Hello Literaturelanders

I will like to share something special with y'all. I am sure you will love it.

So, it is a story by @Ohmstonweth on Twitter and if after you finish reading the story, you don't like will love love love it!!!

Reproduced with permission of the author sought and obtained.

Enjoy!

Othuke Ominiabohs, © 2015.

My end was near ... I could feel it.

I felt it in the cold of the pouring rain, in the glassy stare of the pedestrians and motorists racing for cover. But in the haze of my confusion and pain, I noted the crystals of ice falling from the sky, an oddity I had long gotten accustomed to. My face lit up for an ephemeral second as I remembered briefly my surprise, the first time I witnessed this ice rain during my first visit to Kano State, but that was a long time ago. A lot had since happened, a lot had changed and most likely, things were never going to be the same again.

I shivered as I thought of her. Odufa ... my love.

When did everything go so wrong?

I had been walking for so long, my feet began to ache. I felt a spasm of cold crawl across my spine and I knew it was time to return home.

Home.

The word was like a knife plunged into my gut. But I had to return all the same, to the one-room apartment I had once joyously called my home.

I turned and began the long walk back to Dambari. I got home forty minutes later, rapped on the front door and waited. The rain had since worsened, pouring now with a vengeance. I heard a bolt pull back and the door was thrown open. I ran inside, quickly shutting the door, raced across the small room past Odufa and into the small bathroom, dripping buckets. I towelled my head and face. At the same time I stared at the occupants of my home. Dressed in a small white top and the pair of blue jean shorts I had bought her barely four months ago, Odufa sat cross-legged on the bed, resting her elbows beside the tiny light-skinned bundle sleeping soundly amid the loud din made by the rain. Her chin was set, fixed like a stone in the mouth of a tomb. She did not smile. She did not look my way, so she couldn’t see the tears or the shivers that wracked my body.

I shifted my gaze farther to the other edge of the bed. Odufa’s mother lay there, eyes closed, mumbling inaudible words. She shook her head and shook her feet, and once in a while she would raise her head to eye the sleeping bundle and then relapse into her mournful state. If she was aware I had returned, she did not show it.

Looking at them, I had a gut-wrenching epiphany - I was not wanted here. I reached for a fresh pair of clothes from the nearby wardrobe and changed. I opened the bathroom door and signalled for her to come.
Odufa looked at me and then she turned to face her mother as if seeking her permission. But the woman remained shut out from her surroundings, enjoying the ritual of shaking her feet and her head with her eyes tightly shut.

Odufa stood up reluctantly and came to me. She gazed woodenly at me, hands folded across her breast. Her fair skin shone in the dimness of the small room. Her lips were full with a pout and as she raised her chin a notch higher so she could look at me, I could not help but appreciate the perfect curve of her jaw, the sinful black of her hair, the hard glitter of her eyes ... her striking beauty.

“What is happening to us?” I asked, reaching for her arm.

She studied my feet, and then she looked at my sodden clothes which I had piled in a corner.

“Where did you go?” she asked, ignoring my question. She turned her arm, expertly freeing herself from my grip.

“Away from here,” I said. “I needed to clear my head.”

“Is your head clear now?”

“I don’t know.” I lifted her chin. “Please, don’t go,” I pleaded.

“I have to. My father has spoken. I have to go.”

“Baby, please I beg you, don’t leave. Would your father control you even in your own home?”

She pushed my hand away. “This isn’t my home, Tony, at least not yet,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “I have to go so you can come and do what you are supposed to do. Then, my father won’t have any say. But until that time, I am still my father’s daughter.”
I studied the lines on her face, my heart yearning in silence. “I’ll come to Lagos to pay your bride price since your mind is made up,” I exhaled.

She brightened. “When exactly will you come?” she asked, reaching for my hand now.

“I don’t know, before the month runs out maybe. I’ll talk to my parents and they would surely accompany me.”

Doubt crept into her eyes. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Do you have your fare to Lagos?”
She shook her head. I reached into my trouser pockets, counted twenty pieces of one thousand naira notes and handed them to her.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning forward to kiss my lips. “Don’t worry, Tony, even if you don’t come, I’ll find a way to trick my parents and I’ll come to Delta with our son.”

“I have to leave now,” I said.

“I thought you were travelling with the night bus, why leave now, it’s just one o’clock?”

“Don’t worry; I’ll wait at the park.”

I did not wish to stay a minute longer. If she was taking my son away from me, the earlier I re-adjusted to the change the better I’d fare.

