Unseen

PROLOGUE

What is the truth?

As opposed to the simple idealistic meaning of the truth being exactly what happened, the many grey areas tell us that the perception and duality of people, and their idiosyncrasies, always produce multiple truths. There is no “one truth”. If an event is seen by one person, and watered down to the masses over the various descriptions told by other people who heard it from the one true viewer of the act, then the truth is lost forever - It has then become a fiction-a representation of what the mass public finds most viable. The story that sticks the most - the one that sounds the most "realistic". It is then printed out, written in encyclopedias, taught to the children, and used as a reference point. Over time, it becomes “the truth”. At this point, it no longer matters what truly happened, but only what everyone believes truly happened. So then I ask this question again,

What’s the true meaning of the truth?

CHAPTER ONE

I finally break from my trance. I glance at the clock and I see what time it is, It’s 4am. Sh**. Its amazing how time flies when your mind is overly concentrated on one subject, or then again, when your mind can’t seem to grasp any form of concentration. I’ve been seated perched on the same spot for roughly 6 hours. It’s not as if I chose to sit in the same spot for that long. No. it’s because I can’t move, my body wont obey me anymore. Why? Because I’ve never seen anything like this before.

I’d had a friend living with me for 6 months, up until I kicked her out a few days ago. To be fair, we’d had a really heated argument. She couldn’t just mind her own business. She’d found out things about me that were really personal, and confronted me about it. I called her quite a terrible series of names. She called down a list of names of equal weight upon me as well. I told her to pack her things, get out and never come back – and that’s me putting the whole scenario mildly. See, to her, it was a girlfriend living with her boyfriend scenario, but to me we were just friends living together - me giving a friend in need a place to stay. I mean, we were having sex, so I could understand her confusion as to what we were, but then again, it hadn’t started out that way.

We met while I was working the kitchen at café chrysalis - I wasn’t working the classy part of the kitchen, I was working the dishes. She was a waitress. My shift was just over and I was on my way home, when I heard the slap. It was more of a spank. The oga chef decided to spank a waitress on her ass, and it was none of my business. Except she did something I didn’t expect when she gave him his own back, not on the ass, but on his face, with much more venom. I still wasn’t concerned about it, but then he hit her, smacked her on her temple with his fist, as she dropped to the floor, helplessly. This was going to get really ugly, and so I decided to step in, intervene, stop it before it got any uglier than it was. I’d crept up on them quietly, asking “Oga, what’s wrong?”.

He was startled to realize that someone had caught him in the act, and turned around nervously, with the intention to explain himself, before he realized it was me. It was just the boy who washed the plates. He hissed and snarled at me, “do you see any of your mates here? My friend, will you leave this place”.

 I’ve always had a problem with people who try to assert themselves on others when they perceive a form of entitlement, or empowerment, be it money or position in life. To him, he was the chief chef, and he was dealing with a waitress and a dishwasher. It was nothing. I begged to differ. He’d turned back around and kicked her in the gut, and smirked at her disgruntled screeches of pain. I tapped him on his shoulders, and by the time he’d turned around, my fists were already balled up, and they descended on his face, one after the other, in quick succession, till he was on the floor, mouth bloodied up, eyes swollen - Job well done. It got me fired on my first week. Damn. She followed me home that day, after I’d gotten my marching orders, and kept on asking me why I did it. I remember her spewing insults at me “Did they send you from the village! What’s your problem ehn?! Did I ask you for help!” I agreed with her, I’d have been better off letting her get overpowered by the slobbering chef, at least I’d still have a job.

A few weeks later, she came by my place, apologized for being such a dick, and offered to buy me lunch. I had barely eaten in days, and I’d be damned if I passed up a free meal. We went out to this really lit mama put joint. Mama Bose. That’s when we hit it. I didn’t even know her name before that day. Chimamanda. Her name was Chimamanda. . She had curves that were streamlined to her body, a waist so thin it was illusionary; it was against aesthetics as to how it could carry her upper and lower body. Her ass was kind of ass Kendrick Lamar was talking about on HUMBLE, and I was yet to see a man who could have a conversation with her without staring at her perfectly pomp breasts - even the ladies couldn’t keep their eyes off of her. She was a 10, she was my 10.

