The Deed

The Deed

He dabbled in the thoughts of his own despair.

Rewinded it.

Spun it forward — meandered around the tales that happened earlier with the new girl.

Arrived at a conclusion.

Recorded it — then sprinted in another direction looking for new conclusions. One that could give his ego another satisfying helping of praises.

He was whipped.

He stared deeply into the face of the memories he had just made. He couldn’t believe he was falling again. Not again. Was he failing to acknowledge that this would surely spell doom in the coming months?

“No. You cannot be serious.”

The voice of Asia stung him again as he remembered her asking incredulously; “you fell in love with this one too? Why do you fall so easily?”

He didn’t know.

Maybe it was his destiny to heal broken women and become broken in the process so he could have a taste his own medicine.

But he never did.

Because whenever he was down, no one cared, or knew.

“But maybe this would be different”. He thought.

There was something about this one. They could talk about anything that lined the length and breadth of the seven seas. They could speak of the cosmos, rattle over Greek mythology and jump smack into African politics and conspiracy theories about the Illuminati and their supposedly dark legacy. They shared playlists of 60s music, bedazzled each other with their knowledge of Motown artistes, planned hikes up the Aburi mountain and laughed when she told him incessantly, how gross she found the concept of fellatio but wouldn’t mind cuninlingus being performed on her.

He knew these kind of women. The entitled narcissistic ones that made you fall, then found any flimsy excuse to pry your primal attachment with their icy cold fingers, leaving you damaged for years.

And yet, here he was… still romanticizing his situation. Pining for a dose of that drug she frequently sold and took back whenever she deemed fit.

It was a Sunday morning. He had tossed and turned in bed the previous night. Pondering over his movements- whether to take a stroll through the neighborhood at 2 in the morning.

He had decided against it. Not because of the possibilities of getting mugged, but of the possibilities of getting harassed by the cops who manned the security check points at that time of the morning. And this was because he was different — he liked wearing nail polish.

Currently he had a generous quantity splattered over four of his fingernails in a bold dark colour on his right hand, giving him a gothic-like appeal. He remembered wearing a choker a few days before and every banking hall he entered, he had security officers walking up to him, ready to frisk him, because they were under the impression his choker was a weapon of mass destruction to be used in a bank heist.

So he chose to stay in his bed, already limp with feelings. He didn’t need the further degrading of his mind by some half-educated security detail.

He had sent her a message before he slept. Thanking her for the hot coffee she had made him earlier. Even though he had had to coax her to get into the kitchen to fix it for him.

They had a barter trade.

He remembered vividly her room. Cold, in the wake of a storm and the small radio next to her bed sputtering out music from one of the latest Nigerian music acts called Simi who had a voice so divine you had to stop and look around to make sure the trumpets of the apocalypse hadn’t sounded-that the rapture hadn’t happened and you weren’t somewhere in Jehovah’s new heaven.

He had to ask her to make coffee for him before he would finish the tales of his previous relationship, otherwise he would leave.

She sneered at his dare. At his weak proposition of an ultimatum. She sneered as a retort. To challenge him. Her brow furrowed as if to say “try me”. But she still made coffee. A small win for his fragile ego.

After he had sent the message, he went through his gallery staring at the pictures he had taken of her earlier some of which she had deleted- without consulting him- the ones she hadn’t liked even though she had promised not to do so when he cautioned her. This told him all he needed to know — that she couldn’t be trusted.

He stared at the pictures and a sigh escaped his lips. One that was deepened by an earthly tiredness. Like the grunting of a man who had been through the holocaust and had somehow survived and forever bore the guilt of surviving whilst his loved ones perished.

She was so beautiful. She blinded his senses, aroused his intrinsic needs for passion and desire. He consciously fought not to feel like this for 3 years. He hadn’t looked at a woman this way since the harrowing events that precipitated his last relationship.

And so deep… so deep was his desire he set to work, touching himself, with her in mind.

After he had flooded his bed, he turned around and slept on the dry patch that hadn’t been desecrated by the flood and fell into a deep mind-numbing slumber.

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