Wedding Ops (Fiction) : Entry 1

Wedding Guest

“Falilat!”Mayokun snapped above the rumble of a near-by generator into her cell phone,“Where are you?” She wiped the sweat trickling down the side of her face with the back of her hand. It was mid-February and she could feel herself drowning in the aso-ebi-gele-unfriendly-humid Lagos heat. More guests were arriving in the navy blue fabric colors of the day and from the tent venue, she could hear the band playing rambunctiously after a brief pause during which they announced the arrival of a surprise performer. Time was running out. Mayokun peeped through the tent flap as a hostess held it up for an elderly guest. Neck stretched, eyes strained, she glimpsed chandeliers speckled with gold lights, and in the distance a rush of white stood in front of the famous nine-tier cake made by Modesta cakes—the whole of Lagos hadn’t stopped talking about it for the past hour on social media.“Fali? The bride and groom are already cutting the cake. Where are you, jo?” She took a decisive step towards the tent, but a large body dressed in black filled the space between her and the tent. Her scowl eased into a charming smile as the security man blocked her view.

Fali muttered that she was on her way. She had just found a parking spot somewhere up the road. It after all was Otunba Kujore’s fifth daughter’s wedding and Lagos rippled with unrestrained excitement. The onilus gathered in droves, the beggars lined the street, the police trucks dotted the area. The security men stood at all entrances to the event—all of them decked in bulky strap-on bullet-proof vests, a radio piece hung from their ears to their cheeks, the butts of their huge guns tucked in the crook of their arms.

“Just hurry”, She hung up and slipped her phone into her oversized purse. Mayokun eyed the security man, he was tall with bulky muscles taut against the sleeve of his short sleeve shirt. She eyed the gun on his side and stared past him into the tent auditorium. The gust of conditioned air leaked through the tent flaps on occasion, licking the sweat from her skin. From the entrance, she could see chandeliers hanging, all glittering in gold against the white canopy walls. She spied a few waiters dressed in crisp white shirts, black slacks and wine waist coats balancing sparkling glasses of champagne on silver trays. Her tongue tingled from imaginary bubbles from a sip of the sparkling gold liquid.

Mayokun turned to the security man again, her eyes narrowed and a coy smile on her face.

“Oga boss.”

His full lips remained unsmiling.

“Do you have your invitation now?” He raised a brow over the edge of his spider sunglasses.

“No. But I promise you I am on that list. Bimmy just forgot to scribble me in. I swear.” Her laugh rung hollow. A few women glided by them waving their invitations in the man’s face.

He stepped aside and let them by, then stepped back into position.

Her reflection in his sunglasses was flattering—her bosom looked triple their size in her glimmery navy blue off-shoulder dress which she had worn a few times to different weddings. It bore a striking resemblance to the aso ebi of the wedding and only if you owned the original would you know hers wasn’t. A large costume necklace sat precariously where her breasts met, an oversized purse under her arm and her lipstick-puckered lips pouted.

She turned her head to the side using the glasses as a mirror.

Now all she had to do was make it past this wall of muscle.

“Oga, please just this one time. We came all the way from Ikorodu for this. Please.”

“That’s a long way to travel without your I.V.”He said drily.

She ignored his condescension.

“Yes, well, an oversight. Please now. Think about your own wife, now, Oga,” She whined,“if she had to travel all the way for a wedding only to be turned away at the gate. Oga, please now.” She smiled.

“I don’t have a wife.” He shrugged.

“It’s no wonder,”She mumbled as she turned her face to the side and coughed.

“There you are, darling.”

Just then, she felt a hand rub the small of her back.

She smelt him first, it was an intense fragrance that made her think of a heavily aromaticized chewing stick—a woody, spicy scent. Affluence. It made her giddy. The fragrance filled the back of her throat and she swallowed.

“Let’s go in. I found the IV.” The man handed the invitation to the guard. He looked at it. She looked up at the stranger.

He was about a foot taller than she was. He had a short beard cut close to his chin which rose to his sideburns and faded into his hairline. He was dressed in the navy colored buba and sokoto of the day. A silver necklace glimmered and peeked from beneath the neckline of the buba.

“So you are Mr and Mrs. Flavian Obade?” The security man’s brows lifted above his glasses.

“Since 2013.” The man rubbed Mayokun’s arm, looking into her bewildered face momentarily and back at the guard.

The security guy stepped aside. Her knight held the tent flap as Mayokun wobbled in—her feet coming alive after standing in heels for almost half an hour.

“Na wa”,She hissed at the security man when she was well out of earshot. More people came in after her. The knight was still stuck holding the flap for more guests. A waiter came her way, “Some canapés, Ma?”

“What’s this?” She poked the heart shaped pastry.

“Fried sugared dough.”

“Puff puff?”

“Yes.”

“These rich people sha. Next time, leave the puff puff round biko.” She complained as she picked four picks of puffpuff and waved him away. She caught her breath as she looked around, everything glittered in hues of gold and navy, the guests sat in rows of brilliant, navy blue fabric. The men wore mustard caps with a strip of grey and the women wore mustard geles in the new mushroom wrap-around style.

The decor was a combination of blush pink flower center pieces, some hung from the ceiling, some sprouted from the floor, some crawled along the walls. Waiters fleeted around, trays with velveteen navy napkin and curvy goblets sparkling with gold liquid floated by. Mayokun grabbed one and headed off into the reception area.

“Um…you’re welcome.” The voice said.

She turned around at the sound of his voice. She had completely forgotten about him. Her knight.

Her married knight.

“Oh thank you, Mr…Ohb..” She held out her hand, which he took.

“Call me Flavian.”

She felt uneasy under his gaze, and the full intensity of it. His eyes were large, the darkness in them left her feeling bare— like he knew.

“Your wife must be seated already. Thank you again.”

She turned to go but he held on to her hand.

“Is that all?”He asked.

“Yes, it is. I’m not sure what you were expecting.” She chuckled uneasily. His eyes tapered slightly at the ends and they seemed hooded under his lashes and brows.

“At the very least your name?”

“Why?” Somehow her hand was still in his, and it seemed relaxed and willing to be there.

She looked around, and removed it quickly like his hands held coals. Any moment now, some woman would shove her head at an angle and call her husband-snatcher and ruin everything she and Fali has planned.

“Don’t you have a Mrs. Fabian to get to?”

“No, I don’t. And it’s Flavian.”

The nerve! His wife was at the party and he was here, trying to be cute. Insane, these Lagos men.

