Interesting bro.... Ride on..... They update dey tonite?

Captivating story. Well done!

Thing is, I started out earlier on my blog so it's an episode faster. Summary: There's a more recent update there.
Link's on my sig.
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Sorry I skipped last week guys. Didn't realise that the post did not load...

So I'll put up this week's and last week's too.
Hope to hear from you about how all this is going?

The bot blocked me out yesterday

Believe me, the spam bot has been blocking me out every since. Two days in a row now.

Say me a prayer guys as I attempt to make another post

Hydronium:
Believe me, the spam bot has been blocking me out every since. Two days in a row now.

Reduce the length of the update. U can break it in parts

I'll try again, after being locked out 4 times. Please, you may still read the latest updates here: superiorwords.com/blog.

Ep. 10a


Kome’s hard gaze reminded me of Medusa, only that Kome’s braids ran neatly down the back of her neck, not snake-like like Medusa’s. The taxi driver felt the discomfort and reached to turn up the volume of the radio. 9ice’s Gangan Aso was on repeat and the driver’s head bobbed vigorously to the beat.
“Hey Kome,” I started.
She averted her eyes and motioned for the driver to stop. She threw him some notes and alighted. When the car pulled away, I noticed her belly bump. Mein Gott! Kome was pregnant!
Was it from that night or somewhere else?
Kome was a decent person to the best of my knowledge, I doubted that she’d been gallivanting around with guys. But none of this made sense. She had gotten drunk at Club Royale and Shaggy had left her with me. I took her to my apartment, lay her in my bed and went to sleep in the sitting room with the rest of my goons. She woke the following morning saying all kind of things. No one knows what happen. Now here she was pregnant.
I had thought she got transferred somewhere else, but it was clear now that she’d stopped work because of the embarrassment.
A tract on the dashboard read Why worry? I pulled it off and scanned it absently.

Ep. 10b


Sansa too had hardly spoken to me since the issue with Kome and honestly, that was her problem—
“Boda, pure water.” I looked up from the tract. An urchin was thrusting a sachet of water under my nose. I waved him off and wound up the glass; others would follow if I didn’t. It was getting dark and our car was stuck in the inescapable traffic jam in front of Ogbe-Ogonogo market. The policemen at the check booth were coaxing bus drivers for money. The bus drivers were unwilling and so stayed put in the middle of the road.
“Where you for carry that woman?” I asked the driver.
“Upper Iweka.”
Upper Iweka. It was probably where Kome was hiding her head.
The traffic cleared and the driver stopped to pick a passenger. Suddenly, I wanted him to take me home alone. I told him.
“You go pay? No shere ka’m bia here o.”
“I’ll pay. Just let’s go.”
He went on to tell me how he’d had a tough time importing his golf from Cotonou and how the taxi drivers’ association had put him through hell. When he couldn’t get me to join his charade, he stopped.

Heeding an advice to split the post, I still got busted.

But I'm not about to let one silly spambot stop me. I'll get through this.

In case you don't hear from me, it means I've been blocked again.

You can read the more recent updates in my blog. Link is on my signature.

And so I got blocked again. Seems there's something in the episode that doesn't sit well with Mr Antispambot.
Une moment.

