Bullets and Fireworks

When bullets sing
Some get medals
Some get mangled— Ezenwa-Ohaeto.When Bullets Sing.
Kpum! Kpai! Tai! Ka boom!





There was no sound I did not hear this night in the neighborhood—all in the name of celebrating a New Year. It had been a customary thing for people to exhibit fireworks and bangers and disco lights on the 31st night of December—a ritual done as a process of ushering into the next day—the New Year.
When I was young, I used to enjoy listening to the different sounds of fireworks and firecrackers and the rest of their kind on a New Year’s Eve. I always imagined the sounds reaching the dark clouds of the night, going beyond the stars, stopping right in the ear of God with one message: Thank You for this day. But when I grew older, the sounds didn’t fascinate me anymore. If not for anything, I found it disturbingly childish. Funny thing, I discovered, was that the people who mostly triggered those sounds were adults—people with hairs round their scrotum and big breasts—two heavy loads—on their chest.
Tonight was 31st December. And the New Year was not more than fifteen minutes away. That was why those childish adults wouldn’t let somebody rest.
Katai!
I left the window of my room where I had beengazing into the dark street below, and a few times, glancing at the starless sky of the night. The street was empty but the flashlights of the fireworks kept coming and going—zigzagging in the sky—with startling speed.
“Will you go to night vigil?”
It was my younger brother, Mezue. He was kneeling on the bed, clutching a pillow to his stomach. He was six, eleven years younger than I was. He was a smart kid with intelligent eyes and full lips that often gave birth to charming smiles. At his age, he had no time for fireworks and, like me, found it intolerably disgusting.
“No. I won’t.” I said, climbing the bed and at the same time reaching for the blanket that had rose flowers drawn on it.
“Mum said she is going.”
“That means you are going too.” I said and wondered if what I just said was a question. Or a mere statement. Mezue always loved going out with Mum. He was the baby of the house anyway.
“I would love to. But I won’t. I didn’t sleep in the afternoon. If I go to church now, I will sleep throughout the sermon.”
By mere looking at him he was already looking sleepy and weary. His eyes seemed heavy—withdrawn.
“You are right. You should sleep. We will go to church tomorrow.”
“Together?”
I smiled. “Together.”
Kakpum! Ta wai!
“I hate those bangers,” he complained. “Do you like them?”
“No. But I once did.”
“What made you stop liking them? Did they hurt you? Did the fire burn you?” his eyes—innocent curious eyes—were probing into mine, longing for answers.
I was about replying him when a kaboom!exploded so close that for a moment I thought a firework had burst right on our window. Mezue and I dashed to the window. We looked into the street. And my blood froze the same instant Mezue gasped…in terror.
Down the street, under the shadows of the streetlight, two hefty men in hoods were on top of someone. Punching. Kicking. The person was weakly yelling. It was a woman’s voice. Mezue grabbed my hand in fright.
“Chioma, they are going to kill her!” it was a fierce whisper.
The woman’s scream collided with the loud sounds of bangers and fireworks.
Then I saw it. One of the men brought out a gun, pointed it at her. The gbowai!sound of a banger collided with the two gunshots that followed.
The woman lay still. Beside her lay a bible and a rosary that glowed in the dark.
The two hooded men looked sideways furtively, then they dashed off in separate ways.
That was when I screamed.
That was when, suddenly—miraculously—fireworks stopped dancing in the December sky.