Ewatto

Looking back now I think it was because I was too distraught, as I walked out of the hospital room to the car with my father, that I did not hear the crickets chirping. A clear shrill dirge.
I did not hear the engine kick to life. I only heard his voice.
‘I remembered the day my father died and my mother cried and cried. The neighbours held her and tried to console her but she would not stop crying, beating her chest and asking God “why?” Now she is long dead herself and the slow sure wheels of time moves gradually on. ‘
Either Nepa had struck or bulbs in the streetlights lining the road had been stolen or damaged because I distinctly remember turning, with teary eyes, to look at my old man speaking and not seeing his face through the engulfing blackness. Though his grave voice rang clear in the small confines of the car as we made speed to go get a priest while a part of Ewatto died in me.
‘When tragedy strikes...’ He continued, ‘...we think we can’t handle it. We assume the world has ended...’ I sniffed then, not able to hold back the tears that now negotiated a path around my lips, and he paused for so long that I assumed he would not continue talking, that he had now been overwhelmed by the heartbreak that hung over our heads. We had only a few minutes.
‘But the world does not end in that second or that minute or even that hour. ‘
A car dodging a pothole swung into our path, blinding me momentarily with its full on headlights. My father took evasive action at what seemed like the last minute, driving into the bushes and out again into the road to avoid a collision. We survived. At any other time he would have complained about mad drivers who have no business behind a wheel. I think he just silently shook his head instead.
‘No, time moves on. It heals all and we continue with our lives till it is our turn to go. Everybody crying today will go one day as well.’ He did not speak again for the rest of the journey, leaving me to quietly digest the hard-hitting words he had offered as a means of consolation.
There were no priests for toffee at the seminary. It was either very late at night or very early in the morning and they had been called out for duties such as the one we came for. Blessed are you if you do not have to go in search of a priest at ungodly hours for that is the time most people ‘chose’ to do their dying. There was nothing more to do but head back.
The hospital room was still as packed as we had left it – six people with ashen looks standing or seated on the bed and the scant furniture. Barring the blur of a few in there, I remember my two uncles, my mother and doctor Samson. The good doctor (bless him), having been in such situations countless times, I am sure, was trying at light hearted conversation to uplift the sombre mood. He might as well as have used candle light underwater.
On the bed my grandmother, the reason for the rendezvous, still lay sprawled, looking wide-eyed at the white ceiling which she was oblivious of at that moment and wheezing out deep breaths, hanging on feebly to the last vestiges of life that sought an exit from her frail body. The drip had been removed. It had done its best.
Just looking at her made me shudder. I did not recognize the shrivelled up figure, dark against the white sheets, still, except for her heaving breasts, that had once epitomized the joys of travelling to the little village with its dense forests, little thatched roofed huts and a dusty track that tore through its centre like a healing scar. Ewatto; the village which time had abandoned for a while like an unwanted baby from the ‘mistake’ of a night of passion, left to die in the bushes.
The figure lying on that bed was a world apart from the ample woman, strong determined and fiery whose love for her grandchildren was like a magnet ever pulling us to her side so we looked forward to the holidays which would give us a week of two of her company.

Ewatto was my grandfather’s house coming in sight as my mother drove up that dusty track to unload my siblings and me on her parents for a while. I will always remember being proud of that house – it might not have won any ‘best house’ prize in most cities but among the dozens of red earth huts it clearly stood out, being built ‘properly’ of cement and zinc sheets and painted green (that had well faded). My mother would jump out of the car and we would tail her through the open protector cage door and into the corridors while she gleefully shouted for a reception. On occasion, my aunties or uncles would come out shouting to meet us, having heard the horn, and there would be hugs all round. Most times though my mother met them inside and we received our hugs then. I don’t remember Mama or papa ever being around. They had to be sent for. I would run with my youngest uncle or aunt to the market to meet Mama and fly into her bosom – her welcoming laughter still rings in my ears. Ewatto was me laying claim to the village, preparing to optimize my stay as I watched my mother’s tail lights vanish around the corner, the car speeding off lighter than it had come, leaving a handful of admiring, bare-bodied, barefooted children and plenty of dust in its wake.
Ewatto was lazy mornings; waking up to the orchestra of Mama’s kitchen sounds – pestles slamming cassava and yam in mortars while the aroma of freshly prepared ogbono soup wafted in the air mixing with the pungent smell of dung and urine from the goats being led out by my uncle for an early morning forage. The window in the room I slept in with my brother looked into the open yard that separated the kitchen and bathroom from the rest of the house. I would always look out to see the goings on – Mama ordering my aunties and uncles to various chores which, as far as she was concerned, her grandchildren were exempt from. Sometimes she would open the door and poke her head in.
‘Goodmorning mama.’
‘You sileep welli?’ She would ask in that rare form of pidgin English which she reserved for us. I would nod and smile politely, wiping the last ruminants of sleep from my eyes and kick out of bed to get a nice tight embrace. A hot bath followed. We dipped water from a large cauldron balanced on the stove – three stones that had burning wood wedged between them, and carried our steaming buckets to the side of the kitchen into the roofless cement compartment that was the bathroom. Very few things in life beat hot water running down one’s body in the open on a cold Ewatto morning.
Breakfast was four or five of us sitting on the floor, in a circle around two bowls – one of pounded yam and fufu, the other of ogbono soup choked with beef, fish and mushrooms. Back in the city I was used to my mother refusing me a second helping if she felt I had over done it. With mama it was woe unto any who denied me as much food as I wanted.
Then it was time to follow Papa to the farm. My grandfather – the self styled ‘Impregnable Rock of Gibraltar’ was a phenomenon; a retired headmaster who more than impressed the more ‘learned’ with his command of the English language delivered in a slow self assured tone. His carriage, regal as a newly crowned king, was always nice to see. Recalling him to memory still has its pain. He took away the last shreds of Ewatto I still had left in me some years after Mama did. I can still see his brimming wide raffia hat which hid most of his smiley face as we ran circles around his legs, walking the distance to the farm and jostling to carry a hoe, a cutlass or the heavy yam which would be roasted over a small bushfire for lunch and eaten with peppered palm oil. I remember the pathways as we skipped over huge logs and fallen trees, beating back pesky tree branches and leaning grass, out of our path. The swish of dead leaves and the creak of dried twigs added to the soft noises of nature as we crushed them underfoot, making our way deeper into the bushes. At the farm we would play, skipping from tree to tree while we watched the glistening backs of my uncles and grandfather bent over mounds of earth covering yam seedlings, deftly weeding with their hoes. There were times when I tried my hands at it – to good hearted laughter from the Impregnable Rock, at my clumsiness. After lunch and work (and play) it would be time to check my uncle’s traps – dangerous contraptions hidden in the ground that snapped its teeth shut when stepped on. The most I remember them catching was the leg of a squirrel. I hope the three legged animal died of old age.
Ewatto was three trees of note – the massive avocado pear tree in the middle of Papa’s farm that we stripped of all its fruit – it filled more than six sacks and we ate pear with everything for a long time; the tangerine tree at the side of the house that spread its branches to knock intermittently on the window near the dining room where I spent hours poring over Papa’s books by candlelight – that tree had to give way to rest The Impregnable Rock in peace.
Then there was the pear (the small type soaked in hot water to eat with boiled corn) tree at the back of the house. Its sturdy structure gave shelter to the pit toilet, built with zinc sheets, and it provided a ready goal post for the times I kicked a football with dozens of village boys when we did not have to go to the farm. Many a time the ball would knock against the zinc sheets and a voice from within would promise pain to those of us playing.
Ewatto was the evenings when a cool breeze laden with dust swept through the village; Ewatto was sitting just within the protectors in Papa’s chair, watching the dusty track, filled with villagers returning from earning their daily bread, chickens and pigs scouting for a last swallow before their owners ushered them back into pens. It was when Mama returned from the market and pressed gifts of food items into our little hands. It was when we chased the randy hausa ram that had impregnated half the sheep in the village and kept exploring neighboring villages for potential mates.
Ewatto was the glorious night, after Papa’s generator, the closest proximity to electricity for a good number of the villagers, had been switched off and all the children around, who had come to catch a glimpse of some program on the only television within miles, had been sent home. Then we would steal out, prompted by my young relatives, to play with other children in the moonlight. Thus the carefree days, where time stood still, would pass and the future seemed like a million years away.
Ewatto was Sundays, the iron, hollow on the inside to house live coals which generated the heat for pressing the church clothes. Ingenious. I remember the catechist, a dark squat man with a swagger who stood beside the white priest to interpret. He looked very important in his long blue robes. So many little things made that place special but one shone through them all – the comfort of Mama being there, the strength of her love. Knowing that this highly respected woman dotted on me and thoroughly enjoying every minute.

