A PSYCHOPATH (By Stephen Toochi)

He wasn’t afraid of me: that was his first mistake.

But God’s truth, who would be afraid of a girl of sixteen years? A girl who is still finding out how her body works? A girl who just finished secondary school, couldn’t afford the University but decided to be useful by becoming a shop attendant?


Would you be afraid of a girl whose smile is said to be angelic? Whose steps are said to be lithe, athletic? Whose composure is said to be humble? No, I ask again, would you?

I can hear your screams in the negative. You can’t be afraid of this girl. Neither can Ie. I don’t know how I became, but I knew of my double personality a year after I stepped into my aunt’s place in Diobu Phase II. The house was an old house. The cream paints were already peeling. And the drainage system, a snare to the table. I was an orphan, so my life revolved around travels. Not that I minded.

Aunt Nancy lived alone, in a storey-building, husbandless.  Her one-room apartment which was upstairs became a haven for me, six days of the week save for Friday nights when she brings a man home. At first, I thought of them being the same man until I saw different skin colours.

I was bemused as to how she did this. I mean, I know men brought home women, not the other way round. This, I knew because Obinna, our neighbour — the only neighbour upstairs— asked me for it countless times.

It started with him asking my aunt if I could accompany him to fill his cylinder. My aunt, now that I look at it thoroughly, was the orchestrator of this whole nightmare.

Port Harcourt was, and still is a base for all forms of unethical acts. Their touts don’t make noise; they act mostly. They rob in daylight, harass, embarrass and even assault people and nothing will happen. The worst of it was catcalling. The way they call women and even touch their sensitive parts is alarming. Once they see you dress half-assed, they don’t hesitate to let you know you shouldn’t be wearing that outside.

They had grabbed Nneka’s buttock one night as we were returning from work. And told my friend that if they see her in such dress again, they’d rape her.

That night was the beginning of my double personality. Obinna was the first man whose catcalls of me ran into months.

He harassed me with unwanted sexualised comments like “Your butts are becoming bigger. Your boobs too, would you like me to taste them?”  His gestures were provocative, especially when he corners me on the stairs, he comes close despite my best effort to push him away and breathes upon my neck. God! His gestures have a mad effect on my body but I don’t give in.

Twice, he had stalked me from work and appeared behind me on the stairs, his hands clasped around my waist. I always tried to pull it off but he was stronger. He has even grabbed my boobs, squeezed my buttocks a couple of times amidst my kicks and punches. I had complained to my aunt but she, like most women, thinks it’s normal. She doesn’t see the perversion in them and that irked me.

So I began planning on how to have my revenge. The fury filled me to the extent that when I see other men catcalling or harassing women. I explode and wish I could split their skull. Obinna who used to be attractive became repulsive, even with his hairy chest, muscled biceps and goofy smile.

I kept postponing the date of my revenge, kept hiding and hoping that he would stop but he grew bolder and…

That Friday evening, Aunty Nancy was home early. When I opened the door, she shooed me outside and said I should wait till she called me. I did because this was our normal. But when I stepped out, the devil was waiting. Obinna was outside his door wearing his goofy smile. I stared at him even as he approached me. But before I could comprehend, his lips were on mine and I’m struggling to breathe.

When he pulled away, I slammed my bag into him and he laughed. The next morning, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t sleep that night as I planned my revenge. Luckily for me, he was outside when I appeared at the gate.

“Good morning my a Nubian princess. May I walk you to work?”

I smiled, the plan was working. “Sure, let’s take the street path.”

“How was your night?”

“I thought of your kiss all through the night,” I said, a grin tugging at my cheek. He nudged me and just then we approached the abandoned building in the middle of our street.



“Why don’t we do this here once and for all?”

“Do what?” He inquired, confused.

“Do that thing you’ve been asking me,” I said, pointing between my legs. His eyes lit up.

“Are you sure baby girl? Because if you’re ready I am ready. I was born ready!” he tickled me.

I nodded, and after inspection, we ran into the place. The floor was crushed and two chairs sat there. This was a place where touts came to smoke. We went at each other kissing, tore at each other’s clothes. I was left with a bra and short leggings, while he was in his boxers.

Then, I stopped. He was restless when I motioned him to sit on one of the chairs. He was panting as I reached for my bag, put it beside the chair and bent to give him a blow job. He stretched his head backwards, expectant. I took his phallus in my hand. And God! The organ was huge. I wondered how such a vile and enormous thing would enter me. But he was looking at me, so I spat on it and took it in my mouth.

He moaned and I worked on it for a few seconds before leaping on him, still in my underwear. He must have expected me to guide him into me but I grabbed his two hands while rocking flesh to the fabric. He gasped when he realized what I had done.

“Baby girl, ” he squirmed, “Why did you tie me?”

“Relax, Obi. It’s just BDSM.”

“What is BDSM…?” I blocked his face with my buttocks. He must be an idiot. Ruled by instinct because he started lapping on my butt cheek and I tied up his legs.

As I climbed off him, he jolted to reality.

“What are you trying to do?”

I reached for my tape amidst his struggles and tape his mouth. Turning to look at him, I heard his whimpers, his harsh breaths and saw the squirming on the chair.

I opened my bag. This time he is still as he beheld my hand. A butcher knife. The weapon felt good in my hand. Heavy, grounding, the blade, sharp it would take one stroke to cut off his… What was I going to cut off first?

He pleaded with his eyes but I needed to teach him a lesson. I dressed up and went behind him. Then I peeled his fingers one after the other. The shaking intensified, so was the sweat cascading his body. His grunts hit my ear like a melody. And I reach for his flaccid organ. He closed his leg but the organ lay bare. I weighed it and he flinched.

My phone sent shivers running down my spine. Boss? Why is he calling me? I didn’t take the call. I just caressed Obinna’s neck with kisses and slit his throat. The horror lay in his eyes as blood spurted in boils.

He gagged and watched me walk away. And just like that, a sociopath was born.

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About the author

I'm Dav-Oz, and  I'm the Chief Editor of The Dav-Oz Blog, a graphic designer and upcoming fashion designer.

I'm just your regular young Nigerian lad with dreams and hope for a better future.


  1. Relatable plot, decent telling. There’s some talent in how the story moved. Needs more editing though. Plenty editing in fact.
    But there’s a great story hidden in there. Good read overall.

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