Shadows

ONE KOBAPE TOWN, OGUN STATE, SOUTHWEST NIGERIA APRIL 7, 2001 Simon swung the wheel of his Chevy against the gravel and pulled over at the curb. He killed the Chevy ignition and blew a long breath. He was drained, had been butt-pinned behind the steering wheel whilst stuck in the stiffened Lagos traffic for the best part of four hours. He’d just blasted sixty miles from downtown Lagos. The journey could have lasted an hour but was stretched to four by the stiffening traffic. He vaulted out of the Chevy and slammed the door. Swiveled his countenance skyward and smiled. He was sniffing the surrounding smell. That kind of smell you get in the trenches. He flicked his wrist to check for time on his golden wristwatch. It shows ten of seven. He stood immobile on the terrain, blank, observing nature’s beauty. Trees flutter around in different shapes and sizes, spawning green leaves on branches. Weeds splattering and blazing in colors: green, lemon, yellow; all over, gracing every spot of the muddy ground. The sun was cutting its orange glimpse from the peak of the trees, emitting a beautiful shade of citrus to create aesthetics — a perfect atmosphere in the twilight. He shuffled over to a building, rattled slowly through an open shed, vaulted in, and requested four bottles of liquor. It was a local bar located in the state’s countryside. The bar was a few miles away from his lodge. It has been christened ‘Idi oti’ (meaning liquor spot) by the village inhabitants, and was the only spot that provided the villagers with chilled beer. It was well known in the community. The bar was built with wood. A bit spacious—twice the size of a big living room. Mounted very close to it was an open shed roofed with palm leaves—designed for customers to receive fresh air during late hours. Simon was gulping the liquor fluid in his cup as if it were common water. He’d been engulfed in those green bottles since seven. Now it’s eleven. Time to go home. He stood up from the verge where he was seated, filled with empty bottles of liquor—about ten of them. Fully kitted in his National Youth Service Corps uniform. His white t-shirt stuck around his masculine body. His khaki pants obliged the iron as its wrinkles were ousted with blended crease lines. He tied his khaki jacket around his waist. On his feet, Corp snickers. His eyes were as red as fire. Drunk in a stupor, he staggered back and forth. His feet leaped nonstop in a proportional swing with his head like an agama lizard. He sliced his right hand slowly into the air, signaling the bartenders—a farewell bid. He collided with the door. Staggered out of the wooden bar and headed towards his old Chevrolet. There is something phenomenal about nocturnal hours: it's the frosty and chilly temperatures, especially in the wet season. It’s the same everywhere. Africa. America. Asia. Australia. Antarctica. The Island. The Caribbean. Name it, it’s the same everywhere. Stepping up to the Chevy, Simon yanked backward. The cold mist of midnight struck him in transit. He leaned uprightly by the driver's side of the Chevy and rubbed his face with his left hand. A half-filled bottle of beer gripped underneath the hollow of the right arm. He belched aloud, tilting his face skywards. His brain went into a frenzy. He was gazing around like a lost sheep in the wilderness. Everywhere was calm and quiet, except for the sound of the crickets and birds chirping in the atmosphere. Adjacent to his car was a gigantic tree, spreading its encompassing tentacles above his car. On the tree branches were birds of different species tweeting intermittently in one accord. He gaped up at the big tree like he hadn't seen anything of such a structure before in his entire life. Staggered a bit forward towards the tree, walking like a person with cognitive disabilities. He zipped down his pants to pee. Walked sluggishly back into his Chevy. Ignited the engine and blasted downtown. In his left hand was the bottle of chilled liquor, whilst his right hand was busy navigating the steering wheel zigzag. A clang of desire hit him as he blasted down the highway. Obliging the beckoning of his behest, he turned the Chevy tape on, toggling its volume to the extreme. A deafening clash of pop music oozed out of the woofer. He was swallowing the liquor left-handed, and yanking his head up and back, following the rhythm of the music as he fired down the horizon. Not conscious of using the speedometer, he was blasting and applying brake and throttle ruthlessly as he swept through the nocturnal mist. *** Stephanie lay flat on Davis’ broad chest. Her two cute legs were placed on either side of him. Not too long after, the duo fell asleep, and Davis’ phone began to vibrate. The buzzing sound jolted Stephanie up, but she laid flat still—immobile, pretending as though she was fast asleep. She surreptitiously gaped open one of her eyes, precisely the right one, watching Davis’ reaction to the vibrating phone. She shut her eyes firmly the moment Davis started to stare in her direction. Having been completely sure she was asleep, Davis outstretched his arm slowly. Reached for his vibrating phone in the drawer at the edge of the bed. Withdrew himself slowly from Steph’s arm. Pulled the duvet off slowly, and tiptoed towards the bathroom to receive his call. Stephanie latched her head on the mattress as she secretly watched him propel himself to the bathroom. The thought of what to do crossed her mind. Her eyes were darting around like a rat staring at a pot of meat. Her heart was racing swiftly on a high speedometer. She asked herself a series of interrogative questions as to what could have led to her fiancé's weird act in the middle of the night, but she was left with no answer other than he had been cheating on her and that her intuition towards his actions was right. She was controlling herself in order to listen to what he was discussing, and to whom he was speaking, but couldn't eavesdrop on his conversation clearly—his voice was quite indistinct. She decided to move close to where he was, using the same stunt he had used—tip-toeing—so she could eavesdrop. She rolled herself off the bed, tiptoed silently, and stood behind Davis, who was completely engulfed in the conversation, brainwashing his side chick with the greatest lie of the century—that kind of deceit men use in converting ladies to dance to their s****l urge. Unknown to him, Steph was standing silently behind him; he told his side chick, who asked about how Stephanie was to him, that she was just her sister, and nothing more. Upon hearing Davis’ derogatory statement, a clang of shock hit Steph where she was standing. “How could you, Dave?” she said in hysteria, her heart pumping with wild rage. “How could you do this to me?” Davis was taken aback by the tension. He gazed backward to behold his fiancée's wild countenance. He held the phone firmly in his left ear as though it had been glued together. The lady on the phone was calling out his name repeatedly, asking what was happening on the other side, but he didn't know whether to answer her, drop the call, or attend to Steph. He just stood there, completely cold, like a dummy. “You know I have...” Steph said, shaking her head slowly. Corrosive asthma meddled with her cervix. She paused. Her eyeballs filled with tears. She drew a breath slowly. Continued. “...been paranoid about your secret actions all this while, but I could not speak out because I haven't established the truth yet, but right now, I think I have. So, this is what you do behind my back, referring to me as your sister?” Davis was dumb. A terrific thrill of confusion rushed down his spine. He was opening his mouth and closing it, trying so hard to utter words, but none were forthcoming. He knew anything he said at the moment would be twisted, misinterpreted, and used against him. He kept quiet. “You know what?” Steph said, shaking her head incongruously. “I don't need any explanation from you.” I am done with you!”