SWEAT AND ROSES

SWEAT AND ROSES

Sweats pour down my face onto the sheets of paper I hold on my right hand, soaking it wet; I have been writing for the past one week and now that I am done with it, I am wondering if it’s worth it. I cannot stop myself from fumbling with the pen on my left hand in anxiety as I await the courier man who comes every week to take the mails to the world, ‘EARTH’. I hear millions of voices wailing in anguish; the fire is way fiercer than it was made known when we were still down there like you.Many of us beg the mailman to take news to our love ones warning them of the danger and torture that await them; I on the other hand decided to send my story across to nobody in particular. Story of my life, the sweats, soaked into the sand in the chase of nothing; ‘ROSES’.Thousands of events take place, but not all make good stories days or years after. The gates swing open, here comes the mailman. As usual, they all rush to him to have their mails delivered; we have never received any, just sending is all we do, plus the torture and anguish. Just when it got to my turn to submit my first mail, it occurred to me that I have not written any address or specified the destination of my mail. I quickly stepped aside and scribbled “Baron Chidalu” on the back of the mail and handed it over to the non smiling mailman.I have written my name on the mail and no contact address. A mail ‘destinated’ to nowhere is a mail ‘destinated’ to everywhere. I look down, rivers of sweats run endlessly. I am famished and greatly thirsty; a drop of water and crumb of bread are luxuries far from our acquisition; I let out a yell, tears sting my eyes and turn into vapors the second they come in contact with my skin.You have my story to read, the week is almost running out and I have so much to pen down, so I better get started already; this is what I thought to myself a day before the mailman came. Dying young is not an uncommon phenomena, so no sentiment attached to my young wasted life, except that I am the architect of my own demise. I was young, free and wild, just like the music says it. We lived for the day, me and Bobby; from the daily hustle in the factories or construction sites to the night in the arms of young, warm and soft body or bodies, at night,' depending on how many we could afford'. And that is it; the wages for the day wasted on few hours in the warmth between the thighs of the daughters of Eve. We would trek home hours after from the brothel to join some jobless neighbours in the dry gin drinking spree; we loved it.Now I look up from my corner at Bobby as he laments and pours out endless sweat; I can’t help but wonder how we manage to stay alive and robust despite the dehydration. That should not be our concern in anyway. The point is that he doesn’t even recognize me, or at least he pretends not to. I wonder how I am the only one to recognize faces; might be for the purpose of this story, maybe I don’t even know any Bobby in the first place; “not what you should concern yourself with”.Finally I gave in to Bobby’s advice to try out lonely married women after much persuasion.  It was fun quite alright; the money, the sex, the luxuries that comes with it all, oh my!, Nothing like it. We were too far gone down the devil’s lane to think about the future consequences. To us then, “there is nothing sweeter compared with matured, lonely and sex deprived pu**y aching for our touch and begging for a minute of our attention. And this leads me to General Abubakar Danjuma; the husband to one of my mummies, Aisha Danjuma, who is hardly ever around for a few days with his wife. He has fought so many wars and gone for several peace keepings in Liberia that he smells of blood.   There is more to me than meets the eyes; just your patience and understanding I need from you. I looked up, wipe the sweats off my face and fold the sheets of paper into size; the mail man should be here any minute. I would like to tell you about General Abubakar Danjuma, but I have limited time. That is a story for another day. Until the mailman comes next week, I will just be here penning my thoughts and all that I remember of my life down in this sheets. And until next week,yours faithfully,Baron Chidalu.