Cover Art: Fredy is fine & having fun, by Dastid Miluka. Ink on paper, 2016, 42 x 30 cm. Private Collection. For inquiries about this piece, please contact us at art@thebrusselsreview.com.
If you’re willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land; but if you refuse and rebel, you shall be devoured by the sword; for the mouth of the Lord has spoken. – Isaiah 1:19-20
In less than fifteen minutes, Elvis was at Hillhead, unlocking the door to his house. He walked in and found Molly sitting on the couch in silence, which he thought odd since she routinely welcomed him with screams and questions about his lateness and whereabouts.
“Hey, babe.” He made to kiss her protruding stomach, but she shoved his face away.
“Are you okay?”
Molly folded her arms and looked away. Her countenance since Elvis arrived had been unpleasant. He followed her eyes and noticed his travel bag was laid on the couch, with his belongings scattered all over the sitting room.
“What is going on?” Elvis asked.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Molly asked.
Elvis winced. “Shit!” he exclaimed beneath his breath as he ran for the bag. “The letter!” He dived into the bag, hurling the remains of his belongings until he reached the bottom, shaking the bag for something to fall out. He set it down, looking terrified.
“Looking for this?” said Molly behind him.
He turned around and saw a familiar envelope on the center table. “Fuck!” he mouthed.
“Yes. You’re fucked.”
“Babe—I know you’re mad, but let me explain.”
“Explain what?” she scoffed. “You don’t even know what’s in the letter.”
Elvis opened his mouth to talk but found the words wouldn’t come out.
“Go ahead,” Molly said. “Read it. I would love to know what the letter says.”
“Babe, I don’t need to—”
“I said read the damn fucking letter,” she shouted, making a fist.
Elvis nodded.
“I’m trying hard to protect the baby,” she said, rubbing her stomach. “So please, just read the damn fucking letter.”
Elvis picked up the letter and cleared his throat. He looked at Molly, hoping she’d have a change of mind, but the anger on her face suggested otherwise.
“Dear Elvis Osahon,” he began. “This is to inform you that…”
“Won’t you at least let me know who it is from?”
Elvis scowled, concealing his distress.
“UKVI.” The tone of his voice was losing strength. Molly nodded and urged him on.
“This is to inform you that we have withdrawn your right to live and work in the United Kingdom…”
Elvis paused as those words flushed his memory with recollected thoughts of how he could have avoided this letter, avoided Molly.
“This is as a result of the University of Birmingham informing us of withdrawing your admission offer due to lack of attendance and tuition payment. You are hereby advised to…”
Elvis stopped reading and slid the letter into his pocket.
“Babe, let me explain.”
Molly’s face was livid. “You know I crosschecked the date the letter was sent. Isn’t it funny that we moved to Glasgow just weeks after that, and all of a sudden you declared you wanted to have a baby with me.”
“Molly, you also said you wanted a baby.”
“No!” Molly shouted, standing to her feet. “Don’t even go there, Elvis. Don’t!”
“The same want, just different reasons,” said Elvis in a fading tone.
“I want to be a mother. But you want a child with me to secure your stay in this country.”
“No,” Elvis said, shaking his head with impatience. “You’re an erratic junkie no white man wants anything to do with. You chose me because I am Black and can be used,” he retorted, “and if we’re being fair, you started using me before this letter ever arrived.”
She struck his face so hard it sent a wave of shock down Elvis’s spine. He paused a few seconds, holding his face, and when he lifted it, his right eye was sore red.
“I know you’re mad, but please, can we just talk this out without cursing and fighting?”
“You lying bastard,” Molly set out to hit him over and over again.
As he stood, allowing her to vent without impeding her punches, he closed his eyes, disappointed that his secret was finally out and unsure what would happen next. With Molly, he wasn’t sure of anything.
Her reactions made him feel worse than a cheating husband, like he had betrayed the very core of their relationship. Yet, in his guilt, he knew they had both betrayed themselves.
Regardless of her fitful nature, he was sure she loved him, and he loved her. He always did—in a complicated way—until the letter from UKVI came. Then his love for her became selfish. He became focused on remaining in a land in which he was never welcomed in the first place.
Molly began to slam her feet against the couch.
“Molly, please. Just stop. You’re hurting yourself and the baby.”
“Baby!” Molly exclaimed, then burst into sudden capricious laughter. “You no longer have a baby.”
“Molly,” Elvis said with a sense of impending danger. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t.”
Molly looked over Elvis’s shoulder with a humorless smile. Following her eyes, Elvis swiveled. She was staring at the kitchen.
She made an attempt to run into the kitchen, but he clogged her path.
“Molly, whatever it is, don’t do it. Please, I beg you.”
“It’s too late for that,” she yelled, trying to circle around him.
She made a run for it, but he grabbed her, and she yelled in pain.
“The baby, the baby!”
Elvis set her free, attempting to rub her stomach from worry. She hit him hard on the face and dashed for the kitchen, tearing part of his cloth in the process.
He was still tending to his face when she returned with a knife.
“Babe. Why are you holding a knife?”
“Is it this baby you speak of?” she said, lifting the knife to her stomach, poised to drive it in.
“You won’t have it. We won’t give you the pleasure of using us to remain in this country.”
“Go back to where you came from, Monkey.”
“Molly, think about this. You’ll hurt yourself too.”
