My Woman, My Kitchen, And The Other Room
By anonymous
"Don't bother waking him up, he is as asleep as a drunk pig" the woman said. Her skin wore huge slabs of fat plastered under her neck, mid-body, and arm. She walked with the gait of a child sex worker--limping acrimoniously into a bedroom lit up by the light of a fast rising day. It escaped into the room from holes on the zinc which served as a window of some sorts.
She came out of the room holding a long, white paper, which every piece of importance strewn on her face. This paper surely was something very important, he thought.
The fast asleep man muttered gibberish from the depth of his temporary bliss; his sleep. The woman, his wife, hissed loudly, kicking his hand closer to his body. Saliva crawled down from a side of his mouth and he sweated profusely, his shiny forehead was the centre of attraction. A loosely worn native cap hung on his head, and its patterns bore such semblance to the two long marks artistfully carved on his right cheek. It ran from his ear to his mouth. Lying on the ground, he seemed like person who didn't have anything to live for--and whose reality was the most scariest nightmare.
"stop to dey look am joor" the obese woman commanded him, shifting closer, on the bench which they seated. It creaked as she did so, registering its displeasure.
"These papers" she said, looking around suspiciously "dey worth five million"
"Five million?" the smart looking gentleman shuddered, imbalance by the revelation. He quickly recollected his calm, running his hand over his hair, and using the other to wipe his eye to remove any strain of dirt. Carefully, he reached for his pocket and brought out his doctorly recommended eyeglass. He knew that this singular act was psycological; it would make the woman respect him as a learned man.
"Let me have the documents, may I?" he asked courteosly, stretching his hand. He coughed lightly--twice. The woman looked at him as he went through the contents of the paper.
She watched as a wry smile formed on his lips. She shifted uncomfortably and like a suckling goat, the bench let out a cry again. He returned the paper to her and looked at the wasted drunk man. He shook his head. Her eyes blinked fast in anticipation, also a reflex, for batting out the dust that rose off a sandy spot in the poorly cemented ground. A rodent had clawed it, searching for any tiny bit that the impoverished family would leave for it. He stamped the ground, and it scurried away, into a nearby hole.
"Wake him up" he demanded, the lawyer, to the woman.
The woman smacked her lips in disapproval "Why?" she asked taintly.
No immediate answer. He couldn't begin to explain to the woman that she was in possesion of a medical bounty of some sorts, signed by the World Health Organization to reward anybody with not five million naira but, five million dollars. The reason he smiled was because, the plant requested by the organization could only be found by a set of people-drunkards, risky with life, nothing to lose, everything to gain.
He couldn't explain all these to her and based on her rejection to wake her husband up, he knew he had to approach the matter with a gentler side.
"Tell me about your husband--your marriage"
"Na wetin I pay you to do? Wetin dey dis document?" she raged, holding up the almost tattered paper.
"Madam. I will disclose that in due time."
"You dey hear the sound from the other room?"
He listened with rapt attention--straining his ears towards the door. He then heard it--a creaky sound. He looked at the housewife and she nodded.
"Taiwo, that my husband," she referred to him as if he wasn't present. "the man no wan useful, na to Bleep him sabi."
He smiled at the connection. He had read Toni Kan's 'Nights of the Creaking Bed'. The man probably indulged his wife in activities in the other room and the metal which was the stand of the bed got tired and spoilt. That explains why he, the husband, sprawled on the floor. He reminisced on how his uncle, would lie on the rug which spread over the living room. He would be accompanied by his small bottle of finely brewed whiskey. His books too. His little baby sister, Cheyrie, then fifteen, would climb on the uncle's back and sing him a song.
"Children?" the lawyer asked the woman, his client.
She laughed mildly. "I get seven and a half children"
"Half?" he wondered how a human could be.
She stiffened her face to a frown. It was nolstagic. As if she fought hard not to remember such memory.
"the idiot," she said, stooping low to slap her husband's genital area "come house one day, when I dey kitchen. Hin dun drink, I know. Naso hin fling my wrapper comot, con du me the thing."
"And?" he asked, getting interested in the story.
"The pikin wey I born con turn to wetin una dey call am sef," she scratched her hair, then grinned upon recalling the words she sought "Serial killer."
He held his mouth in shock "You mean your son is a killer?"
She smiled, appearing ccomfortable in her thoughts.
"Yes. Call am anything but hin be the victim of wetin dis drunk idiot do plenty years ago, on that cold night, for kitchen."
"You've already had seven children then. Why couldn't you refuse to have sex with him without protection?"
"Protection keh? My president talk sey my husband put me for kitchen and that other room so I go serve am well."
THE END [fOR NOW]

Stop this nonsense

modsfucker:
Stop this nonsense

why should we stop the nonsense whe your dullard Don disgrace us finish