…continued from last week
…it pulled over, a small golf with tinted glasses.
Its earring and sun glass – wearing driver with dyed hair wound down the glass, and flashed you a boyish smile which even then, you knew did not go past his brownish set of teeth. At other times you would have immediately grabbed the cloak of caution, and walked away, but not that day; you had lost all the will-power that once streamed in your veins. He persuaded you to get in, and tears in your eyes you let yourself be cajoled.
He embraced you in the car, gave you his grey leather jacket and let you cry on his shoulders. Then, you told him your story, amid sobs that seemed to endure forever.
‘Life’s a bitch’, he told you when you were done, ‘if you wanna beat her game, you gotta fuck her real hard!’
He had started the engine when you ask him his name, so perchance he killed you that night, you would at least have known the name of your killer.
‘I’m a young dude trying to work my name to the national dailies’, he answered in a prophetic tone. ‘I’m gonna hit big someday. I can smell it in my fucking breath. And when that time comes, we gonna hit big together’.
He took your small face, planted a kiss on your forehead, and drove you to a place you will later call home.
Eighteen months have passed since you left Johnny. You have had six menial jobs with paltry salaries, and you have moved four times. You have settled on the last job you got in a middle class restaurant where you work on shifts. In your quiet moments, when you lay on the sofa of your poorly furnished room, the past always replays, the tears always come, and a surge of energy always overcomes you. You feel this emotional outburst you cannot overcome. You try to suppress the thoughts rimming your mind, but you find yourself failing. Your nights are filled with dreams, those dreams whose plot you forget as soon as you open our eye lids to reality. Yet, the wetness on your eyes always evidence that it must have been a sad dream.
These continue night after night, until that eventful night. You woke up in the wee hours of night, after restless shuffles on your thin bed. An idea came to you, you picked up an idle pen and a brown paper and apprehensive though you were, you began to write. The night disappeared with the outburst of poetic emotions. You were deaf to the sound of your clock and the distant croaks of frogs. The muse was your new companion; he captured your heart, alerted your thoughts, and wired them through your hands to your pen which spat out endless words with unrestrained fury.
You are more aware of the ever presence of your muse. You have resumed writing poetry and music is always on your lips at your quiet times. Your thoughts flow like a spring, and in your writing, you find escape. You write about love and hate, resolution and hope, culture and religion. You write about your parents, especially Mama. You write about the night of your first sexual intercourse with Johnny.
It happened that night when he first embraced you and told you to fuck life. Uncle Ofodili opened your gateway, but Johnny on that night, ensured that it stayed open to hundreds of others on the path he carved for you. At first, you did not understand why anyone should keep more than one lover, or even offer sex for money. But Johnny had spoken persistently to you, and when you would not budge, he struck you, and ravished you repeatedly.
You were not so bothered of the force of his violent plunging into you, or his breath that reeked of alcohol and narcotics, or the ripples of pain you felt days afterwards. What bothered you more was the rape of your spirit, your will, your dignity, reducing you, that girl who once thought herself an angel, to a tiny filthy tool. This continued until after a month. You had given in to that new reality. Johnny was, you thought, and would always be your supreme benefactor and if you wanted a life, you had to please him. To please him, you embraced your new career and damned your broken conscience.
But all of that was months ago, a lifetime ago. Because you have left your past in the past, along with Johnny and all he brought. No longer are you Pearl or Tracy or Suzy, the whore, now you are that ‘yellow sisi’ who works the tables at Sunrise restaurant, and attends Sunday masses at the cathedral.
The homilies on Sundays are always taken by that Bishop with narrow eyes and a solemn demeanor. You enjoy its underlying philosophy and the pleasant simplicity of his language. It is not only the homily that uplifts your spirit. The hymns captivate your mind. It has been over four months since you started attending the cathedral, and since then, you have desired inwardly to join the choir whose members are always clad in blue and red coloured outfits that are reminiscent of your primary school graduation attire. So from your pew, you always sing along, hoping that one day, you will get a divine push that will inspire you to register with them.
Last Sunday, you sat in the front row of the section just behind the choir, as usual. After the Holy Communion session, an elderly woman who had been seated quietly beside you nudged you gently and asked, ‘How can you sit here so comfortably?’
‘I have been watching you and I know what you are,’ she turned to face you. ‘Do you not know that you shouldn’t be here? That this is no place for you?’
You are stunned, confused. It cannot be…
to be continued next week…