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

Where Do Broken (Male) Hearts Go?

Where do broken hearts go?

If you said “the heartbreak hotel”, congratulations, you just dated yourself. You are right though, kinda. According to several studies, broken female hearts go to “the heart break hotel”, a place where they cry, delete and/or burn relationship keepsakes and memorabilia, cry some more on a friend’s shoulder, rant and sing-along to sad pop songs. For the broken male hearts, many of them go into a dark alley, which I call “the hole”—a place where they bottle up their feelings, grow a beard, drink a little too much and desperately seek distractions to preoccupy their minds. After being here a while, it’s no surprise they end up enrolling in the greatest institution of all time— the Royal Academy of Heartbreakers (RAH).

Yes, it would appear that heartbroken people tend to go to either of these two places when their hearts have been ripped out of their chests—the Heartbreak hotel(HH) or the Royal Academy of Heartbreakers (RAH).

As you would imagine, at the RAH, students acquire the unique skill set of breaking hearts, after taking the mandatory first year prerequisite of Emotional Dissociation and a 4-unit course in Commitment Unavailability. 

Eventually, they graduate with flying, soaring colors, wearing their academic hats, and are handed their certificates along with a pitch fork. They are released in legions into society, where they make their alma mata proud by sweeping through Ladiesville and leaving many shattered hearts in their wake. The female survivors of Ladiesville then check into heartbreak hotel...It’s all a vicious cycle.

Research shows breakups have a more devastating effect on men than on women. Mainly because they don’t choose the most effective way to heal. You know, beard..."the hole"...bottles of ale...rebounds. And no, the best way to get over someone isn’t by getting under someone else. The hurt and pain still stand unresolved. 

Men aren't endowed with the emotional support women get so freely from friends and family and men lack safe spaces to express how they truly feel in every step of their healing process. I personally believe they deserve a safe place where they can bawl their eyes out, etch gothic scribblings on walls, chew their toe nails, shower once in two months and munch on dry cereal. Or at least have the option of wearing duo-tone spandex while wailing and miming to Taylor Swift songs in their bathroom mirror. They deserve the safe space to process their emotions so they can recover properly. 

According to Dr. Miller of the University of Utah, *heads up, sports/orthopedic analogy* when a rookie suffers from a fracture or bone injury, there’s a chance their bones may not heal right . This is usually because they may undergo non-operative treatment, in other words, they don’t select the right treatment plan for their fracture. This results in malalignment of the bone. This mutation is sometimes visibly observable in some patients. You can tell a mile away. When the proper healing route isn’t selected, sometimes, there’s a malformation. (Men, note that I chose sports and bones as an analogy because it’s all macho and stuff. You are welcome.)

When a heart doesn’t heal right, then out come the pitch forks.

This guy surely has a pitch fork.

It’s a great idea for your heart to heal the right way. But how do you know your heart is healed?

Answer: It’s available to love again, wisely but genuinely. You also don’t own a pitch fork, you aren’t in possession of little black books (or the modern day equivalent, whatever that is) and you aren’t a renowned creep on dating websites. And of course, your beard is grown for a good cause. Of course. 

What do you think? Did you heal right from all your past relationships? Do you think men get enough emotional support in their heart break journeys? 

Related posts you'd love: Get Over Him On A Budget!  &  The Sunny Side Of Your Breakup!

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

When Your SuperHero Bleeds

Warning: Personal blog entry

Before Wonder Woman grew out her hair and got so hot, I was a fan. I loved her outfit; her sweet heart bodice, her star-spangled boy shorts and red boots. She was the only female superhero back then, so I wasn't spoiled for choice. So fave she was.

I had a few not-so-fictional super heroes too.

My entire family were my heroes, my parents and siblings. My cousins, aunties and uncles, older friends, a dozen fave teachers, headmistress, my proprietress! They really were made of titanium, indestructible; they dove in headlong, strong, breathed fire, saved the day. 

Well, I'm getting much closer to 30 and with that age comes this clarity and insight into the cracks in humanity. A few months ago, I came face to face with a revelation about some of my heroes, after whom I had named certain life lessons, theories and principles. 

One of them came out and told me this truth and I couldn't deny my disappointment. The other hero made a significantly bad decision and couldn't shake this constant habit they had gotten into. I didn't know what to do.

What do you do when you realize you super heroes have kinks in their stories?

What do you do when you realize that Wonder Woman has an identity crisis; that Superman suffers from myopia and wears spectacles and is also susceptible to kryptonite; that Achilles’ heel is weak and makes him mortal.

