Chronicles of the Absurd by Samuel Kolawole

Introduction



Mr. C tells Mr. D what he heard from Mr. B who got the information from firsthand Mr. A. Soon every body hears about it and the entire country goes berserk (it happens only in my country). But then neither Mr. A or Mr. B is known so people abandon the source and "follow gullibly after the story", which may lack the support of empirical evidence and threaten logical reasoning, the later taking place more frequently.   

  These yarns are unstable as waters. They wash over the people, recede as quickly and unforeseen as they come. They leave pleasant and not so pleasant imprints in hearts and lives. Fact, fad or fiction, one thing is sure. The absurd lives with us, now and forever more.    



   1-Begging for death



There was time when beggars leaped over bridges and plunged into water canals to surface twice as large and white as eggs. They'd talked about bad business and total neglect by the citizens. But the real reason for their predicament was not far fetched. It had started with Miriam Dafeh(Not her real name, nobody knows her real name, nobody knows if she really exists) and a motor park beggar. 

     It was a bright and sunny day when heads grew hot, sweat licked from armpits, horns blared crazily and drivers shared curses freely. Mariam meandered through the crowd, clutching her handbag close to her to prevent purse snatchers and thinking about how good the day has been. She was slim, flat breasted and light complexioned. Today she was feeling good and light as paper. Her first salary as a chattered street-side typist was tucked discreetly in her bag and she was very much eager to go home and stretch her legs out. She entered a public vehicle and went straight to the backseat beside the window for easy access to fresh air. Her place of work was not too far from home and she'd always trekked the distance but today she felt like giving herself a treat-it was good to do that once in a while.

Soon, the bus was almost occupied and the passengers were complaining of heat but there was no one to receive the murmur; the conductor was busy yelling his guts out in an attempt to drive the crowd into the bus. The driver on the other hand, was playing "lust chase" with a food seller further down the road and would not be back till the bus was ready to move. Profusions of shouts and abuses would alert him

"Where is the driver of this bus?"

"Where did this mad person wander to?"

"Does he want to bake us in this heat?"

"Are we going to spend the whole year here?"

"Are we goats that the driver stacks us together and abandons us?"

Such would be the statements that would fall from their lips and more upon the driver when he arrives. But for him, it was nothing to bother about, it happened almost every time.

The passengers were constantly besieged by hawkers and beggars as they sweltered on in the heat. It was not long before they were hanging out their hands through the windows for "pure" water and cold drinks stitched in nylon bags. Some were handing out crumpled notes to those who pleaded for alms and showed the vestiges of their chopped limbs or engorged eyes to arouse pity. Mariam gave two crisp notes to one who'd no disability but whose stammering tongue caused much empathy. He was a young man and his dress was incredibly filthy. Dry blades of grass clung crazily on his brown knotty hair and his beard dangled like ropes around his jaws. The lunatic beggar's eyes were red and hunger filled but focused on Mariam. His madness didn't exempt him from suffering and hunger. He was sober. He’d stretched out his hands and raised his open palms up and had received the damp note before his pleading was consummated -it was painful to hear him speak.

  The bus was ready to go. The driver hopped in, struggled with the steering gear for a few moments and switched on the ignition by twisting two naked wires together. The vehicle coughed and grumbled down the slope of the motor park then hit the rush hour traffic after five minutes drive. The heat resumed and people brought handkerchiefs and fashioned their palms into fans. They hurled serious accusations at the driver but the fellow was in no mood to be rude. He ignored them and ordered his conductor to start with the money collection, who without hesitation, moved up and down the aisle, picking up soiled notes and exchanging insults with those who didn’t have change (The exact bus fare)

“You have suffered us this bus and yet you collect money from us” a woman who wore a filthy head scarf said

“Nobody suffered you! The country is suffering all of us!” was the conductor’s direct reply and the passengers spent the next few minutes scourging tongues about their beloved country.  Their confab was rudely interrupted by sudden spasmodic jerks of the vehicle which resulted in a halt. For a few minutes, the driver tried in vain to put the vehicle into gear; he sweated and cursed and jerked the gear stick from side to side as drivers poked their neck out of their windows and tossed dreadful words at him.

