memories

Memories...reveries...I guess I am an escapist. Can't blame me. Everyone wants to live in that lovely fireside, either of the mind or beautiful old memories that gets better like old wine. It is like living in the past, yet being attuned to the present ever so acutely than before. It is as though the present would always exist in the shadows of the past, guided by it, prodded by it when necessary, and out-rightly overpowered by it. For me, the past is alife, heaving and totally breath-taking; the present is a work in progress ...almost drab, it only becomes magical, as if touched by Potter's wand, as soon as it passes. The future is an intrigue I try to make less intriguing by a fusion of the past and the present. WISH ME LUCK!

THE PASSIONS OF ANITA

The first book

The moment the sound of screeching tyres could be heard as the car outside surged forward, he smacked her across the face with so much force that it threw her off the three-legged wooden stool, where she was permanently consigned as it behoved her status in the household. She was never to sit on the soft sofas. As she looked up at her assailant from the floor where she lay sprawled out from the sudden jolt, the expression on her face was that of calm sufferance; the inexpressible pain of a cornered prey knowing that, as sure as the sun rising in the east, the inevitable was about to happen. She did not even try to defend herself.

“Get up you tramp!” he shouted, standing over her, full of anger, or the sense of it, that seemed so righteous as though he were justly provoked.

“Leave her T” said another character that seemed the exact spit of the first attacker. “I will get her up in a minute” he sent a bone cracking kick into her rib and spat on her.

She gave a deep groan, too coarse for a female’s voice but nonetheless produced by her voice-box, and slowly struggled to her feet. She could not stand straight. She buckled at the waistline as pangs of pain invaded her body. Her ribs hurt as if they were all broken; her cheek smarted from the terrible smack and her body shook with a guttural hackling cough and before her eyes the room was swirling out of control. But her anguish was just in its teething stage.

The first attacker grabbed her and carelessly shoved her onto a reclining sofa as one would shoddily throw an unfeeling object.

“Bitch!” he cursed amongst an avalanche of other incoherent invectives.

This was it again. The circle pursued each day by her miserable life was arcing out once again in its pure darkness. In her nightmares, there were always these two men, no one taller than the other was, no one more fair faced than the other was; and none viler than the other was. They wore the same clothes, the cadence of their voices were indistinguishable; the one was like the clone of the other. Two competitors for Satan’s throne of evil, it seemed.  It would have been better that these two were not born on the same day, to the same parent. That it was exactly so was a catastrophe. Like a lamb at the slaughter table, she laid where she was shoved, unmoved by nothing else but pain, which she endeavoured not to betray.

In a singularly deft movement of their hands, the two tormentors let their trousers fall to the floor.

“Spread-eagle!” the first attacker bawled, as he went for his pants.

The second attacker was faster. He threw his pants away and jumped on her.

“Hey K” the first attacker said in mild indignation. “Stop cheating, I thought we had agreed that I would go first”

Their prey looked on. Unfeeling. Thoughtless.

K paused, withdrew his hands from pushing her gown up over her midriff and answered.

“You are too slow. I can not hold it any longer” his eyes were pleading, his manner was of that laughable demeaning trait found in the male gender when prevented from having sex.

“But we agreed” the first attacker iterated.

The victim simply laid there as supine as though it were all done with her consent.

“Please”

“No!” the first attacker said vehemently.

“Well, since I got there before you and since I had promised you earlier, I say we cast lots” the one straddling over her offered.

“Let’s”

So it was done in her honor as it was done, once upon a time, in the honor of a particular Messiah hanging on a death-tree on a now-revered once-dark-patch of a holy land. They cast lots with a one Naira coin. The first attacker won; and the second attacker, vacated his erstwhile position with an utterly maddening libido and an utterly indignant chagrin
.

The first penetration was delivered with all the energy that he could muster, so was the second and the third until it reached the tenth and it slackened. He took his pleasure deep within her: a stone, dead to the natural sentience of her own body. The second attacker climbed on in his wake, with an enormous libido that grew and grew till bursting point while he waited his turn.  He unleashed it all on her with selfish abandon. After that, they sodomized her and did many freaky tricks with her body. This terrible act of violation went on for over one deathless hour.