Ep. 11


“Bros abeg who be this cry-cry wey you carry come?” A voice boomed beside me.
The reply came on a phone on loudspeaker. “Abeg give am number 2.”
It was Shaggy.
“Who go pay, you? Make e clear now o.”
“No worry Fausta, He go pay, he get plenty money.”
The line creaked shut.
I had been crying, apparently. All I had said repeatedly as we drove into the Asaba night life was ‘I just want to die.’ Shaggy did not understand and drove on quietly until he swung the car into a poorly-lit bungalow by the side of the road with a flickering neon sign that said ‘CENTRE OF JOY’.
He opened the door and led me into the apartment which smelled of something like essential oils. For some reason I followed like a slowpoke. I did not know where we were at 8.30PM and didn’t bother to ask. If Shaggy had taken me to a shrine to be beheaded, I wouldn’t have cared less.
He handed me to a slender mid-sized gap-toothed lady, spoke into her ears for a few moments and patted me on the back before turning and walking out. At this point, nothing was going on in my head; all was in my heart, like someone trying to balance large metal balls on a surface with a very tiny pivot. I must have been walking like someone under a rude bout of stroke.
The lady sized me up impassively, handed me a towel and pointed in a direction. I saw someone else changing from regular clothes in there so I suspected I was to do same. Afterwards, I was led into another poorly lit room.
This time, the lady had me lay face down on a warm soft leather bench. The moment her hands began to knead the small of my back, I burst into tears. Everything came crashing down—the metal balls really—the love I’d never gotten from my father, the hard poverty-stricken life I’d led, the sorrows of work and gals, the never-ending chase after flighty cash—tooth-chattering, phlegm-ridden, shoulder-quivering wails which I suppose could be heard streets away.
Then the entire thing receded, like someone capped the mouth of a crying kid. I realized it was the massage, it had stopped. That was when Fausta made the phone call and Shaggy said to give me Number 2.
Fausta stepped out of the room and when she returned, she had me sit up and drink from a tumbler; a domineering look on her face. I gulped down the content of the tumbler, I was thirsty anyway. It had an orangy tang with a syrupy aftertaste.
Fausta had me lay back down again and resumed kneading my shoulders. Everything suddenly became very bright and I started to feel good. With each stroke of her hand, I seemed to rise above the water in which I had been submerged. My My. What was in that drink? How did it…
I forgot everything. Where I was, there was no future to speak of, only light, pure bright light that made me feel very happy about myself.
Soon, I began to grope Fausta, she attempting as much as she could to dodge my efforts. When she could not anymore, she stepped away disgustedly and called Shaggy, told him that this time I was demanding for number 3. Shaggy laughed and told her to give me the fun of my life, that I was rich enough to buy her a house anyway. Fausta snorted and got off the phone.
This time I did not need to grope her, she came to me.
Masseuses may be some of the best 'love givers' in the world. They know just where to touch and make you cry for joy. This time, I cried, not the heavy bawling of earlier, it was the cry of having someone who knew you handle you.
Meanwhile, my phone was ringing away somewhere in my trouser pocket, a distress call from my brother Cletus in Libya.

Ep. 12


Shaggy was there early the next morning to pick me up. We were running late for work, he said.
He’d brought me a fresh shirt and said smilingly that I’d have to pay him for it.
I looked in the mirror. I was smiling from ear to ear. I felt so good. Who’d have thought I could get over last night?
I looked out the window and breathed the cool morning breeze. We were going back to Asaba through Anwai, a small town on the outskirts of Asaba. Suddenly, I remembered the money. The money Madam Agambala had given me.
When Shaggy saw me scrambling around for something. He broke into a grin.
“Where’s my money?” I asked.
“It’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“You think all that enjoyment from last night was free? Fausta is a first class masseuse who trained in India. You could never go in there and remain the same.” He grin-winked at me.
“You’d have embarrassed yourself if I’d taken you to Club Royale last night, I swear. That’s why—”
“How much was it, the money?”
“Fifty k”
I swallowed. Fifty thousand naira in one night? Was this the new uptown Vegas?
As the car swung in the bank driveway, I asked Shaggy,
“What is number two?”
He just grinned.


