CHAPTER 2




Abbe squeezed to an edge of the bed. The door’s squeal pinched her ears. She managed to overcome the weight of her lids and lifted them to the stranger, the intruder, the Richard, her victim.

The nurse’s chair was empty, and Abbe realised she lived alone in the small room with an unwelcome guest.

He walked further and positioned on the nurse’s chair. She directed gaze to the ceilings. Its white surface did more good than the man’s face.


“The doctor said you could leave today,” he said. The nurse previously told her that.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” She glanced at him, and the bottled perfume burgled into her mind.

It must have got broken during the accident. It had. Whatever the cost was, it would be hard gathering, nothing in that place was cheap.


“I was thinking of transferring you to a better hospital for check-up. This one doesn’t look much impressive.”

His words came out right, but without a connection. He ought to be admonishing her and not thinking of a better hospital.
“They did a perfect work here,” she managed. The crack dividing her lips tore and tormented the flesh. She folded the lower lip into her mouth and wetted it with her tongue, scathing its tip.


“It’s necessary,” he said. “What’s the essence of everything if you don’t get completely well?”

Seriousness bared in his face, the kind that showed she might not be paying for the perfume. It did not seem he would need it. But there would be no further treatment from him, lest, her debt would amass.

“A check-up is not necessary.”
He did not argue. The room returned to its normal state of tranquillity.


‘What are you doing about your illness?” he severed the tranquillity.


“I thought the doctor agreed to my discharge.” She swallowed the wound that rose from her throat. “That should mean I’m well.”


“I wasn’t taking about your accident.”

Her lips’ wound tore up itself and refused to fold into her mouth. If he meant her disorder, then somebody must have informed him.

People knew of it. That was the truth, people knew. And now, he knew. That explained his nice play ever since.

No man would act nice to a woman who stole from him and tried to run.

“What illness do you mean?” She tried to open eyes wider, but the heft of her lids did not allow.

He gave no reply, but gazed at the bed.

“Was it klep—”he hung and transferred gaze to the floor.

He knew of it. Every fibre embedded in her shredded. “How did you know of the dis—”

“I just thought so.” His eyes shifted to her. She tried not to maintain a contact.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Do I have a cause to lie?”

Tranquillity found its way back into the room, but this time it brought thorns along with it, thorns that hovered around the air she breathed, with their thin, sharp, slimy mouths pointing to her.

“I’d need some time alone,” she muttered. “Please.”

“I’ve arranged with the doctor to take you out of here.”

“You are in no position to do that.” She coughed and the sore in her throat ruled.

“I brought you in. I signed.”

A thorn pierced her gorge as she managed to speak between coughs. “It was a voluntary service.”

“A little appreciation would do.”

The entire thorns poked through her and refused to leave. They pierced her to the mattress. He was right and he should not be.

“Thank you,” she said. The hurt at her lips spread to all corners.

“That’s better. I should take you to a new hospital.”

“You’ve done enough. I’d take it from here.”

Silence happened. One that did no good.

“What were you doing in the shop that day?” he asked.

The rhythm of his voice triggered her tongue. It fluttered as it wanted, forming the words it pleased.

“I-I bought what I needed, then I don’t know what happened next, the devil took over, I started picking things.” She tried stopping her voice from diminishing.

“The urge was there, it kept coming and coming. It happens every day. I try fighting, but it keeps coming. I’m sorry I destroyed your perfume, I’m sorry I ran, I couldn’t think of anything else. I was afraid you might call the police or do something worse.”

“I’m sorry for your illness.” That was the only word he said, and it had no good effect.

He should stop staring at her and walk through the exit. That might have a good effect.

“You’ve tried a psychiatric?” he asked.

“What would they do?”

“They might help. That’s what they do.”
She rubbed her peeling thumb, shedding its skin off her palm, the same palm that conquered her.

“I’d take you there,” he said.

"Therapy would do nothing".

“Please don’t object,” he said. “That’s what you need right now.”

“Why are you doing this?” She squinted into his eyes and tried releasing more words, not minding the hurt of her gorge.

“I caused you damage, and it must have cost you. Nothing in that place is cheap.”

“Helping people is what I do.”

She peeled off her thumb-skin, fingering off its first layer. “I shouldn’t have blamed you for my accident. I’m sorry.”

The thorns gradually waned off her skin.

“That helped. And stop peeling that.” He touched her hands and set them apart.

“Apply some Vaseline, the peel will stop.”

#

At the middle of the highway, he sought for space to reverse, twisting head and glancing at the side mirror.

When the nearest car was few distance away, he managed to swerve before the others began honking.

The speed that followed almost jerked her off the chair, a speed similar to the one that caused her accident.

And now, she was dwelling in another accident, one that happened under her knowing and ridded her of the strength to say or do anything but ride with a stranger, a victim of the devil inside her.

“We are driving back to the previous road,” he said.

She wished her mouth would force itself open and tell him to release her. The mouth should itself speak since she could not, since she had fallen prey to her victim.

“The roads are blurry. It’s been a year since I passed here.” He diverged into a new road.

“We are going to Punama hospital.”

The hospital’s name rang everywhere in Lagos but she had no knowledge of its location.

A signboard denoting the hospital stood left. He followed the direction and stopped front of the gate.

“This is it.”

They stepped past the gate. The gateman had his head bowed to a desk and did not raise it on their entering.

No much noise spiked her ears except the slapping of their soles against the unwanted ground.

The spacious interior had a stench worse than that of a usual hospital, a stench that she would not love to inhale everyday.

A man sat on an armchair, reading a newspaper. He lowered his paper to nose level and his eyes flew to her. She flicked hers away from him.

“The doctor is at the second floor,” he said.

They climbed the spiral stairs. Richard knocked at the doctor’s door and pushed lightly.

As she stepped into the office, cold air bathed and froze her insides, icing and tearing up her stomach. The doctor’s round spectacles covered the whole of his eyes which bored into her.

They sat and Richard presented her case to the doctor.

The doctor opened a file and brought out two white sheets. He placed one at her front and the other at Richard’s.

There were many things to fill. Some were not easy to write down but it was a mere form. She filled it and handed it to the doctor.

“You should go. I’ll continue from here,” the doctor told Richard. “Her room is number forty-four.”

Richard faced her. “I’ll leave now.”

She watched him leave and asked herself how she ended up in the hospital, how she ended up in a psychiatric hospital.

He left and gave her some control over herself.

The form on the doctor’s hands accounted for a three months payment.


END OF CHAPTER TWO

Please, feel free to comment on any part that needs improvement.

Skimpledawg:

Ahh Oga obilo, its good to av u hia. Rarely see u drop comments on literature threads except ofcos closing it


#btw, we av frog peppersoup n monkeytail incase u get famished during d ride


Sisi Vonn, coman update na

Thanks. I will pass.

following

ur update dey long I like it

Happy Sunday everyone!!!!!!!

CHAPTER 3




The microphone did not pick properly. Richard strained ears to hear the words of the man on the podium, the CEO of Cherlet Bans.

The man spoke on how the establishment of his quarry industry was a blessing to the nation and he would do anything to attain the most attainable height.

The assembly listened as he spoke, offering him their smiling faces.

Richard nipped a first sip of the red wine and returned eyes to the man. He nipped a second when the man left the podium.

Jide stopped tapping fingers on the table and refilled his wine glass.

“They’re a real threat to us,” said Jide, dropping his glass on the table. “A real competition.”

“Not as much as we are to them.”

A young white girl ambled towards them, blonde to the hair, walking as though the ground was a catwalk in those fashion shows Ezinne sometimes watched.

The girl most likely was the daughter of the COO of Cherlet Bans, the only white man present.

She stopped at their table and stretched lips into a smile. Richard didn’t smile back.

“Hi.” She extended her smile. What would make a white teen stop at them? Jide did a polite smile. Her perfume smelled expensive.

“You’re the daughter of Mr Brett?” Richard asked. It would be bad manners to keep mute to a foreigner.

“Yes.”

She leaned on the table and pinned it with her hands. Richard frowned at it. No child leaned on the table of two adults.

“I believe you’re the Chief Operating Officer of Erneto,” she said to Jide, with a bold American accent.

“Yes. And your dad is Cherlet’s.”

“I never knew we were that popular.”

“You two are the only whites here.”

“Obviously.” She did a faint chuckle and removed hands from the table, straightening herself.

“First, I apologise for intruding into you two. The crowd is much. I might not see you any other time. I came to ask a simple question.”

She angled head to Jide. “Are COOs in Nigeria’s quarry companies workaholics? You’re a COO, you should know.”

What concerned her and the operating officers being workaholics? Richard mused.

A long fold arched Jide’s forehead.

“What makes you ask that?”

“My dad was too much a workaholic in Canada. I want to know what to expect here.”

“It depends on what you define as workaholism, and It’s something contingent on the individual.”

“Are you one?”

“I’m not.”

“What’s the name?” Richard asked in a bid to end her gall questions.

“Lauren Jones.”

“I’m Richa—”

“Richard, Jide-o-for. CEO and COO of Erneto Aives. You two were introduced.”

“It’s Jideofor,” Jide corrected.

“Preferably Jide.”

“Better. Jide.”

“You love openings?” Richard asked. Teens did not attend openings.

“If openings had a haters list, I would rank in first. My dad insisted I come with him.”

“Hope you’re a bit entertained.”

She chuckled and folded hands. “You call this entertained? Please find another word.”

Lifting the wine bottle from the table, she eyed its label.

