Stranger in Lagos

By Sally Kenneth Dadzie

Halim Diobi is set to marry Eben Nosakhare, the perfect picture of a dream husband. Their wedding promises to be the talk of town, and all their plans seem to fall in place.
Eniola Adeoye has plans of her own as well, centered on Eben Nosakhare and finding a new beginning in Lagos.
Things don’t go quite as intended for all three, as unexpected curves ahead get in the way of their goals and leave them facing new realities in Lagos. They become strangers to each other, even though they are so close.
Stranger In Lagos is not your typical love story; neither does it follow the path of the usual Lagos story. Sally Kenneth Dadzie tells an enthralling and gripping tale of four young people, living their best lives and struggling with ghosts from the past in the city of vermin and lost souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728327334

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

ENIOLA

I hate Lagos. It is a city of vermin and lost souls. The darkest hearts live there. The air its citizens breathe is tainted with evil. You stay there long enough and you become part of the darkness. Even an innocent child is not immune to its perversion.

Of course, like every megacity in the world, it’s a place where dreams come true. The skyscrapers, fast cars, bright lights and nightlife will always enthrall you. Each street is booming, and every destination boasts of its own distinctive spirit. From beaches to bars, hotels and local joints, adventure calls. It is the hub of modern Africa. The story of the Dark Continent cannot be told without giving Lagos its due mention. The core of oil-rich Nigeria rests on this legendary cinematic city.

But it isn’t always pretty or inspiring. Behind the booming industries and glass-walled boardrooms, posh boutiques and luxury homes, real people with terrifying stories reside. Everyone in Lagos has a tale to tell. Even the roaches that live in its stinking gutters and feed on the waste of the city.

For me, it will always be a place of haunting because it was where I murdered my sister when I was only eight years old.

Strange, but true.

She was my twin. A sickly thing that could neither walk nor speak; yet, was loved by our mom. Loved more than I was. We were not a brood of vermin or roaches that lived under a bridge. We were a typical above-average family, residing in a suburb called Dolphin Estate, in a house that was in those days, considered luxurious by most.

On the day my sister and I were brought into the world by the hands of a surgeon, I came out looking like I had fed on her in the womb. She was a scrawny little baby with no chance of survival. Mommy was told to say goodbye to her before she was placed in an incubator. Everyone waited for her to die, but she was determined to stay.

Two days later, she was still breathing, although barely. Mommy was told to take me home and care for me. It was still unnecessary to hope, but she wouldn’t listen to the doctors. She wanted to be with the fragile one. She wouldn’t even look at me. Hence, Daddy and Grandma brought me home, and six days later, in a loud ceremony, I was named Eniola. No one even cared to christen me Taiye or Kehinde as was the norm with naming twins. My life was already set for me to be by myself.

Mommy was absent for the naming ceremony. While Daddy and the partying crowd he invited celebrated lavishly, she sat beside her baby in the hospital, and after hours of prayers, named her Eyitope.

That night, Tope stopped breathing. She was placed in a carton by the nurses. Daddy drove to the hospital to get Mommy. He brought her home, tucked her in bed and placed me in her arms. I was told that she wouldn’t touch me. Rather, she lay there all night and stared at me. By morning, the hospital rang the house and my parents were asked to come for Tope, who had by some miracle, returned to life in the middle of the night.

Tope was brought home a month later, enough time for Mommy to disconnect from me. The years that followed were hard on all of us. Mommy faced a life where Daddy was never around. If it wasn’t business taking him away, it was a certain woman who lived down the street. Mommy knew about her, but she was a typical Nigerian wife who was advised not to bother herself with her husband’s extracurricular activities. On balance, he provided for his family and gave them everything money could buy. Why was she being ungrateful?

She was asked to concentrate on her children. And this, she did. The only problem was that I didn’t count as one of her children. Tope was first, and then there was Lekan, my elder brother, who got more attention than I did. Sometimes, I caught Mommy staring at me with eyes that made me want to run and hide under my bed. At an early age, I understood what contempt meant. It was something served to me by Mommy, and when I was full of it, I served it to Tope.

As we got older, the responsibility of caring for Tope fell on me.

"Eni, take this koko¹and give to your sister, Mommy would say, placing a dish of guinea corn pap in my hands. Don’t force her or she’ll vomit."

Yes, ma.

I would hold the dish with small, shaky hands and walk to the living room where Tope would be seated, playing with toys in a manner that invalids do. For a long time I would stare at her, wondering why she would not just get up and play with me. Why she always had to sit around and speak like there was hot coal in her mouth. She couldn’t even call my name properly, and sometimes she would soil her pants, and I would get scolded for not picking out the stench of her mess on time.

Tope got the best clothes, as skinny and ugly as she was. Even her useless feet that could go nowhere were blessed with the prettiest ballerina shoes. Mommy always tended to her thick, long hair and manicured her equally-long fingernails with much concentration and love. She would call her beautiful, even though I was the beautiful one. Daddy never failed to remind me. He was nothing like his wife. He loved his children equally. I can’t ever recall fighting for his attention each time he was home.

