Wedding Ops (Fiction Micro-series) Entry 4

Stunting

Hospitals are not as frightening as people say, not unless you are going to the ICU. Mayokun took the stairs up to the fourth floor of St. Barth’s hospital. No matter how many times she visited, there was no getting accustomed to these cold, concrete slabs of stairs. She held on to the concrete stair-banister, panting, as she pulled herself to the landing.

“God”, She wheezed, “I hate this place.”

The air carried the smell of cheap antiseptic and freshly prepared pharmaceuticals. She could taste the bitterness of the chalky-white pills at the back of her tongue. She gagged, then took a deep breath.

“Ok, I can do this”, She muttered to herself.

She started down the hallway and kept to the right, following directions to the ICU. Nurses walked by in a hurry, technicians in white lab coats breezed by. Prospective patients and family members holding yellow slips of paper, looking frazzled and tired dotted the hallway. The hallway opened up into a small, sunny alcove with a desk pushed against its back wall.

It wasn’t Bimpe behind the desk.

The new receptionist eyed her and nodded at the visitors’ register. Mayokun picked the pen. The page was full, so she turned it over. The page wasn’t ruled. The receptionist waved her question away.

“Just sign here. Name here,”The woman spat out orders, ”Check-in time: four-thirty.”

Mayokun obeyed, writing slowly. Her eyes took in the worn surface of the desk, the edges were chipped, baring new, but dirtied wood underneath.

“Where’s Bimpe?”Mayokun asked.

“She’s sick.”

“Is Doctor Awe around?”

“I don't know,”the lipgloss on the woman’s lips shone too much.

Mayokun began to make her way to the ward. Her steps slowed into a drag.

“I can do this.”

She took another step. “Nope. I can’t.” She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. She had only ever made it to see Mumie once. That day, Mumie was asleep, her pretty face was now thinned out, her eyes were sunken, her lips, slack and her face was without animation—there was no stern look, no teasing smirk, no eyes rolling to heaven to thank God. There was no voice asking Mayokun to find a husband, or arguing about politics or asking about Aso-ebi. When Mumie did wake up, her voice was different, it was hoarse and tired, all it talked about were the witches in the ward. At some point, she screamed that they were trying to take her somewhere and that the room was moving. She wasn’t the same Mumie that was admitted a month ago. Fali was the one who sat with her and told her the witches would be burned with fire if they touched her and then read her the psalms until the drugs for the pain lulled her to sleep.

Dr. Awe had requested a CT scan and the results had come back inconclusive. There was an inflammation on her pancreas.

The biopsy was going to cost at least seven hundred thousand.

Inconclusive. What does that even mean? After collecting three-fifty thousand.

She buried her face in her hands.

Her phone beeped. It was a message from Akeem.

💬Akeem: This watch won’t move.

💬Mayokun: Why?

💬Akeem: It’s engraved. No one wants that. Can’t sell it.

💬Mayokun: Just polish it and reengrave with something else.

💬Akeem: Can’t do it.

💬Mayokun: How much is it worth?

💬Akeem: It’s a Breitling. Go figure.

💬Akeem: Come pick it up. I don’t want trouble.

💬Mayokun: Since when?

💬Akeem: .

She hissed out loud.

Akeem had once sold certain undeclared paraphernalia from a foreign heist involving marked gold bars, though this was in the good days when he was full of vigor and making a name for himself and not creating senseless stories on Instagram wearing Gucci suits that matched his carpet.

An engraved watch didn’t seem like an awful big deal.

“Not my day,” She muttered and headed back to the receptionist with the glossy lips.

Sign out time: 4:47pm.

***

The hospital had a canteen behind its admin block. It was a white building with a blue roof, and sparse grass in its front yard. Mayokun stepped into the fluorescent-lit room. Instantly she was engulfed by the bustle of the busy canteen—the sound of metal clinking plates, voices shouting their orders, dragging of metal pots, and the opening of soft drinks, the clink-clank of corks hitting the cement. Mayokun joined the order line.“White rice, stew and beef”, She said when she finally got to the front of the bright red coca-cola counter.

