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6:40PM
Damilola took another look at her watch.
Rolex.
The crystals didn't sparkle and dazzle that much to her. She was used to it. Having a bunch of them at home.
She was evidently nervous. All shades of impatient. The music in the restaurant didn't sound so appealing anymore. Was it Banky W or Dare? She really didn't care. Nothing sounded pleasant to her anymore.
6:50PM
She was visibly annoyed. She took a wry look at her watch. She was sure she told him 6pm.
"Would you like another glass of wine ma"
The chubby looking waiter interrupted her thoughts.
She managed to force a smile. Her half fake smile nearly throwing the mesmerized waiter off balance. She was beautiful.
"No, I'm good". She tried not to sound rude.
" I'm waiting for someone ". " he's stuck in traffic". "He said he would be here soon". "You know how Lagos is na".
Why was she explaining herself to this total stranger. She felt embarrassed. The thoughts in her head were looking for a way to escape from her mouth. They needed to be laced on someone or something.
"Would that be all ma?" The obviously confused waiter chipped.
"My friend leave me alone na" she shot back.
She mumbled something beneath her breath that sounded like she was sorry and looked up wanting to tell the waiter something else when she saw Emeka.

Tall and handsome. His face was just about perfect. Every girl's dream guy. The thing she probably liked most about him was the fact that He didn't look like a typical Igbo man in anyway. He didn't have an accent. The only connection seemed to be his name. She eventually thought he was British when they first met at some charity event in Abuja. She was covering the event for a TV corporation she used to work for.
He had made a speech about love and ethics but all the while was looking at her with that ever charming smile. She knew what would follow. She had tireless advances from men all the time. He had told her that he wanted to be her friend and six months later, he told her he loved her. He took her everywhere with him. Soon she had become the focus of the media's attention. He also helped her start her dream clothing line business. She loved him too so to her it was a win win.
She eventually found out that he wasn't born in Nigeria. He only recently moved back to take over his father's business. He was a very funny guy. Intelligent and generous to a fault. He once tipped a waiter the sum of ten thousand naira for making a compliment about his outfit.
He gave her everything she ever asked for. Nothing was too big or too little. Emeka was the ideal bae.
That was three years ago though.

"Obim, you look amazing". " I'm so sorry I'm late, I lost track of time..........
Damilola listened to Emeka but she heard nothing. She knew he was going to make up a story as to why he was late. He always did. Every single time for the last 2 years.
"You know how much I love you". " you mean the world to me". He was smiling now. "Baby say something" " did you order already" He held her hands.

She somehow found a way to hold the tears that were trying to force their way out.
The hurt of Emeka's neglect was more than words could describe. It had started just about 6 months into their relationship. Late nights and work excuses. The media wasn't his friend as his escapades were all over social media. As the years passed he grew worse. Drinking was his hobby and sometimes it felt like he was trying to get an Olympic medal for it.

Somehow, she had always found a way to forgive him. He would get her presents to show how sorry he was but even though she didn't want any, she collected them all the same just to make him believe that she had forgiven him. The presents were endless. She had a mansion in Lekki, a Ferrari, a Porsche Carerra GT, Jeweleries of all kinds, money in the bank. He did just about anything to prove he was sorry. Then the next week or probably the next month, a friend would send her a link and then the begging routine would start. She had become so scared of links. Why was it so hard to be faithful. Sometimes she believed she was being punished for the way she had treated men in the past. Her beauty was a blessing and a curse.
"You know how hectic work can be" He was looking at her trying to look innocent.
She wanted to believe him. To tell him how much she loved him. How she imagined their lives together, with children.
She wanted to hug him. To make every lie and every excuse be the truth. But the unopened link on her phone wouldn't let her.
Damilola took a deep breath. Clearing her throat in order to suppress the choking feeling caused by her wanting to cry.
She wanted to sound as audible as possible.
As bold and courageous as she could be.

" I can't do this anymore". "I'm done Emeka. With this relationship, with all your lies, all the nude women you keep hiding in your phone, all the threats from your flings. I'm done". She removed her hands from his, stood up from the chair, clutching her purse as she staggered a little before finding her balance with somewhat immaculate grace, leaving Emeka shocked and in disbelief.

To be continued.

By this time my aunt was already by the door asking to be part of the action. I don't understand what I ever did to them. Why they hated me so much. I was just a child, and my uncle's nephew at that. What did I or my mother ever do to him. It was unfair, I hated my mom for this, I hated my uncle and his family too. I hated my life, everything I ever did that got me to this point.
Suddenly it hit me. I could change it, run away forever. Maybe to somewhere I've never known. Where I would be far away from my uncle and his family. All I had to do was survive this assault. I searched my mind for an answer in-between blows to my head. I remembered I had plucked some oranges from a friends house late last night and snuck them into my room. I remember going to the kitchen to get a knife which was when I had seen Okoma stealing the #500. My hands searched for the knife until I finally found it. I reached for the knife under my bed as another punch hit my temple. My uncle wasn't holding back as he was aiming to blind me completely with each punch directed towards my eyes. I finally grabbed the handle of the knife. The punches kept rattling my brain and all I could think of was to stop it all. I gripped the knife with all the strength my 13 year old arms could muster and aimed it at his neck. With somewhat amazing agility, my uncle dodged the hit as he bent my arms and collected the knife. He looked at me surprisingly for a second, eyes changing from knife to me then pointed it towards me. " you will die today" he shouted as he pushed the knife towards my eyes. I didn't have the strength my uncle did. The tip of the knife was already scratching my cheeks as my uncle tried to drag the knife across my face, spilling my blood everywhere. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, begging for my life. Then it happened, my survival mode kicked it. I knew I wouldn't be able to overpower him at any point. He was older, stronger and hell bent on killing me. So I used his weakness against him. If i could get him off my body, maybe he could have a moment to rethink killing me. My uncle only hated one thing more than he hated me. Snakes......

