HOW SHE DIED

Her gaze lingered on the back of his shirt as he strolled to the door. Her hands grabbed the sofa seat desperately. She knew he was going to see that woman, even though he lied that he was going to see his friends. She knew because of the way he took more time preening in front of the mirror. She felt a pang of dizziness as he banged the door, and she imagined what he was going to do with that woman. The thought of it made her cringe. She tried to wipe it off her mind, but the image of his mouth sucking on another woman's nipples stared at her.
A text came into her phone 'Don't wait up for me, I'll be late'.
A reconfirmation of the evil he was going to commit.

His arrogance, his domineering nature was what attracted her to him in the first place. That he could make up for her weakness was the magnet that pulled her towards him. Now, that grip he had on her felt more painful than ever. It made her feel worn out.

She walked painfully to the bedroom, and stood in front of the mirror. Her hair was a mess. She ran her hand through it. The bones on her neck popped out. She was growing thinner and thinner by the day. She knew it was the drugs. She went under her brown animal skin duvet, and cuddled her pillow. She was going to sleep alone again. The pillow soaked the tears that pumped out from her big brown eyes. She slept, and dreamt of an old bearded man trying to choke her.
                             * * * * * * *

She stared at the cold eba on the dinning table. She stared at the wall clock that hung near the television stand. She stared at the door. Then her vision became clouded with tears. She lay down on the sofa, and kept staring at the door till sleep came. The old bearded man appeared, and once again tried to choke her to death, and once again she was sleeping alone, and her husband was with another woman.
                             * * * * * * *

He knotted his tie, and wore his suit jacket.

'Baby' he called 'am ready to go'.

She stood up from the chair, and walked to meet him.

'Take your medications alright, and don't wait up for me I might be in a late meeting today'.

She nodded numbly. The way he lied, with ease and charm. He pressed a kiss on her cheek, as he grabbed his suit case, and headed to the door.

'Sweetheart heart get me the keys, the door is locked' he said, turning the door knob.

'Ok' she took slow steps to kitchen.

She came back to the sitting room, with the keys on her left hands, and a big gun and rope on her other hand.

'What the fuck are you doing with a gun' he screamed.

She pointed it at him.

'Be calm, I have got enough bullets to blow off your brains. Just do as I say'.

'Eleanor, calm down and put the gun down. Shit! For chriss sake, that stuff is dangerous shit'.

'I am the one with the gun, and I am the one giving the orders. And, I swear with what is left of my womb David, I would blow off your brains and damn the consequences.'

He was sweating all over. His expressions changed sharply; anger, sadness.

'Sit down' she told him pointing at the chair on the dining, with her gun.

'Eleanor you need to take your drugs. Goodness! I have been too busy to look after you. I am sorry'.
He was trying to charm her, to deceive her.

'Just shut up and sit down'. She said in a low voice. She felt weak from her head to her toe. She always felt weak.

He sat down on the chair.

'Don't move' she said, as she walked close to him and stuck the syringe in his arm. He gave a piercing sound, then she watched as he batted his eyelids. He was losing consciousness as she was just gaining hers.
                         * * * * * * *

He woke up. He tried to move his arms but they were stuck.

'No need to struggle' she said.

She was sitting directly in front of him, waving the gun in his face.

'Why are you doing this' he asked, almost choking on his words.

'Because I want to spend time with you' she replied.

'This is no way to spend time with me. Tieing me up, and waving a gun in my face'. He queried.

'I tried to get your attention but you were to busy with the other woman'

'Baby, there is no other woman'

'Shut up'. She screamed.

The lie infuriated her. Such a bastard. She wanted to dive a knife into his eyeball. She picked up one of the knifes she had lain beside her.

'I'd chop your fingers David if you don't tell me her name.

'There is no woman. I swear'. He was lying again.

Anger gripped her. She walked to his back, where his hands stuck out of the rope. She held out his index finger and started cutting.

'Fuck. Shit. Bloody Joe.' He screamed. 'Stop. Her name is Amaka. Just stop please'. He was crying loud.

She stopped, and watched as his blood dripped to the floor. It gave her sinister satisfaction.

'Ok'. She walked back to her sit.

'You deserve every bad thing I can think of doing to you.' Tears rolled down her eyes. The cold was getting the most of her. The pain was eating into her. Cancer was eating up every part of her.

'I am dying. You know I am dying and you throw it in my face. You know I have just few days to live. Yet you can't even wait for me to die before you start cassanoving.' She coughs. A wave of dizziness hits her. She gulps water from a can.

'I am sorry babe'

'What exactly are you sorry about? You have an ice cold heart David. You are so heartless you deserve to die. Don't call me babe again'.

She was shaking, everywhere felt cold. In the past month, her sickness had really kicked in. The sickness that would claim her life. She looked at him, and tears filled her eyes because she had wasted her life loving him. Loving a man that hated her so much he couldn't wait for her to die. Everything in her life, had to be different. Why did she keep loving people that wanted nothing to do with her; her husband, her father, her mother.

