Coming back from a tiring day at work, Ifedayo could expect his door handle, keyhole and his foot mat to be smeared with a special whole new kind of dirt, and it was never the same colour or smell as the one he had to be wary of when climbing the stairs. And he was never, ever, disappointed. It was evident that the neighbours' kids used to come and ogle and glare at his desktop computer through the keyhole, jostling to see this immobile creature that was expatriate to the whole village of Agbepo, and their daily struggle always left their signatures behind. Grime. Dirt. Streams of mucus. Threads and streaks of matter from children who had recently given the latrine a handshake. Great.

Ifedayo had been detailed to carry out his National Youth Service Corps program in Agbepo village as a means of giving back to the nation after concluding his undergraduate studies in Health Science and Technology at a renowned Southern University in Nigeria. He had not been aware of the fashion trends in the village, for the Agbepo village people were obsessed with grime, enough to make pigs turn green. At first, he was exasperated in disgust, but he consoled himself with the idea that the village had only advanced in fashion (because what-with upcoming fashion trends worldwide, to the tune of dressing scantily, wearing cut-jeans and rags, etc, who knows if dirt wouldn't be the in-thing by the year 2084?). For now, he just ignored the villagers and imagined they didn't exist.

Imagination is such a futile human effort, he decided, as he stepped on a wrap of gooey stuff that someone had lost interest in. He went to the backyard, got a stone and carefully scraped off the eba stuck to his shoes.

He returned to the front, inspecting the floor before making any footstep, and opened his door, wiping his hands on tissue paper afterwards. No use smelling his hands, he just had lunch and didn’t want to vomit. He stepped into his clean room, possibly the only clean domain for a mile around. But clean, too, was a transient adjective, because under one minute his room was flooded with kids who didn't wash, or if they did, must have done so with the sort of water that is native to drainages and trenches.

Amidst the strong wave of stenches, he heard "Welcome COPPER ! What have you bringed to us today?" as they struggled to show the efficiency of the little village school. So he opened his bag and shared sweets amongst them. Of course, he had to pick up the wrappers after they had left. Not only that, but he needed a once-over on the room with his broom and hard-brush to eliminate the clods of soil that they had embedded in his carpet, originating from the soles of their feet.

He needed a bath. Then he found out that two or three of the kids had wiped their hands on his towel. The substance was blackish-green, but it had the constitution of okra seeds. His heart sank as he folded the towel and threw it in the laundry basket. Armed with his face-towel, he went outside and picked up his bucket beside the door. Without any enquiry or evaluation, he knew it was smeared with kernel oil, and had some kitchen liquid waste. It also had some sputum generated from the household's chewing sticks. He needed no soothsayer to tell of it, this was an everyday routine practice.

Taking the bucket and some soap, he went to the riverside, encouraging himself to endure it all. He had almost one year to go, of which he had spent less than a month. The wind was very strong and the trees swayed in a rhumba dance. Tiny drops of water hit his face. It wasn't going to rain. One of the young men walking in front had spat in the wind.

As he turned the final road bend towards the river, he saw, and he stood still and stared at the paragon of beauty.

"I must be mad", he cautioned himself, "to be seeing things at this time in the evening. And I don't even drink!"

But this was a picture to drink in, because she was truly beautiful. Lips, Hips, and Fingertips. His brain said he was crazy to call an Agbepo woman beautiful, but his heart hastily overruled that objection. Quickening his stride, he decided that if she used very good clothes, she would beat the last five Miss Nigeria Beauty Queens hands-down.

And she was staring at the waters, her long jet-black hair caressing the winds.

As she turned and faced him, Ifedayo's knees quaked because she was even prettier than he initially thought. And she was CLEAN!

"I must be dreaming. Let me make the best of it while it lasts", thought Ifedayo. He sincerely hoped she couldn't hear his amplified heartbeat.

The ravishing lulu asked him, "Hey! Why are you staring at me? I'm not a ghost or something, you know?"

That clinched the deal. This chic had a voice like crystals in waterfalls, creating a dizzying sensation, and she spoke very good fluent English with a mouth-watering accent.

"Who, who are you?” stammered Ifedayo.

She smiled a pretty, broad smile and said, "I see. You are surprised that I don't look like these villagers. Okay, will you promise not to run away if I tell you?"