“Add egg,”She said.

The server was a short boy with a mohawk cut, Malik, he was called.

“Sister May, you never pay the other time o.”He balanced two eggs bathed in red stew on his long serving spoon.

“Don’t worry,”She winked at him, “I go sort am. And extra for you.”

“Sister Mayo!” He cheered.

“Mali—ki Berry.”

They laughed. He dropped one of the eggs on her plate and handed the food to her.

Mayokun settled in the back of the restaurant, keeping her head low and staring into her phone. There had to be a big job that she could do— to get Fali back, to get the biopsy done. They usually made double when they went out together. If she was flying solo she needed something big. Really big. The big fish—that was what Fali called it—that glorious job after which they would never have to work again.

Her spoon sliced the egg in two, exposing the delicate orange in the center, she spooned it into her mouth hurriedly. She scrolled through Instagram. Nothing.

#Savethedate#Lagosweddings She typed. Her screen filled up with photos of happy, grinning couples. Nothing looked like the big fish.

She reached into her back pocket and turned on Fali’s phone, maybe her feed was more glitzy.

She had turned off Fali’s phone because Dare wouldn’t stop calling.

155 missed calls. 125 from Dare. She rolled her eyes.

300 messages. She pushed her lunch away. Where was his wife in all of this?

Fali’s phone beeped.

Uber notification.

A pickup request.

4.996 star rating. What sort of passenger has a 4.996 rating?

Tap to accept.The screen read.

She tapped the screen, had Malik pack her lunch and went off to pick Fali’s passenger.

“Better be the big fish,” She mumbled, “or at least a good tipper.”

***

Mayokun pulled off the side of the road in front of the shopping complex. It was an old deserted building with ripped bills and posters dangling off its walls. She leaned forward staring out of the front windows for her passenger.

Her phone started to vibrate. It was probably the passenger.

“Hello,”She said,”I’m right outside the building—”

“Mayokun, I have been trying to reach Fali for a while. Where is she?” It was Dare’s voice.

“She’s…out of town.”

“She didn’t tell me. That’s unlike her. Where?

“She went to see her dad’s relatives in Iwo.”

“That’s odd.

“Bet it is” She said drily.“How’s your wife?”

Dare cleared his throat.“Is Mumie out of the hospital?”

“Hey.Hey .Hey. Let me stop you there, oga. How many peoples’ mother is she? Please do not call my mother Mumie, mommy, mom, mama…nothing. You are not—”

She jumped at the loud rasping on the back window, a man stood there.

He tugged on the handle and the faded gold handle came off in his hand. He lifted it to his face and threw it over his shoulder. The passenger door swung open and he dove in.

“Go! Go!” He yelled, the door slammed.

Mayo’s phone flew in the air. Her foot hit the accelerator. A car honked, someone one yelled curses.

“Olorib—” a blaring horn buried his voice.

She threw the car back on the road and pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor.

The man beside her looked in the rear-view mirror and then over his shoulder.

He glanced at her. Mayokun’s eyes were on the road.

“Whao!It’s you?”

Mayokun looked at him.

It was Flavor!

“What are you doing here?”

“I ordered an über.”He shrugged. He looked back again, as she sped down Ademola Adetokunbo.

“Head to the mainland.”

“I have to change the address.”

“I’ll do it.”

He pulled his jacket around, tugging on his lapels, he tilted his head till his neck creaked, grabbed the phone and typed a new adress into Fali’s phone.

He looked over his shoulder again,

“Are you in trouble?” She glanced at him.

“Always,” His lips raised to the right, in a boyish smile.

She kept her eyes on the road.

“This is the third time we’re meeting you know?”He said.

“Who's counting?”

“Well, clearly I am,”His tone slightly embarrassed.

“Last time you were working, the time before that too. Are weddings your thing? You work mostly at weddings? Like a vendor of some sort?”

She glanced at the map and changed lanes.

