Dubbed

[Iris]

Harmattan!! Such harmattan in Lagos? Bloody cripes!..haven't heard of it!.

 

I rubbed my eyes and sat up and stared at d cat. He was black and scrawny and stared at me with accusing eyes, as though blaming me for not whipping out a handful of cornflakes and a saucer of milk.

 

''Sorry, cat,'' I told him. ''If i had milk, I'd drink it myself, and if i had a packet of cornflakes i'd be in heaven. Tough life, aint it?''.

 

He leered at me and waved his tail arrogantly, prancing over d great pile of coal and making his exit through d half open window. Bloody window. I had forgotten to close it last nite. No wonder i was half frozen. I yawned, gathering d smelly brown sacks around me and snuggling once more on my tattered mattress. No need complaining. I had d tiny store all to myself, didnt have to share it with anyone, and old Jacob only charged me 10box a night for d use of it.

 

 

The store may be tiny and filthy and there may be rats, but it was much better than sleeping under d bridge or in an uncompleted building where as many as twenty slept in a single cubbyhole- men, women and children all clambered together on dirty mats, rags..lice everywhere. Besides, a girl wasnt safe there.

 

A girl wasnt safe anywhere in all of Ajegunle, not unless she knew how to take care of herself. I did. I'd been taking care of myself ever since my mum's death and doing a bleeding job of it, too. I didnt have a twang looking out for me, bossing me around and smacking my backside when i failed to bring in enough shillings. I didnt need one. Why should i go out and sell my tail to strange men and take d money to some brutal pimp?

 

I was too independent, always had been, and whoring didnt interest me. A girl might make a living for a while that way, as long as she was young and didnt get a disease, but i didnt fancy ending up an ancient crone at twenty, clutching a gin bottle in some corner and starving to death because my looks were gone.

 

No, stealing was much easier, as long as u didnt get caught. I'd never been caught, although i'd had a couple of close calls. A uniformed man had grabbed me once, clamping his rough hands on me right after i'd snipped off a fine gentleman's gold wristwatch, but he'd let go soon enough, as soon as i kneed him in d groin.

 

There wasnt a thief-taker or policeman in d whole of Lagos smart enough or fast enough to nab me. Lol no. I was much too nimble, much too sly, and i knew every single hiding place in Ajegunle.

 

The cat crawled through the window again, scampering over d coal and shivering. It was bloody cold out. Hard to believe u were in Lagos. What wouldnt I give for a nice warm coat and maybe a pair of shoes? The coat would be lined with wool and have a fur collar, and the shoes would fit snug, made of animal skin with elegant little heels, and i would admire them as i warmed my feet before my own private fire.

 

I smiled to myself, imagining how it would be. I'd have bread and peanut and a hunk of beef. No, a box of chocolates, each one of them wrapped up in a crinkly gold paper. I'd seen a box like that in a glass in a supermarket once, next to a tray of candied cakes frosted with icing and looking so tasty i'd almost broken d glass to snatch some.

 

Fancy people eating candied fruits. And cakes. And icecream. They call it cold-stone now...something like that. People ate delicate little cakes with creamy white icing. They ate shawarma too, and i've heard of pit-pizza? Lovely apples and oysters and crabs, chicken roasted to a crisp golden brown.

 

I closed my eyes, seeing the table with d feast spread out and me there to eat it all and sip wine from a crystal goblet. I'd eat it all and then wipe my fingers ever so daintly and tell them I might take just a smidging more of the soup and a nice juicy cucumber.

 

My stomach began to growl. Wasnt any use daydreaming about food. Folks who lived in Ajegunle considered themselves lucky to get a bowl of tea and a few crusts of bread. Most of them lived on gin, which was cheap as cheap could be.

 

Me, i didnt like gin. Didnt care for d taste or what it did to u. Here in Ajegunle, they mixed it up in round plastics and served it in filthy glasses and u were lucky if u didnt go blind.

 

Children drank it same as grown-ups and u'd see kiddies of five or six staggering around with eyes all glazed. Helped u forget ur misery, gin did, but a girl couldnt pick pockets properly or snip off jewelled wristwatches and phones if she was half out of her mind. I didnt want anything fogging up my senses. An independent thief like me, with no gang to back her up, needed to be as alert as possible.

 

I yawned. The cat came over to sniff my hair. He mewed in disgust, curling his nose up and moving back to d pile of coal.

