For You I Will Move This Mountain: The Umolosi

Mundu awoke to the smell of roasted flesh and the sound of cocks crowing. It had been a long tine since Mundu had heard or smelt either and for a moment Mundu felt the sensations comforting. As the crowing continued to claw at Mundu’s ears however and the smell crawled its way up his nostrils and up into his nasal cavity, they insistently knocked on the backs of his eyes, forcing them to open.
Mundu was lying on his back, a round thatched ceiling staring down at him. Issuing a small groan he used his hands to push himself up into a sitting position. Using one hand to support his weight, Mundu put the other to his head. It ached as if a giant hand had clutched it in its fists and repeatedly hammered it into the ground.
What had happened? The last thing he remembered was…
Mundu threw his eyes around the small hut. Not that it did much good, it was dark and all he could make out were shadows and shapes. There did come a grey light from under the cloth that covered the entrance of the hut however and so slowly getting to his feet Mundu shakily moved towards it. Once there, Mundu drew back the cloth door and discovered the origins of both the smell and the sound. Outside the hut in the clearing sat the Umolosi. At his feet, quietly crackling and blowing puffs of smoke into the air nestled a fire and pinced tightly between the index and thumb of one hand was a stick on which was spoked a roasting thigh of a chicken. His back was to the hut but as Mundu lifted the cloth The Umolosi turned…and smiled.
“You are awake.”
Mundu said nothing, did nothing; his legs remaining firmly in place.
“Come, come, come. You must be hungry. Come and eat. It is good.”
Still, Mundu said and did nothing.
“You are angry. I understand. But anger should not be an excuse for hunger. Come.”
Mundu’s stomach heard the man when he said this and rumbled in reply. He was hungry. And chicken had been a scarcity for longer than he cared to remember. How The Umolosi had managed to acquire as many as he had (the were probably more than a dozen of them clucking around the clearing) made Mundu wonder. He took a step out side the hut and the sun hit him full on. It was a midday sun, how long had he slept?
The Umolosi stood and gestured at the stool,
“Sit.”
Still reluctant but feeling his walls of resolve crumble under the old man’s genial persistence, Mundu moved towards the man and the stool.
“Sit.” the man said again and this time, Mundu sat.
The Umolosi held out the stick on which the chicken thigh was impaled on.
“Eat.”
For a moment Mundu eyed the dead bird suspiciously but then upon further insistence from the sorcerer (who at that very moment Mundu found hard believing there was anything magical about him), Mundu took it.
One bite, two bites, three bites and the leg was done. All flesh stripped from bone and the bone cracked with the marrow sucked out.
“More?”
Mundu shook his head.
“Water.”
The Umolosi bent for a calabash near one of the legs of the stool and handed it to Mundu.
“Drink.” The old man said. “And then, once you are done, You come with me-- there are things we need to discuss.”

Pieces of Dala (An Introduction To)

It’s been exactly 3 years and 2 days since I wrote my first post on this blog. It was entitled “Day 1: Get The Eff Out of Bed, Depression is Not at all Sexy” and was meant to be the first day of a 30 Day Program, which, as you might guess, was what the name of the blog was back then. I had just broken up with a girlfriend, you see and the blog was to serve as a chronicle of the purging of my system of the girl who had so mercilessly ripped my heart out and taken a hot, stinky dump on it (that’s not what really happened but it sure felt that way. I’m happy to say that her and I are now actually friends).
The blog, however, has evolved quite a number of times since then. Taking on different roles, trying on different clothes to best serve what I needed it for at any particular time. Much like myself. And today I decided it was time for it to don a different robe. Today it goes from “Til’ I Overdose”, a hat and ethos and way of life that I have worn for the last year but not until recently realized that I no longer believe in, to “Pieces of Dala” which represents not only a new phase in my writing but also in my life.
“Dala” is a Kenyan-Luo word meaning or referring to “home”. As humans we are oft to tether our identity to the ideal or some sort of vision of “home” is. A place that you can call your own. A place where you feel you belong. I moved around a lot as a child and never really had that. Every new place meant wearing a new face. Because as the saying goes, “When in Rome…” And that meant that every old place meant leaving a piece of me, fake or otherwise, behind. I lived a fragmented life, never having a proper sense of what home was and therefore never had a proper sense of who I was. Even once I was back in Uganda I never lived in one place or neighborhood for more than a year, maybe a little more and my visits to the village and “ancestral home” were so infrequent and often extremely short that even though this was truly home, it was never really home.
All of this resulted into a restlessness, an itching of the heels whenever things became too stable. I was drifter. Never keeping friends, never really caring, never valuing family for what they truly are- an anchor. And so recognizing this and not only recognizing it but also acknowledging it and wanting to change this, “Pieces of Dala” is my exploration into the nature of “home”. What it means to me, what it means to us and maybe, just maybe finally finding it…

Welcome to “Pieces of Dala”.

For You I Will Move This Mountain: The Summoning

That night Mundu dreamt of darkness. Of an absence of light that swallowed entire suns. That raped women, devoured souls and feasted on the wandering feet of the young. A darkness that stopped the heart, froze the bone and snapped it like a twig. And it was up out of this impenetrable darkness that a face appeared; dark and smeared with some sort of white paste. Eyes castrated of sight twitched and danced within their sockets. Fat black lips moved, rapidly, spittle forming at the points where they met.
And then, a voice. At once high pitched, at the same time a rumble of torrential proportions. Muttering, screaming, whispering, chanting words in a language that Mundu could not comprehend but still somehow understood. They were a command. One that Mundu knew he would have to obey because as far fetched as it seemed, his very existence and that of everyone that he knew and loved depended on it. And so fuelled by the question of existence, Mundu pulled himself out of the darkness even as its hands tried to hold him down and pried open his eyes.

***

One foot in front of the other, shadows of Mundu’s dream followed him into the night. Nipping at his heels, pulling at his hair, running hard calloused fingers across his naked chest, arms and back. He wore nothing but a cloth that covered his midsection and carried nothing but a small sharpened blade that served as his only defense against glowing eyes, hungry howls and imagined foot falls.
Leaving the village behind him Mundu found himself at the edge of a wood. One full of large, old trees that did not stand tall and straight but were hunched over as if in pain and were believed to have been there for so long that they had even born witness to Masaba’s nativity.
Mundu had heard stories of this wood. Of the creatures that inhabited it. Of the terrible things that happened to men who entered it and had no respect for it or the spirits that it harbored. Stories that were told to him and his friends when they were children to scare them into obedience.
Now, with heavy breath and rivulets of sweat trickling slowly down the small of his back, the ghosts of these tales tread the thick forest of his mind with knives drawn and spears poised for action. Every muscle taught, Mundu’s breath came and went in heavy tides; every sound, every sign of movement a potential death.
One foot in front of the other.
Mundu on kept repeating to himself.
One foot in front of the other and you will soon be there.
Like the forest, Mundu had only ever heard stories of the Umulosi. The man who lived alone in the woods and communed with the spirits. For many the Umulosi was no more than a myth, a mother’s tale, like the menacing woods, to keep the children in line. If you did something wrong, “The Umolosi will come for you.” was the common phrase. And now, Mundu was looking for him. No, more than that, Mundu had been summoned by him. And because Mundu had been summoned he was not looking, he knew exactly where to find the sorcerer.
Mundu arrived at a clearing in the wood and in this clearing sat a hut. A round, mud plastered, thatch roofed hut. Outside of the hut sat a stool and on the stool sat a man. The man was naked but for a white paste that covered continents of skin. He was not just thin but a skeleton shrink wrapped in this skin. As Mundu approached the hut and the man on the stool outside the hut he heard from behind him,
“I have been waiting for you.”
Before Mundu could turn and see where the voice had come from, he felt a sting on the back of his neck, his body go numb and his world went black.

For You I Will Move This Mountain: The Umwami

The ground was parched and the grass was brown and insatiable drifts of dust dirtied everything. Finding quarters in the most inconvenient of places; underneath finger nails, in between toes and most annoyingly, right in the face, clogging tear ducts and reddening eyes. The Sky, in what the people believed a fit of anger, had withheld its water for more than fourteen months now. Fourteen months in which Mundu had worked hard to prove himself a worthy man. In hunting and in protecting the village and in other such things and he wore his fresh scars with pride. For when one ceased attaining scars from childish play and instead from exploits considered manly, in his village, this was something to be proud of. Whether they were worthy of Sera’s hand however, was still yet to be seen.
It was no secret that Sera’s father was an extremely hard man to please. And because he never took a second or third wife, after the death of his beloved, Sera became his most prized and he made it resoundingly clear that he would only allow the best to take her away from him. Seven times Mundu had asked for her hand and seven times he had been refused. Sera herself had tried to soften her father’s resolve, pronouncing her love for Mundu clearly and passionately but her father would have none of it.
“You are the daughter of the Umwami We Sikuka.” would be his answer every single time. “The man who you take as your husband will be my successor.” he would inadvertently add. “He must be worthy of it.”
“And you don’t think Mundu a worthy successor?” Sera would always ask. Though it was always more of a statement than a question.
“No.” He would answer. “Not yet.”
Now Mundu stood at the entrance of The Umwami’s hut, the head and coat of a lion under one arm (the proof of his latest exploit) and a calabash of hard sought for coffee beans in the hand of the other. He had been told to wait until the sun was at its highest point before he would be permitted to enter. That had been two hours prior.
The merciless sun beat down on him and his arms ached and he felt faint but he did not move. He waited. He was determined. And then finally…finally…finally the sun reached the crest of its journey and Sera came hurrying out of her father’s hut towards him. She saw the strain on Mundu’s face and the twitch of his muscles as he struggled to maintain a stoic poise. Her heart went out to him. She wanted to hug him, she wanted to kiss his cracking lips, she wanted to smooth away the crease in his brow with a cool and dripping cloth but she could do none of these things. Her father was sure to be watching from his perch inside the hut a few meters away. And so instead she took the calabash of coffee beans from him and issued a hoarse,
“Come.”
With that single syllabled instruction Sera quickly turned and headed back towards the hut, Mundu stiffly in toe.
The inside of the hut was dim and cool, a welcome respite from the brightness and heat from which Mundu had just come. It took a few moments for Mundu’s eyes to adjust but once they had he noticed The Umwami sitting at the far end of the hut, directly opposite the entrance. Taking the coat of the lion from under his arm he took it in both hands and walking towards The Chief, knelt and laid the lion skin at his feet.
“For You.” he said, head bowed.
Without acknowledging it, Sera’s father stood and stepping over the skin walked towards the entrance.
“Follow me.” he said gruffly and disappeared into the sun.
Mundu searched for Sera with his eyes.
“Go.” she said. “And hurry.”
Quickly getting to his feet Mundu did so and found The Umwami behind the hut, hands clasped behind him, staring off into the distance where Masaba stood still and silent.
“I heard the stories but I did not believe them.”
The Umwami said without turning.
“I am pleased that they are true but I have no use for the skin. It is your trophy and you are to keep it.”
The Umwami turned, Mundu bowed his head.
“Yes sir.”
“You slay lions and yet you still fear to look upon my face.” The Chief observed.
“You are the Umwami.” Mundu answered. “It is custom.”
What followed was a thoughtful silence and then,
“But it is also custom to look upon the face of the father of the woman you intend to marry, is it not?”
“It is sir.”
“Then do so.”
And so Mundu did.
Sera’s father’s face was like granite. Just like the rest of him. Hard and craggy and plucked and marked with scars from many battles and many journeys and many exploits…he was Umwami.
“You have proved yourself a man of strength and of valor.” The Umwami began. “But you have yet to prove yourself a husband to my daughter and a leader of this village. I have one more task to ask of you.”
Mundu squared his shoulders.
“Yes sir.”
The Umwami once again turned his back on Mundu.
“Masaba and I were once very close. He would ask of me what he would and I would do it and in turn, if I asked of him something, he would reciprocate.
“It has been long since we have talked, him and I. Long since I have spoken and he has answered. Long since he has spoken at all. I fear that he no longer acknowledges me as Umwami.”
At this he turned to look at Mundu.
“But he may acknowledge you.”
Sera’s father let this sink in.
“What do you need me to do?” Mundu asked.
“We have been without rain for a very long time. We can not go without rain for much longer. It is simple,” The Umwami We Sikuka said,
“Move Masaba to action, and make it rain.”

