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

Maybe i missed it, Plz wahz Jide's age again? ...

#btw, d love affair wuld b cool.... They chat like couples tho

@vonn, thank you for the steady,lengthy and interesting updates, God bless you

@vonn, thank you for the steady,lengthy and interesting updates, God bless you.
Lovely story

Skimpledawg:

Maybe i missed it, Plz wahz Jide's age again? ...


#btw, d love affair wuld b cool.... They chat like couples tho

Dont really know.... But my guess is early 30s

vonn:

Dont really know.... But my guess is early 30s

Ahh, d age difference is much if Lauren is in her late teens wich i s'poz. Buh dahz d age ma mum advised i choose for marriage..... They ar good to go ... D dad wnt do jack!!!

will007:
@vonn, thank you for the steady,lengthy and interesting updates, God bless you.

Lovely story

Thanks hun

Skimpledawg:

Ahh, d age difference is much if Lauren is in her late teens wich i s'poz. Buh dahz d age ma mum advised i choose for marriage..... They ar good to go ... D dad wnt do jack!!!

Lol.....
Nah child abuse oo

#

Lauren heard a thud from her door. Only her dad knocked before entering her room, unless her mum had developed a new good habit.

The door opened and her mum stepped in. Lauren was pleased some of those bad habits had slunk out, though not all.

The woman hadn’t changed from her night robe—another bad habit, covered with her excuse of being at home. If she couldn’t feel loosed at home, then where else could she.

“How’re you, honey?” Her voice whiffed pizza.

Lauren reduced the stereo’s volume.

“It’s ten, mum.”

Mum sat on the bed. “And?”

“You’re still on night robe.”

Mum flung a hand. “I hear enough from your dad.”

The robe lady should enjoy the robes while she can. Switzerland would be calling soon. Her work there wouldn’t give her time to wear robes twenty-four hours.

Mum’s face transformed into something resembling a solemn one, like when a mother was about to leave her only daughter and would want to say the “I love you” and “I’d so miss you.”

She touched Lauren’s lap. “Honey, I want you to start schooling in Switzerland.”

Lauren jerked. “School? I’m already started here.”

“You’re in your first year. It won’t do much hurt to begin again.”

She was not used to saying no to her mum, but this time was different. She had created a niche in the country, and it wouldn’t be easy leaving that.

“Mum, I’m sorry mum, I can’t do that. I can’t leave Nigeria. I’m settled.”

“I know you are, I noticed, and that’s why it’d be hard, but it’s for the best.
The education standard here is incomparable to that in America or Europe, and you know it. I talked with your dad and he consented. That’s what he wants, that’s what we both want.”

“But I want a different thing.”

“We know what is good for you, honey. During the holidays you could retire back here.”

“Mum, but Newfield is good, they have a high standard.”

“But there is a better standard overseas, far better than what Newfield has.”

Mum’s low piercing words snaked straight to the soft spot. Lauren tried in directing them to the hard.

“I can’t mum, I can’t.” She thought of the months she had spent. She thought of the friends she had made in school.

Few but worthy. She thought of the time she would spend establishing herself in a new country, she had experienced that and wouldn’t want to a second time.

She thought of her dad and the time she got with him. Little, but she might not get as much with her mum in Switzerland.

She thought of the few encountered unforgettable times like the time at the bay. She thought of Jide and his austere friend.

“Sorry mum, I’m not going.”

“Think again, honey. Please think this through. I’d get back to you. I should go remove the dough before they get burnt.”

Lauren watched her mum open the door and prayed never to see her with such a face again.

Dining time came. They had brunch of hard-baked pizza and coffee. Mum certainly would wait for the meal to be over before bringing up the topic.

Rules didn’t let them talk such talks during meals—her rules.

“Honey, you’ve thought on what we talked.” Mum broke a rule.

“Yes, and I’ve decided to stay in Nigeria.”

Mum’s lids lowered to her coffee cup.

“Why exactly?”

“Because it’s what I want. I might further elsewhere, wherever you want me to, but I’m obtaining my Bachelor here.”

“If it’s friends, talk to them, they’ll understand.”

“Not friends, mum. Nothing. I just want to stay here.”

“Is it some sort of boy? Let me talk to him.”

She downed the remaining coffee and tried hard not to yell at the woman.

“Nothing. Nothing. People have made it here.” She left her pizza to the table and marched out. “I’d be back.”

“Where’re you going to?”

“Want to go see someone.”

“Tell the driver to drive you.”

“I’m driving.”

“You have a license?”

“They don’t search.”

“You can’t meander past those bad roads and potholes yourself.”

Lauren didn’t bother on her mum’s next words.

She rode her Lexus to Erneto Aives. Jide’s Toyota stood in its space. She parked and strode to his office, avoided long discussions with his secretary, and opened Jide’s door.

The important-looking papers and documents on his desk stole all of him.

“Lau, you should learn to knock.” He raised head to her. “Did your mum beat you at home?”

Perhaps, he was a psychic. She sat on the leather. “You’re busy. How’s work?”

“Good before you came in. What happened? Your face…”

“Is it that obvious?”

He signed a document and wrote his initials underneath his signature. “More than your white skin.”

She puffed her mouth with the office air and let them burst out. “I got into a tiny tussle with my mum.”

“Where’re your manners? The woman just arrived into the country.”

"I know. I tried not to take it extreme. I had to leave the house.”

“And that’s the extreme. I don’t need you to tell me you walked out on her.”

Sure, he was a psychic, but his skills weren’t helping. “At least ask why first, Jide. That’d help.”

The door squealed and opened. Lauren turned to catch a glimpse of the intruder. It was his secretary. The lady progressed towards them, holding Jide’s gaze.

She told Jide she didn’t come to office with a certain file, causing Jide to whine on how he tried phoning her thrice the previous day but got switched-off responses.

“My phone was stolen,” she said.

“Then get a new one,” he said without pity. Lauren wondered if he were that pitiless. He certainly wouldn’t have pity on her situation.

The secretary explained how armed robbers attacked her the previous evening on her way home and snatched the phone. Jide patted head and some pity crawled in. Good to know he wasn’t that so pitiless.

He advised her to stop carrying money late evenings and to leave the office early as her house was far away.

She shook her bum out of the office. Lauren followed her with eyes. What time did she leave the office? What time did they both leave the tiny office?

Jide called and got back her attention.

“You like her outfit?”

She flung a hand. “Oh no. Or maybe the shoes.”

“They sell them in every boutique I know. Back to the table, why are you mad at your mum?”

“She wants me to go school in Switzerland, and is so bent on it.”

Any atom of cheer in his face disappeared. “Is that why you’re mad at her?”

She didn’t reply. Her answer wouldn’t favour.

He meshed fingers and stared straight at her. “Go back home and talk with your mother. Ever since, I had myself thinking why your mum or dad would want you to school here. And now, your mum is giving you the gold and you’re rejecting.”

“You want me to leave?” It was so bad he didn’t care, and worse that he couldn’t pretend to care. What made her drive the way to his office?

“It’s the best, Lau, and everyone would want only the best for you. Don’t say no to mum.” Seriousness lurked around his face as he uttered the jargons, extreme seriousness.

The jargons certainly came out without him thinking. What made her think he’d be on her side?

“It’s my choice to make.” She rose and aimed for the door.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

She walked out, and then headed to the café, had burger and Pepsi, ate half, drank half, and made for her Lexus.

A boring ride and traffic jam fuelled her hatred for the country. But she wasn’t leaving it.

The face of the secretary slunk into her. All secretaries in the country were nincompoops.

#

The gate man positioned the cartons by the room’s door. Before Richard could knock, Abbe had opened.

He was glad the rooms in his house were getting occupied rather than remaining useless.