“Vinno Rosso. It’s Spanish. Can I have a taste?” Her hands already stretched to Jide’s wine glass.

“You’re of age?” Richard held the glass.

“Almost. A year remaining.”

“Then you shouldn’t.”

“I only want to try a taste.”

“You’re underage.”

She rolled eyes to Jide as though asking him to intervene, and then returned them to Richard on Jide’s uncooperativeness.

“How many people wait till eighteen?”

“Does it matter? The right thing is waiting till eighteen.”

“I have a complete bar at home. What’s the need of refraining here?”

“I won’t stand a child drinking in my presence.”

She shrugged and set down the bottle with faded smiles.

“All right. I won’t.”

Her faded smile did good. Richard turned head to the white man sitting at an edge of the rotunda. He had many resemblances with his daughter: same blonde hair, small curved nose, and tiny lips for their ages.

Slow music started. Couples rose and began dancing. They moved gently with the music.

Richard’s feet itched. He regretted not doubling his efforts in persuading Ezinne to come to the opening.

“You two didn’t bring dates?” Lauren asked with a tilted head.

“We came alone,” Jide said.

“No wives, fiancées, anybody?”

“Rick, why didn’t you bring Ezinne along?” Jide snapped.

“She hates meets like this.”

“You have a wife?” Lauren asked Richard.

“Not a wife.”

“I guess she is like me since we both hate meets like this.”

“You can’t conclude from that.”

“Fine. Can I steal one of you for a dance? If that’s the only entertainment I get.”

Her dad was alone, why couldn’t she go dance with him? Richard turned head to the man. He was talking with a grey-suited colleague.

“I know you won’t,” she told Richard and turned to Jide. “Would you?”

Jide did a weak chuckle. “If that would keep you entertained.” He stood and held her hand.

“I’ve never danced with a black man.”

“Me white.”

“So we’re even.”

Richard sipped and watched them. They followed the music’s pace and did it well.
A dancing Jide had always been worth admiring, from the onset of secondary school.

The girl did okay except dancing with Jide didn’t fit her. A school boy less tall would have fitted. Her head settled below Jide’s chest.

Soon they began talking. The music changed and laughs joined their talks.

____________________________________

#

“Ezinne, which tie fits?” Richard asked, holding two ties. A red and a green.

“The green,” Ezinne said from a corner of the bed.

He hung the green round his neck and began knotting.

“Why the hurry? It’s seven,” Ezinne said.

“I have three tasks. I’d start by going to the filling station, the hospital, and then the office.”

“That girl hasn’t been discharged?”

“She’s recovered from the accident. It happened that she is suffering from kleptomania. I admitted her into a psychiatric hospital for psychotherapy.”

He arranged the tie to a near perfect V.

Her cheeks slackened. “That girl?”

“Surprised she is a kleptomaniac?”

“Doesn’t she have a family?” She budged from the bed’s edge, causing the steel cup on the bed stead fall to the floor, spilling water on the lower of her nightgown, gluing the fabric to her legs. She ignored.

“If she does, it is evident they don’t care,” he said.

“When did you do this?”

“Few days back.” He sprayed perfume on his suit’s shoulders and sniffed out the little that sprayed into his nose. “The week’s beginning.”

“And you’re just saying it.”

“You’ve never really paid attention to her. What’s the need bothering you?”

“We still should have discussed it before you made the move.”

“There was no time for a discussion. It wasn’t premeditated.”

“Why didn’t you tell me after?”

“You didn’t place any interest in her,” he said. “I didn’t see it a priority,”

She set gaze at the lower of her nightgown.

“Okay, I might have come home tired and probably forgot,” he tried a reduced voice.

“We talk about everything, Rick, to the slightest of things.”

He ambled to her and looped an arm round her waist. “I’m sorry. We should have talked about it.”

“Next time, please we sit and talk.”

“Absolutely.”

She squeezed the rim of her nightgown, expelling the water to the floor. Before picking his car key, he made sure her dropped cheeks were livened.

He arrived at the hospital late than planned and marched to room forty-four. A lady sat on the bed with Abbe.

The chair by the door being the only suitable place to sit, he settled there, far away from the window which did little to better the poor work of the ceiling fan.

Soon, he began rocking. His wristwatch said he was thirty minutes late, and a drive back to Erneto Aives might take another twenty—with no traffic jam.

The lady with Abbe finished and waved to him. She opened the door and stepped out, her shoes staining the rug.

“Sorry for the wait,” Abbe said, almost a mutter. “She’s my counsellor.”

“It’s her job. How is the hospital faring?”

“Fair.”

A sachet of medicines lay on the desk.

“Are those antidepressants?”

“Yes.”

He reached for them and read the words on the sachet. “Does it kill the urge?”

She didn’t reply, and that gave him his answer.

She walked to the window and slid it open. The early ginger rays brightened the room.

“Have the urges reduced so far?”

“It comes and goes.”

The best he could do was to believe that was an improvement.

“I bought you this. It might help. It’s a book on your issue.” He brought out the book from his briefcase and tossed it to the bed.

“Thank you,” she said without looking at the book, without a glance. But—”

“But what?”

Her cheeks flattened as she held the book and sat on the mattress. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“You have a problem with reading books?”

“No.”

“Then why consider it unnecessary?”

“I’m not used to reading books on therapy.”

“Trained psychotherapist recommended it. It contains others experience that might help fight your urges.”

Instead of leafing through with shifting eyeballs, eager to read every page, every line, she did nothing than hold the book and stare at its front cover.

“Everyone has a distinct way of handling his disorders. I have to find mine. Following others may worsen my problem.”

Her pessimism did no good. The doctor had to drive that out of her. “Where did you get that notion from?”

“I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived with this illness for as long as I can remember. Do you think I haven’t tried all odds?”

“No you haven’t, ’cause this is the first time you’re trying a hospital when it ought to be your foremost action.”

She opened the title page of the book.

“That’s because the first time I openly admitted on being a kleptomaniac was when you got involved. The most difficult task is admitting it to the next person. Going to a psychiatric hospital is as though admitting it to the world.”

“What’s your own experience? What kills your urge?”

“I don’t know.”

He tried placing all faith in the therapist since he couldn’t place any in her, not when she didn’t place in herself.

“The therapist would help you find that.”

“He won’t,” she said immediately.

“You don’t know. You haven’t tried a hospital.”

She closed the book and laid it on the bed.

“My mum did. Her situation worsened. Everyone grew tired of her, even my dad sometimes grew weary of the situation. That’s how it goes, that’s how it all ends. It’s something you have to learn to live with.” She looked straight at him. “Most people who try
helping disordered patients grow tired.”

“Don’t talk that.”

“Aren’t you going to your place of work? It’s nine.”

He glanced at his wristwatch and rose.

“We’ll continue this talk another day.”

The talk had to continue. She lacked faith in herself and the doctor. How then would she be cured? She needed to put faith in something. If not the therapist, then herself.

“I’ll plead you shouldn’t worry about me. I don’t want to get anyone disappointed,” she said.

“Disappointed? Why would I? Admitting to your illness is part of the healing process. You’re healing. You simply don’t realize it. A little more self-believe would hasten the process.”

“Drive safe,” she said.

He began opening the door when she hailed to him.

“Back then at the department store when I took your perfume, I would have sought for a way to return it.”

He walked past the door. Good to know he was not treating a woman who stole from him in the right mind.

Next update comes latest tomorrow morning.
I started posting this work to help a friend improve...but so far, nothing has come from this end.

Vonn, in all honesty, your cobber scribbles better than you. Everything seems so on point. Tell him that. It should assuage his arid mind.

thronekid:
Vonn, in all honesty, your cobber scribbles better than you. Everything seems so on point. Tell him that. It should assuage his arid mind.

Lol.....
I don't compare..
All the same, thanks..

U beta dont be like those dat. Start and dont finish, cos. I will.come for u , i know ur house serious vonn

vonn:
Lol..... I don't compare.. All the same, thanks..

I didn't say I compare either. We are supposed to be honest.

Nice work, by your friend, it's really nice.
but I'm still vying for your own story!

Ice4jez:
U beta dont be like those dat. Start and dont finish, cos. I will.come for u , i know ur house serious vonn

I'll love to be your host.

Kitme:
Nice work, by your friend, it's really nice.
but I'm still vying for your own story!

Thanks dear...
One day, just one day, you'll see mine.

#

The secretary walked in, holding a dossier at her right.

“Sir, this is for you.” The woman stretched the dossier to Richard.

It was the previous week’s purchase chart. It showed a declination of ten percent—a huge drop.

He motioned for the woman to leave the office and closed the dossier. Continuous looking at it wouldn’t do any good.

A knock happened at the door and Jide entered, wailing from the door.

“Merely a week of operation and Cherlet Bans are already changing things. Kofibe da.”

“Ten percent is not a joke,” Richard said.

“I foresaw this coming.” Jide sat and touched his beardless jaw.

“We all did.”

“What do we do? Some measures have to be taken.”

“We’ll discuss at staff meeting.” Richard held his pen and continued with his
paperwork.

“I’ve been thinking on this since Cherlet surfaced. We’d have to drop the price of a bag or cement to match Cherlet’s.”

“Doing that would make our customers think we’ve since been operating on monopolistic exploitation, and they’ll hate us. I say we leave the price constant, Cherlet can’t continue like this for long. I only pray that doesn’t lead to us cutting off some extras, like donations.”

Jide sighed. “We’ll talk at the meeting.”

