Her Excellency, Mama Ebe

We all called her Mama Ebe. It was much later I got to know “Ebe” is the abbreviated version of her last child’s name, Ebenezer. She was the cleaner assigned (by the maintenance outfit) to manage and see to the cleanliness of the staircase hall of our end of the office building. A woman of diminutive but plump stature, at an initial encounter, Mama Ebe would come across as someone with not so much of a fascinating personality. However, on a close study I must confess I have met not many individuals like this cheerful, pleasantly optimistic, hardly literate, elderly woman (probably in her late fifties).

The ever-cheery cleaner did not consider it a bother to greet or pass a word of admiration (or prayer) to people, passers-by and colleagues for the umpteenth time within a day. Even when we marched across the floor area she would have painstakingly cleaned during her mopping sessions, she would graciously remove the patches of stains without any complaint, murmur or scurrilous scowl on her face as was usual of other cleaners. Instead, Mama Ebe would step aside with a big, warm, hearty smile on her face to allow passage for the pedestrian and with a compliment to complement (pardon pun):

“Enjinia, iyawo ati omo mi nko? E ya’se o.” (Engineer, how’s your wife? And baby? Have a splendid day at work.)

“Enjinia, Oluwa a bukun fun wa. A o ni p’ofo. Yio dara o.” (Engineer, God will bless us. We won’t be losers. It shall be well.)

“E kaabo. E rora sa. Alaafia o.” (Welcome sir. Peace.)

In her characteristic manner, whether she was cleaning the window panes, sweeping and swabbing the floor, dusting the balustrades or sitting idling in her make-shift abode tucked under the staircase, her sonorous voice could be heard within the vicinity as she either hummed or sang most times, hymns.

Many a time when most of the cleaners had either closed for the day or skulking somewhere (within the premises) avoiding duties, Mama Ebe was customarily seen doing multiple rounds of cleaning even when it seemed not necessary. This baffled me and I made a mental note of casually asking her. The opportunity was made available when I had to make a trip to Mama Ebe’s end of town which coincided with her close of work. In her amiable manner, she asked if I was going her way as I reversed out of the parking lot. Mama Ebe stayed in a semi-slum part, uptown. In spite of the inconvenience encountered navigating through that end of town, I willingly gave her a lift.

After exchanging some pleasantries, I led off the “interrogation” in vernacular as we headed towards the suburbs.

“Mama, hope you had a good day at work. Please if you don’t consider it a bother, why are you often cleaning the staircase hall many times daily even when it appears it is not required?”

Mama Ebe beamed in her typical fashion accompanied by a chuckle that could only come from the depth of a heart that is at ease.

“Enjinia, ise ti won sanwo e fun mi ni mo n’se.” (I’m doing the work I’m being paid for).

“But Mama,” I interjected, “you do it with more than required commitment, at least compared to what your colleagues do.”

She sighed and replied. I tried as much as possible to translate and sum up:

“Engineer, you see, that’s why I’m a cleaner. What you observe as clean is not always so. Often times, though my physical eyes may be feeble, I can observe through my third eye as every speck of dust, every mote of debris travels and settles on the floor or window panes. And since it’s my duty to get rid of these I do it without hesitation. More so, I’ve learnt early in life that never let a mole of task accumulate to become a mountain of duty, which is more difficult to handle. In the same vein, frequent removal of specks of dust will eliminate having to remove almost permanent stains from floors and windows if the dirt is left to accumulate. So you could see I’m even making my task easier when I clean frequently. This I do with utmost commitment not because I’m better paid than colleagues or I seek a wage increase. Neither am I doing this to spite nor put other workers in bad light. It’s a standard I’ve set for myself. It’s my own definition of excellence. After each round of cleaning, I step out of myself and critically look at the work done. I query: If I were the employer, would I be satisfied with the quality of work done? Remember, what’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well. It’s only at one’s duty post, one could be judged lazy or otherwise.”