Later that day, a liveried attendant walked into my office. As I tried to decipher where I’d seen the uniform, he blurted out that Madam Agambala was outside in her car and needed to see me.
My heart jumped and the sky blue shirt Shaggy brought me that morning became damp underneath my armpit. Did she want an answer so quickly already? How was I to tell her that I would rather not be a lover to a rich overweight woman?
I followed him and when he opened the door to the passenger seat of the Hummer, there was Madam Agambala in all her curved glory. She was on the phone but managed to cleared the sheave of papers from beside her and motion for me to sit. The chauffeur remained outside.
Soft music was playing on the stereo and the air-conditioning of the sleek interior of the SUV dwarfed that of my office. When she got off the call, she briefly smoothed my face with a pudgy hand.
“It’s just been one day and I already miss you Mac.”
I started to get nauseated, but when I remembered the fifty thousand, I smiled, sheepishly. I surely wouldn’t mind another fifty thousand today. There was something about that thing called number two. And even number three—
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry madam, I should lower the music…”
I reached for the volume knob and turned it all the way down.
“That was my beloved Phil Collins you turned down. But I forgive you. After all, What are we lovers for? So I got this call this morning from the States... I must attend some very important functions there. In fact, I’m on my way to the airport right now. But I’ll be needing you to do some transactions for me while I’m away.”
She handed me a brown folder.
“Some of the details you need are in there. I’ll just dash there and back. I can’t bear to stay away from you for long, my love.”
She reached inside her handbag and handed me a fat envelope, like yesterday’s. My heart leapt.
As soon as I collected it, she cradled my face in her hands and kissed me full on the lips.
She smelled nice but really I felt like puking.
Seconds later, I strolled back to my office, wondering how soon I could be back at Fausta’s. Number two was not to be missed tonight. And if we had a good bargain—as I planned to spend only a small portion of the money—number three was definitely worth it.
Meanwhile, shielded behind the flower pots and the reflective glass panes on the top floor was Mr Abayo watching everything that was transpiring.

Couldn't finish posting Ep. 10. That bot banned me seven times. I've therefore decided to continue with the other episodes. You can complete Ep. 10 on my blog: superiorwords.com/blog.

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Ep. 13


So, ‘number two’ it was that night. And the nights that followed for the next three months.
What was ‘number two’? A drink—any drink—laced with codeine.
When Fausta saw that I would not be dissuaded, she taught me how to mingle drinks. By then however, I had personally discovered who her vendor was.
Dike was a roadside Chemist with bloodshot eyes and a perpetually unshaven face. In the dark, his eyes seemed to gleam like those of a cat. His words were few, and when he spoke, it was about money. He never haggled. His price was the last price. And he always had stock.
Soon, I had to always have a bottle of beverage with me. Any time I began to feel down, I would rummage through my stuff for ‘any’ money and take a direct Okada to Dike’s place. Work or home. Day or night. Any time.
I began to ask Madam Agambala for extra cash. I’d call her and jokingly threaten her that I had to have the money or she would return to meet a scraggly me. She would laugh and send me whatever I asked for. This was the only reason I never stole from TrustMond. Thankfully too, Madam Agambala never returned in those months.
Sansa got promoted to head of marketing and would often stop by my cubicle to ask how I was doing. I couldn’t believe it. She was trying to rub her promotion in my face, wasn’t she?
“Clean my Gee, how far? Your eyes are bloodshot o. What do you do with them these days?”
“Clean, you’re always with a bottle of Coke. Don’t you think you’ll die of sugar?”
“Bros you gats do something o, see as you lean.”
I would look her over and shake my head. She looked different though. Whether it was her newfound plain dressing style or her hairstyle or her tone. I just couldn’t place it. And why she was suddenly talking to me again.


One day, Dike handed me a package that looked different from what he normally gave me. After a moment, he collected it and said he’d made a mistake. He gave me my normal package and began to usher me out of the room.
“Wetin be that, Dike?”
“Na Sirocco. No be your own, na another person get am.”
“I want that one.” I said, knowing it would be something different and special.
“This one bad gaan o, e dey more powerful and more expensive. Long lasting.” It occurred to me that this was the longest single speech Dike had ever made to me.
“Give me.” I said.
“E cost o.”
“Give me.”
He did. And I went straight to Fausta’s room.
The only saving grace I had was that it was a weekend. Sirocco messed me up real nice, the way I liked it.