The room still looked virgin, still had those scents as though no one had spent a minute in it, whereas several nights had been spent.
The gateman carried the cartons in.

“What are these?” Abbe fixed at the cartons.

“Painting tools. You’d need them.” He didn’t expect a smile or anything near that, and she didn’t give him one.

She shifted from the entrance and carried a mashed face. “Richard, I have these at my house. If I have the need for them, then I’ll go get them.”

He entered and sat on a couch. “I never knew. I never saw them in the hospital.”

The gateman arranged the cartons at a corner and strode out.

“I didn’t see need for much painting at the hospital.” She rested eyes on the cartons. “You’d have to return them. If I need them, I’d go pick them from my house.”

Richard huffed. He would have enquired first. Wasting money had never been a hobby.

But the purchase wasn’t a waste, the tools were the originals, thus, more engulfing and would perfectly supress her urges, since evidently, those at her house didn’t do much good in supressing them.

“It’s buy and no return.” That was the best he could say.

She sat on the bed. “So what would you do to them?”

“They can’t be thrown away. You should use them while you’re here and save the ones at your house.”

He used a handkerchief to dust off a speck from his trousers. “When would you go home to get your clothes?”

She switched on the television, and a soccer commentator screamed from the screen. “I don’t think I would be going. The ones here would do,” she said.

If it were those clothes she stuffed into her bag at the hospital, then she was joking.

“I’ve seen your clothes. They won’t go far, except you plan on laundering every day.”

“I don’t intend on staying more than three weeks. The clothes would do.”

Three weeks. That would barely be enough for whatever needed to be done.

“Allow Ezinne take you home sometime tomorrow. She’d be glad to do so.”

“No need stressing her.”

“Believe me, she won’t be stressed. She’s—”

“Who exactly is she to you?” She removed attention from the television.

“Fiancée.”

A short smile lined her lips’ edge, which perfectly hid her incisors gap. “Good. When is the wedding date?”

“Not yet set, but soon, I believe within next two months.”

“She’s a good woman.” Her smile gradually disappeared, and her eyes reverted to the television.

“Start working with those tools. You’d love them.” He rose and surveyed the room for sufficient space for the tools. There was enough.

CHAPTER 10




Ezinne stretched on the recliner and let the cold air pour its chill on her.

The gate man wiped the raindrops off the Pathfinder, ignoring the dragonflies that swarm round his head, slapping his face with their wings and fighting for the small air around him.

The wind’s moan increased. It moaned and mourned, and the dark clouds hid every bit of the sun. Better that way. All the sun did was scorch, burn, and sear.

Footsteps approached the veranda. They must be footsteps. Any sound but the winds’ moan must be footsteps. The steps loomed nearer and stopped at the Veranda.

The klep appeared. Green stains clustered in fragments behind her hand.

“You’ve been painting,” Ezinne said.

“I have.” She stroked the green paint on her palm.

“You’re busy?” Ezinne strived for a smile and budged for Abbe to sit. She sat and pushed a bunch of her cornrows backwards.

“I just finished painting.” She rubbed the paint behind her palm with a thumb.

The green spread over the light skin and the mild sun rays transformed it into an olive green. The sun had begun fighting its way through the clouds.

“I’d like to see your works sometime.”

“I’d be glad.” She did a fake smile. Fake enough for a blind to tell.

Her smile wasn’t helping. Ezinne took eyes to the unsmiling gate man. “How is your health?” she asked Abbe.

“I’m fine. No urges. Everything is fine.”

“Rick said the painting helped in killing the urges.” She returned eyes to the klep. The girl blinked and removed gaze. Her eyes weren’t the type men would fall for.

“They help.”

“Is that why you paint? To kill the urges?”

“No. I paint when I want to,” she said. “It might not be the painting that kills the urges, but they have reduced.”

“Reduced? Since you came here?”

The klep looked at her. “Since the hospital treatment.” Her cheeks slackened.

“I’m happy you’re recovering.” Ezinne smiled, and added effort to perfect it.

“Thank you.”

“Go continue your work. I’d come see them later. Rick said you paint well.”

The klep rose and carried a face that held important words. “I’m thankful. For the accommodation, hospitality—”

“Don’t say. Everything’s okay.”
She gave her hand a final rub, and walked inside.

Ezinne watched her walk. The girl was likable, very likable. That quality should not charm others that needed not be charmed.

It wouldn’t.

Rick had proposed. He would not had he been charmed.

The gateman finished washing the Pathfinder and returned to his cabin.
The clouds began releasing its disturbing birds. They quacked and chirped all through the evening.

Richard drove in.

She managed rising from her recliner and attempted a smile at him.
He pecked her brow. “Enjoying the weather?”

“Yes.” She followed him inside.

“You’ve bought your gown?” He placed his briefcase on the arm of a chair.

“I’d do that soon. You’ve fixed a date?”

“You fix one.”

That would surely come up. It was next in line. After proposal, it was the fixing of wedding date, after that, it was the wedding. Then after nine months, the questions.

And then, the conflicts. That was the whole sequence.

“I’d say the first Saturday of April,” she said. “Talk to your people. The traditional rites would come a day before.”

“Perfect.”

Wedding dates changed nothing. What was a wedding without children? All because of that bastard, Bakare Damijo.


#


The crackling of the gate stirred Abbe from the bed. She leaned to the window and watched the Honda drive in. It stopped beside the Ford and Richard stepped out.

She deliberated on if she should go open the door for him. Not today, she decided, it was better his fiancée came down the stairs and help him. The eye-to-eye contacts needed be avoided.

The doorbell rang. It did not take long before the metal door squeaked. Abbe did not remove eyes from the window, or from the mini garden. The butterflies circled the sunflowers’ shooting heads and juiced out their flavour.

The next sound came from her door.

Richard.

If only he would take his feet up the stairs without perching. She adjusted her singlet’s shoulder strap and voiced him to open.

“Jide sent his greetings,” he said.

She turned, and the eye-to-eye contact was not avoided. He was seated on the couch. She spotted the kitchen utensils by the pillow and quickly sat beside the
pillow.

She shifted the pillow to shade the utensils, and nudged to cover the remaining view that the pillow couldn’t.

“Mr Jide. How is he?”

“He’s fine. Today in the office, he asked to see some of your works. He needs some paintings for his office.”

“I would give you some tomorrow before you go to work.” She nudged closer to the pillow to cover the escaping utensils.

“We might not see in the morning. It’s better you give me now. I would keep it in the car to avoid forgetting.”

“I’d have to do some selections. I’d be done in the next five minutes.”

“I return in the next five minutes.” He clasped hands and stood, stood and stood still, looking at her, looking at the pillow. “What are—”

She placed a hand across her eyes. If only he could pretend he didn’t see those and continue his walk.

They would talk about it another time. What made her forget to return those? It was his drive-in, and those awful flowers and butterflies.
His steps shot nearer and his cologne kept creeping. She removed the hand from her eyes. “I’d go return them.”

“The urge. It’s still there.” His voice stabbed her ears.
She picked the spoons, knives, and graters. “I’d return them.”

“We’d go to the hospital tomorrow.”

“No. I’m not going.” Not at this point when she was about leaving the whole thing, about leaving the house, leaving him and his fiancée.

“You have to go. The urge is coming again. Resolve it now before it overwhelms you.”

His voice was much softer. A hard voice would have made things easier.

She looked directly at him. “I know how to care for myself.”

“No one is saying you don’t.” His voice rose. “Going to see the therapist is necessary.”

“I’m not going back there.”

His face hardened and his cheekbones stood out.

“Why?”

The softness in his voice wiped off. Now, she could talk to him the way she would do any man that imprisoned her.

“Because I choose to.”

