Riderboy | The Daily Star
12:00 AM, March 08, 2018 / LAST MODIFIED: 12:00 AM, March 08, 2018


It had been nearly an hour. I have no idea how I ended up with this man alone at an ice cream shop. The five of us came here during our class break and somehow or some way, three of them left me with quite possibly the strangest boy I have ever talked to. He was staring at me with narrowed eyes like I was a fugitive from the law.

“So, uh. What's your name? I am Sadia,” I tried starting an even more awkward conversation.

“Turjo. Riderboy Turjo,” he replied, his eyes even narrower now.

“That's… uh… That's a nice name but why?” I had to ask.

“What why?” replied a stony voice.

“I am sure Riderboy isn't your first name,” I asked with a forced laugh.

Turjo leaned back on his seat and looked into the distance or the chandelier, anyway.

“Correct, it is not, my friend. It is a title of honour given to me by my brothers in their time of need whence I rode into their lives,” said Turjo, still looking at what I hope is the chandelier.

“Hahaha, that is the first time I heard someone use 'whence' in a conversation.” I tried to make the air a bit lighter.

Turjo's head quickly snapped back into our impromptu date. He looked at me with smoldering eyes and replied.

“It is no joke, sister. Brothers bound by the wheel are forever. Oil burns brighter than blood, runs deeper than veins, into our souls.”

“Wow, you do seem passionate about your motorcycles.” I nodded grimly.

“Brother, passion is for the weak and unsure who are scared by their own desires. It is not my passion. It is the true calling of my being,” he continued, “Tell me, brother. Have you ever been waiting patiently for the path you must take only to be rammed in the back and thrown off into the waiting hands of death?”

“Uh… no. I am sorry you had to go through—”

Suddenly, Turjo stood up and was pointing a finger at me.

“YOU! DID YOU RAM ME IN THE BACK TOWARDS DEATH?!” his accusation echoing inside the small ice cream shop that sold fried chicken and had no customers.

I looked around for help and all I saw was the cashier lustily rubbing a bank card machine on his cheek.

“Turjo, please. No. I did not ram you in the back. I was just sorry that you had to go through the accident,” I replied, nearly tearing up in front of this crazy man.

Seeing me hold back my tears, Turjo sat down again, accepting my words.

“Please, brother. Do not cry. Do not feel sorry for what made me a man today,” he quickly shifted his seat next to mine as the floodgates of my eyes opened.

“You are a person of honour and truth, my brother. We must become friends. Please add me on Facebook now.”

Great. Now this weirdo wants to be my friend on Facebook.

“I… don't have any, um, charge on my phone,” I said through sniffs, trying to get past this confusing experience.

He brought his phone out and just as he turned on the internet, a barrage of different alerts started screaming through the speakers. All 17 ride-sharing apps were hailing him.

“We must put faith upon destiny and hope to meet again, brother. For now, I must go. My brethren need me.”

“But we're in the same cla—”

By that time, he already got up and ran towards the door. Out of simple curiosity, I wanted to see his bike.

Riderboy Turjo just ran and ran. There was no bike.


Rumman R Kalam is a sub-editor at SHOUT and a goat with opposable thumbs at Rantages. Email him at tehgoatlord@rantages.com

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