₦airaland Forum

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A Mighty wind wheezed through the curtains into the sitting room. She sipped in coffee. It burned her taste buds, yet she could not stop.

She could not stop because it did more good than harm. It cleared those images from her mind, but not completely.

They developed ways of peeking back in. She drank the remaining and let it burn her throat.

The coffee had finished. She laid her teacup on the centre table. Now the images had free access.

The first came. It was that moment, that moment when a man asked for her hand in marriage. The most difficult question in the world. And some people answered it so easily.

They did because they wanted. It was a choice one had to make. A step of faith. An expensive, rear, faith.

The second image slunk in. Richard Fayemi. It was not supposed to have access, but it always found ways to burgle in.

The gold of the wedding ring round his finger glittered. If only she had control of her mind.

Bakare Damijo crept back in. She struggled to make the image stable and again, wished she had control of her mind.

It was a matter of choice. Getting married was a matter of choice, a choice no one else could make for her. She picked her phone from the centre table and dialled Bakare. It rang. No response.
She dialled again. No response. She set the phone on the chair’s arm. She picked it and dialled again.

The ringing ended, and she pressed the call button again. His voice came through before it could ring.

“I’ll call you, I’ll call you back.” he whispered. Whooshing sounds mixed with his whispers. Wind’s whooshes. The wind still wheezed wherever he was.

“What’s it? Calm down. I—”

“I’ll call you back.” He rushed the words.
The rustling of leaves or a sound resembling that surpassed his whisper. Something hid within his voice.

“What’s it? You’re whispering. What’s happening over there?”

“It’s nothing. I’ll call you soon.”

“Wait, wait. You’re in… the orchard, and you sound scared.”

“I’m not near the orchard.”

She focused ears deeper and listened.

Whooshes and rattles were the only things her ears picked. “You’re there. I can hear the leaves. What’s happening? I’m coming to the orchard.”

“I’m not in the Orchard.”

“Then where are you?”

“I’m ending this call.”

“I’m on my way to the Orchard. Something’s happening.”

“You can’t come here.” His whisper lifted.

“Why can’t I come? I’m coming. I’d bring someone along. Whatever it is, remain calm.”

“You can’t come here.”

She ended the call and managed to release a breath. Her phone rang. It was he. “What’s it Bakare?”

“Don’t come here. It’s dangerous.”

“W-What’s happening?”

“Just don’t come here,” he whispered fainter. Leaves rustling to the wind picked up the conversation.

“I’m coming.”

“You could be killed.” His bass added to his whisper.

“Please don’t come, not even with someone. Stay in your house. I’ll be there soon, and I’d explain everything. Just stay calm. There’s no problem.” The call ended.

There was a problem. If she could be killed, he too could be killed. He needed help.

She regretted not knowing the police number, and the next station was miles away. She ransacked her phone contacts and dialled Richard.

“Rick, Richard, you know a DPO’s number?”

“What’s the matter? What’s—”

“I need a police number. Please give me one if you have.”

“Police number? What for?”

“Their intervention is needed.”

“It’s 707112. That’s for my zone. What’s happening?”

“I’ll call you shortly.” She disconnected and dialled the DPO’s number. A man answered.

She told him the address, and he demanded for more specificity. She pleaded he should try working with that, that was all she had.

The man assured the police would be there. She hung up and dialled Richard.

“What’s it, Abbe?”

“It’s a friend.” She tried setting her voice to default.

“I think he’s in an unsafe situation. I don’t know the details but it’s serious.”

“A friend. What kind of situation?”

“Something life-threatening. I had a phone conversation with him and he sounded scared, said I could be killed if I come to his location.”

“Are the police on their way?”

“Yes.”

“What place is that?”

“I don’t really—”

“What place?” His voice rose.

“Why? You want to go there? No, let the police do their job. It’s not safe.”

“I want to send another team in case the police don’t get there quick enough. More hands may be needed.”

He served in the armed forces, thus should know this kind of things. “I’ll text you.”

“Do it now. Now.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

He disconnected, and she texted the orchard’s location to him.

CHAPTER 18




Two months had passed and things had changed. So many things.

The once upon a time stranger had left that zone. Abbe knew not how it happened, but it had happened, and it happened right under her knowing.

There were no regrets though, he was a man, and she was a woman. Those were the only requirements.

They had been friends for over two months, yes, friends, and he still seemed like that stranger who once came to the gallery and ordered a painting of twins.

One thing was sure. Bakare Damijo did not know of the devil that played within her. And he would never know. There would be more stories to tell whenever the devil showed itself.

He stooped behind her and watched her apply colour. His belly touched her back, and his hand rested on the canvas.

She found him on every side she turned as if he was a part of her body, one of those stiff, dogged parts impossible to pluck out.

“You still fear painting people in person?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Imagine them as a something other than Homo sapiens. It could work that way.”

She struggled for a curve of her lips.

“I used to have that hole in my teeth.”

He placed his left hand on hers. They fully covered hers. “I don’t know how it left. But yours shouldn’t go. It’s one of the reasons I like you. One of them.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” She smirked to lessen any uncouthness that might have slipped into her words, and yet prayed for a little, so he might opt not to utter that again.

“Telling you would make it more real.”

What would become more real? She knew. It existed right in front of her, already real, already budding with life.

He folded her left hand into a fist and stroked it with a thumb, in a manner impossible to ignore.

But she had to ignore, and the only possible way to do that was to kill the receptors living in the hand.

“I love you, and you know that. I don’t know if It’s mutual, but I believe it can be. I want you, Abbe.”

He braced his right hand with hers, stroked her hand and the paint stains it carried, spreading the paint all over it, giving it a blue colour.

His cheek was near hers and the throbbing thuds coming from his heart hit her. He tightened his hands against hers. “I want you to be my wife.”

She threw eyes to him. “Huh? What did you say?”

“I’m asking you to be my wife.”
His voice was clear enough. “U-Um—”

“You don’t have to answer now. Take time to think about it.”

“I’m—” Many obstructions blocked the flow of words up her throat.

“I said you could think about it.”

She returned to her canvas. She had just been proposed to. By that man. It was too fast. Very fast.

“We could work. We would,” he said.

That was true. They could work. He just proposed.

He geared head towards her, mixing his breath with hers.

His lips approached hers, slowly and steadily. She had to answer the call. Why wouldn’t she? No reason. She was a woman, and he was a man.

Nothing else mattered. She let his lips touch hers, and let him kiss her. A kiss was not a hard thing to give. All she needed do was gum lips to the man’s.

She gave her lips to him, and he swallowed all of it. He was a man, and nothing else mattered.

Even with his lips apart, his breath was still inside her.
She was breathing his air, and no more hers. “This could work.”
He touched her cornrows and ran fingers through them. Then, he kissed them.
“Don’t rush. Think about it. When you’ve decided, let me know.”

Why did she feel this way? He adored the things of nature and loved paintings.

They both had those in common, but it was not enough. Why? It couldn’t be because he lacked square shoulders or did not have one of those things army men possessed. No, not that.

Painting became hard, spikes grew round the brush, they poked the flesh of her palm, but she had to continue painting. It might be what she needed.

