Benjamin assessed the corralled horses, his mind deeply disturbed.
”Who could have done such a dastardly thing,” he mulled over and over. His disturbed mien hardly taking cognizance of the rain that soaked him to the skin.
”It is only three more weeks to the Steeplechase competition and some mean snake got it into his head to contaminate the horses oats, now my best mount Thunder Hoof is down.”
”Could it have been Lucas, my ever envious neighbor?” ”Or that oily tongued land grabber, Max?” He debated.
The answers were not forthcoming. He scratched his head in indecision.
”I need to choose a good horse and very fast too.”
His mind quickly settled on Sun-dance, whose silky white mane swam down his neck like waterfall, and his tail swept carelessly with pride.
He almost stood apart from the rest in confidence and regal posture, with muscles that rippled under his white coat.
It is rumored that his sire is the direct descendant of Crazy Horse, an Apache Warrior’s mount.
An assortment of okada, keke, and several kabu’kabu/taxi’s, park lackadaisically on the hard-packed earthen kerb, beside the gutter that Mama Put used as her frontage. This is a busy corner of the road side, which teems with human traffic.
Mama Put’s shack is brimming with customers going in and coming out. Some still have their toothpicks in-between their teeth, sucking in air, in an attempt to dislodge a tiny morsel that had stolen into a gap, whilst some insert a finger in their mouths, using it as a wrench to pluck out remnants of chewed meat.
Lunch time is one of Mama’s busiest period. These rushed gathering of men jostle each other for space on the worn wooden benches and the few mismatched plastic chairs inside the crowded shambolic tent of the popular buka.
The men are taking a proper break from the morning rush. Most times they leave their homes on empty stomach as early as 5:00am for the quick business turnaround of taking passengers to their places of work and trade. Leaving early not only helps to put more money in their pockets, but it is also a means of beating the unbelievable go-slow which builds up as early as 6:30 in the morning.
Hasty gobbles of soft Agege bread, slathered with blue band butter chased down with hot tea from the local Mai shayi, serves as a respite till lunch time. On days when there is a lag between passengers, then it could be a quick meal of hot fried akara balls and ogi or kunu.
Hot Akara Balls
From 6.00am in the morning till she closes shop in the evening, Mama Put’s domain is a place of systematic chaos. She endeavors to start early to cater to her early bird customers and it was not a strange sight to see a flashy car or two with a customer carrying a food warmer to make purchase and eat in the comfort of their office, shop or home.
Her rivals spread snippets of malicious gossip that mama uses spiritual powers to keep her customers enraptured, but these back talks neither stopped her nor did it deter her customers. Nkoyo – Mama Put’s real name – could cook. Her food is always tasty, fresh and her demeanor pleasant.
The men look forward to their lunch. It is a place of camaraderie; a place you need to be, to keep abreast with the goings on in the vicinity. Heads crowd the steaming pots of jollof and dodo, white rice and stew, porridge beans and yam; each customer making their request and pointing out their particular choice of a piece of assorted meat or fish, whilst those who waited on the next round of pounded yam straddled their benches and engaged in idle chatter.
As they crowd the eating arena, an overpowering smell of dried human perspiration clings to the air, mingling with the divergent aroma wafting from pots of food and this creates a unique smell in itself.
The deep hums of their voices rhyme with the kpom, kpom, kpom beat of the pestle and the mortar at the back of the tent where a young lad mashes the boiled yam – which occasionally mingles with beads of his sweat – into softer lumps for swallowing with native soup. Pounded yam is a heavy meal appreciated by the hardworking men. It kept the hunger pangs at bay for hours on end.
Pounded Yam
Over their hot plates of food, their loud voices compete to regale each other with anecdotes of the days events. Of cantankerous, corrupt officials who dot every few meters of the road, casing the riders and extorting money from them. Sometimes, it would be the story of an irksome passenger or a tussle with another rider. They argue over football, a division of thoughts depending on the persons Premier League of support and their gist’s are often interspersed with ribald jokes. They talk politics, share their opinionated advise about women, touching on this and that.
