The canary died. There was running and screaming and light and dark. But before the bird died there was work. There was my father covered in soot. There was my father with lungs black with smoke. Lungs so caked with coal dust that with the right amount of pressure they’d turn precious and glittering. Instead, abused and worked to their limit. Unable to fill fully. Over worked and underpaid. There was my father with the bird and a light. His boots and a pick. There was the bird golden and slight. A beacon underground. There was my father and a bird and their last, gasping breaths buried underground. Lost between the light and the dark.

The seduction of destiny

touched the molten fluid

the liquid of our love

powder frailty of life

a thinly veiled

and vague future

glacial bleakness

blush of your breath

has stilled

a blink in time

silence melts

my inner core

and I wander

my world

without

the rush in my veins

your life force

has stilled

Can I not

fling off

this empty place?

Some would say that a feeling doesn’t have a smell. But the fortune tellers would have to disagree. At least those of us who are of true descent. The spirits and magicks that pulse through the wind--the fates and futures that rise and fall like the tides of the very air we breath--can be so chokingly distinct to a Romani, a keeper of destinies.

Still, one must be trained in the ways. To recognize how certain strains of serendipity have a familiar, welcoming spice that tickles the nostrils, while others bring with it a cloud of musky-scented mourning that clings to the lungs and lingers in the clothes.

People bring with them their own kismet, meandering off them like incense. Their moods, hopes, and fears become their own fortune teller that need merely be read by those with a nose to sense it.

I've never liked my nose really--too pointy and small. It's a wonder the insignificant thing can sense anything at all. But it does. More than I want to, that's for sure.

I hold my long hair back with a scarf, tieing it around my head with a knot against the back of my neck. A woman lifts the flap of my tent and enters bringing with her a sweet scent.

As I shuffle the cards the bangles on my wrist clang together like wind chimes singing of the impending storm. Their cold metal against my skin helps ground me. It helps focus my attention on the task at hand instead of the strong sweet odor of deceit that fills my tent and makes my stomach cramp. Deceit tricks me every time. It has an overpowering, sugary aroma that mimics the scent of love and is similar to innocence, yet without the hint of mint.

The woman before me has tight curls that barely meet her bony shoulders. Her gaunt face pulses on the sides like she’s clenching her teeth in time with her wringing hands.

I swallow.

One last attempt to cleanse my aching throat as I finally take my eyes off my client and give all my attention to the cards.

The tips of my fingers confirm the stack is ready and with eyes closed I retrieve the top card.

A metallic zing runs up my hand and I know the reading before I see it. “Reverse nine of wands,” I say.

My voice is huskier from the fire burning in my open mouth. It blazes more raw with each breath.

This card doesn’t tell me anything my sense of smell hasn’t already. “You have a secret you don’t wish to be found out.” We are merely setting boundaries for what is to come. “You are wanting to know if it's too late.”

Even I cannot sense if her husband knows of her actions. The cards must do the rest. They speak to me like the wind whispers to the trees. Like my Mother and Grandmother raised me to smell those around me, they also taught me to listen to the wands-the magic in the cards.

My fingers dance on top of the deck and the top card is harder to read through my touch but I’m certain it’s the right reading. On the table I exhale as I read it. “Upright. Six of wands.”

The air twists from sweet to sour, like milk that has spoiled. I speak swiftly to ease this woman’s dooming fear. “You’re successful in your quest and have overcome the burden of publicity you fear. See how the six of wands has a man with a wreath riding a white horse. The white horse of course represents strength," and purity, but I leave that bit out. "You have shown much strength in this situation and will surely be publicly rewarded for your efforts."

The woman smiles and her hands are finally still. I inhale deeply at the welcoming refreshing scent of ease. Like rain after a fire it soothes my lungs and throat.

A painful shock is sent through my fingers as I brush the top of the deck. The top card is not right. Closing my eyes, I hum without thinking, and my fingers are lead to the card somewhere in the deck that finishes this woman's destiny.

Down toward the end of the pile I retrieve the one card that vibrates through my fingers. I only stop humming when the Queen of wands is upside down on the table, facing me instead of the woman.

"You must beware of selfishness and jealousy."

The woman and I make eye contact and I both see and smell the worry in her face. "The queen of wands, in either position, represents fertility and the feelings emotions and hardships it brings."

The womans dirty brown eyes have lost all the shine of youth. Without looking away from my face they fill with tears.

"This could mean an obstacle will stand in the way of your success. In order to have what you desire you will have to push through this thing, or person, that stands in your way," I cringe at my own words wondering what this woman is planning and what I am leading her to do. With a shake of my head I continue. I don't need to know the detials of her life. It's none of my business. "Just as one pushes through the hardship of labor and delivery."

My smile turns to grimace as the air in the room spoils like rotten fruit. Another tricky emotion, though I’ve had more experience with lust in my tent than deceit.

I don’t process the woman’s thanks, I only hold my breath as best I can to keep from retching. She pays a grateful tip and runs off to make a mess of whatever fate I interpretted for her. I grab at my stomach as soon as she’s left, falling forward onto the table with one fluid sigh of relief.