For You I Will Move This Mountain: Prologue

Mundu’s favorite color was green because Sera’s favorite color was green and Sera’s favorite color was green because it was the color of the grass and of the leaves after the rains as well as the color of the skin of raw mangoes before they abandoned their mothers, the trees and fell to the ground. Green was also the color of Sera’s favorite wrapper, the one her mother gave her, the one she wore when she felt sad and wanted to feel better. Or even at times when she just wanted to feel close to her. And because of these things, because Mundu was mindful of such things, green was also the color of the throng of beads that he wore, forming an ‘X’ across his chest as he dipped and weaved, wind milling his arms and stamping his feet and raising dust along with more than thirty possibly up to fifty other boys dancing towards their manhood.
Mundu was a dream when he danced. Covered in sweat and dust and bells his movements were pure music and Sera‘s eyes moved to his rhythm. And as Sera, wrapped in a sheath of green, watched the procession of the Musani form a semicircle, almost shoulder to shoulder, she found herself swaying from side to side as if a leaf in the breeze and even once or twice caught herself almost adding her own voice to the chants issuing from the mouths of the boys. And why wouldn’t Sera toss her voice in lot with theirs? She did know the words backwards and forwards after all. How? Well because she, just like every other able bodied member of the village, came and watched these ceremonies every single year. Even the cripples found a way to get from here to there so that they could watch it. It was Imbalu season.
And then suddenly, without any warning and with a very loud and very final thud-thud thud thud-thud the dancing came to an abrupt stop. No more drums meant no more movement and so all the boys stood stock still and erect, the only signs of life the heaving of their chests and the occasional twitch as fly landed on skin. The time had come and now only one thing remained; would Mundu stand well?

...Presenting Brenda Obath with "The Devil Is In The Details Pt.1"

Brenda is one of those people who's writing always inspired me to become better and to push myself harder in my own writing. She's taken a bit of a break but know she's back and STILL challenging me. It is an honor for me to present to you Brenda Obath with "The Devil Is in the Details Pt. 1"

Check out the link below...

http://www.likenfind.com/fame/item/10-the-devil-is-in-the-details-pt-1.html

The Mattress Cover

It had blue and white and green stripes. Big and small and big. It was pocked with holes, each and every one oddly the precise size of a 500 shilling coin, as if during its various ventures it had passed through the teeth of an obsessive compulsive rodent.

It had been used for very many things over the course of its long, hard life, this mattress cover and if it had the ability to talk chances are that it would say that it honestly could not, for the life of it, remember the last time it had been used for what it had been named for. But in spite of this it still would have insisted on the name “Soft Foam” for it was a 9 letter portal to a better time, a time when it still had soft foam to cover. Right now though, at present, it was piteously unemployed. Between pillow duty and well, who knew what Nakato wanted it for?

Nakato was saving up to buy emcee you see. For the tantalizing price of Six Thousand Uganda Shillings Only. No higher purchase though, no on credit either but with cold, hard cash. And for someone like Nakato, getting that kind of money required an extremely high level of commitment and patience. Both of which she had managed to learn while living near the corner of Obulumi Road and Okuwankawanka Avenue on a five foot square of pavement just below the display window of Deo & Sons Electrical and Hardware. For two years now. Two. Whole. Years. Ever since…

Nakato counted out the money again. 6000/= to the coin. And even though her mouth for the most part had forgotten what to do to smile she still managed to construe it into at least the semblance of one. Nothing picture worthy mind you but just enough to hint at just a little bit of hope.

Reaching under the folds of her wrapper Nakato stuffed the money into one of the small pouches of the faded yellow and blue MTN apron she had bought from an airtime hawker not too long before. The hawker had been due for a new one and so had let the old one go for 1,200/=.

Evening was creeping across the sky, sitting on the sun forcing it below the spires of a mosque from which could be heard the call to prayer of the Muazzin from the loudspeakers mounted on top of a minaret. That was her cue.

Folding the strips of cardboard she used to cushion her space of concrete as best she could, Nakato tucked them under her arm and took a walk.

Streets and side streets, mud and dust and cars splashing murky water. Nakato walked for almost half an hour, eyes on the ground to hide from the dirty looks and up turned noses. Even though even those had become less and less. Nakato had wished herself invisible for so long that at times it seemed as if she had become just that. Especially during the times when she had her hand held out and her small bowl open to donations.

By the time Nakato reached where she was going dusk had kissed the ground and turned everything but the traffic lights and car lights and lighted signs awash with grey.

He was waiting for her behind the burned out shell of a Land Rover Defender in a place where cars were sent to die, to be killed and to be harvested for their parts.

He wore rags, whatever color they may have been in a previous life dyed to a uniform muddy brown. In fact everything about him was a muddy brown. From his nappy hair that had locked from years of neglect to his feet with the chipped and broken toe nails that were constantly swollen from infection. Truth be told, it was miracle that he could still walk at all.

He had no name. All the people who had been forced to make their homes on the street knew was that if you wanted something, he was the one you went to.

“You’re late” He said as she walked up to him. He was sitting on a stool with his shopping cart of wares a few feet away.

“I’m here now.” Was Nakato’s reply. “Do you have it?”

He peered at her for a moment then using the cart pulled himself to his feet.

“I should even make you pay extra. Time is money and you have wasted mine.”

He rummaged around the cart.

Nakato knew he was just talking and so she let him rummage without reply.

“Ah, here it is.”

And there it was. He shook it out and held it up for Nakato to see. She ran her eyes over it as best she could.

“It’s dirty.” She observed.

“It’s fine. It is dark, the night is just playing tricks on you.”

Nakato reached for the mattress cover,

“Let me see it.”

Muddy Brown quickly withdrew his hand, holding out his other empty one.

“First the money then I’ll give you.”

This time it was Nakato’s turn to peer at him. Not that she could see much in the growing darkness.

Shaking her head, Nakato pulled out the money and reluctantly handed it over. Muddy Brown took it.

“Because I can not run after them people like to try and cheat me.” He said while holding the money close to his face and counting it.

Nakato said nothing.

Muddy Brown counted the money again before nodding his head in satisfaction and handing over the mattress cover. Taking it, Nakato held it up close to her face, inspecting it as much of it as she could.

“It’s dirty.” She repeated. And it was. Filthy. Lord knows with what.

“Then wash it. If not then leave it. But if you do leave it you will also leave me with something, time is money and you have wasted mine.”

Nakato chewed on her lower lip in thought. Then making a decision she folded the cover and tucked it under her armpit to join her strips of card board.

“Fine. I’ll take it, even though you are cheating me.”

Muddy Brown scoffed.

“It is not cheating if you have accepted.”

Nakato thought about this for a moment and then shrugged.

“It is done, it is done.”

There were no goodbyes, no farewells, merely a grunt from him, a nod from her and then once again Nakato was putting one foot in front of the other.

Before going back to her square of pavement though, Nakato stopped at a small kafunda and for favors rendered in a small dark room with chipped wall paint, dirty floors and loud bed springs was served couple of pieces of cassava and a mug of chai. Trying to savor it as best she could, seeing as the next time she would eat would not be for at least until midday the following day, Nakato ate sparingly and sipped at her tea slowly…

It was late by the time she made it back to her sidewalk below the display window. It was not like the old days when if she came back too late she would find her space gone. Now it was hers, as if her name had been written there.

Tired to the core of her being Nakato laid out the strips of cardboard, unfolded the mattress cover then slipping inside it lay down and tried her best to drift off into the world of dreams.

Give Your Life to Jesus!

He would stand there
In the same place
Everyday
Without fail.
A torn up, beat up Bible in one hand
And his sweetheart,
A big-white-placard sign with big-red-letters in the other.

You could find him
At any given time
Day or night
With both his arms raised
Shaking with a righteous fury
His eyes red
Sheets of sweat pouring down his face
Shouting
Always shouting
Things like,
“Salvation is free for all!
Who of you really wants to burn in hell?”

In his spit shine polished army issue boots and his
Ratty What Would Jesus Do? Tie
He would proclaim with a pious fervor that this “Street of Sin”
This “Sodom”
This “Gomorrah”
And every single soul that walked along it
Was “Lost” and in dire need of the love of the most high…

And then one night
As the story goes as told by Moses
He got into a fight with his wife
One rife with nasty, blood curdling words
And tongues as sharp as knives.

hurts were said
Spears were thrown
Tears were shed
And fingers
Were clasped tightly around delicate throats

Something snapped in him that night
Nobody quite knows what
Nobody quite knows why
All they know is that
As he choked the life out of his young, beautiful wife
Amidst broken plates
And glasses dashed to pieces
His sweet heart
His sign
Sat in the corner
Crying
Pleading with him
To give his life to Jesus.

