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It's a room filled with darkness. I lay like a log of wood in my bed, flanked by my phone and pillow. You can feel my tiredness from the way I snored.

It's the New Year, the first day of January. The time is thirty minutes past four o'clock in the morning, as my wall clock revealed.

My phone rang, "Bring it on," a song by the now-defunct Psquare duo was its ringtone.

Agonizingly, I peered at my phone distastefully and wondered which human, born of a woman, was calling me at that ungodly hour.

I sat upwards, motioned my hand in its direction. The call had ended, so I grabbed my phone to view who called.

Then, it rang the second time, an unknown number.

It was.

I took a first glance, a second, then a third hard look. My heart froze, my pulse paused, I let the phone go as I realized the number started and ended with triple six.

I stood from my bed, but my feet were transfixed on the ground. Bubbles of perspiration hung on my face, hot sweats ran down my spine as I remembered the warnings the man of God had dished out concerning persons bearing that number, about how they're going to appear after the rapture.

My mind raced, faster than Usain Bolt can ever be. My thoughts were like a flood; beneath me, I could feel a rising sensation like one who held within the embrace of his bowels the swing of planets through space.

Has the rapture occurred?

Have I been left behind?

Is it how it's all going to end?

Have I missed heaven? I questioned myself.

I unbolted my door and ran outside; to my shock, the lights were out, and the hood was dead silent. I ran to my neighbor's door, banged on it several times before I remembered they traveled home.

I was screaming as I ran inside; the phone rang, again. I faced it downward and knelt before the wall to pray.

I was sweating and shedding tears I hadn't shed in two years profusely.

The pictures of my escapades on New Year's Eve came in flashes: the church service, the gulping of a few bottles of liquor, the thirty-minute episode with two pleasure providers, and the lie I told my cousin that morning.

"Lord o!" I cried out.

"I have erred, Father. I have strayed; forgive my sins. Is it the few bottles I took? Is it the buttocks I grabbed forcefully? Is it the kiss I stole after church? The fireworks, the frolicking that has landed me in this situation. Lord, please forgive this poor soul of mine."

As I prayed even in tongues, the phone kept ringing; my hands became a tap, and my bladder could hold itself no longer.

I finalized my prayers with no hope or conviction, opened my eyes, and summoned the courage to pick the seventh call amidst tears.

My shivering fingers sliced through the screen and held it fearfully to my ear.

"Hello," I said faintly.

"Oboy nawa for you o." The voice was damned familiar.

"Olugbenga!!!!!" I screamed and heaved a sigh.

"I don dey call you since but you nor pick, wetin happen?" He queried.

If only he had known the predicament he got me into with his call and the peace of mind it brewed into my life with the new realization.

"Egbon, I just wan wish you Happy New Year."

"This year go better for all of us," he said excitedly and hung up.

"Chai! Gbenga!! Chai!!".


© Stephen Toochi.

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