By Crispin Oduobuk
The woman said: “I want to get laid.”
The historian did not blink.
He did not look away.
He only nodded once.
The woman looked the historian in the eye and said it again. “I want to get high. And then I want to get laid.”
They’d been at the historian’s favourite corner table in the bar, House of the Beer Garden, for a couple of hours or so.
It was a lazy day. The new year was drifting away like all the years before it. The dusty breeze of the harmattan indifferent yet unceasing.
After the barman brought her a third bottle, the woman asked, “Is heaven real, or not?”
The historian shrugged and considered the question.
The woman was an old school mate. They’d been in school together, almost lovers once, and had reconnected on Facebook a fortnight ago.
“I’m not a philosopher, or a theologian,” the historian said. “But I understand in broad terms the historical and societal foundations that hold up the binary constructs of heaven and hell. They are important to control people and impose order and sanity.”
The woman allowed a lazy smile to drag her momentarily out of her grief. She shook her head.
“Back in school I used to want to slap you because of this your big grammar. And now they went and gave you professor on top.”
She laughed and showed good teeth.
The historian laughed with her, glad that the sadness which had accompanied her to the beer garden seemed to be fading away.
He even allowed himself to wonder for a moment if she was serious about getting laid…
At that moment his estranged wife crossed his mind and the historian quickly pushed her out and focused on the woman.
She was from the highland and he knew that to her people a cold beer or two now and then wasn’t the sin or moral failure that some others believed it to be.
She’d always been the happy-go-lucky type, and a cloak of grief would never suit her.
Now she drank with the ease of middle age.
Calmly, slowly, aware that time would pass either way, whether one hurried along like a harassed chicken, or crawled like an un-bothered snail.
The historian was calm too, his curiosity bottled into his stout that he imbibed with the equanimity which came from the knowledge that people would talk about what they wanted to talk about when they were good and ready.
The woman said:
“I just buried my daughter.”
The historian gasped. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
He felt ashamed for his earlier thought. He’d known something was wrong when she called him. But he hadn’t imagined it was something on this scale.
“She came home from the university, said she had a fever, I gave her some malaria medicine and painkillers and thought that would take care of it.”
The woman took another sip of her beer, licking the foam off her upper lip. And then shook her head again, as if that would dissolve what was troubling her.
“By the time she told me she’d had an abortion and was bleeding, and I took her to the hospital, it was too late.”
The historian let out a muffled sigh. “I’m so sorry.”
“She was only 20. And now her father’s people are saying I’m the one that killed her.”
“That is so unfair.”
The woman called the historian by his name, the name she had known in secondary school.
“Do you have a daughter?”
“Yes, I do. She’s a data analyst in the US.”
“Did you teach her how to protect herself from unwanted pregnancy?”
“I, eh…”
“I taught my daughter. But here I am.”
The woman let out a heavy sigh and took another sip.
They sat in silence for a while. The animated noises of other patrons at the beer garden filled up their space, a rude intervention that couldn’t be helped.
Soon it would be dusk, and the drummer, sporting a tight heavy metal T-shirt, had arrived to set up the live band.
“I want to get high,” the woman said. “I want to get high and get laid.” She looked the historian square in the eye. “Can you handle that?”
The historian exhaled.
He didn’t know if this was alcohol talking, or whether it was the grief, or both. Whatever it was, she was in great shape. They were both over sixty and if this was the new twist life was throwing his way, well, he was up for the ride.
“I’m at your service,” he said, like a priest ministering to a supplicant. But then she laughed and he felt deflated. “What’s funny?”
“You just reminded me of an old advert on TV that used to end with the line, ‘At your service nationwide’.”
“Oh! I think I know it.” And indeed the historian remembered a refrigerator advert which had that line. At least he thought he did.
“Well, Mr. Handler,” the woman teased, “Start handling because right now I’m a horny, grieving, old woman.”
The historian beckoned to the barman and indicated he should bring the bill.
He stood up and was about to lead the woman to his old Cadillac when he caught sight of the drummer again.
As was often the case with him, the drummer looked irritated, clearly unhappy to be where he was. His biceps bulged as he tested his drums with a few angry beats.
The historian smiled what his estranged wife used to call his smile of mischief.
He mentally kicked himself for thinking of his boyfriend-having, would-be murderer wife and forced himself to concentrate on the here and now.
He assumed his professorial pose and beckoned to the drummer…
The historian said to the woman:
“Let me introduce you to this young friend of mine. Besides being the drummer of the band here, he’s a very special fellow with many talents.”
Crispin is a freelance writer with experience in journalism, banking and development communications, and content writing. Follow him on Twitter @Crispinwrites
