The Wonders of Hell

The first time you heard about hell was when you were seven. Then, you were a naive, slender-looking boy - faultless. The Sunday school teacher, a heavy-bearded man in his early forties, painted hell as a very horrible place. He grimly told you that hell was a huge, blazing and unquenchable wild fire where sinners would everlastingly roast like cashew nuts when they died. He told you that hell was very hot and stark dark - darker than the back of your mother's pot. There will be gnashing of teeth and regrets, tortuous soldier ants and worms everywhere, your Sunday school teacher taught.


Your Sunday school teacher's teachings threatened the tots in the class on that memorable morning. Of course, it threatened you too. You didn't want to go to hell. You didn't want to roast like cashew nuts. You didn't want to live in stark darkness, like a bat, in afterlife. You hated hell and pledged to be good, to be kind to your fellow man. You wanted to make heaven, where you would wear white robes, walk on the streets of gold, play with lions, eat fresh fruits and fishes, and sing psalms to the Almighty forever and ever.

Seventy years ago, these were your wishes as a lad. But you died at seventy-seven, yesterday, and this is your first night in hell - the place that made you have sleepless night when you were seven. Still having a staunch belief about heaven, you struggled to be good in your youth. But you veered off in adulthood when the vicissitudes of life stormily confronted you. You compromised - compromise is the greatest weapon in politics, a game you mastered when you were yet alive and kicking.

The things that landed you in hell are many, very many. The newspapers and history books have them. You killed the innocent. You sent letter bombs to your political opponents. You embezzled monies that were budgeted for 'light', leaving your people in stark darkness. You rigged elections. You granted state pardon to criminals. You didn't pay salaries on time, leaving workers and their children to starve. You sent soldiers to battlefield with sticks and sentenced to death the ones who dared to protest. You falsified facts. Above all, you made too many promises that you didn't fulfil when you held public offices. Although you romanced clerics, they couldn't help you bribe your way into heaven.

On your first night in hell, you were impressed, very impressed because you discovered that hell was not exactly how your Sunday school teacher had painted it. You found out that hell, although a relatively unpleasant place, was not a burning fire, was not dark. There was, as a matter of fact, 'light' in hell. You saw unblinking, bright bulbs in the cramped room you were alloted. The room, painted red, had the breadth of a coffin and the length of a tunnel. The room looked strange but the bulbs consoled you. You loved it. You brought out the free phone you were given at the embassy of hell, plugged it to a squarish switch at a corner of your new room, thinking the light may go off any moment soon - the way it used to be in your country.

You found a little bed in the extreme of the weird room, on which you collapsed, and slept off. Your sleep was long and sound. There was no single mosquito bite - no mosquitoes in hell too?
In the morning, when you woke up, you found out that there was still 'light' in your little room. You also noticed that some demons had dropped a cup of milk and some loaves of bread on the small wooden table near your bed. You, very hungry, grabbed the loaves and gulped down the milk, free milk. Afterward, you stood up and stretched, ready to have your bath.

You undressed yourself and walked down to a door at the end of your room. There, you found a small, luxurious bathroom. You opened the shower; it vomitted water and you soaped yourself. You noticed, for the first time, that there was plenty water in hell. You felt relieved. You remembered the biblical parable of Lazarus and the rich man and wondered the part of hell the story took place. Perhaps the story was a myth, you thought.

You returned to your room and found your phone beeping. You picked it up and found a new text message. You opened it. It ran:
"Hello Chief Toga, welcome to hell. Hell is real. We believe you had a sound sleep. We've put everything in place to make you comfortable. Call 666 if you have any complain, but NEVER leave this room UNTIL you are told to do so. Best regards."

Toga, you jumped, excited, screaming as you read the text message. It lifted your soul. You have never imagined a hell where there was no torture, no worms, and no fury fire. You have never imagined a hell where there was love, free milk, free food, free water, free phones and free 'light.' This hell was different, very different from the hell you made out of your country.

While you were still lost in the euphoria of the incredible hell you have found yourself, your phone rang, you picked and the voice sounded strangely familiar. It was the voice of your great grandmother. She died over a hundred years ago. She was a witch doctor.
"Hello, Toga, my great grandson. I heard you came in last night. Welcome to hell."
"Thank you," you answered, unsure of who the caller was.
"Who's this please? I don't think I know you."
There was silence, a still silence that was punctuated by deep howls. You thought the caller was a wolf.

"It's me. Mamee, your great grandmother. Welcome to hell. I heard you came in last night."
"Ah, Mamee, are you in hell too? You were surprised.
"Of course, where else do you expect me to be? There is 'light' in hell; at least it has not been interrupted in the past three hundred years. There was no 'light' in Nigeria when I died. Do you have constant 'light' now?"
"We don't."
"What about constant water?"
"We don't."
"Free and fair elections?"
"We don't."
"Good roads?"
"We don't"
"Security?"
"We don't."
"Does every citizen get a free milk every morning?"
"No ma'am."
"Unbelievable."
"These are some of the reasons I was condemned to hell."
"I don't understand. Did you squander the budget for these things?"
"Yes, mamee."
"You're a disgrace to the Kofata family. People like you do not deserve to be in hell. You deserve to be in a worse place."
You were stunned. "And where should that be?"
"Nigeria, of course. I'm dialing 666 already."

Story by Gandhi Green.

Editor’s remark; Kindly vote for this writer to win the Etisalat flash fiction award.
The voting process is tortuous, I admit. But please do it for a brother, for an aspiring young man. I count on you. Together, we will go far.
To vote for our story titled "The Seventh Person" kindly follow the steps below:
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