“Ha!” “Mama, na wa o!” exclaims a stocky regular. This poundo fit belleful person so? E small o, he carries on talking as he receives his plate of pounded yam and afang soup.
Mama generously cuts a little extra portion and adds to the lumpy mound on his plate.
A beg give me pure water, another customer known as Sadiq requests.
Mercy, one of Mama’s kitchen girl heeds his request and ambles over with a cold sachet of pure water, which is kept cool with the ice blocks purchased from the ice block supplier.
Sadiq, calls her “my wife, my wife”, pats her ample waist and Mercy giggles as she steps away to answer another customer.
Jollof Rice and Dodo
It’s a typical selling day and nothing is amiss until a customer rushes in, breathless with news of calamity. A demolition order from the new local government chairman is taking place. Makeshift stalls, shacks and all are being callously pulled down. They say it is to make way for modern stalls that Mr. Chairman wants to construct and sell or rent to the highest bidders.
Grumbling of mistreatment of poor masses in the hands of elected officials ensues. The men disperse quickly in order not to be caught in the backlash and have their properties impounded, as the rumble of the crushing Bulldozer is heard chugging it’s way slowly and surely, leaving destruction, tears and anguish in its wake.
Mama flounders as they hasten to gather crockery, aluminum pots, pans and other items that they can move quickly. Her thoughts are scattered to the four winds as she glumly watches her modest enterprise bulldozed to the ground. Tears leak out of her gritty eyes, rolling down her face unashamedly. She is caught in a wave of abject despondency.
Her sweat and efforts of many hard months fast turn into a crumpled heap of rubbish. It has taken so much to get to this point. To get to a point where she had a steady stream of customers and feasible income. Her family existed from hand to mouth; from the sweat of her brows and thoughts of her children, Uduak and Kufre’s school fees which is due in a couple of weeks cause more tears to well and brim over.
The bitterness of her situation pools and curdles her spirit. She rails and rants in anger, her vitriolic emotions overflowing its bounds. Her life has been a deep struggle; from one point to the other, that it sometimes feels as if the current sweeping her is too strong for her to keep her head up.
“Where will I start from?” Nkoyo mutters to no one in particular.
“How will I now catch up with my book me down customers?” She ponders fleetingly?
The vote she that she cast for the imbecilic Chairman a thought to regret and hiss over.
For as long as she can remember, she pays the local government touts protection money in cash and with free plates of food too. They extorted sums of pin money with promises that her space will always be maintained. She even contributed when all the vendors were approached to add their meager support to the Chairman’s campaign kitty.
Now that trouble had come calling, where were they to flex their lying muscles? Where were the thieving local government officials and their area boys? The Area fathers have slunk away like sly foxes with their tails tucked in-between their legs.
Nkoyo sits on an overturned mortar beside the rubble in weariness, her ambitions of expanding her business callously truncated. Her leaden legs are too tired to carry her home.
Glossary for words in italics that you may not know:
Afang soup: A vegetable soup originating from the South Eastern part of Nigeria – Cross River states.
Agege bread: A very popular low class bread baked in Lagos and favored by laborers. Usually very soft and eaten with so many variations of items e.g eggs, beans, bean cakes, etc
Akara: Bean cakes made from peeled black eyed peas and fried in hot oil.
Area boys/fathers: These are loosely organized gangs of young men, who roam the streets of Lagos. They extort money from passers-by, act as informal security guards, and perform other “odd jobs” in return for compensation.
Book me down: Customers who purchase food on credit and keep an account with the food vendor.
Buka: Local food canteen a step below restaurants. Food cheaper than the restaurants.
Dodo: Fried ripe plantain
Go slow: Slow crawling traffic
Jollof: A popular meal eaten in most West African homes, a one-pot meal made with fried tomato and pepper stew, rice, meat and spices
Keke: Tricycles
Kabu’kabu: Shared taxi
Kpom, kpom: Typical sound made from pounding.
