The Tragic Tale of Howard Part 6
A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons.
It was springtime when I found her. I remembered it because the weather was warm and I was sweating like a pig beneath the weight of my winter clothing—the only clothing I owned, including an oversized trench coat.
On that day, I roamed the streets of Cambridge, still in search of Al. It had been over a year since she vanished from my life: since we were last together. Unbeknownst to me, my wandering led me back to the very coffee shop where our paths first crossed.
As I walked by the shop, a glint of blonde hair grabbed my attention. Then, in my peripheral vision, I spotted a woman with long, blonde hair flowing down and stopping just below her shoulders. It wasn’t her hair that drew my gaze. It was the pink mark, circling her left eye.
With my heart racing like a sprinter at the finish line, I pressed my face against the coffee shop window, my breath fogging the glass. There she was, the woman with the long, blonde hair. My beloved. After all these days, weeks and months, I finally found her. I could hardly believe my eyes.
Without a second thought, I burst through the door and yelled. “Al! Thank God!”
Al’s eyes widened as she turned to face me. I took in every detail of her appearance, starting from toe to head, from her black high heels to the elegant light green dress that hugged her curves. Her face was a portrait of beauty, with cherry red lipstick highlighting her lips. A rosy cheek on one side, while that distinctive pink birthmark on the other, encircling that unforgettable blue moon eye. She looked stunning, like one of those models you see on the billboards in the city or in magazines.
Contrast to me, there was no comparison whatsoever. With messy, unkempt dreadlocks, a bushy beard, scars and several missing teeth, I bore the full brunt of the hard life on the streets. Dressed in an oversized trench coat over loose-fitting black sweatpants and a sweater, paired with a slightly open-toe sneaker on one foot and a walking medical boot on the other. I looked more like a wild bushman or, more fittingly, a homeless pirate. It was no wonder she was shocked. Heck, I’d be shocked too if I were her.
“Al, it’s me,” I said to her. “It’s Howie. Howard.” She remained silent, her widened eyes fixed on me, her face now white like paper.
“Allison,” I called out to her, using her full name. “It’s Howard. Do you remember?” But before she could respond, another voice echoed in the distance, calling out to Al—not as “Al” or “Allison.”
“Allie, Allie.” The distant voice grew nearer and louder until a man appeared next to Al. I sized him up right away: shorter than me by about five inches, with combed-over blonde hair slightly darker than Al’s. He wore a fitted navy blue suit with a red tie, the jacket buttoned in the middle. He quickly glanced at me with his sharp green eyes before looking back at Al.
“Allie, everything okay?” he asked her, wrapping his left hand around her hips.
In that moment, rage surged through me as I considered the possibility that the man might be a threat to Al, perhaps even her kidnapper. That would explain her shock and silence. I clenched my fists, ready to punch the man and grab Al’s hand as we made a getaway out of the shop. Just as I was about to step forward and land a blow on his jaw, the man said something to Al that made me relax my fist. “Babe, are you okay?”
“Babe?” I thought to myself. What did he mean by that? Al was my babe. I stared at her, trying to make sense of what I just heard. I looked deep into that blue moon eye, the one that always reflected her feelings for me. But there was no glow like when I used to express my love for her or share my dreams and aspirations for our future, together. Nothing but dullness like dark clouds covering the moon.
“Al?” I tried to say, but no words came out of my lips. I looked desperately at her, hoping she could understand my silent plea. “Al, what’s he talking about? Please answer.” And then I saw the look: hiding in plain sight, yet I chose to ignore it. It was a look I could never have imagined her directing at me in a million years. The same look that I received from commuters on their way to work or from passersby when I asked for spare change. It was a look of rejection mixed with…shame.
“What’s the matter, Babe?” the man said, pulling Al closer. She didn’t resist, leaning into him…away from me.
Then, as if someone had opened my chest and ripped out of my heart, Al placed her hand on the man’s chest, revealing a gleaming diamond on her ring finger.
“Hey man,” the guy snapped his fingers at me. “We have no money to give today.”
