VILE LITTLE TOWN by Jeff Ugochukwu Emmanuel | #SYL2017

Vile Little Town

The house seem spacious from an unusual scantiness. The air unshackled but tainted by sin feckly akin to Sodom and Gomorrah of the bygone era. The heavy stench of its usual infidelity rents the air— genitals unsheathed behind doors mostly shut airtight, salted by low humming music, cannabis and booze.

We are close friends with my landlord’s wife, maybe because I’m the Noah of this vile little town— not tailored exactly, but still. Or maybe because I’m the only girl in the compound whose honeypot had not been fractured by her husband’s genitalia.

I replay a few of the day’s events and make a mental inventory of the paperwork I’d bring along tomorrow as I drift past these closed doors, somewhat in a hurry to get to mine. I could really use a warm bath.

I greet Tony whose door stands shut just before mine but he doesn’t answer. I swing mine open, my eyes bear into the rotund landlord standing over his threshold next door with a towel wrapped around his waist. His side leaned against the door frame as he leers at my body lecherously.

“Is it not the Bible that says freely you have received; freely give? Why are you so stingy with the free gift of God? Free gift o! Let your rent expire sef so you can come and be going.” he says.

I don’t give him voice — I get this all the time. I proceed into my self-contain apartment, his lustful eyes accompanies my backside until I shut the door behind me. We both have one thing in common; we can’t wait for the expiration of my rent.

I briskly unclad as unto the first day I came forth to planet earth; take to the tub and let in lukewarm water. As I swim in this laving rapture, a twain of newness and strength slowly banishes the burning fatigue leaving behind only insufferable short pangs of hunger.

I arise to dry my body but couldn’t find my towel. I had left it on the bed. I stretch my hand to turn the door handle, I remember the one from the inside is broken, the door can only open from the outside. It had been so for sometime but unlike now, i always remember to leave the door ajar each time I soaked.

I’m claustrophobic. Apprehensively, I bang the door for anyone within the compound. The droplets of water running down the length of my body metamorphoses into droplets of sweat. I start to scream while banging but it feels like the sounds only reverberates within the walls of the bathroom.

“What is happening in there?” the landlord queries from inside my room.

Relieve soars from my stomach to my entire body. “I can’t open the door. Please call Tony.”

“Why call Tony? I can simply open the door for you”

“Please don’t!”

He jerks the door open as I stand unclad. A bundle of anger and embarrassment sits comfortably across my face. I watch as his pupils dilated slowly, his Adam’s apple bobs like a famished glutton who beholds his last meal. He trails me as I dash past him standing across the threshold, but I keep hurrying to get to my towel.

As I stretch to grab it, he swings his hand for a spank and as his palm meets my bum, a voice calls out from behind; “Lyd…ia?!”

We both turn to the presence of the landlord’s wife. The utter disappointment plastered across her face isn’t directed at the landlord but me. How do I explain that this isn’t what it seems?

 

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