₦airaland Forum

“Well, maybe. But I strongly believe it is not yet time.”

“Anyway,” he said, “why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

Mercy told him all about herself, starting with her childhood where and where she spent them. She told him about her age which betrayed her look—she was older but looked younger. Her education, where and where she had them. The kind of job she did, her likes and dislikes, favourites and past relationships. Her fears, moments of joy, rarest shocks of life. Wole listened all through till she was done. He felt somehow sorry about her
relationships.

“That was very inhumane.” Wole said, surprised at his judgmental position.

“Well, he left his mark. Love can be quite blind.” She smiled.

“Anyway, my heart has healed: I’m moving on.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Wole said. “So, if I may, when is the wedding coming up?”

“Wedding?” She laughed. “Not so fast. One don’t get burnt twice, not by the same fire. For now, all I will need is a friend. Someone like you, perhaps.”

Events of the early evening threw Wole into an internal conundrum. He didn’t quite understand. Why him? He asked repeatedly. Why him! He had never liked the idea of the gods playing with him this way. A woman asking a man out was nothing but a bad omen. Why would the gods seek his downfall! He didn’t understand. He had done all the gods required. Mercy was too much an offer to be turned down—too beautiful and lovely, yet they sent her to him. He still couldn’t understand. Yes he was comely, but a lady wooing a man, a married man for that matter was something he had not seen before, not in all these thirty years he had spent on earth. It could either be the gods or the world was turning into something else itself. He had seen scarcity of water plagued his town as a child, that of food as a student, of money as an adult, of fuel as a Nigerian but never scarcity of men. Or, he thought, is scarcity of men hitting Nigeria? Clearly enough, the name Wole didn’t sound Jewish, in case one would assume the prophecy was all about him—the particular one that spoke about seven women taking hold of a man to marry them. He was really disturbed. If it were the gods, he would pay them a visit, but if it were a question of the world changing, then there was much to be feared. Wole ended up with a weary sigh. He would see his boss tomorrow. Something told him it might be nothing but a staged drama.

The messenger of dawn didn’t quite disappoint, it was as ever quick to break its message which Wole barely waited for. So expected with the bottled soul terrorizing obfuscating thoughts, the effects of which could have been lessened had he shared what transcended with his wife last night. A problem shared, they said, is half solved. But a more realistic Yoruba proverb made Wole wiser: such things were not meant for jealous ridden hearts as women often had.

Getting to the office Wole learnt the DPO was on a two day inspecting tour areas under his jurisdiction which implied he wouldn’t be back in town until Friday. He noticed the day Friday sounded in his ears ‘tomorrow’ as in the ‘leaders of tomorrow’ when spoken by a Nigerian politician—it was never going to come. He couldn’t wait, he knew, as the ‘big’ was becoming more difficult to contain within instead, he pulled a call through to the DPO to see the chances of scheduling a meeting. And within the first ring Francis Orubebe was on the line.

“Hello Sargent Wole.” Orubebe greeted almost generously.

“Good morning sir.” Wole returned almost politely.

“Hope all is going well over there.”

“Yes sir,” he said, “all is going well.”

“That’s good.”

“And sir…” he said.

“Yes:”

“I learnt you won’t be in office till…”

“O yes, yes, yes…there have been of lately reports of officers collecting bribe on our roads while some are becoming more unpunctual. So I have decided to do an improvise inspection of reported areas. But hopefully I should be back in town on Friday.”

“That means, you won’t be available in office till Monday sir.”

“Monday itself,” he said, “is not certain.”

“But hope there is no problem.” He added, noticing the uneasiness.

“Not really sir. Just wondering if there is any possibility of seeing you, hopefully, on Friday."

“Because,” he began, “there is a matter I will like to…”

“Mercy?” The DPO cut in with no ajar.

“Yes sir.” Wole answered in his lowest crescendo.

“Flora Elite Hotel at 8 in the night.”

