BN Prose: One Bad Weekend by Feyisayo Anjorin

Thursday
As soon as I got to know that my parents would be away for the weekend and I would have the whole house to myself, I called Tulapa who seemed to me like the only one who knew what a good time meant. I told him of their plans as I had been told: They would travel to Ondo early on Friday morning to attend a funeral of an aged relative, – someone’s cousin’s grandfather or one confusing thing like that. They would be there till Sunday; they would be drive back after church service.

Tunlapa shouted his excitement into the mouthpiece of his phone and made me keep my phone far from my ear for a few seconds. He would get some SK from Baba in Oba Ile, and a pack of Vino Tinto from Ceci, and a pack of wrapping paper. Or do you have some there?

I didn’t, so it remained on Tunlapa’s hurriedly drawn list.

Tunlapa’s father had six wives in six different state capitals of the South West. The one in Akure Oloyemekun – Tunlapa’s Mum – sells second-hand clothes at Oja Oba when she is not in some hilltop church shouting herself hoarse calling the God of Joseph Ayo Babalola, looking for her lost “Ogo”.

Friday
Tunlapa was at the gate with a royal blue duffel bag a few minutes after my parents left. He made me wonder if he had been hiding in a nearby bush, waiting for them to leave. My Mum sees him as a bad influence; she had told him twice, with narrowed eyes, to stay away from me. To her mind I was this innocent boy seduced to troubles by the rotten Tunlapa.

“Jendor!”

“Tunlapa!”

He chuckled like a lazy glutton who had just won a lottery; he brought out a fat joint and placed it between his thick lips as soon as he got in and I closed the front door. What if one of my folks left something important behind and had to come back? He had this sly smile; his confidence was annoying and admirable; as if smoking in our sitting room is as normal as drinking cold water on a hot day.

Soon I was expecting him to pass it. He didn’t; he brought out another one from the duffel bag and gave me the lighter.

“Abeg set up some music.”

I took the remote control on the table and switched on the television, and then the satellite decoder. On MTV Base a rapper with a gruff voice wanted to know what the bitches want from my niggers. Tunlapa’s eyes soon got red and seemed smaller.

“This guy disappointed me.”

“DMX?”

He nodded. “I thought he would be like Tupac. You know that hard-core but religious cum philosophical thing Pac gave to hip hop? When this guy came up with his Lord Jesus it is you who wakes me up everyday skit……”

I was not in the mood for the typical talk about hip hop, the illuminati and the CIA. As far as my friend was concerned Tupac is not dead, Tupac is in Cuba or Columbia planning his comeback.

50 was now on the TV, telling of his plan to teach a girl all the stunts. Just before 50 was done Tunlapa suddenly hurried towards the dining table with his phone close to his ear. I had thought his ring tone was part of 50’s instrumentals.

“Road Q, yes. Stop at the first gate and walk straight to the end of the road, the house beside the park. Yes, the house is opposite the house directly beside the park.”

He told me about Bunmi, he showed me her picture. In the picture she wore an orange body-fitted blouse and a black skirt, her hands were on her hips, she had looked directly at the camera.

“She’s coming.” Tunlapa said with a nasty smile. “She thinks this is my house. I’ve been after her for about three months now.”

“So she’s visiting to say yes?”

“She’s coming to get some juice.” He said with a wink. “Don’t worry Bro,” he patted my shoulder as if I was indeed worried. “You will get some action too. Just stay around, let her think I’m the only one here. I will call you when I’m done. I’m sure she will allow you. She likes it like an addiction.”

“Wouldn’t that be rape?”

“Jendor, you think too much.”

We changed the channel after about a dozen music videos that seemed like visuals of one long song.

Soon we needed food; we ate like hungry greedy men, we waited for Bunmi. At a quarter to three Tunlapa dialled her number; maybe she had switched off her phone, maybe her battery got low. It didn’t matter.

We were there, all the lust we had fed with the videos of scantily clad twerkers, all that hardness between the legs and the release we had been expecting, all what we thought SK would help us deliver; there was no Bunmi for release.

We were at 1759 that night. We got a table near the bar; when we got our table filled with green bottles we got three girls for the empty seats without even bothering to call them. One by one they came, with smiles loaded with secret meanings, coded smiles, ready to drink, ready to dance, ready to go all the way.

My plan for the one who sat next to me came fully formed immediately she sat down and crossed her legs. She was friendly and looked into my eyes when she spoke. I wanted my lollypop sucked, if you know what I mean.

The one next to Tunlapa looked like a bully. She was fat, dark and bulgy-eyed; her yellow silky short dress revealed folds of skin. She had a pack of cigarettes and would take another stick out after she had been through with one.

The one who sat opposite Tunlapa was talking about romantic relationships; who were the usual cheaters? Tunlapa had his theory, but he nodded eagerly to her words, as if she was really a newly discovered sage.

We couldn’t get any number that night. We left in a hurry. One Titi was seen in a distance; I was told it was important that she didn’t see us so as to avoid trouble. Titi was Tunlapa’s former girlfriend whom he had met during a brief stay with his uncle in Allen Avenue.

Titi, a girl he had professed undying love for, a girl he had lied to, a girl who gave him a hundred thousand of her school fees because he claimed his father needed it for some urgent medical matter.

Tunlapa left Lagos a day after getting the money, blocked her number and blocked her on Facebook. Seeing her at 1759 was like a bad dream.

The car stopped unexpectedly after Fiwasaye Roundabout. I opened the bonnet, I fiddled with some wires, moved the battery contacts, I turned the key again. Same annoying sound of a car going nowhere. What the hell.

Tunlapa said it must be something minor. He lit another blunt; this is Oba Adesida Road at night, with all the bright yellow lights. Dude, are you crazy? What if the police…? Pass me the poli.

Then a tall voluptuous girl crossed the road from the other side. Her hair was cut low like a boy’s, but she looked like a model, she wore pink body-fitted lycra blouse and black knee length skirt. I was captivated. She stopped near us, not too far from my Mum’s car, she appeared to be waiting for somebody. I wanted to have a conversation.

“Guys, will you please behave yourself?” she said dismissively.

That must have irritated Tunlapa, because it got to me.

“We are just trying to have a conversation.” I said, to try again.

“I don’t want to have a conversation with you. Move along.”

I just slapped her buttocks playfully. That was all I did.

Saturday
We got out at 2PM, we left the cage-like room with back pains from the kobokos, and general body pains from the punches and kicks. We got served right from the time the army truck stopped for their colleague a few minutes after my bad move, and we got served even in that tiny stinking room. I never knew such a sexy lady could be in the army.

Guys, that was one bad weekend.

Photo Credit: Dreamstime | Kurhan