Sansa walked up to my desk again Monday morning.
“You don’t look well Clean? What’s up? Plus you’ve been skipping morning briefings.”
I looked at her groggy-eyed. What did she care? Was she going to serve me a query seeing she was now my superior? I would have slapped her were she to be within range.
In the past few weeks, my irritability level had soared to a 100%. I’d beaten up Fausta and some of the other girls at Center of Joy to the involvement of the Police. Thanks to Shaggy I always got bailed. I’d fought Dike—object-smashing, bloodletting fight—and had to find a new vendor. I’d fought that one too. I often beat up the Okada men who took me to Centre of Joy. So thinking of busting up Sansa felt regular. How would she look with a broken nose and a missing incisor… I would lose my job though and the CCTV would—
“…Clean?”
I started. And let out a long stream of breath.
“I don’t know what to say to you Sansa? I’m just not myself right now.”
“You’ve been showing up late for work and no longer attend briefings. Clients are complaining about your services. Boss is angry. Do you want to take a leave and clear things up? …I’m asking … as a friend.”
As a friend. Sneer. “It will take some time to get a leave approved.”
“Leave that to me. When do you want to begin?”
“Now’s not a bad time.” I snapped. What was this whole charade about anyway?
My leave was approved in two days, astonishingly. Sansa even gave me some money.
I thought I’d travel to Lokoja and be with my childhood friend Linus, clear my head and get away from Sirocco, Codeine and all the other juxtapositions.
I was on my way to the park when it crossed my mind to say goodbye to Fausta; apparently, calling her on the phone did not occur to me.
Soon as I arrived there, the tiniest whiff of the syrupy substance was all I needed.
Essentially, I spent my leave at 'Centre of Joy.'

Ep. 14


It was during this time that Center of Joy transformed from a massage parlor into a drug house. Once, I overheard the manager, a petite Edo lady, explain over the phone that ‘Asaba people’ were not enlightened and did not see how massages helped their health. So business was not thriving, except number two and number three which had been added to enhance the massage experience. At the end of the call, the agreement was that number three should be left out of the equation for the mean time, but number two at any rate, so long as profit was being made.
Then, we began to nurse fears about the police or NDLEA showing up, but Madam manager was shrewd enough to grease the hands of certain officials. She also knew that the business would run bankrupt if she kept on shelling those large amounts to keep the agencies quiet. So she blew the lid open. Fausta said one day, that Madam manager was having a meeting with certain pharmaceutical officials. In one month, Center of Joy had acquired the property next to it and had begun planning for another branch in Okpanam.
I neglected my bank job and would spend all day holed up in Fausta's apartment, binging on all sorts. When I ran out of cash and couldn't reach Madam Agambala, I sold my phone. Then my watch. Shoes. Clothes, until all I had was what I wore. I sold some of Fausta's things too. I would later be among those scavenging for a bottle or two of codeine--if the others mixes were not available--on the street.
Rich kids would swing by in the cover of the evening to get drugs. Students from secondary schools in Asaba would come by too, but somehow, they felt it was risky coming out all the way to Anwai, particularly while school was in session. Since it was a big market, I was enlisted by Madam manager. My duty was to sell codeine to this kids until we could open a branch in Asaba—in return for my own stash. Madam manager said I was soft-looking and would not easily attract attention.
I would stand beyond the school fence during recess and sell to the students over the fence. The more I sold, the bigger my stash. So I worked diligently.
It was during this time that I met Nkem. Nkem was a tiny kid of thirteen with brazen looks and a British Accent. When he approached me, I declined to sell him anything.
“Go home to your mother,” I told him.
He smirked and said he had no home to go to.
I asked why.
Then he told me his story.
He and his mother had been sent back from the UK by his father two years ago, and while his father still supported them financially, things were no longer the way they used to be. He had a new stepdad who was always maltreating him, and his mother cared nothing about it. He had run from home for a week and no one had come looking for him. I stared at Nkem for a long moment.
For some reason, his was similar to the story of many of the other kids. Nobody seemed to love or care about them. Up till then, about a dozen kids—male and female—had willingly told me their story. I was like a reservoir--meet them for the first time, and they would begin to run like a tap. Did this mean anything? Then it slowly dawned on me that I was in the loop too. We all had this subtle stories to tell and no one wanted to listen.
For the first time, I told someone my story—Nkem. My life, my job, the complications. I felt like a drum beating a rhythmic tune and everything around was swaying.
I still sent Nkem off without any codeine, but I considered that I would pack my bags that evening and at least go back to my siblings whom I'd left without a hint of my whereabouts.
It was that Friday evening that I was stabbed in the gut.

