Ali arrived at school that morning, covered in bruises. It was clear he had faced his father’s anger the previous night. The day before, when school ended, Ali had dreaded going home. He even offered to cut the grass at my lodge, hoping to delay his return and maybe earn some money for a meal.

I knew this was his only escape, and I couldn’t deny him a bit of freedom, however small. But I also couldn’t let him cut the grass or do anything too tiring. Just last week, he’d had his arm treated for a fracture—his brother’s doing, under their father’s command. The school’s makeshift clinic had patched him up. So instead of letting him work, I tutored him.

Ali never came to school in clean clothes. His sandals were worn out, held together by threads—probably stitched by his mother. He was the eighth of nine children, and life was hard for his family, not that his father made it any easier. His father often came home drunk and was more often jobless than employed.

Of all the children, Ali was the only one who showed any promise. He was so bright that you had to wonder if Baba Dita was really his father, or if Ali was even related to his troublemaking siblings. His brothers were always in trouble, caught stealing or helping others steal, while his sisters followed in their mother’s footsteps—getting pregnant and adding more mouths they couldn’t feed.

I looked at Ali’s bruised body and swollen face, and my heart sank. He managed a small smile as he walked past.

“Ali, what happened this time?” I called, stopping him. He turned slowly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. I held back my own, trying to stay composed.

“Oh, nothing, Miss Corper,” he said, forcing a smile. But the fight to hold back his tears was lost, and they streamed down his face, past the dark bruise I assumed was from a punch.

“My name’s Eyituoyo. Call me Miss Eyituoyo, not Aunty Corper,” I corrected gently. Ali was the only one who had managed to say my name correctly since I started my service at the school.

“Now tell me what happened”, I ask again, taking the attention back to Ali and his bruises.

“Nothing, I just didn’t want my Papa to beat Hauwa, so he beat me instead”, he says wiping the tears with the back of his palm.

“Why did he want to beat her?”, I inquired further.

“Papa said my kanuwaa ate the meat Mama had put in his food, even though Mama swore there was no meat in it.” His tears were falling fast now, but he continued. “He beat Mama, called her a liar, and was about to beat Hauwa, but I stopped him. So, he beat me instead.” Ali’s eyes, filled with sadness and pleading, looked up at me, begging for an escape. He wanted to be anywhere but home.

I wished I could help, but what could I do? I was just a corper, living on the government’s small allowance. The school couldn’t pay me, but they provided accommodation, and sometimes parents brought farm produce to show their gratitude.

I sighed and asked if he had eaten, and he shook his head. I searched my bag for my purse and handed him 200 naira. His face lit up, and he ran off towards the small kiosk on the school grounds.

                             ***

Later that night, I was jolted awake by a frantic knock on my door. It was pitch black outside. I glanced at my phone—11:43 pm. Who could be at my door at this hour? Panic started to rise, but the knocking became more desperate.

“Aunty Corper, please help me!”

I recognised the voice—it was Ali.

I opened the door and froze. Ali stood there, covered in blood. My mind raced as I frantically searched his body for wounds, but he brushed past me into my small room, locking the door behind him. He was panting, like he had run all the way from home.

“Please don’t tell anyone I’m here,” he whispered, dropping to his knees.

“You need a hospital,” I said, shining my phone’s light on him. To my shock, there were no wounds. The blood wasn’t his.

“Whose blood is this, Ali?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

He didn’t respond. He began pacing the cramped room, his clothes soaked in red.

“Ali, whose blood is on you?” I asked again, more forcefully this time.

“It’s my papa’s,” he whispered, almost too calmly. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

My heart stopped. With the amount of blood on him, there was no way his father could still be alive. But I had to ask, “What didn’t you mean to do?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, I… I didn’t mean to…” His voice trailed off into incoherent mumbling.

“Where is your father now?” I asked.

“He’s at home… but I didn’t mean to,” Ali repeated, his voice shaking.

I tried to call the principal, but there was no network. The reception in this town was terrible, and I would have to walk for fifteen minutes just to get a signal. At this time of night, with insecurity being a real concern, I had no choice but to wait until morning.

The next morning, I woke to another knock on my door. My body ached from the effort of calming Ali down the night before. As I opened the door, Ali grabbed my arm, begging me not to answer. When I refused, he pleaded with me not to tell anyone he was there.

The visitor confirmed my worst fears: Ali had killed his father. Baba Dita had come home drunk, like always, and started his usual tirade of verbal abuse. But this time, things escalated. He picked up one of his grandchildren and threw the child across the room, killing the infant instantly. When his wife confronted him, he struck her with a wheel spanner and continued beating her.

Something snapped in Ali. He grabbed the spanner and struck his father hard across the skull, over and over, until there was nothing left to hit. Then, he ran.

It was hard to believe Ali had done this. Had he finally reached his breaking point? Was this the limit of his endurance? No one would miss Baba Dita, but to die at the hands of his own son—that was something else.

I knew I had to get Ali out of my house—somewhere safe, where no one could find him until things settled down. I turned to him, but there he stood, staring at me with cold, empty eyes. These were no longer the eyes of a boy—they were the eyes of someone who had killed, and might kill again.

I saw something in his hand. Before I could react, I felt a sharp pain. The room went dark, and I blacked out.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Winifred Rowland is from Delta state Nigeria. She is a graduate of Banking and Finance from the University of Calabar. She is an aspiring writer who hopes to publish her work someday.