Fiction – Page 12 – a cooking pot and twisted tales

I met her!

At long last!

Now, I can satisfy my curiosity and also put my aching desire to rest.

I fidgeted as we stood in the quiet restaurant sizing each other up. She was calm.

I had chosen an exclusive restaurant, to give our brains an opportunity to assimilate each others presence,

without getting consumed in the distractions that comes from the busy-ness of a crowded place.

My stomach was filled with butterflies. I could almost feel the rushing flow of my blood in my veins.

This was a moment that I had thought of all my conscious life.

The when? The what if? The how?

I felt that meeting her would be a glorious turning point in my stable life.

We would cry, laugh and take selfies.

We would talk non-stop to cover so much ground.

I came clutching the photo album, that I had put together.

I needed to slay my demons and I felt that she had the sword.

Finally, she would bring some rainbow and sunshine,

into the deepest parts of me that had lived for 27 years with the question; WHAT IF?

I wanted to get rid of that feeling of rejection; that feeling of inadequacy and doubt,

which had been constant shadowy companions, peeking over my shoulders.

I searched her eyes,

They were gray like mine; but they bore no warmth in their depths.

The curve of her lips which were shaped like mine; drew hard on the elegant E-cigarette which adorned her lips,

yet they could hardly shape into a smile.

Her raven black hair was devoid of any grey hairs. No strand was out of place. She was perfectly groomed.

She was still a very attractive woman; for her age.

I subconsciously smoothed down my floral Sunday best. I had dressed to impress.

Her facial features were stiff; I figured that it was due to the use of botox and not just the harshness of life.

A puff and a sip later,

Without much ado, she dove right into the matter.

I think you are grown up enough to understand, she said.

You came when I was least prepared to have a child, and the truth is that I am still not sure that I want that responsibility. I have never had motherly instincts, and at my age, I should know. I agreed to meet with you after all these years because I felt that was the least that I could do; so that you can move on.

I do not apologize for my decision to let you go. I did what I did because it was the best thing for me.

Does that make me selfish? Maybe?

But, look at you! You turned out very well. I am happy about that.

She picked up the tab, picked up her expensive looking leather pocket book and walked out of the revolving door,

without a backward glance. Only the whiff of her perfume and the trailing puff of her smoke lingered for a while.

I sat in utmost silence and bewilderment for quite a bit.

I polished off the remaining Cabernet Sauvignon as my idling brain struggled to process the entire episode.

For some reason, I did not feel a heavy crash of disappointment.

Some odd sense of burdened release seemed to be my most paramount feeling.

I felt like a captive whose shackles had been released. Free to love freely,

the woman who has nurtured me all these years, without any sense of guilt or boundaries.

I realized what my biological mother was,

a mere vehicle that providence used to bring me here.

That a good moment of feeling sexy and conception,

Did not automatically make you a good mother.

Through the figment of my imagination, that I had built over the years,

I had accorded so much what if’s and possibilities to her.

I was happy that I met her.

Happy to have the what if’s, the how and the when answered,

All in one fell swoop.

I may not have slain all my demons,

But I left my doubts and shadowy companions,

back in that exclusive restaurant.

I went home to my mother, my mum.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

At last there was eerie calm. The heated tussle was over. She clutched the bloodied, sharp butcher knife, her hands totally saturated in blood, which trickled down the cracks of her fingers in rivulets and dripped all over the floor.

In the frenzy of the struggle, the blood had splattered everywhere, including the walls. She was surprised at the amount of blood which had pooled on the floor. Indeed, it would require a thorough clean up, if not the stains will become affixed and she would hate such constant reminders.

Hissing in pain, she turned on the kitchen tap which simply sputtered, coughed up a few drops of water and ceased. Wishful thinking she said to herself. This night is just going nicely. Stomping out of her back door, she fetched a bowl of water from one of the jerrycans of water that they purchased from the roaming water vendors and tried to wash her hands to staunch the flow of blood from the cut on her left index finger. Her upper arms had criss-crossed scratch marks. She mentally reminds herself to wear Iro and Buba for the next couple of days to ward off unnecessary inquisition.

Walking over to where he was sprawled haphazardly, she took several minutes to eye him in disdain and then went about the distasteful business of dissecting the remains in a meticulous surgical approach .

Hacking away at the body parts in small bits to make it easier to handle, every cut of flesh and squirt of blood forced the bile to rise in her throat but she tampered her desire to vomit and performed the odious act calmly. Some of these bones will require the cutlass to break them, she muttered to herself.

Her emotions were a mingle of sorrow, satisfaction, bitterness and anger which simmered inside her like a cauldron on a slow cook.

When did it come to this, Agnes wondered?

Heh! Nobody told me that this is how this marriage thing would be, she shrieked silently in her mind.

She had been totally blindsided with the unreasonable expectations.

She had wanted a clean break, an opportunity to start afresh, but no! He would have none of that talk!

He had to intimidate her into submission and silence. Just last week was their second anniversary and the stingy man couldn’t even buy me anything, yet he shamelessly collected the jersey of his favorite football club that I bought.

How did I rope myself into this slavery, she pondered?

Was this how others felt out there as well?

Were they driven to murderous tendencies yet had false smiles plastered on their lips to distract observations from the pain behind their eyes, until the dam burst and all hell broke loose?

I have always been afraid that one day, if this man does not kill me, I will kill him!

Using a big black disposable bag, she packed up all traces of her killing, moped up the blood as much as she could and prepared all the stuff that she felt she needed.

In deed, it had been a long, hectic day of nightmarish proportions. Dragging the refuse bags that she had accumulated, she took the less used winding back staircase, walked down the dusky, silent street to the communal refuse dump and disposed the bags.

Now, finally I can rest, she exhaled and quickly went back to her house. She was in no mood to encounter any nosy neighbor.

The pot was ready. Dishing a generous portion in his favorite serving bowl, she took it to the dinning.

He was still sprawled lackadaisically on the sofa, his slackened fingers had let go of the remote that he was clutching.

Linus, Linus, the Pepper soup is ready! She shook him harshly, in an attempt to wake him up from his snoring snooze.

Once he opened his bleary eyes, and made his way to the dinning, she served him his meal albeit grudgingly. She was too tired to eat.

Hissing yet again and mumbling under her breath as she wearily dragged herself to bed, she hoped that the hot spicy turkey pepper soup will scald his tongue.

What is the World coming to, she queried rhetorically? Back in the days when I was growing up, the men killed and carved the birds and animals whilst the women did the cooking.

This lazy man couldn’t even kill a Turkey and had sat in oblivious contentment whilst the stubborn bird gave me such a hard time!

She marveled at how a bird that it’s head was almost decapitated still managed to trash and jump around so much, causing a lot of havoc in her kitchen, a reluctant chuckle escaped her mouth when she recollected the run around that the big bird had given her.

Who knows? Maybe, one of these days, he will expect me to slaughter a cow.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Glossary:

Iro and Buba: Nigerian native wear, worn by women as wrapper and a top with very long, loose sleeves.

Pepper Soup: Hot, spicy soup made with meat,