Stairs and Liquor Stores

Coming out of the shadows

I have been watching you silently

It has been about a week now. Since I moved in into my new bachelor pad. Having had to forego my passion for months, the chicken must come home to roost. Look, I will not trouble you with the intricacies of my absence for the last six months or so. The important thing is that I am here again. Here to complain about the author of Jephte’s daughter and virgin births. I am here for sole expression, to talk to you and smell the feeling of cozy bedside aromas of your stenched hangovers. I cut my goatee, but I never had one to start with. So you can tell my age. I am still young.
I think I have successfully convinced you not to ask me where I have been or what shenanigans have been keeping me from penning shit. It’s called life, and we handle it as it comes to us. So a few days ago, I was minding my business in town, trying to imagine all these people in the streets checking their messages if they have won any Stawisha na M-Shwari bonuses. I thought of how unlucky they must feel every evening when the only messages they received was for points accumulation. On TV however, were happy maligned faces of the zealots who have circumvented the paths that luck follows and their beaming pride in such misunderstood maneuvers bewitched the very beings of my random thoughts. Do you get the gist of what I am trying to pass across? Anyways, be that as it may, there I was on the stairs going to my favorite coffee shop (read liquor store) at that goddamned hour and guess what happens; yes the stupid phone rings. Let me tell you one thing about me, I don’t trust in these phones we carry in our pockets. It may have been that the girl I pulled a stunt on sometime back in my other life had just caught up with my gimmicks and she was here to show me psycho. Like that girl in Immortal Technique’s obnoxious. I stand for a second, unplug my powerful earphones and look blankly at the screen.
072 blah blah blah blah, that’s my mother’s number. I had forgotten, she told me she would always pray for me to avoid bad company and coffee shops. To avoid girls who frequented such hell spots. Girls with pretty names like Happy and Melody, girls with natural names like Anita. I answer the phone. Hallo mum, I was just thinking of calling you right after I finish up something small, I lie in my head. My mouth has yet to flip. My son, when are you coming home for prayers? You know I have been having weird dreams about you and places with red lights. Only God can tell us what is waiting to happen. But mum, your eyes have been red since the last time the school board wanted to expel me in high school. I think it is part of your recovery psychology; whatever that means. Oh!, I never thought, anyway, stop all you are doing and go pray. I turn back. It’s like mum is always watching my steps even from the furthest corner of her bedroom in the village. I shudder and turn back. In my head, Anita shouts “ Fuck You!”

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