As we got to her neighbourhood, Mama Ebe insisted I pay her a visit and more importantly drink a glass of water all to express her gratitude. I indulged her. I parked by the road entrance leading to her quarter – vehicular access was almost impossible. Judging by the avalanche of greetings from various neighbours, Mama Ebe was certainly a well-known and respected figure in this hood. She equally responded with much zest showering her usual prayers.

After opening the door to her apartment, she stepped in murmuring obviously a word of thankfulness to her Creator. I was inquired to take a seat in the living room while she got some drinking water. Obviously, the not too spacious living room did not spell any jot of affluence or form of magnificence going by the scanty furniture, unpainted walls, bare floor and an old piece of electronic. But one could almost grab a feeling of tangible tranquillity and decency. Though the fabric of the curtains and furniture was almost worn out, they were clean and evidently well-maintained. Other items in the room (wall photos and calendars, books, a cupboard and utensils) were also neatly arranged. I took my leave after drinking a glass of water she served in a manner that was befitting only for a king. Unknown to her, this grateful woman had made a lovesome lasting impression on me.

Ergo, months later, it was with great shock and a seared heart I received the news of the death of Mama Ebe as a result of a late diagnosis of severe diabetes conditions. I cried at the demise of a woman who taught me excellence is not copyrighted to the heights or berths of nobility but it can also be redefined and expressed on dirty floors and window panes – the duty post – of an uneducated, benignant woman. Their bona fide “Excellencies” are those individuals – grand or lowly, schooled or crude, enabled or disabled – who daily make every effort to accomplish not just what is obligatory but also go the extra mile in doing more than required in spite of the incentives or limitations.

I also learned from Mama Ebe that fulfilment may not necessarily be experienced through wealth accumulation or possession of goods. Howbeit, it will never elude a self-contented heart, affluent or not.

May her ebullient, contented and excellent soul, rest in peace.

As another Year Goes by

It is exhilarating to see the 365-day long loop being completed – while another prepares to commence. What is exciting about the coming of a new year despite the fact that nothing really changes – June remains the sixth month of a year, there still exist seven days in a week and the Creator of time nonetheless refuses to extend the 24-hour day by a minute? I believe the closing and advent of a year avail us new opportunities, fresh starts, anniversaries, chances to consolidate on the gains of the previous year, etc.

This annual closure and commencement can be likened to a moving train. At its point of departure, a train is boarded with passengers. At every train-stop, it drops off some of its passengers while picking new ones, most importantly it refuels. This it does till the full cycle is completed – back to its first point of departure to pick passengers afresh. Drawing from this analogy, as we end and commence a new year we usually (resolve to) keep good habits, healthy relationships and attainable goals while dropping the not too beneficial and viable ones. In the same vein, the transition between the old and new allows us to “refuel” for the journey ahead. We tend to ruminate on how to forge ahead in the coming year, strategising on making the best of opportunities while mentally, physically and spiritually preparing ourselves for new challenges.

In this outgoing year, I have had my fair share of lost/wasted opportunities, disappointments, failed/uncompleted projects, deaths of loved ones, working with difficult people, betrayals, etc. Similarly, I have witnessed the good times – I have grown successes with my hands, added value to myself, increased my mental and psychological capacity, established worthy relationships, tried to empower the less privileged, and many more.

As I write this, I discover I have always been caught in a web of delusion even as this year ends and likewise in years past. I have relentlessly dreamt of and yearned for “the better life” which always seems elusive. Within the quoins of my mind, I see and aspire for that illusionary “better life” – where the pastures are greener, the rivers flow still and the heavens drop fats. I have always been of the opinion that the next month, next year and probably the next decade will convey “the better life” come my way. The closer I get to walking into this life, the more subtle, vague and indefinable this mirage becomes. It keeps evolving (or am I changing my mind about what I desire?) and frustratingly eluding.