Kunu: Popular drink consumed throughout Nigeria but mostly in the North. Made out of millet or sorghum
Mama Put: Road side food seller so called because her customers are known to beg for extra food for their plates ”mama abeg put more now”
Mai Shayi: Road side hot tea sellers
Na wa o: Exclamation which expresses so many things such as surprise, woe, you don’t say etc
Ogi: Liquefied maize meal which is thickened with hot water and sweetened with sugar and/or milk.
Okada: Commercial motorcycle used as vehicle for hire in Nigeria.
Pure Water: Water bagged in disposable sachets.
This poundo fit belleful person so?: Will this pounded yam fill me up?
You cheated on me, playing hanky panky, with all the fancy ladies.
I took it with stoicism, and a whole bunch of Catholicism.
You walloped me up, and pummeled me down.
I tried to run, but never got far.
I turned to you, yes you, you, all of you.
Y’all said to return, have faith and pray some more.
I fretted, I pleaded, but deaf ears could not hearken.
I prayed, I cried, I fasted and I called on all the Gods.
But it seemed neither Heaven nor Hell cared to hear my call.
Now I am here, trapped in this bubble.
My soul is anguished, raging with fury.
Do the dead talk? Who knows?
Soon enough you will know!
My name is Nnedimma and I have a lot to say. I would however, like to ask you a question: How doyou fix something that has been so broken?I tried to do so. Hanging on with bare tentacles to a union that had gone down the slope faster than a flash flood.
I was a starry eyed bride, full of hope and anticipation of forever after. It was a splendid wedding ceremony, with all the required glitz and glamor. The honeymoon at Obudu Cattle Ranch was filled with raunchy moments as was anticipated, but we soon touched down to planet Earth several months thereafter.
Let me take you down memory lane just a little bit. I met Fidelis one Saturday afternoon at a gas station. The petroleum product scarcity in Lagos was as impossible as ever and I was scared of purchasing black market fuel that was sometimes adulterated. I had just bought my car through a loan scheme that was offered by my bank and did not want to take the chance of buying road-side product that might lead to the breakdown of my newly acquired ride. I therefore preferred to queue up at an impossibly long and rowdy fuel line. I was practically the only female in a maze of rowdy men who were struggling and maneuvering to secure their own purchase.
After what seemed like hours of sitting in the car under the sweltering sun, the Manager of the station decided that they were closing sales after a few more vehicles, and everywhere just became a mad house. The men rushed to the pump, jostling each other for vantage point, and even passing a few bucks as bribe to the attendant so that he would fill their jerrycans. I tried to jostle along with the bunch of men who were a mixture of the good, the bad and the downright dirty. Unable to make any headway, I was tired of being pushed back and forth, I dishearteningly turned to go back to my car and drive away; resigning myself to the use of public transportation until things eased off, when this good looking guy approached me and asked if he could be of assistance.
I emptied my tale of fuel woes and frustration to his interested ears without really expecting much help. He asked me if I could be patient for just a little while and assured me that once the cars thinned out a bit, he would help me procure some fuel, since the station manager was a friend of his. I happily complied and got the promised assistance in exchange of my phone number – I felt grateful enough for the help to graciously give him my number.
Gradually, he warmed his way into my life. He would call to ask if I was in need of fuel or just to say hello. I was not in any relationship and my life seemed to revolve around my banking work, attending social engagements, church activities and more work. I sometimes felt lonely and was looking forward to having my own man. My long standing relationship had fizzled out when he left for Malaysia in pursuance of greener pastures and I was not eager to pursue an affair that was on the road to nowhere.
Our relationship blossomed very quickly and soon after he was hinting on tying the knot. As far as I knew, he was working as a Real estate agent cum business man who brought in cars to sell and lived in a nice two bedroom bungalow in Abraham Adesanya. That was enough for me. We would pool our resources together, I told him, besides I thought that as a team we could achieve a whole lot. Seven months following courtship, we walked down the aisle. In retrospect, I now realize that he had stylishly coerced me into footing the bill for our marriage.
