Bending Devotion
Seized by scent, humor, and care, we pledged a mutual devotion unbending. But time and erosion, the poisoned sigh, bit cold by the 12th year. I now greying, lonely-lingering. You fearing marble temples unseen, regretting the unmet life unlived, sought in soft speech the touch of peach-sweet bodies. There finding no certainty, nor cure for years now passed, time could not slow itself on icy, distant steppes, nor foreign marketplaces, nor fine wine and the unscathed bodies that came and went.
I, half pity, half shame, huddled tearless where your body’s long lain.
Ready- Trelioz.
This place, whatever it was~ had such a grand view. After managing to see more of the place, with Ms. Evelyn. I was curious to hear her explanation of what exactly was going on. She leaned towards me & whispered. Why was she acting like we were planning a coup d’état? Well, if she was getting ready for one, I didn’t want to be a part of it.
Ms. Evelyn: Okay, wait. Hmm, so- you see... (shakes her head). I’ll just have to show you.
What was she rumbling on about? Uh. It’s not like I wanted to know all the secrets of this place. I sighed and followed her. For an elderly being, she was quick on her feet.
We walked past one room that had a giant blue door. And another that had many sets of mirrors on both sides of the door, when I looked through I thought I saw a reflection of myself change..at one moment I had wings & the next~ I actually had a pair of HORNS!
I stopped. Looked through the window again, and rubbed my eyes. Ms. Evelyn continued walking, and started to say something. I closed my eyes and when I opened them~ the reflection was back to my usual self, the only new addition were the pair of wings.
Ms. Evelyn: My dear, we have arrived.
I walked into the clock room and gasped. I had never seen a room with plenty clocks like this before. There were clocks of all kinds, in every space. A wall clock, grandfather clock, clocks with wings and feathers, clocks that looked like a teacup, a few that sparkled like the starry night sky, and then there was one clock that caught my attention. It was suspended in air and even had a dark-blue dazzling light surrounding it.
I asked Ms. Evelyn what this magical clock was. I was struck with curiosity by it. What was it’s purpose?
Ms. Evelyn: (chuckles) That’s the clock of destiny, fate, chance and luck. From this device, we can see what probable outcomes can happen if something happens, or takes a sudden change. This clock is what keeps the fabric of time & the universes intact.
She caught me staring at her with a puzzled look. And carried on explaining with a more steady tone. Hmm, this thing must be really important then. I had never heard of it before, when I looked at Ms. Evelyn~ she was speaking with such a serious tone that I tried to pay attention to what she was saying. But then my eyes wandered off. I looked at the magical clock and then a smoke of letters in blue appeared right next to me- T R E L I O Z. I looked back at Ms. Evelyn and when she paused,I asked her what a Trelioz was.
Ms. Evelyn: Oh. How did you know about that? Did I mention it already? I must be moving too quickly with my explanation. Any way, that’s what my job is. I’m a Trelioz, the keeper of destiny, & fate.
I nodded my head, even though I was still wondering what that all meant. Ms. Evelyn told me not to worry. She placed her hand on the scanner of the clock and the hands stopped, then the hands moved anti-clockwise. My body and Ms. Evelyn’s was now covered in a dark~blue light, like that of the clock. The second Ms. Evelyn removed her hand, the clock stopped moving in the reverse direction and started moving clockwise once more.
Ms. Evelyn: So, as a Trelioz, I have to learn to not alter destinies, and fates of others. There are some rare cases when I may have to intervene. But that’s a discussion for another day.
As we left the clock room, I wondered what would happen if someone tampered with destinies and fates of those across the universes. Maybe Ms. Evelyn would have to put it all back on track and in order. I was glad that that wasn’t my task. Being a Trelioz was not a job to take lightly. Ms. Evelyn probably always had to chece on the clock at all times. That must be exhausting work.
I still had to find out what I was doing in this place. Ms. Evelyn must have answers. With the way she took her time to explain the Trelioz destiny and fate business to me, I had a feeling that it would take much longer till I had answers to how I got to this place. Eh, maybe the time she spends in the clock room had made her oblivious to other people’s time. Or she brushed off the questions to the side to answer them another day. Uh, I hoped that day would come (very) soon.
#Ready-Trelioz.
No news
There was nothing special about the car itself. Surely, when it rolled off the assembly line in 1967, no one in Detroit could have predicted how it would serve the United States Marine Corps.
It is possibly true that the car glistened a bit more glossily under an unforgiving Texas sun; perhaps the chrome shined a bit brighter than other four door sedans.
No one could argue that the black was certainly a little darker.
Otherwise, moving with traffic, blending in with an afternoon commute, it was just another full-sized sedan.
Sure, it was new-ish. That alone would make it stand out in the small town it prowled, but there was nothing to draw a crowd or an unusually long stare.
The village was mostly abandoned after a hurricane in 1900, but a few households remained. By August of 1969, there were around 100 people, a general store, and ten miles of cotton fields between the hamlet and Houston.