"Why should I run?” grinned Ifedayo.

"Okay". Assuming a deep frown, she said, "I am Yemoja, Queen-Goddess of the Waters. I arise from the River every Wednesday before any market-day to decide how much the fish, crabs, shrimps, prawns and other water-related products will sell for. Are you satisfied?"

Ifedayo's wide grin froze, and he contemplated fight, flight or fright but none seemed to work. He was entranced. He kept on looking at the goddess.

The goddess snapped her fingers at his ears and waved her hands in front of his face, saying "Hello! Anyone home?"
Ifedayo cleared his throat and said, "Well, what can I say?" and then she burst out laughing, holding her ribs.

"I was only kidding you! I'm a youth corper as well; I just arrived in the village last week because something went wrong with my former posting. I work at the village primary school as a Mathematics teacher", and she reached into her pocket and flashed her I.D. card at him for emphasis.

"So, Adeshewa, why were you staring at the waters?"

Now it was her turn to gape.
"How did you know my name?"

He smiled. "I forgot to tell you that I am Ifa . Yeah, right. I saw your I.D. card. I'm very quick and observant."

She smiled. Then her smile dropped, and she said,
"Okay. I've always wanted to swim, I really wish I could."
"I can! Let me teach you!"
"When?"
"Right now!"
"That's so scary. I don't even know the first thing about swimming!"
"Don't worry. I'll be your trainer, lifeguard and instructor all at once. Get ready for the time of your life!!"

A big lie. It was the time of his life. They split, each one to get their swimwear, and met again at the riverside.

A young man suddenly ran round the corner, got to the riverside, and oblivious to the presence or existence of any other entity at the riverside, he picked up a half-eaten loaf of bread from the dumps. Dancing from side to side, jumping dramatically in a bid to keep a lid on his gradually accelerating ordure, and with sweat massaging his face; the young man split the half-loaf in two and crouched to make an unholy sandwich. He stood up feeling relieved and tossed the newly-packaged fish-snack into the river. Adeshewa giggled playfully and pointed at the young man, but Ifedayo didn't seem to notice; he was trying to control his own mind from entering the physical realm and doing a wild jig, as he stood beside the pretty Adeshewa in her brand-new swimsuit, ready to teach her to swim.

Some unidentifiable debris streamed across the face of the waters, but Ifedayo didn't care. The power of Love was far greater than the Yuk factor.

He spread his arms wide apart and carried her on his back. Feeling her rapid heartbeat against his strong back, he began the swimming demonstration; stroking and wading through the polluted waters; the many waters that the wise King Solomon said cannot quench the power of love.

THE END

(c) Mavenbox April 2006

Glossary:
Eba: Cassava farina pudding-cake
Ifa: Yoruba god of Divination
Okra: The vegetable otherwise known as ladys' fingers, found in long mucilaginous green pods & often simmered or sautéed, used especially in soups and stews
Yemoja: Yoruba Water goddess

Comments and criticisms are very welcome!

GRIME is a great short story. You gave it a lot and the result is tremendously good. It just drew me in and in. 

He had almost one year to go, of which he had spent less than a month.
This is like saying: He had almost one year left, of which he had spent less than a month.

It might be better to write something like: The programme was meant to last one year, of which he had spent less than a month
or
He had almost the whole year to go, having spent just less than a month.

Just a small thing I thought you might want to take another look at.

Thanks MyJoe!

dis is cool girlfriend, 9ice, very 9ice

Cool story!

Thanks people!

Nice

nice story, very believable though i'm still marvelling how people can live in such filth. pls give us a follow up

Sorry, Dominique but that's just where the story ends!

Thanks, master_1. . .

aww naaaao , that soesnt sound like the end of the story

@maven box

i find your writing very interesting, why not try your hand on aking it a novel. mail me and we can discuss publishing etc
butterflycomm@gmail.com

Great story!

Great writing, though the story seems somewhat, unresolved.

Great writing, though the story seems somewhat, unresolved.

i was really thinking she was Yemoja!
that would have really been a good story if she was.

LOL Thank you people!

Hafees, well the problem is that Im often too busy to develop my novels (I have a number of them). But I have your email now, and who knows? I may just contact you! Never say never, they say