₦airaland Forum

One particular meeting came to mind as he sat on the low mattress and took off his shoes. His interviewer had seemed alive to what stood in front of him. He did not have the vacuous look in his eyes and he did not speak with that bored, condescending inflection, which most interviewers considered valuable communication skills.

“You graduated from ABU.” the man behind the desk said with the approval evident in his tone, “I am an ABUsite too.”

Ibe smiled, hopeful. “I was told as much. It’s always encouraging to see ABU graduates doing so well in their respective fields. I hope that I could be equally inspiring to a young ABUsite someday.”

“I am sure you will be.” He said graciously.

Ibe watched his eyes hover over the dreaded sections of his curriculum vitae.

“You have no relevant work experience?”

“Not in a formal place of employment, I do not. But I am applying for the entry level position; and it says applicants should be below twenty eight years of age. And I, just about, make that cut.”

“Yes, it says that. But you must realize that you are vying for those positions with twenty-one year olds.” He spoke with an air of disbelief, as though Ibe had just asked to be handed a Nobel Prize for completing an arithmetic test. You are so pedestrian it hurts just to think about it. “And, I have to add that these twenty-one year olds have much better grades than you do.”

The third class certificate had been his undoing in these rooms. He found himself having to make up for it every single time; and he still had not discovered the trick that would remedy that incredibly flawed piece of paper, within the five minutes he was given to shine.

“I am a fast learner, I am dedicated, I have initiative and I can work unsupervised. And most importantly, I have been out on the streets for long enough to value this position more than any of these twenty-one year olds. I will give it my all – blood, sweat and tears. I can promise you that.”

The interviewer rested his elbows on his desk, placed his chin on locked fingers, and regarded Ibe thoughtfully.

“Everyone is desperate for a job in this country. Do you think you are the only one to make that impassioned speech from that chair?”

“I assure you, nobody knows the word ‘desperate’ like I do.”

“Ibe, I have no doubt that you are a well-spoken, bright young man and you would make a good recruit. But with your average credentials, I would only hire you if I thought that you would make an exceptional one. And I’m not willing to bet on that.”

“You don’t have to bet on it. I would work for free to prove myself to you for a quarter of a year. You can make your decision afterwards. All I need is a chance to show you what I am capable of.”

“That’s really not our recruitment procedure here.” He remarked, reticent. He acted like he was trying to put the toothpaste back into the tube; like he had oozed too much approachability which he did not want taken advantage of. “In my humble opinion, I think you should look into getting a post graduate degree. It will help boost your profile.”

Ibe nodded abjectly. “I appreciate your candour. And I will take your advice to heart.” They shook hands in silence. There was no need, here, for the merciful lies designed to give him a sliver of hope.

He had gone home feeling like his world had ended. And he was, in fact, certain that it had. All that was needed to see the picture more effectively was a cocktail of rat poison. He had bought a bottle easily in traffic on his way home. With keen deliberation, he had cleaned his room that afternoon, getting rid of all embarrassing items in case his spirit hovered around in consciousness when his body was discovered. He did not want his first expression in his new spirit form to be a blush of shame. He had tried to maintain an air of normalcy as he communicated with his neighbours, but he wondered if they had recognized the buoyancy in his spirit. He wondered if they had sensed his spirit floating away like a hot-air balloon as he consciously made his peace with dying. All of his problems were about to be buried in the ground, leaving him weightless and free. He had said good night to the teacher next door, knowing that he would be the last man to have heard his voice, and then he went into his room and locked the door. He looked at the tiny bottle sitting in the corner of the room – six feet away. A short distance to walk that would take him to a destination mighty far.

And then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and discovered it was his mother. Seeing ‘mom’ on the screen built a lump in his throat. But he let it ring until it stopped. And then it rang again. He let it ring until it stopped. He sat on his mattress and watched the phone, as his mother unwittingly tried to keep him on this planet. That cord, which is never truly severed when the midwife cuts through the umbilical cord in the delivery room, it was binding him to the ground. The phone rang again, and again he let it ring out. What was he doing? He shed a bucket of tears that night, and a full hour passed before he called his mother back.

“Nna m, where have you been? Did you keep your phone to charge at your neighbour’s place again?”

“Yes mama, I did.”

“How are you? I hope you are well.”

“Yes mama, I am.”

“Have you eaten something?”

“Yes.” Liar – the rumbling in his belly seemed to say.

“You should always remember to eat well, no matter how things are. Is the garri we sent to you still left over? Because Nkeiru is coming to Port Harcourt next week, can I give her another bag?”

“Yes mama, she can bring me another bag.”

“Okay, I will give it to her, as well as some other things.”

“Thank you, mama.”

“Please, be careful of whatever you do, and know that we love you. We believe in you, and we know that your time is coming. Just keep trying like you have always done. Jisie ike, biko. I nuna?”

“Yes mama.”

She had called on a premonition, and she had given him life yet again. After the conversation with his mother ended, he had felt the shame for the thing he had been about to do. He was being extremely selfish. He was not doing this for himself, was he? He dreamed about the day he could go home to his village with a truck-load of extravagant gifts and have his parents embrace him with pride. Not that they weren’t already proud of him, they constantly insisted that they were, but what else were they to do? They were his parents and it was their natural inclination to hide their disappointment from him. It would be a good feeling, for him, to have the neighbours envy his parents someday over their very successful son. In this society, success was the possession of things – houses, cars, a family, titles and degrees. It did not necessarily have to translate to a home, love, knowledge and respect. People seemed to be satisfied with the superficial intentions, and they immediately awarded their applause. His parents deserved that applause.

No, this was not just his struggle; he had to stick to his task for the sake of his parents as well. After that call, he still felt a lightness of spirit, but it was not surrender. It was the lightness one felt when one realized he was not shouldering his problems alone. The next morning, he had dressed himself up in freshly ironed ‘interview’ clothes, and he had done it all again. And again, he had met with the predictable rejection.

There was a tentative knock on his door.

“Na who be that?” he called out in irritation.

“It’s me.”

Nsidibe. She lived in the compound and she was his only close friend from the eclectic bunch that inhabited the accommodations.

“Sidi.” He said by way of greeting as he let her into the room.

She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it, facing him. “I heard that old fool giving you an ultimatum.” Her voice was hushed, because the walls had ears in the densely populated compound. She did not want them to hear her refer to Pastor as the ‘old fool’, which was her preferred pet-name for her landlord.

