The old man held my hand with surprising strength. I wanted to pry my hand of his, but he didn't budge. I did not want to create a further scene on the highway, but as he dragged me to a corner of the road, I fought the urge to push him and bolt. He was dressed in a dirty green cloak that covered most of his small, wiry frame. He had small, beady eyes that bored at you as if they had no other preoccupation. His full lips were cracked and dark. Most annoying of all was that he reeked of cigarette smoke and booze.

I did not want to regret saving him from that vehicle, but I guess I didn't think before jumping into the road and pushing him away from death. Somehow I guess I was daring death to take me in his place. At the thought of dying, the events of the evening came rushing back. My heart constricted in such unimaginable anguish, and I had to resist the impulse to howl in pain.

I worked with my best friend, Uju, in an ad agency, and after work she had invited me to a round of drinks. I had wanted to decline, thinking that she was on another of her drinking games, in which the person who finished the seven shots of the drink fastest got to be treated to lunch the next day. I had lost to her on three consecutive occasions and I wasn't in the mood to lose again. Uju was a special breed of woman; she drank like alcohol was water and she was a fish, and smoked like she was a chimney; yet she was amazingly clear-headed. When it came to adverts, she was the best. And I was madly in love with her.

When we got to the bar, she had just ordered for a fruit drink and then she had flashed a diamond ring in my face, gushing on and on about how her boyfriend, Mark, had proposed to her in front of her parents. I had mechanically done my duty as her best friend: saying the right things and congratulating her, while my heart shriveled and writhed in agony.

When we parted ways, she had told me that she was going to her boyfriend's—no, fiancé's house—and might come to work late. I had trudged home with a bitter heart and heavy feet. I had been in love with her since our university days, and I had always known that I was not her type; she preferred sporty and outdoorsy men with strong muscles and stronger personalities. I was the exact opposite: barely five feet two inches of fat and sluggishness. I had witnessed four of her relationships go up in flames, and after the second one (the boy had taken her virginity), I had decided to man up and told her how I felt about her.

She had not been surprised as I had expected, neither had she told me off; instead, she had cupped by chubby face, gave me a kiss full on the lips, and had told me that she knew that I was love with her, but she simply didn't fancy me.

"I really love you, no doubt," she'd said, "but as a friend. I cannot date you."

I had wanted to correct her that I never asked her to date me (I'd just confessed my feelings to her), but I guess she was trying to make the message clear—I wasn't her type. Period.

So it was that as I wanted to cross the road and head into my street, I saw an old man wobbling in the path of an oncoming vehicle. I did not think about the consequences as I dived into the road and had pushed him to the other side. He had thanked me endlessly and as I made to leave, he still held my hand and dragged me to a secluded corner of the street.

I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but he placed one skeletal finger on my lips and said, "Open your palms." His English was refined and I was surprised by that too.

I obliged him (anything to make him leave me alone), and as he placed his hand on mind, I felt like a thousand volts of electricity was channeled into my body. I shook and felt my brain shutting down. I thought that the man had chosen to repay my kindness by killing me with supernatural means. But at the last moment, he removed his hands and I gasped as I took in lungfuls of air.

When I got the ability to speak back, I asked him, "W–what... did you just do to me?"

Read more ➡️
https://www.thezenpens.com/2020/02/08/the-will-to-love/