Reflecting on it now, I could picture the entire shop witnessing our little scene unfold. They probably tuned in the moment I barged in, screaming Al’s name and making a scene. How else would that beat cop suddenly appear out of thin air? He must’ve strolled in later for his morning coffee and noticed all eyes on us. Naturally, he decided to step in and defuse what he saw as a potential threat: the homeless black pirate.
He walked over, hands on waist. “Come on, buddy. You know the rules. No panhandling here. Let’s go.” With that, he pointed towards the door and began nudging me in that direction. It felt like my body was on autopilot, my legs carrying me toward the exit despite my attempts to resist. I struggled to turn back, but the cop’s hand was already firmly planted on my back, urging me onward. I managed to steal one last glance at Al, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she looked away, head down.
To be honest with you Madam, after that day, I became a drunkard. Drinking was my only solution to wash out any memories of Al. When I was sober, the memories of Al were too intense as they hit me like a freight train. Thus, I made it a habit not to stay sober. 2 hours without a drink was too long, and it felt like my head was going to explode.
And I tried other vices to numb the pain besides alcohol. Hard drugs like cocaine, heroin, and PCP all offered temporary relief, but nothing could replace the alcohol.
Alcohol consumed my thoughts every minute, and I found myself drunk throughout the day. When I ran out of money for drinks, I became a menace to society. It began with petty crimes like stealing from stores and picking pockets to fund my drinking habit. But soon, I found myself involved in more serious crimes like breaking into homes and joining a local gang to mug people. Sometimes we beat our victims to pulp or until they sustained injuries to go to the hospital. Most of the times when I committed these crimes, I was drunk out of my mind.
It was the darkest chapter of my life. Alcohol turned me into a completely different person: a brute with no regards for feelings. You wouldn’t recognize me drunk, Madam. You wouldn’t want to be near me.
My life of crime came to an abrupt end when I gained notoriety for targeting vulnerable elderly women, snatching their purses from them and taking off. Again, the darkest chapter of my life.
It happened so fast one day. I was wandering the streets, drunk but not too drunk that I could not function. I spotted what I thought was an easy target—an elderly woman hobbling down the street and clutching her black purse. Little did I know, she was an undercover cop, cleverly disguised as a frail old lady. As I reached for her purse, she whipped out a badge, and before I knew it, 10 cops with their guns drawn surrounded me.
Strangely, deep down, I felt a sense of relief when I got caught. It felt as if someone had lifted a weight off my shoulders. For so long, I’d been spiraling out of control, drowning in my own sorrows. At the rate I was going, it wouldn’t have been long before I ended up killing someone, which was something I could never forgive myself. It would have haunted me for the rest of my life. Being caught was a blessing in disguise.
I expected to face trial and sentencing for my crimes, but to my surprise, I was handed off to the custody of US Immigration. Before I knew it, a federal agent shackled me ankle to ankle, and we boarded a plane en route to Mama Africa. I was not only deported, but also permanently banned from ever stepping foot on any American soil.
All that my parents had worked for me, I had taken and thrown it all away. For what? Over a girl who ended up not loving me. If only I could turn back time…If only…I could go back.
Ola observed the tears trickling down Howard’s cheeks, collecting in the empty soda bottle resting on the ground underneath him. Each drop seemed to carry a piece of pain, filling the bottle with a well of sorrow.
At that moment, she did something unexpected and uncharacteristic. Something that caused everyone’s mouths to open, from her driver Joseph to her house girl Annie, to the work crew in the yard.
Without a second thought, she rose from her chair and approached Howard, his bare torso soaking with sweat under the unforgiving sun. Ignoring any hesitation and reservation, she wrapped her arms around him.
Howard froze, unsure of how to respond. Yet, as he sensed the comforting warmth of Ola’s embrace and caught the floral fragrance of her perfume, he lost it. He wrapped his arms around her, surrendering to the solace she offered. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, soaking Ola’s white blouse. It felt as though a protective cocoon enveloped his cold and battered heart. For the first time in a long time, Howard felt loved.
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