He continued handling her hair.
She thought of the devil’s urge.

#


Richard touched his mouth with a napkin and picked his car key from the table. He gave Ezinne a peck and headed for the door.

She watched him strode past the door. He finished his meal today. That hadn’t happened for many days.

She ate the remainder of her bread and gulped down the whole tea, and then headed for her room to prepare for the first day of August.

The road to Bakare’s was without traffic jam. She parked front of his bungalow and stepped into the compound. His Chevrolet parked at its space confirmed he was in.

She dialled him to come open, and yet waited for eternity before he appeared.

“You’re looking good today,” he said.
She ignored the comment.

“Say ‘thank you’ to a man’s comment. That’s what every woman does.”

If he had decided to play sassy today, she had no problem with it. She had seen this one before. She had seen all his feigned moods.

A better painting of his orchard and another of himself hung at the wall. The klep girl’s work. The painting showed his younger self, when they newly met.

She sat cross-legged on the armchair and opened her purse. “Here’s the dealer’s number. Call and arrange with him. I told him you’d be meeting at the Orchard.”

He settled on a couch and eyed the paper. “Is the man new to the trade?”

“No. I’ve since been dealing with him.”

“Hmm, you aren’t new to it either. I still don’t get you. Why are you into this dirty business? You have money. You have a law degree to further if you want to be busy.”

“Why are you in it either? You have an Orchard you can use for tourist and make something.”

“Come on, I have to respect the old woman.” He glanced at the dining.

“Sorry, I can’t get you anything. My fridge is empty.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“So when am I receiving my money?”

“Inform me of the day you fix with my man. I’ll send you half a day before, and my man would give you the remaining at the orchard. I believe that’s how it’s done.”

“Hope you’re not thinking of any bank transactions?”

“I’m not dumb. I’d be here in person.”

He rubbed palms together and crossed legs. “When did you get married?”

“I don’t believe that concerns you.”

“Why wouldn’t it. How about children, you have any?”

“I don’t believe that concerns you.”

He nodded slowly as though forming a huge bulk of words. “I believe children don’t matter to you.”

“What did you say?” A lump happened in her throat.

“Children don’t matter to drug women. There is proof. You killed your own, that shows—”

“Shut up, Bakare. Shut up.” She managed her lump from exploding.

“Huh, I touched a spot?”

“Shut up.”

“Someone feeling guilty?”

“I’m leaving.” She tucked her purse under an armpit. “I wish I could kill you right now.”

He glared at her. “Three murders in a life time is too much.”

“I hate you. I hate you more than the devil.”

“You killed your children. No one has the right to take a soul out of this world. You’re just a channel and not their creator.”

“Inform me of the date, and I’ll give you your pay.” She stalked out of the room. Bakare Damijo would rot in hell. In its deepest part.

CHAPTER 17





Horses were same everywhere, whether Canada or Nigeria. A ride could be memorable or not. It all depended on with whom you rode. Hers would be memorable. It was with Jide, it must be memorable.

Lauren fondled her gelding, parting its mane with her fingers. The horse perfectly fitted her as though created for her. “When last did you ride?” she asked Jide, who swayed atop his gelding.

“I can’t think of a date, but not very often. There’s no ground in Apapa. It’s difficult coming here to Lekki for a ride.”

“I used to ride with my dad. He is a good rider. He can circle this field in less than ten minutes.” She surveyed the field to check if she had exaggerated. She hadn’t.

“That’s fast. I rode a lot in my youth corps days. Then, I was still much agile. Twenty-seven.”

She studied him, studied the fresh ebony of his skin and the outline of his muscles. “You still look much twenty-seven.”

“That’s the effect of good food.”
Calculations agreed he wasn’t old. At least, not older than her dad. “Where did you do your youth service?”

“Kano. It has lots of horses and stables.”

That was up north. The Country news often talked of a religious crises happening in that region. “Did you experience the crises?”

“The Boko Haram?”

“That’s the name.”

“It was at its early stage back then. Not as prominent as the present.”

“You’re lucky.” She tightened calves and began a trot. His gelding followed, wagging tail simultaneously with hers. She allowed a short run before halting.

“The horse needed to be waked.”

He walked his gelding, stroking its neck, stroked it as though it was a woman—A mere animal, a mere gelding. He drove a hand through the silly horse’s fur.

“What made you go wild the day I visited?” His voice grew thin.

She had waited for the question, but had hoped he wouldn’t ask. “It was my mum, I was mad at her. I’m sorry for letting it get to you.”

“Still because of that Canada thing?”

“Because she is robbing me the choice of carving out my niche.”

“She’s helping, not robbing.”

“I know when I need help. What she is doing is treating me like a child.” She trotted forward. “That’s what everyone is doing.”

He trotted to her and they slowed into a walk. “If you are so bent on staying in Nigeria, have a close talk with your mum, try making her understand.”

“It’s too late. Mum’s gone. Aunt’s gone.”

“You can use a phone.” Their geldings’ skins touched as he swayed.

“No need doing that. Forget about it. Tell me ’bout your stay in Kano.”
The rhythmic shuffling of hooves and squeaking of saddles entertained her ears.

“It was good, except the weather. It took me long to adapt.”

“Is the locality very different from Lagos?”

“Very different. Each state in the country has a distinction.”

“That’s true. Nigeria is very diverse, I’ve come to know that much. Lagos is only a small fragment.” She turned to him.

“Could you drive me to any other state? I’d love to see outside Lagos’ walls.”

“Tell dad. He would be very glad to take you.”

“I don’t want my dad. I want you,” she said. “I want you, Jide.” She reduced tone if that would create any impact. It didn’t. It remained the words of a seventeen-year-old child. That’s what it would ever be.

“Lau,” he called with a thinner voice.

“Ask your dad.”

“What if he refuses?” She sought for his gaze. It was unreachable. The greedy gelding took all of it.

“Ask first.”

“I want to have the trip with you. Any state outside Lagos, I don’t mind it being the neighbouring. I simply want to see beyond this state. The plane from Canada stopped right here. Lagos is the only Nigeria I know.”

“Tell your dad you want to go with me. If he agrees, then I’ll find a day.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then the idea would have to be buried.”

She counted the hairs lined on her gelding’s neck. “I see there’s conflict here. Let’s get it resolved the best way I know. We race and stick to the decision of whoever wins.”

He gathered eyes and his cheeks folded up. “That—”

“It’s better. It pains nobody.”

“That wouldn’t change anything. I love touring. I can spare time for a tour of one of the nearby states, but first, your dad has to approve you coming with me.”

“Race me, and everything gets settled. Most arguments between my dad and I are solved with racing. We could employ the technique here.

It always works, and whoever wins wins. No one gets hurt.” She patted her gelding at its trunk and faced him. “You’re ready?”

“This is not an argument. And you don’t race every time you’re privileged to be on a horse. Injuries from racing could be very severe.”

“You think I would demand for a race if I don’t know the safety rules?”

“Racing is not a good way to deal with this.”

“You have a better idea?” She held her lead-rope firmly and halted. “On the third count we go.”

“Lau—”

“On the third count. You’re not new to horses, you could win.”