She pressed irritably, “The invitation card was addressed to you and a spouse.”

“Your name?”He asked her again.

“Mayokun.”

“What do your friends call you?”

“Mayokun”, She tapped her foot impatiently, threw back her drink and looked around for Fali. Just then her phone began to vibrate. It was Fali. “It’s my cousin,” She excused herself.

Flavian. He sounded like a bottled water brand. She threw a glance at him. Tall drink of water. Married tall drink of Flavian water more like.

“Where are you?”Falilat asked.

“I’m inside.”

“How did you get in?!”

“My E cup”, Mayokun chuckled.

Fali hissed.

“Better get that push-up I recommended. Walking around like TD board. This Lagos, shine your eye and buy a push-up.” She muttered into her phone.

“Shut up and get started. I parked near the primary school. Some guys are watching the car for me.”

“Thought you said if you turned off the engine it wouldn’t start again?”

“Yup. Paid one of them to keep it running. So let’s make it a quick one. I’ll work outside.”

“Make enough to buy us a new car.”

“Amen. Later.” She slipped her phone into her oversized purse.

Flavian was momentarily occupied with a chat with an elderly couple.

Mayokun turned to the reception swarming with old dignitaries and their trophy wives. The younger crowd were distracted by their screens looking for the right pose, the right pout for a selfie and refreshed their pages for more like updates. Mayokun slid into the crowd, holding her empty glass in one hand, her oversized purse under her arm, she squeezed by two older gentlemen, who made all the space they could for her while momentarily confused and enthralled by her bosom. Her fingers slid effortlessly into the pocket of the taller man, as he had a better view of her neckline. In a moment, she was gone. The tall man whispered something to his shorter friend, a smirk on his lips as they watched her walk away. He wouldn’t realize his wallet was missing until later when he ordered his driver to stop and buy him some garden eggs and groundnut on their way home, by then Mayokun and Fali had discarded the seasoned leather wallet on some bush path in Ikorodu, along with numerous others.

“How much from today?” Fali asked, as she turned off the road into their neighborhood.

“Seventy thousand naira. Five hundred dollars.”

“Kai! This cashless Lagos nonsense. Remember when we could rake like 250 grand from one party.”

“I know”, Mayokun hissed.

But neither girl was aware of the lone car that followed them back to their home.

The driver watched as they sang along with their radio. Mayokun threw her hands up in a celebratory dance to Olamide’s textured voice oozing from the speakers.

The tailing car eased in behind them with little sound once they were parked. The driver leaned over the passenger’s seat, drew a pistol from the glove compartment and opened the door.

to be continued…

Ìyágànkú : Fiction By Ike Adegboye

Ìyágànkú

Historical Fiction

Ibadan, 1823

Ishola Omonilu Arimajeshu is dead. Everyone mourns and as dew settles, wails pierce the peace of dawn. The town crier is silent. I see him from where I dig, he walks through the square like a cat with a sprained paw, his head hangs low between his hunched shoulders. Even the sun considers us undeserving, the birds refrain from song. The cock crows in the darkness. The sound is harsh—forced from its throat.

Ishola can not be dead, they all whisper. I whisper it too. It can not be. I dig. I retie my wrapper across my breasts. My palms are damp. My strength wanes. I dig. It can not be. No one but a god could kill him. Ishola can not be dead, but I know he is, because I killed him. 

Everyone knows I did it. I killed the great warrior. Some doubt. I doubt. But I remember the knife, the metal in his throat. I watched his eyes bulge and his mouth fill with blood. His fingers twitched and then stilled. His eyes stared surprised out of his head, unblinking. 

Once the hide on which we conceived our children stained red, I dragged it out of the hut with him on it.

I would bury his body to cover this wretched deed of mine, before I was found out. I dragged him out to the forest, under the watchful eye of the trees, their roots getting in my way, like the careless legs of sleeping children. At the nearest clearing, I stopped and began to dig. Blood pounded in my ears and my skin dampened with sweat in the cool night air.  

But the earth would not receive him. She spat him out. For every time I dug up the earth, she filled his grave with water.

He should sink, surely, but instead, his body floated, the water bubbling eerily under his weight, earth and stones collected beneath him and pushed his lifeless body out of the grave. 

Even now in the dark dawn, I dig. The hoe against the moist earth—thuph—I drag, I scrape, with my fingers, with my elbows, the earth replenishes. 

I dig.

I dig.

I dig.

His body lays on the side, frigid. Decaying. His lips are white. Even in death he strikes his terror. My palms are damp. I dig. My head is heavy. But my will compels me. I must bury this dead. Only a patient person can milk the lioness. Is that not what the elders say? 

This man who could not be killed by a mortal but by a god. I have killed him, now I must bury him. Only then will I triumph.

By the second day, the people of the city came to see me—the god-woman who killed Ishola. 

Even the Alaafin sent his men. The children threw stones, their mothers approving but terrified. Who is this woman, who could kill a man unborn? Old women have come and spit on me—their stale saliva streaks my skin. The old men are full of curses, no space for blessings in their weathered, withered minds. 

On the third day, the spirit man came to the forest. Tall. Thin. Grim. Out of his sunken sockets stared out watery, yellowed eyes. 

You are trapped. Your will has received its bondage. 

It was what the spirit man said.

Endlessly, you will dig. For this is the curse on anyone who kills Ishola Omonilu Arimajeshu the son of Amore, the hope of ilu Kujore, the one who slits throats with the stick of the broom. 

He is a son of the soil who can not return. You, yourself know the price he paid.

The medicine man smiles. A little smile. He is pleased. He was there that night at the fire. He was there.

You will dig until you are old and grey, until the flesh falls off your back. Even then, you will dig.  

I wept as I heard this. My arms willed of their own. Raised high and brought low.

He can only be buried in a place with no soil. No earth.

The waters. My thoughts raced with hope.

No, the medicine man responds to my thought without speaking. His voice echoes in my mind. The floods sit on a bed of soil.

My arms are weak but they keep digging. My skin is shiny with sweat.

I am tired. No one touches the body. They stare. No one offers to help, lest they be trapped in enchantment.

The only place to bury him, is in the clouds. 

So I receive this judgement. My heart is open. A light floods my being and I smile. The medicine man stops and stares. His smile is gone. I must bury this dead. With joy, I receive my verdict, yes. 

Songs will be written about me. They must. Lest, I will write my own song. About the woman who stooped and was conquered. Ìyágànkú.

