On the Wings of Dreams

6

The rain that fell this morning did nothing to stop the sun from bringing down the heat. You are only in boxer shorts and your windows are open, but it hardly reduces the sweat streaming out of your skin. You pick up your towel and dry yourself for the umpteenth time.

Crumpled pieces of paper litter the area close to your wastebasket. You are currently writing on another, careful not to let the sweat dripping from your forehead soil the paper, careful not to make any of your previous mistakes. You read it the fifth time. Satisfied with your plan and the clarity in passing the information, you fold it neatly and wait.

She knocks. You open. She is wearing a pleated gown, far above her knees. The skin on her face is lighter, from makeup, than the rest of her body. The strong scent of citrus overwhelms your room. You are still in your boxer shorts.

Yesterday, after your eureka moment, you had told the girl, whose name starts with an ‘E’, to wait for you after class. You told her of your encounter with Blessing’s parents, and Blessing’s resolve. The E girl kept quiet the whole time, then asked what you intend doing. You said to leave this place with Blessing. Enroll her in a school faraway, and you do not mind if it costs you your Youth Service. She asked if that was not stealing. You said, did she mean kidnapping, then assured her it would not be, because Blessing is older than eighteen, and she can make her own decisions. She then asked what would her role be in all of this, or have you changed your mind about her, winking at you. You said, since you are no longer welcome to their house, you needed her to deliver something to Blessing as soon as possible. That she should see you in your house tomorrow. You kept convincing yourself that the exigency of the situation led to your decision.

Seeing her now, you hope she had not mistaken your request as an offer for something else. She steps into your room and inspects it. She sees the crumpled pieces, and bends to pick them. After throwing them in the waste bin, she sits down on your mattress. You take up the plastic chair.

You thank her for coming. Offer her a sachet of water. She declines kindly. You mumble an apology for not having anything else to offer. Then you give her the folded note, telling her to make sure she hands it to Blessing today. You thank her for coming, and make for the door.

She stops you, asking if that is all. You say yes. She looks into your eyes, and draws closer. You step back. Closer. You step back. Closer. You reach the wall. Her body pins you further. There is hardly any space between you two. The softness of her breasts rests against your chest. Your heart starts pounding faster. Like your hands were moving of their own accord, it positions her face. You close your eyes and plant a deep kiss on her lips; while she dips her hands inside your boxer shorts, pulls it out, and begins stroking. Your breath gains momentum, it has been a while you have felt this good. You suck on her lips, trail your tongue down to the side of her neck. She starts breathing louder.

At this point, you remember the Principal’s warning, and it takes all the courage in you to call it off. She gives you a confused look. You tell her you will pay the full price after she has given the letter to Blessing.

*

As you arrive at the public phone centre—a plastic table and chair, underneath a green umbrella-shaped-canopy with ‘GLO’ in bold prints—about one hour from your place, you know your compromise will not end with the kiss.

You dial her. Naturally, she does not pick unknown numbers, but she picks this on the second ring.

“Hello,” she says; her voice calm and dismissive.

You say it is you.

She begins to rush her words. She has tried your number many times but you never pick up, later it began telling her switched off. She has been worried, really concerned about you, her husband (her pet name for you), her only child.

You almost say, if not for her you would not be her only child. But you’re not here to address old wounds. You are here to break your promise of independence.

“Mummy I need money. That is why I’m calling.”

“My husband, why are you treating me like this? You are not even asking about my welfare.”

You mention the amount you need, and she should send it tomorrow.

“Isn’t that too much?”

“Are you sending it or not?”

“I will. I will. So how are you? How is Youth Service?”

You stay silent.

“Omogboyega, I have apologized many times to you, yet you blame me for everything. Especially her. And I did my best. I covered everything. For you.”

Your palms are trembling again.

“Don’t do this to your mother. Talk to me my son. Talk to—”

You cut the call.