Vonn, should I dare ask for pardon? I am so so late. Please forgive me. So many things occupy my time now.For now, I have nothing to say, leme first catch up with you guys. Hope I am forgiven?

TiffanyJ:
Vonn, should I dare ask for pardon? I am so so late. Please forgive me. So many things occupy my time now.For now, I have nothing to say, leme first catch up with you guys. Hope I am forgiven?

Oh My God...It's Tiffanyj

Wow, divepen1 you never sleep? How have you been? Suddenly I lost track of you on Nairaland

TiffanyJ:
Wow, divepen1 you never sleep? How have you been? Suddenly I lost track of you on Nairaland

I'm still around ooo...I just had to change account for future purpose...

TiffanyJ:
Wow, divepen1 you never sleep? How have you been? Suddenly I lost track of you on Nairaland

Tiffanyj, kindly respond to my request please.

mabelly:

Tiffanyj, kindly respond to my request please.

Check your mail

I've been ill for quite a while, hence my absence on NL.
I'll try my best to continue from where we stopped.
My apologies.

TiffanyJ:
Vonn, should I dare ask for pardon? I am so so late. Please forgive me. So many things occupy my time now.For now, I have nothing to say, leme first catch up with you guys. Hope I am forgiven?

Tiff, because you're my sis-in-law, you're already forgiven...
Enjoy!!

CHAPTER 14





Watercolour trickled down the canvas.

Abbe wiped it off with a foam before it could reach the canvas’ edge. She dug a spoon in the palette and mixed a spoonful of yellow and five of blue. She positioned closer to the easel and began a primer.

A car engine died down front of the gallery, and then came the squeaking of the door.

A man strolled in. She inserted her brush in the palette, cleaned palms on her apron, and hastened to him.

“You sell all of these?” The man scanned the works hung up.

“Yes.”

“You have big board paintings? I’d need that.” He buttoned an unfastened end of his sleeve.

“Painting of what?”

The beard curled round his jaw loosened as he fondled it. “Let me see what you have.”

The big boards at the bottom screeched against each other as she glided them against themselves. “They’re mostly landscapes.”

“I should see them.” He advanced towards her.

She budged for him to crouch by her. He crouched and glided one board over another. “Nothing other than landscapes, animals and plants?”

“None on a big board, but I can do what you want.”

“I need a big board picture of an orchard. I’d say 7 by 7 ft., a full picture of me also on a 7 by 7, and a small board of two babies, like the small board sizes you have here. Can you give me that?”

“You have their photos?”

“I have the orchard’s, but it isn’t here with me, I’d bring it on my next coming. Be done with the babies first, give me one from your head.” He reverted to viewing the landscapes painting.

“Male or female?”

The question seemed to be one he didn’t think of. It had him gazing thoughtfully at a board. “Both. Twins. Identical.”

“Black or whi—”

“Draw anything beautiful.”

“What about you? Do you have a photo of yourself?”

“I’m here. You can start the painting straightaway.”

The customer sounded as though it was the normal to paint someone in person.

No one asked for that, no one had ever asked her for a face-to-face painting, and that should be same case for other painters.

“Sorry, sir, I don’t paint people in person.”

Before she finished talking, his eyes were already at her, almost glaring.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s a choice.”

“I’m paying for it.”

“I appreciate your pay, sir, but I don’t do that.”


He raised brows in a manner that clearly says she was the only painter in the universe who doesn’t paint customers in person.

“Why don’t you paint people?”

“I’m better off painting from photos.”

After another communication with his eyebrows, he rose and made for the bench, cracking fingers.

“When do I bring the photos?”

“Any suitable time.”

“You’d be here tomorrow?”

“I’m always here.”

“Expect me then.”

He adjusted his sleeves and made for the door. She watched him leave and imagined a scene of her sitting front of a man, painting a picture of him.

There would be lots of errors and all the blames would be on her.

Some painters did it. It could be a distinct specialty. One day she’d try. But not with that man.

He entered his car, started the engine and wheeled back.

#


It never was an easy task to paint two identical things. Abbe was done with the female.

She drew head from the board and admired the crawling figure of the baby girl she had created. Her ears needed some touch. Abbe grazed the surface with pale-yellow.


Now, it was time for the twin. She debated on if to give him same blonde skin as the girl, or tan, or chocolate. Or the customer’s skin colour.

The customer was ebony if she was remembering clearly. She opted for that and did the blends in the pallet.


Satisfied at the attained mixture, she dipped her brush into the pallet and extracted some of the mix.

She let the image form itself in her head and reproduced it on the board, periodically taking eyes to the baby girl to ensure a perfect resemblance or something near that.

The gold car of the previous day drove and settled at her front. The customer. She had wanted to be done before the man came.

A little more patience from him would have won her that. The man opened. She frowned at herself. He was tan and not ebony.

“Is that my work there?” he muttered, enough to be heard.

“Yes, I’m still on it.”

He advanced to her and peered at the board, carrying no smile, making it seem the painting was not good enough.

“If you’re not satisfied, I can do a new one.”

“It isn’t bad.” He sat on the bench. “I brought the photos of what you’d be working on.”

She stopped painting. “I should see them.”

He brought out two photos from his bag and set them on the table.


One was a photo of a cherry tree orchard, a beautiful one, full of green leaves mixed with traces of red.

She would paint double of it and keep one for herself. She glanced at him. Most men she knew did not appreciate things like this.

How many men did she know? she mocked herself. But no one would expect a man like this to have a mind for Art.

Art was not for men that glued solemnity to their faces. She picked the other photo.

It was a picture of him, a much younger him with a different skin colour. Ebony.

“I’d be done in two days,” she said.

“No three,” she corrected, on remembering the extra orchard painting she would want for herself.

“That should be Thursday. Expect me then. When would you be done with the babies?”

“I should be done by tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly.


She returned to the board and let the image flow from her fingertips into the board. He gawked at her as though she was painting him.

At times, his eyes drifted from the board to her face, and those times weren’t few.

She wished they were other ways of telling him to stop gawking without using her mouth.

“You don’t have to watch me,” she said, and regretted to have said it. It was never a bad thing for a buyer to watch the painter paint the booked work.

“I’m waiting. You could be done today.”

“I don’t guarantee that, and even if it happens, it would take time to dry.”

“Don’t you have a dryer?”

“Using a dryer can result to bad work.”

“How long would it take to get dried? Without a dryer.”

“By Thursday it should be fully dried.”

He studied his wristwatch. “I’d wait.”

She quit arguing and allowed him watch.
It could help train her for painting people seated at her front. She rubbed a foam on the baby’s middle and added layers of brown upon layers.

“What’s your name?” he asked as though it was his right to know.

“Abbe.”

“Second name please?”

Her hands quavered at his words. Why did he want a second name? She prayed she carried a face bad enough to tell him she hated the distractions. “Oboh.”

“Oboh,” he repeated. “Bodiaye?”

Now, he spoke her native dialect, probably just to show he could. She pondered on if to respond in same, or in English, or keep mute.

He was a customer. Keeping mute wouldn’t be the best.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re Esan.”

She nodded. If only the man could stop talking and allow her finish the work peacefully.

“I spent some time in your land,” he said.

She was nearly glad he reverted to English. Having a conversation with a customer in the native tongue would have been the most itching thing.

“I’m Bakare Damijo.”

She reached for her palette knife. She extracted some black from a container and pasted it on the rough board, and then spread it to a thin film. She added a layer of black to the film.

“Would you be done in the next hour?” he asked.

“I can’t say.”

The sunrays turned orange and dimmed the room, yet he had made no motion to leave.

He probably loved the work since he simply stared and uttered no complains. Neither did he utter praise.

She did the finishing—trimming of the edges, and was happy enough to have avoided vivid errors even with the disturbance. She snuck a glance to him.

With the look he carried, it was hard to guess if he loved the work or not. Few words from him would have made things better.

“I’d go place it under the fan.” She lifted the board and walked to the fan. She turned it on and placed the board underneath.

“Doesn’t that spoil the work as you said?”

She glanced at him. “It doesn’t. Using something more artificial, like a paint dryer or a hairspray is what does that.”

