THE BOY WAS MAD

THE BOY WAS MAD

He was crazier than the madmen that roamed the highways with lice-infested hair, tattered clothes and a craving for bread and cigarettes. Yet, his hair had no lice, his clothes were immaculate and all he craved was to be left alone.

They bound his limbs with rusty chains and bathed him with olive oil till he looked like fried plantain. A dozen healers had come and gone yet he still spoke with imaginary people about a mythical land called Westeros, smiled at the wall and refused to eat with a spoon.

"I'm not a mad man." He pleaded as
he tried to wriggle out from the chains that held him bound. " Mama, I'm not crazy. Please tell them to release me. I have a kingdom to govern. "

His mother shifted uneasily. Her eyes were sunken either from wailing or extreme sleep deprivation. Her golden boy was being held hostage by some dark force and sleep could wait till she had freed him from the plague.

"Mama!" He roared. "Get these damned chains of me now you vile creature. Release me now or else I'll summon my dragons and unsullied soldiers from across the narrow sea to burn this house to the ground. I am your King and you should bend the knee in my presence." He broke out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"Prophet, you see what is happening to my son?"


"I can see." The prophet nodded his head sagely. "There is nothing too big for my Jah. My Jah is bigger than dragons and soldiers. My Jah is bigger than Germans, Italians, Englander and their tanks put together."

The smell of beer and cigarettes filled the room as the prophet spoke. He rang his bell and broke into an incoherent speech, dancing to a beat that was playing in his head.

"Ser Barristan, get this lunatic out of my court." The boy called out to his imaginary friend.

"The force is strong with this child but my Jah is more powerful." With that, he brought out a fine whip from nowhere and continued his dance. The prophet looked more like the highway mad men except he was clothed in a white flowing gown and a blue sash.

"Bend the knee you peasant son of a whoring mother!"

The prophet stopped his dance and stared at the boy. "Guy, wetin you call my mama?"

The boy flinched. The prophet cracked the whip on his head and his mother screamed for him.

"Prophet, he's the only son I have o. Don't kill him for me please I beg you." Her pleas fell on deaf ears as the prophet wrecked havoc on the boy with the whip.

"Oga abeg ehh!." the boy screamed. "I don well." With no hands to parry the whip, he was a sitting duck for the mad man wielding the whip.

"Madam, e remain 300 demons for im body. I don pursue 700 already." The prophet wiped the beads of sweat that had formed on his face.

His mother nodded weakly and the prophet smiled.

"Mummy,  I don well ehh. Help me abeg. This man wan kill...."

The prophet cut him short with a stroke across his face and continued his work till he got all remaining 300 demons out.


"It is done. Jah has done it for you Madam. Your son is healed. Just gimme 500 naira so that Jah's humble servant can go and offer burnt sacrifices. It is done."

His mother gave the prophet double of what he demanded and fed him with yam and oil till he could take it no more. He thanked her and went his way preaching his gospel and healing the sick with his whip.

Two days later, the demons came back to keep their friend company. "Woman! I'll have your head on a spike for your insolence." he spoke like a king. She reached for her whip and he called out his dragons.

                                                                                                    short story by  ALIYU POKIMA

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