MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'
CHAPTER III
Tubosun
***
My
eyes scanned the vicinity. A spaniel was hurtling after a spinning Frisbee
while its teenage owner clapped excitedly. There were clusters of guys here and
there, some in uniforms, some in tees and shorts, some playing rugby, some
playing soccer, and some playing cricket. There were ladies in groups and
ladies alone, some in dresses, some in tees and mini shorts, some reading books
or magazines, some playing a guitar, and some smoking. People were everywhere;
people dressed in different wears, people doing something, and people doing
absolutely nothing. It was summer in Cambridge.
Beatrice
and I chose a spot close to a group of guys and ladies; two were strumming
their guitars. The melody was soft, sweet and soothing. Beatrice lay on her
back and beckoned to me to join her. She looked cute in her dark sunglasses
white tennis shoes, khaki three-quarters and yellow tee. I wore a blue and red
flowered shirt, khaki three-quarters, a brown and black boat shoe, and a pair
of dark sunglasses, hanging from my shirt’s pocket. If a couple were defined by
their dress code, we were a couple.
I
wore the sunglasses, lay beside my best friend, and stared directly into the
eye of the golden yellow circle in the sky. So far, the day had gone well.
Beatrice’s advice had paid off. The pathway leader had been very helpful with
my dissertation’s challenges. Now I was back on track, and with or without the
help of my supervisor, I should have it completed in a couple of weeks. I shut
my eyes and enjoyed the pleasure of friend and nature.
‘Bzzzz!
Bzzzz!’ Come on! I had barely lain for 10 minutes and now this! I hated bees
and their annoying buzzing. I hurried up and took a mad swipe at the pesky
insect. I missed and then I tried again, and again, and again, but the outcome
was the same. Beatrice laughed and I swore. The bee finally lost interest and
sailed off to bother someone else. As I regained my composure I noticed the
elegant figure of Ashley Kazembe. She
was with a group of three attractive ladies in tight mini shorts and red tees,
but none of them quite matched her beauty, at least not to me. Her brown Afro
hairstyle and dainty fair skin were perfect partners. Rumours had it that her
father was from Zimbabwe while her mum was Spanish. A familiar sensation grew
between my thighs and my soul grew feather light. I wasn’t a shy person by any
standard but for some reason I had never been able to muster enough courage to
introduce myself, even though she lived only two houses away from mine!
‘You know you’ll never know unless you give
it a shot,’ Beatrice said. She was seated now.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. But I remained seated.
‘Go on then. Go say hello,’ she nudged
me, ‘and if she is a bitch, I will be
here to weather the embarrassment.’
I
was too nervous to laugh at her joke. I reluctantly got up, exhaled, turned to
Beatrice, ‘Wish me luck,’ and
embarked on what seemed like a thousand-mile voyage to Ashley Kazembe.
My
legs weighed heavier than ship anchors but I got there
eventually.
‘Hello,’ I said. They all looked at me.
My armpits were sweaty now.
No
one spoke, only stares.
‘Hello,’ I said again. This time,
Ashley Kazembe spoke.
‘Isn’t it as
plain as the nose on your face that we don’t want to be disturbed?’ Her voice was not as gentle as
I had imagined but hoarse in a way that would be terrible for singing.
Suddenly
she didn’t look pretty any longer, only ordinary; an ordinary girl who lacked
manners. I smiled and my confidence was back.
‘Wow, I didn’t
see that coming. Who would have thought you were just another piece of
silliness?’ I
put my hands in my pockets, ‘Well, have a
nice day.’ The mute shock in her eyes was immensely satisfying. I strode
back to Beatrice.
Sumbo
***
‘Here we are ladies,’ Adrien said as the car came
to a halt in front of a shop.
It
had a small notice board by the door that read McDaniels Antiquity and Art and
an Open sign that hung from a hook on the transparent glass door. I peered
through the door and noticed how small the shop looked. At the end of the room
was a counter erected over a long rectangular display glass containing jewels.
A casually dressed man engrossed on a computer monitor stood behind the
counter.
A
bell rung as we gained access into the store. The dark-brown haired man behind
the counter in a blue-and-white checked shirt recognized Mrs. Padraig instantly
and hobbled over to welcome us, his protruded belly pushing against the shirt,
waves of black curls visible behind the two popped buttons. He had on a pair of
blue beach shorts and a pair of red flip-flops. He looked forty-something, at
least.
His
bulgy eyes gleamed behind a pair of white glasses, and when he spoke, his the
tone/accent was American. ‘Hello there,
Edna,’ he said in a soft voice, extending his right hand.
‘Michael, it is
nice to see you again,’
Mrs. Padraig replied, shaking his hand. ‘This
is Sumbo, my friend,’ she introduced.
He
extended a hand, ‘Welcome to McDaniels
Antiquity, Miss Sumbo.’
‘The pleasure is
mine, Mr. Michael,’
I replied, accepting the hand shake.
‘Please, I don’t
like to be reminded how old I am, Michael will do just fine,’ he grinned.
‘Very well,’ I laughed. ‘Michael it is.’
He
turned back to Mrs. Padraig. ‘There are a
few new additions in store. Please come with me.’
I
wondered where the collections were hidden in such a small room.
He
led the way to a brown blind at the left end of his store, and pulled it apart.
My eyes widened in surprise as it opened to a fairly large, white room that
contained different paintings and art items. The paintings were hung on walls
while the art items stood on stool-like bases. I marveled at a half-squatting,
miniature wooden monkey with hollow eyes; right hand akimbo and left hand
outstretched like it was demanding a banana.
I ran a finger over the begging palm for a brief moment before searching
for another object of fancy.
