The Purge

 

This wasn't what I had imagined for my life years ago. Dressed in my iron-pressed white shirt, starched so much that it resembled a cartoon of instant noodles, I would sit in class, my hands shooting up immediately when questions left the lips of the teacher. I was the "most expected to be successful," and even I believed it.

It was no surprise when I got admission to study Law at the University. It was the happiest day of my life, but I had to mask it with a tinge of self-assurance and confidence, as if I knew I would get it, because it was me. My parents always celebrated my wins— every report I brought home engraved smiles on their wrinkled faces, and every certificate or award I received made their hands burn with intense applause.

My response to them was, "Did you expect something different?" with a cocky smile on my face— a smile I had learned to perfect through persistent practice in my broken mirror. My "head" was the only thing paving a way towards affluence for my family and me, so I needed to study hard.

I remember the day it began, as if it were the first day of the end of my life. I was in class, engrossed in the intense discourse of Law, eagerly shuffling my feet, wanting to know more, when we heard a gunshot. Everyone froze, our eyes met, hoping for some reason that it was the intro to a hardcore rap playing over a Bluetooth, or just some negligent children playing with firecrackers. But God doesn't work that way.

We heard the second round. This time, it was accompanied by screams and students rushing through the campus. My lecturer was the first to dash out of the class. You would think his weight would weigh him down, but he moved more gracefully than a trained ballerina.

I was in a state of shock, unable to move, staring as the heat from the people clustering to leave the hall overwhelmed me. Suddenly, it felt stuffy in my three-piece suit. I felt dizzy, but falling during a stampede was an easier way to own an obituary poster on your WhatsApp family group chat.

Finally, I broke free from the spell. It was a matter of life or death. I saw men dressed in black uniforms, their faces masked, their guns poised and pointed at us, waiting for one of us to make a move. Then someone ran. Like a pack of cards, people fell as bullets spat out of the nozzles of their smoking guns. A scene straight out of the titular Squid Game.

The men were brazenly shooting and walking toward our entrance. Some other students and I escaped, but we were tainted. Some of us had gun wounds deeper than the complexities of the sea, while others carried memories of blood accentuating the immaculate white of our classmates. The wounds would heal and become scars, but the memories would last a long time.

That's how the war began - the second civil war. There had been months of aggravating threats and warnings online, with clamours from different ethnic groups on who would become the new President, and promises of war if someone else emerged. 

He emerged, but that wasn't the last straw; the economic recession was. The basic resources slowly depleted - food, clothes, petrol - they were not enough for the people. The debt from borrowing grew, while the bellies of the masses shrunk.

It started as a thought, the purge, until it became a reality. The purge was a thought. A thought that children and pregnant women should be killed, and life expectancy should be drastically reduced to be commensurate with the available resources. The trend spread like the fire the foxes had set in the bush during Samson's era. Tiktok trends showcased figures who displayed their outfits for the exercise. A date had been set, but the government had strictly warned and prohibited the movement.

Some things cannot be stopped.

The purge occurred, and over 20,000 people were killed. Houses were burned, and people were displaced. I was one of the people, and the people was me.

Standing in this long line in my tattered clothes, reminiscing about the starched shirt I once wore, holding a metal-beaten plate to get the daily dose of tasteless, watery oats served at the camp, I think about the dream I once had. A dream to be an advocate for a country that ended my dream.

The sores on the ball of my feet kept my body alive, but my spirit was long dead. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. Presumably, whoever placed the light bulb there should be beaten for such madness.

Getting to the end of the line, the rough edges of the metal tore through my scarred palms as the cook ripped it out. She was as frustrated as I was. The squelch and splash of the oats on the metal made me wince; it was extra runny today. We were running out of food.

I had run home the day it happened. I had waited for my parents for minutes, then hours, then days, then weeks. They had died that day.

I had eaten the last rationing of palm fruits when men raided my home. They were keeping people safe, whether they liked it or not.

As I dug my gritty fingers into the devil's food, the once tasteless food had a hint of salt, most definitely from the warm streams that were crawling down my cheek into the metal plate. It seemed like so long ago I had a dream, a dream slowly blurring into the sounds of the hungry slurping of people and the wanton cries of prepubertal children.

About The Author

Etinosa Egharevba is a 300-level law student who is a writing aficionado and seeks to constantly learn and improve his knowledge of writing. His stamina in writing is evidenced by his position as the 11th Editor-in-chief of the Justice Udo Udoma Chambers of the Faculty of Law at the University of Uyo. He has won numerous writing awards to buttress and support this passion, ranging from the national level (My Rainbow Books essay competition) to the state level (Akwa Ibom Broadcasting Corporation Essay competition).

His legal articles are portrayed on his LinkedIn profile, whereas his flair for creative horror stories is displayed through his Substack. When Etinosa isn't watching cartoons for legal issues or reading law textbooks, he is immersing himself in horror movies.