DAY 6: Painting Up A Storm

(Photo credit: George Rex)

The woman wore an XL Barça FC shirt over a faded pair of skin-tight jeans. The XL was necessary-she was XL herself. Her tremendous tummy bulged under the weight of her unborn child.

I wondered if the baby, when s/he was born would be a boy or a Tomboy. I did that almost every time I came across a pregnant woman, trying for a prediction. She smiled at me as I stepped into the elevator. I smiled back and said, “Top floor” when I saw her fingers poised at the buttons. Top floor of the Lagos Courts building was floor 44. A long stretch if you gotta go on foot all the way up or come all the way down, if the elevator was jammed and it did some of the times. A lot of the folks working here would rather wait it out staying on their floor all day until the lift started coughing again after the engineer who usually, was busier than a one legged man in a 100m sprint, cranked it up.

But those were the couple of times it ever happened. It was a rare occurrence, though. Why, you could count those times, tick them off the fingers of your right hand. The chances of occurrence were so thin nobody paid caution any attention whatsoever. If there was power failure (which was a favorite pastime of the power company) you could hear the standby gennie roar to life immediately. A true friend that gennie was.

There was this one time it worked all day all night for three straight days. There was this storm, storm of the century, if there ever was one. The Dailies called it, The Mother of All Storms and I don’t have to tell you but, you can always trust the papers to dish out appropriate names to sadist flavored events.

The storm came on the heels of a strong mighty wind and blew off; no uprooted (it was like nature gave fingers to the storm, big, strong, terrible fingers that dug into the soil already softened by the rain. Dug deep in there and tugged out the foundations of the poles. The way I heard it, two or three poor folks were electrocuted by live wires which were twisting and writhing like snakes in the overwhelming tide of the ensuing flood. Two of the victims died in their own backyards. The wires were right there between the undergrowths but they didn’t see it. They were toast before help could get to them.

On the third floor, a few guys got into the cage with us. They were going up. None as far up as I was. We exchanged pleasantries.

The Lagos Courts was an office building which doubled as a residential apartment; a forty-five story structure. It was the highest building in the vicinity and somebody miles apart could steal a peek of its highest point. I paint. It’s what I love to do. The 44^th floor doubles as my studio and resident. I redesigned that floor after I rented the apartment then, hired a construction guy-some really talented kid-to help me out with the actual construction stuff. The studio is separated from my home with some kind of board. It’s a real artwork.

I cherished that place it almost became an addiction. I used to tell myself if I ever got around to have a girlfriend or a wife I’d never let her in that place. I might just rent another apartment someplace far removed from here and then, I’ll convert the whole of 44th floor into my studio/gallery. Wouldn’t want no rug rat in the cloak of a son messing up an unfinished canvas.

The elevator lost some of its cargo on its way up as they debarked and then it slid shut and the cage continued its casual, noncommittal, I’m-not-in-haste upward climb.

When we approached what I think, was the thirtieth floor, thunder rumbled.

The sound was deep and it caused a stir and some muffled shrieks from some of the people with me in the elevator. The light in the cage winked out for the space of a millisecond and then winked back on again. The cage paused only for a second but the passengers could have sworn it took close to an hour, and then it spurted back to life and carried on its gradual ascent.

Then some weirdo started to tell some really… well, weird story. I believe it’s partly the reason I’m narrating the story you are reading. I mean this story would not be necessary if this jiggaboo at least, it’s how I see it, if this rambunctious, tight ass bro never had the bright idea to shoot his story and just kept his mouth shut.

            ‘There was this time this kind of shit happened once,’ the fool began. ‘And there was this guy, he was all the fuck alone in this elevator. (The dude was dressed in a leather jacket and pants and had pointed cowboy boots on his feet; he could easily have passed for a member of a motorcycle gang.) Like nobody really bothered to check the elevator car when the shit flew cause everybody that was somebody was accounted for. Nobody, I am telling you this gospel truth shit, knew this guy was trapped inside this thingy. And he beat on the door literally, pounded his knuckles numb on it. But, it was a lost cause. He was caught between two floors in the elevator shaft, if you catch my drift, when the power went out.

‘It went down in an office complex and in the wake of the tragic showdown a lot of the office guys were too busy saving data and all bric-a-bracs they had open before the UPS gave up the ghost or blew up perhaps.

‘It was some really bad storm, if you catch my drift. A really bad storm that’s been beefing some high up tree or something really tall and arrogant, like perhaps that mighty structure where the guy was trapped in the shaft. That’s what my dad used to say when I was a kid: Any ill wind comes not but to bring down every high thing. The genny wouldn’t pick up after the lights went out and that was probably a Divine favor showered on the lot in that building. The machine could have exploded on the house.