Fast forward to six months after wedding: He claimed Realty business was not moving so well, he claimed that his business partner that sent the vehicles was cheating him and that he was no longer interested in dealing with him. I totally believed him and empathized with him. I did not mind using my income to support both of us hoping that the flow of the tide would change soon enough. I would leave early for work as usual, whilst husband dear would occupy himself getting his groove on with the neighborhood chicks and the tide continued to ebb as the days trickled by and I began to get worried.
I cajoled him to seek a paid job and that earned me the first beating. The first slap seemed like a joke as shocking as it was for me. I excused his beatings, penciling them down as frustration. I tried not to nag; he said I did not care. I tried to encourage him; he said I was talking to him in a condescending and arrogant manner. There seemed to be no right way, and the beatings continued. I tried to hide my misery and predicament until I could no longer hold back.
Turning to close friends and family for support, I got asked a lot of questions and a sack full of advice. Stop nagging him. Pray harder. Fast for him. Are you giving him enough sex? Does he like your cooking? Why not hand over your salary to him, so that he can feel in charge? Have you tried to stop getting home so late? What of a baby? When are you guys planning to start a family? On and on it went; but the most common advise was that marriage was for better for worse; to just stick it out and it will get better over time.
I chose to stick it out and finally got pregnant. Feeling as sick as a dog, I excused myself from work to go home and rest. Yours truly was very busy engaging the neighbors nanny in a torrid afternoon sexual session and I became privy to the distasteful scene. We had a bad fight, and the early pregnancy came down. I took off home to my sisters house, distressed and broken.
Weeks following, he came begging cap in hand, promising change and every possible promise. Tired of feeling like a failure for not making my marriage work and with advices ringing in my ears, I chose to try again. I obtained loan with his constant cajoling to assist him start a new venture and he simply applied the loan on ventures unknown. Months passed down the line and when there was nothing to show for the venture, I decided to play detective to get to the root of the matter, my trust in him had wavered badly.
My discoveries were very discomfiting. The neighbors nanny was fully expectant and my money was financing an apartment for her. I lost my cool, in total fury, embarrassment and bitterness, I fought. I fought with all my might, biting, scratching, screaming, crying until the lights went out and here I am.
Yes, I am alive but motionless. I can hear from a deep void, the consistent repetition of the Holy rosary from my mother as she petitions Heaven to wake me up from my deep slumber. I can hear the whoosh sounds made by the strange machine close to my narrow bed. Sometimes, I feel myself float out and come back to roost, searching for dear Fidelis to teach him a lesson or two. I cannot wait to burst loose from my motionless state of nothingness.
I blamed myself for my ignorance and naivety. For falling in love with the notion of love, that I failed to identify badly damaged goods. Filled with the confidence that I could influence my man to positive change through the mere force of my love, little did I know that it took far more than loving a man, far more than looking good, far more than satisfying all his sexual cravings as much as is humanly possible and far more than cooking delight-some meals to keep his roving eyes, his furious punches and his profligate manners at bay.
Little did I know that I was not the one that could bring a change within him if he was unwilling to change.
Foot note: The Obudu Cattle Ranch known presently as the Obudu Mountain Resort is found on the Obudu Plateau close to the Cameroon Border in the northeastern part of Cross River State of Nigeria, approximately 110 kilometres (68 mi) east of the town of Ogoja and 65 kilometres (40 mi) from the town of Obudu in Obanliku Local Government.
Meera dipped the second stick into the collection of urine and within minutes the line appeared again. The instant pregnancy test read positive a second time.
Her suspicions were firmly confirmed. Butterfly flutters of excitement filled her stomach. She couldn’t wait to tell Kevin her good news. It would be a nice surprise, she hoped. He would be back in two days from his visit to his hometown – New Orleans. He went to see his ailing mom. It was not news that she wanted to share on the phone. His expressions mattered. Apparently, their excitement at graduating summa cum laude and having jobs already lined up at the prestigious Texas medical center has yielded dividends. This was a bit unplanned, but that is the likely result of getting carried away.
