I’m Micah Hardy but folks simply call me Hardy and my surname isn’t Hardy but Glee, don’t ever forget that. My father is French by virtue of place of birth but he still has traceable Senegalese ancestry which dates back to the notorious trans-atlantic slave trade, an intriguing and broad course that teenage pseuds like me just love bragging about to all who dare hint any level of ignorance.
My dad keeps on pressurising me to apply for Senegalese citizenship based on ancestral claims just like my elder brother successfully did ten years back but that isn’t on my agenda. With all due respect, Africa is the second most populous continent on the globe and on course to retain its enviable position (and still has that inherent capacity to reach No.1) and Nigeria where I reside is the continent’s most populous country with over 150 million people which I strongly believe is actually double if not close to triple the official figure.
I simply don’t want to belong to a country like Senegal with moderate potentials when compared to that hibernating clueless giant Nigeria where I reside, surely an addition of one to her ever-growing population wouldn’t suddenly expose the already underestimated statistics and overpopulate the country overnight.
My mom is a Jewish German and I’ve always wondered why the great Holocaust didn’t just wipe off her entire genealogy, my life would have been perpetual paradise without her in the equation. I strongly consider her an African traditionalist clad in white skin than an Eurasian for obvious reasons known to me and others. Unfortunately, as capricious fate stands I’m French and tragically although I hardly understand Yoruba, I speak it more fluently than my French which dad considers ‘a tragedy greater than terrorism.’
Dad keeps saying if he ever gets the opportunity to change his nationality he would grab the American option with both hands, smart choice but my only two lurking fears are; One, nearly everyone there wields a gun, even little brats and you dare not provoke anyone, a complicated field I easily and effortlessly get an A+. Two, America remains a constant target for all kinds of terror groups and though they have done meticulously well to curb most of the threats, my greatest apprehension is that as the world gets more sophisticated in machinery and as the knowledge gap gets narrower, so are terrorists improving at an equally fast rate. Today you hear they have foiled a plan to bomb thousands of citizens and tomorrow the bomb threat remains very much alive.
Sure, the country of relative lawlessness Nigeria has had its own lion share of terror threats and has recorded more failures than successes in curbing the petty menace but those mean beasts only operate in the North, the North-East to be extra specific and so theoretically, as long as I remain in the south as a proud Lagosian, there’s no shaking me. I believe my future is clouded with greatness; I dream it and proclaim it even if presently it doesn’t seem so.
“Hardy! Get up!” Mom yelled croakily and kept on hitting me with a cane half as tall as I was.
I opened my eyes wide enough to glance at my assaulter and shut them instinctively, making a brave attempt to go back to sleep. Instead of the farfetched comfort and immunity I expected, I got more pains at my back and thighs. I tried to get up to elude part of the ferocious lashing but it was a failed attempt as I only ended up tossing my assaulted body on my mattress to try and subdue the stinging pain.
“Wake up Hardy or I will flog your neck!”
She continued whipping me on my back and thighs like I was a stubborn cattle refusing to obey basic orders and she was the ‘lucky’ herdsman. I heard the threat well and jumped up from my bed only to end up sitting on the edge of my bed and laboriously tussle with the demonic sleep to back off.
She stopped scourging me and started her scathing General-like decree. “It’s 9am already and you are still in bed, get up and start cleaning your room now!”
Her eyes then proceeded to scan the length and breadth of my room for exhibits. “Look at your room Hardy! It resembles a junkyard. lf I ever come back here and catch you sleeping, I will whip you so seriously you will forever regret been my child.”
Mom left and shut the door with a deafening bang. I followed her closely just to make sure she was gone and bolted the door well this time so she wouldn’t have that luxury of an easy entry next time. A costly mistake is only repeated twice by real idiots in a lifetime.
I lay on my bed still feeling sharp stings at my back. Tears rolled down my cheeks, warm salty drops as I rolled out my tongue to savour the taste.
I got up from bed, removed my night wear and stood by the mirror, stark naked but for my underwear that could easily pass for pantie. I sudenly felt the sting more sharply, a look in the mirror revealed much less than what my greatest fears had been. Three identical blackish-red bruises formed on my back stretching equally to the length of a standard 15cm ruler, luckily it wasn’t gushing blood yet.
I cut out a large piece of cotton wool from the top of my bedside drawer and dipped it into a bottle of Methylated Spirit which smelt of pain and applied it with the softest of touches to the affected areas.
