MORGAN (a story of ambition and demonic affiliation)

Advisory Content:

This poem contains graphical violent content and language and is not suitable for children under 18 years old.

Morgan

Frightfully

Night crawled in

Like an accursed serpent

Mysteriously mystifying Morgans’s mind

He simply could not leave it behind

He had lived a happy life

Filled with frustration and lies

Not only was Morgan intelligent

But desperately diligent

He was so hard-working

Sweeping the whole of Rome

Would be like picking a stone

Under the condition

Of unreasonable financial compensation

Such was Morgan’s nature

He loved money without measure

And would do anything to get it

Even if it would cause him to bleed

He was so ambitious

He would do anything to get it all

What actually led Morgan to the Witch Doctor?

It’s like a puzzle lying to be solved

Believe it or not

If Morgan’s ambitious determination

Was put into a legitimately lucrative occupation

He would have had more of an option

But Morgan was overambitious

And lacked the patience to live in squalor

Individuals like this

Are always of interest to the Devil

Because in him Lucifer saw

Another victim to be clawed

Morgan was so shallow minded

He could not resist when tempted

To the witch doctor Morgan went

In him, he saw all he dreamt

Riches, power and women without stress

And the witch doctor, like every other one

Saw Morgan as the chosen one

“My son,” said the Witch Doctor

“Your time has come

I have been expecting you

Since your name was known to you

You were born famous

But…”

“But what?” asked Morgan

“You are under a curse”

Confirmed the Witch Doctor

“What!” exclaimed Morgan

Because like an orphan

In a strange land

He simply could not come to terms

With what he had just heard

Witch doctors being what they are

Made so many revelations to Morgan

They were as numerous as stars

Only that they were not shinning

But were dark and gloomy

The prophet of doom

Took Morgan to the room

Where the requirements were listed

Enumerating what Morgan needed

Was like a revelation

Directly from the Lost Kingdom

The likes of monkey brain,

Horse tail…

And the list went on and on

All could be bought except

Except the last of the bunch

Morgan was to get a mad man’s hair

Which he had to accomplish himself

Because according to the Witch Doctor and his Jinns

It could not be done by proxy

Morgan was to get it in a space of 24 hours

Morgan’s ordeal

Could be better imagined

Because he who tears the garment of honour

Inevitably wears the mask of disgrace

After 20 hours of Hell on earth

Looking miserable and dejected

Morgan approached the Witch Doctor

By pushing open his door

But like a trapped gazelle spotting a hunter

The Witch Doctor took up a defensive stance

Because Morgan was a cursed reflection

Of his former self

He was not only outwardly incomplete

But was also physically marred

His appearance spoke volumes…

… a bleeding nose

A broken teeth

Bite marks all over

A swollen eye

Scratched to the extreme

A torn outfit

A partly bitten off ear

Such was his sordid appearance

“I got it Baba,” said Morgan

“Oh! It’s you…

My son what happened?”

Asked the Witch Doctor

“I thought you asked me to get a mad man’s hair

It was not easy but…

I got it…” replied Morgan

Morgan’s messiah from Hell

Got hold of a live chick

And looking Morgan in the eye

He said: “To the field we go…”

The evil prophet instructs Morgan

To place the chick

On the field

And also place a calabash

Filled with 50 grains of corn

Right beside the chick

He follows the Witch Doctor’s instructions:

“Place the calabash in front

Of the chick

Each grain of corn

Represents a year of all

You have ever dreamt of

The number of seed it swallows

Determines your joy or sorrow

As the case may be

And the number of years

You will live to see.”

This was the Herbalist’s disclosure

On what had to be done

And leaving Morgan with a last remark

Saying: “Walk away from the calabash and do not look back.”

Wearing a blank face

Coupled with mixed feelings

Morgan realized he was not day-dreaming

With the chick bearing his ace

Placing the calabash in front of his life-determining chick

And giving the chick a prompting stare

It seemed to have worked wonders

Because as Morgan began retracing his steps

He could hear the chick pecking

At the content of the gloomy calabash

But when Sorrows come

They come not as single spies

But in battalions

Because as Morgan approached the Witch Doctor

Something irreversible began to occur

For the Witch Doctor’s countenance

Suddenly changed

Like a bear in the midst of

A pack of vicious hunting wolves

But this bear was tied to stake

And had to surrender to the will of fate

Morgan instantly suspected a flaw

And rushed towards the Witch Doctor

As if on cue

The aged man also moved

Towards Morgan

As a lioness would

On sensing danger to her young

Both bumped into each other

And Morgan began to wonder…

Now facing each other

The old man’s voice came out like thunder

He screamed: “Morgan!”

