Life As I Know It

Yaa was a beautiful young college student; she had all the right curves in the right places and a smile that made the stars cower in shame. From her chubby face and fit physique, I could tell she was in her early twenties. The first time I saw her, she was emerging from my boss’s office, the strapless four-point-five inch heel shoe that adorned her graceful legs, making soft, gentle taps on the checkered linoleum below.  After whispering a single line of prayer to my ‘Great Provider’, I decided to make my move. Standing just two meters away from her, I noticed even more, how exquisite and alluring she was – not that the extra motivation was necessary. Being, myself, a dashing young man who seemed to have materialized from the pages of a fairy tale, I ‘swagged’ my way to her, rolling the sleeves up my arms to expose the veiny bulging muscles that laced it. When it came to the knowledge of anything that ever wandered the earth in skirts, I was King Solomon. I walked over to her, worked my magic and in a few seconds, she was laughing heartily, the twinkle in her eye more eminent. “Oboy, you dey bee”, my conceited self murmured.

I only realized my folly when the wicked witch appeared and Cinderella had skedaddled like okra soup going down a Ga’s throat. I was left alone, looking and feeling like a twitching owl, the magnitude of my inanity slowly dawning on me; my boss had caught me hitting on her daughter. Technically, I hadn’t exceeded my limits. However, from the little I had gathered from the grapevine about my boss, I knew ‘talking’ to her daughter alone was enough to warrant me a salary cut or worse still, demotion. It didn’t help either that I was the renowned ‘playboy with a doctorate’. I coughed, feeling her unrelenting stare burrow through my skull and with a look that could have made a confused kakapo smile, I walked sheepishly back to my cubicle, grabbed my lunch pack and made my way to the cafeteria. After the lunch break, frustrated that Nana Akua, my girlfriend, had called to end our relationship, my resolve not to meet my boss’s gaze under any circumstance (at least for the day) had deepened, and so I snuck back to my cubicle. Placing my untouched lunch back into its assigned drawer, I noticed a bright and ironically beautifully designed envelope that bore the inscription, “firing notice”.

Now, sitting on my front porch with a glass of vodka gracing my side table, I looked at the horizon and detested life’s complications. Nana Akua, whom I loved dearly, had told me bluntly (and loudly, I should add) that I was a ‘scrub’ and that a ‘babe’ like herself was wasting her time with me.  I mused on how I had grappled to find a trace of remorse in her face, her words or even in her eyes, and I remembered, with a stabbing discomfort in my chest, that I had found none. I took up my phone after I had heard it beep, “New Message”, the screen had read. I read cursorily and stared unblinkingly at the screen, and then started laughing. I laughed so hard my ribs were getting sore. ……. and then I felt the tears roll down my cheeks. Life had to be a joke, I said to myself and laughed even harder, my frail attempts at deflecting reality, now all too obvious. I slowly broke into a series of sobs and in a few minutes, I lay on the ground, oblivious to the staring passers-by, and wailed.

Somehow, I survived a trip to the hospital. Minor illnesses had been occasionally pestering my mother for the past three months and so had effectuated the need for frequent visits to the hospital. On one such visits, the doctor had hinted at the illnesses being minor symptoms of a more serious disease. My mother, however, had disagreed, stating firmly, that she was fit, and I had believed her. The message I had received early on was from the hospital; I had to make a deposit for a surgery my mum needed urgently, after she had been rushed, unconscious, to the hospital. After a brief conversation with the doctor, who was for the most part of the conversation, obsessed with uttering strange and meaningless words that didn’t mean ‘shit’ to me, I was told that my mum had a fast-developing brain tumor and needed to be operated on, immediately.

I went into the hospital room; a brightly painted room with a pungent antiseptic smell, and saw my mum. I went over to her and took her hand. She looked me in the eye and tried to smile, but her dried, pale and chapped lips wouldn’t let her. I looked into her eyes and felt my throat stiffen, it was as if something had made its way into my larynx and twitched the cartilage. I could see the life in her ebb away. I tried to smile, to assure her that all was going to be well, but then I felt annoying wet streaks go down my cheeks because I didn’t believe it myself. No words were spoken; there was no need. I held on to mama, watching her fall asleep.

I got back to my house, fixed myself a quick dinner, slumped myself on the couch mama had loved and ran the events of the day through my mind: I had lost my job, Nana Akua had dumped me and my mum needed an amount of money I didn’t have urgently for surgery. Just before I closed my eyes to sleep, I received a message notification. I opened it and it read:

“…The woes of life are to mortals the sources of pain,

The cures to the woes, for a favor, can be changed…”

                                                               Miss Lucidev

I kissed my teeth, shifted in my seat till I was comfortable and slowly faded into oblivion, wondering all the while what on earth would make anyone think I was interested in poetry.

I had no intention of returning to the hospital to see mama till I had accumulated enough money to make the deposit. The hospital had left several messages on my phone by noon the next day, elaborating on the magnitude of my mum’s disease and how urgent it was that she underwent surgery. I had decided that morning to borrow some money from the few friends I had.  As I made my way out, something fell off the door when I opened it. It was a letter that read: “End your woes, meet me at St. Ethel’s, now. Signed: Lucidev”.