Ibe nodded. “He wants me out of this place, I know. But I will have his money ready by Friday.” He spoke with determination. “If I cannot afford this dump, then I would not be able to afford any place else in Port Harcourt. I might then as well just pack my load under the Mile-one flyover and live like a mad man.”

There was concern in Sidi’s eyes as she sat on the mattress beside Ibe. “Are you sure you will meet the deadline? Because I could lend you something if you need me to.”

Sidi always had ‘something’ stashed away in pockets. She made a very decent amount of money every night at her very indecent occupation. She was a lady of the evening, a queen of the night – a call girl. These were the terms she preferred to use in describing her vocation instead of simply calling herself a prostitute. It was unimaginative and crude. Ashawo – that’s what she was to everybody else. At twenty-two, she was still very popular with the Port Harcourt big boys, and she did not have to work the streets, literally, to find a hustle. She could sit back and wait for the calls to come in; and her phone frequently rang off the hook. She would get specific calls and meet her clients at specific places – very posh places.

Her youth was not her only asset. She was also incredibly beautiful. But even more intriguing than her beauty, was her poise and articulation. She had taught herself to speak well and carry herself with propriety; one would never guess, just by looking at her and even speaking with her, that she had only made it half –way through secondary school.

Holding on to his pride, Ibe waved off the offer. “No, don’t worry about it. I have a little something myself, in a savings account, and I can come up with the balance within the week.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing that is illegal.”

She bit her plump bottom lip as she regarded him doubtfully.

“Okay, just promise me you will let me know if you should need my help. I would not be doing it for you; I’d be doing it for me. I don’t want to see you booted out on the street and watch this room get occupied by yet another self-righteous poser. You are my only friend in this place.”

“Duly note. I will let you know.”

“Good.” She said, seemingly satisfied. “Now, have you had anything to eat? Because you look to me like you could use some food.”

She didn’t wait for his response as she dashed out and returned, briefly, with a round pan covered with a dish cloth. She had it stashed somewhere by his door.

Ibe instantly smelt the delicious aroma. “Cake?” he raised a quizzical brow.

She nodded with a smile. “Happy Birthday!”

Twenty-first of October! It was his birthday today and he had forgotten all about it. He was twenty-eight! He scarcely celebrated his birthdays anymore. And he certainly did not look forward to them. But this was such a thoughtful gesture. He sat up straight and stared into the pan that held the somewhat hapless mess.

“I haven’t had much practice, baking cakes,” She apologised, “But I assure you, it does taste good.”

“It smells really good.”

She picked up the bread knife, stuck it into the middle like a spear, and handed the pan to him. “Cut!” she heard the angry rumbling in his belly as he took the pan from her. Her eyes widened in surprise, “Oh my, you are starving! I have Afang soup in my pot if you would prefer that.”

He was embarrassed that she had heard his stomach complain, but at least, there was some good coming out of his shame, “That sounds absolutely amazing right now. You have no idea!” he handed her back the pan.

“No, you still have to cut that.” She nudged it back.

And so, he did as he was instructed; to the click of the camera on her phone, and the soft applause of his audience of one.

He followed her to her room which was decidedly larger than his was. It also had ‘things’ – a shaggy ochre rug that felt like tufts of clouds to the bare feet; a large deep mattress, dressed up in nice purple beddings; a flat screen television and home theatre; and properly functioning air conditioning. Her room smelt like she did – a scent that definitely had a hint of jasmine. It was a comfortable little abode, which made coming home at the end of the day something worth anticipating. She had also recently acquired a plot of land on which she planned to build her dream – a proper house with a gate and a fence around it. She had pictured it since she was nine years old. Nsidibe was born in the compound. She had continued to live there with her father after her mother had passed away giving birth to her brother. He had also died in infancy; however, not immediately. It had taken him a month to starve to death. Her father had taken off one day, and abandoned her in the one-room apartment with the rent overrun by several months. She was only fourteen then, and she had no one to turn to for help.

Once the steaming bowl of eba and afang soup stood before him, he wolfed it down like an animal, without mercy. It was his first meal of the day so it would have been good regardless, but Sidi was an excellent cook and her afang soup was matchless.

“You are a lifesaver!” he said gratefully, as he placed the rinsed bowl into her crockery rack.

“I know.”

Sidi pushed him gently onto her bed and straddled his thighs, locking her arms around his neck. He was sitting up staring at her and she was relieved to discover that there was still a hunger there that had not been satisfied by her food. She nibbled on his ear seductively. “Do you want to?” It was a needless question, and she knew it. But she wanted him to feel her warm, moist breath on his skin, and she wanted him to believe she would hold back if he did not immediately admit to his own desire. In response, he lifted her unto the bed and covered her body with his. He pressed the part of him, which was incapable of lying under the circumstances, against her and he heard her moan.

Sidi and Ibe had that kind of a relationship. She let him Bleep her for free. She avidly supported his institution however she could; and sex was her most abundant resource. She gave it freely whenever she thought he needed it, and she knew that he needed it now.

After the steamy bout of sex, they shared the cake she had made and talked about nothing in particular. It was past eight o’clock when Ibe got back into his room, and he could not shake the lingering depression he felt about turning twenty-eight. Every birthday he had had since graduation had left him feeling increasingly anxious, but this one brought on a tide of particularly intense panic. Twenty-eight! It was not just that it was merely two years away from the ominously looming thirty, although that had its effects too. He was, however, more affected by the realization that he had reached the ceiling age for an entry-level applicant. Very few establishments hired applicants into entry-level positions, who were above twenty-eight years old. This birthday was, essentially, the expiration date of his bachelor’s degree certificate. At his age now, he would be expected to have either work experience or a master’s degree at least. And he had neither. He should not be celebrating; he should be holding a mourning feast.

He pulled out that yellow sheet of paper with the black cursive script and the blotchy red seal, and he scrutinized. He had it laminated. ‘This is to certify that Gideon Ibe Maduka, having completed an approved course of study and passed the prescribed examinations, has this day, under the authority of the senate, been awarded the degree of Bachelor of Engineering (Chemical), with third class honours.’ This was it? Five years of his life that had gone unappreciated. He did not regret the years he had spent at the university, during which he had acquired a tremendous amount of learning that could never be reflected by or summarized in this certificate. He, however, regretted that this limited document was threatening to limit his opportunities. Why was it so important to employers?

The certificate was not theirs; it was his – a receipt for the tuition he had invested. What should it matter to employers? What should matter more to employers was his ability to deliver on the job they wanted done and not this piece of paper. This was simply the label on the canister of goods. And while labels could offer some kind of insight for a trusting connoisseur, the proof of the pudding always was in the eating. Would it not be more astute to sample the goods instead?


