God's Little Helper

Yesterday, I was going to be God’s not-so-little helper. Yep, I was going to give God a tiny bitty hand. My three year old had come to me yesterday, his face looking like someone had cancelled Christmas.

        “Mommie, I can’t find Rory!” he’d wailed. “I’ve looked everywhere for him, but he’s disappeared!” he said, thrusting out his lower lip and fighting hard not to burst into tears.

My son has an obsession with racing cars (which I hope he’ll get over really soon) and he’ll spend hours on end either playing with his toy cars or watching any car related cartoon. I even caught him once, totally fixated on the TV, watching a Formula 1 race (helping him get over that obsession is probably another thing I’m willing to help the Lord with!). How he even managed to tune the TV from CBeebies to Formula 1 (loun loun!) is still beyond me. Of his collection, Rory was his favourite (at least for the next two weeks or so until another one catches his fancy) and I could imagine how devastating losing his precious Rory was to him.

        “Mommie, can we pray that God will bring Rory back?” he asked earnestly and my heart constricted in my chest. My sweet little boy knew to pray about the little things! That’s a lesson Mommie can like to re-learn oh!

        “Yes darling, we can do that.” I replied.

When he went to bed last night, he told me that he wasn’t sad anymore because he knew that when he woke up in the morning, Rory would be back on his shelf with his other cars. I believed him absolutely because Mommie was going to make sure of it.

That’s how last night, I drove to the 24 hour ASDA not too far from the house and marched resolutely to the aisle that I always eyed evilly because it was the cause of many trips over toy cars, the incessant noise of whirring toy engines, a blocked toilet (don’t ask!) and a wrecked vacuum cleaner. You won’t believe it but last night of all nights, not only did they not have a Rory racing car, they did not have any toy cars at all! Panicked, I asked the guy stocking the shelves adjacent to me and he smiled apologetically at me and said “Oh, we just ran out.” Imagine! They didn’t run out all those times that my son made me buy car after car after car oh! They didn’t run out the time he dropped not one, but THREE cars into my shopping cart and I didn’t find out until we got to check out, mba. They didn’t run out the time I stood my ground and told him NO and all the other shoppers turned to look at me like I should have had a special feature on Bad Moms, iro oh. The one time that I actually carried my two legs waka come, to willingly buy a car, a whole ASDA did not have! Did these people even realize this was a matter of heavenly urgency? Were they trying to sabotage my son’s prayers? I know he will one day have to grow up and realize that life doesn’t always go the way we want it to, but biko, that day wasn’t today!

I returned home, racking my brain trying to think of an explanation to give him when he discovered his prayer had not been answered. I tossed and turned all night, fuming at the audacity of ASDA, running out of racing cars of all things. Awon alai nikan shey!

When I went to wake him up this morning, what did I find clutched in his fist? You got it right, a shiny red Rory. I just stood there and stared. It was a truly humbling moment, seeing the truth that my little boy had the simple faith I lacked. In trying to help God fix the problem, all I’d succeeded in doing was waste my time and my fuel and my peace and a good night’s sleep. God had answered the prayer while I was running around ASDA like a headless chicken. As was with Sarah, God had looked into the future and had seen beyond Isaac all the way to Jesus, while Sarah was still busy prepping Hagar for the job.

Did I learn a few lessons today? You bet! The most profound of them I think is this: God-sized problems don’t fit mommie-sized hands.

Metallic Yellow Ferraris

        “Stop picking at it!” my sister Ese says. “You’ll get a really ugly scar.”

I ignore her and continue to worry the wound that sits just under my jaw. I look at the purplish skin surrounding it in the mirror above the dresser. The almost two inch long gash that is beginning to itch as it heals fascinates me, and contrary to my sister’s fears, I think the scar it will leave behind will be beautiful, the most beautiful one I wear.

        “I’m just so happy you finally made it here.” Ese says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m proud of you.” She says and starts to tear up.

I smile at her through the mirror and lay a hand on hers.

Thank you I mouth to her and she smiles.

        “Get some sleep.” She says. “You’ve had a tough couple of days.”

