The Imperial Order and Beautiful Daughters of the Empire

Oh my God! This dirty bastard—sonofabitch. Very disgusting. He disgusts me. Look at him? And now, take a closer look at me. (She looks herself in the mirror curiously and turns around to face Key Gucci’s Bob Marley’s—uprising canvas art, hanging against our bathroom’s wooden wall. She then, slight but gently, turns her neck to look back at her naked self in the mirror). How beautiful of me! The almighty, goddess, beautiful-Christian-soul; the mother of all that is dead and alive. The alpha and omega!!! What does he think of himself in comparison to—say, my being? What else could he be—if not a good for nothing lazy? What a self-claimed hulk of a man scared of old tiny little cunts? This lazy happy-go-lucky. Very useless man! The dirty-coward-bastard. When was the last he went to the gym? See how fat he’s grown ever since we moved in together? Yet look at my body. A closer look at me, please—take! (She takes selfies. She selects the perfect ones and posts them on all her social media platforms. She waits for followers’ reactions. Hundreds of like on Facebook, thousands on Instagram. Rains of texts on Snapchat and Pinterest) That’s not a bad start! (She walks out of the bathroom to her custom-made walk-in wardrobe designed and built [personalized] to her requirements. She puts her phone down. She takes off her bathing towel and stares at herself in the mirror. She turns to her right-hand side where the Rebrilliant’s Cosmetics Storage Rack With 4 Small & 3 Large Drawers transparent, artfully stationed in the corner. Carefully selects Friday’s skincare ornaments. Her hands lands on SUBLIMAGE L’EXTRAIT DE CRÈME. Gently rubes in her chicks, forehead, upper and lower chin. She used many other make-ups and forgot not perfumes. She stares at herself in the mirror). Amazing grace!!! (A tune comes to her mind. She reaches her phone and opens her Spotify account to play music. Ain’t Got No, I Got Life – Nina Simone.) (Nina Simone’s Ain’t Got No, I Got Life lyric song playing on her phone’s screen, in the background, as she dresses up) Ain’t got no home, ain’t got no shoes Ain’t got no money, ain’t got no class Ain’t got no friends, ain’t got no schooling Ain’t got no wear, ain’t got no job Ain’t got no money, no place to stay Ain’t got no father, ain’t got no mother Ain’t got no children, ain’t got no sisters above Ain’t got no earth, ain’t got no faith Ain’t got no touch, ain’t got no god Ain’t got no love Ain’t got no wine, no cigarettes Ain’t got no clothes, no country No class, no schooling No friends, no nothing Ain’t got no god Ain’t got one more Ain’t got no earth, no ? No food, no home I said I ain’t got no clothes No job, no nothing Ain’t got long to live And I ain’t got no love But what have I got? Let me tell ya what I’ve got That nobody’s gonna take away I got my hair on my head I got my brains, I got my ears I got my eyes, I got my nose I dot my mouth, I got my smile I got my tongue, I got my chin I got my neck, I got my boobies I got my heart, I got my soul I got my back, I got my sex I got my arms, I got my hands I got my fingers, got my legs I got my feet, I got my toes I got my liver, got my blood Got life, I got my life Amazing grace!!! Back to this dirty-coward-bastard, what does he feed on? Like we don’t eat the same meals? He’s transformed into a lazy, dirty pig. An extra child, stepson it’s all he is now. Yet here I stand, stuck with him in this outdated, bugged, smelly, filthy, empty apartment. What could he ever be without me? A good stepmother I’ve been to him all these years. How does he pay me back for all my kindness? The moment he comes in, immediately, I knew it was time to get out and go somewhere. I was doing okay. A few moments ago, I felt just fine without him. And now look at me, but don’t pity me. Save it for yourself. Trust me; you will need it. I am used to feeling this way. Mine is just another fact of my life I have learned to cope with. When loneliness attacks, my mind playing tricks on me; it a sign to get out of this empty apartment. Leave for a short while.

(After dressing up nicely, she is ready to go. She takes an elevator to the basement. Unlocks her bicycle. She puts on her helmet and rides out to Victoria Park, downtown, London, ON. She grabs Sexagintuple Vanilla Bean Mocha Frappuccino at 601 Richmond St. Yum? Searching her playlist on Spotify, her eyes land on Gil Scott-Heron’s 1970 album Small Talk at 125th and Lenox. She wears her Luxe Silver – Bose Noise Cancelling Bluetooth Headphones 700 with Google Assistant and Amazon Alexa and walks out of the coffee shop, Waits for the green light signal on Richmond/Central Avenue. Crosses the red lights. She walks out and heads for Victoria Park. Searches for a place to sit. Thanks to the lockdown. The park is not busy. She finds an empty bench by the 2009 Boer War Memorial, Victoria Park (sculptor George Hill). She seats enjoy all the fresh air on her face and the wind blowing through her beautiful black curly hair. Gil Scott-Herons poem and song, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised and plays in the background.)

