AMID SECRETS - CHAPTER 17
*Maduka’s POV*
I am laughing so hard.
Pulling off the bluetooth ear piece from my ear, I quickly leave my assigned room, rushing into the hallway and knowingly bumping into the man who had planned on harming Nwanyieze.
He is shaking terribly, dressed only in boxer shorts and holding tight to his chest a bundle of clothing. His face is wet from perspiration and tears, his eyes are wide with fright.
“Are you okay, sir?” I asked nicely, looking genuinely concerned.
“Marine spirit,” he mutters before running in the opposite direction, feet slapping against the marble floors. I grin.
Now I know what Richard Adeyemo looks like.
I knock on the door of the next room and let myself in as it is unlocked. Sitting on the bed is Nwanyieze, fully dressed and drinking from a bottle of water.
“You’re a better actress than most out there,” I told her admiringly.
She rises, walks over to me on bare feet, and gives me a hug.
“Wouldn’t have discovered that without you.”
“You scared the living daylights out of that man, you know.”
“I enjoyed doing it.” She laughs out loud.
“He didn’t touch you, did he?”
“No.”
She seems to discover that she is still in my arms, and then withdraws, picks up her bag and slips on her shoes.
“I’m actually tired, you know. A good night’s sleep will do me a lot of good.”
At the reception, the receptionist and bell boy give us strange looks, but say nothing. They will probably tell the rest of the staff about the strange sights they have seen tonight.
“I’m sure he’ll dream of me for a long time,” she giggles when we get into my car.
“Definitely not good ones, though. He might give his life to Jesus on Sunday.”
Her giggles turn to laughter. “That would be great!”
After five minutes on the road, she sleeps off, snoring softly, face towards me. She looks so relaxed, and from her snoring, I know that this issue has been giving her sleepless nights and she has finally decided to let go. Lights from the street lamps dance off her face while I drive past them.
What does she dream about? Somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, is there an image of me, the boy I used to be, waiting to be recalled by some kind of event?
And how pitiful is it that I know close to nothing about her, Nwanyieze? She’s unpredictable, never ceases to surprise me. Her laughter is music to my ears, I enjoy time spent with her, I love to listen to her speak, but ask me something personal about her and I don’t know a thing except the basics- name, address, school, favourite food, et cetera.
From the first moment, she’s always struck me as wise, too wise for her age; and it’s all the more confusing because beneath all the sass and attitude I sense an undercurrent of vulnerability and sadness in her that I can’t explain and can’t ask her about because she’s likely to clam up.
What had happened to her after I’d left the orphanage?
She moves a bit and Mõ@?s in her sleep. Then a hand rises to rub her left eye, smearing the eye shadow and mascara down her cheek. A sigh escapes her lips but she doesn’t wake up.
What I’d give right now just to hold her.
But I know that with her, I have to be careful. I have to take my time, gain her trust completely, show her that I’m not here to play. Then I’ll have to tell her the truth as well.
What scares me is that in telling her the truth about her, I have to face the truth about myself.
The truth I’ve been running from since I was seven.
_____
*The next morning*
*Flashback*
In the dreams of my past, I am always helpless. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, because the worst of my dreams occurred when I was seven years old, small and so trusting of the whole world.
I had woken up that fateful morning and wandered into my parents’ room to complain of a slight stomach ache. Usually, their door was unlocked because the front doors were locked, and I was always welcomed to greet them every morning if I rose up before them to polish my father’s shoes.
“Good morning, Mama and Papa,” I greeted at the door.
Neither of them stirred.
“My stomach is paining me,” I groaned.
No movement.
I walked into their small room, my small rubber slippers shuffling on the concrete floor. Soon, I would be needing a new pair because my feet were growing, and Mama said I would soon be taller than Papa.
I was their only child, and after seven years God had finally smiled on us and my mother had taken in. She said the baby would be here soon, and it excited me to place my ear against her swollen torso and feel my sibling kick.