My head clears with each fresh breath and I remove the scarf from around my head to dab at my sweating brow. The waves in my stomach calm. The flask under my table is half full and I sit up, then tilt my head back to wash it down quickly.

I blame the attacks of scents that woman put me through for why I don’t notice my next client approaching. My senses are burned numb from use and without warning a large man throws open the door flap and enters.

Sounds of laughter from the carnival and screams from the rides make a chill run up my arms. Or perhaps it’s this gentleman’s appearance that puts me on nerve. Or the fact that I can’t smell him at all.

His shape is like an upside down triangle, with wide thick shoulders and a lean waist. His black hair is unkempt, his eyebrows too shaggy to reveal any eyes, and his beard so mangy it screams laziness more than style preference.

I grab a hanky from my belt and blow my nose trying to clear my senses before we begin. “Your fortune awaits, Sir. Please have a seat in my office.”

I wrap my head dress around my head again bringing the length of the scarf down to drape over my shoulder.

Deceit and lust were tricky, but this next scent has me completely baffled. It floats out to me with an edge of warning but of what? I detect the scent of leaves and grass clippings. Anxiety? It's missing the putrid roadkill scent of fear, though it's definitely earthy. It’s nothing like the pleasant sort of dirt smells that accompany carefree moods such as mellow and relaxed. If smells could have images attached to them this one would definitely be that of a worm wriggling in the darkest of soils.

I can't put my finger on it yet there is something familiar about this man's smell. I've encountered it before. The man smiles a toothy grin and many of his remaining teeth are lopsided with brown decay.

I list again the smells I detect. Leaves, grass, earth, and the last is a nutty sort of aroma that could possibly just be something he ate while enjoying the fair.

The man says nothing, only smiles his disgusting smile and breathes a ragged breath that makes him sound like a smoker. Could that be the nuttyness I smell?

“Can I read your fortune for you, Sir? Or perhaps a palm reading?" My voice shakes at the blindness of this conversation. I still have no clue what his intentions or desires are.

“You look too young to be a fortune teller." His voice is more earthy than his scent. "And definitely too pretty to be one."

"You doubt my abilities then? How I'd love to prove them to you. Please, take a seat." My voice rises higher with each word.

A new scent of roses blends with the earthy smell. Confidence. He does not doubt my abilities at all. Rather he is counting on them. What does he want?

The tent flap is opened again and a crow comes swooping in deftly. With the sight of that bird and the smell of this man I, in an instant, realize two things. One, I know exactly where I've smelt this before and two, I am in big trouble. It all clicks. This man is one of Jarku's men, come to kill off the race of fate-readers, and this bird is with them. I was only six years old the last time I saw this bird help Jarku murder my mother. That nutty aroma I remember now is the intent to kill.

Another man steps in as the bird continues to fly at me.

Standing, I knock my chair over and grab a tarot card from the table in one fluid motion. Instead of allowing the ache to creep up my fingers I push it back into the card and it glows a dim wavering blue.

With a flick of the wrist the card goes flying through the air toward the bird and slices into its neck just as it opens its beak to squawk. The bird call is cut short as it falls with a thud to the ground. From the cards lodged position in the dead bird I can make out the five of wands and the blue light goes out.

Both men just stare at the bird while I grab all the cards from the table.

"I actually liked that bird," the new intruder says. He is taller, but just as full around the shoulders. He wears a simple once-white tunic and a leather strap across his body. The men's mouths are alike in every way, except this one is clean shaven and has white thinning hair.

Stuffing the deck into the folds of silk around my belt I grab two cards for each hand. With a step backward I crouch low and fan the cards-one pair of weapons in front of my face and another high behind my head.

“Now, now." Says the second man. "No need to make this difficult, Gypsy.”

I curl my lip at the term. People associate “Gypsy” with thief, someone they can’t trust. The moods in the air swirl around me and I focus on them trying to decipher which ones come from whom. Anticipation from the first man. Impatience, determination, and doubt from the second one before me.

“What does Jarku want?” I say, not moving from my ready stance.

“He merely needs you to do a reading for him”

I sniff. “Liar!” I spin a card toward him, missing his face by only inches.

The first, stockier man whistles then chuckles.

The fruity smell of agitation hits me in the gut and I pull another card from my sash.

“Just come quietly and we promise not to hurt you.”

The air shifts to the scent of brisk spring rivers- they’re ready to pounce and grab. Barely moving my arms I flick all four cards out in front of me. The ache leaves my fingers as the cards soar and I reload. Two of the cards hit their target, the first man’s throat, one right after another they slice his airway and he falls grasping and spluttering.

The bigger taller barrel of a man dodges and I spin all four new tarot cards out at him again. His sword is drawn and he deflects them but the last glowing tarot card knicks him on the cheek and he grunts.

Dabbing at his cheek he looks at the blood on his hands. Vanilla and warm spices fill the air. He’s enjoying this. It’s the challenge he was hoping it would be.

My hands are reloaded and I crouch again speaking back to the cards. The ache is pushed out of my fingers onto them and they glow a brighter blue than before.

He smiles and takes his stance as well. “Jarku won’t mind a small delay. Never said to deliver you alive.”