He halted. “It’s not about who wins or not. You need your dad’s permission to go outside the state.”

“All right, race me. Forget the touring thing.”

He held his lead-rope. “You’re sure you can gallop with that?” He directed at her horse and then, its hooves.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I couldn’t.” She looked at her hooves. They needed some trimming. “You’re ready?” She turned to him.

“Begin the counting.”

“Three counts. We stop at the palm tree.
“One.” She glimpsed at him, checking if he was set. Two. Three.” She cantered forward, flapped reins, sat deeper in her saddle, and tightened calves.

His thuds came as thunder roars, striking on same line with hers. He galloped like her dad, and lowered shoulders like him.

He whacked his gelding’s rump, and it galloped forward, progressing ahead of her, having no pity on the grasses.

She leaned forward and let out more reins. She pressed calves against her gelding and it made proper use of its hooves. She was on same line with him, succeeding his thuds. She kicked gently.

Her speed increased. She managed to gallop an inch ahead of him. The palm tree looked at them. Few gallops left to kiss it. She glanced at him.
His horse was at his highest. She stopped glancing and aimed at the palm tree. It was all hers. She slackened reins and galloped further. Her darling did it.

It reached the palm tree and cantered past it. She held its reins and halted.
Claps emerged from behind. “Good rider,” he said.

She dismounted and detached her helmet. “You ride like my dad.” She tried hiding the pride that raided her insides.

“Then I guess you beat him at racing.”

“Not every race.”

“Choose the state you’d want to go, and I’ll fix a date.”

She passed a hand through her gelding’s fur. A magnificent horse. “No need bothering yourself, the race was staked on nothing.”

He dismounted and gave his gelding a pat. It snorted. “You earned it,” he told her.

“There are some places in the country you would love to see. I will have a talk with your dad and make him agree to the tour.”

“Forget ’bout that. I have another request if you’d allow me.”

“What is it?”
She faced him and ensured their gaze locked. “Don’t see me as a kid anymore.”

“Uh—”

“Easy, uh? Easier than the tour.”

“I don’t see you as a kid.”
She eased closer to him and played with his polo button. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“What is it?”

“I really like you, Jide.” She circled a finger round his button. “Yes, that kind of like.”

No words. Nothing except silence. It was better than a scowl or glare, and his face didn’t carry those. He removed eyes from her and gave them to his gelding. She mounted on hers.

“How about we ride back to the stables,” she said, and received another dose of his silence.

“Jide, if you want to avoid me, please don’t start today. I’d be going to school next week, you could start then.”

“I would never avoid you.” He eased to her and rested a hand on her lap. “You shouldn’t be liking anyone with that kind of like, especially at this your age and level. The reason is you are a woman, a full-grown beautiful woman.

When the time comes, you’d find more suitors that you need.” He patted her lap and eased back to his horse. “Let’s ride to the stables?”

At least, he could still speak to her—preach to her.

Bad idea to have let out her little secret, but good she did.
The ride would be memorable, so memorable.

They rode to the stables. A long ride. School came to her mind, the saucy lecturers, the boys, the girls. That was what she needed. A retreat.

#

People did not usually come Monday mornings. Today was not an exception. It was almost ten, and not one person had stepped foot in the gallery.

She took in the last slice of her fried potato chips and threw the pack in the waste bin. Her ears caught the humming of a car at her front.

That started the day. Her first customer had arrived. She peered through the door and huffed. That kind of customer should not start the day.

He parked his gold car as though the parking space was his and stepped out as though the ground belonged to him.

His new eyeshade reminded her of his previous one she had shattered. The shades pointed to her, making her wonder if the door’s tint had faded.

He slid open the door and she thanked heavens the brown shades covered his eyes. Seeing them would add to her hitches.

He removed them and her hitches doubled. But he was now her customer, a patriotic one, and a patriotic customer deserved something good as a smile. She gave him that.

“You want to buy a—”

“No.”

She tried maintaining her smile. “I’m sorry, then why are you here?”

He sat on the bench and placed his new glasses on the table. “To see you and your works.”

She attempted saying something but resorted to shrugging. No arguments should be made with a customer.

“You added new works.” He scanned the room and rose with a smirk. “And that’s the painting of my orchard.” He looked at the orchard painting slanted on the wall.

She glimpsed at it. “Yes. It is.” What silly thing made her forget to take that home the previous day? “I made a double and kept one for myself.”

“You like the place.” His smirking lingered. His former solemnity and stares were much better than the new put-on.

The next thing he would probably do is reprimand her for reproducing his orchard’s photo without his permission. It was painful to know he had every right to.

“Yours is finer,” he said.

“I’m sorry I reproduced it without your consent.”

“Apology accepted.”

“You can go see the works you came to see.”

He moved a step forward, crossing fingers. “I didn’t only come to see your works. I also came to see you. So you love the orchard.”

“I do.”

“Would you want to see it?”
It would be adorable seeing such nature, but the best answer to anything the customer offered was undoubtedly a no.

“I’d pass. I’ve seen lots of orchards.”

“Mine is different. Have a little break. Majority of persons would start arriving by noon. We should be back before then. ”

He spoke as though they had known for decades, when they were not even friends. She reproduced his photo, why wouldn’t he exercise the liberty?

“I’m busy.”

“But you’re not doing anything.”

“You don’t expect me to leave my work here and follow you to an orchard.” She paused on realizing her voice was almost at the ceilings. “I don’t even know you.”

“Did I cause that blackout or something else did?”

“I’m sorry.” She removed gaze from him as he walked closer.

“I’m harmless,” he mumbled

“Why don’t you do what you want to and leave. Please.”

He squatted and eyed her as though his next words were written on her face. “I’ll leave if you come with me.”

“Why do you want me to come with you? Why would I?”

“Because I like you and would like you to come with me.”
Most girls complained that men were the most annoying creatures on earth. No word of that was wrong. All men. Not one exception. All of them. “I’m not coming.”

“If you can give me any other reason other than you don’t know me well enough, I won’t disturb you again.”
It was good he knew he disturbed her.

“That’s the reason. I don’t know you enough.”

“Then get to know me so you would be sure I’m harmless.”

“Please, the last thing I need now is a man taking me away—”

“I’m not asking to be your man, I’m asking for a chance to know me.”
That was merely another manner of saying it.

“Come see the orchard.” He placed a hand on her upper arm. She thanked her sleeves.

“Pause from everything and refresh yourself. That is what nature does. And you’d agree with me nothing could be more nature than that orchard.”

True, that was what nature does. It refreshed the soul and rid it of anything that needed ridding. And right now, so many things in her head needed ridding, but there were other ways to get the soul refreshed than visiting his orchard.

He slid his hand from her arm. “Even if I harm people, I won’t harm women, and even if I harm women, I won’t harm you.”

Not amusing.

“What you saw on the photo was only a surface. When you see the whole thing, you would have a lot to paint. See it as a fieldwork. I have a camera in my car. You can take as many snapshots as you want, and paint them at an okay time.”

The fieldwork was a good excuse, plus he had a camera, but those weren’t enough for her to leave her gallery and follow a man she knew nothing about to an orchard she knew nothing about. Heavens knew he was disturbing her.

