If you ever shriek madly at a lady whom you’re not her husband, and instead of ranting back at you, she begins to play cool, clapping her hands frantically and saying wow! wow! to your madness, with a pretentious grin that runs across her dried naked lips as she paces around the room; and, then, to your chagrin, she grabs her bag heading to the doorway, know at that moment, the game has changed. So, run for your life!
I call you a fool if you don’t know what lies beneath her loins—that the eulogies of love you both shared have gone under the carpet. In fact, you are no better than a dummy if you’re still oblivious of her sour heart, craving for a perfect strategy to carve out your heart.
How could you not notice it’s a decent time to run for your life? Yes, because she won’t return with that same smile. Trust me, she won’t. I know this because I’ve been a victim. And since there was no one to advise me to run, I barely escaped with my life.
That night, a lady had barged into my room. Her chest shook with a pang of anger and her dark face shrouded behind a mask. I saw her dreadful eyes sparkling fire with her hands clutched tightly to a two-edged dagger, sharp enough to snip one’s throat in a single slash. But when I crumbled on the floor, whimpering for mercy, she removed the mask. God. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Could you have believed it, if I told you this masked lady was my beloved Agatha?
Yes, it was my Agatha! I remember clearly.
The last time I saw Agatha was on the last Sunday in the month of June. That particular evening was cold and silent, and Agatha had come to pay me the weekly visit that had been our custom. During this visit, many foul plays happened. Yes, we used to play. And Agatha never protested it. I could swear with my life… we loved our plays.
It’s this kind of play that makes you sneak your hand underneath a lady’s skirt in an ambience of love. I have always crawled my hand, allowing it prob at Agatha’s private sector, threatening to strip off her church undies. My eyes would bore at the lustful passion which spread beneath her hazel eyes. She would say nothing but moan silently, beckoning on me with a seductive glare. Such that sent an avalanche of craving for some fleshly pleasures.
At that moment, I would lean closer and release my other hand across her behind. This hand would go for an investigation on the parallel curves that queued on her smooth skin. Then, Agatha and I would become aroused. Mind you, in this electrifying atmosphere of lovemaking, we might not be able to hold ourselves again. Of course, yes! what do you expect? But Agatha never told me that our plays would get her pregnant. Yes, she never did. And I keep asking why she should allow herself to get pregnant?
It appalled me that Agatha came that Sunday evening only to break the news of her pregnancy. I had jolted from the bed and glared at her like a moron. My ribs wracked against my chest, thrusting my diagram to rise above its level and threatening to quench my breath. Many emotions littered on my face, as I darted my eyes to her. I didn’t know whether to cry, jubilate or just pounce on her like an angry lion. Agatha was a fool to have allowed this to happen. Yes, she was. And I couldn’t tolerate it. I decided to start with barking. My voice raged in the room. I was terribly mad at her.
“I hate you, Agatha! I hate you! I hate every bit of you, and I won’t ever have anything to do with you, or a synonym of you again.”
She simply stared in horror. I saw the lines of confusion that piled on her soft cheeks. Yes, I haven’t shouted at her in such a manner. But I had no choice. Only this could quell my anger. And if I didn’t do it to my satisfaction, Agatha would become a punching bag.
“But I didn’t know it will—”
“Will you shut up!” Agatha knew I wouldn’t tolerate such flimsy excuses. “Don’t tell me that!” I banged on a table at the centre of the room. “You’re a devil incarnate, Agatha.” She began to smirk as I spoke. Jeez! has she gone insane? How could she be smiling? “I am not ready to become a father, Agatha,” I made it plain to her.
Agatha surprised me when she began to add clapping to her smiles, saying wow! wow! as she gazed. Maybe she thought I was joking. My eyes turned red, and if eyes were knives, I would have killed Agatha on that spot. How could she take pregnancy issue for granted? Who does that?
“Smirk all you can… you must get rid of that baby!” I finally said, heading to the kitchen to grab some chilled water. At least, I expected her to say a word at that moment, but, to my amazement, she grabbed her bag and dashed out of the room only to surface two years later, hiding behind a mask with a dagger in her hands. That night was a nightmare. You need to see how I had crawled at her feet.
“Please don’t kill me,” I had begged. “I have money… just open the wardrobe and take it all.” She gently removed the mask and spoke in a familiar tone.
“Well, I won’t kill you now, Mr. Benson. At least, not until you see your son.”
When I raised my head to see the owner of the voice, I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could Agatha be the one behind the mask? Just then, a young lad not less than two years ago trotted forward.
“Benny? This is the fool that ought to be your father.” I had barely taken in Benny’s presence when I noticed Agatha raising her hand to pierce my chest.
“Jesus Christ!” I quickly knocked her hand off, scooting off to be welcomed by the dense darkness that napped the outside. I was not a Christian, anyway. So I still couldn’t tell why I shouted that name. Was it the name that saved me?