A woman. No. A god. No. A mother who digs the grave of a man who sacrificed her children in a fire to the gods, for his strength. For his power. For his fame. 

The End 

Copyright ©2019 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Proverb Ref: Twitter @yoruba_proverbs

Inside the story of Iyaganku, a short story set in Colonial Nigeria. I explore themes, characters and the thought process behind this thriller. Link to blog: www.pagesbyike.com Link to story: http://www.pagesbyike.com/blog/2019/1/17/iyaganku-fiction-short-story

Twice Dead: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Twice Dead

1832

Ede, Osun State,  Nigeria

On this bright and sunny day— the day of my daughter’s wedding— we dance. Yet, the dead watch us. This morning, I had awakened to the complaints of bleating goats and to the clumps of cattle hoofs. Out in the soft morning light they stood, a sea of livestock. More gifts from Alao. A dowry fit for three queens. In the corner of my hut sits rolls of fabric cascading over each other, the prints embossed with delicate gold dust from markets across the Northern desert. But also in the wake of the morning, the dead whisper dark secrets that make my skin tingle. The tendrils of fear slither up my back like a panicked gecko, for on the outskirts of Ede, along the narrow village path, lays the body. Already, the dust winds from the desert settles over him, the dew of the dawn wears him a damp coat and the birds of the air find in him their meal of the morning. Yet today, we dance.

Something nudges me in my ribs. I hear the sounds of the talking drums. They are distant, like I am beneath the waters of the river— their voices, muffled, yet speaking. I feel the nudge again. The drum speaks. Another nudge. I am inconvenienced out of my reverie. It’s my friend, Aduke, sticking her elbow in my side. Her dark face is beaded with sweat, her teeth bare, and from her mouth shrills the songs of the friends of the Iya Iyawo*. She dances like a young girl of eighteen rain seasons, flirts with the drummers with the sway of her hips and winking eyes. She nudges me once more, and yells into my ear, “It is abominable to dance harder than the mother of the bride.” Her sharp eyes squint. Behind her is Feyike, Miliki, Remi, Dara, Riyike, Fali, Omodun and their sisters. My friends. My well-wishers.“Ore mi, it is your day!” Aduke yells. Her eyes pause with knowing. I feel the cold wash of fear once more. She throws her hip out, her foot follows. The drummers follow the cadence of her rhythm.

Today, we dance to the sorrow of my child as the talking drums echo in the town square.

Now I hear them, clear and crisp—speaking blessings and goodwill over my precious child and her husband as they dance to the beat.

Will she be happy? No, she will not be.

Was this a mistake? Yes, it was. But every mistake—as all unhappiness— is lightened by the distraction of comfort. A new fabric here, some corals and glass beads there, a full belly at night, a barrel full of palm wine and the giggles of an infant will dull the aches of Alao’s blows. I watch my daughter’s tired frame twist and sway to the beat, surrounded by her friends— young ladies with youthful thighs and narrow hips. She had never been much of a dancer. But today, her heart is absent and her dancing is terrible. Does she weep beneath that veil? Yes, but it will be dried by a silk cloth from the markets of Arabah.

It was dawn before the pigments and healing herbs dried over her wound. The women stayed up all night mending the gashes of Alao’s wrath on my baby’s cheek. She should have known better than to run off with the musician. By the time Alao found them on the outskirts of town, the gods could not restrain him. By now, the birds would have begun their feast on the bald-headed singer, digging their claws into his dark flesh. I shivered thinking of it. But whoever heard of the daughter of Lasisi Olamuwonre Omo Baba Ire, whose ancestor was the great hunter, Timi Agbale, running off with a court jester, a performer—without a dowry. While the fool waited on the side of the narrow village path, we did it swiftly—Aduke and I. He knew not what hit him, at the swat of a bat’s wing, the heavy mill stone hit him from the branches above. His lover—my daughter met us there, standing over the imposter, his head bashed in. The blood soaked into the loose-grain sand that formed the village path. She fell on his lifeless body and cried, and there, Alao met us. He had me to thank. He did, lying face down on the ground in a humble prostrate. I blessed him and he rose to his feet. Still, she wept over the dead singer. Alao breathed a deep sigh of relief, the folds on the back of his neck running over each other like mounds of amala piled high, he carefully made his way to her. Bone crunched as his fist knocked her off the dead man. His leathered foot kicked her face. My eye twitched. My foot moved of its own accord. Aduke held me back.“The dowry has been paid”, She reminded me in a whisper. “Today, we will weep”, She added, as Alao tore the clothes off my child. Her screams rended something deep in my chest, “But tomorrow we will dance.” She was right.

Today, we danced. She is a married woman now. The dowry has indeed been paid. A dowry of three brides, no—three queens, for Ajoke mi. Goats. Cows—at least one for every day of the week until the next two full moons, sacks of cassava, palm kernels. The yams were piled high, the barrels of palm oil would last us till their first child was walking, and the mounds of kola nuts made her father lose his breath, the cascade of beautiful fabrics made me lose mine. It was time for her to go. She kneels and the crowd parts. I trace my steps to her with unsure feet. She swims in my gaze, the tears warm against my cheek. Mothers look on, gazing with envy as I take these measured steps.

I finally stand before her, and lift the veil from her eyes. The girl before me isn’t my precious daughter. Her eyes are swollen, the skin above her left brow and cheek dark and stretched raw by pigments and healing herbs, her lips are twice the size of a crinkled pepper, twice as red.

Indeed, my daughter is dead. Her corpse lies beside that of the singer on the narrow village path.

As I bless her as a new wife, she weeps. It is a blessing she takes to her new death— into her new home—a cage, a coffin— embellished with fresh flowers and sprinkles of new spice, laced with the silks of Arabah, beads and corals, goads of palm wine and all comfort. She thanks me. The crowds close in on the space between us. My girl is gone. Her friends sing after her. My friends rejoice. Yes, the dead watch us closely as we dance, but the one who dances among her friends—whose dowry makes queens jealous— is the one who is twice dead.