“I’m going,” she said without thinking.

She wanted to take her words back but refrained. Going to an orchard for fieldwork with someone interested in her field was better than being idle at the gallery. She refused considering other things, other threats.

As he rose, his smirk widened. She followed him up before he would try to help, and did a small prayer—the devil should not reveal itself the few moments she would be at his orchard. There was nothing to pick in an orchard.

They eased to his Chevrolet, and it immediately began moving.

“You raised the orchard?” she asked, staring at the windscreen.

“It was my grand mum’s. She handed it to me in my early youth.”

“It’s used for tourism?”

“No. Private as a house.”

Good. Nature was not to be used as a means of obtaining money. They rode on same windy road that led to Richard’s house.
They passed the ‘Glo’ signboard that guided her to Richard’s house on the day she went to take seeds. He diverged right, into an unfamiliar sandy lane.

She glanced at him. She barely knew him and was already in his car, on the way to an unknown place, same way she barely knew Richard and landed in his house. Where did she get the bad habit of being so gullible?

“We’re not so far,” he said.

Few cars treaded the grassy ground. The houses lined at the road’s sides resembled that of her street—short and clustered.

He stopped by a blue fence near a rickety storey building. Treetops showed above the fence. They rustled to the soughing wind.

“Is this it?” She searched for a gate or anything resembling one.

“The entrance is at the other side. We’d have to walk there.” He grabbed a bag from the backseat and opened the doors. She glanced at him. Not that bad.
They edged along the fence and met the gate.

He slotted a key into the padlock’s keyhole and pushed the door open. A new world. The good side of nature. Clean, healthy cherry trees and leaves slashed themselves, and the loosed ones hovered all over the ground.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said.

“Yes.” She smiled, and treaded the turf demarcating the two rows of trees. She edged past the trees, brushing their leaves with her fingers.

He positioned a camera to some of the trees and took a shot. “You would have enough landscape and nature’s beauty to work on.” He positioned and took another shot.

“This orchard drew me close to art. My grandma always brought me here. We planted most of the trees together. Why don’t you do the snapping. You know what you like,” he said, stretching the camera to her.

She focused the camera on the trees lined at the left and snapped. He moved forward to her and peered at the screen.

“Perfect shot.”

“Thank you.”
She pointed the camera to other regions and snapped.

An hour passed. Leaving became a problem. The sight and beauty did not let her. After taking all the shots she could, she decided it was time to leave and rode for home in his car.

Nature had done its best job—rid what needed ridding, she kept telling herself.

CHAPTER 16




Abbe watched the man standing at the middle, gazing at her paintings. She tried recalling his Yoruba name. Bakare something. It was good he came today—Saturday—as opposed to Thursday. On Thursday, his Orchard painting was not ready.

Now, she was done with everything concerning him and would be free of the awkward customer. He stopped gazing and retired to his framed painting of the little perfect twins on the table, staring at it for the hundredth time.

And still, made no remark. All he did was dip a hand into a pocket for his wallet and from it, brought out clean, crisp, one thousand naira notes, counted, and laid them on the desk.

She thanked him, and hoped he carried his board paintings and head to the door. He did not. He inched to a corner of the room, crouched, and began looking at a painting—a portrait of herself.

She tried ignoring him and focus on her gouache, but could not stop sneaking glances. They were done, and he was supposed to leave. Although her portrait was there to be looked at, she did not like the way he looked at it. As though it was his.
He was not talking, not commenting, but merely staring at it with his dark tough eyes that caused a hard time painting.
His brown eyeshade on the bench stared at her. It continued staring and staring.

The devil crawled in. She would resist. She would not take what belonged to a customer. The turpentine lodged in her veins snaked into the lines of her palms. The eyeshade spoke to her—she either took it off the bench or… the turpentine would be kindled.
“Sir, your eyeshade is here.”

“Leave it there.”
It happened. Her fingertips gave off flames. Her hand burned. It moved and grasped the shades.

The devil won.
The eyeshade fell from her hand and shattered. She shut eyes. His voice pinched her ears. She tightened lids.
She opened her lids at once. “I’m s-sorry.”

He rose and sauntered towards her. “I won’t be needing it. My car has good visors.” As he came nearer, his footsteps caused an earth tremor that worsened into a quake with reducing distance.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident.” She evaded his eyes.

“Try to avoid accidents.” He rounded her, drawing a line round her table with his finger.

She lowered head and waited for him to say something.
“Your eyes are brown,” he said.

She could not reply, not when she had lost control of the room. She broke his glass, and that gave him some control, made her his prey.

“I like your eyes.” He left gaze on her.

“Not only the eyes.” He took his gaze off her. “Nice works you have here.” He picked his framed painting, strode to pick the boards, and made for the door.

She avoided taking eyes to the door until there was no more of his car engine. She picked the broken glass pieces on the floor and made for the waste bin. His last words burgled into her head. She knew what he meant, got every hidden detail in his words. She allowed her thinking end there and held her painting brush.

The wall clock read three-thirty. Not a bad time to go home. She closed the palette and washed the colour off the brush, covered her unfinished work with a polythene sheet and did the necessary clean ups.

She stopped a taxi and rode home.
Grasshoppers hopped to her feet as she treaded her lawn. She crouched and picked some of the carpet grass, spread them on her palm and let the wind blow them away.

Sunflowers would do a favour to the lawn’s edges. Richard had offered, but they could be acquired from a flower shop. Where would be best to go? The shop. She drove a hand through the grass, it needed mowing, and that would be done after planting the sunflowers.

What if Richard visited and saw her lawn with the blooming yellow heads? That would confirm whatever thoughts he might have. What thoughts could he even have? She clapped the grasses off her palm and rose.

His house was quicker, it was free, and it would arouse no suspicion. No suspicion.
Few minutes met her in the junction where the avenue’s signboard was dug.

The driver stopped. She paid and stepped out. Back in this place again, this treeless place. The brown top of Richard’s duplex shot out from within the other duplexes. She hiked to his duplex and knocked at the hard, sounding gate.

The gateman’s eyes protruded through an aperture. He removed his chewing stick from his mouth and revealed the front of his fawn teeth.

“Madam.” He rushed to the gate and unbolted. The Honda and the jeep stood at the garage, but the Ford wasn’t.
She smiled at him. “Oga inside?”

“E dey.”
She stepped in.

“Madam, anything for me?”
She brought out a hundred naira note from her purse and gave him.

“Ese, ese gan.” He spoke other Yoruba words that meant thank you. “Make I tell oga se you dey here or you wan go meet am yoursef?”

“Please tell him I’m here.” That would save her from the spells that lurked inside the duplex.

He pressed the buttons of an old, extinct, Nokia handset, squinting at them. He glued the handset tightly to an ear and told Richard she was at the gate.

“Oga say im dey come.”

She ambled to the mini garden. It now had lilies, and its hibiscuses had fully bloomed, adding to the beauty of the other flowers. She crouched and picked out a branch of lavender, causing a red-headed lizard amidst them to run to the peonies.

