One Piece

As a performer she was fierce on all stages just like her cancer— having long metastasised on her body that has since saw the amputation of a left arm, the same arm with which she flicks open the scarf on her neck during the initial part of the infamous striptease performances that put her on the map as one of Las Vegas city’s hottest acts. Simple though it may seem, nary a solution came to her for this little predicament until she decided to retire the scarf altogether from the act itself, deeming that she could start instead with the removal of a mask to make it more mysterious and exotic. At age 65, time has failed to hide the ravages it wrought upon her already failing body although it may be said that a patina of sinewy grace still exudes from her, and this she milks to the last drop for where the flesh is weak, the spirit is willing. The last vestiges of panache her whole being could muster she has saved and build up leading to what she calls her grand, final performance, but tonight, lying on a hospital bed after a fainting spell, little seeds of doubt as to the realisation of that intent, like a reflection of the metastasis of the cancer on her body, began proliferating her once resolute conviction. Gazing at the stelliferous sky outside her window, she imagined that beyond the firmament sits a divine Deity on his throne, and being witness to her sufferings, would send down for her a Messiah in the form of immediate recuperation. However such musings were futile, and if she were in a more rational state of mind, she’d look at it as the louche imaginings of a desperate person on her deathbed. But judging from what her body feels, the scythe of the grim reaper is still a long way from hacking her soul to pieces, although that distance, if the doctors are to be believed, is beginning to close in. “I don’t want to die in a hospital.” She insisted mentally, harbouring an image of her running away from a caricature of the Grim Reaper which for the meantime made her giggle quite a bit, that is, until her little daydream was thrown off-kilter by a stern knock on the door. Thinking it was the personification of Death himself, she threw the blanket over her head in the hopes that if she wills him to go away, he would; but once a voice spoke, it was just Adisa, the young African missionary making rounds at the intensive care unit of the hospital. Adisa was barely an adult in his early twenties but spoke as though he were a wizened sage of seventy, with his backstory of poverty and being HIV positive giving weight to every word coming out of his mouth. Adisa knew what she did for a living and unlike the other Christian missionaries who in patronising tones told her that her sins will be forgiven if she comes to Jesus Christ, he comes bearing no such promises, instead opting to reach her heart through making it clear that he is nothing but a flawed human being— just like her. They talked for what seemed like hours while eating the apples that the young man brought. No particular mention of any religious agenda except in spirit wherein Adisa showered her with the compassion indicative of every Christian undertaking, a feat that has to come from the wellsprings of the heart, and has to be genuine in order to be felt, and not a protocol taught at missionary schools. Our pessimistic heroine was almost impressed. “Young man, if you could convince me that your god would be able to grow me another arm, or better yet, cure me entirely, which I’m sure is only a small task for him, then I’ll be first in line to sign the conversion papers.” She gave him a wry smile. Undefeated, Adisa gently took her only hand and said, “It’s no small task for Him if you believe that He will. That’s all there is to it. If everyone thinks like you do, there wouldn’t be miracles. Open up your heart, who knows what blessings from Him you may have missed. Always remember that his Grace is sufficient.” With these words, Adisa bid her good night and left. She mulled over everything he said and took a huge bite out of an apple. Now being her snarky, cynical self, she couldn’t help but think, “good thing for him to have found a way to stay positive— just like his H.I.V.” There was a pause before a snigger grew from the base of her throat, threatening to build into a guffaw which she didn’t dare suppress until a wild roar of laughter permeated the room. But as fate would have it, our shrew of a heroine choked on the apple she was eating and died after a few minutes of struggle. This was her final performance, the unveiling of an inveterate cynical nature, a heart made hollow through years of disconnect, ultimately dying at the risible hands of irony. Laughter, they say, is the best medicine and along with an apple a day, keeps the doctor away. Eager for a cure, she was lured by both, unable to see that behind these masks, the Grim Reaper lies in wait. The scythe, as she was doomed to discover, was as sharp as ever.