MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH 'KREATE'

 

THE MIGRANT

 

WELCOME TO CHAPTER NINE OF THE MIGRANT 

PLEASE FOLLOW THE LINKS TO READ THE PROLOGUE, CHAPTER ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, AND EIGHT.

It was Friday. I would have preferred to say I got a lot better at panhandling in my seventh week of practicing, but I didn’t. I’d like to say I finally got lucky and found a job of some description, but I didn’t. Yours truly, things only got worse. I’d been called all sort of foul names. Someone had actually emptied the contents of his Styrofoam cup all over me, its liquid warmth scrubbing away a little of what was left of my dignity. And the morbidly cold weather didn’t make matters any easier. That been said, some days I got lucky with some customers. But the proceeds were only enough for a meal a day. On such fortunate days, when I didn’t get cash, I took leftovers. Pride wouldn’t allow me for the first few offers, but hunger triumphed eventually and I began accepting the half-eaten hotdog or the nibbled bacon roll or whatever was left of some stranger’s takeaway. This was ground zero, I knew it, but I was smart enough to admit that my options were limited –in fact, nonexistent all together.

 In my case, the only good thing about the day was its end: hanging out with the guys. We’d share stories about the events of the day and laugh over it. The twins always had the best tales. The mischief they got themselves into was hilarious, hilariously stupid, and hilariously dangerous. One time, Clever had been trying to get the attention of some lady by tapping her shoulder when she suddenly turned so that his hand landed on her breast. He hadn’t apologized but told the lady that they felt soft and bouncy. She had hit him over the head with her purse and stormed off.  I really hoped that they wouldn’t run out of luck and get arrested.

Peter was back too and he looked well. Whatever was wrong with him couldn’t have been serious. It was a relief. I had no iota of surprise to realize he had amassed a new portfolio of words to show off. Baron and I were fast becoming close friends. We usually met in the public library and talked about things. Most of his conversation was based on different causes that required the intervention of affluent individuals or corporate bodies, their strengths, faults and what could be done to make them better. Close as we had gotten, he never invited me, not to mention the other guys, to his shed again since New Year’s Eve. Sarah had said it was a once in a year routine. She was really friendly now that sex was out of the way. Sometimes I had hoped that we’d have a rerun, but she was nothing if not true to her word. Once, I had a dream about her: we had been making out. I woke up that night to find my draws wet with semen. 

Today, I had decided to work the train station area for coinage from strangers. I was famished since the last meal I had was at lunch yesterday. By consequence, it was hard for my anatomy to ward off the cold biting against the wall of my insides. The icy drizzle that mingled with the chilly wind didn’t help matters too. I sneezed. Shivers ran through my veins, my head banged with throbs, my nose watery with mucus, and it was hard to keep my teeth from chattering. For someone from hot Nigeria, the weather was subzero, and yet, I had never felt this terrible since I had begun panhandling. It dawned that I must be coming down with something. Perhaps it was the flu. The virus seemed to pervade the streets of Cambridge at this time of the year, I was told. Pedestrians could be seen coughing here and others sneezing there. I wanted to return to somewhere warm, get some rest. But instinct told me that once I laid my head, it would be impossible to get up again, at least not today.  Besides, I was hungry and no one had been generous enough to hand me a penny. For the six hours I had been here, everyone I had approached simply walked past me like I was a specter of no significance.

I looked at the bus-stop opposite. There was a black guy in a corporate suit waiting for a bus. On a normal day, I wouldn’t have approached someone who shared the same skin color. This decision lacked rationality, I was aware. But I had an innate aversion towards it. It felt like we both emerged from the same society and they were doing well for themselves while I rolled in squalor. It was a stupid pride but I was contented with it. At the moment, situation and circumstance instigated an exception. Perhaps I’d get lucky with him. I crossed the road in long strides and walked up to him.

‘Hey,’ I greeted.

His eyes sized me up and the glare I received was an epitome of a conclusion that the object of his scrutiny, me, caused him revulsion. ‘Yeah?’ His accent was African but not Nigerian. Perhaps Zimbabwe or South African. But that was of no consequence. All I needed was money. Money to buy food and escape the claws of this blasted weather. I decided not to beat around the bush. ‘I’m hungry. Could you help a brother out?’

The derision in his voice was unmistakable. ‘I have no charity in me today,’ the stranger scowled. ‘You should pay more attention to your surroundings. This is not the kind of weather that permits soliciting for assistance.’

‘Right.’ There was anger. There was shame. There was a witty comeback somewhere in me but I decided I had no right. It was his money, after all. Defeated, I shut my mouth and sat on the waiting bench. And thankfully, soon his bus arrived.

The rain had picked up its pace and was pelting the floor and anything with harsh fervor. At this rate, the odds of help coming were one to a hundred. I buried my head in my laps. I remembered home. I remembered that life of comfort. I remembered my late father. I remembered what home had done to him. And warm tears welled up in my eyes.

