Wahala Central

Suicide Samuel: The End

Posted on October 8, 2013 Updated on October 8, 2013

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:

We apologize that Suicide Samuel (the final episode) is coming a day late. Our IT guy (we really have one of those) had some laptop issues, but we have braved the high winds to make sure we do not fail you guys.

This is the part where we hold awa hands and cry.

Without further ado, this is it. Suicide Samuel Episode Seven. The End. 

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SUICIDE SAMUEL EPISODE SEVEN

Markos

Sound.

Sound is a catalyst. There is a school of thought that believes that without sound, intense excitement bordering on violence would be near-impossible to achieve. A movie scene of a war, set to mute, puts the viewer in awe of the action, but the palpitation of the heart that coincides with aural assaults is almost rendered mute as well.

The bark of a dog in the distance pushes the burglar into an irrational frenzy; he would be unable to reach the rational conclusion that the dog is in the next street, and probably barking at a random object which has no linkage with him, the burglar.

The thrum of a train yet to be seen in the horizon causes a similar, but more legitimate, fit of frenzy, as women “shading” in Yaba market heft their wares frantically, dragging bales off the tracks, almost totally oblivious to the frail madam who just fell and had her shin bone snapped cleanly in half by a heavier colleague…

Sound.

It was sound that Markos heard as he chewed like a deranged ruminant through the cords that bound him tight to the bed. The sound of doors opening, then slamming vehemently shut…

Breakaway fibres of the cords tore into his gums, slicing their way upwards, causing him to bleed, but he didn’t stop biting, chewing and spitting little mouthfuls of his saliva mixed with fibre, blood and tiny bits of his disintegrating gums.

A shadow stopped in front of his door, and froze there. Markos mimicked the shadow.

He stopped breathing, breaking out in fresh sweat, as he stared wide-eyed at the door, willing the person at the other end not to open the door.

But the door exploded in a fresh blast of sound.

Predator and prey regarded each other, both pair of eyes conveying the rich brew of emotion that was stewing at that moment.

Predator: eyes narrowed in slits, capturing a still-frame of the prey, homing in on it, with intent to terminate its existence.

Prey: wide-eyes, exploring all angles of escape, hoping, illogical as it would seem, that a window of opportunity, of escape, still exists, one it can capitalize on and escape the cold claws of death wielded by the expert hands of the predator.

“You have to listen to me!” Markos’ voice came out a little more high-pitched than he would have liked, and his fear was, as they say, stark.

Frank, built like a heavyweight wrestler, with more tattoos that available skin area, didn’t look like someone for whom listening was a favorite pastime. He advanced upon the bound and bloody Markos.

“Your mother – I didn’t kill her! Suicide Samuel did! He did!”

“Who the fuck is Suicide Samuel!??!”

Markos was babbling now. Frank was towering above him. “Suicide Samuel is in me – I, well – see, this is hard to explain but if you give me a minute – oh, sweet Jesus!!”

Frank had sliced into his right thigh with the knife. He was staring at Markos with dull red eyes.

Markos was babbling; snot bubbled in his nose. Frank crouched over him.

“What did my mother do to you? Why the fuck did you kill her, you bastard??!”

“I can’t explain. See, you have to call the police…and an ambulance, I’m bleeding…”

Frank sank the knife into Markos’ crotch with so much force, his penis clung to the rest of his body only by a little piece of skin. Markos was wailing, bawling, and his cries rent the air. Frank’s expression hardly changed.

“WHY THE FUCK DID YOU KILL MA??!”

“I TOLD YOU I DON’T KNOW!!!!”

Stab. Lower abdomen. More cries.

“Oh Jesus not my eyes!”

Frank’s knife hand swung in a final arc.

Dr. Yvonne

New York. June, 2024.

At the risk of sounding cliché, I actually love my job.

When I had first decided to study the human psychology, it had been for more escapist goals, but now that I have begun working professionally, I can actually say that the job in itself is its own reward.

It doesn’t hurt that I get a huge by-the-hour paycheck too.

How do people start diaries? What is the difference between a diary and a journal? I don’t know, and I am too tired to check a dictionary right now, so I will do this quickly.

This is my first entry in this diary/journal. Why have I decided to start keeping this, after almost 31 years of not keeping tabs on myself? This is both a security measure, and also, research material (I hope)

I found a weird case of MPD yesterday, and the story behind it thrilled and scared me at once, that once I was done, I locked up hurriedly, bought the journal and drove home promptly. I have since then shut all doors, drawn all my windows, and I am now having coffee in my room as I write my first thoughts in this journal.

