Recently I wrote something. I confessed to a crime. You know how social media is nowadays, don’t you? Word spread around, and soon they got to me. They’ve always wanted me, so here come, they took me. I wasn’t afraid of those folks. I hated their guts, they couldn’t wait for me to surrender. They were cowards. They came with guns aiming at me; I wasn’t armed, I don’t even know how to throw a punch. They ruffled me up in my living room, my wife and my baby girl watched. They were scared. Suddenly, to them, their giant father figure was being defeated and nothing they could do. You were too young, barely can you remember. Handcuffed, I made it through the corridors of the prison cells. My cell was the last one in lane. Before I got there, the inmates in their cells murmured in monotones. Hands cleft out, like I was fresh meat, and them the savages. Word had spread around in prison. “A writer was being detained.”. I don’t know how they felt. But sure, they were all excited, I don’t know why. Maybe a mixture of feelings.
During lunch hour, like new comers behave, I sat alone at the epicentre of the dining hall. Soon, they all flooded up my space. I was scared out of my wits, but something in me kept me in check. I had to play cool. Even though, their faces were scarred. They were gigantic, and voices coarse. Is this what prison do to people? Then one inmate, I didn’t see him coming, grabbed me by the collar, lifted me high, and dropped me on the table. Cheers, yeah, that’s all I got from the viewers. He raised his fork up, and suddenly the murmuring crowd went shush!
“Yooh, we have a story teller, who wants to hear a story!?” He Spoke.
The crowd responded as expected. So they Sat down. And it was like I was in an arena, and people watched.
I sat there on the table. With unfinished lunch.
“Don’t be scared lad, jus do what you does best, tell us a story. Just a story.”
I stared in them eyes, like I was face to face with an enemy. My heart raced like a deer, escaping it’s demise. Their eyes revealed nothing, but rage, a sense of lack of emotions. What did they want to hear so desperately?
Sweat trickled on my face. I grew nervous. What is it that they wanted to hear? Come on guys, my life is on the line, what should I tell these guys? ?
*Voice 1:* I know… I know what you should tell them
*Me:* what would that be?
*Voice 1:* tell them about the confession you made. Tell them why you got arrested.
*Me:* No, No!not that one. That one is highly classified. These guys need something sweet, maybe like killing someone.
*Voice 2:* that now will be easy. You’ve always ended up killing characters in your pieces. Go ahead, tell them of tragedy.
*Voice 3:* I really don’t think that will work out. These guys are tough already. Look at them. Look in their eyes. They yearn for something. They want to feel something. So make them feel something, make them soft like babies.
*Voice 2:* ( to voice 3) Aaah, here we go again, why do you always have to be soft? In this world you won’t survive. This is the new reality. We no longer are in the library. We are in a prison. If this lad here, get this story wrong, even a tad bit, then we’ll all be doomed. He dies, we die.
*Voice 3:* (to voice 2) you’ve always been an inferior. Who does he listen to most of the time, you or me??
*Voice 1:* I still think we should tell them the reason why you are here. Maybe that way, they’ll see we ain’t bad people as they.
*Voice 2:* (to voice 1) you too?? Didn’t your mom tell you that the good are the food for the bad. They use people like this lad here, to feed their muse. (To both voices) can’t belive I’ve been living with you guys under one roof since.
*Me:* guys, Y’all are bickering too much. Let me figure this out, and see how it will play out.
“Come on lad, stop wasting our time, tell us a good story, or we carve out your brain and read the stories from there..”
The sun still high at noon. Outside the prison walls I could smell the heat from the earth’s surface. Wind blowing with breeze laced with dust particles. Far from that, in another horizon, vehicles hooted. It was a busy street. My mind was crossing the road. It could feel the taste of freedom. The taste that from now on would begone.
*Me:* Do you ever think about your freedom sometimes? I know that’s a stupid question to ask here. For some of you have been sentenced to life imprisonment. But unto you, do you ever think of your freedom?
Eyes were now fixated on me. Mouth grinning, fists clenching, stares so hard at me.
