Elevator with a Stranger

Not being claustrophobic sure made things a bit more comfortable however I was still in a very unsettled state of mind.

I’d seen many movies with this exact same scenario; with most of them not ending really well. And so, it made sense that I would be scared, confused and worried about my life.

Being stuck in an elevator is something I wouldn’t have ruled out happening, considering the state of electrical power supply in this country is abysmal, mostly. But, being stuck in one with a total stranger who looked very suspect? I didn’t see that coming.

Every other time I visited my friend in her building, I always took the stairs. Not because I was scared of elevators, but because I didn’t even know there was one in the building.

On this particular day, my chest felt the need to inconvenience me big time so walking alone was tough, talk less of walking up 12 flights of stairs. So, when I finally found out there was an elevator in the building, I was grateful to the gods of perfect and convenient timing.

After seeing Get Out, which by the way, in my opinion, was a very daft movie – I’ve never seen a more naive black man in my life. Shame. This isn’t a movie review but words can’t describe how pissed I was after wasting 2 hours of my time watching that filth ~rant over~ – white people became proper suspect to me. They’ve been very sus prior to but Get Out intensified things. (Racist much?? Nah. For the next 3 minutes, try not to be woke please)
Yeah, this would’ve made for a decent story uno, butttttt, trust me to come through with that early morning disappointment ✌

 

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On Becoming – Part 2

I wasn’t really sure what to expect from this man; so far so good anyway. All my life, no one had treated me specially, and so this experience felt alien to me. I slept like a queen that night. No, he did not touch me.

Getting out of bed was going to be tough. I could tell; because I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t want all of this to end.

He didn’t rush me or disturb me; he allowed me to stay in bed as long as I wanted.

Night fell quite fast. You know what they say; time passes fast when you’re having fun.

A part of me felt queasy. Everything was going way too perfectly, almost suspicious, very suspicious actually. I disregarded the thoughts and felt it was just me not being used to this star treatment. I wish I listened to myself in retrospect.

The man came to me this particular night. Quite alright, he had been nothing but nice since he brought me home, but this felt different. He was being extra gentle, and kind.

He urged me to soak in his pool. Unbeknownst to him, I could not swim and I was scared of water. However, his kind words trumped my fears and I eventually succumbed. We had a nice chat in the pool.

We got out of the pool and went to chill in his hot tub right after. A part of me felt like a finesse chick but none of this was of my doing; I literally didn’t put myself out there anyway. While in the tub, he helped me apply all sorts of soaps and creams and herbs. At this point, I was so damn wet!

Slowly, I began to feel the temperature rise. The water felt like it was heating up. Being my first time, I assumed this was normal and continued to enjoy my time in the tub.

Have you heard the story of the boiled frog?

I think I slept off. I guess the heat got way too uncomfortable and so I woke startled. I looked up and saw the man staring at me; he had that his cute smile on. A part of me was creeped out though as this smile lasted longer than normal. I looked down to see if it was cleavage. That was when I saw it. My skin had become tan My skin was bright orange.

The steam was killing me, my skin was burning and the discoloration bothered me immensely, I smelled good however but I needed to get out. I tried to but I couldn’t. Slowly, I began to lose consciousness.

This was it. I was dying. In my final moments, I heard him speak, “Honey, food is ready”.

This is my story. My story on becoming Jollof Rice 😊😊

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On Becoming – Part 1

My story is not an awesome one; neither is it uninteresting. It’s quite basic. In it’s simplicity, it possesses some depth still. This is my story.

Plain, simple, normal. That’s how anyone you asked would’ve describe me. I didn’t do much. I rarely went out. Spent most of my days indoors, all of my days actually.

Everything changed when I met him. I remember that day; as usual, with my many siblings, I was indoors. I would say home but this wasn’t always our home. We only recently moved here. We used to stay in the wild. Cool, cool life. We would stay out all day, dancing as the wind blew, playing in the rain, frowning when the sun , well, did what the sun does.

They had taken us, my siblings and I. Our parents tried to stop them but their frail arms could only do so much.

So here, new place.

I was only just getting used to life here when he came by and took me. I remember being happy. He was a handsome man. Appeared quite nice. Dark too.

He took me home that night.

 

Her Design – Part 2

This is her design. This is her masterpiece.
**
She had always been artistic. Taking every opportunity she had to scribble or draw something, anything. She did this as she was sad. Sad and depressed. Depressed and angry. Angry and weak.
She hated her life; her existence. She always wondered why, why she was created, why she came into this world. Her life was a mess.
She was an only child. The only child of two nefarious and useless parents. She hated them both; she hated them equally.
Her father was insane, he had to be; for that was the only reasonable explanation for how he lived his life. He was a miserable drunk. No job, no bearing in life, nothing. He came home every night, reeking of cheap beer. He would see her in the living room, usually scribbling something, and he would order her to come closer just so he could beat her and fondle with her body.
The devil; that was what she called him.
Her mother was weak. She hated her. The woman always accepted nonsense. The man would go into the kitchen, drag the woman out to the living room, beat her until she could not cry or struggle again and take her right there, in front of the girl.
The fool; that was what she called her.
She hated all men. Her father had made her believe all men were dogs, were animals, were equally wretched. And men like two of her uncles  helped further intensify her conviction.
They all had to die. They didn’t deserve life. At 13, she had been known over and over again by these same 3 men.

