Chapter One

It was dead of the night, even the spirits had gone to bed. The last of the Norfolk-Virginia Beach bus, Q25 dropped Emeka, a 22-year-old African man at Edwin Drive, the Mount Trashmore bus stop. He flipped a traveling bag onto his shoulder and walked up the mountain, stepping gallantly on each of the 72 steps that led to the peak. As he walked, he began to unbuttoned his thick winter shirt and pulled off his belt. Half way up the mountain, he yanked his bag on smooth green grasses toward the direction of Lake Trashmore. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, took it off and dropped it on the grasses facing Kids Cove. He unzipped his bag and brought out a set of African dashiki and a hand made wrapper. He unzipped his pants and removed it. He put on the African dashiki, tied the wrapper and put on the red cap. He stashed, in a haphazard manner the removed clothes into his bag. From the side of the bag, he picked up a walking stick. He stretched it out to its full length and began to walk to the peak of the mountain.

As he walked up, a 22 year-old white girl named Dana came up the mountain behind him. She walked in careful steps almost as if she was floating. Her steps rarely bent the smooth grasses of Mount Trashmore. Round her waist hung a tape recorder with the microphone cord in her hands. Emeka walked further up and at the peak, he symbolically located the direction to the West, by dramatically pointing at different points in the sky full of stars and a full moon. Facing the Atlantic Ocean he began his incantation.

I am a monk for sale. But who will buy me? Of what use will I be? I only know of the garden, how to weed and water. I also know about prayers, how to kneel and mutter, nothing of use on the street of the world. No doubt, I will be on sale for a very long time.

I am the missing sonnet. I was fourteen when the rhyming stopped. Look into my eyes, see the last drop of ink. Though stiffened and discolored, it is yet to dry. I became a free verse, snubbing gravity, just falling freely, getting bruise by the air. Now shapeless like amoebae, hopeless like a dead stream, I face reality for trial. Jungle or just, the justice won’t be sweet.

He raised his hand into the air in a violent gesture. He gazed deep into the night sky as if his favorite childhood toy was hanging there. Then he began to shake in a violent emotion.

Have you looked around this court, hunt by mystic sounds? Have you seen the tracks, the bridges and the lanes all made of different colors? Listen! You will hear the drum, the piano, and the guitar all singing a dirge.

By man’s excesses on nature, designer children head towards the dark ages. By man’s inhumanity to man, computer hearts pray in the name of the dinosaur. Man dreams of partying in Mars while humanity collapses at his feet. Man invokes democracy from the shrine of injustice. Man awaits tomorrow while he runs into the past.

Doom is what remains of the day. Fugitive shall every man be. Heaven knows I won’t be around when the Iroko tree falls. I must have walked away.

All the people I know fight to be themselves. But my own battle is strange for I do not know myself. Every one else wishes to get whatever they want, my own struggle is to know what it is I really want. I turn down good and bad as defined by anyone else. But I am not sure I know the difference between the two.

I disbelieve the bible. I wish there is no God. I can’t make a simple candle. Still, I feel like a super being. No one truly understands me. All they know is my first name – Emeka. I am not what I am. I am not what they want.

At another end of the mountain a 27-year-old woman, Nikki, was walking up to him. Her steps were creepy. She carried a handbag in her left hand and in her right hand was a sharp kitchen knife. Meanwhile, he continued to incantation.

Common things of life I fear - like women, wine, and worry. Empty things of life I adore – like favor, fate and fame. No one should trust my smile. The more I smile, the more I try to cover up my tears. The more I smile, the more I try to wipe away my fear.

I know I won’t go on like this for much longer. I must try and find out whatever it is I am. One thing I know for sure. I am somebody.

Emeka wiped sweat off his forehead. He readjusted his wrapper. This time, in a clam voice that was more subdued, Emeka continued his incantation.

Nikki was much closer now. Dana saw her and her face displayed dark curiousness.

So why do they wish to lock my dream up in a box? Are they afraid of my dreams coming true? Or are they just jealous?

They are contented with the following the weather, paying the psychics to lie to them. But I simply look beyond those clouds. I travel to those lands where the Gods are born. The fare is cheap – just shedding off all the weights of this world. But they are in love with jewelers, guns and authority. They dig into the heart of the earth, thinking that heaven is underneath those soils.

I told them I know where it is. They disbelieve me. I left them alone. So why don’t they leave me and my dreams alone? Let me continue on my fantasy path, when this race is over, they shall count the mileage and see to whom the compass points.

Forget the fact that that for the past twenty-six years I have been looking for a girl - a girl who will discover me - an adventurer with bruised feet and hardened hands – a genius who can make real images of my dream world. I am looking for a big heart, overflowing with love – tender piercing eyes radiating care. I am looking for someone who will cut my bush, till my virgin soil, plant a seed, her seed, my seed, our seed and groom it as it grows. Someone who will till, plant, weed and harvest –someone with whom I will dine with until I die.

I am human. That is why you see tears dropping from my eyes. It is raining and my room is cold. I cannot help but think how good it would have been if I had someone with me - someone to talk to, laugh with; someone to hold.

I have been around this world for long. I have not grown horns on my head. I don’t even look dangerous. I don’t smell poisonous. Still, nobody loves me. I shall be alright. One day this ejected gift will become the most coveted prize. Whenever I think of it, I come to the same conclusion. Nobody comes near enough to understand me. Nobody watches with keen the riddle that my life is. Everyone wants something simple, something fast. Even artificial smile will do. Nothing needs to last.