He felt the hot salty tears stinging behind his eyes, but he would not let them out. This was over; he would not be defined and restrained by this document anymore. He would not haul this personal billboard of inefficacy about anymore. He was not this. He was so much more than this. In his frustration he grabbed a match, struck it on the rind, and very deliberately set the flame to lick the corner of his certificate. He watched the plastic covering collapse quickly in the heat as the flame crawled upwards towards his hand. He dropped it and it fell to the cement screed, curling up in agony. Paper, he thought to himself, it is only paper – the crazy obsession of bureaucrats. They could stuff it down their throats, and they could shove it up their asses. They could choke on it, for all that he cared, but he was done; done with paper. He would start his own business. He would start a business where he would hire people according to their abilities. He would never ask anyone if they had a paper that qualified them to do the job; he would simply ask them to show him that they could do it. He would change things. To hell with fucking paper!

But as Ibe stared into the shimmering embers of his albatross, he knew that he was not done yet. He was, in fact, only just about to begin. He would give them the damned thing; as much as they wanted of it. He was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming conviction: He would start his own business. He would start his own paper mill. The bureaucrats could pay for as many blank sheets as they needed to write the words that defined their lives. They could limit themselves on the pages of his paper. The thought filled him with renewed purpose and he did not give the ashes on the floor another thought as he fell asleep, dreaming of his idea.

1



"Mile-one, drop! Sharp, sharp!"

Ibe Maduka pushed his stocky frame through the throng of bodies and stepped into a puddle as he alighted from the bus. Fitting! He thought in irritation, if this now, only were a pool of urine, it would be an apt representation of his day. Or even his week. Maybe, it was a metaphor for his life? That would have been right on the money too; especially, lately. His entire right foot stood drenched up to his ankle by the murky liquid – shoe, sock, and the hem of his good 'interview' trousers.

It had not rained in days, but there were puddles on the streets, nonetheless, from the overflowing drains, which had been improvised to serve as receptacles for solid household waste. People were determined to find some real use, at least, for the gutters. Nobody trusted the drains to convey storm water to any pre-determined destination as they normally should, because no such destinations had been pre-determined by the people who were in charge of these things. The drains had been designed to simply hold the water in place until it overflowed onto the streets again. Like so many things in the city, the drainage reticulation had either never been planned, or nobody cared enough to ensure that those plans were implemented. And so, people did what they liked in their ignorance and selfishness. For all the good intentions the Government might have had, or the commitment it made to build these facilities, the neighbourhood was always left a filthy mess. People were inclined to turn the water into sludge so that it could be carted, with shovels, out of the trenches on designated environmental sanitation days. It was rather curious that such a simple thing, as drainage construction, could not be gotten right.

Port Harcourt was touted as the Garden City, but the slogan was a study in false advertisement. Whoever came up with it must have been a very arrogant optimist, believing that if a destiny was first written on a billboard, it would, maybe, encourage a person, place or thing, to live it to fulfilment; but not this city. There still were no gardens. Not after several decades of these boastful postulations. Instead, the roads were lined with garbage, shanty structures and despair.

Ibe jogged across the express way, clearing the median strip in a clean athletic sweep. He walked briskly through the heavy traffic to the opposite side. A little Chadian girl intercepted him on the side of the road, and grabbed him by the hand.

"Fine, fine uncle, please dash me money! You go marry better wife! You go get fine, fine children."

But Ibe's ears were insensitive to her singsong declarations. And even if he had heard the girl, there was nothing his pocket could have turned out but a gaping hole. He had nothing to give but a prayer in return for hers. When she realized he was not paying her any attention in spite of her firm grip on his hand, she let him go and walked towards other opportunities; singing her blessings to anyone who would show her mercy – even just enough to get her through another day to fear for an uncertain tomorrow.

There was so much despair on the streets. And it came in several different guises. There were the many beggars, who arrived in the city at night, in drones, on the backs of Lorries. They were brought in from surrounding villages by certain benefactors, to garner the sympathies of the wealthy city people. They dressed themselves up in rags, despondent tempers and phony wounds in order to turn a profit, from which they paid off the benefactors who had brought them into the city, and who still provided accommodation to them on occasion. Their antics had long since been discovered, and it made Port Harcourt people less inclined to respond to beggars in the street. There were also the many hawkers, most of them children, who had been subjected to such dire conditions. They sold anything in traffic, from the common place items to the astonishingly bizarre - food, drinks, clothing materials, bedding materials, and several less recognizable items - and they risked their lives, running recklessly in fast moving traffic to move their wares. There were also the many pickpockets and petty thieves that were the typical bane of most sprawling cities. But perhaps, the biggest nuisance of them all were the touts who had made it their business to accost motorists and shop-owners to shake them down for bogus taxes, levies and trumped up fines. They dressed themselves up uniforms to appear legitimate, and they went about harassing people - beating up resistant drivers, and confiscating possessions from non-compliant businesses. These people were the real scum of the earth.

And then, there was one other menace - the Ikwere landlord. The man who scraped his coins together to build a shoddy roof over four posts on his father's plot of land, to accommodate a poor fool who had no other choice but to respond to his whims. Not everybody had one, but when was unfortunate enough to owe his shelter to an Ikwere landlord, it was rarely ever a good experience.

He was lord of the turf in every sense to the word, and the tenants were his minions. They were expected to pay homage to him in the mornings which he was allowed to respond to with a condescending grunt; they were expected to attend his festivities and stand around awkwardly with no place to sit, so that he could point them out to his other guests, ‘These are my tenants’, and his guest would know that he was a ‘big man’; they were expected to express their joys over the good things that happened in his life, by standing around and shaking their heads in appreciative awe; they were expected to answer grilling questions about their personal lives, and put his pieces of advice into swift action, so that he could appreciate his own wisdom whenever he peeked at them through his window; and they were expected to take his whimsical criticism on the chin like good boys and girls. That is if they wanted to remain in his good graces; and they usually did.

Worse still, was that he usually lived only three doors down the block – sharing a common space with them, so it was impossible to get out from under his nose.

"Eh-hehn, Ibe!"

As soon as he entered into the courtyard, which was surrounded by several bedrooms, Ibe stumbled into the short rounded figure of Pastor – his Ikwere landlord.

"Pastor, good evening."

"I have been looking for you since morning."

Of course, he had. He knew Ibe still was unemployed and so he could come knocking at any time of the day, knowing he would be home. And he now had the right to be appalled if it had taken him a full day to track Ibe down.