‘The lightning (The area was known for its violent bouts of lightening.) came with a fury that evening. Lightening announcing thunderbolts. When the lights came on again, it stayed on the breadth of a second and it was just as well. The power in that building was enough to light up an entire city-transform it into a glittering hieroglyph-and just like that it was gone. Everywhere was clothed in darkness again.

‘Some fool got to talking, claiming how some of the lightning got trapped in the power circuit and ran through the entire structure’s cables or something as dumb as that. I can tell you that one moment of power surge blew a lot of fuses and blew out some monitor screens. But what about our guy trapped in the elevator car? Well, what about him? Anybody care to know what happened to him?’ (Not a single word from anybody in the cage. Even though, at this point we secretly wanted to know. We felt a kind of relationship between the guy’s situation and ours.)

‘This guy had his goddam hands on the steel doors of the elevator car, screaming and whining like a drowning puppy, at the time the wild current came a-running through the building. The electricity tore through the cables, lit up the inside of the car like an ignited matchbox with fresh match sticks still inside and then wreaked havoc. Death rode with the guy inside that car; it was his last ride in any elevator.

‘When they finally jimmied the elevator doors, your man was royally grilled. He was visiting a staff of one of the several companies housed in that building.’

When this motorcycle groupie finished his story, none of us could wait to get out of the lift. Each time the elevator halted or somebody got out on his/her floor, the remaining passengers tensed up. The expression on their faces seemed to say, Delay is dangerous. It was a statement etched on the faces of all in that cage. Yours sincerely wasn’t exempted.

Like I said if it wasn’t for that hippy’s story, I wouldn’t be here knocking heads with you, dribbling spit off my mouth at this hour of night. It’s a bedtime horror story and I’m doing my best to get you scared witless. We kept well on our way well, we had no say in the matter did we? Mr. Motorcycle cult jumped off on floor 33, abandoning us to the dread of his story. It was a relief to see his back that much I admit.

The way we associated with each other could have been the result of a kind of bonding after the terror breeding dude told his story and left us with our worst fears. We appeared to be holding on to each other’s hands in that place. Maybe I’m dreaming this up but I think we almost had a prayer circle formed in there some place along the way.

Finally, it was just me and the pregnant woman. Still remember that over-burdened lady I met in the car all alone, don’t you? I have it in my memory she was going to the 43rd floor. You’d recall the one time that thunderclap boomed and the lights zonked out? It happened again. This time the thunderbolts were really fierce and the lights went and darkness ruled for 120 seconds.

The pregnant woman practically leaped into my arms. Well, almost leaped, she couldn’t really do that, not in her condition. But she did freak out and clutch my arms. Her finger nails dug a trench in my flesh. I shrieked in pain, I couldn’t endure the torture.

Eventually, we came to floor 43 and the door was opening. The lady turned to say goodbye and somewhere along the line of words would have been nice meeting ya. She stepped towards the door as it started opening.

The lights died.

This time I knew. You know, there’s that level of knowing that floods your consciousness with such force of awareness and certainty that you know something is true even though there’s no plausibility vouching for it. I felt more than I knew that lady wasn’t gonna make it through that door. I don’t know what got into me. A bystander watching the scene from a distance could have misinterpreted my action. But damn I would have misinterpreted my action if I had to watch me do it without the strong intuition that pushed me into it.

I didn’t give a rat’s ass what the lady might say, too. I remember the expression on her face. The memory of that split second is as bright as sunlight in the month of May. I believe she thought I was too scared to be left in the cage by myself. If there was time in all that frenzy I’m positive she would have suggested I come with her and then take the stairs to my apartment.

But, it wasn’t a time for making speeches. Not then. The second I pulled her back into the car, the door slammed shut and the elevator dropped with maddening speed through the elevator shaft. The lady and I just checked into hell on the same shift.

The lights were out and never came back. This time I just knew I was in for something real deep.

The lady went limp and slumped on the floor tugging on my shirt with such force she ripped it at the edges. Alas! My fortune, the lady was in labor. The horror came with a pestle and pounded my courage to dust. It was like New Year’s Eve in hell.

I almost wished I’d pushed that lady out the door instead of pulling her back inside. But of course, she would have been smashed potatoes if I did that. I always carried a torch on me back then, still do. I plucked out of my pants pocket and pointed at the lady.

I didn’t know what else to do.

            “Ma’am,” I began in an apologetic manner. “You’re gonna have to hang on until this issue is resolved and I can get you to a doctor.

            “I can’t hang on,” she bawled. “I need a doctor, now!”

Well, I was an artist. I could paint the situation if I had to. Paint up a storm to save every stillborn if that was the price. Yet, I couldn’t assist a woman in labor, help her deliver her baby.

I knelt beside her and tried to say something nice.

The explosion must have ripped off something big because it rocked the entire structure. The lady screamed and fainted. I reached for her head and then stopped.

I heard crying. The voice was tiny.

The baby had arrived right on schedule.