The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Lafia’s Dream: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Life was black and white before Simbi—life or death. She had found me underneath a rusty, grey-orange  tin roof, which sat discarded outside a welder’s shop in a settlement in Ibadan, which I would come to know as Beere. The rain had thinned out into a drizzle and for once, the usually busy market street gave off a strange quiteness. A peace. Or maybe I was fading out, slowly dying from starvation. A face peeked under the tin sheet. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. A wide face which ended in a pointy chin, curious eyes, her hair was woven away from her face in tidy, straight plaits to her nape. Soft droplets of water fell around her like a sheer curtain. On her head sat a tray of something covered by a large sheet of plastic. Sniff. Sniff. Fried fish. And fried yam. The acrid fragrance of a pepper sauce drifted along into my metal cave. She crouched to half her height, one hand holding her tray, the other reaching out, fingers—unsure but steady. We both stared at each other— woman and canine. My eyes watched her fingers inch closer. I tucked my head into my shoulders, waiting for it—a swat, a smack. It was what I was accustomed to— prods and slaps; kicks and stones. I waited. I flinched at her touch. She whispered something as her fingers gently ran along the grain of my wet coat. Light. It reminded me of something from somewhere long ago. A light. A calm. A tickle. Something. Something, life on the streets had taken away so brazenly and so long ago.

Lafia. 

That was what she called me. I loved it. It was the perfect name. We became inseparable. Her name was Simbi, omo Ìyá Eléja*. She gave me a bath. Dinner was fish bones and any scraps from her dinner. She taught me to stand on two feet(anyone could have done that with a piece of fish in their hands). I was by her side whenever she went out to work, her tray on her head. I’d tag along following her scent of fried fish and fried yam. Bliss. 

Then one day she met him.

Làfùn.

That was what he called me, through his missing incisors and canines. Every time he smiled, his mouth looked like a haphazardly eaten corn cub. She had met him one day when a thief tried to steal her waist purse—the one day I wasn’t by her side— I had been locked up in my cage because I had “borrowed” some fish. Ìyá Eléja wasn’t much of a lender. I heard Simbi yell. She must have been a few streets away. I barked and didn't stop barking until she came home. There was a new scent present. A stranger. He had brought her home. She was shaken. Ìyá Eléja let me loose because she thought the danger was still imminent. I followed at their heels. This man. This saviour. He had the undeniable scent of sweat and oil. Engine oil. A mechanic. The heel of his old sandal smacked my nose as I tried to sniff him out. It was the first time he referred to me as Bingo. In the same breath, “locah dog”, in the same breath “useless”. It was like I’d hated him before I met him. I snapped at his heels but Simbi spoke sharply at me. My ears drooped. She had never done that. Ìyá Eléja was full of praise for the mechanic. She packed a bag of fried fish for him, and that was the first time he startled us all with his frightening corn-cob smile.

He was back the following day. And the day after, and the day after. More bags of fried fish. More praise. Giggles from Simbi. Then some more fish. I had stopped barking at him by the sixth day. The way she looked at him...

After this, I no longer borrowed fish. I had to be with her all the time. Beere was a dangerous place. Sometimes, the mechanic would show up with his ugly vespa motorcycle, give her a ride and I’d have to run along side. 

“Lafun”, He’d holla. He’d suck his puckered lips and make a high pitched kissing sound through his teeth. 

He’d raise dust and I’d run blindly after her, after my Simbi. Sometimes he’d splash mud, screeching his tires. He’d laugh loudly. “Tètè, Làfûn!” His tone derisive. Locah dog. He’d say. 

If he must know, I was once a puppy owned by a professor and his family at the University of Ibadan. A canine of pedigree, until one day I got lost, captured and sold off as a lab experiment dog. 

Sometimes, she’d come home, slam her tray down on the concrete floor, she’d stamp her feet around and bury her head between her thighs and cry. I’d sit beside her, head on my paws. Eyes never leaving her. Other days, she was in the clouds above, skipping. Her tray full, with no purchases, which infuriated Ìyá Eléja. Now she locked me in the cage more often. Her new friend didn't like me watching, she said. 

And now she came home with bruises. One day, she came home with a burst cheek. The gash tore deep into her smooth face. She was attacked, she said. Mama Eleja insisted I go everywhere with her from now on.

It was late last night, when she snuck off her mat. I watched her. Her figure moved silently in the dark. I sat up, first on hind legs, eyes keen. She looked me and I followed. We walked quickly. I knew where we were going.  He lived three streets away. I tried not to think what she was going there to do. 

We got to his home, a face-me-I-face-you building— a house with six rented single rooms down the corridor. She stopped at the second door on the right. My ears cocked. A faint noise. His voice. My eyes looked up at her. I listened. 

A grunt. Faint. Then another.

And another.

She pushed into the room through the door and brushed aside the curtain which hung over the entrance. There he was in the dim light on a thin mattress which sat on the bare, cement floor. The woman wore nothing. Their skin glistening with sweat in the still room. He saw us and in an instant, landed on his feet.

He spoke Yoruba. 

”Who told you to come here?” He yelled. A low growl travelled up my throat. The cement floor beneath my paws felt cold. The hair on my neck tingled as the strands stood on end. 

Simbi stepped back. She stammered. 

“I told you never to come unless I call for you.” His voice rose again. My growl deepened. He looked at me for a second. 

“Who is she?” Simbi’s voice shook. “Tani ni yen?” She asked again.

”Se ori e buru ni?” He asked her if she was cursed; if she was in her right mind.

“Abi ori iya e buru?” His right hand rose above his head…

I had waited for this day…

I leaped into the air and in a flash caught his elbow between my teeth, sinking in with such relish. I even imagined it was fish. The naked woman screamed. Snarls. Growls. The sound of teeth crunching bone. Simbi gasped. He screamed. He begged. He even called me “Lafia”. “Goodu boy”, He pleaded.

All I saw was fish. Even his neck began to take the form of a silvery, crispy piece of Tilapia.

Yes. I had waited for this day. 

And it was here. 

The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

The Boy Who Thought He Could Dance: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

The Yoruba Boy Who Thought He Could Dance: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

The phone rang once. The second time, she picked. Folarin figured if he had to tell anyone, it would be Mom.

“Hello?”

“Mommy.”

“Fola, Fola. Fola boy. How far?” The delight in her voice was unmistakeable everytime he called.

“E kale ma,”He could hear the distant rumble of the generator in the background.

“Kale, my dear. Ba wo ni? School nko?”

“School is fine.” He switched to English. If he said it in English, it’ll sound less ridiculous.

“How is it? Hope not too cold?” She asked.

“No, ma.” In fact, it was 5 degrees in New York City tonight, but that wasn’t why he called. 

“Your sister is here, hold on.”

“No, Mom—”

Gbemi’s voice came on, “Mumu. So you can call home? Where have you been? Your IG page is just dead. How far?”

“I’m more active on snapchat, you know that.”

