8
You pack light: a small travelling bag containing clothes, shoes and toothbrush. The other things you leave for whomever to inherit.
You pace around your room, waiting for the knock that will make tonight the most important one of your life. Your palms are jittery. This is the second time in your life you will stand up for something. The first you waited until it was too late, but this time your helping hands will come in at the right time.
Someone knocks your door lightly, like the person did not want to hurt the door. You open it a little. Her oblong face, wrapped in a veil, peeks between the frame and the door. You quickly usher her in. She is shaking; her clothes are damp. You ask her why. She says it is drizzling. You say it is good, it means people will not really be outside. She says she is afraid, that she has never been out of here before. You tell her not to be, that she will always look back on this day and be glad she made this decision. She nods her head, still shivering. You hold her close to keep her warm.
There is another knock on the door. More like rapid bangs, like the person wants to break down your door. She jumps out from your embrace. Did you invite anybody, she asks, her voice quivering. Your heart is beating, louder than the banging on the door. The bang breaks down your door.
He towers above you. Heaving and sweating, he holds a worn-out brown leather belt. You are on the floor, picking yourself up. In between his legs is an empty bottle of whiskey sitting on a stool. Behind him, she is on the floor, her back against the wall. There is a lopsided smile on her teary face.
He tells you to leave except you want to join her. As he talks, the acrid smell of alcohol fills your nose. You tell him no. He says how dare you regard your father in such manner. You say he is not your father. He staggers towards you and strikes your face. Your eyes sting, dripping tears. You wipe your tears, and call him a gold digger. He is shocked at your audacity. You push him with all the force you can muster. He staggers backwards, hits the stool, and falls to the floor. With tears blurring your vision, you seize the bottle of whiskey, jump on him, and strike his face repeatedly, until what is left in your palm is a bloody piece of jagged glass.
Your mother rushes in, pulling you off the man but it was too late for him; while she remained propped against the wall with that lopsided smile on her face. It would be the last you would ever see of your sister.
The bang breaks down your door, wind rushes in. Her father barges in. He charges at you, his belly tackling you to the floor, his hard palms squeezing your neck, slapping your face, calling you a daughter stealer, an enemy of progress. Blessing stands beside him pleading on your behalf. Her mother storms in, struggling to pull her husband off you, begging him not to kill you.
As your eyes gradually close from the flurry of punches and slaps, your ears dimming from the pleas on your behalf, you see a lone figure leaning against the doorframe, watching. Lightning strikes and it illuminates her smiling face. Then everything goes dark and silent.
*
The village elders handled the matter quietly. According to the customary laws of the village the punishment was death, but tomorrow’s news could read, “Primitive Villagers Slaughter Government Corp Member,†painting them in a bad light. After deep consideration, the punishment was decided as this: to attend the wedding, after which you would make a request to be posted elsewhere.
*
As the wedding ceremony unfolds before you, you do not see the double headgears the women wear; the beads, whose prices can rival that of gold, adorning the necks and wrists of some of the attendants; the musicians sprayed with enough naira notes to build at least three boreholes for the village; Blessing’s parents beaming with joy; Blessing’s face devoid of any emotion; the satisfied face of the Chief, when Blessing kneels before him with the gourd of palm wine, unfazed by her stone-cold countenance; you are transported to one of the many evenings, when you played Police-and-Thief with your sister:
Your mother was never around, so you were her everything: brother, sister, father, mother, playmate. It was the running during the game that made her happy: the sudden pump of adrenaline, the racing of her heart, the rush of wind across her face.
You were the police and she was the thief. You had a way of running slowly, so the game would last longer. You chased her round the settee, over the table, down the stairs, to the concrete compound, screaming her name and laughing, saying she was a faster runner now, but she could not outrun you for long. And she too would laugh. It was in this wordless language she expressed herself: Bursts of laughter, flashes of smile, angry grunts, crinkling of the eyebrows, and the tears that hurt you to see.
You knew the laugh would slow her down. And when it did you would grab her from behind, and wrap her in your embrace, and she too would laugh, shaking her oblong face, wriggling and wriggling, struggling to run free.
Gbolahan Badmus lives in Nigeria. His work has been published in Omenana, Naked Convos, Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review and is forthcoming in Saraba and Litro UK. He is an alumnus of the Writivism Creative Writing Workshop.
