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

Why Your Friend Won’t Leave The Guy Hitting Her

“He beats her up all the time! And she won’t leave! Does she have a death wish?!” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a concerned friend lament this way, I would be able to buy myself a fine cup of herbal mint tea, every morning, for three months straight.

You start by asking your friend nicely, to leave an abusive, unhealthy relationship, then you scream at her, then you stare at her disbelieving as she claims to love him still, then you drag her things out of the guy's house and then, the next morning, just before it crows, the cock chokes on his morning call as he watches your friend wobble back to her abusive boyfriend’s house.

Before you completely rule out your friend as a lost cause and burn the t-shirts you made in solidarity for her human rights , consider that this may not entirely be her fault.

It just might be da..da..dum…biology’s fault.

Could biology really be the reason your friend has refused to leave her twisted, abusive relationship?

As I prepared this post, I thought to myself,  “Being beat-up is so stressful.” The last time I got smacked might have been in primary (elementary) school. Primary four. Long brown cane. Right before break-time. My favorite teacher. Noisemakers list...just because the class captain was hating. Sigh. (Haters be hating, even in the 90's). Can you even believe I would make noise, guys? Really, me?

Anyway, being beaten up is stressful and could be classified as harmful to a person’s well-being.  During stressful events, humans respond with the famous "Fight or Flight" response; this involves seeing a heavy, hairy arm coming your way, preparing to slap your face, and you instinctively choose, either to duck and run or to brace yourself for a serious show-down. During this time, our heart rates increase, our breathing quickens, our pupils dilate, more blood is supplied to our muscles, our awareness intensifies, equipping us for this blessed self-preservation mode.

So which one do women choose? Fight or Flight? Apparently, most times, women pass on both and choose a third option!

A study shows that when exposed to stress, men are likely to respond with the aggressive "Fight or Flight" response (known as the “punch him back in the teeth or disappearing act” response),  while women respond with the “tend and befriend” response, (also known as the “hang-around-and-rationalize-this-ish-until-it-might-be-too-late” response). Researchers from Monash University, Australia, believe this might be due to a 'SRY' gene present in men but absent in women. The absence of this gene in women, is compensated by estrogen (the emotional hormone) and internal opiates. Opiates are painkillers. Our bodies actually have internal painkillers! Opiates also get rid of confusion, pain and cause a feeling of well-being!

I can’t even believe this!

So after he has had a fine swipe at her, emotionally terrorized, kicked, slapped and sometimes even raped her…a woman may choose to stay with such a person by making decisions based on her emotions (estrogen-sourced), hoping he will change while using her internal medicine cabinet (opiates) to assume a false sense of well-being.

Don’t blame your friend for being tardy in ditching her abusive partner. It’s the way we are wired. 

There it is! The crazy explanation! I must say, it’s the explanation but it doesn’t have to be the excuse!

To any woman in an abusive relationship: You are too valuable to be hit, emotionally blackmailed or verbally humiliated. You actually shouldn’t remember the last time you were beaten or insulted by your significant other, unless you are like me and was severely hurt because your fave teacher beat you for a crime you didn’t commit and you had a Hater class captain!

Imagine being with someone who is the exact opposite, a genuinely caring and non-violent person who honors and gives you all the love and respect you deserve. He, actually, is out there and might be holding his breath till you arrive!

So will the abusive man change?

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but no, he won’t. (De ja Vu) The bad news is that he probably won’t change, the good news is that you don’t have to keep wondering if he will. Just fall out. Disappear. Duck. Run and kiss the crowing cock on his fence ,'Goodbye'.  We keep hoping things will get better with our wishes and crossed-fingers but according to Professor Angela Bahns, a Professor of Psychology at Wellesey College, Massachusetts...

“though the idea that partners influence each other is central in relationships research, we have identified a large domain in which people show very little change— personality, attitudes and values, and a selection of socially-relevant behaviors”

If he is a girl-boxer, then indeed, he may always be, because it's a manifestation of who he is at his core, it’s part of who he has chosen to be. If he does choose to change one day, let’s just say, you shouldn’t be there to find out.

P.s: Does science have an answer for everything? *rme* at my Ababio.

What are your thoughts? Do you believe a woman should hang around until her abusive partner changes? What are the best ways to communicate with a woman who won't leave an abusive relationship? I would love to hear your thoughts! Also please share, someone might need it!

Related posts:

What to do if she doesn't take your advice

Reasons you might be stuck in a rut-n relationship

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