For Days and A Night

idle chatter

  I like to sit at my table; at two am in the morning, sipping on coffee or some of the ‘herbal tea’ my wife brought me on her last trip to Thailand, feeling like a writer.

  I like to sit in front of my computer at two am in the morning, sipping on coffee or some of the ‘herbal tea’ my wife brought me on her last trip to Thailand and feel like a writer.

  The two other occupants of the room looked at me like I just called myself the reincarnation of Idi-Amin and Abacha rolled up in one. The lighter and smaller one rolled his eyes.

  So you need to sip coffee at two am in the morning to feel like a writer. He shook his head slowly. Man, this guy is worse than I thought, he continued, speaking to the third man.

  The third one looked very unfriendly; in fact he looked downright menacing. ‘Tall, dark and ugly’ would be an apt description, there was a permanent scowl on his face as if he found the world a constant irritant. ‘Tall and dark’ said nothing.

  “You misunderstand me,” I spoke somewhat waspishly to the smallest of us three, who liked to feel like a smart Alec. “I did not say I need coffee to feel like a writer. I was just saying…I feel…” I paused here because it had suddenly occurred to me that it wasn’t exactly something I could clearly articulate even though I knew what I wanted to say.

  “You know how you wear shades and feel cool; even though it doesn’t help your eyesight? That’s kinda like what I’m talking about.”

  I don’t wear shades, ‘Small and Daft’ chirped, hopping from one foot to the other as though he was standing on hot coals. My charm is enough to dazzle and blind even Muna.

  He might as well as have been talking to a brick wall for all the notice that was taken of him. ‘Tall and dark’ was staring at me, an intense stare that made me feel nervous in spite of myself. This is crazy; I thought. I’m in my house.

  “Hey...has any of you seen my wife?”

  Small laughed. No be bed you leave am? Na the so-so coffee things don fry ya brain so o, he said, stopping in between words to fire off a short burst of laughter . Even ‘darkie’ smiled a bit at that.

  I was upset. “You ought to know she likes coming downstairs to look for me sometimes…and I don’t want to disturb her…”

  Who dey disturb am? No be she dey disturb herself…dey waka up and down to find something wey no los’.

  “Don’t talk about my wife like that,” I said rather sharply. I noticed that Darkie’s eyes drew together in concentration as he watched, but he said nothing.

  Small coughed dryly. No vex o, lover boy. Pele.

  “Anyways,” I continued, speaking lightly, “it’s even better if she does not meet you guys here before she starts wondering who let you in and all that.”

  They shared another look; an almost sinister look that made me wonder if I was not being set-up; if I was not being had by these guys. But something about Darkie reassured me. He looked like the kind of guy who would walk up to you, state his intentions and allow you make whatever you wanted of them. I felt instinctively that I could trust him.

  Small, on the other hand…

  Guy, but this ya hood dry o…chei! E dry no be small. Wetin happen na…dem no dey born woman for this side? Na so so guy full the whole place!

  “That’s how you act as if you have women on the brain…and yet you’re all blather. What would you do with a woman? What do you know about that?”

  Small stretched his entire ‘imposing’ five foot two height and frowned at me. Guy, don’t try me o. I have skills like you cannot imagine. I can make your wife my… something he saw on my face made him end the sentence then and there. Look, my pipe game is flawless. I wrote the…

  “Player’s handbook. Yeah, we’ve heard that one before.” I interrupted.

  ‘Dark’ spoke, baritone rumbling as though from his belly. What I’d like to know is – how you judge how dry an area is at two in the morning.

  As one, Dark and I turned to look at the wall clock; and then turned to Small who was trying to act unconcerned. What? he asked once he noticed our glances.

  Dark pointed at the cup on my table. Isn’t that tea getting cold?

  I felt the mug with the back of my hand – it had indeed become lukewarm.

  And I hate cold tea.

  Standing up, I walked to the Midea dispenser in the far left corner of the room and added some hot water to my cup. And then I walked to the side table, added some more herbal tea and sugar before going back to sit behind my desk. Dark was exactly where I left him, looking through my CD collection while Small was looking at something on his phone and laughing. Some bimbo had probably sent him nude pictures of herself or something.

  As I sat down, Dark came over stood behind me, reaching over my shoulder to tap my keyboard’s space key. The computer screen came to life.

  Instead of arguing with that small insignificant guy and allowing him distract you, focus on what you need do at the moment. You know how much work you have to do…and how much time you have left. Focus.

  I looked at him surprised, wondering what inspired his words.

  Strangely, he answered as though he heard.

  One of the earliest lessons I learned is that the most essential ingredient to success is discipline. The guys who make it are not the best in the building – but they are the ones who stayed behind and put in a couple more hours after everyone else left. I know you have what it takes – do you?

  As I sat there and listened to his impassioned words I could see Small hovering in the background, looking as though he wanted to say something – and as soon as Dark went silent, he spoke up.

  Look, I might be a distraction but I know the truth. And the truth is – while sipping coffee at two am might make you feel like a writer, it takes more than that to actually be one. I know you have what it takes, guy. Do you?

