Summer Time
(Written sometime last year)
By Esoteric Hamz
.
The size of your dick shrinks to twice half its size in twice as fast the time it takes to have an erection when you hear something bad, something unexpectedly terrible, like some girl wailing and whimpering over the phone, telling you that you’ve gotten her pregnant. Your head spins first, your temperature decreases next,
blankness gathers and wraps your thoughts in so vicelike a grip that it hurts to breathe, actions long forgotten slowly surfaces and you begin to rationalise, an acute lack of faith in your fecundity kicks in, hot panic courses through you reducing you to a level a little higher than base animals as you begin to nurse thoughts of either getting rid of the girl or the baby, and how you begin to ask stupid questions without bothering to wait for the answers.
.
Slowly, your haphazard thoughts gather together and you begin to think. The first thought is to get rid of the girl. Get rid of the girl?
How? When? Where? The first time you saw a cadaver, you got sick and threw up like you’d woken up next to one. Now, you want to make somebody one? Nonsense! You realise you’re not thinking straight.
.
Keep the baby? Are you crazy? You remember the fervour with which you drag heads of fish with your younger siblings under the shoddy slapdash of a building that your father calls a home and you, because your prick redirected you to the wrong hole, you want to keep a baby when you're not done keeping yourself? You discard that thought.
.
Then comes the last thought that you’ve been shying away from. The thought of thinking about it anymore than you already have makes you break a sweat and shudder. Abortion. You think of the innocent foetus getting murdered for a wrong he did not do. You think of what it could’ve been if it had been given a chance. You think of the girl’s reaction when you broach the topic. You think of complications... complexities... death. What if she dies? It’s then you begin to curse yourself, your dick, the porno that galvanized you into action, it’s producers... and you continue to curse till you begin to curse those not even remotely connected to the intricate maze of your predicament. You settle for abortion anyway. After you’re done with it, you’ll do two things. One, ask God for forgiveness and two, strap a straitjacket to your small thing.
.
You go to meet the girl. She’s crying like she’s the next in a short line of those waiting to be slain. The degree of her misery sickens you to the point of dizziness. She blames you for not using condoms. You blame her for not forcing you to. She blames you for not loving her enough to force her to force you to. You blame her for talking stupidly. You each blame yourselves till your voices demand dominance and you both turn eager participants in a shouting contest and mud-slinging competition.
.
In your reckless anger, you tell her about the abortion. Her sudden silence makes you wonder if the one who said angry ladies couldn’t be abruptly silenced wasn’t drunk, joking or both.
Her eyes ask you, “Abortion?” The evasion of your eyes answer in a stammer, “Errm... You won’t die on the table.’ The way she slowly covers her nose and open mouth with her splayed fingers tells you she has said no with a finality that would take something of something not of this world nor in the world to come to change.
.
You know the definition of fucked? It’s now you’ve grasped the firsthand meaning. You’re FUCKED!!!
.
You’ve been screaming at her since, abi? You will beg. You slowly kneel down and begin to speak slowly and deliberately, like someone scared of reaching the word limit in a flash fiction. The first word that falls from your lips earns you a series of slaps so fast that you wonder if she’s got an alter ego solely for the purpose of assistance in times like this. You remove the C from fucked and substitute it with a K. Yes! Fukked! You beg. You grovel. You literally weep at her feet. It takes days. Her resolve softens to a pulp. That's when you know you really are something not of this world, nor in the world to come.
.
And then, the next problem comes. You see, a good man is not the only hard thing to find. Eaten school fees and abortion money are among. You’re looking for abortion money now. You sell what you have, borrow what you can, steal what your eyes see and what the abortion longs for, and then borrow again.
.
Slowly, the day draws nigh. The thought of complications drives you to the brink of insanity. Suddenly, the day arrives.
.
The both of you go there. You dare not say a word. Na crase dey worry you? Didn’t the expression on her face remind you of Gorgon Medusa? Or do you want to be used to grind pepper and tomatoes? Guy, coordinate o! You both get there and according to Loja slang, “Afraid e be wear you cloth”. See abortion line like ATM queue on the 31st. She takes her number. Number 94.
.
The line moves slowly as Reverend sisters, prayer warrior’s daughters, choir mistresses, agbero's girlfriends Etc come out of the slaughter house.
.
You hear the shrill voice, “Nom Bah 94”
.
She stands up and walks in. You and her. You watch as she takes off her clothes. Her nakedness doesn’t appeal to you. You’re scared. Your prayer is, “GOD, no make am die for my head.”
.
Ten minutes pass. Twenty. You start to pace about. That’s when she comes out. A wave of relief floods you.
.
You rush to her, “Just now just now? You sure say e commot well well?”
You're not worth answering so silence greets you.
It’s over so soon and you both go home.
.
Days pass. Weeks too. On a bright sunny day, you receive a call.
You pick. It’s her. “How far?”
.
She doesn’t say much. Just, “Come over.”
.
Ten minutes later sees you staring at her completely naked.
You say, “I don’t understand...”
.
“Come and make me feel like a woman,” she whispers. “Summer Time will always be there.”
.
You don’t even know that's the name of the abortion center. You don’t care either. You just slowly unstrap the straitjacket from your small thing. And then, you go and make her feel like a woman.
.
©HamzWrites2016
All Rights Reserved.
