ONE MAN TOO MANY

The advert placement on TV had been quite convincing. Since graduation two years ago, I was still without a job. I thought of giving in to my one-time passion- writing. Perhaps if I put my mind to it, chances are that I may not be as bad as I thought. At least with a little grooming and concentration, it may not be too long before my name starts rolling at the end credits of films, or if I got luckier, television dramas. Much as I loved reading novels, I knew that wasn’t my forte, and as for poems? Ugh! So scripts it had to be. So upon seeing the placement on the TV some days ago right after a popular drama, I secretly- when my flatmates weren’t looking- scribbled the name, address and telephone number of the production outfit before my friends discouraged me. Maybe I could start with giving that talent my best shot. I could start by writing a very promising application and then updating and submitting a copy of one of my many scripts which lay          under my      bed.

The building of the production outfit was in one of the suburbs of Lagos. It stood on a single brown storey, with part of the paints already peeling off. Only last week I had come to submit my works for scrutiny, and nice as the front-desk officer was, there was a tinge of in her eyes that discomforted me. However she had collected the bulky envelope I offered, smiled and dismissed me. A couple of days later, an invite had come from Bluebird Network which had stupefied me. So here I was.

Inside, there was a long arrangement of occupied chairs in the reception. Was it an audition? I wondered… but I thought we who had a knack for writing are usually not as many as those who wanted to act! I scolded myself for foolishly thinking my writing prowess had awed the Producer when there was still this embarrassing queue? How many trainee writers did they actually need? It looked like a complete waste of time. I must have been gaping foolishly until the lady manning the desk came over to tap me on the         shoulder.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” I snapped out of my reverie. “I… got a call to come for…”

“You are late!” The lady almost screamed. “It’ll be sad if they have called your name already because there’s nothing I can do about it.”

How about that for courtesy! I turned to the audience who were waiting to be called. The bulk of them already had scripts they were reading from, and then it occurred to me.

“I’m not an actress. I applied for the script-training session…”

“You should have told me naw!” Her voice shot up a decibel.

Did you ask? I almost flung back at her, but stuck with a wrung out smile.

“This way.” She called and I chased after her. With the way she was marching arrogantly ahead, it’d be easy to miss her if I didn’t tag along fast enough. She stopped at a huge brass door with me following meekly. “Go in.”

But was it that easy? I nudged my head, asking the hostile lady again and she gave a devilish smile, like she was so certain I wasn’t going to come out whole.

The blast from the air conditioner first hit me full throttle, next came the man seated at the head of the table, who didn’t as much as glance up to see who had come in. He must have just eaten something because he was wiping his fingers with a serviette. The room had to be the board room of the organization, else how could one explain the array of chairs tucked neatly along the large table.

“Good morning sir.” No response. I tried again, louder this time. “Good morning Sir.” I was almost smiling that I had finally got his attention until from his expression it occurred to me that I just intruded on whatever it was he had been doing on his laptop. I had the opportunity of explaining myself or getting out. Even as he glanced at me, his fingers did not stop punching vigorously at his keyboard. Upon getting his supposed attention, words failed me. “Good morning Sir.” I tried again.

“That’s the third time I’m hearing that in the space of what…” he inquired from the expensive watch which lay on his right wrist. My eyes followed his every move. “…Three minutes. That’s not the reason you are here. I suppose?”

Besides the touch of greying temples that marked him a member of the senior set, it’d have been hard for anyone to know he was elderly. He was dressed casually, a yellow polo t-shirt was all I could see from my vantage position. He had the skin of one who didn’t spend the bulk of his time in any harsh weather. His lips were moving, I discovered, only I hadn’t heard a word of anything he said until he motioned for me to sit, which I promptly did, clutching at my bag for support.

“You   are?”

“Toke Benson.”

For the first time, he cast a suspicious glare at me. What in the world told me to apply? I wondered. His next question hit me below the belt.

“What in the world were you thinking when you sent your entry?”

I couldn’t believe I was about to be dissed. “What?” My lips trembled. His eyes were on my lips.