Peanut Butter Cookie Crumbs (Interlude)

I remember sitting in the back seat of the old black Beemer with the hot leather seats in the summer time and the broken way beyond repair heating in the winter time. A car that, in spite of all its cracking leather, broken knobs and faulty wiring, I’m still not sure how we managed to afford but still, somehow, there it was.
I remember my mother sitting in the driver’s seat, her face turned away from mine and as much as she tried her best to hide it, I could tell that she was crying.
We were parked in front of the house, my mother in too much of a state to drive. The sad part was, even if my Mom had been in a condition to drive, we had no where to go. No where. Not at ten o’clock pm on Tuesday night anyway.
It was the hurled vases, baseless accusations and hysterical threats that chased us from the house that my Mother and I had called a home for the past three years. It was not until much later, however, that I was able to make any sense out of it. At the time though, all my ten year old brain could piece together was that it had something to do with my Mother’s sister’s husband Vincent and my Mother. We lived under the same house you see. My Auntie Lydia with her family, my Mother and I at 4046 Canary street. An address that will always stay with me. It was the first address I ever committed to memory. And the last. *sigh* A lot of good times there. A lot of memories. It was where I first read Walk Two Moons and Maniac Magee and Ender’s Game. It was also the place where I saw my first pair of real boobs (the baby sitter’s), where I learned how lies could hurt people (another baby sitter) and where I got tired of watching The Lion King (trust me, with younger cousins watching it three to four times a day it was kind of inevitable, no matter how awesome the movie is).
And as much as I probably should have been thinking about where we were going to sleep, as well as maybe figuring out how to get my Mom to stop crying, all I could seem to think about was my toys. All three chests full. My Power Ranger transforming Zords, my Beetle Borg action figures, my Double Dragon remote control car, my Nerf bow and arrow and Gatling gun, my Ninja Turtle tent, my Hot Wheels racing track with the four foot drop and double loopty loop…I could probably go on for hours if given the chance. It still kind of makes me smile just thinking about them. Those were good times those…more innocent times really.
Anyway, as I sat there, something told me that I wouldn’t be seeing them for a while and so like I typical child they were the things forefront on my mind. Appropriately or not.
The longer we sat there though, my mother trying her best to muffle the sound of her tears, the more the whole situation kind of just washed over me. And then Snap! Just like that, all thoughts of my three chests chocker block full of toys and of missing them evaporated. Interestingly enough, I’ve noticed that this sense of delayed reaction to certain, usually pretty traumatic, situations has followed me all the way into adulthood. Unhealthy or not.
“Mom…? Mom…?”
I watched as my Mother wiped her nose and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her coat. She turned to face me.
“Yes Hun?”
“What’s going to happen to us?”
My Mother sighed. Seemed to think about it for a moment.
“Sit back and put on your seat belt honey.” was her answer. “Everything is going to be fine.”
I did as I was told. Satisfied, my Mother turned back around in her chair, started the car and shifting the car into D, pulled into the street.

***

Safe Haven was a shelter for women on the run. Not like convicts or anything like that, no, but women who were running from abusive husbands or boyfriends or uncles or even fathers. It was supposed to serve as a, as the name suggests, a safe haven for them. And even though I knew that we weren’t exactly in that kind of trouble (flying vases non withstanding), I said nothing as my Mother explained our way in. She was doing what she had to do and so I let her do it.
They usually didn’t let women in with children as old as I was, is what Betty, the head of the shelter told my Mother. Betty was a small woman with a small voice but she had an airs about her where when she spoke you were compelled to listen.
“But for tonight, I think, we can make an exception.”
“Thank you, thank you.” My Mother said again and again, pumping Betty’s hand up and down until I thought that she might even pull it off..
“Okay, okay. Come on, let’s get you two settled in. It’s late.”
The Shelter was a two story house that had been left to Betty when her father had passed five years prior. She had once been a victim of an abusive relationship and knew first hand that many a time when a woman did finally find the courage to leave, often times they had no where to go. As she hadn’t. and so she had decided to open up her home to women who needed a refuge, a place where they felt safe, a place that gave them time to figure out their next step. All of this I garnered from a conversation between my mother and Betty that I just happened to eavesdrop in on.
The room we were given was a simple one. Two single beds with old hospital blankets and an ancient dresser. Unpacking my pajamas and toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste (she had managed to pack a small travel suitcase with the bare essentials) my Mother instructed me to get ready for bed. It was way past my bed time and I readily obliged. Five minutes later I was crawling into bed and then in spite of the strangeness of the room, five minutes after that I was asleep.

***

I woke up to the sound of voices, lots of voices, most, if not all of them belonging to women. Chatting and laughing and gossiping, as well as the sounds of footsteps on stairs and a faint sizzling that after a whiff of the air revealed itself to be that of grease in a frying pan with bacon. Like a snake to a charmer I found myself suddenly on my feet and heading for the stairs…I was hungry.
There were women everywhere. In the sitting room, in the kitchen, along the hallway…no kids though. Well, none my age anyway. I did see a couple of them, maybe three maybe four years old skittering around with the kind of toys that three and four year olds like. Like the telephone with the wheels and the eyes and that made a different sound every time you pressed a different button. You know, toys like that.
Still in my pajamas, still crusty eyed with my eyes still crusty with sleep, when my Mother saw me (she was standing in the door way to the kitchen conversing with a heavy set woman holding a spatula) she quickly excused herself and rushing over to me was on the verge of ushering me back upstairs so I could wash up when the heavy set woman interrupted.
“Oh let the boy be Joyce. Let him at least have some breakfast first. He must be starving. Must have smelt the bacon from all the way upstairs. Didn’t you now sweet pea?”
I nodded vigorously.
Moving over to me the heavy set woman wrapped an arm around my shoulder and leading me to the dining room and gestured to a chair.
“Now sit down and I fix you up a plate. Auntie Frida will take care of you.”
Needless to say that I liked her instantly. And loved her cooking. According to her, after she had fried the bacon she had then gone ahead to fry everything else with the left over bacon grease. The eggs, the sausages, the pan cakes, the French toast. Everything had the faint taste of bacon in it…it was the kind of cooking that clogged your arties and could kill you at forty. I absolutely loved it. Loved it so much so that I ate until I couldn’t eat anymore and I still wanted to eat more.
Seeing that I had eaten to my heart’s content and then some, my mother sent me upstairs to shower and get changed.
I didn’t go to school that day. Or the day after that. Or for the rest of term. I think that was around the time that my Mother decided to home school me…but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
I spent my days watching TV, reading anything and everything placed in my hands and getting fat from Auntie Frida’s cooking. And man could that woman cook. And bake. Apple crumble, Strawberry short cake, the richest cheese cake I’ve ever eaten, Oatmeal cookies, almond cookies, sugar coated white chocolate-chip butter cookies with M&M’s but my favorites, my absolute faves were Auntie Frida’s Saucer Sized Peanut Butter Cookies. Yup, that’s what she actually called them: Auntie Frida’s Saucer Sized Peanut Butter Cookies. She said that one day, when she opened up her own bakery and she had her own menu, that’s exactly what they would be called.
When fresh out of the oven they warm and soft and gooey inside but just crunchy and crumbly enough to give it that “Yep, now that’s one cookie” feel.
It got to the point where Auntie Frida baked three or four of them everyday just for me. My Mother didn’t always agree with this of course, (I was quite the chubby kid not to mention the damage it was doing to my teeth) but auntie Frida always seemed to find a way to side step my mother’s protests and deliver them on time. With a tall glass of milk and a good half hour sometimes an hour of some good conversation. We would sit at the dining room table and we would talk…about everything. I loved these chats because she would talk to me as if I was an adult and not some clueless nine year old kid. I’m not quite sure how my Mother viewed these chats of ours but she did nothing to hinder them.
She gave me books to read as well. I don’t know where she would get them but whenever I was finished with one, she always had another one in hand to give me. Misery by Stephen King, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, The Rain Maker by John Grisham, She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb and many, many more. Auntie Frida was pretty much my captain and ranking officer in my virgin foray into the world of adult fiction. And since I wasn’t exactly in school I had plenty of time on my hands I tore through them at, as she put it, “a speed called high.” Not spending more than two days on one particular book. And then we would talk about them. About the stories, about the characters, about what words were used and why and what the author was trying to say when he used them. It was my very first book club. My very first Lit class. And then one day, one day it all came crashing to a halt.

***

It was a Friday night, I remember that much. I had just finished watching that year’s Soul Train Music Awards, quite intrigued by LL Cool J’s and The Bone Thugs N Harmony’s performances of “Doin’ It” and “Cross Roads” respectively. LL Cool J’s because of the winding women in skimpy clothing (obviously) and Bone Thugs because the theatrical set piece (complete with a horse and carriage) they managed to turn their performance into.
Even though it was pretty late (probably around midnight) my plan was to grab a couple of Auntie Frida’s peanut butter cookies from the jar in the kitchen, a glass of milk and get me a couple of chapters in (I was reading Dune by Frank Herbert) before I went to sleep.
Knowing that my Mom wouldn’t approve of the midnight snack I sat down at the dining room table and munched away, breaking the cookies into quarters then eighths and then dunking them in the milk. I would slowly count to five before pulling the pieces out of the milk and shoving them into my mouth. There were crumbs and soggy bits of cookie everywhere as a result. On the table, in the milk, on my hands, shirt and around my mouth.
I was moving onto my second cookie when I heard it. A choked and ceaseless sobbing. Not very loud but still loud enough for me to notice. There were two or three bedrooms on the first floor (Auntie Frida’s inclusive) and so I figured that the sobbing was coming from one of them. At first I was just going to ignore it, it was really none of my business, but then the sobs were joined by words. Not audible enough to decipher the words but they were audible enough for me to know who the words belonged to. Armed with this knowledge I only hesitated for a moment. Then I was up out of my chair and padding across the carpeted floor towards the side of the house with the down stairs bedrooms.
Her door was slightly ajar. Just enough for me to see in but not enough for her to notice that there was someone watching her. In her big faded yellow happy face night shirt, Auntie Frida sat on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands, the little moonlight that managed to peek around the edges of the curtains glinting off of a piece of steel resting on the bed next to her. It took a moment for me to process what it was and then…and then…and then I just stood there. I was frozen in place. Fascinated by the shoulder racking sobs, the words that streamed from her lips that sounded like some sort of prayer and ultimately by the glint of a gun. Not a toy, not a replica but a real gun.
Looking back, I should have done something; barged in, given her a hug, told her it was going to be alright, anything. But in the end, I wound up doing nothing. As she wiped the tears from her face with a corner of her night shirt, sniffling and muttering to herself, I did nothing. As she shakily took a sip from an almost finished quarter of cheap looking whisky, I did nothing. As she took the piece of killing steel and stuck it in her mouth, I did nothing. And as she pulled the trigger, BANG! Spraying blood and brain and bone everywhere, I did nothing.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part V

