Something must kill a man! That's what Emeka thought to himself that afternoon, outside his father's gate, drenched in the stench of palm wine.

The sun shone in all his glory, delivering bouts of common sense that were, in reality, quite uncommon. If one were a believer, they would probably describe his state as that of the prodigal son — if he had first passed through Lagos.

But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. You cannot properly appreciate a man's suffering without first understanding the road that led him there. And what kind of storyteller would I be if I served you half a gist?

It started with the business plan his best friend had proposed — he was to invest some amount of money into a company, and after referring ten persons, his return would be triple his starting capital.

Under this Tinubu economy, every young person prayed the same prayer whenever opportunity presented itself: "Lord, is this a scam, or You at work?"

But omoor, even frying akara — the First Lady's entire economic plan for the youths — required more common sense than Emeka had that afternoon.

So he saddled up his "go hard or go home" mantra, scraped together his entire savings, and invested almost three million, waiting patiently for his return.

He waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Something Was Going To Kill A Man.

That afternoon, Tinu — his girlfriend of four years — sat beside him as he cried his heart out. A grown man crying? Wasn't that a sight — but yet she had patted his shoulders, handed him a napkin, and waited till his sobs subsided and the snot disappeared.

"Emeka, ndo, but does this mean you won't be funding my birthday next week?"

He stared at her.

Three million gone. Birthday party. 

No savings. Birthday party. 

Poverty. Birthday party.

Had he explained his predicament in Igbo? In tongues? Had she mistaken his tears for a deliverance session?

Was this the person he wanted to take home to see his parents?

"Buuuut Emmmekaaa, you promised," she wailed, lips pouting in practiced manner.

Jesus. He was finished.

Something Must Kill A Man.

He had soon learned — the hard way — that in this life, ordinary sense wasn't always enough. Sometimes, you needed to fortify yourself against the storms of life.

So like that, he packed his bags. Lagos wasn't good to him. He needed to see Baba.

Hmm.

Baba, he had seen. And Baba — Baba had seen him.

What Baba hadn't prepared him for was the price of breaking the calabash that supposedly held his destiny, tied with a red cloth.

First, the head of a female cat.

Then three male pigs.

Then cock feathers.

Then chicken entrails.

And finally — because apparently Satan was also affected by inflation —

his father's life.

So yes, Emeka had reason to drink palm wine this hot afternoon. He had reason to sit outside his father's gate in nothing but a white towel, planted firmly on the sand-caked ground.

SOMETHING MUST KILL A MAN.