Contrition

By

George O. Obikoya

The confession is perfect, or so he says. She says she does not want to blow it. Yet, time is running out. Not even the birds matter anymore. The canary sings a different song. Everything seems to be changing. The sky breathes. The sea dies. The streets cry. It is all so surreal. He no longer hides these feeling. She no longer cares. And she talks about it to all else.

It is now three years in the making. He says his characteristic diligence is manifest. Nothing, he boasts, will fail. His experiences of years back, he says helps. He seems assured. He is now going about things the right way, he insists, to her, and all. The looks on their faces say something else. It is as if he has been wrong all along. He glares apparently in disbelief. He says his penitence should be enough.

She calls him his usual name, but adds she does not expect to call him again. After a solemn union gives way to the titular, she says nothing else would work, except he comes clean, which she demands he does. He counters he is doing his best given what prevails. Yet, time ticks. She is clearly perturbed. She wagers out loud and then she stops. Too much is at stake to dither, she warns. Yet, she stresses being wary to falter. He is obviously drained. He slumps into his chair and looks vacantly past her. The ensuing silence is livid. 

The birds sing their songs every evening as is the trend. They are no doubt part of it all. He says their songs offer the veritable tonic he savours to sleep. But times seem different. Now they simply hover in sporadic aerial formations, from tree to tree, rooftop to rooftop, seemingly aimlessly. He must feel so all alone. She tells him he must think alone, that he needs to be decisive. She sits across the room, where she says she sees the garden as if indoors certain that nestled within its bosom the pink allure of ornate butterflies on its flowers would ease even the tattiest soul. But he seems to be much farther away. He still says nothing and seems to hear naught.

Moments later, she reminds him it is just a matter of hours for him to act. She offers to deliver the message. He must know what is at stake. He is the purveyor, she says, the chosen one. He has a mission to realize. He is destined to play a key role in the communal progress. He is not a historical anomaly. He is not transitory in a majestic design that his profile suggests. He is the real thing, the game changer, the master flute that ferrets all into the future. She says even more, but he is apparently detached, ethereal.  

It is getting dark. She knows she has to leave. They agree to be apart for a while. He says he needs to meditate, alone. Everyone knows she keeps her word. She is a schoolteacher, of yore, she admits. Yet, she knows change has to come. She preaches everyday, to an audience that openly craves it. She tells them this would happen during his time. Yet, she openly laments his illusory bent. He says he would change, but argues he fears things skew too randomly for the consistent cohesiveness required to realize such a complex goal. She agrees the variables are legion. They differ though on more.   

He speaks just before she leaves, perhaps unsure she would keep the faith, weighed down by the bond between them that thins with each time tick, itself worn out it appears by promises veneered, cloaked in satin that seems now chiffon. It sounds just as another she says, afterward. That she is unconvinced any would thrive in his scheme must fluster her, more so that he appears to be in a quandary. She asks why it seems so hard for him to act. He says he wished she knew.

“Know what? We are broke. Our children are ill. We cannot afford medicines. Food is scarce. We are about to lose our home. That’s all I need to know.”

“It is not that straightforward.”

“Just do it.”

“Ok. Ok”

She storms away. He retires but does not sleep. He stares at the ceiling all night. The call that comes just before dawn is unusual. He knows she does not call that early. He says nothing as she speaks, and just assents when she is done. The door bell rings soon after he hangs up. This time he knows he must say more. He wants the children to wait for him somewhere else. After a moment sounding, they say they would wait for him in his living room. They remind him that the matter is too grave for him alone to handle, that they must travel together to survive.  

She arrives a little later. He is sitting in the middle of a rented apartment with barely enough room to hold the probing eyes that surround him. Her demeanour says much, even as she assures an omen may yet pass him by. He clears his throat and surveys the room. He seems ready to deliver, something. The demand is immediate. They tell him it is his chance to stop the excursions, whose perpetual sideways shifts clearly rend their communal fabric, mincing its basics, stalling progress.     

And he does. He qualifies his mission and tempers grand narration. He stresses performance, and its pact with change, which may improve or impede it. He mentions the vicissitudes of natural trends being instructive. He juxtaposes history and its disquietude.  He grounds firmly his rhetoric. She smiles as he speaks. He seems bolstered. He speaks on. He elaborates his goals and curries a grand alliance. At last they acclaim the contrition. They huddle to achieve at least something, to forge ahead. Word soon comes that the battle rages next door. No one seems alarmed that the enemy is now in full view. Rather they seem braced to fight the chimera now transformed with spirits so too. It is clear that there is not much time to waste, that the battle is in a new phase, moved by change.