With the chimera of “the better life” in focus, I discovered I have denied ‘self of many chances of enjoying life’s precious moments believing better prospects lie ahead. I have failed to communicate with loved ones opining there will be opportunities to do same in the future (only to find out later they are no more). Many a time, in the bid of attaining “the better life” with its attendant hustle and bustle, I have lost touch with the essence and stillness of the person within – the real me. Alas, there is no better life than now – no greater moment than the present, no better opportunity than the instant. In fact, El Dorado or Utopia can only be witnessed when an individual makes an inward journey, halting at “life-stops” dropping off “expired passengers” while picking up beneficial ones. It is also expedient that one “refuels” in the course of this life’s journey. These life’s timeouts culminate to be the very life we desire – that “better life”. The greatest wealth and riches lie within. The zenith of heights is the depth of a soul that is ebullient of life.

As another year goes by, I have decided to live by the moments – taking time out to enjoy/endure each opportunity/disappointment that comes my way. This is not a call to reckless living, disregarding the “rainy days”. Howbeit, in the process of doing so life must be lived by the moments. The tomorrow we dreamt of yesterday is today. The future is now! Carpe diem – live the present! Life is short. In fact, it’s a dash as expressed in Linda Ellis’ The Dash:

I read of a reverend who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning…to the end

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke of the following date with tears
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth

For it matters not, how much we own
The cars…the house…the cash
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash

So think about this long and hard
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
(You could be at “dash-mid-range”)

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel

And be less quick to anger
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before

If we treat each other with respect
And more often wear a smile…
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while

So when your eulogy’s being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

Stop postponing your living. Live the life – make that phone call, admit that fault, face that challenge, go on that vacation, write that email, picnic with friends and associates, enrol for that course, make that donation, write that exam – now!

The best of your years is ahead of you - and it begins now!

Queer Things about the Women in Our Lives

I had the extraordinary privilege of growing up with girls the first two-dozen years of my life. I’d count myself (un)lucky having only girls as siblings – absolutely no brother! There were days I really wished I had one. Nonetheless, most times I never felt the absence of one, considering the characters I have as sisters – I call them the sweetest thingies in the world. There was never a dull moment.

I must not fail to mention the peculiarities I had living with ladies through out my teenage and young adult lives. Growing up, one of such has to do with my identity. If I were to be differentiated from colleagues bearing same name with me, I was without a second thought referred to as “Wale Obirin” (the female Wale) – explained by the fact I had a feminine disposition rubbed off on me, as a dint of growing up with ladies!

I left home to be on my own in my early twenties and when fate thought I’d enough of half a decade of self-government, I was convicted and sentenced to a life term of living with another woman (as a matter of fact, now increased to two)!

I’m not a chauvinist and this is not to tell you about my Ms. Fortunes, but to narrate things I still don’t understand about these peculiar people after my almost 30-year “professional” experience of living with them. Though not weighty, these witty, trifling behaviours are still beyond my understanding. Whether you have them as mothers, sisters, wives, relatives, friends, colleagues or whatever, you’ll agree that the under listed mannerisms are queer in no particular order. Thanks to contributors who shared their experiences:

a. I’ve always appreciated braids on ladies. The beauty of this exclusive coiffure when shrewdly crafted ceases not to turn my head yet against its volition. But, you may want to enquire: “What’s queer about braids?” To all sincere intent and purpose, there’s nothing curious about this hairdo but what gravels me is seeing ladies leaving a couple of loose braid strands across their face awkwardly obstructing their line of sight. They occasionally toss these aside. Why can’t the freakin' braids be packed in a lot?!

b. I’m not a shoe freak perhaps that’s why possessing more than a dozen pair of shoes all at one time, bewilders me. I discovered some men folks are likewise infected with this bug. What on earth is an individual doing with this number of footwear?! Most of them are worn occasionally – probably once in a year, after which they are no longer fashionable – while others end up being relics or mementos.

c. Have you ever peeked into a lady’s wardrobe? Most of the “wearables” look fit for folks a decade younger than their owners. It’s often implausible how they manage to put on these outfits. Remember White Chicks – when detectives Kevin and Marcus went shopping, disguising as Brittany and Tiffany.

d. Our ladies sudden switch (when the occasion demands) to the posh or impeccable (in local parlance called “forming”) is mind-blowing!