Now, she was going to die alone. With no one to hold her hands, and stroke her hair.
She stood up from the chair, and walked out of the sitting room. She locked the door behind her, and took slow and painful steps up to her room. She lay down, and covered herself with a duvet. Shutting his screams that pierced through her walls. At least when she dies, on her bed, he would be in the same house with her, thinking about her. No more drugs to stop the illness from taking her life. She had decided to die. There was no use waiting for a few days or weeks. Nobody wanted her. There was nobody to live for. She was ready to leave forever.

MARRIAGE: THE A-B-C OF IT

The confusion about marriage is not a 'Nigeria thing' it's a 'world thing'. But, the confusion in Nigeria has graduated to madness. Everybody is missing the whole point of this institution. It's has taken a very social meaning. It's now a responsibility that must be carried out; like emptying your waste bin every saturday. It's now a sickness; marriage fever. Men and women have been infected with this illness, and even the married ones are still not free of this social responsibility.
Let me start with the guys: There comes a time in the life of every man when he feels it's time to 'settle down'. This is when the madness creeps in. Every girl becomes a desperate-i-must-get-married-person to you. You begin to read meaning into what is simple. If your girlfriend should insist on seeing your mother, she wants to tie you down. If she talks about children, she is showing signs of desperation.
At a point no girl is good enough for you. You begin to notice that the girl you have been dating for three years isn't good in the kitchen. What of her bed acrobatics? Zero!
Your madness gets to the level that you see a girl in church, praying sincerely to her God, and you are like 'Woah she is prayerful, she would be a good wife'. Or you see a girl playing with her sisters kid, and you are like 'Woah, she is wonderful with kids. She would be a good mother'.
Isn't that madness? Isn't it madness to look for a wife like you shop for a good shoe?
You begin to pick women like they pick beans. You sieve and sieve; you complain,and complain. Ngozi is too fat. When she gives birth to one child now, she would become a bulldozer. Amara is not industrious; I don't want to marry a house wife. Gift is extravagant. She would finish my money.
Now, I am not saying that choosing is bad. I am just saying that whenever you are choosing and picking, and sieving, always remember that the more you look, the less you see. And never forget that word called change. Your angel today, can turn to a witch tomorrow.

Over to the ladies:The craziest of all. The society has unconsciously twisted your psychology - marriage is a do-or-die affair. Not that girls are totally to blame. If you are clocking thirty, and you haven't hooked a man. You become an ashawo that has lost her womb in the course of her job. In short, you are not woman enough. You have a problem. And, not that they are too wrong. Because, even you would begin to act like a mental patient. Everybody begins to look like a potential husband. Even that son-of-a-bitch that beats you black and blue. You begin to attend every wedding you can. You begin to act like a jelly fish; suppressing your personality, dulling your intelligence. So men won't find you intimidating.
Every chance you get, you would make it known to that guy that is financially comfortable, that you can cook soup, and wash cloth like a dry cleaner (essential housewife quality).
Every man/boy/thing (as far as he has a penis) becomes marry-able.
And you are ready to visit the most powerful babalawo, in the deepest of forests, if that your boyfriend you have been 'saving' for marriage gives you hint that there is another girl in the 'wife-to-be-zone'.
You turn into a Lion. If any other Lion enters your territory you would claw, tear, scatter and shed blood.

It's madness....
But we all are or would be victims of this madness. We can only pray that we don't get there. And pray that we understand that life's too short to waste worrying about things that would work out perfectly if we let them be.
Marriage is a chance to let someone else experience your life. A life that you live only once. There is no coming back and un doing your regrets. Or un marrying your husband or wife. Follow your heart most of the way, follow the voice of God (but don't be a religious hypocrite. Don't sleep in the church because you are looking for a husband).
Marriage is not compulsory, but it is extremely necessary. To have someone who would see the world with you. Who at the end of it all would be there for you. It's priceless. It's a gift from God. I believe we all deserve that gift.

WHAT'S LOVE?

I have had my own fair share of relationships. And I just found out that every guy I have dated, I have said 'I love you' to him. I don't know if that makes me a liar. Since I really have not come around to understanding what love is.
The bibles definition of love is absolutely out of this world. Love is not jealous? Really? Like seriously?
Let's just forget about that and focus on the love that is in this world.
What really is love? Is it that period when you feel butterflies in your belly anytime you think of him. Or when you make really stupid decisions because of him.
Abi is love when you refuse to call, even though you are dying to hear his voice, so you would know if he would call first.
Those periods when you skip classes, appointments, girls night outs. Can that be counted as being in love.
Is love when you have the strongest urge to touch him, or have skin contact with him.
Is love that tickling at the back of your ear, or the moisture between your legs( abi we call that one lust, but is it not part of love? Can there be 'love' without lust?)
Or is love, deciding to spend your entire life with someone, because the person is easy to live with, or is available, or is 'good husband, or wife material'.
Or is love a scam, a grandiose word people use to generally refer to attraction to the opposite sex?
That feeling when you can't let go of someone because you have been together for so long, and you can't imagine life without him even though you know letting him go might make you happier. Can you call that attachment you feel for him love? Even if sometimes you think you can do better.