‘Young man.’ It was the voice of a lady.

I jerked up with a startled expression to the towering face of a bespectacled lady who looked her mid-thirties. Her light skin tone indicated some bi-racial heritage, possibly African-English, but her accent was as British as it gets. She struck me as a lady from the commercial business side of things, even though her poncho revealed nothing underneath except her classy high-heeled shoes.

‘Hello,’ I said then sneezed.

She reached into the bus that was slung casually over her shoulder. ‘Here,’ she said, handing me a ten pound note and a card. ‘Give me a call, will you?’ And she strode off.

It was unexpected so finding a ready ‘thank you’ didn’t prove an instant success. ‘Thank you!’ I shouted after her. But she was either too far gone, or the rain prevented her from hearing me. My gaze followed her till she disappeared into the train station. I checked the card. Regina Smith was her name. Why did she give me cash when I didn’t ask for it? It was unusual but possible, I guessed. I didn’t know why but Baron’s voice crept into my mind: Follow your instincts. His voice tone was foreboding, and that was not how I remembered it. Regardless, I tucked the card and cash into my pocket. There was time for considering actions, but this wasn’t the time. It was time for food. Hot food.

The two pieces of hot chicken, accompanying fries and a bottle of water were pleasing to the eyes and tantalizing to my sense of smell. But for some reason my stupid taste bud could only tolerate a piece of chicken and seven sticks of fries. My head was throbbing with the intensity of a locomotive engine and my eyes ached with careless abandon. Rest was the only viable option so I requested a takeaway box, stuffed it in my knapsack, and exited the fast food outlet. Maybe if I got enough sleep, I’d be able to see the guys tonight. Weakened knees, throbbing head, I lugged my exhausted anatomy towards the direction of the university. After what seemed like the passing of an era, I arrived at my destination, and made my way to my sofa area. Good thing that there were barely any students around. I guessed it was because academic session had only just commenced. Students were still taking it easy. It was a relief to crash into my favorite sofa. Soon a delightful blackness engulfed my consciousness.

‘Hey,’ a distant voice said. ‘Mr.’

With effort, I peeled my eyes open. Slowly, the bulbous frame of a man became clear. His uniform, rigid stance and penetrative brown eyes exuded a certain gravitas that told me I was in trouble.

‘Um-’ I stuttered. ‘Uh, hello.’ A smile played over my lips, as I struggled to a seating position.

‘Are you a student of this university?’ His voice was dishearteningly formal. It appeared I was in trouble.

I considered lying, but my gut told me anything outside the truth would only make matters worse. I sighed. ‘No.’

‘We’ve noticed you’ve been spending every night in the premises for quite a while now. Since you are not a student, this is highly prohibited. You look like a decent lad and I am a firm believer in the philosophy of second chances so I’ll let this slide. I advise you to find an abode elsewhere. If this happens again, I’m afraid I am obligated to get the police involved.’ And without further ado, he stalked off.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. My head still ached and my body was now feverish. What was I to do? I should head off to where the guys hung out. I fished out my mobile from my pocket. ‘Fuck!’ It was five minutes past one in the morning. It was surreal that I had been out for that long. The guys would have dispersed to wherever they crashed for the night. Spending the night outside in my state would be signing a death certificate. I’d have to ring Baron. Thankfully, I had a little over a minute of call time left on my mobile.

‘Gring. Gring. Gring.’ No response. More rings and then it fell into voicemail. I cancelled it before the beep went off.  The path to Baron’s house was still fresh in my memory so finding my way wouldn’t be too difficult. But I wasn’t sure if he would take too kindly to me dropping in unannounced. There had to be a reasonable invitation to his shed was a once-a-year event. So I decided against it. I thought of the other chaps. Crap! Why had I never thought it important to get the numbers of the other guys? And then I laughed. They were homeless for goodness sake. Their sleeping arrangements could only be worse than what I had. What was I to do now? And then I remembered the lady who had given me ten pounds and a call card.

‘This probably wasn’t what she meant when she said I should give her a call. But what did I have to lose?’ I muttered as I dialed her digits.

‘Hello,’ a groggy, feminine voice edged with irritation responded after the fourth ring.

For a second I said nothing. Suddenly it occurred to me that I hadn’t thought this through properly. What if she was married? I sighed. There was no turning back now. Here goes nothing: ‘Hi, this is Francis-’ and then I remembered she didn’t know my name. ‘The guy you helped out with ten pounds yesterday.’ And then I added quickly before I lost my nerve. ‘I need a place to sleep tonight.’ Now that it was out there, I realized the words I had deposited had no iota of courtesy in them. In retrospect, I had sounded creepy too. Why was I being foolish? Perhaps it was a delirious effect from this blasted illness.

‘Oh, hello.’ Her voice was still sleepy but the irritation was gone. ‘Take a taxi to 17 Smith’s Path, CB4 3SP. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the fare.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied and she hung up. Okay, that went better than expected.