To be continued

"Get up you stupid idiot" "All you do in this house is sleep and eat my food". My uncle's voice sounded a little different today in my head. My dreams were always about him chasing me with whips. Most times I escaped but at other times I was whipped to reality as I always woke up screaming.
I turned my body away from the window side, still deeply engrossed in sleep mode, trying to avoid the cold.
I always hated the harmattan season as it was always cold and dry.
I drew my blanket closer to my neck, trying to wade off the biting chill easing its way through my body. My uncle was shouting again in my dreams, or so I thought. His hoarse voice disturbing my almost peaceful sleep.
I was suddenly awaked by the deafening slap on my face and before I could utter another word in defence, my other cheek was being serviced by my uncle's rough palm. Now I was really sure I wasn't dreaming, as the white light covering my vision was more real than the scattered thoughts in my head. "Are you still asleep?" He asked.
I wanted to answer but I still couldn't see him. My face felt like it had just been attacked by tiny fire ants. I tried to rub it with my palm but it felt worse. " Uncle I am awake sir" I managed to find my voice in between suppressing a sniff and an impending tear filled wail.
At 13, I was the so-called bastard son of my uncle's sister. He must have told me, over a million times, the story of how my so-called 'good for nothing' father impregnated my so-called prostitute of a mother and abandoned me because of their stupidity. I wasn't really offended by his never ending insults. I was already used to them. I had never met my mother or father so it didn't faze me that much. I often fantasized about myself being with my parents, in a small and really beautiful home, with my siblings. My fantasies were always cut off by painful slaps to the face or hard knocks to the head.
" Where is it?". He was scuffling through my personals apparently looking for something important. My uncle, a security staff of one of the new generation banks always had the impression that I was a perpetual criminal. He would whip me to near death anytime he couldn't find something of value in his house. Money, food items, clothes, phone chargers, even stationeries . His wife, my aunt didn't help either. She hated me like her life depended on it. She was either beating me up or helping her husband with whips, belts or canes. Honestly I really didn't know who hated me more, him or her. I always got the beating of a lifetime to the joy and incessant mockery of my cousins, his two children, who were the obvious culprits. My uncle turned to look at me. My confused face not changing his already burning hatred and anger."So you can't answer again abi?" "Where is the #500 I put on the television stand", " Walahi, if you don't tell me the truth, you will join your ancestors today" Although I was still nursing the pain on my face, I tried to look innocent, knowing that my next answer would either kill me or nearly kill me. I resorted to telling the whole truth rather than half truths like I always did. Normally I would tell my uncle that I didn't do it and that I didn't know who did, even when I did know it was either of my cousins. I always felt my uncle wouldn't believe me as he placed his children on a pedestal. "Are you deaf?" He shot, already clenching his fists. "No sir" I replied. " It was Okoma that took it, I saw him taking it last night". Okoma, my uncle's first son was a pain in my butt. We were both of the same age but very different in character. While I was reserved and worked very hard to please my uncle and his family, Okoma was playful, loud and very lazy. He was the criminal in the house, stealing anything he could spend or sell to spend and I always took the fall.
My uncle was taken aback. He was beyond surprised at what he had just heard. He looked at me for a minute then smiled. "So you have graduated from lies to false accusations. He then called my cousin who came into the room still half asleep. "Okoma did you take my money from the television stand?".
My cousin looked at me then looked at my uncle. He was a bold faced liar. He had often accused me of things I didn't do, just to get out of trouble. He knew my uncle would never believe me.
"No daddy, if I need money, you know I always ask you". He quipped. The sleep already vanishing from his eyes. " I didn't even know you kept money there". My uncle looked at him and smiled. " I know you can never do that my son, oya go and get ready for school and lock the door from outside, open it when I tell you". Okoma quickly obeyed as he hurriedly closed the door behind him, smiling as he left. I knew what was next. This was just one of my many familiar mornings. It was almost like a daily ritual. I looked around the room, trying to find an escape route. My room was the house's storage and it had only a tiny window. There was no where to hide or escape to. I was obviously dead. My uncle looked around the room trying to figure out what he would use to literally beat the life out of me. " Uncle please I swear I didn't do it". My pleas fell on deaf ears as the first slap landed on my face causing my eyes to be covered by tiny white crystals floating on a whitish smokey background, flinging me to the cold broken tiled floors. I knew this process very well. My uncle's next move was to sit on me and pound me to a pulp or better still until my head swelled up like freshly baked bread. As he descended on me with clenched fists I tried to cover my face. I was begging for my life as my uncle started to punch his hatred out of my young innocent face......

To be continued..........

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