The Last Komole Read online

How could the DJ have been shot? Where was the shooter? Why was he shot? But still, nobody had called the cops. The managers and even the bartender were nowhere to be found. It was just the club patrons. Even the bouncers had disappeared. What was going on?

  It was Josephine, the logical one, who whipped out her cell phone and dialed 911, asking the police to come quickly. As she dialed the number, we all huddled together in a corner, afraid to leave, since we did not know who the gunman was and how the DJ was shot. In fact, it was not until minutes later, when the police finally arrived at the scene, that we finally understood what had just happened.

  Apparently, DJ Blaze was right: the owners of the Red Flame were the same people who owned Dance Fever. They were neck-deep into gang-related activities, and had transferred their base from the closed-down night club to this one. Not long after we entered the club, the manager and other employees got a tip-off that a rival gang was heading to that particular night club. They had not bothered to warn the guests of the impending danger, and had absconded through the backdoor. The bouncers who were positioned at the front entrance, did not get the memo, and were there when five armed men came to the club. The bouncers denied them access and in the scuffle that ensued, one of the guns misfired. A stray bullet went flying through the glass and hit an innocent man: the DJ. Both bouncers and one of the gang members were seriously injured and lay outside the door until the police arrived. The other gang members absconded, abandoning their mission.

  As I heard the ambulance approach, I wondered at just how illogical death was, for it was the man who had assured us of the safety of this club that had lost his life that night. He was the victim of a stray bullet. And as I gave the police my statement of the events I had witnessed, I suddenly realized that the whizzing sound I had heard of an object flying over my head, must have been that bullet. If I had stood still and not done that last komole, I would have died. It was not until I saw the police take his body away in a black bag, that I came to terms with the fact that our new friend was gone. That was when I remembered the Pastor's prayer just hours before.

  "… And Lord may we always be at the right place at the right time."

  For the first time that night, I said "Amen."

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  About the Author

  Sharon Abimbola Salu was born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria where she lived until she relocated to the United States of America. Her stories are mostly set in Nigeria, and she writes the kind of stories she would like to read. A professed lover of spicy foods, she loves experimenting with new recipes, to the dismay of non-spicy food lovers. Apart from writing, photography is her other hobby.

  Connect with Sharon

  Wordpress Blog: https://sharonsalu.wordpress.com

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/sharon_salu

  E-Mail: [email protected]