But he hardly ever was. Mommy said the other woman, whom everyone called Aunty Ada, was responsible for his absences.

Useless Igbo witch! She has locked your father in a bottle! God will punish and destroy her! Mommy would curse as she combed my stubborn hair. I didn’t understand why she always waited until it was time to groom my hair to gripe about her troubled marriage.

Prostitute! Sleeping with people’s husbands up and down! Jehovah God will visit her with thunder and lightning soon! I would get a smack on the shoulder from the comb in her hand for no reason. Your hair is thick as a forest with wild animals!

A forest alone was bad enough, but she always loved to add the wild animals to it. That was how much I was disliked.

As I grew older, I concluded that it was because I took after my paternal grandmother in likeness that I was so despised. I was fair in complexion with rose-red lips and a promising hourglass figure. Even at a young age, everyone could tell I would make heads turn in my future because of my curves. But Mommy constantly reminded me that I looked nothing like her.

Do you know what black beauty is? she asked me one day, while oiling her skin with a mixture of shea butter and coconut oil. She stretched out her arm to me and continued in her hoarse tone. This is black beauty, the same type of skin your sister has, unlike your borrowed color. I can bleach myself and get your skin, but you can never get mine. I don’t know why you came into this world looking like that old woman.

If there ever was a pair that was metaphorically oil and water, it was Mommy and Grandma. Even if they were tossed into a pot and left to boil together to make soup, they would come out as the handiwork of a woman who had never entered a kitchen before.

I would learn years later that Grandma, before my parents got married, did all she could to ensure that Daddy never tied the knot with Mommy. She had warned him that Mommy would bring him sorrow for three reasons. Firstly, she was sickly, suffering from asthma; hence, Grandma felt she would die young. Secondly, Mommy’s father was a Togolese loafer who abandoned Mommy and her mother. Grandma surmised that Mommy, coming from a broken home, would not know how to keep hers too. The third reason she disliked her was for her attitude; Mommy had a caustic mouth and a fiery personality she couldn’t stomach.

But Daddy stuck with her, pleasing his father, who felt Mommy was perfect as a wife for him. It was from Grandma I learned these things, and a lot of other things about my parents’ dysfunctional marriage.

I loved the old woman, nonetheless. And she loved me back a hundredfold. She used to call me her mirror. She’d say, If I want to see my reflection, I would look at you.

She didn’t care much for Tope, but she was a lot better at hiding her indifference than Mommy was at showing me her disdain. Unfortunately, Grandma lived in the north and I only got to see her once a year. Parting with her was always a painful affair. She would cry, and so would I. At each departure, I fell ill and Mommy nursed me. Only in such moments did I get a taste of her love.

Mommy was not all thorns and thistles. There were times when she seemed soft and open-minded. No one knew what triggered those occasions. But I was too unloved and too young to care. I’d simply plunge into the love she was offering, and like the fool I was, hope that it would last forever. But every single time, she would end up breaking my heart. And in my predictable way, I would go right ahead and unleash my pain on Tope.

The day I killed her, Mommy flogged me with a stick she broke off a branch of the guava tree Lekan and I loved climbing in our backyard. She had sent me to a provision store to buy a bottle of coke, which I knew she would share with Tope alone. But Aunty Ada’s daughter, Halim, had stopped me along the way to show me the new doll Daddy bought for her.

My daddy? I asked, bearing a frown.

Yes. It’s called a Barbie.

In jealousy, I replied, I know what a Barbie is! I have plenty of them!

And that was the truth. Daddy spoiled us so much that Lekan, Tope and I lost count of the toys he got for us on his trips outside the country.

Why did my daddy give you a Barbie?

I don’t know. But do you want to come to my house and play with me? You can bring your own.

Her offer was tempting, but I felt a sharp pain on both ears from the memory of Mommy pulling them the last time she warned me never to speak to Halim or Aunty Ada, let alone visit their house.

My mommy said she’ll beat me if I come to your house.

Halim looked equally sad. Even my mommy too.

My mommy said it’s because your mommy has locked my daddy in a bottle.

Halim put out a confused face.

She said your Mommy is using juju on him, I added.

And it was at that moment I heard Mommy’s husky voice from her bedroom window.

Eniola, if I come out of this house right now, I will kill you and that small witch you’re talking to! she shouted in Yoruba. Tears swamped Halim’s eyes in a rush.

I’m not a witch, she said to me before walking away.

I felt sad, watching her go. I was actually fond of her. She was the happy and playful type.

I walked to the store, bought the bottle of coke and returned home. Mommy seemed too much in a good mood to scold me about Halim. For a short while, all was well in my little world. But Daddy came home and I heard him shouting at Mommy from upstairs. I didn’t know what he was angry about, but it soured my mood.

When he was done, he stormed out of the house, charging past me like I didn’t exist. Minutes later, I was being whipped by Mommy for my encounter with Halim. I was whipped so hard that I was scared I would die. Even when Lekan tried to stop her, she threw him to the floor and continued whipping me.

