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

Twice Dead: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Twice Dead

1832

Ede, Osun State,  Nigeria

On this bright and sunny day— the day of my daughter’s wedding— we dance. Yet, the dead watch us. This morning, I had awakened to the complaints of bleating goats and to the clumps of cattle hoofs. Out in the soft morning light they stood, a sea of livestock. More gifts from Alao. A dowry fit for three queens. In the corner of my hut sits rolls of fabric cascading over each other, the prints embossed with delicate gold dust from markets across the Northern desert. But also in the wake of the morning, the dead whisper dark secrets that make my skin tingle. The tendrils of fear slither up my back like a panicked gecko, for on the outskirts of Ede, along the narrow village path, lays the body. Already, the dust winds from the desert settles over him, the dew of the dawn wears him a damp coat and the birds of the air find in him their meal of the morning. Yet today, we dance.

Something nudges me in my ribs. I hear the sounds of the talking drums. They are distant, like I am beneath the waters of the river— their voices, muffled, yet speaking. I feel the nudge again. The drum speaks. Another nudge. I am inconvenienced out of my reverie. It’s my friend, Aduke, sticking her elbow in my side. Her dark face is beaded with sweat, her teeth bare, and from her mouth shrills the songs of the friends of the Iya Iyawo*. She dances like a young girl of eighteen rain seasons, flirts with the drummers with the sway of her hips and winking eyes. She nudges me once more, and yells into my ear, “It is abominable to dance harder than the mother of the bride.” Her sharp eyes squint. Behind her is Feyike, Miliki, Remi, Dara, Riyike, Fali, Omodun and their sisters. My friends. My well-wishers.“Ore mi, it is your day!” Aduke yells. Her eyes pause with knowing. I feel the cold wash of fear once more. She throws her hip out, her foot follows. The drummers follow the cadence of her rhythm.

Today, we dance to the sorrow of my child as the talking drums echo in the town square.

Now I hear them, clear and crisp—speaking blessings and goodwill over my precious child and her husband as they dance to the beat.

Will she be happy? No, she will not be.

Was this a mistake? Yes, it was. But every mistake—as all unhappiness— is lightened by the distraction of comfort. A new fabric here, some corals and glass beads there, a full belly at night, a barrel full of palm wine and the giggles of an infant will dull the aches of Alao’s blows. I watch my daughter’s tired frame twist and sway to the beat, surrounded by her friends— young ladies with youthful thighs and narrow hips. She had never been much of a dancer. But today, her heart is absent and her dancing is terrible. Does she weep beneath that veil? Yes, but it will be dried by a silk cloth from the markets of Arabah.

It was dawn before the pigments and healing herbs dried over her wound. The women stayed up all night mending the gashes of Alao’s wrath on my baby’s cheek. She should have known better than to run off with the musician. By the time Alao found them on the outskirts of town, the gods could not restrain him. By now, the birds would have begun their feast on the bald-headed singer, digging their claws into his dark flesh. I shivered thinking of it. But whoever heard of the daughter of Lasisi Olamuwonre Omo Baba Ire, whose ancestor was the great hunter, Timi Agbale, running off with a court jester, a performer—without a dowry. While the fool waited on the side of the narrow village path, we did it swiftly—Aduke and I. He knew not what hit him, at the swat of a bat’s wing, the heavy mill stone hit him from the branches above. His lover—my daughter met us there, standing over the imposter, his head bashed in. The blood soaked into the loose-grain sand that formed the village path. She fell on his lifeless body and cried, and there, Alao met us. He had me to thank. He did, lying face down on the ground in a humble prostrate. I blessed him and he rose to his feet. Still, she wept over the dead singer. Alao breathed a deep sigh of relief, the folds on the back of his neck running over each other like mounds of amala piled high, he carefully made his way to her. Bone crunched as his fist knocked her off the dead man. His leathered foot kicked her face. My eye twitched. My foot moved of its own accord. Aduke held me back.“The dowry has been paid”, She reminded me in a whisper. “Today, we will weep”, She added, as Alao tore the clothes off my child. Her screams rended something deep in my chest, “But tomorrow we will dance.” She was right.

