Six Hundred Incisions and Other Stories

His head was first shaved clean and washed. Then the crude operation began. The crude surgeon arrested the young man’s head with his knees and started the laceration exercise. As the old man held Solo’s head between his aged knees and the sharp razor was travelling through his head, cutting sharp strokes through his bald scalp, blood was oozing out gradually amidst pain. Solo knew he must endure the painful pang that followed each of the piercing cuts. As the old man was cutting the flesh, he was counting one... two... three... At some point, the old man would stop, clean the trickling blood and smear the points of incision with the prepared mixture. This process brought some renewed pain and Solo cried out in agony. ‘Easy, my son. Just be patient.’ Baba Ejinrele said. ‘I am trying to be. But it’s paining me. This pain is too much.’ ‘Yea, I know. Just try to be a man. You don’t know the pain people go through to get rich.’ ‘My head aches badly.’ Solo cried out. His eyes were red and the muscles around his head and face all stood up in violent protest. ‘Bear it patiently. Aren’t you a man?’ By this time, Ejinrele’s razor had travelled mercilessly through half of Solo’s head, leaving oozing red blood in its trail. Solo was groaning under this excruciating anguish. His whole being was protesting the gruesome treatment. Although he did not cry out again, he was shedding torrential tears amidst muffled sobs and he was beginning to feel feverish. Soon, it began to happen inside his head. He could not seem to think or reason clearly any more. He was aware of the violent confusion in his mind but he couldn’t do anything to help himself or to stop the commotion. The only awareness he had beside this is the vibrating noise of the travelling razor – unhindered and smooth journey but noisily and painfully shattering his frame – on his head. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes amidst runny nose and through the transparent liquid membrane of his tears; he saw a wall gecko hanging precariously to the wall opposite him. The gecko, sickly, was skeletally thin and movement was almost impossible for his limbs. Soon the gecko spotted some insects on the wall very close to his territory. These are easy prey for the hungry being. But weakness of his limbs could not allow him to satisfy the hunger of the stomach. The mental and physical agility which usually trigger his sharp attack on preys had disappointed him. He tried to stretch his being to crawl closer to the tantalising food nearby but it was difficult. Again and again, he tried but it was impossible to get close. In his most determined attempt to capture the insects, stretching all limbs with all efforts within, his claws lost their hold on the wall and down came crashing the wall gecko. On the floor, he was motionless. Death had claimed him. He cleared his eyes again but the blade was still travelling through the expanse of his head, leaving the trail of blood and the pain in its fiery trail. All he could do was to painfully sob continuously and to blow his runny nose into his right palm and to clean his palm with the helm of his clothes. By the time the operation ended, Solo’s scalp had been painfully ploughed. It was now a coagulated mixture of red and black: dull black. His head was heavy, giddy and very painful. The caked blood had to be left on that violated head since any attempt to tidy up the head immediately would further aggravate the presently unbearable pain. The old man had to advise him to wait and rest in his house for a while. It was evening and Solo’s fever was taking the better part of him. He wanted to go home but the old man prevailed on him to spend the night in his house. The following morning, as he woke up, he felt a little better. But a few minutes after waking up, the pain which had receded started coming back. Now his head and his whole being were undergoing a new lease of trauma. Amidst this, he bid the old Ejinrele good morning and told him he had to go. The man gave him one of his own caps to cover the congealed mess on his head. The caked head now looked very much like a stale calabash of sacrifice placed at a crossroads.