Retrograde (A Short Story)

An Aside: I don't think I've ever written a sequel before. Sure I've written stories with multiple parts but those when you came right down to it (whether they were three or fifteen) were all part of the same story. This one however, is the first time Ive actually attempted to revisit characters that I once lived with. Catch up with how they are doing, what they are doing and how the events of the previous story have shaped their lives since.

The particular story of which the one below is a sequel to is one I wrote about a year ago entitled "For Everything a Reason". The people, Ben and Sharon; a man and a woman in a relationship where their love goes horribly awry with very...interesting consequences.

The last time around I centred in on Ben ultimately as the main character. He was the narrator and therefore the story for, all intensive purposes, was his. I wanted to take a different approach this time and tell Sharon's story. And even though Sharon does not serve as the narrator, the story does begin and end with her. My only hope is that I did her justice.

-- L.A. Lutara

Retrograde


She lives in a house full of ghosts. Memories of happiness, hope and a giddy kind of love skipping hand-in-hand up and down its empty halls, sitting and watching Bollywood movie after Bollywood movie in its stylishly decorated, big screen TV'ed living room, cooking mouth watering feasts that put goliaths to sleep as well as to shame in its stainless steel kitchen.

They float from room to room, these ghosts, alighting on anything and everything, making her home their home, their haunting transforming it from a place of rest and re cooperation into a place of constant torment.

They are a rambunctious bunch, shamelessly keeping her awake at night, every night- singing schmaltzy Top 40 love songs, dancing circles around her head, around her bed and leaving dark circles beneath her eyes.

This house that houses these spirits of long dead feelings and that has long since ceased being a home belongs to her sister, the one who is supposed to help her get through this "hard time" but who is never there. A big government job with a big government car and big government allowances- ones given and ones taken makes sure of this. She is also married, this sister, but with a husband away most of the time (a doctor in some upcountry hospital) it is not uncommon for her sister to host the occasional male visitor on those evenings when she does manage to make it home before 11 O'clock. On those nights she slips on a jacket, ties on a scarf and walks out the door. It never matters how late it is nor does it really matter where she goes, anything to get away from the nausea of her sister's infidelity.

She has lived like this for almost two years. Ever since she lost Blake and Blair to a pool of blood and a bad dream. Even now she thinks of them as little human beings and not just foetuses that once grew inside of her.

"You'll get over it." people said.

"You just need to give it some time." others encouraged.

"I totally get how you feel and all I can say is that it will get better." yet another comforted.

Well she hadn't, time was not doing shit and if anything, for some time at least, she felt worse. Those people didn't know jack shit about how she felt. She was dead while still breathing, a hollow, a husk, a shell of her former self. The worst possible version of herself. They just didn't get it, how could they? And so instead of trying to get her she was prescribed anti-depressants. The ones that made you slow and sleep a lot and put on weight. She put on at least 10kgs after she started taking them. But then she had lost at least 20kgs when everything had happened and so at it was she was still a whole lot slimmer than people were used to.

She's not on them any more though. Not because she feels better but because she feels as if she needs to get better and the pills were not helping.

She has been off them for about a month now and so far she hasn't slit her wrists, hung herself from a chandelier or flung herself down a flight of stair;s so that's some sort of progress right?

Sure, she had thought about doing those things but she hadn't actually done any of them. She had fainted at some point, taking quite a nasty tumble, earning herself quite a few bruises and a classic concussion but that didn't count, did it? It wasn't intentional after all.

That was around the time the texts and phone calls began.

1:47 am

1 text message received

Benjamin ORA

I cnt seem 2 slip & al I cn think abt is u. hw r u? I kno its l8 & I shld hv w8ed til mornin bt I hd 2 ask. I wori abt u.

Sharon didn't reply. She saw no reason to. Not that she hated him any more, no, that had dissolved a while back. She just didn't know what to make of the message. Was he being nice? Did he have some kind of ulterior motive? What was he up to? It was almost 2 O'clock in the morning for chrissake. And so because she wasn't sure she thought it better to just let it be. Better safe than sorry and all that jazz.

Four days later there came another one. Same time, same vein. This time he mentioned the twins. How he often thought about them. How losing them had been like an axe in the heart and how he just couldn't stop bleeding. Sure, he tried his best to cover it up, to move on, to put on a brave face for the world but the truth was he missed them, he missed her and he missed the life they could have had together.

This time Sharon replied.

9:11 am

1 text message received

Sharon UTL

I miss them 2. Evry day sinc hz bin a battle. sm days r hell, otha days nt so mch. I miss u 2 sometimes. Wen I manag 2 c past the hurt. hw r u?

At the time, Sharon couldn't put her finger on it but something about Ben's words made him seem different. Maybe it was his admission that she hadn't born the hurt alone. Maybe it was him saying how he missed the life they could have had. Whatever it was though, it made Sharon feel as if she had a partner in this, even if an unlikely one, even if a small one. And so when she fell down the stairs she called him. Not for him to help her, no, he had no reason to, not really, but to let him know. Maybe he would serve as a hand holder of sorts, a proverbial shoulder to lean on, even if only over the phone.

He seemed concerned; asked whether she was OK. Who was with her. What did the doctors say. What she was taking. All the right questions with all the right amounts of concern. She couldn't help but feel a little tug. Tried her best to ignore it.

"He broke your heart." She told herself.

Completely and irretrievably. He did not deserve even the tiniest crawl space of a place in her haphazardly glued together semblance of a heart.

And so when Ben asked to see her Sharon said no. Not out right, she had said she needed to think about it which they both knew in reality meant "No.". Not one with finality but more of one that suggested that she was not yet ready. And so understanding this, Ben did not push.

That does not mean that they did not talk however. Because they did. A lot. And for about three weeks. And then Ben once again asked whether he could see her. It still bugged her why he wanted to but this time she felt ready. At least a little more than she did before anyway. And so she said yes, he could.

"Cool." he said. "You name the when and the where."

Sharon thought about this for a moment.