Ep. 15


Friday nights were for open air binging. A couple of beverage companies had partnered with us. We had acquired the compound next to us. Business was moving. Drinks were flowing too—heavily mingled drinks.
I offered to join the team of bouncers. The team did not like it, Fausta particularly didn’t like it. I told her I liked the black outfit and how they wore their flat hats backwards. Besides, I needed a change of look—and clothing. Madam manager arranged it and soon I was feeling smug in my black gear.
Deep into the evening, a group of boys came around—typical rich man’s kids—chains hanging down their necks and trousers dangling just off their waists. The eldest couldn’t have been more than seventeen. They took a table and began to order drinks and giggle over their phones.
One I recognized as a student I supplied pot some time ago, I couldn’t place which school though.
For some reason, possibly because of my meeting with Nkem, and mostly because of the stringent rules of the bouncers, I was sober that night. I had earlier downed a can of slightly mingled Origin, but this was the cleanest I had come in three months.
At about ten, I felt I needed to get some rest, and perhaps a shave in preparation for my return home the following morning. I went instead to the rest room, there were some guys making out in the ladies. I yelled at them to get a room.
Bending over to wash my face, there I was, unshaven, bloody-eyed and shabby-looking in spite of the smart black jacket and leather mittens I wore.
As the water ran over my face, I thought back to Nkem, poor young thing who had had life hit the wrong way. He had the money, but he had to escape, get away from everything.
With a flash, I remembered the boys who often came to my apartment in Okpanam, finding solace in the company of my brothers, PES and betting. Were they trying to escape too?
Some of them had told me why they couldn’t stay home, bordering mostly on family issues. I wondered if the solace we found in the things we did was sufficient for us.
I resolved to go out and get a haircut.
It was at this time I should have retired for the night.
As I stepped back into the arena, I saw Fausta heading towards the group of boys from earlier. A moment later, one of them held her hand and I noticed she was struggling to get free.
I walked toward them, dismissing another bouncer who was rising to the occasion.
“What’s going on here?” I said, puffing out my chest and pursing my lips.
“Wetin be your own bros?” One said, his teenage voice betraying his husky tone.
“Leave the lady alone.”
They began to snicker, a little at first, then it became raucous laughter. Whatever they’d taken, it was strong and they were clearly far gone.
“I said let her go.”
Fausta motioned for me to be cool. She was trying to be calm, although she was clearly frantic.
One of the them rose. “Wetin you wan do bros? Be like say you dey mad abi? You no sabi who—”
I went across and punched him on the side of the face. He clattered to the ground like a plastic case on a tiled floor. Two others rose up to me, swinging wide, getting me on the face once and mostly missing. A third crouched over and tried to lift my legs from beneath. I dispatched him with fierce jab to the side of the abdomen. I slammed my knee into the soft gut of another and with a left hook sent the last one crashing into a nearby table.
In that moment, I was thankful for every second of battle I’d had. I was thankful I was sober and that the bouncers’ guild could see that I could hold my own—perhaps let me join them permanently.
The youngster holding Fausta had sat coolly watching the entire clip. I realized he was the rich kid. The others had simply tagged along. He let go of Fausta’s hand and a smile lifted on the corner of his face.
“What’s that son?” I said.
Fausta tugged at me, trying to get me away. I shoved her away and walked up to the youngster.
“What’d you say?”
I heard the beginnings of a scream and noted a split second later that it was Fausta. I ignored her. She needed to stop worrying about me, I could handle—
I spun on the balls of my feet. I was too slow. One of the kids had risen, and closing swiftly on me, stuck a hand in my abdomen. There was a sharp twisting sting and I instinctively clasped at it with both hands. Cold hard metal greeted me and warm wet fluid oozed into my hands.
I stared into the leering face. It was the kid I had sold pot. His chemical breath pervaded my face for a brief moment as the lights dimmed and the earth spun to a stop.

