Flash Fiction 5: A day in life

Looking at the traffic, it was almost 7 o’clock. She walked hurriedly towards the CMB building. She was late. Now everyone will be gone. Everyone but probably Papa Ali, and that was better than nobody. He is always the last one. Stingy old man.

Please let Papa Ali be there. Please She prayed silently. Today, she was willingly to believe in a higher power, anything to get food at the end of the day. As she rounded the corner, she saw Papa Ali standing there with his stick.

“Papa, Gudmorning”

“Maadwoa? Why are You now coming? You are late. Everyone has left.”

Briefly, she considered ditching him. But business was always better with a partner.They usually divide their proceeds at the close of day. Everyone knew Papa Ali was a cheat. But she didn’t have much of a choice. Plus she knew better now. Besides if she comes early tomorrow, she will get a better partner so its only for today.

“Papa, its already 7:30 oo. 60-40”

“No, 70-30″

Stingy old man.”30 is small. 35 final or I’ll go home oo”. Home was the front of  a provision store in Makola, and won’t be ready till after 9pm.

“Here, take my hand”. Now that they had finished the ugly business of negotiating, they made their way down the busy road. She, skillfully moving them through the traffic, doing her best to avoid looking at the people in the cars, he putting on his most sorrowful face. He didn’t have his sunglasses on. It was on purpose. People need to be reminded of what they took for granted. He imagined he made people uncomfortable. That was good. The more uncomfortable they are, the more they give.

He felt Maadwoa, lean forward and tug at his hand. This was code for say thank you.

“May God Bless you, answer all your prayers and give you your heart’s desire. May this money that you have given me double so that you can do more good, May God shower his mercies on you. May…”

“Papa, they are gone, the light is green” She pulled him in the direction of the sidewalk.

“How much did we get?”

“2 ghana”, she said as she stuffed the 5 cedi note into her pocket. It was going to be a great day.

 

 

 

Flash fiction 4: A cup of coffee

You came here to write. Just write. This place is usually quiet. And it’s by the lake so its only normal, you come here. But it’s different this morning.
Something’s off.The cute waiter is not there. He usually gives you an extra doughnut. You sip your coffee, not really tasting it.

Writers drink coffee, so you have learnt how to drink it. Even though you are a tea person. No one understands writers. The struggle. Stringing words together. You suppose writing is not that difficult for some. Surely, there are non-coffee drinking writers out there. Who just write. Maybe one day you will meet one. The new waiter brings you your doughnut. There’s an extra one. You look at it and smile up at him. He smiles back. You take out your notebook. Maybe, today will be the day you start writing. Maybe, you’d write about his cute smile. Maybe not. Too cliche.

You catch a glimpse of the book in your bag. What’s that thing that they say? “The best readers make the best writers?” or something like that. What do they know about writing? Sometimes when people read so much, they think they can give advice to writers.

Writers are special, all we need is a cup of coffee, a lakeside view and some quiet. Definitely some quiet. Today isn’t the day. You get up to go home. You will come back tomorrow when the place is quiet to begin the serious business of writing.

Flash Fiction 3: Lace Panties

I woke up and reached for my bag, thanking God for my ingenuity. I pulled the  fresh top over my head and walked to the dressing mirror. I look gorgeous, I know this, but a little vanity never killed anyone. I open the closet and start trying on the clothes. I’m not sure why I do this, I know every dress here. I pick up the almost full bottle of Chanel no. 5, and briefly consider switching it with the one in my bag.

I notice the huge diamond studs. I don’t have this type. They are new, I try them on and I love them. Maybe, I’ll take them with me. I notice the note on the bedside table.

Hi, I trust you can let yourself out. Leave the keys with Ama, Kwamina. The bastard.

I’m not sure why I do this anymore. It used to be fun. Lately, Kwame has been behaving funny. He didn’t give me my pair of the earrings and now the note. leave the keys? Really. I put the earrings in my bag. Maybe, I’ll sell them. Let him explain that to his wife.

I hear Ama sweeping the other room. I used to wonder what she thought about the arrangement but that was a long time ago. When I used to believe Kwame when he said he will leave his wife for me. I caught her looking at me with disdain the other time, but she quickly looked away. I guess her job is more important to her. Sometimes, when I’m feeling mischievous I scream just a little harder, just so I shock her. What I won’t give to see her reaction in those times. She probably goes down on her knees and prays for my soul.

Sule is entirely a different matter though. He flat out refuses to open the gate for me when Kwame is not around. I could have sworn I heard him hiss ashawo the other day. Kwame says i must have been hearing things. He pays him well enough not to have an opinion. He also says he can’t fire him, his wife really likes him, so I have to live with his disrespect. For now. I know how to pick my battles.

I suppose I don’t always have to come here. But the danger of being caught is too inviting. Not that Kwamina will let that happen. He’s ever so careful. That’s what made me realize he was never going to leave her for me. Her perfume of the month has to be mine too, even her lip colour. I’m glad she has such impeccable taste. It’s still a bit annoying how she can’t stick to one scent though. Just when you are getting used to one, she changes it. Who knows, next month, we will be using Vera Wang or another designer. If I am around.

The only thing we don’t have in common is lace panties. She hated them or so Kwame says. He had tried to get me to change mine but that was where I drew the line. Thinking of panties, I can’t find mine. Maybe I will leave them for her to find. I look at my reflection for the last time, maybe, I will leave a note with the panties for her to find.

Flash Fiction 2: Strangers

They’d spend hours on the phone talking about how their days went. Exchanging stories on frustrating colleagues, demanding bosses, annoying trotro mates, and accra traffic that just seemed to steal your life away.

They knew each others dumsor schedules better than they knew their own. He knew she was afraid of the dark, and would lie awake at night when there was no light.

He also knew she was new to this whole feminism thing, contrary to what her timeline on twitter said. That she was scared the other feminists would call her out on some of her beliefs.
She knew he’d rather read a book than hang with the boys but was scared he’d be uncool if boys boys knew. She knew when his birthday was and what she would get him. She’d tried their names together and liked how it sounded.

They get off the phone and chat some more till one eventually drifted off. He knew her favourite food and how she wore her hair last week. She knew all of his friends and pretended she liked them all; even that girl whom she suspected loved him too. They knew so much about each other yet so little. They stay up all night talking when they can, and then promising to coordinate their schedules. That never happens.

Somehow, they would not meet. The last time they met was three months ago, they spoke briefly, less than five minutes, and parted, blowing kisses and promising to talk more later that night on phone. Perhaps they were scared to take their relationship past the phone. That they won’t have much to talk about or they’d finally have to talk about petty things like what they were to each other or whether they are old or new lovers. They were terrified that, maybe, they may not have much in common when the phone isn’t between them.

Flash Fiction 1: Chocolate, PJs and everything in between

It’s amazing the things we can’t forget;  like the a conversation with a long lost friend, the cover of a book, read so long ago that you can’t remember who wrote it, or the face of that acquaintance you can’t quite put a name to. Or the lines from a poem; even if it means nothing to you (yeah right).

“She must be…she must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.

You are a souvenir shop where he goesto remember how much people miss him

when he is gone.”**

Even as i took a long hot bath, wore my pajamas and jumped into bed, the verse kept on running through my head. So i got up, took the last bowl of chocolate ice-cream and picked up Michael Chricton’s Disclosure (no more self help books for me) to finish the last chapter.

It was a little after 10:00pm when my phone started ringing. The name that flashed across the screen read Kwesi. “You are a souvenir shop where he goes…”

I can do this, let it go to voice-mail, let it go to voice-mail, let it go to voice…

“Hiii Kwesi…”

**full poem by Sierra Demulder here