She pitied the lavenders’ narrow and shrubby nature that prevented them from blooming like the others.
But they were lovely, and their aura… the most lovable thing in them. She drew it closer to her nose.

The door opened, opened to his tan hairy, veiny legs. He was on shorts, which he seldom wore. She raised eyes to him and managed a smile.

“So you finally decided to come see me.” He barely returned her smile—did not.
“The sunflowers would be good for my lawn.”

“I thought as much.” He crouched by her. “You love them?”
“They’re beautiful.”

She was close to him, and could almost feel the hairs spiked from his skin. She had been this close before, but this was different. His scent was all over—His spell. His hex. “I told a flower girl to come add some.”

“Where’s your wife? I should go greet her.” That should be a good excuse to evade the scene for some time.

“She’s still at the supermarket.”
He picked out a branch of lavender.

“Aren’t peonies beautiful?”

“It’s lavender.” She scanned for a peony. One bloomed at her left. Brown lines circled its edges. She stretched to it.

“Those are peonies. They hardly survive.”

“I guess I have a lot of learning to do.” He threw the lavender to the garden.

“We should go inside and get you something to eat.”

“I’m okay. I only wanted to pick some seeds. It would soon be night.”

“Don’t fear the night. I would drive you home.”

She focused on the hibiscuses. It was better than focusing on his eyeballs. “I wouldn’t want that.”

He shouted to the gateman. The man ran to them.

“Go to the refrigerator and get two bottles of anything drinkable,” he told the gateman. The man hurried to the building.
“I know how to treat my guests,” he said. “Since you won’t come inside, you could be treated outside. Here is part of the house.”

“Viewing the blossoming flowers is enough.”

“There’s no crime in more than enough.” He picked the peony on the ground.

“How is your health?”

It was a matter of time before the question cropped up. “As before.”

“The urges still there?”

“Nothing has changed.”

He picked a leaf off the branch and sliced them into lines. “I’d continue saying, try a therapist again. You can do that yourself. I won’t get involved.”
She gave him a glance. “I’d think about it.”

The gateman approached with two cans of Legend. Those were beer. Richard did not drink beer.

“Bring something softer,” he told the gateman.

“Oga, na only dis ones dey inside fridge.”
He did a deep exhale and took a can.

“Take the other. Use some money with you to buy something soft from one of the nearby shops. Be fast about it.”

“Okay.” He hurried to his cabin.

“I thought you didn’t take alcohol.” She gave him a half-look as he slugged the drink. Some of the foamy liquid dripped down his beard and fell to the lavenders.

“Sometimes one or two could do good. I’m not a complete teetotaller. I used to take little in the army days, but declined when I started business.” He emptied the can and dumped it on the ground.

“Why did you pick it up again?”

“Like I said, sometimes a little did good.”
There was no need asking what kind of good it did.

She examined the flowers pods. Some were opened and had become brown. “I should start picking some seeds.” She opened a sunflower’s drooped head and picked out its seeds.

“I have some dry seeds at the garage. I think they are still viable.”

“Thanks. But these would do. Some of the plants are already dispersing seeds.

He picked some seeds from the due hibiscuses heads. “It’s good you came, you haven’t stepped a foot on this ground since you left.”

He dropped the seeds in the polythene bag and threw hands to the rear of her head. He dug his hands into her cornrows and ran fingers through, bringing life to each of the rows.

She could not tell him to stop. It was a hair rub, and that was not a bad thing. It was not a bad thing. It was not.

“How is your wife?” she asked, if that would remind him he had a wife.

“My wife is at the shop,” he muttered, and drew her head closer to his. He held it tightly with firm hands and brushed his lips with hers, wetting her lips and gluing them to his.

She savoured it for the moment. Blooming lavenders began budding in her head, one with the perfect narrow leaves.

They were alone in the world. It felt good to be alone, tasting the only juice the world could offer—a juice that wasn’t hers. She struggled to get her head off. “What are you doing, Rick?”

“I kissed you.” Her reflection glowed in the black spot of his eyes.

“You’re married, Rick, you’re a married man.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“And you’re a Christian.”

“What do you know about Christianity?” His eyes did not move an inch from her.

“Enough to know that the married Christian men don’t kiss other women.”

“Then you should also know that sometimes they face temptations and are not always strong enough to resist, and sometimes they have to balance both worlds and pray God forgives them.”

It was her fault. She would have gone to a flower shop. She knew this would happen. She knew. The voice that told her was so clear.
She gathered the seeds and tied the bag.

“I should be leaving. You’re drunk, Rick.”

“A can of beer is too small to get anyone drunk. I’m not drunk.”

It was the beer. Yes, it was the beer. She sprung up. “I’m leaving.”

“What about your drink?”

She grabbed her bag. “Have it with your wife.”

She stalked to the gate and jammed the gateman whom was opening it.

“Madam, kini? wetin happen?”

She continued her walk. She touched her lips, something had happened to them. Something not bad.

#

Her dad finished with the grace after breakfast, Lauren retired to her room and shut the door.

The Saturday was warm and cosy, at least so far, she prayed it remained so. She mounted on her bed and played with her mobile.

Aunt Juliana’s obnoxious cry over an expanded can-drink in the freezer disrupted the cosiness.

Lauren covered her ears with headphones and listened diligently to the low tunes of Michael Jackson.

A voice from the outside mixed with Michael’s. She removed headphones and got a good dosage of the voice, calmer than Michael’s. That was Jide’s voice.

What was he doing in her house, and with whom did he exchange words?

She jumped from the bed and made for the living room. She stood behind the curtains and peeped at the living room. Jide and her dad exchange words.

Things like mining site, state government issues, naira figures, limestone, and some other stony words came out from the discussion.

When bored of feeding only her ears instead of her entire five senses, she waved the curtains and showed herself. Jide’s dark eyeballs flew to her.

She smiled and greeted. The white light drew a line on her. She was still on her stupid red baggy pyjamas, and it was ten in the morning.

Jide smiled back at her. “Just waking up?”

Her fingertips itched and the itching migrated to the entire fingers.

“No. I-I just overslept. Sorry, I mean I’ve been up since seven. Forget my clothing.” She flicked a hand.

He chuckled and told her dad something that had her name. Dad laughed—the kind of laugh that hardly came. Jide waved and reverted to discussing stones.

She maintained her smile to the veranda. The two women reclined and chattered on the longue. Joining them would be a very bad idea.

“Honey, you’re still on your nighties,” mum said. “I thought I was the one with that bad habit.”

“One of the things I learned from you. I’d go pull it off.” She found the right excuse to discharge and left the two women.

She treaded the living room ground without glancing and made it to her room. Her mirror showed the specks of sleep marks that circled her eyes.

Nobody drew her attention to them during breakfast. What sort of house was she living in? She entered the bathroom and did quick showering.

Back in the room, she opened her closet and flung out a pair of trousers and a top.

There was no need for makeups; the two women with gawking eyes hadn’t left the house.

But an eyebrow line wouldn’t do harm. Nothing but a brow line. She picked a black eye pencil and drew a faint line on both brows.

She sat on her bed and waited for any closing remark from the two men. Her enhanced ears caught rising footsteps.