“OK. I’ll help pack your bags,” she said. Turning, she walked out.

Five minutes later I was out again under the drizzling rain. Odufa stood by the doorway, our son nestled in her arms.

“Come say goodbye to Efezino,” she called.
I lifted my boy from her arms and tickled his soft cheeks till his lips widened, the outer corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. I prayed for him. Handing him over to his mother, I turned quickly so she wouldn’t see the tears pooling around my eyes.

With my backpack weighing heavily across my shoulder and another big travelling bag clutched in my hands, I made my way out of Dambari to the tarred road under the rain. The dark sky, gloomy and cloudless, brought with it a knifing wind that intensified the cold.
Twenty minutes later, I was at the Sabon Gari motor park. I paid my fare to Delta State, and with most of the belongings I had acquired over the short period I lived in the north, I climbed into the bus. I looked down at the overcrowded park, at the different Marcopolo buses with their indigenous tongue-twister names branded on their colourful bodies. I heard the trampling of human feet, noting the burly bus conductors whose cracked voices still rang loud like church bells. I overheard the calls of the underfed, malnourished street-hawkers, peddling fruits, soft drinks and water. I saw the uncouth and sleazily dressed youths with their puckered scars and unshaven beards haggling relentlessly for the milling passengers, the almajiris with their mournful eyes and meaningless chants walking aimlessly in all directions ... but I only gazed through it all, feeling nothing, only the nagging question that sought how my life had come to this.

Tears slid down my eyes as I reminisced. And as I replayed the past events in my head, I had a sudden urge to tell my story, to unfold its intimate details in its fullness, So that you who would be patient enough to follow me on this journey, may judge. So that one day my son would know what truly happened in the months preceding his birth, in the weeks after his birth, and in the months and years that were to follow.

I closed my eyes and journeyed to the beginning.

It all began in February 2010...

Othuke Ominiabohs © 2015

[size=15pt] Chapter 1[/size]


Dr. Oscar walked into his office with quick jerky steps, a stethoscope hanging on his shoulders, and slumped on the swivel chair behind his crowded desk. He was a small man with an oily face and a paunch that pushed against the buttons of his white shirt. He picked up a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, stuck it on his face and then he rummaged through the pile of green files on his desk, grabbed one and began to scan through it.

Beside the only window in the room was an examination table laid with blue bedding. A white ward coat hung from a nail beside a dove-grey metal filing cabinet.

“Please sit down.” Dr. Oscar waved me to a chair without taking his eyes off the file.
Brown window blinds screened out the midday sun, leaving the room tinged with a faint dingy pallor. I pulled back a chair and sat facing him.

Dr. Oscar looked up. Through the thick lens of his glasses I could see bags beneath his eyes.

“When were you first diagnosed of being hypertensive?” he asked.

“Three years ago,” I said.

“And you never took the medication you were given until your heart failed two weeks ago,” he said, flipping through the pages.

“Yes,” I replied with guilt. I had ignored the initial prognosis as I was sure the doctors had been mistaken. I couldn’t imagine how a young man like me could come down with a disease associated with old people.
He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and fixed his gaze on me. “Your heart has struggled through the past three years to keep you alive. You know all about your condition already I suppose?”

I nodded.

He shifted forward, resting his elbows on the dark brown wooden table, his eyes still trained on me, his aspect a shade graver. “In overworking itself, and pumping blood at an unusually high speed, I suspected a few organs might have been damaged over time hence the series of tests I insisted that you run. We suspect that damage has already been done to your kidneys and that you need urgent medical attention. Do not be afraid, it’s nothing chronic yet, besides if you stick to your anti-hypertensive drugs you’ll be OK.”

He paused and scratched the probable week-old beard on his chin. “Have you ever impregnated a woman before?” he asked abruptly.

I shook my head. Why this question, I wondered. What was the connection? I could feel sweat beads forming on my brow. “Is there something else wrong with me?”

Dr. Oscar reached for a pink slip and pushed it forward. It was the result of one of the many tests I had done. I gazed blankly at the figures written in poor handwriting all over the sheet. I looked at him, my eyes questioning.

“One of your test results had me worried. On a hunch, I ordered a fertility test to be carried out. I can’t say it’s normal, neither can I really pinpoint its origin. But it’s possible your untreated hypertension is the primary culprit. We would have to run more tests to ascertain exactly what went wrong,” he said. “From the result in that test slip, you do not have the required sperm motility rate to impregnate a woman.”

