*Maduka’s POV*

“Sir, it’s time. The camera crew is ready.”

“Thank you, Joy,” I tell the young woman with a smile. She smiles back at me and leaves the office.

I adjust my tie and raise my knuckles to my eyes, sighing in satisfaction as I rub them. Lately, I haven’t been sleeping normally. The effects are heavy eyes during the day, occasional head aches, and overall fatigue which I try to cover up.

I have been working hard, too hard, as my mother has complained over the phone and whenever she sees me. She isn’t lying, though- with partnerships and deals to endorse, work on the farm, and now a photo $h00t for my appearance in the Agric Digest magazine, I couldn’t agree more. I feel satisfied with my current achievements.

Of course, you’ve immersed yourself in work to avoid thinking so much.l⁰0

To avoid thinking of her. It’s been three months, and no word from Nwanyieze. All attempts to reach her have proved futile. She has moved out of Mama Uju’s flat, and Mama Uju has refused to share details of Nwanyieze’s new abode. She has switched off her lines, leaving behind the phone I had given her- intact with all its accessories. And I had heard other things too…

It had felt like being stabbed each time Mama Uju opened her door to tell me that Nwanyieze hadn’t visited since she moved out, and had warned her about giving out her contact to me.

“She is wrecked, but what can I do, Maduka? Nwanyieze refused to listen to all reason. I cannot go against her wishes, I am sorry,” she had said upon my sixth visit.

Despite her attempts to forget me, I understand. I understand her shame, her fears. Something blooms in my chest, a feeling that I dislike so much, a feeling that I have worked so hard to forget.
Rejection.

I can’t help but feel rejected, even though she did it for self-preservation. If I had followed her that night, maybe things would have been different…
But what could I have done, while battling with a myriad of emotions myself?

I used to be a prostitute. In modern language, I’m a hoe. The night we first met, I was supposed to hook up with Saheed.

“No,” I tell myself aloud. “Not now, not today. You have a photo $h00t now, and you’re supposed to smile genuinely.”

“Sir?”

I nearly jump out of my skin before turning to see Joy, one of my employees, standing at the door and looking puzzled.

“I’ll be there right now. Sorry.”

The photo $h00t lasts for two hours. Shots are taken of me in my office in the reception room with me dressed in my suit. Next, dressed in overalls and rubber boots, we move over to the farms where I get my hands dirty. Through it all, I try my possible best to smile. I know I have come a long way, from the lost, orphaned boy to the proud farmer.

After the $h00t, I am interviewed by Agatha Okolo, a young, budding journalist who recently joined Agric Digest. We sit on the comfortable, plush cushions in my reception room and sip orange juice for a while. After introductions and pleasantries, she begins.

“What or who influenced you to go into agriculture?”

“My father was a traditional farmer. He used to take me along to his farm, and as young as I was, I could see he really enjoyed his work. I came to love his farm, too. He always told me, that if we were good to the goddess of the earth- Ala- she would reward us with bountiful harvests.”

“Where is your father now?”

“He died when I was seven.”

“My condolences.”

“That’s alright,” I reply with a forced laugh.

“Is there any other thing that drives you?”

“Of course. In my own little way, I am contributing to the economy. My cassava and yams are processed and exported. Other crops like corn, tomatoes and pepper are supplied at cheaper prices to market sellers to increase their profit. I am working towards processing fruit concentrate for fruit drinks, in the hope that we won’t have to import the bulk of it.”

“How did you get here?”

“Five years ago- after my Youth Service- I took a loan from the bank, along with my savings and some money from my parents. I bought a large plot of land and started growing some cassava. Along the way, I bought the neighbouring plot with some bulidings. I was able to convince some of my father’s friends to invest, too. It’s just been expanding from there. I think I am fortunate to have come this far in a short while.”

“Are you involved in charity?”

“It’s not something I like to talk about, but I am working with some potential partners to kick start a food bank for the homeless, especially children.”

“That is amazing, I’m impressed. Please tell me more about this food bank. How tangible is it in the Nigerian context?”

“In the Nigerian context, our weather doesn’t support preservation of most fresh foods without refrigeration. The plan is to process these foods- for example, tomatoes can be blended, boiled and stored in tight containers- and supply them to food banks in designated areas for storage. Also, donations from well-meaning Nigerians will be welcomed. But this is still in the works, we are still going over the practicalities and looking for loopholes, but we are optimistic about it.”

“You sound like this has a deeper meaning to you; this food bank.”

“I have been homeless before,” I tell her seriously. “I have starved and feared for the uncertainty of my next meal. I have gone through garbage, searching for anything edible, and so I can relate to not having a place to sleep and food to eat.”

“That’s a shocker. How did this happen, if I may ask? And I hope it’s not too prying?”

“Not at all. My parents died when I was seven. I ran away from home, ended up in Owerri city, lived with a colony of beggars, before being taken to an orphanage. I was adopted three years later.”

Mummy will grill me for this.