He attempted standing but remained on the chair. “How’s Abbe?”

“She’s good.”

“Which hospital did you say she is?”

“Punama.”

“They should take good care of her there.”

The door squeaked. That seldom happened without a knock. It opened and the white girl entered, topped with a bobble hat.

Richard stopped being surprised not to have heard a knock.

“Always knock before entering an office,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t. I forgot. Forgive me, I’m not that mannerless.” She closed the door.

“Lauren…” Jide nearly smiled. What’re you doing here?”

“I reached your office. Your sec told me you were at the CEO’s.”

“And you could not wait in his secretary’s office?” Richard asked.

“No one knows the number of hours he would spend here.”

“Have you ever been to an office?”

“My dad has one.”

“Then I expect better.”

He waited for her next set of gall words.

“I’m sorry for not knocking if that’s still making you pissed,” she said, not smiling.

Her effort in staidness was enough to grant her a seat. “No one is pissed. Have a seat.”

She positioned on the chair beside Jide.

“So why the visit?” Jide asked.

“My name came out on the list of admitted students. I thought I should tell you.”

“You plan on schooling here?” Richard blurted.

“Yes. My dad now works here. I want to be with him.”

“And her mum is in Switzerland. She said she prefer Africa to that place.” Jide shook his head.

“Try thinking again,” Richard told her.

“It’s Newfield University. All its schools, whether in Africa or America maintain good standards.” She pushed back the part of her hair covering her eyes.

The air conditioner’s hum increased. Her decision of schooling in the country angered it.

“Schooling in Canada is yet better, and most people go for better,” Richard said.

“I’m usually not one of those people.”

“Well, congrats. Is that all you came to tell me?” Jide asked.

“No. I need you to give me a tour round the University.”

“A tour?” Jide budged. “You should ask
your dad. I won’t have the time.”

“So won’t he. His company is new, he works more than you.”

Silly excuse, thought Richard, the silliest a child could ever give. “He’s your dad. He would listen.”

“He’s busy all day.”

“You’ve asked him and he refused?” Richard asked, and Jide supported with a nod.

“What’s the point of asking when I know he would say no? And this is your country,” she told Jide. “I’m the foreigner.”

“Don’t cage me with that,” Jide said.

“That’s no reason,” Richard said. “Talk to your dad. He’d listen.”

“All right, I did, he refused.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why did you make me say it when you knew you wouldn’t believe?”

“I would try,” Jide said, and caused a beam on her. “Next week. But no promises.”

Her beam widened.

“No promises,” Jide said.



#


Power went off and the fan gradually stopped spinning. Richard repositioned his chair to the window’s side and stole all of the air. He sagged his tie to chest level and unfastened the first button.


“You’re obstructing the air,” Abbe said.

He apologised and adjusted, and still, blocked most of the air, but she could manage the little that grazed her. The air was of more good to him. The beads of sweat hung at his brow didn’t look good. She nudged to a position of fair air.

“Won’t the generator be on?” he asked.

“I hope so.”

“Any improvements?” He rested both hands on his laps.

That wasn’t hers to determine, but the doctor’s. “I don’t know.”

“You ought to be conscious of your improvement. Have you been picking items so far?”

He said the exact words of the doctor, converting the room to the doctor’s rounded office. She was supposed to be free of those questions inside the room.

“I’ve not picked any.” There was barely anything in the hospital to pick.

“You’re feeling any urge now?”

“No.” The devil was yet asleep and it should please remain asleep.

“I talked with the therapist, and he envisaged much improvement. He assured by the time they’re done, you’d be recovered.”

No doctor would say there had been no improvements.

The fans began spinning with a deafening whirl and blew the edges of the cornrows escaping her hair net. The generator’s voltage surpassed what the station had supplied.

She shifted from the fan, but her hair continued flying. She stopped caring and let them fly.

His mobile phone vibrated against his briefcase. Before a ring could come through, he answered the call and told the caller he would be at somewhere soon.

That was the man with me on my visit to your previous hospital,” he said.

The man’s facial appearance had faded from her head, but his height had not. He was much taller than Richard. “He’s a friend?”

“Yes. And a colleague at work.”

“I remember his height.”

Richard smirked. “He acquired that in his secondary school days. We were together until his university days. I went to a defence academy. Him, a university.”

“You served in the defence?” Not much army qualities lived in him, except his square shoulders that nearly burst through the suit jacket.

“Once a Lieutenant. Now a full time businessman. I prefer business to shooting.” He simpered and looked at her as if expecting a laugh.

She managed smirking. It would be rude to make no remark for an attempted joke. Lieutenants were probably those that stayed in the office.

He did not seem the type that would hold a gun and point it to the enemy. Neither did he seem like someone that had gone through the beatings she heard that their superiors gave them in training.

“Was it NDA?”

“Yes. It’s almost like the university, minus the exercise,” he said, “judging from what my friend told me about the university. Did you attend a University?”

“Yes.”

“What was your study?”

“Horticulture.”

He laced fingers, same fingers that must have held and cracked a gun. “Does anyone know you’re here? Say your mum, friends?”

Did he expect her to go bragging that she was on therapy for an evil disorder? “No one knows. My parents live up north.”

“Why north?” He wedged his cheekbone with a palm.

She wished there were other ways to tell him to stop the questions except using her mouth. “They travelled north. Wanted to start anew.”

“Your parents should not have left you here alone, especially your mum.”

“She didn’t leave me.”

“She did,” Richard said as though her mum had done a bad thing.

“Please don’t say that.” He had no right to. He did not meet the woman or know the kind of person she was. “My mum left when sure I would be able to cater for myself.”

“Would you leave your child who is in need of treatment?”

He spoke as though she was a child that needed the warmth of a mother all day.

“I don’t have a child. Do you have one?”

“I’m not married?”

“Because of the army?”

“No, not that.”

He could be a priest. That would explain his help and philanthropic nature. There were so many stories of soldiers who retired and joined priesthood.

“You’re a priest?” she asked and caused him an unintended chuckle.

“I would get married at the appropriate time. What prompted you to think of me being a priest?”

“Your help, concern, and all. You don’t even know me. From my knowledge, only a priest does that. It’s not as though I’m not thankful, I am, I just wanted to ask questions.”

“No crime in asking. There’s no way I’d have left you on the road.” He paused.

“If you hadn’t met me that day, no accident would have happened.”

“But it’s my fault.”

“No it isn’t. It’s the illness.”

“Did you know that before you helped, before you paid the hospital bills?” She held eyes to him and prayed ingratitude was not written in her words. The twitch of his nose gave the answer.

“I simply helped because it was right to do so.”

“What about my disorder, you have nothing to do with it. Why getting involved?”

“I help people. It’s one of the things I do.”

Nice one ma'am Vonn.
I like the introduction of new characters like Lauren.

And Abbé, well , not much has been said about her yet, I think we need to know more abi...

CHAPTER 4




Lauren slid down the side window as Jide drove through the school’s gate. Short and stout buildings scattered everywhere.

She frowned at the few girls who roamed in frayed shorts and easy-wears aberrant of a school environment. The boys did not seem to care. Everybody minded his own path.


No designer needed to tell her the gold jewelleries glittering and dangling on some of the girls’ necks were fake.

Only fake jewelleries blazed like a gold-plated sun, and the girls swaggered as though they wore the world.

No one should crucify them, the fake had no difference with the original if the surrounding persons couldn’t differentiate them, her aunt used to tell her that.

People lined at the façade of a tall building when compared to the others, holding bags, files, and other things that made them look student-like.

“I have a friend who attended here, I used to visit him.” Jide bobbed at the building filled with students. “That’s the school’s auditorium.”

“What are those people doing there?”

“There are probably making complains about admissions. You have no business there, log into your computer and clear yourself, then you’re good.”

The man her dad brought helped her do all those. “Admission problems like?”

“Changing courses and many others. Be grateful you didn’t experience those. I did in my time. I wrote my exam twice before getting admitted into a state school, and when admitted, I encountered lots of paper trouble.”

It was surprising that difficulty in admissions was also present in Africa, and not only the schools with big names in Canada.

“That should be the admin,” Jide pointed to a group of bungalows, competing for space with the palm trees.
“Anything concerning fees is done there.”

“I thought those things were done online.”

“True, but you may one day need to see the bursar in person.”

What was a credit card meant for? She thought of asking.

Jide glanced at her and cracked a little chuckle. “I can’t understand why you decide on schooling here when you have so many better choices in your motherland.”

“My dad is here, I want to be with him, and it’s interesting to explore the world. One of three Americans’ dreams is to explore Africa.”

“What about mum?”

“Mum bases in Switzerland, and I don’t want to be in that country. She is the greatest activist against me schooling here.”

“Why don’t you go school in Switzerland? They are enough good schools.”

“I want Africa.”

“Or you want dad?”

She wondered what made him think that.

“Both. I might further elsewhere, but for now, Africa is good. People have made it here. You have.”

He whirled the steering right and said nothing more.

“My mum is around. She came to Nigeria last weekend. She’s on a month leave, which I believe would extend more than that.”

“I hope she succeeds in driving you out of here.”

“She won’t.” A sign board of two persons eating fronted a brown array of bungalows.

“Is that the school café?”

“Yes, that’s the only place you may enjoy in the school if things haven’t changed? I remember one time I ate there. They used to have good pepperonis.”

“Let’s go have a little something.”

He grimaced. “I don’t intend to spend the whole day here. Let’s do what we came here for.”