In a matter of twenty minutes I was standing in front of a terraced house with an adjoining garage, nondescript as far as Cambridge was concerned. Most of the houses in Cambridge had similar architectural designs after all. Although the only thing I needed now was a warm bed, I did a quick sweep of the surroundings. It was dead quiet as should be expected of any place at this time of the day. The illumination provided by the street lamps revealed barren trees, a concrete path that curved into another invisible street or perhaps a close. The air smelt of wet three trunks and branches. Suddenly, a cat meowed at my feet and I jumped. My phobia for cats had been born out of eerie tales of witches possessing cats. It seemed unlikely in a country that mainly believed in empirical evidence but the metaphysical truth or lie that had been ingrained in my core couldn’t be made futile just after a few months in England. It didn’t help matters that the cat was as black as death itself. Thankfully, the feline moved and didn’t give me a second look. The grace in its mobility almost appeared to be a show of serene self-satisfaction at being able to instigate a cowardly reaction from a grown ass man. Stupid –

‘Hey my friend!’ The grunt laced with irritation wasn’t loud enough to disturb neighboring sleepers but the night was quiet enough to covey his voice to my ears. It occurred to me that the cab driver hadn’t been paid.

‘I beg your pardon. One moment, please.’ I hit the door bell and waited.

The door opened and there she was. She had a sleeping net worn over her head and a loose fitted, long-sleeved, silky red night gown that fell close to her slippers. The air around her smelt of coconut. It was also clear that we were almost the same height. She had less than an inch over me in height.

‘Hello again Francis,’ she greeted. Her smile was inviting, homely and a vestige of gleaming white teeth flashed. ‘You look awful.’ The concern in her voice was undeniable. ‘Please come in. I should pay him off,’ she was looking in the direction that had to lead to the taxi, ‘and I’ll be with you in a moment.’

‘Thank you.’ The gratefulness I stepped into a warm living room brightened with a white glare from a fluorescent lamp. The room was rather big. The floor was covered with a red rug that brilliantly complemented the three blue leather sofas. The next thing that caught my eye was a treadmill. A fire place stood at a corner adjacent to the door I had emanated from; a plastic cover was pulled over it. It looked like it had been used recently. On his mantelpiece was a large portrait of three young men in trunks picking fallen coconuts in a large green field semi-circled by a stream. There wasn’t a coconut tree around so I couldn’t help but wonder where the coconuts emanated from. Odd. My eyes trailed off the portrait, followed the cream painted wallpaper with blue floral patterns to the right and settled on a huge flat TV held up a transparent glass shelf. It had to be really thick to be able to support the weight of that TV. Expensive too. A cable box and some wires were visible from within the shelf.

‘Nice place, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes. Lovely place.’ I turned to look at my host. She was leaning casually against the wall in a way that reminded me of Uncle Eddie. For some reason my heart skipped a beat, and not in a good way. I shook the feeling off. Her eyes were trained on me as if they were sizing me up, like a contestant who was being screened by a judge at some audition. As far as age was concerned, she had to have six, maybe seven years over me. But that didn’t change the fact that her face was stunning: blue eyes that seemed to twinkle as she enunciated every word, strong and confident cheek bones, a small nose, and full, almost pink lips. If there were any makeup on, it was almost imperceptible. And she had the physique of one who judiciously followed a well-planned exercise regimen. She was class personified. I sneezed.

‘Bless you. This season is dreadful. Oh well, I suspect that you must be hungry. I’ll heat up a steak and a bowl of soup for you in the microwave. You also need a hot cup of milky herbal tea. I believe there are a couple of some anti-flu drugs stashed somewhere in my room.’ She returned to a standing position. ‘I’ll show you to your room. And there is a hot bath waiting upstairs. You definitely need one. And once you’ve had your meal, you should get some deserving rest.’

‘Thank you very much, Ms Reginald. There is no need for food, though.’ I said. ‘I still have some leftovers – fried chicken and chips.’

‘Don’t be absurd. You need healthy food in this state of yours. Trash them. You’ll have steak and soup.’ Her tone was final. ‘And Reginald, I don’t require any title.’

She showed me to the kitchen where I got rid of the leftovers, albeit reluctantly. I processed some bits of information as we ascended the stairs. Perhaps it was how she spoke, or the subtle yet commanding gesticulations, or the aura of superiority encircling her; she struck me as a self-assured lady accustomed to a lifestyle of getting whatever she desires. I didn’t quite understand why but I felt an itch of foreboding. Was I getting myself into a precarious situation? A pang of headache struck home. I shook it off. This had to be a case of over thinking things. I had the flu for goodness sake. And a break wasn’t too much to ask for. I ought to be grateful to fate. The bed was firm and as warm and inviting as the spacious guest room. I wanted to forgo the shower, food and drugs and fall right into the beckoning arms of sleep. But I knew Reginald wouldn’t have that.

 

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.