On a sad note, there will be no Novocaine Knights for now. I am taking a break to work on so many projects. Emphasis on so many; I need my mind and time uncluttered. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for but Fish Brain Vows continues because it’s already been written down.
So, this is one of my short stories. I didn’t know what to call it. I chose Couch Potato in the end. It is a heartfelt love letter from a she to a he.
Yes, i can call you Friday because i have lost respect for you. I will call you by your name and there’ll be nothing you’ll do to me because i will be dead by the time you’re reading this, burnt to ashes at the backyard. And you will cry, Friday. Yes you’ll cry like the useless baby you are because you are not fit to be called a man.
Why this hostility, you may ask? You want me to tell you? Wait for me first let me ask Ifa before i answer you. Mtsheeew! Useless somebody.
Friday, shey you know i’m a babe, right? You’re not thinking am a guy after all these years because if you are then you’re a faggot and you will never make heaven.
I am a girl! I was created a girl and i am going to die a girl. I am telling you this because you have not treated me like a lady. Idiot! You’ve been treating me like that stupid Emeka guy that always visits this house and sits with you and drinks himself to drunkeness and messes up my precious space. He is one of the reasons why i am giving up.
You see, Emeka is the dirtiest fool i have met in my life. Emeka comes and lands his hard ass on me and the first thing he does is farts! Always! And he will laugh like an old dog, sometimes even adding ‘hmmm…this mess dey smell.’ And he will sit on that fart and push it into my original suede material until it enters my soul and sticks in me forever. Yet is him who will say ‘this akpoche dey smell like shit’ May his generations never see chair to sit down!
But let me not cuss his generation too much because your sweet younger sister, Blessing, might just bring to life all his igbotic seeds. Oops! That slipped out of nowhere. You see, despite what she has become these days, me and Blessing, we’re still friends, somehow. She is the only one that somehow cares for me because every morning she will come and dust me and straighten me out for the reason that she wants to see how i change to different shades as her palm lovingly caresses me #NoHomo. I also like her because she and i have a lot in common. We are both victims of abuse. As all of you abuse me, that is how she is abused by Madam and Mama who like to shout on her and send her around for no reason; and even Papa Junior, your neighbor who comes by in the name of watching Champion’s League – in the afternoon. Who watches champion’s league in the afternoon, biko? Only him sabi. But i use to use my one eye to see when he tries to fondle Blessing any small chance he gets. Thank God she has resisted him. However, she has not resisted Emeka. Yes, so if you must know, he has been doing Blessing on top of me for over five months now. They will wait for you and madam to go and sleep and then you will see him tiptoe to her door, knock and poke in his head and she will sneak out as Mama is there snoring like a hungry warthog and they will off the lights and land on me and start their thing. They are one of the reasons why i have aged considerably. Only God will judge him for all the stinking semen that has soaked my body when Blessing begs him ‘brother emmy, abeg no pour for inside me.’ i intentionally started squeaking loudly so that they will stop but for where! they like the ting too much. So now you know. Anytime Emeka tells you a brother or cousin has visited from the village and there’s no space at his, he is lying. He came to bang your dirty, little sister.
But God will also judge that Blessing too. Instead of her to use the money you give her monthly to buy common Always of 200 naira; she will be using rag. She will sit on it from morning till evening watching tasteless Nollywood movies until the thing will soak and soak into my future. Haba! Anyway, no need to lament. It will be over in the next few minutes.
How about those your two stupid boys that don’t have common home training? Peter and Paul will just come back from school and before Blessing will say go and change your school uniform, they have landed their smelling bodies on me. Dust, sand, all-what-not plus body odor! My Gord! How can seven year olds have body odor like that? Tufia! I don’t blame them sha. Blessing will tell them to go and shower but Mama will say, ‘leave my boys alone and go and bring food make dem chop.’ They will bring the food and they will sit on me and God bless me if it is ogbono. My day will just be yucky.