The venue scheduled was to Wole an unknown place but somehow he managed to ask his ways around. How he survived the last two days without spilling a word of what transpired to Chioma remained a miracle to him. What however baffled him was the DPO unsurprising mood. Was it a test as suggested by his mind, but it couldn’t be a test; what shmuck in the world would set her daughter an object of experimentation with a full grown man? That would be stupidly idiotic, crass. But then, if the latter were true, he would then be in a bigger mess. Because, not only would his marriage be at stake, but all he had built.

“You must think I am a wicked person in suggesting that you marry my daughter.” The DPO said seating his glass of wine on the stool beside him.

Wole had arrived the meeting venue. And after formal greetings had narrated all that transpired however skipping some part. But as feared before, all that happened was not without the knowledge of his boss, Francis Orubebe.

“But you see,” the DPO continued, “I think you should consider yourself lucky. Marrying her will be gaining my favour, which without you have begun to have. Now think about when you have; think also about if you can’t. ”

Wole watched Orubebe in nothing short of a suppressed anger. He saw in the ‘thing’ before him a determination and a concluded agreement that could not be changed by world most plausible excuse. He felt like strangling him but his hands won’t obey him. Instead he said:

“Well, I will need more time to think this through. I should give my reply on Monday.”

And so Wole picked the call.

“Hello Mercy.”

“Good morning love. How was your weekend?”

“It was well spent with family.” He said irritatingly.

After the final episode Francis Orubebe, Wole had muscled up the courage to tell her wife Chioma the whole story. Including what went down between him and Mercy. He didn’t call it an accident, he said the truth: the kiss was intended. It was meant to keep her in delusion of acceptance till he would made up his mind, he explained to Chioma who didn’t even complain about the act. She trusted him to do the right thing.

“I supposed so.” She said.

She paused and allowed two seconds to slip by. “So when shall we meet today?” she asked.
“Meet?”

“Yes: I supposed we have an agreement to meet today.”

‘’Yea, we did, but not anymore…”

“What would that stand to mean…” Mercy said tensely.

Wole took his time. He understood his future lay upon his decision, on every word he uttered. But still what to say was clear since his last night visit to the household priest.

“Mercy, to be sincere and honest with you, this thing: you and I, it can’t work. Yes, very much. I understand you are giving me a rear opportunity: every man would jump into bed with you at a given opportunity. But you know, I’m married and I ought to be faithful to my family as a man. Sorry if it hurts, I can’t do it. I love my family.”

Mercy laughed nefariously causing Wole to wonder in transit perplexity. Mercy unknown to Wole was no woman to be fooled twice, at least not by a faked act of acceptance. When she kissed him, she could see through his heart, tapped into the core of his emotion. There was simply no passion, no connection. Mercy knew what that meant, her days of sanity was simply numbered. The first kiss with whatever man she chose must be spiraled with passion and emotion or she would end up mad. She took her chances, and it didn’t pay off. Wole was a bad bargain, but she wasn’t going down alone. If she would run mad, then Wole must die. The other choice which was less feasible would be Wole agreeing to marry her. That way the money ritual would be completed. She would get richer alongside with her dad while Wole would wean down the bottomless pit of nothingness. Since that was out of it, she stayed with the first option.

“You love your family right?” She said unshaken by his words; they were well expected.

“It’s good to love your home Wole, but it’s better not to make the wrong decision.” She said and ended the call.

It took Wole minutes to process her last statement. And before he was done he could see moving shadows taking shapes of men in the tunnel. One by one they shed their shadowy skin and advanced towards him from behind, all armed with cutlasses. At first Wole remained imperturbable but after checking his pockets for his jazz he became perturbed. Waves of fear ran their way across his face and down his chilled spine, visible in his shaking hands. Wole had left his aferi at home, and for the first time in two years he became scared, and extremely afraid. The gods, the gods… he muttered. They warned him but he didn’t listen. He only looked ahead. To his good there was no one on sight, all of them were now walking slowly towards him hesitantly, as though they were waiting for him to start his bike so they could give a chase. He only shivered. What a bad day the gods had brought to him! There was no chances of winning a fight here; with no jazz Wole clearly stood no chance—the jazz had been the secret of his success; of the famous reputation that followed him. He checked his watch, and he was late for the first time in service. With his lateness, if there was jazz, all he could do was disappeared with it. But all hope wasn’t lost yet, he still had his bike. He started it praying to the gods none joined them in the thick. To his surprise the men kept their slow pace, in exchange they whistled shrilly. It was strange but Wole cared less. He increased the speed of his bike. The gods were not dead he still believed; whatever lay ahead they would see him through it. But to his surprise, Mercy was the only person ahead. The other he figured was the fiery eyed thug, he recollected, he had once spared his life in a gun battle. He stopped his bike in utter astonishment, his expression was unbelievable. “Kill him.” Mercy ordered. “Make it slow, I will like to see him suffer.” The fiery eyed thug aimed his gun at Wole, the price for his should be priceless life had now been paid. Boom! Went the sound of the gun. “Keep on with your good work. You are a good man.” The fiery eyed thug told Wole after the shot. He had shot Mercy instead.

