It was a warm Friday evening,
the day was already in two
halves, gentle winds caressed
my cheeks as I strolled past
the red tank on my way home.
It was a landmark in my head. Whenever I passed it, I would
run my fingers along its edges
and close my eyes and savor
every second of the chill
metallic feeling it sent down my
spine. It was my homecoming ritual, for the red tank was just
few feets from my house. It
reminded me of dirty plates
lying in my kitchen sink and
heap of dirty clothes pushed to
the edges of my bed. But most of all it reminded me today was
Friday and that I was miles
away from my that pot bellied,
bullish Mr Bolande and those
my dullhead workmates who
fall over each other to make him happy. I hate that office.
But I love my home and
touching this red tank was a
fitting end to a very busy week.
As I went few steps ahead of
red tank, my phone rang. It was the rude vibration in my
pockets that annoyed me. I
made face and gave out a long
hiss.
“Welcome madam” mama
osaro muttered as I dipped my hand into my pocket. “Thank
you” I replied. She was a few
feets away from me and
stopped for a moment and then
continued as soon as she
heard my ringing tone. I wriggled my head in regret as I
wouldn’t mind having a chat
with her were it not for this rude
incoming phone call. Mama
Osaro was such a good
natured woman with a round fine face and flat nose with
stubby legs that shook the
earth whenever she moved.
She was one neighbor I was
fond of. Whenever we met and
were within touching distance, she would playfully place both
hands on my hips and smile
broadly. Usually I’ll tease her
hands away from my body, but
at other times When I felt like it,
I would allow her continue and she would run both hands
along my ribs and make a
funny gesture with her hands
about my figure then she would
move her hands to her hips
and then draw the contrast while we laugh through the
monologue. Then she would go
on and complain how each of
her children had taken away
her once near perfect figure,
and how I looked good the way I am, about how we Nigerians
ate too much sugar and how
all the sugar in her pounded
yam had made her fat. We
would laugh again and again. I
had missed a Friday evening episode with mama osaro
because of this call. “Hello” I
almost barked. The voice on
the other end shattered my
bones. It was my bestie as we
like to call our best friends from university school days. Ada
was my roommate in 300 and
400 level, but sometimes I feel
like we met on the first day of
100level. She just crept into
my life and drove away all the friends that came before her.
She was that kind of friend that
made you feel you had a dozen
friends wrapped in one. She
was an animated flick that
could play non-stop. She had shared my deepest laughs,
almost got herself killed
because of me, had set me up
with a potential boyfriend three
times and holds the records for
most cries with me. She would just sit down with a pack of
white handkerchiefs and just
begin to cry even When I had
not given her gist. She was
such a rock solid friend and I
want to hope I had been same in return, but When I heard her
tiny voice over the phone, I
was overwhelmed by guilt. I
had completely forgot to ask
about the interview she went
for few weeks back. The company had promised to
contact prospective employees
this week and today was
Friday. “Am sorry Ada”
“Who cares about your sorry
bum, hope its fit enough to party tomorrow? Because
your sincerely now has a job! ”
“Wow” I shouted. A large smile
spread across my face and my
eyes lit up as I quicken my
pace home. “Congratulations my sister”
“Thank you dearie! Would call
you back, my mum is calling
on the other line”
I was very happy for Ada. This
was her tenth application. It was becoming disturbing that
she was still unemployed. She
had stopped coming to my
house as she usually does in
the year after our youth
service. Our frequent calls also reduced, then we didn’t share
pictures on whatsapp
messenger as we used to do,
the gulf between the employed
and unemployed that was
already a yawning gap in Nigeria had crept into our
beautiful friendship. I could no
longer share jokes about Mr
Bolande and his pot belly or his
bald head or about my
overzealous colleagues. ‘At least you have a boss’ would
be the cheeky reply or ‘better
than staying home all day’ Ada
would insert in between my
complains. So I stopped. That
was what the system could do to someone. It shrunk her to an
inferior version of herself, it
could make you talk less, it
could keep you indoors for
days on a row. It deletes your
social media account. It transforms every employed
friend to a corrupt underserved
recipient of nepotism or
bribery. I was so happy that it
was over for Ada. I couldn’t
wait to get her back into my life now that we had something in
common. It was a cheek in
hand thought that our
friendship only grew on
common interest or so I
thought. Anyways, which friendship is not? I would drink
to Ada success tonight and get
my bum and my dance moves
in shape for her party
tomorrow. As i made way
through my door, I could feel joy spring through every step
of mine till I opened my now
near six year old refrigerator,
and there it stood: my dear
bottle of a special brand of non
alcoholic fruit wine. It had been a gift from a boy Ada had tried
setting me up with When we
doing youth service.I had ran
into him three weeks ago and
he bought me the wine hoping I
would bring It to a beach date I had stood up last Saturday. It
couldn’t be more appropriate I
drank it to her honor tonight.
