Mugabe Victor
“Hello lover,” she whispered in hushed tones
At least; I thought she did. My eyes lids attempted to tear open as the queer scent of a metallic concoction struck my nostrils. The air had gone pungent and sore again turning my tongue into some kind of left footed dancer upon my pallet. Clicking sounds ravaged the room as I attempted to relieve myself of the itching. I could still feel my surroundings turn moist and dead under the blanket, sending me into slow gasps for survival as my chest ached in a sadistic reminder to breathe.
“This must be how the snail feels as it glides its way across an inch-long pebble,” my thoughts mumbled, “The shell must feel like my ton sized head and its mucus like the sweat that drenched my pits,”
“Guess what is for breakfast?” she again started, “It’s your favorite,”
“My favorite?” the echoes bounced through my head, “what the hell is she talking about?”
“It’s all yours if you can guess it correctly, it starts with B”
“B-baboon, B-balloons, B-broccoli,” I couldn’t help but smirk a little, my eyes still wedged shut by the dried up tears from last night. I still had no idea what my dearest girlfriend was talking about.
She was no cook. Best she could do was boil water and heavens forgive me, I suspect she could ‘burn’ the water in the process.
“What was it now? Like day five of lockdown?”
Over these past few days, I believe I have grown into a man of immense wisdom and stature as I have seen days darker than any creature could ever have. Life had punished me enough to pull the grey hairs from my skull before their time. They say love grows with time and patience, however, from what I had learnt in these past ten days, the creator of that saying was a pathological maniac with a sick sense of humor. It had only taken half a week and she had grown into a nag. A daddy’s little girl that threw a tantrum every time she couldn’t get what she wanted. Call me despicable, but I had always dreamt of taming one of those. Unfortunately, the time had come and I guess I eventually had to pay the piper.
“I can stay here until the lockdown gets done,” she said upon hearing the presidential declaration on television, “It will be like a long sleep over,”
God forgive me for being so naïve. Day number one. I remembered it like yesterday. The pompous bastards that controlled money flow through our mobile phones grew hearts. It was all a trap. Free money transactions? Back then I was a child unwilling to acknowledge the discrepancies of the deplorable system. I should have known it was too good to be true. We munched away at last night’s left overs, leaching the plates clean and spotless. I could still remember the sharp squeaks from her china as she scrubbed away with her tongue. It was disgusting but even the gods knew it turned me on.
Day number two. They must have had Satan whispering in their ears. The greedy hyenas that ruled the fast food industry set endless traps for my wallet. She woke me to the sound of that one irritable phone advertisement that pops up the moment you try to watch any video online. The incessant melody pounded my ear drum over and over again, ensuring that my poor brain was left on and endless loop.
“Free delivery, free meals, discounted rates,”
Damn you Apollo, to hell with you Han Xiangzi and screw you which ever Ugandan god is in charge of catchy advertisement tunes. I was never left the same again. For the next 24 hours, it was free meals, Netflix and Pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A fool torn between impressing a girl and saving his bank account. Lightening should have struck me before I made a graver mistake.
Unfortunately, it didn’t. Day number three. She suddenly discovered my refrigerator. The one shrine that housed the gods of my life, Jonny Walker, Uganda Waragi and Smirnoff Vodka. Iced to the perfect temperature, spacing and lighting, she dared to speak blasphemy. “Where is the food?” she casually asked, plucking the bottles from their fortress of solitude.
“No darling, no food here, please put Johnny back where you found him,” I pleaded
The daughter of Eve, relentlessly bore her dirty eye through me. I believe she cursed me to hell and back in a couple of seconds. “What do you mean?” she growled through her teeth grinding her heel into the ground, “You wanted me to stay here for over a month and you had nothing to eat?” I was dumbstruck. First of all, it was all her idea. I could have survived on Johnny and Vodka for well over a year if I wanted to. My lips went stiff and my jaws struck rust numbing my vocal cords to produce only silence. Her eyes still drilling through my skin with pitiless excitement; my joints froze stiff, not even my libido was spared.
“Don’t worry,” she suddenly burst, “You now have a woman in your life, I will cook for you,”
I still remember the abomination that lay on my plate minutes later. An odd concoction that strived with a life force of some form. I swear I could see it breathe in short bursts that spouted bubbles to the surface, putting every muscle in my body to a sudden stand still.
Day number four, I forced the devilish stew down my throat. I started to nose bleed.
Day number five, I think am dying. I reached out to the closest squadrons for relief but all I received from my accursed mobile phone was the same haunting voice that repetitively mocked me with the same message, “Your account balance is too low to achieve this call, please load more airtime and try again,”
Day number six, I will hide and hold my fort until the day of salvation returns. God save us all.
