Maka’s blood was strong; it was like sharpest weapon. It pierced me badly, nothing could stop it. Only waiting and crying; waiting for it to strike.
Every night I woke up to cry for the blood of Maka. It would have been better I was crying for her soul. I did not know if she had a soul, all I knew was that she had blood; that blood that ran through her body and disappeared into the sand, weeping, and pointing accusing finger at me. Perhaps I was guilty. I did know if I was. All I knew was that I cried all the night for her blood.
Every time I heard a noise, I knew it was the blood. I felt it; it was everywhere, in everything; in the curtain, in the light, in the gentle breeze, whispering with haunting voice in the ground, in the chirping of midnight birds, in the cry of the midnight owl and in the falling rain. It happened every day, every night, but I could not get used it. It got used to me. It occupied me, it taunted me like a creditor, counting days for me, warning me about my end; just like the early morning preacher calling out for all to repent for the coming of Christ, warning all how real heaven and earth were.
Sometimes there were heavy weights on it that I wondered how true; how thick blood was, how immortal it could be even when it had sank and dried up under the tasty sand. It was never silent. It could speak even from the last deeps, calling out for vengeance for generation, for justice.
I knew Maka’s blood would not wait for my generations or it would not torment me day and night. It would torment me until I was down to dust, until I join it below, until I join Maka in the unseen world. There maybe, we would continue our union, which we could not complete in this life, because of my stupidity: Because I blindly refused to accept, I was addicted to crack.
I remembered that morning, at the backyard, when I was palpitating and shivering, and needed nothing but my crack. I was on my knees, begging Maka to tell me where, as usual, she hid my crack. I needed it even more than the air I breathed.
‘Jerry, you promised to stop taking it,’ she had said.
I did not need a prophet to tell me she was angry. I had sold her last box of gold to Abuki at Yaba to buy the last wrap. She knew it and from her red fury eyes, I figured she could not forgive that. She valued her jewelries more than any other thing. The piece of jewelries was the only thing that made her look good. She had forgive me three times for selling three boxes; for selling her point of beauty – the only thing that made jobless and lazy men like me admire her.
‘Baby, this would be the last. I will stop it’, I had said. She said nothing.
‘Alright, I have stopped! But just let me have it back.’
‘It’s in the toilet.’
I made to go but stopped as the word toilet sank in.
‘What?’
‘I flushed it.’
‘You did what?’
I held myself. I ignored the voice telling me to squeeze the hell out her. I ignored the brick beside her that choose itself as a good punisher, a good silencer. I took a deep breath. It was not enough. Shutting my eyes was not enough too, because in a few seconds the voices has told me many ways to make Maka pay for my precious, cherished, – crack; my eyes; my baby, my voice, my greatest companion!
That swift slap that threw her to the ground was not enough. The kicks were not enough. I did not know how I lay my hand on the spiky brick; that heartless bricks that could not ask why I raised it against Maka. I landed so fast, twice, on her head. She writhed. I watched her blood gush out from her head, permeating into the dry sand, weeping and cursing me. Just then the voice called me a fool, and left one standing over the still body of a woman who had clothed and fed me for years.
Nobody saw me. Nobody caught me. However, her blood did. It judged and imprisoned my heart. I had no choice. Dying was the best choice. I had always waited impatiently for death. It seemed to be the only freedom.
Sep 092012
A beautiful piece captured creatively. Made a sensuos and delicious read save the typos and few omissions. Great write.
Sad tale, it carried me along, a bit abrupt but just okay.
A very creative attempt. Would have been better with a keener eye on editing.
Undoubtedly, you can write.
Do pay attention to small details anywho.
Well done.