"It's Monday right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then how about Wednesday?"

"I can do that." he said. "Where?"

"Well, I can't really leave home right now so..."

"So do you want me to come to you? Cuz I can. Do you want me to?"

Why is he being so damn considerate? Sharon wondered. It went against everything she had come to believe about him. What she had seen about him. He had stayed around for the kids, not for her after all. And when the kids were gone, so was he.

"Sure." she said.

"Cool. So I'll call you tomorrow evening to set up a time then?"

"Sure." she said again.

And then it is Wednesday and her phone is ringing and it is him calling and he is at the gate and she is opening it for him and she is on her tip toes and he is hugging her.

The first thing she notices about him is how much weight he has put on. Not so much in the face but all in the stomach. He still looks good though. And knowing him he knows that and so Sharon decides to poke a little fun at him.

"but you ki-boy, what have you been eating?"

"Little boys and girls mostly. Why? Does it show?"

He says holding his stomach and striking a pose.

Sharon lets out a small laugh and tells him to come in.

So far, so good.

After showing him where to sit Sharon gets him a glass of water (sweat, sweat, sweat everywhere) and makes sure to not sit on the same couch as him (still wary; very, very wary).

At first they talk about safe things, which is to say that they mostly talk about him and even when they do talk about her it is mostly in broad strokes- how she spends her days, how she cooks at night, how her hair has finally grown back out after she had shorn it almost to the skin in a frenetic act of mourning....

Not quite as broad of a stroke as she hopes but it just sort of tumbles out. She never really had full reign of her tongue around Ben. And Even now, after everything she is still having a hard time keeping her words in check.

Sharon runs a hand through her luxurious head of hair as she says this. The darkness of the memory momentarily sweeping her, her gaze becomes far off, her other hand instinctively going to her stomach.

"Hey."

Sharon snaps her head in Ben's direction.

"You OK?" He genuinely sounds concerned. He looks concerned too; his forehead is creased with worry.

"Yeah...yeah I'm fine." Sharon says shaking off the shadow.

She stands up.

"More water? Juice? Biscuits?"

Ben thinks about it for a second.

"I choose D. All of the above."

Sharon smiles and this makes Ben smile. He lost her there for a second.

"Coming right up."

The fat jokes keep coming. Not that she minds the extra padding mind you. She would still jump his bones in a second.
"Well my bones are all yours for the jumping. But only if you're gentle." Ben flirts lightly. "You know I'm a sensitive soul."

Another laugh and another wink of the eye. Ben finds the sound of her laughter re-assuring. He is there because he is worried about her. Really worried. At least she is doing a lot better than he thought. Thank God.

"It's good to see you." Ben says "and I'm glad you're doing OK."

Sharon examines him. Is he being sincere? Is he really there as a friend? Is he really there just to make sure that she is OK? Everything so far seems to point to that but something still keeps her from fully believing it so.

"You seem different, you know that?"

Ben smiles.

"Oh yeah? Good different or bad different?"

"Ha! Don't misunderstand me Ben, it's not like you have suddenly become a knight in shining armour or anything, far from it. But you do seem less cold. I'm pretty sure that if I put my hand on your chest I would actually be able to feel your heart beating."

"You mean I was cold before?"

"Like Mr. Freeze."

"Huh. I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or be extremely offended by that. Nice reference though."

"My nephew watches a lot of cartoons and I baby sit a lot. And a compliment, definitely a compliment."

They share a curtailed smile and arrive at an awkward silence. Their conversation has been littered with them, descending whenever neither of them seems to have anything to say; the space filling up with all the unsaid.

Breath in, breath out.

Ben takes a sip of his apple juice. Cold. Ceres.

"I thought this would be harder." Sharon says a moment later, melting the mounting silence.

"How come?"


"We have history." Sharon says as a way of explanation.

Ben gives a little shrug.

"And...?"

"And you don't think we do?"

"Of course I do. An immense amount of it. Probably more than most could ever hope for."

"And you didn't think that history would make things at least a little...weird?"

Ben shakes his head.

"No."

Sharon ponders this for a moment.

"Then let me ask you, what did you expect when you came here?"

Ben is silent for a moment. For more than a moment, for maybe three. Sharon is about to give up on him answering when he does.

"I didn't expect anything. The best way to avoid being disappointed is-"

"To not have any expectations." Sharon finished for him.

"Exactly. I came because I wanted to see how you were. I'm glad to see that you're OK."

"Better, not OK. It's still hard. I still cant sleep. I still cry for no reason. I still have moments when I want to stick a knife in your neck and feel your blood on my finger tips."

Awkward silence, obviously.

Ben swallows, tries to think of something innocuous to say without coming off as trite.

"Are you still thinking about surrogacy?"

hmmmm, not quite what he was going for but oh well.

Sharon licks her lips,

"I thought about it for a long time and in the end I realized that all I would be doing is trying to temporarily replace what I had lost with something that in the end would not be mine. It wouldn't be a wise thing to do."

Ben nods. Tries to ignore the fact that Sharon just regurgitated his own sentiments, almost verbatim, back to him as if they were her very own.

"I really took what you said to heart." she adds as if reading Ben's mind.

Ben is about to wave it away when his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and glances down at its face and is instantly reluctant to answer it.

"Take it." Sharon says instantly picking up on the hesitation pinioning him.

"You sure?"

"Go ahead."

And so he does.

The conversation is brief but with several, "I will's" and "Don't worries" and even a couple of "I know's".

"I'm guessing you have to go." Sharon says once he has hung up.

"You guess right." Ben says standing up. Sharon gets up as well.

"A meeting, a date? A boss, a girlfriend?"

"Something like that."

"You know you haven't answered my question right?"

The two of them begin walking towards the front door, the gate.

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Girlfriend then."

Fiancé actually, Ben thinks but says nothing.

They reach the gate.

"This has been nice." Ben says holding open his arms for a hug.

"It has." Sharon replies allowing herself to be hugged.