“The pepperonis might be as good as before. You won’t know unless you try. Use it as a compensation for being a week late in giving me this tour.”

“Are you hungry?”

She weighed her tummy. It was full but there was room for a snack. “One doesn’t eat only when hungry.”

“Wait till we’re done. If there is time left, then we might have something.” He peered at a white storey building.

“I think that’s the school library. It’s changed. The last time I came here, it wasn’t as wide. The school grows fast, faster than most federal and state owned.

“Let’s go in?”

“We could.” He parked his car under a tree.

“Was this what we came here for?” She smirked.

His lips did a tiny extension. “This is part of the tour. You need to see your field-related books.”

What a cheat. No to checking out the café, and yes to the library. They stepped out.

The scavengers roaming about wouldn’t take their eyes off her, as though they had never seen a white girl.

She maintained pace with Jide, so he could block the gazes coming from left, but they still peered. Some boys at the far end were pointing.

Jide would have better parked his Toyota close to the building.

The stares didn’t stop when they entered the building. It doubled. The women at the door left eyes on her.

“What is wrong with these people? They are all staring.” She peeked at her sides and tried not to meet any eyes.

“You’re white. This is one of the things you’d face. Get used to it. Most haven’t seen a white.”

“But I thought the school was supposed to have a good number of whites. It is under the American curriculum.”

“That isn’t enough to force a man to leave the good schools in his country.

There should be few white lecturers, but I doubt if any white student, so most of the students haven’t seen a white teenager.” He faced her.

“You’re actually the first I’m encountering.”

She cocked head at him. “Really. Then maybe you’d come with me on my next trip to Canada.”

“Sure.” He chuckled.

“Research says Canada is the best place to live in.”

“I’m not arguing.”

An argument would have been beneficial. They would raise a chat about her country, and she could do some brag.

The women at the door checked for phones. They submitted their phones and walked in.

“Ignore the stares,” Jide said, surely because they were staring at him too.

She didn’t need to be told to ignore them. When they’ve seen enough, they’d cut off their eyeballs.

She strode to the pile of short books arranged in a shelf—novels. One had “Marley Andes” as its author. Lauren drew it out and checked its title.

“Does the library allow borrowing?”

“You’re not yet a bona fide student. Let’s go see books that concern you.”

“There are all here.” She drew out another novel by same author.

“Jide, you have to read this book.”

“You love novels?”

“All kinds. My mum bought this one for me when I was thirteen. The story is vague, but I can tell it’s romance.”

“You love romance books?”

“Yes, but prefer thrillers?”

Leafing through the pages, she joined the fragments of the plot’s memories slinking in.

“Let’s go see some business books,” he said.

“I remember the plot.” She tried remembering the princess’ name.

“Mareta, that’s her name, Mareta. She was a princess and got a thief imprisoned. Little did she know he was her soul mate. The man…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jide said. “Drop it and let’s move.”

“The man has a red hair, I can still tell that. He was an Indian with a red hair,” she said and shelved in the book.

“No more novels. Let’s go see what concerns you.”

“Just one more.”

“Lau, time is counting.”

She fixed the book in its shelf, and motioned for them to continue. The eyes on her had reduced, but some big ones wouldn’t go away.

They progressed to the business section. Many mighty books stood on the shelves. How was someone expected to put all those books in one small head?

The big books she had whined about in high school were nothing. She picked a book and skimmed over the first page. There was a lot to learn, but four years should be enough.

“Don’t let the weight deceive. It’s easy to read,” Jide said.

“I hope so.”

After much looking at the books, her stomach began rumbling. The remaining would be looked into when she was bona fide.

“Let’s go eat something,” she told Jide.

He studied his wristwatch. “I should take you home. You’ll eat in the car. I’ll buy something on the road.”

They left the library and headed for the Toyota.

CHAPTER 5




The door was ajar. Richard tapped and entered. The therapist raised head to him and returned them to the small book on his desk.

Richard progressed to the chair. The therapist positioned his book atop other books and gave eyes to Richard.

They were without his round, archaic specs, and were better without them.

“Your girl’s lack of the necessary attention hinders rapid recovery,” the therapist said.
“If you can’t see her regularly, find someone close to her who can.”

“It’s my work. It steals all my time, and I don’t know anyone close to her. You know her kind, they don’t tell friends of their situation, and you’re aware of her family’s absence.”

“You didn’t visit the whole of last week. If you can’t come often, try to keep contact. Get her a phone.”

Good idea. That should have long time crossed his head.

“I’d do that.”

“It would curb some of the distance, but you should also come in person when free. You’re virtually the closest person to her. No other comes visiting.”

Richard hated to think of it that way, but it was true. From the little he knew, it was true.

“Is she in?”

“No. She went to the stores.”

“How is the therapy going?

“It’s a slow process. It might take time, but things are happening.”

Richard knew what that meant.

#

The sunrays streaming into the room doubled and landed on his black suit, almost whitening the black material.

They reminded him he had to be on the road before it got jammed. He brought out the phone and SIM pack from his bag and tossed it to the bed.

“I’d use that in contacting you,” he told Abbe.

She held the phone and surveyed every side of it, carrying a face that made it difficult to tell if she liked it or not, if his money was a waste or not.

“I have a phone at home.” She laid the pack on the bed.

It seemed his money was going to be a waste. “Why didn’t you request for yours?”

“I never thought a phone was allowed.”

“Anyway, you now have a new phone and a registered SIM. Better.”

“I’d go get my old one.”

Nothing worked easy with her, not even accepting a phone.

The rays in the room brightened and reminded him of his office. Brightened rays never met him at any place other than the office.

“Why worry yourself going to your house for your old one when I’m giving you a good one?”

“Thanks, but I prefer my old one.”

“Where do you stay?”

“Olodi.”

“That’s far.”

“I would go when I have the time.”

“The therapist won’t allow you go alone.”

“Is the phone necessary?” Her tone concluded it wasn’t necessary.

“I have to contact you regularly. The therapist said it would hasten your recovery.”

She supported a side of her jaw with a palm. “How would that hasten my recovery?”

“I’m not a psychotherapist, you should ask the doctor.”

“Mr Richard.” She stretched the pack to him. “I wouldn’t want to delay you for work. I’m thankful, but you should return this.” On his refusal to receive it, she laid it on the bed.

“All right, let’s go to your place and get yours.” He didn’t know how that came out, but couldn’t take it back.

“You’re not going to work?”

“I’d go after.”

Her face thickened; a sure sign her next words wouldn’t be likeable. “You’re doing too much.”

“It’s that a bad thing.”

Her cheeks flattened. “I-I don’t—Too much is bad.”

That was the part he didn’t like, when her guilt showed. It shot through her eyes and circled the small sphere of her face.

“Abbe, your first encounter with me doesn’t make it wrong for me to help. It wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t feel any guilt.”

She said nothing, did nothing but eyed the yellow rug.

“It’s guilt. You’re not conscious of it, but it’s there,” he said. “Don’t allow it conquer you. Give some room.”

“I’m not used to this kind of help,” she muttered.

“Get up and let’s start going. I don’t want to reach my office by noon.”

#

He didn’t know why the woman fixed eyes to the side window. She could be admiring the passing pomegranate trees, or simply didn’t want to catch his gaze. The second was most likely.

The road to Olodi was not very clear, but the billboards guided and saved him asking her for directions.

It didn’t seem she wanted to talk or do anything than stare at the out and play with the crucifix at the end of her hung rosary. He needed to make her talk.

“You’re a catholic?” he asked.

“No.”

“Your rosary.”

She bobbed head to it as though ignorant it rounded her neck. “I’m not a catholic. Not a Christian.”

“You’re not a Christian?”

“I’m not.” She still did not look at him.

How could she not be a Christian? Christianity fitted her. “You’re a Muslim?”

“No.”

Only three base religions existed in Nigeria. He didn’t want to guess the third. “Then which are you?”

“None.”

None. That was first he was hearing. Everyone in the country belonged to a religion.

“Why none?”

“Religion is a choice.”

“And you choose none?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at her neck, at the crucifix resting on her chest.

“Then why wearing a rosary?”

She eyed the crucifix and stroked its white surface with a thumb.

“My mum is a Christian, there happened to be many of this in my house. I picked one.”

“You should take it off.”

“Why do you say that?” She looked at him and shifted eyes.

“It’s an abuse to the Christian faith.” He didn’t want to ask himself if he was in the right position to say that.

Nonetheless, it abused the faith.

She pulled off the rosary and laid it near the gear. “You’re a Christian?”

“I am, and maybe you should consider being one too.”

“Religion is a choice.”

“Why choose none?”

“I have no reason to choose any.” Her words formed without any form of hindrance, giving no reason to believe she could be unsteady about her absurd choice of sticking to no religion.

He drove into Olodi and needed some directions, which she gave before he could ask. They bounced to the potholes, and he watched her to ensure her head didn’t hit the car’s roof. It never could have. She was not tall enough.
Nonetheless, he took caution.

“The Second bend. Building before the last house,” she said.

He diverged into the junction, rode further and stopped front of a well-cut lawn at the façade of a brown bungalow.

The bungalow had an aluminium roof, and boron glasses covered the windows. Only few houses in the town had that.

“I wouldn’t spend much time.” She opened the door and stepped out.

He disputed on if he should follow her in or remain glued to the seat. The second. She opened her gate and stepped in, giving him a small view of the compound.

The ground had concrete tiles, searing to the rays falling on them. The sun was at its peak. Mondays never caught him this late.

