Black tie.

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He lights a cigarette – his twelfth in under an hour – and closes his eyes and takes a deep drag at it. Smoke fills his soul. He doesn’t open his eyes but lets smoke crawl out of his nose and into the cold chilly night in a lazy trail. He sits like this for a while; immobile. Still. The cigarette smolders in a dull ember between his fingers. A soft breeze blows through. He slowly, even achingly opens his eyes and looks down at the streets below. At 2am there are a few cars in the street, mostly drunks, heading home, or moving to another bar for a night of unending binge. It had just rained, so the streets are wet. He watches a couple ambling along up the streets; the man’s hand draped around the woman’s shoulders. From where he is seated they look like miniature human beings. Hell, from where he is seated- on top of the building- everything looks miniature. He looks away.

Thirty eight stories up. That’s where he sits, feet dangling languidly from the edge. He reaches for the bottle of Vodka next to him and chases the smoke down his lungs with a long swig. His throat burns but it makes him alive and he doesn’t miss the irony. Nothing matters anymore, and that’s why he is up the bloody building, at 2am, getting pissed. Tears sting his eyes and he bites his lower lip, daring them not to come because even in this hopeless moment, he still feels a need for self preservation. Even in this hour of darkness he still wants to maintain a level of dignity. So he tries hard not to cry. He stares ahead defiantly, at nothingness. He stares at the numerous rooftops around without actually seeing them. He stares out into the horizon, and fails to see the beautiful sleeping city. His eyes sometimes linger on a speck of light in the fringes of the city and he imagines someone sitting in that house, watching a late night show, reading for an exam, making love, tossing in bed, praying, eating a late meal…life continues in seclusion of his woes, it dawns to him.

Two hours ago he had taken a long hot shower, longer than he normally does. He had then shaved off the two week stubble, applied some aftershave and ran a comp in his hair. He then worn black pants and a white shirt. No belt. He then completed this look with his favourite tie, a black leather tie tied fastidiously in a small sexy knot. He loved that tie, a present from his cousin Julian, the only person who seemed to give a shit. It was a pencil tie. You know, the fancy type you see in catwalks? Julian had style all right. The occasion called for something ceremonial like this; a black tie. On his way out of the house he had decided to throw on a red blazer because it was drizzling. Then he had looked around the house one last time, and killed the lights.

Now he removes his wallet from his back pocket. He has no photos of in there. He has a son, yes, but the last time he saw him his mother was dragging him away from him, screaming profanities at him. That was 8yrs ago. He must be big boy now, he thinks sardonically, but only fleetingly. He is not the one to dwell on empty thoughts. He continues to flip through his wallet; he has a credit card, and three debit cards. There is a business card with a name he can’t place. He tosses it away and watches it float down until it disappears in the grayness below. He then tosses away his debit cards next, one by one. He does these in a very absentminded way, in a mechanical way. He has some money in the wallet, not much, enough to buy dinner at a decent restaurant. He tosses away these as well. His cigarette dangles from his lips, the smoke making his eyes water. He places his wallet next to the bottle of Vodka then takes a deep breath to calm his jittery nerves.

It’s 2.44am.

His fishes for his phone in his pocket and calls the one person who would take his calls at this time of the night. The phone rings forever and when he is about to hang

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up she answers. “Hey,” she sounds woozy and perplexed.

“Hey, Julian.” He mumbles, “Sorry to bother you at this time of the night – ”

“What’s up, everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m in bed, I couldn’t sleep.”

“What time is it?” she asks still half asleep.

“Around 2am?”

“Thanks for waking me up!” she scolds.

“Listen, I just wanted to say I won’t be able to see you tomorrow, something’s come up.” He says.

“And this couldn’t wait until morning? Anyway let me know when you are open….at a decent hour.”

He manages a little laugh.

“Julian?”

“Yeah?”

Brief pause.

“Never mind, you sleep tight, take care of yourself, okay?”

“Sure, let’s talk tomorrow, good night,”

When he hangs up, his lips start trembling.

Time check: 2.57am

They say in the hour of darkness comes a point of clarity, a small window that nature offers a respite. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t feel it. But he feels the wind in his ears, beckoning, urging. He also feels the thudding in his heart, a tattoo of death. He feels the pain in his heart. But mostly he feels fear, a powerful and demonic force that grasps his heart and squeezes. He thought he would be drunk by now, half way through his Vodka, instead he feels the sensations that he thought he would avoid; the biting cold in his face, the twitching of his muscles. The ache at the pit of his belly. He feels dread and dread feels like death if you really want to know.