"I have been out."

"I see."

“I know my rent is due. I promise you will have your money by next weekend”

“Next week-end?”

“Yes. I’m expecting something to come in by then.”

Pastor did not trust Ibe’s word; the boy had broken promises in the past. He knew that Ibe was not expecting anything to come in. Where would he be expecting anything from? Was he planning to steal? Was he planning on kidnapping somebody for a ransom? He was broke, and hopelessly so. And it would serve everyone better if only he had the good sense to move out. He was bad market. But he would give him the extension. If only so that, when he failed to provide the money by the stipulated time, he would have the decency to evict himself without further ado.

“Okay, but if you don’t have the money ready by next weekend” he warned, “I will put somebody else in that room. I’m not running a shelter here. I am a business man.”

Ibe nodded his head.

“And I want it complete, not in small, small bits. I am not selling you tomatoes. You pay everything by Friday evening, or you pack out of that apartment.”

“Understood.”

“Understood.” Pastor mimicked, “Let us hope so.”

He made to walk away but stopped himself, “Ibe, I know you are still struggling to find a job. It’s been years and Port Harcourt is an expensive city. Why not move to Mbano, where your parents are staying, and think of something you can start over there. Staying in the village is not a bad thing; it would be much easier for you.”

Pastor’s voice was compassionate, but Ibe could only hear the stinging deductions, and they grated on his nerves like sandpaper on a sore wound. He concluded that the remark had been meant to write him off. ‘Much easier for you’, what was that supposed to mean? Pastor had said it like he did not believe Ibe to possess the mettle to succeed in the face of a little bit of adversity; like he was wasting his time trying to make it in this city; like he was an irresponsible cad, living above his means and well above his potential. Ibe was offended by Pastor’s spurious concern.

“You will have your money by Friday.”

He watched Pastor walk away before he unlocked the door to his room.

The thing that pastor had called an ‘apartment’ was a tiny room – eight feet by ten feet – with a small window on the wall opposite the door and a leaky roof. The exorbitant sum of fifty thousand naira, entitled one to this place for a year, including access to the shared bathroom and kitchen facilities at the end of the block. It was tiny but all of his life’s possessions fit into the space. A mattress that took up most of the floor area; a large traveling bag by the corner of the room that still held most of his clothes; a wooden rack that had survived his university days, on which he hung up his ironed ‘interview’ clothes; and a shelf on the blind wall to the left, which held dog-eared copies of four of his favourite books: The Fountainhead, Shogun, The Sorrows of Satan and Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary. Even in an era of smart phones and Google, he found it hard to let go of the dependable dictionary he had owned since secondary school.

Ibe had not accrued much in nearly thirty years of his existence. Some of the people he had graduated with from the university, five years ago, had worked for five years, bought themselves cars, built houses, and married wives. They had treaded the well-defined tracks of societal expectations. Some of them were fathers already and they shared cute pictures of their ‘mini-selves’ on Facebook. Pictures of them holidaying in France; pictures of them at Stamford Bridge, watching a live football match; pictures of them having lunch at expensive restaurants; pictures of the expensive food they were about to eat at the expensive restaurants. And selfies! Selfies in their cars; selfies up against their cars; selfies on top of their cars. Their lives consisted of glowing megapixels of achievement and adventure. And although he liked the pictures with a less than enthusiastic click from his tawdry ‘apartment’, so that people would not think him petty, his heart was not in it. Ibe felt his failure more profoundly whenever he went on social media. People flaunted their successes and he felt like a street urchin pressing his nose up against the shop window of exclusive flamboyance.

What was he doing wrong? Was he not hungry enough? His stomach was certainly growling loudly enough; day in, and day out. Ibe did not believe that life owed him anything. He believed that everyone had to work hard for what they wished to deserve, and he was willing to bleed his hands for every kobo. He had never been lazy. His father had taught him the value of hard work. As a child, he did not come to dinner if he had not completed his chores, regardless of how late it got. Even when his mother had wanted to make exceptions, his desire to please his father would not let him take short cuts. He worked his mother’s farm diligently as a boy. And as a student, he put in the hard work to merit his grades; even in a time where student’s preferred to grant lecturers ‘favours’ in exchange for grades, so that they could clear their schedules in order to catch up on their socializing. And now, as a no-longer-fresh graduate he was walking the yards with a folder of his credentials and a prayer in his heart, hoping to catch a break.

But it had been five years! Five years during which he had had to make ends meet doing odd jobs to keep a roof over his head and to keep his credentials dry enough to make yet another trip in and out of offices that would not hire him. Suddenly, every man behind the big desk who ended the meeting with, “Thank you for coming in today, we will be in touch”, seemed like the exact same person, over and over again. The predictability was nauseating. It was a vicious cycle from which he just could not escape. No matter how sharply he dressed, no matter how brightly he smiled, he was never given a chance to show what he could do. They all sent him on his way with a broad smile and a promise that was not really a promise.

All rights reserved.



Prologue


******






"Driver, there is a pregnant woman on this bus! Mind how you run into those potholes; you know very well that your shock-absorbers are gone."

The man, who had spoken, finally voicing the inferred complaints of the bus passengers, was wearing a funny-looking bowtie reminiscent of Pee-wee Herman, and he spoke English with the deliberate care that only the older generation seemed to bother with in present-day Nigeria. They were cramped up in the fourteen-seat Danfo which crawled along the Aba-Port Harcourt express-way. The engine sputtered as though it were suffering from a bad case of bronchitis and it jerked sporadically, seemingly battling invisible demons, as the vehicle struggled to maintain forward momentum.

"Who tell you say the shocks done go? Where them take go?" The driver was irritated by the man's criticism. Even though it was clear that his bus had seen better days, his pride would not let him accept censure from anyone.

"How you fit ask that kind question, eh? Driver? With this your kom-kom wey you chook people put inside." A large woman, who carried a basin full of limp leafy vegetables on her lap, queried loudly, "Since we leave Aba, na my nyash you dey take do shock absorber for here! The Kind beating wey i done receive, no be small matter."

"Madam, why you no see another motor enter?" The driver responded without sympathy. "You no see as Danfo full for park?"

"You are a mad fellow!"

"Look at this man!"

"Driver, you are wicked! See how you have packed human beings like sardines in this heat, and you are moving along like a snail! God will judge you!"

"Anuofia!"