Really I don't know what love means. But I know that I have felt that flush of beauty, and excitement. I have felt that heart cramping they call heart break. I have felt that sickness that leaves you weak, they call crush. I have felt that addiction-like-feeling called obsession. And all these feelings pass. That moment it feels like I would never get over it it. It seems like the feeling would stick with me forever. Like I would choke in the shocking emotions they bring. But, like every other crazy obsessions in my life they all pass. Yet, I heard love dies hard or doesn't even die at all.
Would you say am inexperienced, or can you relate to this. Can I say that truly love is a phenomena that man created to give hope to that hopelessly needy part of us that needs someone to lean on.
Please, What is love?

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THE RANTINGS OF A PAINED NIGERIAN

So I bought this beautiful pumps that cost 8k. Since it is low heeled and fits my black jumpsuit. I decided to wear it and jump bus to see a friend. (Not that I wanted to impress him or anything. Heck! It's comfortable). Now, 8k is not money you see lying on the floor. It's something- a big something.
Anyway, I went to see him; we talked business. And I was frantically watching the time. I knew that once it is 6pm, the traffic on the road to my house would be something else. But I don't know what spirit kept me there, gisting, and staring at fine girls, and fine boys. When I reluctantly decided to stand up and go to my house, it was 6.05pm. I wasn't bothered until I got to the bus stop and saw dozens of people looking for bus - no bus. My palms were getting sweaty as I thought of the way I would jump inside a moving bus, and still manage to safely tuck my purse under my armpits, so that it won't mistakenly slip into the pockets of one of this agbero boys. Bus one came. I saw. I struggled. I lost. Bus two came. Same thing. About five buses stopped, and people rushed in like mad. By the time the sixth bus came, I had already matured into a typical lagos girl. And I fought tooth, nail and hammer to get into the bus.
Finally, I was sitted inside a bus that was almost a molue, except that it was a little smaller, and people were not standing, holding the top rail. I wanted to bring out my phone, so I could at least ping, and pass time, and also take my mind away from the stench that came from the combination of all our sweats - the tension in Lagos can make you sweat in places you never knew could perspire - but the whole place was really cramped, and I couldn't move my hands freely. I decided to do my second best thing; people- watching. So I watched agberos harass bus conductors. Hawkers glued to the side of every bus displaying their wares. I watched policemen gingering one man for only God knows what.
Then we met the traffic. I seriously thought it would clear. Because, ten minutes into the traffic, two people sitting on the same row with me alighted and I stretched my legs a bit, and brought out my phone, and updated 'Traffic o!' on my bbm. Ten minutes later, I realized that the bus wasn't moving. When I realized that technically this was where you stop, and trek through the traffic, the bus was already empty, and the conductor was looking at me as if I am one 'Johnny just come'.
I alighted the bus.It was already evening. My heart was beating. First, because of my Blackberry. Then because the next place I could get a bus to my house was one hour away. The whole thing meant I would trek for one hour.
I trekked, and trekked, and trekked with thousands of people because the road was blocked. The traffic was terrible; it wasn't moving at all. While I was trekking, I was thinking about how we Nigerians are comfortable with things we shouldn't be comfortable with.
Is this how people should live? Like cows? Why do we have to be so quiet when there are so many things to trash out in this country. I later found out that the cause of the traffic was a trailer that one of it's tyre fell into a deep pothole in the middle of the road.
Is it fair, that a road where thousands of commuters ply would be in such a dilapidated state? Is it fair, that a fine girl like me would trek for one hour in the night because of bad roads. Is it fair that, that old woman who had earlier labored in the market selling her cheap atagungun and tomatoes, would close from work, and still be subjected to trekking because of traffic that just wouldn't move. Or is it fair, that the beautiful baby on the back of the woman, that trekked beside me that night, might still be subjected to the same hardship because we have gotten too comfortable with suffering. And we have refused to fight for our rights?
No! It's not fair. We Nigerians don't know we deserve better than the dehumanizing situation we are today.
When I got home, after my one hour walking marathon, not only was I left to nurse my aching muscles and head; I was left to mourn my 8k pumps. Because somehow the road spoilt my shoes. It gave it scratches here and there. No matter how much Kiwi polish I apply on it. It still remains tattered because of that nonsense stone filled road.
We need good roads. We are poor enough. Please Mr president and co don't add trekking to our massive list of problems. Build our roads, we deserve it!