The pain was so excruciating I dived and crash-landed with a skydiver’s accuracy on my bed, stuffed my mouth with my pillow and clamped my teeth to it to subdue the pain I was currently experiencing and muffle the crude sounds that came with the expression.
My hands grabbed my blanket and strangled it in a fashion only Hollywood’s superhuman actors could do. With a pillow stuffed in my mouth and my hands clutching the poor mattress unfairly as a reward for its many years of snug service, I felt the pain more severely than ever before. I did everything within my power not to touch the affected area for fear of escalating the damage.
If only I lived in the Western world, I would have definitely sued my mom for child abuse a long time ago and happily kept her in jail till she cheerfully crawled one kilometre on stony grounds to beg me with her entire lineage just behind her maintaining the same pose.
I’m smart enough to know that after I’ve secured her release she would try to get me to travel to a ‘humble’ location in Africa, or some available third world country that has very low humanitarian records and no enforced laws protecting kids from their parents’ strangulation, a grisly offer I would readily turn down with vehement negative vibes.
Tears flowed more freely as I closed my eyes and engaged my mind in an active discussion. I’m a firm believer of the saying ‘all your mind conceives, you can achieve,’ it just takes the brain and the body to agree on the decisions that would actualise the plan.
The pain still kept stinging and piercing me like crucifixion nails but at a slower pace than when I first applied hell’s own treat (Methylated Spirit). I closed my eyes firmly as the last drops of tears dripped out. I’m also a firm believer in my own saying ‘anything I set out to do I actualise,’ I’ve set out to sleep for the rest of today and I must actualise it no matter the ghastly repercussions.
Success according to my own ideology is for those ‘disguised’ as failures, persistent with fervour and sick with ambition. Following this critical criteria I’m well qualified for it. I closed my eyes more tightly, sending a free invitation to sleep to come my way but sleep had been forewarned about the lurking danger yet to come.
I tossed and writhed on my large King-sized mattress trying to get the last frequency of excruciating pain out, successfully transforming my comfort zone into a war zone. I must have been doing this for more than ten-fifteen minutes before I realised the witch was knocking again.
I picked myself up immediately to tidy up my room in the fastest possible way, but there and then as the knocking increased to ear-splitting banging and her voice got louder than the blaring sirens you only hear when the various Excellencies with no excellent brain power were detouring through your street by chance in your own purchased fleet of luxurious cars, it suddenly dawned on me that I couldn’t do anything tangible to this room even if I was given an extra twenty minutes and I didn’t even have twenty seconds.
I quickly wore the black Polo shirt Zaynab bought for me on Easter Monday early this year and the dirty blue beach short I dumped yesterday on the edge of my bed, and sat on the same edge faithfully waiting for the worst to happen.
The witch kept yelling profusely you would easily mistake her for a grieving, disinherited but spirited widow.
“Hardy! Open this door this moment or you will be in bandages throughout the rest of the holiday.”
I wanted to dismiss her threats to mean just mere strokes, calculating the time I would be able to run out of the room without my mom smashing my head yet in her remarkable fury but I knew from similar fatal experiences she meant every word.
The banging stopped suddenly but I remained cynical about harbouring any glint of hope that I might just survive today. After close to ten minutes of uneasy silence and turbulent tranquillity and the only sound I could hear was my own breathing, I slowly grew optimistic again.
Just when I was about to head for the door to attempt a miraculous escape not even the bravest of knights would dare, already I had unlocked the lock and was about to turn open the final hurdle when I heard a sound that sent my whole body numb with the plague of shock.
If my mom had turned the door knob that moment, she would have been able to achieve two world class assaults that would inspire the scripts for Hollywood’s next blockbuster family movie.
The first assault would be her smashing of my paralyzed body with the door with a supernatural force only the witch and her numerous kinds could produce, and the other would be the final finishing move with the lethal weapon on my head, shattering my rocky skull into tiny fragments thus soaking the floor in a pool of my own rich red tomato paste.
She kept banging the door with the lethal weapon, sending more shockwaves with each bang. I couldn’t control my body to move or my mind to think. My supernatural ability to think was restored after three minute of absolute bleakness. My thoughts rushed in at such a ferocious pace I feared my brain was going to automatically shut down for good without the aid of a malignant tumour.
A friend of mine at the military learning institution where the witch sent me with open-gladness to learn discipline, hard work and respect through severe suffering has always pressed on to this point in our little philosophical discussions, ‘when you are in danger, your thoughts are your best possession because they give you a thousand solutions but sadly time only permits a few to be tried and fewer to be implemented.’
