Legend of the Tarot Man

Written by Oyewande Alimi.

Sirens blaring on a warm September noon, a familiar sound to the workers and visitors at St. Patrick's Hospital, Port Harcourt. Jacopo Harut Visconti walked through the corridors of the renowned hospital, pacing around restlessly. He certainly looked out of place, a young nurse hurried past him. Turning abruptly, she studied him and rushed off. He was pretty sure she thought he was insane. It was over 40`c with the blazing Port Harcourt sun. He was clad in a beige trench coat, black turtle neck top walking in awkward manner with his yellow wellington boots.

He found himself on the third floor of the busy hospital. He had been on all the seven floors. Enough of the sightseeing, he thought to himself. He stood by the elevator waiting. Any other day, he would have used the stairways, but he felt the need to share his sweaty body odor with a few people.

He stepped into the elevator, two doctors or probably consultants were discussing, an intern was staring nervously and a young lady was screaming on her phone. They stopped talking almost at once, most likely to hold their breaths and steal glances at him. He smelled like spoiled egg and the sole of his boots, caked mud. It would be a signature odor in the elevator for a very long time. They sighed of relief as they all rushed out of the elevator.

His destination was the underground cafeteria, his mission was to toy with lives. At the cafeteria, he sat alone with his red apple and water. He knew he had just an hour to alter a few destinies or maybe just one. He had no idea. He stiffened.

They have arrived, the first two. He could feel their presence on the floor above the cafeteria. He smiled.

The paramedics rushed with three stretchers almost at once. The corridor was suddenly alive again filled with excitement, pain and confusion painting the walls like graffiti. Nurses on top speed, doctors screaming out instructions, it was hard to make out sense from the medical jargons they uttered. The silent cry of each patient louder than the voices of the doctors.

Seyi Rhodes is angry. Although, he couldn't remember what had ticked him off so bad. He never got angry, he was sure of that.

“Seyi Rhodes, male, 21,” the voice said.

He couldn't make out what the voice said but heard something about a heart failure. He realized that he was definitely not in his house. The familiar smell of a hospital hit him leaving him unconscious.

Seyi had been back after months in Lagos. He had been serving in Lagos as a pharmacist in a paramilitary organization. He has two months left till the end of service. His dream was to find the vaccine for malaria and on the long run a cure for cancer. Research was his life, malaria his major concern. Back in pharmacy school in Manchester, he read on how malaria had killed millions of African children.  In his third year, he worked along with his professor on a research for a more effective malaria drug. His professor died of brain tumor before the research was completed. And somehow, Seyi Rhodes knew his purpose was to create the malaria vaccine. Or maybe not.

Unlike most kids, growing up had been traumatic. He suffered from a congenital defect (VSD) and had undergone an open heart surgery. Luckily he had an Einstein brain, often referred to as young brainac. More than anything he wanted a normal life.

Seyi felt the needles. He couldn't make out the voices. But he knew he was at that point again: death. He had been here one too many times, at each point not knowing if he would live to tell the story. This time more than ever, he wanted to live. He wanted his life. He saw himself clad in his blinding white lab coat at Baylor College of Medicine. He felt light, been lifted almost sure he was levitating.

  

Adana Yusuf struggled with the doctors as she coughed up blood. She was a fighter but she wanted to die, live and die again. To die, she would get the chance to go to hell. To live, she would get the chance to kill the devil her stepfather. To die again, she would take the devil back to hell where he belonged.

She stood at the face of death, seductive and enticing. She could almost feel it take her away. She loved her life way too much. She had it all. To her, death had no A-game. Yeah, death had nothing on her! It could testify she had bought her own ticket to behold it in the face.

She felt a tube down her throat.  She knew she wasn't dead after all. The paramedics must have gotten to her in time. She had a chance to face death. No one was going to take it from her. She had to live to take him down.  Suddenly she was unsure if she wanted to die.

Her stepfather, an oil mogul, was a ruthless man with power, wealth and fame. Her mother a dumb blonde attracted to men of prestige, she was a perfect accessory for any wealthy man.

Adana was fresh out of Benenden, the exclusive all girl boarding school in Kent. Getting over the summer excitement, she had crazy fun all summer in Nigeria. Until her step father raped the innocence out of her. He had pounded her like a maniac that night, his sweat dripping on her face. He turned her into this.  He made her a woman. For a few weeks, she carried his seed: his child, her mother's grandchild. Her fury led to her attempted abortion which almost killed her. She didn't want to be saved by the paramedics or doctors.

Adana felt the jabbing of the needles and the shoving of a tube down her throat. Her life almost started playing before her eyes in HD. But a familiar smell filled her mind: a soft lavender. Her twin must have found her after she had taken all those pills. She thought if I die my twin would be the next victim of the devil: my stepfather. I need to fight for my life. This time she wanted to live: revenge.
She was death, all dressed up in Prada.  She felt lighter. She looked down and saw her body on the bed.

Demisi Otulana gasped for breaths. She wanted air but somehow she couldn't get enough. The paramedics put her in the ambulance. She had been wheezing and gasping. The paramedic in the bus struggled to find somewhere to poke the needle. They covered her nose with a mask.

Few minutes ago, she had been in a conference of petroleum engineers. Her multinational firm had selected her to represent them. She loved to travel and she had toured so many countries.

Visiting Port Harcourt made her feel alive all the time, until now. She had rushed out of the ladies room, choking and gasping. The strong disinfectant had triggered the attack. A crowd gathered, confused bunch they were. She needed air, oxygen and her inhaler. Her bag was at her seat in the conference hall. More people gathered, consuming her much needed oxygen. They unbuttoned her clothes. She couldn't struggle. All she wanted was her inhaler. She had been in this moment, at different places and times. She felt incomplete without her inhaler. Her soul screamed at the crowd, begging them to get her inhaler or least give her air.

The paramedics arrived in the heat of the moment. She was been lifted and placed on the stretcher. Her face was covered with a mask. This doesn't feel like oxygen. The ride in ambulance was short. The stretcher rolled in the corridor of the hospital, she felt someone place something cold on her chest.

 “Silent,” a voice muttered.

All she ever wanted in her two decades and few years on earth was to fall in love. She was hopelessly romantic but had been in pathetic relationships. She cried out night and day to cupid to smile on her. To her, her real happiness was to be in love.

She saw death dragging her by her ponytail.  She struggled.  She wanted to live to love and to love to live. Life and love all she wanted. She tried to fight. She felt light floating through the corridor as she was wheeled to the E.R. She was levitating.

Jacopo Harut Visconti shuffled through the tarot cards.  He picked out three cards from the deck. Three tarot cards faced down on the cafeteria table. He took the last bite of his apple, his water bottle half way empty. The cafeteria was almost empty. His stench must have ruined a lot of people's appetites. Three cards, three different people in the E.R. On the table were the cards that would change their destines. He had never seen them, but he knew they would be here at this time.

He picked two tarot cards and placed them back in the deck. The last tarot card slowly turned to reveal books drowning a man with glasses. He stood up and walked away leaving his garlic sweaty stench in the cafeteria.

The static noise meant only one thing: a lost battle. The levitation cancelled by gravitation. A silent thud as two souls hit their bodies. Leaving the last soul soaring high: the tarot card, the books drowning a man.