IF I HAD A MOUTH

Evil is a being that lives in human, but some people have destroyed theirs;
some have caged theirs, others have not!
______

I had warned my mouth never to speak of the things I see every day else I would be gifted to reckless abandon and my good deed would become my bitterest regret, but I can’t have a hold of myself anymore. I’ll rather speak and become a broken piece with dignity than squat at a corner in a big home plodding into flames and black smoke.

I see lips glossed with red lies, heavy kisses from blood-sucking fangs, and sacred food hurled to the dogs. I see hatred masked in love and demons in angel’s cassock whispering a dead Hallelujah. I hear words that carry the tenderness of a teenager’s first kiss meant to have the pungency of poison. Yet, I can’t speak.

But if I fail to speak tonight, his blood will be on her hands and on my head because he is unaware that there’s a knife under the pillow where he lays his head. And she’ll lead him like a sheep to the slaughter in the heat of passion to rest his head on the pillow, saying, ‘Come on, honey. Have me enough’!

She’ll put his head on a pillow, which would become guillotine, and slit his throat open just to see the color of his blood and witness how it feels for a hefty man to die in bits.

The colorful light in the room will blur the vision from prying eyes, the dark window curtain will blind the world from beholding the decapitation, and his moan will dissolve into a death rattle as the life in him drench the white bedsheet.

She’ll call for help and the gateman will surface like an angel on time and help her clear the mess. Thenceforth, my madam and gateman will legalize their affair and I’ll still be forced to watch such the gory sight in silence just because I was made with a cavity where others have a conscience.

If I don’t tell Madam too, she’ll never know that her plans will be foiled, and she’ll die before she gets to kill Oga. She’ll never know that the feast she will prepare to serve him that night will be spiced with drops of poison by the cook, Aunty Marie, who has fed Oga with her flesh a thousand times.

And while Madam eats the sumptuous dinner starring at a husband she wants to kill, she will feel a heavy choke in her tummy as though a tow ditch was straightening her intestines for a billhook to slice into pieces. She’ll pause, belched spew out heavy blobs of blood, dipping her forehead into the plate of her last supper, dead. I want to speak out this time, but I have no mouth.

All I am is an eye that sees the words that Oga and Madam have spoken.