I saw these heroes of mine who I looked up to in a different light, and that light wasn't flattering--hair disheveled, superhero spandex suits stuck between their butt cheeks. I saw them wiping their noses on their sleeves; and staggering a little, unsure, uncertain and severely human. 

At first, I was hit with disappointment and I struggled with the disappearance of the glimmer that hallowed them so. It was like discovering Santa is a kleptomaniac or that your mentor has been arrested for fraud. It broke my heart. Then I looked closer.

I watched the hesitation in their eyes before they took steps, I saw them put up brave faces and hide their scars.

I saw their fragility and frailty.

And then it dawned on me, even heroes have a right to bleed*. They are allowed to falter and goof. Now, instead of despising them for their frailty, and for ruining my childhood fantasies, my heart warms up, as I am able to identify with them. I am actually able to reach out and touch them; to know they are real. To hold them in my arms. To hold their tears but honor them for their greatness, to hold them in higher regard than I ever did. Now to my respect for them, I have added love, one without condition. I'm able to love my broken Wonder Women and Super Men with their tired rubbery spandex and faded wind-fluttering capes.

These days they wear cotton, and sometimes linen, but hands on their hips, eyes on the horizon, in the nick of time they still save the day. 

-Dedicated to“Gigi” and“Riri” my heroes.

 Reference: *Line from Superman-Five for Fighting

8 Amazing (and Scary) People who Pop Up when I Google Myself

Yes, I googled myself. Like you don't. Hold off on all judgement, there’s time for that after the post. So, that fine evening, I googled myself and I was quite surprised at the people who populated the google images page. If I were to infer the nature of my personality by the faces that popped up, I might say; motivated, spicy, creative and scary. But of course, these people have nothing to do with my personality, it’s just some algorithmic processes which have linked somehow in cyber space to them. Person #4 literally caused me to wonder and frightened me considerably! Lol.

Here they are:  

1. Pastor Adeboye: Yay! 
2. Taribo West: Err? Why? What? How?
3. Prez M. Buhari: Well, well *raised brow*
4. Gen. Sani Abacha: Gasp! No! What do we have in common except for the love of metal-rimmed aviator lenses?
5. TY Bello: Aww! 
6. Tara Fela-Durotoye: Awwww #2! 
7. Michelle Obama: Hi, there!
8. Ofada stew: *corner of lips raise in smirk* Yes, Ofada stew is a person…with feelings. 

Who pops up when you google yourself? Oh yeah, now you can judge!

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!  

What To Do When You Know The Answer To Your Friend’s Conundrum

One of the coolest things about being you is your field of expertise. There are just some areas in life in which you excel exceedingly and dramatically; whether it’s the sector of financial planning, finding love, chasing ambition, making people feel like a million bucks, giving wise advice, excellent work ethics, tunnel vision, romance, sex, adventure, doing a back flip- whatever it is…you just kill it and everyone loves you for it. 

The second coolest thing about you is the ability to identify the deficit of this skill of yours in another person’s life, i.e watching someone you know struggle with making a decision which comes quite easily to you. 

For example, your friend could say: 

“My boss hates me. I don’t know what to do.”

“He hit me and I don’t know whether to leave.”

“I earn 200 grand but I have zero savings.”

“Oh! Missionary?! That’s what it’s called? Well, there’s no other way to do it…is there?” 

*insert Dwight Shrute side eye with a smile*

The cool thing isn’t watching them squirm with the perplexity of decision-making, but it’s in knowing you know the answer but choose not to interfere with their decision making process…unless they ask for it. You might think a true friend would interfere. Relatively true, but only to some extent will your interference be genuinely appreciated. 

I recently struggled with a decision I had to make. The required skills and thought process of this issue, however, came very easily to my friend. He let me know what his suggestion was. Of course, I kicked at the idea wildly, like a goat at an abattoir. 

He just kept looking at me as I struggled with the decision. A real toughie it was...to me anyway. I eventually took his suggestion. 

But the beauty of it was in him letting me go through the motions of decision making; denial, freaking out, the still, the acknowledgement of my apparent incompetence, asking for help and guidance, praying and then making the right decision. 

He didn’t try to force me or insist his way was right and mine was shabby. He didn’t mandate but suggested. He guided and didn’t legislate. He put it out there and let me come to the realization of the wisdom myself.  

We can’t force people to take our expert advice. There’s just more satisfaction watching them flail around initially like an abattoir goat. Grin. Once you’ve presented your wisdom, they’ll ease into it at their own time or not at all. Shrug. It’s a blessing knowing I don’t have to make decisions for others. That’s not what we really are made for. We are made to excel and guide. And to snicker at abattoir-goat friends. 