(Written sometime last year)
By Esoteric Hamz
.
The size of your dick shrinks to twice half its size in twice as fast the time it takes to have an erection when you hear something bad, something unexpectedly terrible, like some girl wailing and whimpering over the phone, telling you that you’ve gotten her pregnant. Your head spins first, your temperature decreases next,
blankness gathers and wraps your thoughts in so vicelike a grip that it hurts to breathe, actions long forgotten slowly surfaces and you begin to rationalise, an acute lack of faith in your fecundity kicks in, hot panic courses through you reducing you to a level a little higher than base animals as you begin to nurse thoughts of either getting rid of the girl or the baby, and how you begin to ask stupid questions without bothering to wait for the answers.
.
Slowly, your haphazard thoughts gather together and you begin to think. The first thought is to get rid of the girl. Get rid of the girl?
How? When? Where? The first time you saw a cadaver, you got sick and threw up like you’d woken up next to one. Now, you want to make somebody one? Nonsense! You realise you’re not thinking straight.
.
Keep the baby? Are you crazy? You remember the fervour with which you drag heads of fish with your younger siblings under the shoddy slapdash of a building that your father calls a home and you, because your prick redirected you to the wrong hole, you want to keep a baby when you're not done keeping yourself? You discard that thought.
.
Then comes the last thought that you’ve been shying away from. The thought of thinking about it anymore than you already have makes you break a sweat and shudder. Abortion. You think of the innocent foetus getting murdered for a wrong he did not do. You think of what it could’ve been if it had been given a chance. You think of the girl’s reaction when you broach the topic. You think of complications... complexities... death. What if she dies? It’s then you begin to curse yourself, your dick, the porno that galvanized you into action, it’s producers... and you continue to curse till you begin to curse those not even remotely connected to the intricate maze of your predicament. You settle for abortion anyway. After you’re done with it, you’ll do two things. One, ask God for forgiveness and two, strap a straitjacket to your small thing.
.
You go to meet the girl. She’s crying like she’s the next in a short line of those waiting to be slain. The degree of her misery sickens you to the point of dizziness. She blames you for not using condoms. You blame her for not forcing you to. She blames you for not loving her enough to force her to force you to. You blame her for talking stupidly. You each blame yourselves till your voices demand dominance and you both turn eager participants in a shouting contest and mud-slinging competition.
.
In your reckless anger, you tell her about the abortion. Her sudden silence makes you wonder if the one who said angry ladies couldn’t be abruptly silenced wasn’t drunk, joking or both.
Her eyes ask you, “Abortion?” The evasion of your eyes answer in a stammer, “Errm... You won’t die on the table.’ The way she slowly covers her nose and open mouth with her splayed fingers tells you she has said no with a finality that would take something of something not of this world nor in the world to come to change.
.
You know the definition of fucked? It’s now you’ve grasped the firsthand meaning. You’re FUCKED!!!
.
You’ve been screaming at her since, abi? You will beg. You slowly kneel down and begin to speak slowly and deliberately, like someone scared of reaching the word limit in a flash fiction. The first word that falls from your lips earns you a series of slaps so fast that you wonder if she’s got an alter ego solely for the purpose of assistance in times like this. You remove the C from fucked and substitute it with a K. Yes! Fukked! You beg. You grovel. You literally weep at her feet. It takes days. Her resolve softens to a pulp. That's when you know you really are something not of this world, nor in the world to come.
.
And then, the next problem comes. You see, a good man is not the only hard thing to find. Eaten school fees and abortion money are among. You’re looking for abortion money now. You sell what you have, borrow what you can, steal what your eyes see and what the abortion longs for, and then borrow again.
.
Slowly, the day draws nigh. The thought of complications drives you to the brink of insanity. Suddenly, the day arrives.
.
The both of you go there. You dare not say a word. Na crase dey worry you? Didn’t the expression on her face remind you of Gorgon Medusa? Or do you want to be used to grind pepper and tomatoes? Guy, coordinate o! You both get there and according to Loja slang, “Afraid e be wear you cloth”. See abortion line like ATM queue on the 31st. She takes her number. Number 94.
.
The line moves slowly as Reverend sisters, prayer warrior’s daughters, choir mistresses, agbero's girlfriends Etc come out of the slaughter house.
.
You hear the shrill voice, “Nom Bah 94”
.
She stands up and walks in. You and her. You watch as she takes off her clothes. Her nakedness doesn’t appeal to you. You’re scared. Your prayer is, “GOD, no make am die for my head.”
.
Ten minutes pass. Twenty. You start to pace about. That’s when she comes out. A wave of relief floods you.
.
You rush to her, “Just now just now? You sure say e commot well well?”
You're not worth answering so silence greets you.
It’s over so soon and you both go home.
.
Days pass. Weeks too. On a bright sunny day, you receive a call.
You pick. It’s her. “How far?”
.
She doesn’t say much. Just, “Come over.”
.
Ten minutes later sees you staring at her completely naked.
You say, “I don’t understand...”
.
“Come and make me feel like a woman,” she whispers. “Summer Time will always be there.”
.
You don’t even know that's the name of the abortion center. You don’t care either. You just slowly unstrap the straitjacket from your small thing. And then, you go and make her feel like a woman.
.
©HamzWrites2016
All Rights Reserved.
Comments
Post a Comment