I try to give a confident smirk of my own but I know the smell of road kill in the air is from my own fear. “I don’t hand out free fortunes,” I say. “I will expect my regular payment for this reading.”

With that I spin my hands in front of me, letting go of the cards faster than I’ve ever released them. He dodges them and flips a small knife from his shoe. I lean just in time to hear it whiz through the scarf on my shoulder.

Reloaded I send two toward his feet and one at his face. His dodging steps are like a dance the way he hops and skips and moves his head away from them. He is drawing closer to me from the movements. His sword cuts through the air so swiftly that he slices the last card in half mid air.

As I’m grappling for more cards his sword comes at me. Now I’m dancing my part, a sideways frantic shuffle, but my arm isn’t quick enough and his blade makes contact. Pain in my arm makes the ache of the cards feel dull. I barely notice though when he comes at me again. I jump backward missing his second blow and have cards in my hand again.

He steps back as he sees my hand full of cards raise. One, two, three cards fly and the second one zips across his ear making blood rain on his neck.

The memory of the card is still on my fingers “King of wands,” I shout. Quickly I reload and crouch. “You're too cocky and impulsive to be a good fighter.” The shake is out of my voice but I reign in my own pride. Lower myself further to the ground like Grandmother taught me.

He growls as he rushes me with sword in both hands overhead. At the last minute I duck and weave out of his way. Just as he rushes by me I take a card and slice it across his back ripping his shirt and slicing skin with the end of the stroke.

The card falls to the ground. “Knight of Wands,” I say. I’m breathing heavy but smile at the appropriateness. “You must watch your temper. The knight of wands relays the loss of power. Turning to anger is the straightest path to weakness.”

He's hunched over after my blow but with a grunt he leads up with his shoulder, swinging his arm which hits me in the chest. I fall backwards from his blow and my cards spill across the dirt floor. I'm scrambling, crawling backwards like a crab as he rises and towers over me.

"Me Mother was a rotten gypsy like you." He wipes at the blood on his face as it drips into his mouth. "Always telling me about my temper."

One more crawl backward and my fingers ache against a card.

"Always telling me what I was feelin' ’fore I said anything."

The card heats, it's in my hand and I hope the glow cannot be seen from his angle.

"I'll be glad when Jarku finishes off your-"

Leading with the top of my hand my movement cuts him short as I swing from behind. The card is wedged between my fingers. With a flick it's sent off, glowing so blue it lights up the entire tent.

At first I sense his relief as he realizes I missed his throat--the death of his comrade moments ago. There isn't a hint of fear in the air as the card cuts through the fabric of his tunic and lodges deep in his chest. The heat of the glowing card makes the flesh it touches burn and the room stinks for different reasons than emotions or destiny. The only mood to be sensed is shock permeating like fresh cut lemons bold and strong.

He falls to his knees as I scramble to my feet.

The card sticking out of him has a man on top of a castle holding a globe. "The two of wands," I whisper. "Your fate looks grim. You've ignored important details in planning your future, making your downfall," he falls forward flat on top of the cards and I jump out of his way. "Inevitable."

I catch my breath as I stare at the mess made from the fight. Escaping the hand of Jarku a second time has me rooted in place shaking at every limb. To think I could do so a third time is foolish. I need to run.

The bird lies with his beak open and stiff. The metallic smell of my revenge fills the room. I bend and retrieve the card sliced in half, the nine of wands with the sick man standing alone. The last one standing, ready for battle, the card speaks to me of resilience and grit. Stepping over the men I say without looking back, "You owe me a new deck of cards."

The night they met the two were smitten.

And so, in the stars it was written.

A dance to outlast the progression of time

a fox trot, box step, dip, divine.

Intimately they twirl and sway

To a tune only they hear play.

Lost in each other eyes she said

“I’m so glad I chose this tread”.

Sensually he caressed her face

“Fancy meeting you in this place”.

Each has a moment to take the lead

Fate and Free Will in harmony.

Fate was glad she decided to come and see

and Free Will believed it was meant to be.

The night swallows us, a gaping cavern without teeth. Even without the threat of chomping jaws, it is an uneasy feeling, and I cannot help but curl my fingers a little tighter around Jeremy’s arm as we walk together beneath the pressing dark of the hollow city streets. Clouds cover the moon, but Jeremy says that’s good. It means it will be harder to spot us.

There is a Wall, and Jeremy says if we can get to it, we can be together.

It is the first promise he’s ever made that I might not fully believe.

The chill of autumn nips at my nose, the only part of me not covered. I wear a long, black coat that reaches almost to my ankles, a scarf pulled tight over my chin, and my short hair is tucked beneath a gray beanie . Not my usual style by any means, but then, it’s prudent that no one recognizes us. Jeremy tugs insistently at my arm, and I let him pull us around the corner into an alley. A few moments later, I hear the low rumble of a truck rolling past where we’d been walking, a long beam of white light sweeping over the street. I stay pressed against the wall trying to keep my breathing steady. Though he would never admit his own fear, I can feel Jeremy trembling slightly against me.

The truck passes, and we wait a few more moments before moving back onto the main street, my fingers only just grazing Jeremy’s as we pick up the pace a little bit.