Sooner than expected. She left the room for the curtains. The men were through with the meeting, and dad approached her vantage. She shifted the curtains and sauntered into the living room.

“Good you’ve changed from your pajamas,” dad said, without giving much eyes to her wears. She examined herself properly. Her clothes were nothing above casuals.

Mum started a discussion from the veranda. Words didn’t leak out, but three distinct voices were busy: two female’s and a male’s.

Lauren sat on a sofa and used the TV until the voices ceased. She bolted for the veranda.

“Mum, I want to buy a black pen from across the street, I’d be needing one.”

She smiled at Aunt Juliana. A little support could be useful.

“I think I have a black pen at my bag,” mum said.

“You have blue, not black.”

Mum acquiesced. “Go buy your pen.”

“I should save my legs some stress and follow Mr Jide.”

Mum shrugged. “Okay, but you’d have to trek back,” she said with no hesitation. Saturdays were the best.

Lauren hailed to Jide and was able to stop him from opening the gate. She paced to him.

“I’d need a ride.”

“To where?” They walked past the gate.

“Just by the road. I’ll signal you when there.”

She moved to the passengers’ side of his Toyota and opened the door.

He started the car. “Where are you heading? East or West?”

“You’re driving towards the main road?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

“Your house is beautiful.” He pushed the gear and twisted head to the rear screen.

“I don’t mean to brag, but you should see the one in Canada,” she said. “What were you discussing with my dad?”

“Some business matters. Easier than setting up a full joint meeting where the CEOs and everybody would be present.”

His hands smoothly twirled round the steering—a worthless, round, non-living thing.

“Where actually are you stopping?” Jide asked.

“Two miles from here.”

“What?” he widened eyes.

“I’m kidding. A few drives left. Cabs run this place. I’d take one back home.”

“You have much resemblance with your mum whom I guess is the woman on red.”

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is.”

His phone rang. The ringing continued for some more before he struggled to get the phone out from its pocket.

“I hate answering calls while driving. You shouldn’t do it.”

He viewed the screen and smiled. It didn’t seem he hated answering calls while driving. He spoke to the phone and said things that couldn’t and wouldn’t be said to a man.

The conversation ended. He placed the phone on the dashboard, still carrying remnants of the smile.

“Who was that?” she blurted.

“A friend.”

“Girlfriend?” She attempted some seriousness if that would warrant an answer. “Or fiancée.”

He directed at her. “You talk too much.”

“I know, but it was a question.”

“You shouldn’t ask every question that crosses your mind.”

Questions needed answers, and that was no answer.

“When is your mum returning to Switzerland?”

“Sometime this month.”

“Any intention of following her.”

“No.”

“What about the other woman? I believe an aunt. Which country is she based?”

“Canada. She’s leaving the coming week.”

“You’re going with her?”

“No.”

He shook head the way everyone did when they heard she wasn’t going to that country called Canada. “You don’t seem to like your motherland.”

“I do.”

“Then why avoiding any visits?”

“I simply don’t see a reason to visit.”

He removed fingers from the steering and let the car create its own straight path.

“It’s same thing as you don’t like the place.” He returned fingers to the steering and continued handling it.

“I like Canada, I love the country.”

“It doesn’t seem that to me. You refused schooling there and you don’t visit.

That’s the opposite of like.”

Everyone stormed her head with Canada. First mum, then Aunt Juliana, and now Jide. “You like Canada?” She asked wiping off any hint of amusement.

“It’s developed, and there’s a good standard of living. I’d say yes.”

“Have you visited?”

“No.”

“Did you school there?”

“No.”

“So what are we saying?”

He halted and honked for some uniformed schoolchildren to cross. The children held each other’s hands and ran across the road.

“I didn’t school there because I didn’t have a chance to. If I were a citizen, I certainly would have done my entire schooling there. Truth be told, it’s better than schooling in Nigeria, and you should aim for the best.”

Heat began to secure a place in the car despite the conditioned air streaming in from the vent.

“You’re encouraging me to go school there?”

“I know you’d refuse.”

She tapped head with a fist and let the caged words in her brains fly out without caution.

“What is wrong with everyone? Fly to Canada, school here, school there. I’m tired of hearing it all.
I’m tired of everyone treating me like a child that can’t get to say where he lives or where he schools.”

He huffed at her. “You’re seventeen, and still under your parents. They get to say where you live.”

She fixed on him. “My mum got to you, didn’t she?”

“Got to me for what?”

She carried gaze to the windscreen. “I won’t blame you. She got to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What did you and my mum discuss?”

“Is everything all right?”

“My mum told you to have this Canada talk with me, didn’t she?”

“Your mum and I talked nothing but introductions. Is everything all right?”

“No. Nothing is all right. I’m nauseated by everyone seeing me like a ten year old kid.”

“I don’t see you as a ten year old.”

She turned to her side window. “Yes you do, Jide.”

“No Lau. You’re much bigger than a ten year old. You’re a growing teenager that needs her parents’ hands.”

“I’m a teenager, but also a woman. Please see me as such. I’m stopping here.”

After much staring at the airbag, words found a way out of his mouth. “Would you find a cab to hire?”

“I’d stop one of the taxis.”

He decelerated to the side lane. “We talk about this sometime? Say a ride at the stables.”

She nodded and stepped out. He watched her try to stop one of the running taxis, and she watched him with a cornered eye until a taxi stopped. She entered the front seat. The taxi fled. His car moved.

CHAPTER 15





Since when did Aunt Juliana develop a great interest for fashion shows? Lauren asked herself.

They viewed the big living-room screen and watched the display on the catwalk, gossiping the Canadian models over bagels and salad sandwiches.

“The bad thing about these people is they starve themselves to death. Some end up having anorexia,” Lauren said.

“Not under proper supervision.” Aunt Juliana countered.

Lauren stuffed bread rolls into her mouth and struggled to speak.

“How many of them allow proper supervision? Take Aryl Blond as an example, she is working herself to death.”


Aunt Juliana elbowed her. “Hey… that’s so exaggerating. It could be the TV deceiving you.

I’d be going to the next show. I think next week. Follow me, so you’d see your favourites in person.”

Lauren wondered if the Aunt Juliana that sat before her was same as the one in Canada.

The one in Canada didn’t watch fashion shows on TV except by accident, and now she was discussing going to the venue.

“Wish I could,” Lauren said.

“Why couldn’t you?” Aunt Juliana said, sounding as though it was the normal they go. They had never seen the catwalk except on TV.

“You don’t expect me to travel to Canada because of some show.” She tried sounding hysterical, so the woman could see how hysteric her idea was.

Aunt Juliana chomped off a bite of sandwich. A slice of cabbage slid from her bread.

“It’s the holidays, and we’d be there for only a few days.”

“I can watch the show in my room. That’s why there is a TV.”


“Believe me. The real show is better than TV,” Aunt Juliana said with much assertion, as if she hosted the real show.

“The screen doesn’t change their faces.” Lauren bobbed to the TV.

“Look at Evelyn Jordan, her face hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Why not come see them if only for the reason you love them?”

“I’d create better reasons to travel to Canada than a fashion show.” She selected the eggs off her sandwich.

“Reasons like?”