Today, we danced. She is a married woman now. The dowry has indeed been paid. A dowry of three brides, no—three queens, for Ajoke mi. Goats. Cows—at least one for every day of the week until the next two full moons, sacks of cassava, palm kernels. The yams were piled high, the barrels of palm oil would last us till their first child was walking, and the mounds of kola nuts made her father lose his breath, the cascade of beautiful fabrics made me lose mine. It was time for her to go. She kneels and the crowd parts. I trace my steps to her with unsure feet. She swims in my gaze, the tears warm against my cheek. Mothers look on, gazing with envy as I take these measured steps.

I finally stand before her, and lift the veil from her eyes. The girl before me isn’t my precious daughter. Her eyes are swollen, the skin above her left brow and cheek dark and stretched raw by pigments and healing herbs, her lips are twice the size of a crinkled pepper, twice as red.

Indeed, my daughter is dead. Her corpse lies beside that of the singer on the narrow village path.

As I bless her as a new wife, she weeps. It is a blessing she takes to her new death— into her new home—a cage, a coffin— embellished with fresh flowers and sprinkles of new spice, laced with the silks of Arabah, beads and corals, goads of palm wine and all comfort. She thanks me. The crowds close in on the space between us. My girl is gone. Her friends sing after her. My friends rejoice. Yes, the dead watch us closely as we dance, but the one who dances among her friends—whose dowry makes queens jealous— is the one who is twice dead.

The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Jurisdiction to Love

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

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

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

*Shrug* What can we say? 

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

It’s my job to love them.

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

I like that.

It’s easy!

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

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

*Laughing in Cantonese*

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

Koot: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Koot: A Short Story

It was that moment Rufai lived for—that sliver of a second when his eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. True, he had grumbled when Uncle Jubril fell ill, and when the old man had promised his Oga* that he trusted nephew—Rufai would show up in his place. Just when he finally saved enough money to go to the local club to see Adeola Montana and his Fuji 5000 band. Still, Rufai had arrived at the address in Ikoyi, dressed in his severely ironed shirt and trousers—Uncle even made him wear deodorant.

Number 16, Roland street was an unassuming house hidden behind a small, black gate and lost in the shade of dozens of trees. There was a gateman, David, and two househelps. Rufai didn’t learn their names. Madam had her own driver, Festus, whose trouser gators were sharp as a blade. Oga left for work at 7. Lunch was served at noon. Some tea and sliced bread served at 4pm.

A damned cycle.

Then she happened. She had stepped out of the house barefoot, dressed in a long maxi dress that flapped around in the hot Lagos air. And in five seconds, she vanished into the house.

If God was fair, Uncle Jubril would remain sick. But God had a different standard of fair. Uncle Jubril recovered. So Rufai sprinkled a little detergent into Uncle's Yellow Label tea on most mornings now, just to keep the old man down a little longer. 

                                  ⭐️ 

Her father’s schedule tapered off around noon. Rufai would bring him home for lunch. They returned to the office about 1:30PM. He’d set his briefcase and gym bag next to Oga’s feet in the elevator, keeping his eyes available but not fixed on Oga. Once the doors closed, he sprinted through the reception, out the revolving front door into the car, back to the house to take her to the little bungalow in Lekki, where she took piano lessons. It was the best 30 minutes of his day. He stole glances at her. Her dark skin glistened in the sun and her eyes stared out the back window into the Lagos traffic, lost, sometimes troubled, other times her eyes focused on nothing, other times they cried. If he was sure of his English, he'd say something. He had practiced saying"Hi" but his brother said his nose twitched whenever he said it; that his"H" was too heavy. He could try? Yes?

Her music teacher was a tall, light-skinned man with a glistening scalp. His beard was shaved close to his jaw and his eyes twinkled whenever she stepped out of the car. Sometimes they both giggled and spoke in hushed whispers. The man would open the car door for her, other times she stalked in front of him and didn't say goodbye. For two weeks now, she stalked ahead. No goodbyes. Then the bearded man stopped walking her to the car. She cried now whenever they drove home from Lekki.

Today she was restless.

She looked away from the sparkling Atlantic. Her attention fleeting around the car for a minute, She looked at her phone and smiled. Restless again, her eyes, magnificent, large, framed by long, thick lashes-rested on his in the rear view mirror. Rufai’s heart stopped. His eyes dropped to her lips— plumped by a sheer rose gloss, haloed as the light bounced off of its sheen. Rufai had never seen anything more beautiful.