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IS THERE REALLY A REASON?

It's sad, pathetic, painful what bad things have happened in this world - and are still happening. Most times I find them incomprehensible, like the Hitler time. I still stand in awe at the psychology of that man. He is one person I find interesting in a way that annoys me. If you have read about the war, you probably would understand me. The way people were killed like cockroaches, all in the name of some stupid stereotype. Hitler hated the Jews, and he wanted to kill them all; he wanted them to disappear. So he created extermination camps all over, where these jews were sent. Some were killed, some had to starve to death, some had to go through extreme labour till they dropped dead. And children of nine, and ten, and eleven. Really little kids were used for medical experiments - They were cut open while they were still conscious, and those German doctors had their fun with them. I don't want to teach you history -definitely not. But it brings shivers to my body to think that just because a person was a Jew, he totally became an enemy. See! Listen! People died. Over six million jews lost their lives. Just jews. I am not counting the Russians who had their women raped, and most of their able bodied men killed. I am not counting the Romani children. I am not even counting the Germans that were killed during the war. All in all, twelve million people died (that's like wiping out an entire nation).
Do I have to  talk about the Great Famine in China were over 36 million people died? They freaking starved to death. No food, they had to even start eating human flesh. A woman ate her little daughter, and when the older daughter noticed that she might be next, she begged her mother not to kill her, promising that when she grows up, she would make life easier for her. Should I now start with the Hiroshima bomb blast? Even the recent one of the Nuclear weapons in Syria by that Assad guy. What of the Biafra war, in our country, that claimed millions of life.
Now the Philippines are dying. The last time I checked about 10,000 deaths were recorded.
And someone told me, God has a reason for all these. There is a reason He keeps quiet when children die of starvation. There is a reason He keeps quiet when parents bury their children, when some wacko comes into power and decides he wants to fight a war that would consume millions of lives. There is a reason He keeps quiet and watch people commit genocide. There is a reason for Boko Haram. There is a reason for everything. God always has a reason. And sometimes I question whatsoever reason that is. But, somehow I know it's hard for him up there, watching us behave like beasts, killing one another, and hating on each other. So I never question him. I just pray that He helps us, because I know He can.

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IT'S REALLY NOT FAIR

I don't understand why it has to be normal. Girls, women hawking their bodies. It's an eyesore for me. But, I don't get why it has to be a norm. Why people cannot see what I see, or feel what I feel when I unfortuantely stumble into one of this breast baring, flabby skinned women standing on the road, waiting for men( who obviously are mentally retarded) to price them, like bad goods.
I see beyond a girl standing on the road at an odd hour. I see beyond the rascal in her eyes, the desperate in her actions. I see beyond the skimpy clothes, the sagging face and breast. I see beyond the loud make up, and the smacking of gum. What I really see, is a broken girl. A human being that has been tortured by life. A girl that has been abused, cursed, rejected. A girl with blighted hopes. I see a girl that doesn't know what it means to have self worth. I see a depraved girl. I see a girl that been served a bad dish by life.
It's pathetic when I hear people judge them, and call them all sorts of names. I don't mean to be sentimental. Yes! I know prostitution is bad, in short, very bad.
But somehow, maybe because I love the story behind the story. Because I know behind every person, whether bad or good there is a striking story that either broke or made them. Maybe that is why, when I see this girls I cringe. Not because of them now, but because of the story behind, that has made them what they are now; Desperate, greedy, shameless.

Prostitution is like slow suicide. The first time you do it, you kill something in you. But, you don't entirely kill yourself, you just kill yourself, a little. Small. And, it's this simple; No matter what kind of girl you are, no matter where you come from. That first time you feel disgusted, very disgusted. But you do it again, and again till you have completely killed the very essence of your womanhood. That thing that makes you feel uneasy when a man's gaze linger on your breasts longer than necessary.
More than the prostitutes, the people who I feel bad for, are the ones who exploit this women. Who actually pick them up, price them like stolen goods, and maltreat them. It's really unfair.

My point is that, every prostitute you see on the streets, in Nigeria, and in the whole world started naively, ignorant, scared, ashamed.

You are free to judge them. You are also free, to be like me, and understand them.

There are some girls that are financially comfortable, but still go into prostitution for the fun of meeting men (or some other spiritually inclined madness), TRUST ME those ones don't stand on the road. The one's I pity are those ones who at a point felt they have no other option than to sell their body for money. Standing on the road, in the middle of the night, not knowing if it's a blood sucking monster that would pick you up, is something a person does out of extreme desperation, and I feel they deserved to be pitied.

And I feel the government should do something about it. It's poverty that lead this girls to prostitute. Apart from that, it's a topic people fail to trash. Everyday we see NGO's upon NGO's, springing up here and there. But, none has decided to help take these girls off the street. To teach them self worth. To help them financially, and emotionally. To give them a good future. Not all of them want to be where they are, they just don't know better.