“What modern writer submits hard copies of her work? You ever heard about computers? Flash drives? Emails?” his eyes bored into mine. “You could have done better than sending that stack of pile to us. We are professionals here, not some bunch of amateurs who stumbled into the industry.”

I noticed his dentition was perfect. Nothing out of place.

“You’re doing a very bad job of passing a message and I’m sure you know it sir. Don’t you think it would have been more ideal telling me gently that I don’t qualify?”

His eyes went from narrow to thin slits, matching the militant tilt to my chin. I started to get up for fear that he might get really loud and order me out when without a knock, the door burst open. A chubby woman in her mid thirties peeked in, frowning mischievously at me. He rose to his six feet plus, straight and debonair. “My producer!” he hailed.

That    was     her!

“Deji! Hope you enjoyed your trip to Nigeria? It’s so good to have you on board again.” She    asked.

“Anytime. Oh! Please meet Toke Benson, our trainee writer!” replied Deji.

My eyes were the size of halos.

“Wonderful. I see you’ve met the head-writer. Have you been given the schedule?” she asked.

“No     ma.     I…”

“Never            mind. I’ll get it for you.”

My lips were shut tightly together, because I couldn’t trust not gasping if I let them loose. Looking up at him, his eyes were still cold and downright unfriendly.

“I’ll see you Saturday.” he said, it was meant to be a threat and it sounded like one.

*

Two weeks later, we resumed work. Nothing I contributed to the script conference ever went down well with Mr. Deji. He didn’t show outright rude signs or embarrass me further like I had thought he would. But he kept me at some distance, which I didn’t like. It was apparent he had worked with the other writers before so it was easier to mingle with them than me. Out of the twenty-six episodes, I was only entrusted to write one and even that, he had made look like I was being given a rare opportunity. Besides his usual harsh editing when I mailed the first draft to him, his comments had been simple and       professional.

The producer was an unforgivable gambler. She had promised to throw an after-party if she got all her scripts, well written, in a week. With all the scripts submitted to her and cheques issued, the party was in full swing with lots to eat, drink and smoke. I was still not exactly familiar with all the writers. One thing they all had in common was their mood swings. One moment they were friendly and funny, the next they carried long faces. I thought I must get used to the attitude if I wanted to remain a writer, but also whenever they were in their bubbling spirits, they talked dirty. Initially I had been so shocked and embarrassed, but later I pretended I didn’t understand a word of what was being   said.

“Well, I see I’m not the only one who needs a breather?”

The voice couldn’t be mistaken. How he had crept up on me, I couldn’t explain. He was close. A breath away. But he was handsome. He had lazy eyes that rose reluctantly, eyes that had bored into me and the other writers whenever he was on the brink of getting upset by our slow pace.

“Good evening Mr. Deji. I didn’t hear you walk up.”

“Apparently. You were so engrossed in whatever it was you were thinking about. It’s the end of the session and surprisingly you have done well.”

I was awed into silence. A few minutes ago, I was just giving myself the very many reasons this should be my last attempt at screen-writing. And now this!

“You have been paid what you were promised, so this has nothing whatsoever with your being a trainee and me being the head writer.”

His lips fell on mine, gently, softly. He tasted warm. A hint of tobacco on his breath. A moan escaped my lips as he delved in, making love to me with his mouth. I tried to keep my hands off him because in spite of the havoc he was causing to my senses, he remained very well composed with his hands resting beside him. Then he went from gentle to possessive so that when we broke apart he was panting heavily and so was I.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the day you walked into the office, pardon me.” It didn’t sound like he was sorry.

I was quiet and plenty confused.

“Walk with me.” He ordered.

He appeared to be conversant with the surroundings and soon found a quiet spot where we sat, lapsing into an uncomfortable hush.

“If you ask whether I like you, I’d say… a lot. If you ask whether I want to kiss you again, I’d say… why, of course! You are a beautiful, desirable and intelligent young woman.” All the while he looked away. “I’m a married man, with kids. But I don’t deny myself a little pleasure here and there. Of course you are an adult and I can’t force you.” He slipped his phone into his pockets, sighing. “I’d be leaving back to the States tomorrow, would you come to my room later tonight?”

