Poached Red

By Olanike Akinwunmi Adeoye

Adamat, a girl from a poor background, grew up with her mother, Mama Zainab, who had gone through pain worse than divorce. In her mothers bid to cater and tend for her, she exchanges the second most paramount possession in Adamats life for it. Adamat realizes her loss when her path crosses Mustaphas.

This thought-provoking piece is recommended to all who care to preserve the next generation (Demola Awoyele).

The author successfully takes us by the hand and walks us through a journey that leaves us whipped up (Sola Oki).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524559663

Olanike Akinwunmi Adeoye

Olanike Akinwunmi Adeoye is a God-devoted writer, whose love for words and creativity burgeoned from dictation class years ago. She is a columnist at grenepages, as well partners with mylivinghopealternatives. She is also a banner raiser for Kingdom Ladies Network, a godly network pushing ladies beyond their limits. She has electronic publications on several short fictions and other inspirational on her blog—Akinwumi’s Handwriting(s) at www.nikeadeoye.blogspot.com—since 2013, a total of forty of them. One of her e-published fictions in 2013 formed the theme for this novel, which is now her first paper published fiction. Email: [e-mail]

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Copyright © 2016 by Olanike Akinwunmi Adeoye .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/11/2016

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Twelve Years After

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

To Olufemi Adeoye-Oke, my father, of whom I am well pleased—my number one fan.

I remember the days when all you let me do during the holidays was to read, when you made me write endless essays without any examination in view, and I got scored by my Uncle—a professor of linguistics.

Your few years on earth were a massive investment in my long lasting own.

This book is dedicated to your memory.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I celebrate you . . .

• The Father Almighty! I am unsure of other people’s source of inspiration when they write, but mine is you! I love the way you father me!

• My mother, Eunice Bolajoko Adeoye-Oke, the strongest woman I know. I love you, Mum. Your generosity beats me.

• Oluwaseye Fadare, you are awesome. You listened to my drafts over and over again. I am sure I bored you sometimes, but you never said it; rather, you listened on. For making time to read over and over again, and assessing the workability of this work of fiction, I am grateful.

• My siblings: Ifedapo, Yewande, Bola, Olasoji and Ademola. What will I do without your smiles? That vigour you infuse into our meetings—physically or online—is rare.

• Reverend and Reverend (Mrs) Olusola and Oyenike Areogun, your ministry gave me a strong foundation.

• Youth Forum Fellowship, St. Luke’s Anglican Church Akure, thank you for the many platforms to train.

• Evangelist Sola Oki, when years ago I attended the young writer’s seminar organised by you, I did not exactly see today. Thank you for the timely support, whoever thinks it is impossible, only needs to hear you speak on the subject for ten minutes.

• Pastor Demola and Kemi Awoyele, meeting you added immense contributions. It appeared simple, but it was potent.

• Wunmi Falodun, I call you the ‘Elizabeth to my Mary’ concerning this novel. I did not know we would ever come this far in partnership.

• Damilola Akinbote, my cheerleader, you are superb.

• Lanre Oke and Wuraola Oduntan, thank you for being such a role model, Uncle and Aunt.

• The Redeemed Christian Church of God, Beautiful Gate Parish Glasgow, United Kingdom, Sunday school unit—when you bought me those novels rather than motivational books as parting gifts, little did I know it was a message.

• My back support team for the publication of this novel, I am grateful. Babatunde Sesan—my grammar editor, Ademola Badejo (Silky creations) —my graphics designer and Atulegwu Amamgbo, thank you.

• The Achievers’ Royal Group of School Akure, where I fell in love with words, your role is irreplaceable.

• Everyone who deposited a right counsel into me, I appreciate you.

• To everyone who has read my handwriting(s) on my blog, and to all reading this novel, thank you. You have spurred me on.

ONE

A damat gently dropped the plastic bucket of water she had just returned from the village water reservoir with, and quietly tiptoed into the room she shared with the rest of her family. She avoided interrupting the serious discussion her mother seemed to be having with her guest. Adamat knew elders were not to be disrupted when their conversations carried a ‘don’t disturb’ undertone—either due to raised voices, or because of firm responses from both parties. Mama Zainab and her guest, Alhaji Seriki, did not really converse in hushed whispers. Nonetheless, they still did not seem as though they would want uninvited persons to join in.

