If something could be said about the young man seated across the room from Alfa Malik, it was that he wasn’t what the latter had expected. Didn’t even come close. He was too quiet to be what Malik’s sister had described, too reserved. Bound to the chair though he may now be, he was certainly not the sort of man who, in a different condition, would make a fuss about anything
Malik’s ‘boys’ had confirmed it: the young man had been sitting alone in the heart of the school bar, as if dead to the world – talking to and being talked to by no one – quietly lubricating himself with whatever found home in his tumbler. And he hadn’t fought back when they seized him. He had simply surrendered tacitly, like a hound to its owner.
‘Are you sure this is him?’ asked Alfa Malik.
His interlocutor was the leader of the ‘boys’, a young man with an appearance strikingly different from Alfa Malik’s, whose garb was a white silk jalabia, perfected with the turban.
‘Alfa, I no fit dey yarn you lie na.’
‘Auzubillah!’ Alfa Malik rapidly pulled at the beads of the tesubah that dangled from his hand.
‘Who would believe it? Lahillah!’
The young man’s face was a wall devoid of paint, and even when Alfa Malik started to pummel him (chanting ‘you raped my sister’ all the way) he just sat there, numb to the pain. With each blow, Malik got fiercer and fiercer, climaxing, until he was too weak to continue. At that point he asked for a gun, and it was eagerly placed in his hands. Before he squeezed the trigger, which was stiffer than he’d imagined, he said ‘Bismillah’, and when he was sure his victim was dead, he said ‘Alhamdulillah’.