She fretted a bit over how it would affect her new job. She wondered if she would make a good mother. For some reason, she felt sure Kevin would make a great dad. For a huge guy, he was very gentle and caring. Meera daydreamed. She could visualize the adorable bundle of joy. The baby’s features would be a merge of Kevin’s dark handsome looks and her delicate Asian look. For a moment, she paused a bit on how her baby would be classified, but she did not ponder seriously on that question. This is America, where everything is almost possible. Her child/children would have the best upbringing that they could possibly afford to give them; and they would be loved very much – that was the most important thing.
They had dated secretly for a while but she was tired of pretending that he was just a friend in front of her friends and family. Their love affair had blossomed from their respected friendship as two medical students studying together. They were both very intelligent and supportive of each other. They found they shared a whole lot in common except their race, and religion, but Meerah felt that these issues were not insurmountable.
Kevin, made her feel very cherished, and most times, in the duration of their relationship, he deferred to her a lot. His handsome, calm and confident demeanor had left her tongue-tied at the onset of their study, but his dogged, and positively infectious attitude had finally managed to draw her closer. She knew she had found her soul mate.
It was time to introduce their love to the World. She hoped her parents would grow to love Kevin as much as she did. Especially when their grandchild arrives. Her parents are enlightened and educated. Her father is a talented surgeon whilst her mom who has been a home-maker all through was quite abreast with the changes in time.
Kevin’s reaction was as expected and more. He was ecstatic but expressed his concern about her family. Assuring him that her family would come around, she advised that they break the news to them as a team over the weekend.
Saturday evening’s dinner ended in a fiasco. Kevin had been to the home of the Misra’s before, but that was in a party of other friends. They had come for Meera’s birthday as well as the festival of light – Diwali and the festival of colors – Holi. Now seated as the only stranger in their midst was not a very comfortable feeling. Meera’s mother did not appear quite as warm as before and Dr. Misra was very polite to the point of distant.
He liked curry, masala and all the Indian dishes that he had tasted in the past, but tonight he could hardly swallow a bite. The meal was barely over, when Meera decided to break the news of their engagement to her parents.
Her mom flew up in surprise, knocking over the flask of black tea, her brother flew into a tirade and the situation went downhill very fast. Tears, table banging and hot invective exchange of words in Hindi flew up and down the room. It was chaotic. Kevin could not understand what was being said but knew that it did not sound good. Dr. Misra asked him to leave and out of respect he left with a lot of unease.
The heated argument went on with a lot of acrimony and blame passed from one end to the other. Mrs. Misra chided her husband for not supporting her proposal to find a husband for Meera earlier than now. Now she was about to lead them into a mess. How would she live it down, she wondered.
”You cannot mean to marry him?” she queried her daughter harshly.
”I do mama, I love him” Meera replied.
”No you cannot”, she continued. ”We always marry our own”.
”What is wrong with him”? ”Just who is our own”? Meera wailed. This was not the reaction she had expected. She knew they would be taken aback but not this difficult.
”Deepak, please talk to your daughter”, Mrs. Misra implored her husband.
”Well, I am pregnant and I would like to marry my baby’s father”, Meera declared adding fuel to the fire.
Her mother squeaked very loudly and sank in the couch in a half swoon.
Her brother promised to kill Kevin.
The dog ran and hid behind the big potted plant.
Sanjay’s wife Amira shrank into her seat like a frightened mouse, her kajal darkened eyes standing out starkly in her face.
The only person who seemed to maintain a semblance of control was Dr. Misra, the only sign of his distress was the increased tick of the veins by his temples.
Meera stormed upstairs to her room. She fumed as she thought through the whole scenario. She had never really liked the clannish, caste systems of her people, where the discrimination even amongst her people was so visceral. Their caste system was so wickedly divisive that she still could not understand why some people were considered ”Dalits – untouchables”.
She hated the arranged marriages of two strangers; her brothers marriage was a case in point. Amira, her sister in law never looked happy and never spoke much. She suspected that Sanjay was being too overbearing towards his wife. She suspected that he beat her, but nobody said anything.