Now standing here and remembering the afterwards, Loveline could not but break into this cold tears.

With each day came great expectations, and with great expectations came great disappointments but not with Sargent Wole Bamidele. Though not a God, all expectations so far found their fulfilment in him. No suspects of any rank as a police officer had ever slipped his watch. And none when being interrogated by him had failed to spill the beans. It went beyond exaggeration to say he was best in what he did, to the extent mates and citizens coined him the sobriquet officer-no-failure. He had always been at the top of his game, his reputation as ever followed him.

With the same fragrance and dedication to fatherland Sargent Wole Bamidele made ready for work after breakfast with her wife whom she married at the age of twenty three. He married her dark-skinned, tight-bellied, and beautiful; but now loose-bellied, dark-skinned, nonetheless still beautiful—an aftermath of two expulsions. Their kids did boarding and only came home at weekends, which they spent either at the beach or restaurants whenever he was off duty. Money, as they said, answers all questions of life.

“So wetyn bin dey delay the delivery?” asked a standing uniformed Wole adjusting his uniform before the mirror.

“Nothing wey me I sabi.” Chioma answered. That was the truth. She, Chioma, understood nothing of the delay. The only thing she understood as a woman was trade. She was Igbo, and trade ran in the blood. Her selling point being her insistence on communing with customers in pidgin despite being impeccable in English as, as she would call it, an ‘alien’ language.

“I holla them, dem yarn say dem go deliver tomorrow, say make I no vex.” she said.

Wole shook his head. “You see: na dis tin dey tire me for our people matter,” he said, “imagine na after dem collect money for person hand dem dey get problem on delivery. If person act now, dem go talk oga police don come.”[/I]

[i]“Abi, wetyn man pikin go do.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “carry my briefcase give me, mey I dey go work.” Chioma handed the black briefcase over with a warm hug and a kiss that sent Wole on his way.

Making pidgin the official language came as what they in their own view called a measure to preserve and nourish Africa heritage. To them, the burden of the white’s man language was becoming unbearable. Too many rules to obey and follow, too many confusion. Pidgin on the other hand made life simple: with a simple act of inflection and a crisp intonation of cadence a speaker could easily decide for himself the meaning he would give his words without clouding the understanding of them. If life should be complicated, Wole had always said, it shouldn’t be with language. Language should be as it was with Pidgin, simple, usable, flexible and generally understandable.

Not hesitating, Wole hopped on his motorbike and zoomed off the compound. He decisively took the mountain route despite the day to allow himself an eagle view of the town which, of course, was somewhat a shortcut. The route, though unarguably dangerous: a den of kidnappers and home to masked faces enough that no villager plied it, it still, in all, didn’t deter him. No one, he thought, can dim himself fit to waylay officer-no-failure. Little did he know and understand as often said that death was no respecter of any man. And hoodlums that plied the route were, in no uncertainty, death defined and personified. But then, if bullet failed, jazz would never fail. In that lay his hope and his strength.

