John 101, or The New Ridiculous Way to Commit Suicide and Be Famous

I know a man who concluded he had had enough of the troubles in the world and decided to kill himself.

It was the year Donald Trump sent warplanes to Syria, and Muhammadu Buhari’s aides lied to Nigerians that he was “hale and hearty” though the president returned from an overseas trip sickly and emaciated. Millions of stolen US dollars hidden away by politicians were being discovered, yet Nigeria was in recession. It was the year of chaos—and this man was going berserk because no one was doing anything about it all. Still more, his heart was bitter for fate had refused to recognise him and not even world leaders he had written long letters to cared to give any response. He concluded that since he had no role in the world the best thing would be to kill himself—for there was nothing that attracted attention to people more than their death—and allow the rest of the alive folks to manage what was left of the world, if anything. So he went about looking for the best possible way of achieving his aim. Not that there were no ready means of subjecting oneself to easy death, but he did not want just any death—say by ingesting rat poison or falling off a storey building or slashing his wrist or hanging himself in his room (using an old Sunny P tie)—he wanted the kind of death that would add to the chaos in the world. Having lived for fifty-two years and not left a mark yet on earth, he thought it would be best to die in such a way that his death would make headlines. In fact, if he did it right, he presumed, other folks like him without anything to remember them by might just follow his example—he hoped he could trigger some sort of apocalypse.

So he took all his savings made from wheeling goods for traders and went to a printing factory located near a busy river where cyclists washed their motorcycles and children dived and swam all day. There, he was shown the master printer whom he provided with a handwritten inscription and his photograph, one he took some years ago when he still had youth on his side and his hair was not all grown and grey. The master printer saw the Polaroid and flinched.

“This is you in the photograph?”

“Yes it is, Sah—”

“You want me to print your obituary?”

“Don’t you print obituaries, Sah?”

“Of course, we print obituaries.” The master printer beat his chest. “We are the most reliable and modern printers in town. We print most of the obituaries of famous men and politicians in this state. But—”

“What then? Tell me!”

“Never in my thirty-eight years in this business have I received such job offer.”

“Well,” the man shifted from side to side. His gaze held the eye of the master printer. “There is always a first, Printer Man, Sah. Will you do it?”

The master printer hesitated. “This way, please.” And he was led through a corridor to a tiny yet crammed office, where posters and brochures of all sizes took up positions on all corners, and there, arrangements were concluded over bottles of Coca-Cola on the dimensions of the obituary poster and the colours to be used. The master printer’s forehead furrowed.

“You want it to read thus.” He read out loudly. “Obituary! Obituary! Obituary! Having suffered mercilessly in the hands of both fate and country for years uncountable, I wish to announce my death planned as follows: Means—New form of suicide. Venue—Central Post Office. Date—Sunday, September 23rd 2017. Time—12 noon.” The master printer dropped the paper on his table. The man nodded his approval. The master printer had no doubts in his mind that this client was suffering from some mental illness. He contemplated what to do. There was no way his company’s name would appear on the posters. The master printer gulped the remainder of his Coca-Cola and...