MAGICAL MONDAYS WITH KREATE
today. I exhaled as I got into my clothes. The Olutayos were here. They have lodged in self-catering accommodation about twenty miles away. Beatrice seldom spoke about her parents; but the few occasions she did, gave me a pretty good idea why conversations never strayed to that territory. Her father was always busy: busy with his accounting firm, busy with colleagues, busy with friends, busy with booze, and busy with other women. His wife and her mother, Mrs. Evangeline Oluwatayo was also a very busy lady: busy with teaching other people’s kids, busy with high-classed friends, busy organizing the staff of her gigantic house, and busy with worry over the fact that her husband had no time for her. I had spoken to Beatrice’s mother once, and it had been impossible for her hurried conversational manner to go unnoticed. They were so busy that they literally ignored the only fruit of their proverbial loins.
killed her’ was always a potent voice in my guilt trip. When my body did manage to hibernate, different versions of the heart-breaking episode haunted my dreams like persistent wraiths intent on driving their victims mad. In one of those versions, she had died instantly after being knocked down by the bicycle. While on her death stretcher in the mobile ambulance, she rose suddenly and pointed to me; her eyes filled with so much sadness and tears, and said: ‘Why didn’t you save me?’ I wouldn’t be seeing those eyes anymore. It was 4.30pm on my mobile phone and I had been waiting for some minutes in front of the door, figuring how to turn the door knob. Figuring what would happen after I did. I would have stayed in that spot for X amount of time, if the door hadn’t open, revealing a tall, unfamiliar black African. He simply smiled, inclined his head in acknowledgment of my presence and left. I prevented the door from swinging shut with a foot and entered the house. There was a narrow red-rugged staircase some meters away from the door. A red carpet on a black day seemed out of place. As I ascended the stairs a man and a lady draped in black, appeared so I retraced my steps, and waited. The gesture I received from them would have been similar to the other man, except for the fact he said hello and pointed me in the right direction.
eye, Mrs. Oluwatayo’s focus was still on the picture. ‘Yes, Sir. Very close friends. I was with her when the accident
‘Let me say my piece, Tolu.’ She looked me square in the eye with the wrath of a broken mother. ‘You killed her.’ And returned her gaze to the picture as if I was no longer there. It was true. I killed my close friend.
Kreate is a budding Nigerian writer with a flair for fiction. Writing for him began sometime in secondary school where he dabbled in poetry and plays. He has authored two self-published short novels.
He is a banker and lives in Surulere. Read more interesting pieces at KREATEATALE