“You’re choosing the wrong thing.”

“That doesn’t mean you’d choose for me.”

“Abbe, tomorrow, we’re going there.”

“Sorry Richard. I’m an adult, and was taking care of myself perfectly fine before I knew you.”

“You call that fine? You call subjection to some kind of power fine?” His voice rose.

“It’s so far away from fine. I won’t let you harm and kill yourself. We’re going to the psychiatric hospital tomorrow.” He paused and sighed heavily, and tapped his head with a fist.

“Abbe, don’t let this defeat you, don’t do this to yourself.”

His voice returned to default, and so did his face. His cheekbones gave way for more flesh.

She turned to the window. Seeing his default face only worsened things.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m leaving by weekend.”

“The doctor said at least a month.”

“But I chose three weeks.”

“Abbe,” he called much softly, and touched her shoulder. She shook. She quivered. She never knew how tender those five fingers could be.

“Stay and let’s kill this thing.”

“I’m sorry, Richard. Thanks for everything.” His hand gradually slid off her skin. It slid, but the scars remained.

The next thing she heard was the opening of her door. She twisted. He didn’t close it.

She sat on the bed and stared at the useful knives that helped cut the ropes that bound her, setting her free.

A different kind of freedom. She looked at the wall calendar. Weekend was not near. She picked the utensils and headed to the kitchen.

He had said he would be back in the next five minutes. Ten minutes passed and there were no steps of his.









CHAPTER 11





Richard trod the hallway, managing a gesture to the staffs that greeted good morning. He advanced into Jide’s office and met him hunched at the keyboard.

“Mr CEO, you’re late today,” Jide said, without taking eyes off his screen.

“Sometimes, we fall prey to the night.”
He stopped punching and asked for his painting samples.

“I forgot to bring the samples, I’d do that tomorrow.” Richard tried loosening any fold that must have surfaced on his face. “I’d need the spare keys. I forgot my key at home.”


Jide opened a drawer and fumbled for the keys. The bunch of keys rattled as he brought them out and dropped it on the desk. “When did you become this forgetful?”

Richard attempted standing but remained on his friend’s words.

“How’s the girl?” Jide gave him a glance.

That wasn’t the best question for the morning. “She’s not good.” He covered face with palms and breathed into them.

“Her urge is creeping in again.”
Jide leaned to his backrest. “I thought the doctor took care of that.”

“It’s not a stable issue. Sometimes stress and lack of comfort might restore the urges.”

“Why’d she be stressed or uncomfortable?”

“Maybe the house. It might not be the best place for her.”

Jide supported his jaw with a palm and stared at the printer. “What about her painting? I thought that relieved her.”

“It’s complicated. Last we spoke, she insisted on leaving.”

“Leaving? She can’t leave now that she’s unstable.”

“She’s insisting. What can I do.” He hoped for helping words from his friend. Good words always formed from his lips.

Jide suggested a talk with the therapist might help. The doctor might be able to talk some sense into her.


“She said no to returning to the hospital,” Richard said. “She doesn’t want to see the therapist, the nurses, or the building. I don’t want to go above limits, that might worsen her case. I believe I’ve tried. There’s a gallery around Tin-can Island for sale, I’d buy her that, I pray she accepts. Something like that could control the urges. That’s the best I can do. I’ve done all I could.”

Jide sighed. “It could be guilt eating her up.”

It could be guilt. But it wasn’t. “I don’t think she has stolen anyone’s item since I got her in the hospital,” Richard said.

“So where could the guilt be coming from?”

“I don’t know. Explain her issue to the therapist.”

“She’s an adult. She can cater for herself. She said she doesn’t want the therapist, then no pushing further.”

He rose and adjusted his tie. “You know any good boutique around except Feji’s.

“I know one. Why do you need a boutique?”

“After work, we’d try there. I’d need a suit for the wedding.”


#


Saturdays were never good. Richard sipped in Malta Guinness and surrendered his tongue to the ice. The blank television showed an image of him, an image that did not seem like him.

Footsteps approached from the corridor into the sitting room. Ezinne stalked in with a handbag slung on her shoulder.

“I’ll be back. I want to go see the caterer,” she said and advanced to the door.

He dwelt in the silence, but not so silent. The ransacking from within altered the silence. It was barely ten, too early for her to leave.

The ransacking died down and he listened for footsteps. His ears didn’t get that very soon, but it happened, the sound emerged, the steps emerged. They shot bullets to his ears.

She appeared in the sitting room, not with the heavy bag he expected but with one as light as that she came with, if not lighter.

Where are all the painting tools he bought for her? None was in sight.

She greeted good morning. What good did the morning offer? Was it the killing of oneself or the submission to an evil controlling force? Nothing, absolutely nothing.
Her hair formed long, thick, perfect cornrows. She didn’t tuck them into a net today.

They obediently followed the cream that shone at her scalp, making her scalp gleam in perfect lines.

“Where are your painting tools?”

“I left them in the room.”

“You’d need them.”

“I have a lot at home. I don’t want my house crowded with them.”

“You won’t be putting them in your house.”

A groove appeared on her forehead and her cheeks curled up.

“I bought you a gallery.”

He never expected any smile, brightened eyes, or anything that would make his day good.

She gave him low lids, fixed to the floor tiles. They later stood erect and pointed to him. “Thank you, but for what reason?”

There must always be a “but.” The word never ceased from her lips. “You need it, since painting to an extent relieves you of your urges.”
“
I don’t do large scale painting and don’t intend to.”

“It doesn’t matter if you do that or not, what matters is it controls your urge.”
She dropped gaze at the floor tiles. If he had his way, he’d choose not to hear the words that were about coming out.

“Richard, if you so much care about my disorder, then don’t worry about it. I think I can perfectly handle it. The therapist did a good job.”

“Why won’t I worry? We started this together, I can’t just stop here.”

“You don’t decide when to stop. I do.” She gathered eyes.

“Rick, please don’t make me feel like I’m not grateful, I really am.” She faced the floor and her voice lowered as though she muttered to the tiles, “but you’re doing too much, it’s too much for me for take.”

He eased to her and stood at her front.

She raised head to him, and he cupped her shoulders with his hands. “Please Abbe, let me finish this.”


“It’s too much,” she muttered. “When did I know you, and I’m already in your house. That’s enough, and that’s the best anyone could do. Rick you succeeded, my disorder is not as severe as before, the urge is now controllable, very soon they would totally disappear. It’s time for me to go. I have my own life to live.”


He was close to her, managing the tiny space with her and breathing the same air she did. She wasn’t the first woman he had had that with, but why did it feel like she was.

Gels were never his pick, but now, he was sniffing to get a scent of the one stuck to her hair.

She had to go.

She had to go far away from his house, far away from him. He slid hands off her shoulders and tried catching her gaze.

“Accept this and go,” he said. “This last thing, accept the gallery and go.” She neither said nothing nor did anything.

“Will you accept it?” he asked.

The clock’s ticks turned into thuds. Time counted. She stood at her spot, staring at his middle.

They were close, so close that their colognes combined into a perfect fragrance.

He wanted to move but felt as though a Gatling gun rested on his legs, a thick one that would break his bones on any slight movement.

His bone broke, it allowed them break, he moved, not more than a step, but he moved.

“Why are you doing this, Richard?”

For the first time, he purposefully asked himself that and gave the default answer.
“To kill your urges.”

She directed a half-look at him, and looked away as though he had the face of the devil.

He brought out the keys from his pocket, reached for her palm and placed the keys in it.

“I’ll call the gateman to pack the painting tools into the car.”
He folded her hand into a fist and cupped it tightly. “He would take you to the gallery.”

Richard turned and strode away from the sitting room. It was good she was leaving. She had to leave.



