Dappled Things

By Iweka Kingsley

The novella with its rich array of characters and plots captures several socio-cultural predicaments that characterize Nigeria. The lot of the story is told from the experiences of two major characters, Cindy and Maggie. It shows how they were dealt with and how they dealt with several issues that they encountered; how they failed and lost; how they learnt and succeeded. This is a story that has many sides. It is a story of pain, passion, grief, strength, betrayal, faith and love. It is a distinctive story told in a most engaging manner; one with many lessons to be learnt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jul 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781482801637

Iweka Kingsley

Iweka Kingsley is a Creative Writer and has vast experience in Public Relations and Media Consultancy. He is a Social Media Expert and Creative Content Provider. He has worked with many top ranking platforms (print and online), and manages a platform that delivers only positive and progressive news about Africa. Iweka Kingsley grew up in Festac Town, Lagos, Nigeria. He is 23 years old. Unlike many writers claim, he has not been writing from his mother’s womb. He discovered his interest and ability to write further along the course of life, and now, writing is his tool for expressing the richness of his heart. He hopes that some day soon, writers and writing as a profession will be better appreciated in Nigeria.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Iweka Kingsley.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-0164-4

                Softcover       978-1-4828-0165-1

                Ebook           978-1-4828-0163-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Part 1

Chapter 1:   The Sullivans

Chapter 2:   Cindy

Chapter 3:   Cindy and Emeka

Chapter 4:   A Glimpse of Hope

Chapter 5:   Brian

Chapter 6:   The Breaking

Chapter 7:   Confession

Part 2

Chapter 8:   Greg and Cindy

Chapter 9:   Greg

Chapter 10:   Maggie

Chapter 11:   Atonment

Chapter 12:   Cindy—II

Chapter 13:   Sandra

Chapter 14:   Blindfold

Chapter 15:   David

Chapter 16:   Collision Course

Chapter 17:   Maggie II

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to the memory of my friend and brother, Emeka Igweneme (R.I.P). Also, to real women all over the world, and the men that love them rightly.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I remember the bold promises of the past; I am conscious of the present predicament; yet I cling to the hopes and assurances of the future.

I thank everyone that has been part of my story thus far, especially as regards publishing this book.

I specially want to thank the following people: my family for enduring my inclinations and coping with my enigmatic aspects; Sunshine, whose love woke my dreams and gave them life; Stanley Azuakola, who is a friend, a brother and a father altogether; Tunde Adeniran, my twin brother from another mother; my Editor, Binyerem Ukonu, whose kindness found me when it did; Myne Whitman, for being such a wonderful person in many ways.

I also thank Johnson Abbaly, Osita and Nonso Egbubine, Michael Ebia, Peace Oshiafi, Maryann Atseyinku, Obinna Igwebuike, Paul Akhabue, Henry Egwuonwu, Esy Gichobi, and Chinenye Egbuna. I acknowledge your support and contributions to this effort. Thank you all very much.

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

THE SULLIVANS

M r. Sullivan came home from work one evening. His wife, Claire, and their two children, Brian and Cindy, were watching the popular drama series, super story , on their big flat screen TV in the living room. They were so engrossed in the program that no one heard him drive into the compound. The air conditioner was on and the thick glass windows were shut as well. He burst the door open and staggered in, clenching an open bottle tight to his underarm. His gait was uncoordinated, and so were the words he mumbled as he knocked against furnishings that adorned his living room. The content of the bottle spilled on the rug covered floor as he swayed back and forth and sideways too. The rug was raspberry red in colour and had central geometric motifs and stylized plant designs. It was a gift to him and Claire on their wedding day. His uncle on a subsequent visit after their wedding, boasted about how he went to great lengths to fly the rug in from Egypt.

The stench of alcohol oozing out of him pervaded the entire room quickly. He stumbled as he knocked his leg against a side table beside the leather sofa. The bottle dropped from his arm and fell to the floor, spilling more liquid on the rug and staining it even further. He tried hard to bend to pick it up, but Claire got to it before he could. She had done her best to keep the rug as new as ever for almost fifteen years.

George! she exclaimed, though without any taste of surprise, as it wasn’t the first time. He had returned home drunk many times in the last three months when it all started.

"Givee mii the boottle", he replied. The words drawled out of his mouth and he swayed still.

