The Worst Disease, Ayobami Awolesi

Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile

by Abha Bhole, Freya McNeill and Ayobami Awolesi

Past

The Worst Disease

by Ayobami Awolesi

Our hands clutched the ice-cold instruments as we held them up to the cracked marble. Streaks of moonlight snaked through the gaps between the buildings surrounding and spotlighting us like criminals on a panto stage. They warned us that this was an incursion towards the corrupt society that burned against every fibre of being. The cold wind drifted gracefully spreading as far as it dared to go. Looking at Amelie, I saw a tear run down her face before departing off her chin. I bent down on one knee and looked her dead in the eyes. “Tu m’étonnes! Our society needs to be amended and you are here sulking! Allez!” I dug my nails deep into the palm of my hand hiding my emotions.

“I am not afraid!” Amelie replied. This time she squeezed the chisel even harder between her short, fat fingers and made her way towards the left corner of the arch. Every wall was coated in the names of commanders that “led” brave soldiers into war whilst they sat in safety eating croissants and drinking tea. Papa was one of these brave soldiers who laid down his life only to have a battlefield serve as his grave and his name forgotten by most.

Amelie raised the hammer with her right hand and the chisel with her left. As she placed the latter on the surface she froze. I took a deep sigh and walked up to her. Squatting down I grabbed her hair from the roots, squeezed her cheeks with my hands and whispered into her ear “Do I need to remind you about what happened to Papa. About how our commander cowered in the back whilst Papa led a group of soldiers into the battlefield sacrificing himse-” She snapped her head towards me. Hatred now displaced the grief that was once in her eyes and she began to take the first step.

Letter after letter the sharp stone broke off the stone as the hammer made its way down onto the chisel’s handle as she began to write the name “FAVRE” on the wall above it. The sluicing rain hit the floor as hard as it whizzed from the sky. I found a nearby bench and sat down on the soaked wood as my bedraggled clothes pressed up against my thighs.

A puddle formed next to my feet and I glared deeply into the reflection of my face assessing all its details. I then stopped as I came across my eyes. Each eye was split into two one side being a murky grey and the other a dirt brown. My sister and I had inherited a condition called heterochromia from Papa and he had inherited it from his papa before him. But along with this condition we had also inherited another disease which was the worst of them all. Poverty.

My meditating had been stopped by the sound of hurried footsteps making its way towards me as it got louder and louder. Finally, I looked up and saw a worried look on Amelie’s face. “The police… they saw me… we need to go now!” she exclaimed, trying to catch her breath. Immediately I understood the situation and instructed my sister to put her mask on. The masks had the face of Caravaggio, an Italian Painter who had died due to mysterious circumstances and was quickly forgotten by society. A fitting mask for the occasion. “Allez!”

After hastily putting on our masks, we sprinted towards the entrance and saw the police car’s headlights glaring at us through the gates. The policeman followed us through the gates and began to chase us. Shots fired relentlessly but thanks to the lack of visibility none of them hit me.

My heart started to race as my feet carried me as fast as they could and just as Amelie began to fall behind, we turned a corner and climbed into a tunnel just large enough for us to go through. I dived into the tunnel and Amelie followed closely behind. We then continued to crawl through the dark until we were sure the policeman was unable to follow. We then sat side by side next to each other. My chin quivered uncontrollably, whether it was because of the cold or because I was scared, I did not know.

I turned to my sister and took off her mask for her. “Did you finish it? Did you finish writing Papa’s name?” I asked, still gasping for air. With a solemn face she nodded her head and I instinctively embraced my arms around her. As my hands pressed against her wet clothes, I could feel a warm liquid drip down my hand. I knew that she had been running, but that didn’t mean that the rainwater on her clothes should be warm. I looked at my hands and the liquid was a strange colour. The texture felt strange as well and I then began to realise that what was on my hands was not water, but blood.

One of the shots from the policeman had pierced Amelie’s torso and she was losing blood fast. I held my hand firmly against my sister’s chest to try and stop the bleeding, but it didn’t help at all. Masses of blood came oozing out of her like a punctured balloon filled with water.

“Alexandre…” she softly said. Water filled my eyes as I looked at her blurry face. “No! J’en ai marre! This can’t be happening!” Why? Why was it the poor that always died in the slums of the world. Why is our society so imbalanced? None of it made any sense.

She let out a futile cry before it came to an abrupt halt. I wiped my tears away and gazed into her abnormal eyes as they stared into nothingness. This was the harsh reality of life. Whether you live or die is not up to you. It is not up to your parents, it’s not even up to God. It is up to the amount of paper and metal coins you own.

Poverty is the worst disease of them all…