e. Now hold your breath (or sight) for this: Having a mirror behind the sunshade flap on the passenger side must be a criterion for choosing and purchasing a car! That’s how I spell Q-U-E-E-R.

f. Why do the women in our lives think a man who decidedly stays at home is akin to a complete handyman (plumber, electrician, gardener, carpenter, garbage man, driver, gateman and all – the fullworks, I must say). Someone should know I’m not complaining, just enquiring.

g. What’s that thing that infuriates women when one fails to follow the tenets of eating breakfast, lunch and dinner? Are you obliged to always show up at the table even when there’s no abdominal space to tuck meals in? More questions than answers.

h. A brain teaser: No matter how much more you earn than them, they end up having more than you do.

i. Another one that will boggle me forever: You take a strong stand concerning an issue. You promise ‘self even if Hitler bellows from h*ll or Mother Theresa sheds tears from Abraham’s bosom you ain’t gonna shift an inch. Nonetheless, the women in our lives find their way around, above, under or through this stance and our deportment falls like a pack of cards or melts like peanut butter by the hearth. Who if truth be told is indeed the weaker sex?

j. Whenever you do their bidding you’re a darling or a perfect gentleman. As a matter of fact, Denzel Washington is just trailing. However, when you don’t: You don’t know how to treat a lady!

k. When you have them as colleagues, they’re keen to show you “what a man can do, a woman can do battering.” Oops! I mean “better”.

l. A couple of times, I’ve tried to keep up with the Cadavers Kardashians, discovering why TV remotes grow wings (to reappear much later) when soaps like Paloma, Demented Desperate Housewives, Second Chance et al were aired. Each time, my eyes increased in weight and changed colour (means drooped with sleep).

m. In the bid of trying to impress (or avoiding to disappoint) the women in our lives, we end up accomplishing all but what we set out doing, even at our risk. I know a friend who almost electrocuted himself while trying to help a next door female neighbour who asked for his unknown slapdash assistance – the poor guy didn’t know jack about electricity and he never wanted to disappoint his housemate.

I guess I’ve to stop here for now.

Excuse me ladies, is it safe for me to come home?

Birthday Boy

It is the fourth time I’d be sneaking out of bed to check my well ironed “cut-and-sew” cotton waistcoat and black silk shirt hung in the wardrobe, alongside my meticulously polished shoes which were acquired the previous Christmas.

It seems as if morning will never come. I’ve been rambling from one corner of the bed to the other, expecting the much awaited knock (more often than not a bang) on the door by Mom, signifying wake-up time to start preparing for school. A wry smile hits my face when I remember just some years ago I had not the imperial privilege of sleeping on a mattress bed. All that was due to me was a beautifully painted raffia mat (with a pillow and a cover cloth) which had to be changed often due to my incessant bed-wetting (a doctor friend of mine calls it enuresis – whatever that means).

Incidentally, today is my 9th birthday anniversary and you can’t fathom how I’ve looked forward to this day. With my arms folded and supporting the back of my head, I gaze into the invisible ceiling in the unlit room. I try to imagine how I’d be the centre of attraction today in class and (if kismet will smile on me) most probably, the whole school – the applause I’ll receive as I mount the pedestal our head teacher stays on when he invites up birthday celebrants of the day to join him during the morning assembly……

“Wake up! It’s time for school.” Mom shouts as she profusely bangs on the door.

I subconsciously ruffle under the cover cloth disinclined to get out of bed. Suddenly, I remember it’s my birthday - a day I’ve counted down to! I jump out of bed with an exigency of a king’s messenger. I know Mom and my siblings will wonder at the unusual manner I completed my house chores this morning without the customary suasion to perform these tasks consequent of being caught snoozing in one niche of the house.

I feel on top of the world. Let me paint the picture.

Here I am on my 9th birthday anniversary. No school uniform today. I’m well-dressed in my Sunday best and Christmas shoes, to go with new underwear I’ve never put on hitherto and actually saved for today. The excitement won’t let me eat breakfast. My appetite seems to understand there is a sensation inside me which is more compelling than hunger (at least for the moment). I single-handedly convey the drinks and snacks for my birthday party into the trunk of Mom’s car. It’s a pity all my prior cries and sulks couldn’t get a birthday cake out of the tight family’s budget for today’s event. Never mind, cake or no cake it’s still my birthday.