As the hour nears, he increasingly feels empty. Not as empty as the last year has been, but empty like someone dredged out purpose from his inside. This worthlessness is only matched by the profound sense of rhetoric that the whole scenario has transformed into. He tries to think of the things that has defined his 37yrs of life and regretfully comes up short. He loves his job though; he is a creative director in an Advertising company. This is the zenith of creativity sitting up here freezing my tits off, he thinks with a half and almost deranged smile.

He thinks of his brother who works in a casino in Dubai. He wonders what he is doing at that precise moment. He wonders what he will be doing when he receives the news. He thinks of his estranged wife and how evil she is, and he wonders what he ever saw in her. It sadness him that he could have been so wrong about her, so blinded by her phony demeanor. He thinks of the music he enjoyed listening to. John Mayer’s “My stupid mouth” comes on top of that list and yet he never really loved it that much. He purposefully avoids thinking of his mother, because he loves her too much. He thinks of Julian, and a deep sense of loss washes over him.

At 2.57am he starts to cry.

More like a soft sob. His shoulders shudder and convulse, his jaws clench and tears roll down his cold cheeks. He cries in silence and he cries like a wounded animal. He cries with his head held in his frozen hands. He weeps, softly, with dignity. He weeps the way you would weep when someone is not watching. The last time he had cried was 8yrs ago, when she took his son

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away. That bitch!

When the time finally comes he is numb. His mind floods out every thought. He remains a shell of a man. He remains void and pitiful. His eyes deaden, a dark cloud crosses over them, a black cataracts. He stares out at the dead city beyond, and although awash with lights, he sees a dark hole. Although a soft wind blows his ears, he hears a dirge. He is a man besieged by his own choice and he dies even before death receives him. He is no longer crying, he doesn’t need to because his die has been cast. He takes a last swig, tosses his cigarette away, then takes a deep breath. He doesn’t pray.

At 3.59am his watch alarm buzzes.

He closes his eyes and pushes himself off the ledge. He starts falling.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes.

His final existence is boiled down to elements that are subtle but incorrigible. He feels the wind whip at his face. He feels gravity pull at him with deranged grit. He hears the sounds of the pavement rushing at him. He hears his own eulogy. His tie, his black tie flatters upward in the wind. His black tie, at that moment curiously represents a hangman’s noose.

As he tumbles down to meet his death, he is unaware of the amount of pain that he has already created. He is unaware that his only sibling, his brother will crumble on the floor in his supervisor’s office and weep when he hears the news. He doesn’t know that his mother will be so stunned by the news she will plunge into a depression that she never quite recovers from. He doesn’t know that the last person he had a drink with, his best mate Felix, will blame himself for not having seen signs. He doesn’t know that his father will turn in his grave with disappointment. He is unaware that his estranged wife will choke on hearing the news, and she will turn into a vegetarian soon after. And Julian, poor Julian. Julian will play the last conversation in her head over and over again. She will remember the pause, she will remember the last words, “….take care of yourself, okay?” These immortal words will be the bricks to her castle of guilt, a tall structure that will relentlessly cast a shadow on her life. Although they were close and she will miss him every day, she will hate him with equal passion, hate him for being selfish. She will grow thin. She will get nightmares and her life will never be the same again and she will moan him like you would your own child. His girlfriend of three months will never know who he was, and that will greatly intrigue her. Everybody will shake their heads in bewilderment because he was not the type to do what he did. He had a great job. He didn’t do drugs. He drunk as much as the next guy. He loved to dance. He loved rugby. He was a nice guy who looked stable. Everybody will think of cracks that they might have missed with him, nothing. And added to the fact that he leaves no note behind, he will be a puzzle with many missing pieces.

He doesn’t know all these as he falls.

The final moment is hazy. If it was a color it would be black. It’s not a moment that can be chalked in words, or reconstructed by a living human mind and it’s swift as it is vague. He doesn’t open his eyes even when he feels the end reaching out for him. Feelings and emotion flee his body leaving only that subtle hint of fear which matters little then. A few seconds before he slams into the hood of the blue delivery van, the church clock chimes 3am.