The journalist has to pick up her jaw from the floor. Her eyes look me from head to toe, as if in disbelief that the cultured man sitting before her could have gone through such in the past.

“This is too much to take in. To say I am shocked is too little.”

I chuckle. “I can’t imagine,” I say wryly.

“Your parents must be proud of you- I mean, both sets of them- all of them- I’m sorry, I’m too perplexed.” She shakes her head and supports it with a hand her eyes wide.

Laughter erupts from my lips, probably the most genuine laughter I’ve had in a while. “Come on, Agatha. Surely there are people in worse situations, and some of them are doing way better than I am.”

“That’s what we see in the media, but I have never heard about it in person, Maduka. This feels surreal. You are an inspirational figure to many out there.”

“I am?”

The thought has me feeling warm inside, and my smile this time is not forced. I remember Nwanyieze, and the knowledge that my story is not complete without her sits on my chest with such heaviness that my smile dies immediately.

“What about your personal life? What do you do for fun?”

I blink a few times, trying to recall what I have done for fun the past few months. My life has been dominated by work, visiting my family, travelling to my ancestral home to oversee the lands I have inherited, going to the gym, swimming, and doing wh@??ver I can to avoid thinking of her.

“I read, swim and exercise at the gym. Lately I haven’t been having much fun,” I reply truthfully.

“Any particular reason?”

How do you say, my girlfriend revealed she was a prostitute and disappeared from my life?

I shake my head. “I have strong work ethics. A lot has been going on in my life, but I hope to be able to do things for fun again- soon.”

“This question is for the ladies, Maduka-” she raised her eyebrows and gives me a conspirational wink. “Are you single or taken?”

“It’s complicated,” I reply with a shake of my head.

“On behalf of the single ladies, we are saddened to hear this. But we hope you uncomplicate this as soon as possible.”

“I hope so, too.”
***

What I don’t expect is to see my face staring back at me on newspaper stands the following week. My office is flooded with calls, messages, visitors- interested investors, job seekers, magazines who want to interview me. My interview with Agric Digest is on blogs along with my pictures, tagging me as ‘inspirational’, ‘handsome’, ‘self-made’, a ‘go-getter’, ‘husband material 1,000 yards’. I am invited to parties, seminars, conferences. My employees forward these emails to me and for a few days I sit at home, perplexed by their numbers.

“Agatha, what is happening?” I ask her over the phone while making dinner one night.

She laughs and says, “You’re now a celebrity.”

“I had no idea it would go this way. Isn’t Agric Digest relatively new? And since when did a lot of Nigerians start reading agricultural magazines?”

“Maduka, ride this wave. The people are awed and inspired by your story, and I bet you’ll have new opportunities now. Use them to expand.”

“Thank you, Agatha. This is surreal. I never imagined this.”

“You humble man, take the glory jare! You did this.”

“Not without you, Agatha. I’m grateful.”

“Anytime, Maduka.”

We say our goodbyes and click off. My spaghetti is burning, and without thinking, I try to pull the pot off the gas stove. The heat burns my fingertips and with a hiss, I pull away and stand there, watching my meal pop and crackle while my mind drifts back to another time, when I had Nwanyieze over for dinner and I had burned my hand; when she had tended to my injury and we had kissed right here in the kitchen, forgetting our burning food…

Drawing myself back to the present, I recall Jide’s words: “Forget her. She’s with Saheed now. They’re friends with benefits- in fact, it’s twisted.”

Running my hurting fingertips under a stream of cold water in the sink, I wonder if I’m twisted, too, for not wanting to let her go no matter how hard I’ve tried, and no matter how hard she is trying.

Thoughts of her in Saheed’s arms infuriate me and sadden me at the same time. I know her, I know she’s with him thinking it will ease her pain. And I also know, that it won’t. Saheed is not going to make her feel better, and wh@??ver they have will end up being toxic in nature… and she could end up more hurt than she actually is.

Sighing, I turn off my gas cooker and salvage what is left of my burnt dinner, smiling to myself as I replay memories of her, of when we were happy together.
.
.
So about the last chapter, on our comments section,
Hormolara said: ‘Na me misread nwanyieze pov or it’s sir Zach that twist it cos I’m not understanding a thing there ooo’.

Edith said: ‘Dreams! Dreams!! Dreams!!!, Except frustration made her go back to her vomit!!!. which I doubt!!’

Mie Mie said: ‘Sir Zach abeg what’s going on here…..cos I don’t want to believe that after everything she still later did something with saheed?????????💔’
And I believe everyone was confused as well.

I’m guessing you have guessed what happened. ‘Friends with benefits’ and toxic relationships definitely exist. Sometimes people can’t help themselves. Of course, I am in no way gathering pity for Nwanyieze, or begging for your understanding concerning what she is doing- as she is an adult capable of making her own decisions. I understand that majority of us are annoyed with her. Remember, this is fiction but yeah it can happen in real life and it is complicated.

If you are in a toxic relationship, sit down and deduce if YOU are the toxic person or not, before taking action to stop it.