“With this, how long would it take to dry?” He interlocked fingers.

“Hours or days.”

He slid palms down his face and stood.

“I’m leaving. I’d be back on Thursday. How much does it cost?”

“Six thousand.” With the disturbances and distractions, she should have charged higher.

“What about the orchard and my picture. How much would that cost?”

“When I’m done, we would talk on that.”

He rubbed palms together and eased to the door.

She exhaled. Not easy.

She staggered to her desk and picked the photos of the orchard and the customer. She examined the orchard. It seemed virtual.

She flipped to the photo of the customer. It would not be easy drawing the figure, especially the nose.

She cupped her waist at both sides and yawned to the air.

What she needed was a deep sleep on the wide bed waiting for her at home.

The gallery messes would be attended to the next morning.

#


Before she would jump into her bed, her stomach needed some attention. She wandered to the kitchen and searched for a fast-cook.

She fumbled out a pack of Indomie from the cabinet, set the pot on the cooker and poured in the noodles.


The refrigerator had a stench good enough to announce there had been no power all day.

She cursed PHCN and picked up a 7up, gulped down the drink and cursed PHCN even more.

The pot cover trembled and steam soared into the air.

She coated her palm with a rag and lifted the pot’s cover. The steam from the cooked noodles bathed her face.

She turned off the cooker and spooned the noodles into a plate. The crackling of the gate burgled into her ears.

She covered the food with a flat plate and ambled to the sitting room. She peeked through the window. It was

Richard on a white suit. She drew in a long breath and let it out through her mouth. She placed a stool in place, eased to the door and unbolted.

“Richard,” she called and smiled.

Her stomach quivered. She commanded it to Stop. It did not obey, but rather doubled.

She budged from the entrance and let him step in.

His cologne sent waves through the lines of her nostrils and flowed into her vein holes like a spell determined to make her hide in his jacket and inhale all of it until she got drowned.

“Nice place you have here.” He looked round.

“It’s my dad’s.” She closed the door.

He clip-clopped to a couch, sat and rested his briefcase at his side.

“I should go get you something.” She attempted escaping into anywhere than the overpowering sitting room.

“Only a cup of water, I’d be gone soon.”

She made for the kitchen and rested on the wall, did a deep inhale and let it out.

She opened the refrigerator. The unwanted warm air rained on her.

Again, she cursed PHCN, cursed and cursed them. She touched every can, checking for one that could be a bit cold. None.

She cursed one more time and picked any, took a mug and walked back to the sitting room.

“How’s Jide.” She filled Richard’s mug, and got a fuller dose of his spell.

“Jide is good.” He lifted the mug to his mouth and sipped. “Power has since been out?”

“Yes.”

The water flowed down his throat without the tiniest obstruction. Water was the most privileged thing on earth. It could go into the insides of whomever it wanted.

He was a married man, a happily married man, she reminded herself and positioned on the couch adjacent to his.


Dropping the mug on the stool, he directed gaze at her and thanked for the drink. She did not blink or shake, she had perfectly mastered that.

What she now needed to master was to stop the quivering and churning of her stomach anytime his voice came up.

Very soon, she should have attained perfection in that.

He struggled with his briefcase’s lock and brought out a book, the book he once gave to her that was supposed to help her disorder.

“You left this at my house,” he said.

“I reckoned.”

“I thought of delivering it to you.”

She leafed through the book, skimming over the jargons filled with useless terminologies.

“I love your wallpaper,” he said, viewing the painting of sunflowers in water, hung beside the television.

“I have some of those in the small garden at home.”

“I’ve seen them. They’re beautiful.”

“Why don’t you come take some and plant on the lawn at your front?”

It was a good idea, but she was not taking any flowers from his house.

The last thing she wanted was something that would bring his picture into her head anytime she passed her lawn.

“Thanks for offering, but I love the lawn this way.”

“If you don’t want to come to the house, I could send someone to bring it here and plant it for you.”

Her nerves froze, and the life in them ceased.

Why would he assume she wouldn’t want to come to his house? How did he know that?

“N-No. What are you saying?” She introduced some facial puckers.

“Why wouldn’t I want to come to your house? I simply love my lawn this way.”

“Sorry for the assumption. I thought—I’m sorry.”

Thought what? She wanted to ask, but kept mute to avoid hearing another revelation from him.

“I should start going. And read your book, it’s doctor’s recommended.” He stood up and lifted his case.


She watched him open the gate and wished the book would bounce back to his house, so there could be another reason for him to visit, even though he did not last up to a minute.

She needed to experience those spells one extra time.

She listened to the shudder of his car until the air swallowed it. She closed the door and bolted.

His scent or spell still surrounded the room. Now that he was gone, she was not afraid to fall prey to them.


She sauntered to the sitting room, reprimanding and reminding herself he was a married man, and fighting with all of his hexes.

Her noodles had gone cold. Power came up.

The refrigerator began humming, began disturbing. She left the food covered and lumbered to the bedroom.

She begged whoever ruled the dream world to allow her control her dreams for only this hour. She should not dream of a married man.

Such an enchanting piece, I love this

nice update.... following!

Next update plsssss

Vonn??
Update o..

CHAPTER 15





Since when did Aunt Juliana develop a great interest for fashion shows? Lauren asked herself.

They viewed the big living-room screen and watched the display on the catwalk, gossiping the Canadian models over bagels and salad sandwiches.

“The bad thing about these people is they starve themselves to death. Some end up having anorexia,” Lauren said.

“Not under proper supervision.” Aunt Juliana countered.

Lauren stuffed bread rolls into her mouth and struggled to speak.

“How many of them allow proper supervision? Take Aryl Blond as an example, she is working herself to death.”


Aunt Juliana elbowed her. “Hey… that’s so exaggerating. It could be the TV deceiving you.

I’d be going to the next show. I think next week. Follow me, so you’d see your favourites in person.”

Lauren wondered if the Aunt Juliana that sat before her was same as the one in Canada.

The one in Canada didn’t watch fashion shows on TV except by accident, and now she was discussing going to the venue.

“Wish I could,” Lauren said.

“Why couldn’t you?” Aunt Juliana said, sounding as though it was the normal they go. They had never seen the catwalk except on TV.

“You don’t expect me to travel to Canada because of some show.” She tried sounding hysterical, so the woman could see how hysteric her idea was.

Aunt Juliana chomped off a bite of sandwich. A slice of cabbage slid from her bread.

“It’s the holidays, and we’d be there for only a few days.”

“I can watch the show in my room. That’s why there is a TV.”


“Believe me. The real show is better than TV,” Aunt Juliana said with much assertion, as if she hosted the real show.

“The screen doesn’t change their faces.” Lauren bobbed to the TV.

“Look at Evelyn Jordan, her face hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Why not come see them if only for the reason you love them?”

“I’d create better reasons to travel to Canada than a fashion show.” She selected the eggs off her sandwich.

“Reasons like?”

She rifled for one. “I can’t even think of any.”

“Lau, Canada is your country. Don’t tell me you can’t think of a reason to go there.”

Lauren budged forward to catch her aunt’s face.

“Is this about me going to Canada for some fashion show or about me permanently returning to Canada?”

Aunt Juliana narrowed eyes, and her pretence blazed across her pupils. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I have a hunch that this discussion is heading somewhere.”

“What somewhere?”
Lauren laid her sandwich on her plate.

“Mum put you to this, right?”

“Lau. You’re saying something else.”

“Tell mum I’m not going to Canada, and tell her efforts are beginning to anger my bones.”

“Anger your bones?” Aunt gathered eyes. “Mum is trying to help you.”


This was in fact the landing of the talk. Fashion show was all about going to Canada.

“When I need help, I’d ask for it.”

“Be reasonable, Lau, and stop being a kid.”

The real Aunt Juliana came forth, the one that never thought before spitting out words.

“You’re sticking your ass to this country because you want to be with dad. That’s what a twelve year old would do.”

“Oh… I’m now a kid.” Lauren folded hands.

“If that’s what you think, then so be it. I love sticking my ass to the land, and it would help if you could unstick yours from the land.”

“Lau, what did you say?” Aunt Juliana’s voice lowered.

