okra soup. Some men dey look her with that yeye eye, but Morayo na woman wey sabi carry herself. Her wrapper dey always neat, gele low for head. She greet them with smile wey no pass boundary, her voice dey soft but sure, like woman wey get pride for her handwork. Morayo adjust her blouse sharp-sharp, eye steady, as if to talk, "No be today."

One of the drunk men just stretch hand enter her blouse, pinch her well-well.

For that moment, the buka quiet small. Even the radio wey dey play Fuji song for background, e sound like e pause. One or two men look away quick, some just pretend say dem no see.

Morayo shock sotay she scream, raise hand, slap the man correct one for face.

Her palm land with that hard, sharp sound wey woman wey dey cook since morning fit get. Everybody mouth open, one man whistle, others murmur, "Chei! E don happen." One mama for corner hiss, "Na so! Make dem dey learn."

The man vex, shame catch am for front of everybody, he begin beat my wife anyhow.

Dem say man no suppose lose guard for public, especially for place wey people sabi am. As he raise hand, all the other women for buka hold their chest, some men stand up, but fear dey catch dem too—nobody wan enter wahala.

As I rush enter the private room, na my wife face I see, blood full everywhere. Anger just carry me, I shout, "You dey craze? Na my wife you dey touch!" but before I fit do anything, the man punch me for jaw, break my tongue join.

My leg weak that moment. Blood dey drip for my mouth, my voice no come out again. Some boys for corner dey whisper, "This one don pass buka fight. Na real wahala."

I no gree.

As I dey hold my mouth, my eye dey pepper me like person pour ata for inside, anger dey shake me from inside. Na like say something for inside me just snap. My heartbeat stop, flash of my papa warning me, "No ever let anger carry you go where your leg no fit return." But anger don blind me.

I pin im hand for table, carry goat-meat chopping knife, bring am down one time. Na so e simple reach.

The air inside the buka change. Even generator hum pause. One old man for corner drop him spoon, another woman cover her face. Na that kind silence wey na only real fear fit bring.

Any hand wey touch my wife—na that hand I cut comot.

Dem talk say for Nigeria, man fit forgive, but when e reach wife matter, na another thing. My hand no shake, my anger pure. My papa always talk say, "If person touch your own, make e know say he touch lion tail."

As I raise the knife reach im neck, na Morayo hold me, dey cry dey beg make I stop.

Her voice crack, her eyes full of tears. "Husband, abeg! No do am! You go put us for bigger wahala." Her wrapper dey stained, her hand dey tremble as she hold my wrist.

One neighbor try rush in, but another drag am back—fear just heavy for everybody body, nobody wan enter police matter. My wife sacrifice everything for my head. She use all our savings, sell everything we get, just to make sure dem give me suspended sentence. And na because the man first drunk, harass my wife, break my tongue.

For those days wey police matter dey hot, na community elders, family friends, even my church pastor beg join. Morayo waka tire, beg tire, her voice carry pain but she no let me fall. My mama dey mutter, "God of Elijah, no let my son fall hand."

We try find justice, e no work.

People for station dey ask us, "Wetin you want make we do?" If you no get connection or big man voice, justice fit slow like snail. Street people just dey talk say, "Na so e dey be for this country."

Because as I pin im hand for table, fear catch am, he clear eye, accept say na im fault, beg make I forgive am, promise say e no go ever do am again.

The elders try settle, but matter don pass home. The man cry, kneel, even call him own mama make she beg. But anger get as e dey do man sometimes, especially when wahala too much.

But I no fit hold my anger—I still cut im hand.

Some people say na juju, say maybe na spirit push me, but deep down, I know say na pain and shame push my hand.

Over twelve people wey sit down for table talk say after the man beg, I still attack am.

Na all the market women, aboki wey dey sell suya for junction, even that stubborn boy wey dey help us wash plate—everybody see wetin happen. Once police ask, na so dem yarn. Nigeria get as e be, everybody get sharp memory when wahala dey.

Judge talk say na over-defend I over-defend.

For court, the judge na old man, him glasses big, him Yoruba accent strong. Judge adjust him agbada, gavel tap table, "You do pass yourself." He sigh, look me for eye, but law no dey look person face.

We sell house, sell buka. All the years of work, everything vanish.

Na so furniture, freezer, even Morayo gold chain go market. The small photograph of our wedding, na only thing remain. My heart dey heavy—how we go start again?

With the small money remain, we open one small snacks shop for Wadata side. I still dey wear electronic shackle for leg because of the suspended sentence, I no really free.

Every morning, I go sweep front of shop, my mama go dey pray, "God, no let wahala find us again." Children for street dey call me "uncle with chain," but I no send dem. Wetin man go do?

But Morayo no leave me. She even dey joke say the fish balls wey I dey make now sweet pass all the big food wey we dey serve before. Every time I sell the first bowl of the day with that shackle for my leg, she go smile, talk say, "Husband, you too much—we don earn another five hundred naira."

Morayo laughter na medicine. Even when market slow, she go clap hand, say, "No worry—today na today. Our pikin go chop better."

But wahala never finish.

For Naija, if your story get comma, e dey always get comma again. No peace reach this life.