"And Ben,"

"Yes?"

"Congratulations."

"For what?"

"Your impending nuptials of course."

The look on Ben's face is that of a kid who has been caught with a fist full of sweets five minutes before supper time.

Small town and people talk, he should have known. He wanted to tell her himself, that was the point of the entire visit and he was about to but something she said told him that she was not OK as he told her he thought she was. He didn't think she was ready and here she had known the entire time.

"It's OK." Sharon says, taking his hand and squeezing it. "I appreciate your concern, it's actually kind of sweet."

She pulls him in for another hug.

"Take care of yourself Ben. And take care of her. She's a good one."

And with that the visit is over. Ben heading back to his life, his bride and his future and Sharon heading back to what exactly?

This question swirls around Sharon's head as she walks back into the house, up two flights of stairs and turning around flings herself down them.

Private Show Pt. 3: Hair & Make-up

Patrick pulled out his phone to check the time- she was late. Not very, maybe by like ten minutes or so but because Patrick was fastidious about such things, to him she was irrevocably, irreversibly, irritatingly late.

Patrick let out a frustrated sigh and tossed his phone onto the space of cushiony cushioness next to him.

He had booked an executive suite at the Serena and at that moment sat slouched in one of it's red wood tone upholstered love seats, its coffee and cream coloured cushions lying carelessly on either side of him.

Letting himself sink even further into the chair, Patrick tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

Patience...he muttered to himself. Patience...

It had been two Saturdays since he and Bridget had struck a deal with the sultry songstress and although in the beginning Patrick had looked forward to this day, as it stood at that very moment, all he wanted was for it to be over.

Bridget, on the other hand, had revelled in the preparations from the get go.

But wait, just how much preparation actually goes into a singer showing up, singing a few songs for an audience of two and then leaving? You may ask.

Well, with Bridget flag-shipping the entire thing, more than you can possibly imagine.

Bridget walked out of the bedroom, where she had laid out Deandra's outfit (costume? get up?) on the bed, and leaving little dents in the vanilla coloured wall-to-wall carpet with her heels, sashayed into the sitting area.

"She'll be here in twenty minutes." Bridget announced, holding up her phone to indicate where she had gotten the information from.

Opening his eyes, Patrick looked over at Bridget.

It always caught him off guard just how strikingly beautiful she was.

Her hair hung two inches below her bare shoulders, her bangs perfectly cropped. She wore a red pencil dress that stopped just shy of her calves and sheathed the curves of her body perfectly, a pair of velvety black pumps on her feet which added four inches to her height and just enough make-up to accentuate the prominence of her cheek bones, pout of her lips and dreaminess of her eyes.

"You look beautiful." was Patrick's reply.

Of course she did. Bridget worked very hard to make sure that she did and so it wasn't really much of a compliment Patrick telling her so.

But a compliment is still a compliment, Bridget reminded herself. And there's a way a girl is meant to respond to a compliment, no matter who it comes from.

And so with that, Bridget tilted her head to one side, placed a hand on a hip and awwwwd a thank you in Patrick's direction.

"You don't look all that bad yourself." She added a second later. And she wasn't lying either, he didn't, considering.

He wore a perfectly tailored black pinstriped suit, white button down and black silk bow tie. At Bridget's insistence of course. And even though Patrick's face was far from camera friendly he did have the body of an athlete and so wore the clothes extremely well.

In their expensive hotel room the two of them looked like a power couple getting ready to hit the red carpet; it was too bad they weren't going to even leave the room.

"So did she say why she was late?" Patrick asked without acknowledging Bridget's compliment.

She felt a little slighted by this but tried her best not to let it show it.

"Traffic."

"It's 15 minutes past two on a Saturday afternoon, there is no traffic."

Bridget shrugged,

"Well that's what she told me."

"Did you call her or did she call you?"

"She called me."

"Oh. OK."

Well that changed things a bit, maybe she was telling the truth.

"What about Hair and Make-up?"

"He was already waiting downstairs. I just called him and so he should be here any-"

Three sharp raps on the door interrupted Bridget's reply. At the same time Bridget's phone began to ring in her hand,

Shine bright like a diamond!

"-minute."

Bridget glanced at her phone.

"That's him." she said and silencing her phone, padded her way to the front door.

Once there Bridget took a deep breath to prepare herself for the whirlwind which was Zeus and grabbing the door handle, turned it and swung open the door.

He was five foot five; wore red boat shoes, yellow capris, a white belt and a blue slim-fit short-sleeved button down smartly tucked into his capris. A pair of Rayban aviator's, a Blackberry 9800 in one hand and a LV tote bag in the other made the ensemble complete.

"Hmmmph," Zeus intoned when he saw Bridget. "Your'e going for a movie première oba?"

Bridget struck a pose.

"You like?"

Zeus struck one himself.

"I love. And that dress...eh, you chick.

We're going to have to do something about that make up though."

He said between kisses on each of Bridget's cheeks.

"Now where is my Rihanna?" He asked. And without waiting for a reply, Hair & Make-up walked into the room.

Private Show Pt. 2: Deal

Now, any other Tuesday would have found the odd couple slipping away unnoticed a few minutes before eleven, which was when the show usually ended. On this particular Tuesday, however, Patrick and Bridget decided to stick around because Patrick...had an idea.

As per custom, Deandra made her way around to all the occupied tables, shaking a hand here, giving a hug there, sharing a laugh and thanking, thanking, thanking whoever it was for turning up and showing so much love, much appreesh.

During her rounds she shot a glance here and there towards Patrick and Bridget's table and then once she was done with the others, casually made her way over to them. The odd couple stood up to meet her.

"I was wondering when you guys would stick around long enough for me to come and say hi. I've seen you here. Every Tuesday for like the last six months."

Deandra had a British accent and every word was pronounced with a certain degree of exactness.

She wore nothing on her feet, still barefoot from the show, black leggings, an army green skirt that stopped mid-thigh, a black wife beater and an assortment of beady jewellery that dangled from her wrists, her neck and her ears.