An older couple sat in wicker-backed rocking chairs on the front porch of the local five and dime. Farm-fresh eggs and chickenfeed were marked as on sale on a small slate chalkboard, and the sound of bait crickets could be heard coming from a small wooden box next to a machine that dispensed cold Coca-Cola. Their old rusty Chevy ticked and popped in the growing shade of late afternoon sun; they'd soon be headed back to the ranch.
An elderly third person sat with them, rocking in his own chair and quietly telling a story as he chewed his Red Man. He wore an old apron around his waist, and an even older cap on his balding head. "Fairchilds Feed & Seed" was the faded logo on both.
A dustcloud chased the ebony sedan, despite low speed. All eyes turned to the gleaming, midnight-black hood as the car loomed, slowly coming to rest next to the parked farm truck.
None of the occupants on the store's porch could make out the driver. Sunshine gleamed off glass and chrome, but the three folks kept staring as best they could. The shopkeep went back to his story.
Slowly, the driver's door opened, and the backlit silhouette of a man stood in dwindling August sun. He closed his door and stepped to the driver's side passenger door, leaning to retrieve something on the back seat.
The slam of that heavy Detroit steel, combined with the stranger's casually formal action of placing and straightening a uniform hat, brought silence to the porch spectators.
He was aware of six eyes watching his approach. He stood a little straighter, moved a little surer. Finally stepping into the overhanging shade of the porch, the people watching could see him clearly.
There may have been nothing outwardly special about the car, not at first glance. But one look at the driver let everyone know that there was something special at work.
Special, but not welcome.
A Lieutenant Colonel of the United States Marine Corps stood and regarded his audience.
The woman no longer rocked in her chair.
The grizzled old shopkeep stood. "Can I help you, son?"
"Yes, sir, sorry to interrupt. I was hoping you could help me find a family's property."
"I can try, surely. Come on up into the shade. Can I get you a Coke?"
The officer smiled thinly. He preferred not to eat or drink until hours after his duty was completed. Never immediately before. Sometimes it took a few days to eat, after.
"No, sir, thank you. I'm looking for the Anderson place."
The woman gasped.
The bottle of Coca-Cola she'd been holding slipped from her fingers, bouncing and rolling across weathered porch wood.
Her husband froze, eyes wide as saucers, and he leaned to his right. Doubling over, he vomited suddenly and violently.
This was how a Marine Lieutenant Colonel was introduced to the parents of Richard A. Anderson.
This was how the parents of Richard A. Anderson became aware that their son, a man who saw his last sky in Quang Tri Province, Vietnam, was to be considered for the Medal of Honor.
Posthumously.
On the surface, there was nothing special about that black four door sedan. No one in Detroit could have predicted that the fate of that car was to leave the lives of dozens of parents, wives, and children in tatters.
No one could argue that the black was certainly a little darker on that ebony sedan tasked with bringing the worst news possible to good people who didn't deserve bad tidings. To truly understand just how black that car was, one had to know that car.
It wasn't strange at all how a certain Marine Officer had grown to hate that particular sedan, and what it represented. Perhaps it also isn't odd how that car was listed as stolen, wrecked, not salvageable, burned out, a total loss; it had to have been a complete coincidence that on the day of that Colonel's retirement, he exercised a little free will and a lot of therapy.
Bottle of whiskey in one hand and Zippo in the other, he and his senior NCO watched that car burn under a forgiving Texas moon.
Ascendant
She looked over her shoulder, feeling the updraft from the wings of the Beast she rode. A row of foes streaked behind her, bloodlust blinding them to the trap ahead.
This was her home turf. She dipped into her favorite canyon, knowing a mis-timed plunge would unseat several of the Riders in her wake.
Supremacy confirmed by the screams behind her, she smiled and focused on the path ahead. The canyon was narrow, her Beast's chitinous feathers rasping both walls in most places. Better yet, rocks jutted at odd intervals, cutting her from the view of arrows from behind and leaving as guesswork the only safe passage. Her People trained on these canyons from childhood, when both Beast and human had more options for traversal.
Up, left, rightward curve, on she flew at top speed. Screams of unseated pursuers erupted behind her, becoming fainter with distance. When all were silenced, she waited a few leagues and surfaced.
She guided her Beast in a high, slow circle, ensuring her enemies were bested. She saw no one. Letting her Beast rest through a glide, she gave a prayer of thanks to her father, Chief Ascendant. She'd been forced to learn The Ride, as the only proper vocation for a Chief Ascending. Her childhood had been filled with a petulant longing for a sibling who could take up the profession in her place. But The Mother had only blessed her mother with one child, and to this child fell the responsibility of the survival of her People.
She set the sun to her back and let her frothing Beast pick his own way home, feeling again the prickle of his coarse hair now that the battle was over. The desolate expanse around her belying the verdant valley of her home, she wondered as she flew when an equal would arise to share her burden to her People. She had taken her responsibilities seriously, even as a petulant youngling, and bested by far every man who challenged her. By law, as Chief Ascending, she could only marry one who was at least her equal in skill.