“Almost there,” Jeremy whispers, reaching up to squeeze the back of my neck in reassurance. I nod, and a few minutes later, the Wall comes into view. It is even taller and uglier than it looks on television.

“We should’ve split up,” I insist, not for the first time. “We should’ve gone separately.”

Jeremy shakes his head, slowing his pace as we approach. The Wall is not visibly guarded. It doesn’t need to be anymore. People are supposed to know better. “No me without you, remember?” he smiles. “If one of us made it and the other didn’t, I…” he pauses, shoving a hand through his already disheveled hair. “It had to be together.”

“Okay,” I agree easily. Despite my fear and my insistence that this escape plan is fruitless, I know I feel the same. I know I am not whole without him. Above my head, the gaping dark laughs at my ignorant hope.

“You first,” Jeremy insists. We’ve made our way to the end of the sidewalk until we are both just a few inches from the stone Wall. Despite its size, it is not well-made. Pieces of stone stick out at random intervals, and halfway up is a small ledge rimmed with barbwire. The second half of the Wall transitions from stone to chain-link. If we can make it that far, the climb becomes significantly easier. But neither of us knows what awaits us on the other side. We are told it is a wasteland, a place for the outcasts and the savages who threaten the ‘Perfect Lifestyle’ cultivated inside the city. And it is true that life has improved over the last several decades. There are no more guns. There is no more petty theft. But even so, Jeremy and I have both seen the violence that persists inside the Wall, the hatred that does more than skitter along its edges. We will take our chances on the Other Side.

I examine the wall, trying to figure out how best to make the climb. But before I can think for too long, the night lights up.

Sirens blare from every side and long, sweeping beams of red and white light tear across my half-covered face, blinding me. I cry out in surprise, shielding my eyes from the glare. Beside me, Jeremy stiffens for only a moment before he is shouting at me, his fingers laced together at knee-height in front of me.

“Go!” he screams, nodding down at his interlocked hands. “Push yourself up and go!”

“You’ll be right behind me?” I scream back, panic pushing against every bone and muscle.

“No me without you,” Jeremy promises.

I push off from his hands, pulling myself up along the wall and losing my hat in the process. Beside me, Jeremy is climbing, too.

This is a violation, the alarm begins to blare. Escape is impossible. Return to your home and await punishment. This is a violation….

“Keep going,” Jeremy growls beside me, surpassing me with his next foothold. I try desperately to keep up.

“Careful!” I warn above the noise and the glaring lights. We are reaching the barbwire in the middle of the Wall, and I begin to unwind my scarf from my neck, wrapping it around my fingers before continuing the climb. Beside me, Jeremy continues his own ascent, letting out a few small gasps when the barbwire opens up shallow cuts along his hands. We reach the chainlink, and my head begins to pound in anticipation. We are so close.

I reach the top first, though Jeremy is only a few steps behind, his hands leaving bloody streaks along the chainlink. I swing my leg around to the other side of the Wall, and that is when Jeremy slips.

His foot skids against a spot of blood and he yells out in surprise as all of his body weight is suddenly transferred to his ruined hands.

“Jeremy!” I scream, reaching for him. Somehow, he manages to hold on long enough to get his feet back under him, pulling himself up until he can reach my hand. I pull with everything I have, exhausted muscles screaming along with the still-blaring sirens. Looking down for the first time, I can see that a crowd has begun to gather below us. I recognize a few drowsy neighbors and old acquaintances, all staring up at us from where both of us now sit, straddling the top of the Wall. There are no police officers anymore. Everyone is supposed to keep everyone else in line.

For a long, frozen moment, no one speaks. Even the sirens seem to fade into the background as Jeremy and I look down at the people gaping at us. Before I can react, Jeremy is kissing me.

We have never kissed where anyone else would see. No one is allowed to know, and part of me is shrieking to pull away, to run in the other direction. But we are at the top of the Wall, and we do not know what awaits us on the Other Side, and the only thing I have ever wanted to do was kiss the boy I loved. And so I do.

After a too-short while, Jeremy pulls away, smiling at me. Below us, I can hear people murmuring in horror, their faces slack and pale, caught in the reflections of the red and white lights.

Jeremy’s spine straightens as his gaze shifts to the people down below, determination suddenly clear on his face. “This is not wrong,” Jeremy shouts to the dumbfounded crowd. “Love is never wrong. Don’t let them take it away from us!”

And with that, Jeremy swings his other leg over the Wall, finding his footing on the other side. He holds out a hand to me, waiting. I hesitate for a moment longer, looking down at the people below.

Escape is impossible, the siren still screams. Return to your home and await punishment. This is a violation…

“Trevor?” Jeremy urges, thrusting his hand out even further. “We gotta go.”