When D.C had first gotten his Land Rover (the one that Dormitan had gone so gaga over) D.C had been pretty gaga for it as well and had been imperiously protective of it. So much so that for a time he had made people remove whatever foot wear they were donning before entering the car. This hadn’t lasted very long though (the only people who hadn’t complained about his odd and only recently adopted fastidious behavior were the groupies and the hanger oners) and so now even though he was still rather finicky about things like drinks and crumbly things like Oreos and Pringles he was more lax on things like cigarettes and sticks of cannabis sativa.
“Just make sure you use the friggin’ ash tray. That’s what it’s there for!”
And so with that being said, at this part of the story we find D.C. lying in the back seat of his car (his spotless black on black Chuck Taylor’s carefully removed of course) puffing away on a four incher of female hemp that he had managed to procure through a friend of a friend of a friend.
Brother needs to relax himself before what is sure to be an excruciating evening of being sucked up to and relentlessly useless questions on what it takes to be a great writer. Had been D.C’s justification.
And yeah sure, he had read the kid’s story and if he was to be honest with himself, it actually wasn’t half bad, in fact it kind of reminded him of his writing at that age. His main problem with it though was that it was way too optimistic. Dormitan still had this rosey red, fairy tale like outlook on life. Not that that was a problem mind you. It was just kind of…D.C. tried to think of a word that wasn’t juvenile…puerile maybe? And even though that still ended with “ile”, what the hell, puerile it was.
D.C. took a hit of the spliff, took another one and then since there was no one to pass it to, took another one. Sitting up slightly he took a peak at the dashboard clock, it blinked 20:09. D.C. blinked back, rapidly. He was late. Hurriedly putting out the hemp, D.C. rolled it in a plastic zip lock bag and stuffed it under the passenger seat. Shoes on and with a nimbus of sativa following him, D.C. headed for the entrance of Ninja.

*

Damn she was tall, D.C. thought of the waitress as he gave her the once over. And pretty when she smiled. He made it a point to smile back.
He was in the anteroom of the restaurant, you know that place where the check whether one has a reservation or not. Obviously he did.
“Welcome to Ninja Mr. Bryce. My name is Yuuka and I will be your Hostess for the evening. If you would be so kind as to follow me, your table is ready and just as you requested.”
Just as he requested. D.C.‘s smile was touched with irony at this. What a joke. Truth is, he had only asked for the ’authentic’ Japanese dining get up just to see if they would actually deliver. And they friggin’ had.
“Thank you. Thank you. Is my…um…dinner partner here yet?”
Yuuka pulled a face.
“Yes he is.”
D.C.’s smile widened just a bit.
“I sense a small hint of distaste…what’s he like?”
Yuuka’s eyebrows furrowed. She began to chew on her lips.
“I really can’t say.”
“Ok. I get that. But what if you like had to. Like say if it was a life and death situation and you had a crossbow being held up to your dog‘s head or something.”
“Well, if I absolutely had to-”
“D.C.?”
D.C. turned at the sound of his name.
“D.C. Bryce?”
A couple. An attractive one at that. Walking towards the exit, walking towards him and his 6 foot 3 inch tall hostess. They were dressed up and so they were clearly on a date. Left hands, ring fingers…married. It was the woman who had recognized him. Strapless black dress that stopped just shy of her knee, four inch black pumps that gave her a sort of sauntered, swaying gait, a small black imitation alligator skin clutch in one hand and her husband’s hand in the other.
Time to turn on the fan pleaser. D.C. raised his hand as if responding to a class role call.
“Guilty as charged.”
Followed by the inevitable,
“I’m a huge fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. Even back when you were still just writing on your blog.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Much appreciated. Really. Those words are like an orgasm for my ears. I think I just came twice. Wait, wait, wait. That was a bit much, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, my apologies. Um…so who’s this?”
The woman then went on to introduce her husband (the two men shook hands) and to explain that it was their five year anniversary.
“Honest to God though, I still find it a miracle that we even made it this far.” the woman joked. From the expression on her husband’s face though, D.C. could tell that he didn’t find it all that funny. To counter this D.C. said something to the effect that although he was far from an expert, they looked happy and he foresaw another five, ten, twenty years or more to come.
The husband didn’t seem convinced.
“Um, Mr. Bryce?”
“Please call me Dom.”
The woman got a little giddy at that.
“Ok…Dom. Would it be okay if we took a picture with you? It would mean so much to me. And you know what they say the camera phone picture is the new autograph.”
“Sure. Of course. Take five if you have to.”
The woman then handed Yuuka her iPhone, asking her whether she minded (Yuuka took the camera saying she didn’t, even though she did) and then with D.C. standing between husband and wife, fake smiles abound apart for the woman’s, Yuuka took the picture.
After three of four clicks, the woman took back phone.
“Thank you soooo much.” the woman beamed up at D.C.
“No problem.” Yuuka answered.
“Thank you so much.” she said again. Then chuckling lightly, “I guess we should leave you to have your dinner. We’ve more than intruded I’m sure. God knows you didn’t expect to be ambushed by fans here. Am I right?”
D.C. merely shrugged.
Honey?” she then aimed at her husband, “I have to use the ladies, so how about you head to the car and I find you there?”
The husband began to protest but she insisted.
“Go. I’m not a little girl. I’m not going to get lost. I’ll only be a minute.” then to D.C. “It was suuuuch a pleasure meeting you. And thanx again for the picture.”
Their eyes met.
“Anytime.” was D.C.’s response. “Well, not anytime but you know what I mean.”
The woman smiled. Then turning to her husband, placed a hand on his arm.
“I’ll be out in a minute, ok?”
The man looked from his wife, to D.C. then back to his wife.
“Ok. Just don’t take too long.”
He watched as his wife headed towards the restrooms, then secure that she was far enough he shook D.C.’s hand, reluctantly, wished him a good night and headed for the entrance.
“Wow. Does that happen a lot?” Yuuka asked once it was just her and D.C. again.
“Pretty much.”
“Huh. Should I show you to your table now Mr. Bryce?”
“Dom, please. And actually, would you be so kind as to direct me to where the little boys wee wee room is? I have a sudden urge to empty my bladder. If that’s not forward a phrasing for ma’lady. And if it is, then my sincere apologies.”
Yuuka gave D.C. a knowing smile.
“No not at all. Just go down there till you hit the wall then turn left. You can’t miss it.”
D.C. took a slight bow,
“Thank you Yuuka. Am I saying that right? You are a Goddess amongst women. A Hera, an Athena, a-”
“Stop it Dom. The husband seems a finicky one so you probably don’t have that much time. Now go.”
D.C. was stopped in his tracks.
“That obvious, huh?”
Yuuka smiled.
“Just a smidgen, now go.”
And like a little boy sent to the shops for milk and eggs by his mother, D.C. went.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part IV

Dormitan loved French fries. Whether they were soggy and oily, dry a crunchy, long and thin, fat and thick it didn’t really matter. If it was fried and it was a potato then Dormitan would eat it. No questions asked. And D.C., it appeared, shared this same proclivity.
With his head almost buried in his plate, D.C. shoveled what seemed to Dormitan to be handful upon handful of French fries into his mouth (he had gotten three orders of them), chomping down greedily, seemingly oblivious to Dormitan’s presence. Dormitan glanced down at his own plate of fries but just couldn’t seem to muster the required mojo to tear into them which really was a shame because anyone who likes chips knows that they don’t keep well once cold and so having them packed was certainly out of the question.
The two of them were sitted at a window table just adjacent to the pizza counter at the Nando’s along Kampala Road.
After following D.C. out of Ninja (D.C. had been not so kindly escorted out as well as just unkindly asked never ever to return) Dormitan had managed to flag D.C.’s attention and had informed him quite matter-of-factly with more than a hint of frustration that he was in fact the writer that D.C. was supposed to sit down to have dinner with.
Shrugging off the rough hands of the bouncer, smoothing down his black on white striped button down shirt on which Dormitan could just make out a few drops of drying blood down its front, D.C. looked Dormitan up and down. Down and up.
“A little over dressed don’t you think?”
D.C. had a sneer on his face. This, as they say, was Dormitan’s moment of truth. What he said next would determine just how D.C. would look at him and treat him for there on out.
“Maybe. But a man with a face that looks like yours does right now really isn’t in a position to talk, is he now?”
D.C. was struck dumb for a moment. He wasn’t used to people talking to him like that. He was used to people telling him how great he was, how much they loved his work, the women all giggly and flirty, the men all macho indifference in an attempt to mask just how star struck they are. This though, this was something new. Or at the very least something that didn’t happen very often. D.C. was intrigued.
“Where can we get fries?” he had asked pointedly. “I could really do with some fries.”
And that’s how they had wound up at Nando’s. By way of a 24 hour clinic, at Dormitan’s insistence of course. D.C. had been very happy to simply wash his face in some public bathroom somewhere and be done with it (at least until he had gotten some fries in him) but Dormitan had not let up.
D.C. was driving a 2012 black on black on Land Rover Defender II which just happened to be the car of Dormitan’s wet dreams and had Dormitan almost to the point of hyperventilating although like many a man he tried his damnest to maintain an airs of macho indifference in order to hide just how excited he was, just barely able to stop himself from squeaking out a frantic plea to get behind the wheel.
The thing that Dormitan didn’t know though was that if he had actually had the gall to ask, there was no way that Bryce would have refused him. In fact, he wouldn’t have thought twice. In fact, he probably have even given him the car, now that would have buttered Dormitan’s bread. But he didn’t know that, there was no way for him to and so they had driven to Nando’s in more or less silence. Not because they had nothing to say one another, no, there was plenty, but because they were both prone to periods of internal dialogue and thought while in transit. Something about the movement of body facilitated the movement of thought.
Dormitan’s eyes flicked from his plate to the man who sat across from him. Not at all what he had expected. But then again, he hadn’t really known what to expect. No, wait, that was a lie. What Dormitan had expected was an evening of deep talk and deep thought on deep topics deep into the night. Not this. With Dormitan’s idol paying more attention to the food in front of him than to Dormitan.
“Can I ask you something?”
D.C. paused mid shovel. Looked up at Dormitan. His mouth still full of food, D.C. made a hand gesture to indicate that Dormitan should go ahead.
Dormitan took a moment to pull at his soda through his already chewed to bits straw having to really suck at it to get any liquid through it and then,
“What did you do to deserve having that done to your face? If you don’t mind me asking.”
D.C. swallowed. Sucked some Walker (black) from a bottle he had strong armed in.
“And if I mind?”
“Then you don’t have to answer.”
D.C. took another suck then placed the bottle between his legs on the patch of chair adjacent to his crotch, fondling the head of it (the bottle not his crotch) as he would his crotch if he was in private.
“Pass me the ketchup.”
Dormitan did as he was asked, handing D.C. the ketchup holder which was really a mustard holder but was being used to hold the ketchup because the ketchup holder was being used to hold the chili.
Having cleared his second plate of chips D.C. pushed it aside and reached for his third, drenching it in ketchup that looked like it was only one part ketchup and three parts water.
“I had sex with that man’s wife.” D.C. said spearing a few fries and stuffing them into his mouth.
“Quite an interesting story actually.” D.C. continued, bits of mashed potato flying from his mouth. After swallowing D.C. then handed Dormitan the bottle of Walker and imploring/ commanding him to take a generous pull, proceeded to tell Dormitan exactly what had led to him having his ass handed to him earlier that night.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part III