I impatiently hope Mom and my sisters will soon be ready so we’d hit the road. I can’t wait for them to round-off the birthday songs, wishes and other compliments as I look forward to getting to school as soon as these ladies will permit me to begin my day. It’s showtime and I’m all set to start basking in the euphoria of a birthday boy!

We get to school with no hitches during which my mind is most of the travel time on despatch. I can’t concentrate on the tittle-tattles that ensue. Our arrival does create the desired effects as I peep to observe twinkles of surprises on the faces of fellow pupils (or am I just disillusioned?) admiring me in my poised outfit.

Now it’s morning assembly time – an opportunity to officially inaugurate the show-off. During the morning devotion, the head teacher invites the celebrants up. A couple of other individuals are fortunate to share today with me. We elegantly walk through the aisle created by fellow pupils. Beaming with smiles, I look across the assembly of students as they chorus various birthday songs. I couldn’t have been happier!

The morning classes trail overly long for my predilection. All I can see are Mr. Mensah’s (our class teacher) moving lips and his gesticulating hands as this mind of mine still refuses to concentrate on his lectures. I earnestly look forward to proceeding on lunch break. This usually serves as the climax of any birthday celebration. This is how we usually do it:

During the lunch timeout, the celebrant sits in front of the class on an ad-hoc high table to where he/she invites his/her best male and female pals. Almost every class member warms up to the celebrant in an unusually gracious manner so as to be considered for sharing the ephemeral exulted seats with the birthday boy/girl. In addition, the “special guests” also enjoy the rare privilege of having a full bottle of soft drink each to themselves along with the celebrant while other class members parsimoniously share theirs.

Today, I notice Bella my tyrannical bully row mate (who is almost twice my size) has been exceptionally nice to me. She (yes! she) even offers me one of her spare pencils when I couldn’t locate mine on time! Deke out of the blue decides to lend me the Nintendo game he has denied me unrelentingly many a time, while Sola says with a dimple-smile that I’d no longer bother about her Enid Blyton’s I misplaced. How I wish birthday anniversaries could be an everyday event.

Mr. Mensah jump-starts the occasion, after the usual birthday chorus rendered recitatively by the class as he showers innumerable encomiums on me. I almost forget the compliments are meant for me as I find it difficult to believe my ears: Is this not the same well-behaved birthday boy he flogged unapologetically the previous week? I think whoever it was that invented/suggested birthday anniversaries should be celebrated, such a person should be immortalised and canonised. This is one of the few events in an individual’s life when one’s hitherto and/or prejudged “foes” strive to be at peace with him and rare privileges are also accorded him.

Now comes the supposedly easy part but realistically a tough one: Choosing my guests of honour. Without reconsideration, I know who my best male friend-invitee would be: Deolu, our class head of course! Not because he’s the class chief but we do share a couple of things in common. We both are objects of intimidation from our class yobbos as we tend to shy away from any form of confrontation with these troublemakers. Moreover, Deolu possesses many attributes I desire. He has an impressively exquisite handwriting for a young boy of his age – one, Microsoft Word application will be glad to put on its fonts menu and probably patent Deolu Cursive. Regardless of his occasional apprehension, Deolu has an aura of self-confidence and kindliness. He’s ever nattily dressed, keen to help and gracious with a handsome visage and a brilliant mind to complement. He strikes one as a lady’s man. In fact, he’s my exemplar. Hence, Deolu joins me on the high table.

My childhood fantasy remains the bane of my female guest choice. My heart pendulums between opting for the quiet, more familiar but not so exquisite Yemi and the energetic, classy, exotic and much talked-about Michelle.

Yemi has been my schoolgirl fantasy right from the previous class. In between ourselves, though tacit, we are both conscious of this “feeling, inside.” She has been remarkably friendly providing a masked affection, at any opportunity she gets. I remember now how she helped search for my lost pairs of stockings, last school term.