I cried for hours, hoping Daddy would come home and comfort me. When it was clear that it was not going to happen, I withdrew to my bedroom and lay on the bed, staring at Tope who was engrossed in an Enid Blyton book. Mommy soon came in with Tope’s dinner and none for me. I was to starve that night while Tope enjoyed a meal of semovita² and ogbono³ soup.

As usual, I was given the chore of feeding her. I pulled a chair, lowered my aching bum on it and sat before her. I flung her book away. She stared at it and at me with red, murky eyes and hit the armrest of her wheelchair in protest. She mumbled in her disjointed manner, but I didn’t bother to make out what she wanted to say.

Open your mouth! I shouted, thrusting forward a mold of semovita smeared with soup. I shoved it into her mouth and watched in disgust as she made hideous mouth movements in the name of chewing. This went on for what was an eternity as I continued to feed her. Finally, I pushed a chunk of fish into her mouth. I knew I was supposed to crush it, but I didn’t care. Not crushing her fish was the least of the mean things I had been doing to her for years; which was why I didn’t move a muscle when she began making choking sounds a few seconds after she chewed the fish.

I had thought to myself, ‘this stupid girl is trying to get Mommy’s attention as usual, so that I’ll get into more trouble.’ I ignored her, walked into the bathroom, washed my hands and returned to the bed. I lay down where I had lain before to watch her choke.

There was perverse pleasure in seeing her in pain. I knew something was wrong, I knew I was supposed to help her, but I lay there and just observed as one would an incident they weren’t directly connected to.

By now, Tope’s arms were flailing. She was making familiar sounds that indicated she was calling for me and for Mommy. Slimy saliva and blood began to drip from her mouth in gobbles.

Still, I lay there. It was as if I had been tied to that bed, because even when I tried to move, my limbs would not let me.

Tope began to jerk. She clutched her throat. Her eyes rolled a couple of times.

Yet I lay still.

And then, Lekan burst in, took one look at her and called out for Mommy. It was only then I came to my senses, as if someone had slapped me into reality. I jumped off the bed and tried to scream out as well, but was unable to move an inch closer to Tope. Fear had suddenly seized me and I stood, quivering.

Lekan, just a child himself, had gone to Tope and began to hit her chest in an attempt to save her. She dug sharp fingernails into his arms as if trying to hold on to life.

Mommy! I screamed, seeing now that the situation was grim. Guilt had taken over.

Mommy hurried in, and in typical Nigerian mother hysterics, threw her hands over her head as she dashed towards Tope.

"Iya mi⁴ o! she shouted. Who has killed my child? She pushed Lekan away. Eyitope! Who did this to you?"

I was thrown a sharp glare.

I just gave her fish o, I tried to explain, but I was cut off as Mommy instructed Lekan to run to the house across the street and call for the doctor who lived there.

Eniola! Ah! You’ve killed me! She carried a limp Tope in her arms and slumped to the floor with her. She mumbled in prayer as she dug her forefinger into her mouth.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, don’t let my baby die, she wept, her breath weakening. Eyitope!

She pulled out her finger from Tope’s mouth, laid Tope gently on the floor and put her ear to her chest to listen for a heartbeat.

"Oluwa⁵!"

She repeated the activity once more, wheezing while doing so. I was smart enough to dash to her bedroom to get her inhaler. When I returned, I saw her lying on the floor beside Tope, gasping for air. She took the inhaler from me and helped herself with it until her breathing normalized. I was almost forced to snatch it off her hands to use on Tope.

Eyitope o, Mommy sobbed in a breathless tone like one who had just recovered from strangulation.

I sank to the floor. I was shaken. I knew what death was. A cuddly kitten Daddy had given me the year before had been maliciously poisoned by Mommy because she had suspected it to be evil. I had held the poor feline in my arms and watched it die slowly.

Tope was that kitten. Mommy would survive as she always did with her asthmatic attacks. I was sure of that. But not Tope. She was dying slowly, and I knew that if she died, she was never coming back. The secret joy I had felt before was gone now. I did not want to lose my sister. If I could pray like Mommy was doing, I would have done so. But all I could do was watch.

The doctor charged in with Lekan a couple of minutes later. He was tall with a heavy crop of beard that seemed white on one side and dark on the other. He occasionally came to the house to drink with Daddy and watch football. Sometimes, Uncle Greg, who lived two houses away from ours, joined them. Uncle Greg was younger than the doctor was. He was about Daddy’s age. His wife, Aunty Bisi, was pretty. She used to be friends with Mommy, but that ship left the harbor a long time ago. Mommy had made it clear that she could not be friends with anyone acquainted with Aunty Ada. However, we were allowed to visit Aunty Bisi’s house and play with their kids. Sometimes, they came to ours. Aunty Bisi hardly ever visited. But today, she came running in with the doctor, who dropped on his knees and attended to Tope the moment he came in.

What happened to her? he asked.

Her sister said she gave her fish, Mommy cried, rising. I think she choked on it. Ah! Eniola!

