It's dark when I get back to the seaside. Darker when I make it to the abandoned cabin, so I crawl my way in, shielded by the darkness. I gaze up at the empty sky, there are no stars, there is no moon, there is only darkness, darkness, everywhere. I hear a sound; the chirping of a cricket, and I laugh. I laugh harder as my voice echoes through the darkness. The cricket chirps on, I know the sound, I know the sign. I can't forget today, I can't forget yet.

I turn on the old lamp; the only thing I came with, and I hold back more fits of laughter. The pails are still in the same place, but now coated with rust. I lift up one of the pails and there is my old watch, covered in dust. I pick it up and dust it. Its light still works but the time is incorrect. It must be, if it shows 9:49am at an hour as dark as this. But as my heart starts to beat aloud, and I start to get bathed in my own sweat, the doubt hits me. It hits me hard. Just as hard as Kabeer's back heel kick had always hit my temples while we sparred in this little wooden space. Is it morning? Is today one of those days when the morning is just as dark as the night? Is there an eclipse? In my life? In all of the world?

I look out through the open window onto the sea. I let my eyes linger, trying to remember him- Kabeer. His almost bald hair, his perfume, his earplug. My hands shake and the watch falls. My knees go weak. I stare at the waves as they crash on the beach, and I wait. I wait for the waves to bring his face, to bring his missing body. I wait for the waves to come rushing at this little place by the sea and get me too, the way they did him. My eyes brim with tears. I sniffle, once, twice. I tighten my muscles and groan with the pain. I can't afford to cry, not here, not today.

I drag my numb feet across the floor. The wooden boards creak, creak beneath my feet. It's their own way of remembering, of sobbing. For Kabeer, and for me, too. For all the futility in my reason. For a man seeking what he never will find. I silently move towards the corner of the room. My big toe hits on something, but I'm scared to flash the torch.
Scared that it will be what I came here to seek. Scared that it won't be what I came here to seek. I press my toes on it to make out the details. Plastic, curved, an earplug, Kabeer's earplug. My heart sinks, sinks to an impossible depth. Sinks to the depth where the hands of saviors can't get to, won't get to.

I pick it up without looking, scared that it might vanish from the ground if I shove my lamp towards it. I raise it up to my nose. The perfume's still there; the Hausa perfume Kabeer liked to wear. It's strange. One year, three months, four days and three hours. I know the count. The immortal scent is a miracle. I almost smile at the memory of the little jars where he kept the perfumes. But I take one look at the earplug and I'm numb now. My sunken heart sinks deeper. I am frantic, confused, scared. Where is the dust? I swing the lamp around the room. There is no sound. There are only the chirping cricket, the crashing waves. My heart beats fast, faster, something is wrong.

There is no dust on the earplug. One year, three months, four days, there is no dust on the earplug. Three hours, the earplug still shines from the tiny silver dots that coat its blue skin. With shaky hands, I drop the earplug into my jacket pocket and I sprint out of the cabin, towards the crashing waves. I run along the shore, mad and scared. Mad that he still comes here, that Kabeer still comes here, or someone else that I don't know their name. Scared that my lamp would make out colors, colors from his jacket, seated and earnestly watching the sea. My heavy boots cling to the wet sand with every step. I am not tired, I am afraid. Afraid I will catch him on his favorite hobby. Hobby, hobby, that was on those days. The days before the sea took him away.

My breath wanes and I run on. I won't find him. Not here, not today, but I run on. I run on for every time he wasn't allowed to compete because he wore an earplug, and they considered earplugs to be harmful weapons with which he could stab his opponents to death, if he so ever wished. I fight all the fights he never could fight. I fight with my waning breath.

The waves come rushing at me, and I stop to run. The angry waves climb to my waist and bury my fists. The lamp drops, the earplug drops. I wait and watch the waves take away the earplug, take away what's left of Kabeer. They started it, they finished it. I whisper his name, "Kabeer, Kabeer". He has his earplug. He hears now.

I walk back to the cabin. And, I forget to wonder if it is Kabeer who comes to use the earplug, or someone else. I forget to wonder why there was no dust on the earplug.

THE END

This one, for all the deaf people of the world. Don't bother, much of the things we say is not that important.

©2017
laykornwhisperingocean@gmail.com

What we say isnt important, oh me i have missed a piece like this for long.
Poetic

This is really amazing! You have a powerful narrative style - deep and haunting. This is art. Well done, you.

stuff46:
What we say isnt important, oh me i have missed a piece like this for long.

Poetic

Thank you stuff. Do you still write?

RaggedyAnn:
This is really amazing! You have a powerful narrative style - deep and haunting. This is art. Well done, you.

Thank you. Do Not Walk Into This Room was eqaully amazing. You had me glued till the end.

llaykorn:

Thank you stuff. Do you still write?

I do

Cool

Make person summarise abeg

How can I become a good author?

Poetic!!
Everyday husle has taken dz frm a lot of us

Nice piece.


See as the comments no many for this thread. ... If na "Tomtom Dikins or Epostols Solomans or BBNaija crew dem post about, comments go full here like Bernabeu on El Clasico day

Nice work of art...
I got confused at some point though

Ride ON

You called this short story, abi?

Kwontinue!

And i am loving this piece. This could feature in different writing magazine. This could be your rise to fame.

O

llaykorn!!! Carry go mehn!!! I gbadun you

Lovely piece
..iluv this work

Nice

Tazdroid:
Nice piece.


See as the comments no many for this thread. ... If na "Tomtom Dikins or Epostols Solomans or BBNaija crew dem post about, comments go full here like Bernabeu on El Clasico day

That goes to show you the high number of wasted youths we have even here on nairaland and in our larger society.

Wow

Op, this is great... Don't ever stop.

This is amazing

This Is Deep. This Is Art. I Wonder If ART Is Missing In eARTh, What We'll Have Left Is eh!!!

Couldn't stop reading till I got to the end.

This is deep and amazing