This place is not my house, but I live here.
It is not the type of place you want to call your home.
Sometimes, I wonder how I have managed to call it mine since my uncle died,
that should be five years ago, or six or seven.
It is a very smelly place, that’s what people who pass make
you believe, because they are always covering their noses.
But me and the grown men who smoke Indian hemp every
morning, every afternoon and every night in that corner, always wonder why they
cover their noses.
This place is very cold, because there are no doors, no
windows, nothing. But there is a roof. That’s where the cars pass; plenty
during the day and very few at night. The other ones who don’t pass my roof
usually pass my frontage and I love watching them, especially those ones that
are as big as houses and you can’t see the people inside because the glass is
always black like charcoal.
I see a lot of things every day. A lot of things. I will
tell you some and then one that happened today. The one that made me swear that
I was not mad and I can never be because I couldn’t have done what the woman
did.
It is sad that only one man here knows that I’m not really
mad. That shameless one with his beards and hair dread locked like my pubic
hair. Rosco. He hisses and shakes his head at me during the day like all the
others in his gang. But I and he know that I am not mad. Because at night, very
late in the night, when others have gone, he will call me into his danfo
bus, and I will do to him what that stupid igbo he smokes cannot do to
him.
I do not let him know I look forward to it. How can I? Then
he will stop squeezing that N100 note into my left hand every time he gets up
after he has pounded me to his heart’s content. He must think he has just raped
a helpless mad woman as he zips his pants. Fool. He does not have any idea how
my legs shake uncontrollable and how my bowels tremble and how the hair on my
body stand still when he is inside me. Only that he is always too quick. I
don’t know why, but I can’t complain. I have to wait till the next day or the
next.
I’ll continue to let him believe he is raping me but deep
inside me I know I will die if he does not call me like that for three days. I
don’t ever want to return to those days of touching myself. How can I even
think about it? Evil thoughts go back to your sender, please.
Back to what I was saying…the things I see here every day.
In the morning, I wake up with noise. Loud noise.
“Ojuelegba – stadium – barracks!” repeated four times in a
roll so quickly; if you don’t live here you will think it is a call to war. I
wonder where that is; a place whose name sounds like sport and war. Other times
it is, “Itire – Lawanson” that I can hear louder.
Where do I even know? I’ve not left my house for many happy-new-years
now. This is where I shout it every time it is time to shout it.
Then Rosco will wake up and start the engine of his bus. He
will switch it off again and then go across the road and come back with water
in a bucket. My eyes always go with him because I don’t want any careless early
morning driver to knock him down. When he gets back to the danfo, he
will go close to one of the tyres and bring out that his big thing to urinate.
That is when I always wish he would call me, but never, the fool will never
even speak to me, he will just shake his head like the others when they look at
me. I have to wait till it’s very dark.
Then he will remove his clothes and leave his shorts on,
pouring water on himself with either a bowl or his hands. When it is time
to chafe just below his waist, he will keep his hands in there for too long.
This is why I know Rosco is a fool. Can’t he just remove the shorts and wash
properly? Who else is watching?
When he finally leaves with his noisy danfo, I’ll
turn my attention to the road. If I feel hungry, I will get up, re-arrange my
house and make sure no one stole anything while I was asleep and then walk
across the road to buy what I’ll eat.
Oh how I miss the woman who sells that early morning akara.
She doesn’t come again these days because of Fashola’s people. So now I go to
the aboki who prepares tea and indomie noodles and egg. Only Rosco’s
thing is sweeter than that Indomie and egg in this life, you have to believe
me. But the fool will not use his plate to serve me like other people, so I
have to always remember to bring my own plate. He says I’m mad, yet, he knows
how to collect my money and give me change. He doesn’t toy with my change any
more since the day he saw me bite someone with these my teeth for calling me
“Reveren sistaa”.
I hate that name. I hear those are the people who never do
the thing me and Rosco do. They must really think I am one. Fools.
It may be better to ask me what I have not seen here than to
ask me to start telling you the things that I see every day. I have seen rich
men carry prostitutes away at night; I have seen a corpse dropped from one of
those charcoal cars one night long time ago. I have also witnessed many fights
between different gangs like Rosco’s group where they use machetes on
themselves and left blood everywhere. I have also seen many okada people
die like chicken from too much speed, especially at that junction over there.