Dried fish? Fresh fish?

Smoked fish.

The doctor, who always seemed to carry a stethoscope everywhere, had now set it to Tope’s chest as we all observed in thick silence. Aunty Bisi stood at the foot of the bed, which was close to the door. She would not come any further.

I was numb for the most part. I couldn’t see what the doctor was doing because Mommy had blocked my view.

The doctor stood up, carrying Tope in his arms. He dashed out. Mommy ran after him. Aunty Bisi followed. It was just Lekan and I left in the room. My eyes were fixed on the puddle of blood and saliva Tope had left on the floor.

When I looked up, I saw Lekan staring at me. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He continued to stare as if he was judging me. His manner broke me. I drew my knees up, buried my face on them and cried. He sat beside me. I guess he was as traumatized as I was. We sat there for hours.

Darkness came, and at last, we heard the sound of a car outside. We ran to the window to look out, and there was Daddy, stepping out of his car. Mommy emerged from the passenger’s side with her head slumped. The security light shone on her and she seemed to me like the lost old woman who always found her way into the estate to beg for water and fifty kobo.

I remained at the window, waiting for either Mommy or Daddy to open the backseat and carry Tope out of the car, but none of them did. Moving in the manner of zombies, they dragged themselves towards the house. I stayed there, staring out still, waiting for Tope. I was sure I could see her in the backseat. I could see her hands hitting the window. She was crying to be let out, but nobody heard her.

Moments later, Daddy drew me away from the window. He took me to his bedroom, sat Lekan and I on his laps and told us that Tope had gone to be with Jesus.

When is she coming back? Lekan asked. Unlike me, he hadn’t encountered death personally.

She is not coming back, Son, Daddy explained.

His words broke me. I felt my head swell so many times. I lost myself in his arms while Lekan stood up and walked out of the room as if he had heard nothing.

Days passed and Mommy saw no one. She was locked in her bedroom. When Tope was buried, she was absent. Daddy was told not to be present too, but he insisted that no one would bury his daughter for him. Holding both of his hands at the funeral, Lekan and I stood by him. I heard many people say that God knew best, that Tope was resting from her pain, and God had a great plan for us by her death.

What plan? What rest? I had asked myself. I had been her only pain, her enemy, her rival; and I had eliminated her – the one whom I had fed on in the womb.

Soon after she was buried, things began to fall apart for Daddy financially. It was as if Tope had been an angel sent to watch over and bless us, and now that she was gone, we were thrown into a place of darkness. Working as an engineer for a popular Arab company at that time, money hadn’t been an issue for Daddy. But for reasons he never explained to anyone, he was fired, and became unemployable by other prestigious firms around the country. It was the first time I ever heard the word ‘blacklisted’. Daddy had told this to Mommy over dinner one evening. Of course, she blamed it on Aunty Ada.

Grieving for Tope, Mommy shaved off her hair and moved about the house in long, black dresses, muttering to herself. She refused to do away with Tope’s belongings. They were left as they were in our bedroom. Even the wheelchair was at the exact spot it had been that dark day.

That Ada witch killed my child and now she wants to finish you too, Mommy told Daddy. He ignored her insinuations and assured her things would be fine.

That never happened. A few months down the line, he sold his cars and cut off many luxuries we used to have.

Lagos is too expensive, I heard him tell Mommy one day. I have applied for a job as a lecturer in OSU. They said I’d get it. Prepare the kids to move to Abeokuta.

Daddy didn’t like to talk a lot. He always threw his words around like mines, never staying back to find out the damage they caused. But that day, he sat at the dining table, stirring a cup of tea as Mommy stood over his head with an expensive glass dish in which she loved to store fruit salads. I feared that she would smash his head with it.

You want to go and meet your whore, abi?

Daddy looked up, and back at his tea.

You think I don’t know that she followed the Nosakhares to Abeokuta?

The Nosakhares were Uncle Greg and Aunty Bisi. I was just finding out that they had moved to Abeokuta. I hadn’t seen them in a while, and in my little mind, I concluded that Mommy had in some way driven them away from the neighborhood. I feared her so much that I believed she was powerful enough to do a lot of things.

Tolu, please go and finish what you’re doing. Your shouting will not change my mind. The moment I get the job, we are moving.

Ogun State University is at Ago Iwoye, Daddy Lekan! Why don’t we move there? Why Abeokuta?

Daddy sprang up in anger. If you question me one more time, Tolulope, I will beat you blue-black and nobody will do anything about it!

He towered over her, waiting for her to test his patience. When she gave no retort, he shoved her away and marched out of the house. A few weeks following that, his appointment letter came. Mommy packed our things and explained to us that we would be leaving Lagos for good. I was particularly happy because the house was haunted by Tope’s ghost. I hadn’t been able to sleep in our room. I shared Lekan’s room, and on many nights, woke up screaming, because I always heard Tope scratching the door with her long fingernails.

But we’re not going to Abeokuta, Mommy whispered. I’ll take you children to Grandma in Osogbo.