That is true. I am thousands of miles away from home, farther than I’ve ever been before, and I am drained, both emotionally and physically. I caress my wound one more time as I get up from the dresser. It will add to my eclectic repertoire of scars. I got it a week ago, but I’ve been collecting scars the last thirteen years. This scar I know I will wear like a badge. This one I know will make my head stand high.

My very first scar was a trilogy of 9.25 carat diamond stones. They sit in all their queenly glory atop a band of white gold on whose inside is inscribed mine and Káyòdé’s initials, always and forever. That scar I got the day we got engaged - the very first time he hit me. That time was a mistake, he reassured me of that. He had been going through a really tough time at work and had been very stressed out. I didn’t have to go and ruin the engagement moment by running off to call my sister whom he dislikes very much with the news. That day he broke something in me even though I didn’t realize it then and that beautiful rock-scar sits smack on the very centre of my ego.

 Àrínolá Fernandez is the scar disfiguring my self-esteem. We’d been married two years when I found out he’d been cheating with her. When I confronted him, he’d sneered and thrown it in my face that I was so lucky he’d married plain, ordinary me when he could have had any girl he wanted. He’d pointed out that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine that Àrínolá was more sophisticated than I was and looked at least a decade younger even though we were best friends and had grown up together in Ìkòyí.

My mother is the scar that used to be hope. Truly, there is no real despair without hope. When he broke my wrist following the confrontation about Àrínolá, I moved back home to mother in righteous indignation, hoping to get a sympathetic ear in my corner. Why would he cheat and then still knock me around? Mother had cut me short in my rant and had told me to wipe my tears and stop my whining.

        “Life is no bed of roses.” she’d said. “And marriage is no exception. You have to be strong because men will be men. Questioning his authority is not the way to go. The true strength of a woman is in her ability to still keep her marriage despite all these things. What will people say if they hear that the daughter of Chief Osemwenke left her husband’s house? Do you know how much I’ve had to put up with and all I took from your father, all just so you and your sisters could have a good life?”

One of the biggest scars I wear is thirty-five hundred pounds of metallic Yellow perfection. A majestic beast at just 47 inches high, with a twin-turbo engine packing over 600 horse-power, reaching 100mph in 6 seconds, one of Ferrari’s most exquisite creations. This was for the Baby we lost because he’d lost a great deal of money when the value of the Naira plummeted against the Dollar. That had been a very difficult time for him and he had been a little frustrated. He really hadn’t meant to hurt me or our child, he would never even think of it! I was his entire universe and our unborn child had been the very best thing that had happened to him. He had tried to prove that to me when he presented me with the keys to the car while I was still in the hospital. That car has its coveted position snug under my breast, where my heart used to be; it died along with our child that night.

A few weeks after I lost the Baby, I left Káyòdé for the first time. Or tried to. He’d found me after all of 13 hours and he’d reiterated what my mother told me, a woman’s place is with her husband. He told me the beating that came afterwards was totally my fault and that one was all on me; why did I go and provoke him that way right after he’d bought me such an expensive gift? How ungrateful could I be?

As I snuggle under the covers in the guest room of my sister’s Town house, I tuck my hands under my chin, not minding that my wound is still very sore. I know my face still looks stunning despite the discoloured skin and the bruising. In all our time together, Káyòdé never left a mark on me, not to talk of scars. Yes I’ve broken a few ribs, my wrist, my collar bone and my ankle, but nothing that left a permanent mark on the surface. He was always very careful about that, no matter how angry he was. He was a man who loved beautiful things and his wife could be no different. Heaven forbid that I didn’t look perfect along with his cars and designer suits and houses and his 140 ft. yacht.