Even though half a pitcher of Sake was probably more than Dormitan should have sucked down (hell, it was way way more) the fact was, there really hadn’t been that much else for him to do. Being as patient as he could, Dormitan had sat cross legged (uncrossing and re-crossing them every few minutes so that his legs didn’t cramp or fall or sleep and get that irritating pins and needles feeling people get when that happens) while liking random Facebook posts from Witty Hilarious and Ridiculously Funny as well as using FB Chat to go back and forth with some bi-sexual stripper in Baltimore who was apparently a constant frequenter of his blog (she had even gone as far as to offer him a free lap dance if he was ever in the Tri State Area) for more than forty-five minutes and Bryce still hadn’t turned up.
For a moment there Dormitan had considered asking Blondie Dread for a pair of chop sticks (he might as well use the time to try and learn himself something new he had reasoned) but had remembered that chop sticks were from China and not Japan just in the nick of time. He was pretty sure that Miss Blondie Dread, who’s real name he found out was Yuuka Hinata, which literally meant “Gentle flower facing the sun” (she had been wearing a name tag the entire time) would have stabbed him in the eye with the blunt end of a fork if he had been ignorant enough to ask her for them.
Uh-huh, yeah, gentle flower my foot, Dormitan had mumbled to himself and so instead he had drunk. And drunk. And drunk. And even though Dormitan never quite got to the point of actually getting drunk par se, he was, however, at a level of inebriation that quite facilitated the loosening of tongues as well as turning his limbs into curiously curious explorers making the fact that he was seated all by his lonesome a quite fortunate one indeed.
Pouring himself another cup of Sake (which was like an oriental version of a shot glass) Dormitan, toasting to no one in particular, sucked the stuff down, emptying his cup in one go. Smacking his lips Dormitan set the empty cup back down onto the table. Damn it was good.
This particular variety of Sake was sweet and creamy and still had unfiltered particles of rice in it. Dormitan loved it. So much so that even though he knew he had already had like three cups too many he decided to pour himself another. Before he could, however, there was a crash of china (or would it be Japan?), a woman’s yelp, some male shouting and grunting and the sound of a scuffle. Swiveling on his cushion Dormitan looked to see what all the commotion was about. From his vantage point (which wasn’t a very good one in any case) what Dormitan could make out was that two men were fighting and it seemed as if it was over some woman who was busy screaming and carrying on and trying to break them up.
Not really caring for it but still intrigued by the hullabaloo, Dormitan got to his feet to get a better look. There were two men going at it all right. Rolling around on the floor like a couple of school kids fighting over a few shillings at break time. They had disrupted the entire restaurant and now just about all of the patrons had stopped eating and most were standing, forming a wary circle around the two men, watching, like people at an underground fight club. Like a celestial mass being pulled in by the gravitational field of a much bigger, much meaner, totally inescapable one Dormitan found himself moving closer towards the uproar and the people who had gathered around them to watch. Finding it slightly amusing, slightly appalling that no one was trying to stop the fight. That no one felt enough to step in. Not that he would, he was a writer, a watcher, an observer…and this was some mighty good fodder for some material if he did think so himself.
While the two men continued to roll around (one was now straddling the other hammering Thor like blows down on the guy while the other held his arms in front of his face in an attempt to fend off the punches) the woman, pretty with a pretty black dress, was using her pretty black clutch to hit the straddler on the back demanding him to “Stop it! Stop it! You’re going to hurt him!”
But wait, wasn’t that the point? Dormitan mused to himself.
And then the cavalry arrived. Two mountain sized bouncers in black trousers and black muscle t-shirts with the word “Security” stenciled in white on the back. Like kids sweeping toys up off the ground, the one bouncer plucked the straddler off the other and the second bouncer plucked the other up off the ground. As the two combatants were placed on their feet Dormitan got a good look at them for the first time.
W…T…F...
Dormitan felt his breath catch in his throat. He couldn’t believe it. He really couldn’t.
Why?
Because one of them, one half of the pair of men who had been rolling around like a couple of juveniles was none other than D.C. Bryce. The D.C. Bryce. Literally idol, genius and prolific wordsmith. The very reason for Dormitan’s life long love affair with books and pages and words. And not only that, D.C. Bryce had in fact not been the walloper and not the wallopee. His face looked like the end of a Rocky movie.
What the hell had he done?
And although Dormitan’s mind was still reeling, as the bouncers forced the two men towards the entrance, Dormitan, making a snap decision, followed in their wake.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part II

Wait, are ninjas from China or Japan? Dormitan wondered to himself as he was led through a sea of tables occupied by people on blind dates and first dates and dates in an attempt to try and figure things out as well as people attending business dinners brokering big business deals and dinner parties for anniversaries and birthdays and job promotions by a six foot three inch tall, kimonoed Asian woman with a thick mane of blonde bleached dreadlocks that stopped somewhere between her waist and her knees. Sure, Dormitan could have asked Miss Blondie Dread over there who seemed to almost float across the room in front of him where (she would certainly know) but something told Dormitan that she might not take kindly to the question. Dormitan’s suspicions, of course, probably had something to do with the fact that she was almost a full head taller than him and although it is not at all my intention to make Dormitan out to look like a willy-nilly, the fact is, she intimidated the shit out of him.
“Is he already here?” Dormitan decided to ask instead as he unbuttoned his/Brian’s suit jacket and shoved his hands into his/Brian’s trouser pockets.
It was charcoal grey, the suit, pinstriped and looked as if it had been made for him, fitting his slender frame perfectly. I could get used to this. Dormitan had thought as he had stood in front of his full length mirror checking himself out.
I would totally let myself buy me a drink if I offered to buy me one. Dormitan had then mused a few minutes later as he had flagged down a boda-boda, climbing on, careful not to scuff up his freshly polished shoes.
“I’m going to Ninja.” He had told the boda-boda guy. “Do you know it? It’s in Kololo just after Phase 2.”
The piki-piki transporter dude thought about it for a moment and then,
“Yes, I know it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes I know it. We go?”
Dormitan plucked at the gap between his two front teeth with his thumb like he did every time he was thinking for a moment or two and then,
“We go.”
“Who? Mr. Bryce?” Miss Asian Big Foot threw over her shoulder. Although that is not entirely fair because although big, large, long feet are usually equated with tallness it’s not always the truth. So in an attempt not to stereotype maybe I’ll just stick with Blondie Dread.
She had a extremely strong Gaelic accent, Miss Blondie Dread did which gave Dormitan a moment of pause before he could answer.
“Yeah, Mr. Bryce. Has he arrived yet?”
Her snake like dreads writhed as she shook her head.
“Not yet.” Blondie Dread answered.
“Ah, here you go.” She added a moment later stopping before an empty table. In true Japanese fashion it was about three feet off the ground and instead of chairs the table was surrounded by cushions. It was the only table like that in the room.
Dormitan began plucking at his gap.
“Um, I’m all for the full Japanese dining experience but why are we the only people with a table like this?”
“Mr. Bryce requested for it. He’s all about authenticity you know.”
Dormitan rolled his eyes. Groupie…
“So I’ve heard.”
“Excuse me?”
Dormitan shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Suddenly, the suit seemed kind of impractical. Really impractical. Crap.
“Sir, is there anything I can get for you while you wait?”
More plucking.
“Um, yes actually. Do you guys have Sake?”
“This is a Japanese restaurant Sir.”
“Ok but--”
With an audible sigh,
“Yes, we have Sake…sir.”
Pause. Was it just him or was Blondie Dread being a little rude? A little condescending too. Dormitan thought about it for a hot second…she was, she was being rather rude.
Just let it go man, its not worth getting into. Dormitan told himself.
“Um…ok, can I have some of that then?”
“How would you like it?”
“How do you have it?”
“We have it in single servings and then in pitchers.”
Pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck.
“Bring me a pitcher…please.”
“Yes sir.”
Taking what looked like to be a lot of effort, Snobby Dread took a slight bow and backed away from the table.
After she was a sufficient distance away, Dormitan hitched up his trousers and rounding the table, sat down.

