Did you ever imagine that life is a cycle and that what goes around comes around? Did you envisage it that time in the university when I was your man? You probably didn’t. You were the type of beautiful girl who knows she is beautiful. You flaunted it ceaselessly and carelessly and shamelessly too. Remember those times that I told you that you are beautiful? Do you remember what you used to say? How you used to say it? What was it between us? What was it that bonded us together that time? Was it even Love? Do you even understand Love? Were you not just the pretty lady who milked me dry? Those times we stared at each other, those times our eyes seemed to be in a tête-à-tête, what was it? Please do not say it was love. You were not capable of loving. You couldn’t possibly have been in love those times alone with me, when you let me kiss you, when you moan and whimper in pleasure. Did I say pleasure? Was it fun for you, my drama queen? Wasn’t that part of the grand plan, a plot to which you are chief actor, miming your role in grandeur? What was that thing we used to play together, that game you so much loved to play? Oh! Truth and Dare—do you remember how we used to play it, how many of my questions to which you had no answers? Why do you love the game so much? Was it because of the dare part, where I pay a thousand naira for every dare I couldn’t perform?—I dare you to dance naked, I dare you to taste urine, I dare you to miss an exam. Was that not all you could come up with? It was for the money, wasn’t it? You couldn’t possibly have imagined it turning out this way—you couldn’t in your wildest dream have seen this letter coming. Did you think I was dead or rotting away in jail? True, I was in jail, locked in a dark cell in Kirikiri—where the female warder reminds me of you, where her sassy ass sprouts memories of you!

Do you ever read the bible? Do you believe there is no peace for the wicked? Was it your watchword as it was mine? Did you think we have had a closure to our story? Did you think me serving ten years, and you, living merrily ever after was the end of this chronicle? Were you so fast to move on? Did you mourn for me? Did you thank your Chi, your revered ancestors for destroying me? Or was it Jesus you thanked? Did you go to mass to offer prayer to the graven man sprawled on a cross? Did you see his face, the eternal engraftment of pain on his countenance? Did you ever wonder if that was Jesus grieving for me, for you, or for both of us? Professor Nelson must have been so happy, wasn’t he? When he witnessed against me and you corroborated his tale, did he hug you? Did he tell you how convincing you were, how those tears looked real, how the judge was absorbed into your theater? Did he Bleep you hard after? Did he buy you a car? When the judge read his sentence and convicted me, was that elation real?  Did you truly weep for joy? Did you enjoy my tears; was my plea for mercy sonorous music to your wicked soul? Did my plea for compassion pinch your hardened heart? When I called you Amara mo, and wagged on the floor, did it stroke your heart; did it remind you of whom I used to be to you? You felt no remorse, did you? How did you sleep that night? Did you dream about me, or about my dark little cell? Did you imagine me make friends with convicts? You needed to have seen the cell-lord, the dreadful beam with which he welcomed me.

Was it so painless to forget that night? Did it fade away so easily from your memory like steam from a pot? Does it come back occasionally, do you see that scene in your reverie, and does it haunt your head when you slumber? You thought I travelled, didn’t you? You thought I was gone for seven days like I said. Did you not check the date; did you not notice that it was the first day of April? I wanted to make an April fool of you, but you made an eternal fool of me. Can you even discern what it feels like—to walk home late that night eager to surprise you, to hold a flower and a teddy bear, to imagine you jump at me, thrash me, and cry on my shoulder for tricking you? It was a pricey joke, wasn’t it? Why did you ask him to come to my apartment? Why did you not bother to bolt the door? Why did you not put off the light? Why were you moaning so loud? Was it fun caressing his overstuffed body? Was he better than I was? Was his grip firm on your breast, and did you call his name? What did you call him? Was it professor, or Nelson, or was it my name you called him? You couldn’t stare at me that night. Did you not want to see my eyes? Were you truly ashamed, or was it fear, or just contempt? I think it was disrespectful to have avoided my gaze, to not stare into the eyes you hurt. What did you envisage I was going to do? Why did he not run when he had the chance? When I dropped the flower, and the teddy, while I was away, did he ask you who I was? What did you tell him? Did you say I was just a friend, a measly acquaintance? Did he continue to smooch you, or did he stop for a while? You didn’t believe I was gone, did you? You weren’t that stupid, were you?

I am sorry I broke your arm; you broke my heart too, you broke my existence. Do you know what it feels like to be discarded, to be thrown away like a cold Akara in the hands of a toddler? The cudgel was meant for his head, why did you put your hand? Was he worth breaking an arm for? Do you think I was a monster, and you a knight? What did you feel when he overpowered me? Did you see the way he threw a jab to my nose, did you see the trickle of red, did you feel my bones crunch under his grip, and did you enjoy my squeal, was it like those of ravenous piglets? What was it you told the police that night? Why did they let him go? Did you know how devastated I was when Corporal Obinna read your statement to me? Was I an abusive lover like you claimed? Did I fracture your arm because you wouldn’t have sex with me? Was the professor your rescuer, the one you had made a frantic call to when I attempted to rape you? How did you come up with that story? With whom did you make such connivance?

 

   II

 

How does it feel to be paid back in your own coin? What does a handcuff feels like? Was it like those bangles that you had your drawer full of, was it fashionable, trendy, like those beautiful chains? Was your head foggy? Did you see your husband, the cold fixed gaze of death? Tell me; what does it feels like to wake with a bloodied knife in your hand, to have your dress smeared in his blood? Did you plead for mercy? What did you tell the police, the judge? Did they dismiss your story too, the way adults wave off a childhood ghost legend? Did you see the look on their faces, and does it hurt; to have people look at you like that? A murderer? Did I cross your mind? Did I?