“I-I don’t understand,” I stammered.

Dr. Oscar sat back, and then he said the words that were to change everything ... forever.

“Sixty percent of your sperm cells is dead, another twenty percent is non-motile. At this rate, you may never be able to father a child.”

[size=15pt] Chapter 1 Cont'd[/size]

Othuke Ominiabohs © 2015

I was impotent!

No amount of grammar or medical jargon Dr. Oscar spoke could change the way I felt. He spoke of medicines, sperm boosters that could correct the damage. He told me of people with worse motility rates. But nothing he said could change how I felt.

His words endlessly rang in my head: Sixty percent of your sperm cells is dead, another twenty percent is non-motile. At this rate, you may never be able to father a child.
How could a full grown man go through life without children? What woman would understand and stay with a man who was incapable of fathering children? As if on cue, I lost my girlfriend the very week I told her about my condition. I felt betrayed, cursed. I slept and woke up in agony, begging for release; release from this prison of horrors. How in the world was it possible, I asked myself, that one still so young and moderate in lifestyle, a child of always healthy parents, could be thus strangely afflicted with severe hypertension and dead sperm cells? How did this cruel fate find me?

Several times I asked God ‘why?’, waiting for a response, yet only hearing my question echoed back to me, fainting out in desolate silence. I was all alone.

I didn’t have the courage to tell anyone but my family who, though deeply shaken, yet with nothing but love, sympathy and optimism in their hearts, took it rather well.
Without much faith, I began to see Dr. Oscar for medical treatment. Most nights I woke up to find my pillow soaked with blood – one of the many symptoms presented by my high blood pressure. I went through the last days of school cold and withdrawn. Surprisingly, I noticed that with my withdrawal came a fascinating increase in the number of my female admirers. It was as if my sudden disinterest in things around me was a huge attraction and turn-on for the opposite sex.

At first I wanted nothing to do with them, so I ignored them. If most of these girls knew I couldn’t father a child, they probably wouldn’t have bothered to give me a second glance. It was this thought that irked me. I was like a fruit without a kernel, an empty husk. Why not have them now that I could, I reasoned. Why not enjoy this alluring prospect of sensual bliss, I argued with myself. It didn’t take too long for me to succumb to the force of my own persistent persuasions. At this time I lived in Aluu, one of the semi-rural townships neighboured within the University of Port-Harcourt’s vicinity. Although I still had my project work to do, the lecture free hours afforded me enough time to pursue and indulge my freshly untrammelled desires.
Thus began my uncertain metamorphosis from a withdrawn reserved gentleman to a self-gratifying pleasure-seeking libertine.
What hope was there for me?

I saw only bleakness and a painful longing for an heir. The sight of children brought tears to my eyes. They were like delicate cherubs, with their little eyes and small ears and innocent smiles.

In one supple arm after another, from one warm bosom to the next, I sought solace and hope in the burning embers of passions that waned faster than the fading flush of sunsets.
Outwardly, I presented a face that remained resignedly stoic, behind which, however, wept a broken heart. I had to be a man, I resolved somewhat obstinately. Being impotent wasn’t the end of the world, after all. Somewhere still on the night-black fringes of my despair, crept the thin trail of a grey glimmer of ambiguous hope. Whence came this hope, I couldn’t tell.

So I hoped.

And I prayed.

In the weeks that were to follow, I completed my treatment with Dr. Oscar, although I had no faith in the efficacy of the expensive medication he had prescribed. I didn’t even bother going for another test as I couldn’t stand the thought of discovering the likely futility of the entire treatment. I concluded my clearance at school, submitted my project, and left Port-Harcourt for Lagos where my older sister, Karome, lived.

Oh well!

[size=15pt]Chapter 2[/size]

