FIRST FRAME
They came out of the hospital to meet the rain and an angry sky. The doctor had done all he could; he could not be blamed for how things had turned out. What is left was to find peace and as much joy as the world would let them have. One year was all she had. He could make it count, couldn’t he?
The street was wet and empty of traffic. The man looked at his wife – she was still crying. He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her shaking shoulders. Her skin was hot to touch, he noticed as he removed his hands from her shoulders and stood, watching the rain patter on the pockmarked road. The cracks in the road reminded him of a bullet riddled corpse, the water pooling inside each hole – blood pouring out. He sighed and opened the umbrella. He touched her and both of them walked to the car.
He opened the door for her and gently guided her in. He walked back to the driver’s side of the car and opened the door. He closed the umbrella and entered, throwing the umbrella on the back seat. He looked at her quickly, her eyes were closed, her head resting on the headrest. He turned to the back and removed the umbrella from where it laid dripping on the seat and placed it on the floor of the car. He turned back, reached across her, drew the seatbelt and belted her to her seat then he belted himself too. The car rolled away from the curb slowly, its engine groaning with strain, black smoke coughing out of the exhaust.
The house stood in its faded paint, staring morosely at the semi-flooded road, as the car drove up to the front door. The man came out with the umbrella unopened in his hand, he stared at the blank face of the house, rain water clouding his eyes for a second. He rolled his shoulder and opened the umbrella.
He went to the passenger side and opened the door for her. She came out, hands first. The hands went around his shoulder and they stood under the umbrella in the semi-flooded road for a minute. The man shrugged his shoulders and she disentangled from him as if she was falling.
Source
The man led her to the door and placed the umbrella on the ground. He pushed the frame door to the side and fumbled with the key. His hand refused to obey him. He struggled, as his hands shook then he threw the bunch of keys on the floor. She came to him, bent, picked the keys and inserted the one into the keyhole. The door opened with a squeal and they entered.
He stood and watched as she pulled off his coat from his shoulders and walked towards the door out of the sitting room, the coat trailing wetness on the tiles. The coat fell to the floor before the door as she entered the room and closed it behind her.
He turned to the bar, and drew out a whiskey bottle and a glass. He looked at his reflection as he unscrewed the cap – the wrinkles around the eyes had deepened and increased, the worry lines on the forehead were like ridges. He avoided the eyes and poured the drink. He gulped the fiery liquid and poured another.
He got up and went to the coat, she had dropped on the floor. He picked it up and searched the pockets. He soon found what he wanted – a gas lighter and a pack of cigarettes – Benson and Hedges. He looked at the pack then looked at the closed door, he turned to look at the bar mirror – the view was distorted. He had two selves and the cigarette pack looked bigger in the mirror’s view. He walked back to the bar and sat down. He drew a stick and stuck it in the lips, he clicked the gas lighter and the flame took on the tip of the cigarette. He drew in the first smoke and held it in as he stared at the lighter in his hand… then he let the smoke out. It came out languidly, unwillingly into the air. The man adjusted his bum on the seat and settled into the routine.
He heard the patter of slippers and turned; she stopped and stared at him. The cigarette smoke made her seem to have appeared from a fog. They stared at each other for a minute, then she walked to him, took out a stick from the pack and lit it. He poured her a shot of whiskey and both of them sat before the bar staring at their mirrored selves trailing smoke from empty lips that didn’t have the energy to say goodbye.
PAUSE, LET US PRAY
The preacher filled the coffers –
Miracles and prophecies spilling to the floor
Like coins, like naira notes on the sweaty brow
Of spirit filled, trembling, gibberish spewing anointed;
Binding, losing and casting demons; thirsty work.
The maimed and the broken stared
At dancing marionettes sowing and reaping, ripping and sewing
Truth and lies; magic and performance; drama, Dr Faustus?
Where is hell? Where is heaven?
Come in.
Bible classes is by 7am; service by 8am.
Prophecy is manual; begins by 11am
And deliverance by 1pm.
The child is hungry by 10am.
We sell biscuits and cold drinks;
The preacher’s wife is a business woman.
Where is heaven? Where is hell?
Water is 10,000 naira.
