The traffic was unusually light that Friday, on Oshodi Apapa Express Road and I was grateful. By my side in our only car sat my wife Shayo; we had an appointment with the doctor. It was one of those days. By one of those days, I meant we just had a mute war.

My Picanto surged forward trying its utmost to surprise me with its power; I was not impressed. How could I when even Okada riders left me in their wake? I could not even bear to imagine how people looked at my 6ft 8in frame hunched in this annoying round looking piece of metal on wheels. I felt like screaming! If only I could say SUV every time I mentioned the ‘make’ of my car. Please forgive my grouchiness, like I said it was one of those days.

I woke up at 7am and I wanted to be sick, faint or even die; any excuse to go back to sleep for a long time. The bulge from Shayo’s tummy was reason enough. She had developed a horrible sense of humour since she became pregnant and in recent times, our relationship had degenerated into a monosyllabic tragic-comedy. Our once picturesque marriage was now a thing of history. I glanced at her at the other end of our King-sized bed. I had won the battle for choice of bed; I could not afford another uncomfortable position at night, having nightmares of my Picanto. I was sure she knew I was awake. She was awake too but she did not move. We played this annoying game every morning; She would wake up first but not move. Then I would wake up but not say a thing. When I went to the bathroom, she went to the kitchen, when I was dressing up, she sat in the parlour and whilst I was having breakfast, she would be in the bathroom. When I go to the car, she would be busy getting dressed. Now we were both in the car, silent. How did it get this bad?

We took turns stealing looks at each other knowing we could see each other from the corner of the eyes. I laughed out scoffing, as she turned her head to the window, but nothing was funny. This was just so annoying. We had been together for only three years and we already had enough of each other. How did my parents do it for 45 years? How oh God? If I had a choice right then between marriage and the monastery, I would be in a cassock before you say ‘Jack Robinson’.

And it all began with a simple laugh…

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The Maroko Sandfield Bus stop was a little crowded the night of Friday, the 13th day of August, 2010. I had made the bad judgment of coming this way, instead of taking a bus that was heading for Obalende, in the hope that I would get one of the BRTs straight to Ikorodu Road. ‘Today is Friday, everyone will be out having fun’, I muttered to myself, as I packed my Samsung Galaxy S II, Blackberry Bold 9700 and 13” Apple Macbook Pro. Yeah, I was the typical African, all the latest gadgets and no idea what I was doing with them. I was hoping to get home early, possible hangout with the gang and play some Fifa 10, before bed. How wrong I was. Three BRT buses and 30 minutes later, I was still unable to get into any of the busses. The sheer pandemonium that broke loose the moment a BRT bus was in sight was a marvel; you could literally see ties flying, high-heeled shoes sticking out from the centre of the rush and at one point, a wig even came off! It was then I heard the laughter, musical, harmonious, drowning out the royal rumble right before my eyes. I did not have to look back to know that its source was beautiful, gentle and petite. I waited for the laughter to die, then I turned around gently, hoping to steal a look. She was waiting for me.

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‘Hi Shayo, how are you? Hello? Hello?’ No response.

This girl is such a clown, I thought, as I looked at the phone again to see if the call was still connected. Then I heard it; soft, gentle, it was my name ‘Kefas’ and I smiled as I shook my head. She always had this effect on me. I really liked my name, but oh, how I loved the way she called it. I would stand by the mirror sometimes and try to mimic it but I could never replicate the glint in her eyes and that mischievous smile, when she called my name. I could feel her smiling over the phone, enjoying her silent prank. She did it all the time; onetime she kept me on the phone for six minutes before she said a word!

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‘Where are you from?’

Those were the first words she asked me that night. I got a little uneasy at the question. Women have a way of finding things deeply buried. They would randomly ask about something and hit a soft spot without even realizing they did. My mother said it was the Holy Spirit.

‘Are you there?’ I shook myself out of my reverie and turned to meet her glare.