You will not be able to stay home, brother You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out You will not be able to lose yourself on skag And skip out for beer during commercials, because The revolution will not be televised The revolution will not be televised The revolution will not be brought to you By Xerox in four parts without commercial interruptions The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle And leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams, and Spiro Agnew To eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary The revolution will not be televised The revolution will not be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre And will not star Natalie Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal The revolution will not get rid of the nubs The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner, because The revolution will not be televised, brother There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mae Pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run Or trying to slide that color TV into a stolen ambulance NBC will not be able predict the winner At 8:32 on report from twenty-nine districts The revolution will not be televised There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers on the instant replay There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers on the instant replay There will be no pictures of Whitney Young Being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process There will be no slow motion or still lifes of Roy Wilkins Strolling through Watts in a red, black, and green liberation jumpsuit That he has been saving for just the proper occasion”Green Acres”, “Beverly Hillbillies”, and “Hooterville Junction” Will no longer be so damn relevant And women will not care if Dick finally got down with Jane On “Search for Tomorrow” Because black people will be in the street looking for a brighter day The revolution will not be televised There will be no highlights on the eleven o’clock news And no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists And Jackie Onassis blowing her nose The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb or Francis Scott Keys Nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash Engelbert Humperdinck, or The Rare Earth The revolution will not be televised The revolution will not be right back After a message about a white tornado White lightning, or white people You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom The tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl The revolution will not go better with Coke The revolution will not fight germs that may cause bad breath The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat The revolution will not be televised Will not be televised Will not be televised Will not be televised The revolution will be no re-run, brothers The revolution will be live This ignorant fool of a man! Since we moved in together, it’s been, what? — Fourteen, maybe Fifteen months now. I don’t know. I can’t be so sure. I’ve lost keeping track of time—and I don’t care anymore. Until recently, I noted the dirty bastard has gotten very comfortable, and I find myself not attracted to him—any longer—my tender touch, soft skin, bare naked beauty he shall never see again. Morning and night, I am exercising. I am working very hard to keep in shape–stay beautiful. He is rowing lazy every day. He can’t stay fit. Ever since we moved in together, he’s acted strange. He only exercises when I drag him out of bed. I need him with me in the gym, it’s essential, God, at least, for the sake of our marriage. Is this so much to ask for? Divorce. Soon I will call! And, please, save me from your judgments. For what reason on earth, can anybody, please, tell me—for what reason, should I keep up with this dirty-coward-bastard-sonofabitch who can’t provide? Don’t I deserve better? You deserve a better man! My hearts tell me. Happiness… Yes, mm,hmm, yes. You deserve love and happiness. Love! (She spots a young couple looking for an empty bench to sit and eat their dinner). What a cute couple! (Eventually, the young cute young couple sees a wooden Frankel Rectangular 6 – Person 72” Long Picnic Table and walks fast to seize it before somebody does. Leaving his lady stationed, the muscular handsome guy walks towards the table. He tries to lift it with all his muscles. Shit! He underestimated the weight of the bench against his masculinity. He circles and attempts to push it forward with all his powers. Slightly moves the table. Besides that, bench seats another cute couple. This guy (second couple), seeing his compatriot struggling, decides to play the savior. Masculinity competes. The first cute, muscular guy politely rejects the offer and decides to drag the bench instead. The beautiful girl, amusingly, stands to watch drama at play). Now you see! That right there! Don’t I deserve special treatment for being all that I am? With all that I have done for him, all that I have given up for him, what has this dirty bastard—sonofabitch given me in return? It’s especially his victim mentality that gets to my nerve. The dirty bastard is always complaining. You see, he always complains. I wonder if his mind ever rests. Like he’s got no breaks! Always complains, always, about life. Life. Politics. Music. Late-night wine. Cigarettes, Books, Journals and Newspapers. There is always something with him. If it’s not him and society. It’s him and the world. He’s allowed himself to carry the weight of the world. Like the world cares? What has he achieved with that? The stupid fool dirty bastard—sonofabitch. What man could be so, highly, sensitive? You see, sometimes, he complains about his challenging past. Just not so long he was telling about his family back home. God knows where, because he got no home. He’s never lived in one before. And so, the dirty bastard complains about, What? Extended members of his family needing his help—financial assistance. He sends remittances every month. As if the bastards left behind got no hands—to work for themselves. God That look on his face! Pity! I hate him. Oh no! Oh my God! Fucked up! Fuck that! Fuck him! This whole thing is fucked up. And now I am starting to hate myself. …To Be Continued

 

Published by Gabriel Ndayishimiye

Gabriel Ndayishimiye lives in London, Ontario. He is a writer with a passion to contribute to Black history and literature; and the author of “Run Elvin” (forthcoming), a memoir written for youth from marginalized backgrounds. This book tells Gabriel’s academic/life experiences from refugee camps in East and Southern Africa and now from the metropolis of the western world. The story aims to inspire and motivate such demographic of youth to take up given opportunities to be creative, achieve success, and develop resilience to fight the challenges of life.

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