“Well, I see you're working today,”She threw him a glance,“Where’s your wife?”

“You and this wife!” He chuckled.“Why do you care so much about my wife?”

“Err…because you have one and I impersonated her once.”

“I impersonated Ben Bruce once you know. Completely off topic. You were saying.”

He annoyed her. It was simple. How in the world did he just appear from thin air? He was everywhere. He and his eyes, and that smell. Suddenly an image shot into Mayokun’s left field of vision. A sedan was headed straight at them, she swerved right and righted the wheel. The car swung into the street after them, full throttle, filling up the space between them and the first car. Mayokun threw the gear to four and pushed the accelerator further to the floor until she felt the grooves of the pedal sting her bare foot.

She glanced in the mirror just as the passenger in the car leaned out. He held something in his hand.

Wait—

“Is that a…”

“Yup. Gun!”

She threw the gear down to three and swung into a street, cutting in front of a car. Horns honked. Yells.

She dodged a car, blaring her horn and she drove down the mellow Ikoyi street. She maneuvered through the quiet residential streets and swerved in after a car which was turning into an apartment complex building. The gates closed behind them.

“What the—“Mayokun yelled,“Who are you? Why are there men with guns after you? Are they trying to kidnap you?”

“Well, Uber is probably going to think you kidnapped me. This isn’t my destination.”He pointed to their blinking car location on the phone screen, “You are pretty far off the route. Just saying.”

“What…?”She glanced at it and back at him, “Tell me right now! What is this that just happened?”

“I was checking out some real estate in the area.” He shrugged, “The deal went sour.”

“There was a gun,”She realized she was still winded, her heart still thumping fast while he sat there, cool as the kdk fan in her apartment and unbothered in his stupid blazer.

She stared at him in silence, then took a deep breath.

”You are trouble. In every sense of the word,”She said, “I can’t do this. I have deadlines—”

“Right,” He cut in,”Let’s lay low for sometime and then drive to the mainland once the sun sets. Then I’ll be out of your hair and you’ll get a 5-star rating. Sound good?”

She gaped at him.

“We could even make something of it, like—,”

“No.”She snapped, slamming back against her chair, arms folded in front of her.

“Ok. Just a suggestion.”

They sat in silence for a long time, and when it was dark they headed for the mainland without turning the headlamps on.

“You know I have a job for someone with your skill set. Plus your driving is really good. You shook those guys off, sharp thinking turning into the apartment complex.”

“You need a driver who dodges bullets?”

“The other skill.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She kept her eyes on the road. She could feel his eyes boring through her.

“I have a wedding coming up, it’s in South Africa. The job will be there.”

“Look Flavor, I can’t help you. Don’t know what your talking about. I am an Uber driver and a budding wedding photographer.”

“No doubt.”

She took the exit to Anthony village.

“Plus you don’t even know me. Or who I am, where I am from—”

“Mayokun Cynthia Ladiran. Attended Newland Montessori. Father deceased just after kindergarten. Wrote JAMB 6 times. Bought results before a 7th attempt. Mother hospitalized. Cousin, business partner and flat-mate Falilat Ajayi-Lawal who is dating a very married man with a very pregnant wife.”

Her eyes, wide, she turned slowly to look at him, “Who are you?” Now as she stared at him his smile looked sinister.

She cursed, “You’ve been following me all this time…” She continued,“At the weddings…Now this uber ride…Are you Kayo’s guy? Did Otunba send you too? Who sent you? Where is Fali?” Her voice had risen with hysteria.“How do you know all that stuff about me. I swear if you touch me—” She pulled over swiftly at the gate of the destination.

“You would do well in theatre,”He said drily, “Look, I’m not from Otunba. I am not friends with any of your friends. I’m one of the good guys and we would like you to work with us.”

She stared at him, searching his face. Skeptical, ready to whack him out of the car if he tried any thing odd.

“It’s a short-term project.” He continued, “You’ll never have to see me again…if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to.” She said quickly.

