₦airaland Forum

I just tried my hands on something fiction and i hope u find it interesting. Please just critique no matter how good or bad you receive it. thanks.


HARMATTAN’S FIRST RAIN

Last night, it rained in Enugu, the first rain in November, and in this morning, I watched the dark chilled world from the window of my dead studio. In the tarred street brightened by the fluorescent glow of the street lamps were the forlorn parked cars lining ICT centre, numbed by cold and creasy by the many droplets of harmattan’s rain. I was bland, lonely, extricated and roaming in a world where darkness, privation and disappointment plagued and everyone around me who snot, vented their frustration of this recessing economy in the flattening breeze of the night.
The previous days drained mournfully into the next, dry pre-harmattan dust turning into crisp air both asphyxiating to inhale and injurious to the lips. She had called many times, I did not pick up my phone. I had deleted her numerous voice mail and in this world of nothingness, I felt myself, drowning, helpless in the way I could not catch a breath.
Each morning comes dormant, slackened by infinite thoughts, fearful of the eternal layer of days that separates me from graduation. Everything is having a sticky consistency. I had swallowed in the near amorous relationship a viscous hook concealed in the sauce of lustfulness which most times were spurred by the angst feelings of insecurity and between me and what I feel for her, a gap of something fiction.
In this, I have also come to learn not to show concern, in knowing how not to crave for the ability of knowing how to care. Sometimes I wake up unable to defend my thoughts and all around me an atmosphere of hopelessness. In this knowing, there was no point being here, having life in this world but I have no strength to ponder firmly how to remain dead in the sham marriage of sexuality.
In Ohio, her thoughts are buried well in her mind, cradled by the dingy laps of another man, perhaps someone who doesn’t know how well to make love to her, to keep her warm from the fierce gaits of the approaching winter. I am lying still on the hardened surface of my unstapled locker, partly subconscious and partly worried that I would fall again, I had waited until midnight to see if she could reach evening so I could call when I know she will get it before our last conversation gets soured. In between watching and thinking, I still want to cry, to be sorry for my misgivings and hope tears gushes out and the cry hurts my throat and I lose my voice. Its 2:15am. My phone is turned off, I no longer want communication. The few hours to dawn, in the coldness and numbness of this November morning was the slow replay of memories we lost.