‘ You better don’t go creepy on me o! I have already done as much bravery as I can afford tonight by taking this taxi with you Mr Stranger’ she said and raised her eyebrows, waiting.

‘I’m sorry’, I muttered. ‘I’m Kefas’

‘I’m Shayo and I hope it will be a pleasure to meet you Kefas’ she said as she extended her hand towards me. I grabbed it eagerly.

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I inhaled the atmosphere that filled the back of the yellow painted cab we had boarded. This was our last resort. There were no more BRT buses, the crowd had only increased and it was getting late. I tried to hail a cab a couple of times and as expected the price had doubled, all the cabs were trying to milk the situation. I saw Shayo from the corner of my eyes also unable to reach a fair bargain with several cabs. With each failed attempt, we inched closer to each other until we were standing side by side. At the sight of the next available cab, we both chorused ‘Anthony!’ we looked at each other and laughed.

‘You first’ I said. She walked to the Volkswagen Golf painted in Lagos State’s taxi colours. I watched her talk with the driver and get in. Good luck, I thought to my self, but then I noticed that the cab was reversing to my side. She peeked out from the back seat.

‘You are going to Anthony too right?’

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‘Where are you from?’ she asked again and this time I had an answer.

‘I’m from Jos. That’s Plateau State,’ I said. ‘I’m Berom. Do you know Berom People?’

She shook her head.

Of course, she would not. Berom people were as scarce as anything down in southern Nigeria. I had only come across one of us in my time in Lagos and only his name gave him away. We were traditionally farmers and bricklayers who loved hard work. Except for rare and interesting names like Miskom Puepet*, Chollom*, Pangwuilti, Fom Bot*, Vou Gyang Bot Dung*, Dazang, Davou etc. we were as hard to find, as we were hard to miss. There were three physical features common with most Berom people and most of us had at least one; Huge, very dark and handsome. I had all three.

I told her about the Hills of Jos, about the Kusa* Mines, about the local hockey game Baram* and many other wild tales of my childhood and my limited Military experience as ‘child soldier’ at the Nigerian Military School Zaria, Kaduna State. I talked about my experiences with guns and basic military formations. I noticed her become fascinated and begin to relax.


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‘Marry Me’.

Silence.

‘Shayo?’ She looked at me and she shook her head. I died.

Friday, the 13th day of May 2011, we were at the Four Points Hotel having an early dinner. I watched her walk away; navigate her way through the tables and out of the door. I was unsure whether to follow her. A little relieved I had decided to make it a private affair, I ordered my wobbly legs to stand and chase after her, doing my utmost to look dignified. Why would she say no? Everything had been perfect the past nine months. I had even prayed about it and everything felt right. She made me laugh and I made her laugh and cry – She said that was a good sign. So why run away? Did she go to the ladies’? Where was she?

‘Excuse me Sir’ the steward at the hotel came across to me. I guessed he wanted his money. I reached for my wallet but he restrained me.

‘Your friend has settled the bill sir, but she asked me to tell you that she wants to do it from the beginning.’

The beginning? What is wrong with this girl, I thought, perplexed. Did I just waste nine months of my life? Kai! These Yoruba girls get wahala* ehn! I was fuming.

Wait. I tried to call her but she kept rejecting my call. Where was she? Except… Ah! The beginning! I ran as fast as my big frame would allow, past the intersection leading to The Palms or Shoprite as most people called it, my feet slamming heavily into the paved road. I noticed the watchful eyes of the officials of the Lagos State Traffic Management Authority (LASTMA) as I dashed up the Maroko Sandfield pedestrian bridge, wary pedestrians already clearing a path for me to pass through. As I descended the bridge, I saw her, holding her shoes in her hands, smiling, the setting sun a perfect backdrop behind her, its reflection calm in the river. The beginning.

******************** CONTINUED IN PART 2 https://www.nairaland.com/2013054/roses-red-where-im-going ********************