The abiding iniquity present in the heart of men can not be better reflected as it was by these two. To state that there was a shadow of devilry in every work of their wicked hands would amount to an euphemism, these two were ingrained devils. There was one remarkable thing, all these assaults was borne, by the victim, with an aplomb that would insinuate, to keen minds, that she was accustomed to this treatment so much so that it had ceased to excite her. The only expression of pain noticeable in her reaction was a wince, and the stream of brimming tears, which never fell, hanging stubbornly onto her eyelashes and glazing her eyes, giving it that shiny lustre often seen in glossy materials. She lay there nearly as expressionless as a doll.

After the obscene beginning to the day, as this outrage took place in the exact time deemed proper for breakfast, the twins, feeling fagged out, slouching on the two three sitters in the parlour, now beckoned on their victim to feed them through the mouth like they had fed her through every hole in her body not long ago.

“Hey, foolish, we are hungry oh!” the first attacker bellowed, his eyes showing content and yet the embers of a more natural tantrum. The victim scurried out of the room.

“Taiye, I doubt if I can lift a finger to eat”

“You are so lazy”

“No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are”

“We shall see when it comes to the second round” he said throwing a challenge.

There was no whit of remorse lingering any where in their dark minds. If ever mankind’s conscience could be thoroughly decommissioned, this they have achieved through and through. They were devilish twins, devious and artful to the extreme. Alike in face; alike in feature and alike in crudity, their ego was paramount. There was no room for human empathy; there was no room for nothing else except self-servicing. It was the fount they were weaned on from childhood-selfishness. They would take, and take, and take and take and clench their fists tightly so as to allow no occasion for giving. Giving never occurred to them, whether physically or spiritually. From birth, every thing was lavished on their cocky heads and it only serve to harden their cocky hearts. They took and took and took and took love and affection from all that offered and then clenched their fist thinking to give out would reduce what they already had by denying them the singular pleasure of being idolized by the givers. They took and took and took and even stole money never giving any out except if it involved a more exalting return.

Their victim, simpering in the kitchen, cooked their food without a thought as to the possibility of poisoning those who misused her, which was the most logical reaction. Her disposition will make an intriguing subject and may make absolute sense in the claptrap, guesswork and non-science of a shrink.  For me, perchance the fear of the twins did not let it occur to her. Her heart was so full of fear and supplications to God. Or she has a good heart. But as the culture of fate, that evil could befall and pester to the grave any creature, even the good-hearted, always prevailed, so it did in her life; and evil befell her again after she had served them their food and waited on them. They violated her more passionately than before; she reacted more phlegmatic than before. She was helpless. They lived in a big house.  Experience had thought her that the only assistant the walls of this sequestered mansion could render was to echo back her cries of anguish. And listening to one’s own cry was agonising and recalling it, frighteningly dehumanising. The surrounding fence, walling the house from the street was as tall as the wall of Berlin she had seen on TV last years and she was the only thing near a servant in the household. Without help, there is no way she could scale the fence like she saw people doing at the Berlin Wall.  There was no help, no exit. After the second round, there was another interval, in which she cooked their lunch followed by the third round that completes the circle of daily existence. In the middle of this, a knock came at the door.

Knack! Knack! Knack! Knack!  It was already 8:00pm.

They had arrived. A crazy scramble ensued.

Growing up

Flat breast, calves and nipples

Twig legs, hands and groins

Sleek cheek, chin and lip

All as bare as a Saharan strip

Yet shiny and smooth as muslin

And for all my pride

I was but from the earth

Just three-feet of height

Nearer to the white home

From whence we all came

The asphaltic street, house and school

Were all for sport

And many a thing

I could countenance with ease

As it pleases my whim

And eases my dithers

No blight ever blast my blithe

It was the hour of the sun

Free as an element

Sportive as the minstrel lark

Till one day

As the balloon goes up its way

Age struck and the infant faints

Brawny breast, calves and knotty nipples

Brawny legs, hands and hirsute groins

Bristling cheek, chin and upper lip

From the pores of swarthy hairs

The first pale stub sprouts

And the fever of age ridges my brows

No more blithe

No more free

No more larks

Till I return to my infant days

All grey, crooked and faint

For it is the hour of the nightjar

And lost is that pristine hour in “clouds of glory”.

17th of august 2005, 21yrs, Billet Anubis copyright