Stretching his freckled finger

In the direction that

The calabash and the chick lay

All of Morgan’s senses were fully awakened

And he spun around swiftly

In the sharpest of reflexes

What Morgan saw

Almost made him die on the spot

The first thing that caught his eyes

Was a killer hawk diving from the skies

And it had just one target

…on the unassuming chick, its eyes and claws were set

And what else did a killer hawk have to offer a chick

Other than predetermined death

Morgan ran, leaving the old man behind

Having just one thing on his mind

…to intercept the hawk

Before it got to the chick

Right at the point of contact

Morgan startled the hawk

Just after it hit the ground

Something slipped from the hawk’s claw

And it hit the grass without a sound

Morgan was delightfully relieved

Because from a distance

He could see the chick walking

But his joy was short-lived

Because after three reckless steps

The chick suddenly slumped

Agitated

Morgan moved

Rubbing his eyes as if seeing things

The chick was lying there

In all its ramification, dead

And it’s spilled intestine

Was enough for a sign

Having no sentiment to spare

Morgan’s accomplice did nothing but stare

At the breathing calabash and its content

It was a living calabash indeed

Because compared to the lifeless chick

It still had hope in it

The Witch Doctor began counting

The shattering grains

And Morgan did all he could

Helplessly watch and hope

Because he knew

That the number of grains remaining

Was what would determine his fate

At the moment when Morgan

Heard the Witch Doctor say: “46…”

And then “47…”

Morgan saw death winking at him from a distance

Yet he saw the moving lips of the Witch Doctor

And despite the fact

That he closed his inner ear

He inevitably heard “48…”

Morgan looked in the direction where he thought

He had seen the Angel of Death

What he saw

Brought his heartbeat to a halt

Because the fierce-looking Angel

Produced a black register-looking book

Which, emitted the thickest of smokes

And upon opening the ageless book

Its content was dreadfully blazing

For its pages were made of fire

And Morgan clearly saw his name in it

The fact that there were

So many names was in every sense scary

But seeing that

MORGAN was boldly written

Was tragically excruciating

The number “49…” temporarily

Brought Morgan back to reality

But it was agonizing

Morgan couldn’t feel any part of his body

Not even his own heartbeat

He closed his eyes in agony

…feeling an angelic presence

He triggered his most reliable sense…

…opening his eyes – what did he see?

Behold! It was the Angel of Death

Now very close to him

Even closer than his condemned shadow

And looking as intimidating as ever

He produced a burning pen

Manufactured from the depths of Hell

With which he controlled the lives of men

And using its blood-drenched ink

He venomously ticked Morgan’s name

Giving Morgan a vengeful look

He closed the flaming book

The unquestionable book

Which even the Devil dare not intrude

Surely

Death had a cold embrace

And Morgan was privileged

To its unfortunate hug

Morgan was brought back to the real world

At the mention of his now accursed name

“Morgan! You have offended the gods!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Morgan

“See for yourself” was the response of the old man

Pointing a the mutilated chick

…kneeling on the blood-stained grass

Morgan saw the most destabilizing thing

He could ever have imagined

Not only did it make his heart bleed

But he darted back in fright screaming

“No! No! No! This is not for me. No…”

Right there on the abattoir-like grass

Lay the corpse of the chick

Which, was assumed to have swallowed one

Out of the ‘50’ life determining grains of corn

Which, would have meant that

Morgan would die after a year

Of living with abominated wealth

But like a chick that refuses to die

Its presence still clouded the sky

Because right between its spear-like beak

Was Morgan’s graceful ‘48’ weeks

“What is the consequence of this?” asked Morgan

The Witch Doctor submissively looked at him

And said:

“My child, this is mid-day

And according to the gods

The chick did not swallow the corn

You have to battle the odds

For once the cock strikes 12 midnight today

A tragic accident shall take place

And the chick’s present state

Shall be your fate.”

Such precision

Can only be achieved

When the evil priest works

In collaboration with the Jinns

…dark creatures of the fire

On hearing what was just said

Morgan lost all the bolts of reasoning holding his head

And with blood shot eyes

He looked at the old man and whispered:

“You BASTARD,

You’ve destroyed my life

Yet you lack manner of approach

You couldn’t even be diplomatic

About it”

“What did you say?”

