Abandoned caves, desolate tundras
Palpitating heart, hacking sobs…
Truth; you are always in my heart
Truth; is that you could not wait
Truth; we can never be what we were
My love was pure and honest
My love was open and playful
My love was lustful and naughty
I told you that, ‘I don’t share’
I told you, ‘I love you’
I told you that, ‘you are mine!’
Misty boughs, rainy valleys
Phlegmy nostrils, rheumy eyes…
“…Ego, the anesthesia that deadens the pain of stupidity…”
“…Pride is the burden of a foolish person…”
Yet you; my lovely stupid foolishness, are my obligatory burden.
D. O-B
Know your ‘-llions’
I think my neighbors wife fancies me.
I think she would like to have sex with me. She told me so. So I know what I am talking about.
The above has nothing at all to do with the story I am about to tell, but I feel that since you and I are close, I can ‘share’.
Uhmmmm, you. Yes Sherlock, I am talking to you.
So… to my story;
I could tell that she was in a bit of a mood. The weekend did not have the effect she had hoped for. She is my friend, at least she thinks that we are friends. In truth, we are mere acquaintances, I would give an arm and a leg to have sex with her. I will not be friend-zoned.
I have rarely seen a woman so desirable! I swear I hyperventilate whenever she touches me.
At the risk of sounding like a borderline psycho, I think that she knows that I want her. I think I see the thought in her gaze sometimes… Sigh!
She is currently in a long-term, long distance relationship. As soldiers, we get moved about a lot. He is a single dad I gather… Late wife was killed, divorced or “raptured”, I truly do not give three stagnant mounds of shit. Baseline is that he is wife-less and woman-less.
Bummer!
She loves him and would love to marry him. He loves her and would love to marry her, but apparently his mum is a bitch. We are a traditional people, parental blessings are a big deal hereabouts.
She loves his daughter who I hear is the spitting image of her mum… Have to hand it to my Infatuation, she has balls! Why on earth would I want to be visually reminded of a rivalslashpredecessorslashcompetition daily?!
So, my Infatuations’ man is a wealthy heir of some sort.
She is a rebel. A doctor turned soldier.
He particularly loves the fact that my Infatuation gets on quite well with his daughter.
But then he loves his mum. I think that he is a bit of a wuss, a spoiled boy-man with a limp phallus and tiny testicles.
Spineless weasel!
When I was a younger, I once stole some money from me-dad, bought candy with the cash and sold it all the same day. I made twice the cash and returned it to his wallet. No drama, no fuss, no reaction.
The above has nothing at all to do with the story I am telling, but I feel that since you and I are close, I can ‘share’.
Uhmmmm, you. Yes Sherlock I am talking to you.
My Infatuation had hoped for a commitment from boy-man over the weekend they had just shared, it clearly did not go as planned. Her phone had been ringing, vibrating in her khakis (to the point of arousing her I’m sure…) She is ignoring him. She would ordinarily die for this boy-man, so I guess that things went south. Far south.
Ordinarily her predicament would be to my advantage, but I don’t like seeing her hurting; Her grip on her assault rifle was too stiff, her scrutiny of travellers was downright predatory, her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but she was still breathtakingly beautiful.
Our checkpoint was a few kilometers from one of our borders.
Light smuggling and migration was tolerated; Illegal aliens driving, riding, running and walking back and forth through the borders to farm and trade agricultural, perishable produce. They were typically friendly, nervous or preoccupied folk.
Soft work, no big deal.
She had turned momentarily to tell me something, characteristically brushing real or imagined hair, lint, and or specks from my face, hair or camouflage-attired chest (I told you she liked me back!), when her eyes suddenly glazed over… Her lips receded off her teeth in a frightening snarl… Her right shoulder dropped about an inch allowing the strap of her assault rifle to release the messenger of death into her hands. She smoothly pirouetted 180 degrees into a combat-ready crouch. Gun raised, safety off and trained onto a Toyota 1998 model almost chugging past our check point.
Her movements were duplicated and replicated in a way only soldiers instinctively react. Years of training prepare us for situations like this. In nanoseconds all six of us had our sights and muzzles locked and trained on the (now suspiciously looking dark-tinted windows of the) hatchback Toyota.
She hoarsely screamed for the ignition to be turned off and the keys tossed out of the window onto the dusty asphalt.
Now whatever my Infatuation lacks pales in comparison to her instincts. Her sixth sense is acute! Her extra sensory perception has repeatedly saved the lives of fellow officers over the years.