This left her People confident in her leadership and skills, ebullient over a future of her care-taking. For her, it meant loneliness and, possibly, a shortened term as Chief Ascendant. Every year at the New Moon Festival, she was required to accept all challengers. If she passed marriage age and lost, Chief designation moved to the family of the winner. Hers had been Chief for seven generations; she feared she would be the last Bearer of the War Axe with her family's name.
Her Beast landed, and she brushed, fed, and thanked him. Job well done until the next Scout's Warning, she went to her empty home and prepared a meal. She could hear laughter in the distance, happy villagers enjoying the evening. She fell asleep before the Moon awoke.
Will He Look At Me?
i see him everyday, i cant help it but he smiles
he doesnt smiles particulary at me, but he does
at the crowd where he sings, he is not a street singer
but a little bit popular, a country singer, but he sings
on the streets whenever he sees old people, whenever
oh, whenever his girlfriend is around, she is pretty
with violet eyes and jet black hair to her waist, with a
warm smile, and she always has her arm around him
they always come to have coffee at the corner of the street
and i always want to praise his singing, but destiny never
gives me the chance, as always when i want to thank him
not for his songs but for the love he has for human beings
never mind sick, old, or handicapped, he has a warm heart
his famous girlfriend wants to drool all over him, is it jealousy?
am i suddenly jealous of a girl who is luckier than i am?
but one day at it happened, he came alone at the cafe
he started singing and i shrugged, but as i look i saw he was alone
and i went upto him and i tapped on his shoulder, it was destiny
i asked, “Where’s your girlfriend?” he smiled mischievously
he said briskly with handsome grin, “she went to london,
for a conference, so here iam on the streets, feeling lonely!”
i shrugged and felt the jealously tie a knot in the pit of my stomach
i suddenly turned around and asked him, “Will you have coffee?”
he smiled and said, “sure! i get a cup of coffee this time as a treat!”
we sat down and i asked him, “why do you sing on the streets?”
i ordered white coffee with two teaspoon of sugar, and some cupcakes
he replied, “well everybody thinks that its my idea but its not!”
i was about to smile but something in his rich voice stopped me
“its my girlfriends idea! Susan thinks if i let all the town hear me sing
i will definitely be able to have many audience, she thinks my singing
is meant for the soul, and she’s my inspiration not only my mentor!”
thankfully coffee had arrived and i began eating the cupcakes not
meeting his dark brown eyes, he licked cream off his tongue, devilishly
i gulped hot coffee and i realised that i indeed had feelings for this guy
i didnt know what to do, iam not a bad person, only have feelings
like the rest of the human population, but destiny had something in mind
when coffee finished i let him sing for an old lady who kissed him on
his hardened cheeks and i knew that it was time to let him go, go to his
dreams as he was full of talent and i knew that it would have to be Susan
who would make him truly a famous singer, and as it happened five years
went by and one day i was happily married with two kids and one night
my daughter ran into the kitchen and cried with joy, “Mama, its my
boyfriend on TV! he sings like jingle bells!” and as i hurried into the
living room, i saw him, on national tv, and till this day i didnt get his name
and i saw that it was the famous Drake who was on stage and melted so
many hearts, and i avoided my husbands laughter and saw that Susan was
upstage as well, hugging and kissing the man she had helped build and shape!
i realised when destiny brings people together, it is totally destinys choice!
Jesus Saves
It was a rainy spring morning, I was 17. As I climbed into the passenger seat of our rusty 1987 Toyota 4runner, I noticed the tires were quite bald. This wasn’t a worried observation just an observation... I knew we couldn’t afford new tires. My Dad puts on his seatbelt (he never usually wore though) and starts up the old beast she ran like a champ despite “her” age. “She” was the top of line machinery in 1987 though... 4 speed manual transmission, 4 cylinder engine (that had every bit as much power as a 6 or even 8 cylinder) tachometer, lift-kit, roll bar, sunroof, and all the bells and whistles.
I remember looking at my Dad in his painter whites, thinking, “He is going to work? Why am I going with him?” So, I try to start up a conversation with him and ask the plan for the day but got no response. “That’s odd. He must be in bad mood today.” I thought to myself.
So, I continue to ride along with him in silence... still confused as to why I would be riding to work with him. As we drove down the winding road we came to a hill that had a sharp curve at the end with a 50 foot embankment on the other side of it. The combination of the wet conditions, bald tires, with no anti-lock brakes my dad lost control. The truck rolled and rolled I don’t even know how many times and we were upside-down flying down the embankment.
Slam-bang my bedroom door closed from the gusts cross breeze of my step-mom heading out the front door. I awaken to realize it was just a dream. “Thank God! It was just a dream!” I thought, wiping my crusties off my eyes.