She could not understand her parents, especially her mothers vehemence towards Kevin. They got on fairly well with their African American neighbors and the handsome Sudanese couple that taught in the school district. She was glad her orientation was not like theirs. It would be a rough path to take, but if running off to be with Kevin would be the answer, then so be it.
Mrs. Misra calmed down and started plotting. She knew that antagonizing her daughter would probably incite Meera’s rebel heart into eloping with that black boy. If it was a nice white boy, maybe, it would be easier to condone. But this! It was unacceptable. Now she could see why Meera always took her recent supportive stance against the police for what she perceived as a persecution of the black race. The whole situation was still incredulous but she had to thread with caution. She still felt angry with Deepak for failing to heed her advice, but as a mother, she had to take charge and correct things before they got out of hand. They will be off to Mumbai as soon as she can make plausible arrangements.
There was an uneasy calm in the house. It seemed as if everyone including the dog tip-toed around each other the following day. Having thought through her plan, Mrs. Misra made her daughters favorite soup, which was strongly laced with herbal condiments to stimulate uterine bleeding and take care of business. She knocked on Meera’s door, waving a flag for truce and invited her to come and eat with her.
Thankfully and mindlessly consuming the steaming, tasty bowl of broth with chapati, Meera listened to her mothers chatter.
It was just the perfect opportunity. Disaster had struck unexpectedly in his favor and he intended to grab it immediately. The past few months had become very harrowing as the noose around his neck got tighter that at times he felt out-rightly choked.
To sleep was proving more difficult for Eric and as each day passed, he spent insomniac nights chewing Pepto Bismol to calm his nervous stomach. The unexpected wave of staff lay-offs at the firm was getting a bit too sporadic and uncomfortable and the forthcoming audit would surely give rise to a whole lot of eyebrows and dust trail.
It had been cool running’s over the past years but disappearing without trace was no longer as easy as before. Now it seemed luck was smiling at him with the massive train wreck that had just occurred. The ensuing inferno and mangled wreck had left so many dead and burnt beyond description.
It was simply luck that his appointment in the neighboring city; San Francisco which was a three hours train ride away from home had been delayed and he had missed catching the train by mere minutes. He had tussled with the idea of changing his ticket for a later train or hanging out in town and scratching some itch, when the news of the accident broke.
Eric felt it was providence; even though he really didn’t believe in God. It was time to move on and to cover his tracks as usual. His steps grew lighter as he turned back and caught a cab back into town, his thoughts firing on as he quickly made his plans.
He pondered briefly on which color of contact lens he should use this time around. Should he grow his hair a few inches with a nicely trimmed goatee moustache or a full beard? He had fancied the scruffy yet debonair look of George Clooney a couple of months ago. Paired with scholarly glasses, he could definitely cut the image of a confident man who had it all figured out.
Having to keep up appearances over the past few years and maintaining Emily and his two little girls in style meant dipping his fingers deeply into the company till. A closer scrutiny of the accounts will definitely nail his coffin and he could not afford the beam of light which would shine on him; it could open a whole can of worms which were better left firmly closed.
He was also almost a hundred per cent sure that someone had been watching him very closely of recent. Anonymous little notes had started appearing in odd places with names and words supposedly known only by him. It really was time to skip town.
A little part of him would miss his daughters, he thought. “No matter, they will have to get by without me”, he quickly reassured himself. They were the reason he had tarried a bit longer than usual. Emily was not known for her brightness and she would never think beyond the fact that he died in the train wreck. She would mourn him appropriately.
It was still a sore point for him when he thought of how he had been had. He hated to think of the time he wasted courting Emily and how quickly she had succeeded in hustling him down the aisle, only for it to turn out that his father in law was actually not as wealthy or as generous as he had anticipated.
With only Emily as her fathers sole heir, he had been sure a life in the lap of luxury was guaranteed, and it was a rude shock to help the old man kick the bucket only to find most of his wealth tied up in useless stocks and paying gambling debts. Settling down to a job was novelty and in no time, he was back to his old tricks.
