“You’re damaged goods.” 

He said. It didn’t bother him that I was bawling my eyes out.

“Who’ll want you? Everyone knows who you are…What you do…Everyone knows. I want you to know that every time a man looks at you, every time a man does some favour, he wants something. Never forget that. YOU ARE A WHORE! A whore can give only one thing. SEX. Fucking ANIMAL SEX.”

My thighs were sore from his forceful penetration. My eyes were bloodshot from crying. My throat was parched from begging him to listen to my side of the story.
“Did they not say I’d find you here? Did I not find you here? Under the name they said I would find you? Did you really think nobody knew what you did here? Did you for one second think you could keep this a secret? You fucking moronic whore!”

At this point, I fall to the ground and cry my heart out. Nothing was going to stop him from tarnishing my already messed up image in school. Nothing was going to deter him. He had his mind made up. I don’t blame him. What should he think? 

I am here after all. I have a shack for what little privacy I can get to work with. Did I not haggle with my pimp and eventually reach an agreement for the “Off shore bobo” as he had described Mudi. 

Mudi.

The love of my life. 

Until today. 

The same one I had given all my “cherries” to. The one who had me at “Excuse me, but you’re sitting on my seat.” that warm April morning during a French class. 

“Say it in French.” I’d responded eager to know the chocolatey awesomeness that towered over me. 

How was I to explain? 

What would I say? That my father had whored his way to an early grave and managed to squander my inheritance while he was at it? That my mother had run off with my grandfather’s best friend and now lived in Italy. Homeless and Jobless? How was I  to tell him that she hadn’t much of a choice at the time she opened her thighs for business? How could she explain that it was “business” in every sense of the word? 

Instead, I just cried and cried. He stood there, watching me with disgust then he spat and bounded out of my shack. 

Moments later, one of my regulars poked his head through the almost threadbare curtain: “How far na, oyibo? Shance dey?”

In The Beginning…

He took my arm, and said ‘Come with me, I want to show you something.

Lawdy!

The house was what my GST 202 Lecturer would have described as a gargantuan edifice”. It was massive! The kind of house you saw on “cribs” or whats-its-name. Breathtaking! Pictures of him and some of his paintings lined the walls of the hallway. I could only manage a cursory (That’s a lie. I saw everything) glance at the pencil drawing of an elderly couple to whom he bore a striking resemblance. My grandparents…” he said. “They raised me..all the way. We all lived here till my granma…died. Gramps moved back to his country home. I visit him twice a month…

No parents. I wondered but I did not ask.

No woman in the pictures as well, my keen eyes noticed.

We kept walking, leisurely, down the almost endless hallway. Two floors later, we came to  a door…it was slightly ajar…It opened to what apparently was a kind of…okay. It was a study alright…Books and books on shelves and shelves…there was also a grand piano in the corner… I was thinking to myself, Oh, I like this place…I could live…Then I felt the blood rush to my ears…and colour leave my face. Something I saw disrupted my musing… Sitting gracefully on the solitary couch was a VIOLIN…Instinctively, I moved towards it…something about this violin struck me as oddly familiar. The violin looked dangerously like….my Violin??

I knew because it was a Guarneri del Gesù…because…because there aren’t a lot like it…because it very conspicuously monogrammed “F. “Tango” Vladmir” – My grandfather…Because I gave it as collateral three months ago so I could pay project fees that had just been announced….Because…

Noticing my discomfiture, he took my hand and asked ever so nicely, worry lines forming on his fore head What’s wrong? Are you Alright??” Obviously wondering what was wrong with me.

I was supposed to be happy.

My head told me it was time to throw my arms around him and gush as many thank yous as humanly possible. My fingers told me I was supposed to be playing a solo sonata…for my violin’s knight in shiny armour and by extension, mine.

Instead, in the calmest voice ever, one that could freeze air, my lips said: Mr Timilehin Fakorede, will you be kind enough to tell me what the hell is going on here?! Eyes flashing out of embarrassment and confusion, he said Chiz, hold up one second. . . its your birthday for Pete’s sake! Aren’t people supposed to be granted their wishes?” 

My face flushed in embarrassment, I ask a little too loudly Who told you? You’ve been snooping around? Asking about me? Learning things, eh? What…Who the he… I started, too livid to acknowledge the exasperation in his expression.

Hands in surrender mode, looking like I had slapped him he said:Wait….hold up just one second! So what I pulled some strings and got your violin back. . .I wanted to do something for you…anything! apparently, I should’ve minded my business!

By now, I was calm and…Penitent, so I said

I’m sorry…It’s just…I’ve been through a lot lately…since….Well, its…erhm..uncommon for…men to get nice and not ask for a piece of the action…

I was caressing my violin lost in my reverie…

(Re-written: 23-06-2012) (c) Mlle. X Bonrue

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