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

Reminder: Someone’s Got You

Three days ago, my son and I were in our living room. He was sitting on the floor playing with his new little truck, while I was cuddled up in a blanket, watching a Christmas-themed Rom Com—because already the weather outside is frightful...in November, and it’s expected of me to spend my Saturdays watching these delightful Christmas movies.

Suddenly, a bug appeared! I won’t describe this thing to you but imagine your two least favorite bugs met on bug-tinder and had a baby. Yeah. shivers.

And it was coming for my baby.

You all know I can be dramatic  sometimes. Well, this was sometimes.

I flew off the couch, the dark blanket airborne and in one swoop, I carried Asher, lifted our sofa(because the silly vermin renavigated there) and somehow I grew a third arm to vanquish this creepy-crawly foe.

I was not playing.

I personally was fascinated by my valor and speed. If I was by myself, I’d have screamed, jumped on our dining table and called Ed on the phone to cry about it. Well... insert superhero theme song... there’s a baby now and, and I have a cape and whatnot, now I lift sofas and fly to the rescue.

It made me think about how God would completely storm a situation to protect His kids—us, break up the sky, throw the furniture out-the-window to rescue us and keep us safe from harm, He’d throw himself on the line for us, choose to get whipped in our place, He’d die first before He sees us harmed…guess He did that already, huh?

Aren’t you just glad you have a dad who would loves and protects with all of Himself?

 How are you?

Talking Donkeys

Balaam and his donkey are the stars of one of the most alarming stories in the bible. God is patient. Oh my! Like, he is repeat-myself-to-you-a-million-times kinda patient. The kind of God, in my experience who will repeat himself to you until you act. 5 bucks says He had spoken to Balaam in many ways and sent many other people to tell him the very same message- his mum, his mother-in-law, his granny, his neighbor’s granny, but Balaam wouldn’t listen. At wits end, his donkey speaks too! Donkey had had it. Everyone is telling you the same thing, Balaam. Get it together, bro.

Me, as Balaam

God has been talking to me about something. Two things in fact. The very same things, I’ve heard them at least from 8 people over the last 3 weeks. That’s alot. Of course, every time I hear it I break into an eerie knowing smile which creeps the person out and that pleases me somewhat. More importantly, for whatever reason, I’d hear the instruction, grunt my religious good-word-good-word Christian grunt and nod my Christian nod in agreement with the messenger and then do nothing! Lol. Not funny at all. 

This is definitely the same way Balaam started—Instruction, grunt, glory hallelujah, good word, disobey. Instruction, grunt, amen, tongues, disobey, the cycle continues.

God keeps sending messengers. That’s who he is. He really wants you to get it.

The key is to obey before animals start speaking to you. Donkeys. Dogs. Pigeons. Cats. *Shivers* Of all the animals though, a cat would be the creepiest.

I have cats in my building. Blink.

I best obey.

 Anything He has been telling you to do? 

Jurisdiction to Love

As a woman, I have deluded myself into believing that I can change anyone I want to—like a fairy godmother with a restless wrist and a sparkly wand, turning pumpkins into carriages and mice to noble steeds. I have carried this belief from dating, into my friendships, into family, into work, into teams, into almost every aspect of my life. If you’re a woman, maybe you have too?

So, do people really change? Of course they do. I, myself am constantly changing everyday! My 2016 self wouldn’t even recognize me. Hey, girl! *Smacks lips*

I guess the question is, is it my job to change people? And who bestowed this responsibility on me. I guess women just have this natural propensity for identifying an ideal state of things and willing their loved ones in that chosen way.

*Shrug* What can we say? 

I have realized though that it’s not my job to change people.

It’s my job to love them.

It’s my job to correct them, if it’s within my jurisdiction, but it’s always my jurisdiction to love.

I like that.

It’s easy!

Why didn’t anyone tell me this before? Do men do this too—try to change people? 

P.s Good luck if you’re trying to change someone you’re dating and Godspeed if your working on changing a spouse.

*Laughing in Cantonese*

Back in the Saddle with a Car Seat

I’m back. I say that too often. But I am. Back in the blogging saddle, baby. The only difference now is that I have a car seat behind my proverbial saddle. I have a little one. A mini Ed. Best feeling.

Describe the feeling? It’s like heaven, hard work and fun had a baby, that baby is the feeling of having a baby. I’ve confused us all. Haven’t I? Shrug.

So the big question, “Ike, are we going to start seeing titles such as ‘5 positions to burp your baby while in a car seat’ or ‘8 ways to purée avocados and beets’?”

No.

I’m still the same ol’ me! Only now I have superior skills in multi-tasking, clipping tiny baby nails , doing the Rafikki baby-lift while singing 'Circle of life' and singing non-traditional lullabies remixes of actual nursery rhymes, worship songs, and Daft Punk (It is the sci-fi age after all).

I may mention mamahood sometimes but predominantly, it’s still fiction, love, and God for you and me. Oh, glee.

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

How to Avoid Buyer's Remorse in Marriage (If You Are Single)

Over the last few years, being married to Ed has taught me one thing— read reviews. The guy reads reviews like it’s a Jeffery Archer novel. I’m usually one click away from my online purchase when I hear his voice in my head, “Have you read the reviews?”Even better, I’m at the store and the item is in my cart and I’m eager to buy that baby, when he comes up to me, places the item back on the shelf and says, “I just read reviews, it has two stars online.” 

I admit, it’s frustrating but he has a point. Every single time, he rescues me from buyer’s remorse. I’m also a bad loser when it comes to regrettable purchases. Once I realize I have bought an inferior item, I literally can’t sleep. I take my receipt to bed with me (not kidding, lol), and at the crack of dawn, after a shower and breakfast(because those have to be had) I’m off to the store with the product and my rumpled receipt. 

While we all follow wedding blogs and IG accounts, and we "uhh!" and "aww" at those photos, a lot of married people suffer from Buyers' Remorse. Buyers remorse is basically an unpleasant feeling of regret you feel when you realize you’ve bought an inferior product or basically a feeling of discontent with a purchase you considered valuable. If you’re anti-buyers-remorse like me, it’s a great idea to read reviews before getting married. 

How do you do that? 

Wouldn't it be great if we had an online platform which reviews to-be-spouses like reviews.com does for all things consumer goods?

Until then, the best way to avoid buyer’s remorse as a single person is *drumroll* by objectively observing this dreamboat-person of yours and also observing the quality of your relationship; by listening to the honest opinion of people who love you genuinely (not haters, you’ll know the difference); by observing how he treats others and his family; if you are insane enough— by asking his ex for reviews *side eye* (chances are she will block you and report your account across all social networks). She'd be a wonderful resource though *pensive*. Probably not the best idea you and I have ever had.

Paying attention to reviews work wonders though, with any purchase, especially an intended purchase who intends to share your living space and toothbrush *blink*. Once you’ve done your homework, you’d know whether to zoom straight to the cashier with this awesome steal or put that baby back on the shelf... way back on the shelf! 

What are your thoughts? 

4 Things I wish I knew on Dating Boulevard

This post isn’t sponsored by reviews.com. They just write objective, honest reviews and I like that.