Only last week, a speeding trailer climbed one okada rider’s head
spilling its content to the ground. I couldn’t eat for days after that. Let us
not talk about it, please.
Yes, I promised to tell you about the incident that made me
know that I am not mad, right? Actually that day I was just sitting on my own
and I noticed a woman selling Coke, Pepsi and LaCasera that all these
people buy and drink and then shine their teeth gleefully after only a gulp.
Suddenly she brought down the big container of drinks from
her head by herself as if to sell to someone. Then she began to go round the
container. Then she began to dance. Then I stood up. I wanted to understand
what was happening. Then she started singing, and clapping like the people in
those churches where they wear only white.
Then she untied her wrapper and used it to cover her wares.
That’s when other people began to notice what I had been watching since. Then
she removed her buba, revealing rounded breasts that made me jealous,
only protected by a very fine bra with some shine-shine on it.
“O ti n ya were o!” a bus conductor yelled as his bus
passed and people stretched their necks to catch a glimpse, saying the woman
was experiencing the beginning of madness.
Then the men who were walking began to stop and look. I’m
sure they were waiting for her to remove the bra. I took my eyes away.
I can’t worry about her too much, because I myself I have a
problem growing in my stomach, I feel like vomiting, and I am very dizzy and I
am very worried.
I am very worried
because I know what it is, this problem. Just like those films I used to watch
in my uncle’s house. They would do the thing without rubber and next
thing, the stupid girl is running outside and vomiting, and then the mumu man says it is not he who caused
it. Fools! As if I was the one who did. And it is the same story in every film
oh, yet, they never learn. After, they would say I’m mad.
I left the woman of
the rounded breasts, with a dozen eyes glued to them, and went home – I thought
I’d have plenty of time with her when she became my new housemate. But you know
all these mad people and their waka waka,
I’m still waiting for her. Like I was saying, I left because I had to sit
down and think. Think very well because I cannot let something like what
happened to the first thing happen to this one. God forbid.
The first thing is
why they are calling me a mad woman. My uncle gave it to me. By force. He used to do me any chance he got -maybe that
is why I like Rosco doing it to me, I don’t know. Then my aunty took it away. By force too. She made me drink two tablets like that and
I slept off. When I woke up, I didn’t have a large tummy again, I cried and
cried ehn. This thing that didn’t
allow my uncle touch me again. This thing that allowed me breathe for two
minutes without my aunty asking me to do unnecessary chores. This thing that I
used to speak with every time, telling it
all my plans and secrets. They took it
away.
I still talk with it to this moment. People point and say
I’m talking to myself. Fools, they don’t know I’m holding an intelligent and
proper conversation. In fact, it was it who
assured me nothing would happen if I put otapiapia
in their meal that night and just walk away - you see, Uncle had started again
and Aunty beat me thoroughly when I told her. I did.
After thinking and
talking to it, I have decided to give
my daughter, yes it’s a girl because this one dances and sings, unlike it who used to jump and kick, to the
“Reveren Sistaa” that I see preaching at the junction. Next Sunday, I would go
and wait for their white bus. She would be a “Sistaa” too and pray very well
for me, then maybe God will manage to forgive me. She will also never do the
thing Rosco and I do, very sweet but too much wahala - see me naw. I cannot even take care of her, talk
less of feeding her. I would breastfeed her all the food she needs for life if
I had the rounded breasts of that mad woman, where is she sef?
So, I am not mad oh, I am not! Fools.
N.B
The story y'all just
read was a competition organized by this phenomenal author, ‘Seun Salami
(please Google him). The first part of the story; in bold format, was written
by him, and the latter part; in normal font, by my humble self. i didn't get
anywhere in the competition (see the grief, apparently i don't have up to
eighty friends to vote online for me, to help in achieving my dreams, so sad,
anyways..) the competition was to find a writer who completes the story best. Don’t
you think i should have won? Please, join me by the "washing" machine;
it’s necessary to do your laundry yourself a times, hehe... hope you enjoyed
the story tho'? It was all for your reading pleasure. Peace and love.
