This is so my last hurrah isn’t short-lived. This is my truth long-handed and our goodbye, one-sided. This is for a wife that could’ve been loved before and after me, for a son I could’ve been more prepared for, for daughters I wish I knew, for friends on the queue, and for the forgettable faces. This is left-handed cursive, the over-edited kind.
Good day everyone.
As most of you know, my name remains Sir Fuksalot, first name Chidubem. In the pamphlets you should have paid for, it is highly probable that adjectives like kind and loving have been adopted for color to describe me, of which I’ll be the first to admit are permissible exaggerations. To those who haven’t cried today at all, please fake it. To the dedicated lot who affirm as family and friends, if any of you isn’t wearing a shirt with my face on it right now, know that it would take a lengthy while for me to forgive you.
If you would all be indulgent enough, I have a reasonably lengthy story to tell. I may hurt a few people in the course of it, but i do hope the totality of it makes more hearts than it breaks.
I was nineteen years of age at the time and the social standards for morality weren’t a set of codes I exactly lived by. I dabbled in the softest of drugs on occasion, but that was it. It was a month from Christmas and I had just written my final exam for my third year in the university. My school was the first of its kind in the Gombe state and on-campus residency was the only option for all students at the time. I had been the last occupant of room 4b on Mallam Shatta block. My roommates at the time were Christian and Benson, both Igbo boys who could easily pass as born and bred stereotypical Hausas given that they spoke the language fluently and didn’t cringe on seeing and smelling traditionally northern dishes.
Although they made a better pair than we made a trio, we regarded ourselves as friends of a sort. It was a week to vacation and Benson’s birthday was two days into the holiday. We had made one hell of a memory with the celebration of Christian’s twenty first last year- cheap spirits and self-prescribed pharmaceuticals enough for the evoked week-long hangover (the whole wayward shebang). We did all but wander into the brothel at the junction on Christian’s suggestion, but this year, the plan was to embark on that adventure again, but to completion this time.
Benson made certain to summon every relative he had that claimed to have a job, and on the eve of his birthday, he had bragged about garnering well over thirty thousand naira, in doubtful anticipation of 10k more from an uncle he said had so much money at the time that he travelled out of the country every other weekend (which of course wasn’t lie, even though it stank like a hairy fat juicy immobile one).
Benson’s day came and his uncle apparently travelled out to the Philippines without remembering to send him the money, but for our appetites back then, thirty six thousand naira was more than sufficient for a night of laudable sinning(as Benson had put it). That morning, Christian woke Benson up with a bucket of slimy water that smelled like dry okra soup and re-used adult diapers. I hadn’t been aware of Christian’s accomplishment at the time given i was fast asleep, but Benson’s screams were quite the alarm. I woke up to Christian wielding a belt and Benson scrambling for cover under his blanket, and as customary with hormonal males, I joined in the festivity with friendly slaps despite the stank.
After doing mostly nothing all day (as exams had been done with), Benson’s bruises were to be numbed, so we he headed off to mark what would become the demise of my innocence. I wasn’t a virgin at the time but i still hadn’t qualified as a man-whore just yet. At about 11pm, after a whole lot of consuming this and that from here and there, we eventually staggered in unison into a bar decorated with beverage posters of varying brands and scantily dressed princesses of the coast. We took a table and opted to re-hydrate on sapele water so as to set the mood for the makings of a deserving end to our heathen expedition.
Christian always took it upon himself to be our chaperone and it helped that he was the oldest and most exposed amongst us. The bar was packed with the typical functional scums of the earth that Thursday and everyone seemed overly self-involved with themselves to notice the trio sat in pseudo-naiveté. The music booming was almost deafening but one could still hear loud conversations between them scums. We hadn’t been there for up to ten minutes when Christian called to one of the male waiters and whispered something into his ear about what was to define the rest of the night. He pointed to a door to the left of the bar as if in response to what Christian may have told him, and with a criminal grin, Christian nodded to Benson and I as what seemed to be a call to arms.
At this point, I didn’t know if I felt guilty for selling myself short or adventurous for going with the flow, but I was certain i hadn’t the option of chickening out.
