Witch hunters have existed for as long as witches and witchcraft have existed—since the creation of the first man. They live among us—no different from us—yet, they possess the skill and weaponry to slay witches wherever they are. There’s much contention as to who was the first witch hunter, Cain or Moses. Remember that bible tale about Cain killing Abel and God punishing Cain? Well, it turns out that Cain had thought Abel was a devil worshiper and had gone ahead to kill Abel.
But he had been wrong and had gotten what he deserved. However, Moses received a word from God—a word that would go on to form the sacred mission of the witch hunters: thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. And so right from Moses, the first great witch hunter, down to Paul of Tarsus, the witch hunters have hunted down and killed those who practiced the dark arts. Great men of history like Joshua, Elijah, David, Solomon, Isaiah were all members of this sacred order of witch hunters.
And now, Femi Johnson, a middle level bank executive, was part of that order.
Femi wriggled his fingers as his emotions rode high on the waves of Frank Edward’s song, Bianule. He observed himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the white room. His black velvet jacket gleamed in the harsh fluorescent tube affixed to the ceiling. His matte black jeans clung to his thin legs. His black overcoat gave him that desperado feel. Today, he was going to kill a witch. Today, he was going to carry out his sacred duty.
Of course, all that was unnecessary. He didn’t need to have a special white room in which to prepare for his assassinations. He didn’t have to dress in black to hunt and slay witches. It was just that Femi had a proclivity for over-mystifying even the most mundane of tasks.
Femi picked up his scriptures, a squat thin book, and his faith, a small chalky stone. He placed both sacred items in his jacket and left the room.
During the day, he worked in a bank, but during the night, he sought witches’ covens and slew witches. It was his thirst, his hunger, to see the blood of those who practiced witchcraft run as the river Nile.
Femi wished he could say that he got his targets from the ‘spirit,’ but really, he got his targets from a dedicated website on the internet. Yesterday night, he had received a message. There was a witch somewhere near Mile Twelve. A level one witch, the message had said. He should have no problem dispatching the poor soul to Hell.
Femi was not one given to fear. However, the mysterious circumstances surrounding this mission caused his excitement to dampen. When a mission was given, a time frame was never given. Usually, he had enough time to scout the area, understand the terrain where the witch lived, and then plan an attack. But the message he had received was specific; he had less than thirty six hours to execute the witch.
Outside his apartment, Femi powered up his bike and rode out of the house. In minutes, he was gunning his vehicle down Ikorodu road. The highway was devoid of cars, so Femi drove in the middle of the road. His overcoat wriggled with a raping sound in the air behind him. At this time of day, when the sun was on the other side of the Earth, it was easier to kill a witch—potential suspects were sleeping.
Killing a witch wasn’t murder because God had commanded it. So, every time Femi went out hunting, he knew he was in the service of God. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, God had told Moses. In modern day English, that could easily translate to: kill every goddamn witch alive.