“If I said anything wrong, I’m sorry, and I’m also sorry for the ones I’m yet to say.”

“What’s gotten into you, Lauren?”

“You and mum.” Her voice ascended. She paused and allowed some calm.”

You and mum have gotten into me. You both are depriving me of my right to choose.”

“What everyone wants for you is a good life.”

“And I’m getting it here. If you want that for me, then you should stop pestering me and allow me have the good life.”

“What’s keeping you here?” Aunt Juliana asked bluntly.

“The good life,” she said. “I need some air at the porch.” She stood and stomped to the veranda, not giving her aunt any more eyes.

#

Her dad finished with the grace after breakfast, Lauren retired to her room and shut the door.

The Saturday was warm and cosy, at least so far, she prayed it remained so. She mounted on her bed and played with her mobile.

Aunt Juliana’s obnoxious cry over an expanded can-drink in the freezer disrupted the cosiness.

Lauren covered her ears with headphones and listened diligently to the low tunes of Michael Jackson.

A voice from the outside mixed with Michael’s. She removed headphones and got a good dosage of the voice, calmer than Michael’s. That was Jide’s voice.

What was he doing in her house, and with whom did he exchange words?

She jumped from the bed and made for the living room. She stood behind the curtains and peeped at the living room. Jide and her dad exchange words.

Things like mining site, state government issues, naira figures, limestone, and some other stony words came out from the discussion.

When bored of feeding only her ears instead of her entire five senses, she waved the curtains and showed herself. Jide’s dark eyeballs flew to her.

She smiled and greeted. The white light drew a line on her. She was still on her stupid red baggy pyjamas, and it was ten in the morning.

Jide smiled back at her. “Just waking up?”

Her fingertips itched and the itching migrated to the entire fingers.

“No. I-I just overslept. Sorry, I mean I’ve been up since seven. Forget my clothing.” She flicked a hand.

He chuckled and told her dad something that had her name. Dad laughed—the kind of laugh that hardly came. Jide waved and reverted to discussing stones.

She maintained her smile to the veranda. The two women reclined and chattered on the longue. Joining them would be a very bad idea.

“Honey, you’re still on your nighties,” mum said. “I thought I was the one with that bad habit.”

“One of the things I learned from you. I’d go pull it off.” She found the right excuse to discharge and left the two women.

She treaded the living room ground without glancing and made it to her room. Her mirror showed the specks of sleep marks that circled her eyes.

Nobody drew her attention to them during breakfast. What sort of house was she living in? She entered the bathroom and did quick showering.

Back in the room, she opened her closet and flung out a pair of trousers and a top.

There was no need for makeups; the two women with gawking eyes hadn’t left the house.

But an eyebrow line wouldn’t do harm. Nothing but a brow line. She picked a black eye pencil and drew a faint line on both brows.

She sat on her bed and waited for any closing remark from the two men. Her enhanced ears caught rising footsteps.

Sooner than expected. She left the room for the curtains. The men were through with the meeting, and dad approached her vantage. She shifted the curtains and sauntered into the living room.

“Good you’ve changed from your pajamas,” dad said, without giving much eyes to her wears. She examined herself properly. Her clothes were nothing above casuals.

Mum started a discussion from the veranda. Words didn’t leak out, but three distinct voices were busy: two female’s and a male’s.

Lauren sat on a sofa and used the TV until the voices ceased. She bolted for the veranda.

“Mum, I want to buy a black pen from across the street, I’d be needing one.”

She smiled at Aunt Juliana. A little support could be useful.

“I think I have a black pen at my bag,” mum said.

“You have blue, not black.”

Mum acquiesced. “Go buy your pen.”

“I should save my legs some stress and follow Mr Jide.”

Mum shrugged. “Okay, but you’d have to trek back,” she said with no hesitation. Saturdays were the best.

Lauren hailed to Jide and was able to stop him from opening the gate. She paced to him.

“I’d need a ride.”

“To where?” They walked past the gate.

“Just by the road. I’ll signal you when there.”

She moved to the passengers’ side of his Toyota and opened the door.

He started the car. “Where are you heading? East or West?”

“You’re driving towards the main road?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

“Your house is beautiful.” He pushed the gear and twisted head to the rear screen.

“I don’t mean to brag, but you should see the one in Canada,” she said. “What were you discussing with my dad?”

“Some business matters. Easier than setting up a full joint meeting where the CEOs and everybody would be present.”

His hands smoothly twirled round the steering—a worthless, round, non-living thing.

“Where actually are you stopping?” Jide asked.

“Two miles from here.”

“What?” he widened eyes.

“I’m kidding. A few drives left. Cabs run this place. I’d take one back home.”

“You have much resemblance with your mum whom I guess is the woman on red.”

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is.”

His phone rang. The ringing continued for some more before he struggled to get the phone out from its pocket.

“I hate answering calls while driving. You shouldn’t do it.”

He viewed the screen and smiled. It didn’t seem he hated answering calls while driving. He spoke to the phone and said things that couldn’t and wouldn’t be said to a man.

The conversation ended. He placed the phone on the dashboard, still carrying remnants of the smile.

“Who was that?” she blurted.

“A friend.”

“Girlfriend?” She attempted some seriousness if that would warrant an answer. “Or fiancée.”

He directed at her. “You talk too much.”

“I know, but it was a question.”

“You shouldn’t ask every question that crosses your mind.”

Questions needed answers, and that was no answer.

“When is your mum returning to Switzerland?”

“Sometime this month.”

“Any intention of following her.”

“No.”

“What about the other woman? I believe an aunt. Which country is she based?”

“Canada. She’s leaving the coming week.”

“You’re going with her?”

“No.”

He shook head the way everyone did when they heard she wasn’t going to that country called Canada. “You don’t seem to like your motherland.”

“I do.”

“Then why avoiding any visits?”

“I simply don’t see a reason to visit.”

He removed fingers from the steering and let the car create its own straight path.

“It’s same thing as you don’t like the place.” He returned fingers to the steering and continued handling it.

“I like Canada, I love the country.”

“It doesn’t seem that to me. You refused schooling there and you don’t visit.

That’s the opposite of like.”

Everyone stormed her head with Canada. First mum, then Aunt Juliana, and now Jide. “You like Canada?” She asked wiping off any hint of amusement.

“It’s developed, and there’s a good standard of living. I’d say yes.”

“Have you visited?”

“No.”

“Did you school there?”

“No.”

“So what are we saying?”

He halted and honked for some uniformed schoolchildren to cross. The children held each other’s hands and ran across the road.

“I didn’t school there because I didn’t have a chance to. If I were a citizen, I certainly would have done my entire schooling there. Truth be told, it’s better than schooling in Nigeria, and you should aim for the best.”

Heat began to secure a place in the car despite the conditioned air streaming in from the vent.

“You’re encouraging me to go school there?”

“I know you’d refuse.”

She tapped head with a fist and let the caged words in her brains fly out without caution.

“What is wrong with everyone? Fly to Canada, school here, school there. I’m tired of hearing it all.
I’m tired of everyone treating me like a child that can’t get to say where he lives or where he schools.”

He huffed at her. “You’re seventeen, and still under your parents. They get to say where you live.”

She fixed on him. “My mum got to you, didn’t she?”

“Got to me for what?”

She carried gaze to the windscreen. “I won’t blame you. She got to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What did you and my mum discuss?”

“Is everything all right?”

“My mum told you to have this Canada talk with me, didn’t she?”

“Your mum and I talked nothing but introductions. Is everything all right?”

“No. Nothing is all right. I’m nauseated by everyone seeing me like a ten year old kid.”

“I don’t see you as a ten year old.”

She turned to her side window. “Yes you do, Jide.”

“No Lau. You’re much bigger than a ten year old. You’re a growing teenager that needs her parents’ hands.”

“I’m a teenager, but also a woman. Please see me as such. I’m stopping here.”

After much staring at the airbag, words found a way out of his mouth. “Would you find a cab to hire?”

“I’d stop one of the taxis.”

He decelerated to the side lane. “We talk about this sometime? Say a ride at the stables.”

She nodded and stepped out. He watched her try to stop one of the running taxis, and she watched him with a cornered eye until a taxi stopped. She entered the front seat. The taxi fled. His car moved.

