10 DAYS - Episode 12

Edisemi Thompson

A day that’d started bitter, grown frightening and progressed awkward is about to end in compassion. I have Temi in my car and he’s explaining the reason for acting weird in the office. I’d always thought him scary, but not to the extent of banging my desk, grabbing me by the chin and mouthing some strange heroic bullshit. That was the height of it. If Butch and I weren’t having any misunderstanding, I would’ve screamed the attention of everyone in the building. Those words, I’m not going to see you get hurt again resonated with me. It sent a chill running down my spine.

As I stared into the strangeness of his eyes in fright, I’d thought: Was he watching me? How much does he know about me, Butch, Julie, Captain and our small cheating circle?

There was silence after he’d apologised and gone back to his seat. It felt thicker than smoke, choking us both. I'd decided within me that I was going for a break when Temi asked if I was going for lunch. It was his way of breaking the silence and clearing the air but right then, it was outright creepy. Even though I wasn’t going for lunch, it felt like he’d snooped on my thoughts. I told him I was just going to use the restroom. It wasn’t until thirty minutes later that I returned from the supposed restroom.

A lunch package from Jumia Food was waiting on my desk when I took my seat. Temi was at his desk tearing a lap of chicken with his teeth. He’d ordered two plates of what he was eating in my absence, taking my word for it and judging I was hungry. I don’t like men showing me care without my consent. It makes me feel vulnerable. I am my own woman. I don’t need a man to care for me.

We argued to and fro about the gesture. He said it was his little apology package, one of his ways of appreciating our friendship and several other craps that came out of his mouth. I made it clear to him that we are not friends but co-workers and that he shouldn’t dip his hands in my personal affair if I don’t ask him to. He said stuff about how I just chose to be mean to him even when he meant good for me. He said he always tried to lighten the working atmosphere between us for synergy sake but I always supressed it with my individualist, tortoise-in-its-self-sufficient-shell, attitude. He crowned his messianic speech in his calm, reasonable tone of voice by disclosing that he’ll persevere with me in this office and in any other office I park into until we build corporate friendship. I ended the argument by dumping the lunch into the waste bin.

“So, you chose to call me Eddy because you called her Ebby. Do I in any way look like her?” I say, swerving pass a car that chose to breakdown just about the time the traffic started to clear.

“You share some things in common. You both are Bayelsans and Ijaw. She’s Ebiere and you’re Edisemi. If you must know, she was very hard with me before I finally slipped the ring in the middle finger.”

I sneer at the piece of information. It wasn’t necessary; besides I don’t see how I can ever get to be friends with Mr Creepshow here. From the overhead mirror I see him studying me. I concentrate on getting to his stop as soon as possible and dropping him off. I tell myself I’m listening to his story because it’d be rude to deny him an explanation. The silence, however, is what I can’t bear. Surprisingly, even to myself, I’m actively participating in the discussion.

“What did they do the driver that hit her?” I ask.

“The case went to the court and judgement was passed. But before judgement was eventually passed, I’d lost interest in the whole show. I realised there was no amount of punishment they’d mete out to him that’d bring Ebby back. You read novels?”

“Well, not much. Butch reads a lot of novels and comics. He draws comics too and sometimes joke about how he’d write a book. You know he’s got all the time in the world to do these things and they are quite complementary to his job.”

I wish to continue talking about Butch but I force myself to end it there and avoid veering that direction again. I’m also guilty of giving unnecessary information. The conversation is supposed to be something to clear the air for the space of time we’re stuck together and not to familiarise with each other. I blame myself for accepting to give him a ride.

“Butch sounds like an interesting guy. I like him, even though we’ve never sat down to have any real discussion.”

“Yeah, he’s interesting. How about novels?”

“I read novels in my spare time, mostly the hours before I finally retire to bed. It’s a culture Eddy passed on to me. She reads more than one novel at a time and there always was a special one we read together. The nights she spent in my place, she’d pick up this novel and read aloud, page after page, till we’ve had our fill.