Dinner With Mr. Cole: Part I

I

At twenty-seven years old Dormitan Cole had only ever owned one suit. It was a dark green, double breasted number that looked like it had been plucked off of the costumes rack of a 1970’s blaxploitation flick. It was the same one he had worn for his high school leaver’s party as well as for every other formal occasion he had been forced to attend ever since. It didn’t matter that the trousers were now two sizes too small and that the collar of the jacket was now faded and frayed from age, Dormitan Cole didn’t believe in suits, he believed that they were for monkeys and for the uninspired and so seeing himself as more than a mere primate as well as a rather inspired human being, Dormitan Cole had made an oath to himself that he would never under any circumstance indulge himself in the purchase of a suit. Ever. On the 15th of June of this year however, Mr. Cole was seriously considering breaking this very oath. Dormitan, you see, had earned himself, through a rather well written yarn about a boy and his guitar that he had sent to a rather prestigious stateside literary publication five months prior, a dinner with his favorite living author, D.C. Bryce. D.C. Bryce was an Ugandan born writer who had moved to the United States in his late twenties to pursue an MFA in creative writing at Syracuse University. During his time at Syracuse D.C. Bryce had completed and published his first novel Ssshhh, Can You Hear Them Screaming? Which was an instant success, not only garnering him a number of accolades but also a New York Times Bestsellers ranking. D.C. then went ahead to write five more books, each one more successful than the last, each one earning him a plethora of award nominations. He didn’t always win of course, because no one could ever always win, but being nominated still had its merits, right?
What it all boiled down to though, was that D.C. Bryce was the writer that Dormitan had always wanted to be and so to have the chance to break bread with his hero, to get a chance to pick his brain was more than amazing, it was a dream come true. This dream though, unfortunately for Dormitan, did not include him wearing a ten year old green suit that looked liked something Superfly might have worn.
At first, Dormitan had thought that the suit would suit the occasion just fine (pardon the pun) but as he stood in front of the mirror staring himself down he suddenly realized that he had grossly miscalculated. What the hell had he been thinking? Of course, if given the choice Dormitan would have been more than happy to wear his customary jeans and t-shirt but again, unfortunately for him, the dinner was supposed to be somewhere nice, some trendy Japanese restaurant where Reebok Classics and ratty Old Navy t-shirts were heavily frowned upon. He doubted he would have even been allowed to make it through the front door.
Ok, so now what? What now? What now? Dormitan thought as he slipped out off the suit jacket and struggled out of its trousers. Where on earth could he get a suit at such short notice? The dinner was only two hours away, it was a Saturday evening and most of the shops were closed and even if they weren’t he didn’t have the kind of money it would take to buy a brand new one. Or a second hand one, or even to rent one.
Ok, so lemme think, lemme think, lemme see…
Standing akimbo in his boxers and his just-as-tattered-as-the-suit blue button down, Dormitan ran through is options…there really weren’t that many.
Dormitan, then walking to his bed, ran his hands across the landscape of the mattress until he found his phone.
Ok, so now who to call? Who can I call? Who can I call…?
Dormitan thought about it for a moment and then Bang! He had it…Brian. Brian had like a gazillion Indian made, cheap as dirt but still designer looking suits, he would definitely be able to help Dormitan out. Hopefully. Because even though he was Dormitan’s best friend, Brian was still kind of an asshole.
Dialing Brian’s number, Dormitan put the phone up to his ear.
Brian picked up after the fourth ring.
“Who dis’ who be callin’ my phone?” Brian shouted into the phone sounding a little short of breath.
“Dude, you watch way too much Californication, you really need to stop with that. Anyway, I need to borrow a suit, can you hook a brutha up?”
“When do you need it?”
“Like right now.”
“Aight cool…Come on…through.”
“You sure? You sound like you might be--”
“Yeah…yeah I’m sure.”
“Cool. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Hanging up the phone Dormitan tossed it onto the bed, walked out of his bedroom and crossing the small hallway walked into the room opposite where he found Brian balls deep inside some chick who, after a perfunctory once over, Dormitan realized wasn’t his girlfriend. Brian had a bottle of Bond 7 in one hand and the right breast of the female he was jockeying in the other.
“Help yourself.” Brian wheezed, still pumping away, using the Bond 7 to point at his closet.
Dormitan nodded in the direction of the girl.
“Who’s that?”
Brian, without missing a beat,
“Does it matter?”
Dormitan could see the girl’s face from where he was standing and let his gaze linger. She was pretty with brown tinted hair cropped to a little less than an inch long. Her eyes were glazed over and her liner had run as if she had been crying.
“Guess not.” Dormitan shrugged. “Just make sure you send her home with some food in her belly man.”
“Yes sir.”
Brian said, mock saluting.
Shaking his head Dormitan turned away from Brian and his glaze eyed meal for the evening and turning towards Brian’s closet stopped worrying about what Girl X was going to have for dinner and once again returned to worrying about what he was going to wear to his.

Scribd Version of "Til I Overdose" A Collection of Short Stories by yours Truly

Hey, so I know I put up a Media Fire download link for Til I Overdose but it all honesty I think that A scribd version would be alot more digestable and so I decided to make a Scribd version of it. still downloable and stuff but yeah...so here it is,

Til I Overdose: A Collection of Short Stories

http://www.scribd.com/doc/99303092/Til-i-Overdose

Enjoy.

Til I Overdose...A Small Collection of Short Stories...

Hey, It's been a while...if I'm to be quite honest I'm going through a really bad bout of writer's block and so that got me thinking. Why not throw some of my stories together (most of which have appeared on this blog, but no matter) PDF the bitch and upload it...and so that's exactly what I did. And so here is "Til I Overdose"...

http://www.mediafire.com/?0uyppatg96d1ty9

One...Week Earlier: Of Blood, of Salt and of Water

Collin stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirtless, staring himself down. He was gaunt, the bulk and muscle that had once filled out his tall frame now nothing more than a distant memory. He wouldn't be throwing himself into a rugby scrum any time soon, that was for sure. And as much as he had watched his body steadily deteriorate over the past few weeks, the horror of just how ravaged his body had become dug at Collin's eye sockets as if trying to rip out his eye balls. His ribs jutted out from his sides like the hand and foot holds of a climber's and his collar bones stuck out like the handle bars of a child's bicycle. Sores had opened up all over his chest as well as on his abdomen, his back and his arms. He was in constant, agonizing pain but had adamantly refused to take anything for it (a brief addiction and a long fight back from it had made sure of that) and so Collin trudged through it, teeth grit, breath heavy, as best as he could. But as much pain as Collin was in, he knew that it was nothing compared to the agony that Helena was going through. Her..."sickness", as they had decided to call it was a lot further along than his was. It was obvious to both of them that Helena didn't have that much time left. And as far along as her symptoms had progressed, the only thing that Collin could really do was to make sure that he made her as comfortable as possible. And even that...



After rubbing down his skin, careful of the sores, with an ointment that was meant to help with the itching, the scabbing and what seemed like the liters of yellow pus, Collin filled a basin with about an inch or so of cold water, grabbed a clean wash cloth and headed back to the bedroom. Helena was propped up by a pillow and croaked a pallid "For a second I thought you got lost in there." , trying on a timid smile as Collin walked up and sat down on the edge of the bed beside her.



"I think I almost did." Collin said as he set the basin down between his slippered feet. Then dipping the wash cloth in the water, Collin let it soak for a moment then wrung it out.



Halfing the wash cloth Collin gently began with Helena's forehead, moved to her cheeks and then to her neck. A small sigh escaped from Helena's lips every time the cool cloth touched her fevered skin.



A grim smile kissed Collin's lips; at least it was helping, even if just a little bit.



When Collin reached the curve of Helena's breasts though, Helena stopped him.



"What?" he wondered, "What is it?"



Then, forcing a toothy grin,



"It's not like I haven't touched them before."



A flicker of a smile but then it was gone.



"I need to talk to you about something."



Collin frowned. Took the wash cloth and dipping it in the basin wrung it out again.



"Uh...OK. What about?"



Collin began on Helena's arm. Once again Helena stopped him.



"Put the wash cloth down Collin, we need to talk."



Dropping the wash cloth in the basin, Collin dried his hands on the thighs of his jeans then gingerly took Helena's. The frown was back.



"What's going on?"



Helena's breath came out slow...and gravelly. in...out...in...out...in...



"I'm dying Collin-"



"Dont' say that."



"We both know it's the truth-"



"You're going to get through this."



"We made this decision knowing how this was going to end Collin."



Silence. Sigh. Deep sigh. Fuck. She was right...they had.



"Look at me Collin,"



he did,



"Does it really look like I'm going to make it through this to you?"



Collin cupped Helena's face with one hand.



"You look beautiful to me."



Helena placed a hand on top of his. The ghost of a smile lingering on her lips.



"You're sweet...but you're lying..."



Again, silence.



"I need you to do something for me Collin. And it's going to be hard..."



Collin removed his hand,



"No,"



Stood up,



"No,"



Took a two step retreat from the bed while shaking his head,



"No. I'm not going to do that Helena. I won't."



Helena sighed.



"You need to."



"I love you."



"Which is why you need to."



Collin began to pace. Helena let him.



"What you're asking me to do-"



"We talked about this."



"I didn't think you were serious."



"I'm in pain Collin, I can't go on like this. Please."



Collin stopped pacing. His breath coming out as heavy and ragged as Helena's. His shoulders slumped.



"How?"



"With the pillow."



"It'll hurt."



"Not for long."



"Why not pills?"



"I want the pillow."



Collin sighed. Took a step towards the bed. Then another. Then another. Sat down on the edge. Took one of Helena's hands in both of his.



"I love you Helena...so much."



"I love you too baby. More than you could possibly know."



Leaning over her, Collin kissed Helena on the lips.



"Breathe into me." Helena whispered once Collin had broken the it.



Collin nodded.



Taking a deep breath, he blew into her mouth. Not stopping until he had completely emptied his lungs into hers.



Now her last breath would be his.



As Collin drew back Helena was nodding. She was ready. Tears in both their eyes, Helena's of blood, Collin's of salt and of water, Collin grabbed the pillow lying next to Helena's head.



Saying a silent goodbye, Collin then covered Helena's head with the pillow and using both his hands, held it down.

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

By L.A. Lutara

The room reeked of disease, of decay and of the last fetid breaths of the dying. It reeked of skin ripped from muscle, of muscle shorn from bone. Sweet and sickening the smell tickled his nostrils, constricted his throat, tore at his eyes making them tear…

It smelled of flesh, this room; burnt and burning, rotten and rotting…human…

Collin hid his nose in the cleft of his arm. Smelt Sulphur on skin. Smelt infection. Smelt the ebb of his very existence. And as much as the smell terrified him, in the end, ultimately, it was preferable to the stench that clung onto and dug its knarled fingers into the throat of air around him.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Not a ray of sun; no, no light of any kind had pierced Collin’s retinas for as far back as his crumbling mind could remember. His eyes, however, had grown accustomed to the darkness. Had come to crave it even. They traversed the room. Four walls…a chest of drawers…beer bottles, coke bottles, medicine bottles… a king sized bed…

Collin’s eyes focused on the bed. A vicious and vampirous swarm of flies and mosquitoes were buzzing around it. Around her. Never quite touching down on the mass of rot the bed cradled but seeming to keep guard. Staking death’s territory. Warning: No Life Beyond This Point.