Then I hear my step-mom running down the hall frantically. She had forgotten her keys. I jumped up from my bed sensing something was wrong. I stopped her in the hallway. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” I stuttered fearing her response. “Your Dad was in an accident!!” She cried. ‘My dream... it was REAL!’ I thought to myself. I hugged my step-mom, we were both teary eyed. I told her a few quick details of my dream as she was in a hurry. I will never forget how she looked at me when I told her, it was a look with a combination of disbelief and fear. Still shocked from what I had told her, she quietly said, “I gotta go.” And out the door she went.
The next two and half hours felt like an eternity, waiting to hear if my Dad was alright. My dream played over and over again in my head. I thought, ‘If he was in the accident in my dream he is definitely hurt... or worse?!?!’ I couldn’t help but feel somehow responsible. ‘Could I have stopped it? If I woke up sooner... I could’ve warned him. Or maybe it happened because I dreamt it? I don’t have that “power”... or do I? Is it my fault?’ I thought. I felt helpless and scared as I sat there on my bed pondering my role in this accident.
I heard the front door open. I was nervous to hear the news. My heart started racing as I jumped up and ran to the door. There was my step-mom and MY DAD!!! He was okay... a few scrapes and bruises but OKAY! Tears of joy and relief streamed down my face and I hugged him like I never hugged him before. “I love you, Daddy. I was so worried.” I whispered in his ear. “I love you, too baby.” he said.
I sat there listening to his account of the accident and it was as though he were reciting the dream I had.... minus me in the passenger seat. So, I decided I had to tell him about my dream. He was not shocked or alarmed by what I had said, as my step-mom had been... it was almost as though he were comforted by it, maybe even expected it. See, my dad has always thought I was “special” or more intuitive than others. I don’t think I am special... I just think God wanted me “in” that truck that day.
Now if you remember I woke up right as the truck was going off the embankment. My dream wasn’t what was amazing or miraculous in this story. What happened After is miraculous!
“I never wear my seatbelt. I don’t know why I did today but I did. I thought for sure I was a goner.” He said solemnly. He knew himself it was nothing short of a miracle and God made sure he knew it, too. As Dad was recalling the moments after the accident he started to tear up as he said to me, “After I got out of the truck, upside down at the bottom of the cliff, I reached in my pocket. My wallet, putty knife, other tools and even my coins were gone spread out across the road... the only thing left in my pocket was the cross you gave me.” I cried as realized just how much of a miracle this really was... the only thing left in his pocket was a cheap metal cross that had the words ‘JESUS SAVES’ written acrossed it..
The Common End
Take a step back and examine
the linear progression you partake in
notice how the paths on which you walk
are always leading somewhere.
You may choose to stay on one,
or decide to walk another.
Nothing matters of our choices
except how we treat each other.
All of us orbit a fate,
our destiny, the end.
the circumstance and “why” of which
we cannot comprehend.
We are fated by our birth to leave this flesh behind,
and knowing this, many of us still choose to be unkind.
Why do we, despite ourselves, decide to demonize
those we deem so different. Can there be no compromise?
Human beings, living persons, mortal through and through
love yourself and love thy neighbor so that they may love you.
Cast aside you earthly feelings of deserving some great gift
and focus on the live you’re living so that you may give
the love that you desire, that all people do deserve.
Understand that when you’ve died the lines between us blur.
Understand that when you’re gone the love you shared lives on.
Understand that when I die and the Judge looks down at me
I cannot defend myself but by my acts when I was living.
Death is coming, do not fear it
we all must face the grave
spread you passion, love and be loved
and your soul on earth is saved.
-ch
Who We Love
The night swallows us, a gaping cavern without teeth. Even without the threat of chomping jaws, it is an uneasy feeling, and I cannot help but curl my fingers a little tighter around Jeremy’s arm as we walk together beneath the pressing dark of the hollow city streets. Clouds cover the moon, but Jeremy says that’s good. It means it will be harder to spot us.
There is a Wall, and Jeremy says if we can get to it, we can be together.
It is the first promise he’s ever made that I might not fully believe.
The chill of autumn nips at my nose, the only part of me not covered. I wear a long, black coat that reaches almost to my ankles, a scarf pulled tight over my chin, and my short hair is tucked beneath a gray beanie . Not my usual style by any means, but then, it’s prudent that no one recognizes us. Jeremy tugs insistently at my arm, and I let him pull us around the corner into an alley. A few moments later, I hear the low rumble of a truck rolling past where we’d been walking, a long beam of white light sweeping over the street. I stay pressed against the wall trying to keep my breathing steady. Though he would never admit his own fear, I can feel Jeremy trembling slightly against me.
The truck passes, and we wait a few more moments before moving back onto the main street, my fingers only just grazing Jeremy’s as we pick up the pace a little bit.
“Almost there,” Jeremy whispers, reaching up to squeeze the back of my neck in reassurance. I nod, and a few minutes later, the Wall comes into view. It is even taller and uglier than it looks on television.
“We should’ve split up,” I insist, not for the first time. “We should’ve gone separately.”
Jeremy shakes his head, slowing his pace as we approach. The Wall is not visibly guarded. It doesn’t need to be anymore. People are supposed to know better. “No me without you, remember?” he smiles. “If one of us made it and the other didn’t, I…” he pauses, shoving a hand through his already disheveled hair. “It had to be together.”
