Fire in the Hole | Dami Koya

The phrase you only die once seems to hold some iota of accuracy to a great number of the human populace; save for our protagonist Obiageli. For her, death came quite a few times throughout her existence, and each time she had thought it was finally her moment to pass on from this great big ball that spun itself around the sun year in year out. Each moment was horrifying— something right out of the Twilight Zone, and although these experiences stacked themselves high up in the sky, she relived every one each night as she slept. They were like trailers, these relivings, like something to show what was coming next, without actually showing anything specific. 

One thing was common though, Obi’s many deaths seemed to somehow be connected to a rather interesting body part. 

Her butthole. 

Yes. Her butthole. That tiny, expandable (depending on the size of stool that was making its exit out of your body) hole that would probably never be mentioned if an average person was asked to list his top ten most important body parts. And who could blame such a person. With the eyes offering sweet sight, the ears irreplaceable hearing, the tongue a tool to taste the flavours of life, the hands to hold, touch and feel, the legs to move about or the nose to smell and sneeze, the butthole is easily overlooked. Heck you would probably have added the spleen (what does this do, anyway?), if you were to make such a list and the anus would never even cross your mind. 

But alas where would we be without the butthole? Why, all the other ‘important’ body parts would crumble if the butthole didn’t do its job. The eyes would bulge as though they were about to pop like a pair of meaty bubbles, the ears would throb and din with a shrilling sound, the mouth would stink and the tongue would swell, the hands would flail and writhe in anxiety and grab anything they could for lack of what to do, and the nose would crinkle and flare. Point is, the butthole, or anus, or asshole if you’re feeling very foulmouthed is the most underrated player in the field of body parts. 

Obiageli’s butthole though, received a lot of acclaim. More than she or anyone for that matter would’ve liked. Some things are just meant to be appreciated silently, for good reason, but this was not the case here.

Obi’s dilemma had first started when she was a little girl born into an affluent, traditional Igbo home in some time frame that needn’t bother us. She was the last child, a tagalong baby; not necessarily planned for but welcomed lavishly all the same, although that was probably due to the fact that there was money to lavishly celebrate the birth of a seventh child to parents thought to be a bit above child bearing age. Obi’s siblings were all fairly grown, the last one before her already twelve at the time of her birth. The eldest was a little over twenty. 

Obi’s father Pascal was a successful businessman; one needn’t say more but just to squash the horrid stereotype that all igbos are into ‘business’, it is necessary to explain that he was into transportation, exportation, oil exploration and a few other -ations. This meant a lot of money came in, but being the naturally untrusting person he was, it also meant he spent weeks away from his family, personally making sure all the details of his many businesses ran smoothly. His wife, Cordelia, herself also naturally untrusting of people was a bank managing director, and she spent a lot of her time ensuring not even a ten naira note went missing under her watch. While it did not keep her away for weeks like her husband, it certainly meant she was constantly away when it mattered, returning only at night. 

This left poor baby Obiageli in the care of available siblings and a slew of nannies. If you thought the wealth should have meant nothing but the best quality when it came to nannies, you’d be dead wrong, because it was in this quality that Obi’s many deaths found an origin. Its author was a nanny named Rhoda.

Rhoda was the type of girl you would picture as what the virgin Mary must have looked like, if you were catholic, lacked imagination or a knowlegde about what Jews looked like in that time. She was quiet, did as she was told and especially to Cordelia’s delight, was extremely clean. You just felt at peace when Rhoda was left in charge. Even Obi had at first taken to the softspoken nanny at first glance. 

Eventually the little girl would loathe her nanny; screaming at the very smell of her, crying her eyes out if Rhoda even came within 5 feet. If you asked Rhoda what was wrong she would mutter a soft no, and if you asked Obi what was wrong she would clam shut, leaving you none the wiser and all the more apprehensive. Eventually Rhoda had to be sent away, for fear that the screaming Obi would someday burst like a pimple. With her departure left the truth; Rhoda had been molesting Obi, and everyday when the girl was left in her care she would sodomise her; using whatever object she could find to navigate through Obi’s butthole. However subtle that may sound, the actuality was not in the least bit pleasurable.  

There was no nanny after Rhoda though; Obi never trusted any outsider, and though her parents couldn’t understand why, they didn’t push the matter. Cordelia left her job at the bank and became a full-time mother. Old habits die hard, and so Cordelia opened a boutique; she just couldn’t bare being idle for long. Obi was of course older by now, and the need for constant supervision had lowered considerably. Still, what happened next could’ve been avoided, for see, while outsiders had been exed from the family, the danger that lurks always comes from somewhere close.

Eugene was Obi’s immediate brother, twelve years the number that separated their birth. At the time Obi had turned six, he was a strappling youth, heavily muscled and overwhelming with all his eighteen years. He hung out with his friends all the time, loud music and high pitched laughter blaring from his room. You only ever saw him when it was time to eat, and even then he would hoist whatever it was on the menu up to his lair. He idolised his father and paid little cognisance to his mother. As for Obi, he didn’t care about her so long as she never messed with his things. 

Then it happened. It had been a rainy day, and Obi had just been dropped home from school by her school bus. No one was home except Eugene, but this was normal. Her mum was at the shop. Obi settled down to her homework when Eugene sauntered into the study, his eyes red and the smell of weed all over him. He mouthed something that sounded like he’d been waiting for her, but at six, you’re so engrossed with coloring inside the lines that nobody, not even your stoned high, beast of a brother leering at you strangely, bothers you. Like an adder pouncing on a dormouse, he launched at her. In no time he had hoisted her up to his lair; a room Obi would come to fear as much as she would fear Eugene.

He would later blame the fact that he was high on the unsavoury events that took place that day, but the mere fact that he did his devilish business in Obi’s butthole so he could easily cover his tracks, the fact that he seemed prepared with so much lube there was almost no scarring, or the fact that he would do the same thing to her over the next eight years of her life throw the authenticity of those words down the drain. In any event as he said those words he added a threat about cutting something off and glueing it somewhere it didn’t belong, and so Obi never told anyone. Not that they noticed or asked anyway. 

Her life would go down an untrusting path, and it should be so ironic that while she inherited her parents’ joint skepticism about people, it came about in the most horrific of ways. Two other events, also involving invasions of her derriere, solidified that belief that people are shit, no pun intended, and Obi lived a secluded life. 

Until she met Priye. 

At first glance she thought he was the sort of bastard Eugene had been. He didn’t have Eugene’s build, as he was rather slim and looked as though a breeze would blow him away; but you could always tell the level of assholery a person possessed. Unlike other assholes though, Priye had heart, and in the not so short span of three years convinced her he was not totally an asshole. Obi’s life had gotten some color, and she felt perhaps she could trust again. Particularly since Priye was the kind of sap who didn’t mind not thrusting until there were vows involved. Oh what a dream.

The dream ended for Obi on her wedding night though, when — exhausted but grateful to be alone— Priye had asked her for his marital right, and had insisted it be given through her butthole. 




No Comments Yet

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Have us directly in your inbox

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Copyright ©2019 Black Youth | Designed by Ashraph