Bishop Ismaila had been out of town for a bit, and if by a bit youre thinking a few days, then let me put it more succinctly; for six months. Now, during this time, I would like to tell you about the man on the sixth floor in the adjacent building. He was a scrawny looking fellow, with beards all-over. At times, I would peek through the shards of my many shimmy curtains just to see him seated right there, in front of his window, looking down to my flat(Bishop Ismailas flat) with his lanky looking self. I worried, perhaps, that maybe it was I who was doing the stalking. I mean, I had ample time on my hands, and since the hotel manager wouldnt grant me the fortitude to work, even as a cleaner, I resigned to spending, prudently, the money that Ismaila had left me. Youre probably wondering why I had taken a liking to worrying over a scrawny looking man in his sixties. But o, I would say; For I sure did have to worry. He did not seem ok in the head to me. One time, whilst I showered and flushed the make-up from my face, from beneath the shower crown, I looked out through the curtainl(ess) window, and there I saw this old man, jerking to what I presumed was me. He had a binoculars fixated to his face; with one hand on the device, and the other hand strutting his johnny with vibrant grease and propellant that when he looked further down to observe me, and saw that I had seen him, he turned around, pulled his curtains closed and cowered in shame. I felt unsafe, I reported the matter to the estate security, but they advised, scamper, that Id pay little attention to the old mans rue, they said I may have seen wrongly or ,perhaps, he must have been jerking to them dirty magazines or some slut of a picture. I agreed with them. It was nothing. Not like he was right there on my door mat trying to break in and molest me. So, why worry. Then, on a tranquil, quilted night, whilst I sat in the dark with the binoculars I had bought to inquire into this strangers living room through the window shard, I saw something most bizarre, it was the old man. He sat on the loafer, outside of his window, and as I peaked through the binoculars with an eye, he softly muffled the words-- I loff you, his lips folded, and rumbling with airy intentions; not really speaking the words but describing it for too far a distance between us. He wore a white singlet tucked into his pale grey pant, and then he jumped down the building. My eyes were spoilt white through the window. My mouth agape with O to Ah. I ran downstairs and begged the security to call the police. The old man just committed suicide! I wreathed my nails with my teeth, shaking, a shock shell of a shaking. Suicide, hurry, call the police now now now! I waltzed up-down, through the hallway, replaying the old mans muffled words in my subconscious: I loff you. Sick fellow. What a sick man he must have been. The police came, the ambulance came, and the now dead mans body was taken in a black, duffel bag, off the street. The many nights from the day of the old mans suicide, fear and trembling was the state of my heart and eyes to look through those binoculars of a zoom, for I feared that if I did his bulging eyes would arrest me to cardiac by their lenses, and I would pass out from the shock. Just one last look. Just this one last time and I wouldnt look through those windows again, I soliloquized; this one time, a week after his passing. So, I muscled up the courage, and took one last glance. And there I saw a christening of a veiled walking, transparent and yet with the life of locomotive movement. It moved through the halls of that hunted house, and when I squinted one eye to look closely at my doubts, IT turned to stare through the window, looking far out and down into the lenses of my binoculars. It muffled the words-- I Loff you, slowly as a ghost would under a translucent blue of moonlight. I threw away my binoculars, and I screamed, I screamed a scratching schritching of a scream, and the security men ran to my aid. Madame Farida, wetin dey happen?! The pushed my door open, turned on the lights, and walked over to the bed where I laid curled into a ratchet fist. Look, I said, pointing ghostly towards the window. And they looked, they stood there hypnotised by whatever it was that they could see. They stood still with four moonlight circles between their noses. Funny that I should say this, but I believe they could see what I had seen, and the horror in their eyes vilified my fear; that there was a ghost a walking. The ghost of the sixty year old fellow; trekking the halls of that apartment. I would sleep with one eye open, until Bishop Ismailas next visit, and I would beg to move from this place. Michael Ogah.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 23:26:36 +0000
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