#



Sometimes, Saturdays were good. This was not only because of the weather, but because it was spent under the roof of the church, before the holy crucifix, front of God’s priest.

The priest declared the vows and they said the “I dos.” The ring bearer presented the rings.

The church clapped as Richard pushed the ring into Maeve’s finger, everybody clapped, his best man, Jide, clapped. Ezinne smiled and gave him more kisses.

They returned to their Chippendale chairs and listened to the priests remaining talks, before the widening of arms for hugs.

Jide hugged, rubbed shoulders, praised, teased, and did all he was good at.

Erneto’s staffs hugged, some pecked, some shook, and some tapped.

The white girl came, hugged him, and then, Jide. She whispered something in Jide’s ear, and a snigger emerged.

Then came Abbe. She looked good in her new hairstyle—a mixed pattern of cornrows. Some aligned to the bottom while others followed a zigzagged path.

He tried not to admire much, not to admire how much she gracefully streamlined with her green gown.

She approached them and hugged Ezinne with a speck of smile, the gap in her teeth made it a different kind of smile.

It was a good thing she could smile. She hugged him. Her pomade scent freely gave itself to him.

She hugged Jide, and he patted her back. She wished a happy married life and did a last smile.

The service closed. They entered the Pathfinder, and rode to the hotel for the reception.

His squad’s van was parked at a space. About four to five of his squad members stood by it. He smiled. The Pathfinder parked in the provided space.
The men walked to him, saluted and grabbed shoulders. They hugged his wife and ragged. None had changed. They patted backs before entering the big hall.
His wife and he proceeded to the arranged seat. The MC talked and talked.

Richard rotated eyeballs, trying to locate any girl on green.

The ones present either weren’t fair, or didn’t plait cornrows, or were so tall, or so short, or didn’t have a hole at their teeth.


None was she.

Wonderful write up,its hard to guess what will happen next,but I'm suspecting Richard oo,seems he has developed feelings for abbe

Ok vonn u get me, How much will it cost me for u to give me more

Ice4jez:
Ok vonn u get me,
How much will it cost me for u to give me more

Lol Ice4jez...
Your middle name must be Oliver.
After that lengthy update

Costlybabe:
Wonderful write up,its hard to guess what will happen next,but I'm suspecting Richard oo,seems he has developed feelings for abbe

I was thinking that too....till the wedding part.
If he has feelings for her, he wouldn't have fixed the wedding nah...
Who does that?

Babe tracking mode

vonn:

I was thinking that too....till the wedding part.
If he has feelings for her, he wouldn't have fixed the wedding nah...
Who does that?

Most men do dat to be sincere.... Buh it can b quite confusing. I tink Richard is indebted to Ezinne somehow.....


Buh God forbids i develop filins for a psycho

Skimpledawg:

Most men do dat to be sincere.... Buh it can b quite confusing. I tink Richard is indebted to Ezinne somehow.....


Buh God forbids i develop filins for a psycho

The psycho is much more better reasoned than the complete humans.

Man how you na?
So far the story is cool. Best character Lauren. Vonn

stuff46:

The psycho is much more better reasoned than the complete humans.
Man how you na? So far the story is cool. Best character Lauren. Vonn

Me gud... Wia v u bn?

Skimpledawg:

Me gud... Wia v u bn?

Oboi people when like my phone help me keep am will. I don loose your contact o

ArrowAssassin:
Babe tracking mode

I sight you sir!
Welcome

stuff46:


Oboi people when like my phone help me keep am will. I don loose your contact o

Eiyaa.... Sorry about that.
Okay, tell me....which should I buy for you?

stuff46:


Oboi people when like my phone help me keep am will. I don loose your contact o

Omo.... Boiz aint smilin at all.... I go send u msg on whatsapp

vonn:
Eiyaa.... Sorry about that. Okay, tell me....which should I buy for you?

Have gotten another one
But i fit manage Iphone6

This ladys and gentlemen is the end of the story

Ice4jez:
This ladys and gentlemen is the end of the story

I know I haven't been consistent right.
I've been so busy that I only scan through nl front page before leaving.
I'll post something now.

CHAPTER 12




Lauren removed the clothes from their hangers, folded them, and arranged them in her suitcase. The wall clock announced twelve and reminded her that the driver would soon arrive.

She thought of the exam she wrote about an hour ago as she carefully folded a blue-sleeved shirt. It wasn’t so difficult, but it was.

Her mum was right, schooling in America could be better and easier, but at this time, she wasn’t looking for better, and there was no reason.

A knock happened. The driver would have to wait, she mused. She had to be done with the packing before starting for home.

She walked to the door and unbolted. It was her mum, standing with a half-smile. Lauren smiled and embraced.

“The driver didn’t come?” Lauren asked.

“I thought it would be better picking you myself.”

Mum sat on the bed and roved as though she hadn’t seen the place before. “This place has grown stuffier.”

“Nothing has changed. It’s same as when you first came.”

“How were your exams?”

She placed a pair of trousers in her suitcase.

“Fine. Exams are done and are done.”

Mum rose and sauntered to the closet.

“When are the results coming out?” She brought out a shirt form the closet and helped in the folding.

“Maybe at the end of session.”
Her mum cocked head. “End of session?”
The woman had gained another excuse to hate the school, to hate the country.

“Sometimes it comes out before then.”

“You ought to see your results few weeks after the papers are written.”

“Don’t blame them. The students are a bit much. To compile the results would be tasking.” That didn’t help. Mum continued the folding with a scowl.

When done, Lauren arranged her shoes, and gave the room a last look. Everything was in order. She gestured to her mum for them to start leaving.

Her Lexus stood out front, the one her dad never allowed her ride because of some stupid get-to-eighteen-and-create-a-license-first.

She hoped her mum hadn’t turn it into a personal ride. No one knew what happened at home.

“I only borrowed your baby. Your dad’s second car broke down last week,” mum said, surely out of self-guilt.

“The mechanics are finding it difficult with the required spare parts.” She added a grimace.

“I’m not sure we’d find it in this part of the country.” She directed the grimace to the entire country.

“You’ve not searched outside Apapa.”

“There’s no point wasting time.” She opened the car doors and they entered.
Lauren rested her Samsung by the gear and caught a tear on the leather chair.

“What’s this? You’ve ruined my car.”

“What’s that?” Mum glanced at the chair. She grimaced and started the car.

“That was there before.”

“It wasn’t.” She faced her mum.

“All right, I’d mend it.”

“You know where to do that?”

“I’d find one.”

“Don’t worry, I’d do it myself. Tomorrow.”

“Where do you think it can be mended?”

“A friend would take me there.”

“A friend. Which friend?” Mum left eyes on her for a second before returning them to the windscreen.

“You don’t know him.”

“Him.” Mum adjusted on the chair. “I should know all your friends. At least all the hims.”

Lauren chuckled. “That’s impossible.”

“At least the ones here.”

“You can’t know all. The course mates, the neighbours. They add up everyday.”

She faced the side windows. Some children played around their veranda naked, and the elders nearby couldn’t reprimand them.

They let the people trekking and those riding get a view of the children’ full buttocks.

“I should be able to know the one that can take you to repair your car,” her mum said.

“Many can take me there.”

“I should be able to know the one you choose.”

“I can choose any.”

“You finally chose one. I should know that one.”

“All right, maybe you would.”

“It’d sound better if you remove the maybe.”

“Mum, increase speed.”

“Schoolmate?”

“No.”

“Church member?”

“No.”

Mum glanced, “Then who?”

“A businessman.”

Her mum tried to hide her shock but was so poor at it. Her mouth almost turned agape. “Businessman? How did you know a businessman?”

“He’s from a similar company with dad, occupying same position as dad. We met in Cherlet’s opening.”