“Who wants to watch your boring life?” She snickered,”Have you told Mommy?”

“I haven’t,”He said the words through clenched teeth.

“Told me what?”

Laughter bubbled out of Gbemi.

Folarin cursed under his breath.

“Mommy, Folarin wants to start a new career o.”

“Ehn hen?” Her excitement was palpable. Her voice was clear now. 

“What kind of career? But you will finish school first o” She added, "Ha, when you are looking for funding, don’t fall into the hands of 419 oh. There are so many now…” She continued on about how Uncle Goke had been “dupped”. 

“Many doctors have second careers. Ònò kan o wojà. Dad will be happy that you’re building your own business.” Ever-supporting mom. Her voice dripped with pride.

Gbemi was now gasping for breath in the background, laughing uncontrollably.

“Why are you laughing?” Her mom asked.

Folarin cleared his throat, “Mom, maybe I should call back another time. I—”

“No o. You’ve finally called after all these weeks, don’t go. Let me leave this place where your sister is laughing like a drunkard. Ki lo n se omo yi?”Mom hissed.

He heard her feet shuffling, walking, until Gbemi’s scornful laugh drew further away. A door opened and closed.

“Eh-hen, oya gist me. What’s this second business?”

“Which business?” Dad asked. Dad was there. Folarin’s voice caught in his throat.

“Fola has a new business.”

“Well, as long as it doesn’t affect his studies.”He said,”Business wo ni? Meanwhile, I saw on the news… New York is minus 15 degrees Celsius tonight! Wow, man!”

Background noise filtered in—the swishing of fan blades, the rumble of the generator—mom had switched her phone to speaker.

“Ha! Minus 15 ke? Make sure you stay warm o. Drink tea”, Mum said, “Very soon, you will marry one omoge that will be making you pepper soup in that your winter, ehn?” Mum chuckled,”One babe. Abi how do you people say it?”

Folarin took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Mum. Dad. I have good news and bad news.”He said.

“God forbid. God will not give you bad news in Jesus’ name,” Mum prayed. She began to speak in tongues.

“What is it? Tell me the good news first.”Dad said.

“I said there is no bad news in Jesus' name” Mom reiterated. 

“Ok, give us the news—the double good news.”

“Well, I proposed to my girlfriend...”

“Which girlfriend?”Mum asked. He could hear the shock in her voice.

“Se mo kpe o ni girlfriend ni?”Mum asked Dad. 

“Her name is Larah.”Folarin said.

The tension eased as mum chuckled excitedly.

“Ha. Praise God o”, There was a smile in her tone, “Omolara.”

“Omolara mi,”Mum broke into a song about a girl called Omolara, she was pretty and had a good head. She’d make a beautiful bride one day.

“Well, not exactly. Her real name is Yu Yan…”

The singing ceased. Silence.

“You kini??” It was mum’s voice,“Real name bawo?”

Folarin cringed.

He continued,“Everyone calls her Larah…She said Yes. I proposed just last Sunday at the ice rink…So we are thinking about visiting in the spring.”

“Wait…” Dad's voice.

“You kini?”Mom.

A door opened and shut hard on a wooden frame.

“Has he told you guys about ‘Youuu’?”Gbemi’s cheerful voice said. She burst out laughing.

“Gbemi? You knew about this?”

“Ok—let’s be calm,” Folarin started,”She’s Chinese. She owns her own cupcake shop—”

A shrill cry vibrated through the speakers in his phone. Mom was crying.

“Ha! Aye mi!” She wailed. Gbemi laughed. Dad didn’t understand. He said this twice. They were talking over each other.

“She’s really the best person you’d ever meet, Mum, Dad.”

Gbemi squealed in delight.

“Shut up, Gbemi—”

Dad’s voice was stern,“Fola, I’m coming to New York next week. We must not rush—.”

Mum cut in, “Omolara ni mo kpe! Ha!”

Folarin skipped his breath. The second news was best served as soon as possible. 

“The lesser good news is that I am dropping out of my program. Medicine…isn’t for everyone,”He rushed, “Most importantly, I found what I love, Mum, Dad. I love dancing. I've never been happier. And it’s not just dancing. It’s Rumba. It’s a style of—”

“Ehn?”

“Baba Fola…mo daran.”

“It originates from Cuba—”Fola continued.

“Folarina, the ballerina toh bad.” Gbemi’s laugh rang out until she began to cough uncontrollably.

“Gbemi, so you knew…”Dad said.

“No o—”Gbemi had stopped laughing,”I didn’t know anything o.”

“You knew that he wants to become a dancer? And be selling cupcake and meat pie?” Mum wailed.

“Gbemi! Come back here!”, Dad’s voice thundered.

“It’s a dance from Cuba and…”Folarin’s voice struggled in the chaos. 

“My life is finished,” Mum yelled.

“So my son will not become doctor?”

“After I've told everyone in church that Folarin will be a neurosurgeon.”

“Aye mi, temi bami!” Mum screamed. She clapped three times and wailed again.

The chaos was palpable. Fola drew a deep breath and disconnected the call. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror outside the dance room, his hair slicked back, glistening with too much ecostyler gel. His sequined ballroom outfit glimmered in the light.  

That wasn't so bad. A successful conversation, really.

He pushed through the doors of the room into practice. It was time to Rumbaaa!

 The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Koot: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Koot: A Short Story

It was that moment Rufai lived for—that sliver of a second when his eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. True, he had grumbled when Uncle Jubril fell ill, and when the old man had promised his Oga* that he trusted nephew—Rufai would show up in his place. Just when he finally saved enough money to go to the local club to see Adeola Montana and his Fuji 5000 band. Still, Rufai had arrived at the address in Ikoyi, dressed in his severely ironed shirt and trousers—Uncle even made him wear deodorant.

Number 16, Roland street was an unassuming house hidden behind a small, black gate and lost in the shade of dozens of trees. There was a gateman, David, and two househelps. Rufai didn’t learn their names. Madam had her own driver, Festus, whose trouser gators were sharp as a blade. Oga left for work at 7. Lunch was served at noon. Some tea and sliced bread served at 4pm.

A damned cycle.

Then she happened. She had stepped out of the house barefoot, dressed in a long maxi dress that flapped around in the hot Lagos air. And in five seconds, she vanished into the house.

If God was fair, Uncle Jubril would remain sick. But God had a different standard of fair. Uncle Jubril recovered. So Rufai sprinkled a little detergent into Uncle's Yellow Label tea on most mornings now, just to keep the old man down a little longer. 