Well done OP

Ep. 16


I awoke to a sea of pulsing clouds and a sickly smell.
A fair lady garbed in white peered into my eyes and motioned to a man also garbed in white. Angels, I thought.
It wasn’t until a gurney of small colored bottles was wheeled in that I realized where I was. And I soon found that the pulsing cloud was some hard pounding somewhere at the base of my skull.
I tried to raise myself up and a searing feeling ripped up my belly, as though a piranha had clamped down on it. The pain knocked me out briefly.
When I came to, the man in white noticed. He asked me to keep still as he plunged a syringe into my arm. His voice was placid. He said I was lucky to have been brought in at the time I was. I did not understand. As the fluid snaked down my arms, the pulsing cloud fogged over and I stopped seeing.
Whether or not I was hallucinating, I cannot remember, but I must have woken up a couple of times because I saw my siblings, Shaggy, Sansa, Madam Agambala and my dead father.
In all honesty, I was told most of what happened during this time.
I would writhe in pain all night, sobbing and begging for the nurses to come, they said. If no one showed up, I would thrash and scream until they did. Then, I would ask whoever came if they had some codeine for me. I would promise to pay as soon as I got well.
When they tried to sedate me, I would rail and curse—in spite of myself—that nurses and doctors claimed to be caregivers but did not really care, since they wanted me to die in an hospital. I would scream for imaginary passers-by to come to my aid.
For some reason, one day, the doctor thought it was best that I was transferred to another hospital.
At one time too, a pastor came. I know he was a pastor because afterwards, he said what I was going through was not accidental, that I was to die like my father after some thingummy timetable, but that I wouldn’t because God had plans for me. God had plans for me and I was tearing up inside because God didn’t care enough to send me a bottle of codeine, I replied and told the pastor to sod off.
One day, I woke and thought I would slip out of the IVs and needles, and like Jason Statham jump out through the window and be gone. That was when I discovered that I was restrained. And that the piranha hanging to my belly seemed to have gone. Yet there was that livid tearing-up feeling all over my body.
This whole drama, I was told, lasted for well over a month.
At last, the pain subsided and I began to feel better. The first thing I noticed was that the room was totally solitary. No one visited. I asked the nurse. She said I was not granted to be visited but that the time would come soon.
The time did come. My first visitor was my mother and it must have been so planned to impress a deep feeling on me.
When the door swung open and I saw her, my heart broke.
I'd never thought she would see me this way—I mean, I'd promised her heaven and Earth, that I would make everything fine for her. Here I was depressed, broken, miserable.
This must have been her very thoughts as she stood there, convicting me with that loving look she gave me when I was six and fell deathly ill because of something she had warned me not to eat.
When she came and fell over me, her chest heaving with deep sobs, I knew I could never fail her again.