I found it strange that their eyes were still closed. Papa said his arm around Mama’s torso, and Mama lay with her back against him. I touched my mother first; she usually took it lightly whenever I disrupted her sleep. My father, on the other hand, would frown initially before sighing and seeing to my needs.
“Ma,” I groaned, shaking her arm and playfully pinching it with a small laugh. Soon, she would open her eyes, smile at me, and call me naughty before asking me to join them in bed. She felt cold, and a bit stiff.
Didn’t they use the wrapper to cover themselves last night? Mama said it was bad to sleep without clothes because it got cold early in the morning.
She made no sign of feeling my touch, and so I shook her arm harder.
Still no response.
Maybe they’re too tired, I thought to myself. Deciding to take the risk, I touched my father’s arm as well and whispered, fearfully, “Papa. Good morning. Don’t be angry I’m waking you up.”
No response. Not even a sigh. He felt cold, too. I felt something was wrong, and so I shook harder. It was like shaking stone statues. They didn’t seem to be bothered.
“Mama. Papa. Wake up. I’m hungry. My tummy is paining me. Wake up.”
No answer.
My heart began to pound against my ribs. I didn’t feel the ache of my stomach any longer; instead, I felt it drop.
I continued to call them, shaking them as much as I could.
I didn’t know I’d been screaming until our neighbour, a youth Corper named Kunle who lived in the small bungalow next to ours, broke into our home and raced into the room to find me kneeling next to the bed on which my parents’ corpses lay.
*Present*
It doesn’t matter that I’ve had this dream countless times. This doesn’t fail to make me sit up in bed in the middle of the night or early in the morning drenched in sweat, eyes wide. And to top it up, this effectively ruins my day ahead.
I go through my Saturday morning, feeling dull and yet restless. Jide has travelled to Dubai for business, and so I have no company. I try to tidy up my house, but it’s clean already. The Power Holding Company of Nigeria has decided to bless us this Saturday morning with electricity, but I have no interest in using it to entertain myself.
I sit in my living room, a glass of brandy in my hand, staring into space.
Memories of my parents resurface and I see them in our little kitchen, laughing. I smell the vegetable soup she is cooking, and the akpu (fufu/cassava starch) she has just finished pounding.
My father, standing beside her while she slices some leaves, touches my mother’s swollen belly and she smiles, then turns her head to where I stand at the doorway, peering at them shyly.
“Nnam, bia,” she calls to me, a hand stretched.
Nnam was the pet name she gave me, because she claimed I was a reincarnation of her father. It meant ‘my father’ in Igbo and bia meant ‘come’.
I had seen my parents as god and goddess, and even as a child, I knew what reverence was. They always seemed to be perfect. The moment my father came home, I felt safe. If I ever fell ill, I cried for my mother’s touch and she would be there, gentle and soothing, covering my face with small kisses. Having them gone so quickly had been something I’ve never recovered from.
The memory fades and I shut my eyes in pain. No matter how grown up I claim to be, I’ll never stop being haunted. I’ll keep thinking of what life would have been like, growing up with my parents and the sibling I would never know.
Some wounds never heal, and I’m not talking about the physical ones.
My stomach growls in annoyance, having been fed with alcohol instead of food. I ignore it, defiantly taking another gulp. It growls again.
Deal with it, I think savagely.
I hear a knock on my door and look up at the wall clock, a yellow, sunflower-shaped device that Amarachi, my sister, had gifted me with. I’d had to use it out of sentimentality because I love her. Otherwise, it didn’t belong here because I found it rather feminine for my taste.
I’m surprised to see Nwanyieze at my door, carrying a bag of what seems like groceries.
“Good morning,” I greeted her, stunned by her presence and earthly beauty. Dressed in a yellow sun dress and simple brown leather sandals, her hair in two neat corn rows, she looks so carefree.
“Good morning,” she replied.