Luckily for him, the driver complied. In further compliance, he exited the vehicle and moved to pop the see-through trunk of the hatchback. He was not the only occupant of the vehicle so whilst I covered her back, my team ‘strategically secured’ the other passengers.
The driver’s body language was off. He was sluggish and shifty. So from about two meters away, my Infatuation got him to uncover a suspicious looking blanket therein. Her assault rifle was swinging somewhat carelessly by the strap over her shoulder, her eyes riveted on the blanket.
The blanket suddenly sat up and fell to reveal a distraught and groggy-looking child of about five years old.
“Papaaaa!” She wailed in despair. Looking wildly about.
My Infatuation was for some reason standing mouth agape staring at the child. Rifle forgotten.
The driver lunged at my Infatuation, a dagger mysteriously in hand. I calmly planted a short burst of about twenty high – caliber bullets into his face. The impact from the M16 dissolved his face into a red splatter of blood, bone, flesh and gore. He crumpled unceremoniously without further ado.
My team also opened fire. Another passenger had foolishly ‘reached’. It was a massacre. The entire fiasco had lasted all of ten seconds.
By the time I blinked, my Infatuation had already snatched the child in her arms in a tight embrace. The child was curiously familiarly hugging her back too.
“Aunty Diana… I want my daddy…” the child requested tearfully.
“She is Myra. David’s daughter…” My Infatuation replied to my probing stare.
Surreal.
My Infatuation had just inexplicably rescued boy-man’s daughter.
Shit!
The incident cemented their plans for marriage. They were joined a few months later, after she had left the army.
Diana had sex with me on her hen night. It was to be a one time thing she explained… Lesbianism was not going to be a habit for her.
I squirted for the first time in my life that night.
I will always love you Diana.
xoxo…
I heard:-
I listened to you beg him
I heard you cajole and plead.
I listened:-
I gathered that you are a serial liar
I deduced that you are chattel
I treated; and called you ‘my queen’.
I looked:-
You looked me in the eyes and lied
You orgasmed severally impaled by me
You told me that you loved me
You; women, wonderful conundrums!
I can not believe that this impetuous, over-pampered and carnally-minded simpleton actually picked up that phone call…
I swear by the throne of Jehovah, I will kill him first chance I get.
Ring… Ring… Ring… Ring…
“Hello…?”
“… I kept hoping that you’d pick up one day…”
“Uhmmmm… Yeah… I was conflicted.”
“Because of what I am?”
“What are you exactly?”
“I could show you…”
Laughs…“For real?”
More nervous laughter… “Where are you exactly?”
“Here.” She answered from behind him.
I kept watch over him. He could not see me, but she could.
From that day they were inseparable. That day in which he had unwittingly summoned her by accepting her ‘hello’ from’ the other side’. They talked a lot. Very often. He was a very curious soul.
He was exactly thirty three years, three months, three days, three hours, three minutes and three seconds old when he (unfortunately) stumbled upon the ability to ‘summon’.
I confronted her one night when he was asleep. I was after all his protector. In righteous indignation I insisted on being told her plans.
She knew that I had the power to translate her spirit back into the abyss. I am holy and righteous. Maybe that is why she demurely replied me in almost suspicious humility.
She told me that she loved him.
“But you are a succubus, a demon!” I recall blurting out.
She then reminded me about the time the sons of God took for themselves wives of the sons of men. And how they cohabited in love and harmony ever after. It was their offspring that became unruly, not the abominable anomaly.
I can not believe that I am admitting this, but she was right.
I immediately summoned Headquarters for wisdom; and reinforcements were expeditiously despatched. The Company clearly considered this client untouchable. He was the apple of someone’s eye. He was clearly special and the beloved of someone important.
We watched as ABIKU taught him great mysteries. She revealed ancient Truths and Verities that he clearly hungered for. She showed him the treasures of darkness and the hidden riches of secret places. He inevitably became very rich and prosperous speedily. He practically rode the high places of at least two worlds.
She was plump, shapely and comely. The human vessel she chose was as he found pleasing. She inexplicably favored him for his warmth and meekness. Under our surveillance, she metamorphosed into human (female) tendencies of jealousy, tears and domestication.
They were under no illusions about who and what she was, and yet they proceeded to know each other carnally. Because of her default (basic) existence and office, they copulated often, and with reckless abandon. Succubi are carnal like that. She was extremely pleased with him. They were in love.
It has been a decade now. Their unholy liaison is now confirmed by the presence of a ruddy, cheeky and naughty lad. ABIKU is a mother.
My name is Chrioni. I am the messenger of Yahweh; (The Alpha and The Omega, The First and The Last, Holy of Holies, Jehovah.)