“You think he would agree to take you there? He might be busy. He should be busy.”

“Mum, he would take me there.”

Her mum glanced at her. “What makes you so sure?”

“There’re some things we’re just sure of.”

“Hmm. Dad knows this man?”

“They talked a little at the opening, necessary business talks. Ever since then, I’ve not heard his name from dad, or dad’s from him.”

Mum took a bend, and they entered a new road, freer than the previous one.

“What company does he work?”

“Erneto.”

“Erneto. Dad talks about that one. I’d love to see him.”

Lauren weighed her mum’s words. They were beyond heavy. “Maybe.”

“You’re not sure about that?”

“You could say that. I can’t just walk up to him and say ‘my mum wants to see you.’” She snuck a look to her mum. That worked.

“Don’t make it sound like a command. Men don’t like when women do that. It is better you tell him your mum would love to see him.”

“Okay, taken.”

About thirty minutes might have passed, Lauren checked the time on her Samsung. It was forty minutes, and they were still on the road, on an unfamiliar ground.

She never used this road, and if she were to be on that steering, they would have long reached home. Her mum hadn’t changed, she always chose the long routes.

“Mum, why did you take this route. It’s longer.”

“This is the only road I know. I’ve not morphed into a full-blooded Nigerian yet.”

“Nobody’s morphed.”

“Your dad gradually is, and you are.”

“Not true?” Maybe dad, but not her.

“So how come you know other roads than the main road.”

“’Cause that’s where most cab drivers follow.”

Mum twirled to her with a crumpled face. “You take cab?”

“Yes, sometimes. Personal ones.” Hiring a cab had never been a bad thing.
Mum huffed. “Why don’t you call the driver to come pick you up?”

“I can’t call him every time.”

“You should. Don’t you see how recklessly some of these cab drivers drive?”

“Some. Not all of ’em. Some drive with—”

“Always call the driver. No argument on that. He’s a driver and likes driving, that’s why we employed him.”

Mum’s face gradually loosened as the drive continued. By the time they got home, her face was near normal. She inserted the key in the port and the gate rolled open.

Lauren squinted at a white Toyota standing by the generator’s cabin. It looked very much like Jide’s. Jide had never been at her house. Mum parked at the carport and they stepped out.

Lauren had a better view of the car, and any glee was replaced by gloom. The plate number was Canada’s international.

“Mum, who has that ride?”

“It’s Aunt Juliana’s. It’s rented.”

At that moment, she hated the loved Aunt Juliana. “What’s she doing here?”

“Just visiting.”

“All the way from Canada?”

“Aren’t you happy she’s here?”

“Sure.” She smiled. An aunt could be useful.

The door opened and a slender Aunt Juliana showed herself. Lauren yelled and widened arms for a hug. Her hands almost skirted the woman. Aunt Juliana had grown twice thinner.

#

When the wall clock ticked three, Lauren ended the discussion with her Aunt.

Since the two days she came, there had been lots of America and Europe’s gist. Mum had said a lot, nothing her aunt said was new.

She stretched to a side of the bed for her jacket and flung it round a shoulder.

“I’m going out.” She told her aunt and rose.

“Where?”

“Want to go get my car done.” She wore the jacket.

“Your car has an issue?”

“It’s not engines, but it’s an issue.”
Aunt Juliana rose.

“You mind me following you?”

Bad idea. Very bad idea. “I wouldn’t stress you.”

“It’s not a stress.”

“Mum might need you, there’s a lot of catching for you two.”

“I think I have more catching up to do with you. I’m insisting, Lau.”
The former Aunt Juliana had never been this pushy, in fact, was never pushy.

Nigeria changed people. Lauren smirked to remove any frown that might have unconsciously found its way. “I insist you don’t follow me.”

“Lau? Why?”

She sighed and dropped shoulders.

“’Cause I can repair a car on my own.” She picked her car keys from the desk.

“See you when I get back.” She smiled at her aunt to remove any unwanted scene, and headed for the door.

Erneto hadn’t closed by the time she got there, cars were still at the parking lot. She peered at Jide’s car space. His Toyota stood erect.

She parked at a suitable space and strode to the building, entered the reception and flirted with the clerk and people roaming with papers.

Jide’s secretary was tapping her computer screen. At past four, they were still in the office. What time do they leave?

Lauren called and stole some attention.

The secretary spared her a look. Their eyes met. Her eyes were Jessica Alba’s. Which man wouldn’t get lost staring into them? No matter how strong he was.

“Is Jide in?”

The secretary telephoned Jide and told him the white girl wanted to see him.

The woman called her white girl as if she was some kind of white weirdo. Lauren examined the secretary.

She never wore anything other than button-ups and knee skirts or full trousers. That was supposed to be a good thing, but it wasn’t.

It would be much better if she wore cleavage-showing tops and hips-revealing skirts. That would do a perfect job in scaring away those men that needed to be scared.

The secretary told her to go in.
Lauren opened the door. Jide was placing some papers in his drawer, causing him to give her a half face.

“Lau… you’re back. Exams over?”

“Yes.” She settled on the chair. “I finished yesterday,” she added, and then remembered to have previously told him that on his call before her last paper.

“I’m almost leaving. You’re lucky you met me.”

“I see that. I was hoping you’d direct me to where I can get a tear on my car done.”

He closed the drawer and gave her a full face. “You still drive unlicensed.”

“I’d stop when I get caught. Till then, I’d need the tear mended.”

“It’s four-thirty, that’s not possible.”

“It’s a small thing. It won’t last a minute.”

“A tear can be done anytime.”

“You’re rounding up. If you leave now, I think we wouldn’t waste more than thirty minutes.”

He pursed lips. “Lau, pity me, I’m tired.”

“I’m not arguing that. If I knew the place, there’d be no need bothering you.”

The telephone buttons squeaked as he punched them. He phoned his secretary to start rounding up.

When done phoning, he hooked the receiver to its cradle. “Where’s the car?”

“Parked outside.”

“Is it leather?”

“It’s lion’s skin.”

“There’s a carpenter at my house street, I don’t know if he’d be able to do it.”

“Maybe you should come see it.”

“Just wait. When I’m done. We’d go.” He continued clearing his desk of the numerous papers. “How was the exam?”

She huffed. After much praying he never asked that question, he yet asked.

“Fine.”

A half smile nearly folded his cheek into a dimple. She studied the forming dimple and wished her finger could poke it and turn it into a full one.

“Fine or could turn out fine?” he asked.

“Some are fine. Some could turn out.”

“Next time, make all fine.”

“Was that what you did in your time?”

“Whatever I say, you won’t believe.”
Good he knew.

“But try to make all fine. Represent Canada well.”

The fan blew a paper to the floor. Jide lowered to pick it slotted it in a drawer.

“I’m done,” he said, rubbing palms together.

“Should we go?”

“I’m not promising I’d drive you to where it can be done if my carpenter can’t fix it. Some of these car leathers are complicated.”

He walked to a window and slid them into closing. She helped him with the second window.

They left the office and landed in the secretary’s. The woman somehow led him into talking.

Lauren tried not to pry into the talks, it was a hard thing, but there would be no nosing. It was nothing but office talks, she told herself, nothing but office talks.

They met another delay after leaving the office—Richard. She waved and managed a smile at him.

He shook her with his army hand, patting her back with the other, and then lingered on a conversation with Jide. When done talking, Jide and she finally made it to the car.

Jide kept a sceptical face on seeing the torn leather.

“I don’t know if it can be done, but let’s try. My house is not too far away. Follow me behind and make sure you don’t get lost.”

He stalked to his Toyota.

She trailed him past the gate, into the main road and maintained focus above the numerous cars, making sure she didn’t miss a glimpse of the Toyota.