Ep. 17


My apartment was like a mini circus after I arrived home from the hospital—people streaming in and out, known and unknown, some muttering under their breath that in saner climes, I would have been sent to a correctional facility. I mumbled back that this was the wild card that showed up for me.
The doctor’s instructions were succinct: rest indoors, never let him alone for long stretches, engage him in ‘useful’ work after a short while.
He handed me over to my mother, and Sansa—yes, Sansa. I was told she was a regular at the hospital and was one of those who offset my bills. By her intervention as well, my line was retrieved, and unfortunately, the first call I received an hour later was Madam Agambala. She was like a wildcat.
“You scum… you took my money and went after other gurls eh? You turned off your phone so that I wouldn’t reach you—”
“Madam, that’s not the case at all.” I began, mustering all the feebleness I could.
“I’ll deal with you, you ungrateful bastard you. I’ll teach you a lesson you will never forget, you think I am aristo shey? You Nigerian boys think you are wise. I’ll show you that Gambian women are hard nuts to crack… I know your secret. They’ve told me… my account officer has told me… I know what you are doing with my money. I’ll deal with you walahi!”
The line went dead.
I sighed and lay back on the couch.
Sansa had just come in and asked what happened.
Something told me confidential information should remain confidential but I told her anyway.
“What am I to do now that Madam Agambala knows?” I asked. “But I’m not really doing anything with the money, am I? First—far as I know—I am no longer a staff of TrustMond, besides, since the deal, I have not received the seven percent I was promised.”
Sansa shook her head grimly.
“You should never have signed that document, Clean. It puts you at complete risk, regardless of whether or not you received your cut. What were you thinking?”
I shook my head.
“I wasn’t thinking, I just signed. Guess I was scared. But how would Madam Agambala have known about the document? The HOP would never have blown the gaff on himself.”
Then I remembered Madam Agambala mentioned account manager.
“Who’s her new account manager?” I asked.
“Shaggy,” Sansa replied.
“He’s been made Head of Marketing, a position you were due for had you kept your head straight for one more month.”
I sat up and glared at Sansa.
“You said you looked everywhere for me. Shaggy didn’t tell you where I was?”
She shook her head.
“My ending up in Centre of Joy was Shaggy’s idea.” I said and told her everything, beginning with my issue with Madam Agambala after the ebola scare.
“Not once did Shaggy mention a Centre of Joy,” Sansa replied, “he said you must have decided to stay over at your friend’s and when I asked him to call you, he said you were on your own, that he didn’t have time for fools. I was shocked, knowing you guys were good pals.”
I lay back in bed slow mo as everything played out before me.
Shaggy. He had been eyeing that position and knew that the only way was to get me out of the way—which he successfully did. That was why he kept mum about my whereabouts. He envied my interactions with Madam Agambala and had probably found a paper trail with which to implicate me such that if I ever returned from the drug house, my residence in misery and prison was sealed. As such, Mr Abayo, myself and whoever else was involved was in trouble.
A brilliant ploy, very well played.
The doorbell rang.
Sansa rose to get it. She returned seconds later with an envelope.
“Mail,” She said.
“Mail? Strange? Unless my dead father’s mailing me.”
We chuckled. I sat up and opened the envelope. It was a plain envelope with a printed-on seal and had written on it: Truth & Trust Int’l.
I stretched out the letter:


3 October 2015
Mr Maclean Agu,
SUMMON TO PARTICIPATE IN PATERNITY TEST: MISS OGHENEKOME OKOTIE
Truth and Trust is a feminist movement-support organization working to achieve gender justice and women’s human rights worldwide. The abovementioned filed a case with us on the 3rd of May 2015 and has now put to birth.
On account of this, you are summoned to participate in a genetic test to confirm the paternity of the child. We ask that you calmly oblige as your refusal may necessitate a lawsuit which means your workplace will hear about it and your persona will be badly damaged.
This is not a threat but a mild request to clarify the issues on ground.
The hospital is St Clarence hospital and homes, 17 Salvation way, Asaba.
You may go anytime within this week 7-14 October 2015. Present yourself by name.
Thank you.

Dr Bilquis Onuora
Chairman
Truth & Trust


“What is it?” Sansa asked.
I glared at her.

Ep. 18 (Season finale)


“You are worried, aren’t you?” Sansa said, a searching look on her face.

I had just explained that night to her; it felt odd that Sansa who had been involved in this was listening to its retelling like a third party. She just sat nodding slowly, rhythmically, as though bobbing her head to some jazz.

I told her about the time I’d seen Kome on the streets of Asaba, how we both had been shocked to see each other and how she’d gotten off abruptly and hurried away.