He was feeling very upbeat as he first went to the town’s library to research the deaths and births records. He settled on the name Karl Sutton. It had a nice ring to it. His next stop was at the bank where he withdrew some of his booty and then to his rented storage space where he pulled out another stash of cash he had been tucking away.
Checking into a nice motel, he decided to freshen up and enjoy a bit of the town before buying a ticket to check out to Boston. His mind had settled on Boston; it was far enough.
That was the beauty of it all. Good old United States of America was big enough that a man could choose to get lost if he so wished. From San Francisco/California to Boston was a clear cross country journey of four days by train and a five to six hours non stop flight.
He needed to worm his way quickly into the heart of a young impressionable Boston heiress and the way to go about that would be to gain admission into the exclusive country clubs and to attend the prestigious churches within that location.
His stolen booty would be useful in buying a lee way into these staunch epitomes of success. These days, money could buy you a whole lot, even a complete change of sex and identity if and when necessary.
Nobody cared to question the source anymore, except when you choose to run for a political office. That was not in Eric/Karl’s immediate ambitions. He would like to support those in power from the peripheries and with time such meatier ambitions could be achieved.
He made his way to The Dungeon and Skulls; the towns reputed pub with exceptional nocturnal services. In no time at all, he had two delectable ladies keeping him company at the bar. The red head looked very interesting with her charcoal black sultry eyes, the engaging mole on her upper lip and the very tight pussy-cat jump suit that she wore.
She kept leaning into his sides with her generous unbound bosom which he thought would burst out of the deep cleavage of her suit if care was not taken.
Karl was excited! The night was proving fruitful as he made his way back to his motel room with his lady of the night: Miss Red. Pouring a generous glass of brandy for both of them, he went to the washroom to retrieve his pack of emergency condoms and joined Miss Red, who was sipping and swaying gently to the croon of the music from the radio. She treated him to a nice peek-a-boo strip tease, as his light headed and excited body reclined deeper into the mattress. He felt very languid and did not offer much protest when she used silk scarves that she had extracted from her purse to tie his hands firmly above his head.
She crouched lower and he waited with bated breath for the anticipated titillation. She had him in the position that she wanted him. Pulling off her leather gloves which exposed fingers that had been twisted and mangled by fire burns, she removed her red wig, her fake upper lip mole, her eyelashes and contacts, whilst he watched in amazement.
She wiped her face clean of the heavy disguising make up that she had painstakingly perfected how to apply, leaving no illusions of her identity in his mind. She was his former accomplice and second wife in his line of bigamous marriages.
He struggled feebly as flashes of the burning house he had orchestrated came to his mind, his body felt heavy and his head was getting lighter by the minute. He was sure she had been taken care of in that fire; but that was apparently an erroneous assumption.
Opening her purse, she pulled out a .22 Magnum mini revolver— a tiny little five shot revolver, that packed a good punch. His eyes flashed in desperation as he pleaded and tried to negotiate with her.
Laughing scornfully, she told him that she had been waiting for a day such as this for a long time.
“Shh! Just keep quiet and die like a man.” Blowing him a mocking kiss she bid him good night.
Enunciating each of his aliases for each silent bullet that were carefully aimed: two for his groin – Karl Sutton and Eric Godson, one for his temple – Jesse Everness, one for his chest – Kurt McKnight and one in his stomach – Chase Reeves.
She wiped down every possible tell-tale sign of her presence, finished up her glass of brandy and tossed the snifter into her bag. She left a clear finger print free parcel propped by the noisy radio in the room, it was crammed full of incriminating pictures of his escapades.
Grabbing the duffel bag filled with money, she walked into the enveloping darkness of the night.
In shocked disbelief, I stared at the face on the boxed inset on TV. The headline news was making its evening rounds again on the local news channel. They had shown her in the morning, but as I rushed around for my morning engagements, I had glanced with vague interest at the strangely familiar face without recognition; but now, it was all coming back to me.
