Hello Yarners, trust your week is going very well –
We have another fantastic piece by Banjo Sijuade… and if you’ve been with us for a while (welcome to all newbies), you know we only bring you best.
Enjoy and drop a feedback.
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The funeral started late.
Heavy rainfall, coupled with the short timing, could not rob the dead of a befitting burial. The Community Hall where the service was held barely contained everyone. People stood outside in the drizzling rain under all kinds of umbrella, gisting in hushed tones as the preacher rambled on about life and eternity.
Uncle Akin had been found dead in his apartment. Everybody said cardiac arrest but no one knew for sure. He had been separated from his wife and his only child had been taken away from him. He lived -and died- alone.
He was a peoples’ person: he was the Head Usher in his Church; he was the secretary of the Community Development Association and he ran a thriving extra mural class on our street.
People often joked he should run for councilor. But he declined. He always did. With a smile that seemed to come from heaven, he would calmly answer, ”politics no be for people like me o,” and that was it.
To me, Uncle Akin was much more. When I got into High School, I struggled with mathematics. Dad took me to Uncle Akin’s extra murals and somehow, my grades soared. By the time I finished High School, I was master of Mathematics and had conquered its cousin, Further Maths. And I learnt a whole lot more.
“For every human being, there is time for everything,” I heard the officiating minister say in a somber voice the cold carried through the environment like bad news.
“A time to be born, a time to die,” he continued, “For our dear brother, Akin, his time has come to leave this sinful world.’
The first tear trickled down my right eye. Suddenly, I was transported to that rain-soaked evening after classes.
“You know I care about you, right?”
I nodded eagerly. Of course he did. He was my messiah.
“Do you care about me too?” He asked.
“Yes Sir,” I answered firmly.
“And you’ll always do anything to make me happy?”
I nodded again; this time worried I had done something wrong.
He stood up, went and locked the door. Soon, he was fiddling with his belt and before long, he was stark naked before me, his erect manhood forever corrupting my 14-year-old eyes.
“Suck me,” he commanded, his voice husky and shaky. I obliged mechanically.
That was the beginning of a relationship I ended two nights ago.
“A o pade leti odo…” The congregation sang as the minister ended his sermon.
The tears poured freely now. It was not supposed to be like this. At 22, whereas my friends chased anything in skirts, I detested girls. And it all started from that first time Uncle Akin made me go down on him.
He was the first man. He was supposed to be mine alone. Forever. He made me who I am. Yet, he chose that witch, Aunty Onome. A woman for that matter. He deserved to die.
Bankole Banjo’s short stories have been featured in a couple of anthologies including the ANA Review (2013), Of Tears and Kisses, a collection of short stories on Naija Stories (2012), A Basket of Tales, a Benue ANA publication (2015) and Tales from the Other Side (2015). He tweets via @banky_writes.
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