Sweat broke out on Collin’s forehead. The air was muggy and stale and the room was like an oven. And yet he shivered. An indefinable cold seeping into his bones. Rendering them arthritic and painful to move. Was it fear, this internal frost that gripped his limbs? No, it couldn’t be. Collin had accepted his fate, they had accepted their fate. The both of them, together. To love each other was to kill each other. If they wanted to live, one of them would have to leave…

Collin wiped his forehead with the heel of his palm. His cheeks on the shoulders of his shirt. Steeling himself, he took a step towards the bed. Then another. Then another. The buzzing of the insects seemed to pause, leaving the dense air silent. The cloud almost seeming to part before him as his knees bumped the side of the bed. Turning, Collin sat down. Reached a hand out towards Helena, or at least what had once been Helena but then thought the better of it.

She’s gone. Collin told himself. She’s gone…

And then the guilt hit.

If only he had gone. If only he had gotten up and left. Because no matter how much Helena would have cried or cursed or lashed out, it would have been better than this. Anything would have been better than this. At least she would have been alive. At least she would have been breathing. At least she still would have had a chance had happiness, even if not with him. Collin’s selfishness had killed her. His unwillingness to leave had left her a rotting hunk of meat.

A sob broke through the silence and thick tears forced themselves from the corners of Collin’s eyes. Their descent was slow leaving slug like trails down his cheeks and Collin waited a moment before he wiped them away with the finger tips of his hands. Blood. He was crying blood. One of the very last things that had happened to Helena before she had died.

Collin sighed. His ragged breath coming out a rattle. This was it. Next were the ears, then the mouth, then the nose. His body would slowly and painfully bleed itself dry using every orifice in his body to rid itself of life. His already lesioned skin would then begin to peel, falling off in slops, exposing raw muscle. And then finally, too weak and into much pain to move, his heart would seize and he would die.

Slowly, Collin lifted his legs and stretched out on the bed. Laid his head down on the pillow.

Breath in…breath out…breath in…breath out…breath in…breath out…

Making a decision Collin reached a hand behind his head and under the pillow. Carefully and deftly feeling around he pulled out a razor blade. Peered at it in the murky darkness. Helena had said that if he had to he could. That she would not resent him for it.

Breath in…breath out…breath in…breath out…

Collin raised his other hand in front of his face.

Breath in…breath out…

Then just as carefully and just as deftly as he had pulled out the razor blade from under the pillow, Collin dug the blade into the flesh of his wrist and made a deep and neat vertical incision, cleanly severing the radial artery of his right arm. Then switching the razor blade from one hand to the other, Collin made an identical slash severing his right wrist’s twin. Then, blood tripping down both arms, Collin slowly lowered them allowing them to come to rest at his sides. Looking up at the ceiling Collin took another deep breath…and waited.

For Everything A Reason...Pt. 9: The Reason (Series Finale)

I threw back the covers. Jumped out of bed. Stumbled, still half drunk on sleep across the room to my desk where my phone was charging. It was gargling its spacey sequence of bells and whistles and as I pulled out the charging pin, I pressed the 'answer' button and put the phone up to my ear.
It was Sharon.
“Hello?”
“Why aren't you answering your phone?”
But it wasn't Sharon. At least it didn't sound like her.
I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the caller ID. It said Sharon all right. I furrowed my eye brows in confusion. Lifted the phone back up to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Sharon’s in the hospital. She's been trying to call you-- we've been trying to call you for almost two hours. Why the hell aren't you answering your phone? The woman pregnant with your children tries to call you in the middle of the night and it doesn't occur to you that there might be something wrong?”
And then click-- everything slid into place, made absolute sense...shit.
“What’s happened? Is she okay? Are the babies OK? Where are you?”
It was Sharon's sister Beverly on the phone. The one who had given me hell since day one. The one who had always, always suspected from the very beginning that I was up to no good. The one who had tried to come onto me that one time when I had run into her at some wigged out house party while Sharon had been tucked in safe and sound at home. Nothing had happened though so I hadn't seen any reason to mention the little incident to Sharon...but Beverly had, putting her own spin on it too. It took me forever and a day to convince Sharon that I didn't do anything. Needless to say, I didn't like the chick.
“We're at Hale, ward 3H. You better hurry. And I swear, I swear to God that if she loses those babies Ben, it’s going to be on you.”
“Beverly, what happened?”
“She woke up bleeding, tried to call you, couldn't get through to you and so she called me. Rachel and I picked her up and brought her here.”
Rachel was her live in girlfriend...don't ask 'cause I don't know...
I let what Beverly said sink in.
“I'll be there soon.”
I hung up and in a whirlwind of movement pulled on a pair of jeans, threw on a shirt and grabbed a jacket. I was more than a hundred steps from the house before I realized that I was still in my slippers. Dashing back I slid my feet into a pair of African sandals. Dashed back out.
Covering my ear with my phone I called my midnight boda guy, Joze.
He picked up on the fourth ring.
“Wanji?”
“Are you working?”
“Yes boss.”
“Where are you?”
“At the stage.”
“You come down towards home, I'm coming.”
“Okay boss, let me come.”
I heard the motorcycle engine roar to life in the back ground and then beep-beep-beep the connection was cut and he was gone. Stuffing my phone into my pocket, I quickened my pace.


***

I hate hospitals. Try my best to avoid them as much as humanly possible. But then I’ve never really met anyone who actually does like them. Not even doctors. Heck, most especially not doctors.
How anybody can stand the antiseptic smell that clung relentlessly to your clothes and the stench of sickness and decay that the antiseptic was supposed to mask that mercilessly dug its way up your nose, sliding down your throat, nauseating you and bubbling bile in your stomach I don’t know.
Yeah, I most definitely hated hospitals.
Jumping off the boda, I walked across the parking lot, up the ramp leading up to the entrance, through the automatic doors and up to the reception desk.
I tapped on the counter,
“Excuse me,”
The receptionist looked up from her computer, registered my presence, her eyes widening in recognition.
“Ben.”
I forced a grim smile.
“Flavia.”
I had forgotten that she was working nights.
“What happened, Ben? You never called me back. Wait, lemme guess, you lost your phone and my number along with it, right?”
I sucked in some air; I didn't have time for this. I needed to get up to Sharon, to the babies. And they weren’t just “the babies” anymore. We had decided to name them Blake and Blair. Blake for the boy and Blair for the girl.
What if they weren't okay? What if Sharon lost them?
Up to that point I hadn't allowed myself to think about it. The possibilities scared me. But even more than the possibilities, the fact that I secretly hoped that she did lose the babies. That she would bleed them out and would be left hollowed out, void and empty. And me wishing for that horrified me. What kind of person hoped for something like that? Was I really that selfish and callous? And the sad thing is; deep, deep down I knew the answer was “Yes.”.
“Where's Ward 3H?”
Silence...and then,
“You're seriously not going to talk to me?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. Tried to keep calm.
“I'm kind of in a hurry Flavia. Can we talk about this later?”
Flavia eyed me and I could tell that in that moment that if she had a gun she would have shot me dead. Executioner style. One in the back in the head, rolled me over and then two in the heart just to make sure.
Flavia let out a sigh of resignation.
“Take the elevator to the third floor. Once you're out, turn right and go all the way to the end of the hall. It's on your right.”
I turned to go.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
I stopped. Turned back to face her.
“What?”
“The girl in 3H,” Flavia said, “is she your girlfriend?”
I stared at her.
“It's a small hospital Ben.”
I blinked. Blinked again. Swallowed. Set my jaw.
“Good night Flavia.” I said and without another look, walked over to the bank of elevators.

***

Ding! The elevator doors slid back in on themselves and I stepped out of the elevator, right foot first. As per Flavia’s directions I turned right and walked down the hall. The smell of bleach and antiseptic was stronger up here. Probably because more people died up here. Clamping my hand over my nose and my mouth I sneezed once, twice, three times. Pulled out my hankie, wiped my hand, wiped my nose.
The corridor was deserted. Florescent light tubes lined the ceiling making the corridor stark and white and ugly. As I continued to walk, sniffling every moment or so I read the plaques on the doors; D...E...F...G...H...
I stopped in front of the door. Took a deep breath, sneezed, wiped my nose and shoved my hankie into my back pocket.
The handle was one of those flat types that you pushed down on. And no, not one of those ornate ones that you see sometimes either. It was plain and ugly. Much like the rest of the hospital. Sticking out a shaky hand, I gripped it.
Another deep breath and pushing down on the handle I opened the door.
Five sets of eyes turned to look at me as I stood in the doorway holding open the door. Beverly, who looked none too happy to see me, Rachel whose expression mirrored her girlfriend's, Sharon's other sister Christine, some guy that I didn't know...and Patricia. Patricia who I hadn't seen in months. Patricia who had ended her friendship with Sharon the moment she found out that her and I were dating. Patricia who when she had found out that Sharon and I had split had invited me over to her new place in a text saying, “Just moved, super lonely, come over and let's get crazy.”
What the hell was she doing there?
I had obviously walked in on a conversation but none of them said anything now.
I looked around the room. It was a small one. With three beds. Each one separated by cheap looking, aqua colored curtains which at the moment were pulled back. Two of the three beds were patientless and the five visitors had made themselves quite at home on them. Spreading out themselves, their bags, jackets, shawls and other stuff.
I glanced over at the one occupied bed. Sharon was in it and she appeared to be sleeping. She didn't look well. An ashy pallor coated her skin, her mouth was turned downwards and her eyebrows were furrowed.
I nodded in her direction,
“How is she?”
I made sure to moderate my volume so as not to wake her.
Everyone exchanged glances.
“Let me talk to you outside.”
Beverly said standing up. She brushed past me, “Come on.”
I did a quick examination of the others to see if I could get a clue as to what was going on but all I got was a wall of poker faces.
This is bad, I told myself. Very, very bad.
I turned; let the door close behind me. Walked over to Beverly who was waiting a few paces down the hall.
“What's going on?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.
For once, Beverly seemed to be at a loss for words. She swallowed, paced a little, stopped, rubbed her hands on the thighs of her jeans--
“Just spit it out Beverly.”
She stood up straight. Licked her lips.
“Fine.”
Her voice was stone.
“Sharon lost the babies. We got to her too late.” Her voice cracked. “She doesn't know.”
Involuntarily, my hands went up to my face and cupped my nose and mouth. I could hear my breath coming ragged. My legs felt like jelly. I leaned my back against the wall.
“If you had picked up your phone, the babies may have had a chance.”
I was so far gone inside myself that I barely registered what she said.
“And Sharon doesn't know?”
Beverly gave me a small shove.
“Did you hear me Ben?” Her voice was rising. “This is your fault. She tried to call you for half an hour while trying to stop the bleeding herself. In which time she could have been here and those babies would still be alive and my sister would not be lying in that bed in there,”
Beverly pointed towards the room,
“half bled to death.”
Still in shock, still trying to process, combined with the fact that it was almost 3 o'clock in the morning and I was tired as fuck, I was not in the mood to argue with her. So instead and with much effort I stood up straight and said,
“I need to see her.”
Beverly grabbed my arm.
“No you don't. And you won’t.”
She gripped my arm even harder, moving closer to me. “What you're going to do Ben, is turn around and leave and let me deal with this.”
I’ve never wanted to hit a woman so much in my life.
I swallowed. Unclenched my fists that had somehow clenched themselves without me noticing. I decided to try and be diplomatic.
“Beverly, come on. She's my--”
“Your what?” Beverly interrupted. “Your what Ben? Tell me, what is she to you exactly? A human incubator? An expired sex slave maybe?”
I felt my hands slowly begin to clench themselves again.
“Because that's exactly how you treated her.”
Beverly gave me a leery smile.
“You want to hit me don't you? You do, I can see it,”
She jutted out her chin.
“Go ahead, do it. I dare you.”
I glared at her. She glared back...I was the first to give.
Wrenching my arm from her grip, I pushed past her, went down the hall, banged through the door leading to the stairs, took them all the way down to the reception and skulked out of the hospital.