The passengers were united in their indignation and they took collective exception to the driver's insensitivity. They all spoke out of turn hurling abuses at his seemingly unperturbed back. Even though they knew that the driver was probably not fazed by their castigation, it was satisfying to rid themselves of some of the pent up frustrations brought on by the unpleasantness of the journey.

"No be turn by turn una dey load am? How I wan select better motor enter? Them suppose carry this your motor throw 'way for dirty – the thing done kpeme!" The large woman with the limp leafy vegetables felt emboldened to continue her criticism by the chorus of reproach directed at the driver. “You no suppose to keep am for line dey load passengers."

The driver peered into the rear-view mirror to get a better look at the woman who had spoken. "Come carry am go throw 'way, you hear?" he muttered something incoherent but vilifying beneath his breath.

"Driver, it's enough!" said the man in the bow-tie, "Watch the road, and don't get distracted."

"Oga, no worry yourself! I wan make this woman carry my motor go keep for dirty." The driver persisted stubbornly. "Na her type dey even spoil motor finish. See as she fat! Orobo times ten! She dey balance everywhere, dey flat my tire, come dey talk nonsense on top. If to say I look am very well for that Aba, I for no even carry am. Abeg make una help me judge this matter: na she suppose enter motor, abi na motor suppose dey on top him head? See him bele wey be like container them dey off-load for wharf." He looked at her again through the mirror, but this time there was a hint of humor in his eyes as he fished for a reaction – the look of a seasoned trouble-maker.

The woman nursed a petulant pout, "You no get single respect! Na your mama you dey talk to so?"

"Which my mama, you reach? How i wan take get respect? As you dey there, you dey respect yourself so? You just dey insult my motor anyhow, meanwhile you never buy your own."

"Who tell you say I never buy motor?"

"Oya, no vex. You done buy?"

The large woman with the limp leafy vegetables was silent.

"Madam, I dey ask nah, you no wan answer me? You done buy motor?" The driver had begun to enjoy goading her.

"Eh, I done buy." She said impatiently, hoping to end the conversation with that.

"Eh-Hehn!" The driver said cheerfully, "Why you no carry am go your market? Abi danfo dey sweet you for body? You suppose enter your AC, cross-leg on top steering, dey go your journey je-je."

The woman ignored him.

“Na jeep you buy? Four by four! I no sure say even jeep fit sustain your size.”

“You think say e easy to big like me? This is evidence of good living.” It was a practiced reply. She had probably used it several times before to ward off the nasty remarks designed to bully her into shame.

“If I hear!” The driver laughed, “Evidence of wetin? People wey get money dey go gymn dey do job, people wey no get money, them dey trek, get suffer-head on top. Your own come be wetin? Na your oga dey try for your matter.”

“My oga like am like that!”

“(Yimu!) For where! Na manage him dey manage you so, nobody wey dey like any big something now wey country dey hard. If you wan sew cloth, only you fit finish material wey suppose reach pesin family.”

“You are too talkative! And you are saucy!”

“No be me get my mouth?”

"Driver, dey look road! Dey look road!!!"

As she screamed her warning, the driver swerved the bus sharply, in quick reaction to avoid running into a hatch-back just in front. He had not seen the brake-lights early enough to slow down. Again, the passengers broke into a raucous of dissatisfaction.

"Hah!"

"Blood of Jesus!"

"They will not see us o!"

"Oga, this your motor no get brake?" A young man, who had remained aloof throughout most of the journey, buried deep within a novel, broke his silence.

"E get." The driver assured him, "But e dey fail sometimes. Na him make I no dey 'gree run. I dey reason am say, e better make we reach Port Harcourt late than to get accident for road. Because na life dey us most important."

"Hmmmm?" The woman with the limp leafy vegetables could not resist saying, "Na so you reason am? You no reason to go repair your brake make your motor for run well, well like other motor dem?"

"Madam, you done bring another wahala come! You no see as other people dey gentle dey mind their business? Na only you I carry for motor?"

"Na my business be this, you hear? Na my life you dey carry play so, so na my business. If you dey do anyhow, I must talk my mind, because i get family to care for. I get small, small pikin them for house. So you no fit dabaru their mama for road sake of say you dey drive danfo. E no fit work like that."

"Oya, relax now, make i concentrate reach Port Harcourt. Make your pikin them for see their mama quick, quick. You done happy? Hope say you carry their oyoyo for that basin wey you hold for hand?"

She did not respond, and they drove in the silence that was only interrupted by the mechanical buzz chortling in the wind. The slow pace made the journey extremely gruesome. The heat from the engine under the driver's seat heated the interior of the bus, finishing the job the scorching sun had begun. The condition of the road itself was deplorable, and one could not be too surprised that vehicles rapidly lost their integrity, as they moved along this god-forsaken track. At some point near Port Harcourt, the tarred section abruptly disappeared, giving way to muddy undulations that could not be completely devised because large portions were buried under stagnant water - water that had been accumulated from the rain, as well as the scummy waste water that had been tossed out indiscriminately from nearby households. It constituted a conducive breeding ground for mosquitoes and it smelt really badly. Several cars lay broken-down and abandoned at this spot, and hawkers sold their wares in the dirt - plantain chips, sausage rolls, soda, fresh fish, ground nuts, bananas - they took advantage of the fact that vehicles were forced into a crawl in order to navigate past the uncertainties.

"Do we have a Government at all in this Country?" Someone from the back row remarked, "See how people are suffering!"

No one responded to his decidedly rhetorical question, they were all used to the government's neglect; it was the order of the day. The only thing they did about it was to complain when their stomachs were full, and acquiesce in silence when they had other things on their minds.

After several agonizing minutes, the 'Welcome to the Garden City of Port Harcourt' sign board (There's a joke for you!) could be seen up ahead. The traffic had grown dense as a result of the meticulous work being carried out at the police check point where vehicles were screened before entering the city.

The bus driver pulled up by the officer who had flagged him to a stop, and waited to be cleared to move on. The officer looked at him a little embarrassed, “Why you dey look my face? You no know wetin you suppose do?"

"Officer, I done pass here up to five times today, and now I done buy fuel, so nothing remain for my hand. When i come back, abeg, i go see you."

Before the driver had finished speaking, the officer waved him to the side of the road, "Oya, park! Carry your paper come, sharp, sharp!"

The driver pulled the bus to the side of the road as he had been instructed to do, entirely to the irritation of his passengers.

"Driver, this your motor get any paper so? You for kuku give am something o, instead of us to dey waste time for this place. Abeg, heat dey kill pesin for here."

