Growls from the wine bottle
(A fight for supremacy)

© Anthcunny

Take a sip of me and let me linger a little longer under your tongue. I know my sour taste will bring to you that long awaited relief you never can get elsewhere. Even when I make your parched throat hot and burn without fire, and make you gag when you have had a full of me, you are still always pleased with me. Pure bliss. I see it in the hot air that escape from your mouth and the whistle it produce as you exhale deeply. Good thing you would glance at the label on my body and exclaim, "gracious wine!" But, it only soothes my self acclaimed ego. At your will, you would push me aside or spit me out of your mouth like I never mattered. Or like you never knew I was and is still the boss and have got the final say.

Even, the judge in your local court—the lanky bald-headed barrister with bulgy eyes—is a testimony to my authority. He seeks for my validation every night. After hitting his gavel in reckless abandon during the day, he would still seek for the sleek wine glass to have a taste of me. Those moments, I decide the game. I decide what he thinks of his own judgements. I would make him feel guilty for sentencing the single mother who committed murder to life imprisonment.

You call me crazy, I accept. You call me insignificant, then I wonder who's crazy. As insignificant as I am, I adorn the bar in your sitting room. I would appear in my finest of brands decorating your table just to add colour and taste (of course) to your celebrations. And when it's time for a toast, I would be lifted up high with both hands like a trophy and uncorked, letting out a pop sound which is in return greeted with shouts and applauds from everyone present. And the best part of it, I'm treated with utmost care. I know because you sip me, little at a time, and you gulp me down gently to a safe landing in your stomach.

I love it when you think I'm helpless because I sit idle in a bottle all day, sometimes in the refrigerator battling with cold. Liquid as I am, my plans are solid. Still ask your judge; he helps out most times.

"Champagne for tonight, Hennessey for tomorrow. Just in case Wife begins acting up, you will be my rescue," he would tell me before heading for the court room. And just as the plan, we will have a good time at night. I, being the boss, he, a friend of the boss.

What about you? I will let you know you are my subject.

13/11/2012

In the rigid air hanging over the heads in the court room, everyone is wheezing and sighing from the harsh cold and from the judge's protracted silence. His nonchalance is unusual. A hundred and one peery eyes piercing his soul and he is still not bothered. Your look—from the wooden dock where you stand hopeless—is filled with scorn and contempt. It makes no difference, because he has resorted to fiddling with his gavel and stealing glances at his audience. Calm your nerves, he will only speak at my will. I'm the boss, you remember?

Few days ago, when you were at Haja Hazizat's bar teaching your son to drink beer, you were shocked to see your judge with a full wine bottle all to himself. You watched him as he kept pouring into his glass and downing the contents in single gulps, in fury, like he was having a duel with the devil in him or probably trying to suppress two horns from sprouting over his shiny head. Whatever the case is, it's irrelevant. It was only an initiation to the Drunk Men Fold. I made him my right-hand man and made sure he paid obeisance to me every morning, no longer at night like he used to.

This morning, I made him drink more, a little more, and just a little. All for your sake.
"What do we have for today?" I finally let him speak. His voice groggy and unsteady; it succeeded in dragging every syllable longer than it should be.

The court registrar springs up to his feet, with agility and irritation at the slowness of the court proceedings for the day. He turns to you and begins to read out the case for the day from the file in his hands: "That you Mr Adeniji Oluwaseun was responsible for the pregnancy of your wife, Mrs Adeniji Tolulope, which resulted in the birth of an ugly child."

The court goes haywire with laughter; the judge's own being the loudest. I make him laugh so hard that everyone stop laughing just to watch him laugh.

I can see your face flush and your eyes making quick to-and-fro movements from your wife to her big-sized lawyer who must have gotten fat from the money he makes from silly cases—like your lawyer called it. "Don't worry, the court will strike it out. It's a silly case," your lawyer had assured you.

"This has caused Mrs Adeniji severe emotional trauma," the registrar continued reading. "To this end, Mrs Adeniji prays this honourable court to dissolve her eight-year old marriage and compel Mr Adeniji to pay the sum of #50,000 monthly as child support till the child becomes an adult officially."

I see your eyes get hollow. Beads of sweat form on your forehead which turns to streaks rolling down to your lips thereby letting your tongue taste of it's over-saltiness.

You watch helplessly as both lawyers dish out the best of their vocabularies; their voices, high-pitched and charging; their gesticulations, fierce and compelling; all to the chagrin of the audience.

A glance at the judge, and you see him bury his head in his palms. He appears to be mediating, but I know you know he is not. He was in the same state you left him at the bar days ago. Only then you realize it wasn't a silly case like your lawyer suggested.

"I hereby dissolve this marriage and mandate you to pay the sum of #50,000 as child support for the next 18 years on or before the 27th of every month," he pronounced while hitting the gavel softly.

I know you can still perceive the sweet wine smell floating around him. That's the smell of the boss.

I always have the final say!

Deal with it.

Photo credit: Google