“Two-eleven pm,” I screamed at George leaving a hint of annoyance in my tone. Even checking the time for anyone could tamper with the integrity of the story which was bursting forth from my soul. Almost running down the hallway to my block, I calmed myself. I must be gentle, I must be gentle, but I must be fast too before this idea leaves me. I have been barren for far too long.
On this day, not even my forgetful sanguineous self would stop me.
“Out of my way, Eric.” I made it past the chemical engineer. I had reached my block. I knocked on the door of my lady boss and entered without being asked inside. “Madam, please, I need some A4 sheets.”
“Ei! So you want to use all of my A4 eh? How many times have I told you to go and buy your own A4?”
“Madam, but you, if I don’t worry you, who else will? Oya, let me worry you small,” I goaded her on playfully. My life’s work depended on how quickly the woman gave me those white sheets. If she delayed, the story just might seep out of my head. My words put a smile on her face and she made a move to get those papers. The moment the papers were ready for the taking, I snatched the bunch out of her hands, whispered my thanks and made straight for the Chemistry laboratory. I whipped a coat from the door of the Chemistry laboratory, put it on and took a stool. After cleaning it, I let out a deep breath.
I sat down, placed the papers all in a bunch on the table in front of me and watched my fingers. Oh God! they were trembling, restlessly waiting to let pour the magical words in a style, tone and language which only belongs to the race of writers. I took out the bic pen from the front pocket of my lab coat and allowed the pen to shake in my hand.
Before the ink touched the paper, I said a prayer, a prayer to Harmony, a prayer to Perfection, a prayer to God, “In nomine Patrice, et filee et spiritus sancti, Amen.”
WRITER: Emmanuel Twumasi