I don’t know if that statement was ever going to be true for my current situation but at this point the only reoccurring thought I had was of a combined assault that would make a blockbuster movie.
Imagine the door slamming me flat on the tiled floor and the witch jumping triumphantly on the fallen door to finish me for good with her lethal weapon in an electrifying fashion that had the potential to become an all-time thriller.
After ten minutes of battling to regain control of my stiffened body, it finally yielded to my whims and caprices. I struggled to move my stiffened body towards my bed and in the process crashed my knee on the wooden frame. I screamed in agony almost louder than my mom’s lethal weapon and the blaring sirens of the Presidential fleets.
Why must today spin from bad to worse for me? Who did I offend that has sworn all this evils into my life today? I pondered as I gripped my knee tight which was miraculously not yet swollen and rolled on the mattress that has been my only solace today.
Mom shouted, it seemed the sound of my crash must have given up my next move. She then coughed which sounded equally as vicious before gently saying by her standard, “I’m asking you to open this door and you are sleeping? Wait till your dad comes back and see what I will do to you…….. No! Today I must deal with you……. Your mates are helping their moms’ by doing their chores and you are still sleeping! I will cast out all those demons from your body by violence or force today.”
I could hear her mutter more curses as I tried to stand up from the bed to open the door for her. The worst she could possibly do was to smash my head with the extra-large sized pestle and then send me overseas for surgery and luckily the famous neurosurgeon Dr Ben Carson would come out of retirement and operate on me with his ‘Gifted Hands.’
I screamed again, this time louder than a tumultuous applause as I suffered a muscle pull. I felt I’d completely shattered my vocal cords but I didn’t care, my voice no matter how smoothly it was operated on would never be melodious for singing, it would always have that inseparable hoarse backup tune.
For the next five minutes the whole room fell silent, the banging stopped and the only sound I could hear was my own moaning. Immediately the next question that assailed my mind was where was my mom? I thought I was suffering from a panic attack a while ago but now I couldn’t even describe the fear gripping me.
Normally my mom unusual quitting game would have made me the happiest teenager in the world but it was the direct opposite in reality to the differing situation on ground. The next question my mind produced was what was her antic now. With the pain easing off, I began to relax. I lay comfortably on my bed for the first time since the stinging cane was introduced into my day.
I needed to get some shut eye and think of the least disastrous move to make. My phone made sure I didn’t follow my plan; it began to ring under my reading table where I hid it from the witch’s reach. I could bear been grounded infinitely but I couldn’t survive without my phone and my PC for a minute, it was torture inconceivable.
I stood up without obvious pain for the first time today, moved past my bed, trampled on a pile of my clothes on the floor and walked to my reading table some distance away. I chose to ignore the call and focus on my body. I took time to examine my new look body in the mirror like a model does when applying special lightning creams. The marks on my back were a mixture of dark purple and red blusher like a juvenile make-up experiment.
I moved nearer to the mirror and bent down, enduring the pain to rub some cream Jacob my close pal said heals wounds real fast and removes scars perfectly without bleaching the body. He probably didn’t suspect I was the hero that stealthily carted away with the miraculous cream on my last visit to his house four months ago and he must have gotten himself another one by now.
I’m not a thief and I don’t fancy stealing what money could buy, that was his punishment for duping me of over two thousand five hundred naira in school when I sent him to purchase a white BlackBerry Bold 5 in town. From my findings it actually costs N27, 500 but the dubious idiot because of my magnanimous and thrifty nature decided to have some share of my cake and dupe me of a mere N2, 500. He claimed it cost N30, 000 which was excluding the generous N5, 000 I gave him as coverage for the risk bearing and transport fare.
I rubbed the thick jelly cream that smelt of Aloe Vera on my back with care and caution. As soon as I brought my phone out from my hiding spot I instantly received another phone call. I looked at the screen and it was someone I needed to talk to. I silenced the call, floated with noiseless tiptoes to my bathroom and closed the door gently because I didn’t want to take any more chances, mom might just hear a bit of the conversation.
The last thing I wanted to give her now was another motive to hate me and more disturbingly, I didn’t want to give her more words to add to her extensive heap of vocabularies framed just for me. Already she had, ‘You this lazy, stupid boy, foolish nuisance, incurable glutton, sanctimonious pig, devil’s incarnate, lousy, clumsy brat’ and a lot more, dull statements she flung at me every day with the faint hope of trying to get me to adhere to who she thought I was.