I take Jeremy’s hand and haul myself the rest of the way over the Wall.

i see him everyday, i cant help it but he smiles

he doesnt smiles particulary at me, but he does

at the crowd where he sings, he is not a street singer

but a little bit popular, a country singer, but he sings

on the streets whenever he sees old people, whenever

oh, whenever his girlfriend is around, she is pretty

with violet eyes and jet black hair to her waist, with a

warm smile, and she always has her arm around him

they always come to have coffee at the corner of the street

and i always want to praise his singing, but destiny never

gives me the chance, as always when i want to thank him

not for his songs but for the love he has for human beings

never mind sick, old, or handicapped, he has a warm heart

his famous girlfriend wants to drool all over him, is it jealousy?

am i suddenly jealous of a girl who is luckier than i am?

but one day at it happened, he came alone at the cafe

he started singing and i shrugged, but as i look i saw he was alone

and i went upto him and i tapped on his shoulder, it was destiny

i asked, “Where’s your girlfriend?” he smiled mischievously

he said briskly with handsome grin, “she went to london,

for a conference, so here iam on the streets, feeling lonely!”

i shrugged and felt the jealously tie a knot in the pit of my stomach

i suddenly turned around and asked him, “Will you have coffee?”

he smiled and said, “sure! i get a cup of coffee this time as a treat!”

we sat down and i asked him, “why do you sing on the streets?”

i ordered white coffee with two teaspoon of sugar, and some cupcakes

he replied, “well everybody thinks that its my idea but its not!”

i was about to smile but something in his rich voice stopped me

“its my girlfriends idea! Susan thinks if i let all the town hear me sing

i will definitely be able to have many audience, she thinks my singing

is meant for the soul, and she’s my inspiration not only my mentor!”

thankfully coffee had arrived and i began eating the cupcakes not

meeting his dark brown eyes, he licked cream off his tongue, devilishly

i gulped hot coffee and i realised that i indeed had feelings for this guy

i didnt know what to do, iam not a bad person, only have feelings

like the rest of the human population, but destiny had something in mind

when coffee finished i let him sing for an old lady who kissed him on

his hardened cheeks and i knew that it was time to let him go, go to his

dreams as he was full of talent and i knew that it would have to be Susan

who would make him truly a famous singer, and as it happened five years

went by and one day i was happily married with two kids and one night

my daughter ran into the kitchen and cried with joy, “Mama, its my

boyfriend on TV! he sings like jingle bells!” and as i hurried into the

living room, i saw him, on national tv, and till this day i didnt get his name

and i saw that it was the famous Drake who was on stage and melted so

many hearts, and i avoided my husbands laughter and saw that Susan was

upstage as well, hugging and kissing the man she had helped build and shape!

i realised when destiny brings people together, it is totally destinys choice!

Destiny: there are two different kinds ... the events that will necessarily happen to a particular person or thing in the future, and the hidden power believed to control what will happen in the future; fate. We have either said or heard the phrase “It is my destiny” or, “It’s his/her destinty to ....”

This could also be nothing more than being in the right place at the right time, or pure luck. But, when a person works hard at honing their craft (writer, painter, sculpturer, musician, doctor etc.), and they are believed to have a raw talent that can be defined and/or molded, whatever the choice made, it can be his/her destinty to achieve what they seek. “Destined for greater things.” Another phrase, “It’s in the cards.” As in, always known.

Which brings us to fate, and this too has two different meanings. The development of events beyond a person’s control, regarded as determined by a supernatural power. Someone or some thing drew you to a particular place, for don’t we all “Get that feeling” we have been in another place before or have met someone before and you can’t shake the thought/idea out of your head?

As fate would have it, we all came to Prose for the express purpose to express ourselves with words. Another example: As fate would happen; two people meet, fall in love, have children, grow old together and were content. This ties in closely with destinty.

On another scale, there are the things that cannot be explained and yet the unexplained puts a person in an unexpected situation. It may be paranormal, it could be being in the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time And where destiny led us to fate, fate in turn leads right back to destiny. As things are destined to happen, turn out, or act in a particular way. Saving a life is fate/destiny (if you are there at the time). Doing something you have never tried before and you end up liking it even though there was a risk factor involved, for it was fate that brought you to that moment to challenge yourself and no one else.

With inevitability, there is the Greek and Roman mythology of the three goddesses who presides over the birth and life of humans. Each person’s destiny was thought of as a thread spun, measured, and cut by the three Fates, Clotho (The Spinner, who spun the thread of life), Lachesis (The Appointer of Life who measured life), and Atropos (She who cannot be turned down, cut life short).

Inevitability, is when things are certain to happen. You are born, die, wake up, go to school, work, church, shop, eat, comminicate, and so forth. These are expected things we do as well as many others.

Though not asked for, there is another word that ties both destiny and fate side by side as well as the inevitable, and that’s kismet. Kismet is circumstance, destiny, doom, fate, fortune. Whatever choice/decision you make it is all part of the three points of the words destinty/fate/inevitability.

Are they different from one another? For myself, I say no. They are equally one to the other. And as fate would have it, I was destined to write this and it became inevitable that I would. It was kismet.

...at every hour

from any angle

we look

*phat*

in this

three way

looking glass

#freewillalongtheselines #challenge

Destiny? Don’t make me laugh

because if I start, I’ll never stop!

No:

forget destiny, darling.

The Fates are a fairytale

and the only inevitability

of this existence

is death.

It’s the heartbreaking fact

of the human condition:

that the best of us

end the same way as the worst—

still of heart,

unresponsive,

ready for the slab, the ground, the oven;

unknowing.