  The driver suddenly hurried out of the bus then went underneath it. A few seconds later he was back in his seat shifting the gear with his now greasy hands and urging the vehicle to move- he knew his fellow drivers would soon be tossing fists and he was not in the frame of mind to engage in a brawl.  The bus finally gave a screeching sound and jerked back to life-the ordeal left beads of sweat on the poor driver’s forehead     

   Mariam got down from the bus ten minutes later and was heading for the one room apartment she shared with her best friend. She doubled up her speed and took short routes to arrive her destination in time. She stumbled on the way; a block of concrete hit her foot. It did not hurt her much but she lost the shoe heel of her right leg.  She called the shoe useless and complained of wasting her money. She would have started keeping a good watch over herself if she'd stumbled a few years ago. She’d always held on to the superstitious belief that tripping over was a sign of danger just around the corner. But that was then, now she knows better.

   Her roommate was not home. She took off her shoes and undressed. She wrapped a towel over her body, wore her shower cap then picked up a pail to fetch water for bath. A little later she was in the bathroom, a small enclosure made with rust out roofing sheets soaping her unclothedness and singing a tune she heard on her way coming. That was when she saw a man, the lunatic beggar at the motor park. He was standing in the bathroom with her and was as nude as she was. He was smiling; his eyes were no longer red but dark and flashing with excitement. His weapon stood erect as a pole, long and richly supplied with blood vessels. Her eyes popped wide open, whether in surprise or horror it was not to be known. She opened her mouth to scream for help but no words came, she was to enjoy the moment, not scream, but she wanted to scream.



Enjoy the moment

Let the beggar boy have you

Touch his dangling beard

Eat the blade of grass in his hair

Let him have you

Open your yellow thighs wide

Let the beggar in 


Mariam opened her legs wide, stretched her arms as though crucified and closed her eyes to savor the moment.



Enjoy the moment

Let the beggar boy have you

Touch his dangling beard

Eat the blade of grass in his hair

Let him have you

Open your yellow thighs wide

Let the beggar in 


They coupled on their feet with incredible passion. Mariam writhed beneath beggar boy; she struggled and scratched with her fingernails, yet by no means in horror. She was enjoying the moment; the throes of sexual intercourse, the sweet stench of the lunatic's unwashed body and the coarseness of his manly hair. She wanted the moment to last but it was over before she knew it. Her lover was gone, vanished with the wind. Her pleasure turned into agony, discomfort gripped her down below. She attempted again to scream but nothing came out, just hot air, hot odorous air. She moved her legs but it was heavy as lead. She decided to crawl and again her body felt like a sack of salt. She moved out of the bathroom and groveled in the soil like worm. People spotted her and the alarm was raised

   The wind snatched away her life before she reached the hospital but not before sucking out her guts.  The beggar boy had her,  all of her 

http://www.author-me.com/fict06/chroniclesofabsurd.htm

Xkape, I wonder less about your work than about u. I wud like to know a little more about the writer(u)'s background. Not so I can appreciate the work - hell no! I do already. But so I can give it a little more than mere peripheral thoughts coz it really deserves a good thinking. Nuel is the name down here and, er ,

nanaboi:

Xkape, I wonder less about your work than about u. I would like to know a little more about the writer(u)'s background. Not so I can appreciate the work - hell no! I do already. But so I can give it a little more than mere peripheral thoughts because it really deserves a good thinking. Nuel is the name down here and, er ,

Sorry Nuel, I am not the writer, but I know him . i wonder about the thought patterns that produce such work too
Anyway, i could give you his IM if you like

iice:

@xkape, love your sig

Mucho gracias, senorita. ¿Cómo está usted?

bueno

The kafkaesque story is well thought. The narrative is good. The imagery grips the reader and does not allow the reader to slip away from the grip.