*Me:* Have you ever loved a woman poetically with every ounce of breath you ever got? To have that same woman fight for you. Not for sheer crazy reasons, but for the right reasons? ?
No response came through. Some held their chins as though thinking of their past lives. They had that contemplative look in their eyes. The wind blew cool.
*Me:* No? Not even one of you?
A guy finally came through, with melancholy in his face.
*Him:* used to love someone. Till I didn’t. Stopped seeing me the moment, I came in.
After him, more followed. They had the same exact stories. One had his woman came visit him, guess what, she was pregnant with another man’s child. Some, lost it all.
*Me:* I have seen men yield their swords, and point it at their enemies. More than once, I’ve stood at the edge of the sword, and occasionally, it has pierced through me. Sometimes, it’s not just the sword, it’s the bullets. Sometimes, not just those, but words too. Ever heard of those words? Those that cut through you ?
Silence! A man spoke.
*Him:* the last time I heard such a word, was my first time in here. I was in the shower. A man walked in. “Turn around. Bend over.Give me your behind. Give it to me, you virgin of a man…” He said.
The fellow inmates, responded with, “I’m familiar with that too” kind of facial expressions. Then he continued.
*Him:* that neanderthal of a man had a toothbrush laced with a razor in his mouth. He blinked not. Grabbed me by my neck. Bended me over. I didn’t go down before a fight. See, that’s what these folks here do to new blood such as you writer. They’ll pretend they like you at first. Till when darkness falls. You’ll see writer, you’ll see. You see this mark here writer? (Pointing at his neck). This scar reminds me of that day. I see you have a fresh skin, maybe you’ll get one of these tonight.
Lunch break was over. The bell had rung. As he finished speaking, He walked away. The rest dispersed, leaving me desolately rooted to the spot.
Thinking what am I doing here. Thinking what will happen if darkness comes. Why did my muse for stories take me to prison of all the places? I know, you must be wondering too. I don’t blame you if you doubt if I am legit or not. You can question me if you want. But Moments from now on, I’ll walk back to my cell. The locks will be shuttered. Freedom will seize to exist. I’ll lie in my bed, and my cell mate might be the rogue inmate. When the lights go off, who knows what he will do? Even though I am not much of a puncher, will I go down even if I fight? God, why always me?
“You idiot there!!”
A voice. I ignore it.
“You, I’m calling you. Are you that writer??”
“Oh yes, I am. Sorry couldn’t hear you.”
“I’m the warden, I’ve read lots of your stories, on Facebook. WordPress. And the most recently your confession… you’re a good writer..”
“Thank you sir,”
“Its nothing. Its me to thank you. That’s why I wanna set you free. To continue inspiring generations..”
(Laughing)
“so is that how you got from prison??”
“Yes, just like that!”
“No, daddy you’re a liar. ”
“Now you guys are calling me a liar? Ask your mom. She knows the story.”
My wife, holding on to our 3 months old baby, she is just smiling. My 6 year old daughter is seated on my laps. Accusing me of being a liar.
“Honey, don’t teach your daughter to be creative, she’ll be a good liar as you.” My wife says.
She has sold me out. Now my daughter, hysterically laughing, knows that the prison thing was just a charade.
“Daddy, you’re a liar.”
“Come on Cindy, I was just telling you a story. You were so tiny, you can’t remember. It happened to a friend.”
“Which friend. .”
“The one you never met.”
“I know all of your friends. Daddy.”
“No you don’t. Can I tell you something, Cindy.?”
“Yes Daddy.”
“See, the magic about writing is making imaginations feel like reality. Making the reader to live every moment of it like he was there on the same spot. If you master that, you’ll be the best of them all. But, always inspire.”
“Thank you Daddy. So you lied?”
“Now, go brush your teeth, and I’ll tuck you in bed.”
“Love you daddy.”
“I love you princess. ”
“She will take after you, you know…” My wife staring at me smiling, says.
I chuckle. I walk straight to her, kiss her on her forehead. And say,
“I love you so much honey.”
****
As written by Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
A Heart_Art_Poetics productions
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