“I don’t care,” she spat, raising the knife.
She poised the blade to drive it into her stomach when Elvis shouted, “Okay, okay, fine! I’ll leave. Just don’t do anything to hurt the baby.”
“Just leave and never come back.”
“Yeah, yeah. At least let me get my stuff.”
Molly looked down at his scattered clothes and nodded. As Elvis bent to gather his belongings, Molly glanced away. He saw his chance. Leaping at her, he grabbed the knife, but the sudden motion caused her arm to be cut in the struggle.
“My hand!” Molly screamed. “You bastard! You want to kill me!”
“It was a mistake, I swear.”
“You’re not getting away with this.” Molly grabbed her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed.
“Who are you calling?” Elvis demanded, panic setting in.
“What do you think?” she shot back, without looking at him.
“Molly, drop the phone. You know my life will be over if they come.”
“I don’t care,” she said, a malevolent smile spreading across her face.
“Hello?” she said into the phone. “I have a crime to report. My partner just tried to kill me…”
“Shit!” Elvis cursed, looking around in disarray. His gaze landed on the car key lying on the table near Molly. Before she could react, he bolted out the door with the knife in hand.
Elvis sat alone in the bustling Buchanan Bus Station, staring blankly at the hurried world around him. Everything felt surreal. His life had collapsed into ruin, yet the city around him moved on, indifferent.
He focused on the Wincher’s statue, trying to imagine the story behind the sculpture. Memories of his past swirled in his mind—his mother’s struggles back in Nigeria, his desperation to succeed, the lure of fast money through scams, and the naive hope that life abroad would be better.
At sixteen, his life began its decline when his mother could no longer afford to give him pocket money for school. He’d sold bread on the streets to make ends meet, and he remembered envying Bashiru, their neighbor’s son, who returned from just five months abroad with a brand-new car.
“What business are you into?” Elvis had asked Bashiru.
“The business of being smart and fast,” Bashiru had replied with a sly smile.
“And in five months you bought a car?!”
Bashiru had laughed. “If you’re serious, I’ll show you. Have you heard of Yahoo Yahoo?”
From that moment, Elvis’s fate had been sealed. The scams funded a brief period of comfort—a car, a house renovation, even a stipend for his mother. But when the schemes dried up, he had scraped together what was left to study in the United Kingdom. He’d promised his mother that he would make her proud.
Instead, here he was, alone, lost, and holding a knife in the middle of Glasgow.
“Hey, you okay, mate?” a security guard nudged him out of his thoughts. “You look lost.”
Elvis forced a weak smile. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
The guard walked away, leaving Elvis to his despair. He returned his gaze to the statue, thinking of his mother and the home he couldn’t return to. He considered praying to God for a miracle, but deep down, he knew the fault lay not in the stars but in himself.
He pulled out his phone and typed a message.
Sorry how things turned out. I would have wished it differently. I did love you from the start—maybe complicated, but love you I did. Till we meet again.
After a moment’s hesitation, he hit send. Then he took one last look around the concourse, inhaled the cold night air, and started walking toward the center.
“He’s got a knife!” a woman shouted, pointing at him.
Elvis grabbed the woman nearest to him, holding the knife to her neck.
“Just do what I say, and I won’t hurt you,” he told her. She nodded, trembling, and lifted her hands in surrender.
“Move,” he commanded, leading her toward the center of the station.
The concourse emptied in seconds, save for onlookers at a safe distance, capturing the scene on their phones. Security guards stood frozen, unsure how to intervene.
“Stay back, or I’ll hurt her!” Elvis yelled, though his voice lacked conviction. Then he whispered to the woman, “It’s an empty threat. Don’t be afraid.”
The woman gulped, struggling to believe him.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.
“I won’t. I promise.” He lowered the knife slightly. “You can put your hands down.”
She obeyed hesitantly, casting quick glances at the guards and back at Elvis.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Do you have kids?” he asked in return.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice still shaking. “Just one.”
“Are you proud of him?”
“Of course,” she said softly.
Elvis let out a bitter laugh. “I have one too. Technically still on the way. And I swear I love him—or her. Even though… even though I did it for selfish reasons.” He put a hand over his face, trying to contain his tears.
From the corner of her eye, the woman noticed a guard signaling her to make a run for it. She shook her head slightly, focusing on Elvis.
“You still have time to make things right,” she said gently.
Elvis shook his head. “That boat has sailed,” he said, his voice breaking. He placed his head on her shoulder and sobbed. “Do you think my mother would be proud of me after seeing this?”
The woman lifted his face and looked into his eyes. “A mother will always be proud of her children, no matter what.”
The tender moment ended as police officers arrived, guns drawn.
“We have you surrounded,” one officer said. “Put the knife down and kneel.”
Elvis ignored them, whispering to the woman, “At my signal, run left. Do you understand?”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“Run!”
She broke free, sprinting left as instructed.
Elvis turned to face the officers, his hands trembling as he held the knife.
“Kneel!” the officer repeated.
Elvis took a step forward. A gunshot rang out, striking his arm. A second shot hit his chest. The knife fell, and then he fell.
As he collapsed, he caught one last glimpse of the Wincher’s statue. In his mind, he imagined arriving home, his mother running into his arms. He smiled faintly as the life drained from his eyes.
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it.