She notices how gloomy I look and asks, with her brows raised, “Is now a bad time to visit?” while setting a foot backwards.
“Of course not!” I reply, forcing a smile. I reach for the grocery bag and she hands it to me.
“It’s for you.”
“You went shopping for me?”
She walks into my living room after slipping off her sandals against my insistence that there is no need for that. “Don’t worry, I love being free from all these things.”
My eyes stay on her feet for a while, with the little brown toes and nails painted in red.
“You have little feet,” I mutter, thinking of how pleasant it would be to watch her face while I massaged her feet after a stressful day at school.
“Size thirty-eight. So annoying.”
I laugh. “Would you have preferred bigger ones?”
She shrugs and settles on one of the couches. “I guess they suit my size, anyway. You know, I’ve always wished I were taller.”
“You’re fun-sized,” I joke.
“Thank you for making me feel like a Happy Hour drink. So special.”
In the kitchen, I unravel the bag and I’m pleased to see that she brought breakfast: akara and ogi. (Bean cakes and corn starch/pap). Aside from these, in another carefully wrapped bag, was a plastic bowl filled with egusi soup. (Ground melon soup.)
Surprise and gratitude fill me as I stand there, wondering why she had to be so nice.
“Well, you’re sure of lunch today,” she said from behind me.
I turn and smile. “You’re making me so happy today.”
“Trust me, it won’t last.”
I’m trying to understand the meaning of her remark, but she distracts me by saying, “I haven’t had breakfast, too you know.”
“Go into the living room. I’ll get it ready in ten minutes,” I told her.
“You’re sure you know how to make pap?”
“I’m not an entirely helpless bachelor, you know,” I replied, feigning offence.
In fifteen minutes, I bring our breakfast to the living room where she sits cross-legged on the floor, watching Sound City. VJ Adams and Moet, the talk show host, are saying something about Burna Boy that I pay no attention to.
“Very quick,” she says dryly.
I grin. “African timing, you know.”
“Do you listen to Burna Boy?” Nwanyieze asks me as she adds some milk to her bowl of pap.
“Sometimes,” I reply.
Burna Boy’s song, Rock Star, starts to play on screen and she begins to move her shoulders to the beat.
“I like this song.”
“I can see that.”
She tilts her head and studies me for a few moments, eyes fixed on mine. I don’t want her to see what I’m feeling, and so I divert my gaze to the balls of akara, pick one, and stuff it into my mouth.
“Usually, I’m the grumpy person. Seems the roles have switched today.”
“I woke up on the wrong side today,” I confess.
“Aw, poor baby,” she coos. “Drink plenty pap with plenty sugar and milk, you’ll feel better.”
I laugh at her sarcasm, and she smiles.
“I wake up on the wrong side sometimes, too. It’s pretty normal,” she says after biting off a chunk of akara.
I wonder if this has to do with her past, just as it has to do with mine.
When will I gather the courage to tell her?
“You haven’t told me about yourself. All I know are your name, date of birth, address, school and course of study, and a few behavioural traits.”
“Trust me, that is more than enough. Some people barely know more than my name,” she says with a serious face.
“Well, I’d like to know more.”
“Okay. Like what?”
“Where else have you lived in apart from Lagos?”
“Imo State. I thought I’ve told you that before.” She frowns.
“I’ve also lived in Imo State.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she says, stirring the remaining pap in her bowl. It’s obvious that she’s avoiding my gaze, that she’s dreading my next question.
What she doesn’t know is that I’m dreading it, too. That I already know the real answer, but just want to hear what she has to say.
“Where in Imo State are you from?”
There is a huge silence between us, even though Cynthia Morgan’s German Juice is playing on the television screen. Nwanyieze continues to stir her pap, her eyes refuse to meet mine. I’m about to open my mouth and apologise and call myself a bloody fool when she squares her shoulders, raises her head, and looks me in the eye.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I never met my real parents. I’m an orphan.”