Michelle is the new chic on the block – the hottest sensation! She’s a perfect fuse of white and rich chocolate melanin all in one cast. A European-African descent, her tinge of skin colour is of a rare blend – a spotless tinge, Ethiopian in nature – commonly known as a half-caste. Her arrival on the school landscape last session is akin to breaking news. She is the talk of the whole school. Everybody wants her attention and friendship – so do I. However, a number of students complain about her high-handedness, arrogance and bad manners, but I think they are just envious of this beauty queen. I have been searching for an opportunity to secure Michelle’s attention and probably her affection. This might be it!

The time taken to announce my female guest seems like ages. Adrenalin gushes through my body and my facial nerves twitch as blood rushes through them similarly. My limbs become cold and numb. I can see immense anticipation expressed differently across the over 20 pairs of eyes that seem to await the declaration of a verdict that will impact their lives. The silence that pervades the classroom is almost tangible. Did I see Sola’s eye twinkle with her usual accompanied captivating dimple-smile? I grimace seeing the I-will-whip-you-silly-if-you-don’t-pick-me look on Bella’s face. I dare the consequences of my choice deciding to deal with the fiend, afterwards.

With my heart in my mouth, I declare “I choose Michelle to join me.”

I can almost hear the silent moan exclaimed by the whole class simultaneously. Taken aback likewise, Michelle catwalks with some feel of haughtiness in her steps, to join us at the table.

A quick glance towards Yemi’s direction assures me I’ve made a most ill decision. She drops her head as soon as our eyes make contact. My heart sinks and wallows in abject shame, disappointment and betrayal. Nonetheless, I reassure myself with the company of the most desired celebrity in school. Besides, I owe no one any form of commitment or affection. Do I? Why should I be down with guilt? But deep within me, I know something, somewhere, somehow is not right.

My mind is absolutely absent from the remaining happenings and activities of the day. After the lunch break, I can’t bring myself to steal another glance at Yemi. Howbeit, I delight myself with security of the newly established association and prospects with Michelle. At any rate, I have won the attention of the renowned Michelle! I can’t wait for the end of school…..

As the bell rings signifying the close of day, I hurriedly pack my books. I make a mental analysis of how to accost Michelle. My major concern is how to penetrate her barrier of friends that flock around her like aides. I run after their convoy as they descend the stairs.

“Mi...Mi…Michelle.” I stutter. “Excuse me; I’d like to speak with you Michelle.”

She stops dead in her track, turns and walks back to meet me. My heart beats and leaps for excitement. I can’t believe this angel is all mine. The whole world seems to come to a standstill awaiting my beck and call. However, the look on her face suggests otherwise.

“Listen, Wale or whatever you’re called.” Michelle bellows.

“Never you, involve me in any of your low class so-called birthday parties again. I just didn’t want to embarrass you this afternoon. That was why I honoured your invitation.” She continues.

“I can’t imagine how someone could celebrate a birthday without a cake.”

She hisses and walks away with her fleet close at her heels, giggling and making faces at me.

There and then, I know without equivocation, I did make an erroneous choice during the lunch break. My head aches, my belly rumbles and my legs shake all in unison. I pray I’d be swallowed up by the ground beneath me. Shame in its full intensity envelopes me. From the staircase landing where I stand stuck, I glance up seeing Yemi. Obviously, she must have witnessed this show of embarrassment. With tears in her eyes, she runs down the stairs, avoiding me as she attempts to suppress her sobs......

“Excuse me sir.” The young lady tries to get my attention. She taps me, hence disrupting my daydreaming.

“This is your account balance.” She announces, slipping a piece of paper towards me. She turns away to attend to other businesses.

“Thank you.” I murmur.

I leave the bank hall walking out absentmindedly, oblivious of my surrounding and forgetting the reason I came there for, ab initio.

18 years after betraying a childhood love, here I am struck by the sudden appearance of my bank’s Client Relation Officer who bears every resemblance of Yemi – my heartbroken first love. Coincidentally, as fate will have it, today is my 27th birthday anniversary. Could this really be a coincidence?

