Wretched people can be wicked sha. The joy they feel when someone they consider privileged than them is in trouble can only be topped by a head-splitting orgasm.
Parked somewhere, and less than an hour later, I’ve got a very flat tire. Its 6:15 PM and all I want to do is haul my battered self home after a long day, and not changing a spare. Besides, I noticed my trousers aren’t the most comfortable for that kind of task.
A vulcaniser is on the opposite side of the road. I pass there every morning to work. I pass there every evening back home. I put some air in my tyres occasionally from that same man. A stout creature, with such shredded body, his veins look like they may pop out of his flesh any second. How could I have known he had Luciferian instincts too? What wrong did I ever do to him? Besides, if recession is just a word to a certain Minister, is it the same for him too? Why didn’t he want to help me for a fee?
“Emechiela m”, I’ve closed shop, he says. Of course, I could do the task myself, but why bother when the money I’d be parting with will be nowhere near the discomfort of dragging my tired self through that exercise. Isn’t that why we are up early chasing this money like mad people; so we can be able to get others to do certain things we are too lazy, or too tired to do?
Vulcaniser insists. “Sah, I don pack my machine inside.” At this point, it dawns on me that this one is a pure hater. Ezigbote onye akpo! What in the carajo is “I have packed my machine” when I’m not asking for air. Dude kept talking about his machine even when I’m making it clear all he had to do was change the spare, as I’ve got my own jack and wheel-spanner.
Maybe he wanted me to plead. Maybe he wanted to feel important. To feel powerful that one time. Probably thought I’d be stranded without his help so it can make him happy. I could see that look on his face; that suppressed joy of calculated devilry. Oh well, I got down, and did the job myself. If only to wipe the smug look off his face. I’m sure he wanted to wake tomorrow morning with the car still lying there, looted, a skeleton of it’s old self. Mmadu ga abu ogbenye, biakwa buru amusu. Tufia!
