Christmas is Red

The Creeps

"Wow!" echoed.

"And now, the CIA has called him to America to come work for them."

"What?" "how?" "serious?"

Paul waved a hand in dismissal, laughing. "It's not true o. I already told you that the guy is a fool, don't listen to him. It's just, one particular man that needs the device that is inviting me."

"But he's military." Chinedu insisted.

"Yes, but it has nothing to do with the government."

"Too modest joor." Chinedu shook his head, seeming annoyed.

Amara, a quieter, married colleague among them who had been quiet for most of the time became particularly interested in Paul's story and began to throw a round of questions his way, a round Jide did not care to participate anymore in. He was paying attention now, he was more attentive to everything and everyone, and in that moment he was lost in timeless trance, in a trance awakened by his sixth sense. Hidden behind his glasses, he could study anyone and his environment without making anyone actively uncomfortable.

Today was going to be special, tonight was going to teach people a lot of lessons because of what he had planned out for them. Many, especially those who looked down on and underestimated the likes of him would learn to think differently.

He looked on at them as they were lost in their five senses, staring into Paul's story and basking in emotions of desires and hope and lust for fantasies.

Jide had to admit, he wished they had asked him about his writing career. He had planned to begin his mischief sooner, he had planned to exploit the fact they thought him to be the little creepy weirdo in their midst.

If they had asked him about his writing career, he would have told them that writing was not as it seemed. He would have told them that writers were psychopaths who stayed up all night figuring out the most novel way to kill off each and everyone of their old classmates in revenge. He'd tell them that there is a ridiculously effective way to kill someone with a normal house hold cooking tool - a corkscrew, for example - without anyone suspecting murder.

He had planned to say these with a big smile and chuckles, as if oblivious of how uncomfortable he made them, but they had robbed him of this moment.

It was okay. The sun would set in two hours and he would begin. But first he needed to eliminate Paul and Amara. They would have to be out of the picture before the best night of their lives would begin.

He took a sip from his tumbler, rinsed his mouth and swallowed. He put on a smile he knew made people shift nervously in their seats and loosen their shirt collars and adjust their belts. It was the most creepy sort of smile which he perfected over years.
His lips curved into a slight smile, but not his eyes. His eyes remained ominous and deep and prying and in the shadows of the partially tinted glasses, disassociatively from the curve of his lips.

He remained this way all through the evening.

***

Towards dusk, Jide stood by a corner, the farthest location from the center he could find. It was not because he feared the center and the heat, passion and desires and competition and insecurity and - ugh! - life. No, he stood there, because rather than participate and wallow in the provoking scenes designed cooperatively by humans in attempt to indulge in socially accepted and reverenced opium; he would watch.

From his vantage point, which provided a sectoral view of the campus hall floor, he sipped juice and watched the reunion unfold as cliché and as predictable as it could best be - littered with 'old friends' who 'missed' one another and have only come together to 'catch up' and 'not to compare themselves in sense of individual accomplishments'. This is supposedly the only reason they also monitored one another's social media accounts. The music blared louder from the speaker this time and people had to shout over the electronic beats just to hear one another incomprehensibly. But this was no time for talking, this was dancing time as stipulated in the programs plan. But of course, Amara would not dance. Being a fresh bride, she had to be extra careful not to send the wrong messages, to not attract the young boys in the hall who drunkenly humped anything that would let them. She shouted over the music, in a gossip instead to Mmesoma who laughed most times and fixated on her phone the remainder of the time. She was beautiful and had long eye lashes she batted, to - with the help of a deep scowl - discourage boys who dared contemplate approaching her. It was efficient and she took pride in this, but Jide could see - he could sense beyond her façade to see her insecurity, he could see beyond her defenses in her guarded posture, in her eyes that averted gazes, fixating on her phone - that she felt vulnerable and self-conscious for a fact known only amongst the folks in this town; for she was nothing like the Instagram Twerk Celebrity, Cassandra Clare who supposedly lived in Dubai last summer as claimed in her Instagram and twitter accounts.