But Daddy said…

Lekan was cut off sharply. Forget what your daddy said. The woman that killed your sister is in Abeokuta. She’s the one that made your daddy lose his job. She’s very wicked… Lekan, you’re eleven years old. You should know how wicked people can be. Do you want her to kill Eni too?

Lekan shook his head, frightened.

"Eni, iya mi, do you want her to kill your Mommy?"

Hearing her call me the same pet name she had used on Tope brought warmth to my insides. I could have hugged her at that moment if she still didn’t have those hostile eyes.

No, I answered her question.

Good. So, you will keep your mouth shut about our visit to Grandma’s. Early tomorrow morning, when Daddy leaves, we will go to Osogbo. Okay?

Lekan and I nodded. I wasn’t elated about staying with my maternal grandmother. She was in many ways like Mommy, and she possessed holes for teeth. When she spoke, a lot of saliva flew out of her mouth. And if you were not lucky, you would get plops of mashed Kolanut on your face.

What about school? I asked Mommy. It was the long holidays and I couldn’t wait to return to school. Tope’s death and the absence of the Nosakhares had made my life miserable.

We’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.

I nodded, believing there was some literal bridge we had to cross to get to school. I had no idea that our lives were going to take a drastic turn from then on.

As planned, early the next morning, when Daddy left the house, a yellow cab pulled up outside and Mommy pushed us into it after filling the trunk with our belongings. While she spoke with the driver, my head hung out, taking in the fragrance of the fresh flowers Mommy cultivated. They were planted in clusters on a bed just outside the house. Tope used to like them. I loved plucking some for her whenever I was in an angelic mood. The smile she often gave me was priceless. Those were rare moments when we allowed ourselves be sisters.

Eni, put that hand in before I cut it off, Mommy ordered. It was beginning to rain and I had stuck out my hand to get a few drops of water. I withdrew into the cab as it revved and swung over the main street of our quiet high-end neighborhood. I hoisted myself up on my knees and turned around. I peered out to have one last look at my childhood home.

Parting from it was bittersweet. Somehow, I knew we weren’t coming back. As infantile as my mind was, I sensed an era was over. But as we drove away from the house, I saw Tope standing by the window of our bedroom. She wasn’t calling for me or scratching the window as she did in my nightmares. She was smiling and waving, and that image has not left my mind nineteen years later.

Tope is the reason I hate Lagos.

CHAPTER 2

HALIM

I learn from him that seduction is a form of art.

It begins with a stare. A careless gaze from harmless eyes that are clear as water. They smile at me, they follow me everywhere I go, even when he doesn’t. Like a ghost haunting its murderer, the memory lingers in my head when I go to sleep. It takes mere days for me to fall.

And I fall like a boulder. Fast, hard, helplessly. My five senses are betrothed to the affection he offers. For days, I think of nothing else but him. My head in the clouds, my feet walking on sunshine. He wheedles me until I become a slave in want.

Thus, one night, in a hotel in Lagos, my real life far away from me, I become entrapped in his lair. It’s as if I am being carried by giant arms and twirled around until the world becomes one with my pleasure. The gratification is beyond description; but just as it starts, it stops.

I am brought down to earth and my feet can’t hold the dazedness of my whirlwind romance. Reality hits hard. I want to be lifted high again and taken back to the throes of pleasure, but I know I must face my life. And it is a life where my fate is tied to another.

My groom awaits me. A marriage is our destiny. My name is Halim and this is the story of how a night of lust almost ruined my life.

***

The mannequin in the white wedding dress, standing in the middle of my bedroom, is my most trusted companion. I call her ‘Bride’ and speak to her each night before I go to bed. Everyone thinks it is creepy to have a mannequin in the middle of one’s room, but I always remind them that my wedding would come soon, and since I designed the dress from scratch, I need to keep an eye on it at all times.

On most mornings and sometimes in the middle of the night, I would jump out of bed like one possessed by a demon, and add a sequin or two here, loosen a stitch there, or even piece apart the entire outfit to start all over again. On all occasions, Bride is there, faithful, reliable, doing her bit to make my dream of being married to the perfect man come true. But sometimes I close my eyes in sleep and dream that Bride takes on a human form and walks down the aisle in that same dress with my fiancé, Eben. I would wake up from the nightmare, walk to Bride and gaze into her eyes for a long time before laughing the silliness of the dream away. I never talked to anyone about it. I blamed it on an overactive mind, one that had been filled with fantasies of having the perfect wedding.

Today, however, I’m not imagining things. Bride is unhappy with me. She seems to be judging me, saying to me, I know what you did last night. Her cold, grey eyes hold mine for hours; and I sit, staring back, unable to get the guilt I have carried all day off my shoulders.

Now, for me, guilt is not me burying my head in the sand or spending a stretch of time crying over what I can’t undo. Guilt is silence. Total quiet. And that is torture for me because I am lively. I pulse everywhere I go. But right now, I can’t speak. It’s like the party in me died. It’s a sinking feeling. I long to sleep, but my eyes just won’t put a lid on my remorse. I have been awake since I snuck into the house in the early hours of the morning, following a long, energetic night in the arms of a man that is not my fiancé.