Bridget liked her instantly.

"We think your'e amazing." She blurted. "You have such a beautiful voice. How long have you been singing?"

Placing a hand just above her heart, Deandra thanked Bridget humbly,

"and for as long as I can remember."

"And saxophone? How long have you been playing saxophone?" Patrick added.

Deandra gave him the subtle once over.

Now although she didn't think herself a superficial woman and although he did seem quite nice, Deandra still couldn't help but ask herself why a girl that looked like Her would be hanging out with a guy that looked liked Him.

Deandra silently shrugged to herself, maybe it was the sex.

"I've been playing the sax since I was about 8. My father bought me my first one for my 8th birthday. I still have it actually. I don't play it of course, it's just one of those things you keep, you know what I mean?"

Both Patrick and Bridget nodded; they did, they did know what she meant.

"Ummm, so how much do you charge to perform a show?" Bridget inquired.

She asked this a little apologetically. As if she didnt really want to but the question couldnt really be avoided. Sweet. Deandra saw it for what it really was though, a play at innocence to drive the asking price down. If only just a little bit. Deandra was certain of this because she did the same thing whenever she went to buy shoes, dresses, whatever.

No dice.

"We play for 1.5."

Which was a lie. They actually played for 1.2 but it was always better to start high and work your way down. Or that's at least what she had been told.

"And how about for just you?"

This was Patrick.

"I don't play without my band." Deandra answered, "There wouldn't be any reason to."

"What if we could give you one?" Patrick intoned. He was all smooth confidence.

"And what answer would that be?"

"1.5. Just for you."
Hmmmm, so he has money, Deandra mused to herself. That actually made a lot of sense.

Now even though Deandra's warning bell went off at the same time as the Cha-Ching of her internal cash register, she couldn't help but be intrigued. It was 1.3 million more than she would make from a normal gig after all. The thing was, what was the catch?

"How many people would I be playing for?"

At this, the couple exchanged a glance, not a good sign. Deandra had a feeling she knew what the answer was going to be but willed herself to wait for it before deciding on anything.

It was Bridget who answered.

"Just us."

Yep, she knew it. These two were psychopaths. They were going to kidnap her, rap her, kill her, (or maybe they would rape her after they killed her, who knew with people these days?) rip out her vocal cords and put them in a zesta jar. Lord knew she was not about to let that happen. Heeeeeeeeell to the no. She still had a whole lot of singing to do.

"Um, I'm not quite sure I'm comfortable with that." She said cautiously.

"We're not a couple of of psychopaths." Bridget answered reassuringly as if reading Deandra's mind.

"We just thought it would be cool, you know? And if we can; well, why not right?" Bridget continued with a shrug.

Deandra was almost convinced. Plus, she was just being paranoid wasn't she? Kidnapping and murder? This was Uganda, not some Hollywood movie. She did tend to let her imagination run away from her at times, Deandra admitted to herself. And then there was the fact that the money wasn't all that bad either. But again, seeing as they were willing to pay 1.5...maybe they would be willing to pay,

"2 Million and you have yourself a deal."

Bridget looked at Patrick who seemed to take a moment to think about it. Mental calculations and all of that. In the end, it was his decision.

"Deal." came his reply a few moments later.

"There's just probably one thing you should know upfront though."

Creased forehead.

"And what's that?"

"We want you to do only Rihanna songs."

Deandra's expression smoothed into a slight smile.

"I have no problem with that, I love Rihanna."

The couple exchanged glances again. This time less anxious, more relieved.

"Good," Bridget said, placing a hand on Patrick's arm,

"because we love her too."

Private Show Pt. 1: Light Bulb

An Aside: There's nothing like being in the company of a beautiful woman. And this story, for the most part, owes its existence to being in the company of not one but two beautiful women; Sheinaz Malik who shares my quite unhealthy obsession for Rihanna and who serves as the 'fleshy' on which the money chasing beauty 'Bridget' is very loosely based on (NB: Sheinaz is nowhere close to being the gold digging whore that Bridget is, just to make it clear) and Maureen 'MoRoots' Rutabingwa who can belt out a Rihanna tune probably better than Rihanna can and who serves as the 'fleshy' from which the sax playing songtress 'Deandra' is loosely based on.

Now for me, at least, this is one of those stories that one does not take all that seriously. It's not like some others I have written that have required an immense amount of energy and concentration because there's something specific that I'm trying to say, writing this story was like...was like a day out at the beach. My only hope is that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

So here's to hoping that you do (salut),

-- L.A. Lutara



Part 1: Light Bulb

She was short, he was tall. She was light, he was dark. She was pretty; very pretty, the kind of pretty in fact that any man would want to have babies with and he was...well let's just say that he was not the kind of man a girl would want to be seen out in public by her friends with. He did have money though, a lot of it and to a girl like Bridget that certainly went a long way to make up for his glaring ugliness.

They sat where they always sat. Far enough away from the stage that they would not be so easily noticed but still close enough to be considered a part of the audience.

He sipped at a Guiness; her, a double of Gilbey's with ice, a slice of lime and a dash of Krest.

They talked little, giving their mostly undivided to the woman ruling the stage with the magical sceptre of a microphone in front of them.

The sax playing, foot stomping, singing siren cutting up the stage played and sang and made magic every Tuesday night at the Blue Trumpet Jazz Club & Restaurant that boasted the crispiest fries and tastiest BBQ wings around town.

To say that they were just fans would have been an insult. They were fanatics. Her music did such saucy things to them that they even had sex to it.

Bridget would pull out the iphone 5 that Patrick had bought her and would record 5 minutes of the performance every week. Just one song though...

Diamonds.

And yes, the "Shine bright like a diamond." one.

Because as much as they were fanatics of the delectable Deandra (which is just her stage name by the way. She's something boring like Sarah, or Angella or Mary) they were absolutely freakin' nuts about Rihanna.

They even went as far as to refer to themselves a 'Rihanniacs'.