In the absence of even the minutest of all doubt, I’m persuaded the lady at the desk is Yemi, but her seemingly expressionless face and business-like gesture confuse me. Moreover, the unknown name plaque on her table beclouds my conviction while the wedding band on her finger discourages me from embarking on further enquiries.

Should I go back in there to find out?

The End

The characters in this story are fictitious. However, some parts of the event may not be untrue ;-)

Comments are welcome.

Like a Fleeting Zephyr (Part 2) - A Short Story

Fred could inescapably be described in simple words – happy-go-lucky. An initial notice of him never left an impressive opinion of a striking personality. Brown eyes, a firmly fixed nose, a pair of small lips that twitched intermittently, coupled with a smooth-shaven face did complement his gangling physique.

They met for the first time at an ordinary spot but in an unusual circumstance – a Chicken-and-Chips kiosk.

“Chips please”, they both chorused at the stand ordering for the crispy-looking bouquet of chips, at the same time. Looking inexpressively at each other, Fred offered her a wry smile.

“Please I’m very sorry”, the kiosk-tender alarmed, “this is the last pack I have for today. Just about closing for the day. I guess it’s only one of you that has to take the bunch.”

They involuntarily stared at each other again. “All right”, said Fred, “ladies first.” The kiosk-tender chuckled. “No, c’mon”, exclaimed Amy, “I’d always do without the chips. You go ahead and take the stuff.”

Fred took a mock bow, “I insist.”

The tender giggled out loudly, “Senorita, honour the gentleman’s request. You can have the chips.”

Amy, defeated, unwillingly took the pack, as she fidgeted through her handbag to pay for the snack.

“Care for some mayonnaise or ketch-up?”, the kiosk-tender inquired.

To be continued...

Adewale Ajani

© AMA January 2006

Like a Fleeting Zephyr (Part 1) - A Short Story

“No. Thanks, Hilda. I think I’d rather stay indoors to read some novels, have some nice burgers and watch some movies. You guys should have a nice time. Cheerio.”

“C’mon Amy,” Hilda replied with an insisting tone, while appraising her swimming trunk in the mirror, “you’ve been very busy with the volunteer group all this while. I think you deserve a break – take some time out at the beach, enjoy the warm radiant sun, meet a couple of guys…”

“I said no!”, snapped Amy. Hilda turned from the mirror and strolled in her direction, with a persuasive look on her face. “Hey, you’ve been unnecessarily edgy about this whole issue. A couple of hours at the resort won’t…”

“No! No!! No!!! Please let me be!” Amy screamed and burst into tears as she ostentatiously flung the hardcover magazine she was reading at an enthralled Hilda, who narrowly missed being hit by the novel by a trifle.

Standing perplexed and confused for a few reclusive moments, Hilda mustered up some courage to approach Amy, who had withdrawn into a niche of her bed, uncontrollably sobbing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to do that, but…” she paused, “…you won’t understand.”

Hilda stooped toward her disquieted mate staring at her, obviously carked as well. Eventually, she sat on the edge of the bed dotingly close to assuage the feelings of her perturbed friend. “Amy, it seems there’s more to this issue about going to the beach. I’m quite shocked seeing you reacting like that.” She rhetorically inquired, as she soothingly stroke Amy’s hair. “I know I’m in the dark about something. All this while the feeling won’t go. Please tell me, what’s the bother and whole emotions about?”

Amy looked up. She momentarily stared into Hilda’s extremely bewildered face, searching for an assurance deep within those eyes. Her gaze dropped. “Forget it Hilda. You won’t understand.” Hilda didn’t give up. “Come off it girl. I can’t live with this feeling about you hiding something away from me. It makes me feel creepy and untrustworthy. Please whatever it is, you have a confidant in me.”

Again, Amy burst into tears. “All right, I will”, she mumbled between sobs, as Hilda affectionately drew her toward her bosom, “I will…”

To be continued...

Adewale Ajani

© AMA January 2006