The gate opened, and she walked out with a phone attached to her hand, a Samsung good as the one he bought.

She stepped into the car and he started the engine.

“Your place is good. What job do you do?”

“I do small-scale painting.”

Small-scale painting wasn’t enough to get such a place, unless Lagos had changed.

“My parents own the place.” Her voice sprung up. “They left it.”

Good she had a decent place to lay head.

“Your painting, how small is it?”

“I paint and sell to few individuals.”

That should be enough to grant her three solid meals.

Urghhhhhhhhhhh

Subscribing to read tho. Anyone who has Vonn as a friend will also be good.
Reading Chapter one

stuff46:
Urghhhhhhhhhhh


Subscribing to read tho. Anyone who has Vonn as a friend will also be good.

Reading Chapter one

Lol....
That's good.

stuff46:
Urghhhhhhhhhhh


Subscribing to read tho. Anyone who has Vonn as a friend will also be good.

Reading Chapter one

Lol... Thanks dear.
You won't regret you did

stuff46:
Urghhhhhhhhhhh

Subscribing to read tho. Anyone who has Vonn as a friend will also be good.
Reading Chapter one

Faol, u neva still go extinct ?

CHAPTER 6




The waters falling from the shower were spikes to Ezinne. She watched the foam fall off her skin and replaced them with new ones.

From her face, she rubbed the sponge down to her shoulders and to her middle, where she stopped rubbing and stared at her belly. She slid some foam off it and pressed the belly.

She began sobbing.

The waters mixed with the hanging drops at her eyes, washing off its tears and bringing in new ones.

When the water washed off the remaining soap, she reached for her towel and cleaned herself up.

The doorbell rang. Rick. She stood front of the mirror and cleared every fold before going down the stairs and then the door where she met Rick and his friend.

“Jide, nnộ. How was work?”

“We thank God,” Jide Echem said.

“You two loosen your ties while I go set the table.” She strained for a wide enough smile and ambled to the kitchen.
After microwaving the rice meal, she set the dining and called in the men, ending their office talk.

She downed some of the blue drink and returned to her rice, pinned the salmon’s tail and sliced out its flesh.

“I love this fruit wine,” Echem said.

“Where did you get it from?”
Rick did not reply.

“Rick brought it from LA,” she said.

“I have some bottles. I’d give you two of them before you leave,” Rick said.

Echem sipped. “Rara, I’d take three.”

“Then you pay for the third,” Rick said.

“Who watched the eight O’clock news yesterday? The ocean banks overflowed again.”

“This one’s casualty was meagre. No much damage,” Echem said.

“When would the Government address that issue permanently?”

“They’ve started a new project there,” Echem said, and Rick added few words.

She raised head to Echem, “Could you pass me the wine.”

He passed the wine to her and she refilled her glass. “The government would have to do something to the situation,” she said after sipping to evade the eyes on her. “How’s Erneto’s condition?”

“Erneto is okay,” Rick said.

“We’d have to live in competition with Cherlet forever,” Echem added.

“What of the donations to the children hospital, is that still on?” Ezinne asked.

“Yes.” Richard mouthed a small piece of beef.

She returned the dishes to the kitchen and as she washed them, tried to condone the noise from the men’s after-meal talks.

They talked football. It didn’t last, no matter how Echem tried. Rick wasn’t a fan. They tried news, and it lasted for a while before they reverted to talk work.

She sauntered to the sitting room and stretched on the long sofa. Finally, the men talks ended, and Echem rose to leave.

He took his three bottles from the bar and made for the door. They said Goodbyes without meeting eyes.

Richard pulled off his sleeves and complained on how tired he was and needed sleep. He staggered out of the sitting room and she was finally left alone, she and the little sunlight fading from the curtains and draperies.

She placed a cushion behind her head and switched on the TV. Musician’s cracked voices welcomed her.

The white clouds gave way to darkened ones, and the curtains blew with the invading storms. No more of the musicians’ voices, but thunder roars, rumbles and squeaking signal faults.

All made her dwell deep and deeper in her thoughts.

The cushion behind her head was useless. It couldn’t stop her from thinking.

It couldn’t stop her from thinking of that killing moment, neither could it soothe the torture, instead, it fuelled it.

It brought those times back to life. It brought her tortures back to life. Three years gone, and it didn’t seem as such. She had forgotten nothing.

The sore was still very fresh, tormenting her without pity. But how could she forget? How could she forget when she was to live with it forever, when she had been deprived of a child forever?

Nothing could wipe away the thought, no matter how soft the cushion was, or how melodious the musicians sang.

Nothing could wipe away the thought of the doctor’s blades inside her womb cutting her flesh, killing her innocent twins, killing her womb.

Those were impossible to forget. She pressed the remote button and muted the TV. She should dwell in the thoughts, the best she could do.

The rains came down and battled with the storms.

CHAPTER 7





All Richard wanted to hear was “All is done.” or something close.

The therapist refused to tell him that, instead, chose his everyday words that didn’t fit.

The man arranged his spectacles the way he does when about vomiting something important or nearly.

“Disorders might take years to heal, but it does heal with the right approach. The hospital has done its part, what is left is yours and hers. She would leave the hospital, but that doesn’t end her therapy. It’s only a movement from one phase for another. The new phase is very fragile and has to be done perfectly. She is now at your watch, your watch, and not anybody else’s.”

He pointed a finger to Richard.

“You’re now the one to do the talks, you’re now her therapist. She should be able to confide in you, so you can be aware of any lapse she makes, and if such happens often, do the good of coming here. If this phase is done perfectly, her illness will forever be history.”


That would have been easy but for the way the therapist sounded. Never expect anything good from the doctors, that didn’t apply to only those in the surgery wards. Worse here. Worse in a psychiatric hospital.

“Any idea on how to do that effectively?”

“Stay close and be very sensitive. I know it isn’t easy for a man of your status, considering your work and all, but spare some time for the woman.”


Now that his work needed time, he had been asked to cut out from the little he had, the little he shared with his woman.


“What if she remains here, then I come see her at intervals, maybe spend few minutes after closure from work.”


“Here?” The therapist’s left cheek folded up.

“Right now, here would be a cage to her, which is the last thing you’d want.” The therapist paused.

Richard sensed the formation of another set of words—another set of dangerous words.

“She’d have to live with you.”

Non-sequitur. Worse than what he had thought.

“I don’t live alone.”

“You have children?”

“No. I live in my house with my woman.”

“Good. Make your woman close to her. They’re both women. It could be an advantage and would reduce the workload on you.”

The truth that Ezinne had never been a fan was hard to deny. The girl stole her perfume—that was not a thing to like someone for.

“Do something, Mr Fayemi.”

“How many weeks are we talking?”

“All goes well, then you may not need more than a month.”

A month. That contained four weeks that housed so many days.

“You should go see her before the day gets darker than this.”

“It’s already dark enough.” He rose and headed to the door.

Having the girl in his house had its advantages as the doctor had said—but there were also disadvantages, even if vague and invisible.



#



Richard lingered over cutting out a piece of fish from its chunk. He cried over his toothache that denied him beef as he watched Jide slice his.

Jide carved beef the funny way Ezinne did—small squares. It was interesting to know not only her sliced meat such way.

“Let’s get done and return to the office,” Jide said.

“A twenty minutes break in the cafeteria is not a sin.”

“I’m expecting Lau. She called that she’d be coming. I don’t want her to wait.”

“Lauren?” Richard said and wondered why the white girl so much liked Erneto.
Her dad had an office like Jide’s. If she so much liked offices, her dad’s would do, rather than perching in and out of his company at her will.

“She’s coming to Erneto?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Richard tried not to be too grim.

“I don’t know. She called this morning that she would.”

“When is her school resuming?”

“They have. Her phone call was from school.”

Now, he was sure she was that type of girl. Serious girls never left school for no important reason.

Jide’s phone rang. He picked it and told someone to meet him at the café.

“That was Lau,” he told Richard.

“She has arrived?”

“Yes.” He mouthed a chunk of his beef.

Richard saw her through the glass behind Jide, on a bobble hat too small to swallow the whole of her blonde hair.

She approached them without missing a smile, and dragged a chair to their middle, grazing the tiles. Sweat circles edged her earlobe.

“Jide… you’re not on suit jacket today,” she said as if it was a good thing.

“I’m not always on a suit.”

She turned to Richard. “Bad we can’t say same for Mr CEO.”

“He didn’t use to always be like this,”

Jide said, and Richard knew exactly where his friend was heading. The topic never left his mouth.

“How?”

“You’re sitting with an old soldier.”

She whirled to Richard with bulged eyes that might fall the next minute. “Is that true?”

Keeping her inquisitiveness hanging wouldn’t be the best thing to do, especially for one with such zest.

“For a little time. I went through the academy and served in the forces for some time.”

“Hmm, interesting. So was it a field marshal, commander or…”

“A lieutenant.”

She gathered eyes. “What do those ones do? Are they the ones that shoot guns?”

“Every soldier shoots guns.”

“So you’ve fought? You’ve put bullets in the enemy’s skull.”

“He went for peace keeping in one of these Syria crises,” Jide entered.

“Peace keeping. Risking your life to maintain peace in a country that isn’t yours. That’s generous. So how did you end up in a suit instead of a uniform?”


“Dad died, I had to take over business.”

“Same story everywhere. And you’re managing the business pretty fine.”

“I travelled to LA to do some catching up, did fast learning.”

“Business suits you than the army.”

He considered that as a compliment.

“How is school?” he deliberately ended the topic.