“Okay,” I agree easily. Despite my fear and my insistence that this escape plan is fruitless, I know I feel the same. I know I am not whole without him. Above my head, the gaping dark laughs at my ignorant hope.
“You first,” Jeremy insists. We’ve made our way to the end of the sidewalk until we are both just a few inches from the stone Wall. Despite its size, it is not well-made. Pieces of stone stick out at random intervals, and halfway up is a small ledge rimmed with barbwire. The second half of the Wall transitions from stone to chain-link. If we can make it that far, the climb becomes significantly easier. But neither of us knows what awaits us on the other side. We are told it is a wasteland, a place for the outcasts and the savages who threaten the ‘Perfect Lifestyle’ cultivated inside the city. And it is true that life has improved over the last several decades. There are no more guns. There is no more petty theft. But even so, Jeremy and I have both seen the violence that persists inside the Wall, the hatred that does more than skitter along its edges. We will take our chances on the Other Side.
I examine the wall, trying to figure out how best to make the climb. But before I can think for too long, the night lights up.
Sirens blare from every side and long, sweeping beams of red and white light tear across my half-covered face, blinding me. I cry out in surprise, shielding my eyes from the glare. Beside me, Jeremy stiffens for only a moment before he is shouting at me, his fingers laced together at knee-height in front of me.
“Go!” he screams, nodding down at his interlocked hands. “Push yourself up and go!”
“You’ll be right behind me?” I scream back, panic pushing against every bone and muscle.
“No me without you,” Jeremy promises.
I push off from his hands, pulling myself up along the wall and losing my hat in the process. Beside me, Jeremy is climbing, too.
This is a violation, the alarm begins to blare. Escape is impossible. Return to your home and await punishment. This is a violation….
“Keep going,” Jeremy growls beside me, surpassing me with his next foothold. I try desperately to keep up.
“Careful!” I warn above the noise and the glaring lights. We are reaching the barbwire in the middle of the Wall, and I begin to unwind my scarf from my neck, wrapping it around my fingers before continuing the climb. Beside me, Jeremy continues his own ascent, letting out a few small gasps when the barbwire opens up shallow cuts along his hands. We reach the chainlink, and my head begins to pound in anticipation. We are so close.
I reach the top first, though Jeremy is only a few steps behind, his hands leaving bloody streaks along the chainlink. I swing my leg around to the other side of the Wall, and that is when Jeremy slips.
His foot skids against a spot of blood and he yells out in surprise as all of his body weight is suddenly transferred to his ruined hands.
“Jeremy!” I scream, reaching for him. Somehow, he manages to hold on long enough to get his feet back under him, pulling himself up until he can reach my hand. I pull with everything I have, exhausted muscles screaming along with the still-blaring sirens. Looking down for the first time, I can see that a crowd has begun to gather below us. I recognize a few drowsy neighbors and old acquaintances, all staring up at us from where both of us now sit, straddling the top of the Wall. There are no police officers anymore. Everyone is supposed to keep everyone else in line.
For a long, frozen moment, no one speaks. Even the sirens seem to fade into the background as Jeremy and I look down at the people gaping at us. Before I can react, Jeremy is kissing me.
We have never kissed where anyone else would see. No one is allowed to know, and part of me is shrieking to pull away, to run in the other direction. But we are at the top of the Wall, and we do not know what awaits us on the Other Side, and the only thing I have ever wanted to do was kiss the boy I loved. And so I do.
After a too-short while, Jeremy pulls away, smiling at me. Below us, I can hear people murmuring in horror, their faces slack and pale, caught in the reflections of the red and white lights.
Jeremy’s spine straightens as his gaze shifts to the people down below, determination suddenly clear on his face. “This is not wrong,” Jeremy shouts to the dumbfounded crowd. “Love is never wrong. Don’t let them take it away from us!”
And with that, Jeremy swings his other leg over the Wall, finding his footing on the other side. He holds out a hand to me, waiting. I hesitate for a moment longer, looking down at the people below.
Escape is impossible, the siren still screams. Return to your home and await punishment. This is a violation…
“Trevor?” Jeremy urges, thrusting his hand out even further. “We gotta go.”
I take Jeremy’s hand and haul myself the rest of the way over the Wall.
A Swift Ribbin
Walking, everlong on the path laid out for me
The question of who I want to be clouds my thoughts
Confront the fear of impossibility and turn it into a hope
My goal, yet more than I bargained for is what I have to cope with
Life is a trail, all the results depend on me
Twist the path of rope into a fate carried on a ribbon, one to my liking and design
A dancing ribbon that sways to my own rhythm
My destiny came, and only I can now tame its wild ways
Picturesque
A peculiar calm prevailed over the atmosphere. We had just performed salat-al-janaza for the dead woman. Hemmed in by a half-circle of relatives, her mother alternated between moments of madness when she banged convulsive fists on the cold cement floor or tore at her hair and eerie episodes when she merely stared on stone-like. Expecting and dreading it, she would remain to witness this last journey. Handsome Hassan; father to Leila and husband to Alima, stood beside the main entrance to the house sobbing like a forsaken baby. An obvious reluctance to converse told how unbearable this was for him. I moved about shakimg hands, saying his thank you for coming and receiving some consolatory hugs. Later in the evening, I kept company with Leila while most men headed for the cemetery, some kilometers away. Processions unnerved me and Hassan had insisted on going.
