BY ADEMULE DAVID OLUWASHINA
Biliki, beautiful Biliki, I saw you last night, when you swiftly jumped down your bed, and vanished into the toilet. You slammed the toilet door behind you, your slim hand groping for the squarish switch pinned to the white wall of the toilet. As soon as your thumb found the switch, you flicked it, and a flood of light, which magnified me, beamed from the fluorescent bulb which perched some distance above your unbraided hair. You quickly unzipped your neat nightgown, and pulled down your pink panties until they settled on your kneecaps. You jigged about a little, and settled your spotless buttocks on the water closet, a sudden calmness consuming your sweaty face.
A few moments later, a chain of shrieking noise rang out from between your buttocks, and a suffocating colourless fume pervaded the toilet. I was irritated, your fart smelt like rotten eggs, but it was a fragrance to your sentimental nose. And then, I remembered how embarrassed you felt on the day Dad farted in the car, how you abandoned your food when Mum farted in the kitchen, how you flung your mouth open in wild bewilderment when Prof. Taiwo Martins farted in the lecture hall. I recalled all your holier-than-thou disposition, how you failed to acknowledge that your anus, as well as the anus of kings and queens, fire missiles in private and public places.
Biliki, brainy Biliki, I hope my account isn’t embarrassing you? Soon after you fouled the air, you grimaced with pain, tapping your right foot on the tiled floor, slapping your gleaming thighs with your soft palms like a woman in labour. Your eyes quiveringly circled in their sockets, your teeth gnashed, concomitantly bitting your lower lips. You almost lured me into believing that the water closet was a kind of hostipal bed, and that you were in labour. And, perhaps you succeeded in hynotising me, after minutes of fierce struggle for your dear life, you delivered a grisly baby, a long solid substance, dotted black, yellow body, with big brownish head. It landed on the water closet, and the creamy liquid at the base splattered all over your buttocks. You didn’t mind, you heaved a sigh of relief, celebrating the first cup that had passed over you.
For the next few minutes, smaller bits of babies climbed down your anus, landing on the stagnant stream beneath your buttocks. They were cooperative and peaceful; they didn’t make you to scowl, to tap your feet violently on the tiled floor, to slap your laps, while your teeth gnashed. You smiled, as you glimpsed and enjoyed the floats and sinks of your yellowish babies on the floor of the water closet.
But Biliki, bright Biliki, your euphoria was soon shortlived by another beastly baby. As this baby came, you glowered and groaned, your fingers stroking the strands of your dark hairs. And I wished a doctor was there to help you out of your self-inflicted agony. Yes! You were the cause of your own torment. Yesterday afternoon, you loaded your stomach with lumps of fufu stained with egusi soup and bits of kpomo. So, you ought not to be amazed that you faced difficulty trying to birth the reincarnation. While you swallowed those lumps of fufu, I perched at a corner, watching in disbelief, that you Biliki, who strode gracefully on the street like a pageant, and spoke British-accented English like a BBC presenter, would secretly sit between the walls of your room, sneaking lumps of fufu down your Europeanised throat. Also watching you, my mind travelled to recent past, how you lied to your boyfriend on your first date at Mr. Biggs, that African meals nauseated you, that you preferred popcorn and ice cream to fufu and amala. Biliki, babyish Biliki, you told all those lies to win the admiration of your British boyfriend, whose stomach cannot hold more than two loaves of bread and a cup of tea. Your boyfriend is a Briton, and you are a Nigerian; his ways are different from yours, and yours are different from his. So, why did you discard your values in public and embraced them in private? Why did you force yourself to eat that concoction of raw vegetables called salad, when you actually preferred fufu and egusi soup with goat meat? Now, the betrayed fufu had decided to torment you, a price you have to pay for denying it in public and kissing it in secret.
The monstrous brown baby, the reincarnated fufu, terrorized your anus, making your eyes to burst out in tears. You whimpered louder, jerking on the water closet, hoping that your jerks would palliate your pains. And your hope came alive. Slowly, the cracky head peeped from your anus, followed by the slim body, and then the tiny tail, which tumbled into the stagnant stream beneath your buttocks. Immediately, a blanket of relief covered your sweaty face, and you felt a bag of cement lifted off your shoulders.
The other babies that came were benevolent, sparkling up strokes of pleasure in you. And finally, their coming ceased. You stood up, and reached for a roll of tissue paper lying on the toilet cabinet. You curled the tissue paper across your left palm three times, and finally put the roll to rest. Afterward, you ran it up and down the cramped passage between your buttocks, dumped it into the water closet, and it blanketed the bodies of your swimming and sinking babies. In a flash, you yanked something I could not figure out, and all the babies, the swimming ones, and the sinking ones, vanished into the unknown. You pulled up your pink panties, and zipped your night gown. Soon after, you twisted the neck of the tap, and it coughed out water, from which you washed your hands with soap and disinfectant. Then you flicked the toilet switch, and a faint darkness, which shrank me, fell on the toilet.
You strode out of the toilet in an unusual masculine gait, sank into your mattress, buried yourself beneath your blue bedspread, and slept off. You thought nobody saw you right? Well, your assumption was wrong. I saw you. I’m that dark figure which lurks around you. I’m your shadow. I saw your last night when you were struggling through that awkward moment.