We all need to live while we’re alive

and without such awful resignation

to some ill-imagined fate.

Yes;

live your life while you’re alive, love,

because if you’re not living,

you’re dying.

.... .. .....

#challenge

#fate

#destiny

#inevitability

#life

#death

A peculiar calm prevailed over the atmosphere. We had just performed salat-al-janaza for the dead woman. Hemmed in by a half-circle of relatives, her mother alternated between moments of madness when she banged convulsive fists on the cold cement floor or tore at her hair and eerie episodes when she merely stared on stone-like. Expecting and dreading it, she would remain to witness this last journey. Handsome Hassan; father to Leila and husband to Alima, stood beside the main entrance to the house sobbing like a forsaken baby. An obvious reluctance to converse told how unbearable this was for him. I moved about shakimg hands, saying his thank you for coming and receiving some consolatory hugs. Later in the evening, I kept company with Leila while most men headed for the cemetery, some kilometers away. Processions unnerved me and Hassan had insisted on going.

As the day wore on, I drew farther from the crowd; the widower’s misery a noose around my neck. “Breathe Abu, breathe” came the caution to failing lungs. “What reason can you call to account for such profound melancholy?” How I yearned to wipe those tears of his face, to envelop the weak frame in an embrace and murmur; “I am here for you” but an army of sympathizers had built a wall around him.

Hassan and I crossed paths for the first time on the hottest day of the harmattan season, three years past. Sun rays and dust particles attacked with unwavering, unforgiving fury. Outside, surviving yellowish- green leaves attached to browned branches swayed gently to the suffocating breeze.

I was tired after a morning spent fighting burnt debris off the windows of my one room, boys- quarters apartment. The reason I had undertaken this insane task considering how vicious my nosebleeds got was that as the first streaks of dawn tore through the sky, upon flattening my face across the glass pane hoping to catch a glimpse of my neighbor lacing his shoes preparatory for a customary jog, I could see nothing but debris.

Nevertheless, neither heat nor dust played any part in the sequence of events that afternoon. It was boredom that chased me from my room and qadr- destiny that made us meet.

***

“Be quiet. Do you hear that? Quick, check while I hide these papers.”

“How do you know it’s her? Yes I am conscious you are sick of her lovely interruptions but for goodness sake, stop tapping the table so hard and go.”

“You know, your aversion is becoming quite worrisome as well. The editor was most insistent that every detail be put down.”

“Including hers. There is money involved.”

“You don’t think I should? Why? She is perfect story material. You said so last week.” Is this some sort of jealousy Sonia? You don’t really mind not being mentioned?”

“God of mercy. Where are you off to in such anger? So touchy this morning. It must be the green tea. Always puts you in a rage. Patience, my dear. I promise we get to the good part.”

***

This may sound cliché but when we met, Hassan was not so striking a fellow. There’s the matter of a rather massive head balancing most precariously on the thinnest, longest neck imaginable. He was short, had a massive nose, was bald as a Buddhist monk and had eyes fixed so far apart, they gave an impression of fleeing towards opposite ends of his wide face. His bow legs were somewhat shorter than normal and deeply browned. Regular feet were housed inside regular palm slippers. A multicolor backpack hung from his left shoulder.

My brain registered these mundane details and set in motion, the procedure for ordering visual apparatus to explore more cheerful views when at that moment, his full lips straightened into a grin and an arm was raised in salute. It was one of those quirky, everyday smiles; the ones that say “I’m nervous, save me.” Eyelids contracted to build a partial cover over his sapphire pupils as waves of happiness coursed through my veins. I remained rooted to the spot and shuddered when my heart suffered a tightening twitch. It was time to acknowledge his greeting yet, I kept gawking.

Like black clouds pregnant with rain drops, we drifted closer to each other, and he asked a question; the direction to a mosque, I think. Feeling light-headed, I tagged along although, I don’t quite remember my reply nor being invited; so strong was this strange pull on me. My new found atheism still in its first bloom, it was the first time in months that I stepped into a masjid.

Those inside made no effort to hide their surprise at seeing brother Abubakar who Shaitan finally led astray. I forgot to make ablution but when Hassan raised his palms above his shoulders and proclaimed; “Allah is the greatest,” I lifted my unbelieving, unwashed hands and repeated the words. While we stood straight, eyes peeled to the floor, Hassan recited the verses; “In The Name of Allah, Most gracious, Most merciful…” I contemplated how it would feel to run my rough fingers through his soft-looking beard; so black and curly.

“Allah is the greatest” and we bowed keeping our backs straight. “It must be heavenly to have such fairish skin” I thought, giggling inside while smoothing creases on my trousers. A cursory inspection of my nails confirmed what I already feared; they were long, uneven and dirty. I sniffed both armpits and recoiled from the discouraging odour. “Why did I not bath and wear something nice today of all days?

“Allah is the greatest” came the call ordering us to touch our foreheads to the carpeted floor. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Surely, he does not indulge in alcohol so why the pot-belly?”

In time came the final salutations; “Peace be upon you” to the left and right. I had spent over ten minutes inside God’s house fantasizing over a man.

