Glad For Some

It has been such a magnificent year. I turned 30, and I matured like a fine bottle of insert your favorite wine.

I met the most charming little boy who lived inside me for months, came out and now laughs and eats and poops. Babies are a mystery to me. I can explain it physiologically of course—the sequence of the birds and the bees. There’s embedding in the uterine wall, the development of the umbilical cord, the legal siphoning of my food without permission, the kicks, the getting on and leaning on my nerves(literally)in vivo. It still is a mystery. Did you know you can feel your baby hiccup inside you? 

Fascinating.

One day, I’ll share my pregnancy journal on the blog. It’s hilarious.  It has titles like “The war against umami”, “I can smell the toilet down the street” and “Chin hair—Becoming Gandalf.”

2018 was a fantastic year of self-reflection, discovery and love.  

I made some new friends. I learned. I grew up! I relearned to love. I relearned to write.

And I have some people to thank.

Have you ever met people who you are just glad their parents made them? That daddy bought flowers(or suya) that night, that mummy flirted and pulled his mustache (or however mothers flirted in the 70’s and 80’s) and things happened and this awesome person was born?

I’m grateful to have you in my life. I’d say you know who you are and I know you do, but I’ll just call you out anyway:

Ed (I thank you in every language on earth and in heaven)

Itunu

Abidemi

Akofa

Damilola

Djeneba

Ehi

Thank you for being in my life and for a wonderful 2018. Have the best new year.

xx

Happy New Year, Everyone!

Drafts

I have been working on a short story series which has somewhat grown into this colossal giant on me. It was supposed to be published weeks ago, but now I’m at this place where the protagonist is standing on quick sand in a river, shin-deep, with arrows pointed at her from the shore and crocodiles napping at her ankles and head! Whatever is going to happen?! Gasp!

Only my fingers know. 

My brain doesn’t know. My fingers know everything.

Well, my fingers and the protagonist. 

I’d love to be a published author and sell many, many books. I’d like to share my world with many strangers, family and friends. I hear most times your friends/family actually don’t read or buy your book. That’s the worst. It used to bother me in the past that some of my friends wouldn’t read my blog, but not so much anymore. Those who do already mean a lot to me and my parents read it and ask after it, so... 

Recent inquires from my mom:

Mom: Pages by Ike, why can’t I open your email on my phone? (She calls me Pages by Ike) Lol.

Mom: In “Lafia”, what happened? What did the dog see?

Side eye. Describing a sex scene to your mom is not what every writer has ever dreamt about.  

It’s like George R.R Martin’s mom asking, “What did the little Stark boy see before he fell off the tower?!”

“Err…you see mom, Cersi and Jamie are twins but…”

I don’t remember how I cringed my way out of that one, but I am grateful she reads it, and my dad reads it too! 

I am grateful for all you who read my blog. You must either really like me, really like literary work, or really dislike me. I hope it’s the second. Seriously, your readership has developed my writing extensively, and for that I am grateful.

Have the best week! 

“The dustbin is your friend. It was invented for you... by God!”

Margaret Atwood, On writing

Photo by Ed Adegboye (Taken 2016)

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.

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!  

The Best Social Media Analogy I Ever Heard

The images on social media are like the case of the Newscaster who sits at his desk, perfect hair, airbrushed-water-based makeup on, tie knotted, shirt crisp. He begins to speak, everything is excellent. Then the director yells, “Cut!”

He gets up from his chair, and the truth is revealed—he’s wearing no pants. His shirt hangs over a pair of baggy briefs. He tears the velcro tie from his shirt and yells for some beer while scratching his behind.

Summary, nothing is as it appears in reality, and especially on social media. 

We only ever see people put their best forward online. And can you blame us? We only curate happy memories, the bad memories would rather be forgotten. Plus everyone would like to be considered with dignity and not remembered for beating up a family member in the elevator (hey, no shade thrown). So everyone puts up happy family portraits; no one puts up a photo when cutie and you are having an argument, although I think, I might do this one day. One for the gram. Everyone puts up adorable baby photos, never photos of the screaming not-so-adorable baby who hasn’t slept in 6 hours; they do not Snapchat their toddler chewing indecipherable stuff from the floor either. No one puts up their credit card balance, but you see the Ferragamo logo. And just to drive home my point, I will never Snapchat my charred plantains, because charred plantains bring everyone joy and cheer...said no one ever.  

Don’t let yourself be overwhelmed by what other people’s lives look like on camera. That tie maybe velcro and those hair extensions too. On the other hand, they also maybe real. Either way, be joyful about the lives others are blessed with and content with all you have. 

The analogy cracks me up. Nonetheless, it shouldn't comfort us that these people’s lives may not be what they seem, in fact we should extend all human goodwill and pray they are as they appear in public or online—pray that couple is truly happy, that Ferrari hasn’t broken the bank, that baby is truly a toothless saint(right), that tie isn’t velcro and everyone has pants on. It’s the decent, human thing to do.