I guessed her next tirade would be, ‘Look at this good for nothing………….indolent thing, the only thing you know how to do is to keep girlfriends and those stupid girls who are unfortunate flies of bastard parents are following you this stinky heap of shit, you better start doing your chores or else I will make sure I castrate you and all your girlfriends together. Hardy who told you that you can have a girlfriend at your age! You better know what you are doing or else I will send you without hesitation to be an apprentice at a mechanic workshop and if you ever bring a girl to my house I will kill you first before I devour your good for nothing girlfriend.’
Sometimes when she starts her regular tirades and because of the repetitive nature of the words, I completed the insults in my mind before she was even done. If I was to ever remember my mother for anything, the first thing that would click was her routine abuse.
I picked the call.
‘’What’s up Zaynab?” I said in a low tone.
“Are you not coming to take me out again?” She sounded arrogant, miffed, tense and impatient as usual.
In my mind I was like ‘girl I’ve a serious emergency to deal with here, can’t you think of anything better than a date?’ but all I just said was, “I will come get you as soon as I get out of my room alive.”
She must have misunderstood what I meant for sarcasm as she just laughed. “Come on Hardy, I know you are still on your bed, your voice sounds croaky and sleepy. I called you so you could meet up with timing this time around; my friends are already waiting for us at the amusement park.”
I could sense her smiling; at least someone was in a good mood this morning. “I am in the middle of a very serious crisis here; I would count myself lucky if I leave this room with a coma.” My voice was loud enough and if mom was still waiting at the door, she would have heard me and smiled to herself, more determined than ever to grant me my wish.
Again she misunderstood what I meant for laziness. “I’m not joking here Hardy. I’m already elegantly dressed and waiting for you to come and pick me up and you are busy sleeping. What sort of guy gives a girl a date for 10 and quarter past 11 he is still sleeping?” She roared.
I looked at the big square clock that hung proudly on the wall ticking and happy despite its never ceasing monotony of action, time had passed me just as it had perpetually promised to do. I looked at the clock jealously, wishing I could live its mundane life and be set free from the witch.
The unashamed wall clock truthfully read 11:12 AM, she was three minutes wrong in her timing and that got me so upset I almost smashed the phone on the ground. If she wanted to stress a point especially with time, she shouldn’t add a single minute to it because if she did she automatically becomes guilty of time forgery which was punishable under the section 21 (2) (e) of the Fundamental Global Time Management Constitution.
“I’m sorry Zaynab, let’s reschedule for another day. Today is not very convenient for me. How about tomorrow? I promise I will be at your home hours before deadline.” I smiled, “I can even help you out with your chores.”
As the last word came out of my lips, it felt like I’d added lava to an already bubbling volcano. “I, Zaynab, every guys dream, wasted my time dressing up to look stunningly beautiful for you and all you can do is sleep and reschedule our date. I give you just thirty minutes and if you aren’t in my house to pick me up then forget we ever existed.”
I tried to plead for leniency. “But Zaynab please have mercy, this emergency is serious, it is health threatening, my mom has gone loco again.”
I heard her hissing or doing something worse. “You will tell me if my name is Mercy. I’ve said my own, if you like let the emergency be life threatening I don’t care, your mom can go bonkers I still don’t care. I’m giving you till 12 to meet up or this relationship is over.” She hung up.
I didn’t have anything to say so I dropped the phone back to my secret hideout. Even if I did have something to say, knowing Zaynab now for nearly three years, she would never pick my calls even if I sent a voice message that I was dying right now and the only person that could save me was her. The ferocity of an angry woman indeed kills faster than death.
Presently I’d more life threatening matters to tend to than to bother myself with the absurdities of the legendary Zaynab. She could go to hell and come back according to her own accord but as for me, I was facing my own hell in my own room!
I sat on my reading table and for the first time in a long while I felt the need to clean my room up. I don’t know the exact size of my room but the only size I had in mind was colossal.
My room is a perfect square where the most absolute event that occurred was my own perfect humiliation. My mom keeps on complaining to my dad to allow me use one of the smaller room on the second floor since I lived like a king in this one.
This room alone is a tourist attraction, attracting enough friends to populate a whole classroom. My friends just loved playing my video games and watching my magnificent TV whenever the witch was out which was a rare occurrence (Like how many full moons are there in a year.)
My bed is a wonder to my friends who risked visiting me, they claimed it had the capacity to hold ten people and make them lay comfortable. I doubt it could ever make me sleep comfortably as I always end up on good days sleeping on the raw mattress and on bad days on the chilled floor.