CHAPTER 16




Abbe watched the man standing at the middle, gazing at her paintings. She tried recalling his Yoruba name. Bakare something. It was good he came today—Saturday—as opposed to Thursday. On Thursday, his Orchard painting was not ready.

Now, she was done with everything concerning him and would be free of the awkward customer. He stopped gazing and retired to his framed painting of the little perfect twins on the table, staring at it for the hundredth time.

And still, made no remark. All he did was dip a hand into a pocket for his wallet and from it, brought out clean, crisp, one thousand naira notes, counted, and laid them on the desk.

She thanked him, and hoped he carried his board paintings and head to the door. He did not. He inched to a corner of the room, crouched, and began looking at a painting—a portrait of herself.

She tried ignoring him and focus on her gouache, but could not stop sneaking glances. They were done, and he was supposed to leave. Although her portrait was there to be looked at, she did not like the way he looked at it. As though it was his.
He was not talking, not commenting, but merely staring at it with his dark tough eyes that caused a hard time painting.
His brown eyeshade on the bench stared at her. It continued staring and staring.

The devil crawled in. She would resist. She would not take what belonged to a customer. The turpentine lodged in her veins snaked into the lines of her palms. The eyeshade spoke to her—she either took it off the bench or… the turpentine would be kindled.
“Sir, your eyeshade is here.”

“Leave it there.”
It happened. Her fingertips gave off flames. Her hand burned. It moved and grasped the shades.

The devil won.
The eyeshade fell from her hand and shattered. She shut eyes. His voice pinched her ears. She tightened lids.
She opened her lids at once. “I’m s-sorry.”

He rose and sauntered towards her. “I won’t be needing it. My car has good visors.” As he came nearer, his footsteps caused an earth tremor that worsened into a quake with reducing distance.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident.” She evaded his eyes.

“Try to avoid accidents.” He rounded her, drawing a line round her table with his finger.

She lowered head and waited for him to say something.
“Your eyes are brown,” he said.

She could not reply, not when she had lost control of the room. She broke his glass, and that gave him some control, made her his prey.

“I like your eyes.” He left gaze on her.

“Not only the eyes.” He took his gaze off her. “Nice works you have here.” He picked his framed painting, strode to pick the boards, and made for the door.

She avoided taking eyes to the door until there was no more of his car engine. She picked the broken glass pieces on the floor and made for the waste bin. His last words burgled into her head. She knew what he meant, got every hidden detail in his words. She allowed her thinking end there and held her painting brush.

The wall clock read three-thirty. Not a bad time to go home. She closed the palette and washed the colour off the brush, covered her unfinished work with a polythene sheet and did the necessary clean ups.

She stopped a taxi and rode home.
Grasshoppers hopped to her feet as she treaded her lawn. She crouched and picked some of the carpet grass, spread them on her palm and let the wind blow them away.

Sunflowers would do a favour to the lawn’s edges. Richard had offered, but they could be acquired from a flower shop. Where would be best to go? The shop. She drove a hand through the grass, it needed mowing, and that would be done after planting the sunflowers.

What if Richard visited and saw her lawn with the blooming yellow heads? That would confirm whatever thoughts he might have. What thoughts could he even have? She clapped the grasses off her palm and rose.

His house was quicker, it was free, and it would arouse no suspicion. No suspicion.
Few minutes met her in the junction where the avenue’s signboard was dug.

The driver stopped. She paid and stepped out. Back in this place again, this treeless place. The brown top of Richard’s duplex shot out from within the other duplexes. She hiked to his duplex and knocked at the hard, sounding gate.

The gateman’s eyes protruded through an aperture. He removed his chewing stick from his mouth and revealed the front of his fawn teeth.

“Madam.” He rushed to the gate and unbolted. The Honda and the jeep stood at the garage, but the Ford wasn’t.
She smiled at him. “Oga inside?”

“E dey.”
She stepped in.

“Madam, anything for me?”
She brought out a hundred naira note from her purse and gave him.

“Ese, ese gan.” He spoke other Yoruba words that meant thank you. “Make I tell oga se you dey here or you wan go meet am yoursef?”

“Please tell him I’m here.” That would save her from the spells that lurked inside the duplex.

He pressed the buttons of an old, extinct, Nokia handset, squinting at them. He glued the handset tightly to an ear and told Richard she was at the gate.

“Oga say im dey come.”

She ambled to the mini garden. It now had lilies, and its hibiscuses had fully bloomed, adding to the beauty of the other flowers. She crouched and picked out a branch of lavender, causing a red-headed lizard amidst them to run to the peonies.

She pitied the lavenders’ narrow and shrubby nature that prevented them from blooming like the others.
But they were lovely, and their aura… the most lovable thing in them. She drew it closer to her nose.

The door opened, opened to his tan hairy, veiny legs. He was on shorts, which he seldom wore. She raised eyes to him and managed a smile.

“So you finally decided to come see me.” He barely returned her smile—did not.
“The sunflowers would be good for my lawn.”

“I thought as much.” He crouched by her. “You love them?”
“They’re beautiful.”

She was close to him, and could almost feel the hairs spiked from his skin. She had been this close before, but this was different. His scent was all over—His spell. His hex. “I told a flower girl to come add some.”

“Where’s your wife? I should go greet her.” That should be a good excuse to evade the scene for some time.

“She’s still at the supermarket.”
He picked out a branch of lavender.

“Aren’t peonies beautiful?”

“It’s lavender.” She scanned for a peony. One bloomed at her left. Brown lines circled its edges. She stretched to it.

“Those are peonies. They hardly survive.”

“I guess I have a lot of learning to do.” He threw the lavender to the garden.

“We should go inside and get you something to eat.”

“I’m okay. I only wanted to pick some seeds. It would soon be night.”

“Don’t fear the night. I would drive you home.”

She focused on the hibiscuses. It was better than focusing on his eyeballs. “I wouldn’t want that.”

He shouted to the gateman. The man ran to them.

“Go to the refrigerator and get two bottles of anything drinkable,” he told the gateman. The man hurried to the building.
“I know how to treat my guests,” he said. “Since you won’t come inside, you could be treated outside. Here is part of the house.”

“Viewing the blossoming flowers is enough.”

“There’s no crime in more than enough.” He picked the peony on the ground.

“How is your health?”

It was a matter of time before the question cropped up. “As before.”

“The urges still there?”

“Nothing has changed.”

He picked a leaf off the branch and sliced them into lines. “I’d continue saying, try a therapist again. You can do that yourself. I won’t get involved.”
She gave him a glance. “I’d think about it.”

The gateman approached with two cans of Legend. Those were beer. Richard did not drink beer.

“Bring something softer,” he told the gateman.

“Oga, na only dis ones dey inside fridge.”
He did a deep exhale and took a can.

“Take the other. Use some money with you to buy something soft from one of the nearby shops. Be fast about it.”

“Okay.” He hurried to his cabin.

“I thought you didn’t take alcohol.” She gave him a half-look as he slugged the drink. Some of the foamy liquid dripped down his beard and fell to the lavenders.

“Sometimes one or two could do good. I’m not a complete teetotaller. I used to take little in the army days, but declined when I started business.” He emptied the can and dumped it on the ground.

“Why did you pick it up again?”

“Like I said, sometimes a little did good.”
There was no need asking what kind of good it did.

She examined the flowers pods. Some were opened and had become brown. “I should start picking some seeds.” She opened a sunflower’s drooped head and picked out its seeds.

“I have some dry seeds at the garage. I think they are still viable.”

“Thanks. But these would do. Some of the plants are already dispersing seeds.

He picked some seeds from the due hibiscuses heads. “It’s good you came, you haven’t stepped a foot on this ground since you left.”

He dropped the seeds in the polythene bag and threw hands to the rear of her head. He dug his hands into her cornrows and ran fingers through, bringing life to each of the rows.

She could not tell him to stop. It was a hair rub, and that was not a bad thing. It was not a bad thing. It was not.

“How is your wife?” she asked, if that would remind him he had a wife.