                                  ⭐️ 

Her father’s schedule tapered off around noon. Rufai would bring him home for lunch. They returned to the office about 1:30PM. He’d set his briefcase and gym bag next to Oga’s feet in the elevator, keeping his eyes available but not fixed on Oga. Once the doors closed, he sprinted through the reception, out the revolving front door into the car, back to the house to take her to the little bungalow in Lekki, where she took piano lessons. It was the best 30 minutes of his day. He stole glances at her. Her dark skin glistened in the sun and her eyes stared out the back window into the Lagos traffic, lost, sometimes troubled, other times her eyes focused on nothing, other times they cried. If he was sure of his English, he'd say something. He had practiced saying"Hi" but his brother said his nose twitched whenever he said it; that his"H" was too heavy. He could try? Yes?

Her music teacher was a tall, light-skinned man with a glistening scalp. His beard was shaved close to his jaw and his eyes twinkled whenever she stepped out of the car. Sometimes they both giggled and spoke in hushed whispers. The man would open the car door for her, other times she stalked in front of him and didn't say goodbye. For two weeks now, she stalked ahead. No goodbyes. Then the bearded man stopped walking her to the car. She cried now whenever they drove home from Lekki.

Today she was restless.

She looked away from the sparkling Atlantic. Her attention fleeting around the car for a minute, She looked at her phone and smiled. Restless again, her eyes, magnificent, large, framed by long, thick lashes-rested on his in the rear view mirror. Rufai’s heart stopped. His eyes dropped to her lips— plumped by a sheer rose gloss, haloed as the light bounced off of its sheen. Rufai had never seen anything more beautiful.

He parted his lips, but they trembled.

Just say hi.

"Mr. Rufai,”She broke into his thoughts,“Please can we go back? I think I forgot something in Lekki." She said, rummaging through her huge handbag.

Rufai's lips quivered lightly,"Ok." He stammered, his eyes found the road. He cleared his throat in a low grunt.

"Hi", He muttered under his breath. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

He cleared his throat again. It could be better.

"Hi."He muttered. “Hi” was hard. He could tell her that he thought she was sweet like honey but his brother had said, the rich people used “cute” not “sweet”.

“Ki n sę ‘Koot’!” His brother had fallen off his chair laughing,”Not koot. Cute! Cute!”

Koot.

You are Koot. He just couldn’t get it right. He could tell her he was in love with her. That Kolade Gbenro was teaching him to play the keyboard now. He could teach her music, teach her to play. She’s never have to go to Lekki again. She’d never have to cry.

He pulled up in front of the teacher’s gate. The light-skinned, bearded man was outside before Rufai turned off the engine.

His hand was on the car door as she stepped out.

“No! I didn’t come here to talk.”She snapped, “I left my sunglasses. That’s the only reason I came back.” She pushed past the man.

Her teacher grabbed her elbow and muttered to her. He handed her the sunglasses case. His voice was barely a whisper. His hands traveled along her arms. Rufai frowned. In an instant, the teacher dropped to the floor on one knee. From his pocket emerged a ring. It sparkled in the sun.

It happened all too soon. She jumped around, nodded her head and fell into his arms. The embrace was forever and a year. The kiss, eternal.

She hopped into the car after a long goodbye. She chattered on the phone as they drove home. She screamed calling one friend after another. He proposed! She’d yell. Followed by a scream.

Rufai glanced at her in the mirror, his brows still drawn together in a scowl. How did that happen? That man and his beard. What did the teacher have that he didn’t?! He watched her now, hysterical with joy in the backseat. She yelled. Giggled. Screamed. His frown melted away and a small smile softened his face. At least she had happened. At least he had loved. He’d hand the keys back to Uncle Jubril and stop feeding the poor man poison.

He’d work on his pronunciations and his keyboard lessons. Maybe one day he’d join Adeola Montana’s Fuji 5000 band….and maybe one day he wouldn’t.

He wished he could tell her though, that she was koot.

“Koot…Koot…” He shook his head as he battled with the alternate vowel word.

She screamed and burst into laughter in the back. Her eyes caught his in the mirror.

His heart stopped. 

She was so sweet though. She truly was. He thought to himself. Sweet and koot.

                           The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Oga* Colloqial Nigerian word for a boss or an employer

Love Bite: Finale

This fictional series contains Nigerian slangs and some inappropriate use of diction. This is for the proper portrayal of the character.

Love Bite: Finale

The bodies were no longer at the police station. After 56 minutes of chaos, I was directed to a morgue in Ogba. It was a cream-colored bungalow with a small, old brown gate with rusty brown bars. The rain had stopped and the cool air caressed my face, but even in its abundance, I dared not breath easy. He was in there. In a morgue. I drove him into a morgue. 

A short, dark-skinned man dressed in a worn short-sleeve shirt, faded brown slacks and leather slippers led me along the side of the house. My slippers dragged along the uneven cement floor.

The policemen said the accident had occurred near Sagamu. A trailer lost control…there was a commercial bus and a car... There were 5 unclaimed bodies. Three of them were women. The other two, a man and a little boy. He led me to a body covered with an old, navy blanket. 

“Oya, answer quick!” The short man snapped.

I had stopped walking and now stood about 9 feet away. 

I took an uneasy step and then another until I got near enough.

He yanked off the blanket. My breath caught in my chest. A man of about 35 years appeared, fair in complexion, with dark lips. 

He was not Leke. 

The relief was crippling and in a daze, I sat quickly on my heels. The short man had no time for emotional shows. Once he found out I wouldn’t be paying him any money he hurried me out.

Deep breath, Lani. Deep breath.

Leke wasn’t at the morgue. Where was he?

---

The next three days went by slowly. By now, Leke had been gone for 7 days. I prayed, and even dared to abstain from food, broke the fast at 6:59 PM, just like Leke usually did. All I had in the kitchen was 3-day-old bread. It tasted like old foam. Day seven was a Sunday, so I went to church. Pastor Remi spoke on restitution—fixing things I had the power to repair. 

That night, I sat on my bed, my laptop warm on my thighs and typed an email to Dami Pedro. I told him the allegations against Niran were false. We were having an affair. It was all consensual. It had always been. I was ready to accept whatever consequences came. Terse and honest- without rereading I hit send. When the email swooshed out of my outbox, I let out my breath. 

I drew the curtains and laid on the bed, desperate for sleep but it wouldn’t come, I thought about coming clean to Ngozi. I found her on instagram and began to type the message.

