MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'
CHAPTER
IV
Tubosun
***
‘You could be so
ungentlemanly. You should think before you speak.’ Beatrice said, her hands
swinging back and forth like a happy school girl.
I
checked my mobile phone; it indicated it was 17:17. Cyclist and motorists were
returning from work so the road was quite busy. ‘Get off the cycle path. I thought we were done with this topic?’ I
asked, but her face told me I was wrong. I smiled, tucking hand and phone back
into my pocket, the other hand swinging steadily, ‘She really was rude and she deserved everything she got.’
She
climbed onto the pavement. ‘You could
have ignored her and simply walked away,’ she said, looking at my face, but
not stopping.
‘I could, but
sometimes it’s best to give these snotty-nosed ladies a piece of one’s mind.’
‘Stop talking
balderdash. Ungentlemanly is what I call it,’ she said.
We
always argued about her etiquettes of a gentleman: opening the door for a
woman, telling a woman she is special all the time, and all that rubbish. There
were more important things in life to argue about. She was of the opinion that
ladies ought to be treated with respect irrespective of their bitchy attitude. I was not a believer of double standards. If
you were ready to play the fiddle, be prepared to enjoy the effects of your
tune, or something along that line. I’ll give any lady a piece of my mind if
she deserves it. ‘I have heard you,
Beatrice,’ I said. I was beginning to get upset. ‘Let’s drop the matter, please?’
She
knew my mood had changed and dropped the topic: one of the things I loved about
her. She nudged me with an elbow apologetically and I reciprocated. A hunched,
elderly woman on a mobility scooter appeared from a curb in front of us. As she
drew closer, Beatrice made way for her by getting on the cyclists’ lane. I was
just about to tell her that she was been silly for not pausing to check behind
her for an oncoming bicycle, but I was too late. I watched in horror as a cyclist
collided with Beatrice, knocking her clear off her feet while the cyclist went
flying off his bicycle. Someone screamed. My heart was thumping faster than the
wheels of a steam engine but my feet responded swiftly. I rushed to where
Beatrice lay. She looked dazed.
‘Oh my God.’ I said, helping her to feet. ‘Are you okay?’
It
took her a minute to respond. ‘Ah, I th-
think so,’ she replied, checking her legs and arms. She had sustained a few
bruises here and there.
‘Is she alright?’ someone asked.
It
was the elderly woman on the buggy. The
voices of occupants from moving cars were calling out: ‘Is she fine? Get her to the clinic! Are you guys alright?’
It
was then I remembered the flying cyclist. I looked in the direction of where he
fell, dreading the possibility of a worse outcome, but he was already up and
appeared to be checking himself for bruises. The accident had attracted a few
sympathizers: one was dusting the cyclist’s sport gear, and another was raising
the fallen bike.
‘I am alright. I
am alright,’
he said in a strong baritone voice to his pedestrians as they followed him to
where we stood. His build was firm and athletic. They reached us in a few
strides. ‘I’m really sorry. Are you
alright?’ The cyclist asked Beatrice, concern edged over his wrinkled
forehead.
‘I’m fine, no
need to worry about me. It was my fault, after all. No need for apologies. I
should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry.’ Beatrice replied. ‘I hope your injuries are not severe?’
‘Not at all. I’m
sure I’ll live.’
He collected his bike from some guy, and adjusted his helmet. ‘I hope we don’t run into each other again.’
A few people who got the joke, including me and Beatrice, laughed. And with
that he rode off and the good Samaritans dispersed.
‘If you were a proper
gentleman, that would have been you,’
Beatrice
said, as we trudged on.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Thank Goodness I’m not one.’
Beatrice
punched me and we laughed.
‘Watchout!’ I cried, but it was too late; the truck hit her
headlong. Beatrice lay dead. I looked around for help but the road was suddenly
deserted. A siren blared from an invisible ambulance. The sound grew louder and
louder but there was no ambulance. My mobile phone rang, and kept on ringing
until -
I
jerked awake at the loud annoying ringtone from my mobile phone. Salty sweat
dropped on my lips and I spat it out. My heart was thumping painfully as I
wiped the sweat from my forehead with a moist palm. The urge to ring Beatrice,
find out how she was, was really strong, but I laid the apprehensive feeling to
rest by concluding that the dream was a result of the accident that happened
some hours ago. The mobile phone was still ringing so I picked it up from the
shelf by my bed. The number was unfamiliar.