"I get every paper complete here. Make una no worry unaself." The driver bragged as he retrieved an untidy crumple that had been wedged between the visor and the roof. He alighted and walked smugly to the police officer who, by his demeanor, was displeased with the submissions. Not because they were not in order, but precisely because they were. He scanned the documents and passed them back in under a minute, and he grudgingly gestured that the driver was free to continue on his journey.

"I no tell una? The motor dey certified – international! - I fit carry am go Sokoto, no problem." He said as he got back into the bus.

"Driver, your motor get certificate of road worthiness?" The young man with the novel asked disbelievingly.

"Eh-heh nah! Every, every."

Everyone in the bus broke into raucous laughter. Nigerians knew how to exploit the brief humorous moments even when they were being taken advantage of.

"Na which kind pesin stamp road worthiness give you? Them suppose flog that person twenty-four."

"Una done come again o! No be Nigeria we dey again? Abeg make una free me joor, na my own hustle be this."

He kicked the engine to a start but it died almost instantly. He tried again but the only sound he could coax out of the bus, with the twist of the key, was a long whine of determined reluctance.

"Una done see winch?" he boldly blamed the disappointing response of the engine on arbitrary witches. "Kai! Abeg, na who send this winch make him come worry me now?"

"Back to sender!" A woman said, forcefully.

"Amen o!"

"No be winch dey do your motor, na lack of maintenance!" The young man with the novel said.

"Abeg, make una come down help me push the motor small."

"Driver, wey we never chop, we wan push motor? You go reduce our money so?"

"Abeg, make we no come sleep for here, abeg."

“You wan push motor comot for checking point wey done already clear your motor say him dey road worthy. No allow that officer catch you again.”

“Wetin come concern am for this one? Him ask for paper, and I done give am. This one no be him business again. Which motor no dey get fault? Abeg, make una push am for me.”

All the passengers dropped from the bus, one after the other. All but the pregnant woman and the woman with the limp leafy vegetables, who sat tightly with an expression that dared anyone to ask her to move. The men took up strategic positions behind the battered bus and pushed it to life. They maintained their good humor as they did so, poking fun at their plight. It did not require much to get the bus to start, and they soon cheered in delight to the welcome roar of the engine. The driver revved the engine forcefully as the passengers climbed back in, and then they got moving.

"Madam, you like am as you sit down for motor je-je as them push you, abi?" The driver addressed the woman with the limp leafy vegetables after a while.

"Which kind talk be that?" she asked, visibly offended. "You wan make we come down, push your motor, so that you fit carry all our load escape, abi? I done see your type before."

"Wetin you, you buy for that market wey i wan carry? Na the vegetable wey dey do body like say life done tire am, abi wetin?"

The woman hissed in indignation. "Na wa for you!"

Tozara:
As usual. I'm already used to the feeling of "not being used" to your writings, whenever you churn out a piece that looks so new the style feels alien and divine.

MissWrite, with the way you make letters dance and command words with each pen stroke, I'm convinced even scribes on the celestial plane will soonest entrust you with their pens and scrolls, because you're better suited handling even their very own tools than they ever could have dreamt possible.

........my dear eloquent friend! You're making me blush. Thank you, sweetie,,,,

MISEDUCATIONS:
in some countries like Zimbabwe a woman's prison sentence is divided between her and her unborn baby.

in feminist countries where abortion is legal that is rare because to begin with a fetus is not taken to be a real human.

Really? I've never heard of it. I'll check it out.

MISEDUCATIONS:
my short story came in at 17, 000 words and NL rejected it as too long and i lost interest in literature section.

but you MissWrite, you are the real deal. you have a way with words in a way i envy. if you were in SA we could be tag-teaming on my film script. my dialogue isnt the strongest and that seems to be your strong suit.

......compliments from Bunjy?

Lol, 17,000 words is not a short story; it's a novelette. I didn't know you're a writer; movie scripts for that matter! That's great.

Thanks for the compliments

AvatarMode:
And the Miss writes again...nice one..nice one...

Thanks so much, dear.

LivingFree:
I am speechless

what a master piece... always a pleasure reading your work

Thank you, gorgeous.

LivingFree:
I stopped reading when it landed on her lips!!

I can't read this, I just caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't! Why are you doing this to me

Just kill the monster already and move on with the story

This is a horror script....


I am your biggest fan misswrite! your talent no be here, sweetie so well done in advance!

*Takes a deep breath and goes back to read*

Lol.........

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Godwin’s grim face. His eyes were red and puffy. He looked at me, but said nothing. He was waiting for me to speak.

“Where are we?” I obliged.

“St. Mary’s.”

The hospital. “Why? What happened?”

Godwin averted his gaze. He did not say another word, so I let him be. I realized then that I was restrained in my bed and could not move my arms and legs. I felt a ball of anxiety well up in my belly. What had happened? Then I felt the shooting pain radiate through my abdomen. I noticed the bandage wrapped around my midriff and it dawned on me that my belly was no longer as distended as it should be seven months in. Unfamiliar images filled my mind and I was instantly filled with a sense of foreboding. “Is she okay?” I kept my eyes fixed on the blue ceiling. I did not want to hear the answer. And when Godwin did not say anything, I felt the tears sting my eyes and break free.

I deserved to die. I did not deserve to live. I knew that I should throw myself out of the window overlooking the parking lot, and fall to my certain death. I knew that I should break every single bone in my body as I hit the concrete. I knew that I should do it as soon as possible. I had butchered my own child with a kitchen knife.

“I am a mad woman.”

Godwin’s silence was his way of accepting my declaration, and probably I had given voice to his exact thoughts. But I could not begrudge him his right to blame me for the death of his daughter.

I awoke on the floor, at the foot of the bed, having completely lost all sense of time but I still recalled the encounter with the roach as vivid as the present. Could it have been a dream? My throat ached. Maybe that was only a psychosomatic reaction; my mind was telling lies to my body and my body gullibly believed its tales. That must have been the case, because there was no evidence that what had happened had actually happened. Except my aching throat. I tested the content of the insecticide, which sat seemingly unmoved on the nightstand, and I discovered that it was still intact. My mystical super-power confirmed to me that there was no cockroach in my bedroom. A whiff of air, which I hadn’t realized I had been holding in, escaped through my lips: it was only a dream.