I headed to the church that had once been my home. I had to satiate my curiosity.

I walked into an empty cathedral, throwing a few glances in every direction, looking for Miss Lucidev. Being a catholic myself, I had always loved the mysteries and ways of the church and so loved my host’s choice of location. Instinctively, I genuflected and made the sign of the cross, pondering over the days when the altar had being my home. After walking halfway down the aisle and still seeing no sign of her, I was beginning to believe that I was being pranked. I swiveled, took two steps towards the exit, but then caught sight of a moving object near the tabernacle. I turned and walked towards it.

“Mr. Judas, I presume”, the object had been a young lady.

“Miss Lucidev?” I asked, only extending my hand for a shake after she had nodded. She looked down at my outstretched palms, ignored that that was an invitation for a handshake, and directed me to the front pew, saying in a surprisingly irritating voice, “can we please sit?” I nodded, trudging reverently behind her. She looked like a nun from the 19^th century who had deserted the habit. I took seven long strides, admiring my gait all the while, and sat in the space she had wiped clean for me. Turning carefully towards her, I took in the fragile frame of her face. She looked away and asked in a voice I had now come to detest, “how about I give you a life?”

I straightened my bow-tie, run a comb through my hair, and looked down at the suit I was wearing; it was a black velvet, three piece suit my mother had gotten me, for my dad’s funeral  three years ago. It had lain in the desolate part of my closet till now. It’s been three days since my encounter with Miss Lucidev, who had claimed to be the widowed wife of the devil himself, Lucifer. I had retorted, “What? He sold his soul to Santa?” and laughed at my joke (and hers) expecting her to join in any time soon. Instead, she had spun her head around, in so quick a fashion, I had expected it to yank off her neck, and in her own way, in a way I would prefer lay permanently dormant in the archives of my brain, made sure I never questioned her, again. All I had to do was remember to take her daughter out on a date.

I sat on the table that had been reserved for two, sipping my wine slowly and reading the labels on everything my eyes chanced upon, wondering if my unprepared will was further evidence of my pervasive stupidity. I saw heads turn simultaneously towards the entrance. I followed their gaze and rested the orbs in my skull on a sight that was so magnificent, it made my head burn. Before me was a lady of astonishing beauty. Her body had blocked the light that shown behind her, casting a bright glow around her fragile frame. Her black hair, with golden highlights, padded gently on her slender, smooth-edged shoulders.  She walked towards me and sat on the chair reserved for my date. I tried to tell her off (sadly though), stating that the seat was meant for someone else. She hushed me with fingers that ought to have been sculptured and said in a voice so serene and delicate, “Don’t look so surprised, I’m your date, Maame Yaa”. I spat out the wine I had been sipping. What?! Had I heard clearly?

I quickly recovered, activated my prince charming self, and apologized. I signaled for the waiter and grinned, the phrase “the night is still young”, hovering in my already grilled brains. She read through the menu, making a few unusual noises that weren’t sane but that were easily compensated for by her beauty. “I’ll take the spaghetti Bolognese, with extra olives and cheddar”, she said, finally looking up from the menu, allowing me to feast my eyes on her deity-like self. “Give me same”, I said to the waiter. I was too excited to trust myself to say anything sane and she, on the other hand, was so busy stuffing herself with her meal she had no vacancy for any extra activity that required that she used her mouth; and so we ate in silence.  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and before I could express my concern, she let out a long, shrill fart that was so bad (and loud) I could taste it. I tried to fake a smile but ended up looking like a victim of a South-Korean surgery that had gone wrong. People were staring. I excused myself, walked as quickly as I could to the washroom and breathed.

After some minutes, the fog in my head cleared. Making my way back to her, I realized how long and unpleasant the night was bound to be. I sat down, smiled and said nervously in a pitchy voice I didn’t recognize as my own, “ha-ha, had to empty that bladder”. I looked at her pick her nose and play with the phlegm. God! She kept on with her disgusting game, slurped noisily with her wine and kept on making annoying loud taps with the heels of her shoe. At this point, I was the one stuffing my meal down my throat.

Waiting for her to finish her second helping of the spaghetti Bolognese, I picked a phone call from the hospital and was told in two sentences that my mother had died. I wanted to run, scream, do something, but for a second or two, my motor neurons were dormant and so I sat, speechless, unblinking. I could feel the persistent rivers in my tear ducts. My limbs felt wobbly and I wondered how it was that they hadn’t buckled under my weight. I stood up, the futility of my actions and pain slowly registering. I turned to leave, only to be met by an angry Nana Akua. She picked up Maame Yaa’s glass of wine and spray-painted me burgundy. She raised her hand, and for a moment I thought of ducking; I had seen it coming early enough to ensure that I maneuvered a clean dodge. But then I realized a slap was the least of my worries and so I stood there, transfixed and felt the sharp pang of pain, as her palms, rings and nails dug into the soft tissues of my face. Funny, I thought, that the best thing that should happen to me (in the past week) should be a slap.