Do you ever post not-so-perfect photos? Ever have social media envy?

Analogy from my brother, Akin.

Love Bite: Entry #9

Love Bite #9

For the first time in a long time, I got on my knees and prayed. Leke had been missing for four days; I couldn't go to work; I still didn't know who was sending the videos. It was a mess- a hot mess.

I heard God likes hot messes. He could fix them.

Please bring Leke home. 

It was all I could mutter. I laid my head on the bed, whispering those words over and over. Quickly, the bedsheets dampened with warm tears and my sobs, muffled against the soft cotton. If God heard me, he wasn't in a rush to respond. I stayed on my knees until the stiff protrusions of the rug tendrils digging into my knees faded away and I fell asleep.  I woke with a start to the vibration of my phone. I squinted at the screen. It was a text message. A strange number.

💬 Meet me at VTO V.I at 9.

I arrived at VTO lounge a little before 9 pm. I half expected to see Leke, but Leke wouldn’t know Lagos’ new hookah lounge. Spotlights bounced off the tiled floors, and the air carried a sweet, fruity smell that made me think of fruity lip balms I loved as a teenager. Along the walls were black booths, lit with soft, warm lights enshrouded in hookah smoke.

I looked at my watch. 8:54 pm. I kept walking, squinting through the smoke at each booth. Then I saw her. 

My brows creased. 

Tayo.

What was she doing here? It couldn’t be her. How did she get the videos? Why was she in the compound that night?

Without a word, I slid into the booth across from her.

Her expression was grim and her lips tight. 

She watched me settle in; the white of her large eyes even whiter in the dim lights of the bar.   

“I’m only here because…” She started, “Honestly…I don’t know why I’m here.”

”It was you?”I asked. It sounded more like an accusation than a question. 

”No”, Her large eyes ran over me, offended. 

“Who was it? Who is it?” I asked.

She took a deep breath,”Next week,  during your national church convention, one of the videos will be released.” My heart sank. What?! Why? How? My mind began to spin. Leke’s face flashed through my mind. 

She continued,“He has a friend…someone at your church I presume.”

“Who has a friend at my church?” My voice shook. “Who is doing this?” My throat grew salty with tears. What did I ever do to him? A tear tickled my cheek.

She looked at me, reached into her purse and offered me a pack of tissues.

She let out her breath with a sigh and rolled her large eyes. ”He’s scorned maybe. I don’t know.” For a second she looked sad, a little concerned. She spoke again, ”I always thought I’d be that woman who made a man forget any woman who ever ripped his heart out. But that’s not the case here.” She looked away like my tears made her uncomfortable. 

“I don’t know why he’s doing it. He’s still hung up on you, I suppose.”

I sniffled into the tissue. “Who?” 

 Then my eyes widened. It couldn’t be…

She cleared her throat.

”You were sleeping with Niran, while you were dating Leke. Even the night of your bridal shower... ” She shrugged.

My mouth was dry. The memory flashed through my mind. I had shown up at Niran’s apartment—the one he kept on the mainland away from his wife. I hate to remember all we did that night. I remember holding on to him like a lifeline. Niran had said he loved me and asked me not to marry Leke. He’d leave his wife too.

Tayo broke into the memory, ”Apparently, you decided to “settle down” and marry your husband. Left Niran high and dry.”

Her eyes bored into me. My gaze settled on the salt shaker on the table. 

”Anyway, it didn’t stop even after you were married. The first time as a missus, you vowed never to do it again blah, blah. Then it happened again.”Her tone was accusing.

“The third time, you filed a sexual harassment claim against Niran.”

”I know all of this”, I snapped. 

“No point getting testy. We side-chics need to bond together.”

”I am not a side chic”, My tone was ice. 

"Suit yourself", She shrugged.

She continued, a small smile on her lips,”Then Niran found out you were having an affair. Again. This time with his friend, Jare.”

"You know Niran?" Ngozi’s voice echoed in my mind. "Niran is Jare’s friend. Small world". Her voice lingered.

“We usually are at Niran's  apartment but his wife got wind of the secret apartment, so we started using Jare's pad. His wife is hardly in the country...so it works.”

I wasn’t breathing.

”The videos started as a joke. Niran would set up some fancy motion-sensitive camera”, She brushed away the details with a swing of her hand, “We’d record…stuff.”

“One day, he forgot to turn off the camera. When he retrieved it, you and Jare were on it. He talked about it all day, every day. He kept watching and watching. He was consumed with it. Since then, he’d leave the camera running.”

”I watched a few recordings,” She said excitedly,”You never imagine the girls they bring and what they do! I actually saw a family friend of mine and your friend—“

Tayo caught herself mid-sentence.