Her plan was foolproof. She had gotten all the necessary items she would need – a large canvas, a big paintbrush, enough succinylcholine, a sharp knife, a keg of petrol and a gas lighter. All she waited for now was the perfect time.
And it came quite early. The fool had invited the girls uncles for dinner. This was her opportunity.
As usual, she prepared the dinner. Asides being weak, the fool was also lazy and made the girl do all the domestic work. The girl prepared dinner with a broad smile across her lips.

This is her cue

She announced that the meal was ready and asked that they gather at the dining table while she brings in their food from the kitchen. She had prepared rice. Rice and stew. Stew and succinylcholine.
They ate, except her. She sat and watched as they all ate and laughed. She laughted too. Not at their jokes, but at how well everything was going.
They had finished eating and she cleared the table.

This is her moment

On returning from the kitchen, she saw that they were all motionless. Motionless, but alive. Alive enough to watch as she worked on her masterpiece.
With the sharp knife, she drew their blood. Blood sufficient to start and complete her masterpiece.
All through, she didn’t say a word. She enjoyed the quietness.
She positioned their heads to face the large canvas she had brought into the room.
‘This is my work’ she said, as she dipped the paintbrush into the jar containing their blood and began to ‘scribble’.

Crimson

Light strokes

She took her time.
She was finally done and so she stepped back to admire her work.

‘Perfect’

She had painted a little girl, one eye innocent, and the other red with fury. The little girl was looking at four words she had written on the wall.

Blood
Fire
Chaos
Death

They wished they could react, but they could not move their bodies.  The succinylcholine had paralysed them.
She excused herself and left the room. Soon, she was back, dragging a keg of petrol behind her. With calmness and a smile, she poured the petrol all over them and around the room.

She brought out a lighter from her pocket.

And then she stood at the entrance of the house, flicked on the lighter, and threw it into the dining room.
As she walked away, away from the nonsense, away from the madness, away from the fire, she could hear their muffled cries. But she did not care.

She never looked back.

For this is her design, this is her masterpiece.

His Cross – Part 1

Prompt – Subtle

He wears a smile wherever he goes. The pain, the hurt, the insecurity; he hides behind a mask. A mask of joy and happiness. Happiness so pure, it’s almost unreal; even though it is, for he is not happy; or joyous. His heart aches, his head hurts, as he wonders when, just when, when will he feel true happiness again.

His life had been perfect; his joy intact. He was a little boy with not a care in the world. A child’s happiness is heavenly; it is perfect. Perfect as the child has not gone through a lot yet. And so, he lives each day, smiling, laughing and jumping, because life is good, very good; at least for now.

Good things happen to bad people. Not that they deserve it, obviously, or that they put themselves in precarious po-situations™; these bad things just choose you. And once you have been chosen, there is no escape. Besides, where is the fun in bad things happening to bad people?

Like every other day, he played; innocence so overwhelming, it was too good to be true. Little did he know the ceaseless joy was life’s way of preparing him for years of unhappiness, of insecurity, of pain, of hurt, of tears he would have to hide.

Everyone has a cross to bear. No two crosses are the same. Similar, yes, but never the same. Some crosses are tougher to bear or carry than others. That is how it can appear anyway. But in truth, all crosses feel the same. Because pain is pain. And hurt is hurt. A loss is a loss, and a cross a cross.

But he would realise that all crosses are really not the same. His cross, so tough to bear, he would not wish it on his worst enemy.

His life was about to start. He was going into a new place, a new part of his life. And he was going to leave home for a while. Others cried at the beginning of this race as they had never been away from home. But not him; he was enthusiastic, a curiosity so intense burning inside him as he lived for new experiences.

The race started well. There were a few hiccups but nothing out of the ordinary; normal things that occurred in this type of race, or world. He endured the bumps in the road as he knew the time to return home, albeit for a short while, was near. The fact that he was blessed with rather good looks attracted a good number or ‘she’s’ and this made enduring the hurdles easier.

This race had 6 legs, or years. Each leg had three laps, or terms. Altogether, he was going to go through eighteen laps, terms.

His life was going fine. Still a joyous boy, but not as joyous as some years back as various experiences opened him up to the evils of the world, he tried to enjoy every passing day.

And then it happened. In a very odd way. A way so enigmatic, it was obvious life wanted his happiness destroyed, gone..lost.

He had been called before the cross assigning board. They had said, as he clearly remembers,

‘You have been chosen boy. Your joy irks us. And so we have decided to plague you with a cross; one so…..so heavy’ the word heavy had been dragged, for emphasis. He had asked,

‘Why? Why now? Why me? Why?’

They had replied,

‘Never mind that, young boy. Just listen. Now this cross is one we thoroughly prepared specifically for you. One we feel you will have great difficulty accepting, or bearing. One that plagues you physically and emotionally. One that will be obvious to every other person, just so your pain is further aggravated. One that grows. One that is alive.’

‘But I do not deserve this. I have done nothing to deserve any of this’ he had said.

‘Shut up boy! No one chooses a cross. If they were allowed that luxury, crosses would be easy to bear. And that would not be fun, don’t you think? ’

They had dragged the issue. He argued and argued, trying and hoping to convince them to give the cross to another as he loved being happy. He pleaded but their conviction was unwavering.

On noticing this was a battle he would never win, he fell to his knees, weak, as he had almost no strength left in him.

His cross was placed on him.

‘Before you leave boy, know that there is a way out. But also know that we hope you never find it’, they had said as he left.

The next chapter of his life was about to begin. A chapter so long, so painful, so unfair for a boy so innocent.

The cross was heavy. One whose existence could not be traced or connected to any occurrence or disease. This was the first pointer to it being an actual cross. The cross he was to bear on his stay here.

This is his cross