There was a lady seemingly in her late thirties clothed in cheap lingerie by the door and she had a pot belly she looked like she earned with hard work. She gestured us into a hallway where carnality was currency and, dare I add, I was indeed impressed. The range of choices was indulgently unforgettable. The scent that filled the gallery was strong but not suffocating, and the ladies surprisingly took to English to sell their art. It was quite sight to behold. Adorned with a business minded lady all but draped in a suit on his hook, Christian turned to face me and Benson to formally utter his clarion call, “No pay them until your prick vomit oh!” he said. Still grinning, he playfully punched Benson on the chest and yelled out “happy birthday marafaka”, and then he walked away. I was stood there half-smiling when Benson took his pick and performed a similar disappearing act as Christian. I hadn’t thought this properly through beforehand so I hadn’t exactly made a mental image of whose client I’d end up being. It was to be a thing of ‘lust at first sight to me’. I walked through the hall, ignoring all but everything and everyone on exhibition.
It was until I was almost at the end of the path that I made a choice. Better yet, she made a choice. She smiled and didn’t call out for me as the others did. She came unto me and courteously asked if I wanted to see her room, I was too inebriated to think before talking so I ended up trailing behind her like Isaac did Abraham unto Moriah.
She didn’t take long to undress. Even before we agreed on a price, she locked the door behind her, went on to lie on her back and spread her legs. She did that while telling me there will be no facial contact whatsoever and that I had the option of sucking on her breasts but I could latch onto them with neither nor both hands. It was to be incredibly inhumanely mechanical. She pointed to the box of condoms on the shelf and muscle memory took over for me. I started to take my money’s worth, but a minute into it, I was sweating profusely and disgusted with both of us immensely.
My biggest problem was that she laid there as if it was solely a transaction. I know there was an exchange of money, but i expected a bit more theatrics. At some point, she seemed to have noticed i was bored and tried to fake moaning but I was done trying too hard. She didn’t make a big deal about my refrain and offered to help me with buckling my belt even. She was a nice girl. Not a prostitute with potential, but a nice girl nonetheless.
I stood in front of her room for a while waiting for my squad to reassemble, but my squad seemed to have found themselves more skilled dames, or maybe it was the Igboness in men that intended to fuck until the last kobo they paid.
Some minutes passed and I had done a good job of ignoring all the other girls loitering about the walkway. My nice prostitute without potential came out of her room presumably in anticipation of her next customer and on finding me stood by her door, she told me I was going against the institution’s rules by merely standing there.
I was almost at the door leading to the drinking area when I laid eyes on a smile that snatched my soul. Unlike the other girls, she wore nothing. She stood by her door oozing so much confidence and bearing breasts with areolas so palatably dark that I don’t remember tearing up, but I know I should’ve.
I knew I had enough money on me for an extra transaction, Benson had handed me four one thousand naira notes before wandering off. She didn’t smell like someone else’s sweat, she didn’t smell like thirst, maybe it was the insane imbalance in my system, but she didn’t smile at me like I was a pawn. I had the feeling she liked me. I had a feeling I was about to have a night worthy of more than a paragraph in my eulogy. So I approached her and said hi, she didn’t say hi back, but she kept that same smile on her face and welcomed me into her room. I closed the door behind me and in faultless English, she asked ‘how may i help you today?’
The succeeding events aren’t suitable for description in a church auditorium given her lack of limits and my capacity for both pleasure and pain, so permit me to fast forward a bit.
I had collected the naked lady’s phone number and for the rest of my university days, we grew quite familiar with each other. A customer turned into a friend and that friend has turned into a widow.
And this is where the story should matter most. Kids, your mother wasn’t always a whore, but she still prides herself in being one still. I know this may come off as selfish on my part, but this woman is the reincarnation of the devil, if she isn’t the devil herself. I hadn’t died so many times in one lifetime until I chose to trust this whore of a woman.
A week into our marriage, Mrs Fuksalot had told me she had a child with some other man. I had been so smitten by her that that didn’t matter. And I assure you Nkeiruka, it still doesn’t. Even in death. Over the years into our marriage, we had three girls. Bethany, Anastasia and Sustenance, I love you to heaven, through hell and back, but you’re not my biological children either. I’ve known of my infertility since my early twenties, but I hadn’t found the time to tell your mother. So there it is. I am a liar, true, but your mother is the spawn of Satan.
In closing, my death in my sleep wasn’t exactly natural as most of you might have guessed right already, It was self-induced. But permit me to assure the worrisome few that it was most likely peaceful. I would hate for you to adjudge it as pitiful because that would be insulting. I have made memories enough for three lifetimes and that is enough living for me. So if anything, my death was self-preserving. At this point, if you could all cry and scream out loud in disjointed harmony, that would be endearing beyond words.
Kids, live more (Nkeiruka, divorce that loud-mouthed girl you call a wife before you make the mistake of getting her pregnant). My darling wife, you were the love this life for me, but I pray you die slow.
I lived alive, and I earnestly hope I don’t die as I lived. Good riddance and goodbye.