With time I knew Ewatto would not last, not as I came to know it. But it was not meant to disappear. I planned to visit as a young man and drink in the pride of my grandparents showing off their grownup grandson. I would be the one to bring gifts of foodstuff now, make them smile. I would help mama carry whatever she wanted, showing her how strong I had become. The Impregnable Rock would nod in satisfaction as I weeded alongside him in the farm. I would walk the paths with my peers, drink beer and chase the girls we once played in the moonlight with. All that and much more. So much more.
Then fate dealt its hand. Mama fell ill and Ewatto gradually faded in the horizon. Her illness worsened and she had to spend more time in hospitals than she spent at home. Still I clung to the hope that she would one day get better and bring Ewatto back. The more we hoped the worse Mama got. But I shrugged off any eventualities other than her making a full recovery. This was Mama. She was a fighter. And so I hoped and hoped until that night we went for the priest because we had just been told that hope was of no use.

Her breathing increased suddenly like she had just finished a sprint. While doctor Samson still tried at small talk. Then, as if out of sudden relief, she let out a long sigh, longer and louder than usual, ending it very quietly.

‘Let us now pray for Mama’s soul.’ Doctor Samson broke in mid sentence to say that without turning to look at the figure on the bed. He reached out to hold the hands of my mum and uncle and I think it was at that time it hit the room what had just occurred. I will forever remember the picture of my young uncle standing still, gazing at his mother’s corpse and waving goodbye. He also tried to jump in her grave as she was lowered. I turned and seized my mother in a tight embrace. We were all too shocked to cry out loud. But we cried.

In the very early hours of that morning, Ewatto disappeared.
In the distance I heard the crickets chirp. A long drawn out dirge to welcome a new day.

I come where ignorance is bliss...

I looked again over my shoulder and she caught my eye from across the dance floor. Ever wonder how you just seem to know when someone, even out of a hundred odd, in perpetual rhythmic motion, is checking you out? The ladies, I think, have inbuilt mental sensors for sniffing out visual admirers but for us guys it’s a hit and miss thing. She may just be focused on the wet patch on your collar and wondering how a guy could be so sloppy. Nevertheless you sense when someone has had a fixed, more-than-normal, stare on you. In spite of the dance lights flickering dots and flashes of luminance every shred of doubt as to me being the focus of her undivided attention was zapped with that third glance in her direction. Now I was either that attractive – I had taken time out to groom myself – or she had never seen a black man before (unlikely, but..hey). I had been slightly uncomfortable seeing that I was the only person of colour (as they say) in the club but had shrugged it off, got myself a beer and sauntered to the centre of the floor, determined to have a good time regardless. Dancing comes naturally to me but it has got to be with a partner. Instead I swayed in rhythm to Eminem amidst gyrating bodies, taking occasional sips from the bottle, with my free hand in my pocket, till I discovered her levelled gaze. I turned, to give her a proper eyeful, choking the neck of my bottle with my index finger so it swung from side to side like a pendulum. A few dancers engrossed in frenetic movements threatened to knock me out of my ‘cool’ posture and I dodged, not breaking the eye contact. For one brief moment we were alone in the world and absolutely nothing else existed. Maybe I imagined it but I believe the disco lights fell on her face long enough for me to catch her wink. That was my cue. As I wadded through the densely packed floor, slightly pushing people aside to create a path, I half expected her gaze to wander or her eyes to go cold so I could blame it all on my far reaching imagination. She could have been a statue for all the head movement she made and her gaze was still as fixed as a tennis match a mafia boss had bet on. She waited till I was close enough to get a good whiff of her Elizabeth Arden then turned ‘English’ on me – releasing a plastic smile and wheeling about, suddenly self aware. She sank into a stool at the bar that was just behind her. I quickly altered course and leaned on the bar, nodded at the barman and pointed at my near empty bottle. With the acoustics threatening to bring the roof down, blended with the dancing crowd’s half drunken and cacophonic version of the blaring music, there was no way a normally spoken word could be heard. But he understood my gesture and slid a cold bottle towards me. I could have sworn he raised a mischievous eyebrow and tilted his head slightly towards her seated by my side.
‘Would you like a beer love?’ If I had said it to her in the same pitch anywhere else she might probably go deaf for a day and two seconds. She hadn’t flinched as I leaned in. Now she turned her head to me, nodded and smiled. The barman was ready even before I looked at him and poked the empty space just in front of her. I waited for her to guzzle it down, focusing on doing the same while we exchanged furtive glances. Conversation was impossible anyways. Up close she was not your typical Victoria Secret model and she was a tad chubby but she had done something with her make-up that thoroughly enhanced her positive qualities – eyes, smooth skin, lovely hairdo and fantastic nails. Her strapless red dress, pleated at the top, propped her boobs up, sensually disclosing two half moons of flesh and leaving the rest to lust. She couldn’t be any more than twenty five, certainly not a teenager as well – thank goodness. With a bow that erased the fine line between gentlemanly and cocky, I offered one hand and waved the other across the dance floor – dance with me? She nodded and smiled. She had the girl-next-door, innocent look when she smiled. I led her to the centre and this time I let fly. It would seem that I was putting up a show for her as she moved ever so little but watched me boogie, nodding approvingly. Whenever our eyes met I had a ready smile to match hers, otherwise I danced hard, not bothering about her passive participation. Without warning she squashed the space between us with one step forward and looked into my eyes, forcing me to stop and study her facial features. Everyone has what I call a radius of intimacy – about half a foot from every part of the body – reserved for the very familiar. We feel uneasy when that space is occupied by strangers, more so when the invasion is deliberate. But it is nothing but excitement when the invader is an attractive member of the opposite sex. It had been a while and I needed this right now. There was no letting this one get away. She put her arms around my neck, gingerly, like she wasn’t sure what to expect. I responded in kind but fancied her waist. She pressed closer. That gave my hands the license to slip southwards. I gently squeezed her buttocks half expecting a stinging slap but she held me even tighter, pulling my head down so that her lips were now against my ears.
‘I have a boyfriend!’
I raised my head and looked in her face. She had the smug look of one that had hit a bull’s eye on first try. And she did nothing to break my hold. I released my breath. I actually thought she said she had a boyfriend so I shook my head slightly and leaned in so she could repeat her words.
‘I have a boyfriend!’
It had to be the music and all the noise in the place. If you have ever arrived at the airport with time to spare, so looking forward to your holiday then think you just heard an announcement that your plane has just left, you know exactly how it feels – that desperate need to find some official to quickly clarify the ‘mistake.’ I seized her arm and led her outside in search of quiet.
‘What did you say love?’
‘I have a boyfriend...love.’ she replied in a tone bordering on sarcasm, staring into my very confused face with eyes that still showed interest. What in heaven’s name was all the flirting for? Not that the news was anywhere near devastating, it was just that I thought I had scored. All my senses were up...okay, that too. I studied her teasing eyes with the knowledge that whatever she came out with next would determine how the night would end up.
‘But there is something I would like to know about you.’ She cocked her head to one side and looked askance at me in a rather coy way which, in the dimly lit alley, I found sensual. Clearly she was in the driver’s seat and it was only in a bid to seize the initiative that I asked gruffly, pretending to be annoyed, ‘What?’
‘Is it true what they say about black men?’ I understood instantly what exactly she asked about. Every mannerism with which she had asked the question had ‘sex’ stamped indelibly on it. My pulse raced again, we were back on track. She had just laid the power of the very immediate future in my hands. It could go two ways: I could educate her and shatter the myth right there, possibly end up with a kiss on the cheek and a cheery wave or I could play along, heighten her curiosity and get to ‘show’ her. Intensely. I decided then that if she was to learn any truths then it would be from experience. Who made me an educator anyways?
I looked into her eyes, nodded and smiled.

Behind the African woman

I am so thankful to have been born an African. If not for our vibrant natures (since the current state of affairs in our continent does not quite cut it) then, at least, it is because of the other gender that share a common heritage with me – the African woman. There is a saying that the pretty people were made on a Monday, the first day of creation, with God still fresh. The ugly ones on Saturday – just before he rested. If we transferred this to race groups then the African woman, given her features, was definitely created on the Monday. That is the much I know, you place the other race groups in days as you deem appropriate. Now this is where I begin to thread with caution for I stand to lose all the wide smiling fans I have just made if I carry on to the point I am aiming for without some form of justification beforehand. Bear with me.
How many women have I had to explain to? That it is just not the man’s fault when he swivels his head for a fleeting admiration of some well endowed damsel. He appreciates you sweetheart but that madam that just walked past was fascinating and he just wanted to admire. God, in his infinite wisdom, decided that man be visually stimulated by woman and heaven knows just how well the women know this for all the trouble they go through making sure that their best parts are accentuated. I only ever achieve one thing when I tell this to an irritated female – a long argument. It isn’t that the ladies do not know that showing off hot legs below a knee-shy skirt is bound to attract stares, they just don’t understand why the men should allow themselves be drawn. The thing is damned if the men know it themselves. It is just one of those things. The example I readily give is women drooling over the latest designer styles (without the foggiest of intentions to purchase) in a boutique – a mystery to men. The ladies can identify with that feeling at least. Granted, women are not things and granted, there are a good many men who wouldn’t let even a jalabia (think well clad Muslim lady) get in the way of their lewd, rude, no holds barred stares. But for the next man, it is just acknowledging the effort the woman made in looking good or hot…okay it could also be a pre-ask-her-out-for-a-date assessment. That is allowed for the single guys. Girls, be truthful, behind that ‘I don’t know what they are all looking at.’ Your feel-good feeling rises with every additional admiring glance you attract. So why restrict your man and rob the other girls of what they are due? Besides you must have heard the saying ‘It doesn’t matter where you get your appetite from long as you eat at home.’ Okay, no arguments, no arguments (I have an article to finish here).
Right, that is me, clean as a confessed parishioner on Saturday night – just before the first girl walks past. I can now continue. Most guys are labeled by the part of a woman that arrests their attention so that we have leg men, breast men, hair men, fingernail men (don’t ask) and the whatnots. For the afore mentioned and the weirder ones, only they know what they see in all that. Fair play to them. I happily take my place front row with other guys glaringly branded with another category – the category that draws attention to the smooth contour between a woman’s spinal cord and her thighs. Yes, the derriere. Looking at some fine backsides you would not believe that that could ever unleash anything foul – but let’s not go there. So we have established that everyman has a fetish for some part of the female body that holds him spellbound when they stroll pass (yes, Isaac lied to you). No one should shoot moral pellets in my direction when I admit that I do look at a good few behinds when I find myself in the midst of plenty, smothered in tight skirts, tight jeans and bubbling in unison to catwalks, slow walks, all walks. So yeah, I have seen a plethora of the feminine backside. Note: this is not out of habit but as I took time out to outline earlier, I am on autopilot, admiring unconsciously. As much as this does not make me a guru in back-study (now that is a word for you), I know a good behind when I see one. And the prize for the most well sculpted behind (by a mile…well a few inches actually) is that of the African woman. Guys you know what I am talking about. That budge jutting out of tight jeans at the end of long legs propped on high heels, my my, unbeatable (calm down, Aaron, calm down). Why brothers go for other girls is hard to fathom but that is their own, if they prefer unsatisfying pancakes to the real deal. Behind a successful man – as the clichéd saying goes – is a woman (only God knows what she is doing there). And behind an African woman are at least half a dozen men craning their necks for a better view. A few will get a whack from the missus, poor buggers. I am fully licensed as I am yet unattached. No such problem for me. I should get back to it soon as I cure this neck ache. Right, time to take my pills. Excuse me…

In Search Of a Missing Rib

'Son, the day you marry is the day you begin to die.'
This may seem a trifle contrived (not the statement, but using the same source to begin another controversial blog...but the truth is the truth). This was from my friend Obi (again) and it was told to him by his dad. Some advice huh? Going by that logic he should be deep in death's throes now since he has a lovely wife and four lovely kids to boot. (Meanwhile, Obi, If u ever read these write-ups, no vex. Anyway I don't care and you know it). I have heard so many married people, especially men, moan ad-nauseam so much so that you want to seal their lips with glue, the one in the tv ad - guaranteed to stick forever, that marriage would be stricken off the agenda if they were to ever return to life. Why their whines get my goat is that I am a bachelor who has never experienced the other side of the fence and I do not appreciate being told that the pool I am looking forward to plunging into for my 'exhilarating' swim is really shark infested. I am at the edge of the cliff looking down and willing to dive but peering in to see if those monsters I am being warned about would bare their teeth and keep me away. No dice. Not yet. Around me everyone is already swimming in marriage. Indeed I am like an Island standing amidst married friends and family, elder and younger, swirling about, taking care of day to day marital obligations. I don't think anyone one enjoys being alone - Now I know there is a difference between being alone and being unmarried but one (I speak for myself) does get tired of starting on a journey down a road you know leads to nowhere - So I use the word 'alone.' If that is true, why would anyone, especially the married, deter others? Admittedly Obi's mother had given her husband a little more dosage than he could conveniently digest but his words, to anyone but the hard headed friend I have, could have had irreparable damage. And if he could tell that to his son just think what he would to young men who defer to him for advice. Now to put things in perspective I am not saying marriage is a hero-charging-through-unimaginable-horrors-to-save-the-princess-and-in-love-happily-ever-after. I am a bit past that age. But I don't think there is much a bachelor (or a spinster for that matter) can cook up to beat the feeling of returning home to find someone waiting (no, not the landlord you owe two months rent). Companionship, if gotten right, is sheer bliss - with some blisters to balance it (How could we appreciate daylight if there was no night?). There are loads of horror marriage stories out there and I have been way too close to a few but they are not the rule. One bad apple does not spoil the whole bunch. Some of you who have been bitten would shake your head at this point at the naivete of someone who has never played the game (for want of a better description) yet declared himself a guru. I try hard to learn from others' mistakes. Ok I know, till you taste it, you have never had pudding...lets just move on. Marriage is like the army - so many people complain about it but you would be amazed at the number signing up to enlist. Well, count me in those ranks. So what is there to fear in marriage? Nothing if you can remember the golden rules - Women go into marriage hoping the men will change. They don't. Men go into marriage hoping the women won't change. They do. Adjust your mind thus, sprinkle a bit of friendship, financial security, love (this is a topic in itself), and God and you got the recipe for a pass mark. It all has to be sustained though, through to your dying day. So I know all this and still I stand at the edge, looking in, analyzing the swimmers, trying to learn from their strokes while time ticks and their babies take first steps. If I have learnt anything it is that there is no perfect spouse or partner. No matter who it is I jump in with, there will always be challenges so why focus on the reasons not to instead of the reasons to. There will be tears but do it for the laughter. There will be fights but do it for the hugs and kisses. There will be nagging from a disgruntled wife but...what? Ok, do your utmost to make her happy and hope to God your happiness is on her agenda. That is me fully armed. No more waiting, no more gazing into the pool. I am finally jumping in - sentencing myself to 'death'...Now where is that girl?

The Mixed race

Just before the bullet seared through his heart, Qast’s world had just turned perfect.
He had been strolling down the Kopdel, the wide glimmering walk-way that led straight into the heart of Mixtit, with a spring in his step. The address of his destination was written on the piece of paper – the single most important document in his life – which he clutched tightly in his fist. He had sauntered along the shimmering street, squirting at his reflection at intervals to check that he got the walk right. It was the way the Cix walked – the right way to walk. Dignifying. Two dicodas and one nothes of practice had brought a smile to his face at what he saw each time he looked down.
If only he had gotten the walk wrong at that very instant.
The street lights – another magic of the Cix – hunched over like tall steel men casting a radiance of homage to the magnificent street below, could only manage an opaque luster which did not quite cut through the cold blanket of fog settled like a blanket on Mixtit that morning. Early birds chirped out of the huge pine trees that kept the street lights company. The large grotesque shadows of the trees added to the darkened gloom of the atmosphere – the least of Qast’s worries (he should have been worried about something else). Everything had been going his way. Even the Wexninti had had a smile for him as they examined his pass out of Kikowa. He had closed his eyes for a few seconds, to savor the joy of being in the new world he had just walked into; where his life was about to start. He had felt the morning breeze, heard the whistling birds then opened his eyes wide to a singular report, not quite in sync with the natural sounds of an unfolding morning but one which he was quite familiar with…the blast of a gun.

He had been born a Mulu because his father, whoever he was, had raped his mother. The man was Cix and, understandably for Qast, would have found it too demeaning to own up to fathering a child by a Mulu woman. By default Kikowa lay claim to his childhood dicodas. The adoration in his heart for his unknown father just outshone his resentment towards the man for not having the sense to see that Mulu women were too filthy to be touched let alone raped – cheating him out of being a full blooded Cix.
He chucked his mother to the recesses of his mind where she could not disturb his thoughts. She had died when he was three; killed during a stampede when Cix guns shot into a large Mulu crowd that protested against the wall built around Kikowa.
Within the walls the Mulu could do as they pleased but they needed passes to leave their confines to work, shop or whatever it was they couldn’t get in Kikowa. Both exits out of Kikowa were manned by well armed Wexninti at whose discretion the passes were issued. No Mulu went out without a pass. The incidents of Mulu men trying to run out of Kikowa without passes always ended up one way. When the guns are aimed at the Mulu the Wexninti shot to kill.
Though he lived in Kikowa and needed a pass outside the community, Qast saw nothing wrong with the wall. How could the lowly Mulu, ugly and filthy in their ways, hope to mingle with the sophisticated Cix? Unimaginable.
Uncle Zhestu of the burukutu bottle, his mother’s brother and his only surviving kin, brought him up.
The old man had always made it explicit that he would have long strangled Qast had he not been blood. Uncle Zhestu it was that made him very conscious of his distinguished features. The colour of Qast’s skin was a bluish-green pigment with more of the Cix blue than the Mulu green. His hair was Cix wriggly rather than Mulu straight. With age he grew slightly over seven feet – the average height of the Cix – heads above the average Mulu.
As a child these features had been a puzzle. No one (save his uncle) treated him any different though. He did not lack friends and a steady flow of compliments from adoring parents. It was his first trip outside Kikowa that unraveled the mystery. Uncle Zhestu had taken him as an extra hand for a cleaning job in Mixtit. He was just ten at the time. Qast’s first sight of a Cix was the Wexninti at the Kikowa gates. A fly or two threatened to explore within his ‘O’ shaped mouth which wouldn’t close in wonder at the new beings; their sheer size, crisp clean uniforms, sophisticated weapons and the aura of power with which they walked and talked. The most amazing thing, however, was uncle Zhestu’s countenance. Here was a man who very few Mulu could look in the eye, now standing like a sheep before lions in front of the Wexninti. Uncle Zhestu had his fingers locked in front of his chest like he was in prayer. His face, which was bent as low as possible, was the look of a stray dog kicked timid by a dozen unfriendly legs. That was just a taste of things to come. Qast stepped into another world the moment he walked down the Kopdel for the first time into Mixtit. In Kikowa, the houses were communally built (mud for the walls and thatch for the roof) for a young man of age. Here the houses were made of glass, cement and steel. And they rose into the skies. If these were communally built, Qast wondered at their great skill. The roads, a never ending maze of opaque glass, were wider than twenty Kikowa roads – which were really paths created by feet trodden down the bushes over time – put side by side. Qast had only heard about the Skards from his friends. They were transparent tube like vehicles that glided over the roads in their hundreds. One could see Cix men, women and children in them being whizzed about at great speeds. Then he had banished the stories as a myth but now he was overwhelmed. The Mulu went everywhere on foot.
The lights shone everywhere, hanging over the streets, on the walls, through windows and even used to write things on large boards along the streets. It was far brighter than the candle light he was used to. It was almost as bright as the sun. Intriguing. The Cix were gods. They had to be.
He and little uncle Zhestu (he never believed he would ever think of his uncle as little) scrimped very close to the walls like the ants that they now were, with their faces to the ground. They had just reached the gates of the estate where the house that uncle Zhestu was to clean when it happened.
A young Cix man, huge as every other Cix, ran towards them. They stopped and pressed themselves against a wall to make room – though the running man had more than enough. At the very last minute, the young man veered off course and crashed into uncle Zhestu. Such was the force of the impact that the scrawny Mulu man cleared the ground on impact and landed on his back a good four yards off. The Cix man stood unscathed, watching uncle Zhestu wriggle on the ground in pain. Some distance away, Qast spotted two other young Cix men holding their sides in laughter. He froze. It had been a prank.
‘Are you blind Mulu?’ The young man now stood over uncle Zhestu.
‘N….no….boss.’
‘Shut up! You old fool. How can you say you are not blind when you don’t have the sense to get out of the way?’
‘You were coming too fast boss. ‘
‘Are you trying to say it is my fault?’ He spat the question into uncle Zhestu’s face. ‘I will have you arrested for those words.’
‘Oh no boss, it is my fault. Please forgive me.’
The laughing men were having a fit now, enjoying every minute of the live drama.
‘And what are you looking at?’ Qast shriveled up instantly. Thankfully the Cix did not think him worth the trouble.
‘On your way, you dried up after-thought and next time, look where you are going.’ He swung his feet into uncle Zhestu’s stomach. Uncle Zhestu winced and scrambled to his feet.
‘Oh thank you boss, thank you.’ He grabbed a wholly mesmerized Qast and quick as they could they made away from the jeers.

‘Get me my bottle of burukutu and to the devil with your stupid questions!’
That was the only time uncle Zhestu broke his uneasy silence after they returned. Qast had asked if he would like anything to eat. He calmly obeyed but the old man’s tirade had lost its unsettling effect.

The little boy did not welcome sleep that night. He kept awake as long as he could to marvel at the wonders of Mixtit and the Cix – a place he wanted to be and a people he would gladly give his right arm to be part of.
He had the most wonderful dream that night. He was a full-blooded Cix. The very one that had bumped into uncle Zhestu and this time he did not stop kicking at his uncle’s pleas. Then it wasn’t just uncle Zhestu on the ground any longer but all the dirty Mulu he knew. Exhilarating.
After that first day in Mixtit, Uncle Zhestu could not tell him enough of his origin by way of curses whenever he did something the old Mulu saw as wrong.
‘Pick that up you son of a Cix rapist.’ ‘Are you deaf Cix dog?’ ‘Look at him, just like his father and all other bastard Cix.’
Qast would lower his head whenever his uncle was on the attack. This was not because he was sorry but rather because he hoped his penitent posture would give his uncle more verve to carry on so he could learn more. With time he pieced the whole story together. His father was Cix. The revelation was intoxicating. He wasn’t a part of these dirty people amongst whom he had grown up. Oh no. He was part of those lovely people with lovely houses and lovely roads and lovely lights. He had every right to slap and kick these dirty Mulu around and all they would do is beg for mercy. He was a Cix, a lord.
He sought every opportunity to go with uncle Zhestu into Mixtit. He studied the Cix and their culture and gradually began to copy what he could. Uncle Zhestu noticed.
‘You should be ashamed of being a Cix. They have brought us nothing but misery and you…you are one of them.’
Ashamed of being a Cix? What a laugh.
At sixteen he was proud of the change he saw in himself. The build was certainly there. All that remained was to perfect the mannerisms. Soon the sight of him will send Mulu in the street scurrying to hide.
With the papers that granted him access into Mixtit without uncle Zhestu’s company, the first thing he did was to get a job in the mines. Independence gave him power and his uncle became an irritant. Qast had promised himself that he would knock out all the old man’s teeth with a bit more provocation so it was a disappointment when uncle Zhestu turned tame and began to keep out of his path
In Kikowa, he strutted about with a nose in the air and a swollen chest. He spoke to no one when he could help it. When he couldn’t, he used words sparingly and in an authoritarian tone. When the time was right, he would leave this filthy place and backward people. His place was in Mixtit.
The only problem however was his work place. The mine wasn’t a place fit for a Cix. Besides the hazards and the filth of the place, he had to endure the presence of the hundreds of Mulu encrusted with tough times in the mines and Cix brutality, sweating beside him, searching for precious metals. Try as hard as he could to disassociate himself from his Mulu workmates, they were always in his face. He snubbed those that tried to be friendly and was paid back with taunts.
‘What is with that green leaf?’
‘He thinks he is a Cix.’
‘All hail the Cix lord.’
Their incessant laughter at his efforts made him hate them a little more every day. There was nothing he could do about it. In size he was bigger but each one of them was hardened, having endured the hardships of the underground over the dicodas. He wouldn’t last in a fistfight. Besides he was only one against so many. The only thing was to leave. Find somewhere and something that befitted someone of his standing.

He had to do something ‘stupid’ – ask a Mulu for help.

Qast had seen Gundumiki twice before in Kikowa and noted that he wasn’t like any other Mulu. The aging Mulu man wore relatively expensive clothes and carried himself with stateliness. He lived in a nice house (if there was such a thing in Kikowa) and was highly respected by other Mulu. He entered the Cix city daily and returned evenings, meaning he had a good job in Mixtit or he wouldn’t look that way or be so highly respected. All that had meant nothing to Qast. One Mulu was as insignificant as the other, no matter the adornment. Four nothes in the mines changed that. He made his way through the lowly pathway to the old Mulu’s house. If he was to live his dream, he would have to swallow his pride – if for only a while.
A startling beauty opened the door. It was the old man’s teenage daughter. She flashed him the sweetest smile. Qast scowled back. He took no notice of dirty Mulu girls always trying to catch his attention with seductive smiles. He only had eyes for Cix girls. So far he hadn’t summoned the nerve to chat one up. He couldn’t pass for a full blooded Cix yet – not in his miner’s work clothes – and he might just end up getting the beaten of his life by the Wexninti if a Cix girl he tried chatting up raised an alarm. When he got the proper job he would look for a fat, ugly and desperate Cix lady who would be happy to have him. Better that than the prettiest Mulu girl.
‘Is your father in?’
She recoiled at his angry tone.
Without answering, she opened the door for him to enter and retreated. Gundumiki was beside an open window, seated in one of his cane chairs, smoking a pipe and listening to the chirping of the evening birds. He raised his head to see who it was and motioned for Qast to join him.
As they talked the evening grew darker until the red glow from the old man’s pipe did the little it could to illuminate the place. In an hour of exchange, Qast learnt that Gundumiki was a butler, that half the young Mulu in Kikowa had come for the very same request Qast was there for and that Gundumiki had turned all of them down. With a deep scowl, hidden in the darkness, Qast listened to reasons Gundumiki listed for turning him down as well.
‘No doubt it is a good job and I am well paid but my young man, it is demeaning for anyone. One is always at the beck and call of children and they really make you look foolish. With time it becomes you. At my age I have nothing to lose but it would kill the fight in a young Mulu blood like yours.’
‘That is not a problem for me.’ Qast refrained from denouncing his Mulu heritage before the old man. It would hurt his chances. His patience however wore thin by the second. He was Cix and no Mulu – no matter how highly placed – dared deny him a request.
‘Oh but it is a problem. I know that there is going to be a revolution very soon. The Mulu people are going to rise against this oppression and we would need fire in every Mulu. I am past fighting so there is no danger in my being complacent.’
Qast could hold back no longer
‘Look, I can’t work one more day in those mines with those filthy bas… I don’t care about fighting and fire. Just get me this job!’
A heavy calm held the atmosphere spellbound after that outburst. In the red glow of the old man’s pipe, Qast just made out the creased face contorted more in contemplation. He wondered if he had stepped out of line and then he didn’t care.
‘Come and see me in two days.’
‘Thank you.’ Qast was as curt as possible as he rose and walked out into the darkness. How dare the old man compare him to other Mulu and what was all that stupid talk about a revolution. Not in a million dicodas could the Mulu hope to match the sophisticated weapons of the Cix. Utter nonsense.
He crossed the road to avoid passing by two Mulu girls coming in the opposite direction.

At the end of two very long days Gundumiki returned from work to find Qast waiting.
‘Did you get me the job?’
‘You young Mulu…so impatient.’ Gundumiki greeted with a smile.
‘Did you get me the job or not?’ Qast asked with a straight face.
The old man sighed, reached into his breast pockets and sliced the air with a folded piece of paper.
‘They want you to start tomorrow. They will give you uniforms and…’
Qast snatched the paper.
‘What of the address?’
‘It’s all in there. You will find things relatively easy because of the way you look and…..’
‘Thank you.’ Qast wheeled about and walked away with the deftness of the Wexninti leaving the old man to wonder after him.’
‘Cix blood.’ Gundumiki muttered to himself sadly then walked in to his dinner.

Menkakuki kept his eyes on the bright red glow as he sucked long and hard at the dying cigarette. The harsh morning wind raised his large unbuttoned coat and found his bare skin under his light shirt. On the rooftop of the Mixtit museum – a good fifty stories high – the wind was fiercer with no building or tree to serve as a break.
‘Shit.’ He spat out the spent cigarette butt and pulled the coat about him to button it. It was a coat too large for his scrawny figure and the cold air still found spaces to get in. ‘Blast it! Have you got a spare cigarette by any chance?’
The other Mulu, a much healthier looking figure, on the museum rooftop seemed oblivious of the biting wind. He lay prone, still as the wicked looking weapon which he held by his head. A long range rifle aimed at the wide glassy road beneath the museum. They were part of the Mulu revolution which the Wexninti had not even known existed. Their presence on the museum rooftop that dark cold windy morning was the result of countless meetings in the underground. This was to be their first strike back at the Cix. Just kill one or two Cix to send a message. That was the plan.
So far no Cix had come out of the buildings, but they were usually early birds. They were sure to come out soon.
‘Chiwele’ Menkakuki called out again, this time impatiently. ‘Do you have any…’
‘Shhh’ Chiwele signaled for Menkakuki to lie down as well. The fat gun man had sighted movement.
‘Where?’ Menkakuki moved his head from side to side and strained his eyes in the foggy darkness.
‘There, down there, look.’
‘Yes I see him now.’
The gunman adjusted his rifle on his shoulder and took aim.
‘Just tell me when.’
‘Wait! Something is not right. Why is he coming from the direction of Kikowa?
Chiwele cast an angry eye on his partner.
‘What are you talking about? Does it matter in which direction he is coming from? If we don’t hurry up, we are going to let this one get away.’
Menkakuki studied the strolling figure. The height was right, the springy step was right and from the museum rooftop, the complexion was right.
‘Well?’ the gunman asked impatiently.
‘Kill him.’

AFTERTHOUGHTS

The British are too damn clean.
I am between my house and the train station in Wigan. My focus is riveted on the ground. I am searching for a single piece of paper. The pavements have been swept clean. In Nigeria pieces of paper on the road are left a while before being swept off if ever. Damn!
In my hand is a copy of the times and one of the stories - GIRL 23, WINS ONE MILLION IN LOTTERY in the inside of the front page. A very familiar face is attached to the story. That is what has me outside in the cold searching. Searching for what would definitely be my way out of outstanding bills and fees.
Pedestrians cast suspicious looks whenever I dive for pieces of paper blown across the pavements by the wind. I couldn’t be bothered. I don’t think they would understand if I explained anyway. I have been out here one hour and still haven't seen what I am searching for. Oh God oh God
A man, mid forty-ish comes out of one of the buildings at the side of the road. He is balding, with a stocky appearance that makes him look short. A green hi-viz vest covers most of his bulk. What really grabs my attention though is what he has in his hands. An iron rod with pinchers at one end and some sort of trigger handle. With this funny contraption and an expressionless face, he traps pieces of paper and releases them into a large polythene bag which he has in his other hand.
I stop. I have never been one who hung on to hope when faced with stark reality. I hold the newspaper before me and peer hard at the pretty face that stare back at me. The face of a millionaire. Oh God no.
It was a month ago I saw that face for the first and, regretfully, last time.
That day was my second day in Manchester and I was can-barely-walk hungry.
I had just finished a class which I had gone in for without breakfast or lunch. An hour of lectures took days to end. I just wanted out. I made it to the bus stop in front of the school...well not in front really but beside one of the buildings. I sat down on the vacant iron bench. One of the mysteries of the British I am still trying to unravel - a thousand people at a bus stop, waiting for the bus and everyone ignores the bench. Back in Nigeria, people who have no business at the bus stop would sit on it just for the heck of it; that is if it hadn’t become the bed of some crazy destitute and all that would happen when the government ever decides that people do need benches at bus stops.
I was the only one on the bench anyhow and thankful for it for this one day. I wanted to get a bus that was headed for Victoria train station and hop on a train to Wigan where I live. A solitary ten pound note rested in my pockets. I fingered it to make sure it was still there. If someone had been watching me closely all morning, I would be described as the guy who keeps putting a hand into his right trouser pockets. I couldn't afford to lose that money. It would mean a long walk across town to the train station. My chances of making it would be worse than that of a desert explorer, stranded in the Sahara with a bottle of water. Such people were trained for such eventualities. I never asked for this when the plane that brought me into Britain landed in Heathrow.
Now you will begin to wonder - and I wouldn’t blame you for it – why, in God's name, did I have ten pounds in my pocket and dying from hunger? Surely I could grab a bite and still have change left for the bus fare. If you have ever been to a foreign country with a foreign language and no guide, you will be better placed to understand my explanation. The English colonized Nigeria and the official lingua franca of Nigeria is English so I should have no problem with communication right? Wrong! What was I to answer when asked 'howyad'n mae?' and 'whadyuwan luv?' when I go into a store to buy something. All this, always said with lightning speed. It would eventually come down to sign language and I always ended up taking more of the attendant's time than they deemed profitable per customer.
Once I was confused as to which bus to take within Manchester. There was this middle aged lady at a bus stop waiting, apparently, for a bus. The reason I walked up to her was because she looked like she was Indian or something. Hopefully she would get across to me.
'Madam' I asked. She turned to meet my gaze, ready to answer my query. 'Could you please tell me what bus goes to Oxford road?'
'Oh ithinkutaetheonethagoesta......'
My sincere apologies for asking.
I thanked her for her help. She smiled sweetly in response. I heaved a heavy sigh and strolled to Oxford road.
So, shops, restaurants and the lot were no go areas unless it was absolutely necessary.
So there you go. Back to the bus stop beside the school building where I sat, hungry and waiting for a bus with ten pounds in my pocket.
There were lots of girls around but I only had eyes for the name 'Victoria' and it had to be boldly written at the front of the bus. I must have looked at the ground for a moment - to rest my heavy head perhaps - because her shoes, Nikes really, were what I first saw of her. They were white, neatly laced and partly covered by the frills of a bell bottom jeans trouser. If it were back in Nigeria, I would assume it to be someone I knew. Being just days old in Britain, there was hardly a chance of that so....what the h..... I jerked my head upwards. A mulatto girl, early twenties, tall and pretty - very pretty, stared back at me.
'Can I si ere?' She pointed at the empty part of the bench beside me. I got that and shifted to make space for her. She sat down. I usually make small talk with pretty ladies that invade my space but at that moment roasted chicken would have been more welcomed.
'Whieu gon?' it couldn't have been directed towards any other.
'What?'
'Whieu gon?' I strained to catch it.
'Oh, Victoria station.' I answered. People don’t just walk up to you and ask your destination but hey, this is Britain. Maybe it is the norm over here; I thought and pushed it out of my mind.
'Can I cumwivya?' she leaned into my ear to ask this. To help me understand people over here when they speak, I read their gestures as well. There wasn’t room for that in this instance so what I thought I heard was 'can you come between my legs.' Don’t ask me to trace the relationship between what she said and what I heard. What was I suppose to think with a strange pretty lady leaning into my ear and asking a question in a seductive whisper?
'What?' every strand of hair on my body was alert to decipher the question.
'Can I cumwivya?' heck! This was an offer. Why?
Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to say that I don’t have what it takes to make hearts flutter but a pretty girl asking to follow you home within two sentences of meeting you just did not seem like it happens to Brad Pitt on your regular cold Tuesday afternoon. My alarm bells went up, as well as something else - to be honest. Just how far was she willing to go?
'Actually I live in Wigan. I am going to Victoria to catch a train to Wigan.'
Oh.' Her balloon lessened a bit. Not that far. That was the end of that I supposed and wondered if I had missed my bus in that minute of excited anticipation.
'Cud u give m two pounsfer luonch?' Again into my ear but this time, slowly.
The words 'two pounds' and lunch were distinct. I got it and stiffened. So here was the catch. But hold up just one minute. I looked her over. Why would a girl looking like the runner up of Miss Manchester beauty contest beg for money.
'I’m reli hungre.'
I did not have any change on me - just my dear ten pound note- else I would have just given her right away and gotten rid of her. It would have saved my legs if I had. An idea invaded my brain like a virus and muddled my thinking. I would usually think twice before offering to take a lady whom I had only just met, to lunch. There had to be more to her than the sexy figure and strong accent. My invitation was not altogether selfless though. I worked out that if I took her to eat, she would do the ordering and I would get to eat as well. And if it was two pounds for her food, why, I would have six pounds left after a meal for both of us - enough for the bus and change.
