FLASHFICTION: THE IMAGINARY COUPLE

 By Moshkur Ajikobi

                        Image by Mr. D

THE IMAGINARY COUPLE

“I will stab you if you dare utter any other statement there. Just try me and see a film tonight”, she said, throwing a tantrum. Dark rage was written boldly in her red eyes. It was 9pm and the darkness of night had overthrown the scorching sun. Absence of electricity added to the murkiness of the witching time, however, the illuminating moon pointed at her angry face. 

She had never been hot-tempered like that before regardless of how I talk to her in an ill-mannered way. She would always chuckle whenever we're together. My joke would trigger her lips to open wide for her teeth to see the light. 

So, that unfateful night, it was as if her cheerful soul had been admitted to the custody of Satan. Or she had willingly submitted herself to the kingdom of violence. What did I say that being stabbed was the only sacrifice to appease her angry bird? 

In the evening, before the unforeseen vehemence raided our laughter, we went side by side to the market and every passerby blindly concluded that we were couples. The market women too were amazed by our Romeo-and-Juliet-like display. You'd think we were the latest couples in the town. You'd think we just boarded the lovey-dovey bus. 

We got back to the hostel in no time. We made jest of those blindfolded beings who concluded our marriage before their mere thinking. 

She cooked rice that could satisfy the stomach of four. There were two other guys of which we'd eat from the same pot. I helped her in the kitchen with one or two things. I'd always help her. Sometimes, I'd do the cooking in her absence or whenever she wasn't in her right mood. We were the most illusory couples in the hostel. She cooked rice, but I wasn't in the kitchen when she made stew. I had left to do some other things. 

I came back a few minutes before 9pm. I should have sensed her angst-ridden response when I asked her to bring food to the front of the hostel where everyone would sit whenever there was a blackout. I didn't care. I went straight to the room and dished out the delicious rice and stew. 

“The stew is not delicious. Is this stew or Ogbona?” I said jokingly. She didn't perceive it as a joke, rather she responded angrily. She threatened to stab me should I continue to talk. 

For a moment, I was speechless. I wasn't afraid of the threat. I couldn't say anything because she was not the Maryam I knew. I was stagnant like an electricity pole because she had never yelled at me before. I remembered her charming smile whenever I sarcastically approached her. She knew that my 'I hate you' meant 'I love you'. I remembered how the market women were jealous of our unconditional love. I remembered how the passersby were jealous of our unending affection. 

I managed to finish the food and I went straight to the room. Five minutes later, she entered, begged me on her bent knees and the rest, as they say, was history. 

                                                                                 

AUTHOR'S BIO

Moshkur Ajikobi (fondly called P-Seven) is a Nigerian poet and writer. His work appears or forthcoming in Punk Noir Magazine, Lunch Break Zine, Rather Quiet, Coven Poetry, Riverbed Review, Brown Bag Online, Eremite Poetry, and elsewhere. You can find him on twitter @almoshkur and Instagram @peeseven20