In spite of everything, we became fast friends. He often said to me; “Hold fast to this book Abu (a small Qur’an is pushed before me) and we shall be together in paradise.” I watched his face become animated as he spoke about a creator; well-loved and believed in. He was unconscious of a tightened grip around my slender fingers while he went on with his speech, telling me of Iman- faith and Ihsan- perfection and Fiqh- jurisprudence and Tawhid- monotheism. Perhaps, he sniffed out my disbelief and like all mallams, became eager to turn me around. My throat went dry and I could only manage a slight nod.

“Insha’Allah” I said in a broken voice.

***

“Quite a pity Sonia is absent today. It is such a beautiful morning. The rain last night, has made our garden, a vision to behold. The sand smells of my carefree childhood, chrysanthemums are ablaze in the sun and strange birds won’t stop singing.

“I miss her. Her rough fingers with their perfectly trimmed nails perusing page after page, numbering and editing; pointing out the smallest errors.”

“The way she places her elbow on the desk and rests her face on closed palms or, how her rather long gowns caress the floor like an altar-bound shy maiden. The empty seat torments me. Amina may even suggest taking her place.”

“I should kiss her but I am not certain. I think she likes me but she’s scared to speak. Why else would anyone agree to spend hours working at such a story for a wannabe author?”

“I will kiss her. It is settled.”

“No, I will not.” My palms are so itchy.

“When next we see, I shall know.”

“What if she kissed me? What would those full lips taste like? Her tongue encircling mine; fighting, giving and receiving as much. She is strong as a mule, that one. We could have an affair. How delightful and shocking.”

“One minute while I play besotted husband. I have lived in such insanity for so long, I begin to think myself truly mad.”

“The drafts? Still not ready, dearest. Your critique will be most welcome when I’m done but for the present, I need be alone. By Allah, whenever you are close, all I can do is gaze at your beauty and marvel at my luck. It is no wonder, this manuscript remains unfinished.”

“Bah, silver tongued devil” my dove says beaming with joy. “Eat and write faster. Your wife awaits with longing.”

“Phew. I’m not one to tarry but, that woman is a reward for some sin for which, I must have forgotten to seek forgiveness.”

***

Hassan was soon appointed deputy Imam by the shura- election body. I stood at the front row whenever he led prayers, baritone voice resonating from the pulpit one or two times every day. Weekends he spent, doing house to house dawah- giving fiery sermons against boko-haram and encouraging guardians to send their wards to school. He’d have rice and chicken at these homes- most people went out of their way to make mallam happy. Back home, his schedule was simple; sleep, prayer and more prayer at night. He kept a beard, put on trousers which never extended below his ankles and talked to everybody with khushoo- shyness and tranquility. As for my obvious deficiency in faith, he remained silent. I guess he believed I was only lazy.

However, he spoke to me often of a childhood spent hidden in a madrasa- an establishment of learning ruled by whip-wielding teachers who enforced memorization of the Qur’an.

***

“Sonia does not wish to be kissed. I do not particularly want to anymore. She seems angry for some reason.”

“Do you always assume wicked things about people? I did not try to derail Hassan. He could not have asked for a more faithful friend.”

“Why are you squeezing your face? Pen and paper please.”

***

Hassan soon learnt to ditch cap and above the ankle trousers during our outings. When we were without money for cinema, we did film nights after night prayers- often sitcoms, using bowls of popcorn and Coca-Cola as snacks. He had a very healthy laughter which exploded from deep within his larynx and away through the mouth making him jerk uncontrollably to and fro. He’d wrap his right arm around my shoulder or grip my knee trying to draw me into his amusement at something funny on-screen. What anxieties I lived through!

***

“Gentle steps on the staircase. I’m soon to feast on home-made cookies and a fruit-mix drink.”

“Do you know that Hassan encouraged us to wed? He was our go-between, practically dumping her on me when she made a move on him.”

“I have someone else in mind” he said. “You know I am very pro-monogamy. Amina is good-looking, homely, and humble. She has no other interests in life besides a husband and children of her own.”

“I suspect people started talking to him about us. Remember Yusuf, the one with the cleft palate; a chronic do-gooder, always praying and fasting while he could have underwent a surgery and had the money for it. Very prominent amongst the overly religious zealots. Didn’t he tell you I was different and did you not believe him?”

“Why deny the truth? Remember how you suddenly had so much work to do whenever I wanted to visit? Positively rude to me, you were. Such horrid business too, with everyone avoiding me like a plague. Dear, the peculiar thing about sadness is that it gives you no time to do things that can release you from its hold. You think more and more about your deplorable state which only drags you deeper into depression.”

“I loved him. Is that what you wish to hear, heartless child? Shall I be judged even after everything you now know? Yes you do, lonely creature. You are far worse than me unfortunate friend, for I have loved and a soul that has not, is not alive.”

“You think I too have not....” She stops suddenly, hands over her mouth, dragging the words back in, as if by sheer force of will. Whatever she planned to say, I would never know. Every few seconds I catch her eye. There’s anger, shame and something else within. I am not sure I want to find out.

I accepted Amina for my wife caring little about Hassan's plot or its implications. We’ve had a somewhat happy life save her desire to ever be reminded of my affection. The true battle of treachery is at night when she yearns to reveal what little intelligence she gained on the internet; “You have to move like this, darling. I will have more pleasure if we do it that way. I might even...”