She looked at him. She wasn’t sure about working with him. “Ok so you know all these things about me,”She said slowly, “What type of job is this?”

“An extraction.”

“Of?”

“An item. Tiny item,”He pressed his forefinger and thumb together, “Teeny.”

“How much?”

“Five,” He said.

“Five thousand?”

That would pay for mom’s drugs, definitely not the Biopsy. Blood work. Some. She needed much more than that for Fali…

“Million.”He corrected.

She blinked and recovered, “I’ll take ten.”

He laughed.

“Five point five,”He bargained.

“Eight,”She shot back.

“Six”

“Eight”

“That’s a lot.”

“Find someone else.”

”I can talk to my superiors…but I’m not promising anything.”

“I never penned you for a thief, Flavor.”Mayokun chuckled,

“I’m not a thief. And it’s Flavian.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, hun,” She shrugged. Hun? Why did she say that? She kept her eyes on the gate, “So who is our boss?” She added quickly.

Flavian reached over , she could smell him. Spicy citrusy woody. Musky. She caught her breath as he leaned closer to her, his face closing in on hers. He leaned past her and pressed on the steering wheel, the hoot from the horn was squeaky. The gate began to open.

“The Defense Intel. Bureau of the Republic of Nigeria.”

In front of them unraveled a long drive-in shaded by tall trees that all but blocked out the sun.

“Welcome to the Secret Service. Ms. Ladiran.”

To be continued…

Wedding Ops (Fiction Micro-series) Entry 3

Hustle Town

​​​​The key to a friendly robbery is stealth. Mayokun watched as the bride, groom and their bridal party gyrated to a familiar  tune from the 90s. Obesere—yes, that was the sound. The singer’s quick tempo had set the room on fire—bank notes flew like confetti, soft wisps of  dry ice covered the floor, giving the dance floor an ethereal, celestial look. The bridesmaids had broken up into dancing pairs, throwing their shoulders forward and back, and leaping around, straining their restless legs against the shiny fabric of their dainty dresses. Mayokun pretended to take photos of the dancers from her seat; through her phone camera lenses, she scouted. Guests gathered around the newly weds throwing bills at the couple. The notes got caught in curls of hair, in tulle, stuck on the bride’s sweaty face, some gathered at her helm. Mayokun watched the “sprayers” closely. There were the one-time sprayers who had changed a thousand Naira into smaller notes; there were those who threw higher bills of cash but with a civil flick of the wrist, wiggled their bodies in slow lazy sways and went to sit; there were the ones who reveled occasionally in the act, going back only when their favorite track came on, with a new wad of cash to throw at the newly weds. Then there was the odd uncle who didn’t dance, but moved in a quick two-step shuffle to the couple, sprayed and went back to his seat. He usually was generous.

​​She remembered when she was younger, she’d pay a friend to go in between all those dancing legs and gather some money. The dry ice would have been the ultimate cover. Her job was to look out and rescue. On Saturdays, they made a little under two thousand Naira, party hopping across the mainland.

​​The cardinal rule was never steal from the poor—they took things too personally. The lynching, the rubber tyres, the kerosene and matches appeared too quickly—they lived for the day of the thief. 

​​She remembered walking through Tejuoso market as a little girl, holding on to her mother’s hand. The mob dragged a woman along on the floor, tore off her clothes until she was dressed in a long off-white shimi. Even though Mayokun was four, she could sense that death loomed. That night she cried herself to sleep. The poor woman didn’t deserve to be harassed so much because she stole one small mackerel. She never knew what happened to the woman but she knew when the rubber tyres appeared, mother grabbed her and made a dash in the opposite direction, the mob sounds and the woman’s yells in the distance. 

​​“Don’t ever steal from the poor” Mother had said that night, as she unwrapped her wrapper and unfolded several crumpled notes of money, a few odd potatoes, a few onions, five fingers of okra, a little bag of powdered milk and a tiny bulb of sugar tied in a transparent nylon. At first, when she’d see mother pilfer, she thought her eyes played games. 