“What friend?” I frowned.

“Look. I’m telling you about this because it’s going out of hand. At first, he thought maybe having you on film would exonerate him. You had a habit. This would prove it. He told me once everyone knows what a phony you were, his name would be cleared. The more videos he watched, the less important clearing his name seemed to be. He wanted everyone to know. Everyone deserved to know, especially those who thought highly of you-your husband, your church, your friends, your colleagues." She said, "I’d even get the Marrakesh gig. So I just remained quiet and moonlighted your work."

”I leave for Marrakesh next week.”

She got to her feet,”There’s someone helping him.” Her braids swept over the bar table as she flipped her locks. 

She tucked a few 200 Naira notes under her coaster for her drink. And without another word, she walked away from the table, out of the dim lights into the spot-lit area and out of the lounge.

The thump-ump of my heart echoed in my ears. Niran. A swallow tried in vain to moisten my gritty throat. 

It wasn’t something I was proud of—reporting Niran. I had been sure that the affair would stop. It didn’t. Overcome with guilt, I filed a harassment claim. I had sexts and texts to prove. I figured if it became an official case, we would stop.

The lie caught on. It surprised me how easily it did. I was suddenly the victim—the pastor’s wife who supported her husband and needed a promotion from a demanding, womanizing boss. Niran kept his job but was on probation. No other company would touch him with a 9-foot pole.

I wasn’t proud of what I did but Leke came first.

He always did. I didn’t know where he was tonight. A dull fear spread throughout my chest. Had something happened to Leke?

Please bring him home, I muttered again.

My mind drifted again to Niran. I remembered his poker face as I spoke to him and Dami Pedro. He seemed genuinely concerned and eager to assist.

There’s someone helping him. Tayo’s voice echoed in my mind. 

Yes, there was. 

And I knew who.

Copyright ©2017 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Love Bite: Entry #8

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

Love Bite #Entry 8

Leke had vanished. For three days now, I got to hear the annoying, high pitched voice which announced that his phone was off. He wasn’t at the church, neither was he at Pastor Remi’s. He hadn’t spoken to his siblings in six weeks. His mother suspected nothing when I asked if he had called her to say hello, instead she began to talk about grandchildren. Somewhere in her lament, I heard a sniffle. She was coming to see us, she announced choking back her tears, she’d arrive in two weeks-- right after the Women of Proverbs 31 Global conference. This year was the year she would carry her grand babies. 

After several unhelpful calls, I focused on calling Leke’s phone every ten minutes.

On the evening of the third day of his disappearance, Abigail drove me to the police station, and we filed a missing person’s report.

The lanky policeman had snickered as I scribbled Leke’s profession on the form. 

Pastor.

“Maybe he don runaway with one choir mistress for church with tin leg.”He joked, the bulge in his neck bobbed as he chuckled.

By day four, I sat at home, numb, exhausted. I wanted us to move on, to get past this. That was what I had told him that night he saw me stepping out of Jare’s car. He had listened quietly as I spoke about Jare and I. It had meant nothing. He meant nothing to me. I said it over and over. 

I told him about the videos.

I told him about the gateman; of Ngozi.

I kept hoping he’d interrupt me, maybe throw the coffee table against the wall, scream at me. Instead, he leaned against the backrest of the armchair, his chin cradled in his palm, his eyes glazed over. A part of me wished his eyes would cloud up with tears. They were clear. Dry. 

“You slept with this man over and over”, His tone was even, “While I was building a dream for us?”

Building a dream for you. I thought to myself. I didn’t grow up as a little girl dreaming of the day I’d be married to a Pastor, wearing strange hats and having people call me Mummy. 

“You aren’t home.” I said. Almost a whisper.

“But clearly he is.” His tone was controlled, disciplined, like a trained counselor‘s.

Was this how all couples talked about these things?

”How many times did it happen?” He leaned his upper body on one elbow and his other hand lay on his knee. 

”Leke, is it really necessary? I—“

”It is.”

”A couple of times—“

He leaned forward in a flash. The thunder of his fist on the glass stool jarred me.

”How many?!” Still, he didn’t yell.

”Seventeen.”

”Seventeen!” He was chuckling now, a low, almost secret chuckle. The glass had cracked.

“All in that house? And you didn’t get caught? Until that night?”

I remained still.

”Leke, it didn’t mean anything.”

”Did you think of me at all? While you were with him?”

The silence spoke for me.

“I want to be with you. Not him.” I wished he’d scream at me and not lecture me like a child.

“And at that, I should be delighted?”

“Leke...”

He got to his feet and walked into the bedroom. Three heartbeats passed, then I followed him. The bedroom door was locked. I kept knocking. 

I spent the night on the sofa. In the morning, our bedroom door lay wide open.

Leke was gone.

Copyright ©2017 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye