You are writing this under duress. The movers are here and the landlord will take what he is owed. The last draft of the book is on the floor among your scattered life. You have been searching for it among cockroach eggs and wings filled half filled cartons with a horrid smell. You hoped the book will save you. You are yet to finish the damn thing but if you are to score some drugs, you need the manuscript as is, so your long-time friend and long suffering agent can have something to sell. You are still looking for it when Jen Abuja calls to tell you that she is pregnant. You think it is a joke. You end the call but you still find nothing.
Desperate for anything, you pick a sheaf of papers which seem to contain some tolerably good poems. You scan through them with hope. It is dashed against the rocks once you realise that most of the poems are already published. If desperation is the mother of invention, then you are the father. You sit on your chewed up mattress and on that rocky perch, you rearrange the lines, change the titles of the poems then you call your friend. You have a manuscript for him, you say. He sounds excited to hear this but by the time he arrives, the movers have come and gone, and you are homeless again.
You take his cigarettes wishing you had some blunts to smoke. You are hungry. You are also too broke to afford your food. You give your friend the manuscript and the man almost weeps with weariness. Where is the novel? Where is the fantastic high fantasy novel you were crooning about for months now? You have been searching for it. He is so exasperated; he hits the lampshade you inherited from your mother. The lampshade crumples as it falls to the ground. He bends to pick it and cuts himself on the broken light bulb which makes him angrier. You are sorry, you say. He says nothing as he sucks on his injured palm. He leaves with the manuscript and his cigarette. You are still broke and homeless when he leaves.
The woman, who lives across the road, in the big house, alone, is walking her dog down the road. You run to her and beg her to accommodate your property for the night. She looks your property up and down then she turns to study you. She is very old. She is smiling. What is in it for me, she asks. You are taken aback by her desire. She is so wrinkled but you are desperate and you are the father of invention. You have to invent excitement at sex with this woman. You smile back and soon you are in her big house, drinking cognac, a white towel around your waist. You meagre belongings are stored in an empty room minus the cartons of cockroaches which the woman refused to welcome into her home. Night comes fast and soon you are having sex. She is hungrier than you and you realise, though she has a wrinkly face, her body is still great and she knows kama sutra too. Maybe you have landed on your feet.
The next morning, your agent calls and tells you one of the publishers that you adore wants to meet to discuss the possibility of publishing your poems. It is unbelievable. You really have landed on your feet. You can’t put a good man down, you mutter, smiling until you hear your phone ring and on looking at the screen, it occurs to you that Jen is calling for the fourteenth time that morning. She is still pregnant she says and she is not removing it. You tell her that’s her problem to fix and you would care less what she does with her body. Jen takes this badly. She is brutal in her insults. She swears on you but you push them away, still flush with your sudden good fortune. As you step out of your lover’s room, a man is standing outside the door. He is frowning.
So you’re mother’s new gigolo? He asks then he laughs. I hope you survive longer than others, he adds then he turns and disappears round a corner. You are too surprised to say a word. You rush after the man but when you arrive downstairs, you meet only your lover at the dining table. You have met my son, i see, she says. She is eating and you are hungry. You join her at the table and dig into the feast set before you. Your phone rings again and you ignore it, thinking it is Jen calling for another round of insults. Your lover is watching you with hawk eyes but she says nothing. You get up, you have things to do in town. She nods and throws a car key at you. She opens her bag, brings out two bundles of one thousand naira notes and asks you to get some clothes. You are going out tonight, she says.
You are feeling like a god. You have a million naira in your pocket and you are driving a Mercedes Benz into town. You are the king of the hill and everybody will know it. You stop at a boutique and change your ragged clothes for something more expensive. When you step out, you feel like everyone who passes is looking at you. You are so full of your importance that you are blind to the mad man standing in front of you. You walk right into him and as the man stumbles, he grabs a hold of you and both of you fall, in storm of flailing legs, arms and curses. You struggle to get away from the man but he is insistent on licking your neck and humping his gradually distending crotch against you. It is embarrassing and some fool even has a phone recording the event. At your moment of emancipation! At the height of your godhood!
You grow so angry and you begin to hit the man. The man hits you back; spittle flying from his lips and soon, a legit fight begins. After several minutes, a crowd has gathered around the two of you and some persons are throwing bets as to who is the better puncher. The mad man is naked now and his penis is swinging before you. It is huge and it is irritating to see that people are focusing more attention on the size of the thing than on your torn and dirty expensive clothes. You rush in and grab the man by the balls. You squeeze and the mad man screams.
To be continued...