For the Plot

What is?

It’s safe to say there is no need for introductions, but it never hurts to say, “Hello, once again.”

You wake up semi-drunk beside a drunk and out-of-sorts policeman. His firearm is sticking out of his breast pocket. You pick it up, stick it in your waistband—Mexican carry style, extremely unsafe and dangerous, but at this point, caution is at odds with the winds directing your life.

You have no recollection of the last 48 hours. It’s almost the end of your life, but you don’t know that yet.

You check your phone, and missed calls from angry creditors dominate the notification panel. It’s a long walk home, but you have always enjoyed walking. Even in your uncoordinated state, there is a swagger to your steps, sponsored by the false confidence in your waistband.

You walk into a fast-food restaurant. It’s almost empty, save for the lone attendant who is yet to notice your presence. Mild greetings are exchanged, you place your order—three meat pies, a cup of coffee, and bottled water.

“How are you paying? Cash or card?” She asks.

You point your newly acquired gun at her, and you ask her gently, “How about bullets?”

Sorry. That was what you felt for her. You let her know she is severely underpaid, overworked, and letting you have these meat pies at gunpoint is not an indictment on her character as an employee. And you make it clear, her life is worth more than a few meat pies. She hands over your loot, and you genuinely apologize to her.

The streets are unusually empty for this time of day. You take a deep bite into the meat pie. It tastes like mother’s affection and affirmations—a feeling which now feels foreign. You take a sip of the coffee. It tastes like something made out of fear and a long line of regrets. You toss the coffee into a nearby bin. Walking. You keep walking.

Anniversaries are sad and beautiful. It’s been five years since your best friend died. Your other friends have stopped checking up on you. There is no malice on your part. You don’t blame them either. You have stopped checking on them, too. Anniversaries are sad and beautiful. Happiness blends into regrets.

Your thoughts drift off to your father. It’s been years since you last spoke to him. Your relationship with him is a disputed land between the forces of irreconcilable differences and pure disgust. Like many other things in your life, you have given up on him.

Down to your last meat pie. You hold on to it tight. Evidence that you're bad at letting go.

You keep on walking. Your legs favor this arrangement. Endurance has always been your strongest suit. You crack open your bottled water. You keep on walking.

The women who once loved you. You wonder what they would think of you in this sorry state—you are worse than Jigawa, still no better than Ekiti. You wonder if their tastes in choosing partners are absolutely atrocious, or if you were just a one-off bad choice in a sea of good choices. You think about the kisses they shared with you, and the kisses they shared long after you. You almost get jealous. You loved them. Sometimes, they loved you too.

Walking. You keep on walking. A heavy-duty trailer is moving recklessly on one side of the road. A Chevrolet Camaro zooms past you, going over the speed limit. Who am I kidding? There are no speed limits here. And because death now sits comfortably on your shoulder, you hear it whisper tales of your worthlessness. It speaks of how your death would make the world a better place. It also advises you on different ways to step in front of an onrushing traffic—for the sake of everyone, of course.

Walking. You keep on walking. You finally reach your neighborhood. The signage welcoming people sticks out like a sore thumb. You have lived here all your life. But you are just learning the correct spelling of your neighborhood’s name—a single letter O instead of double O’s in the full spelling. You are tired. The last drops of the bottled water hit the back of your throat. You can almost see your home from where you stand.

You think about Spain. You think about Real Madrid. It has always been a dream of yours to visit the Bernabeu and chant, “Hala Madrid, Y Nada Mas” with the home crowd. It has always been your dream.

It’s a five-minute walk to your home. You dig your hands in your pockets, and you find a wired earphone. You connect it to your phone, and you play Joji’s Glimpse of Us.

Home. You don’t bother knocking. The door is slightly ajar. You walk straight in. Pieces of clothing are on the floor. No one has noticed you. Your lover is riding her lover on your reading chair. Her movements are otherworldly, like the waves crashing against the shore. Your lover rode her lover with the grace of a wild horse never to be tamed. The last person you saw move half as well as this was Zinedine Zidane against Brazil in ‘06. And because you decided your eyes were not worthy to witness the god-like movement of your lover in this setting, you dip your hand into your waistband and bring out your gun.

You cock the government-issued firearm with familiar movement. They have now noticed you, and it’s all coming back to you.

You are a policeman. The firearm is not yours. But it will do. It belongs to your colleague. You point the gun towards your lover and her lover. They raise their hands in unison. You decide to change the trajectory of their lives for the plot. You stick the gun in your mouth, and there is a shock across the face of your lover and her lover.

You pull the trigger and blow your brains out. You hit the ground like a sack of potatoes alongside the meatpie you never got to eat.

Your lover never liked explaining things. And considering how brutal Nigerian police can be, I would like to see your lover explain a dead policeman and a stolen firearm.

On the day you died, it rained all day—even heaven rejoiced.

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1. Ekiti and Jigawa are states in Nigeria.

2. Anniversaries are sad and beautiful - words by Simon Van Booy, The Secret Lives of People in Love.

3. Y nada mas - Spanish phrase meaning, “and nothing else.”

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A Tale of Multiple Nezo(s) is powered by my continuous descent/ascent into uncertainty and motions of human experience. From time to time, I have to stroke your ego and tell you the world is incomplete without you, as a way to appeal to your generosity. Today is one of those days. Feel free to make a one-time donation here or buy me a coffee here

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Song of the Week -

Current Read - The Secret Lives of People in Love by Simon Van Booy.

Nezo.

Nigerian by birth,

Indian by hemp,

Canadian by loud.

Signed - Nezo, St. Patron of women with vowels in their names, especially the ones with 0-2 boyfriends.