Preamble

History had shown that there were two kinds of angels; the good and the bad. The war that broke out in heaven was going to bring out the comparing dichotomy. Lucifer was the general that led the rebellious faction—thus the bad angels, while Michael was the general that led the loyal faction that kicked his strike force out of heaven—thus the good angels. History was impeccable, especially on its relationship with the first coup d’état that was accurately recorded in the holy bible. But here in the world of Eve, smart minds had discovered that history had actually missed an account of a certain angel. Another type of angel totally in a different league. While history omitted this particular account was still unknown. Maybe it was because of the non-alignment policy of this angel; or because of the controversial gender of this angel; or because of the paradoxical nature of mission of this angel. Whatever, history nearly killed the predestination of the chief inhabitant of this world, with that negligence in recognising the angel of contradictory nature.

In a corner this angel in a different league was considering missions poles apart from Cherubim’s and seraphim’s, WyiWorri Jamike’s quagmire on earth was captured. From the vantage point of present, all the missions of this angel, from the time immemorial, achieved little; so the next task was going to be a huge landmark. Now this angel of controversial gender watched the target of mission again; he needed to be helped seriously. He was a nice guy of big dreams, only that these dreams were very close to delusions of grandeur—judging with things without. He was a paradox too, and that was what made him and this angel in a different league. Approve him or object him, bless him or cause him, he foolishly believed in his farfetched dreams for sole survival. In short, take him or leave him, that was his faith, and unbendingly he communicated it to everyone he met, which was the most reason why this angel in his league had picked him. The world thought he was a basket case; but he thought the world gave him witch-hunts. A certain amount of conformity was particularly required of an inhabitant of earth toeing her line of fate; but he was a dissenter. WyiWorri Jamike was a malcontent.

He had a vision to own an ideal home; he had a vision to add peerless value to the literary world; but he lacked cooperate vision to see the countervailing vicissitude that made them unrealistic. Just two years plus ago, he was standing long on the road, waiting to get a bike for his journey back to school, when he saw this angel on the ground of earth, walking towards him. He needed urgently a girlfriend to turn a wife and protect himself properly, so he calculated things quickly. This beautiful fair skinned robust angel from heaven had everything to offer; and he measured them. She was his complementary left and right. He always knew he had many faults about his build, and this angel was a make-up physique for him. In short, she was overall, voluptuous—and he followed her, leaving out his journey.

Just exactly one year after that, they climbed the numerous steps of St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Okigwe, and had a certain secret marriage on their own. A secret marriage that was actually a vow of engagement. There was no law to give binding reason that this angel was going to be a faithful partner—since it was done before a priest-less altar. However, he gave her a name that he thought God had actually put in his mouth the very day he met her. That name was MyAngel.

Now, another one year, WyiWorri Jamike was waiting for a visiting angel in the night, when there was blustery wind, and her bus was late to come by. It was a matter of anxiety, but Prince Williams, the corps member serving the nation with WyiWorri Jamike, was an understanding companion. He was also an ex-seminarian that just had his philosophy before the theology, and felt it was nice to continue his work of sublimation as a laity rather. Sometimes WyiWorri Jamike thought rudely, maybe the wicked combustion of continence burnt off his bud of chastity too early enough, before he could be ordained.

It was Ikare—Onitsha road, and buses were coming down from Onitsha; but she wasn’t a passenger in any of them. Moment after moment. Then this particular helpful one arrived at the terminal park. An eighteen seater passenger bus. On the third seat, the one before the rear seat, a fair complexioned dish in the middle, with aura of beauty, was perceptible in the gloomy bus. A face that wasn’t hard to recognize. Then a voice that exclaimed breathlessly, ‘Sweetheart’.

“Welcome, Dumebi, my Lady!” WyiWorri Jamike jubilated, darting his eyes for Prince Williams.

She hopped down to him, her arms going around his waist. Excessive affection. She buried her face around his shoulder. Her mien spoke of heavenly love, and was just nice. Just nice.

Later in the night, when only two of them were in his room, there wasn’t, and had never been, any hardness about her. There was just lovingness. And passion. A crazy kind of passion. A wonderful kind of passion.

“Please, make love to me,” she beseeched.

He touched her, she was ready; beauty of love. He reached his hand for a pack of durex.

“Leave the condom, Sweetheart,” she said. “Skin is intimate… and still better.”

That statement was a notice inside WyiWorri Jamike’s head, because he had stolen a look in her purse and found something that hit concern in his instinct. But no need for caveat now—actually.

Much later, about two months added, long deep in the night, WyiWorri Jamike was counting neurotically…

Dumebi visited on ninth January—Friday, and that same night we made love all through the night. No sex on tenth, Saturday. No sex on eleventh, Sunday. Well, this Sunday night Dumebi encountered an ailment that tried to block her heartbeat, and Prince Williams had alerted the entire compound, and the corps members were obliging to carry her to the hospital that early hours of day Monday.

No sex on twelfth, the Monday night, ipso facto. We made love on thirteenth, Tuesday, at Cynthia’s place, another close lady corps member. No sex again till sixteenth, Friday evening—that day I supposed to attend a corps members’ football competition. She went back to Lagos on the following day, Saturday.

From ninth till now is seventy one days. From thirteenth till now is sixty seven days, and from sixteenth till now is sixty four days…

Was WyiWorri Jamike actually a basket-case?