Lagos provided fresh avenues for sorely-sought distraction. The high rises and busy swarm of flashy cars in the Victoria Island-Lekki axis, the restless feverish commercial activity, the upward soaring flight of the business and corporate world, the intensely vivacious and variegated social scene, the sleepless hunger and pervasive, hope-filled drive for success, was infinitely motivating. It fed my mind with new-found thoughts and ideas. I sought to close out my pain by immersing myself in self-flattering daydreams and possible ‘get-rich-quick’ schemes. I figured if I could make so much money, I could go abroad and get my organs functioning again.
I reached out to old intimate friends, vaguely seeking solace in the familiar warmth of friendships. Among the people I reached out to was, Ulusi, a young girl who was quite dear to me. I had known Ulusi for many years and we had been friends for that long too. Though our relationship was savoured in sips, we were nevertheless quite fond of each other. She came visiting as soon as she learnt I was in Lagos.
I was heading out of the huge black gate of my sister’s rented apartment in Lekki when two ladies I barely recognised walked in. It had been two years since the last time I saw either of them.
Odufa stepped in first. I recognised her because I had seen her a couple of times before in Ulusi’s company. I felt my breath get caught up in my throat, and my tongue suddenly dry up. She wore a green jacket over a black cotton blouse and a blue jean skirt that stopped at her knees. Her slippers and belt were the same colour as the jacket. Her hair, left in its natural state, was neatly combed to both sides of her head, forming a parting across her scalp. Her mouth widened, the corners lifting, exposing white beautiful teeth. Ulusi coughed. Only then did I realise she was staring at me.
“Ulusi!” I exclaimed. Stepping forward, I wrapped her in my arms. “How are you?” I asked, looking at her braids done in the popular style girls called Ghana weaving.
“I’m fine,” she smiled, hiding her face in her small hands.
I took a step back to get a better look at her.

[size=15pt]Chapter 2 Cont'd[/size]


She giggled and reluctantly dropped her hands to her side. Ulusi was petite and light-skinned; I doubted she was up to 5’6. When she spoke, her voice was soft and warm and had a rich lilt to it. She had smiling eyes, a small nose and small pink lips. A tight-fitting black t-shirt outlined her small breasts, a long pleated white skirt hid her ankles.

“This is my sister. Her name is Odufa.” Ulusi began the introductions.

“I know her. I’ve seen her before,” I said.

I moved to Odufa and on impulse, extended my hand. “Anthony,” I said wearing my most charming smile. She smiled back warmly.
The hands that closed around my fingers were warm and soft.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I said, leading the way.

They sat down in the vast sitting room while I busied in the kitchen trying to fix refreshments. I was rinsing glasses when a slight noise behind me made me turn around. Odufa stood by the doorway. She winked at me.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “I thought you might need help.” She walked into the kitchen and rested her hips on the marbled slab of the kitchen table.

“Oh, thanks. I do, actually. Help me grab a pack of orange juice from that fridge,” I said, pointing to the refrigerator.

She sauntered to the fridge and opened it. “Can I have some brandy?” she asked, her voice barely audible. She was holding the juice pack but stared with longing at the wine bar.

“Brandy?” I asked. “You drink alcohol?”

“Once in a while,” she replied.

“Go ahead. Have some if you want.”

She moved to the mini bar built on the kitchen wall, grabbed a bottle of Hennessy, took a glass and filled it up. She drank the scorching liquid in one gulp. Her cheeks puckered like she’d tasted a lemon.

Back in the sitting room, Ulusi sat quietly, saying little. Odufa on the other hand, kept the conversation alive, chatting like she had known me all her life, like she had no cares. But through the excitement that gleamed from those brown eyes, flitted dark shadows I could feel. Once in a while she would throw her head back and laugh with the carefree demeanour of an amused child, exposing her glittering white teeth. But I knew better than to mistake her for a complete sanguine.

The sun came up rather slowly, filling the room with its piercing rays.

“Why don’t we go to the beach?” I suggested. “Ulusi, what do you think?”
“OK,” she said.

We arrived at Alpha Beach, which wasn’t so far away from the house, within a few minutes. The frigid sea breeze whipped our faces and swirled our clothes. We headed to one of the open huts and took a table that gave us a clear view of the burbling ocean. The beach was not so crowded at this time — just the way I liked it. I bought drinks and roasted fish. We ate and drank and chatted.

Hellooooooooo!

[size=15pt]Chapter 2 Cont'd
[/size]

I couldn’t keep my eyes off Odufa. She must have sensed my attraction, because she quickly began redirecting our conversations, making sure the focus was on me and her sister. I wasn’t surprised when she suggested I go for a walk with Ulusi who jumped at the idea and was on her feet before I could blink.
Leaving Odufa behind, Ulusi and I walked the length of the beach, our bare feet digging into the white beach sand. We glided towards the shallow parts of the water, immersing our feet into the cold sea.

We chatted briefly about this and that and then we walked back the way we had come, meeting Odufa halfway. She pointed to the horses trotting on the sand.

“Can I ride?” she asked sweetly.

“Why not? You both should,” I offered.

I called one of the horse-men and we negotiated his fee. Happy as children, and with the help of the skinny horse-man, they mounted a golden brown pony stained with white streaks around the hooves.

