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Fiction
Pot of Gold
a short story by
Dami Ajayi
So that Saturday morning when Destiny knocked on
Kabir’s door, he refused to open for he thought
it was a Jehovah Witness. In his defense,
Jehovah Witnesses could be early Saturday
morning pests, clad in their Sunday best and
flaunting Watchtowers and their
convictions. But Kabir was no Pagan. He was not
a dedicated Christian either. Let’s just say it
has been a while since he last saw the insides
of a church.
The door hammering persisted and, for a minute,
Kabir feared that he had misjudged; that the
early-rising intruder was the landlord. Then he
remembered he still had a month before Aduke’s
rent lapsed. He sighed his relief and attempted
to drift back to sleep. But her snores brought
back memories of last night.
Last night, he had drunk himself to stupor on
the premise that he was not buying. Mike, his
friend, was the buyer and a lucky one too. His
fate had been sealed earlier that afternoon with
a U.S visa stamped on his green passport and he
was in an ecstatic mood of alcoholic generosity.
He declared for everyone in the club until they
began to decline his generosity.
“Haba,” Mike would say, “Are you not happy for
me. Guy have another beer.” He would persuade
and with a reluctant yet grateful grip, one
would accept and would drown deeper into that
flood of celebratory binging.
Kabir had been sitting beside a young lady with
a tooth-gap and deep dimples. She wore a blond
wig and her painted nails were carved like
claws. She had an easy laugh too. Her name was
Marg, Matt, or Maltida. And she said she was a
professional dancer.
Now in street parlance, if a scantily-clad lady
told you she was a dancer, it meant that she was
available for the night, for a token fee of
course. And Kabir—infected by the high spirits,
inebriated by beer and overdue for a sensually
memorable night—was willing. It won’t hurt, he
thought, yielding to his intimate desires for
female company that night.
Three months had passed since Aduke left. And
she still hadn’t phoned. So on the whim of
alcohol, Kabir dismissed the thoughts of
infidelity and continued to flirt with the
obliging, dimpled-smile blonde. After all, he
thought, he was sure of what Aduke was up to in
faraway America.
“I am a Dee-jay, you know,” he said with all
enthusiasm he could muster, “and I would like to
play you a record.”
“Here, now?” she inquired.
“No silly, back at my house.”
She giggled like a teenager and leaned over to
bite his left ear. She rasped, “Hope you know it
would cost you.” He nodded.
At ten’ o clock that Friday night, a couple
emerged from a curtain of thick smoke and
multi-colored lights and mounted a motor-cycle.
That was how much Kabir remembered. He could
hardly remember powering his motor-bike at top
speed whilst blasting loud music muffled by the
swift passing of winds. Or the nimble knuckles
of the blonde that clutched his waist as the
winds threatened to strip off her wig, or his
incessant swigs from the bottle or his immediate
drift to sleep when they got to his flat.
Lying beside him on the bed was the naked girl,
her hair drawn in six unkempt braids, her blonde
wig hung carelessly over her head like a
displaced halo. Kabir could hardly remember if
they had had sex last night. So he touched his
flaccid penis and sniffed for assurance, but
still was not convinced. He contemplated waking
her before she launched into a peculiar form of
snort which infuriated him so he smacked her
hard on the buttocks.
“Oya, get up,” he said irritably.
Incoherently, she said, “uhmm, uhmm.”
A knock suddenly jerked her into consciousness
and she asked wide-eyed, “Who is that?”
Kabir didn’t seem to mind who it was any longer,
he snatched his pants and drew on a used shirt.
He made to the door and yanked it open, ready to
pounce on whomever it was, disturbing his peace
that Saturday morning. There was nobody at the
door, which he found rather quirky as his facial
expression contorted into what was neither stark
surprise nor a frown. He peeped into the street
and still was clueless as there were just a
bunch of chewing-stick wielding landlords in
loin-cloths mumbling in quiet tones the fate of
the street-roads that had been rendered
immotorable by the incessant rains.
