The 8th Floor

The 8^th Floor.

Chapter One

There are some days when I am picking up Christy for one of our date nights that I would prefer to wait for her in my car. How on earth would anyone build an edifice 8-floor high, yet the elevators never worked a day? I simply cannot understand. And you guessed it, her two-bedroom apartment is nestled on the 8^th floor! Every tenant avoided that floor!

The last time I took the stairs; I lost all decorum after I slumped at her front door. She said, “its exercise and its good for the heart.”

To make matters worse, there was nothing pleasant about using the stairwell. Dozens of the concrete steps had chipped edges, whilst the poor lighting and dank smell made the experience a tortuous one.

“God punish the maintenance company.” I groaned as the muscles of my legs started to twitch with the stress. I wish I knew what they were called, at least I could direct my curse with some potency.

I wasn’t the only one taking the stairs by the way, there were teenagers hurling buckets of water on both hands as they climbed upwards drenched in sweat without taking notice of the well-dressed gentleman that was careful enough to avoid splashing water. They just trudged on as though their feet upon the stairs were part of the percussion of their lives, telling so much of emotion in their rhythm.

I would hate my parents for life if they lived in this god forsaken building, let alone adding the chore of fetching buckets of water up the stairs every day.

Bastards!

I imagined my mother trying her best to pacify me in a calm yet firm tone.

“Don’t worry Badejo, its only the third floor, what if we lived on the 8^th floor.” Imagine how the first phrase would sound and then a pause for effect before the second phrase served as a warning of some sort. And she meant it. “What if we lived on the 8^th floor?”

Damboroba shege!

Depending on the time of the day, one would find all shades of women with cheap scents that assaulted the nostrils, many of them trudged on chewing gum like their lives depended on it.

I ran into only a few men. They were either dressed as handymen or cleaners. There was nothing fancy about the residents of the building. I still cannot fathom what Christy found irresistible about her apartment.

Did I mention that the staircase was so poorly lit that on the staircase to the 6^th floor I could bet on where to find teenagers making out in the dark. They moaned as though they were alone and had no care in the world. They humped away like dogs on heat. That floor stank the most!

There was no way on earth, that I didn’t stop to catch my breath during the long climb. First, on the third floor.

“Yes! Third floor. Is that too early to take a short rest? The steps were poorly constructed such that the height of one differed from the other.”

The short rest often lasted about thirty seconds; a time I spent cursing the maintenance company or swiping through Instagram.

Most of the time, I took the second short rest on the fourth floor. I had to, if I was ever going to stand the chance to race past the 5^th and 6^th floor in a flash to avoid the stench of sweat mixed with marijuana with a hint of dankness, that stop was necessary.

The sex-crazed teenagers were most time humping away, oblivious of others on the stairs or cracking sultry jokes or smoking marijuana. They were always there.

“Bros, drop something for the boys. We dey hia.” The voice, a familiar voice slurred so badly one could swear he was barely awake. He had helped me to change my flat tire on a Monday morning when I was hurrying to meet with a potential investor for the digital product I was building at the time. That was 5months ago!

“Sweet uncle, drop something” I felt nothing but pity for the teens as they wasted away in the dark stairwell of the Maranatha Building.

Oh yes, the building is called The Maranatha because it used to be owned by one of the defunct churches that reigned supreme in Lagos some years ago. Big church with over five thousand members causing ridiculous traffic every Sunday along the popular Ikorodu road in Lagos. All that ended when the founder was found to be a ritualist. This was pretty much the way most of those incredibly oversized churches ended up. Lots of noise, the reigned supreme, enjoyed the media attention and then a scandal and then the sheep scattered as soon as the shepherd is arrested.

“End time things.”

The building was one of the properties retrieved in the scandalous aftermath. No wonder it wore the drabness of neglect.

Without much thought, I often took the last short rest on the 7^th floor, this time lasting about two minutes. My jaw will come unhinged as my nose can no longer supply enough air to pacify my tired lungs. Then I would curse the company again and again.

By this time, Christy’s phone is ringing off the hook several times as I remind her to leave her door unhooked by the time I arrive at her floor.

It was pure torture!                                

But today, I am determined to wait in the car while Christy took all the time to get ready. I called her fifteen minutes earlier and got no response. She was usually like that when she wasn’t ready. It was my cue to indulge in social media. She only answered her phone when she was locking her front door whilst asking me to turn on the air conditioner in the car.

Usually, it took thirty minutes wait in the parking area where I could see her apartment if I stood outside the driver’s door, but I had lost track of time when I dialed her phone again. Facebook can be so distracting, I only clicked to watch a video and here I was forty minutes after as though in a trance after watching one reel after the other.

It was getting late anyway; the red-carpet event had commenced at 6pm. We were forty-five minutes late with a travel time of one hour to the venue that wasn’t considered in my make-up plan.

 There is no running faster than the Lagos traffic would permit!

Darkness was starting to slowly creep in. It was time to call Christy again.

I shook off the distraction to listen to Christy’s phone as it rang unanswered again. That was the moment I stepped out of the car to look skyward at her window up on the eighth floor. Not sure why I did so, perhaps to see if the lights were still turned on in her room; it faced the window. It was an effort in futility.

“What is going……” I pondered.

I hadn’t finished the sentence when a confetti of broken shards of glass pouring down from the sky hit the roof of my car violently followed instantly by the ringing scream from a body diving headfirst from the top of building right into my car.

There was nothing left of my Toyota Avalon. The vehicle was levelled to the ground on impact with imploding shards and splinters of glass ricocheting in every direction. Everything happened so fast that I could never be prepared to react faster. I only managed to scramble to the pavement a few meters away in absolute terror.

Confusion, fear-stricken, wounded from the debris from the impact and momentarily blinded by dust, I propped my body up on one elbow.

“What just happened?”

Dazed and disoriented, I could hear people running away from the scene and screams from those bold enough to look at the contorted body on the once fancy moon roof of my car.

I sauntered to the scene of the incident in dreadful pain with my heart beating rapidly, fearing the worst. The wild thoughts that danced around my mind kept me dazed and disoriented enough until I looked at the face of the victim.

Christy’s opened and glazed eyes stared at me lifelessly as her contorted body heaved its last breath.

I must have fainted, because when I came to, I was no longer on my feet.

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