Published on March 16th, 2012 | by thetoolsman13
I sat curled up on the floor, I hadn’t slept throughout the night. Kike had promised me it would be fun, she said I needed to get high and loosen up. She said I’d feel better after tonight that I should trust her. She said many things, all of which I obliged to and now, I create a bed of regret to lie on, please don’t wake me up. The foul mouthed drunk got up, got dressed and left the room without saying a single word to me. He was the one that was supposed to help me get high and loosen up according to my bosom friend Kike. Instead he walked out of the cheap motel with my pride, my virginity. He took it away in 5 seconds; he snored the rest of night away. Surprise! I feel worse than yesterday. I found a rosary under the bed, why I held on to it I don’t know.
Exams came in a rush and I had absolutely nothing in my head, even if Einstein sat with me and whispered the answers, I’d still not pass my exams. I had invested so much energy looking for a high that would make me feel alive again. Slowly I was changing from the pretty and neat girl the faculty used to know, into a gossip sensation, next stop; full blown harlot. I was going through some old clothes when I found the rosary again, I remembered the night I found it and I let hot tears wash my cheek. In the process of venting out so much emotion, I held on to the rosary tight and I felt a sort of pillar hold me. For the next few days I turned to God, said my prayers like a good Muslim girl and expected God to return the favour by allowing me scale through in my coming exams. Surprise! I found most of my exams quite easy until my H.O.D requested for my girly goodies, else he’d ask all my lecturers to fail me.
I couldn’t throw the rosary away because of an unknown fear that God is watching, but because I felt like he had failed me, I threw away my prayers. What was the point of feeding someone with eba without stew? So I went back to my delusion, my search for a high. Tade was prettier than most boys I’ve met. He was caring and compassionate. He was sensitive to a woman’s feelings and he could keep a secret. Tade was the kind of boyfriend every girl wished for, the type that puts you first, the type that said sweet words to you exactly when you need to hear them. He unlike all other boys knew the difference between lemon and green. The only problem was he wasn’t my boyfriend yet, but I was going to change that. One day, I invited him over to my apartment, I wore my miniskirt and a white tank top, while trying to open a can of beer I spilled part of the content of my shirt intentionally like I planned it, the outline of my breast became visible. I let him enjoy the sight for a bit then I moved in for the kill, I kissed him. Surprise! ‘I am sorry’ he said, I thought you knew I was gay. I brushed my teeth fifty times before daybreak.
One Saturday morning, I searched for the rosary again. I needed its powers, not like I believed in it, but I wound it round my hand like a bracelet. The idea was to get people to think I believed in it. I was going into a war zone; I was going home, the one place I don’t belong. Whenever I talk of home, my friends expect me to start a long and interesting story of a bad father and an angry mother, but surprisingly my problem with my family is that they were all too perfect. Mother always had a big smile and father always had an encouraging speech. All that happiness creeps me out. Sometimes I want to smack my family in the head to help them see what the world is really about, that there is pain and suffering and hate, not just endless smiles. On getting home, I find my mum had discovered what I had been preaching for the last few years. Surprise! She had a cancer, lung cancer. My father was heartbroken when he heard that his perfect wife had a nasty habit of smoking. I was supposed to feel fulfilled, but I sat in my cupboard and cried holding my rosary.
What is life, why are we here, why do we suffer so much, if a God truly exist then why do we suffer this much pain. After almost jumping in front of a moving train I find an ‘almost answer’. If I were killed by the train, the pain would affect my family, but even the ones whom love us the most would either move on or curse us for leaving them in such terrible position or be set back by the memories of us that hook them in their throat. In any of the instances, a suicide attempt wouldn’t solve anything in the slightest bit.
On the day I resume school, I make a resolution to myself, not necessarily to be a better person or not make mistakes again, things may not get better, life is hard. I decide on this day hence forth, I may not be stronger than yesterday or make better decisions concerning my life, all that take years to perfect, but I’d start little. I decide to Live, to take my life seriously and have a focus and a goal, trusting God because the idea of a supreme being is beyond any form of human understanding (and He keeps a secret, it comes out judgment day though, but no one would be paying attention to you).To Love, not because I expect to get it in return, but because an open heart is a light that actively seeks out and obliterate darkness which inhabit vices. To Laugh, because a smile looks better on my pretty face and because life is a big joke, then we all die.
Hey people, Toolsman here and what a week it has been. Like I promised, I’m going to put up as many as possible from the pool of Short Stories we received before we launch the all new Wet Friday. Today, I have two for you. This one here and another, which is quite like an ode to TNC coming up by 4pm this evening. As I’ve been doing recently, I’ve left it anonymous and unedited for you to dissect. The writer wants detailed feedback from us. Let us help out. Thanks.