As the day wore on, I drew farther from the crowd; the widower’s misery a noose around my neck. “Breathe Abu, breathe” came the caution to failing lungs. “What reason can you call to account for such profound melancholy?” How I yearned to wipe those tears of his face, to envelop the weak frame in an embrace and murmur; “I am here for you” but an army of sympathizers had built a wall around him.
Hassan and I crossed paths for the first time on the hottest day of the harmattan season, three years past. Sun rays and dust particles attacked with unwavering, unforgiving fury. Outside, surviving yellowish- green leaves attached to browned branches swayed gently to the suffocating breeze.
I was tired after a morning spent fighting burnt debris off the windows of my one room, boys- quarters apartment. The reason I had undertaken this insane task considering how vicious my nosebleeds got was that as the first streaks of dawn tore through the sky, upon flattening my face across the glass pane hoping to catch a glimpse of my neighbor lacing his shoes preparatory for a customary jog, I could see nothing but debris.
Nevertheless, neither heat nor dust played any part in the sequence of events that afternoon. It was boredom that chased me from my room and qadr- destiny that made us meet.
***
“Be quiet. Do you hear that? Quick, check while I hide these papers.”
“How do you know it’s her? Yes I am conscious you are sick of her lovely interruptions but for goodness sake, stop tapping the table so hard and go.”
“You know, your aversion is becoming quite worrisome as well. The editor was most insistent that every detail be put down.”
“Including hers. There is money involved.”
“You don’t think I should? Why? She is perfect story material. You said so last week.” Is this some sort of jealousy Sonia? You don’t really mind not being mentioned?”
“God of mercy. Where are you off to in such anger? So touchy this morning. It must be the green tea. Always puts you in a rage. Patience, my dear. I promise we get to the good part.”
***
This may sound cliché but when we met, Hassan was not so striking a fellow. There’s the matter of a rather massive head balancing most precariously on the thinnest, longest neck imaginable. He was short, had a massive nose, was bald as a Buddhist monk and had eyes fixed so far apart, they gave an impression of fleeing towards opposite ends of his wide face. His bow legs were somewhat shorter than normal and deeply browned. Regular feet were housed inside regular palm slippers. A multicolor backpack hung from his left shoulder.
My brain registered these mundane details and set in motion, the procedure for ordering visual apparatus to explore more cheerful views when at that moment, his full lips straightened into a grin and an arm was raised in salute. It was one of those quirky, everyday smiles; the ones that say “I’m nervous, save me.” Eyelids contracted to build a partial cover over his sapphire pupils as waves of happiness coursed through my veins. I remained rooted to the spot and shuddered when my heart suffered a tightening twitch. It was time to acknowledge his greeting yet, I kept gawking.
Like black clouds pregnant with rain drops, we drifted closer to each other, and he asked a question; the direction to a mosque, I think. Feeling light-headed, I tagged along although, I don’t quite remember my reply nor being invited; so strong was this strange pull on me. My new found atheism still in its first bloom, it was the first time in months that I stepped into a masjid.
Those inside made no effort to hide their surprise at seeing brother Abubakar who Shaitan finally led astray. I forgot to make ablution but when Hassan raised his palms above his shoulders and proclaimed; “Allah is the greatest,” I lifted my unbelieving, unwashed hands and repeated the words. While we stood straight, eyes peeled to the floor, Hassan recited the verses; “In The Name of Allah, Most gracious, Most merciful…” I contemplated how it would feel to run my rough fingers through his soft-looking beard; so black and curly.
“Allah is the greatest” and we bowed keeping our backs straight. “It must be heavenly to have such fairish skin” I thought, giggling inside while smoothing creases on my trousers. A cursory inspection of my nails confirmed what I already feared; they were long, uneven and dirty. I sniffed both armpits and recoiled from the discouraging odour. “Why did I not bath and wear something nice today of all days?
“Allah is the greatest” came the call ordering us to touch our foreheads to the carpeted floor. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Surely, he does not indulge in alcohol so why the pot-belly?”
In time came the final salutations; “Peace be upon you” to the left and right. I had spent over ten minutes inside God’s house fantasizing over a man.
In spite of everything, we became fast friends. He often said to me; “Hold fast to this book Abu (a small Qur’an is pushed before me) and we shall be together in paradise.” I watched his face become animated as he spoke about a creator; well-loved and believed in. He was unconscious of a tightened grip around my slender fingers while he went on with his speech, telling me of Iman- faith and Ihsan- perfection and Fiqh- jurisprudence and Tawhid- monotheism. Perhaps, he sniffed out my disbelief and like all mallams, became eager to turn me around. My throat went dry and I could only manage a slight nod.
