Amoto
Raheem Omeiza
Raheem Omeiza
Heads, buzzing bees, miss
Shoot, trunk, root, tree
Mango, green, please
Stone, careful, please
Amoto whispered to the stone before he let it fly. It wheezed through the air and severed the slender twig holding the mango to the branch. He picked up the mango just after it hit the ground. It was just the way he liked it, green, but starting to turn yellow. He smiled as he picked it up, walked up close to the tree, tapped the trunk twice and said, “thank you.”
He skipped onto the dirt road and waved at Ize; he greeted the kindly old woman in the orange kiosk. He petted a black goat and let a stray dog lick his hand. He was happy, content, and had the world bent to his will. No one noticed though. No one saw how special he was because they all looked past him. He was inconsequential, the half-cracked kid. He was the boy the church looked after.
Amoto made his way to the old church. He circled the hulking stone building to make sure no one was there. Then he went inside and crawled into the space underneath the stairs. It was dark because all the windows were shut but Amoto wasn’t afraid of the dark. His lilac eyes adjusted. They glowed brighter and his pupils dilated. He was about to drag out his old blanket and lie down when he heard a whimper. He froze, like a startled deer about to bolt to safety. He heard it again, this time, louder.
A small boy of about seven peeked out of his blanket; his eyes glowed red like hot coals. His skin was two shades darker than Amoto’s chocolate skin. He stood up, pulled the blanket off himself and offered it to Amoto. “Sorry,” he said. He looked down at his feet, apologetic. He had dried blood on his left hand.
“It’s okay,” Amoto said and smiled at him. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”
The boy shook his head and bit his lower lip.
“My name is Amoto. What is your name?”
“Adinoyi. I came from behind the mountains,” he said and pointed south. Amoto nodded. “The Northerners raided our village, killed my Ma and Pa, and our chief,” he said in a flurry of words. He stopped and began to cry.
Amoto held him close and whispered into his ears. He whispered soft, like a bed of goose feathers. Whispered slow, like a cat stretching. He whispered easy, like a dragonfly sitting atop a flower. He whispered gently, like the touch of a lover. He whispered happy, like a child getting candy. He whispered peaceful, like mass on Sunday. Amoto whispered happiness back into Adinoyi’s life.
“Don’t worry Adinoyi. You’re with me, you’re safe,” Amoto said with fierce conviction. His lilac eyes oddly complemented Adinoyi's red eyes.
Adinoyi smiled. Amoto took his left arm and whispered words to it, imploring the open sore on it to heal. It obeyed.
Shoot, trunk, root, tree
Mango, green, please
Stone, careful, please
Amoto whispered to the stone before he let it fly. It wheezed through the air and severed the slender twig holding the mango to the branch. He picked up the mango just after it hit the ground. It was just the way he liked it, green, but starting to turn yellow. He smiled as he picked it up, walked up close to the tree, tapped the trunk twice and said, “thank you.”
He skipped onto the dirt road and waved at Ize; he greeted the kindly old woman in the orange kiosk. He petted a black goat and let a stray dog lick his hand. He was happy, content, and had the world bent to his will. No one noticed though. No one saw how special he was because they all looked past him. He was inconsequential, the half-cracked kid. He was the boy the church looked after.
Amoto made his way to the old church. He circled the hulking stone building to make sure no one was there. Then he went inside and crawled into the space underneath the stairs. It was dark because all the windows were shut but Amoto wasn’t afraid of the dark. His lilac eyes adjusted. They glowed brighter and his pupils dilated. He was about to drag out his old blanket and lie down when he heard a whimper. He froze, like a startled deer about to bolt to safety. He heard it again, this time, louder.
A small boy of about seven peeked out of his blanket; his eyes glowed red like hot coals. His skin was two shades darker than Amoto’s chocolate skin. He stood up, pulled the blanket off himself and offered it to Amoto. “Sorry,” he said. He looked down at his feet, apologetic. He had dried blood on his left hand.
“It’s okay,” Amoto said and smiled at him. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”
The boy shook his head and bit his lower lip.
“My name is Amoto. What is your name?”
“Adinoyi. I came from behind the mountains,” he said and pointed south. Amoto nodded. “The Northerners raided our village, killed my Ma and Pa, and our chief,” he said in a flurry of words. He stopped and began to cry.
Amoto held him close and whispered into his ears. He whispered soft, like a bed of goose feathers. Whispered slow, like a cat stretching. He whispered easy, like a dragonfly sitting atop a flower. He whispered gently, like the touch of a lover. He whispered happy, like a child getting candy. He whispered peaceful, like mass on Sunday. Amoto whispered happiness back into Adinoyi’s life.
“Don’t worry Adinoyi. You’re with me, you’re safe,” Amoto said with fierce conviction. His lilac eyes oddly complemented Adinoyi's red eyes.
Adinoyi smiled. Amoto took his left arm and whispered words to it, imploring the open sore on it to heal. It obeyed.
Raheem Omeiza is Ebira and writes from Lagos, Nigeria. His works explore boyhood, grief, sexuality and the liminal spaces where they intersect. He was a finalist for the 2022 Afritondo Short Story Prize. He was also Shortlisted for the Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize 2022. His works are published and forthcoming in Afritondo, Litro Magazine, Isele Magazine, Lolwe and elsewhere. He likes cats.