It was only a dream. I remembered then that I had had a fight with Godwin. He had told me a funny story and I laughed; I laughed so hard that the tears came out to wash away the indecency of my euphoria. I hadn't laughed that way in a long while. And then Godwin got upset. A container on a flatbed trailer had keeled over in traffic and fallen on a little saloon car; it crushed everybody inside. I imagined layers of compressed bodies stuck to one another and marinated in blood. “Is this funny to you?” Godwin demanded perplexed. I had no idea why he was asking me the question or what he wanted to do with my answer. I did not trust my husband with the information; so I stayed silent. He might have mistaken my cautiousness for remorse, because he let it slide. But I watched him closely after that incident. I paid particular close attention to the noises he made: like how his tea spoon connected with the ceramic mug when he stirred his coffee; or how he snored beside me at night; or how he would sneeze every time he walked into the bathroom. It became clear to me that my husband was working with people to abduct me. He had devised a clever way to communicate with his cohorts. I did not let him know that I knew what he was up to, but it was obvious that I needed to get him out of the house immediately.

So, I was by myself that night by my own design.

I went into the adjoining bathroom and flipped up the faucet to release a blast of cold water into the washbasin. I splashed my face with the refreshing coolness and grabbed a face towel from the rack to pat myself dry. My reflection in the vanity mirror returned my scrutinizing stare. I stuck out my tongue as far as I could, opened my mouth wide until I could see the opening to the cave – the M-shaped hole – through which the phantom cockroach had disappeared. There was nothing to suggest that though: no stray legs or loose wings caught in between my teeth (not that I had expected there to be) but the mere thought of it made me reach for my toothbrush regardless, and I squeezed a generous amount of paste onto the bristles.

It took me all of seven minutes to brush, retch, spit and rinse until my mind accepted my mouth again. I stuck out my tongue to inspect its cleanliness, turning my head from side to side to get a good view. Suddenly, the most curious thing happened. Believe me when I tell you this: my reflection walked away. I watched as the me in the mirror turned away from me, opened the door and walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom. I felt bereft – left staring into a mirror that showed me the backdrop of the bathroom but no image of me. And I was still standing there. I was absolutely dumbstruck. It occurred to me that there might be someone who looked like me in my bedroom while I stood befuddled in the bathroom. It also occurred to me that I should immediately go after my reflection to be amalgamated with it. And that’s what I did: I went into the bedroom half expecting to find myself tucked in bed without a care in the world; but to my relief, the sheets were as dishevelled as I had left them. And there was no one in my bed. I went back into the bathroom, looked into the mirror, and to my total dismay, I still had no reflection.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp pinch in my abdomen, right behind my belly button. I instinctively clutched my protruding belly; I couldn’t see myself grimace in pain because I had no image in the mirror. Without warning, a vibrant stream of golden-yellow urine splattered to the ceramic floor from between my thighs. I wore no underwear at night, so the flow broke free unhindered. The yellow pool gathered around my feet and extended rapidly in all directions. The stream did not stop. The colour of the effluent got consistently darker until it was a deep crimson and thick as blood. It was blood. And still it did not stop. Lumps of blood followed suit plunging into the pool and splashing red all over the wall. Then, there was a foot. As distinct as day, there was a foot of an infant swimming in the pool and it had fallen out between my entrenched thighs. I watched the tiny severed foot in the bloody urine and heard myself cry out in agony as the implication of it dawned on me. But I could not move. I watched as my baby’s tiny arm followed; then, there were several unrecognizable fragments that, by their texture, undoubtedly belonged to the body of my developing foetus.

Then came the head. It fell onto the heap of mottled flesh and rolled into the shallow pool. Instantly, the flow ceased.

I heard myself whimper in the stillness of the night. The life was dead. I had been trying for seven years! It had never stayed beyond the third month; until now, deep into the seventh. I had bought the bassinet and the baby clothes as cute as kittens. I had painted the walls of the nursery in princess pink. I had opened up my heart as wide as the ocean. My gut hung shrivelled and flaccid in front of me like a deflated balloon; a metaphor for my collapsed world. I could hear my weeping being carried back to me from the distance, as if every demon in hell mocked my predicament. And I could hear the wailing of an infant. I could hear the wailing of an infant? I thought that it must be all in my head. It wasn’t possible that there was actually a baby crying somewhere in my bedroom.

But there was.

The sound came from inside the cupboard. My hand trembled like a leaf in the wind as I reached for the latch. The wailing subsided, as if the infant sensed that help was near and that it did not have to be in the darkness for much longer. She knew! She started to coo and gurgle, and she hadn’t even seen my face. Overcome with emotion, I placed my ear against the wooden surface of the cupboard door, taking in the strangely familiar noises. I fought to steady my own breathing. Then I opened the cupboard; inside, on the floor board propped against an overnight bag, was a naked baby girl with a smile that went straight to the heart. I blinked my tears away. “Look who it is!” I cooed in baby-friendly tone, and she responded with excited laughter. She had her father’s eyes, but the dimples were clearly mine. I picked her up gingerly and rested her head on my shoulder as though I were attempting to burp her. On cue, she expelled a grotesque belch which continued into a hiss. I realized that I had draped a ninety pound Burmese python around my neck.

This must be another dream, I thought desperately as the snake lazily explored the contours of my body. I was weighed down to my knees by the heaviness of the beautiful band that seemed to be sliding peacefully in every direction. My breathing became ragged as I waited for it to disappear, but it kept being there, bold as brass, for several minutes. I did not trust myself to aggravate it with any sudden movements, so I remained as still as I could be under the circumstances.

“There’s a python around your shoulders.”

I turned towards Godwin’s measured tone. I could not see him, but I knew he was there. And he had just corroborated my most recent fear: the snake was real. If he could see it too, then it had to be.

“Help me.” I said to him. But my eyes did not search the room for Godwin; they were transfixed by the flat head hovering before my face, and the forked tongue that snuck out of its tapered snout. I suddenly had the urge to throw up. There was a faint continuous ringing in my ears; the type that usually indicated a disturbance in transmission.
The sound of the python’s head connecting with the surface of a spade pulled me back to consciousness. It squirmed wildly and let go of me sprawling its heavy mass all over the floor, so I took a step back to watch Godwin whack it once more.

“Its head!” I cried, “Cut its head off!” The spade came down swift and vertical but before it connected with the reptile, I realized that I had made a mistake. “No! Stop!” I cried. But it was too late: the head of my beautiful dimpled girl lay severed from her chubby body. There was blood of innocence staining the floor.

I wept.

As I crouched over the atrocity in absolute despondence, I felt that pinch in my abdomen again. My belly started to swell. As it expanded, it stretched the shrivelled skin over the being that had taken up residence inside my womb. But my baby girl from inside the cupboard was dead. And in the bathroom lay the severed parts of my seven month old pregnancy. Who was this now in my belly? I heard jingles from seemingly far away: Happy mother’s day, were the words; happy mother’s day. I belched. And then I smelt it: the scent of the sewer and all things ungodly.