Surely, hell awaits me. What in heaven’s name have I gotten myself into?

My door is thrown open and my mother pokes a head full of expensive weave in. She gives me scrutinizing eyes.

What’s wrong with you? Are you on your period?

This is a typical Aunty Ada question. One’s menstruation is always to blame for any bad mood. She is a woman too distracted to worry about life’s problems. With a mind always thinking about money, and restless feet constantly engaged in one material pursuit or the other, Aunty Ada is all I have in the world. She is not your average Nigerian mother. She has never been married, but at some point, she helped married men sort out their sexual inadequacies. It is a past she has shamelessly opened up to me about, down to the dirty details of her sexual escapades. A past I well remember.

Like every mistress out there, it was mostly about the money for her. However, Aunty Ada was more than a sidepiece to the men she had helped. She had used them to gain for herself a place amongst the influential and wealthy in Abeokuta. For an Igbo woman without a husband in a Yoruba setting, it is scary. People fear Aunty Ada, especially the wives of the men she used to have something with. For those she chooses to extend her staff of camaraderie to, she keeps them as friends. Her present circle is a collection of mostly divorcees. The odd person amongst them is Aunty Bisi, my fiancé’s mother. She is in a happy marriage that is blessed with four children. She is Aunty Ada’s best friend, and people have a hard time understanding why.

Try and take something for the period cramps. Meanwhile, your mother-in-law is here.

Usually, Aunty Ada would say, Aunty Bisi is here, but from the moment both women got it into their heads to pair Eben and I up, Aunty Bisi had to be addressed accordingly.

Wear something nice and come and say hello.

Aunty Ada retreats to the living room where she is hosting her friends for their usual Sunday hangout. It is a regular gathering in which they drink expensive champagne, eat peppered chicken and gossip about men and other women, and how much they waste money buying things they do not need, just to ‘oppress’ people they do not like.

I roll my eyes at the thought of showing respect to women I particularly don’t care for. Aunty Bisi, whom I fondly call ‘Mommy’, is the only person I adore there. Sometimes I love her more than I love Aunty Ada. The woman is sweet and courteous, and although she occasionally gets too sanctimonious for her own good, she always means well.

Aunty Bisi is married to Greg Nosakhare, regarded as the wealthiest non-native of Abeokuta. He is a blood relative of the Oniro of Iro, one of the Obas of Abeokuta. On her own, Aunty Bisi is from a wealthy Lagos family. According to what I was told, in her teenage years, while she still lived in Lagos, she met Aunty Ada who lived next door with a relative. A bond was formed between both girls that blossomed into what it is now.

Halimnye! Aunty Ada yells.

I drag my feet to the door and paint on a smile as I step into the living room where five women are lounging. All of them, except Aunty Ada, are plus size. In fact, one can easily pass Aunty Ada off as my elder sister, and no one will dispute it.

My darling! Aunty Bisi smiles with radiant pride as I approach her. We hug and she forces me to sit on the armrest of the couch she is on. I greet the other women and answer questions about my wellbeing.

Nothing is new about the setting. It is the same as last Sunday – women with tastefully toned skin, gold trinkets, designer wears, expensive perfumes, excessive makeup and flowing weaves like Aunty Ada’s. There is nothing modest about any of them. The décor in the living room that boasts of cool shades of peach and mint green is more entertaining. It is not that I judge them; I’m just not in the mood to be here with them at the moment.

Your husband is coming in from Chicago tomorrow, Aunty Bisi announces. My tummy churns.

Would you want to go with Conrad to pick him from the airport in Lagos?

I’ve always wanted to be that woman that waits at an airport’s arrival area to welcome her man. But Eben has never given me that opportunity. This is a perfect occasion to fulfill that desire… If only my guilt would let me.

Eben is a busy man who does an excellent job managing his father’s chain of electronic and computer hardware businesses. He presently runs his company as well. Upon taking over the family business about five years ago, he quickly opened a branch that dealt solely in cellphones. Two years later, he expanded to Lagos to render internet services to the southwest, collaborating with a larger company to ensure a wider reach and longevity of the business. Towards the end of 2014, he took a leap and bought off the shares of the larger company to sustain his brainchild alone, against the advice of many. The outcome almost ruined the business, but Eben rode through the waves and came back up again, scaling down to Lagos alone. Now, he is on his journey to expanding it once more.

His successes and failures were the only push I needed to pursue a relationship with him. I saw in him a man who was not dependent on his family’s wealth or name to make it to the top. The type of man I needed. But beyond his achievements, I do admit that I felt pressure from Aunty Ada to date him. Love wasn’t necessarily the binding force that brought us together, familiarity was. I doubt that Eben is capable of romantic expressions. He is hard to read sometimes, especially when we get into the love zone. But when we sit and talk as friends, I flow with him, and I don’t want that alone. I want a deeper connection if I’m going to be his wife. As a girl who loves to be adored at all times, attention is key to my existence. I need him to want and desire me. To pursue me the way he chases after money.