He parted his lips, but they trembled.

Just say hi.

"Mr. Rufai,”She broke into his thoughts,“Please can we go back? I think I forgot something in Lekki." She said, rummaging through her huge handbag.

Rufai's lips quivered lightly,"Ok." He stammered, his eyes found the road. He cleared his throat in a low grunt.

"Hi", He muttered under his breath. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

He cleared his throat again. It could be better.

"Hi."He muttered. “Hi” was hard. He could tell her that he thought she was sweet like honey but his brother had said, the rich people used “cute” not “sweet”.

“Ki n sę ‘Koot’!” His brother had fallen off his chair laughing,”Not koot. Cute! Cute!”

Koot.

You are Koot. He just couldn’t get it right. He could tell her he was in love with her. That Kolade Gbenro was teaching him to play the keyboard now. He could teach her music, teach her to play. She’s never have to go to Lekki again. She’d never have to cry.

He pulled up in front of the teacher’s gate. The light-skinned, bearded man was outside before Rufai turned off the engine.

His hand was on the car door as she stepped out.

“No! I didn’t come here to talk.”She snapped, “I left my sunglasses. That’s the only reason I came back.” She pushed past the man.

Her teacher grabbed her elbow and muttered to her. He handed her the sunglasses case. His voice was barely a whisper. His hands traveled along her arms. Rufai frowned. In an instant, the teacher dropped to the floor on one knee. From his pocket emerged a ring. It sparkled in the sun.

It happened all too soon. She jumped around, nodded her head and fell into his arms. The embrace was forever and a year. The kiss, eternal.

She hopped into the car after a long goodbye. She chattered on the phone as they drove home. She screamed calling one friend after another. He proposed! She’d yell. Followed by a scream.

Rufai glanced at her in the mirror, his brows still drawn together in a scowl. How did that happen? That man and his beard. What did the teacher have that he didn’t?! He watched her now, hysterical with joy in the backseat. She yelled. Giggled. Screamed. His frown melted away and a small smile softened his face. At least she had happened. At least he had loved. He’d hand the keys back to Uncle Jubril and stop feeding the poor man poison.

He’d work on his pronunciations and his keyboard lessons. Maybe one day he’d join Adeola Montana’s Fuji 5000 band….and maybe one day he wouldn’t.

He wished he could tell her though, that she was koot.

“Koot…Koot…” He shook his head as he battled with the alternate vowel word.

She screamed and burst into laughter in the back. Her eyes caught his in the mirror.

His heart stopped. 

She was so sweet though. She truly was. He thought to himself. Sweet and koot.

                           The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Oga* Colloqial Nigerian word for a boss or an employer

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

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

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

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

For example, your friend could say: 

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

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

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

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

*insert Dwight Shrute side eye with a smile*

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are your thoughts?! 

Love At First Try

When I was growing up I was determined to end up with the first person I dated. My only sister married her first official boyfriend, so hey, I wasn’t trying to drift too far from that. Get it right the first time, babe. I'd tell myself.

No seconds.

So I met my first boyfriend...

If I ended up with my first boyfriend, he'd be at the bottom of the ocean“swimming with the fishes” by now. 

Swimming. With. The. Fishes. 

Not the“Godfather”type of swimming-with-the-fishes. He wouldn't be dead or anything. No. He really would have just devised a way to live as a sea creature, so he could get away from me and terrestrial life and anything that was associated with me. Hey, and this is not because I'm not fun to live with(Ed, tell em!) but because boyfriend 1 and I were not designed for one another and living together would have proven mildly inconvenient. And by mildly, I mean any acceptable antonym of mildly. Discordantly. Disagreeably. Harshly. Unpleasantly.

Yes, unpleasantly inconvenient. You see, me obsessing over getting it right the first time would have been counter productive, to say the least. 

I guess one mustn’t be so averse to other numbers and positions--number 1 is great but so is number 3, number 5 may be "the one" and number 11 may even dare to be divine. Be open to dating as many people as it takes to find the one. 

But if you do insist on 1, beware, he may buy himself a scuba tank, some fins and diving goggles and it's sayonara! 

Do you think you should end up with the first person you date? Did you“ace” it the first time? The thirteenth time? Tell us?

Psst! If you've been dating #1 forever and you know it isn't working out. Would you stay because you don't want to lose all that time and resources you invested?