Three days later and Johnjohnson knew he had a problem. The itching on his armpit had refused to stop. It looked like something just under his skin was twisting and turning, biting and wriggling to get free. And the itching never ever stopped. It was there when he went to sleep at night and there when he woke up in the morning. He took his bath several times and rubbed ointments on it, all to no avail.
Johnjohnson studied his armpit in the reflection of a mirror but, aside from the scratch marks made by his long dirty nails, there was no sore or boil or furuncle or pustule. No single bump to indicate he had been bitten or stung. He pinched the skin between his fingernails at the point where he felt the itching occurred the most and squeezed with all his might until he drew blood. He winced in pain.
Yet the itching persisted.
He was still worrying over his armpit when he received a call.
“Oga, na me Cletus. Our target don ready.”
“Good, I’m coming.” Johnjohnson replied and cut the call. He looked at the time, 7pm. This new target was said to be carrying over five million naira in a Ghana-must-go bag in the trunk of his car. Johnjohnson punched his fist in the air triumphantly; this job was going to make up for the last one he botched. He hurriedly put on some clothes, loaded his gun and concealed a dagger in a special holster in his belt. He looked around to see if he had missed anything, then putting his fingers once again under his armpit, he went out the door.