The drink was cold with
simmering beads bathing the
bottle as i laid it into the small wooden stool Papa osaro made
me two weeks ago. He had
refused to collect his
workmanship money. Smiling
with cigarette stained Brown
teeth he had asked me to forget about it. Two months
ago he had also ask me to
forget about paying him after
he changed my kitchen
cabinets. It was when he sent
Osaro to give me airtime credit worth a thousand naira last
week that I didn’t ask or pay
for, that I noticed the leer in his
eyes whenever he stepped out
to say “good morning
neighbour” I could just imagine his sockets rolling endlessly in
his sockets after my galloping
behind. A vain man with a good
wife i thought as I opened the
drink and covered my eyes
ducking my small head as the wine cork flew over to hit a
picture frame hanging on one
of the wall on top of my mirror.
It had a picture of me and five
other girlfriends on our passing
out parade ceremony. I was in the middle with Ada, our both
hands on each other
shoulders. I had framed it
because of my smile. It was
perfect showing off milk
coloured teeths that refused to whiten perfectly arranged in
that square shaped mouth of
mine. My eyes were brightly
white and my pose had made
my nose longer and pointed
than they really were. So I kept the picture and whenever papa
osaro and his likes hit on me, I
simply take a look at that frame
and smile. It’s obvious they
can’t help it. Thankfully the
cork had not shattered the frame so I simply brought it
down, cleaned it, smiled at
myself, kissed it and held it
tightly snuggled around my left
breast and set it back on the
wall. I carried my wine into the kitchen and into a glass bottle
and down my throat the first
serve went as I ran happily to
put on some music. The wine
ran unhindered down my
throat. Mama Osaro was right. Sugar indeed is sweet.
After dancing for a while in my
living room, I went back to the
kitchen for more sugar. Then I
saw them: Brown coloured
giant ants right inside my wine glass as well as trotting their
way into and outside the wine
bottle. They were so many I
realized that there had spent
the whole day recruiting on the
dirty plates I had left on the kitchen sink. As I poured out
the drink into the glass and
saw them swimming along,
great anger swept me away
from the kitchen. I simply fell
on my big giant bed and as I looked at the white and black
lines that crisscrossed the
ceilings, I thought about anger,
how it comes likes a raging sea
wave. I wondered why it came
like second nature even at things as innocent as a rainfall
on a work morning or simple
chatter of a child unaware you
are in deep thought or at traffic
light that is taking too long to go
green or axillary hair that grows back too soon. I thought about
my sugar ants that had taken
over my wine and I simply
forgave them. After all, who
doesn’t love Sugar? And to
show how deeply I thought about them and all others who
love Sugar I wrote the Poem:
when Sugar calls and uploaded
it on naijastories.com. Please
enjoy! When Sugar Calls, I answer
Bidding my time, Priming my
tongue
A sweeter sweet, a creamier
cream
Decked with the finest color, sparkling in that fresh new
wine When Sugar Calls, We answer
We are sugar slaves
Head to toe like a string of
beads
We are ants black not, soldier
not, but sugar ants When Sugar Calls I answer
From a mile I smell fructose
From the crumbles on tables to
the crevices in walls
From the wine spilled over
floors to the floor of sweet bottles. When Sugar Calls We answer
It’s a sweet life we lead
Sugar in each breath
Friends to death with our sweet
tooth When Sugar Calls I answer
It’s a call I dare not defy
Trapped at the floor of this
sweet cycle
Round and round this master of
mine.