They reached a junction with a signboard showing a street’s name impossible to read. Not much cars used the lane, so there was not much difficulty in trailing.

Children hovered around, not with pants or bare buttocks, and played between the bungalows that dominated the region. Jide stopped front of a shack and stepped out.

She parked beside his Toyota and struggled to step into the tiny space between her car and the Toyota.

“Next time, you park well,” Jide said.

“I was afraid of the wood.” She pointed to a wood stack at the other side of her car.


He walked into the shack. She leaned by her car and waited for him. The man he came out with must be the carpenter, judging from his overalls.

Jide and he moved to the passenger’s side of the car, and the man pushed the pile of wood so he could open the door.

After examining the leather, he told Jide in pidgin that it could be mended or covered with a new one.

She insisted on mending; that would be less time consuming. Jide finalized the conversation with the carpenter with the Pidgin English.

He spoke that fluently, though not fluent as the carpenter, but more fluent than someone like him should do. Everybody in the country spoke that. The carpenter retired to his shack.

“You’ll wait at my house and come back here in minutes,” he said. No one needed to tell her that. They entered his Toyota.

After a short ride, he stopped front of a storey building. The gate opened like French doors and revealed a brown building topped with an etched image.

The gateman hailed to Jide as he rode on the red interlocked tiles. She got a better view of the etched image. It was a horse and its rider.

“You like horses?” she asked.

“I love horses.”

“You have one.”

“No. I sometimes ride at the stables.”

“Same here. I ride when there’s a chance.”
It was a good thing that they had something in common.

“I ride in Canada, dad taught me, but I’ve not mounted on a horse since I landed in your country. I haven’t seen any stable.”

“There’s one in Lekki.”

“I’ve heard people talk about the town.”
They stepped out of car. “You have a nice place.”

“Thank you.” He opened the rear door and brought out his briefcase.

He fished a key from his pocket and inserted it in the door’s keyhole. A reflection of red hit her eyes as the door opened. It was Arsenal’s logo reflecting on the wide LCD television.

“You’re arsenal?” She eased into the cosy air, savouring the bits of fresh fall hayride on a dewy morning.

“I have no other.”
Football had never been her thing, but now she wished she had sat with her dad those few times he watched the English League.

“Feel at home, Lau.” His cheeks folded into full dimples. Though full, she wanted to give it a poke.

“Sure I will.” She strode into the living room sat on a long leather sofa that almost made her ricochet. “Your sofa is hard.”

“It doesn’t tear that way. Very thick leather.”

“I need that kind on my car.”

“It’s not conducive for cars.”

He pulled off his suit jacket and slid the windows open. “You need fans?”

“Just do what you want to, I’m okay.” She tried a carefree face. “Where’s your fridge? I’m hungry.”

“Over there.” He looked to the dining. She sprung up and swayed there.
She opened the fridge. Cold air bathed her. Bread loafs and wine bottles lined up.

No bagels.

She picked two bread slices from a loaf, decorated them with a spoon of mayonnaise and cut a huge bite.
Her teeth chilled as the ice melted on it. She closed the fridge and sauntered to the living room, biting her slice, and chilling her teeth.

At the living room, she stopped biting and stared. She quivered, and continued staring at the six-pack struggling with his singlet, or was she imagining things?

She blinked away before he could turn to her and continued with her bread. A suit jacket covered loads of things.
She sat by him on the two-seated sofa.

“You did the army with your friend?” She had to ask, there could be a slight possibility.

“Rick went through that hell alone.”

He stretched arms and swallowed a yawn. “I should go do light showering upstairs. Try the TV, I’d be back soon.”

He tottered into the corridor and created thuds as he climbed the stairs.

She thought of his abdominal muscles. Those were a whole lot like Ryan Gosling’s.

Two framed pictures of him in embroidered attire and a red cap hung at a high corner, making him look like the young actors in the local movies who played old men roles when acting in remote settings. She walked closer to the pictures.

Blue clouds made by graphical effect surrounded him and a long quill hung at his cap. He looked good in the attire, as he did on suits.

She regretted not being tall enough to bring the picture down and hold it close, see every detail she had not been opportune to see in him.

His eyes looked down to her, and she hated it was a picture. She made for the electronic set and put on the TV.

A sound boomed from the side speakers. She punched the TV’s side buttons and reduced volume. Her slice got finished, and her hunger was cured.

She returned to the chair and watched the karaoke singers perform. They sang bad enough. What she needed could be anything but music.

The clouds were changing. Her thoughts changed with them, thoughts she could think only to herself.

Streaks of lemon stole her from her thoughts. She trailed the fragrance to her behind.

A freshened-up Jide approached, now in a polo shirt and three-quarter shorts that revealed the ends of his hairy ebony legs and pointed toes.

“You’re back,” she said. Of all the things she had thought of saying on his arrival, those were the only stupid words her stupid mouth could emit.

“We should go check your car.” He rested on the chair’s arm. Water lined on his earlobe.

She caught a better taste of the lemon. She inhaled and gathered all the scent she could and stored some in her brains.

“Sure.” She rose to go switch off the TV, while he headed outside. She gave the room a last look, gave the pictures a last look. She sauntered outside, and he locked the door.

They entered the Toyota, and she got a full dose of the lemon, and enough to store in her brains.

At the carpenter’s shop, she gave her car a quick survey.

The leather looked new and not mended. But it was mended. The thread lines though vague, weren’t invisible.

The carpenter approached and talked to Jide with pidgin, Jide did not reply with same this time, he did with Yoruba and talked fluently with it.

Before she could open her purse, he had already brought out some notes from his pocket. She preferred paying, but no complains. She could use the moment.

She smiled and gave him a hug, sucked all his lemon and tried to reach his abdominal muscles. They were so far.

“Thank you.”

“Go straight home,” he said.
Couldn’t he look for a better word than that or stay quiet? “I never knew you were Yoruba.”

“I’m not. I’m from the east. I’m Igbo.”

“I believe what I heard you speak was Yoruba.”

“Yes. Maybe after three years in Lagos, you would be able to speak that.”

She ambled to her car, waved at him and started.

He watched her drive, and she watched him through the rear-view mirror.

He was so young in the shorts, yes, he was, anyone would guess middle twenties, but he was in his thirties, hard to accept, but it was true. He entered his car and zoomed.

She opened her brains and brought out some of the lemon, bit by bit.

Then she thought of home: mum home, dad home, aunt home, a full house. Her smile widened.

#


Ezinne waited for the traffic light to turn green.

When green, she pushed the gear and sped past the junction. The fuel gauge shimmered red. She stopped by a petrol station and refilled.

The sun started hitting the side window. Its rays extended to the rusted zincs by the road and gradually brought the deep brown rust to life.

It hit the treetops without pity, turning their green into a blinding white.

She bent into a sandy lane and meandered between the numerous storey buildings and encroaching flowers.

Not flowers, she realized on gaining a closer look, but clusters of surviving weeds, camouflaging amongst few wilting tulips.
The road to Bakare’s house was still clear.

The church’s signboard hadn’t moved an inch, but had turn into a plate of dirty brown lines of rust.

Bakare probably still lived in the region. Three years was too short for a rebuild. She veered into Meji Street. Trees had found a place.

She reached his house. Bakare Damijo would never follow the trend and up his building. He hated many questions.

She parked front of the gate, stepped out and peeped through a hole.

Quiet as a cemetery. Expected. She opened. The streaks of sandy brown that stained the white bungalow’s bottom had doubled.

And there was a car, a Chevrolet, one that would not arouse much questions. She gazed at the car, probably acquired illegally, either directly or indirectly.

Underground deals never brought much.
The door wasn’t locked from the outside.