It was Bridget who came up with the name and even though Patrick thought it rather ridiculous, Bridget was pretty and was having sex with him and so he just went along with it.


It sort of bummed them out that Deandra only performed one Riri song every Tuesday which kind of relegated them to watching a grainy video phone clip over and over again but then beggars can not be choosers, can they?

And then Patrick realized something, they didn't have to be beggars because he, with pockets lined with 50's so fresh that their yellowish ink stained his fingertips, was far from one. He had money, lots of it and as Bridget was proof of it, there are very few things that one can not do with enough money.

Now this would be the part in the cartoon where a lit light bulb would appear above Patrick's head and he would hold up a finger and exclaim, "Aha!".

Placing a hand on top of one of Bridget's, Patrick turned to her.

"I think I just got an idea."

Bridget was mid sip and waited until she had set her glass back down on the table before answering.

"And what's that?"

And Patrick, smiling, showing off his yellowed and crooked teeth, proceeded to tell her.

The Olympian (Interlude)

An Aside: Last year Uganda won her second gold medal in fifty years. It was quite the feat and like every other Ugandan I applaud Stephen Kiprotich for his achievement. He is not, however, the only Olympian that Uganda has given birth to. There have been others that have lifted the crested crane onto their shoulders and showed her off to the world. Among them is Davis Kamoga who won the bronze medal for the men's 400m in 1996, bested only by Roger Black, a Brit and the great Michael Johnson. By far not an easy feat. Now although the following story is by no means his story, elements of it are certainly influenced by it.

Let us not forget our heroes past.

I hope you enjoy it.

-- L.A. Lutara

The Olympian

The first thing I noticed was that Yosam, sitting on the dirty side walk, was sporting only one leg. The second, was the man with the red dyed Mohawk bent over him, clipping the toe nails of that one leg.

According to Yosam, he hadn't always been that way (with one leg that is) but ask him how he lost the other and he wouldn't be able to tell you.

I know this because I did ask him; right there in the middle of the street.

“I don’t remember.” His off-handish answer had been.

You don’t remember or you don’t want to remember? I blinked at him.

I was intrigued and even though we were in one of the busiest parts of town, during one of the busiest times of the day, I "borrowed" a stool from a lady selling air time nearby (I saw her mouth twist into a mask of slight annoyance but pretended not to notice) and sat down next to him.

What he did remember was that the leg that went missing was the leg that he used to kick with. Footballs, tree trunks, metallic drums, heads in street brawls- he used it to kick everything. Without regard and without conscious.

And run. Boy did he love to run.

There was a gleam in his eye when he said this.

Even as a child he was given the title, “Little Lightening” and he went on to prove this time and time again; winning all the village races, catching all the chickens and out running all the canes.

Why he was telling me this was beyond me. Why I was even sitting there listening was even more outlandish. This wasn't like me at all. But then I hadn't been like “me” in a long time.

When he reached secondary school,

“Yes, I went to school,” He interjected, a sliver of an accent peeking through. “Kings College Budo. Senior one to Senior Six. And university in England as well. Nottingham; very prestigious. The same university that Sir Clive Granger attended. I may not look like it but I'm one sharp fellow.”

It was not until later that I found out that Sir Clive Granger is in fact a Nobel Prize recipient. Very prestigious indeed.

But then what happened? I found myself asking. Why was he now begging on the street with only one leg to his name?

Yosam waved away my question,

"Let me tell my story my way and maybe, just maybe we will get to that. Agreed?"

I nodded my assent.

"Agreed."

"Good. Now, are you thirsty?"

I was but I shook my head.

Yosam pointed at me.

"You are. Your'e lying to me. Your lips are drier than a nun past menopause."

I stared at him when he said this but he paid me no mind.

Reaching into one of the pockets of his ratty old khakis Yosam pulled out a knot of crisp looking notes of Ugandan tender. It was an inch and a half thick and from what I could see it was made up of mostly 50's, 20's and 10's. He peeled off a 10 and held it out to me.

"I drink Coke. You can get whatever you want."

I looked from him to the note then back up at him.

Who was this guy?

"Take it." he said shaking the tender.

After another moment's reluctance I did. Got up, walked to where a fridge sat 50 yards away, bought the man his Coke, bought myself a Sprite, both of which were of the 500ml plastic bottled variety, got the change and walked back to where Yosam sat.

When I got back the man with the red Mohawk was gone and Yosam's nails were clipped, filed and his heel scraped clean of any and all dead scaly skin.

I held out Yosam's soda and change, both of which he took. He cracked open the top of his soda and took a long swig.

Gulp...gulp...gulp and then,

"Ahhhhh." Yosam smacked his lips.

"Eh, I really needed that. Now, where was I...? Oh yes," and Yosam continued with his story.

When he reached secondary school not only did he run but he swam as well. He was so fast that when he competed in inter-school swim meets by the time the second place swimmer was half way through one lap, Yosam was already beginning his second.
His only competition was himself.

God had blessed him with a gift, at least that's what all his teachers and friends and family members told him. He really didn't see what the big deal was though.

So he was fast. And then what?

By the time Senior six was rolling around Yosam was quite the big fish and was quite the local celebrity.

"A big fish in a small pond" a white haired white man named Reverend Belinsky had told Yosam after yet another notch in the belt of a win.

"Let me take you to swim in the ocean." the old man had continued, appealing to Yosam's as yet still dormant sense of ambition.

Nine months later Yosam was a first year undergraduate at Nottingham University.

"What did you study?" I asked.

I was still finding it hard to believe that the man I was sitting with was a Nottingham alumnus. It just didn't make sense. You don't go to a school like that and wind up on the street. It was the kind of place that once you walked out off you were set for life. Or so I have been told.

"Economics and Russian."

You've got to be kidding me.

"Say something in Russian."

"Вы не имеете понятия, что происходит, у вас молодой человек? Бедный мальчик. Вы будете же. Все в свое время."

