Subsea Retreat for Captain Blood
Lapotidunity is the best thing goscolene, my favourite spirit, can do for anyone. Therefore, I avoid downing any more than two shots with joy and not sorrow. How can I not celebrate life despite living a life more tempestuous than El Niño? Drinking or rumming, it’s all the same thing depending on whom you are doing it with.
Nevertheless, today though, I am drinking alone, and I call it rumming. I do it every Friday evening in the best place for it ever, Davy Jones Locker. I am here waiting for yet another return of Paramole in a few days’ time. It’s his birthday soon.
Earlier, my plan was to take my private submarine on a tour to the Taiwanese waters to see what is happening over there. My submarine has medicine so is torpedo proof, capture proof, and has stealth capabilities.
However, the ocean is rough outside, and the winds blow both stormy and salty. I pity the ships with a cargo of inexperienced sailors. And those who have sailed for years on end but could never learn the ropes. Such men though living take pride in whom they sailed aboard ship with, not in their ability and discipline as sailors.
In fact, shirking, harming, betraying, drinking, singing, dancing, smoking, shouting, smiling, and looting only makes sailing easier. They have nothing whatsoever to do with sailing and nothing to do with oceans, seas, rivers, and brooks. Still, it is never too late to be a sailor. All you must do is sail, yes, sail but properly.
The sudden sparkling of ultraviolet light brightens the white surfaces and items in the cave, at the entrance of Davy Jones Locker. Even the candle lights and hurricane lanterns look sparkly. I know who it is. It must be him, Captain Blood. I wonder what he wants this time. His recent storm of controversy over Nigeria’s elections did not turn out so well. I have no problem with controversy and public anger. Someone needs to stir it up. Stir it up, sings Bob Marley. Well, CB is not little and not a darling now.
Indeed, I look on and I see Captain Blood approaching. He is wearing an all-white caftan and wearing a black beret. I assume it is a quarter reg (regalia). In each hand he is holding a keg. Also, I guess one of the kegs holds Bloody Mary and the other palm wine. But I cannot help with the kegs because I have pain all over and lie on a mat covered in thick blankets.
“O CB, Yohana!”
“Keep your greetings.”
“O CB, what have I done?”
“You know what you have done.”
“I no do you nothing.”
“Die it! Speak properly.”
“I am a Nigerian,”
“If you have something salacious to say about me your English is flawless. Now you want to speak broken English with me. You think that is right?”
“O Tortuga, I was born to be wrong, onekindishly.”
“What is wrong with you? You look off colour and your face sobs with pain. When are you ever going to get well?”
“Lack of sexual activity. I would have been well by now.”
“Come back to the flagship then,”
“Being here in Davy Jones Locker is an unintended great blessing. I like sailing here.”
“Then don’t complain about lacking sexual callisthenics, you protean misfit!”
Suddenly, CB’s eyes are shining like a torch on quaaludes. Then another light illumes Davy Jones Locker saving me from a scolding. Again, I look on. The surprise of the moment is Paramole walks in to join us. CB’s anger mode switches to the joy of a pleasant surprise. Both men embrace each other in wordless joy. Otherwise, this is the first time I see CB happy. Paramole turns his attention to me where I lay.
“O Wrong Something,” Paramole says.
“O Paramole, it’s great to see you,” I say.
“Beautiful to see you. Are you still ill?” Paramole says.
“I too can’t believe it,” I say.
“Wow!” Paramole says.
“You came early. I was expecting you would come on your birthday,” I say.
“With Oduduwa and Biafra tendencies growing on deck, the urgency is pressing. I had to see what we can do to resolve the problem. It is far too lubbish for our existence as SDs,” Paramole says.
“This is why my UV is so dolce. Osweetime. When I predicted and tried to curb this very matter with my missives, I was told I love trouble and asked if I was the only one that sees the truth. As an Edoid man, I am ready to be referee,” I say.
“Paramole, what do you find likeable in this psychotomimetic subversive?” CB asks.
“Indeed, CB, he has been in Davy Jones Locker for too long. It is getting to him. You know how old congealed semen affects men. Please don’t mind him.” Paramole says.
“Just before you arrived, I offered him the opportunity to return to the flagship, but he refused. Imagine that.” CB says.
“CB, I think taking him into Tortuga is the best way to rehabilitate him. But only after Carlo Gambino or Amino Acid flood him with babes. As a matter of fact, he likes Tsunamis and almost Tsunamis. Aged 45 to 59 .” Paramole says.
CB laughs with energy.
“Will he accept?” CB asks.
“Okay, Wrong Something this is the best offer to return you will get, I guarantee you that.” Paramole says.
“O CB, O Paramole, I am a dangerous someone. If I get to Tortuga within six months there will be a mutiny,” I say.
“You what?! You mutiny me?! Dangerous to who?!” CB asks.
CB’s eyes leave they sockets stretching just shy of a centimetre in front of my face shining like meteors briefly before returning to their rightful places.
“Flat!” Paramole yells.
“I am already flat.” I complain.
“Flat on your belly and on the floor.” Paramole says.
“Does the word or name mutiny intoxicate you?” Paramole asks.
“Only when I am drinking Chivas Regal,” I say.
“Have you been smoking high weed?” Paramole asks.
“No. only Silk Cut Silver” I say.
Chivas Regal and Silk Cut Silver are his constant tipple and tobacco. Hence, I am just being lapotidunious and cheeky.
“Very funny.” Paramole says.
Afterwards, Paramole and CB take their seats. CB opens one keg, and he pours out red wine. Paramole inspects the other keg, and it is burukutu. He is not having burukutu neither am I. Furthermore, Paramole has four hip flasks of Chivas Regal in his cargo trousers. Straightaway, I grab my Fanta bottle of goscolene. I suspect burukutu, fermented sorghum, has anti-aging benefits. Otherwise, I would have sworn CB has never even heard of it.
Without either man asking me, I make a declaration.
“The Ikes and Agbaras among living men must confront each other. They must fight this time. After the good fight they shall learn the meaning of Sense before Slogan and Anti-Convention. It shall be a great lesson. Not the trickery these men are practicing,” I say.
“Die it permanently and stay flat. Keep your opinions to yourself!!!” Paramole says.
I wish I could see CB’s eyes. Nonetheless, it’s time to take my second shot of goscolene for prayer’s sake by sucking it from the Fanta bottle but I spill some on the ground.
In silence I pray, “Gbogborima, Gbogborima, come and deliver me O! And save me from the wincheous Ike-Agbara war brewing! Nor should it ever touch Davy Jones Locker. Because, nothing concerns me with the fight. Amen!”
Meanwhile, lapotidunity now comforts me. I am in the Spirit!
The tale shall continue…
Be good, not Lucky.