“My wife is at the shop,” he muttered, and drew her head closer to his. He held it tightly with firm hands and brushed his lips with hers, wetting her lips and gluing them to his.

She savoured it for the moment. Blooming lavenders began budding in her head, one with the perfect narrow leaves.

They were alone in the world. It felt good to be alone, tasting the only juice the world could offer—a juice that wasn’t hers. She struggled to get her head off. “What are you doing, Rick?”

“I kissed you.” Her reflection glowed in the black spot of his eyes.

“You’re married, Rick, you’re a married man.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“And you’re a Christian.”

“What do you know about Christianity?” His eyes did not move an inch from her.

“Enough to know that the married Christian men don’t kiss other women.”

“Then you should also know that sometimes they face temptations and are not always strong enough to resist, and sometimes they have to balance both worlds and pray God forgives them.”

It was her fault. She would have gone to a flower shop. She knew this would happen. She knew. The voice that told her was so clear.
She gathered the seeds and tied the bag.

“I should be leaving. You’re drunk, Rick.”

“A can of beer is too small to get anyone drunk. I’m not drunk.”

It was the beer. Yes, it was the beer. She sprung up. “I’m leaving.”

“What about your drink?”

She grabbed her bag. “Have it with your wife.”

She stalked to the gate and jammed the gateman whom was opening it.

“Madam, kini? wetin happen?”

She continued her walk. She touched her lips, something had happened to them. Something not bad.

Nice one, love in d air

wao, nice piece madam.....am so enjoying it.....tiffanyj, gud tin i follow yu come....well done vonn

Hmmmmm.....enjoying this.

#

People did not usually come Monday mornings. Today was not an exception. It was almost ten, and not one person had stepped foot in the gallery.

She took in the last slice of her fried potato chips and threw the pack in the waste bin. Her ears caught the humming of a car at her front.

That started the day. Her first customer had arrived. She peered through the door and huffed. That kind of customer should not start the day.

He parked his gold car as though the parking space was his and stepped out as though the ground belonged to him.

His new eyeshade reminded her of his previous one she had shattered. The shades pointed to her, making her wonder if the door’s tint had faded.

He slid open the door and she thanked heavens the brown shades covered his eyes. Seeing them would add to her hitches.

He removed them and her hitches doubled. But he was now her customer, a patriotic one, and a patriotic customer deserved something good as a smile. She gave him that.

“You want to buy a—”

“No.”

She tried maintaining her smile. “I’m sorry, then why are you here?”

He sat on the bench and placed his new glasses on the table. “To see you and your works.”

She attempted saying something but resorted to shrugging. No arguments should be made with a customer.

“You added new works.” He scanned the room and rose with a smirk. “And that’s the painting of my orchard.” He looked at the orchard painting slanted on the wall.

She glimpsed at it. “Yes. It is.” What silly thing made her forget to take that home the previous day? “I made a double and kept one for myself.”

“You like the place.” His smirking lingered. His former solemnity and stares were much better than the new put-on.

The next thing he would probably do is reprimand her for reproducing his orchard’s photo without his permission. It was painful to know he had every right to.

“Yours is finer,” he said.

“I’m sorry I reproduced it without your consent.”

“Apology accepted.”

“You can go see the works you came to see.”

He moved a step forward, crossing fingers. “I didn’t only come to see your works. I also came to see you. So you love the orchard.”

“I do.”

“Would you want to see it?”
It would be adorable seeing such nature, but the best answer to anything the customer offered was undoubtedly a no.

“I’d pass. I’ve seen lots of orchards.”

“Mine is different. Have a little break. Majority of persons would start arriving by noon. We should be back before then. ”

He spoke as though they had known for decades, when they were not even friends. She reproduced his photo, why wouldn’t he exercise the liberty?

“I’m busy.”

“But you’re not doing anything.”

“You don’t expect me to leave my work here and follow you to an orchard.” She paused on realizing her voice was almost at the ceilings. “I don’t even know you.”

“Did I cause that blackout or something else did?”

“I’m sorry.” She removed gaze from him as he walked closer.

“I’m harmless,” he mumbled

“Why don’t you do what you want to and leave. Please.”

He squatted and eyed her as though his next words were written on her face. “I’ll leave if you come with me.”

“Why do you want me to come with you? Why would I?”

“Because I like you and would like you to come with me.”
Most girls complained that men were the most annoying creatures on earth. No word of that was wrong. All men. Not one exception. All of them. “I’m not coming.”

“If you can give me any other reason other than you don’t know me well enough, I won’t disturb you again.”
It was good he knew he disturbed her.

“That’s the reason. I don’t know you enough.”

“Then get to know me so you would be sure I’m harmless.”

“Please, the last thing I need now is a man taking me away—”

“I’m not asking to be your man, I’m asking for a chance to know me.”
That was merely another manner of saying it.

“Come see the orchard.” He placed a hand on her upper arm. She thanked her sleeves.

“Pause from everything and refresh yourself. That is what nature does. And you’d agree with me nothing could be more nature than that orchard.”

True, that was what nature does. It refreshed the soul and rid it of anything that needed ridding. And right now, so many things in her head needed ridding, but there were other ways to get the soul refreshed than visiting his orchard.

He slid his hand from her arm. “Even if I harm people, I won’t harm women, and even if I harm women, I won’t harm you.”

Not amusing.

“What you saw on the photo was only a surface. When you see the whole thing, you would have a lot to paint. See it as a fieldwork. I have a camera in my car. You can take as many snapshots as you want, and paint them at an okay time.”

The fieldwork was a good excuse, plus he had a camera, but those weren’t enough for her to leave her gallery and follow a man she knew nothing about to an orchard she knew nothing about. Heavens knew he was disturbing her.

“I’m going,” she said without thinking.

She wanted to take her words back but refrained. Going to an orchard for fieldwork with someone interested in her field was better than being idle at the gallery. She refused considering other things, other threats.

As he rose, his smirk widened. She followed him up before he would try to help, and did a small prayer—the devil should not reveal itself the few moments she would be at his orchard. There was nothing to pick in an orchard.

They eased to his Chevrolet, and it immediately began moving.

“You raised the orchard?” she asked, staring at the windscreen.

“It was my grand mum’s. She handed it to me in my early youth.”

“It’s used for tourism?”

“No. Private as a house.”

Good. Nature was not to be used as a means of obtaining money. They rode on same windy road that led to Richard’s house.
They passed the ‘Glo’ signboard that guided her to Richard’s house on the day she went to take seeds. He diverged right, into an unfamiliar sandy lane.

She glanced at him. She barely knew him and was already in his car, on the way to an unknown place, same way she barely knew Richard and landed in his house. Where did she get the bad habit of being so gullible?

“We’re not so far,” he said.

Few cars treaded the grassy ground. The houses lined at the road’s sides resembled that of her street—short and clustered.

He stopped by a blue fence near a rickety storey building. Treetops showed above the fence. They rustled to the soughing wind.

“Is this it?” She searched for a gate or anything resembling one.

“The entrance is at the other side. We’d have to walk there.” He grabbed a bag from the backseat and opened the doors. She glanced at him. Not that bad.
They edged along the fence and met the gate.

He slotted a key into the padlock’s keyhole and pushed the door open. A new world. The good side of nature. Clean, healthy cherry trees and leaves slashed themselves, and the loosed ones hovered all over the ground.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said.

“Yes.” She smiled, and treaded the turf demarcating the two rows of trees. She edged past the trees, brushing their leaves with her fingers.

He positioned a camera to some of the trees and took a shot. “You would have enough landscape and nature’s beauty to work on.” He positioned and took another shot.

“This orchard drew me close to art. My grandma always brought me here. We planted most of the trees together. Why don’t you do the snapping. You know what you like,” he said, stretching the camera to her.

She focused the camera on the trees lined at the left and snapped. He moved forward to her and peered at the screen.

“Perfect shot.”

“Thank you.”
She pointed the camera to other regions and snapped.

An hour passed. Leaving became a problem. The sight and beauty did not let her. After taking all the shots she could, she decided it was time to leave and rode for home in his car.

Nature had done its best job—rid what needed ridding, she kept telling herself.