It is pure horror. And a nightmare like the nightmares of Franz Kafka and the writer should read and study Franz Kafka to understand the genre in order to perfect the art and craft.

You need to improve your use of English, without good knowledge of English grammar, the story will lose the bolts and nuts you need to hold the structure of your prose.

This petty language nearly damaged your narrative:
"That was when she saw a man, the lunatic beggar at the motor park. He was standing in the bathroom with her and was as nude as she was. He was smiling; his eyes were no longer red but dark and flashing with excitement. His weapon stood erect as a, "

I would have said, that was when she saw the figure, before her. Naked. Strange. Something twitched in her. It was the same lunatic beggar! Before describing his facial features, describe how she felt. Petrified. Cold shivers shook her. She shuddered. You can now describe his facial expressions.
Then, his manhood was stiff. Turgid.

Your element of shock was perfect.
Later the same lunatic beggar she pitied and gave alm at the motorpark suddenly reappeared as she was bathing stark naked where she lived and took her life away.
To me the unearthly rape of Miriam Dafeh is a metaphor of the mystery of death that can confront the victims in mysterious unforseen circumstances. And most humans are ignorant of the premonitions. Death is a spirit. An evil spirit lurking in different places and often in disguise. Beware of strangers and decree that may your goodwill never be used to harm you later.

You know we have heard of cases of missing or shrinking penis at Lagos motorparks and on public transport buses. So, the possibility of this terrifying encounter cannot be dismissed.

Orikinla,
U said u're a writer. What genre? And where can I find any of your works? I stay at Enugu.

I write literature of all genres. And I produce and direct plays since 1980 to date.

I started writing professionally for the Nigerian Television Authority (NTA) Channel 10 at age 18. I wrote 25 different scripts for and 19 were produced.

The last major work on stage was Sleepless Night on MKO Abiola with the World Premiere in the summer of 2002 at the French Cultural Centre in Lagos featuring the late Funso Alabi and choreography by the Crown Troupe of Africa.

Last musical work in CD was She Comes On Sundays broadcast only on the BBC with an interview on my performace poetry in April 2003.

Children of Heaven(poems)-Krystal Publications, 1987.
Language of True Love- (love quotes and kisses)-Flonnal Limited, 2006.
1.Rainbow Bookshop, 20 IGBODO STREET, OLD GRA, PORT HARCOURT, RIVERS STATE.
2. Glendora Bookshop, FALOMO SHOPPING COMPLEX, FALOMO, IKOYI, LAGOS.
3. Delight Supermarket, MONGOLO SHOPPING CENTRE, FINIMA ZONE 5, BONNY ISLAND, RIVERS STATE.

LIRE EN FETE (Prize winning short stories) 2002.- French Cultural Centre, Ikoyi, Lagos.
CAMOUFLAGE-Anthology of the best New Writers in Nigeria, Association of Nigerian Authors(ANA) available in all branches in Nigeria.

Scarlet Tears of London( poems) King of Kings Books International, 2006-Amazon, Barnes & Noble, MSN Shopping, Buy.com, Lulu.com and other booksellers (Not yet available in Nigeria.)

Naked Beauty (screenplay) co-authored with Chika Christian Onu, director of[i] Living in Bondage 2 [/i] and Glamour Girls and 100 other movies is available to those who want to learn how to write first class screenplays. $20 per copy.

N.B:
Please, don't send your manuscripts to me. I have one of the best editors in the world Adeleke Adeyemi of ANA who reads and edits manuscripts and you have to pay him to do so. My serious works are not published without his approval. And my serious works are not posted online.)

Last musical work in CD was She Comes On Sundays
That part caught my fancy. I suppose u're in Lagos. The distance is quite some. But I hope I'll be oppurtuned to watch one of your stage works someday. Who knows, I could even ,