The Trans-action |- By Obinna Uche Uzoije


Bolaji rarely indulged but he felt a need of a restorative. So he downed tequila that reached the higher meniscus of his little glass and asked for more and more.

Obinna Uche Uzoije
The Trans-action |- By Obinna Uche Uzoije

Soon a lady came by, sitting adjacent and he kicked open an erotic conversation. Firstly, the tequila made him feel welcome like a dumb arse doubt and somehow he kept at it.

Can I ask you a personal question?, he asked pressing his head so close to her chest as though he almost saw the answers coming from the mammary glands. He emphasized his drunkenness and woebegone pleasure as he moved his head from left to right, staring on her scantily dressed chest.

With a killer face, raising his head like she didn’t appreciate the insinuation, she replied, go ahead.
The club was soaked in emotion as Adele’s Hello crescendoed. So in between her high pitching, Bolaji shot his question.

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‘Why are you this pretty?’ He plastered a frown that was a tad menacing, swallowed and stared intensely. ‘Or is it just the tequila?’ he asked. She seemed to welcome his tequila inflated sarcasm and rewarded him with a light smile.

She stood up in a titillating aura and attracted every other man that could see her within the club. She had the shape of asterisks as she walked towards the dance floor. Bolaji could hear people whisper distinctly, that girl in red has it locked down pretty bad. He stood up with a staggering temerity and downed the little drink remaining like it filled the cup and whispered to himself, ‘both of us will die today’. He was drunk and felt his body wasn’t in synchrony with his intents, so he sought coordination even when it was needless because from where he stood to the dance floor wasn’t upto ten steps.

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He shoved his hands into his pockets and bit his lips red. The Dj swerved between music genres.

‘Somebody call 911! Shawty fire burning on the dance floor! Oh oh oh!’ And Bolaji reacted by nodding stylishly to the beat and applauding whoever changed the music in his subconscious.

At that instant, he felt a persistent vibration at the left pocket of his trousers and he brought out his ringing cell phone. It was his wife, Shalewa.

With every fibre of his drunken being, he rejected the call. He poured out a smile to disguise the distraction and increased his steps towards the girl on the dance floor. A sudden measure of courage hit him as he approached her back and slowly placing his hands on her waistline like a sly tailor, taking a measurement and tapping current. She didn’t startle like she saw him coming but kept moving to the music slowly. Bolaji whispered from behind, almost licking her ear like a happy puppy, ‘I never knew dancing with someone without knowing her name can be this alluring, I’ll do it more often I guess’.

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She turned, putting on a menacing face, she coiled her arms round his shoulders and replied with a wet whisper ‘Ibietroko, my name is… ‘ Bolaji fell into a trance. He was at the office, but the place looked abandoned for years. Vultures and hawks ravaged the place and paperworks went helter scelter but he sat on his office chair with the same clothes he wore to the club, faced with a laptop and looked extremely flabbergasted.

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He could hear footsteps that define a normal busy office hour but could see no one. Tried calling out by shouting on top of his voices but it was like he couldn’t even hear himself. He perspired profusely and it was evident on his white shirt, it got wet. Soon there was a distinct sound, a specific footstep walking and sounding towards where he sat. He tried to lift himself from the chair but one could say he was so stuck on that seat like it were a hardcore destiny. As he struggled, he stared into the distance, he saw dust, he saw papers take flight in a brownian way and he saw the lady in red.

Her image was shaped like a moving hourglass and she possessed unpaired glory. Bolaji recognized her in split seconds and the only thing that could race was his beating heart. A voice whispered softly as she approached ‘both of us will die today’. He was finding it difficult to fathom the scenario because the lady in red had a file, a handbag and a briefcase. She seemed very professional.

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She open the glass door, walked in and closed it. She smiled a little and sat opposite his table, crossing her legs like it was a prefixed appointment.

As she spoke, the only different thing about her was her accent. It appeared as an entirely different dialect. She placed her handbag on the table, the briefcase on the shambolic floor and the paperwork on her laps. Now her elbows were pinned to the table as they supported the back of her palms under her mandible.
And she said ‘I want to per-form a trance-action’.

Bolaji was poised to die. Just at the apex of the terror, his phone rang again and it was, once more, Shalewa his worrisome wife. As soon as he noticed the call, he saw himself at the club again, the lady in red still whispering to him.

‘My name is Ibietroko’.

To be continued….

Obinna Uche Uzoije
Grandberry Archibald


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