Again, all I could do is stare at him. The man could speak Russian. And although I was far from an expert, beyond what I had heard from action movie villains of course, his Russian sounded pretty darn good.

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'I quite enjoy your company and I hope we can do this again some time.'"

I seriously doubted this but I let it go.

"But why Russian though?"

Yosam shrugged.

"Reverend Belinsky was Russian so I thought, meh, 'Why not?'.

"Anyway, I ran all throughout university, ran afterwards, ran when I moved back to Uganda and ran myself all the way to the Olympics."

"The Olympics?"

"Yes, the Olympics. Atlanta 1996 to be precise."

"Wait, Atlanta 1996? As in the one where Michael Johnson was such a big deal?"

"The one and the same. I raced Johnson by the way. I didn't win of course but I did race him. In fact; he won gold, I won bronze."

Now I knew he was lying. This man with one leg, wearing rags and living on the street not only raced a man who was at one time the fastest man in the world but also won himself an Olympic medal? Now that was just absolute and utter nonsense.

"You don't believe me do you?"

I didn't try to mask my disbelief and told him right to his face that I didn't.

Yosam nodded his head as if my reaction was a totally understandable one. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dirty handkerchief and held it out to me.

"Your'e giving me your dirty handkerchief?"

Yosam shook his head.

"Look at what's inside."

I reluctantly took it. Whatever it was, it was heavy.

Unwrapping the handkerchief I found myself looking down at a metallic disc about 70mm in diameter, weighing about 200gms and what seemed to be made of bronze.

I don't know how long I stared down at it.

"Quite amazing isn't it?" Yosam said, cutting through the dead space of my head.

I looked up at him.

"Who are you?"

Yosam looked at me with a bemused look on his face.

Before he could answer, however, I felt my phone in my pocket begin to vibrate; it's generic ringtone wafting between us.

"Are you going to answer that?"

I was. I didn't want to but I knew that I should and so I did. After a few seconds the yelling on the other end made it clear that it was time for me to go.

Wrapping the medal, I handed it back to Yosam who took it and pocketed it once more.

"I have to go." I said standing, "But I want to finish this conversation, how do I find you?"

Yosam licked his lips, finished off the rest of his Coke.

"I'll be right here. Every day. And it is not like I will be too hard to find, I'm the only one here with only one leg." he joked.

I allowed myself a smile. Extended a hand.

"Then I will see you tomorrow."

Yosam took it.

"Tomorrow then."

And I walked off.


It wasn't until I got home later that day that I thought to google the man with one leg, an economics degree from Nottingham and a bronze Olympic medal. He was indeed who he said he was. He did indeed graduate from the same university the current director of the British MI6 did, he did indeed have a front row seat to Michael Johnson making history and he did indeed win Uganda another Olympic medal. The only thing is, according to the almighty god Google, Yosam Kilungi had died four years prior in a car accident. His right leg crushed, his Olympic medal in one pocket and a thick knot of money in the other.



The End

For You I Will Move This Mountain: It's OK...Now Kiss Me

An Aside: A couple of people were asking me what ever happened to the story with Mundu & Sarah in it. Was it over? Is that where it ended? And if so, how come? The answer to the first two questions is a long and resounding "No." and so to back up that answer, here is the next chapter in the story, "For You I Will Move This Mountain"

And oh, just to make sure that all of ya'll are up to speed; here's the link to the previous chapter:

http://adoseofwordstothehead.blogspot.com/2012/12/for-you-i-will-move-this-mountain.html

Hope You Enjoy.


CHAPTER FOUR

Mundu and the old man walked for what seemed like hours and for what appeared to be, for a little while at least, in circles.

And if given the opportunity to ask Mundu why this appeared to be the case, he would have pulled out his four inch long blade, run it along the length of the inside of his forearm and sworn to you that they had passed that tree over there, the one that looked like a bent over old woman carrying a pot on her head more than just once, maybe even thrice.

But even though he was full of these suspicions, Mundu said nothing.

The Umululosi was old and possessed an old magic and even after all his exploits, Mundu still knew to be wary of this. And so Mundu did nothing in protest, simply wiping the sweat from his brow and putting one foot in front of the other.

They continued on like this until the sun began to dip towards the horizon.

And then they came to a clearing. And in this clearing sat a hut. A round, mud plastered, thatch roofed hut. And outside this hut sat a stool and on the stool sat a girl.

The girl wore a forest green wrapper that began at the armpits and ended mid thigh. Her feet were bare as were her shoulders. She was smiling a smile that seemed to almost say, "Don't look so surprised and come over here and hug me you ki-boy."

Forgetting how tired he was, which was very, and completely forgetting about the old man, and forgetting that the clearing and the hut were identical to the very ones they had left hours before; Mundu hurried into the clearing and then reaching Sera, lifted her off the stool and held her to him. He would have held onto her forever if it was not for her urging him to put her down.

Slowly, reluctantly Mundu did. Letting her stand on her own but adamantly refusing to remove his arms from around her waist.

He stared down at her in wonder.
"What are you doing here? Does your father know you are here? How did you find this place? It is getting dark, how are you going to get back home?"

"I've been waiting for you." is all Sera said in reply, smiling up at him.

She removed his hands from her waist and then took one of them in hers.

"Come...come..."

She led Mundu through the door way of the hut and inside.

What awaited him was something tantamount to a feast. Laid on a mat were bowls of cassava, sweet Potatoes, ugali, ground nut sauce, peanut butter paste, chicken, beef...it seemed like a lifetime since Mundu had seen so much food.

The assault on Mundu's senses was beyond belief and as if on cue his mouth began to water, his stomach rumble.

Sera pulled him further inside and then urged him to sit down.

"Let me serve you."

And she did, handing him a serving of food so big that it could have easily fed an entire family. As hungry as he was, however (the funny thing being that a few minutes before he hadn't been, not really, but sitting there he was suddenly ravenous) Mundu had no doubt that he would be able to finish every morsel.

He took the food but as he did, the strangeness of the entire situation suddenly began to plague him.

