LET ME TELL YOUR STORY [Episode I]

He clearly looked annoyed sitting across from you on another bench, struggling to stifle the yawn you had just infected him with. The police station was dusty and hot and his nylon flowered shirt added up to produce a very pitiful sight. Sweat had the fabric sticking to his body, giving away the secret that he had no singlet on. You kept your eyes on him and fanned yourself with your 9-month old daughter’s weighing card.

 

The accident was minor, and you had no clue why the burly guy with a poor fashion sense had dragged you all the way to the police station when you could have exchanged ‘I’m Sorrys’ and got on your ways. You understand that it might have been that you had called him something maybe a little foul, but ‘come on,’ you think, ‘do we not hear such obscenities being passed from one public bus driver to an equally vibrant taxi driver like it was the greeting specially used in rush hour traffic?’ Besides, it was not your fault, the accident.  You had just dropped your daughter off at day-care, and having skipped a quick breakfast at home, decided to stop at a to-go breakfast place right before the junction the unfortunate incident happened. It was when you were inching your way back into the flow of traffic that you heard the sound of metal against metal. Now, how was it your fault, that you did not notice at once that the sound was as a result of your moving car being a bit too close to another? You have no idea how that happened! All you know is, you were joining the lane, and out of nowhere came that car, in that lane, just in your way! Well so he stopped, and you stopped. And he got out of his car and to his surprise, you got out of yours too, then there were flying bitches and assholes, and then bam, you landed in the police station, waiting to write your statements.

 

You looked down at your jeans, faded in patches and ripping slightly at the seams and chuckled. You had only bought those jeans some 2 months back and the lady had sworn it won’t fade; pulling at the jeans she herself was wearing, imploring you to have a look… “Hwԑ! Bi koraa na ԑhyԑ me no! I have been wearing and washing this for close to ten years, look at it, still new; I am telling you this does not run or fade!” You had only rolled your eyes and bought it knowing it will fade anyway. It seemed the more dramatically they swore, the surer the lie. Once you went to get yourself new underwear. The woman in a bid to assure you, pulled down her skirt to show the panty she wore. “Me ankasa mehyԑ bi! I wear my own goods, madam. It is very good!” You did not wait for her to tell you how long she had had that particular one she was wearing for. The memories made you laugh.

“You see she is laughing!? You see she is laughing!?” The man shot up, his anger rising again. You remained seated.

 

The policeman behind the counter belched loud and long, not caring to apologize for it. Have you ever observed the face of a Christian sister who is fasting and happens to be at a buffet she cannot avoid because it is a work-related event; the sanctum of the look? That was what you tried on right after the angry man had settled down. You wore it with grace and poise, straightening your back.

 

You were close to two hours late for work, and if that did not finally get you sacked, then you were sure the wrong file you had by then remembered you had mailed to your boss the night before for that morning’s presentation, would do it. It would be the second time Sesame Street theme music blasts through the conference room woofers, startling constipated-looking executive board members, waiting to view charts and tables detailing the month’s spending and company progress. Or was it Psalty the Singing Book you had mistakenly sent? Why you kept those in work folders, only God knew, you thought. 

 

The officer who apparently was the one to see to you finally came out from the door in the back and beckoned you. Of course, the boiling man stood first and was at the counter in seconds, you took your time gathering decorum, and rose too, the sound of your stilettos on the concrete floor causing you to smile in approval.

 

After about ten minutes of statement writing, and continual reference to the Learner plate that hung on your car, you were back on the benches, avoiding each other’s gaze. You thought of your husband. You thought of the conversation you had had with him the night before. How he had insisted on telling you, in thorough details, how the laxative he had taken a few hours back had worked right before you got home from work. The words ‘anus’ and ‘loose’ had never been used most fouly…

not THE END.

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