A little smile relaxes my lips from their characteristic hard line and I heave a contended sigh. Two weeks ago, I left him again, right after I’d seen the lines on the stick. I’d known it was no longer just about me and that had given me the courage to get up and leave. Of course he found me, just like he’d warned me. But this time round, I fought back. I let him know I was done being afraid of him. I told him he might as well kill me right then because I would keep leaving until I was well rid of him. He’d lost it then. I’m not sure if it was rage at my audacity to talk back at him, or if it was surprise that I could actually stand up to him, but something snapped in him and he attacked me right there in the lobby of the hotel I’d been holed up in. That was the first time he would hit me in public, the first time he would do it without a care. The terrifying thought of losing my Baby again turned me into a crazed woman and I fought him. I scratched and bit and kicked and screamed and scratched some more. Until two policemen were pulling him off me. I didn’t care that the crowd around us was gawping. I didn’t care that he was still spitting threats and curses at me as the policemen took him away. I didn’t care that my face was puffy and bleeding and that my eyes were swelling shut. All I cared about was the little life growing inside of me.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I declined the policeman’s offer of a ride home. I declined his offer to call my mother on his mobile. I took what little belongings I had with me and got on a cab to the airport. I bought a ticket, got a plane and didn’t look back.

Of all my scars, this is the only one I will wear visibly and I will wear it proudly because it is the one I got fighting back. It is the one I got getting my life back. It is the one that will make all the others fade away.

This story was written for the 5th Anniversary Writing Contest hosted by Short Fiction Break (with the theme Scars) and has previously been published here.

Giddi Commute: Abegi Sir

This evening’s drama was straight out of a bad Nollywood movie. It started out as the normal story, dánfó driver on Lékkí-Èpé Expressway driving nonsense. He scratches someone’s Prado Jeep and tries to escape. Mr. Prado Jeep gives chase and of course he catches us after all of two minutes. Where exactly did Mr. Dánfó driver think he was running to, what with the usual traffic on Lékkí-Èpé Express way? So, Mr. Prado catches us and steps out of his car in full military uniform. Kpekélé kpekèlè, arúgbó je gbèsè! Of all the Jeeps in Lagos, this dánfó driver went to scratch a soldier’s own! I don’t know much about the Nigerian Army but the guy’s uniform looked so impressive, he must have been a top guy.

The passengers who had been raining abuses on the driver before then became subdued and kept shut. You know how when someone presses the mute button and the TV just shuts up kpam? That’s how we all just swallowed our voices as if on cue.

The Soldier simply went to the driver’s side, pulled his door open and dragged him out by his shirt.

        “Oga abeg…” the driver started. The rest was silenced with a bone shattering slap.

Kai, I felt that slap from where I was sitting. The driver tried to fall to his knees (or maybe his knees just gave way beneath him) but Oga Soldier simply dragged him up by his shirt and delivered another slap. At this point, we all overcame or speechlessness and started to beg earnestly on behalf of the driver. The conductor went over to prostrate himself flat in front of the Soldier but mba, him no gree. Before we knew it, some minion Soldiers had arrived at the scene. Of course, a big boy Soldier like that one doesn’t walk alone. They just jejely took Mr. driver and carried him to their pick up truck and drove off with him.

        “Ah, tiè ba lóòní!” someone exclaimed.

        “The kain beat he will chop today ehn?”

        “Na where dem dey carry am go?” a woman asked.

I was thinking the same thing but was afraid of what the answer would be.

        “Ah, dem dey carry am go barracks be that!”

        “When him see Soldier again, him go run!”

        “Conductor, you no go go look for your driver?”

        “Abi oh, you no go go bail am out?”

        “Na where him wan go look for am?”

        “If he follow them, them go just beat am join!”

        “Abeg, who sabi drive for here?” That from the conductor.

We all stopped in our commiserations when it hit us that we were now sans a driver and had only just reached Ìkàté.

        “Ah, it’s true oh, how person go reach Àjáh now?”

        “Abeg give me my money oh make I join another bus.”

The pity party was over. People really weren’t smiling at all.

        “Make una no worry, we go reach Àjáh.” The conductor said.

        “How? We go fly?”

        “Abeg no waste time jàre, make we quickly find another bus enter.”

        “This man go sabi drive the bus.” The conductor said, pointing to a man on the second row.

All our collective necks swung to look at the man. The man sef swung his head to see our would-be savior only for him to find all eyes on him.

        “Me ke?!” he exclaimed.

