MJ, your
Next-floor Neighbour
From the Give-Me-Back-My-Muse
Series
By ZWAHU, Y.E
May 22, 2013
You are alone in the
theatre, or so you think. It is eerily dark... not too dark really, but surely
not bright. Yet you are not afraid. Infact you are most comfortable, for the
theatre is home to you: a second home. Then the song begins to waft through the
air, at first gently, like the distant fragrance of the Queen of the Night; then it envelopes the entire atmosphere and the
atmosphere becomes it and it, the atmosphere.
Then, as if from out
of nowhere, MJ emerges on stage and begins to dance his consummate dance to the
music. You are not surprised because, wherever he emerged from, you know; for
you have seen him so emerge before and you have never ceased to be enthralled
each time he emerged. He is infact your next-floor neighbour. And it is always
to this song, “The Comforter has Come”, that he helplessly emerges. You have
heard the song before... this same arrangement and rendition, yet you are
hearing it for the first time. The arrangement is almost nebulous. The
orchestration and rendition are spooky yet celestial, and the way MJ connects with
it is almost esoteric. He dances to it so passionately; gyrating and doing the
groin grind concurrently... seamlessly. He moonwalks, kicks the air, punches
the air, screams with eyes tightly closed, then straightens up while wiggling
his right wrist and fingers and pulling up his left trouser with the other hand
in one smooth move; he breaks into a sudden run with his eyes now blazing. He
stops at one end of the stage to the side, he takes the karate slight squat
posture with his right foot, which is behind and on which he rests, positioned
vertically and his stretched forward left, horizontally. His right hand is outstretched as he snaps
his fingers to the cryptic rhythm of the music which only MJ, and MJ alone, can
make out while his other hand is again holding on to his left trouser at the
thigh. He is stamping the floor of the stage with his left heel with the toes firmly
glued to the floor. His socks are now more exposed, for they have always been,
owing to his above-the-ankle pair of trousers, and you notice that they are as
red as those of a Bishop whereas, when he first emerged, they were white! It’s
all not strange to you. He is screaming. Everything combines together to give
the atmosphere a trance-like fit. And all of a sudden, WHAM...! MJ is on fire.
It is a conflagration. It is pyrotechnics. You are transfixed. You are
enthralled. You begin to shed tears. Your heart is seized by joy; pure joy;
warm joy.
Then you see a man on
stage, from wherever, with a water hose. He sprays MJ with water and there is
no longer fire, instead, you see MJ’s face partly smeared with make-up things:
you had not noticed that he had any make-up on. You had not noticed that the
music had died down either; everything seemed alright and normal to you. Just then
a woman, who turns out to be the manager – or something – of the theatre barges
in in a fit of hysteria, thinking that all hell has broken loose. MJ gives her
a reassuring look and a mischievous smile, the type he gave to the cast and
crew of the “Liberian Girl” video, and leads her to the sound system by the
side and presses the play button again. The spooky yet celestial sound of the
song “The Comforter has Come” filters out again and she too understands.
All the while you are
watching this spectacle and wondering to yourself what the world is missing by
not having, as you do, MJ as your next-floor neighbour... all the free
performances! You finally decide to compose a post for your Facebook and
Twitter accounts: “When your next-floor neighbour is MJ, you are...”, but then
you trail off, yet you know and are sure that your proposed post is complete
and so you reach out for your Tab to make the post but you realise that it is
at home, your ground-floor apartment beside the theatre whose next floor is
MJ’s. You rush out to your ground-floor apartment and at the entrance you
realise you have to go up a flight of stairs(!) to get in. The area around the
staircase is dark and dingy, with the stairs themselves looking quite
uncompleted; with aged cement and dust generously layered on them. Your nasal
cavity had been blocked by phlegm and you had, while rushing back home, instead
of blowing out from your nose, pulled it into your mouth and had collected
quite a handsome amount of it. On reaching your dingy stairway you spit out the
quantum of phlegm to one corner unto the wall. Just then you realise that there
is someone, whom you don’t quite know and really don’t care to know, sitting on
the railing midway up the staircase. You are only slightly embarrassed at being
caught red-handed spitting around carelessly. You make your way up.
Just then you hear the
word “Daddy”, as if from a distance. It is clear and almost urgent. You are
sure the call is directed at you. You do not know how many times you had been
called but you are sure you heard the “Daddy” at least once; perhaps the only
one time. You gradually realise that you are lying down on the floor of your
sitting room. You actually had been sleeping on the floor every night for over
a week, thus denying your spouse of her God-given and God-ordained right to the
warmth of your body, and yourself of the
dizzying scent of her hair: all owing to a nagging backache that has
treacherously lingered, which you had picked from your mattress. You have
promised to change that mannerless mattress since vultures still had hair on their heads but you have not yet gotten
around to helping yourself. You stir awake, half awake really, and the room is
dark but you sense a presence... somewhere around the two-seater. You call out
“Nana..., Lovely”, thinking it’s your over three-and-a-half year old daughter,
but there is no answer. You call out yet again and no answer, but you notice
some slight movement in the two-seater. You begin to become more conscious and
then you realise that it is your eleven year old daughter.
“Why are you out of
your room?” you ask her. She doesn’t say a word. You suddenly are fully awake
and anxious. “Why are you awake?”, for it is the dead of night – or is it the
dead of morning? Whatever! It is already calendarly
morning: it’s that nighttime that happens before the daylight that happens
before the nighttime that you call night.
“I am afraid, my room
is dark”, she finally responds meekly. You realise that she probably was awoken
by a nightmare and is scared of staying all by herself in her room. Actually
the whole house is dark because NEPA has resumed duty. You take her back to her
room, put on the only living rechargeable lamp for her in the room, and then
light a candle in the hallway, leaving her door open just to assure her you are
watching over her.
As you are taking care
of your little girl you realise that your life with MJ had been all a dream.
You lie back down; recall that the last Sunday was Pentecost and you sang “The
Comforter has Come” in Church; and remember that it had been raining with
violent thunder storms when you went to sleep as you rehash your phantasms...
and doze off again.
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