​​Then at night, mother would place the goods on a round wooden tray, balance it on her head and walk the streets, selling as much petty stolen items as possible. Mother soon adopted her sister’s baby, Falilah, who was only a year younger than Mayokun—when Aunty Peju ran off with a Ghanian man to Cotonou in the late 80s. She died a year later from an illness. By then, mother had gotten her own retail shop selling provisions. They moved into a one-bed apartment and by then, Falilah and Mayokun had became inseparable. 

​​Mayokun looked away from her screen at her target. He chatted calmly with two other men dressed in the navy blue-red caps and white natives of the day. He was dressed regally in a brilliant white agbada, his short-sleeved  buba exposed his wrist and a brown strapped leather watch with a gold face. The watch was tightly bound to his wrist. That surely was a problem, what happened to good old chain watches? 

​​A good target for a friendly robbery was someone who was deep in conversation—still not too deep, a person engaged in friendly banter or even the uninterested party, usually a man whose eyes would easily follow the gentle roll of her hips. Women were another production. The older they got, the harder it became to steal from them. She chose not to engage in the battle of the sixth sense with women. Old pervs, any day. 

​​Mayokun made her way to the prize—go big, girl. She had to get Falilat back tonight. 

​​“Mayokun,” A voice said.

​​She looked to her left. It was that guy again—Flavour. Florian?

​​It was crunch time. She balanced on five-inch heels and stepped around him, pushing her long curls out of her face.

​​“Hi.” She said hastily. There was no way she was sleeping with Otunba.

​​“It’s Flavian”

​​“Yes, Flavian. How have you been?” Her eyes fluttered to the door, through which the target had walked through.

​​“Great. You? Good thing no IV’s are required at Siji and Mayowa’s wedding. Vibrant pair”, He threw his head in the direction of the couple and their howling, gyrating mob, “Which one of them do you know?” There they were again. Those eyes.

​​“Siji” She said quickly. In the distance, the target was talking to someone. 

​​“Really? How do you know Siji?”

​​“We went to school together.”

​​“Really? What school?” 

​​“Primary school.” She said through her teeth. 

​​“No kidding! I was in the same primary school. What set?” Her heart thumped. She breathed deeply to calm herself. 

​​“I don’t remember that far back. I hated school. I was bullied, blocked all that out now,” She said in a breath.

​​Mayokun watched the target walk back into the room, flanked by three men keeping up with him, his agbada rustling as he threw its arms up his shoulder. 

“But you remember the anthem?”He was grinning now.

“At all. I know the tune on a recorder though. Lyrics have never been a strong point. A few of us girls learnt it and played it when the governor visited,”She watched as the target made his way to his seat.

​​“No joke” Flavian said drily, “Girls, huh? That’s odd, considering Siji and I went to a boys-only boarding school in Nairobi.”

​​The anger spewed,“Yeah, so what if I party-crashed. I’m not the married person preying on single girls at weddings. Please leave me alone.” She hissed.

​​She pushed by him and stalked towards the door, tilting past merrymakers. She flung her hair over her shoulder, smoothened her skirt and picked up pace. In the crazed haste, her elbow rammed into someone. 

​​“Yee!” The person exclaimed. Mayokun looked just in time to see the plate of vegetables fall out of the waiter’s hand into the lap of a seated older man. 

​​“Dear Lord.” A voice said.

​​“Oh no! I’m so sorry sir.” She stumbled slightly in her shoes.

​​The older man stood to his feet, offered her an arm till she was steady, then flicked his clothing so the food poured into his plate from his buba. 

​​Mayokun curtsied. “I’m so sorry sir.”

“​​No problem, my dear. I probably will never wear it again anyway. Not with all the Aso ebi my wife has lined up for me until the end of time.” He laughed. 

​​Mayokun smiled. 

​​“Sir, I would offer to pay for dry cleaning but—”

​​“Not to worry yourself at all, young lady. Please. You are my guest. Any money to be paid comes from my account, as the father of the bride. It doesn’t stop,” The old man said with good-natured laugh.