She knocked, and knocked again. Twice was enough. He had heard, and had probably seen her.

No matter how much she knocked, it would take forever before he would open, he would first check the house corners from the kitchen to ensure whoever at the door was the only person present. Coward.
Minutes passed before she heard a click.

The door half-opened and there was him.… His eyes still brought out smoke.

“Ezinne.”

His deep bass came up. He avoided any eye contact, but the contents of his eyes so much blazed. Something hid between the smokes. It was guilt, a selfish guilt.

“Can I come in?” She looked straight at him, at the beard carved round his mouth in his typical way, shamming some innocence.

“Yes.” He shifted from the door, giving her a way in. The air released cold fire that penetrated her silk, and smelt all like him.

“How did you know I’ve arrived?”

“George told me. I thought I’d visit.” She sat on the brown sofa, still new. Nobody sat on them. Nobody came to the house.

“Why do you care?”

Why wouldn’t she care? She had to care for a man who made her suffer much.

“It would be nice to know how you’re doing. You’ve since been in Port Harcourt.”

Some clusters slunk off his face, but he still avoided an eye contact.

“What should I get you?”

“What do you have?”

“I have wine.”

“I don’t take wine.”
He ambled to the refrigerator. “Since when?”

“Since a long time.”

The huge painting of his orchard that used to hang on the wall was no more, and the portrait of himself that he constantly kept at the wall’s right edge had been replaced with a blank wall.

The house now revealed his true self—blank, pale, and without beauty.
He arrived with a packaged fruit juice and two wineglasses.

“I guess things have changed,” he said, setting the glass on the table.

She picked a glass with its foot. There was no problem dining with enemy.

“Things have.”

“You’re married?” His eyes rested at the ring round her finger.

“Yes.”

“Then I’d say I didn’t cause so much trouble,” he said with confidence, as though he actually did not cause a trouble.

“If you say so,” she said.

He filled her glass with the yellow liquid. “Nice of you visiting.”

“When did you arrive?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you contact me?”

“I thought you’d hate me by now.”

“Yes. I hate you.” She took a sip.

Sometimes saying the truth helped.
“I’m sorry.”

She looked into his eyes and hated seeing herself in them. The Bakare she knew could frame any face or mood he wanted. His facial expression didn’t count.

“For what?” she asked.

There were so many things to be sorry for.


“For all that happened.”

“Which are?”

Skin gathered round his eyes. “Come on, Ezinne, you don’t want me to start going through those.”

He still hadn’t accepted the wrong he did, he would never accept, would never be sorry.
“Would you answer me?”

“I’m sorry for your ordeals.”

Her ordeals. It had always been that to him, always her problem and not his. Things hadn’t changed, he remained that same Bakare Damijo.

“Where’s your baby?” he asked.

“I killed our babies, Bakare.”

His face changed. It became lined with puckers fixed at the glass on the table.

“How would you kill your baby?”

“I aborted our babies, they were twins.”

The lines on his face relaxed. He placed a palm round his jaw. “You aborted your own babies?”

“I aborted our babies.”

“Let’s not near there, Ezinne. Those aren’t my babies.”

Three years did no good. Nothing had changed in him. No remorse, no pain, and she was wrong, there was no guilt in his eyes, he was successful in killing all of those, in transferring them all to her.

“You have proof they aren’t yours?”

“We both know there were other men.”
Wrong. So wrong. There were no other men, and he knew it.

“You’re still saying that after three years.”

“’Cause it’s the truth. Ezinne, let’s not talk about this. It’s gone.”

Yes, it was gone, but its effect yet lingered. His negligence, cowardice, caused her a womb, and he sipped juice with a complete self, suffering no pain, feeling no remorse, but sipping as though nothing mattered, as though the woman could take care of herself.

Yes, she could take care of herself.

“It’s gone. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Why did you abort them?”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

He shrugged. “I thought you could use some words.”

She nipped a last sip and stretched her glass to the table.

“I’d come see you another time,” she said as she rose.

“I only wanted to know if you still live here.”

“What for?”

“We aren’t enemies.”

“I guess we’re not.”

“And George has been treating your orchard nice.”

“Good of him.”


#

The lampshade’s dull yellow darkened the white bedspread. Ezinne drew nearer to Richard and counted his chest hairs, giving him more of her braid to stroke.
“How many children should we be looking at?” He did a smile that survived the yellow light.
She knew it wouldn’t take long before the question came up, but it was so soon. No reply had ever crossed her head. “As many as you want.”
She rested head on his chest and listened carefully to its beats, closed eyes, and let his hand go through her braid. It hurt. It hurt because it wouldn’t last, it wouldn’t go through her hair forever. He was already speaking about children, luxuries she couldn’t afford. He had asked, and would keep asking. Nine months would pass, and another nine might pass, and he would keep on asking, and would one day grow tired of asking. Until that day comes, she should be his wife, and he, her husband.

Nice one vonn..
Interesting

Kai c tori.... Ai swear am so enjoying dz sisi Vonn!!


Ezinne went via an abortion before n dah caused her womb and now she still az d mind of nt telling Richard 1st... Gals are as wicked as d devil

Skimpledawg:
Kai c tori.... Ai swear am so enjoying dz sisi Vonn!!

Ezinne went via an abortion before n dah caused her womb and now she still az d mind of nt telling Richard 1st... Gals are as wicked as d devil

You can imagine!! Though, I don't think it's always wickedness, sometimes its their pride, fear, and way of thinking that leads them to conceal simple truths.
They don't know that when you tell a lie to enter a house, you have to keep telling lies to live in that house.
May God help us all..
Madam Vonn, thumbs up.

CHAPTER 13




An artist needed her quiet moment, Richard mused, and Tin-can was the least quiet place in Apapa.

People drove in and out of the ports, hotels, industries, and banks, determined to create noise, to disturb the painter.

He parked front of the gallery, remained in his chair for some time before stepping out.

He eased to the tinted glass door and pushed gently. Different colour shades from boards hit his eyes.

Some wet paintings stood next to the louvres, filling the air with a fragrance, and dry ones hung at the upmost four corners of the wall. She loved the place.

Her works convinced him more than her “thank you” phone call.

She wasn’t in sight, but the palette on her table had colours.

“Richard.” A voice emerged from behind. Her voice.

He turned. It was Abbe, on an apron, holding a paint bucket. The door squealed and closed. How come he didn’t hear it open?

“I arrived few seconds ago.”

“I believe so. I was here the last minute. I went to wash my bucket at the tap.”

She walked to a corner of the room.

“What’s this scent?” He sniffed some of it.

“It’s Vanilla. I put it in the paint to curb the odour. But I’m sorry for the little the vanilla couldn’t curb.”

Richard sniffed to catch any other odour than the supposed vanilla. “I think the vanilla curbed them all.” He sat on a bench.

“I’m sorry I can’t get you anything, or I could run across the road to go get something,” she said.

“I’m good. I only wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“How’s your wife?”

“She’s okay. She should be in her shop. She now works in a supermarket.”

“That’s good. You want to see some of my works?”

“Yes. I was viewing some before you entered.”

She rose for the open space. Richard watched her squat and select some paintings from the floor’s bottom. She loved the gallery. Anyone could tell that.
Amongst all, it was a gallery that worked out.

“How’s your health?”

She didn’t keep the face she always kept when he asked the question. “Things are better.” No fold appeared on her brow.

She walked to the table and placed the paintings there. “These are my most recent ones.”

The topmost was a painting of a rippling blue sea. Good work. He picked it. “You
paint everyday?”

“It’s a hobby, a job.” She sat on her supposed work chair.

“It kills your—”

“It doesn’t, Richard, and please don’t feel bad, don’t ask questions, just accept that it doesn’t kill any urge.” She paused from her rap and did a loud inhale.