  I was surprised. I opened my mouth to comment – and then shut it as Dark pointed to my still-glowing computer screen and the half-finished story on it. I began typing without another word.

  Suddenly I hear my wife’s voice from faraway. I cannot make out exactly what she’s saying – so I pause my writing and turn to face her.

  “Yes honey?” I say, trying to ignore the sheer mid-thigh length black nightie she had on.

  She moves from the doorway she is standing in and walks into my study, moving slowly and looking around. I feel my mouth dry up – dry up; like an overheating car radiator. She looks at me and smiles, her eyes curious.

  “I asked who you were talking to,” she repeats says as she comes nearer to my desk. I turn on my chair, wondering why Small and Dark have not said anything – and find myself looking at an empty space.

  I am shocked. “I…uh….I…” I begin to say but she shushes me, placing her lips against mine.

  “It’s the voices in your head, darling. They’re getting louder.” She fondles my left ear gently and I shiver. “Let’s see if we can’t silence them.”

  I cannot argue.

  Not that I want to.

  for days and a night

  Seun Odukoya

  Copyright © 2013 by Seun Odukoya

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other – except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Other works by Seun Odukoya can be read on the author’s blog:

  www.seunodukoya.wordpress.com

  contents

  1.idle chatter

  2.cover page

  3.contents

  4.hope

  5.skit i: dares

  6.pillow talk

&nb
sp; 7.which kain work

  8.waken

  9.sweetness i

  10.true romance

  11.skit ii: on women

  12.a game called life

  13.how stupid

  14.pause

  15.my little girl

  16.sweetness ii

  17.skit iii: public service announcement

  18.eba

  19.it happened before 10am

  20.her wedding

  21.skit iv: his & hers

  22.outcasts

  23.acknowledgments

  chapter 1: hope

  I lay on my back on my thinly-thin mattress in my one room staring at the ceiling. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m feeling. There’s this feeling of having a vacuum in my tummy – that feeling that makes you suck in your tummy involuntarily…it’s right there in me. I’m hungry, and there’s absolutely nothing to eat.

  It’s around noon – around twelve or so. The harsh sunshine easily penetrates the thin curtain that separates my private domain from the public eye, bathing me in some hot rays. I should move away from there, but I cannot. I do not see the point.

  The other half of the room is covered in debris; not that there is a lot of ‘other half’ in the first place. The entire room is only a little larger than a toilet cubicle (I completely refuse to be specific); there is a mattress on one side of it and there are clothes, books, shoes, pots and what little other personal effects I have on the other side.

  It is my room; at least for the next nine months or so it is. I don’t owe any rent on it, and for that I am grateful. I had used half of the last of my corper ‘allowee’ to secure the space – and then used the other half of it to stock up on food. The last of that food ran out two nights ago; some rice.

  I lie here now and I keep thinking ‘what now’? I keep remembering one of my mum’s world-famous catchphrases; ‘If you’re broke and someone asks ‘Is there a dead person in here?’ raise your hand and say ‘here I am’.”

  I used to feel that she was being overly dramatic back then. Right now, I agree with her wholeheartedly.

  I miss my mum.

  I feel the stinging moistness that precedes tears and rise to a sitting position. I don’t want to cry so I don’t allow myself to. I shake off the feeling.

  Yeah. Strong will.

  So I extend this ‘will’ to ignoring the steady rumbling in my stomach area and instead focus on a solution. I know fully well there’s no way food will come and meet me in the house; so I stand up and sort through the pile of clothes to pick up a decently clean black t-shirt. I slowly don the tee while thinking. For all my bravado I had no idea what I was going to do, where I was going or even what I was looking for. Maybe I should just stay indoors and conserve whatever was left of my energy for surviving. But then…

  But then, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  I put on brown combat shorts and black pam sandals, and after checking to see if my mouth did not smell I stepped out into the blazing sunshine.

  Actually, I know what I am looking for. I just don’t want to admit it.

  I’m looking…looking for a girl named HOPE.

  chapter 2: skit I - dares

  I like dares.

  Just the same way I like challenges. I like being told 'Seun, you can't do that' - and then go right ahead and prove the talker wrong.

  I like being dared. As long as it's not something stupid like 'Jump off the third-mainland bridge' or stuff like that.

  Just go ahead. Dare me. Ask me to kiss your mum or something.

  God help you if she's b-e-a-u-tiful.

  God help me if she's not.

  I really really like dares.

  Don't hate.

  chapter 3: pillow talk

  I’m kissing her. She seems to be having a crisis of conscience; struggling with herself on how far she can allow me go. Her back is tense; I feel the tautness of her spine with the tips of my fingers. She struggles a bit more – and then her lips open under mine, surrendering to the gentle probing of my tongue.

  She shivers.

  Our tongues play a small tango – hers is warm and soft at once; and tastes curiously salty. I don’t mind; she’s a pro at this game. The way our tongues are in sync reminds me of scenes in martial art flicks where the good guy; probably Jet Li or Jackie Chan faces off with another bad guy and they’re going through the obviously-choreographed fight sequence – fist, block, chop, side-step…almost like a one-two one-two thingy. I lightly bite the tip of her tongue.