“Insha’Allah” I said in a broken voice.
***
“Quite a pity Sonia is absent today. It is such a beautiful morning. The rain last night, has made our garden, a vision to behold. The sand smells of my carefree childhood, chrysanthemums are ablaze in the sun and strange birds won’t stop singing.
“I miss her. Her rough fingers with their perfectly trimmed nails perusing page after page, numbering and editing; pointing out the smallest errors.”
“The way she places her elbow on the desk and rests her face on closed palms or, how her rather long gowns caress the floor like an altar-bound shy maiden. The empty seat torments me. Amina may even suggest taking her place.”
“I should kiss her but I am not certain. I think she likes me but she’s scared to speak. Why else would anyone agree to spend hours working at such a story for a wannabe author?”
“I will kiss her. It is settled.”
“No, I will not.” My palms are so itchy.
“When next we see, I shall know.”
“What if she kissed me? What would those full lips taste like? Her tongue encircling mine; fighting, giving and receiving as much. She is strong as a mule, that one. We could have an affair. How delightful and shocking.”
“One minute while I play besotted husband. I have lived in such insanity for so long, I begin to think myself truly mad.”
“The drafts? Still not ready, dearest. Your critique will be most welcome when I’m done but for the present, I need be alone. By Allah, whenever you are close, all I can do is gaze at your beauty and marvel at my luck. It is no wonder, this manuscript remains unfinished.”
“Bah, silver tongued devil” my dove says beaming with joy. “Eat and write faster. Your wife awaits with longing.”
“Phew. I’m not one to tarry but, that woman is a reward for some sin for which, I must have forgotten to seek forgiveness.”
***
Hassan was soon appointed deputy Imam by the shura- election body. I stood at the front row whenever he led prayers, baritone voice resonating from the pulpit one or two times every day. Weekends he spent, doing house to house dawah- giving fiery sermons against boko-haram and encouraging guardians to send their wards to school. He’d have rice and chicken at these homes- most people went out of their way to make mallam happy. Back home, his schedule was simple; sleep, prayer and more prayer at night. He kept a beard, put on trousers which never extended below his ankles and talked to everybody with khushoo- shyness and tranquility. As for my obvious deficiency in faith, he remained silent. I guess he believed I was only lazy.
However, he spoke to me often of a childhood spent hidden in a madrasa- an establishment of learning ruled by whip-wielding teachers who enforced memorization of the Qur’an.
***
“Sonia does not wish to be kissed. I do not particularly want to anymore. She seems angry for some reason.”
“Do you always assume wicked things about people? I did not try to derail Hassan. He could not have asked for a more faithful friend.”
“Why are you squeezing your face? Pen and paper please.”
***
Hassan soon learnt to ditch cap and above the ankle trousers during our outings. When we were without money for cinema, we did film nights after night prayers- often sitcoms, using bowls of popcorn and Coca-Cola as snacks. He had a very healthy laughter which exploded from deep within his larynx and away through the mouth making him jerk uncontrollably to and fro. He’d wrap his right arm around my shoulder or grip my knee trying to draw me into his amusement at something funny on-screen. What anxieties I lived through!
***
“Gentle steps on the staircase. I’m soon to feast on home-made cookies and a fruit-mix drink.”
“Do you know that Hassan encouraged us to wed? He was our go-between, practically dumping her on me when she made a move on him.”
“I have someone else in mind” he said. “You know I am very pro-monogamy. Amina is good-looking, homely, and humble. She has no other interests in life besides a husband and children of her own.”
“I suspect people started talking to him about us. Remember Yusuf, the one with the cleft palate; a chronic do-gooder, always praying and fasting while he could have underwent a surgery and had the money for it. Very prominent amongst the overly religious zealots. Didn’t he tell you I was different and did you not believe him?”
“Why deny the truth? Remember how you suddenly had so much work to do whenever I wanted to visit? Positively rude to me, you were. Such horrid business too, with everyone avoiding me like a plague. Dear, the peculiar thing about sadness is that it gives you no time to do things that can release you from its hold. You think more and more about your deplorable state which only drags you deeper into depression.”
“I loved him. Is that what you wish to hear, heartless child? Shall I be judged even after everything you now know? Yes you do, lonely creature. You are far worse than me unfortunate friend, for I have loved and a soul that has not, is not alive.”
“You think I too have not....” She stops suddenly, hands over her mouth, dragging the words back in, as if by sheer force of will. Whatever she planned to say, I would never know. Every few seconds I catch her eye. There’s anger, shame and something else within. I am not sure I want to find out.
I accepted Amina for my wife caring little about Hassan's plot or its implications. We’ve had a somewhat happy life save her desire to ever be reminded of my affection. The true battle of treachery is at night when she yearns to reveal what little intelligence she gained on the internet; “You have to move like this, darling. I will have more pleasure if we do it that way. I might even...”