She rifled for one. “I can’t even think of any.”

“Lau, Canada is your country. Don’t tell me you can’t think of a reason to go there.”

Lauren budged forward to catch her aunt’s face.

“Is this about me going to Canada for some fashion show or about me permanently returning to Canada?”

Aunt Juliana narrowed eyes, and her pretence blazed across her pupils. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I have a hunch that this discussion is heading somewhere.”

“What somewhere?”
Lauren laid her sandwich on her plate.

“Mum put you to this, right?”

“Lau. You’re saying something else.”

“Tell mum I’m not going to Canada, and tell her efforts are beginning to anger my bones.”

“Anger your bones?” Aunt gathered eyes. “Mum is trying to help you.”


This was in fact the landing of the talk. Fashion show was all about going to Canada.

“When I need help, I’d ask for it.”

“Be reasonable, Lau, and stop being a kid.”

The real Aunt Juliana came forth, the one that never thought before spitting out words.

“You’re sticking your ass to this country because you want to be with dad. That’s what a twelve year old would do.”

“Oh… I’m now a kid.” Lauren folded hands.

“If that’s what you think, then so be it. I love sticking my ass to the land, and it would help if you could unstick yours from the land.”

“Lau, what did you say?” Aunt Juliana’s voice lowered.

“If I said anything wrong, I’m sorry, and I’m also sorry for the ones I’m yet to say.”

“What’s gotten into you, Lauren?”

“You and mum.” Her voice ascended. She paused and allowed some calm.”

You and mum have gotten into me. You both are depriving me of my right to choose.”

“What everyone wants for you is a good life.”

“And I’m getting it here. If you want that for me, then you should stop pestering me and allow me have the good life.”

“What’s keeping you here?” Aunt Juliana asked bluntly.

“The good life,” she said. “I need some air at the porch.” She stood and stomped to the veranda, not giving her aunt any more eyes.

#


Before she would jump into her bed, her stomach needed some attention. She wandered to the kitchen and searched for a fast-cook.

She fumbled out a pack of Indomie from the cabinet, set the pot on the cooker and poured in the noodles.


The refrigerator had a stench good enough to announce there had been no power all day.

She cursed PHCN and picked up a 7up, gulped down the drink and cursed PHCN even more.

The pot cover trembled and steam soared into the air.

She coated her palm with a rag and lifted the pot’s cover. The steam from the cooked noodles bathed her face.

She turned off the cooker and spooned the noodles into a plate. The crackling of the gate burgled into her ears.

She covered the food with a flat plate and ambled to the sitting room. She peeked through the window. It was

Richard on a white suit. She drew in a long breath and let it out through her mouth. She placed a stool in place, eased to the door and unbolted.

“Richard,” she called and smiled.

Her stomach quivered. She commanded it to Stop. It did not obey, but rather doubled.

She budged from the entrance and let him step in.

His cologne sent waves through the lines of her nostrils and flowed into her vein holes like a spell determined to make her hide in his jacket and inhale all of it until she got drowned.

“Nice place you have here.” He looked round.

“It’s my dad’s.” She closed the door.

He clip-clopped to a couch, sat and rested his briefcase at his side.

“I should go get you something.” She attempted escaping into anywhere than the overpowering sitting room.

“Only a cup of water, I’d be gone soon.”

She made for the kitchen and rested on the wall, did a deep inhale and let it out.

She opened the refrigerator. The unwanted warm air rained on her.

Again, she cursed PHCN, cursed and cursed them. She touched every can, checking for one that could be a bit cold. None.

She cursed one more time and picked any, took a mug and walked back to the sitting room.

“How’s Jide.” She filled Richard’s mug, and got a fuller dose of his spell.

“Jide is good.” He lifted the mug to his mouth and sipped. “Power has since been out?”

“Yes.”

The water flowed down his throat without the tiniest obstruction. Water was the most privileged thing on earth. It could go into the insides of whomever it wanted.

He was a married man, a happily married man, she reminded herself and positioned on the couch adjacent to his.


Dropping the mug on the stool, he directed gaze at her and thanked for the drink. She did not blink or shake, she had perfectly mastered that.

What she now needed to master was to stop the quivering and churning of her stomach anytime his voice came up.

Very soon, she should have attained perfection in that.

He struggled with his briefcase’s lock and brought out a book, the book he once gave to her that was supposed to help her disorder.

“You left this at my house,” he said.

“I reckoned.”

“I thought of delivering it to you.”

She leafed through the book, skimming over the jargons filled with useless terminologies.

“I love your wallpaper,” he said, viewing the painting of sunflowers in water, hung beside the television.

“I have some of those in the small garden at home.”

“I’ve seen them. They’re beautiful.”

“Why don’t you come take some and plant on the lawn at your front?”

It was a good idea, but she was not taking any flowers from his house.

The last thing she wanted was something that would bring his picture into her head anytime she passed her lawn.

“Thanks for offering, but I love the lawn this way.”

“If you don’t want to come to the house, I could send someone to bring it here and plant it for you.”

Her nerves froze, and the life in them ceased.

Why would he assume she wouldn’t want to come to his house? How did he know that?

“N-No. What are you saying?” She introduced some facial puckers.

“Why wouldn’t I want to come to your house? I simply love my lawn this way.”

“Sorry for the assumption. I thought—I’m sorry.”

Thought what? She wanted to ask, but kept mute to avoid hearing another revelation from him.

“I should start going. And read your book, it’s doctor’s recommended.” He stood up and lifted his case.


She watched him open the gate and wished the book would bounce back to his house, so there could be another reason for him to visit, even though he did not last up to a minute.

She needed to experience those spells one extra time.

She listened to the shudder of his car until the air swallowed it. She closed the door and bolted.

His scent or spell still surrounded the room. Now that he was gone, she was not afraid to fall prey to them.


She sauntered to the sitting room, reprimanding and reminding herself he was a married man, and fighting with all of his hexes.

Her noodles had gone cold. Power came up.

The refrigerator began humming, began disturbing. She left the food covered and lumbered to the bedroom.

She begged whoever ruled the dream world to allow her control her dreams for only this hour. She should not dream of a married man.

#


It never was an easy task to paint two identical things. Abbe was done with the female.

She drew head from the board and admired the crawling figure of the baby girl she had created. Her ears needed some touch. Abbe grazed the surface with pale-yellow.


Now, it was time for the twin. She debated on if to give him same blonde skin as the girl, or tan, or chocolate. Or the customer’s skin colour.

The customer was ebony if she was remembering clearly. She opted for that and did the blends in the pallet.


Satisfied at the attained mixture, she dipped her brush into the pallet and extracted some of the mix.

She let the image form itself in her head and reproduced it on the board, periodically taking eyes to the baby girl to ensure a perfect resemblance or something near that.

The gold car of the previous day drove and settled at her front. The customer. She had wanted to be done before the man came.

A little more patience from him would have won her that. The man opened. She frowned at herself. He was tan and not ebony.

“Is that my work there?” he muttered, enough to be heard.

“Yes, I’m still on it.”

He advanced to her and peered at the board, carrying no smile, making it seem the painting was not good enough.

“If you’re not satisfied, I can do a new one.”