“School would be fine if the lecturers could try some nice and stop giving me too much attention because I’m not as black as them.”

Only bad students blame lecturers, as only bad recruits blamed commanders.

“With time they might grow nicer.”

“Hope the eyes on you has reduced,” Jide said.

“It’s still there. I’m seriously searching for another white to share some of the stares.”

“Don’t put much hope, you might not find.”

“You might find,” Richard said. “Last two nights or thereabout, Ezinne told me of a funny foreign course mate. Ezinne had two white course mates.”

“Your girlfriend?” Lauren asked.

The word had many substitutes, searching for one wouldn’t have done her any trouble.

“Yes. She attended the state’s university.”

“Two. Two whites is many enough. I’d be glad if I could find one other.”

“You’d eat something?” Jide asked her.

“No, I’m good.” She glanced at Richard’s plate. “You don’t eat meat or you’re abstaining.”

“I’m abstaining.”

“Why? You’re catholic?” She asked with a stare that carried something resembling surprise.

Perhaps, she was thinking men who had served in the forces couldn’t be Catholics.

“I’m abstaining because I have a toothache. But I’m catholic.”

“A devoted one or just by the name?”

“I’m a full time catholic?”

Her white teeth flashed between her lips. “You’re not.”

“He is,” Jide helped.

“My dad is a knight. I know the entire tenets of the faith.”

“Meaning?” Richard asked.

“You’re going against the tenets. The church forbids living in the same house with a woman that’s not your wife. You just mentioned you have a girlfriend. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but… I merely thought you were the type that obeyed all the rules.”

She was right, undeniably right, but that didn’t mean he was not a catholic.

“We’re courting.”

She chuckled the kind that neared a laugh.

“Fine excuse. I didn’t expect less. Well, no one is crucifying you. Everyone does it. Everyone tries to balance both worlds. Truth is I do it. My dad would say Jesus could meet people like us in the wrong world when he comes. That shouldn’t be your prayer—our prayer.”

The word “balancing” was too extreme. He wasn’t balancing both worlds. He wasn’t. Even if he were, he would end up marrying his woman.

He breathed in some of the hot air. God please forgive him. It was a bad thing her words were true.

She reached for Jide’s glass and drank the remaining wine. “It’s not alcohol,” she said to Richard, “so stop whatever you are thinking. To why I’m here, I wanted to invite you two for my matriculation.”

Richard allowed that take him from his thoughts. “When is it?”

“13th next month.” She faced Jide. “Say something.”

“Is that why you came from school?” Jide asked.

“Actually no. I’d go see my dad. And seeing me in person would tell you how serious I am.”

“I can’t guarantee coming.”

“Why?”

“What day is 13th?”

“A Thursday.”

“I’d be working.”

“Please just say you’d try.”

“Yes, I’d try.”

“Richard, you’re coming?”

She asked again, and Richard shook head.


#


The crickets outside the bedroom window chirped. This time, Richard enjoyed it.

Nothing than their chirping and the blustering from Ezinne’s showering could have best created the moment.


She walked out of the bathroom in a clean self, which added to the moment.

Richard inhaled and inhaled again, then slowly let out the air. She dawdled to her wardrobe for her nightgown.

Richard decided it was better he asked the question before she clothed. He sauntered to her behind and held her trim, slender waist, and as he brought out the ring case from his trouser pocket, her gaze fell on him, fixed at the case.

“I want to marry you, Ezinne. Will you be my wife?” He looked fixedly into her small, round eyes, but couldn’t find an answer there.

She kept looking and looking, but didn’t speak. It was surprise, yes, it was, and she would soon get over it. She would soon say the word. His year break in LA wasn’t enough for her to say otherwise.

“Rick…”

His name wasn’t important at the now.

“Rick… Yes Rick, I’d marry you.”

He lifted her into his arms and complemented her smile with a wider one.

“We’ll be having two girls and two boys.”

Joining lips with hers, he laid her atop the mattress.

Sooner, he wouldn’t be balancing both worlds. A wife, a home, that is one world, one complete world, one complete faith.

But now, he had just proposed, and she just agreed. For this little time before they climbed the altar, God, please forgive him. He ripped off her towel without effort and pressed himself against her.

God, he prayed, please forgive.


#


He greeted her good morning with a kiss. She yawned and stretched arms, her first sign of tiredness after a rough night.

He rose from the bed and lumbered into the bathroom.


When finished bathing, he turned on the light and met her eyes.

Her helpless self was stretched on the bed, and the memory of the hospital girl slunk into him.

He eased closer to her and sat by her. A second good morning kiss fully opened her eyes.

“There’s something I’d want us to discuss,” he said.

“What’s it?”

“It’s concerning that kleptomaniac.”

She spun herself fully to him. “What happened to her?”

“She will soon be discharged.”

“She’s cured?”

“Will be. Very soon. It’s a process. The therapist said there is one last thing.”

“What’s it?”
“He said she should lodge here for about a month so she can create close ties with us. It’s needed to effectively complete her therapy.”

The whir of the ceiling fan amplified. It soared until Ezinne’s words came forth.

“When is she coming?”

“I’ll talk with the therapist.”

Lovely. Keep it coming

Ishilove:
Lovely. Keep it coming

Lol.... So you're that ghost reader.
God don catch you today.

CHAPTER 8




A knock happened at the door. Abbe remained seated. The last thing she wanted was pep talks from the nurses.

The door opened. It was not a nurse. It was Richard in a tailored, auburn suit.

He headed for the chair by the door, same chair he used on every visit. Never had he sat on the bed.

He sat on the chair and placed his case on his laps. “I spoke to the therapist. He said you’re recovering.”

She wondered what could be the doctor’s definition of recovery. They told her mum same thing. “Yes, I am.”

He nodded like someone who had achieved something. “Then you would soon be leaving.”

“Is that what the doctor said?”

“Since you’re recovering, there’d be no need to keep you in the hospital.”

The hospital was safe. The nurses ensured she remained in her room, and that was only good they did. It kept her from falling prey to the devil. And there were no numerous stares from people.

Now, she was about going back to those, about going back to the outside world of fear, guilt, and the stares… That was the doctor’s definition of recovering.

“The therapist said you paint in here.”

Does the doctor have to tell him all she did? That was not part of her treatment.

“I paint sometimes.”

“Does it kill your urge?”

She surveyed his face for the answer he yearned. “It does.”

“Can I see some of them?”

She opened the drawers and brought out her sketch pad. He rose from the wooden chair and dallied to the bed. Seated beside her, he began opening the pad, browsing through the first pages with swift eyeballs, not spending a minute on a page.

“They’re good.”

He ran fingers over the edges of a painting of flying eagles. “Natural. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

He continued viewing the drawings and began spending time on each page. She watched him, enjoying the silence, but not his scent which raided the room and which she allowed crawl into her nostrils.

When finished with the last page, he closed the pad and laid it on the bed.

“They’re beautiful. It’s good you’ve found what kills your urge. Now you’d agree with me that the hospital is a good place.”

She wished she could agree. She wished the hospital could be a good place so he would be right. “I have another book. You want to see it?”

“I’d love to.”

Why did she offer? It was her book of sketches, filled with rough drawings and paintings, not the type to show others. She opened a drawer and brought out the book.

“These are sketches.” He flipped through the book.

“I thought you wanted to see all of the works.”

He continued flipping through the pages, feigning a zealous face, but was bad at it.

“They’re okay.”

He looked through the window and glanced at his wristwatch, same thing he does on every visit. She hated the wristwatch and its selfish time.

“When next will you come after today?” she asked, before her mouth would stiffen itself.

“Before you get discharged.”

A definite answer would have helped.
A thud came from her door, and without it opening, a female voice said Abbe was needed in the doctor’s office.

“Do you see the therapist everyday?” Richard asked.

“No. But regularly.”

“I’d be leaving. Go see him.” He carried his briefcase and aimed for the door. His footsteps disappeared at once, immediately he closed the door.

She prepared to go meet the doctor and answer those questions without answers.

The doctor’s eyes left his demitasse and trailed her from the door to the seat.

“Have you been taking your medications?”

He gave her piercing eyes that might well force her to say yes.
Those few times she had missed were not enough to say no. “Yes,” she said.

“Last time you were taken to the store, are you aware of how many items you picked?”

“No.”

“You picked nine.” That did not sound like an improvement, and the doctor carried his most unimpressive face.

“Were you a bit conscious of them?”

“No.”
He stuck his glasses firmer and closer to his eyes. “Do you have restless nights?”

“Few times. That happened mostly when I was a child.”

“How do you still feel after a steal?”

The answer would not change. No matter the number of times he asked the question, the answer remained same.

“Fear,” she muttered. “And guilt.” It pained to say, but sometimes relief came in. “And relief.” Sometimes the three decide to show their heads.

“You still feel relief?” the doctor asked with a deepened voice, making it very clear there had been no improvement.

“I do.”

“Does your painting help?”

“It does,” she said, glad at the slight change of subject, even though it would last for only a while.

“Do they distract you from the urge?”

The doctor’s face craved for a yes. It would be cruel to disappoint him. “Yes,” she muttered, and some folds on his forehead spread out.

“When do you paint?”

“When I feel like doing so.”

“Is that everyday?”

“Not everyday. I sketch when bored.”

“Does that also kill the urge?”

“It does.”

The remaining folds on his face disappeared. Her reply was not wasted.

“You can leave,” he said.

“Any hope of a discharge soon?” She did not know if that would be good news, but it was right to ask.