PRICELESS

Esiaba did not understand why his wife had to cook so poorly, he did not just understand why she had to add more pepper than needed, or forget to add salt, or even burn the food beyond recognition. He was staring at the plate of overly cooked yam porridge that looked like baby's poo. What business did yam have with water leaf. He asked himself. Why did she jump Ugwu, even Utazi and buy water leaf. Esiabi was a strong man, but things like this could bring him to tears, because he had told her several times to stop bothering herself. He had told her politely, he had told her sharply, he had even screamed it into her ears, but she would always promise him, she would say 'Darling this one would be different', but it was always the same, disgusting food.
Beads of sweat rolled than his faces, he felt sad for himself. Hunger attacked every nerve in his body, and if he had known he would have saved himself the trouble, and stopped at Tasty fried chicken to eat. She walked into the dining with a bowl of fresh fish soup. 'Dessert' she said, grinning from side to side. He really wanted to slap her till her teeth fell off. He eyed the bowl of fish soup, and gave a loud hiss. Snatching his wallet, and car keys from the chair by his side, he walked out, jamming her shoulder, and ignoring the fear in her eyes.
As Esiaba, opened his car, actual tears flowed from his eyes, he felt silly, and bitter, and hungry. But as he geared the engine of his car, he felt more silly. He wanted to go back and apologize to his wife, instead he said 'Ahmadu, open that gate'. He drove off crescent springs street, into Ifesinachi road, and a small reflexive smile danced on his face for a while as the big sign board of Tasty fried chicken came into sight. What hunger could do to a man, he thought.
He ate hungrily, and even though he had ordered two portions of everything on his plates, he wanted to order some more, he played with the thought of buying take away, and hiding it, so he could have it for breakfast in the morning, but he decided that he would have toasted bread, and tea. At least that was one thing his wife didn't mess up. A text came into his phone. 'I am sorry'. It was from his wife. He felt guilty. Seriously guilty. How he loved her. She was the best woman he knew, a gentle heart, a kind spirit. He wished he could treat her better, but she always tried to frustrate his efforts. He had hired a cook, but she would always insist to cook for him. He had told her several times that he didn't care whose food he ate, as far as it was good food. He didn't mind if some else cooked for him. In short he preferred it that way. But trust Sarah, to always want to please him even when he didn't want to be pleased. Sarah was a Professor of Physics, she graduated magna cum laude from MIT. She was best at everything, every other thing that wasn't cooking food. She had gone for cooking classes, she even hired a personal chef teacher, but this one was something she couldn't learn, and from the deepest part of his heart Esiaba didn't mind. He wasn't all those traditional men that expected their wives to cook, wash, and even feed them. He just wanted her to do whatsoever made her happy.
He stopped at Paula's place for a drink, he was hesitant to go home. In an hour three bottles of Hero beer, stood gallantly on his table. Impulsively he jumped up and cleared his bill. The road was clear, and the street lights made him happy somehow. He drove into his compound praying that Sarah had gone to bed.
She was sitted on the dining chair, on his chair. He could see from the pink under eyes that she had been crying. He felt really bad.
'I am sorry hon, I didn't mean to go all crazy on you' he said, as he placed his wallet and car keys on the table.
'I am sorry too, I don't know why I keep doing this, I just can't help it' she replied. Her voice was quivery, and tired.
He nodded, he was too tired to delve into lectures upon lectures on why she doesn't have to keep stressing herself.
They walked to the bedroom, hand in hand. She smelled of curry, her skin was hot against his. She tightened her grip on his arm, and he kissed her hair.

His love for Sarah was beyond petty. It was stronger than the physical, she was his soul mate. What she could do and not do didn't matter. All that matter was her heart. So kind. Her love for him. So selfless. And that was all he required. She was his friend, lover, and wife. Things that he couldn't buy hire. He could live without her being his cook, because that, he could hire. He promised himself never to reject her food. No matter how bad it was, he would swallow it.

AN EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER TWELVE OF MY COOKING NOVEL

CHAPTER TWELVE.
It smelt like an old shoe; the police station. 'Nene Akujieze' my Mother said to the police man who was filling some sort of form. 'Madam you can only see her for 10 minutes. Don't let us come and remind you'.
We entered a small room that had a stronger smell of old shoe. The paint on the wall were peeling. The crevice had a V shape on each side of the wall like someone had carved it in, and the ceiling of the room was so low that I had the strongest urge to reach out and touch the water marks on it. I was carrying a flask of Egusi and pounded yam for Aunty Nene and Chizoba was carrying homemade orange juice, and water with another flask of Ugwu and Upkaka.
 'She needs all the nutrients her system can hold' My mother had said while we were preparing for the visit.
They had come two days before, but I refused to go with them. I was sick with feelings I couldn't describe. Chizoba told me when she came back from the prison 'Aunty Nene, asked of you. She said I should tell you she is sorry'.
The information was funny. 'Sorry for what' I asked
 'You can ask her yourself'
That night I couldn't sleep. I tossed from one side of the bed to another. I wondered what she was doing, whether she had eaten. All those terrible stories I heard about prisons, police men raping women. Cell inmates peeing on new cell inmates, came to mind. I was terrified that one day my life could take a very bad turn and I might end up in a horrifying place. Nine years ago I would never had envisioned such a thing; Aunty Nene in prison for murdering two people.