***

“And so you just left?”
I could tell that my mother didn’t want to believe that.
I shook my head.
“What else could I do? I wasn’t about to get into a fist fight with her.”
The sky had cleared. It was still chilly but there was no sign of rain and so my mother and I had stayed in the hotel garden.
“I think you still should have tried.”
I took a sip of my third vodka and tonic. I was starting to feel the punch and hoped to God that I would be able to walk straight when it was time to go. Tipsy was one state I didn’t want my mom to see me in.
Maybe I should get some water, I pondered to myself. But instead of giving it any serious thought I said,
“I did try to call her though. Day and night for about three days. Finally I just decided to go over. I practically had to fight my way through the door, Beverly and Rachel were taking turns playing watch dog. And with good reason to. When I finally got to her I found out that Beverly had managed to convince Sharon that the night she had the miscarriage Beverly had finally managed to get through to me, I had said that I would come but then never did. And seeing as Sharon had already put partial blame on me for the miscarriage, it was not that far of a stretch for her to believe that I had not turned up at all.”
My mother poured the last of the tea into her cup from the small aluminum kettle, tore open a small sachet of sugar, poured it in and stirred.
“How did she look?”
She took a sip of her tea. Added another sachet of sugar.
“Not good. She looked like she had aged by about five years. And she was sad. Like unbelievably so.”
“I can only imagine. Did she believe you when you told her that you had gone to the hospital? And that Beverly had blatantly refused you to see her? Even though she really had no such right.”
I shrugged.
“Right then? Maybe. I don’t know. And even if she did, Sharon was in no condition to go at it with her sister. She did call me sometime after wards though, to apologize for her sister’s behavior. So at some point I guess she did.”
“Have you seen her since?”
I set my jaw. Lowered my gaze. Took a sip of my drink. The answer to that question was something I was kind of ashamed of.
“No.” I said shaking my head.
“But I do try to call her from time to time. Find out how she’s doing.”
My mother nodded. She got it. Got why I would not want to go out of my way to see Sharon. With everything that had gone on between us, it was bound to be hard.
“How is she?”
I took a moment to think about that.
“Coping.” I said thoughtfully. “As best she can I guess.”
I could feel my mother’s eyes probing as she asked,
“And how about you? How are you doing?”
I took a sip of my drink.
“Me? I’m fine.”
My mother pointed.
“That nice looking ring on your finger seems to think that you’re lying.”
I looked down at my hand. So it was back to the ring then. Things had come full circle.
“I wear it as a reminder.” I told her.
Well you’ve told her everything else, I reasoned with myself, you might as well tell her this.
“And now you know what of.”
My mother nodded. Didn’t say anything for a moment. It was a lot to digest, I know. She took a couple of small sips from her cup, and then setting the cup down on its saucer she pushed it away from her. She glanced at her watch.
“It’s getting late Ben, how about you walk me to my room?”
My smile was faint. That was my cue.
“Yeah, sure.”
We got up from the table.
“Wait, what about the bill?”
My mother waved away my question.
“They’ll add it to my room bill. Now come on.”
Walking over to me my mother took me by the hand. It had been ages since she had done that. She gave my hand a squeeze. It was her way of saying that she got it, she was sorry and that everything would be okay. She knew that no amount of words could say it better than that. Giving her hand a squeeze of my own that said,
“Thank you, I love you and that you’re the best Mom in the world.” I walked her back to her room.

THE END

For Everything a Reason...Pt. 8: One More to Go (Draft)

I stared at the ultrasound. Tried my best to process what my eyes were seeing. What the ultrasound operator lady was pointing out for me to see. Twins. We were going to have twins...shit.

I felt Sharon's squeeze of the hand and managed to tear my eyes away from the screen. I looked down at her half sitting, half half reclining on the examination table.

“You okay?”

I nodded. But I wasn't. Not that I was going to tell her that though. Because looking down at her it was obvious that she was more than just OK, she was ecstatic. Hell, she could barely hide her smile. Sharon had always wanted twins. Had talked about it on a number of occasions. A boy and a girl. Maybe Blake and Blair or Kanye and Kenya or--

“Would you guys like to know the sexes of the twins?”

The woman working the ultrasound asked.

Sharon gave an almost imperceptible nod. Of course she did but she would let me decide. And that was the thing, did I? I thought about it for a moment.

Well, it would make for easier planning.

Easier planning my ass, a part of me grumbled. It's fucking twins man. Not one but two babies. Everything that you thought you were going to have to endure, you now have to endure times two. It's not too late to back you know...

“Hey...hey.”

Sharon squeezed my hand again. Her expression was one of concern.

“I know its a lot. If you would rather not know--”

I shook my head.

“No, no. I want to know,”

Turned to the operator lady who was patiently waiting.

“Tell us, we want to know.”

“Are you sure?”

We both nodded our ascent.

“OK then. Just give me a moment,” the operator said while moving the ultrasound probe across the gelled surface of Sharon's stomach and watching the screen.

“Ah, there you go.” she said and paused with her roving. She then pointed at the images on the screen.

“Looks like you've got yourself one of each. A boy and a girl. Congratulations.”

I looked down at Sharon. She was beaming. One of each. Just like she wanted.



***


A little more than two months had passed and I still hadn't told anybody. Nobody particularly close to me anyway. Certainly not family. I was still figuring out how to. Our family has produced more love children than I care to count and I wasn't sure I had the stones to drop the bomb of knowledge of yet another one. Plus Sharon had asked me not to. Not until she had garnered up the courage to tell her people first. Or the courage to see the pregnancy through to the end. Because although she said abortion was not an option, I know she had at least thought about it.

Sharon had left the announcing until the last moment, when her baby bump had started to show. Then she had no choice. People were bound to notice, if they hadn't already. I had wanted to be there for that conversation but she had insisted that she could handle it. We weren't together and so it would be kind of weird if I was there.

“Even if we're not, I'm still going to be a part of this baby's life. My presence there would go a long way to show that I'm a 100% dedicated to that.”

And for a moment Sharon had looked like she was considering it but then blink-blink breathe and her resolve had hardened again.

“No, Ive got this.”

Personally I think that she partly refused because though my presence would show my intentions to “do the right thing” it would also serve as a reminder of the car wreck that was our engagement. No, she would handle it herself. And so she had. Said that people at home were more disappointed than angry, with her anyway, but just plain angry at me. And why hadn't I turned up? I was claiming I was going to be there for the Sharon and the baby and yet I didn't even have the balls to be there when Sharon was telling her family? I sure had a funny way of showing my dedication.

I gave Sharon my best “I told you so” look but had said nothing.

But I had tried to be as consistent as I could. Making doctor's appointments and showing up for check ups and the such like (thank God for insurance). And although it was highly unlikely that Sharon and I would ever get back together (undeniable sparks and all), we had managed to strike up an at least amiable friendship. And that was after a lot of pushing on my side. A lot of apologies as well. It had taken forever for Sharon to even accept the help that she not only needed but deserved. But like they say “Persistence pays” and after what seemed like ages it finally felt like we were on the same page.



***


Sharon and I walked out of the hospital and into the chill. The clouds were promising rain and the wind nipped at my ears. Sharon reached for my hand. I let her take it. She was a hand holder, always had been. Even before we had started dating. She had said as much herself. So me letting her take it wasn't sending out mixed signals...was it? At least I didn't think it was. We walked across the parking lot towards the special hire taxis.

“Thanx for coming today. It means a lot.”

She squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

“You don't have to thank me.”

“Yes I do. You don't have to be doing this. A lot of guys wouldn't be.”

“But I am. And that's not about to change. So you better get used to it 'cause I'm in this for the long haul.”

Sharon smiled. Was silent for a moment and then,

“Do you want to go grab a cup of coffee or something? Hang out for a bit?”

“I thought you weren't supposed to drink coffee.”

“'Or something' then.”

I smiled. Apologetically.

“I cant. I have a meeting to get to. Rain check though?”

Sharon nodded. Slipped her hand out from mine.

“Yeah, sure. I was stupid to think--”

“How about dinner tonight? We'll go somewhere nice, talk.”

A faint smile kissed her lips.

“I would like that.”

“I'll call you?”

“Yeah.”

And with that I bargained for her a 'specio', gave the man the money, gave Sharon a hug, one more “I'll call you” and watched, hands in pocket, as the taxi drove away.