What are your thoughts?! 

Mary’s Story: Script Flip

If you’ve ever been pregnant, or if you ever read that pamphlet your doctor gave you on that awkward day in front of your parents, you’d know that pregnancy is pretty much contingent on the Law of Cause and Effect. There’s just no other way. If perchance you are with child, then only you, God and Billy know what you have been up to.

There was one woman who did not obey this law, however, her name was Mary. She was not about this law at all. She defied probably every obstetrics/gynecology principle ever known to medicine. Many have tried to claim this same scientific defiance as the reason for their own mysterious pregnancies but ahem, c’mon…there’s always a Billy in there somewhere.

Mary was a virgin, promised in marriage to a carpenter called Joe. There was no cause in that relationship, but she got a fine load of effect. She is visited by an angel who tells her she will have a son as a virgin. 

Fast forward to present-day, everyone loves Mary; she was pure and chosen. She is always portrayed as this obedient, dove-like, scarfed woman with a modest look on her face in bible stories.

 No one ever stops and asks,“Did Mary have set life-plans and goals when Angel Gabriel showed up?”

Newsflash, she actually had plans. She really did. She wasn't just lying around waiting for her uterus to house“the One” who Isaiah prophesied about. She had plans! Plans to marry Joe. Wedding plans; the dress; vendor drama: Titus, the photographer, Marina, the cake sculptor; would she carry a bouquet of orchids or lilies? She had plans to build a home. Five-bedrooms or four? Minimalist or strewn with rustic mediterranean sculptures?! She had plans to have kids. Twin girls, then twin boys? Maybe triplets? She probably knew their names in her head. She probably had career goals too. Start-up or 9 to 5? 

Then comes Gabriel with a message from God—a plan from God. A very, very unusual plan. The ultimate flip-the-script-of-my-life plan! A meek and obedient virgin she was, but you must be kidding if you think she didn’t mull this new plan over in her mind. Her mind could very well have exploded with this ludicrous plan, thoughts colliding in her head...

“This plan may cause Joe to dump you like a hot potato,”

"Start up suspended for now."

"Do they sell maternity wedding dresses in Nazareth? *Gasp!* Will there even be a wedding?!"

“Your star-virgin reputation will surely be drenched in gutter goo now.”

“Amara and Dorcas will never believe”,

“Oh, yeah. Your first kid with Joe, who you dreamt about meeting all your life isn't going to be your first kid after all"

"Mae, you had carefully selected the name Michael-John-Scott-Afolarin as your baby’s first four names but that won't fly. His name is to be called Jesus.”

On a grander scale, another thought must have loomed, in the shadow of which the other thoughts would have paled: 

"This is a suicide mission."

According to Jewish law, a  woman who is pledged to a man, and then steps out on him, visits some Billy’s tent and gets pregnant will surely be stoned. Joe had every right to have her stoned.

She must have thought about these things. The Bible doesn't describe the internal struggle, still, I bet it was there. But she did it anyway. She humbly accepted God's will and suspended hers- a remarkable show of faith in the unseen. 

She laid aside her plans to be used by God. Interestingly, she wasn’t only a portal through which the savior was born, but she followed through on Jesus. She raised him(she could have abandoned him under a bridge and gotten on with life), but she was there throughout his life, even at calvary, she was there at the cross. She didn’t abandon this divine project. She laid aside her life and plans to be used for the project of salvation.

I don’t know about you but I’ve had plans and preferences since I was 2 years old. 18 months, actually.

However, God has a plan too; he’s had it for ages—before the foundations of the earth were created, he's had a plan. He offers it to me all the time but I stare at my own highlighted, segmented, neat blueprints, and many, many times I say through my actions, “God, your blueprints make no sense to me. They aren’t even blue! I can’t. Sorry. Shoo, Gabriel!”

I have fixed my ways.

His plan is always unique…and a little weird. That's what makes it so intriguing and perfect.  Don't try and understand it. If Mary and Joseph tried to understand, they’d have gone crazy. Trust in God’s plan; if it isn't weird, something is off. If it isn’t crazy; if it doesn’t defy the Law of Cause and Effect; if it doesn’t require faith; if it doesn’t make people mock and despise you, then bleh, clearly then it’s your plan. Ditch that, take on God’s plan. Trust in the unseen! You won't regret it.

How are your life plans coming along? Have you considered God's plans too?