Closing in on the mountain Wole held his brake, pleasurably allowing himself a pleasurable overview of the town that witnessed his birth and childhood. He sat on his bike comfortably and allowed cool air to massage his hairy skin. Things had really changed: the magnificent houses, the routes, the schools, all these were not there the last time he took this route which was two years ago before he joined the police force, which, to him, spelled much about the government of the day. He could only imagine what God would feel like whenever he viewed the world from above; it sure must be pleasurable. And God himself knew he felt like spending more time here alone, doing nothing but watching admirably how much the town that gave him much had grown. But same, he knew he had to go; maybe one of these weekends he would take a lasting look. So he started the bike and headed closer toward the mountain, skillfully changing his gear as he approached the tunnel which nature herself had dug in the mountain; it was a very long one that led to continuums of thick bushes creased by what would be a tiny path. Atrocities on this route either took place here or in the impenetrable thick bushes where he was headed. Had Chioma known he would be plying the route, Wole thought, she would not have allowed him. Things like this were better kept from women. Better.

Few metres into the mountain Wole felt what would be his phone rang in the small apartment of his pocket where he kept it, causing him to momentarily hold the brake once more. The disturber as he muttered in his mind was Mercy, the DPO’s daughter. They had only met once and for sincerity, twice. He hissed and would reject the call when the memory of his last discussion with his boss came bulging his mind.

It was a Friday night and the DPO had scheduled a meeting with him in the Floral Elite Hotel. Normally a person of his rank should be excited about a private meeting with the DPO, but Wole wasn’t. The event of the past days rendered the flavouring a sickening aroma, taking the piquancy away. Him meeting Mercy Orubebe the DPO’s daughter grounded the response of this indifference. His meeting her was, as it turned out, the opening of the Pandora Box.

The fateful evening witnessed Mr. Wole seated in a sofa with a glass of wine in what would be the ever spacious visiting room of his boss, Francis Orubebe. He had invited him to spend the evening with them given the reason the family enjoyed his company the last time he came, and that her daughter had personally requested he be invited to spend the evening with them again. Of a truth, Mr. Wole as he would prefer to be called was more of a comedian than a Sergeant, but the personal cliché suggested an underlined overtone which his sincere mind waved off.

“Hope you are not offended for keeping you waiting.” A lady of misleading appearance said in bewitching voice as she joined him in the visiting room in a calculated all the same enticing steps.

“Oh, not at all.” Wole answered, cautioning himself not to wear those coy smile. He couldn’t afford it.

“My dad,” she said toasting her glass of wine, “told me about your achievements as a police officer.”

“And I must say,” she continued, “that I am really impressed.”

“O really?” Wole said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say till he got some confidence.

“Well,” he said, “someone must do the job. As per the antecedents, what can I say: they are nothing but courtesy of your father; he has been all the more supportive and inspiring.”

Mercy smiled in acknowledgment. “Well, that won’t be totally a lie given that my dad had had this, what word, unrelenting spirit of a mentor since his Sargent days. However still, I believe nonetheless, it is your willingness and readiness to serve fatherland that made you this successful giving the short years of service. So, you should, pleasantly, take the credit for it.”

Nice talk Wole thought before giving in to an irresistible indulgence crammed by a short brief atmosphere of acquaintance. He was accessing her. Her pink lovely lips, dark dovelike eyes, and her tits craning uncomfortably under her cleavage. Her hips he imagined would be soft, tensed when touched by those fingers. Not his of course, maybe her husband, boyfriend, whoever she gave indulgence to. He went below, deeper in his imagination and then stopped. His wife was once like that, beautiful, pretty, and lovely. But never sexy.

CHAPTER ONE


“Abeg make una carry come soup too, na small remain make the water don.” Chioma said sentencing more woods to eternal death.

Today was Chioma’s day and not her birthday going by. It was simply her day because she was a local trader and today was yet just another market day speaking of. Like a good mother she was, Chioma actually believed in making hay while the sun shone, and hence her reason to waking up this early. This as it would appear didn’t mean she woke up to this single reason, on the contrary, nothing aside the care of her family had propelled her to doing this. This she believed like most other Nigerian women could be partly shown by cooking for her family; just the same way every Nigerian man tried their possible best in meeting their family needs. In line with culture and belief therefore, family first had been always the motto of Wole’s household. Chioma only but upheld this.