Unfortunately, I’m treated as indifferently as he treats everyone else. Save for our regular dinner dates on the random Saturday, the only other place we bump into each other is at church.

He is yet to do more than kiss me, and for someone who always needs attention, I got easily lured into another man’s arms last night after harboring the heaviness of unfulfilled desire. It’s no excuse, though. I have messed up. I am yet to recover from the shock of my betrayal to Eben.

I don’t feel so well, I lie to Aunty Bisi. I’m on my period.

Awww. No wonder you were not in church today. Pele⁶. Oya, stay back. When Eben arrives, I’ll send him over to see you."

So that two of you can finally start putting into place, plans for your wedding, Aunty Ada adds.

"Exactly. You’ve worn that ring one year too long, my darling. I can’t wait to call you Mrs. Nosakhare, Iyawo wa⁷."

Normally, I would blush, but an uneasy smile crinkles my lips. I need to go and lie down, I plead.

Of course, my love. Give Mommy a kiss.

I peck Aunty Bisi on the cheek and head for my bedroom, hearing one of the women make a comment about missing my usually chatty air.

I fall on my bed and pick my phone. A text had come in from the man with whom I had spent the night.

You won’t pick your calls, hun. Just want to know how you’re doing. You forgot your bracelet. Should I bring it to work on Monday?

My eyes become heavy with tears, but I control my emotions as I type a quick response to him.

Paul, please stop texting me. Please, I beg you.

When I send the text, I free the tears. They are laden with guilt and a broken heart. Paul is not just a lay or some random guy in my office. He is a man I am smitten by.

ENIOLA

The years have gone by since Tope died, and I retain my hate for Lagos. I haven’t been there in a while. It always worries Lekan how close it is to Abeokuta, and yet, I have felt no need to go there as often as he does. The pizzazz and appeal are not strong enough to exorcise the ghosts from my past. The most I do there is my shopping. That is all the stinking city has to offer.

Unlike me, Lekan is a social butterfly who cannot do without the nightlife of Lagos. Abeokuta is a town too quiet for him, but because he is yet to get the dream job he has been jostling for, he manages a boring telecoms job here. Nevertheless, whenever his best friend, Eben, is around, he spends most of his weekends with him in Lagos, except for those moments when Eben stays back in Abeokuta to handle business. Eben and Lekan are unalike in many ways, but they have somehow managed to hit it off consistently through the years.

Many things have happened since that day in 1996 when Mommy bundled us into a cab and carried us off to Osogbo. Daddy lost all he had and ended up in a psychiatric hospital. We were then forced to move to Abeokuta so that Mommy could take care of him. She opened a local restaurant and provisions store outside our house to keep things going. She would not accept help from anyone, especially the Nosakhares. On her own, she paid our school fees and Daddy’s hospital bills. We lived a life below our means, one we were not used to, but somehow we managed through until Daddy regained his health and sought for another job at the university. He also kept the line open with the Nosakhares, from which the bond between Lekan and Eben grew.

I was not as friendly with them, but in my teenage years, I developed a crush for Eben that had the habit of burning brightly at certain times. In adulthood, that crush has maintained a certain fervor. I have had boyfriends and a healthy dose of men in my life, but Eben remains a constant. These days, though, what I feel for him overwhelms me. My feelings heightened, when almost three years ago, I began to notice that he was getting friendlier with Halim. I had caught them lunching out a few times and sensed some sort of chumminess between them during church meetings. I had a boyfriend at the time, who had lost his mind and proposed to me in front of my family. I turned down his offer and incurred Mommy’s wrath. She gave me an earful for weeks, and even today, she still reminds me of how stupid I was to say no to him. The guy was rich and from a prominent family like Eben was. He was everything Mommy wanted in a son-in-law, but I had not only turned him down, I ended things with him.

Tope wouldn’t have behaved this way, Mommy told me one random morning not long ago. You are twenty-nine. You’re no longer young, Eniola. I married your father at the age of nineteen. Keep turning good men down. By the time you’re thirty, you’ll be begging for a man to even look your way.

I dared not tell her that the only man I wanted looking my way was Eben. Her disdain for Aunty Bisi was still strong, but I had my own reason to despise the woman. Information gathered from Lekan revealed that she was the facilitator of the relationship between Eben and Halim. She and Aunty Ada did everything to ensure that their children hooked up. Eben wasn’t the type who was particularly interested in looking for a woman with whom to spend his life. He was too invested in his business to care. I believed he simply went with the flow when Halim was picked for him, so as not to upset Aunty Bisi.

It hurt me. I felt betrayed by her because I had tried a few times to present myself as a potential daughter-in-law. I had formed a bond with her daughters who were younger than I was, and visited their house now and then without Mommy’s knowledge. Apparently, my efforts had gone unnoticed. A year ago, Eben proposed to Halim and I was officially out of the picture. That was when my dislike for Aunty Bisi took root. However, I have kept my beef hidden. I don’t think it’s wise to show hate to the woman who would one day become my mother-in-law.