Yearly there was always a campaign for fund
donations that went into grading the untarred
roads. But soon after the rains began, rainwater
found new ways for itself, digging up trenches
that swallowed car tires and shocked
shock-absorbers.
So that Saturday morning, as he returned to the
flat, he noticed a poster tacked to the door. It
read:
This is Destiny knocking at your door! Get rich
Quick-quick with Pot of Gold!!Invest 10k and
make 40k CASH in three weeks!!!
Kabir spent time scanning this advert before
removing it. When he returned to the room, the
girl was clasping her brassiere over her rounded
breasts. And Kabir could feel blood flow down
his loins.
“Who was that?” she inquired nonchalantly as she
put on her blouse.
“Can’t find the person but I found this,” he
showed her the poster of a smiling, young lady
leaping to catch dollars in the air.
It seemed to arouse her curiosity as she
snatched it from Kabir. “Could this be real?”
she questioned, leaving her blouse half-worn.
“One can’t tell about these things,” Kabir
replied as he sat on the bed, peeling off his
shirt, “but you must be ready to take a risk if
you want to.”
“Risk?” she said, pausing for a moment to look
at Kabir, “what more risk can I take, I follow
men I barely know daily, I sleep with them. What
do you even know about risk?”
Kabir could hardly believe he was being quizzed
by a prostitute. He had been told several times
that he was a cynic. When Aduke had obtained the
Green Card Lottery form that had changed her
destiny, she also obtained his. But he refused
to fill and submit the form, and every time she
asked after it he would shrug and say he didn’t
have time or he forgot. Now she was gone. Now he
wished he had not been so adamant. Just before
she had left, she had thrown a tantrum at his
lackadaisical attitude, his withdrawal from
believability, reality.
“Don’t you believe anything good can happen to
you?”
The question she had asked seemed rhetorical.
When his colleague also obtained the Visa
Lottery Application, he was aware and instead of
obtaining his, he had helped his colleague fill
his form. Now Mike was also leaving for greener
pastures, whilst he remained hinged to the
squalor of a failing state.
The now fully-dressed prostitute slung her bag
on her shoulder and sat beside him on the bed.
“I have some money. I want to invest in this
thing,” she squeezed the poster, “Will you help
me?”
Kabir frowned. This seemed outrageous, he
thought. This was a prostitute he had not slept
with, seeking his favour. But he could hardly
restrain himself from approving. He found
himself nodding and asking her name.
“Mary,” she smiled, “I will be back in the
evening.” And the door slammed behind her.
***
There was something haunting about the gingerly
exposure of her sparkling teeth. The smile bore
an unequivocal resemblance to Aduke’s. For a
moment, Mary’s rounded face contorted into
Aduke’s and instead of walking away, she walked
towards him in springy steps, her recently clad
clothes dropped to accentuate with each toward
step…
It was yet another knock that intruded his
fantasy. He stood to open the door. It was Mike.
Mike looked unsightly, still dressed in
yesterday’s clothes, all doused in sweat, smoke
and alcohol. He seemed to be having a terrible
hangover for he leaned against the wall.
“Oh boy, how far?” Kabir asked, “you like what
the cat dragged in.”
Mike muttered something incoherent as he walked
into the flat. This was not his first impromptu
visit especially after a Friday night binge. It
was no news that he didn’t have an apartment.
Rather, he nestled with an older widow, whom he
fell out with earlier that week. Since then, he
had been keeping different nights at apartments
of different colleagues. Today was inevitably
Kabir’s turn.
Mike staggered towards the bathroom and then
there was a distinct retching sound and
afterwards the drone of a flushing toilet, then
sounds of splattering water, and the humming of
a high-life tune. Soon Mike emerged looking
refreshed, clad in wet shorts, with Kabir’s
towel around his neck.
“Uhmm,” he crooned pleasantly, “this feels a lot
better. You don’t want to know where I spent the
night.”
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