"Tell me something,"

"Yes love?"

"How did you find this place?"

"Eat up." was Sera's response as she sat down next to him. And so he did, although all the time mindful of Sera watching him curiously.

"Where is the old man?" He asked a few minutes later.

"How is the food?" was her reply.

"Good. But you have not answered my question."

"And which one is that?"

"Where is the old man?" and then remembering, "And how did you find this place?"

Sera placed a hand one one of Mundu's thighs,

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that I am here."

Mundu's suspicions were piqued even further by this. He knew Sera and she was not the dismissive type. She answered questions head on. This avoiding the question business was not at all her.

"But who are you?" Mundu asked setting down the food and standing up.

"What do you mean, 'who are you'? You know who I am. Why are you talking like this?"

Sera reached for one of Mundu's hands but he took a step backwards and out of reach.

"All I know is that you are not Sera. That is all I know."

At this Sera stood up. Took a step towards Mundu.

"You are tired. You should rest."

She took another step and then another and in that moment was standing inches away from him. She placed one hand on his chest, the other on a cheek. When Mundu didn't recoil, Sera ran her thumb along the line of his jaw.

"You are tired. You should rest." She repeated.

Munndu tried to protest but Sera cut him off by moving her hand from Mundu's cheek to the back of his head and on her tip toes, pulled him in for a kiss.

The lips that kissed Mundu's lips were Sera's lips, the taste of Sera's lips was Sera's taste, the scent of Sera's skin was Sera's scent, the heart that pounded in tandem with his was Sera's heart. Everything, absolutely everything told Mundu that the Sera standing in front of him was in fact Sera and so closing his eyes, Mundu kissed her back.

From close-lipped to open-mouthed to deeply passionate; the couple moved from standing to kneeling to trying to find enough space on the mat harbouring all the food to spread themselves out on. Which they did; Sera on her back, Mundu on top of her.
At this point though, Mundu paused. This was as far as the two had ever gone and he wasn't sure whether...

But he need not have worried though because as if anticipating Mundu's line of thought Sera once again placed a hand on the side of his face and looking up into his face whispered soothingly,

"It's ok...it's ok. Now kiss me."

And so Mundu, ignoring the niggling finger of suspicion poking around at the back of his mind, leaned in and did just that.

Chemo Brain: Chapter 2

Kampala

January, 1994

The heat has swallowed up everything. Sucking up the air; sticking its sticky and sickly swollen fingers through countless windows and underneath countless doors. Asserting its throat drying dominance by cracking lips, slicking bed sheets and propelling sleepless souls from sweltering bedrooms to plastic cups and open fridges to cold veranda floors in search of some sort of relief.

None is to be had, however- the whole city is on fire.

Only the air conditioned will have a chance at rest tonight and Lord knows how those are but a precious few.

Even the ones with fans will probably burn because all they do is push the hot air around; moving it from here to there.

It is in this heat, this furnace of an existence that we once again meet Conrad and his two siblings. Him and his older brother Jacob in one room, sharing a bunk bed; and their sister, Connie, in another.

Their mother sleeps in the master bedroom at the end of the hallway, not soundly however, because whenever the space of mattress next to her is devoid of the warmth of her husband's body, soundly is an impossibility.

It is late, probably past midnight and a school night at that but none of the children are asleep. Connie reads by pocket torch, Conrad and Jacob talk in whispered tones of songs played on radios and grown up movies on VHS tapes watched at the neighbours’ house.

And then they hear it.

All four of them at the very same moment- and freeze.

The engine, the car door, the gate- he’s home and they all know that when he comes home this late, it means trouble.

Quickly and in spite of the heat the boys clench their blankets with trembling fists and cover themselves, turning their bodies so that their noses are facing away from the door and towards the wall.

Connie's torch produces a quiet Click! and it's thin beam of light is gone and both torch and book are tossed under the bed.

Their mother lies on her back, eyes wide open, chest heaving, ears tuned to hear every movement, every sound.

The jingle of keys, the front door opens and a giant of a man, in both girth and height stumbles in. He reeks of booze, of anger and of a hunger that only a woman’s body can satisfy.

We watch from a shadowy corner as the bumbling giant stumbles into the kitchen, barely manages the fridge door and rummages around in search of something to eat. What he finds is a plate made especially for him; rice, chicken, greens with sweet potatoes. The only draw back? It is cold and even though all he had to do is stick it in the microwave for two minutes, he didn't have the patience nor the mental dexterity to do so in his current state of inebriation.

The giant swears and tosses the plate of food across the kitchen, breaking it, painting the floor, counter tops and even cupboard doors with bits of food.

He stares at the mess he has made for a moment and then like a flipped switch decides that he wasn't hunger for food anyway. He was, however, hungry for something else.
With swaying steps, bumping into things, he makes his way to his bedroom. We follow him. He opens the door and closes it behind him.

A deep sense of foreboding plunges my heart into a well filled with dread. Something bad is going to happen, I just know it. And so I hesitate entering the room, lingering before the shut door, reaching out for your hand with bated breath, hoping against hope that my fears are wrong.

I wait for a minute; maybe three and just as I'm about to let out a sigh of relief, the screaming begins.

Chains… w/ Corrine Bailey Rae (Interlude)

An Aside: This one...this one is for Moses Serubiri.


I said grace for her heart with a shrug and a steak knife. I like steak knives and even though they can be unwieldy to use at times when they’re sharpened to pointed perfection, they can be pretty fun too.

There were seven of us at the table that evening and as blade tip pierced still beating flesh, I played hide and seek with a dark, spry smile and watched the others howling and hooting and chomping at the bits like a pack of ravenous dogs.

“Hunger. Hunger you will not stay here for long.” I thought as I divided the heart into seven healthy, even chunks. Raw, just the way they liked it.

They say that seven is the number of perfection, of completeness…and hers was heart number seven. A long road it had been. Long and arduous with beautifully decayed corpses thrown carelessly into its trenches. Who knew what we would do after we had licked the last of her blood off our fingers and sipped the last of the wine we had bought specifically for this occasion? Life was an empty space when you had no soul to consume.