Then I told her why I was bothered. I had an history of parasomnia—something I didn’t know it was called until a few months ago, something I’d told no one. Parasomnia like insomnia was a sleep-related disorder that caused me disturbing hallucinations. While sleeping, I’d done many abnormal things which I couldn’t later recall—including jacking off. So, I couldn’t be sure it hadn’t happened. I’d woken up back on the couch, but found I was wet when I got to the bathroom. What if Kome was right?

Sansa wringed her fingers ruefully and looked out the window.

“I’m sorry I judged you Mac… I’m sorry for everything.”

I stared at her. She no longer wore heavy makeup. And she had discarded most of her revealing dresses. The Sansa I knew was heady, uncouth and a dangerously short fuse who could go kaboom at the slightest itch. This Sansa was different. What had happened to her?

I averted my gaze before she caught it and decided this question was not for now. There was however one question I needed to ask.

“You know what?” Sansa quipped suddenly. “Why don’t we do this right away?”

“Do what?”

“The test. Let’s get it done!”

My heart thumped. I couldn’t believe it. I’d thought she would advise me to ignore Kome and face my life. I got up anyway, threw on some clothing and we went out.

St Clarence was not far, a ten-minute taxi ride and we were there. It was an old but decent-looking missionary hospital, one of the few which still stood.

As we walked into the reception, Sansa noticed the weird scrouge on my face.

“What’s it?” She said.

“That smell?”

“What smell?”

“Codeine… I can distinctly smell it.”

Sansa was horrified. We had both forgotten.

“We should leave now!” She said.

I shook my head vigorously, both as a response and in an attempt to repress the longings which were threatening to burst forth.

Sansa led me to a bench and began to massage my hand. Her voice was a clear stream flowing.

“This is not who you are, Clean. Remember you once told me your dream to help young people out of stuff? How will this work if you go back now? This drug does not hold you anymore. You’ve gotten above it. It’s now beneath you.”

Like the soothing effect of waves slushing against the sides of a rock, I calmed. And sighed heavily.

“How do you feel?” She asked, still squeezing my hand.

I nodded, heaving some more.

“Good. These are things you’ll need to remember, I won’t be there all the time.”

We sat listening to the growing pulse between our hands and ignoring the furtive glances from those who sat around.

“Why are you helping me, Sansa?” I asked, the million-dollar question.

A lopsided smile rose to her lips. That used to be a mischievous smile, now, I knew not what it was.

“You needed help, that’s why.” She said.

“I don’t understand. You tried to help me at TrustMond, I declined but you kept at it. And you still came looking for me, as junkied as I was, paid my bills, when others including my best friend left me—Why?”

Before Sansa could answer—if she ever was, an orderly came waltzing towards us. The look on her face made it clear that she was to be obeyed and promptly. Without being asked, I showed her the letter which she skimmed wordlessly. She gave Sansa a narrow glance and led me off.

The first room was redolent of antiseptics and Izal. There she handed me to some nurses who impassively stuck me with needles.

The longing in my muscles returned when I saw a pack of Tramadol. I calmed as I remembered what Sansa had said. A while later, I was led to another room which smelled mostly of handwash—amber rose—the kind we used at TrustMond.

The rotund man behind the leather desk checked me out for a full minute. Then proceeded to ask a couple of questions before announcing the result of the tests. I almost hugged him.

“How was it?” Sansa asked when I got out.

“Negative,” I said, shaking my head. “I ought to sue her for these false allegations, but I won’t.”

Sansa was silent as we walked to the main road.

“So what are you going to do now?” She asked.

“Err… I think I’d start something in line with my dream. Wow, I don’t remember telling you any of that though. I’ll just start something, yes… maybe begin with the gang in my house.”

I said and chuckled, now light-hearted.

“What about Madam Agambala?” She asked.

I shook my head, not wanting to spoil the mood.

“I’d deal with her later.” I said.

Sansa had to go home. So I walked her to the park. She declined and found me a taxi. I declined saying she was the lady.

Finally, we rode in the taxi to wherever, holding hands and chatting like junior school sweeties.