        “How you take know say him sabi drive?” someone demanded.

        “Abi you don become Octopus Paul?” someone else said.

        “Na wetin be that?” some other guy asked.

        “Na where you for dey when them dey play World Cup?”

        “Which one consign me consign World Cup?”

        “See you, them never born you that time.”

        “Shey you even sabi who Obasanjo be?”

        “How I no go sabi that one?!”

        “If Octopus Paul still dey alive, he for tell us tey tey say PDP no go enter again!”

        “Abeg stop that nonsense! Him for warn us say na like this e go dey be!”

Were these people for real at all?! We were stranded here by the side of the high way and they’re arguing over Octopus Paul! Lagos really is a crazy place.

        “Oga, abeg come drive the moto commot for here.” The conductor implored.

        “How you take know say I sabi drive?” the would-be savior asked.

        “I see as you dey control the driver.”

Say what? What does that even mean.

                “True oh, im dey tell am to cut him hand that time when he jam that soh-ja!”

As in seriously! So that’s all that’s needed to qualify for the driver’s seat?

In a heartbeat, everyone on the bus was swearing by their mothers that they just knew that the man was the black reincarnation of double-oh-seven himself.

        “I sabi drive the bus but na Igbó Efòn I dey go oh. After that one you dey on your own.” The man finally conceded.

        “Oga, nothing do you, abeg help our situation.” The conductor begged.

        “Na wetin you wan make I do? I no go go house?”

        “Chairman no worry, I go settle you bus money reach Igbó Efòn, just hep me drive this bus reach Àjáh abeg.”

Long story short oh, the conductor psyched the man sotey he agreed to drive us all the way to Àjáh without jamming anyone’s car on the way! This is Lagos after all, what else is new under the sun?!

Bestie of Life

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! This can’t possibly be happening!

I was having a heart attack, cross my heart and hope to die. Really. I refreshed the Internet Explorer window again and tried to open the word document. I got the same error message that the file I was trying to open was corrupt and could not be opened. I ejected the flash drive and tried it on another laptop. Same results.

Kai! T’emi bami!

That wretched stick of a thing had somehow gobbled up my project and I was due to show it to my Supervisor. Unfortunately for me, my supervisor is stationed at Idi-Araba, not Akoka, so I always have to make the dreaded weekly visits there to meet with him. And if you had a sadistic supervisor like mine, you would realize that you didn't even need a world-people flash drive for him to do you strong thing. In fact, my predicament would have him doing cartwheels in glee.

There was only one person that came to mind in that instant and I called her up immediately, knowing she would have a solution sha.

                “Bimpe.”

                “Hey what’s up!”

                “I need your help.”

                “What’s the matter?”

                “Please tell me you’re still at home.”

                “Why, what’s wrong?”

                “My stupid flash is corrupted! And I have to show Ajayi my Chapter six today!”

                “Wow! “

                “Everything is on my desktop at home. I just need someone to send it to me.”

                “Okay, let me see…”

                “You’ve left already abi?”

                “Yeah but don’t worry about it.”

                “Ah, how will you do it now?”

                “Shebi you can access your emails from Idi-Araba now?”

                “Yes but I don’t want to put you out like that oh, I’ll just rush back and pray that there’s no traffic.”

And Dr. Ajayi will gladly kick me out of his office for being late.

                “Don’t worry, I’ll email it to you.”

                “Are you sure?”

                “Of course! Don’t worry about it.”

                “You’re simply the best!” I gushed, relief washing over me.

                “Haha, and I know it!”

                “Thanks a million, I owe you big time!”

                “Yup you do! Give me like twenty minutes.”

                “Okay, oshey ore mi!”

                “Laters.”

What ever would I do without that girl? Bimpe is simply the best friend and sister anyone could ask for. She is the Martha to my Mary in the practical sense of it. She is as organized as I’m scatter-brained and the thing with my project is just one of many instances where she’s come in and saved the day. Who went to face off my Landlord when he suddenly decided to disconnect me from power supply? Who plans our shopping and cooks for the week on weekends? Who helped me pick out the dress to wear to my class Dinner? Who helped me sort things out when my junk-heap of a car was burgled and my laptop and handbag stolen? Me, I just had a total meltdown. Who was there to kick my butt through second semester exams last year when I lost my mum? Now you’re starting to get the gist.