Aunty Nene entered the room. 'Nno' she welcomed us. ' Kasie, how are you'
'I am fine'
'They haven't called off the strike yet?'
'Mba; No'
'Okay. Chizoba, how are you'
'Fine Aunty'
She ate hungrily.
'Aunty it's like I have infection' she told my mother in ibo 'You know I don't bath here. My vagina is now itching me'
'I would bring you medicine tommorow'
'Thank ma'
Then she faced me. I could see her face clearly now. Her eyes were sunk deep inside their sockets. Her lips were cracked and white. Her hair had undergrowths at their roots but they were packed up tight in a knot. Ironically she looked better than I remembered.
'Kasie, are you still angry with me?'
'No'
'Thank you' she said.
'Madam your time is up' a voice said from the front counter.
'We would come tommorow' my mother said. I packed the flask and cans from the table. My mother and Chizoba hugged her. I didn't. Aunty Nene was mad. I was sure she was mad; there was no other reason to explain why a woman who has been seperated from her children for one week would not ask about them. I just concluded that she was stark raving mad!
The next day while we were preparing to go the police station to see Aunty Nene my mother sent me to buy antibiotics for Aunty Nene.
'Good afternoon, please I need antibiotics for vaginal infection'.
'Okay' the phamarcist replied
'One more thing' I said 'Give me the type that can't kill somebody if the person takes an overdose'
The man stared at me like I was talking baloney. He gave me antibiotics, the one that cures vaginal infection and the one that could kill a person that takes overdose of it.
'Mummy you know Aunty Nene wants to commit suicide with these drugs.
'Hian! Suicide!'
'Yes, she wants to drink overdose'.
'God forbid'
'Mummy it's not a matter of God forbid. Just make sure you give her just two tablets'.
'Okay' My mother was nodding her head, she was actually taking my advice. I realised how much she had changed since daddy left us. She was softer. I wondered if daddy heard of what was happening to Aunty Nene. He must have heard, it was all over the news, ANGRY WOMAN KILLS HUSBAND AND MISTRESS.
WOMAN FROM HELL STABS HUSBAND TO DEATH. The kind of news that was featured on the cover pages of News paper but in tiny captions.
I and my mother went alone that day.
'Kasie, how are you' she asked
'Won't you ask about your children' I said
'How are they?'
The way she said 'they' irritated me.
'Kasiemobi respect yourself ' my mother sneered.
Aunty Nene started to cry.
'Nene its okay'
'Aunty it's like am running mad. I don't understand what is wrong with me.'She mumbled in between tears and the granulated food in her mouth.
I didn't know if I was being unreasonable, attacking her, but I everytime I tried to feel sorry for her, I felt a greater sorrow for Mukaosolu, Ralph and the baby. It was that anger that I haboured when daddy abandoned us. Aunty Nene was doing the same to her children; Abandoning them, refusing to be strong for them.
'He beat you, so you killed him and his mistress, now you might spend your whole life in jail' that was what I really wanted to tell her until she said
'I don't regret killing him. I feel sorry for his bitch, but Ben deserved death for killing my baby, for everything he did to me and my children.'
'Aunty you stabbed him till he was no longer recognizable, you put a knife through his eyes.' I said, aghast.
'And I felt good about it. I would do it again. Do you know he raped Mukaosolu?'. Her voice cracked 'That is why I can't bear to see her. He raped her continously, she tried to tell me but I didn't hear her. I was deep in my own sorrow. Mourning my youth that I lost because of her, blaming her for my marriage to Ben. I failed my daughter. I destroyed her life with my own hands. That was the least I could do for her.'
I wanted to believe she was making the story up, unfortunately it wasn't a made up story. It struck me like a blow. Aunty Nene's voice was filled with immeasurably pain. I stood up and hugged her tight. 'Aunty am sorry'. I whispered.
'He raped my daughter, after raping me, he put his rotten penis inside my nine year old daughter.'
My mother couldn't cry, move or talk. She just sat still trying to assimilate what she heard. She cried when we got home, her body vibrated under my embrace. 'Mummy it would be fine' I said, my voice masked with disbelieve. We slept together holding hands and completing each others snore.

AUNTY NURSE

This is a true life story, it happened to a woman I knew.

