Barb on a Tree Top

Blonde hair, limpid blue eyes, and a perpetually droll look. If ever a person looked like the proverbial, clichéd picture for "dumb blonde"; Barbara surely did.

But! Beneath that mien was an intelligence so acute; it was plumb ridiculous just how often she was grossly underestimated. You would think that in the twentieth century, people would've learned otherwise. But Barbara wholeheartedly welcomed that underestimation, played on it, and profited handsomely from it.

For you see, she was sticky-fingered. And not the pedestrian sort of sticky-fingered, either. Pulling off heists worth millions of dollars, her daring intelligence was in high demand and she executed each job flawlessly, earning herself the nickname “shadow” within such circles.

But perhaps when one gets an uninterrupted volume of success even in shady things, one gets quite cocky. Pride they say, goeth before a fall, and Botswana was where Barbara met her waterloo.

The phone rang. It was her old pal, Hector. Long story short, there was a job up for grabs. In Africa. The target was a rancid old billionaire who had set up shop in Botswana. The goal was simple. Relieve him of one specific item; a necklace worth millions.

“But,” said Hector, “there might be a problem.”

Barb smirked. She’d never met a problem she couldn’t fix. “What is it?”

“This man is heavily into shamanism.”

“Shama-what?”

“Shamanism.”

She was puzzled. “But why is this a problem?”

“It's a problem because he never sleeps in the same room twice, and also never in the same house for at most; three nights in a row. And there’s more.”

Hector took a breath. “Our contacts emphasized this dark magic aspect. You might want to look into it. It is unfamiliar territory, after all.”

Barbara held the phone away from her ears, staring at it incredulously before bursting into laughter.

Hector sighed. “Shadow, you know I never disregard any information. Do with it what you will.”

He hung up.

*******

Now, the reader is not to assume that this story is wholly one of some spectacular heist. Quite the contrary.

It is a story of a surreal, if hilarious experience of teleportation. Facilitated by morbid curiousity, and aided by the temporary suspension of the protagonist's cranial grey matter. But as stated earlier, her waterloo was long overdue.

Barbara arrived in Botswana without incident. The air was so hot and humid it was fit to steam potatoes in. She checked into her hotel room. Then went downtown, found a bar, wrapped herself around a stool by the deck and began flirting with the gorgeous bartender.

Then she noticed a strange pendant hanging by a black thread on his neck. Carved from what seemed to be black ivory, it was at once fascinating and….somewhat repelling. In spite of herself, she was intrigued….especially because of her phone call with Hector.

“So I hear you people have dark magic in Botswana,” she said with her signature wide-eyed look. “Can you tell me about it?”

The barman rolled his eyes. What does a white woman want with African magic? He looked her over. Probably some bored housewife with too much money and an ever-travelling husband, he surmised. He had no time to pander to such frivolity.

“Why you wan’ de black magic? mmaagwe monna wa gago giving you trouble? Your husband mama give you trouble?”

“Heavens, no,” she giggled. “I am just curious.”

Yeah well… I don’t get paid enough for shenanigans, the barman mumbled to himself. Out loud he said in his broken English, “Ma’am, I say, mebbe you stay away from de black juju.”

He caught her looking at his pendant.

“My mama, she give me dis, since sixteen years. Just to make her happy, I wear it." He shrugged. "She say iz protection, but I do not know.”

He looked over his shoulder at his approaching colleague.

“But, here come Karimu! He no have the sense a gnat was born with. He spend all money on de shamans. You ask him. He tell you.”

The barman went back to polishing his wine glasses, glad enough to plunk Barbara into Karimu’s hands.

For if you were looking to ride a bicycle right in the middle of an expressway, Karimu was your man.

*********

“So, what happened next?” Hector asked.

Barb was now back in San Francisco, out having drinks at a club with fellow cronies Hector and Daniel. Giving them the lowdown.

“So I had the unfortunate idea of engaging this Karimu dude. I guess the Botswana heat, plus my dratted curiosity about shamanism caused it! We got talking about juju. Along the line, he mentioned knowing a shaman, who for a small fee could make one teleport to wherever they wanted. Seen, or unseen.”

“So let me guess, you had the bright idea to make your job easier?”

“No, of course not,” Barbara snapped. “Do I look dumb to you?”

Hector and Daniel swallowed their laughter. “Don’t worry, Barb. We know you ain't dumb. But tell us! Did it work?”

“It worked well enough,” said Barbara, dourly. “Karimu took me to the shaman; who mumbo-jumboed at me for five minutes, collected some money and handed me a tiny gourd and a specific word to speak; whenever I wanted to teleport.”

By now, Hector and Daniel’s eyes were up in their hairlines at this incredulous tale.

She continued.

“So the first time, I teleported to different places within Botswana. It worked just great. I tested both the “seen” and “unseen” versions. Then I tried to go to another country, but each time I would hit an invisible blank wall and fall back into my room.”

“Probably didn’t get the international subscription from the shaman,” Hector deadpanned. “Bah! "What're you, Scrooge?”

Barb glared at him but went on. “Anyway, having had success with it; I said, hey! why not make my work easier? So I teleported to the assignment location. Unseen version. I only took a piece of paper from the shelf, brought it back to my hotel room. A successful test-run.”

She took a long sip of her drink. “And then on the day of the actual job, I picked up the necklace.”

Hector was impatient. “But? I take it that there was a but?”

“Yes, you dolt; there WAS a but! When I tried porting back, instead of my hotel room I found myself on the very top of a flag pole in some village chief’s compound!”

The guys’ eyes were round as saucers. Both men stared at her.

But they found not a trace of humour on her face.

“A flag pole…Barb, you're kidding, right? Right?”

“Do I look like I am? I immediately tried again. Because of course…how do I explain to passersby how I got to the top of a blasted flag pole! And then i landed on top of a tree in another town.”

She swallowed.

“The third time I tried to go back, i found myself on yet another tree... right by the police headquarters!”

Dear reader…in a nutshell: by that time, Barbara was scared shitless. She managed to scamper down the last tree, hightailed it to her hotel room like the hounds of hell were at her heels, and bolted the door.

Whereupon the shaman immediately appeared in her room.

She was of course; petrified.

“Oh, I knew you were up to no good,” he said, sternly.

“Yes, I do speak excellent English. And my teleportation powers are NOT for theft! If you do NOT want to go tree-hopping for the rest of your life, I suggest you immediately return what you stole! All will be well if you do. But for the next one month till the spell wears off, if you try to teleport anywhere, you will find yourself on the nearest available tree. Return what you stole!”

The shaman vanished from her room.

And so it was, that using only her heist skills, Barb returned the necklace and barely escaped being caught. Whaddaya know? The shaman’s ire must have added extra bad luck.

“But wait….wait…….” Hector, held up a hand, trying to form a question. “Barb, you ARE having us on, aren't you? Just say so.”

Barbara glared at him, took out a small round thing from her purse, muttered a few words and next thing they knew; she was hanging on top of the stripper pole in the middle of the club.

*********

Epilogue

Barb did review her life’s choices. She quit her shadow life and thereafter harnessed that genius IQ only for legitimate purposes.

As for Hector and Daniel, legend has it they are still in the club room…pointing at the stripper pole, and rolling on the floor.

By

Olajumoke Beyioku