‘Hello,’ I said groggily into the
receiver.
‘Hello, Is this
Tubosun?’ the
caller asked. The voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t place a finger on the
caller’s identity.
‘Yes?’
‘This is Paolo,
Beatrice’s Landlord,’
the caller said.
That
got my blood pumping. His voice sounded distressed. Why was he calling at this
time of the night? ‘Hello Paolo, is
everything alright?’
‘I’m afraid
Beatrice has just being rushed to surgery,’ he said.
My
throat seemed to dry up as I stared at into darkness. Paolo was talking but his
words made no sense to me. The dream I had just had was replaying in my mind.
Slowly, I found my way to reality. I opened my mouth to speak but only air came
out. I tried again. ‘Wh - where is she?’ I
managed to ask.
‘Adam’s Surgery,
It’s by -’
‘I know where it
is.’ I said
and ended the conversation. I hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans, wore my
shoes, grabbed the key, then my jacket, and locked the door behind me. My
throbbing ache in my head was almost unbearable. Adam’s Surgery was about a
mile away and I didn’t have enough cash to hail a taxi. There were two bicycles
in our backyard and none belonged to me. I selected the sporting bicycle. I’ll
explain to the owner later. I wore my jacket and sat astride the bicycle, my
hands trembling as I gripped the handlebar.
I
peddled away with all the strength I could muster, the words Oh My God Beatrice
playing over and over again in my head.
I lay the bicycle clumsily against the wall of
Adam’s Surgery. The automatic transparent glass door slid open as I loped
towards it. I hesitated briefly to get my bearings. To my right was a man and a
yelling pregnant lady talking to a disgruntled looking blonde behind the
receptionist stand and a nurse was wheeling in a wheel chair, most likely meant
for the pregnant lady. I strode to the receptionist in a white uniform. The
couple left with the nurse as I reached the counter.
‘Excuse me,’ my breathing was fast and my
heartbeat was still rapid, ‘I learnt that
- that my friend has just been rushed here,’ I said anxiously, wiping
trickles of sweat off my forehead with a hand.
‘What’s her
name?’ she
asked perfunctorily like she was accustomed to scenarios such as this.
‘Miss Beatrice
Oluwatayo,’ I
replied, my feet tapping the marble floor impatiently.
She
punched in some keys on the computer in front of her. ‘She’s in surgery now,’ Her voice sounded indifferent. ‘Please take a seat at the waiting room over
there.’ she said pointing to a corner at her right. ‘The doctor would be with you as soon as he can.’
I
was annoyed that Beatrice, to her, was just another patient, even though she
was. But I said nothing and went to the waiting area.
Paolo
was seated on one of the red sofas in the waiting area, his face buried in his
palms. There were two other unfamiliar people on separate sofas, anxiety
written all over their faces. One was fiddling with an Islamic string of prayer
beads. I walked up to Paolo and placed my palm on his shoulder. His tousled
head rose slowly and our eyes met.
‘Tubosun,’ he said, anxiously.
‘What happened?’ I asked, even though I was
almost sure I knew the answer.
‘Honestly, I
don’t know,’
Paolo replied. A tear slid down his right eye. I was surprised how much he
cared about Beatrice, or was he just too emotional? ‘One moment she was holding a glass of warm milk, the next moment the
glass shattered on the ground and she fell onto the sofa…’
His
voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know.’
My
legs felt so weak I was sure they wouldn’t support my weight any longer so I sat
by the red sofa next to him. Paolo’s palms went over his face again. I sighed,
shut my eyes, and started mumbling words of prayer. I had repeated the prayer
twice and was going for a third round when a voice instigated me to open my
eyes.
‘Mr. Paolo.’ It was a doctor. I rose almost
immediately. I didn’t have to read his face intently to decipher the message it
carried. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news. The
internal bleeding couldn’t be contained on time. I am sorry. We lost her.’
Paolo
cried out. I wanted to cry; I needed to cry, but tears didn’t come. I wanted to
do something – anything, but I didn’t know what. Even if I’d thought of
something, I was too drained to do anything.
Beatrice was dead. And I was the culprit. I shrunk into my seat, hoping it would
swallow me.
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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