So I remain lonely in a world full of people. I get buried in sadness while everyone laughs. I used to be hopeful, about dreams coming true. I used to believe that tide comes around and goes around. Now I can only trust the agony in me. It wasn’t like before and it won’t be like this forever, I swear.

I guess nobody has ever begged to be loved as long as I have. Nobody has experienced loneliness without bounds, year in year out. Nobody has ever cried with so much depth. Yet nobody cares.

Everybody dislikes me. And I don’t know why. I smile, just like others. I try to listen when someone talks. Yet nobody loves me. Nobody will be my friend. I think I will kill myself and push these miseries away. But before I do that, I want to let the world know it did me wrong.

Emeka heard footsteps and swiftly turned around. He saw Nikki and froze. He opened his mouth but words failed to come out. Nikki smiled mischievously. She yanked her handbag to the ground and began to dance, erotically. Emeka remained in his frozen posture. Dana was creeping up the mountain towards the duo. As Nikki danced, she moved closer to Emeka. The closer she got, the more relaxed Emeka was. At arm’s length, she stretched her hand and gently touched Emeka’s face. With every touch, wider and wider smile appeared on Emeka’s face. Nikki began to dance away. She motioned Emeka to follow her. Emeka began to walk towards her in gradual and measured steps. Nikki danced towards the spot where her handbag fell. As the duo approached the bag, Dana tried to scream but no word was heard. She tried to run towards Emeka but she was stuck on the same spot. Nikki reached the handbag, grabbed it and flung it around Emeka. She embraced Emeka. Behind Emeka’s back, she put her hand into the bag and brought out the knife. Emeka enjoyed the embrace, with his eyes closed and mind lost in the scent of Nikki’s excited body. From her position, Dana saw the knife and struggled harder to reach Emeka. Nikki quietly took the knife drove it into Emeka’s chest, saying, “You bloody illegal immigrant.”

Emeka screamed. And fell hard on the floor. As blood gushed out of his chest, white ducks surrounded him like vultures, swimming in the pool of his blood.

Inside his room in a depilated house on Virginia Beach Boulevard by Park Avenue in Norfolk, Emeka violently woke up. His body was full of sweat. He seemed confused. He placed his hands on his chest as if to stop his fast beating heart. He looked at the clock. It was 12.00 midnight. He picked up his grandfather’s picture framed by the nightstand. He placed it close to his face and began to mutter inaudible words. His intense mood was interrupted by a phone call. At first, the phone rang and he ignored it. Then, he paused as if to think if he should answer. He crawled to the other end of his bed and took a look at the caller ID. It showed the name Dana Williams. Emeka picked the phone up.

“Hello, Dana,” Emeka said, panting.

“I am sorry if I woke you up” replied Dana, apologetically.

“I would have called you if you didn’t. I just had a terrible nightmare where I was stabbed on Mount Trashmore.”

“Stabbed by whom?”

“One girl.”

“Someone you know?”

“No!. I have never seen her before.”

There was a pause on the line. Dana, in her nightgown shifted to the edge of her bed and reached out to the dress table and picked up her chaplet.

“Are you still there?” Emeka asked after what looked like eternity.

“Yes, I am. I will pray for you,” Dana replied.

“I need more than prayers,” Emeka suggested.

“Will you then let me come along when you go to Mount Trashmore?” asked Dana.

“Women are not allowed to witness such things.”

“Did you tell that to the woman who stabbed you?”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair? The way you treat me like a piece of toilet paper? An object to be remembered only when you are pressed. You know why I called? I called just to say that I am tired of this. I have been up all night thinking about this – his you and I. You don’t want me. I understand that. I should respect myself and stay away from you.”

“I thought we have talked about this before. I thought we both agreed to be friends – just friends.”

“Well, that’s not enough for me. That’s not enough anymore. And I have run out of patience.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Yes, it is. Especially now that you run up Mount Trashmore to make out with another woman only to have her stab you.”

“It was just a dream.”

“So you were making out with her when she stabbed you?”

“Not really like that.”

“What was it like? What?”

“It was crazy. Just like a dream, you know.”

“You know what, forget you. Just have a night sleep.”

Dana hanged the phone viciously. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Emeka picked up the phone, began to dial her number, half way, he changed his mind. Simultaneously, Dana picked the phone and pressed redial. Phone rang in Emeka’s room. He picked it up without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello.”

“Can I ask you just one question?”

“What?”

“Was the woman black or white?”

“What woman?”

“The woman of your dream.”

“Do you mean the woman in my dream or of my dream?”

“Whatever. You know what I mean. Don’t avoid my question.”

“She is white.”

“I knew it. I knew it was because I am black. That’s why you don’t want me. You Africans always come here and leave you sisters and begin to mess around with white women. For a moment, I thought you were different. But apparently not. How do you usually put it? Whatever a snake bears never ceases to be long.”

“Here we go again.”

Dana hung the phone and began to sob. A drop of tears fell of her cheek. She opened her eyes. Lying beside her was Emeka, deep asleep, a piece of paper on which he was writing a poem before he fell asleep rumpled beside the pillow. Dana picked it up, strengthened the paper and looked at the poem. Death on Mouth Trashmore, it said.

Their home was in far away sea
Until someone stole them with baits
Planted in a puppet lake
Beneath a new mountain
Made of trash covered with sand
Deceiving grasses and flowers of doom
No one raised an eyebrow
Not even the newspapers.
Recovered from shock
They tried to swim
Hoping to find a way to their homeland
They tried and tried
From one end to another
Until the resin from buried trash
Filtered into their decorated lake
Their lungs imploded and they died.
Then Virginia Pilot screams:
Death on Mouth Trashmore.