It was a couple of days to Valentine and I was growing heartsick and overdosed from seeing all the love shaped hearts stuck on store windows, the heart shaped chocolates, the balloons and cakes, the little teddies with their sugary messages, lovers making moon eyes at each other, even all the television channels seemed to be peddling the same syrupy valentine messages. I felt like the loneliest person on planet Earth. I was just getting over a broken passion and part of my therapy was to venture often to the Starbucks cafe tucked inside Barnes and Nobles where I immersed myself in strong cups of coffee, or chocolate brew coupled with decadent slices of double chocolate cup cakes whilst flipping through the pages of a romance where everything always ended with happy forever afters.
That day was nondescript and I couldn’t wait to get to B & N after my shift for my new found dose of romance in the pages of a book. I was starting a raunchy book by Lorelei James and I needed to see if it would be worthwhile buying it. It would serve as my pick me up over the valentine weekend with a nice tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream and my very own box of sinful chocolate eclairs.
I got to the cafe and to my delight the comfy armchair in the corner was vacant. I quickly established ownership by putting my bag on it before placing my order for a caramel macchiato and cheese cake. I fetched the book, exhaled to let off pent up steam from a busy but uninteresting day and settled down to some sensory delight.
About half an hour later, they walked in. I did not pay much mind to them initially, I just gave a cursory glance. I thought they were passers-by and only took serious notice when they finished their purchase and chose to seat a little distance away, yet in my direct view.
The gentleman was just above average height and would not necessarily be referred to as handsome. He looked quite ordinary with his semi-bald hair, dressed in a black woolly pullover over a deep navy jeans, blue tennis shoes and an ear glinting with a tiny stud earring. Still, he had a well-bred, well put together look, imposing in an unobtrusive way.
His companions, the two ladies were complete opposites. One had raven black shoulder length hair and was quite slim and tall. She was sensibly dressed in a cream top and black pencil skirt, with her glasses perched on her nose. Her looks were as plain as an ordinary day – but she had exceptional red painted full bee stung lips which stood out in such stark contrast with her appearance.
Now the second lady with her golden toned skin, her layers of highlighted blond locks, and a well made up face with kohl lined eyes, was a head turner. She had a fuller face and a curvy body that exuded strength and gracefulness simultaneously . Not your typical description of beautiful, but magnetism oozed from her pores. From her droopy ecru sequined top worn over fitted jeans, to her expensive looking coach shoulder bag, nice brown high-heeled boots and the Burberry striped scarf carelessly slung around her neck, she spelt class.
After my sleuth-like observation, I turned back to my reading, but their soft talk and giggles kept pulling at my attention. The golden toned ladies dark eyes glinted with naughtiness as she threw her head back in a throaty laugh. They shared chocolate bars, nibbling often from each others fingers. A fleeting touch here and there, which to a non-discerning observer would have appeared innocent. However, from my vantage sitting point in the corner, I could see their footsie play going on under the round table they occupied, and the flexing grips of both ladies hands on the mans thighs now and again.
My ears strained to catch a glimpse of their conversation but their voices were low and did not carry far, yet their discussion was interjected ever so often with a throaty giggle and a sigh.
I tried to mind what I was reading but my voyeuristic senses had been stirred. I took discreet peeks at their shenanigans, uncomfortable at such an open display of questionable affection. I did not try to rationalize their open display. It was valentines day tomorrow and who knows?
Eons later, after liberal shares of bites and sips, and a lingering kiss planted on the gentleman’s lips by the lady with the golden tone, they got up to leave. Just as they were exiting the entrance, I watched as the gentleman gently squeezed the bum of the lady in pencil skirt and glasses.
My question as to the nature of their friendship was halfway answered, yet I wondered….
Now, right in front of my eyes, on the screen of my 32″ Samsung TV, the lady with the golden tone has just become the body bundled in a blanket and dumped on a beach in Galveston. Cause of death; asphyxiation from strangling.
Within me, I knew that I had some vital information, but I struggled with the decision of getting involved in a possible murder case. My imagination went into overdrive and all sorts of monsters started hiding in my closet.
After a nightmare ridden sleep of seeing the woman’s beguiling eyes, I picked up the phone and called the police.
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,
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.
a cooking pot and twisted tales 