​​Mayokun hesitated. 

​​Father of the bride?

​​The man tapped her shoulder, “Ti e na a de o! Soon we will celebrate yours!” He excused himself, threw his agbada over his shoulder and walked away with three people waiting to help him with his outfit. His wife appeared and followed, hysterical at the mess. 

​​Mayokun sighed, she pulled her phone out and put it to her ear, straining through the loud music to hear it ring. 

​​”Oga Matthew, abeg pick me at the Chicken Republic down the road.” 

​​“Just stay on the road, I can’t turn off the engine of Fali’s car.”

​​”No problem.”

​​Her heart tugged. She missed that crazy girl driving that crazy car. 

​​She slid into her purse the wallet and brown leather watch she had swiped from the old man and made her way out of the venue. 

​​He was a kinder target than she cared for but it wasn’t time to be sentimental. She needed to get her cousin back. 

​​Just then her phone beeped. She glanced at it. A message from Fali. She opened it quickly.

​​A photo stared back at her. Her cousin was gagged, her hair disheveled, eyes wide. A silhouette framed the photo in the back looming over her. 

Less than 24 hours. The text said.

She glanced at her watch. Eighteen hours really.

She needed a miracle. Some magic. She knew just who to call.

​​To be continued…

Wedding Ops (Fiction Micro series) Entry 2

​​Yawa

“I still stand by it that Wiz Kid is not dating her!” Mayokun said, as Fali pulled over along the side of the unpainted outer wall of their apartment building. Mr. Kazeem, their landlord had started charging a parking fee within his walls and collected all keys to the gate— it was a flimsy black gate which hung nonchalantly between two unpainted posts, its weathered metal blistered orange with rust bubbles and wounds. Mayokun searched her purse for her keys to the pedestrian gate.

​​"He is!”Fali chuckled, “We can’t all be wrong. What’s the big deal if he is?”

​​“Publicity stunt aye. These celebrities have y’all on puppet strings,”Mayokun hissed, her keys jingled as she fetched it out.

​​Falilat playfully scrunched her nose,“Shut up. What do you know sef?” She turned off the ignition, leaned over and grabbed her heels beside Mayokun’s feet, pushed against her door and got out, sticking out her tongue into the car, “We like the publicity stunt like that. Leave us. I hope they have babies.” She quipped.

​​Mayo chuckled and pushed against her door, but it didn’t budge. She threw her shoulder into it, it squeaked and opened up. She stepped out barefoot onto the warm tar, and her toes curled in response to the hard asphalt.

​​"Baby ko. The baby go resemble—” She froze. 

​​A man was holding Fali around the neck in a headlock close to his face. He was a few inches taller than Fali and his skin a shade lighter than her dark skin. The skin on his face was colored unevenly and his hair needed a trim—or at least a comb. The man had an object to Fali’s head.  

​​Mayo’s mind reeled as she stared at the dull, gray metal pressed against her cousin’s ear.

​​Gun. Gun. Gun…

​​“Where’s the money?” The man asked.

​​“Calm down, oga,” Mayokun slowly held her hands up, she took one step away from the car towards the front. Then another. Her bare feet scraped against the floor and the trumpet style of her skirt kept her knees closer than she’d have liked. 

​​”Don’t move. I’ll finish her.”

​​”Ok. Just wait. Relax.” 

​​She took another step around the car and paused at the bonnet of the car. Fali’s eyes were wide and stared out of sharp whites. She whimpered as the man pressed the gun harder to her earlobe.

​​“Let her go. I’ll give you whatever we have. We have 6 tablets, 4 phones,” Fali’s slender arms hung helplessly at her side. “Please…”She whimpered.

​​Something moved in the corner of Mayokun’s eye. It was then she noticed the car parked behind theirs.

​​A figure stepped out of the passenger’s seat. He was tall, slightly hunched and wore black native buba and sokoto. His gait was relaxed and his movement almost sluggish, like he had all day.

​​Kayo.