I sometimes wondered why she took an interest in me though. I was pretty much a bum, and she could have - should have, done better than me. It wasn’t long after we became friends, that we got involved with each other. She came to my place one night, her eyes bloodshot from tears. She was going through a lot, and she needed someone to talk to. I listened to her, telling her it’d be alright; I hugged her, and then she kissed me. Before I realized it, our clothes were on the floor and our naked bodies thrusting against each other. I thought it was a one off, but then she was knocking at my door the next night. And the next. And the next. After a while, she had half her stuff over at my place, and before I realized it, I had a roommate (girlfriend). Which brings me back to tonight.

It’d been 3 days without her, and I was really feeling it. If it wasn’t clear before, it was now. I needed her in my life. I’d caught feelings. Chai! My heart was throbbing. I couldn’t cope without her, so I opted for an alternative coping mechanism, cigarettes. So I’d gotten a few cigarettes on my way home. I got home, sat at the balcony and lit the first stick. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts, that I didn’t realize I’d smoked the whole pack. But wait, I didn’t buy a pack, I’d only gotten a few sticks. Where did the pack come from? I looked at the ash tray and realized there were so many buds in it. I counted the buds in, and found more in it than you’d find in a pack. That was rather odd, because I’d never left the ash tray out. Why was the tray out in the first place?

Something in me jolted strangely. The sudden feeling people get when they realize they have eyes on them - I wasn’t alone in my apartment. I’d thought about the possibility of Amanda creeping back in before I’d gotten home, before I heard a creak in the floorboards. My whole body froze, my senses heightened. I screamed out Amanda’s name a few times, but there was no response. The sound came from the kitchen. 

My mind was racing. What if there was a burglar, a thief? What if he was armed? What if it was more than one person? Who would be so comfortable to smoke in my house while I was out? I needed something to defend myself with. But the sound had come from the kitchen, where all the makeshift weapons would be. I had to think fast. All I had around me were my lighter, the empty pack of cigarettes and the ashtray. Bingo! The ashtray. it was a perfect makeshift weapon.  I tiptoed quietly, not making a single sound on my way to the kitchen, I waited, for a while tensed, my palm wrapped the door handle. I took a deep breath and heaved a sigh, before I twisted the handle, sprung the door open, and darted backwards - just in case they wanted to get the jump on me, but nothing. No sound, no creak, no movement. Nothing.

I immediately flicked the lights on, and saw nothing - nohing but an empty kitchen. I didn’t want to go any further than the door, but then I’d remembered what Amanda had called me - a p***y boy, and not without reason. She’d found out I’d ran away from home, not just any home, but a rich home. A home where I had everything I wanted, but I was here living on the streets, but she couldn’t understand why.

I was beginning to drift into my thoughts, before I noticed something on the ground. There was a trace of something on the floor, and it went all the way from the door to the under head cabinet just below the sink. I stooped down to see more clearly what it was. I’d thought of how it looked like the lines traced on treasure maps, or how it resembled the bread crumbs in Hansel and Gretel. But it wasn’t bread crumbs, or pebbles, it was much darker than that. It was blood.

My chest began to sink, as I followed the blood trace, and it led me to the underhead cabinet beneath the sink. I gulped. There was a letter hanging by the handle. The stamp on the envelope had a peculiar embroidery on it, with one letter - Q. I tore open the envelope. There was a feeling of fear welling up inside of me, Goosebumps popping out, as I read the letter:

She looked lonely and out of place on the streets, so I thought I’d bring her back to where she felt at home.

                                                                                                                         Sincerely yours,

                                                                                                                        The Unseen                                                                   




By Olamide Ojo (@itsowjay)
(Part 2 coming next week Friday)