For some soon-to-be-known reasons, the sac Chioma spoke of was nowhere to be found in the godforsaken wooden cupboard that stood in the far corner of the small pantry, where she had assumed it to be. It should be here, the walls heard Loveline her daughter complained after finding nothing but frightened cockroaches making a successful all the same irritating effort at her dark still lovely skin. She had naturally startled them, and they had consequentially startled her in return—a mutual albeit discomforting encounter.

“Mama I no see am ooo.” She complained giving up the search.

“Una don look inside that big pot, na there Francis talk say hm put am yesterday morning.”

“Okay mama.”

Loveline found it there neatly wrapped as said by Chioma in a pink cellophane bag that would beg for an-already-denied gentleness.

“So wetin be the time now?” Her mum asked as she made the amala.

“I no carry my watch, but cock never crow: so six never knack be that.”

“Eh, you sure: me no trust these cocks ooo… these days, na so so wrong time dem dey crow. U know say recession dey now. Our neighbour, mama Faith, think say the cocks don dey feel am: say na why dem no dey crow the right time again; dem dey reserve their energy: ehn ehn, who wan die."

Anyway,” she said, “when six knack, make una go wake that Francis up. You hear? Make him no come wake commot by twelve noon.”

Loveline only smiled okay and took her seat on the ota opposite Chioma. She was quite much like her in every aspect: in looks, in speech, in behavior, even in joviality, the whole caboodles of it. Sitting opposite her was like watching herself in the mirror—the kind God would see when he looked down upon men. This was why neighbours sometimes teased her of being too much greedy. Why must she take after her mother so perfectly they asked; a little of her dad would have been okay and would have been fine. But within and without Loveline’s countenance suggested she had something else in mind. Something far from neighbours arguments and sentiments. Something she wanted to discuss with her mother. Something she should have discussed yesterday but didn’t owning to her coming late from Paulina’s. Besides and aside, she wanted a moment alone with her mother to discuss it. It was too early but such words would be better discussed when the heart was free and less saddled with loads of thoughts. Tomorrow would be her graduation day and she was yet to collect her dress from Mama Sikiru—her fashion designer. She should have collected it but was yet to have the money in full cash. Hence, the delay.

“Mama my dress,” she said, helping herself with a stick she picked up, “I never collect am.” She reiterated when no response came.

“Mama, I say I never collect my dress for tailor’s place.”

“Abeg carry the soup give me,” Chioma said, “and take this one go inside.” She said pointing to the sac of amala.

Loveline shrugged at first but went ahead to carry the pot. It was understandable that they were becoming poorer, but her mum ignoring her words was uncalled for. Was it her fault, and why must she make everything about it.

“Mama…” She began again.

“You will collect it today when I return from market.” Chioma stuttered with a heart that would cry.

Somehow Chioma’s words played a dirge to Loveline’s ear. The only thing she could hear was the sadness accompanying the words and how heavy they sounded. The rest and everything else were stripped of their meaning, the intent from which they were spoken. The sadness reminded her of a past, a prosperous past she and the family still wished was the present—a very beautiful and comforting past, one at that no one would wish to become a past. Chioma’s tears she knew was her fault, a product of nothing but a reminiscence she now blamed herself for. Had she not brought the dress issue up, the tears, she thought, would not have been born. But what choice had her, she asked herself. She moved touchingly for consolation.

Stop crying mama she pushed, but the past played the present in her presence and rendered her trial a null. She herself effortlessly broke into an uncontrollable soul damning sobs.

* * *

Hi, welcome to this thread. I am Heterodox by sobriquet, and here you will be reading a novella I Theme A Loveline. Initially there are plans for this work, but then, what better plan can a writer have for his work if not to enlighten, and if necessary, correct the society. This is why I have decided to post this work here, and I believe you can always correct mistakes made in spellings, punctuation and expression as the need may arises. After all, we are all one big family, learning to live and living to learn.

May I say therefore, this work is copyrighted, and all rights reserved. With no permission for duplicacy without the knowledge of the author, Olusanya Olaleye, also known as Heterodox.

Thanks. And happy reading.