​​"Kayo, na your guy be dis? This is your person?”Mayokun hissed and dropped her hands to her hips.

​​"Cynthia” He smiled at Mayokun.

​​“Where’s Otunba’s money?” His raspy drawl grated her ears, then he made a sucking noise, as he turn over a sweet in his mouth. He was never without a hard candy. 

​​"Kayo, we are working on it. I promise you—”

​​She caught the reflection of the  neighbor’s flourescent light on a gun in his left hand. His arms hung loosely at his sides from his hunched shoulders, giving him semblance to a vulture. He stood there turning the sweet over in his mouth again, on occasion, again making the sucking noise.

​​“Look. Once my mother is discharged”, Mayokun continued, “I’ll have more liquidity, I promise. We are doing everything. Fali is even an Uber driver in the evenings. Though she has a 2 star rating but still…”

​​”Not the time…”Falilat glanced at her stiffly,”I don’t want to die. Please take my car! Take everything.”

​​Kayo looked at the rear of the old 1993 Camry, his eyes traveled languidly along the body of Fali’s car.  “This car should be incinerated.”

​​For a brief moment, Fali looked hurt. 

​​“I've given you enough time. However, Otunba is willing to make a deal,” Kayo paused.

​​“He thinks you aren’t bad looking. “ He looked thoughtfully at Mayokun and shrugged. He has a suite at Maritime. When you are ready say the word.”

​​Mayokun rolled her eyes,“That’s disgusting—“

​​“Ahah,” He held up his gun, “Calm yourself. He said to me, ‘by any means necessary, I want the girl. But of her own volition.’” 

​​“There’s no way I’m sleeping with some old baba because I took 6 thousand dollars. Kpere. Abeg no.”

​​“You’ll come around.”

​​He snapped his fingers.

​​"No please” Falilat yelled, her eyes squeezed shut like she expected the worst.

​​"You have 48 hours. Do your magic. Call me when you get the money.”

​​“No!”Fali screamed as the man dragged her backwards towards their SUV, the gun was pressed deep in her side now. He threw her in the backseat.

​​“No!” Mayokun whispered,”Wait, Kayo.”  She wobbled in the long train of her dress.

​​“That’s what you say every time, Cynthia.” His back to her, his drawl sounded far away. 

​​“Time’s up, my dear.”

​​They got into the car, the driver made a quick Y-turn. Someone held Fali down at the back, her screams were muffled and Mayokun could see her struggling.

​​“No! Please.” She stumbled forward and broke into a stiff run after the car. The tail lights sped away from her. She stopped, her knees weak under her. She sank unto the warm asphalt. 

To be continued (tomorrow)…

Wedding Ops (Fiction) : Entry 1

Wedding Guest

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

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

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

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

“Oga boss.”

His full lips remained unsmiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ignored his condescension.

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

“I don’t have a wife.” He shrugged.

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

“There you are, darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fried sugared dough.”

“Puff puff?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“Um…you’re welcome.” The voice said.

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

Her married knight.

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

“Call me Flavian.”

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

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

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

“Is that all?”He asked.

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

“At the very least your name?”

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

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

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

“No, I don’t. And it’s Flavian.”

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

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

“Your name?”He asked her again.

“Mayokun.”

“What do your friends call you?”

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

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

“Where are you?”Falilat asked.

“I’m inside.”

“How did you get in?!”

“My E cup”, Mayokun chuckled.

Fali hissed.

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

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

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

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

“Make enough to buy us a new car.”

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

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

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

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

“Seventy thousand naira. Five hundred dollars.”

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

“I know”, Mayokun hissed.

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

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

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

to be continued…

Ìyágànkú : Fiction By Ike Adegboye

Ìyágànkú

Historical Fiction

Ibadan, 1823

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I dig.

I dig.

I dig.

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

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

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

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

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

You are trapped. Your will has received its bondage. 

It was what the spirit man said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waters. My thoughts raced with hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End 

Copyright ©2019 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Proverb Ref: Twitter @yoruba_proverbs

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

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!

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

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  

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