Posts Tagged tales
The white & black held his vision, regularly interrupted by two fast-paced circles of black & sometimes, cloud of black in nonchalant pursuit of its origin.Fists clenched stiff to sides of d forehead, Faragamo shirt roughed up with sleeves improperly layered to reveal veins synonymous with interconnecting roots in some deep forest as d Amazon burdened d knee caps that long had begun courtship with d initial stimulus of pain, knees under navy blue denim with a streak of black streaming slowly down Luke’s leg.
She stopped short, for a moment forgetting her conversation on d Vertu Constellation. With collar of cream trench coat up, more out of fashion but still in sync with d weather, Michaela ended d conversation, dropped d Vertu into a pocket, left look – no need for a right – & strode across to d pavement that cut d four lanes of d expressway in d mid.
Michaela looked back from whence she’d come, he was as he was. She crouched, “hmmm”. Stood & turned her back on him, right glance & across she went. Again, she turned to him, “perfect”. Crouched, stood, then she looked around her. A bench; idle, worn, dark-brown more from age & partly from rain of d morning, sat just behind d gutter. She sat on it, not minding d design to be drawn on her black ‘pencil’ denim, d coat’s length would cover her blushes there.
Rummaging through her cream bag with gaze (& prayer) on Luke; who still adhered to d law of kinetics, Michaela pulled out a 12-megapixel Sony camera & powered it, all still with her gaze on him. *shutter*, “perfect”. Two more from d same position b4 standing to take three more. Instinctively, Michaela sat back with two Mercedes Benz S-class cars about confluencing from d opposite lanes, one Burgundy d other, Maroon. Camera & finger @ d ready, she waited for d picture to birth. *shutter*, she took d first @ d sight of d headlamps, *shutter*, at d sight of d tail-lights. She switched off d Sony.
On then she went in d direction she initially came, dropped into d Honda, bag flung to d back with keys in hand now. She made for d ignition…
In a boy’s life, February 14 usually is a dreaded day…if only he understands the ‘skirt’ dealing man he’ll grow to (become). The boy also dreads mid-September because it marks the end of Disneyland fairytales and the return of School, home-work and those ‘damn’ teachers.
Monday! The boy hates this noun phrase of a day but it is not half as much as his father, “Gawd, Monday already!?!?!” he says when the alarm wakes him up abruptly well before six in the morning.
If you know someone actually named Monday, you find they actually are fun people (just a wild guess) but they just got the wrong name tag on dem birth certificates lol (no libel intended). So what of fellas named after the other noun phrase…Thank God it’s Friday? Unfortunately they can never be as fun as what happens on nights of dem days the world over.
Then there is Sunday, supposed pure of heart and all…and I used to know one like that but as time dey change, na so people dey change but some people overkill it with the change factor as well.
Anyway, these three along with millions more across the world dread the day she comes to him all yippee yay smiley…”I’m pregnant!”, a day even more dreaded when there’s no ring of proof (yes o). Some even do well not to be selfish…”baby, we’re having a baby…”, who’s been had now?
And much as women look forward to the D Day, it usually is that Saturday some seriously crunch football match is going down but dare his soul if he shows his regret (at missing the match, not at saying I do) because she is damn to elated…best to live up to the day or get deflated by her…literally.
He also dreads the day, years after, that his boy’s teenage sister would come home one day with some riff raff’s baby growing inside her…like he’s not got enough to settle with the madam already. Thankfully, that is an option in life – unwanted pregnancies but ‘book lists’, now that’s factory fitted feature in the daughters and they just keep coming (one’s in the University and the third is in Junior Secondary)
Time goes a bit further and he’s footing the bill of her wedding (the first) to another man, “I love him” she says to her father, “beans” he says…to himself. The other two follow suit, “double beans!”
On to the worse dread days in his life, she finds out after all these years…”you’ve been cheating on me! How could you, HOW?!?” He knows anything he says would be stupid but, “honey, it was the devil”…yea yea, and that devil’s prada was too much for your swagger!
Because they are Nigerians, they dread court days but that’s just the least of it. She dreads the day she’ll be the one among her peers on the end of goosip talk of having no husband or his money to flaunt, “Prisca had it real bad…not me!”. He meanwhile now dreads the day she finds out he’s helping himself with…on the maid/house-help.
Ah yes, the chores have piled up recently so he’s been lending a third hand all around the house. But (sh)it happens, she let’s go of vomit in madam’s presence, prompting basic instinct to set in, “who’s the bastard responsible???”. She’s thinking it’s Hassan the gateman but, “n…n…na…ei, madam abeg…na oga”…it’s over for Angela to house-help(ing).
Rage! “Hell hath no fury…” comes to life in full adrenaline flow and madam pummels the poor girl before going inside to make him his favourite dinner…no no, no poison, that’s for Nollywood!
They have an argument on his way to bed and at the top of the stairs, it gets very heated and she shoves him. He misses a step and goes down the flight of stairs, head banging hard on the marble floor at the end.
The worst dread days arrive abruptly, the day he dies…if only he had gone for confession rather than answer Coleen’s call; “stupid 300L ‘lag girl, why did y…” he dies!. For her, her worst dreaded day will come soon after, she now will face his relatives and this time, they’re right!