Yes, I’ve decided to settle for the word “journal”.

My name is Yvonne. It would ordinarily be weird to add my surname, but since (as I mentioned earlier), this might turn up as evidence in a future homicide (I do not predict; I am not Nostradamus), I should probably put in as much detail as I can.

My name is Yvonne Wright. I am a therapist, and I’ve had a few interesting clients.

About a month ago, a new client came by my office. His problem seemed a minor one at the time (insomnia was what I diagnosed), and we were able to identify that there was something from his past which troubled him deeply that it prevented him from sleeping at night. However, that was where we reached a dead-end: we were unable to identify what exactly had recently triggered the memory. He was extremely helpful, admittedly, as another client would have written me off as a quack after three sessions.

I am not a quack, mind.

Yesterday was his fourth session, and he came by my office promptly at 10:00am.

“Ah, Mr. Jackson,” I had said as he came in. “I was hoping you had been cured. Can’t say I don’t feel bad about collecting your money.”

He grinned. He’s really handsome, and I had been having hopes of him asking me out. “Yet you frisk me of all my cash before I leave.”

I said in a mock sad voice. “I die a little inside when I do, but it’s a job I have to do.”

We laughed heartily as he sat across from me.

“So,” I began seriously. “What did it for you? How did you get rid of the insomnia?”

“When all the convoluted machinations of science failed, I went back to the old techniques. I counted sheep.”

I stared at him. Then he started laughing.

“You should have seen your face. It’s a joke, Yvonne. I don’t know what happened, but I suddenly found myself sleeping as easily as I used to. Almost like a switch. Few weeks ago, I could hardly sleep. Feeling all tense and frightened for no reason, you know? Next I know, I find myself sleeping on the bus. My wallet got stolen, mind you, but damn, I’m sleeping fine again!”

“That’s fine, Jackson,” I began, a little disappointed, “so, if you are cured, what brings you here?”

His expression grew dark. He hadn’t removed his jacket when he came in, and now he reached within and retrieved his iPad. He passed it wordlessly to me.

I saw it was opened to a newspaper. I didn’t recognize the agency, but it read “The Punch”. In the metro section, there was a headline: “Double Trouble: Son Kills Man for Killing Mother.”

I read a few lines of the story before glancing back at the now mute Jackson. “Apart from a terrible news headline, I don’t know what I’m supposed to make of this.”

He smiled wanly and announced, “I knew that man.”

“What? You knew…” I peered at the paper again, “…Frank Ahanonou?”

“No. The other guy. The one who killed Frank’s mother.”

“You want to tell me the story? When did this happen?”

“It happened last week. Someone in Nigeria brought it to my notice. Listen, Dr. Yvonne. This may be as shocking for you as it is for me right now.

“You see, Dr. This story starts in JS3 (junior school three to you, Dr). I was the oldest kid in school at the time. My parents were always traveling, and as such, I spent several years without actually going to school. Long story short, I was 21 in JS3. Few people ever knew of course, since my biodata put my age at 15.

“But my best friend, Friday, did. He wasn’t young himself. He was eighteen at the time, so people generally assumed he was older than I was. We formed a weird friendship. I was the silent leader, and he was the boisterous follower. I masterminded a lot of mischief back then, and he executed it. However, the greatest prank we ever played happened when a young boy – he was ten, I recall – came to join us in JS3.

“His arrival caused excitement in the teachers’ staff room, and when I was returned from an errand to buy food for one of the teachers, I caught bits of the conversation. Apparently, he was going to be the smartest student ever in the school, and the teachers were excited to have someone like him in the school.

“I heard that he had an IQ of 143, and I don’t know why, but I took it as a challenge. I returned to the class and told Friday what I had heard, and he too was awestruck at the boy’s brains. It infuriated me. I told Friday that no one was that smart, and that I could prove it.

“Interesting,” I said, still staring at him, not knowing where Jackson was going with the story.

“You think it is, yeah? You haven’t even gotten the half of it. When the boy – Michael was his name – arrived school, I gave Friday the task of befriending him. Friday is quite eager to make friends, so it wasn’t difficult.

“You should know now why my parents travelled a lot. My father, well, he was a thief. A petty criminal. Burglary, safe-breaking, that sort of thing. Well, he’s dead now, so I can speak freely about his life. At 21, although he didn’t know – my dad, that is – I could pick almost any lock I could find. Lock-picking wasn’t my only talent, however. I made friends.

“Very bad friends.