I am the head guardian angel primarily assigned to this mortal, and then to his family.
The situation has all of us messengers befuddled. And from the murderous looks of the demons snarling and hissing constantly at ABIKU, her kind are incensed beyond belief.
We are all watching and waiting.
The Ramadan fast ended with a two-day public holiday in my country.
The holidays fell on a Monday and a Tuesday. It provided for a long holiday/weekend. Muslims in my country must have been ecstatic.
I was not.
I had to work.
My work needed me to travel.
All flights to my work place were fully booked.
I had no choice but to go by road.
The road trip would take eight hours. Beard of Moses! Aaaarghh!!
A few days later I was on my way back home. Same road transportation company, but I did not get my preferred seat beside the driver (or captain as God is Good drivers prefer to be called). I got seat number ‘7’, close to the door, with plenty of leg room…but no headrest. Beard of Moses! Aaaarghh!!
Seated to my left was a pretty girl. Despite my sour disposition, that fact was impossible to miss.
Something reeked though. That fact too, was impossible to miss. It smelled of something slightly fetid like a damp item of clothing, pungent body odor or unchanged sanitary pads left on for too long.
Yes, my nose can perceive that.
My nose knows.
It is not my fault.
I was born this way.
Please, leave me be.
We both kept to ourselves throughout the duration of the journey. Maybe like me she did not understand the dialect the rest of the passengers were speaking. Maybe like me she was not a member of the church the rest of the passengers obviously belonged to. They had booked as a group. But she smiled at me bashfully whenever she caught me looking at her, she was very pretty. And she had very long (and dirty) hair.
The bus was a fourteen seater Toyota Hiace. Fully air-conditioned. The captain was nicknamed ‘Man of God’. The bus was in very good condition.
Five hours into the journey, the stench grew increasingly worse. Man of God was becoming increasingly jittery too. He began driving quite badly. My country-people are extremely religious, and these passengers were members of the ‘MFM’ church. Their prayers were notoriously firebrand and they frequently called for the death of perceived enemies human and non human. They immediately reverted to type and began to pray in agreement, loudly.
It seemed to calm Man of God somewhat. Whenever the prayers waned though, the stench would propagate exponentially and Man of God would seem like he was attempting to crash the bus and their prayers would intensify and it would seem to calm Man of God somewhat.
Mercifully we arrived at a scheduled rest point. It was the last stop before the final two and a half hours to our destination. Gratefully we all scrambled out to go eat, relieve ourselves and / or return circulation to cramped and tired limbs.
About fifteen minutes later, we began reentering the bus to continue the journey. We were all accounted for, except for my pretty neighbor.
Ten minutes later she was still nowhere to be found… Same thing fifteen minutes later… The situation remained unchanged thirty minutes after that. At this point the passengers had gotten impatient to the point of hostility. They demanded that we drive off without her. All the restaurants and conveniences had been searched to no avail.
I then advised that we refer to the ‘passenger’s manifest’ and get her cell phone number and try to call her. Man of God acquiesced… He tried calling her, but his service provider had poor service where we were. Utterly disgusted at the entire scenario, I requested for the number and dialed it. I kept it on ‘speaker’ and it rang unanswered five times. I subsequently suggested that we call her next of kin who’s details ABIKU had also listed on the passenger’s manifest. Man of God acquiesced… And luckily a woman picked up and suspiciously requested for the identity of the caller. We were all listening, the call was on ‘speaker’.
“Madam, good evening. Na me be driver for God is Good Motors. Abeg one woman wey follow me travel drop your number as next of kin. Her name na ABIKU GAWA. Her phone number na 0*******666. We no fit find the woman. You know am?”
Silence…
“Hello madam, you hear wetin I talk? Abeg you know the woman?”
Heavy breathing…
“If this is a prank, I suggest you stop it immediately!” She suddenly spat out. Hysteria bubbling under…
“Madam no be ‘plank‘. We dey find the owner of the number. We go continue journey leave am for here o!”
“She is dead! She died four years ago!! Why are you doing this?!”
Beard of Moses!
Pandemonium broke out!!
Long story short, I joined them in a heated prayer session that lasted the rest of the journey. Obviously we arrived safely.
I am an author. I write on my android smartphone. It is convenient and I get to write on the ‘go’. This incident took place a week ago. As I started writing this recollection, ABIKU GAWA suddenly started calling me back. The ‘Truecaller’ application on my phone confirmed her name. So far I’ve refused to pick up thirteen of her calls within the last forty minutes.
