Literature
"You look familiar," I say for the third time since she joined me at the table about fifteen minutes ago.
"Maybe we?ve met somewhere," she says, her big eyes lighting up with a smile ? that front-page smile with which she breezed into the bar. The smile that had made everyone take a second look. Some took more than a second look. Even now stolen glances keep coming like arrows. A man sitting by the door with a female companion could not help taking surreptitious shots. And twice I caught the elderly man some five tables away grinning at her like a skull.
Lately my life has become a burden, dragged along only by the occasional dash of human weakness. This might be another occasion.
"It is possible, but I can?t really place you," I say.
"Place me somewhere in your past," she says. "School days, some night club, amusement park, your dream... you may dig up an old flame that has not died."
"You?re funny," I smile.
"Am I?" She twiddles with her phone, avoiding my eyes. Her slender fingers and well trimmed nails caressing the phone poke at my memory.
"Of course, you?re very funny," I say, and beckon the waiter. "But I?m serious; there is this thing about you... It is hard to figure out, but somehow..."
"What do I serve, sir?" says the waiter.
"What does he serve, ma?am?" I ogled at her.
"Soft drink," she laughs.
"Soft drink! Don?t you drink?"
"I drink... soft drinks."
We laugh.
"OK, give her Malt," I say.
As the waiter leaves, my gaze rests on her lips. Full, nostalgic, tinged with distant laughter; the absence of make-up gives it a charming naivety. I?m glad I have been smart. While others gaped at her as she headed for an empty table I had capitalised on responding to her greeting and wormed my way through.
"Good evening, angel", I had said, smiling and motioning her to my table. And now I have these lips to myself!
"I was saying..." I sigh, trying to pick the tread of our conversation.
"There is this thing about you... about me," says the lips.
"Yes... You know, even though I?m meeting you for the first time, it?s like meeting you again after a lifetime together."
"Hmm, you must be a poet."
"I?m not joking..."
The waiter puts the bottle of Malt and a glass on the table, and holds the opener close to the bottle hesitantly till she nods approval. After opening it, he lingers on a while, probably anticipating another order as my bottle of beer is almost empty.
I no longer care for beer.
She fills the glass, leans back and raises it to her mouth, her big breasts jutting out, determined to break through the flimsy white dress. She sips briefly and puts down the glass, and arranges her braids.
I see something like tiny droplets on the hair. And on a closer look I notice she is slightly wet.
"It is drizzling outside," she says, as if she is reading my mind.
"I see," I glance at the curtained window. "But how do you know I was thinking..."
"You were watching," she smiles. "I caught you."
"No, I wasn?t watching, only looking."
"What is the difference?" She brings out a hankie from her bag and wipes the droplets from her face and hair.
"A world of difference..."
Just then, her phone rings.
"Hello!" she says, "OK, OK, right away," and picks up her bag.
Then she regards me uneasily and says:
"I?m sorry, I was waiting for someone."
My peptic ulcer turns a somersault.
"You were waiting for someone?"
"I?m really sorry... you know..."
"This is not funny..."
"I know...but we will meet again. I?m really sorry."
I reach for my glass of beer.
"We will meet again someday..." she repeats and stands up, forcing a smile. "We will finish our conversation."
"Sure... someday," I say, fighting the itch to bend over, as the ulcer punches me.
"It?s been a pleasure meeting you," she says in soft, caressing words.
"A pleasure indeed," I retorted softly, holding back the thunder.
As she walks out of the bar, her behind vibrating with every step she takes, I realise why she is so familiar.
THE END.
- Master Harold And The Boys By Athol Fugard.
"Master Harold... and the Boys" is a one-act play which takes place in the St. George's Tea Room in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. The three characters, Master Harold (also known as Hally), Sam and Willie explore the concepts of racism and apartheid...
- Catch-22 By Joseph Heller
?He was going to live forever, or die in the attempt.? I've encountered these Joseph Heller types before--no, not similar writers per se but actual people who have come across my path at various social gatherings (especially when drinks...
- Madness (short Story)
It had been quite hectic in the office. Writing the murder story had been as tortuous as the millionaire?s strangling of his wife must have been. They said he did it out of anger, but I still don?t know why he did it. Nor do I know why I chose that particular...
- The Last Hiding Place (short Story)
Amelia drowsily adjusted her head on the pillow, she subconsciously reached out for her husband. But her hand landed on an empty space. And the cold message, sensed through hazy consciousness, jolted her out of her troubled sleep. Gradually, she opened...
- A Smile On The Rock (poem)
Swelling foes can only stir the star in the eagle heart to stare the eclipse in the groin raise the last battle roar and strike, strike strike to carve a smile on the rock and let granite smile hasten the day! © Sumaila Isah Umaisha...
