SANDS OF TIME.(A true life story)

9:30PM.
THE PRESENT DAY.
IBIAM STREET.

"Hello. I need to see you," a voice quavered over the phone.
The woman on the other end seemed to fight her fear to gather sounds she shouldn't have at first.
"Urmmm. Okay Ma'am. But is it really a good idea that late? You know it's not."
"Allow me worry about that Dave. Melany Hotel. 11:00PM. A taxi would wait at your street's junction by 10:30. Don't keep the driver waiting."
Sat on a stool in one of the rooms of a dilapidated building which had seen better times in its glory days is Dave, fresh from a bath in the makeshift bathroom at the rear of the building, with lightly towelled strands of short hair dripping of water. A maelstrom of thoughts swarmed his mind as he feasted on the directive he'd been given by the caller. Caught between his fingers is a transparent shot-glass filled with liquor that twinned water in looks.
The caller had given Dave no ground for a haggle of words with her last sentence. Pure military fashion! Like every other time this one woman had had to have Dave, no two venues ever saw more than once of their nakedness. Melany Hotel this time. Dave battled his memory on where the fucking place could be. No place he'd been to matched the name. Fuck it! Perhaps the liquor had messed with his brain.
Beside the foot of the bed, on a table clustered by books which had not seen fingers for ages and an empty packet of Marlboro cigarette and a candle with half of its length burnt away, stood a bottle of vodka. Half of the bottle's content had been gulped with the devotion of a pent-up alcoholic. That didn't deter Dave from pouring himself a shot-full. With him each shot was always the last one, before another last shot which never ended until the last drop had been gulped, and the bottle hurled at the wall opposite, like he did every other time after any 'Mother' out there called.
Dave was on the verge of giving up when Ben crossed his mind. Ben was the popinjay kind of guy who knew hotels and happening places as bonuses for his lifestyle, the kind of loud flashy thug who gave other thugs a bad name. Dave buried his fingers into his back pocket, clutching on to a phone seconds later for his efforts. A few taps on the screen and Ben's number was on the screen.
"My nigga. How your side dey go?" Dave's voice was heavy and low, forged deep to paint him a thug.
What he got as feedback wasn't sounding 'Ben' when he first heard the voice over the phone. Ben was the guy to give every detail of what new pants he'd shifted to a side or grass he'd been puffing on or pills he'd been popping before he got to the main details of the conversation. Ben was different this evening. His voice was low, his words probably slurred by too much high from one of those youthful parties filled with impetuous young men and skimpily dressed girls probably - he never missed them.
"I dey my guy." Silent seconds ticked away.
"You dey run your matters. Where Melany Hotel dey abeg?" Dave queried in his most casual of voices.
"So as you dey pass Abak road go see Gift for Ukanoffot your eye you no dey see Melany Hotel for the road? High man."
Ben was caught up in a husky laugh on the other end. Dave hung up on him. Lord knows his ears would have known no peace if he'd lasted a second longer. As much as Ben loved to talk about his sexcapades, he wasn't the guy a friend could bed someone he hadn't been told about without his brows being raised. How could Dave even word to Ben the fact he had a 'sexture' slated to kickoff 11:00PM, a match between him and another sweaty naked body, the dedicated and committed spirit-filled wife of Pastor Miracle Bassey who also doubled as a sexually frustrated woman with thighs spread already probably for his member's intrusion 'cause her husband stopped filling her?
Not a night for thoughts! A glass-full, two more and Dave was on his feet. What remained in the bottle should be gone in three, four lustful gulps if he drank from it. He was unaware he'd had his shirt on until a moment later when he'd fumbled with the buttons. Taking his time out to undo the uneven buttons, strings of images wafted through his mind. The images sawed into his mind's eye a reminder of how it all started in a small dilapidated compound somewhere along Oron road, twenty years ago when he still ran around naked and played in the sand with neighbours.

...To Be Continued