She jumped to her feet before I did, beckoned that I follow and walked away. She walked fast and I followed as best I could.
I was puzzled when she flitted past the refectory. If she understood when I pointed out this fact to her, I did not get her explanation to why we could not stop there. She was prattling like an m-16. Too fast to follow let alone understand. My alarm bells just clinked once and I steadied them. As long as she kept to where there were enough people to hear when there was a 'HELP!' scream, I felt safe. The conclusion I chose to arrive at was that she must have someplace where she usually takes lunch. Someplace that would cost two pounds for good food.
The bells clinked again when we stopped before a teenage boy with a spiky hairdo just standing on the pavements behind a huge poster. He had tickets in his hand. They had a brief exchange and the boy seemed pleased. To think that I was right there, they spoke English and I did not catch a word - my! Turns out that she wanted me to buy a red ticket from the boy to get change for my ten pounds. I couldn’t remember telling her about my ten pound note. Well, I thought, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. I mean, how much would a red ticket cost? A couple of pennies at the most I presumed and handed over my ten pounds to the boy. He put a hand in his back pockets, sorted out change and put it, and a red ticket, in my outstretched hand. First things first. I checked how much I had in my hand; one...two...five...six, seven...what da..? Eight pounds? This…thing cost two whole pounds? I checked to see just how worth it the red ticket was – a ‘buy one get one free’ alcoholic drink voucher - Revolution bar I think it was. The thing is I DON’T DRINK! Two pounds wasted. Before I had the time to lament my loss and complain my situation, she locked our arms together and led me into this restaurant. I did not trust the coziness. No students about, hmmm. We sauntered to the bar. I made up my mind that if the food was more than four pounds, I would turn around and leave. Courtesy be damned.
The only problem was that I was not in control. She was. To see her talk with those behind the counter, one would think they were buddies from way back. Someone must have cracked a joke because they all threw their heads back and laughed loud while I stood like a brazen statue, feeling like a dog at the end of a leash whose owner had stopped to chat with friends. I listened for figures mentioned. None was mentioned. Instead the man at the bar handed me a small round black object.
'Ere u go mae.'
'What for?' she had her arms in mine before the man had a chance to answer, and led me to an empty table. What in the world was going on? She gave me the stop signal in answer to my quizzical look. 'What is going on?' Another stop signal. Just then the black object in my hand came to life. Light shone from within it.
'O’ food is ridy.' she rose to her feet, walked to the bar and signaled in a rather frantic manner that I join her. I joined her. Two plates of hotdogs, salad and something else were on the counter. 'Cud we ave tiplease' She turned to me. 'Or wu yu ave cafee?' I made out the words 'tea' and 'coffee' out of her sentences and understood what she had said. The only thing I could think of was how much it was all worth.
'Cfee or ti mae?' This from the barman.
'.....tea' I only answered mechanically, not to seem rude. He slammed two cups of tea on the counter soon after. I watched intently as he punched the cash machine in front of him. The girl beside me exchanged a joke with him. They chuckled.
'Seven fifty mae.' He said at the end of his mirth. I looked at the cause of my immediate woe and vaporized her. The sweetest smile was on her face. I dipped my hands in my pockets and surrendered my bus ride to the barman. He had the change ready. I wasn't fast enough. Another hand took the coin from his. I could only sigh when she slipped it into her pockets. At the table, I hinted her that there was absolutely no penny on me and that meant I was stranded.
'Don u ave a bancard or sompfthin?'
I had not even heard of the term 'bank card' before and I told her as much. She waved me off airily and dug into her food. What in heavens name had I gotten myself into? My appetite vanished and I picked at my food while watching her masticate hers with relish and going on about how she was desperately searching for a job. Would that she kept mute for just one minute, I might have been able to give my predicament some thought and figure a way out instead I engaged my analytical faculties in following what she was on about. I could not understand why she would not shut up when it was so clear there wasn't a conversation going on. She finished every morsel on her plate then dug into mine. To the on looker, two lovers sharing a meal. What hideous crime had I committed to be punished thus? I wondered.
Lunch ended and we went outside. I stood, trying to figure a way out of my broke. She stood with me. I looked at her again. My hunger had lessened enough for me to appreciate her beauty. It wasn't going to help me at the moment. I really just wanted her to disappear.
'You don even knowmi name.'
Get lost lady
'What is your name?'
'Shantell'
I told her mine - anything to get her to leave.
'will I see y' agin tomaro?'
Hell no!
'I don’t know if I will come to Manchester tomorrow.’ I said, looking out for cars on the road so I could cross at a moment's notice. She must have sensed my detachment.
'Don You wano see me agin?'
No
'Sure I do'
'Gimme y'number, ya, so I c'n call.'
'I don’t have a phone.' This was not a lie.
'Well heres mi number gimme a call ya?' I took the torn off sheet of paper from her, studied the numbers for her sake and squeezed it into my pocket.
'Definitely.'
Definitely not.
'Bye now.' She leaned in and kissed a cheek.
'Bye.' I watched her walk away. Nice backside. Perhaps it would have all been worth it if I had gotten into her pants.
If I learnt anything from that experience, it was that it takes a little under two hours to trek to Victoria station from Oxford road. My poor legs were wobbly when I arrived. Thank God I had eaten enough to give me the strength. I had a return ticket to Wigan so my journey back was assured. A new challenge, however, loomed ahead of me. I usually take the bus from the train station in Wigan to my house. It is a further trek than the one I had just made. My legs wouldn't survive it.
When we arrived, I saw the answer to my problems at the bus stop outside the train station. She was seated on the bench leafing through a book. Young, blonde and beautiful. Every other person around was standing. Typical.
I occupied the space on the bench beside her.
'Hi.'
She looked up from her reading with a somewhat quizzical look on her face.
'Hiya.'
I usually don’t do this but this time I really had no choice.
'I am in a bit of a fix here and I am wondering if you could give me two pounds for my bus fare home.' I watched her eyes turn cold and she got up without saying a word and walked away. Although I had spoken in hushed tones, too many had been too close. Eyes turned to look at me. The ground wouldn't open up and swallow me.
As I put one foot in front of another in the direction of home, I reflected on the blonde's behavior and chose not to blame her. Who knows what would have happened to her if she had helped this complete stranger that had come to sit beside her at a bus stop and asked for two pounds? Wise girl.
I put my hands in my pockets to keep them warm and felt the piece of paper in which Shantell had written her number. I wrenched it out of my pockets, crumpled it and threw it on the pavement.