Literature
Angel
"You look familiar," I say for the third time since she joined me at the table about fifteen minutes ago.
"Maybe we?ve met somewhere," she says, her big eyes lighting up with a smile ? that front-page smile with which she breezed into the bar. The smile that had made everyone take a second look. Some took more than a second look. Even now stolen glances keep coming like arrows. A man sitting by the door with a female companion could not help taking surreptitious shots. And twice I caught the elderly man some five tables away grinning at her like a skull.
Lately my life has become a burden, dragged along only by the occasional dash of human weakness. This might be another occasion.
"It is possible, but I can?t really place you," I say.
"Place me somewhere in your past," she says. "School days, some night club, amusement park, your dream... you may dig up an old flame that has not died."
"You?re funny," I smile.
"Am I?" She twiddles with her phone, avoiding my eyes. Her slender fingers and well trimmed nails caressing the phone poke at my memory.
"Of course, you?re very funny," I say, and beckon the waiter. "But I?m serious; there is this thing about you... It is hard to figure out, but somehow..."
"What do I serve, sir?" says the waiter.
"What does he serve, ma?am?" I ogled at her.
"Soft drink," she laughs.
"Soft drink! Don?t you drink?"
"I drink... soft drinks."
We laugh.
"OK, give her Malt," I say.
As the waiter leaves, my gaze rests on her lips. Full, nostalgic, tinged with distant laughter; the absence of make-up gives it a charming naivety. I?m glad I have been smart. While others gaped at her as she headed for an empty table I had capitalised on responding to her greeting and wormed my way through.
"Good evening, angel", I had said, smiling and motioning her to my table. And now I have these lips to myself!
"I was saying..." I sigh, trying to pick the tread of our conversation.
"There is this thing about you... about me," says the lips.
"Yes... You know, even though I?m meeting you for the first time, it?s like meeting you again after a lifetime together."
"Hmm, you must be a poet."
"I?m not joking..."
The waiter puts the bottle of Malt and a glass on the table, and holds the opener close to the bottle hesitantly till she nods approval. After opening it, he lingers on a while, probably anticipating another order as my bottle of beer is almost empty.
I no longer care for beer.
She fills the glass, leans back and raises it to her mouth, her big breasts jutting out, determined to break through the flimsy white dress. She sips briefly and puts down the glass, and arranges her braids.
I see something like tiny droplets on the hair. And on a closer look I notice she is slightly wet.
"It is drizzling outside," she says, as if she is reading my mind.
"I see," I glance at the curtained window. "But how do you know I was thinking..."
"You were watching," she smiles. "I caught you."
"No, I wasn?t watching, only looking."
"What is the difference?" She brings out a hankie from her bag and wipes the droplets from her face and hair.
"A world of difference..."
Just then, her phone rings.
"Hello!" she says, "OK, OK, right away," and picks up her bag.
Then she regards me uneasily and says:
"I?m sorry, I was waiting for someone."
My peptic ulcer turns a somersault.
"You were waiting for someone?"
"I?m really sorry... you know..."
"This is not funny..."
"I know...but we will meet again. I?m really sorry."
I reach for my glass of beer.
"We will meet again someday..." she repeats and stands up, forcing a smile. "We will finish our conversation."
"Sure... someday," I say, fighting the itch to bend over, as the ulcer punches me.
"It?s been a pleasure meeting you," she says in soft, caressing words.
"A pleasure indeed," I retorted softly, holding back the thunder.
As she walks out of the bar, her behind vibrating with every step she takes, I realise why she is so familiar.
THE END.
- Master Harold And The Boys By Athol Fugard.
"Master Harold... and the Boys" is a one-act play which takes place in the St. George's Tea Room in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. The three characters, Master Harold (also known as Hally), Sam and Willie explore the concepts of racism and apartheid...
- Catch-22 By Joseph Heller
?He was going to live forever, or die in the attempt.? I've encountered these Joseph Heller types before--no, not similar writers per se but actual people who have come across my path at various social gatherings (especially when drinks...
- Madness (short Story)
It had been quite hectic in the office. Writing the murder story had been as tortuous as the millionaire?s strangling of his wife must have been. They said he did it out of anger, but I still don?t know why he did it. Nor do I know why I chose that particular...
- The Last Hiding Place (short Story)
Amelia drowsily adjusted her head on the pillow, she subconsciously reached out for her husband. But her hand landed on an empty space. And the cold message, sensed through hazy consciousness, jolted her out of her troubled sleep. Gradually, she opened...
- A Smile On The Rock (poem)
Swelling foes can only stir the star in the eagle heart to stare the eclipse in the groin raise the last battle roar and strike, strike strike to carve a smile on the rock and let granite smile hasten the day! © Sumaila Isah Umaisha...