CHAPTER 17





Horses were same everywhere, whether Canada or Nigeria. A ride could be memorable or not. It all depended on with whom you rode. Hers would be memorable. It was with Jide, it must be memorable.

Lauren fondled her gelding, parting its mane with her fingers. The horse perfectly fitted her as though created for her. “When last did you ride?” she asked Jide, who swayed atop his gelding.

“I can’t think of a date, but not very often. There’s no ground in Apapa. It’s difficult coming here to Lekki for a ride.”

“I used to ride with my dad. He is a good rider. He can circle this field in less than ten minutes.” She surveyed the field to check if she had exaggerated. She hadn’t.

“That’s fast. I rode a lot in my youth corps days. Then, I was still much agile. Twenty-seven.”

She studied him, studied the fresh ebony of his skin and the outline of his muscles. “You still look much twenty-seven.”

“That’s the effect of good food.”
Calculations agreed he wasn’t old. At least, not older than her dad. “Where did you do your youth service?”

“Kano. It has lots of horses and stables.”

That was up north. The Country news often talked of a religious crises happening in that region. “Did you experience the crises?”

“The Boko Haram?”

“That’s the name.”

“It was at its early stage back then. Not as prominent as the present.”

“You’re lucky.” She tightened calves and began a trot. His gelding followed, wagging tail simultaneously with hers. She allowed a short run before halting.

“The horse needed to be waked.”

He walked his gelding, stroking its neck, stroked it as though it was a woman—A mere animal, a mere gelding. He drove a hand through the silly horse’s fur.

“What made you go wild the day I visited?” His voice grew thin.

She had waited for the question, but had hoped he wouldn’t ask. “It was my mum, I was mad at her. I’m sorry for letting it get to you.”

“Still because of that Canada thing?”

“Because she is robbing me the choice of carving out my niche.”

“She’s helping, not robbing.”

“I know when I need help. What she is doing is treating me like a child.” She trotted forward. “That’s what everyone is doing.”

He trotted to her and they slowed into a walk. “If you are so bent on staying in Nigeria, have a close talk with your mum, try making her understand.”

“It’s too late. Mum’s gone. Aunt’s gone.”

“You can use a phone.” Their geldings’ skins touched as he swayed.

“No need doing that. Forget about it. Tell me ’bout your stay in Kano.”
The rhythmic shuffling of hooves and squeaking of saddles entertained her ears.

“It was good, except the weather. It took me long to adapt.”

“Is the locality very different from Lagos?”

“Very different. Each state in the country has a distinction.”

“That’s true. Nigeria is very diverse, I’ve come to know that much. Lagos is only a small fragment.” She turned to him.

“Could you drive me to any other state? I’d love to see outside Lagos’ walls.”

“Tell dad. He would be very glad to take you.”

“I don’t want my dad. I want you,” she said. “I want you, Jide.” She reduced tone if that would create any impact. It didn’t. It remained the words of a seventeen-year-old child. That’s what it would ever be.

“Lau,” he called with a thinner voice.

“Ask your dad.”

“What if he refuses?” She sought for his gaze. It was unreachable. The greedy gelding took all of it.

“Ask first.”

“I want to have the trip with you. Any state outside Lagos, I don’t mind it being the neighbouring. I simply want to see beyond this state. The plane from Canada stopped right here. Lagos is the only Nigeria I know.”

“Tell your dad you want to go with me. If he agrees, then I’ll find a day.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then the idea would have to be buried.”

She counted the hairs lined on her gelding’s neck. “I see there’s conflict here. Let’s get it resolved the best way I know. We race and stick to the decision of whoever wins.”

He gathered eyes and his cheeks folded up. “That—”

“It’s better. It pains nobody.”

“That wouldn’t change anything. I love touring. I can spare time for a tour of one of the nearby states, but first, your dad has to approve you coming with me.”

“Race me, and everything gets settled. Most arguments between my dad and I are solved with racing. We could employ the technique here.

It always works, and whoever wins wins. No one gets hurt.” She patted her gelding at its trunk and faced him. “You’re ready?”

“This is not an argument. And you don’t race every time you’re privileged to be on a horse. Injuries from racing could be very severe.”

“You think I would demand for a race if I don’t know the safety rules?”

“Racing is not a good way to deal with this.”

“You have a better idea?” She held her lead-rope firmly and halted. “On the third count we go.”

“Lau—”

“On the third count. You’re not new to horses, you could win.”

He halted. “It’s not about who wins or not. You need your dad’s permission to go outside the state.”

“All right, race me. Forget the touring thing.”

He held his lead-rope. “You’re sure you can gallop with that?” He directed at her horse and then, its hooves.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I couldn’t.” She looked at her hooves. They needed some trimming. “You’re ready?” She turned to him.

“Begin the counting.”

“Three counts. We stop at the palm tree.
“One.” She glimpsed at him, checking if he was set. Two. Three.” She cantered forward, flapped reins, sat deeper in her saddle, and tightened calves.

His thuds came as thunder roars, striking on same line with hers. He galloped like her dad, and lowered shoulders like him.

He whacked his gelding’s rump, and it galloped forward, progressing ahead of her, having no pity on the grasses.

She leaned forward and let out more reins. She pressed calves against her gelding and it made proper use of its hooves. She was on same line with him, succeeding his thuds. She kicked gently.

Her speed increased. She managed to gallop an inch ahead of him. The palm tree looked at them. Few gallops left to kiss it. She glanced at him.
His horse was at his highest. She stopped glancing and aimed at the palm tree. It was all hers. She slackened reins and galloped further. Her darling did it.

It reached the palm tree and cantered past it. She held its reins and halted.
Claps emerged from behind. “Good rider,” he said.

She dismounted and detached her helmet. “You ride like my dad.” She tried hiding the pride that raided her insides.

“Then I guess you beat him at racing.”

“Not every race.”

“Choose the state you’d want to go, and I’ll fix a date.”

She passed a hand through her gelding’s fur. A magnificent horse. “No need bothering yourself, the race was staked on nothing.”

He dismounted and gave his gelding a pat. It snorted. “You earned it,” he told her.

“There are some places in the country you would love to see. I will have a talk with your dad and make him agree to the tour.”

“Forget ’bout that. I have another request if you’d allow me.”

“What is it?”
She faced him and ensured their gaze locked. “Don’t see me as a kid anymore.”

“Uh—”

“Easy, uh? Easier than the tour.”

“I don’t see you as a kid.”
She eased closer to him and played with his polo button. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“What is it?”

“I really like you, Jide.” She circled a finger round his button. “Yes, that kind of like.”

No words. Nothing except silence. It was better than a scowl or glare, and his face didn’t carry those. He removed eyes from her and gave them to his gelding. She mounted on hers.

“How about we ride back to the stables,” she said, and received another dose of his silence.

“Jide, if you want to avoid me, please don’t start today. I’d be going to school next week, you could start then.”

“I would never avoid you.” He eased to her and rested a hand on her lap. “You shouldn’t be liking anyone with that kind of like, especially at this your age and level. The reason is you are a woman, a full-grown beautiful woman.

When the time comes, you’d find more suitors that you need.” He patted her lap and eased back to his horse. “Let’s ride to the stables?”

At least, he could still speak to her—preach to her.

Bad idea to have let out her little secret, but good she did.
The ride would be memorable, so memorable.

They rode to the stables. A long ride. School came to her mind, the saucy lecturers, the boys, the girls. That was what she needed. A retreat.

#


Richard touched his mouth with a napkin and picked his car key from the table. He gave Ezinne a peck and headed for the door.

She watched him strode past the door. He finished his meal today. That hadn’t happened for many days.

She ate the remainder of her bread and gulped down the whole tea, and then headed for her room to prepare for the first day of August.

The road to Bakare’s was without traffic jam. She parked front of his bungalow and stepped into the compound. His Chevrolet parked at its space confirmed he was in.

She dialled him to come open, and yet waited for eternity before he appeared.

“You’re looking good today,” he said.
She ignored the comment.

“Say ‘thank you’ to a man’s comment. That’s what every woman does.”

If he had decided to play sassy today, she had no problem with it. She had seen this one before. She had seen all his feigned moods.