The stinging pain made tears cloud my eyes, then she pressed the syringe down, and it was as though the needle came in contact with my bones. She removed the needle, and sharp pain that reminded me of my school headmasters knock followed; the famous knock on the head that could give you an instant headache. But, all through the pain I refused to cry, because she had promised me sweet and biscuit if I stayed calm.
'My strong baby' She said, beaming with pride. The look on her face made all the pain worth it. She ruffled my hair and handed me a packet of biscuit, and a sweet we called Baba dudu. That was one of my many experiences with Aunty Nurse.

Aunty Nurse, was a fair beautiful woman. Unlike so many nurses, she was kindhearted and gentle. She was the only nurse on our street then, so people trooped in and out of pharmacy, but she made everyone feel important.
My mother used to say, she had the talent of love. 'Some people don't have love but they show love. That's talented love'. Unlike my mother, I didn't think Aunty Nurse didn't have love in her life. But since she wasn't married, didn't have kids, didn't have any relation we knew about, most people considered her lacking in the love department. I felt she had the greatest love of all; she had love for herself.
I guess it was the frequent murmuring about her single status that pushed Aunty Nurse to get married to a fair, stout looking man, who had a permanent frown. I don't even know if they courted. We just found him one day married to our Aunty Nurse. Everyone was happy for her 'Of course she who has found a husband, has found fulfillment in life'.

Things began breaking in bits, and becoming clearer when Aunty Nurse got pregnant. She would always come to the pharmacy with one bruise or the other. Nobody asked her what was happening instead they gossiped about it, and pitied her. Everyone knew her Husband was abusing her.
She became withdrawn, and quiet. Her cheery nature had gone to the winds, they were no more biscuits and sweets, just a stern 'Stay calm if you don't want this needle to break in your bum bum'.
No one said anything, after all she was not the only woman whose husband was beating her.
Nurse gave birth to twin boys. Very beautiful kids. And, they brought back some of her cheery nature, but not all.
Her husband was a jobless man, all he did was play chess with some ogogoro drinking men, but that too didn't matter, because of course 'She who has found a husband, any husband at all, has found fulfillment in life.'

No one knew it would happen. No one even thought of it, because it seemed unthinkable, that he would beat her to death. But, he did. According to gossip, he pounded her head on the ground a thousand times. Till she died in his arms, screaming and kicking, pleading and begging. No one knew what they were fighting over, we just knew that one day Aunty Nurse was gone, and a man she shared her bed with, gave the best part of her life to, and had children for, killed her.

*In my memory of a beautiful woman, with the kindest heart. May her soul and the souls of all the departed, rest in perfect peace. Amen

DIFFERENTLY PERFECT

I came into the world a broken child. I can't say if it was the weed my mother smoked while she was pregnant with me, or the effect of the beating my father gave my mother, that brought me into this world with one eye, and one ear. All I know is that I am half. Everything about me is a minus one, deformed in every sense of the word, and it made me bitter. It made me angry, until Bimbo waltzed into my life, making me feel things I never knew existed.

My mother was a beautiful woman. She was like me, except that the other half of her body that was missing, was her brain. She lacked common sense, and she didn't try to hide it. 'I will break your head' was her answer to everything.
'Mama, what happened to my ear and eye'
'I will break your head' she would reply.
'Mama, where is my father'
'I will break your head'
'Mama, please I want to eat'
'I will break you head'
'Mama, please can I have my school fees'
'I will break your head'
That was how our conversations ended. I didn't hate mama, I pitied her. She deprived me of love and affection, but I could see that she had no option. Papa killed her spirit, Igbo killed her mind, Cancer killed her body.
She loved me in the way she knew how to love me best, by beating me. At a much younger age, I felt I deserved the beating. I was deformed, I was never going to be of any good. When I enter places, people stare at me surprised, some are even disgusted. A child once called me a monster and I cried all day. So, I deserved every blow mama landed on my body. I believed I was a cursed child.

I found succor in music. When mama would drink to stupor, and vomit all around the house. I would clean her up, lay her in bed and sing to her, while playing my fathers old guitar. When I play for mama, in that moment I become complete. I forget about my face, and feel my heart. With her drunkenness, mama would open her eyes a little, and she would smile from the bottom of her heart, and it would feel like heaven.

Music was food to my dying soul. When I was falling off the edge, the sound of the guitar strings would pull me. It was my medicine.
But, mama broke my guitar, on my head. That was the day, I decided life was not worth living for people of my kind.
I asked her for my food. I was so hungry, that I began to stammer. I had not eaten for two days, and Iya Bisi that used to sneak around, and give me food had traveled. Mama had replied with her infamous 'I will break your head', but you know how they say ' A hungry man is an angry man'. I kicked the table where the only picture of mama which didn't have her grabbing a bottle of Ogogoro, or her lips lazily holding a cigarette stood. And, it fell to the floor. That day, mama carried out her threat. She broke my head, with my guitar. I cried. My heart squeezed in anger. It wasn't anger that usually come with my normal self pity. What I felt then, was anger anger. The kind that dazed you, the kind that made you want to smash things, the kind that gave you invisible chest muscles. For the first time, I raised my hand to hit mama. I just raised it, I couldn't hit her. Even though I had just one eyes, I could see fear in her eyes. By beating me, she could hide from the reality of what I was. One more thing she failed to do right in her life.

