Sermon on the Mound

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“FATHER, MOTHER AND SON COMBINED! YOU DON KILL ME TODAY!” came the voice of Mama Derpina, and it quickly bounced off adjoining walls in the face-me-I-face-you network of this compound in Agege.

Nobody ran to her rescue. Nobody pricked their ears and said disapprovingly “Why that man dey too like to dey beat hin wife like that?” Mama Kelechi, however, shook her head, her face contorted in prudish revulsion. Nobody heard her, but she mouthed “harlot” (she pronounced it “allot”) before crossing briskly into the soot-blackened communal kitchen to give the akpu a few last turns.

Papa Ebuka cleared his throat as he moved his draughts piece across the board, noticing amusedly that Chidi, his neighbor, was distracted. Chidi crossed his legs (which is really funny, if you imagine a man trying to cross his leg while straddling a bench), hiding the beginnings of tumescence deep within his Utomi HillFinger boxers.

No, Mama Derpina wasn’t suffering from domestic violence (sort of). She was being ‘lashed’ from behind by another kind of cane (About 8.2 inches long with the approximate girth of thirty bundled-up chewing sticks), and she was calling on several deities who would have preferred to distance themselves from the matter.

As Papa Derpina rolled off his woman onto his side of the bed, Mama Derpina sighed satisfiedly and adjusted the wrapper – which was also their makeshift bedsheet – and wrapped her sweaty buttocks.

“Why you dey cover am na? Something wey you show me na na na?” Derpina’s popsy said with an amused smirk on his face.

“Ehen na. When feem finish, them no dey off TV? My TV don off abeg.”

Papa Derpina chuckled softly and smiled into the darkness. There were times, in the morning, when mama Derpina snored and drooled on the shared pillow (Which, as a matter of fact, was just a pillowcase stuffed with dirty laundry), where he often had to fight the urge to press the pillow against her face until she died, escape from the house (leaving Derpina sleeping in her room) and flee to Malawi. There were times when he considered mounting his okada and riding for as long as his fuel tank would go, then continue the journey – running – until he passed out from exhaustion. Mama Derpina was aggravating, truth be told, but her vocals during sex kept Papa Derpina coming for more.

Figuratively and otherwise.

“You know say all the neighbors hear when you dey shout, athink?” Papa Derpina asked, breaking the cloying silence.

“Ehen? And so?”

“Them go don discuss us tire since we pack come this area.”

“Na jealousy dey kill them na. When the women no sabi do. Na so papa Ebuka go play draft from morning ‘til night ooooh. Hin face go come long like NEPA pole because hin wife dey do 100 days fasting for shosh.”

Papa Derpina smiled again. It was also the pillow talk that made him almost love his wife. Almost. He surreptitiously adjusted his head until he arrived – ‘miraculously’ – atop her left breast. He nuzzled against her breast, feeling her heart beat through the mound of adipose tissue and sprinklings of areola.

“Valentine don come oh, Michael.”

It is important to describe Papa Derpina’s reflex mental reaction to that statement. Papa Derpina (in his mind), jumped off the bed naked, out the window, stepped on the broken shards of glass and kept running with bleeding feet until he reached the Nigeria-Cameroon border where he fought off some kidnappers and terrorists with the jawbone of an ass and migrated to Egypt where he spent the rest of his life building pyramids under a heavy sun and hard labor.

However, the bodily Papa Derpina lay frozen on the mound. This night was fast reaching its anticlimax. Mama Derpina never called him by his given name – Michael – unless money was about to change hands.

“Go on,” he said. His English always became perfect whenever he felt threatened. “I am listening.”

“Nothing oh. Just dey check say you never forget the date.” And she trowayed face like ees nothing.

Papa Derpina did a mental recon and arrived at a plan of action: ignore this problem and hope it goes away. “Okay. I no forget. I wan go piss.”

“Before you go. Hope say we go do this valentine proper this year sha?”

DIRECT CONFRONTATION, thought Papa Derpina in capital letters. THIS ENEMY GOETH NOT EXCEPT BY PRAYER AND FASTING.

“The piss don hook me.”

“Ehn. Just talk make I know. E no go take time.”

“You wan’ make I piss for body first before you know say the matter serious?”

“Yes. I go mop grand. No be today. You kuku piss for bed last week. Oya. Talk.”

His brain, seeing red again, switched to English. “Woman, believe me, there is no cause for alarm or consternation. Every preamble has been covered to ensure suitable goodwill amongst both parties, id est you and me.”

“Sir?”

“I don handle the valentine matter. I go surprise you, I swear.”

“Ehen! Na wetin I just want make you talk. You fit go piss, my strong, strong husband!”

Laughing drily, Papa Derpina made his way to the paint bucket situated in the corridor (that was their makeshift ‘toilet’ in case you wondered).

He held the bucket close to his flaccid penis as his urine dropped reluctantly into the bucket and sighed miserably.

Expenses, expenses. Derpina go chop food, wear cloth. Mama Derpina go chop food, wear cloth. We must connect DSTV because if we do GoTV, the neighbors go call us sufferhead. I-better-pass-my-neighbor generator go make Mama Derpina shame to dey buy karosin from Mama Clara, so we gatz buy big Elemax. We go pay NEPA bill. House rent. School fees. Na only Papa Derpina dey go work for the house oh. Only me.

On top of that wan now, she go like make I buy am Smartphone so she go fit dey Instagram like Cynthia wey dey go LASU.

Papa Derpina considered the Malawi plan again, this time with a lot more seriousness.

 

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Vunderkind: Bespectacled geeky farmer with a pen. On twitter,I am the asshole called @TheVunderkind. 

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