“I’m on that.”


#


The hospital did not put on the generator, and the outside light entering the room gradually waned.

Abbe tried managing the shimmers from the windows, but the rainy weather did no favour. She needed the light to finish her gouache, and needed Richard to watch her work as she painted so his boredom could lessen.

He had been pressing his phone buttons since the rains began and had not yet said his reason for visiting—to take her.

The doctor had discussed it with her several times and had clearly stated she had no choice.

It was the most crucial stage of her recovery, he had said, if not for nothing, do it for the man. It was worth a try. It was worth a risk. She snuck a look to Richard whose fingers were glued to his cell phone.

He would have to wait for the rains to cease before he leaves—or before they leave. But be it a good thing or not, the rains should stop, she needed the subsequent light to help in her gouache painting and the blustering overworked her ears.

The bulb lightened and tripped off instantly. That distracted Richard from his phone, and led his eyes to her work.

“Can you see what you’re doing?”

“I can manage.” She stopped applying paint and cleaned her hand with a rag.

“How long does those take to dry?”

“Days.”

“Days?” He placed his phone on the chair.

“Yes.”
He walked to her and positioned at her side, fixing gaze at the marshland painting. The paint’s odour did not allow her catch any scent of him. “You love landscapes and things of nature, your paintings say so.”

“They are the easiest to paint while sitting on a bed.”

His fingers created thin marks on the painting’s edges as they circled it. “Does this really kill your urges?”

She knew that would be the next question and had not prepared an answer for it. It was one of those many questions without answers.
He wanted the truth. It was very much written on him. But sometimes the truth wasn’t needed. “Yes it does,” she said.

Sometimes one needed to feel like an achiever, and if the truth would not cause that, then it should be thrown off.

What mattered was not if she had found what killed her urge or not. What mattered was him feeling like an achiever and know his time and money were worthwhile.

He caressed her work, grazing its edges with his thumb. She wondered what could be happening inside him.

“Come spend some time in my house,” he said, as though it was what supposed to be done. “I know you have a place, a home, and something doing, but this is necessary. It wouldn’t last. Possibly, after a month, you would go back to your normal schedule, but this is something you have to do for your recovery.”

“The doctor and I discussed it,” she said.

“And what did you decide?”

He cared as though he was entitled to, and did not bother hiding it. It could be nothing but his philanthropic nature. Nothing but that. She shifted gaze back to him. He wanted to hear a yes, needed to hear a yes.

“I do what the doctor says.”

“Good choice. In the next few months, your illness is sure to leave.” He looked at the windows, at the rains which made no promises to stop. Refocusing on the painting, he thumbed a portion of it, and some of the paint glued to his thumb.

“The paint would take long to dry.”

“Where did you live?” she asked.

“Lander Close, GRA.”

She remained mute, trying to form her next words.
“Thank you, Richard.” There was a reason to say that, even if she was without what kills the devil in her, even if it was not yet in her hands.
“Should we leave now? We’d dodge the rains to my car.”

The choice of leaving with him or not yet divided her head and would have sure torn it apart had the doctor not decided for her. What would she have chosen if she were to? She carried the painting to a corner of the room and slanted it at the bottom.

“Aren’t you taking the painting along?”

“I’m leaving it here.” She made for the drawer, drew it open, and arranged the few things in her bag.

“You brought few clothes.”

“I stay in here almost all day.”
She slung the bag onto her shoulder and they left the room to the already darkened outside. Her feet could not manage the pavements enough to escape the drops and splashes.

More splashes met them as they ran into the downpour and headed for the parking lot, where she met a full dose of the rain, and even more as they rushed into the car.

It was hard to swallow, but there she was, next to him, on the road to his house, in a wet self.


#


They rode without having to drag the car through floods. The potholes did not hoard the waters. They flowed directly into the drainages. The natives keened on duplexes, and maybe they had deliberately cut off the trees, but certainly the grasses.

“You’re familiar with this place?” he spoke after a prolonged quiet.

“No, I don’t come here.”

“My house is few drives away.”

“The place is okay.”

“It’s an estate. The government always makes sure it’s in good condition.”

“13th avenue” showed on a signboard that had its arrow pointed to the right.

“This is my street,” he said.

The rains made huge blusters as they poured from the high roofs to the cemented ground. Few bungalows hid between the storey buildings. There were still no trees.

Fragments of velvety lawns sprinkled upon some front yards, especially the scarce bungalows’. He stopped front of a duplex, and a gateman opened the gate.

Sunflowers lived in a mini garden at the heart of the compound, opening their yellow heads to the falling waters.

They came out from the car, and the rain’s blustering increased. Two cars rested on the tiled ground: a jeep and another like the Honda. But he drove only the Honda. Was he living with someone else?

“Leave the things in the boot so the rains don’t touch them, the gateman would bring them in later,” he said. “We follow the verandas.”

She maintained pace with him until they got to the door without drops or splashes. He pressed the doorbell. For whom did he press it? A voice came forth, a non-masculine voice. The door squeaked and opened.

A woman. He never mentioned he had a woman. The woman’s eyes brightened and reverted to normal. Abbe did not know what that meant.

The woman welcomed Richard and turned to her. “And who do we have here?” She asked with same tone used in welcoming Richard.

Abbe greeted with the best smile she could achieve.

“She’s the one I was telling you about,” Richard said.

“Oh… it’s you, welcome to the house.” She smiled and offered a hand, which Abbe received.

“I’ll take her to a room.” The woman shifted from the entrance.

The scent that raided the hospital ward when Richard visited filled the large sitting room.

Photographs dominated the walls, no paintings. A framed photograph of him was hung at the wall’s top, side to the woman’s. They were like couples—beautiful couples.

He once said he did not have a wife, the wordings still rang clear in her head. Abbe twisted head for a short look of the woman. A beautiful woman.

The woman shifted a curtain, and they walked out of the sitting room. “What’s the name?” Her smile showed a stretch of her upper teeth.

“Abbe Oboh.”

The spiral stairs wound like that of the psychiatric hospital. The woman did not lead up the stairs.

“I’m Ezinne,” she said. “Richard told me you’re suffering from a disorder. What’s its state?”

“There are some improvements.”

“Good to hear.” She pushed a door open, next to the stairs. “You can stay here.”

“Thanks. Nice place.”

“I should go give Rick something to eat. I’d bring yours afterwards.” She left.

Scents of new leathers and electronic sets welcomed Abbe into the room, and the tiled floor absorbed the whole heat from her soles. The bed absorbed any other remaining in her.

Closing eyes became the easiest task. She closed eyes and gave her whole self to the bed.

CHAPTER 9




Lauren finished with Jide over the phone and tossed the phone to the bed. He phoned to tell he was coming. That wasn’t her request.

Her request was to see a glimpse of him on March 13th, and the day passed without a shadow of him. He didn’t come, didn’t call, didn’t text, did nothing except sitting in his office chair all day signing rubbish documents.

The dying hum of a car engine at her front yard sounded like him. If him, good. If not him, still good. It wouldn’t change anything. She sucked in a long breath. It wouldn’t change anything.

The knock at the door was strong, hard, sounding. She sauntered and unbolted. It was he, posing as though he had done something good—hands in jean with a cocked head—waiting for her to let him in.

She tried not to smile, or put on any unnecessary face, and prayed she was good at it.
If there was any reason to be pleased at all, it should be because he was able to locate her apartment without much help, not because he was present.
The time to be present had passed.

“I stayed in the school’s hostels. I didn’t experience this fancy life.”

He settled on the bed and picked the novel on the pillow, and then scrutinized its front cover.

“Romance or thriller?”

“Both.”

“Romantic thriller.”

She wondered if that was the right name.

“How was your matriculation ceremony?” He thumbed through the pages.

“Okay.” She sat on the bed and joined him in gazing at the brunette pictured on the novel’s front cover.

“I thought so.” After much admiring of the brunette, he dropped the novel on the bed.

“It wasn’t okay.”

Now he attached more seriousness, but still carried a widened face. “It wasn’t?”

“No. My dad was in the office, and so were you. So…”

His lids still pointed out, eyes still shone brightly. He wasn’t touched.

“It would have been better placed on a weekend,” he said.

That was no excuse. “It lasted the whole day, dawn to twilight.”

“I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it. That’s why I made no promises.”

“No issue there. It’s not really a big deal.”

“I don’t believe that’s the case to you. I would have tried coming, but was so occupied, and thought your dad would be around.”

Thank heavens he knew it was a big deal.
“Dad couldn’t leave work, but visited at evening.”

“He did well. From work to here must have taken a lot. That’s why he’s your dad.”

“So you didn’t come because you’re not my dad.”

Instead of being sober and sorry for not coming, he chuckled. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Your job is to make me understand.”

She made sure every iota of cheer on her face, if any, was wiped off.

“I leave work by night. A break for a ride to a matric ceremony is rash.”

“So a minute break for a phone call is also rash.”

That worked, he lost words. Eyes no more shone brightly, but rested on his sandals. They left his sandals and went to the novel, to the brunette on its cover.

“Sorry for not calling.”

She never thought all she needed was a sorry, but it seemed as though his sorry removed all the grudges she had kept—forced herself to keep. “I guess you were too busy to hold a phone.”

“Not that. It merely didn’t occur to me. I never thought you’d need a call.” His lowered voice was more pleasing to her ears than the business-like ones every man in the country had.

“Anyways, it’s gone. It wasn’t that bad, I funned with my dad.”