As
I inspected the sculptures, I wondered where Mrs. Padraig was so I looked over
my shoulder. She and Michael huddled together at the right corner of the
gallery, conversing in low tones. Michael’s eye darted to me once and returned
swiftly to his companion. First the
blackout, now Secret Service conversations: what could be happening? Well, it
wasn’t my business until it became mine. So I continued my appreciation of the art
before me.
I
found a black and white painting that secured my attention. An exhausted
looking woman with disheveled hair and clothes being dragged on one hand by a
violent looking man with three butterflies hovering around his head, while
pulling a pregnant wailing teenage girl on the other hand. The emotion it
triggered was so disheartening that I might have shed a tear if I had not felt
a hand on my shoulder at that moment. Mrs. Padraig was by my side studying the
same art.
‘Torn
between the love for a man and a child,’ Mrs. Padraig said, her hand leaving my
shoulder.
‘Saddening
piece,’ I
replied, returning my gaze to the art.
‘A good piece to
add to my collection,’
she said.
My
expression changed from sadness to a puzzled one. ‘But it is rather saddening.’
The words were out of my mouth before I could take caution. I had no right
voicing my opinion about a non-work issue, unless it was requested. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly.
Speak your mind,’
she smiled. ‘Life is both sad and happy.
It wouldn’t be right to have only happy paintings.’
Her
statement sounded weird but it strangely made sense. I nodded.
‘I see your
point.’
‘Michael,’ she called, turning around.
He
was talking animatedly to a customer. He smiled and raised his index finger in
a wait–a-minute gesture. He rounded up his conversation, or perhaps told the
lady to hold on for a bit, and was with Mrs. Padraig in seconds.
‘I see you have
found something appealing,’
he grinned. ‘And a good choice at that.’
I
wondered how much it cost. The price tag was not hard to locate; it sat at the
art’s base: £1,980 pounds! That was awfully close to my monthly salary.
Michael
picked up the drawing, still grinning. ‘I’ll wrap it up right away. Please come
with me.’
The
moment we reached the counter, while Michael was punching some data into the
computer, I peered through the show glass. There were a couple of rings on
display. Only one stood out from the shiny set. It looked dull and archaic,
like it had been passed down from generation to generation. A tiny silver star
was on its pale gold-colored rim. For some reason my heart started beating fast
and I wanted to have it. I waited for Michael to meticulously wrap up the piece
and collect Mrs. Padraig’s card payment.
‘Isn’t this for
sale?’ I
pointed at the object. ‘The one without a
price tag.’ I asked as he handed back Mrs. Padraig’s card.
Surprise
registered on his face. ‘This very one?’ he asked, pointing at the same
object.
There
were no other ones without price tags in the whole display glass for that
matter. ‘Yes, Michael,’ I chuckled. ‘That
very one.’
‘The look on your
face Michael tells me there’s a story behind this ring,’ Mrs. Padraig said, peering
into the display glass.
‘Actually, there
is,’ Michael
said. The surprise in his face was no more. ‘I
got this from a friend who owns a pawn shop. At that time, he was in a bit of
financial crises so I offered to buy off some of his items. He particularly
warned me not to select the ring, saying he had not been able to sell it for 6
months. I did not believe there was an item in this world that couldn’t be sold
in my store so I added it to my purchases. When I got to my store, I polished
it, and put it on display. I decided not to put a price tag on it so it would
-’
The
bell from the exit door interrupted him. It was another customer. He waved at
Michael and went straight into the room behind the curtain.
Michael
continued, ‘Yeah, so I decided not to put
a price tag on it so it would stand out. It didn’t work. Customers just seemed
to ignore it. And that was about a year ago.’
I
reasoned that there had to be something fundamentally wrong with the ring, and
it was best left alone, but now the intrigue was much more than I could resist.
Mrs. Padraig must have caught the look in my eyes because she said, ‘Something tells me that the ring’s neglect
days are over.’
‘So how much does
it cost?’ I
asked.
‘Give me a
minute,’ he
said and punched some keys into the computer. ‘Ah, yes. 40 pounds but I’m prepared to give it away for half price.’
The
enthusiasm in his voice told me he wanted to get rid of the ring. I fished out
a twenty pound note, but Mrs. Padraig had already given
Michael
her debit card.
‘You didn’t have
to Mrs. Padraig.’
‘Edna, Sumbo.
It’s Edna from now on.’
She waved her index finger at me jocularly. ‘I
want to. Besides its nothing compared to the company you’ve so graciously
provided.’
‘Thank you, Mrs.
– Edna,’ I
smiled.
Michael
readily swiped the card, returned the key to Edna, delicately placed the ring
in a small grey box, and handed it to me.
Mrs. Padraig dialed a number on her mobile, and Adrien showed in a
matter of minutes. He smiled, said hello to Michael, picked up the wrapped art
piece and exited the shop.
‘I have to attend
to other customers,’
Michael said. ‘It’s been a pleasure
having you again Mrs. Padraig, and you too Miss Sumbo. I hope to see you again
soon.’
‘See you later,
Michael,’ Edna
said.
‘It’s been a
pleasure meeting you too,’
I said. I gave him a wave as we left the shop. Adrien was waiting by the opened
car, rear door. The moment the door was shut behind us, it occurred to me I
hadn’t tried on the ring. I fished out the box and tried it: A nice fit. It was
perhaps my imagination, but I felt a warm sensation rush up to my brain.
About The Author
Kreate
is a budding Nigerian writer with a flair for fiction. Writing for him began
sometime in secondary school where he dabbled in poetry and plays. He has
authored two self-published short novels.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.
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