  She shivers

  My hands become restless as the moment intensifies, looking for something to do with themselves. They have become intimately familiar with the planes of her back, from her confusingly soft collarbone to the pliant straps of her bra. Now they wander up and down her sides, and she; without breaking off the kiss grabs them and impatiently places them on her breasts.

  She shivers.

  Deftly; slickly as though programmed, my hands do what I am yet to order them to – treat the soft mounds on her chest to an indulgent massage. I plant soft kisses on the left side of her neck, moving gently down to bath the base of her throat with a flurry of light busses. Continuing down between her breasts unobstructed by a blouse - a blouse my hands have so deftly unbuttoned moments before; I lap my tongue up and down the valley between her breasts.

  She shivers.

  By now my hands have moved down to cup her waist and here they pause – finally I’m able to get through to them. Slow down, I say; we do not want her freaking out now. Crazy hands. They listen – and then they ignore me, moving downwards to where what we both assume her behind to be. Assume to be is the correct thing to ‘say’, because to our consternation; that is my hands and me, there is absolutely nothing below her waist.

  Lobatan.

  I open my eyes and all is as it should be. I am laying on my bed with my arms around a woman – and suddenly all is not as should be. My mouth is full, in fact my mouth feels as though I had been chewing on one of those half-done shaki meats that most bukas specialize in serving – that piece of meat you can never chew successfully and you eventually end up swallowing whole. My throat hurts.

  I open my eyes again and find out that a third of my pillow is what it is in my mouth. The slightly disgusting stench of early-morning saliva is heavy around us, and I can see streaks of it lining the body of my pillow. It is looking at me silently; expression saying is this what you have come to, o pathetic divorcee? Na so your life don be?

  I shiver.

  chapter 4: which kain work?

  I’m a cop.

  No. Actually ‘cop’ sounds fancy – like something you would hear from one of those TV shows my son likes to watch so much.

  24. CSI-Miami. Hawaii 5-0. And so on.

  Those shows he’s always asking me to buy DVDs of. I cannot afford original ones, so I buy him pirated ones that are sold for two hundred and fifty naira. Cheap.

  But to see the pleasure on his face, to watch him watch those shows and listen to him speak, and to hear how intelligent he is…it is worth it.

  He wants to be a policeman. Like his dad.

  I shake my head sadly. Despite all the flak – and the evil Nigerian policemen purportedly and sometimes really perpetrated, he wants to be one of them.

  One of us.

  He is proud of me. He tells me that every time I express my frustration with the justice system and the nation in general. I can imagine how his mates make fun of him for being the son of a Nigerian policeman. But he does not care.

  He is proud of me.

  Sometimes, I do not feel proud of myself or my job.

  Like the times when I’m supposed to book a ‘criminal’, someone I know was clearly just hijacked from somewhere in Lagos and brought here ‘for questioning’. And I go ahead, knowing fully well he will not be released until he greases the right palms with the right amount of money.

  Like the times when we stop a bus and I’m the one who’s supposed to walk up to the driver and c
ollect the balled up fifty naira note. And it kills me a bit each time I see the disgust in his and his passengers’ eyes and I think; that could easily be my wife over there.

  Like last night.

  There had been a small altercation at Oshodi – rival touts were at war as usual but this time it was on a weekday. The mobile police had quickly been sent out to try and contain the situation, but in the resultant chaos a little schoolboy on his way home had been shot.

  After some digging on my part, I found he was the only son of a single mother and he lived with her somewhere in Mafoluku. Some more digging in the school yielded the address.

  So there I went and for almost an hour I stood in front of the house, wondering how I was supposed to tell a mother her only son who was about twelve years was lying on a slab in a refrigerator in a mortuary, waiting for her to come bury him.

  Of course – I had the presence of mind not to wear my uniform. That would have been…a tragedy within a tragedy.

  Yes. Sometimes when I think about my son, I wonder what he’s proud about.

  I hate my job. But someone has to do it.

  chapter 5: waken

  If one side of your bed is permanently stuck against a wall, is it possible to get out of bed on the wrong side?

  That was the thought that had me laughing as I stood up from my one bed in my one-room apartment at one-twenty seven in the morning. I stretched and yawned, scratched my armpit and breathed in deeply, inhaling the smell of onions from my own mouth.

  Ugh. It was good to be alive nonetheless.

  I sat back on my bed and looked up at the ceiling; particularly at the 100-watt bulb that illuminated every corner of the room. Of course I was not thinking about the bulb, I was thinking about a story I wanted to submit for the Commonwealth competition. The submission deadline was barely three weeks away and I was still yet to be inspired. I was determined to start something that morning.

  The vague outlines of an idea had begun to crystallize in my mind when my phone rang.

  That was a shocker. I probably stopped breathing.

  It was not like receiving a phone call at some minutes to two in the morning was strange. After all, that’s why Xtra-cool is such a hit.