In my wardrobe and closet I had what all would label a collection. I’ve lost count of the number of trousers and knickers I had and the countless shirts, suits, blazers and jackets I also had. Most times I gave out my clothes that I had outgrown brand new. I owned fifty pairs of shoes, most of them gifts from my siblings and their spouses, panoply of expensive wristwatches and chains abound in my wardrobe which I hardly wear them all in two months even if I wore different types each day.
A family portrait hung on the wall directly opposite my bed. From the left to the right is my good looking elder brother Matthew who is married and living in Senegal, next is Hardy (that’s me) who is currently struggling to survive the witch’s brutal conception of discipline, then the pretty striking witch followed by my stunningly handsome and spotless father (they said I’m even more handsome than he is), next is my adopted blonde sister Hilda and lastly my elder blonde sister Paris, she’s the eldest child in my family, resides in France and married to one of the richest men under 30 in France, Frank Gaulle who owned one of the fastest growing e-stores ‘Gaulle stores’ in Europe.
Of course my room had an air conditioner, a bookshelf containing novels especially all of Timblaze novels, the teenage sensation who has suddenly become a giant in the writing world. I also had a large fridge which was always stocked with drinks and ice creams by the maids of the house and that was all mom allowed them to do for me!
I wished my mom would be more tolerant and let me live in the high class that fickle fate has benevolently placed me in. She insists I clean up my room, wash my clothes and of course throw the thrash out (which I never do) so that all the maids ever did was to restock my fridge with drinks, sweep the house expect the room I’m assigned to, do the laundry with the aid of a washing machine, iron them and return them to their respective owners and cook and clean the kitchen. Sometimes the witch insists I wash my plate after eating!!
Funny enough the maid only worked from 4 A.M-7 A.M, they lived in the girls quarters built for all six of them by my generous dad. There’s another building dad built for the remaining six staffs adjacent to the girls’ quarters.
I’m a serious writer of fiction, at least I believe I have some innate talent that needs grooming and so do my critics. I work a lot on my PC at nights and that explains a bit why I wake up late in the morning. I work during the night and sleep during the day, a parody of the saying ‘Work in the day, Sleep in the night.’ I’ve been through to my passion and have kept fanning the flame by writing interesting pieces regularly but I never finish writing them. I just close it up and move to the next idea on my head, an attribute I constantly possess and I hate to admit I’ve got to strive to dispossess.
One of things I like about Timblaze books is that he has a liking for suspense, drama and absurd common sense. I’ve read a lot about this maverick teen and I’ve heard him say many times that when he starts writing, sometimes he doesn’t have a story line, he just forms a beginning and allows the story to mature into a product. He said and I quote ‘A story is a living being and should be allowed to mature because it’s only a story that can make a story.’
One of his books I love reading repeatedly is the ‘Sanity of Brother Sagnol’. The book is just incredibly ridiculous; I’ve never read a book written in such insane manner like that. Sagnol, a seemingly perfect teenager and his many flaws not only highlight my own flaws but make it look like what I was going through was just a rock off a cliff. Too many people keep making that common misconception that a young, striking, fun, talented and lively teenager was always happy and has everything going but with the effective authorial intrusion in the novel, I discovered that the flashy lifestyle he displayed was just a façade cloaking his real problems.
I was still pondering when the clock chimed at noon, there goes the end of my relationship with the willowy light-skinned Zaynab. Hardy you are young; there are more girls out there who are worth a lot more than Zaynab in beauty and character so find yourself another. Easier done than said, I would try.
My room which my friends envied was currently in a terrible shape. For the first time in a long while, it dawned on me that I always wore clean clothes but on the inside I was as dirty as the grubby kids on the slum streets of rustic Lagos. I made a conscious decision to tidy up my room.
I got up from my reading table and started to arrange my room; picked up my dirty clothes and deposited them into the laundry basket, properly hung my scattered clothes in my wardrobe, arranged my shoes, picked up books from the floor and put them back on the shelf and I even rearranged the shelf. It was surprisingly fun and I loved it.
I shifted my attention next to my bed, changed the bedsheet and pillow covers that must have at least done two anniversaries. Neatly and tidily I dressed my bed ‘jungle’ fashion till I could no longer spot a single wrinkle. I felt satisfied with my work.
I looked around for any part I could still improve and yes my drawer was in bad shape. I arranged all my cosmetics properly; dozens of lightning creams, lotions and exotic perfumes that choked faster and more effectively than a smoky room. As I was about to pick up the last bottle of perfume from the back of the drawer, I met an object that made me perform a quick U-turn in shame and irritation.