Lord! What happened to those days when Mrs. Reed sat on me with her flat oyibo ynash and drank nice, aromatic tea while she watched the late night news? Where are those days when she would speak to me as if i was human and say ‘Sandy, you’re the only friend i have. You’re so trustworthy, i feel i could tell you all my secrets.’ then she’ll lie on me gently and tell me beautiful tales of the country we came from. She said we were from New York, the city that never sleeps, the big apple. She told me so many things but i’m too Nigerianized now to remember them. Plus, i have amnesia, thanks to the beating Madam always gives me every Friday night in the name of killing her enemies. ‘Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!’ she would say and slam her fists into me. But i never planned to die by beating, so i will hold it in and endure the spittle that always flew out of her mouth and landed on me. What a lady she is. Nothing like Mrs. Reed.
Ah! Friday! God curse the day you came to work as a houseboy for that darling oyibo woman. Only God knows where she is now. I often see her on TV. I’m not so sure it’s her though as your son, Peter, has happily removed two of my eyes. That day he was shouting and telling his dirty brother, ‘paul see! It’s even button they chook here. Haha! Let’s see if it’s soft.’ And they ate my eyes. Lord, why me!
But let’s go back to you, Friday, and the reason why i am writing this letter. You and i use to be such good friends. Remember the day Mrs. Reed told you to take me away and care for my beautiful, black fur? Remember what you said? ‘I’ll take care of it well-well.’ I was upset that you called me an ‘it’ but after a few days with you and i saw that you kept your word, dusting me faithfully, always coming to smell Mrs. Reed’s perfume on me and hugging me for retaining her smell on you, i knew you were a good guy. And so i trusted you and in time, i fell in love with you. Yes, Friday, i have a psychological illness called Humanum Sexuality where i fall not for my kind but for humans. I know you humans have yours. I watched a documentary of people who married the Berlin Wall and Eiffel Tower. Sickos!
Yes, i loved and still love you Friday. In those days, it was just me and you. I was your couch, your bed, your friend, your lover… I let you do everything on me and i didn’t mind, you bloody wanker. You were all i had in this life. When one of my strings gave way, you were so upset and you brought in that good old carpenter to fix me up. You wanted me always in good shape because with me you scored many a chick. I was a little jealous but i knew none of them lasted.
Alas! I was wrong! One sad day when the sun was burning the world outside, you brought in the woman that created the chasm between us and stole me from you forever. Who cares what her name was because as the years wore on i only got to know her as Madam. She hated me from that first day. ‘Friday,’ she had said, ‘what is this black, ugly akpoche doing here? Abeg, we must buy better furniture before we marry o. My family cannot come and see this kain of thing here.’
Things changed after that day. You brought in some very ajegunle looking family of chairs. Did they last? No. Two years and they all kaputed. LWKMD! After they were forming for me. You brought in the second set. Those ones tried sef. Two and a half years but they too went the way of their predecessors. And finally someone advised you to get wrought iron trash. Pulizzz! Those things belong in a metal works junk yard. Cold hearted sons of bitches. The three-sitter had the gall to toast me last week. He doesn’t know i cam give birth to him. Fools!
Friday, let me not waste time here. The long and short is that i am neglected, abused, maimed, beaten, semenized, menstruated upon, told to die, just to mention a few. You don’t look at me anymore like you used to. The other day you said i stunk and you sat on the two-sitter. Madam has called for my head over and over and said i don’t fit with the decor. What decor? Your miserable, tight sitting room has decor? Mtshew! Make i hear word.
Friday, i am worn out and scattered under and as i speak this i am holding myself by just one string, waiting for someone to sit on me and fall to their death. At least, i won’t go alone. The moment i shatter to pieces, Madam will call Papa Junior to throw me out and she will burn me on Saturday. When you return on Sunday, you will see my ashes.
Thank you for a useless life, for allowing me see my death slowly, for all the abuse. May you reap what you have sown.
Still we had good times, no? Your loss. I die with my head held high. Don’t allow wind to scatter my ashes into Nigerian wind. I will not become ash in this country.
Have a nice life. Get someone who looks just like me and piss Madam off. By the way, i’m leaving this letter in the shorts that slipped into the space between my cushion. Please, chill on whipping the bishop; you mustn’t get a happy ending every night.
*hugs and kisses*
Sandy the Couch.