“We’d bookmark our progress and continue some other day or night we’re together again and free. When continues her personal novels when she’s alone. Before the horrible incident, we’d completed three books together and were on our fourth.”

“That slow? How long did you guys date?”

“Five years. Ebby didn’t fancy small books. If the book was less than seven hundred pages, it’s a no for her. She had this large collection of Stephen King. The guy seems to know how to write lengthy stories.”

“Oh, Stephen King. I know him. Weird looking man like that, as scary looking as his stories. Butch made me—”

I shut up and concentrate on the road. The memories of Butch leaves me feeling like Temi – broken. The best times of our lives are now stuck in our memories and we’re incapable of living them again or modifying them. This is not wholly true for me because Butch is still alive, only he’s switched most of his attention to his whore. I suddenly don’t want this conversation to continue. I don’t want to feel horrible. I just want to go home, freshen up and watch TV. However, I’m drawn to Temi’s world before it was shattered, I’m seeing a man that must’ve been normal and worthy of being loved by a woman. A man who’d constantly featured in someone else’s thought. I want to continue the trip to see where it started going off beam and probably down to this stage, to the galling personality he’d finally settled into.

“Which one of his books did Butch make you read?” He asks, his face brightening up.

I’m dismayed I left him enough clue to complete my statement. “I can’t remember which.” I lie.

“Well, one of the books Ebby and I read together was his Pet Sematary. It’s one hell of a book. While they kept stretching the case, and before she was eventually buried, I kept thinking of the events that took place in that book. I understood how Mr Creed and anybody that loses someone he truly loves feel.”

“What happened in the book?” At this point, my curiosity is piqued. I want to veer off the road and park by the curb. We’re getting close to his bus stop.

I keep my face straight and roll the car onwards on a steady 50km/hr. I stay on the extreme right of the road, very close to the pedestrian walk, so drivers who have more important places to go and things to attend do will zoom pass without disturbing us with their honking.

“A family, the Creeds, had packed into a new house, very gigantic, and were starting to enjoy the new environment when their little boy, Gage ran into the road and got crushed by a careless truck driver.”

He looks at me and I sacrifice a second to look back at him. The details are almost identical. I sense there’s more similarity yet to be unravelled and boy, wouldn’t that be scary? Imagine your life rolling out as a story someone far away, in the same world as you, had written. The people, places and dates might not be the same, but not the circumstance. That one keeps progressing as the pages are flipped and then you know that a book must always end. Just what happens to you in the last few pages or on the final page?

I quit that line of thought. Nothing that happened to Ebiere came from a book they’d both read together. I haven’t heard the whole of the story and I’m linking things up already.

“It was traumatic for the man and his wife.” He continues. “He couldn’t sleep with the knowledge that his son was dead. He couldn’t accept that the boy was dead, and guess what?”

“What?”

“There was restoration. Right there in the woods surrounding his gigantic house.”

“I don’t get.” I say. I’m swerving out of the road now. I can’t combat paying attention to the story and the road at the same time anymore.

“Before the son had the accident, his daughter’s cat had died, I think on the same road that killed his son. The cat died while the daughter was away at her grandparent’s. While he was thinking what to tell his daughter, who loved the cat dearly, his neighbour had told him about the woods surrounding his house. The woods were said to have been inhabited by the Indians before they moved away. It was a strange wood where their chiefs and loved ones were buried.”

“So?” The AC blows my arms and prickles the flesh there. I want him to be done with the story already, but I want to hear it till the very end.

“It was the neighbour’s town. He’d lived there his whole life. He’d heard tales as they passed down from the oldies and done some explorations himself. Kids of his time knew the Pet Sematary that was in the woods where the Indians had been buried. If your pet died and you wrapped it fine and buried it in that piece of land, it’ll come back to life the next day.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, Eddy, I kid you not.”

“So, he buried the cat there?”

“Yes, and true to the myth, the cat came back, only clumsier, stinking like death and creepy. The daughter met her cat when she came back, noticed a lot of things were off with her cat and unconsciously started kicking it off whenever it crawled in beside her. She soon wished the cat dead.”

