There are no vultures in Lagos.
Nature designed two means to take care of dead organisms: they
are buried, or they are fed on. Human beings see to the first, carrion-eaters
handle the last.
In Fred and Flora Lugard's country, vultures are regular
features. As is fitting for the alpha of the winged-scavenger pack. In Lagos,
the country’s leading—and, as is sometimes argued, only—city, vultures are
nonexistent. For some strange reason.
The man, white-rimmed eyes, contrasting with the rest of his
black, leathery skin, surveyed the spot he’d chosen. It would have to do. The matter
at hand was one of life and death—and that singular factor outweighed all other
considerations.
On arrival, as his feet—bare like the rest of his body—met the earth,
he shuddered. This land was foul. He could sense it, with every spirits-touched
nerve in his body.
It was the smell that distracted him (from the ominous tingling
of his scalp) and attracted him (to itself).
Shortly after a living organism dies, decomposition begins. This
breakdown of tissues results from either the body's own internal chemicals and
enzymes (autolysis) or by bacteria (putrefaction). These processes give off cadaverine
and putrescine, the source of the foul odour folks are familiar with. Insects
are drawn to it as Samson was to Delilah.
He visually sought the odoriferous substance; the buzz helped
him locate it.
A colony of insects humming their national anthem announced the
cadaver and their celebration of provision.
He stared at them for a while, contemplating the absence of any
other scavengers, especially vultures.
At that very moment a shadow glided overhead. A vulture executed
its traditional aerial circling that preceded touchdown and getting to work.
He began to feel good. There was hope. The spirits would not
bring him this far on a futile mission or abandon him.
Folding his limbs under him, he sat cross-legged right where he’d
stood. Alternating between the left thumb and the right, he drew a pentagram in
the sand around himself. From its centre, eyes closed and the noise of the city
receding with each deep breath taken, he began to hum. And then incantations,
uttered in a guttural, ancient language, spewed forth.
Around him, regular activities continued without letup.
The slightly unhinged derelict, that owned the area and decided
who stayed or left, had been watching the man since he landed. He did not want
anyone invoking anything in his domain, besides the man had not come to pay
homage.
He grabbed a piece of firewood that he kept handy for such occasions--when
people took his simplicity for granted. He lunged at the figure that was no
longer so much a man as it was a vulture. He hit the bald pate, repeatedly.
Passersby saw a mad man striking the ground with an intensity
that increased with each blow. Some shook their heads and moved on. A few
remarked that it must be the heat of the sun, roasting an already fried brain.
Some others took pictures and made videos, for social media.
He kept hitting until the vulture-man could barely move. He
turned to deal with the other black bird. It was gone. He trudged back to his
makeshift structure under the bridge, muttering under his breath.
Atop the bride, a car failed brake, jumped over the railings and
plunged to the ground below. It landed on a well-dressed man, crushing him to
death. Afterwards, no one could remember if the man had been there before or
where he’d come from.
The driver, the car’s sole occupant, crawled out through the
shattered window, bloodied but alive.
The corpse lay there for many days, while the elements and
nature worked on him.
There are no vultures in Lagos.
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