“It’s something I’d have to live with. People live and survive with it.”

Never had she spoke like that, like a normal woman, the way every woman should when tired of upsetting questions.

“I won’t ask again.” He laid a board on the table and picked another.

“Thank you, Richard.” She lowered head.
“For everything. I’m sincere.”

“I’m glad I could help.” He turned eyes to hers. She didn’t remove them or blink away. The brown spot of her eyes sharpened.

Now, he was the one blinking. “I love your works.”

She smiled. An actual smile, not the type that spread halfway her lips. “Thank you. I painted one for you.”

“What’s that?”

She walked to a corner of the room and crouched. She raised some boards and selected one.

She eased to him and placed the board on the table. “You might need a portrait in your office.”

He widened eyes and chuckled. “How did you get my nose?”

“I’ve seen enough of it.”

The painting had a perfect resemblance of his beard. No string was missing.

“This would be perfect for my office.”

“I thought so.”

“I love this. I love this.”

“I’m glad you do.”

A trailer’s honk sounded from the road and nearly burst his eardrums. “I guess you get a lot of this every time.”

“My ears are adapting.” She was smiling.
The gap in her teeth widened and… she was beautiful, so beautiful.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“Sorry.” Her rosary shone against her neck like one newly blessed by a priest.

“You still wear a rosary?”

She touched some of the beads. “Don’t mind this.”

“You’ve not still chosen a religion.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then why wear the rosary.”

“It’s a bead, one I like wearing around my neck. I can give you if you want.”

“Keep it. It’s always useful.”

The door squealed and opened. A man entered and pointed eyes to them.

“I guess a customer,” Richard said.

“Yes.”

“Then I should be leaving. Would visit another time. I might find time to come to your house.”

She jerked. Her head almost dropped from her neck. “My house?”

He weighed his sentence, checking for any bad word. Every alphabet was infected. Staying in her house would spring up things, and she knew it. Since when did she know it? “I should be going.”

She stood. “No, no. I’d be back.” She hurried to the customer and exchanged words with him. The man scanned the gallery and started to stroll round.

She returned to Richard. “You can come to my house, you’re always welcomed.”

“Thank you. I would find the time. Thanks for the portrait.” He headed for the door.

At the door, he sent her a look. Their gaze locked, but not for long. She flicked eyes away. He had thought she was done with that. She gave him back her eyes and smiled. A forged smile. He didn’t smile.

It was better not to give a smile than give a forged. He opened the door and stepped out. He had a wife he had vowed to on God’s altar.

As he drove, the white girl’s words—balancing both worlds—slunk into his head.

Getting married was supposed to stop the balancing of both worlds. It was supposed to make him steadfast in one world, in one faith without falling prey to his flesh.

Now oh God, what was this thing dragging him away from that one faith. If it was desire, let it vanish.

#


Ezinne watched the liquid flow up Bakare’s straw into his mouth. No one but him drank beer with straws.

He sipped as though nothing but the sipping mattered to him, not a part of her mattered to him, not even her shadow lying front of the veranda.

He focused on his beer, drawing the brown liquid through the straw.

When foam started fighting with him, he threw the can into the dustbin and dipped a hand in the pack for another.

“Why didn’t you further to law school?” he asked.

How could she go law school with a big belly? “Sometime this year, I’d further.”

“Your husband has lots of money, I figure.”

“The CEO of Erneto Aives.”

“Good life for you.”

What was good about the life? Money had no worth when there was no one to spend it on.
“What about you, you have lots of money?”

“No, but I’m okay.”

“The deals don’t bring much?”

“What deals?” He faced her for the first time, squeezing eyebrows and forming the perfect ignorant face.

“I’m not stupid, Bakare.”

He focused back on the beer. “What deals are you talking about?”

“The heroin.”

“That was long gone. No more heroin,” he said, and surged some of the liquid up his straw.

“I’m no police. I want to help you. I have a buyer who plans on buying a huge dose.”

“I said no more heroin.”
He threw an empty can in the wastebasket and dipped into the beer pack for another.

“I manage the small computer shop and that’s all.”

“You think I can’t help because of the things you did to me?”

Some liquid escaped and dripped down a can he punched open.

“What did I do to you?”

Years would come and he’d continue asking that.

“You made me kill my children, our children, you deserted after putting them in my belly, and you’re not sorry. Not an iota of apology hides in your voice. But I won’t hold anything against you.”

“Sorry is only said when a crime is done. You are the one that ought to be sorry to the children you murdered.”

“I tell them sorry everyday, and I’ve paid for it, I’m paying for it. You have no knowledge of what I’m going through.”

She watched him sip the bear, he indeed had no knowledge of what she journeyed through, had no knowledge of what happened to her womb. If he did, he’d probably smile, smirk and could even hoot.

God knows, this man must atone for his sins. By her own hands.

“I pray and hope you go through same pain. Let fate deal with you. But as for now, let’s discuss about my buyer, let’s discuss business.”

He glared at her. “I did nothing to you, Ezinne, and concerning your business talk, I don’t discuss business with women. It’s a policy.”

“I’m not just any woman. I’m the wife of the owner of the biggest quarry industry in the state, and I’m the one paying the bills.”

That got to him, took him away from his beer. He laid his beer on the floor and glared at it. “How much do you have?”

“Three, I’ll give you half before the work, then I’ll balance you after.”

He rose and gulped the remaining of his beer, rippling an Adam’s apple down his throat. A knife would do well in slicing it, so everything could end at the veranda.

“Let’s enter the house.” He threw the can in the bin, and missed.

She stood up and followed him inside.

“How many kilos?”

“Two full kilos.”

“When do you want it?”

“Sometime in August. I’ll let you fix the actual date with the buyer. Give me your number.”

“Same as before.”

“You don’t expect me to still have it.”

She brought the phone from her purse and stretched it to him.

He typed his number. “Where do we meet?”

“You choose.”

“My orchard.”

“The orchard is okay. You’d meet the buyer there.”

“Whom am I dealing with? A buyer or you?” A fleck of infuriation flashed across his voice.

“You’re dealing with a buyer. My only business is the bills. When the time comes, we’ll find how to transfer the bills.”

“Your buyer is a man?”

“Yes.”

He eyed the sprinter statuette on the centre table.

“You have a cold malt?” she asked.

“Go check the freezer.”

She stalked to the refrigerator, edge of the dining and opened.

Two bottles of malt lay in the cold. She picked one and pulled out its cover with a bottle opener. There was no problem drinking in the enemy’s house.

Now it was time to act all friendly, to ease the air. That was necessary. She rummaged her brains for a suitable topic.

“You removed your portrait painting?”

“It was beginning to fade.”

“What about the wallpaper?”

“Same reason.”

“They made your house beautiful.”

“I’d fix new ones when I see a new good artist.” He stretched on the sofa.

“There’s a paint house that shares same region with NPA.”

“I’ve seen it. He paints well?”

“It’s a she.” Her taste quenched. She laid the half-finished bottle on the table.

“Women don’t paint well.”

“She’s a good painter.”

He crossed legs and placed a hand behind his head. “I may try there.”

He stretched the other hand to the table and picked the statuette, forging a new face and a new tone less like him.

“When did you start dealing with drugs?”

“A lot happened while you were away.”

“Your husband knows about it?”

“No. I’m simply helping someone with the pay. I don’t get to see the actual thing. Think of it as an investment.”

He stroked a leg of the statued sprinter.

“You have money. I’d advise you not to go into this thing.”

“You are in no position to give me any advice.”

“I know that. I only thought you could use some.”

Another minute of silence surfaced. She watched his face transform and waited for his next words.

“Be careful. If caught, you might go to life.”