A better painting of his orchard and another of himself hung at the wall. The klep girl’s work. The painting showed his younger self, when they newly met.

She sat cross-legged on the armchair and opened her purse. “Here’s the dealer’s number. Call and arrange with him. I told him you’d be meeting at the Orchard.”

He settled on a couch and eyed the paper. “Is the man new to the trade?”

“No. I’ve since been dealing with him.”

“Hmm, you aren’t new to it either. I still don’t get you. Why are you into this dirty business? You have money. You have a law degree to further if you want to be busy.”

“Why are you in it either? You have an Orchard you can use for tourist and make something.”

“Come on, I have to respect the old woman.” He glanced at the dining.

“Sorry, I can’t get you anything. My fridge is empty.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“So when am I receiving my money?”

“Inform me of the day you fix with my man. I’ll send you half a day before, and my man would give you the remaining at the orchard. I believe that’s how it’s done.”

“Hope you’re not thinking of any bank transactions?”

“I’m not dumb. I’d be here in person.”

He rubbed palms together and crossed legs. “When did you get married?”

“I don’t believe that concerns you.”

“Why wouldn’t it. How about children, you have any?”

“I don’t believe that concerns you.”

He nodded slowly as though forming a huge bulk of words. “I believe children don’t matter to you.”

“What did you say?” A lump happened in her throat.

“Children don’t matter to drug women. There is proof. You killed your own, that shows—”

“Shut up, Bakare. Shut up.” She managed her lump from exploding.

“Huh, I touched a spot?”

“Shut up.”

“Someone feeling guilty?”

“I’m leaving.” She tucked her purse under an armpit. “I wish I could kill you right now.”

He glared at her. “Three murders in a life time is too much.”

“I hate you. I hate you more than the devil.”

“You killed your children. No one has the right to take a soul out of this world. You’re just a channel and not their creator.”

“Inform me of the date, and I’ll give you your pay.” She stalked out of the room. Bakare Damijo would rot in hell. In its deepest part.

CHAPTER 18




Two months had passed and things had changed. So many things.

The once upon a time stranger had left that zone. Abbe knew not how it happened, but it had happened, and it happened right under her knowing.

There were no regrets though, he was a man, and she was a woman. Those were the only requirements.

They had been friends for over two months, yes, friends, and he still seemed like that stranger who once came to the gallery and ordered a painting of twins.

One thing was sure. Bakare Damijo did not know of the devil that played within her. And he would never know. There would be more stories to tell whenever the devil showed itself.

He stooped behind her and watched her apply colour. His belly touched her back, and his hand rested on the canvas.

She found him on every side she turned as if he was a part of her body, one of those stiff, dogged parts impossible to pluck out.

“You still fear painting people in person?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Imagine them as a something other than Homo sapiens. It could work that way.”

She struggled for a curve of her lips.

“I used to have that hole in my teeth.”

He placed his left hand on hers. They fully covered hers. “I don’t know how it left. But yours shouldn’t go. It’s one of the reasons I like you. One of them.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” She smirked to lessen any uncouthness that might have slipped into her words, and yet prayed for a little, so he might opt not to utter that again.

“Telling you would make it more real.”

What would become more real? She knew. It existed right in front of her, already real, already budding with life.

He folded her left hand into a fist and stroked it with a thumb, in a manner impossible to ignore.

But she had to ignore, and the only possible way to do that was to kill the receptors living in the hand.

“I love you, and you know that. I don’t know if It’s mutual, but I believe it can be. I want you, Abbe.”

He braced his right hand with hers, stroked her hand and the paint stains it carried, spreading the paint all over it, giving it a blue colour.

His cheek was near hers and the throbbing thuds coming from his heart hit her. He tightened his hands against hers. “I want you to be my wife.”

She threw eyes to him. “Huh? What did you say?”

“I’m asking you to be my wife.”
His voice was clear enough. “U-Um—”

“You don’t have to answer now. Take time to think about it.”

“I’m—” Many obstructions blocked the flow of words up her throat.

“I said you could think about it.”

She returned to her canvas. She had just been proposed to. By that man. It was too fast. Very fast.

“We could work. We would,” he said.

That was true. They could work. He just proposed.

He geared head towards her, mixing his breath with hers.

His lips approached hers, slowly and steadily. She had to answer the call. Why wouldn’t she? No reason. She was a woman, and he was a man.

Nothing else mattered. She let his lips touch hers, and let him kiss her. A kiss was not a hard thing to give. All she needed do was gum lips to the man’s.

She gave her lips to him, and he swallowed all of it. He was a man, and nothing else mattered.

Even with his lips apart, his breath was still inside her.
She was breathing his air, and no more hers. “This could work.”
He touched her cornrows and ran fingers through them. Then, he kissed them.
“Don’t rush. Think about it. When you’ve decided, let me know.”

Why did she feel this way? He adored the things of nature and loved paintings.

They both had those in common, but it was not enough. Why? It couldn’t be because he lacked square shoulders or did not have one of those things army men possessed. No, not that.

Painting became hard, spikes grew round the brush, they poked the flesh of her palm, but she had to continue painting. It might be what she needed.

He continued handling her hair.
She thought of the devil’s urge.

#


A Mighty wind wheezed through the curtains into the sitting room. She sipped in coffee. It burned her taste buds, yet she could not stop.

She could not stop because it did more good than harm. It cleared those images from her mind, but not completely.

They developed ways of peeking back in. She drank the remaining and let it burn her throat.

The coffee had finished. She laid her teacup on the centre table. Now the images had free access.

The first came. It was that moment, that moment when a man asked for her hand in marriage. The most difficult question in the world. And some people answered it so easily.

They did because they wanted. It was a choice one had to make. A step of faith. An expensive, rear, faith.

The second image slunk in. Richard Fayemi. It was not supposed to have access, but it always found ways to burgle in.

The gold of the wedding ring round his finger glittered. If only she had control of her mind.

Bakare Damijo crept back in. She struggled to make the image stable and again, wished she had control of her mind.

It was a matter of choice. Getting married was a matter of choice, a choice no one else could make for her. She picked her phone from the centre table and dialled Bakare. It rang. No response.
She dialled again. No response. She set the phone on the chair’s arm. She picked it and dialled again.

The ringing ended, and she pressed the call button again. His voice came through before it could ring.

“I’ll call you, I’ll call you back.” he whispered. Whooshing sounds mixed with his whispers. Wind’s whooshes. The wind still wheezed wherever he was.

“What’s it? Calm down. I—”

“I’ll call you back.” He rushed the words.
The rustling of leaves or a sound resembling that surpassed his whisper. Something hid within his voice.

“What’s it? You’re whispering. What’s happening over there?”

“It’s nothing. I’ll call you soon.”

“Wait, wait. You’re in… the orchard, and you sound scared.”

“I’m not near the orchard.”

She focused ears deeper and listened.

Whooshes and rattles were the only things her ears picked. “You’re there. I can hear the leaves. What’s happening? I’m coming to the orchard.”

“I’m not in the Orchard.”

“Then where are you?”

“I’m ending this call.”

“I’m on my way to the Orchard. Something’s happening.”

“You can’t come here.” His whisper lifted.

“Why can’t I come? I’m coming. I’d bring someone along. Whatever it is, remain calm.”

“You can’t come here.”

She ended the call and managed to release a breath. Her phone rang. It was he. “What’s it Bakare?”

“Don’t come here. It’s dangerous.”

“W-What’s happening?”

“Just don’t come here,” he whispered fainter. Leaves rustling to the wind picked up the conversation.

“I’m coming.”

“You could be killed.” His bass added to his whisper.

“Please don’t come, not even with someone. Stay in your house. I’ll be there soon, and I’d explain everything. Just stay calm. There’s no problem.” The call ended.

There was a problem. If she could be killed, he too could be killed. He needed help.

She regretted not knowing the police number, and the next station was miles away. She ransacked her phone contacts and dialled Richard.

“Rick, Richard, you know a DPO’s number?”

“What’s the matter? What’s—”

“I need a police number. Please give me one if you have.”

“Police number? What for?”

“Their intervention is needed.”

“It’s 707112. That’s for my zone. What’s happening?”

