The Traveler ~ a short story

Me, I laugh at you.

“Why?” You ask.

Tonight, one minute to the eve of my 33^rd birthday, I’ll die. Jesus died at 33; why not me?

“You’re Jesus now,” you say.

How dare you scoff at me? We shall see who laughs last.

I won’t die on a cross -no, nothing dramatic like that, though I do wish I could beat that. Jesus takes the crown for that one, you see. But it’ll be my cross, and my pleasure, which I’ve carried from birth until now that’ll kill me.

You don’t believe me. You’re still laughing. Watch!

My death will shock you. I’ll stun you by the method I choose to leave this world. You’ll wonder why I left my sleeping husband on the bed we’ve shared as man and wife for two years, walked to the kitchen, and after drinking a full glass of water, plunged one of the knives -the very set you gifted me on my wedding day, so deep in my chest, you’d think I wanted to excavate my heart. You’ll wonder why I didn’t write a note to explain the darkness that haunted my soul the days, maybe years, leading up to now. You’ll hate me; you’ll wish you could somehow drag me back from the land of the dead so you could box me in the ears for leaving my three month old twins – a boy and a girl- whom I claimed were the light and the joy of my life.

Are you still laughing? I didn’t think so.

By the time I’m done with you, your nostrils would flare in anger amidst your tears. Your bitterness will move you to anger at God. Yes, your God with whom you say there’s no grey. Why didn’t he prevent me, you’d ask? You’d quickly realize your wayward thoughts and ask for forgiveness for blaming him. After all, he could smite you in anger like your preacher says. But you need a punching bag, so you’ll point accusing fingers at the devil. He is a lesser threat than your God. My death will leave you so confused, your silent rage at God would feel like fire in your bones until you’re burnt out and numb. But I’ll be gone; gone faraway. Maybe heaven, maybe hell. Who cares? I care not. Does such even exist? I laugh at the theory. But you can’t touch me where I go. Not you. Not your anger.

“Who are you?” You finally ask in wonder.

Who am I? The question is, what am I? Haven’t you heard of me? I am only a traveler, a child-woman who must have the best of heaven and earth. I must journey between the spiritual and physical world at will. My will. That’s my purpose – the destiny my whole heart embraces.

It hits you. “Emere!” You scream.

I laugh. Tell me, who is laughing now?

Note to the Reader: Why did I write this story? I feel the need to explain. Some time ago, I had a patient come in to the ICU through the emergency room. She’d attempted suicide. She didn’t make it alive. Because of strict confidentiality rules (we call it HIPAA here in the US), I cannot divulge the details of the event, but I’ll say this: the whole episode had me reeling with questions, and through this story, I attempt to understand the why through the eyes of my Yoruba culture which I’ve been researching a lot ever since I started writing Omo Mummy. For non-Yorubas, Emere is a mythical creature who comes to earth as a human but leaves this world on a day of joy so she can bring grief to all who love her.

On a side note, my new book Lessons in Love is out now at Amazon. So get your copy and spread the word. Happy Thursday.

Unveiling Lessons in Love

Apr30

Upcoming book, Lessons In Love

My new book, Lessons in Love is now available on Amazon UK and Amazon. Get your copy and please spread the word. Next up, Omo-mummy which is currently undergoing ‘surgery’ otherwise known as editing , so stay tuned.

About Lessons in Love
Fourteen months ago, Tara Olu-Browne quit her well paying job to follow her heart: Become a full time romance writer. Her decision is paying off, until she agrees to write for Black Desire, a new romance publisher set to turn out books that will appeal to a West African audience. Black Desire is headed by business mogul, Jimi Akintaylor and while he says he enjoys Tara’s previous works, he is critical of her current manuscript calling the love scenes improbable. Tara is left with two choices: quit writing for Black Desire or suck up her pride and request pointers from Jimi on how she can improve on the love scenes. She chooses the latter, and realizes too late that she just signed up for some very practical lessons in love.

When the Queen of awkward made an unconventional request – an excerpt from Lessons

Apr25

Available HERE:

Upcoming book, Lessons In Love

We’re now in his kitchen. He lets go of my hand. I doubt if any cooking ever takes place here. It’s so clean. So new. So contemporary. It ought to be in a museum. I lean against the granite countertop while he strides across to the very modern stainless steel fridge – I’ve not seen the likes of this before; in magazines, maybe. From where I stand I see the refrigerator is well stocked – all kinds of flavored drinks and a wide variety of assorted snacks. He mechanically procures a coke and tonic water from the fridge, empties it into two tall glasses which he has retrieved from the cabinet above the fridge. Then he reaches over to the wine cellar and brings out a bottle. He twists off the cap and shortly pours it into the glasses. He carries both cups and turns to face me. His eyes glow with something I can’t decipher.

“Here,” he says, handing me one of the drinks. He is close enough for me to smell his crisp, mesmerizing scent, and frankly, it disconcerts me.

I eye him doubtfully. Truth be told, I’m nervous. I’ve just told this man I want him to sleep with me and he hasn’t made any attempt at giving me a reply.

He takes a long swig of his drink, then places it on the counter top and gives me a quizzical stare. “Are you okay?”

I shrug, trying hard to tamper down this mortification that’s washing over me in waves. “You’ve not said anything Jimi,” I say.

His eyes burn into mine. “Tara, cut me some slack. You’ve just stomped me with a request that’s a little disturbing…something out of character for you. A man needs a drink.”

Disturbing? What’s all this self-righteous talk? “But you were so willing to say yes yesterday,” I say bravely. “You didn’t need a drink then.”

“Tara, yesterday…I was speaking without thinking, something I rarely do. You were upset and defensive. I don’t know, I just lost it. ” He stops and grimaces. “When I said sex mechanics yesterday, you do know I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me, right?”

I nod. “I do.” In hindsight, I realize it was one of those awkward situations I get myself into where the conversation just spirals out of control.

“Look, I don’t know how long you’ve had sex but the way you wrote about sex in Tomorrow and Lagos Blues, it’s just … implausible. For two people who supposedly love each other, there was no tenderness there.”

I roll my eyes. We’ve been here already. He has made me listen to the comments of other readers. Why are we rehashing how bad of a writer I am when it comes to love scenes?

“So when I said sex mechanics,” he continues, “I meant…” he rubs his hand on his head, struggling to find his words. “Crap,” he spits out. “I don’t know what I meant. Tara look, you are the writer. Do what you need to do to get your material. Just make sure it’s good material.”

I frown, shaking my head. “But Jimi, I’m doing what I need to do to get good material.”

He gives me a blank stare like he has no clue about what I’m saying.

“I’ve never really been in love before.” Well, until now. “I’ve also never had sex before and I’m asking for your help, and you haven’t given me a reply.”

“What?” He whispers. I think he’s about to implode. “What do you mean you’ve never had sex before?”

I ignore his shocked expression and trudge on. I am a desperate woman on a desperate mission and I’ve got to air my piece, now that I still have the courage to say it.

“Look Jimi, all I know is that yesterday you were so willing. Today, you’re…..I feel like you’re trying to let me down nicely. I’m no charity case. If you don’t want me, tell me and I’ll go ask someone else to do me the favor.”

I sense his menace before he voices it. “Over my dead body,” he says, and before I can take my next breath, he pounces on me.