I opened the drawer, pulled out a glove and picked the object feeling irritated. I opened a polythene bag I found also at the back of the drawer and dropped the bacteria + fungus infested object in the found bag. I trotted round my room trying to remember where I’d hidden more of such odious objects.
I raised the mattress up and spotted a multitude more of such objects in an even more repulsive and sordid state than the first replica. I rushed to my toilet to throw up but it was just an act, I could not throw up, do you throw up for a mess you knowingly caused? Well I don’t do that.
I quickly picked all ten, feeling more ashamed than irritated. These things must have been there for the past three years and counting. No wonder my boxers always remained the same number each year no matter how many new ones I got.
I dropped them quickly in the polythene bag, examining each one carefully. The least had a stretch of faeces stains covering the back of the boxers where the buttocks was halved and the worst was soiled in faeces like as if it had been gone swimming in a brimming soak-away pit to dye.
As I dropped the last one in, the smell of my room got far fresher and more natural. The AC that was always constantly on must have suppressed the smell combined with the Aero air fragrance machine. I could now breathe in clean oxygen and not oxygen combined with putrid odours.
Luckily for me there was no lingering stain under my bed. I put the last one in and removed the gloves and dumped them in the bag of mess and scuttled back to the toilet/bathroom to wash my hands hygienically with soap and water.
I dried my hands with a once-upon-a-time plain white towel (now brown) I wasn’t sure I’d ever washed it and was perfectly sure I hadn’t changed it since it was given to me as a birthday gift by one Uncle Jerry from Canada a year ago. I applied Purell Hand Sanitizer, mixed it with Aloe Vera Hand Sanitizer and my school’s own produced NABOL Sanitizer and rubbed both hands together happy I’d murdered any germ trying to gain unpermitted access into my body.
The root cause of these stains was simple, I hardly washed up after I finished defecating. I just wore my boxers like that and when I start to feel uncomfortable, I removed it and hid it under my bed and wore a brand new one. Please note that it’s very rare for me to soil my boxers even though I always washed my buttocks only when I took my bath, a talent I’m highly proud of but my mom strongly despises and Hilda mocks me about indoors.
I left the toilet and entered my room, I dropped the mattress and laid the bed neatly and smoothly like it’s done in the five-star deluxe hotel Palacio Nazarenas in Peru where I had my last summer holiday. This year I was waiting for my dad to take his leave so we could embark on another trip to Brazil or Sweden or one of those eye-catching Caribbean Islands. My eyes again met the polythene bag and there and then I decided to dispose of it.
I walked to the door with the bag in hand and as I was about to open the door with the key, I noticed the door hadn’t been locked all along and immediately I locked it with trembling hands.
The thoughts of my mother patiently waiting behind the door to perform an assault kept me more tormented than any legion of demons could possibly achieve in a thousand years. If only Matthew my elder brother had stayed in Nigeria then I wouldn’t be suffering here because I would have moved to his own house a very long time ago.
I ran my nose around the edges of the door and the keyhole to perceive my mom’s Apple smell. My mom loved everything that had a scent of apple in it, she uses Apple hair cream, Apple Shampoo, Apple soap, ate apples as an appetizer for every meal, eating at least five apples a day, rubbed Apple Hair cream twice in a day, used Apple spray to starch her clothes to enable it smell like Apple and washed her clothes with Apple scenting detergents. The only apple she disliked was techs made by Apple. If my mom was Eve she wouldn’t need the serpent to tempt her to eat the ‘apple’ on the tree of good and evil because she would have eaten the whole tree long before the temptation was conceived.
I smelt some Apples alright, she was still at the door but why didn’t she attempt to turn the knob and finish me for good? Was it true the moment we stopped trying to open a door and wait for someone else to open it for us was the moment the door was unlocked just requiring only a turn of the handle?
If I succeeded in opening the door gently and escaping Scot-free, I would dash to the living room to take cover and if I further made it in record time to the front door without her smashing the lethal weapon on my fragile head then I would surely give the amazing testimony in church this coming Sunday.
I unlocked the door, held the knob in anticipation for the worst as I prayed for success and luck in my escape mission. I tried to turn the knob too gently and my hands cracked, I was frightened she had heard the crack but I proceeded still. I turned it again a little bit harder and the knob turned, I pushed the door open and held my breath to behold whatever pleasant surprise fickle fate had in store for me.