“One of them was a guy named Viking. I never found out his real name. He was scary as hell, and was almost always recovering from one knife fight or the other. He had scars all over his face, and one of his eyes had clouded over. As scary as Viking was, he was stupid, and he owed me money, so he agreed to scare the kid, Michael, and in exchange, his debt would be cleared.

“Getting him a senior school uniform from the school store wasn’t difficult, what with my lock-picking skills. Viking’s acting was brilliant. I had planned to scare the crap out of Michael, so I tampered with his window at night so that no matter how he locked it from the inside, it would slide open sometime in the night. I had even peered in on him once at night, and I thought he had seen my face before I ducked and ran for the bushes.

“He began to have nightmares, and he told us about them. This was the next stage of my plan. I had already rehearsed a ghost story with Friday, and when Michael told us about his nightmares, you should have seen Michael’s face as we told him about Suicide Samuel in hushed voices. He was terrified as hell…”

“ That’s terrible,” I said. “Jackson, that’s terrible!”

“I know. I know, but at the time, I just wanted to show Friday – whose near-worship of Michael pissed me off no end – that Michael wasn’t anything special. I wanted to strip Michael naked, expose him in his terror. I was vengeful.

“But I went too far. After we had filled in a false biodata form for “Suicide Samuel” and broken in to the school to “show” Michael proof of Suicide Samuel, something I hadn’t counted on happened. We found the night guard bleeding. Till today, I have no idea who attacked the night guard. It scared the hell out of Friday and I.

“But not as much as it scared, Michael, I’m sure.

“That was the last time I saw him. Mike. Friday said he tried to call him, to tell him everything had been a bad joke, that Suicide Samuel had never existed, but Michael never picked up.

“The last time I heard about Michael, he had murdered his parents while they slept.”

He fell silent, and hung his head. He was crying.

The tale, to say the least, was eerie. I tried to imagine the little teenagers, both of them, cooking up a plot to scare a little kid. A prank they would have called it, but pranks aren’t supposed to result in death, or madness, are they?

He sniffed loudly. He was no longer as attractive as he had been a few minutes ago.

“That was eleven years ago, Yvonne. Since then, I’ve completed my degree in law, and I recently just got called to the bar. Life has been good. I hardly hear from my friend, Friday. He’s in India, schooling too. I know he’s keeping his distance from me. He blames me for the death of Michael’s parents, you know?”

“I’m curious,” I found myself saying coldly. “How is it possible that Michael didn’t confide his fears in anyone?”

Jackson paused thoughtfully for a minute. “You know, I’ve wondered about that too. I know why he didn’t tell his father. His father already considered him a weakling – he was born prematurely, you see – so Michael had been trying hard to prove he could handle stuff himself. He knew if he confided in his mum, she would tell his dad, eventually. I was afraid for a while that a girl who was crushing on him for a while, Jasmine, would tell him the truth, but that never happened. Also, he trusted us with his life. I am ashamed to say this, but he did.”

“As you should be.”

“Dr. Yvonne, you cannot detest me as much as I detest myself. As I was saying, Michael got taken to a mental institution, and was released this year. I can only hypothesize here, but I believe he had gotten so ingrained in the belief that he was Suicide Samuel that he took on the name Markos (which was Suicide Samuel’s name on the bio data form) in his adult life. He came back home and killed his caretaker, bound himself to his bed to prevent himself from killing any other person, making it easier for Frank to kill him.”

There was silence. Jackson hung his head even lower, and I knew he wasn’t crying this time. His shoulders were slumped, and he lightly rubbed knees.

I was still holding his iPad. I read the news item slowly this time, paying attention to the details. Then something occurred to me.

“You are afraid this will trigger your insomnia attacks again, aren’t you, Jackson?”

“Actually, no. I’m afraid for even greater reasons.”

“Oh?”

“Last night, I brought a girl home from the club. I was drunk, so the details are hazy, but all I know is, when I woke up this morning, the girl was dead, and I was soaked in blood.”

I couldn’t suppress my gasp.

“You won’t tell anyone of course. I have, ah, doctor-patient confidentiality.”

I was stunned, but somehow I found my tongue. “I believe your session is over, Jackson.”

“Dr Yvonne, don’t you see it? I have become the monster I created. I’m afraid, Dr. I’m afraid that when I fall asleep, I’ll see him in my dreams: Suicide Samuel, with the face of Viking, my old friend, or even Michael’s face. I’m afraid that when I awaken tomorrow, I’ll be lying in a pool of another person’s blood.

“I’m afraid that I, too, have become Suicide Samuel.”

And he looked at me with glowing eyes that chill me even as I write this.

I am also afraid.

Very afraid.

SUICIDE SAMUEL. THE END.

(?)

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