I am yet to have a plan to take Halim’s place, but I know I’ll come up with something soon. I know she is supposed to be my friend, yet what I feel for her is akin to what I felt for Tope. It is both good and bad, and these days, the bad engulfs me. It’s not my fault. I just don’t want to be the one who gets to lose out on love I deserve. I know I am worthy of being blessed with Eben after all I’ve been through in life.

At the start of last year, our senior pastor, just before he passed away, told us single ladies to sow a seed of faith and pick a wedding date. I put in a whopping fifty grand and picked my birthday next year as my wedding day. I also fasted and prayed for a month. All that is left is a sign from God, and I will zoom in and claim my man. I am practical like that. Being a Christian doesn’t mean I don’t know the ways of the world. That’s the difference between Halim and I. She likes to act like she’s better than that prostitute she has as a mother, carrying the Bible on her head, pretending to be the most dedicated usher in church. Well, let’s see whom God rewards for faithfulness with the premium husband. It will come to her like a thief in the night

***

A typical working day in my family house sees no one at home during the morning hours. We are all off to our various businesses, jobs and pastimes. But this morning, Lekan and I are at home, getting set to make a trip to Lagos to pick Eben from the airport.

Remind me why you’re following me again? Lekan asks, combing the bush he calls his beard – a collection of angry hairs that create scanty patches on his chin.

I need to get a pair of jeans in Ikeja, I reply.

Or you just want to see Eben.

I turn nasty eyes on my elder brother and hiss as I make my way out of the house. I get into his car, screaming his name before I sit down. Lekan walks out and takes his place behind the wheel.

We’ll be picking Conrad from their house and you’ll be paying for fuel.

I hiss again.

After a short drive to Obasanjo Hill Top where the Nosakhares live, Eben’s younger brother, Conrad, joins us and we begin our journey to Lagos. I sit behind, lost in Instagram, listening to music as the guys chat away. In a little while, I fall asleep and stir when Lekan calls out my name. When I sit up, I realize we are already at the Murtala Mohammed International Airport in Lagos.

I follow the guys out to the arrival lounge where we wait for Eben whom I am told has just flown in. But It’s not a long wait as a throng of people begin flooding the lounge. As soon as I spot Eben coming towards us, I become flustered. Not to worry; it’s a familiar feeling. He does it to me all the time. And it doesn’t help that I am light skin. It always shows on my face.

Lekan gives me a glance and chuckles. I flash him the middle finger as my other hand adjusts my t-shirt. I have chosen something that does a nice job of resting on my rounded breasts and stressing the fact that I have a flat tummy and thin waist. I’m also wearing a short skirt. Almost every man that has walked past has gawked, but I pretend not to notice. I am more concerned that Eben, in his usual manner, would not take note of my finer assets.

Holding a calm smile, I stand a short distance away from Lekan and Conrad as Eben approaches us, rolling his luggage. I watch the guys greet each other, and how Lekan and Conrad tower over Eben with their six-foot frames. I enjoy how he commands respect in his spruce combination of a pair of trousers and a fitted shirt, folded at the sleeves. He is the only one I know who travels for more than ten hours by air, dressed like he is going to meet a world leader. Today, weirdly, he ditches shiny leather shoes for a pair of sneakers. This adds to the charm. A neat haircut, a well-groomed beard and the calm of a man with money in the bank. Eben is my constant wet dream.

He turns and observes me with eyes that unnerve me. I present a shy smile.

Nini, how far na? He alone calls me that. Everyone else uses my full name or Eni for short. You’re forming shy abi? Come and hug me jare. When last did we see?

I go to him and get blessed with a hug that makes me lightheaded.

You’re all grown, he says and we both laugh. It is something he has been saying to me since we were teenagers. The first time he said it, he had just come home for the holidays and noticed I had grown breasts. That entire summer was the best time of my life. Eben, just two years older, had not stopped staring at me. He had asked to touch my breasts, but because I was too shy and they hurt me a lot, I never let him. But I allowed him kiss me. It was my first kiss, and the only one I received from him. Seventeen years later, I’m still longing for another taste of his lips.

Come and gist me about work. He takes my hand and leads me out of the airport.

In the back of Lekan’s car, we sit, and I tell him about my day job, which I love. I work as a lab technician in the clinic founded by my late pastor who had been a doctor. It had started as a small establishment, particularly to help members of our church with affordable basic medical treatment. Over the years, it expanded to become the clinic that catered to the health needs of Christians from other churches and denominations in Abeokuta and nearby towns. It is particularly known for its diagnostic center where all sorts of tests, ranging from DNA tests to full blood work for couples planning to get married are run.

Cool, Eben mutters. I fear that I have just bored him. I do enjoy talking about what I do. He asks about the details of my life, which is something new.

Why did you ask, though? I am playing with wisps of my weave that have fallen to the side of my face. He makes me nervous. It’s something about his thinking eyes and serious expressions. Eben always comes off too serious.

"I can’t inquire about my baby