It cures everything;
HIV, cancer, diabetes, rheumatism,
Bed wetting. Lawd! Everything i say
Word of God come and settle like ashes on these heads.
Ha! My bible is torn from reading.
I bought it in 1984.
I have a tambourine, i have been to 50 crusades,
111 evangelical outreaches.
I have casted and binded;
Losened and set free.
Look at your shoes; the pastor drives a range rover.
Judge not my anointed says the lord.
Judge? I am telling you that you are not working;
You are volunteering in the vineyard
And volunteers don’t get paid.
Where is heaven? Where is hell?
SECOND FRAME
A mad woman stands at D.S.C roundabout, in Delta State, staring at cars cruising along the express way. She is completely naked. Her hair is shaved, her lazy breast swings with the wind and her sex is covered with bushy overgrowth. She does not care about the sidelong stares she is receiving from passersby; she is counting buses that are painted blue.
She has been on twenty for the last half hour and can’t seem to go further. She had counted all the chipped and scabbed fingers of her hand then all the fingers of her cracked toes, but can go no further. The next numeral is in her head but she can not put a word to it. Her hungry eyes follows the blue bus that she can not name like she is watching something precious leave. Maybe something precious is leaving with the bus; maybe the last vestige of her sanity is on that blue bus saying goodbye and she will never count past twenty.
When primary school pupils going to school with their school sacks, with their patched Ghana must go pressed uniforms, stinking of ice fish, jeer at her, She swears at them, holding her well suckled breasts to the sky in rituals old as Africa. She curses the womb of their mothers, the manhood of their fathers and she curses the world.
When harried men, late, for an interview, a business appointment, or just walking because there is nothing else to do, cast sidelong glances at her breast or the plump, pockmarked, stretch marked heaviness of her buttocks, she runs after them with hunger;
“come and do na! You dey look your mama yansh, come and do!” she screams and jeers at them. The men, they run.
When well groomed ladies pass her, their hankies held to their nose, their eyes face forward, trying to avoid contact with a maimed member of their sex, she sashays behind them; a perfect mimicry of rolling buttocks, broken wrists, fluttering eyelashes and stilted words;
“uhm…please…uhm…can I have one bonga fish, uhm…peppeisoup spices and… fifty naira fresh peippei with one magi and… uhm…thirty naira salt?” She mocks them.
The mimicry make greasy, hardeyed, market women, tickle with laughter and they sometimes reward her with a piece of fish, dry garri, or the remains of rice and stew with a boiled egg.
They call her ‘After-Twenty’ because she always asks; “After twenty is what?”
After-Twenty lives in the dangerous shelter of the police wives shopping complex. She moves there when night descends, along with the darkness that always follows. Her place is the last shop, close to the little swamp that bred mosquitoes in large quantities. She has a sack that serves as bedding spread on the concrete floor.
She sees things that will beggar the mind; boys who come to smoke ganja; small boys who come to sex small girls with over-fondled weak breasts; evil men, who come, hold her down, and go into her again and again, even as she fights, kicks and bites. They always succeed because she is one woman and they are many strong men. One especially, comes every day. Tonight she will wait.
Darkness can be soothing and it can be fear given a face. After-Twenty sits on her bed, muttering to herself. She ties the mosquito net (a torn banner of one crusade that promised healing and deliverance), over her head, after she sprays raid from a rusty Raid canister she always keeps close by. Since she got the can at Ebrumede, she had been free from mosquitoes. She mutters to herself; maybe it is a prayer for protection, maybe she is psyching herself up for the battle ahead but she is sweating and spittle falls from her lips as she speaks. Her eyes become feverish with wild light and she turns at every sound. Then she hears the footsteps, walking with sure purpose. She gets up, whimpering, she sits down again, then she drags a piece of iron close to her and she caresses its cold length. She had fought over it with a mechanic during the day, and she had won. She intends to win her freedom with its solid weight. Tonight she is ready; She will wait.
THE END.
Note:
Photos were gotten from wikimedia and pexels except that which has its source.
There are no pictures in the second frame because i do not want to use the NSFW tag. Mental illness is not a pleasing sight. Thank you for stopping by.
You can join me on discord servers:
Adsactly
Airhawk-project
Isle Of Write
Minnow-Power
Project-Atlas
Steemit Poets United
Whaleshares