With plates in front of places it was not long before the other six had blood smeared faces, sadistic laughter cackling from throats as teeth worked and pieces of soul and spirit and love and life were devoured. I, however, took my time. Savored it. What was the hell was point if you neglected to embrace the pleasure to be found in it?

Knife, fork; left, right; cut, spear; chew, swallow. Sip…sip…sip…swallow and wash it all down.

No words were said, none were needed. We all felt it, the rejuvenation. And as the last of our plates were emptied, the Devil sat in the corner tapping his foot to Corrine Bailey Rae humming,

Chains…chains…chains…

Chemo Brain: Chapter One

An Aside: I owe the embankment of this journey to two individuals; Jason Ntaro & John Gatins. One a close friend, a brother and one of the most talented writers I’ve ever had the privilege to come into contact with. The other; also a writer. Also talented but unfortunately not one I’ve had the privilege to meet...Yet. It is because of these two individuals that I was able to write my first one thousand words of the year. Enjoy.

1
Kampala
January, 2013

We find ourselves, you and I, in a house that may have, once upon a year, been a home. Its worn carpets and stained sofa set and dusty picture frames housing faded photographs of forced smiles and strained poses, as well as the sagging cupboards full of chipped plates, mugs and glasses give a lengthy testimony to this. Now, however, there is a certain staleness and acridity about the place. Like either no one lives here and hasn’t for a long time or like someone does and just doesn’t care and as we look around and take notice of the empty packs of Dunhill Menthols, crumpled sachets of Royal Vodka, overturned and sometimes chip mouthed bottles of Nile Special, Club beer and Tusker Lager, not to mention the country of cigarette butts carpeting every available flat surface and the many, many tin foil takeaway containers crusted with and stinking of rotting left over food it becomes quite apparent that it is most certainly the latter. The real question now, is “Who?”

As I ponder this I hear a quiet sputtering of breath, regular and irregular simultaneously, (snoring maybe?) that sounds as if it is coming from somewhere around the house. A cursory inspection however, reveals that the most logical places, the bedrooms, are empty. A couch in the sitting room maybe? I stick a head stuck through a doorway- nope. Kitchen, dining room, bathrooms? Nein, nada, nope…but wait; there’s this last bathroom, the one opposite the “boy’s room”, let’s get a closer look.

Yup, there’s someone here and that someone appears to be quite unconscious. A man, this human paper weight seems to be; spread eagled on his stomach in a pool of his own vomit. Who is he? Well to be honest it’s kind of hard to tell from here but luckily for us I would recognize those scuffed and dirty red Tommy Hilfiger loafers anywhere…it’s Conrad.

Conrad, who amongst other things ( a poet, a priest and co-author of an unknown, unseen albeit quite often felt revolution that I am more than certain will one day reveal itself to be of great importance) both hates and loves his father in equal measure. Loves because, well, that is what a son is supposed to do isn’t it? Love his father. Hates, however, because ever since Conrad was in khaki shorts, knee high socks and black Bata shoes, his father; the kind and oh so gracious Honorable Kataga with his expertly hurled bottles, professionally placed insults and prodigiously vomit splattered carpets, tiles and hard wood floors has quite earned the fiery feelings of bile inducing revulsion that ignites the pit of Conrad’s stomach every time the man’s name is mentioned.

Now, we may wish to reach out and shake Conrad awake (Or at least try to because who knows how deep of a stupor he is in?) but we cannot because unfortunately for us we are no more than specters; no limbs, just senses; mere observers, denied participation in the events transpiring or about to transpire before us and so we have no choice but to watch and wait. And wait…and wait some more…and it feels like days have passed when it’s more like minutes when there is a long and continuous hoot at the gate.

I wish nothing more than that one of us could go and open it because I know as well as you do that our friend Conrad over here isn’t going anywhere any time soon but sadly we also know that there’s no opening that gate.

A few moments pass and then there’s another long hoot quickly followed by another shorter one and then finally the sound of someone outside of the gate opening it. Let’s go see who it is.

Black heels, black dress and black blazer. A visitor? She’s tall…or maybe it’s just the heels…but no, she’s tall…and pretty…and bears a striking resemblance to Conrad. She holds open one side of the gate and a maroon Rav-4 rolls through it. She doesn’t bother closing the gate and quickly click clacks her way towards the front door which is oddly already open.

Parked, the driver side door of the Rav-4 opens and a pair of black shoes, a black suit and a black tie climb out. Not so tall, not so handsome and although not such an obvious resemblance it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine one. Slamming the car door behind him he follows his younger sister through the front door, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the space of neck just above the collar of his shirt and right below the beginning of his hairline.

“Conrad!”

But Conrad, of course, doesn’t answer. As he looks around the house he grew up in, Older Brother lets a string of expletives tumble out of his mouth.

“How can he live here like this?”

He scoffs and shakes his head.

“The place is a fucking dump.”

Younger Sister let’s her gaze roam the room. She can’t dispute him on that but the truth is they don't have time for all of that. They are late and right now that is all that is on her mind.

“The service starts in half an hour,” Is all Younger Sister says in response. “Let’s find him and get going. Rad!”

She makes a move for the kitchen.

“Fine. I’ll check the bedrooms. You check the kitchen, bathroom, whatever.”

A few minutes later Younger Sister finds her twin brother.

“Jacob!”

“What?”

“I’ve found him! In the boys’ bathroom! Hurry!”

And Jacob does, finding Younger Sister kneeling, trying to shake Conrad awake.

“Move.” He commands and gently leads his sister out of the way. He takes off his coat and hands it to his worried looking sister who takes it wordlessly.

He hurriedly rolls up his sleeves and glances at his watch to see how much time they had before their father’s funeral begins: 17 minutes and counting. Grunting, Jacob bends and lifts Conrad up off the ground.

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.