Call me the soul of your heart

Mr. Michael Fagan was going to the dining room to eat, and Mrs. Lucy Fagan was waiting around the corner. She was thinking of how to get him to call her “the soul of his heart”.

On reaching the dining-room, Mr. Fagan sat down in a low chair by the wooden table. “Wait,” said Mrs. Fagan, as she came back from the corner.

When the two were sitting, almost side by side, Lucy looked into Michael’s eyes and said “While preparing this meal, I washed my hands and stayed in the kitchen until it was done. Really, it’s one of my best meals.”

After absorbing the words that accompanied the meal, Michael opened his eyes wide, blinked and rolled his eyes, quickly settling back on her as if nothing had happened. A deep breath entered and exited his lungs. If he wasn’t hungry, he would have sat down and declared satiety. However, he was hungry, and he wanted to eat the soup in a hurry. So, with his right hand, he put some soup into his mouth.

Through careful observation, Lucy noticed that Michael was enjoying the soup, and so it was time to tell him. She leaned close and whispered in his ear, “From now on, I want you to call me ‘soul of your heart.'”

Mike thought no one would expect him to respond as he had a mouth full of soup. He was hoping to use the brief opportunity as his teeth were grinding dry fish to figure out the next response.

To encourage him to stop thinking about it and say it in the “soul of his heart,” Mrs. Fagan crept up on Mr. Fagan’s back and gave him a small bite on his right ear. “Stinging Black Ants (Agbusi)!” cried Mr. Fagan. And out of his mouth came a bubble of chewed fish, bitter leaves, and crayfish.

Ignoring the little sting on his right ear—after all, nothing happened to his left ear, which he listened to—Mike looked down to take another spoonful of soup, but Lucy removed the bowl of good, bitter leaf containing the broth and lobster.

Rubbing his aching right ear, Michael said, “Why did you remove the soup bowl?”

“Call me the soul of your heart if you want the soup made from my washed hands, which I have prepared for you, my love.”

Thinking about it, Michael said, “I give you all my love.”

“Who will you save your soul for?” Lucy asked, returning the bowl of soup.

Michael replied, “For me.”

“Selfish,” Lucy said, taking the bowl of soup from Michael.

Michael calmed down again, and expressed regret as he opened his mouth. Thinking and having the conversation in silence was better for him.

Well, it’s not all bad, he said to himself. The pain in his ear where Lucy had bitten him had completely vanished, and his mind had become reasonably stable. He began to see the advantage she would have over Lucy if he declared his heartthrob. However, the title should come with a caveat. Everything in life comes on condition. She’s had to defend the title, every single time, and if that’s not the case, he’ll pull it right away. Upon this decision, Mr. Fagan’s heart began to warm to the idea. If the title meant too much to Lucy, threatening to take it away would make her act the way he wanted her to.

A few seconds or so later, Michael had another idea. Many men scratch the top of their heads at the thought, but Mr. Fagan was in the habit of rubbing his nose instead. Looking at him, Mrs. Fagan realized what Mr. Fagan was thinking. She wished she could get into his head, not to read his thoughts but to twist them the right way. The idea that he was considering her proposal enraged Mrs. Fagan, and she wanted to curse him but decided not to because it might get in the way of the way Mr. Fagan viewed her. They both waited, and the soup appeared cold.

Michael took a long time, and Lucy felt that if she emptied the entire bowl of soup on his head, or at least part of it, it might make him think faster. Her eyes fell on the long, curved spoon, still in the pot, which she used to stir the soup.

“Declare her the sole possessor of your soul,” said Mr. Fagan to himself, “and go on with the soup.” What surprised Michael was the way his brain functioned better now that the taste of soup and hunger had subsided. He suddenly felt like a man who could scrutinize every decision he made, just like his father, and even Uncle Fabian, whom he loved and respected.

“What will they do?” Michael wondered to himself. “How will they deal with a situation where hunger crosses the soul?” Hunger for what, he mocked himself? Hungry for a bowl of bitter leaf soup, mixed with dry fish, lobster and Jamaican pepper? Self-deprecation seems to have awakened him from sleep. His mind began to gather like a mound of dirt gradually into a corner.

As Mrs. Fagan watched, she saw great indecision in Mr. Fagan. “Why the delay?” She said to Mr. Fagan. “Didn’t you like the soup I made with my washed hands when I was wide awake?”

As she got no response, Mrs. Fagan went after Mr. Fagan. While Michael expected another punishment, Lucy leaned over and gave him a tender kiss on his aching ear. When the kiss works the magic, Mr. Fagan relaxes and feels the same body parts that delivered her.

“No, call me the soul of his heart,” said Mrs. Fagan. Mr. Fagan’s hands fell to his sides as he expected another painful passing. “I hope it’s not in my listening ear,” he thought.