“It isn’t bad.” He sat on the bench. “I brought the photos of what you’d be working on.”

She stopped painting. “I should see them.”

He brought out two photos from his bag and set them on the table.


One was a photo of a cherry tree orchard, a beautiful one, full of green leaves mixed with traces of red.

She would paint double of it and keep one for herself. She glanced at him. Most men she knew did not appreciate things like this.

How many men did she know? she mocked herself. But no one would expect a man like this to have a mind for Art.

Art was not for men that glued solemnity to their faces. She picked the other photo.

It was a picture of him, a much younger him with a different skin colour. Ebony.

“I’d be done in two days,” she said.

“No three,” she corrected, on remembering the extra orchard painting she would want for herself.

“That should be Thursday. Expect me then. When would you be done with the babies?”

“I should be done by tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly.


She returned to the board and let the image flow from her fingertips into the board. He gawked at her as though she was painting him.

At times, his eyes drifted from the board to her face, and those times weren’t few.

She wished they were other ways of telling him to stop gawking without using her mouth.

“You don’t have to watch me,” she said, and regretted to have said it. It was never a bad thing for a buyer to watch the painter paint the booked work.

“I’m waiting. You could be done today.”

“I don’t guarantee that, and even if it happens, it would take time to dry.”

“Don’t you have a dryer?”

“Using a dryer can result to bad work.”

“How long would it take to get dried? Without a dryer.”

“By Thursday it should be fully dried.”

He studied his wristwatch. “I’d wait.”

She quit arguing and allowed him watch.
It could help train her for painting people seated at her front. She rubbed a foam on the baby’s middle and added layers of brown upon layers.

“What’s your name?” he asked as though it was his right to know.

“Abbe.”

“Second name please?”

Her hands quavered at his words. Why did he want a second name? She prayed she carried a face bad enough to tell him she hated the distractions. “Oboh.”

“Oboh,” he repeated. “Bodiaye?”

Now, he spoke her native dialect, probably just to show he could. She pondered on if to respond in same, or in English, or keep mute.

He was a customer. Keeping mute wouldn’t be the best.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re Esan.”

She nodded. If only the man could stop talking and allow her finish the work peacefully.

“I spent some time in your land,” he said.

She was nearly glad he reverted to English. Having a conversation with a customer in the native tongue would have been the most itching thing.

“I’m Bakare Damijo.”

She reached for her palette knife. She extracted some black from a container and pasted it on the rough board, and then spread it to a thin film. She added a layer of black to the film.

“Would you be done in the next hour?” he asked.

“I can’t say.”

The sunrays turned orange and dimmed the room, yet he had made no motion to leave.

He probably loved the work since he simply stared and uttered no complains. Neither did he utter praise.

She did the finishing—trimming of the edges, and was happy enough to have avoided vivid errors even with the disturbance. She snuck a glance to him.

With the look he carried, it was hard to guess if he loved the work or not. Few words from him would have made things better.

“I’d go place it under the fan.” She lifted the board and walked to the fan. She turned it on and placed the board underneath.

“Doesn’t that spoil the work as you said?”

She glanced at him. “It doesn’t. Using something more artificial, like a paint dryer or a hairspray is what does that.”

“With this, how long would it take to dry?” He interlocked fingers.

“Hours or days.”

He slid palms down his face and stood.

“I’m leaving. I’d be back on Thursday. How much does it cost?”

“Six thousand.” With the disturbances and distractions, she should have charged higher.

“What about the orchard and my picture. How much would that cost?”

“When I’m done, we would talk on that.”

He rubbed palms together and eased to the door.

She exhaled. Not easy.

She staggered to her desk and picked the photos of the orchard and the customer. She examined the orchard. It seemed virtual.

She flipped to the photo of the customer. It would not be easy drawing the figure, especially the nose.

She cupped her waist at both sides and yawned to the air.

What she needed was a deep sleep on the wide bed waiting for her at home.

The gallery messes would be attended to the next morning.

CHAPTER 14





Watercolour trickled down the canvas.

Abbe wiped it off with a foam before it could reach the canvas’ edge. She dug a spoon in the palette and mixed a spoonful of yellow and five of blue. She positioned closer to the easel and began a primer.

A car engine died down front of the gallery, and then came the squeaking of the door.

A man strolled in. She inserted her brush in the palette, cleaned palms on her apron, and hastened to him.

“You sell all of these?” The man scanned the works hung up.

“Yes.”

“You have big board paintings? I’d need that.” He buttoned an unfastened end of his sleeve.

“Painting of what?”

The beard curled round his jaw loosened as he fondled it. “Let me see what you have.”

The big boards at the bottom screeched against each other as she glided them against themselves. “They’re mostly landscapes.”

“I should see them.” He advanced towards her.

She budged for him to crouch by her. He crouched and glided one board over another. “Nothing other than landscapes, animals and plants?”

“None on a big board, but I can do what you want.”

“I need a big board picture of an orchard. I’d say 7 by 7 ft., a full picture of me also on a 7 by 7, and a small board of two babies, like the small board sizes you have here. Can you give me that?”

“You have their photos?”

“I have the orchard’s, but it isn’t here with me, I’d bring it on my next coming. Be done with the babies first, give me one from your head.” He reverted to viewing the landscapes painting.

“Male or female?”

The question seemed to be one he didn’t think of. It had him gazing thoughtfully at a board. “Both. Twins. Identical.”

“Black or whi—”

“Draw anything beautiful.”

“What about you? Do you have a photo of yourself?”

“I’m here. You can start the painting straightaway.”

The customer sounded as though it was the normal to paint someone in person.

No one asked for that, no one had ever asked her for a face-to-face painting, and that should be same case for other painters.

“Sorry, sir, I don’t paint people in person.”

Before she finished talking, his eyes were already at her, almost glaring.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s a choice.”

“I’m paying for it.”

“I appreciate your pay, sir, but I don’t do that.”


He raised brows in a manner that clearly says she was the only painter in the universe who doesn’t paint customers in person.

“Why don’t you paint people?”

“I’m better off painting from photos.”

After another communication with his eyebrows, he rose and made for the bench, cracking fingers.

“When do I bring the photos?”

“Any suitable time.”

“You’d be here tomorrow?”

“I’m always here.”

“Expect me then.”

He adjusted his sleeves and made for the door. She watched him leave and imagined a scene of her sitting front of a man, painting a picture of him.

There would be lots of errors and all the blames would be on her.

Some painters did it. It could be a distinct specialty. One day she’d try. But not with that man.

He entered his car, started the engine and wheeled back.

TiffanyJ:
Vonn, should I dare ask for pardon? I am so so late. Please forgive me. So many things occupy my time now.For now, I have nothing to say, leme first catch up with you guys. Hope I am forgiven?

Tiff, because you're my sis-in-law, you're already forgiven...
Enjoy!!

I've been ill for quite a while, hence my absence on NL.
I'll try my best to continue from where we stopped.
My apologies.

#


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.”

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 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.

#

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.

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.

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.

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?

ArrowAssassin:
Babe tracking mode

I sight you sir!
Welcome

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?

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

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.

#

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.

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