His name was Pete.

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51 Comments
  1. Biko. For once, you made me cry. Knowing how you make me laugh…. this was something else…. then I began to see the humor and laugh… I laughed all the way home… I laughed until guys in the jav thought am hysterical…. wondering where the hell you got this idea from… from the devil himself mos def

    … and am still laughing… coz I can see you waiting anxiously at the response this would get… and laughing while writing… you wicked weasel

  2. dude your writing style. leaves me breathless! now do you write professionally? if you have a book out give me the title i go get it. haiya!

  3. Jackson, yeah i know u hate when someone calls u that, i normally dont comment on blogs, or online 4 that matter, but this is…4 lack of a better word…art!
    Your blog is just too good. Nimeichop yote! Compile it in2 a book and sell.
    Yeah, u owe me 2cents.

  4. AHA! I knew ‘Floodlight’ was a prelude to your suicide story, the excuse before your weird piece.. Still, BRILLIANT

  5. I’m on day 2 of my journey into the world/mind of Mr Biko (‘johnny come lately’ I know but I’m rushing to catch up with the rest of you hoarding bastards!).

    You make me laugh, you make me cry, your words are music to my soul. Excellent!

  6. Biko, you have a way with words. this piece is brilliant, just by the fact that it choked me up and made my eyes tear!! just brilliant. Keep doing what you do…..

  7. just started reading your blog knw this piece was last year am hoked……btwn there are no casino’s in Dubai gambling is illegal

  8. Hi Biko?nyc read plus great insight on wot shit we tend to do in the name of “unhapiness” we dont really have.Had a connection there coz i also got one sibling.keep up the good work there,almost thot you were writing bout urself there,but then again how could you if you died…

  9. Very beautifully written…….true and inspirational writers are made of this, jst started reading your blog. you make me laugh, cry, amazed, perplexed etc not to read your stuff is to honestly miss out on art at it’s best…..kudos!!!!!

  10. This is a great piece, captivating, alive! On thing though, I notices that the times just don’t add up. 2.57 he starts weeping, 3.59 his alarm goes off, 3 am he hits the van.

    But I loved the section of what he does not know. Often times we are too wrapped up in our own little worlds we fail to think of others, their feelings and how our actions will affect them

  11. great piece.just wondering if this was what hapened to ma friend. This best suits fiction coz when it hapens in a real life situation it shakes you to the core

  12. Touched, again. I want to say this is an amazing writing but you already know this. So am just going to go with-amazing read!

  13. I had to re read this particular piece because a friend told me that a certain story I penned sounds like this [http://therealginc.wordpress.com/2014/02/04/on-the-road-to-fame-2/]

    But then a little discrepancy here: “A few seconds before he slams into the hood of the blue delivery van, the church clock chimes 3am.” It think its supposed to be 4am, ama? Because his alarm buzzed earlier in the story at 3.59am, right?

    All in all, beautiful poignant story this is.

  14. I don’t like this story. How sad for Pete. Poor Julian. And so what about his Mother, and brother in Dubai 🙁
    And his son? 🙁 🙁

  15. Can’t sleep so am going through your blog but after this am trying not to cry myself to sleep…..oh,& Dubai ain’t got no casinos, they call them “haram”

  16. ” He hears the sounds of
    the pavement rushing at him…” The imagery is more than amazing. For sure you’re the Shakespeare of our century.

  17. Haha. Am the Julian here. Had a principal back in primary who used to say that suicide is a cry for help . His exact words , “They don’t want to die , they want you to see them, sometimes to punish you for ignoring them “.
    My cousins neighbors committed suicide the week before. An old woman with 4 kids. The story goes that she choked herself(wrapped her neck with a rope and pulled) , I keep thinking that that is physically and psychological impossible but can’t argue with the autopsy . She didn’t think of the wreck she left behind. My grandmas brother too. He broke my shoshs and I think the fact that we are here and they refuse to see us is what angers us.

    A tear was shed .Thank you for this.

  18. captivating!!for a moment i even felt the emotions pete was going thru.#cool down,i aint suicidal.must say that i started reading you this year and i have read like 75% of your work but this must be the most intriguing.

  19. I am 6 years late on this article.. It doesn’t matter anyway
    This is beautiful writing right here lakini
    Just amazing!