“Of course, what do you expect from a dead thing?”

“If only you’ve truly loved someone, you’d be ready to do anything to bring him/her back to life when you lose him/her. You can’t imagine your life without that person.”

“Wait…”

I shift in my chair and face him. I’m wearing the most troubled expression on my face, and at the time, I don’t know it. I only know that the story has gotten me in its claws and I’m already feeling empathic for Mr Creed and Temi. Maybe, because I can see the relationship between both characters.

“He actually buried the son in the woods, didn’t he? Did he discuss it with his wife?”

“How could he? He waited for the boy to be given a proper burial then went to the cemetery and dug his body up. He transported him to the woods for a more befitting burial or resurrection as the case was, and the next morning, his son came back home. You don’t want to listen to the horror that came with him.”

“Never! I mean, the cat should’ve taught him a lesson.”

“Maybe it’s good to let the dead to remain dead. That’s what one is apt to say until death takes his love.”

“Temi, what did you do with Ebiere’s body?”

He tries to laugh but scoffs. He launches into a deep abyss of thought and shakes his head slowly. Dread consumes me and I want to whack this man in the centre of his head and kick him out of my car. Creepy was by far a mild word to describe him. I’m sure he did something with his wife’s body.

“There’s a big distinction between make-believe and reality no matter how the writer plots the story. Some things just don’t exist in real life. I searched for any of such woods, Eddy. It’s scary, but I thought Ebby had read that book to me as clue to what I should do when she dies.”

“You can’t think that, Temi!”

“You can think anything when you’re in love,”

I wait for him to say some more, to tell me the result of his search or the alternative he took. I know, however, that the answer is within the lines of his second to the last statement. I put the car back into drive and take the road. The silence that envelops us isn’t awkward, it is a monster complete with fangs and talons. I turn on the radio and try to concentrate on its content until I drop Temi off at his stop and arrive home.

Once home, I have my shower and place an order for dinner. I place an order for two. It occurs to me that I’m not better than Temi after all. I’m a dissimulator of the highest order. It doesn’t matter, Butch has never complained about someone caring for him. In fact, he craves it. If I’d cared enough, would Julie have snatched him from me? Anyway, I can’t live alone in this house. Not tonight, after hearing Temi’s tale.

I pick up my phone and call him. He hadn’t picked my call in the morning. Tonight, I won’t stop calling until he picks. He picks on the first ring.

“Butch.” I call, my heart racing.

“Hi, Edisemi. What’s up?” He says and I realise how much I’ve missed him.

Njideka Ime

At night, when my mom and dad have retired to their room, the weight of my loneliness falls on me. They retire early to bed, so I usually have a long time to buckle under the weight of my loneliness. Most of these nights, I either study my Bible, watch late night movies, soak myself in social media or simply go to bed. Recently, the Bible has become the last resort. One is supposed to draw strength from it and live like God wants but reality could be overwhelming. You read the Bible and can’t help seeing the disparity in time.

In this science age where people are getting happiness almost as tangible as the food by doing things they’d later repent of sometime in future; how do you explain holding strong to the intangible tenets of happiness as taught in the holy books? How do you explain abstaining from sex just so you can enjoy it fully in marriage and waiting so long for the man who’d take you home to come, while girls who spread their legs at the snap of the fingers get married in the same manner?

I no longer visit the church like I used to when I was younger but somehow, I feel the things I’d gotten from the church at that time now holds me under restraints. I want to be like the rest of the ladies going out on dates with handsome men with money and dream like them on return from these dates but I fear getting kissed. I’ve been configured to see the wrongness in it. I wear my tight jean trousers and sexy tops that highlights all those curves, but I want to pluck off the eyes of the man that gives me more than a stare.

I live knowing that I can get men rolling into my life, taking the action is the problem. Sometimes I tell myself that I’m yet to meet the man I love. That is a lie. The guys I’d dated from secondary school to university, I’d loved them with all of my heart that when the breakups came, I was sick for weeks. Butch came to my life, not as a prospective lover but as a friend and I’d secretly fallen head over heels for him. Even if he wasn’t taken, I might’ve concluded he wasn’t any different from the other men the moment he asked me out. Now, there’s Captain whom I’ve loved right from the first day of his advance… In fact, I feel the opposite is the case for me. I love every man that I meet.