He heaved a sigh heavy enough to drive a fly. “I came here with the mind of seeing you, since I couldn’t on your day, but I could change plans.”

He pressed palms together. “Get dressed and let’s have a little matric celebration. I know I’m a bit late.”

She heard that right, and he didn’t seem joking. No bit of smile stuck to his lips when the words came out.

“A matric celebration… like?”

He shrugged. “What would you like?”
Hmm, what would she like? The only thing they shared in common was they liked pepperonis. Truth was she didn’t like it that much, and a time at a cafe was too lame for a matric-miss payback.

“What about a day at the Lagos Tarkwa bay? I’ve heard things about it.” That should do for a matric celebration, except his face had changed.

His small, dark eyes had halved. She waited for his next set of words to evolve.

“Tarkwa bay? That’s far. Pick something close.”

“You asked and I replied.”

“I said something little. The bay doesn’t fall in that category.”

She exhaled. “You don’t really have to do anything. I mean, you were right, you made no promises. I shouldn’t put you in a tight nook.”

With hunched shoulders, he looked at her, and the look lasted until a chuckle came forth, a chuckle whose reason would forever be a mystery.

“Teens remain teens,” he said, and his smirk made it sound like “kids remain kids.”

“Get dressed, and let’s drive to the bay,” he said. “I’ll wait outside while you change.” He rose and walked to the door.

She stared at the big mirror and scrutinized herself. No bit of her seemed kid and she sure hadn’t talked like one, so whatever he said or meant was to make her pissed, and painful it was working.
She grunted, and ended her grunt with a wink to her mirrored self.

She opened her closet, scanned, and picked a pair of grey trousers. Grey didn’t go too well. She tried yellow, which turned out okay, but not perfect. Nobody was looking for perfect. Just good. Good enough.

The yellow trousers, she topped with a red, and another look at the mirror said her black loafers would add. After donning that, she turned to the closet for her swimsuit.

Sure, they could swim. She tucked it in her bag and slung the bag on her shoulder.
With a last sigh, she walked to the door and opened. He was seated on a recess with hands on jaw.

“You forgot someone was waiting,” he said.

That sure was conning. No time was wasted in the room. “I spent barely five minutes.”

“You call five minutes barely? If that’s how you delay in getting dressed, then I can imagine how many lectures you miss a day.”

“I don’t miss lectures.”

He gathered himself and rose from the recess. “What’s in your bag?”

“A swimsuit.”

His cheeks gathered. “Suit for what?”

“Aren’t we swimming?”

“I don’t swim.”

“I do. Maybe you’d learn.”

He studied his wristwatch. “Let’s walk to the car.”

They waltzed to his Toyota and he began a drive.

“You should develop the habit of dressing quickly, so you can survive the morning lectures,” he said. Of all the discussions on planet earth, he could come up with only that.

“I dress quickly and smartly compared to other girls.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I believe you don’t know how long most girls dress at mornings, I won’t battle words with you.”

“It’s not necessary I know that. The idea is you should improve.”

“All right. Taken.” Silence beat wasting words on a dreary talk.


#


They eased out of the ice cream cabin. The cosy air added to the vanilla playing with the lines of her tongue and the calm ocean’s breath rained on her, making her wish she could grasp all of it.

Few people hovered around, and fewer stayed in water, swimming, riding, and cursing with the local pidgin, and most did nothing but stare at her as though she was the only white present.

Two other white boys—resembling Americans—ate and chat with a black boy under an open tent.

Vacant loungers lay on the wet sands, broken and upright ones. They eased to a double-seated and watched the ocean ripple and shine.

A bunch of children seated at a corner dug up the sands with their hands and sticks. Jide watched them and sniggered.

“You did that when little,” he said.

She watched them again. Nah… she never did that. Never did she dig out sands from the beach. All she did near a sea was swim and not destroy the poor beach sands.

“If you imagined someone, it shouldn’t be me.” She unzipped her bag and brought out her swimsuit, hoping they still fitted.

“That’s a swim vest?” he asked.

“Yes. I’d go change.” She placed her bag on the lounger and made for one of the nearby tents. No much struggle happened in suiting up, disputing every claim she had grown wider.

She strode out and one of the white boys waved at her. She waved back at him and his two friends, exchanging smiles with them.

He approached her and they did minor introductions which proved right that his friend and he were from U S of A. They came touristing.

“You can see some of your people here,” Jide said when she got to her lounger.

“I wish school could be like this.” She fantasized that coming true, and how heavenly it would have been.

“Won’t you enter the water?” she asked, for asking sake. His types were the anti-waters.

“No, you go enjoy yourself. It’s your matric. I’ve had mine.”

She would bet a thousand dollars he did nothing except wearing the gown on his day.

“What about a jet-ski? Everybody rides that.”

“I didn’t bring a vest.”

“I saw a man selling one behind the cabin.”

“Do what you have to do, Lau. Don’t bother about me entering the water.”

She grimaced at him and rose. There was no point exchanging words with a stiff mind, stiff face, stiff everything.

“You’re swimming?” he asked.

“No, I’m skiing.”

“You wouldn’t find a ski to rent.”

“I’ve made few friends, and they somehow have one.” She looked to the three tented boys and the jet ski lying beside them.

“Can you handle the machine?”

“I can handle a ship.”

He had not finished nodding before she ran and dived into the water. Warmer than most Canadian pool she had tasted and clean enough to avoid the fear of much of it escaping into her mouth.

She flapped legs and kept hands pointed, going deep into the water and getting more of its warmth. When satisfied, she reversed and popped head up.

Jide was staring and shaking head. She dug back into the water and swam to the shore.

“I thought you said you weren’t swimming,” he said.

“Just wanted to have a taste of the water.”

“You’re a mermaid.”

Good compliment. “The water is calm and warm, how about you try? Go get a vest and dive in.”

“My word hasn’t changed. I’m not.”

“You’re afraid of the water or you don’t just want to?”

“The second.”

“Or… you just want to sit and watch me.”

“I’d go for that.”

“Then you could use this, the sun might worsen anytime.” She brought out an eyeshade from her bag. “It’s a good tool.”

On an attempt to fix it on his face, it cracked and its hands broke off. “I should have known your head was too small. I’d get you a new one on our way back.”

“How would you survive when the sun fully comes out?”

“So better don’t last till then.”

“No promises. Sit, watch, and learn, and don’t get scared.”

She strode to the boys, smiled and pointed at their jet ski. That was all she needed do, and even helped push the ski closer to the water.

Her gunning of the engine chased off the nearby children, giving her the freest path to zoom into the ocean and ride deep, deep, deep.
She hunched to the steering and gave herself to the splashes that rained on her.
The people watching didn’t bother her, they should watch. She rode further to where their eyes couldn’t reach, and enjoyed the aloneness.

One less alone would have been better, but being alone also had its advantages—however her speed or length, no one would tap her shoulder for cautioning.

She looked at her behind. Jide had become a ghost. Almost everybody had turned into ghosts. Anyone that’d want to watch now would need a pair of binoculars.

When satisfied, she did a U-turn and chortled as the water beat her. She gunned the engine and sped for the shore.
A hand was waving. Jide’s. Some more speed and she saw his black face, all puckered and crumpled. Nice for him to worry. She rode to the shore and stopped at the wet sands.

She returned to her lounger, expecting a shout, yell, or anything that could push her back into the water. Jide gave her just that, even before she could reach his standpoint.

“Are you berserk? What made you ride so deep?” He pointed his black piercing eyes at her.

The shout and scream of a group of boys riding with girlfriends made his voice not so loud, killing the attention, but she had to defend herself.

“Did I go deep? I could see you from my maximum. That isn’t deep.” Her reflection rounded the black circle of his eyes.

“If you had drowned or something happened, you think rescue teams would come rescue you?”

She hooted, even though he never meant to be funny. A laugh always loosened up things.

“I don’t get drowned in water, let alone, on a ski? Anyways, it’s good you cared.”

“You didn’t know if the machine was faulty or anything before riding deep, that was a big risk. Next time, think.
Something could happen. Always think before acting.” He touched his forehead with an index finger.

She removed some of her laughs. Good to know there would be a next time.

“And I examined the machine.”

“You checked the externals.”

“All right. It wouldn’t occur again.”

“Next time you happen to be on a ski, ride along where you can be seen. You can perambulate around, but just make sure you can be seen.”

She widened her bag and flung out a towel, cleaned her hair, face, legs and began for the tent. “I’ll be back in a tick.”

She came out from the tent and dug feet in the sands all the way to the double-seated, creating thin prints of the sands.

“You’re forgiven for missing the matriculation ceremony. But next time, never let a lady enter the water alone.” She picked up his unfinished ice cream and mouthed in a spoonful.

“Lesson learned,” he said, “’cause who knows, they could get drowned. We should start leaving.”

“A little more, few minutes. It’s my first time here.” She curled up and admired her legs. No string of hair clung to it, unlike some of the girls’ around.

Few minutes passed and the sun grew, making her mourn her broken shade. Any moment later, Jide would begin whining.

Lovely i must confess.... The conversation looked so real. I just hope its nt wah am tinkin... 'a love affair brewing btw Jide n Lauren?



Tanx for d update sisi Vonn

Skimpledawg:
Lovely i must confess.... The conversation looked so real. I just hope its nt wah am tinkin... 'a love affair brewing btw Jide n Lauren?



Tanx for d update sisi Vonn

Thanks dear...
But what do you think about the age difference or race?
That might be a factor....
Oops..... Enough said already.