We had been roommates in Moremi in year three and we got along so well even though we were in different faculties. We decided to step up to the Big Girls level in our final year, so we got BQs in Ozolua and stayed just around the corner from each other. We were more than Besties, she was more like the sister I always wished I had. I had even introduced her to my clan of crazy cousins and nieces and nephews and all what not. We'd all been close growing up and had gotten in and out of trouble together. She had been a big hit with them and had been literally adopted into the mad-house. That was why I was doubly excited when Capt’n Zii, my usual partner in crime within the clan gave me gist of this road trip to Ghana. When I got back home that day, I was bursting to tell her the news.

                “The guys are organizing a road trip to - wait for it!!” I started dramatically and she laughed. I started to make dramatic drumming sounds.

                “Hope everything went well with your supervisor?” she asked and I ignored her. That one was past tense joor. I was talking legendary stuffz here and she’s bringing up Mr. Ogre.

                “Ghana!”

                “Wow nice!”

                “Yup, yup.”

                “Gee, can I come?”

                “Of course! Why do you think I’m telling you? Zii has warned me not to show my face if you’re not there too!”

                “Yay!”

                “I’ve thought the whole thing through.” I said and she gave me a dubious look. Everyone knows I’m soooooo not the planner. “We have to go by air because we only have the long Independence weekend, but we can save money if we share a room. We can also save on feeding by taking some edibles along. Then we can…”

                “Really? We’ll share a room?” she interrupted. “The both of us?”

                “Yeah. We could save more money if we got a bigger room and shared with two other people but I guess it’ll be better if it’s just two of us, I know my family, they can be cu-ray-zay!. The cost shouldn’t be too bad and I’m sure we’ll be fine. Worst case, I’ll pull the Baby-Sis-card with my Brother and get some money off him.”

                “You’re willing to let me come on a family trip?!” She asked getting all mushy. Bless her, she was such a sentimental wuss.

                “Of course! It’s going to be such an amazing trip, we’re going to have such fun!” I said literally bouncing off the walls in excitement. "It's gonna be just us, no adults or babies! Tunrayo and Derenle are coming, and the twins as well. Dare is bringing a friend as well and uncle Leke said Ireti can come, which should be interesting, what with all that drama between her and Dara! Oh God I can't wait!" I gave a silly little laugh and she laughed too, getting infected with my excitement. Then she threw her arms around me and kissed me smack on the lips.

                “I love you Boo, I’m so glad I found you.” She said earnestly.

Say what?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I pulled back from her, totally lost for what to do or say!


*An abridged version of this story was originally published here on Breakpoint.
Breakpoint is the official Blog of Connected, a Christian Entertainment and Social Networking Platform. Read up on events and activities on Breakpoint and follow @connectedlagos.

Meetings and Dressing Rooms

          “Mr. AJ, what do you think?”

He looked up from his phone at the yellow dress with multi-coloured stones on the neck line.

        “This shade matches my complexion better and I just love how it flows easily without too much drama, simple and elegant!” Mrs. AJ was saying.

She made a half turn and smoothed her hands over her hips, arching her neck to see the back. He opened his mouth and then shut it again, wondering if he was actually expected to give an answer. Truth be told, he couldn’t see how this shade of yellow was different from the last one she'd tried on.

        “What do you think?” she asked again, still inspecting herself.

He didn’t mind going shopping with the Mrs (well not too much) as long as he wasn’t expected to know the entire colour spectrum or which style fit which body shape or any of the other weird things women worried about.

        “Err…well, I think it’s okay.” He replied.

She paused her inspection to stare at him.

        “Just okay?” she asked, arms now akimbo.

        “Well…it’s okay…I mean it’s good!” he floundered. What was he supposed to say, that it wasn’t an okay dress?!

She shook her head at him, giving him her signature look and went back into the changing room.