The Bible is beside me on the bed but I’m not touching it tonight. Of course, watching TV has failed. The movie they are showing is either something I’ve seen before or something that promises to be drab. There’s also no one to chat with on Whatsapp. Instagram and Facebook pictures can’t give me the kind of satisfaction I need right now. I need the kind of satisfaction you get from a real man that’d hold you several minutes later to assure you he’s sure about the moment you’re having together. A man that’d plan his future with you on nights like this after the deed has been done. Let’s cut the chase, I need sexual satisfaction. What did that singer call it again, Sexual healing, right? The feeling is so strong that if I neglect it and head on to facebook, I’d end up updating ‘Please Fuck Me’ on my status.

I get off the bed and head to the bathroom for a shower. This has solved this particular problem a couple of times. A cold bath takes away the sexual itching and leaves you feeling satisfied, especially when you help yourself with your fingers. I smile at my silliness, but give the bathroom idea a second thought. I’ve masturbated in there on some of this kind of nights. The memory of the last time is hard to trace though. Sadly, there seems to be no assurance that I won’t try it out tonight. I don’t want to do it again. I have made myself a promise not to, not to, not…

…Oh, the shower is so refreshing.

I don’t think I felt this way earlier this evening when I first had my bath. I rub soap on my arms, under it, in my armpits, down it to my hips, right back up to my boobs. I don’t know what I’m thinking, but for some reason, I feel sweet sensations as my hands rub lather on my boobs. It’s happening, guys. I begin playing with my boobs. I pack them up from the base, lifting the nipples to my eyes. I grab them from the sides, mashing them together to swell at the top and bottom. I let them fall. They bounce and I admire their fullness and firmness. I gather them together again, this time running fingers in circle around the attentive nipples. Oh God, I feel good. I turn to the mirror to watch the emotion on my face.

What I see disgusts me. I look like one of those porn stars feigning heightened pleasure. If you really understand that they are merely getting their jobs done, you might see the sadness and anger that lie beneath, concealed by the moans, slightly opened mouths and tightly shut eyes. I suddenly can’t see how touching myself can make me feel good. The mirror reveals a beautiful woman with a beautiful body. I turn around slowly to confirm this. I’m wasting this body. It’s not going to remain this way some ten years to come. It seems such a ridiculously long time to remain single, but we really don’t understand the passage of time and the sad surprises that comes with it.

I hurry with the shower and the result is double depressing. I feel worse than before I stepped into the bathroom. The next step is to sleep. This is what you do when you can’t help the situation.

“And who says I can’t help this?” I say to the still night as an idea pops into my head.

You know, anyone can catch fun whenever he/she feels like to. You just have to agree to catch fun. Yes, I want to catch fun tonight. I want to have a taste of the world. What’s that song about having the best day with someone? I grope in my head for the artiste and title of the song. I search my wardrobe for a sexy outfit and the title of the song comes. It’s Taylor Swift’s Best Day, of course.

I get into a Blue Lace Off the Shoulder Flare Dress and can’t find a fitting bra. I go braless. I consider if I should take off the pants too. It makes the whole experience completely wild, and isn’t that what I want tonight? But I can’t stand the idea of walking in the night without my panties. Let me just cope with the way my nipples are poking through the dress.

I apply light makeup and get out the little diary I carry in my purse to jot important things. That’s where I have Captain’s number saved. I can’t explain why I haven’t saved it on my phone since getting it from one of the girls at the eatery.

…I don’t know who I’m gonna talk to now at school

I know I’m laughing on the car ride home with you

Don’t know how long it’s gonna take to feel okay

But I know I had the best day

With you today…

I pick my phone and cut Taylor short. I remember how much I loved this song. I always slept with it on repeat.

I dial Captain’s number and hope I’m going to have the best night with him tonight.

Copyright: Storyestate

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