FIRE

I've set fires to my house and person three times in my life. Honest to heaven, they were all accidental.

Looking at my history, I’m sure that somewhere in the world, I’d have been brought up on charges of arson. They were nothing dramatic, these fires. Especially the third one.

The second one – it was caused by my love for movies.

I was in my second year in the university. That day, the sun was trying to compete with Hell and I’d just stepped into the building I lived in, away from the blistering heat.

All I could think of was my most consistent lover, Afang and garri. I walked into my studio apartment and immediately grabbed a plastic food flask, filled it with water, inserted my boiling ring and turned it on. Next, I checked the container for garri.

There was no garri. What kind of temptation is this, I thought. Fortunately, there was a small kiosk next door, run by Mama Ikenna, a pretty, petite woman who always wore smile and had a tinkling laugh. I dashed out to her place and bought two cups of garri.

Our building was a four-storey; all the apartments were self-contained and it was strictly for ladies. I shared mine with another girl. There was a front lobby, with a reception area and a TV which was constantly on the formerly Hallmark channel. That day, Derailed, a Van Damme movie, was showing.

I’d watched that movie before, and it wasn’t a fantastic movie. Yet, I somehow felt compelled to watch it again that day. I don’t know how long I sat there watching. All I know is that when one of the villains broke a vial of the deadly virus, the small polythene bag of garri fell from my hand.

Just then, I remembered the water I’d set to boil. With a yelp, I picked up my purchase and dashed to my room.

The first thing that struck me was the door handle. It was hot! By the time I inserted my key in the lock, I could spot wisps of smoke crawling out from the sliver of space underneath the door.

I opened the door and voilà! My room was engulfed in flames. For an interminable moment, I stood there rooted to the spot, a scream trapped in my chest. Then it came.

“Jesus! Help me o! Fiiireeeeee! Somebody help me ooooo.”

On hearing my shout, the boy who sold provisions in the tiny front store, ran out, stared at me, yelled, “Fire!” and then flew outside.

From far away, I heard sounds of doors banging being ripped open and banging shut by the other occupants of the building.

With nary a thought to my safety, I dashed inside the room, my only thought to save the meagre documental evidence of my education acquired since the age of three. The cane cupboard where I kept my foodstuff was burning fiercely, the greedy flames egged on by palm oil; so was the TV, DVD player and book rack.

Uche, the boy out front had returned with buckets of water. Through the heavy smoky haze, I saw him douse the TV and food cupboard. The other bucket followed suit.
At this point, a few of my neighbours had gathered outside my door.

Somebody was screaming repeatedly, “God, I’m finished! God help me…I’m finished. My parents will kill me.”

Later, I was told I was the one.
Then another voice cut in.

“Somebody should remove her from the room. See how she’s shaking. She’s killing herself o! Carry her out of the room. Now!”

Here’s what happened. The water in the food flask had dried. The boiling ring burned through the plastic. Somehow, it’d caught fire. I’d walked in, barefoot. Uche had poured water. I was standing on the wet floor with naked wires and a boiling ring in the water. Waves of electricity were shooting through my body but somehow, in my panic, I was blithely unaware.

To this day, I don’t know who saved me. I just remember seeing a pair of rubber boots, being covered with a towel and bodily lifted out.

It was a harrowing experience. But through it, I got to make friends. Those girls, my neighbours, got together without my knowledge, levied themselves and replaced everything that had been destroyed. Some washed my walls, cut the burned edges off my pictures and even bought new copies of books I’d lost.

I was so scared I’d do worse, that I haven’t owned a TV since then – I should reconsider that decision (it’s been fourteen years).

Now, the first fire. It began with my love for books.

I’m a librocubicularist. Don’t ask me what it means – check the dictionary the same way I did when I first heard the word.

Anyway, I was fourteen years old. Bedtime was 9 p.m. But once my parents went to bed, I’d bring out my torch light or light a candle and read.

This led to several fights with my parents; Mama was worried about my eyesight and Papa was worried I’d set my bed on fire one day, because I always set the candle on my headboard.

But obsessed as I am with books, there was no stopping me.

That night, the electricity was out. As usual, the candle was by my head and I was reading; a romance novel it was. At some point while reading, I fell asleep.

The next thing, I woke up to a cacophony of sounds and smells. Burning wood, plastic and something like….goat meat? I could make out the raised voices – Mama and Papa. The bean from a torchlight now illuminated the room.

“Pour more water!” my father roared.

“I’m pouring!” Mama replied. It sounded like she was crying.

It took a few seconds for me to become aware. I was coughing, hard. My entire torso was drenched; so was my mattress.

“Nko ayem iwod idem?” Mama shrieked. “You want to kill yourself enh? How many times have you been told not to read with a candle, in bed?”

Everything happened all at once.

She lunged for me, her hand outstretched to deliver a destiny-readjusting slap. My father grabbed her around the waist to stop her. I jumped off the bed to escape her hand, tripped and fell. My heart was thumping.

“Don’t beat her, it’s late,” he cried, still holding on to Mum, who was still trying to get at me. Dad really hates when children cry after dark.

It was then I noticed the headboard. Burnt and black. So was the mattress where my head had been. It was in that moment that as my eyes widened with realisation, my village people struck.

My love of food will not kill me. Because for reasons unbeknownst to me, in that dire moment, these words came out of my mouth.

“Anie isifuh unnah ebuh? Who is roasting goat meat?”

Both parents stared at me, stunned. I must have cut quite a sight standing there wet and dishevelled. Dad suddenly let got of Mum. She dove straight for me.

Kpaaaa!

That open-palmed slap connected straight to the mains of my medulla oblongata.

“Goat meat?” she screeched.

“You must be very silly! Kpaaaa!

“How won’t you think of food first! Slap!

“Your hair is burning and you’re thinking of goat meat!”

Kpaaaa! Kpaaaa! Kpaaaa!

My people, a quarter of my hair had burned. How the fire didn’t get to my face is a miracle I’m still grateful for to this day.

But my people, talk true. Does burning hair not smell like roasting goat meat?