What did I do now!

        “Never ever describe a woman as okay.”

        “Sorry?”

        “You’ll never live that mistake down.”

He vaguely recognized the guy who’d spoken to him. He’d seen him around earlier that day at Ikeja City Mall, first at Mango and probably at MRP as well. The guy seemed to be in the same shoes as he was, tagging along with a woman on a shopping spree. Unlike him though, the guy looked unruffled and had the sort of confident poise that could only come from several years of experience.

        “But I said it looked good!” Mr. AJ replied defensively and his new friend tsked.

        “That’s even worse.” He said, juggling several carrier bags from one hand to the other. “Common rookie mistake.”

        “But it was a nice dress!” Mr. AJ spluttered.

        “Another forbidden word.” He said with a shake of his head. “I have a twelve year old so I’ve been in this business long enough!”

Mr AJ raised an eyebrow. How can he possibly compare shopping with a twelve year old to shopping with a grown woman!

        “As a rule, everything is beautiful or stunning or dashing or amazing.” He said. “Sometimes, they’ll take pretty but that one is a bit dicey. You should read the situation before dishing that one out.”

Say what!

        “If you’re ever caught off guards and can’t think of an appropriate word quick enough, just go for ‘Wow’”

        “O…kay…”

        “Trust me on this one.”

        “But what if the dress looks hideous on her!”

        “Diplomacy, my friend. You think the politicians are the ones with the tough jobs?”

        “Omo mehn!”

        “Rule number two: it’s always the fault of the dress. The colour doesn’t flatter her eyes. Who made that dress, a carpenter? That dress isn’t doing your amazing figure enough justice. Catch my drift?”

        “How do you even wrap your head around all that colour shade and style nonsense?!” Mr. AJ asked in exasperation.

        “Take it from the man who had to hunt down a Barbie Pink Mac Book Air, you learn!”

Just then, the door to one of the dressing rooms banged open and a girl who could have easily passed for sixteen flounced out, clad in a pair of pencil jeans, a silk shirt and Louboutin's.

        “Daddy, how about this?” she asked, arms on her hips.

        “Wow, look at my little Princess! I think it’s perfect!”

        “Really?” the girl asked uncertainly. “I’m not so sure of the shirt. I think peach will go better with my new purse.” She said pulling at the shirt at the edges as if that would miraculously change its colour.

        “Peach? But this one…”

        “I just knew beige would be too far off. I’ll go ask them if they have this style in Peach. If they don't, we'll have to go somewhere else.” She said going back into the dressing room.

        “Rule number three: sometimes, even saying the right things doesn’t work.” Simon said on a resigned sigh.

        “You could say that again!” Mr. AJ replied. “By the way, I’m Mayowa.” He said closing the distance between them and proffering his hand.

        “I’m Simon, but everyone calls me SB.” Simon said juggling the shopping bags again to shake his hand.

        “SB?” Moyowa asked.

        “Oh yeah, my initials. I can’t really remember how it started but at some point, even my little girl called me that.”

        “Oh well, SB it is then!” Mayowa said smiling.

        “Nice meeting you.” Simon said returning his smile.

        “Pleasure’s all mine!”

        “Mr. AJ, what of this one?” the Mrs said, coming out of the dressing room again. This time, she was wearing an A-cut midnight blue dress with a high neck  which stopped just above the knees.

        “Oh wow!” Mayowa gasped. “It’s….wow!”

The Mrs beamed from ear to ear and Simon turned away to hide his smile.

*Thanks a million Mayowa and SB for giving me permission to share your story. I love you both specially!!! :*

Death And The King's Horse

The air was thick with the smell of manure and the distinctive scent of horseflesh. In the stall at the far end of the stable, a thorough bred neighed and stamped his hoofs. It was getting dark and the crickets were starting up their special rendition of the night’s symphony. With the setting sun came a light breeze, which lifted the heat and humidity that had settled like a smothering blanket during the day.