This madness has to stop. What has come over you?

"I said you should givee mii the boottle!" He tried hard to keep his balance on the floor as he spoke.

George, what have I done to deserve all of this, what? There was soberness in her voice as she spoke those words. But they didn’t catch his air.

"I wuuld not like to repeat maself, give mii the damn boottle or you will be sorry", he threatened.

Oh George, what have I done to deserve this kind of life?

She had barely said those words when the first slap came to her left cheek. It was hard and swift. The next was even quicker than the first, this time on her right cheek. She was dazed. Then the blows and the kicks followed in quick successions. It was like he had planned the beating on his way home from work, as every attack seemed well thought out. A punch to the left side of her jaw with his right hand, another punch to the centre of her stomach with his left hand and she was on the floor, rolling in pain and screaming for help. He didn’t stop there. He got on top of her and dealt her more blows. She screamed and tried to protect her face with her elbows, but he was less concerned about her face that was already torn at the corner of her eye and her forehead. He focused more on her stomach and she spilled blood from her mouth.

The children, Brian and Cindy fought hard in their limited might to rescue their mother from the torture, but they too received their share of the beating. George had more than enough to go round as he was high on alcohol. Brian quickly got a punch to his face that saw him crying on the floor soon enough, with his hands pressed on the left side of his face. Cindy however, was more purposeful in her attempt. She pulled his right leg and bit it. She bit it so hard that he screamed. That brief moment of distraction was enough for Claire to make her escape. He reached out to grab Cindy, but with the agility of a ten year old, she sprang up and ran towards her mother, who was now weeping in severe pain and agony at a corner of the living room.

George was obviously tired, after such a savage exercise. He sighed and panted heavily as he stared hard at Claire and the children who sat in fear beside her, holding her tightly and causing her more pains. He turned away from them and made his way upstairs to the bedroom, staggering all the way through and stumping hard on the marble stairs. He held unto the aluminium rails that laced the stairs all the way up, as they guided him up the flight of steps. Claire counted his every step in her heart, closing her eyes and holding her breath, making sure he was really gone. When she heard the bedroom door bang shut from upstairs, she heaved a sigh of relief and burst out again in tears, her eyelids hurt her so much even as she cried; but she couldn’t help crying. She turned to look at Brian and Cindy seated beside her on the floor, holding her hands. They were in tears too. She noticed the swelling on the left side of Brian’s face.

What sort of man does this to a fifteen year old boy, much more, a father to a son? she muttered amid sobs. Then she wept some more.

That night, they slept on the floor of the living room, all three of them, wishing the night away and hoping for a brighter day.

It was hard to understand why Mr. Sullivan did the things he did, especially to his family. News of his alcohol abuse and his battering spread to his work place and even as far as his home town. He was highly regarded in his village because of his wealth and frequent donations to several community projects. Many villagers would say later on, that a curse that was placed on his lineage a long time ago was at work in his life. They would also say that a similar thing had happened to his father; that he went ‘mad’ at some point in his life and that he lived like that till he died a terrible death. It would seem so eventually, considering how George had a great life that he threw all away without reason.

George had a good job as the head of productions in a big advertising firm in Lagos. Claire was a good wife, and Brian and Cindy were good children too, garnering good grades in school and paying heed to everything their parents said, even before they were told. But none of those appealed to George anymore. His grief was deep and hard to understand because he did not share them with anyone, not even Claire. He barely said a word to anyone, and would flare up at the slightest provocation. Neither Brian nor Cindy went to him directly to ask for anything. They prayed through their mother, who observed to find a most suitable atmosphere to present their requests. Usually, she got the timing right and picked the right atmosphere. Other times, she didn’t, and she paid for it by receiving a beating. Either way, she always got some sort of response. His actions towards them stemmed from something very deep. Something he had not been able to really comprehend. No one knew for sure if he felt sober after such moments, not even Claire. It was hard to tell. Such moments just seemed to fade away, like the stars in the early dawn. He never said much, his belt and fists did most of the talking. All they could do was pray that the previous instance would be the last. But the more they prayed, the more instances there were.

The very fact that he still provided for the basic needs of the family, made the situation very enigmatic. He paid the rent, fed his family, attended to every financial aspect of his children’s education. Basic material necessities were not