Perception Magazine Spring 2020

The oddity of a pigeon in a bowl Alaba Danagogo

MY BROTHER was poised cautiously, hidden in the sparse shadows of the gateman’s shed with his catapult close in front of him, eyes trained on his prey. He was stalking a little brown pigeon that had wandered too far from the canopy of the nearby trees. I watched him from the corner of my eye, occupied with my own play. The sun was shining brightly, and every reasonable person was indoors to escape the morning heat. But not us - we were far from reasonable, and Abidemi was the most unreasonable of all.

I tried to focus on the carcass of a wall gecko before me. I’d found its body under the flowerpot in the garden and moved it to a corner of the veranda, out of the roasting sun, so that I could examine it properly. My examination so far consisted of ripping it apart with a rusted pair of scissors and marveling at the lack of blood from its gelatinous body. I was having a grand time of it too, at least until I realized what Abidemi was doing. He had the tendency to get himself into odd situations, and a part of me recognized the beginnings of one even before the situation unfolded, so, I watched him.

I saw him pull a stone out of one of his pockets and load the catapult.

He pulled back on the thickened elastic, one eye squeezing shut to aim correctly. His shoulders slumped when the pigeon took flight, and I noted the half-hearted way he allowed his missile to sail. He screamed when the pigeon fell to the ground, squawking in pain as one wing attempted to do the work of two.

I peered into the window before attending to him. Aunty Peace was supposed to be watching us, but she was firmly planted in front of the TV, laughing along with the characters of a childish sitcom. She didn't even budge at Abidemi’s scream.

“Demi, what is it?”

By the time I looked back at him, his eyes were full of tears. He stood there, brown shoulders shaking as he pointed at the downed pigeon with a pouty lip.

“I didn’t mean to!” He sobbed, clutching the catapult to his chest as his eyes followed the erratic movements of the wounded pigeon. I abandoned my carcass with a sigh, braving the fierce sunlight for his sake. There was a light sheen of sweat all over him, making his SpongeBob shirt stick to his back.

“Ah, ah you people should stop shouting!” Uncle Alex shouted from his shed. There was the harsh sound of his plastic chair scraping back, followed by heavy footsteps before a bald head emerged from the inside of the shed.

Spring 2020 | 61