I stood very still, my eyes adjusting to the dimming light, taking in the sounds, breathing in deeply. I didn’t pay the mosquitoes buzzing around my head any mind. I loved this place with the last drop of blood in my veins. I had been born here, had played in the open fields that sprawled for miles and miles as far as I could see with my siblings and numerous cousins until I grew too old for frolicking. When I was old enough, I’d started my lessons right here, going lap after lap around the tracks that circled the property. This place was all I’d known and all I cared to know.

I heard a familiar neighing in the distance and I stilled my breathing, straining to hear, listening with more than my ears. I recognized his voice immediately, he had returned! In contrast to my stilled breathing, my heart started a gallop that matched that of the fastest and strongest of the horses. My galloping heart pounded in my chest, just as it had done that day when I’d first set my eyes on him, and every single time since then. I finally let out the breath I’d been holding and took another deep, long one, a feeling of contentment and serenity settling over me. I let my eyes drift shut as I listened intently to the sounds of his footsteps as they approached. The air seemed to tingle with a charged sense of electricity as he drew closer. He had that kind of effect. He only had to walk into a space to set it a-buzz and everyone, both man and beast, couldn’t help paying attention. He was like a breed set apart from mere mortals, majestic and terrifying all at once, like royalty itself.

I imagined his deep brown eyes on my face, intent like they always were, like he could see right through me, straight into my very soul. I shook my head slightly, letting my beautiful mane of hair cascade and ripple down my long, beautiful neck. He’d sought me out in the dark, not needing any guidance or beacons to light the way, one heart calling silently to another, their thudding synchronizing like ukulele strings in resonance.

My lover was home!

He blew through his nose and circled around me, prancing in the dominant strut of the alpha male. I was his and he was mine as surely as there was night and day.

The Horseman came in after him with a hurricane lamp, which he placed on a stoop. He watched us for a few moments with reflective eyes. If I hadn’t been so excited, I would have noticed the air of foreboding the Horseman had brought in with him. I would have noticed that he didn’t speak to us in that affectionate way that was characteristic of him. In fact, he didn’t speak at all, he just watched us with unseeing eyes. Even the stable boys seemed subdued and stood afar off, like they were giving the Horseman a sacred moment alone with us.

In the distance, I could hear the beating of drums and a horn belting out a mournful song. It sounded like a dirge and a celebration all at once, mournful yet jubilant. The sound was the one that planted the seed of unrest in my belly and it grew with the sound.

         “Oba waja.” Elésin finally said, in an almost reverent whisper.

Esin Oba whinnied against my neck and stamped his hoofs. I could feel the pent up energy within him. It poured out on me in waves and waves, increasing my feeling of foreboding.

         “My friend, this is the moment we were both born for, the moment we have lived for.” Elésin said, running a hand through Esin Oba’s mane. Esin Oba threw back his head and neighed loudly, stirring up the other horses in the barn.

I looked at him, trying to catch his eyes. I knew something was afoot, but I had no idea what it was.

Quietly, Elésin took off Esin Oba’s bridle and harness and handed it to one of the stable boys. He ran a gentle hand down his leg and lifted his foot to pick his hoof and remove his horseshoe. One by one, he lifted and un-shoed all four hooves and then proceeded to brush Esin Oba down while I just looked on. As Elésin wiped Esin Oba's beautiful, magnificent face with a damp cloth, man and horse locked eyes on each other and something passed between them, an understanding that knotted their destinies together. I couldn’t have felt more afraid and alone than I felt in that moment, standing in that crowded barn while Elésin combed Esin Oba’s mane and tail. The stable hands stood reverently around us in the eerie glow of the hurricane lamp, hands clasped in front of them and eyes down. Someone struck up a dirge, humming gently under their breath while Elésin finished up his little ritual. It was after that that Esin Oba finally looked at me.

This is how it must be my Love.

No it isn’t!

This is destiny, mine and his. We must make haste to join our king.

Says who? We didn’t ask for this!

It is a gift, the highest honour bestowed by the gods. I shall journey on with my king and we shall conquer in the afterlife as we did in this one.

What about me? Where does all this leave me? Who finishes my journey with me?

