My heart raced, pounding so loudly that I felt certain Papa Ejima could hear it in his dreams. Speaking of Papa Ejima, the rotund man was fast asleep on a bench just outside his home, which meant I had to be extra cautious with every move I made.

The last thing I wanted was to accidentally step on his toe and jolt him awake, causing him to scream and notify the landlord, Oga Francis, whom I had gone to great lengths to avoid.

It's no secret that my neighbors have an even lower opinion of me, often labeling me a thief and pursuing me whenever they had the chance. But Oga Francis’s disdain was on another level altogether. He accused me of squatting in his house without paying rent and claimed I was the reason his tenant numbers had dwindled. Yet, I was genuinely trying my best to make things work.

Oga Francis had thrown every obstacle in my path, from setting traps to chasing me down with whatever he could find. The latest incident involved him scaring my pregnant wife so badly that it forced her into labor, resulting in the birth of sextuplets—all healthy, thank goodness. But my wife had finally had enough of his antics and decided to move away with our children.

As for me, I couldn’t just leave; this place was my livelihood and my home. Running away from Oga Francis wasn’t an option. He simply had to accept that I was here to stay.

Still, I was terrified of him, which is why I found myself sneaking through the dark like a thief—though I wasn’t one. I made sure to stay in the shadows and along the walls.

Soon enough, I slipped into my apartment, squeezing my body through a crack in the door since I lacked the courage to risk opening the creaky entrance that could potentially alert Oga Francis, who was only a few feet away. 

Once I was safely inside, the hunger I had managed to hold at bay suddenly hit me like a wave. It was fierce and unrelenting. I stumbled around the apartment, knocking into chairs and tables, utterly indifferent to the noise I was making.

I made my way to the kitchen and accidentally knocked an empty cup, which clattered to the floor. I froze, listening intently for any sign of Oga Francis or his mischievous son.

Silence.

I resumed my search until I discovered a plate of rice sitting atop the table. My heart soared; perhaps my wife had left me a meal before departing.

I launched into the food like a man possessed. With each bite, my appetite only grew, and I didn’t stop until the plate was empty.

That was when the sharp, debilitating pain struck my stomach, doubling me over in agony until I could barely breathe. My feeble attempts to cry out faltered as I came to the grim realization that this might be my end.

I could sense death closing in, and I knew exactly who was responsible. Oga Francis had finally acted on his threats, and in the most cruel way imaginable. 

I tried to muster what little strength I had left to crawl toward help, but I lost my balance and fell hard to the floor. I could have sworn I heard bones crack.

It was over.

Out of the corner of my fading vision, I noticed Oga Francis’s mischievous son approaching, perhaps drawn by the noise.

He crouched down to examine me, and though I wanted to cry out, my voice failed me. My eyes shut for the final time, but I heard him loud and clear.

He shouted with glee, “Daddy, come quick! The rat has died! It ate the poisoned rice and died!”