MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'
CHAPTER
VIII
Tubosun
***
I was temporarily
distracted from hitting the print icon by the sight of two undergrads coming my
way, holding hands and laughing loudly. That used to be me and Beatrice, I
thought and felt a pang of pain in my chest. I examined the hall of the
university’s library. Some people looked engrossed with their computers, others
chatted animatedly, and some searched for vacant computers. Everyone seemed
alright. I wasn’t. The blend of thrill and bliss that was the expected feeling
of someone who had completed his thesis just wasn’t there.
In fact, I was
unhappy that the major project was over. Working on it had been a major part of
coping, or for that matter, not coping with Beatrice’s demise. It had been two
months now and I hadn’t found a way around the grief and guilt, the latter
stronger than the former. Honestly, trying had been too painful so I had
adopted an avoidance technique that involved embracing other distractions which
included taking as many shifts as possible at my night job, night clubbing and
shagging random sexual partners.
Self-made online
experts said smoking calmed the soul so I gave it a shot but my abhorrence for
the taste and smell reinforced the embargo I once placed on it. On one clubbing
night, when the guilt was particularly unbearable, I had resorted to downing a
variety of alcoholic beverages.
The following
morning, I had woken up in my briefs and a massive hangover under a tree in a
public park. The unhealthy popularity and tales of my drunken escapades I had
received from strangers deterred me from going drunken master ever since.
Now I needed another
distraction or distractions to fill in the void once occupied by working on my
thesis. Getting another job wasn’t an option as I was constrained to twenty
hours of work as an international student - even though I was now doing ten
extra illegal hours. It struck me that I had always wanted to learn how to
swim. This would only take a mere hour or two daily but it was a start. I
clicked on the print icon and proceeded to the printer stand.
Sumbo
***
My fingers combed my
tousled hair as I rose reluctantly to a sitting position on my bed. ‘Another dud dream,’ I said to myself. I
had had a dream but it had absolutely nothing to do with the dream: something
about balloons, a green park, airplanes and telephone conversations with some
high-end client. The frequency of the dream had dulled to an infinitesimal once
every week. This saddened me because I had form a bond with it like some
blockbuster movie that I couldn’t seem to get enough of. To rub pepper on a
fresh flesh wound, there was no indication of it coming to pass. I had been to
three fun-fair carnivals, my radar searching for any sign of a reality re-occurrence of the dream. No Mr. Right, No wailing kid, No nothing. Sometimes,
I had wondered if it was just a big fat joke played on me by my
subconscious. I had spoken to Edna about
it and she had said: ‘Patience, it will
happen at the appropriate time.’ In truth, I found my yearning for this
manifestation surprising since my life had been quite comfortable before the
dream. It had awoken a need that I didn’t know existed. An exhale escaped my
mouth. At least, my performance at work hasn’t been affected…yet. But at this
rate, how long would that last?
Time to prepare for
work. I got out of bed.
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.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere.
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