 

''You dont smell like drummer air-freshner yourself, mate,'' I informed him. ''One of these days i'm gonna steal me a bar of soap and get some water and take a proper bath, but i dont see much profit in it though. I'd just get dirty again, sleeping in this cubicle...roaming these streets. Besides, bathing too often aint healthy.

 

The cat began to dig into d coal, hoping to find something edible.

 

''Tell u what luv,'' I said. ''I'll find us something to eat, ok? Today's bound to be a good day-there's going to be a hanging in Borno and will buy us a loaf of bread and a big bucket of milk and bring it back tonite. That suit u?''.

 

The cat gave a pitiful yowl and continued to burrow into the coal.

 

Reluctantly I stirred, sitting up again, massaging my arms and tucking my bare feet under d rags. I ran my fingers through my hair, checking for lice. I hated the beastly little buggers, couldnt abide them. Finding none, i sighed and crawled over to d corner where i kept my possessions: a brush, a broken comb, three candles and d battered 'Shakespeare' book i had snatched up before fleeing Mrs. Bim d night my mum died. Picking up d brush, i glanced at d cat and began d morning ritual.

 

''I may not wash my hair, cat,'' I said chattily, ''but i do keep it brushed properly. Fifty strokes in d morning, fifty at night, keeps d lice away. Big Taye says my hair is as thick as a bush, says she'd sell her soul for a head of hair like mine.

 

Completely uninterested with my remarks, d cat was far more concerned with d rustling noise behind d wall.

 

''That's right,'' I told him. ''Rats. 'em big ones. Why couldnt you have been here last night when that bugger was trying to nibble my toes? I must have chucked a hundred pieces of coal at him before he gave up and looked for another snack. You catch him, luv and i'll bring you TWO buckets of milk''.

 

Putting d brush aside, I picked up d book. It was falling to pieces, I'd read it so many times. Cldnt say i understood it all, but it was nice to read those words n imagine all those kings and princes and fairies and soldiers and unhappy lovers, those castles, those enchanted forests. I used to read d plays aloud to my mum; The Merchant of Venice, The Tempest, Macbeth.... I flipped through d battered pages, it was all i had left of d past..all i had left of my mum.

 

It wld be nice to have more time to read. Lighting a candle n snuggling up on my mattress, forgetting d dangers of d night n d hardships of d day. Oh it was nice to read about those enchanted beings who had lovely clothes and lots to eat and sometimes went stark raving mad. Me, if i had a couple of jeans n tops and some nice short gowns and a full belly, i'd neva go mad, no matter how ungrateful my children might be. I'd tell 'em to sod off and bring me another bottle of Red Wine. Wouldnt kill myself either, just because some silly love affair went wrong. That Juliet was a real ninny. All those fancy velvet gowns, all those nice things to eat, and she goes and drinks poison cz she cant have Romeo. Bosh! She must be out of her bloody head.

 

There'd never been a Romeo in my life, true, and there never would be if i could help it. Men! Who needed 'em? Blustering, bullying sods, the lot of them, always out to cheat a girl, always greedy to pop ur cherry. I saw 'em looking at me, sure. I saw d way their eyes lighted up, saw d way dey licked their lips, panting to drag me into some dark corner n have their way. Any man, (gentle-man o, agbero o and all those yeye police-men n Lastma officials) STUPID enough to put a hand on me got my nails across his cheek, got my teeth sunk into his arm, got a knee in d groin. They called me wildcat, d men of Ajegunle, said u dont wanna try any tricks with that bloody Wendy, she'll neuter you and have u singing soprano. I'd keep my cherry to myself, thanks a lot, and if i did someday decide to have it popped, it wouldnt be in some filthy room and it wldnt be in a whorehouse for 200naira, not even for 500naira. That's wat Big Taye assured me it'd fetch.

 

I put d Shakespeare down. I'd read a lot of other books, too, stole every last one of them. It was easy to steal books. Folks neva thot anyone wld want to. I'd stolen many series of The Famous Five, The Secret Seven, Mallory Towers and The Little Women. The first book i stole at d age of five was The Wishing Chair by Enid Blyton. I'd stolen n read many books by Enid Blyton like The Wishing Chair Again, Amelia Jane, Amelia Jane Again, The Three Golliwogs, The Pixies etc. I'd hide them under d bed-bunk away from my mum.