Mama died when I turned Eighteen. The ordinariness of her death was galling. I woke up just to find her dead on her bed. Her body smelled of alcohol, cigarette and death. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just took calm and collected steps to Iya Bisi's house. When I told her mama was dead, she cried. A cry of responsibility; the way it was her social responsibility not to leave satchet water nylons around the compound, it was also her social responsibility to cry for a dead neighbor.

Mama was buried at the cemetery in Barracks. The pastor who officiated the ceremony, was a lanky looking man. He was Iya Bisi's pastor. He spoke too rapidly, I barely picked a word of what he said. He would glance at me at intervals, stutter, and continue his rapid speech. His reaction didn't bother me at all. I was used to it already. It was the reaction of the lady standing beside him that bothered me. She didn't flinch, she didn't stare in disgust. Her face was filled with a softness that touched my heart. She stared at me, and she smiled. I couldn't smile back, I was stunned. Nobody smiles at me, except mama when she is drunk.
After the ceremony, she walked to me.
'My name is Bimbo'
I was silent.
'What is your name?' She asked.
'David'.
'I am sorry for your loss'. I nodded, I couldn't believe a girl was talking to me, a fine girl.
She asked if she could come visit me any time she is around to see Iya Bisi. I nodded again. I felt so shy around her. She stared into my one eye, and made my legs wobbly.

The day Bimbo came to visit me, she came with her bible. She told me that if only I would accept, Jesus could take away all the pain I felt. I laughed inwardly. She wouldn't understand. She was complete, even beautiful. Any problem she had would be easy for her Jesus to solve. But, because she was beautiful and kind. Because her voice was gentle and sonorous. I listened to every word she said with seriousness. When she asked for us to pray. I opened my eyes, and I watched her lips part and come together. I watched her tongue lick her lips, and I fell in love with Bimbo, even though I didn't know then.

She left that day, promised to come back the next day, but she didn't. I waited for her the day after, and the day after. She didn't show up. She couldn't stand me. I was a monster. What was I even thinking loving her. She too had left me. I felt a crack in my heart. The pain was suffocating. I had never felt so alone. I fell to the floor. I cried, and sang. I cried for mama. I felt lonely without her. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. 'Stand up' Bimbo said from behind. I stood up, too ashamed to look at her.
'If you would leave me like my father and mother, then please, leave me now'. I blurted out.
'Your problem is that you have decided to wallow in self pity' she said 'Dress up, I want to show you something. I would be waiting outside'.
I changed into my nicest outfit. A black trouser, one of mama's many boyfriend gave to me, and a blue shirt Iya Bisi gave to me.

We stood in front of a big hospital building. 'This is the biggest hospital in lagos' She said to me.
'What are we doing here' I asked.
'You will find out soon' she replied.
I tagged along. She was familiar with the nurses. 'I come here to pray for the patients' She said.
Our first stop, was a jam packed room that smelled like medicine and vomit. It had four bed, and each had a patient on it. We stood at the door.
'You see that man there' She said 'His name is David, he was involved in an accident few weeks ago, he lost his family, and his legs were amputated three days ago'. She paused. 'You see the other woman lying there' She said, pointing to a woman whose face was covered in cotton wool. 'Her husband bathed her with acid. She is dangling between life and death as I speak to you. That man over there was in an accident also, he lost his both arms, and one of his legs'. Tears filled my eye. I was speechless. We moved to another room, and my heart broke into bits. It was filled with little children, with the worst health condition one could think about. 'David, that child you see lying there with a swollen chest, has a heart defect. He doesn't have up to one week to live. The other child, has been in coma for two years, he feeds through a pipe'.
I couldn't stand anymore of it. 'I want to leave' I said to her.
'You will leave, but I want you to understand something. You have a good life. Thousands of people wish to be in your shoes right now. Thousands of people want to be healthy, and walk around with their legs. Some people would give everything in this life to be YOU. That you are different doesn't mean anything. That people look you in the face and squirm shouldn't make you think of yourself as a lesser being. God created you in his own image and likeness. David' She said with my hands in her palm 'You are special, never see yourself as less.'

That was all I needed to live again. Even though Bimbo left too, like mama and papa. She left me with hope, determination, and self confidence. And now as I look at my wife and kids walking towards me, complete and happy. I say a silent prayer for Bimbo, and I hope she is as happy as I am.