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MELTING IN THE HEAT. (Aids Week, Gambia 2004)This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by stephen west | |
| Tuesday, 12 August 2008 | |
The cooling, light wind, sneaking in from the sea, perhaps signified a change in the weather. Although he was not particularly overweight, his waist tended towards a thickening these days, and he seemed to sweat more than he used to. So the draught was welcome. After all it had been so hot and humid for many a long week. At the café he had eaten a decent steak, swigged at a couple of beers, and caught the second half of some Italian football on TV. In the escalating breeze he felt the fabric of his colourful shirt un-stick itself from his back and a vigour, an unusual energy came to him. He paid his bill, hailed a taxi and headed for the night-club. He arrived just after midnight and the place was filling up. But he found a stool near the corner of the bar from where he could survey most of the room, and he ordered a brandy and lemonade. The music was not really to his taste. Too samey, too guttural, too violent. Not really music, he thought. But the aircon was on overdrive and the view of the young ladies dancing under the flashing lights was his reason for being there. He did like to watch them dance. He enjoyed the swing and sway of it all. The uninhibited, free, yet naïve sensuality of rounded bodies accentuated by tight dresses in clinging fabric. "Are you alone?" "Yes. Are you?" "Not now!" She was tall. Perhaps four inches taller than him. She was slim, but fleshy not bony. The red dress into which she had wrestled that evening, strapless, embracing every curve of her body and exposing blemish-free brown shoulders. As she sat on the stool next to him the slit in the dress parted and she crossed elegant knees and smooth legs. Her hair meticulously braided and tied with red ribbon. Her face an absolute Nubian delight; long lashes, small perfect ears, eyes so deep and brown yet bright enough to put the moon to shame and that heart-stopping smile, She reached over and touched his forearm, her long fingers ring-less, her nails, the same red as the ribbon and the dress and the shoes, very gently digging into his flesh. "I'll have what you're having". She said, and a giggle, almost a laugh trickled from her ebony lips like melted chocolate. He started to sweat again. Not much. But a trickle down his back, a damp feeling round his waist and a few blobs of moisture on his brow. She sat so near to him, her right hand resting on his knee. Her breast touched his arm. He sensed the silky friction of her thigh against his thigh, and savoured her sweet breath against his cheek. He was aware of his stiffness, his excitement straining against the buttons of his Chinos and he was sure that she had noticed, He was also sure she had noticed the dark wet patches appearing under his armpits. "I would like to take you home" She said. "I would like to take you to my home". He said. "That is what I mean". She said. He closed the gate as the taxi pulled away and then opened the front door. He cursed National Electric for their most inopportune power cut, and lit a couple of candles. He regretted that he could not switch on the fan and the very thought seemed to cause him to perspire even more. He led her to the bedroom, and as he looked at her by candle-light he removed the handkerchief once more from his pocket to swab his forehead. "I want to take a shower" she said, nodding towards the doorway of the en suite bathroom, and she slipped off her shoes, reached behind her back and unzipped her dress. The smooth material whispered from her body and floated gently to her feet. She stepped out of it, nearer to the candles, and just before she vanished through the door he glimpsed the solid softness of her polished mahogany nakedness. The candle flame, and his eyes, stroked her breasts, caressed her smooth stomach, flitted over her thighs and squeezed her buttocks. Weakly he said, "I will go out for some air." And he was not sure whether she heard him or not. He sat down on a cane chair on the patio, unbuttoned his shirt and un-tucked it from his trousers. The tail was sodden. He slid out his arms and threw the shirt aside. More sweat ran from his shoulders, over his hairy paunch which all but hid his belt from view. He un-buckled his brown sandals and kicked them off.
And then he started to melt.
He thought little of it at first. Except an embarrassment. Perspiration was pouring from his face and neck. His shoulders, chest and arms were twinkling in the pale light of a three quarter moon. He ran his fingers through his greying hair and was somewhat perturbed to discover that his toupé had stuck to his hand. He quickly concealed the hair-piece under the chair. The tumescence he had enjoyed since the club had gone. The feeling in that area now was a nagging, uncomfortable pain, unbearable pressure against his groin. Considering the removal of his rupture truss to be expedient in anticipation of possible imminent activity, he tried to stand. For one terrible moment he thought he had evacuated his bowels, there was such an oily, squelchy feeling round his buttocks. He looked down. The lower half of his body seemed to be dissolving and slithering through the slats of the cane chair. He reached for his belt to loosen his trousers. His fingers collapsed. Bent in all directions when he tried to grasp the buckle. He lifted one hand in front of his face. His fingers were like half-burned candles, Slivers of skin, flesh and bone dribbled down the stumps creating waxy runs of rancid residue on his elbows. He watched in wonder as his wrists collapsed under the weight of what remained of his hands, one inwards to his lap, the other outwards on to the wicker. He stared at this hand as it slowly seeped through the gaps in the cane and dripped to the tiles below. His head slumped forward and his glass eye fell out. His good, left, eye watched as the startled prosthesis sank into the reeking sludge of his chest and vanished. He tried to scream but his tongue merely rolled round his mouth for a moment then burst out through his left cheek. He could see it, under his good eye, twitching and then dissolving into a foul pink morass which glided down his chin. His trouser legs appeared to be empty. He strained with one eye in poor light and could just detect that the tiles on the patio beyond his seat were covered in a fetid slime which oozed from the bottoms of his Chinos, a grey-white marbled slurry which gradually spread before him and then slithered over the edge of the step into the garden below. He managed, with great difficulty, to glance to his left once more and he realised that his head had sunk into his chest and was now down to the level of the arm of the chair. As his brow melted and re-congealed over his nose his false teeth dropped out and sank into the oozing liquidised sap of what was left of him. The girl, shoes and dress back on, stood over the gaseous, vaporising remains. She gingerly fingered the belt of the trousers, avoiding the stinking, sticky puss of their recent occupant. She located the back pocket and removed the leather, fold-over wallet with two fingers. "Toubab". She said in that velvety, melted chocolate way. "I need some fares to get to my home". As she closed the gate behind her it would be doubtful if she had heard or understood any reply. The puddle of sour mucus had given out one final, bubbling, sobbing fart as the roaches approached their feast. Toubab; noun. Literally: "A man who owns himself". Colloquially: "White man"
Rider added 18th. August 2008 West Africa is generally poor. I mean like $390 gnp. Poverty, not just greed or chemical need, creates prostitution. There is a minority in any society who will cash in on this. And there is such a minority here, and I emphasise minority. The local culture does not always help. A young girl can arrive back from the beach with a mobile phone and her uncle will take it from her and tell her to go back tomorrow for another one. The man's success at the pick up, despite his false bits, is perfectly acceptable here. The girl is also acceptable; she is looking for a mobile, or a bag of rice for the family. This time she has a narrow escape. But note that, even through this slime, she is not averse to seeking her expected reward. People with AIDS die from ordinary viral or bacterial infections. That is a horror. I wanted to simplify it and make the man's cause of death something that we have all suffered from at some time, heat. H. Copyright 2008 stephen west |
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