6 Short Stories 1 - A Kernel For A Fowl (2/2)

He said he wanted to be a computer network administrator. You paid ve thousand dollars for him to attend a training inst.i.tute. He completed his courses. He studied hard and obtained his certi cation. By the time he was done, the computer boom had zzled out. Those who were surviving were those who got in not for the money but for the love of computers. He got in for the money and when the money was not coming, he put away his chips.

Finally, he settled into real estate. He became a realtor. He wore a suit and tie, expensive shoes and went about seeking people who want to buy houses. He was good at it. He had a sweet mouth. And it helped that he was handsome. It made wives encourage their husbands to listen. Many listened and he sold many houses. You agreed with him that he had found his calling.

But then, all his friends and acquaintances who had good credit and could a ord the down payments had all bought houses. His options began to narrow. You helped him buy two houses. It was a small business of renting for him. A cus.h.i.+on. You also helped him start a sta recruiting agency that sent nurses and direct support sta to nursing homes and group homes. For a long while, you and your nurse friends were his core base of nurses.

As you helped move him towards more stable and responsible career choices, you also noticed his stabilization. It was gradual. He reduced the number of days he went to the gym and began to see himself beyond the pu ness of his muscles. You noticed the changes from the nature of the haircuts he was getting. You could also see from the size of the pants he wore. As he slid from the hard-core hip-hop worldview to a middle cla.s.s black outlook, the size of his pants reduced. His pants also climbed up his b.u.t.t. You were glad that your man was coming home. You were hopeful that he was settling.

But as soon as his mother left, you noticed a change in him. He wasn't as open as before. You asked him once what was eating him and he said he was being pressured by his mother to get married. You tried to console him. You tried to tell him all parents were designed to think like that. You tried to tell him that your mother had also been pus.h.i.+ng you in the same direction.

You did not tell him, ”h.e.l.lo? What's the problem?” You did not say, ”I'm here!” No. You encouraged him to listen to his mother and yet to make his own decision.

When he suddenly announced that he was going home and would stay for two months, you did not have any worries. After all, it had been a long time since he was home. You volunteered to help him run his businesses, but he refused. That surprised you because you had been helping him in the past. But you did not read too much into it. Not even when his agency stopped calling you for work. You did not care because you were never short of work hours anyhow.

He went to Nigeria and called you once. You did not hear from him again. One month, two months, three months. You were worried. You sent him an email but he did not respond.

You visited his house and there was no sign that he had come back. You visited his sta ng agency o ce. It had been closed. You made enquiries. You spoke to his friends but n.o.body seemed to know anything.

Even though you missed him so much, you gave him his s.p.a.ce. It was very painful as your birthday came. Last year, you travelled with him to Disney World. It was there that you marked your thirty-fourth birthday and he celebrated his thirty-sixth, which was two months after yours. You missed him but you also knew in your heart that he was G.o.d's gift to you. Agaracha, wanderer, you told yourself, must come back.

Then four months after he went away, during your birthday party, someone gave you a strange gift. It was an envelope with a business card inside. You looked at the business card. It was his. It showed his name, new address and phone number in Worcester. A note on the back of the card said he had returned from Nigeria with a nineteenyear old wife and they both live in Worcester.

You stormed out of your own party like b.u.t.tocks stung by a vicious ant. You entered your car and drove to Worcester. You could not recall stopping at any tra c light. You could not remember paying any toll at Tobin Bridge. The last time you were in Worcester, you had come with him to attend a pre-wedding party of a Kenyan friend at Lucky Dog nightclub.

You got to the address and saw his Mercedes car parked in the driveway—a car you made the down payment for. You sat outside his house and watched, while your blood boiled inside. From the window you could see two gures moving around the house. You called the home number on the card. You saw him walk towards what must be the phone. He paused at what must be the phone's caller ID. He did not pick it up. You waited for two minutes. You called his new cell phone number. He did not pick that up either.

You sat in the car for a long time with your eyes focused on the house. As tears began to build up, you saw the two gures inside what looked like the living room area. He held her hand and they began to dance. The scene broke goose pimples all over your skin. You called again, this time dialling * 87 rst to conceal your phone number. He walked toward the phone but still did not pick it up. You saw them swinging into what looked like the bedroom.

You wished you could be invisible. You wished your phone was a gun. You wished you had enough gas to pour round the house and set it ablaze. You wished you could invoke the tornado of 1952 on the house. You wetted your ngers with your saliva and rubbed your eyes. You were not dreaming. You called again. This time, the male gure did not walk toward the phone. He switched o the light as the two gures gently landed on what must be the bed. You knew exactly what would follow. You have been there.

You started your car and drove away as erratic as a sliced worm, wondering amongst other things if he had given her a tattoo too. And if so, what her tattoo might say;

Sc.u.mbag?

As you drove home, tears trickled down your eyes. Every mile away from Worcester, its seven steep hills fading behind, you imagined the undertakers preparing your rst love for burial. This is one funeral you will not attend. You had waited for eternity for those tears to ow. Now you feared it would ood Lake Quinsigamond. But weeping was all your soul needed to be free.

At Tobin Bridge, across the Mystic River of Ma.s.sachusetts, the spirits of those who could not bear loads like this besieged you. They said, ”Stop the car. Climb out. Take a jump o the bridge. Immerse your tired body into this cold water. It will cool your soul.” There were many voices. They were loud, cluttered and making eerie noises across the cantilever truss. You heard a voice like that of Charles Stuart. His murdered pregnant wife sobbed in the background. You heard a splash as his body made the 115 ft. plunge into the river, causing receding ripples just as Boston police circled his home.

You slowed down your car. You pulled up by the emergency lane. You clicked the door open with your tear soaked hands. The night was chilly. You looked out and saw darkness as creepy as a monster's claws. Suddenly, the voices stopped shouting and began to whisper in seductive tones.

You put your foot out and it felt unsteady touching the frozen bridge.

From afar, you heard police sirens singing a dirge. They were coming toward you. They were driving up fast. You ducked into the car like a scared snail burying its head in the sh.e.l.l. You started the car and drove o in a panic. The voices jumped into the car with you and began to call you a coward. You a.s.sured them you were not a coward. You debated with them. They insulted you. You continued to drive, dgeting and frightened. You turned on the radio to interrupt the voices. On the radio, the alternative rock band, Failure came on. They were singing 'The Nurse Who Loved Me':

Say h.e.l.lo to everything you've left behind It's even more a part of your life now that you can't touch it

I'm taking her home with me, all dressed in white

She's got everything I need; some pills in a little cup

She's fallen hard for me; I can see it in her eyes…

Those were the last words you heard before you smashed into a pavement a few yards o the bridge.

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