The girls’ faces lit up as they galloped away.

They came running back to me as soon as the ride was over, laughing gaily like a bunch of school children. Odufa’s hair bobbed up and down like wings fluttering in the mild breeze. Ulusi’s skirt swirled with the wind, threatening to blow all the way up and expose her thighs.

We sat down again and I ordered more drinks. Two huts away, the heart-melting lyrics of Westlife’s, You Raise Me Up, floated to us.

“Can we go for a walk?” I asked, staring into Odufa’s dark brown eyes.

She looked at Ulusi for a brief moment before nodding.

“Ulusi, please don’t be bored, we’ll be right back,” Odufa said, standing up.

“I’ll be right here,” Ulusi waved.

We walked the beach in silence. But this time, I could feel the tiny grains of the beach sand writhing beneath my feet. The chirping of birds from their nests high up in the few coconut trees was enchanting. I perceived the freshness in the air, inhaling the salty tang of the sea. The songs filtering from the various music booths faded into oblivion, leaving about, an unusual silence.

“Let’s go to the water,” I said. I wanted to reach for her hand, caress her fingers.

“No way!” She jumped back. “I am not going anywhere near that thing. We can sit here instead, or what do you think?”

“Alright,” I said, lowering myself to the sand. She did the same. Our eyes locked for an awkward second. We both looked away.

“Tell me about Odufa,” I said.

“What do you want to know?”

“How about the basics?”

She looked at me a long time. Then she crossed her legs and folded her arms. “I’m 23,” she began, “first child in a family of four. I love singing and dancing, and I’m currently in Bayero University, Kano, studying Mass Communication.”

“Do you know you are older than I am?” I asked.

She nodded. “Ulusi told me your age.”

“How old am I?”

“21?”

“And how does that make you feel, sitting cosily in a beach with a 21-year old boy?”

“Age most times is nothing but a number,” she said mysteriously.

“Tell me about your parents,” I said.

Faraway on the sea, a vessel loomed into view, its air horn hooted loudly, echoing across the beach.

Odufa watched the mighty waves rushing to shore. “My dad is retired. My mum is a trader.” She stared silently at the vessel and then she turned to face me. “Enough about me, let’s talk about you,” she said, sitting up.

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you do for a living?”

I told her I had just graduated from the university but didn’t make any of the batches going for the mandatory National Youth Service Corps scheme for that year. I also told her about my recent foray into writing.

“Wow,” she exclaimed. “You mean you are a writer and a poet?”

“Not really,” I said, laughing nervously. “I’m just trying my hands to see if I can make something out of it.”

“Will you write me a poem?”

I nodded. ”I will.”

“So how’s your girlfriend?” she asked abruptly.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said, rather uncomfortably.

In a few words, I told her about Laura and her betrayal, carefully leaving out any mention of my poor health.

“Tell me about your fears,” I said abruptly.
She barked an uneasy laugh. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

“No way. Why don’t you tell me about yours?”
I expelled air from my lungs. “Loneliness,” I said. “I fear loneliness more than anything in this world.”

She raised her head, rolled her eyes in their sockets and then looked at me. “Loneliness? Really?”

My head coasted back and forth. A short distance away, a mother called out to her two little children playing in the sand, a boy and a girl no older than seven and ten, both wearing Superman outfits.

“That’s a new one.”

“It’s not so strange is it? I just never want to be alone. The thought of it gives me the creeps.”

“I’ll definitely pray for you,” she giggled, “so the Almighty Father can send you a companion.” She laughed at her own words. “So what have you been dying to say, Anthony?” Odufa asked, smiling like she could read my mind.

“How did you know I’ve been dying to say something?”

“I’m a girl, remember?”

“I don’t think I could ever say it. Maybe it’s best I don’t.” A mild breeze blew, whispering, rustling our clothes. Two lover’s walked towards the sea and started kissing as the waves rushed to shore.

“Maybe it’s best you do, you may never know.” She paused. “You know my sister likes you a lot don’t you?” she asked.
I nodded.

“So what is the matter? Why have you been cold towards her?”

“Have I?” I asked, my brow lifting. “Maybe we’ve not exactly been flowing but that’s because she doesn’t understand me as much as you do.”

Odufa threw back her head and laughed. It sounded like the tinkling of slender wine glasses. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“And what makes you think I’d understand you?” Layers of her hair strands rose and fell with the stronger winds.

I'm following, with ma seat belts on