“Allah forbid Abu. From behind? It was not created for that. You are my husband but what you suggest is haram.” Impatient to end each session, I shut my eyes and summoned Hassan’s image. In such treachery, I did spend many nights with this unsuspecting woman.
“I should tell you of the sore-throat which drove Hassan into the waiting, willing arms of Alima.”
“Oh dear, I toppled the bottle of anti-anxiety meds. Seems like ages I’ve been on them and I maintain it is her fault.”
***
Hassan’s lover; tall as a Russian model and graceful as an Arabian princess. The goddess who bumped into his world undoing months of bliss. She was perfection. Even Abu, who does not fancy the delicacy of women... yes, I can say that with conviction.
Immaculate. Picturesque. Beautiful. Dainty. Young.
Whenever she smiled, her dazzling white teeth with its beauty gap lit up the world. My once feathery blue, romance-laden sky, she transformed into a dull brown scourge of lonesomeness. Everybody loved her. I suspect, they liked Hassan even more because of her. Nobody ever seemed to notice the slight limp on her left leg or its one extra toe.
In the clinic where she worked as a nursing assistant, patients could not have too much of her. Complaints of their many imaginary illnesses met an attentive ear. She laughed when spindle-legged, dirty children with runny noses and swollen bellies came running into reception. They fought to sit on her laps not caring for the uniform and devoured the sweets she offered, scurrying off before they were hailed in for check-ups.
The morning was foggier than usual. We languished on my living-room settee, clad in sweaters and socks watching a repeat wrestling match on television. Hassan’s ailment had plagued him for almost one week. When he inhaled, it sounded like a fuel- starved truck moving up a steep hill.
“Why don’t you go to the clinic?” I asked for the umpteenth time, bored and dozing off. The contender was about to deliver a flying kick that would win him the WWE title. “Anything they give you would be better than drinking warm water and salt.” Hassan obliged. He went later that evening. He returned with lozenges and a lost heart.
On the seventh day of January last year, he told me he was getting her an engagement ring. Mentioned it in the most casual terms armed with his trademark smirk. He was here in my house he claimed, to consult Amina on the type to buy.
How dare he do this to me without warning?
I shrugged off a jab of pain and conjured my killer smile, baring all teeth. “Finally taking the step brother? I am delighted. May Allah bless you both.”
I felt prickly sweat below my epidermis. My body itched in one thousand different places and I was certain my face crimsoned.
“Rather fast though” I ventured to add squeezing all the fingers of my left hand with the right.
Amina seemed amazed. “Abu she is a catch and he is perfect.” Something told me she still wasn’t over her obsession.
“Alhamdulillah” was my reply.
Like a hungry pig in a sty, I shadowed them. She had introduced him to social media by that time. I recalled the many occasions I tried to get Hassan to open a Facebook account. His reply, always: “Whatever for Abu?”
Never was there any sign of a quarrel or break-up in their posts. Her photos and status updates spoke simply of passion and luck and contentment to my disdain. I wept alone lots of times. Every second, I spent wishing a protracted illness upon my rival.
A short courtship followed. Before long, invitation cards for the marriage ceremony of Alima to Hassan were distributed. I persuaded myself something might still happen. I could bare my mind to Hassan and make him choose. An unsettled suspicion that his choice would not be in my favor delayed this occurrence.
However, I gathered my courage days to the big day; helped in part by a modest drug overdose. It was to be the turning point of my adult life; a confession soon unfrozen, never to be forgotten.
I spoke to my hero of a concealed love and to his credit, Hassan did not react with outrage. He hugged me close and brushed the tears which streamed down my shamed face. I rubbed his’ off with the back of my palm and managed a smile.
“Bu, I will marry Alima” were his words, using a name he called me only while we were alone. To my hungry ears and wounded heart, it seemed he said other things I longed to hear; “I’d rather have you.”
“You will come?” A statement more than a question.
My nod was barely perceptible. In those moments, I struggled against a particularly intense wish to shout. This must be how heartbreak feels.
“I won’t miss it Alfa” I replied, with my own nickname for him. We laughed awkwardly and somehow without thinking or even planning it, our lips touched. My palms cradled his face while his clutched my shoulders. The finger marks would be visible on my skin when I take off my jersey-turned-T-shirt later that evening. His taste was salty and our kiss long, broken only because in the end, we both needed air.
***
It has been five months since her burial. Hassan left Kano four months, three weeks and five days ago. It’s surprising how natural talking about him with friends has become. We laugh and I even throw in a few private jokes. The finer feelings of my heart lay shut up far away.
“As the moon, shining and shimmering in its orb takes over duty from our sun.”
“When daughter and wife retire for the day and my house goes still.”
I pull aside huge curtains and peer at the scintillating stars. My thoughts are of Hassan; beautiful reveries of what different turns our lives could take in an emancipated world.
Too soon, my knees grumble and I seek the bed turning away from the back of my wife; the poor woman having given up on unimpressive, appalling lovemaking, now comforts herself with sleep all nights while I battle insomnia.