The ‘First Letter’ -Less Story
The – Less Story
My phone’s keys miss the first letter. I need to send texts.
My life hinges on missives I need to send in the next few moments. It is of the highest import; those texts must get to the receivers within the next few hours. Else, I will be the most recent corpse in town. So I sit down, bending my impressive intellect to the issue obstructing me.
It is useless trying to phone. I do not possess credit – I hope to utilize the free texts on the HTC device in my possession put there by the network I subscribe to. Motherfucking MTN.
So there I sit looking off into the horizon beyond, processing thoughts joined with concepts. Stuck in trouble I need to get out of. Options. Options. Do I possess those?
Do I go jogging to my enemies, delivering the missives myself one by one? Do I rest here; holing up for my obviously predestined end? Is there something else?
Something to write-off the judgment coming for me?
Oh. Forgive me. I see your interest in this…this trouble I keep going on concerning.
It interests you; no?
I represent the interests of one drug peddler on these streets – representing his interests in the role of delivery boy. I get the bundle, run with it from Ikoyi to the suburbs of Surulere plus environs, get the money. Run with it to the boss on Opebi, then move with cuts off the money for the boss’ soldiers on the lower level of the food string. Sounds simple, no?
Well here is the problem.
My deliveries work with time. If I do not show up by so-so time, the premise of something out of design occurring is to be concluded upon; therefore one extreme step previously settled on by both groups is to be moved on. By every sign, I do not possess the power I need to get to the first closest delivery point owning to the collection of vehicles between my present position connecting to where I need to be. The congestion is overwhelming to the point I get out of the vehicle to sit on the curb, viewing the beyond horizon.
The sunset is stunning.
It looks to me like it’s the sun of my life setting. ‘Then the condemned being consumed his concluding dish’ were the words on my mind.
But the spirit which keeps men trying in the eye of overwhelming odds stirred to life in me. I will not go down like this; I think to myself. I refuse to.
How much more convenient it is; telling over doing. I smile to myself, but rise from my sitting position. If I must go, then let it be on my feet. Not otherwise.
I get to the vehicle, step inside. Gun the engine once more. Suddenly my phone rings.
It is the boss. Ignoring protocol.
“Problems, boy?” he utters the moment I pick.
I become overwhelmed with relief. It is completely unexpected.
Therefore I do not get wind of the kill shot. The shot which ends my life.
If you’re reading this line right now I need a favor – you probably did not notice that the story did not contain the letter ‘a’, either by itself or in a word. I need you to please help confirm that this assertion is true – that one sneaky ‘a’ did not slip past me; in the body of the story that is.
Thank you and have a splendid week!