Chapter Eleven
SonOfMan had gone to bed, a week after, when his handset buzzed around 11pm. He rolled over and reached out to the table to pick the disturbing device.
(Mister Wyi?)
“Speaking; who’s this?” He questioned the voice of a soft spoken woman over the phone.
(Do you really know about the love women give?)
SonOfMan was instantly alert. “In what regard?”
(Something has happened on what you believe about this love.)
“Sis, can you be more specific?”
(You see, I can’t say more… really.) Her distress was clear. (You need to find out what’s going on about her out there!)
“Her; which her?”
(Where you place your love; find out!)
The caller cut the line; it happened so fast. SonOfMan brought the set on his face and stared at it, before he dropped it back. On a second thought he picked it again and dialled the number.
When a male voice this time answered he said brusquely; “This is Mister WyiWorri Jamike, a corps member serving in Ondo state. Please, I want this person that just called this line back on line.”
(Just a minute, please.)
He waited.
(She’s just disappeared; well, this end is a phone booth on the streets of Lagos.)
Streets of Lagos? “Okay, thanks.”
You need to find out! Find out what? His brain troubled. Yeah what? What’s going on about her! But about who? Yeah, ‘who’ was the question. Though it seemed there was no answer to it, but a snapshot to answer it was there. Where you place your love! ‘You’, him now! Place his love!
MyAngel was living in Lagos, where she was studying catering after leaving her job as a receptionist—MyAngel again? No, too raw. Aye, raw all the way round. Raw in regard to the information. Raw in the sense a raw deal. SonOfMan cursed the troubling faculty and tried to switch it off the ricocheted thoughts that led to last time woeful accusations. It was unfounded and he had tried to repress any retread retracting.
He fought himself mentally, wishing this wasn’t like a case of his last two rites of passage. The period even his youthful delinquency couldn’t help to reduce the woe-be-gone worry he fixatedly whined with. This particular delinquency was his life he had surprisingly found completely gone in oblivion. The one time dared rite of passage. The aspect of his feral demeanour he had been forgotten—too mindless to mention all along his records.
It was during the time of his sophomore, between his second and third year in higher institution. And it all started when he found that ordinarily it was intractable to realize one of his core age-long dreams about his anatomy. When it was obvious that, by virtue of nature, sizeable flesh upon his bones had really eluded him—placing him below appreciating good appetite for food. When all the multi-vitamin drugs and orthodox appetizers found themselves incapacitated to solve his problem. Aye, incapacitated because it was raw nature they were combating with.
‘Guy, dope is your solution’, they had told him, prompting him to make instantaneous friends and feel belonging. They were always obliging, along, and benevolent, making the illegal stuff handy for his consumption. His conscience was blurred. In fact, he successfully sold it out for some aspects of undisciplined human chemistry. A world he wrong-headedly thought that the inordinate sexual urge was a trait—not finest trait, anyway—and that it had followed familially, and of course incorrigibly.
And with a tool of Lady Telma, who he had chosen as his priceless ally—a wrong tool, anyway—he had fought this negative leyline bluntly and unguardedly, and as much painfully.
Yeah, painfully; because it was of snafu and fiascos.
Now, was MyAngel another wrong tool?
Yeah, was she?