You my Love will remain always, the Bride of the Conquering One, the Mother of my children. You will be the envy of all, the pride of our clan.

But I don’t want to be envied, I don’t want to be a hero. I just want you…

With the dirge swelling up to fill the barn, bursting my head and shattering my heart, Elésin led Esin Oba out of the barn into the dusk.

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Ojúróngbé Àrèmú

Commander of the King’s horses

 Akínkanjú, Esin Oba

You, between whose ears the wind of heaven blows

Today you shall soar with him

And trot the air

With you his companions, he shall ride the sky

The earth shall sing no more at the touch of your hoofs

Àjànàkú lo, ó dìgbère. 

                      

In Their Steps

I sit quietly, holding his tiny body in my arms. The fever that wracked his body last night has left him cold today. He hasn’t cried in days and I long to hear that sound that tells me my child is fighting, the sound that tells me he hasn’t given up, that like me, he is holding on for dear life.

I know some medicine will help him but Mataima won’t give him any. Even when I dared venture outside my uncle’s walls to go to the hut that serves as the health care centre, she turned me away.

Boko Haram Bride she spat but I didn’t care. The other women have called me worse. I clung to her shawl, begged for mercy, for the child I said, not for me but for the child.

She dragged me into the hut by my arm then, showed me the maimed, wounded men within, the stench of death and decay chocked me, brought fresh tears to my eyes.

They are the ones who deserve mercy she hissed. Your lot did this to them, to their families. I will not squander medicines on your bastard child.

I’d turned and left then. My little Boy did not do this I want to say but the words didn’t come.

As I returned to my uncle’s compound, I heard the whispers. I saw the fear in the averted faces.

They are afraid of me. That thought shocks me the most. Their disdain, repulsion and whispered Karuwa* I have somewhat come to expect, but the fear baffles me, how can anyone be afraid of me, I’m just seventeen, not much more than a little slip of a child.

You will bring them back here, you’re the ruin of us all.

Are we sure she doesn’t have a belt under her hijab?

You lay with a man who kills your people! How can you live with yourself?

I desperately want to tell them I didn’t create any of this, I didn’t ask for this, I don’t want to be damaged. I want to be fifteen again, dreaming of flying a plane in the open skies one day. I want my mother to hold me in her arms as I hold my son, but they tell me I killed her the day I left.

I feel it when my Baby takes his last laboured breath. I am too weak with anguish to take one of my own, so I sit still with his lifeless body in my arms, arms as empty as my heart.

I know the family will be relieved, jubilant even, that the blood of Boko Haram has gone from them. They will say it is God’s will, God’s way of exacting justice for the atrocities of Boko Haram, they will say it is atonement. I want to scream that I don’t believe God would punish a little child like they have, that the face of God can’t possible hold their self righteous sneers. But the words won’t come still.

Thoughts of the forest start to come to me. The longing for it is so strong in my empty heart that I think I will lose my mind. It both terrifies and draws me at once. I want to go back, go back to the rocky heights that make me feel like I’m flying, the leafy shea trees that provide respite from the sun. I want to hide from these people, from the family that has turned on me, from the friends that now hate and despise me. I can’t help but think that my son would still be alive had I stayed in the forest.

The thought of wearing a belt flits through my mind. The peacefulness of death would be better than this sham of a life I now live. Maybe then Boko Haram will hail me a hero, not the outcast I have become to my people. How ironic would it be if I followed in the steps of the ones who have stolen my life from me. By a twist of fate, I would also be following the steps of the ones who are stealing my future if I let my anger and pain take over, and I kill and maim them. Life sure is full of ironies.

Or maybe I should go like a coward, swallow some guba**. You never live beyond the day you become a captive. All you know is torment as you wait and hope for rescue. All you know is pain and shame if you survive and return. Same side of the same unfortunate coin.

One day, maybe I will forget. Maybe I will forget everything; the forest, the thoughts of dying, the hateful looks, the cruel words, the pull of my son’s lips on my breasts. Maybe. But today I am consumed by pain and anger and shame and confusion and this deep dark hole that seems impossible to fill.

*Whore  **Poison