💬 Hello |

The cursor blinked.

She deserved to know. She was a victim here. But in my heart, I knew the only reason I wanted to tell her was to hurt Jare—to see his wife leave him and watch him sink into misery like me. I closed the app and lay there in bed.

She probably got messages like that every day anyway.

What about Abigail?

What about her?

The question gnawed.

I did nothing. She deserved nothing. 

---

Day 10 of Leke’s disappearance

I woke up with a start. The lights were on and it was dark outside. I had been dreaming that I was driving off a cliff. Leke was in the backseat. I rubbed my eyes with the base of my palms. My fingers found my phone. An email from  Dami Pedro. The investigation would be reopened, it read. A written formal statement would be required of me. He had also received an email from Abigail who described the video leak in great detail. She was on suspension for two weeks, and Niran had been suspended indefinitely. He advised that I clean up my CV. He wouldn’t be available to provide me a reference in case needed one. He wished me luck.

I fell back into bed and drifted off to sleep to the creaking of the ceiling fan. 

I woke up with a start yet again. It was a dull rat-a-tat. It came from the front door. Leke? Halfway through the living room, my blanket dragging through the apartment wrapped around my left foot, I realized Leke wouldn’t knock. He had keys.

I swung open the door. Abigail stood there, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. 

“What do you want?” My arms crossed each other. I kicked the blanket off my leg.

“I came over to apologize…” She took off her glasses, weight on one leg, and eyes focused on something behind me, “I’d like you to forgive me. I had no right to interfere—”

“No, Abi”,I cut in, “You had no right—”I threw the door shut and walked into the kitchen, pacing every two steps.

My chest heaved. My face felt hot and soon a lone tear ran down my cheek.

After about a minute, the knock came again. 

I walked back to the door and jerked open the door.

“How dare you ask me for forgiveness?!—” I stopped short. Leke stood there. Abi stood a few feet behind him, back leaned languidly against the wall. 

Leke. He had lost so much weight. His eyes were sunken, in them was no twinkle, no sparkle, none of the life that I had seen every day for the past four years. We stood there and stared at each other for what seemed like a full minute. 

I took a step forward, unsure. My eyes never left his.

What did his skin feel like? I couldn’t remember. His lips? It was a distant memory.

I took another step. Then another.

I flung my arms around him, his arms hung limply by his side.

A small smile tugged at Abigail’s lips. She pushed herself off the wall, shielded her eyes with her sunglasses and made her way towards the gate.

My eyes followed her.

If you seek forgiveness, you must first forgive. 

It was the voice again.

All along, all she wanted was this—me here, with Leke, doing the right thing.  In that moment, she looked back.

My lips mouthed: I forgive you.

Fresh tears made her swim in my vision, but not before I saw that huge smile spread across her face.

I didn’t want forgiveness. I whispered this in Leke’s ear. I needed it. Desperately. For a minute, I thought he didn’t hear me.

As my tears dampened his shoulders, I felt it—first it was light as a feather—a touch. His fingers grazed the small of my back, seemingly unsure, uncertain, hesitant. Then he drew me in—both arms—they wrapped around me like vines in an embrace that could only be called grace.

At long last, we were home.

---

Epilogue

Ajibade closed the gate and stepped into the quiet residential street. He walked about half a kilometer to the end of Garrison, and took a sharp left unto Kareem street, and strolled to where the road met with Bonva street. On the corner, sitting outside the old green kiosk sat Ernest. His shaven head glimmered in the dull glow of dusk.

Ajibade hollered at the woman who sold recharge cards a few feet away. She brought him a stool and reminded him that he owed her 500 naira.

He waved her away. She too like money. He told Ernest.

Ernest chewed on the white of a garden egg. Ajibade’s mouth watered. They talked about Jare and Ngozi. Ngozi had returned. With her, the hugest area boys he had ever seen! They found Jare in the BQ with some girl. Ajibade had taken Jare to the hospital; Ngozi locked the house and left with the children. 

But they wouldn’t need a gateman now? Ernest was worried for his friend. Of course, they did, someone had to let the gardener and cleaners to maintain the house. Ngozi would never leave the house unattended. Ernest was riveted. Where was Jare then? Jare was still at the hospital. The last time Ajibade had gone over to see him, there was a cheerful, young nurse present. He seemed comfortable.  

Ajibade asked about Lani. Lani had started a business selling “pancake” to women. Ajibade looked at him strangely then nodded—haa!  the things women put on their faces to look pretty. Leke had left the ministry- just for a while. Ernest had never seen them so happy together.

Ajibade wrinkled his nose. She’d never change—cheating women were all the same. 

He talked about the woman in house number 30, who was cheating with two brothers from Unilag. And Mrs. Salami too, Ernest piped in, mouth full of garden egg bits. They were both cheating, husband and wife—the Salamis, Ajibade corrected. The man in number 28 was dating the child of the Inspector General of police. Ajibade stared out into the street, at the houses, all seemingly perfect with Roman columns and French windows.

The first time Jare had handed him a wad of cash, he had wondered about it. He had brought in a girl to the BQ* successfully and since then, the wad came in bits. Every time Lani came by, his boss tipped him just a little more. And the day, he threatened to tell Ngozi, Jare placed N10,000 under his old mattress. It was when Lani shoved some money at him that he knew this could be his way out of poverty. Never had he had a more financially buoyant month.

As both men sat watching the evening activity on the street, the thought came to them both—gently and unrushed— they would buy and sell what they saw. They would sell their silence. They would start with the man who was cheating on his wife with the I.G’s daughter. Ernest offered his friend a garden egg, eyes focused on nothing as I’m a trance. They both chewed slowly— calmly. Ernest dreamt about a motorbike and Ajibade thought about his wife—the cheating one. Money would keep her at home, maybe? He took another bite, saliva flooding his mouth as he began to chew.

Yes, money would keep her at home. 

                            The End  

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Love Bite: Entry #10

This fictional series contains Nigerian slangs and some inappropriate use of diction. This is for the proper portrayal of the character.

Love Bite #10

Ajibade opened the peephole in the pedestrian gate.

His eyes darkened with a scowl, “Wetin?”

“Open the gate.”

“Oga no dey.”

“You are the one abi?”

“That what?”

“You are helping him with all this? It was you at the window that night. God will punish you!”

Ajibade opened the gate. He was dressed in old mid-calf denim shorts and a grey, distressed t-shirt with the words, “Over It” written in white canvas letterings. The ‘o’ was almost completely gone.