“I’ll call you shortly.” She disconnected and dialled the DPO’s number. A man answered.

She told him the address, and he demanded for more specificity. She pleaded he should try working with that, that was all she had.

The man assured the police would be there. She hung up and dialled Richard.

“What’s it, Abbe?”

“It’s a friend.” She tried setting her voice to default.

“I think he’s in an unsafe situation. I don’t know the details but it’s serious.”

“A friend. What kind of situation?”

“Something life-threatening. I had a phone conversation with him and he sounded scared, said I could be killed if I come to his location.”

“Are the police on their way?”

“Yes.”

“What place is that?”

“I don’t really—”

“What place?” His voice rose.

“Why? You want to go there? No, let the police do their job. It’s not safe.”

“I want to send another team in case the police don’t get there quick enough. More hands may be needed.”

He served in the armed forces, thus should know this kind of things. “I’ll text you.”

“Do it now. Now.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

He disconnected, and she texted the orchard’s location to him.

#


Immediately his phone beeped, he snatched it from the sofa. It was the text, containing the location: An orchard in Burma, two or three junctions after the Agro Industry.

He hurried to his room and pulled his wardrobe open, shoved his clothes to an edge and drew out his firearm kit.

He shoved out his rifle and rummaged for his Glock pistol, digging hands into every corner.

Not finding the pistol, he stopped searching and shouldered his rifle, and then dashed to his Pathfinder. The gateman wasted no time in opening the gate.

His Pathfinder managed the bumps on the road and reached the Agro industry safely.

He sped past the first junction after the industry and swerved into the second.

He scanned for anything resembling an orchard, but found silence instead, treading on the damped grass and leaving its prints atop—the only thing worthy to be called a print.

Before attempting the third junction, he opted to try few more drives.

Some distance further led him to the sight of a fence with wavering treetops protruding from its height.

The orchard.

He doubled speed and parked beside the fence. Birds chirped and leaves slashed within the fence.

Chirping of birds had never been a sign of danger. The police might have done their work and gone. Or they might have not. They were never fast enough.

He examined the ground for police tyre prints. The grasses didn’t help.

#


Ezinne remained behind the cornered cherry tree. No other vantage could be better.

She watched her man on the turf trying to lure Bakare out. Time had elapsed and the coward had not yet showed himself.

He ought to have appeared fifteen minutes ago and everything supposed to have been over.

She eyed her wristwatch. Bakare always did the unexpected, cowardly or cunningly.

Whatever way he chose to operate, she would send him to where he belonged—the fieriest pit of hell.

A minute passed. She peeked to her man. His face had grown thin, bowed to his phone screen with fingers on the phone buttons, probably calling the coward.

The coward finally showed himself, but not the way he should. He tiptoed behind her man and when he got close, clutched her man’s neck with an arm.

He said something into her man’s ear and brought out the gun hidden in her man’s waist. How did he manage to see the gun?

Bakare freed him and said something inaudible. She strained ears to get any word.

“What were you thinking?” he asked, rounding her man and scrutinizing him.

“This place belongs to me. You think you can play games with me? I was here twenty minutes before you arrived. I saw you check and crack your gun.” He whirled the gun round a finger.

“What’re you doing here with a gun?” Her ears became too short to hear the other things he said.

She reached for the pistol tucked in her trouser and stroked its surface. She glanced at Bakare, who hovered around her man.

She eyed her gun and dipped a finger in the muzzle—the perfect nose to breathe out the wind of death to a man deserving worse.

A shoot from her vantage might be a miss, and the gun meant for backup was in the coward’s hands, glued to it as he hovered round her man. He wouldn’t hover around forever.

Some strings of her braid swirled to the wind. She pushed them back and tied properly.

Her man spoke, audible enough. “What do you expect? This is a deal. I hold guns in my deals. It’s my ethic.”

“What kind of ethic is that?” Bakare cursed him. “I don’t hold guns and don’t deal with people that hold guns.”

“Everyone in this trade hold guns.”

“I can understand that, but what I don’t understand is cracking a gun at the place of meet. I saw you crack this gun.”

He whirled it round his finger. “What else could it mean? I don’t play games, and I hate people playing games with me.”

“All right I’m sorry. The gun is in your hands. Now go get me my thing. I want to be out of here.”

“Why would I trade with you?”

“Because you’ve been paid half, and I have the remaining here.”

Bakare said something too faint for her ears to pick. His pitch rose.

“I’ll give you your thing, but not because of the money. I can have it repaid. I’ll give you because of the third party involved—the woman. She shouldn’t suffer from your sloppiness, but…” His voice ceased.

Ezinne stretched ears further and gained more of his bass. “Wait here,” he told her man.

“Don’t move. Remember I’m the man with the gun, and I beg you not to dare me.”

He stepped backwards, not letting eyes totally go off her man. She tried securing an eye contact with her man but refrained.

Any eye contact with him could be risky and now wasn’t the time for risks.

Bakare stalked back to the turf, holding the bag of rubbish.

#


Trees tops swayed over the tall fence, which was too high to jump. Richard strode left. Nothing resembled a gate or an entrance.

There was a building, a dilapidated two-storey building with an external staircase. He scurried to the stairs, climbed and settled on the landing.

God gave him a good view of the orchard and a fair portion of the clean wind, which carried faint voices with it. Two distant figures stood in the orchard.

He placed his case on the landing, brought out his scope and peered through. Two men stood close, discussing.

There were no arguments or anything resembling that. One held a handgun, but it wasn’t pointed at the other.

Two bags lay on the ground.
The man without a gun opened a bag and said something.

It was a deal. Most likely a crime deal, but not the expected. The two men talked and dealt like criminals.

Neither of them could be Abbe’s friend. Her friend might only be a victim in the hide.

The police could take care of the situation. They should. He stopped scoping and fixed his scope in the case.

A blast of gunshot hit his ears, causing him to grab his scope and peer again.

Holy Jesus. Someone was down on the floor, and a young woman held a gun.

He mounted his scope to his rifle and peered, peered and peered again. How could that be possible?

The woman was… his wife. The woman who just shot someone was his wife, was Ezinne.

He positioned the scope firm to his eyes. It was his woman. She was spitting out words to the bleeding man.

Richard sat on the floor and passed hands through his hair. What just happened?

Sirens began from a distance. He looked at the three figures in the orchard and held his scope again.

That woman was his wife, on her everyday blue top.

The Ezinne he married had a man on the ground covered with blood. She positioned the pistol as if for another shot.

The man with her snatched the pistol and also snatched the one with the bleeding man.

He grabbed the bags from the ground and said something to her, which was followed by them fleeing out of the orchard.

The sirens became more audible.

Richard sat there, staring at his firearm kit, and unfolding all that happened the last minute. His wife definitely took his Glock pistol and his silencer.

Raindrops began hitting his head. He returned eyes to the orchard and turned them away at the sight of the shot man rolling in blood.

Did… his wife do that?
Footsteps multiplied towards him, and a shout emerged.

“Don’t move. Don’t touch the gun. Hands up.”

Oh.… He covered face with palms and breathed into them.

“I said hands up. I need to see your hands above your head.” Two more officers joined. They aimed their Berettas at him.

He raised his hands. Saturdays were never good.

“It’s not above your head. I said I need to see them above your head.”

He raised them above his head. An officer strode to him, dipped hands in his pocket and brought out his mobile phone and keys.

The officer clutched his wrists with a handcuff. Richard tightened fist and shut eyes.

“You’re under arrest, and you’re coming with us.”

He opened eyes and turned to the orchard.

Two officers rushed the bleeding man into a wagon, and the others examined the scene. An officer shouldered his firearm kit.

He followed the officers’ lead. The surroundings now had countable number of persons who gawked as he headed to the police wagon.

He stepped into the backseat and was accompanied by an officer. The wagon shuddered and moved.

The rains came in full force and gushed down the side window.

Wow!!!!!
Speechless......

dammygoody:
Wow!!!!!
Speechless......

Oga Dammy, your night meeting don start?

vonn:

Oga Dammy, your night meeting don start?

No night meeting oo ...biko...
I'm a good boy.

dammygoody:

No night meeting oo ...biko...
I'm a good boy.

Lol