Was the same question

The Witch Doctor kept asking in succession

Without receiving a response

“Father,” said Morgan

Addressing the old man

“Your time has come”

The old man, suddenly decoding the message

Did the dumbest thing for his age

He tried to make a run for it

But Morgan was too fast for him

He couldn’t have taken more than 6 steps

Before Morgan deprived him of his right to be erect

As Morgan went after him on the floor

The old man moved hurriedly on all fours

Strategically moving his hands

On the grass land

The old man fortunately found felt a sharp object

Morgan did not know this

And as he grabbed the old man’s neck

From behind

The Witch Doctor took a firm grasp on the object

And with the speed of a bullet

He stepped deeply into Morgan’s eye

Immediately claiming Morgan’s left eye

Leaving him half blind

Morgan screamed out in Pain

And staggered backwards

Blindly falling on the grass

The old man sensed a silencing opportunity

And he struck at Morgan’s heart with the sharp-edged stick

But Morgan was quick in shifting his chest

Making the Witch Doctor miss

But the Witch Doctor was determined

And using a reverse strike

He drove the stick deep into Morgan’s shoulder blade

But the Witch Doctor made a mistake

Because in a prey-like bid to escape

He leaves Morgan in his bleeding and injured state

Leaving him to die of his wounds

Men at some time are masters

Of their own fates

The fault is not in our stars

But in ourselves

Morgan was obviously in pain

To be candid, he was dying

And would helplessly have lay there in vain

But suddenly

He felt something burning

A familiar presence

And on looking to his left

It was the Angel of Death

It brought out the flaming book

Opened it and said to Morgan, “LOOK”

Morgan saw a name

Written equally as bold as his

But the name was written and ticked before his

Staring hard into the dark page

The condemned name was

The Witch Doctor’s…

As if in a trance

Morgan rose like a giant

Seeing nothing but blood and fire

For he was devilishly inspired

By forces superior to man

Retributive revenge rushed in retrospection

He sighted the old man

Running away like a wounded animal

Morgan began to sprint

Like a lion eager to use its virgin teeth

In a flash

Morgan began trailing the Witch Doctor in blazing fury

In a couple of minutes

Morgan was behind him

Sweeping the fragile thing off his feet

And pouncing on him like a neck-breaking specialist

He took from him the greatest thing

A fleeing man would have paid for

Because he robbed him of his life

By snapping his skull off his spine

Like a man who just lost his entire family

Morgan stood staring

At the lifelessly lying entity

With one last look at the tragic scene

He began sprinting

Without actually thinking

Morgan took a bath without doing nothing but thinking

And sat on the edge of his bed wondering

What end awaited a man

Who not only defied the law of the life and death

But was on the verge of altering a natural balance

Deliberating on his eventuality

Morgan in retrospect no wreslised

That only God could kill

And the time was known only by him

He conclusively ascertained

That the Witch Doctor was not God

Moreover

A Witch Doctor

Who couldn’t protect himself

From a fellow mortal

Could never possess the power

To predict anyone’s death

The clock struck 3pm

And like a being in a dilemma

Morgan unconsciously declared

“This cannot be

My destiny…”

Morgan decided to stay indoors

And bolted the windows and doors

Consciously avoiding a self-inflicted flaw

He stared lifelessly at the clock

In a flashback sequence

With mixed feelings

Night crawled in

Like the accursed serpent

Mysteriously mystifying Morgan’s mind

He simply could not leave it behind

If a mortal man

Attempts to wear the scalp

Of a Demon

He shall be destroyed by what he sees

In other words

He would become a Demon himself

Which, his mind wouldn’t bear

The clock struck 12 midnight

Yet Morgan reaffirmed

“This cannot be

My Destiny”

He looked around

Yet nothing happened

He listened cautiously to his heartbeat

To verify

If he was still alive

“I won

The bastard predicted wrong”

He jumped up in jubilation

But landed on the wring foot

And a broken spine trailed the room

Cover Page

The model on the cover page of ‘MORGAN’ is YOMI SHOKUNBI also known as YOMI DREADS in modeling circles. He presently resides in South Africa where he works as a fitness instructor.

Dedication

I’m dedicating this poem to all the hardworking men and women out there who have at one point of their lives said ‘no’ to the alluring voice and whispers of temptation in all its divergent and enticing forms– To those who simply refused to sell their souls to the Devil even in the face of glaring oppression, hardship and seeming hopelessness. I admire you all and I’m happy because you know yourselves; wherever you might be out there.

To my growing team of suspects, a thank you would never be out of place. Thank you so much.

Finally, to all who taught me the difference between good and evil, i say "THANK YOU."

This poem was composed during my two-year academic residence in Eruwa; a rural community in Oyo State in Nigeria.