There was a cockroach in my bedroom.

In a mad frenzy, I rushed to the kitchen. I was not going to birth the devil’s child; this thing which had pushed out my own sweet angel to occupy my body. I pulled out the boning knife from the collection of sheathed knives in the fancy holder on the marble counter top. It was as elegant and beautiful as the sunset, and capable of doing what needed to be done. With only a moment’s hesitation to say a prayer, I plunged the knife into my gut so deeply that I was sure I had reached the cockroach. I pulled the knife out and unleashed a stream of cherry wine. I thrust the knife back in on the other side, determined to get the sucker in the gut. I pulled it out; more wine. I pushed it back in. Out. In. Out. I knew when it happened that I had got the beast in the heart. On the kitchen floor, I sat back in satisfaction. My legs spread out in front of me, my belly a fountain that had soaked my nightgown in red. The blood gushed out of me very quickly. And then I saw him: the devil with his well-shoed feet as he stepped into the red sea.

All Rights Reserved.


There was a cockroach in my bedroom. The realization hit me the minute I opened my eyes. Or, maybe it was sooner. It might have nagged my subconscious and jerked me out of my dreams. I leapt to my feet, quickly shrugging off several hours of sleep like an infested coat, and I reached for the container of insecticide faithfully sitting on the nightstand before scanning the room for the fatherless brat. I stood in battle stance, bare feet on the cold marble floor, at the foot of the king-size bed and waited. It was there somewhere; it had to be. I had an instinct for those things, and it had never let me down. It wasn’t a smell or anything like that; it was just an uncanny awareness. Godwin had always teased me about it – my ability to sniff out a roach. I wondered where he was in my moment of distress. Where was Godwin?

I could taste the adrenalin in the back of my tongue as I squeezed out some of the pungent aerosol randomly into the air. I hated cockroaches! They were so restless and unpredictable, not to mention filthy as shit. I could deal with any other type of pest but not cockroaches. They were a pathological fear for me. Where was Godwin? I knew he had some justification for not being present in that moment, but I couldn’t remember what it was. The whiff of insecticide tickled my nose but I easily suppressed the sneeze. I hoped that the cockroach would sense the poison and feel attacked; this was bound to force it to reveal itself in its attempt to make its way to safer ground.

I was not disappointed. Almost immediately, I heard a rustling on the nightstand to my right. The noise was exaggerated; it seemed like a rat might be capable of shifting around the weight of whatever it was that rustled so annoyingly, not a roach; definitely not a roach. But suddenly, there it was; it emerged from beneath the untidy stack of papers and scurried upwards along the wall towards the ceiling. It was indeed a cockroach. It was frightfully huge, and could have covered the entire surface of an iPhone 5. It scampered on tall legs with its wings askew as if they had just been used; or worse, as if they were about to be.

I could hear my heart beating loudly in my ears. I felt like I had just run a mile. But, for all of the turmoil stirring inside me, I tried to keep a very calm exterior as I cautiously approached the creature that had decided to play dead half-way up the wall. Cold sweat trickling down my temples, my battle arm extended towards the wall, I pushed down the knob with my index finger to release a consistent stream of vapour towards the ugly thing. I did not want to stop until it dropped to the floor. But that did not happen. In fact, the cockroach hadn’t moved an inch from its position. It felt as though I had been engaged in a game of “chicken” by the obstinate insect and it dared me to blink first. I was conscious of the fact that I was depleting my ammunition; the can felt much lighter in my hand already. I couldn’t empty the entire content not knowing what was going on: why wasn’t it falling to the floor? Why wasn’t it reacting to the poison?

It took me a whole bag of courage to stop my assault and stand back. I watched it. It budged ever so slightly by extending its body away from the wall. My mouth suddenly went dry. I hoped that the damage had been done and that the thing would collapse lifeless to the floor. That’s exactly what would have made sense. Instead, the creature whipped out its wings in dramatic gesture and leapt off the wall straight at me. My heart jumped into my mouth. In that split second, I was torn between making for the door and unleashing another gust of insecticide on the approaching ball of buzzing filth. Before I could decide, I felt the roach connect with the side of my face (which makes me believe that I must have opted to run out the door, because if I had chosen to fight the creature, it should have hit my nose); it felt like a dirty slap. I recovered from the daze just in time to see the creature scuttle off across the floor and disappear under the sofa. Again, I had the urge to run out of the bedroom, but the fact that this thing could get lost in my bedroom or even make its way through the crack underneath the door to any other room in the house stopped me. I couldn’t turn my back on it and allow it to choose its hiding place; it had to be smoked out and killed dead.

I picked up the container of insecticide, which I had dropped to the floor when the cockroach had assaulted me, and cautiously approached the sofa tilting it slightly to kill the shadow beneath. I saw nothing. Then I heard a thud from the seat of the sofa, and instantly, I felt the creature scampering up my right arm towards my shoulder. It looked larger than life with its wings spread out in determination, and my eyes widened in blind panic. Without a thought for protecting my bulging belly, I threw my limbs out in a craze to shake off the thing that had made tracks on my skin. I heard myself scream. I couldn’t stop feeling its legs running up my arm; but I knew it wasn’t there anymore, which only meant it was in several places at once.

It wasn’t hiding from me. I watched it run purposefully towards the wall, up the wall, and then it leapt off the surface once more towards me like it was programmed to attack by some evil genius. This time it hit my lips, and I did not dare to scream. I stoically denied the creature access into the place it seemed determined to go. It planted its legs on either side of my mouth and I felt the roughness of its ribbed underbelly against my lips. Its head came up to my nose and its perfectly parabolic antenna obstructed my vision. I was frozen. Not even my heart moved. Its legs sank into my skin and it was painful. I knew that I would tear off my flesh with it once I summoned the nerve to grab it between my fingers. The thought irked me. I imagined squeezing it too hard and getting a splotch of gunk in my face. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t wrap my fingers around the repulsive thing that sat securely on my face. It moved lower, its wings half-way open to steady itself, until its head pushed against my lips with astonishing vigour. I could feel its abdomen graze my chin as it curved its body. Inside me, the ball of anxiety in the pit of my belly grew tall; it climbed up towards my throat until it became an icy tower of terror. And then I could not stop myself. I screamed. The insect was quick as a flash as it collided with the stalagmite of fright that had hit my tonsils.