This time I couldn’t help gasping in shock. He was looking at me now and I matched him glare for glare. He looked away first. “For the sake of saneness and decorum, would you stop looking at me like that? I’d hate to take you on this floor. Please.”

Goose bumps grew on my flesh.

He got up, dusted the seat of his jeans trousers and made to go before turning back to me. “I’m in room 609.” He took a while to study my reaction to what he said before adding. “I’m not promising I won’t make love to you, if you come”, and he walked away.

*

The next morning, I woke up late even though I knew I was to check out of the hotel before noon. My body ached from the troubles of the past weeks. The image of Mr. Deji came to mind. His good-looking face and what had transpired the night before. He was one hell of a man. A man any woman could kill to have. I shook my head as I stepped into the tub planning on an escape before anyone woke.

Oyster

 

 

ON THE RUN

ON THE RUN is an excerpt from a crime story I’ve been so lazy to finish. Let me know what you think. Perhaps I can be tempted enough to finish it.

                 PECO VILLA- ROLI’S ROOM—2:12AM

The door to her room was expected to be oiled and polished every day. That was the instruction. That it creaked while being opened now explained that those in charge lagged in their duties. He slipped in, lifting the door to make as less noise as he could into a room he knew only too well. A shiver tingled in his spine. There she lay on the large bed, like she had been recklessly flung on it, her limbs flung in different directions. Her flowery duvet and the bedspreads were tangled beneath her, with a better portion of it now lying on the floor. The same position he met her every time he came in. He walked up to her bedpost to take a proper look at her. Even in sleep, she glowed. These past days, she had started to have an eye for good make-up but of course he preferred her without any. Plain. Nude. She was beautiful, with natural soft lips that hadn’t been delineated by cosmetic gloss. And then there was her body which was supple. Warm to touch. It was rude coming to her room and spying on her but some things had to be done. It also wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t be bothered.

Beside the mug was a flowery framed picture of her on Matriculation day, others were family pictures. Her phones lay beside her pillow. It was the same way- every day. Only that her room wasn’t as dark and cosy as he knew she liked it. She had left the bathroom door ajar so that the lights therein bounced back to subtly fill the room. He checked to confirm that the drugged contents of the mug that had been sent through to her maid, had been completely consumed before walking towards the convenience door to switch off the lights. He paused for a minute to see if there was going to be any reaction, even though he was very certain she was dead to the world. He dropped the mask and shotgun he always carried in for safety on the sofa and then slipped a little gourd out of his pocket. It was the typical calabash kind, only it had three stands that enabled it sit comfortably when placed in an upright position. He began mouthing the familiar words; before touching the gourd to her forehead, pacing the room on tip-toes before ending the chant. He placed the gourd noiselessly on the bed-side table before slipping off his trousers; his briefs went next, all the while his eyes unwavering from her static face. He got into bed with her, pulled at her lingerie. It was one of those satin fabrics that swished at every touch. He rode it quietly up her thighs while beads of sweat trickled down his face, despite the cool temperature. She had slept in her panties which was unusual. It explained that she was getting suspicious. There was need to introduce a new scheme. Considering that, he snatched her panties off, moved to take a proper look at her face and lay atop her. Who would ever think? He searched for her and winced when he connected. In seconds, he rode hastily, trying quickly to be over and done with it. His screams were muffled by the pillow which he had sunk his teeth in and then he slipped out, careful not to trip over as his legs shook. A couple of minutes later, after trying to settle his breath and stop the tremble in his left leg , he dressed her hastily, packed his clothes and props and skulked out.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Roli woke up to the same familiar pains. Getting up to sit upright was arduous. The room had a sour smell, the same one that had been haunting her for months. Her lingerie was intact. The panties she had worn as some kind of protection didn’t quite feel properly in place. Reaching to feel the bed, it was damp and somewhat slimy. She bolted up. It was day break already. He was here. She looked around. He was. She peeped into the bathroom door; the light had been switched off. That confirmed it. He was here and once again, he had done it.

Oyster…