I Wanted To Write A Story

I Wanted To Write A Story

 

Yesterday, I wanted to write a story. I actually sat down and ate my fingers absent-mindedly until I came up with the plot.By the time I did, the blood was flowing so badly I had to tie up my hand.

Yesterday I wanted to write the story of a man who killed his daughter.

He would meet her mother, his wife , in a bakery where they both worked. She would be smallish, cute and needy of affection and he would want to take care of her. They would consummate their feelings behind the rusty shed, where general washing of pans took place. This shed would be the same shed the man had urinated in the night before after furtively checking that no footsteps were approaching. They would leave the venue with him distraught because he found her a virgin and how many virgins gave in to him standing and pressed against a scratchy wall for god’s sake.

The man would ask her the next day to forgive him and the woman would respond by stroking the grizzly hair around his chin and guiding his hand towards the small of her back. They would end up behind the shed after work, and he wouldn’t bother to wipe his white hands because flour wasn’t harmful anyways.

The woman would get pregnant after they had said their vows at an almost empty catholic church on a hot afternoon. She would be sick throughout the pregnancy and die giving birth.

The man would mourn her and hate her for dying because who leaves a day old baby with a clueless man and goes on a journey with no return date?

The man would hire a little boy to take care of his daughter and devote himself to work and women. The man would rise in rank in the same bakery where he met his dead wife, the mother of his daughter whom he killed and he would get a bike to celebrate his hard work and dedication.

The man would then come home one day to discover that it had been almost been a year since he last saw his wife. Oh and by extension, almost a year since his daughter was born.

This man would toy with the idea of marrying Binetu, the cobbler’s wife who claimed she would leave her husband and take care of him and his family as soon as he wanted.

The man would decide that it was a bad idea afterall and that even though it seemed like Binetu depended on him for breath, she was a little too coy (fancy cheating on your husband and feeling quite unrepentant about it) and he was better off alone with his little girl for a while.

The man would call his little girl to come hug him and see his wife’s face staring back at him and be aroused.

At first, he would be disturbed and chalk it up to some mental disturbance theory that he had no grasp of.

Then he would become comfortable with the thought and call the girl for more hugs.

He would kiss her and touch her belly slowly, imagining a year dead woman who had born her face, and had indeed looked and acted very much like a little girl.

Then he would snap out of himself and order her to go away from him. The little boy he hired would quickly take the scared kid away, and practice what he had seen on her in his spare time.

One day the man would break. He would send the little boy back to the village with five thousand naira and a carton of Schnapps.

The little boy would plead with him but the man would have none of it. Then, the man would hold the little girl by the neck while she slept and strangle her to death.

The man would imagine that if he was found out and asked, he would explain that he didn’t want to dishonor his wife’s memory by giving into his perverted urges.

But nobody would find him out.

He would bury her in his backyard and leave the house.

It was a shack which he had shared with his late wife anyways and now he had enough money to move.

The man would start a new life, not with Binetu, but with a schoolgirl who was a little fat. They would get married and have an abnormal life because he would have no children.

 

Yesterday I wanted to write a story but my hands bled and bled and the pain was not exquisite, I assure you.