 

No time to read this morning though. I wrapped d book carefully in a rag and put it back under d mattress with d brush n comb n candles. I thought of my mum then. As i kneeled there i saw her face as clearly as though a portrait had materialized on thin air before me. I saw her as she had looked when we had been living in d house whose street i cant remember. I remembered very little about those days. Everything was hazy and unclear. I seemed to remember a house with beautiful tiles and our house-maid called Aunty Cecilia with tribal marks on her cheeks, the rest was a blur.

 

I remembered my mum, though, and I gazed at d mental portrait that materialized before me, it was almost like gazing into a mirror, for her features were like mine. I had d same high cheekbones and d same mouth, although mine was a bit fuller, pinker, not so delicate. I had d same eyes, and long curling eyelashes. My hair was black too like charcoal, but mine was even thicker, i had full-front hair. I might resemble her in many ways, but my mum was a very beautiful woman and i was a crappy, dirty-faced street urchin. The men stared true, but that was because of my hips and my gait, not because of my face!

 

The mental portrait gradually began to change, another taking its place, and i was gazing at my mum as she had been that last day. The lovely face had become gaunt, dark circles beneath d eyes, wrinkles on d cheekbones. Memories came flooding back, bringing d grief that always accompanied them. I would never forget that day. Never. I remembered her gentle smile and d way those sad eyes peered up at me as she stroked my cheek with a pitifully frail hand. I remembered d racking cough and those stained handkerchiefs she was always trying to hide under d bedsheet. Mrs Uchechi came into d room, a horrible woman with shrewd, mean eyes. She was always spying on me, eyeing me and she was d one who kept insisting Mum turn me over to Little Saints Orphanage, saying mum wasnt able to watch after me, saying I'd be much better off with d other poor kiddies.

 

''She's going'', Mrs Uchechi said tersely. ''She hasnt got much time left now. I heard her coughing her lungs out last night''.

 

''Get out!'', I cried.

 

''I'm going to fetch Gloria. She'll know what to do. She's with d Orphanage, Gloria's a nurse. She'll see ur mum's buried and take u back to d orphanage home with her''.

 

''My mum's not dying!''.

 

Mrs Uchechi gave me a smug look and tromped heavily out of d room. I held my mum's hand, squeezing it, and she kept shaking her head. Both of us knew it was almost over. Her strength had gone. Asthma had taken over. She was a mere skeleton. I kept wringing a cloth out in water and bathing her brow, and i kept smiling too, pretending it was just another attack, that she was going to get better. My smile didnt deceive her, nor did her own gentle smile deceive me. I squeezed her hand and bathed her brow, waiting.

 

''You-you'll be taken care of, Yewande,'' she whispered. ''He-he'll come for u, i know he will. I sent him a le-letter''. She closed her eyes, summoning all d strength she had left. ''I told him everything-d whole story, and i know he-he'll fetch u. You'll be-''.

 

Her voice faded. She coughed again, and when she withdrew d handkerchief from her mouth it was as though her breathing had stopped. I knew how it felt. I was asthmatic too as my grand father was and his own father too.

 

''Dont try to talk, Mum,'' I said gently. ''Dont-''.

 

She murmured a name i cldnt quite make out and told me he would come fetch me and take me to someplace called Jos.

 

She could say no more. She looked up at me with such pain in her eyes, such love, and d tender smile left her lips and she closed her eyes for d final time. I knew she was gone, even before Mrs Uchechi and another woman came marching into d room and declared her dead. I fought back d tears as they clucked and chattered merrily, and then Mrs Uche turned to me, eyes glittering with malicious triumph.

 

''Its a pauper's grave for her,'' she declared, and its the orphanage for you, brat! Nurse Gloria here is gonna take u there''.

 

''Oh no she ain't, you old bitch!''.

 

I grabbed d Shakespeare book and tore down the streets as fast as my feet would carry me, running through the twisting labyrinth of streets until i reached Big Taye's. I sobbed and sobbed and begged her to hide me, and the plump, hard-shelled old bawd crushed me to her ample bossom and stroked my short hair and told me to shush, told me them bleeding bastards werent going to get her little Wendy, not bleeding likely.

 

Nine years ago that had been, nine long years, yet it was still as vivid in memory as though it had happened yesterday.

[milaz]

Whitty and something.....but something really good! ♥ it! !

[milaz]

Whose work is this?

[daftpunk]

Nice story, want moooorreee

[Suavity]

Nice one

[Iris]

Milaz, l'll find out the writer for you. @daftpunk, will find a way to quote you in my next post.

[FlyJ]

Lovely write up...

[Iris]

l'm glad you liked it.