Adamat walked into the bedroom, and opened one of the small boxes her mother bought years ago—the smallest one—the same one her older sisters used before they married and moved out of the house. Termites had damaged a good part of the wooden box. The left side of the piece of baggage—which remained laying on the floor—most of the times, had most of its chips peeled off. This made the brownness of the wooden box appear pale.

She picked out a worn-out gown, navy in colour, which now looked more like a poorly bleached black dress. She shook it off and put it on her slim body. The gown was torn at the waist, but it was still one of her best. It was passed on to her by her immediate elder sister. Sekinat passed on the dress to her about the time she moved into her husband’s house. Her mother told her she would have to appear more like a wife than a teenager. Her mother stayed with her in the room as she packed her few belongings, the day before her Nikkah ceremony.

‘Ha, these clothes are not only short; they are also getting old. You will not wear these short dresses at Alhaji Yahaya’s house,’ she began to say. ‘Don’t worry, Alhaji will buy you dresses, especially wrappers, to make you look beautiful,’ she said with a wide grin that Sekinat comprehended fully well. Sekinat smiled back. Her mother sang the words of joy, relief, and newness into her ears all week long, as if Alhaji Yahaya’s house was the relief she needed to start a better life. She believed, that way her mother shoved aside some dresses the teenager was fond of.

Although she believed her mother’s optimism, she would rather wait until it happened, and suggested to her mother that she put them away when Alhaji changed her wardrobe indeed. But her mother forcefully removed them from her luggage. The navy dress was one dress she almost parted with in tears. She actually luckily owned the dress when Mama Nurudeen, her mother’s friend, brought to their house some of her children’s used clothes as she often did when she felt it was decent enough to pass them down.

Mama Zainab would use her discretion in sharing the supposedly new resources they just acquired after her friend’s departure, and would return at a later date to thank her immensely. Sometimes, the girls fought on who wanted a specific item in the bag, since Mama Nurudeen brought more women’s wears than men’s. Now that the navy dress was Adamat’s, she also liked it because of the cream bow that rested perfectly on the left side of the knee length dress. Although, time and chance had happened to the dress, the bow had stood out, keeping the dress presentable, regardless.

She held the wet dress she had worn to the village water reservoir as she tiptoed again to the backyard. This time around, her mother noticed her. They managed the dilapidated property for years now. Her two brothers often slept in the living room, even though they had their clothes in one of the boxes in the bedroom where Adamat and her mother slept at night. They were rich enough to afford mats, which they laid on at night; the tatty small building was always a mess during rainy seasons. All their belongings became drenched at such times. It was bearable, since it was always sunny more than it rained in their locality.

‘Adamat is that you?’ Mama Zainab called out. Unlike the gravelly tone with which she spoke to Alhaji Seriki before, her voice sounded orotund as she called out to her. Adamat’s mother was called by the name of her first child.

‘Yes, Mama,’ she answered, as she adjusted the navy dress she had just slid into. She carried her small body slowly to the other room that served as a sitting room.

‘Where have you been?’ Mama Zainab asked, as Adamat walked into the sitting room.

‘I was at the village water reservoir,’ she answered in a sotto voce. Her eyes waggled.

‘That is good. Alhaji Seriki wanted to greet you.’

‘Barka da rana.’ Adamat sat on her heels to greet her mother’s visitor in a way the Hausa did. Mama Zainab wondered why she wore such a rinsed look.

Alhaji Seriki wouldn’t notice the same. ‘How are you, pretty Adamat?’ He said with a cheesy grin. A grin that could be judged faked even by the man who gave it, had he stared into the mirror. He was enthusiastic about his purpose for visiting, but his expression remained somewhere in between enthusiasm and feat accomplishment.

‘I am fine, thank you, Sir. But Mama, I need to spread this dress outside, it is soaked with water.’ She wanted to excuse herself from the piercing look of the old man; old enough not only to be her father, but also her grandfather.

‘You can go then.’

Although Adamat had learned the English language from her seemingly educated parents, her use of the language was always highlighted with severe rural accent.

Mama Zainab also observed the dripping dress, plopping drops of water on the bare cemented sitting room floor. Not only did she notice the dress dribbling some coloured water, she could as well perceive the stench that oozed from the shabby looking material. Nonetheless, she could not be bothered, since that was all she could afford. Adamat hurried out of their presence to spread the dripping gown on the single rope that served as their line area in addition to some laid about planks at the backyard. Alhaji Seriki followed her with his eyes. His eyes leered at the little girl as if they were assessing some goods whose owner had come to display at a market place. Adamat was 11 years old, and quite intelligent. Her father