“Allah forbid Abu. From behind? It was not created for that. You are my husband but what you suggest is haram.” Impatient to end each session, I shut my eyes and summoned Hassan’s image. In such treachery, I did spend many nights with this unsuspecting woman.

“I should tell you of the sore-throat which drove Hassan into the waiting, willing arms of Alima.”

“Oh dear, I toppled the bottle of anti-anxiety meds. Seems like ages I’ve been on them and I maintain it is her fault.”

***

Hassan’s lover; tall as a Russian model and graceful as an Arabian princess. The goddess who bumped into his world undoing months of bliss. She was perfection. Even Abu, who does not fancy the delicacy of women... yes, I can say that with conviction.

Immaculate. Picturesque. Beautiful. Dainty. Young.

Whenever she smiled, her dazzling white teeth with its beauty gap lit up the world. My once feathery blue, romance-laden sky, she transformed into a dull brown scourge of lonesomeness. Everybody loved her. I suspect, they liked Hassan even more because of her. Nobody ever seemed to notice the slight limp on her left leg or its one extra toe.

In the clinic where she worked as a nursing assistant, patients could not have too much of her. Complaints of their many imaginary illnesses met an attentive ear. She laughed when spindle-legged, dirty children with runny noses and swollen bellies came running into reception. They fought to sit on her laps not caring for the uniform and devoured the sweets she offered, scurrying off before they were hailed in for check-ups.

The morning was foggier than usual. We languished on my living-room settee, clad in sweaters and socks watching a repeat wrestling match on television. Hassan’s ailment had plagued him for almost one week. When he inhaled, it sounded like a fuel- starved truck moving up a steep hill.

“Why don’t you go to the clinic?” I asked for the umpteenth time, bored and dozing off. The contender was about to deliver a flying kick that would win him the WWE title. “Anything they give you would be better than drinking warm water and salt.” Hassan obliged. He went later that evening. He returned with lozenges and a lost heart.

On the seventh day of January last year, he told me he was getting her an engagement ring. Mentioned it in the most casual terms armed with his trademark smirk. He was here in my house he claimed, to consult Amina on the type to buy.

How dare he do this to me without warning?

I shrugged off a jab of pain and conjured my killer smile, baring all teeth. “Finally taking the step brother? I am delighted. May Allah bless you both.”

I felt prickly sweat below my epidermis. My body itched in one thousand different places and I was certain my face crimsoned.

“Rather fast though” I ventured to add squeezing all the fingers of my left hand with the right.

Amina seemed amazed. “Abu she is a catch and he is perfect.” Something told me she still wasn’t over her obsession.

“Alhamdulillah” was my reply.

Like a hungry pig in a sty, I shadowed them. She had introduced him to social media by that time. I recalled the many occasions I tried to get Hassan to open a Facebook account. His reply, always: “Whatever for Abu?”

Never was there any sign of a quarrel or break-up in their posts. Her photos and status updates spoke simply of passion and luck and contentment to my disdain. I wept alone lots of times. Every second, I spent wishing a protracted illness upon my rival.

A short courtship followed. Before long, invitation cards for the marriage ceremony of Alima to Hassan were distributed. I persuaded myself something might still happen. I could bare my mind to Hassan and make him choose. An unsettled suspicion that his choice would not be in my favor delayed this occurrence.

However, I gathered my courage days to the big day; helped in part by a modest drug overdose. It was to be the turning point of my adult life; a confession soon unfrozen, never to be forgotten.

I spoke to my hero of a concealed love and to his credit, Hassan did not react with outrage. He hugged me close and brushed the tears which streamed down my shamed face. I rubbed his’ off with the back of my palm and managed a smile.

“Bu, I will marry Alima” were his words, using a name he called me only while we were alone. To my hungry ears and wounded heart, it seemed he said other things I longed to hear; “I’d rather have you.”

“You will come?” A statement more than a question.

My nod was barely perceptible. In those moments, I struggled against a particularly intense wish to shout. This must be how heartbreak feels.

“I won’t miss it Alfa” I replied, with my own nickname for him. We laughed awkwardly and somehow without thinking or even planning it, our lips touched. My palms cradled his face while his clutched my shoulders. The finger marks would be visible on my skin when I take off my jersey-turned-T-shirt later that evening. His taste was salty and our kiss long, broken only because in the end, we both needed air.

***

It has been five months since her burial. Hassan left Kano four months, three weeks and five days ago. It’s surprising how natural talking about him with friends has become. We laugh and I even throw in a few private jokes. The finer feelings of my heart lay shut up far away.

“As the moon, shining and shimmering in its orb takes over duty from our sun.”

“When daughter and wife retire for the day and my house goes still.”

I pull aside huge curtains and peer at the scintillating stars. My thoughts are of Hassan; beautiful reveries of what different turns our lives could take in an emancipated world.

Too soon, my knees grumble and I seek the bed turning away from the back of my wife; the poor woman having given up on unimpressive, appalling lovemaking, now comforts herself with sleep all nights while I battle insomnia.