He muttered under his breath,“Na you God go punish…”

“So you are helping Niran record?”

“No o! No be me.” His face was straight, “I no help Mr. Niran with anything.”

“So who dey for window that day? With light?”

His eyes found the stones on the floor and shrugged.

I groaned. He made me want to strangle him. My fingers found two folded thousand naira notes in my back pocket. I shoved them in his palm; his fist closed around them in a crunch.

His dark, sweat-dampened face twisted in a frown, “Na me dey for window. Nothing dey der...I just dey look, but I no help Mr. Niran do anything.”

I felt sick. To think he was watching. He probably did all the time. 

“They tell me make I shine light next time wey you come.”

“Who?”

He looked to the ground again. He eyes looked for missing objects between the cracks in the cement. Another note. 500 naira this time. 

“Na one woman wey dey follow Mr. Niran here.”

Tayo?

“Is she dark? Big woman?” I wiggled my hips, trying desperately to describe Tayo’s curvy figure. 

“No. She no dark. Yellow like pawpaw. Dey wey glasses. Her eye pencil na super.” He drew an upside down tick in the air.

“She dey call herself Abimbola. Abi Abim…”

Abim? Who was Abim?

“Whether na Abimbola, I no no. Her name sha na Abi or Abim.”He shrugged.

Abi?

Abi!

My Abi?!

A light breeze lifted my top from my body, and in the distance the sky rumbled with thunder.  

The chill seeped quickly into my bones.  

Abi? It couldn’t be.  

---

Lightening streaked the navy Lagos sky as I stepped out of the dark gate of house 21. I heard the metal gate close behind me and Ajibade murmuring to himself. Abigail knew about this? I walked briskly to the Main Street off Garrison. Surely the okadas and napeps would be near-blind in the impending storm, but I took my chances. I got into the first napep tricycle I found and we drove to Abigail’s apartment. It was impossible. She is my best friend. She had always been there. Always...

By the time we pulled up, the rain was pouring. I paid the man, who muttered that he had no change. I stepped out into the rain, and walked to the gate under the gaze of the napep man. He was yelling about my change. She lived in the Boy’s Quarters of a four-flat building in Gbagada. The security man let me in and with unhurried steps I made it to her door.

The glass pane rattled as my fists hammered on her door. I knocked again. Now, I wouldn’t stop knocking. Soon, the knock became distant, drowned in the patter of the rain. 

“Who is it?” Her voice rang, “Don’t break my glass o! Moshood, is that you?”

The door swung open and she stopped short. 

“Lani. What are you doing here?” Her hand went to her chest. Her brows rose above the rims of her glasses.

“Come out of the rain! You’re drenched!” Her fingers grasped my arm.

Was that concern I saw in her eyes? How rich. 

“How could you do this to me?” I tore my arm away. My voice shook.

“Can you come out from the rain?”

“You’ve ruined everything.”It was almost a whisper. 

“I don’t know what you are on about.” She shook her head.

“You knew about the videos!” I wheezed.

Her lips tightened into a knot. Her fists sat on her hips.

“I’m not having this conversation in the rain. I just fixed my hair.”

Why did you do it?”I asked.

She leaned her weight on one leg, her hip popped. 

“I was tired of your whining. I was tired of Niran’s whining. You destroyed the guy, you know? And I had to hear all of it from him!”She snapped.

”You cheated on Leke before you got married”, She continued, “Then you got married and you thought you’d stop, like marriage is a wand that transforms cheats into saints!”

Rain water streamed into my mouth as it in widened in disbelief.  She continued, “Leke isn’t home, so you cheat. You reported Niyi. He could have lost his job. Lost his livelihood. Did you think about that? Do you even think? Do you think about anything other than yourself?  What about me? Do you ever ask me about me?!” Her voice rose louder with each word.

Her eyes blazed under the sharp arches of those furrowed brows.

“Do you know I started seeing someone?” She asked, “No. You don’t care. Do you ever ask about my work, my new business?”

”And this justifies why you just ruined my life?”I wiped away the rain from my eyes, or was it the tears…

“ ‘MY’”,Her eyes rolled,” It’s always about you. What about all the other lives that your selfish actions have ruined? Niran, Leke, Ngozi!”

“Abi, you are my friend!” My tears lost in the rain, “I don’t care how selfish I am. You don’t do this!” 

“It is what it is.”She shrugged.

“That’s all you’re going to say? You were going to post the video at Leke’s conference?”

She raised her penciled-in brow.

“But you called, text, held me, when it spread around the office… All this while…you were sending the videos…you sent it to Leke—”

“Sending it to Leke—that wasn’t my idea. You wouldn’t fess up to tell him. I told you to a million times. You’d never listen.”

“When Niran told me about what he was doing I tried to cover for you. But to be honest, I thought if you saw it…if you saw yourself cheating…you’d stop. If you thought someone knew, you’d stop. I told the gateman to scare you off a little.”

I scoffed, water splattering from my mouth.  

“You are probably solely and successfully the worst thing that ever happened to me—” 

“No, Lani”,She turned her body fully to me, “You are the worst thing that ever happened to yourself. You are caustic to yourself and everyone—”

“—Oh shut it! You are just sad. And what stupid business do you have? The makeup retail?! Really?! Well, I see you’ve built a mansion from that success”, I threw a hand at her rented apartment behind her.

She flinched, then she went back to stone. 

For a second, we both said nothing.

“Lani. Look, I’d apologize if I thought you deserved it.”

I took a long look at her, then turned on my heels and walked towards the gate. 

The street was lonely, save for a man in a suit running for cover from the rain.  A cab approached, and at the wave of my hand pulled up next to me. As we drove along, I thought about Abi. About Leke. About Jare, his life was fine. Mine was a mess.

He deserved the mess just as much. I wondered if his wife was on Facebook, then I wondered how Abigail slept at night.  

My phone vibrated against my thigh as I got out of the taxi.

Leke?

My heart sank at the sound of a stranger’s voice. He was calling with regard to the missing person inquiry. 

They had found someone with Leke’s description. Families were already arriving to identify bodies involved in the crash.

Hello? I heard the voice say. The line got disconnected and if he called back I didn’t know. My jaw hung loose. A cry escaped from my throat. It sounded far away. My knees buckled and hit the rain-drenched tar which paved Garrison street, just as the orange street light came on for the night. 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

 Love Bite Finale out soon!