Chapter Two

This early morning. Saturday morning. A day she had always dreamed of for herself. Some graceful breeze glided through the window and she could not help but feel its calmness. It enlivened her spirit as she lost herself in some introspection.

She was aware of every tiny detail now. She could hear from within and from without. Some insects and mosquitoes swooshed past a little above the upper floor. She knew how annoying those creatures could be and would have pitied those they had come to greet this morning.  

She could hear some loud talks in the coal tar, a little down the street. It was bus conductors and their palaver, she guessed. They were always first to wake up and last to get home. And she wondered how they maintained their health considering their busy life; even some of them didn’t eat well or wasn’t as educated to know how to eat well, and yet they had invariably come out every single day with unbelievable determination and gusto.

She also was awed at their vibes, and energy considering they were underpaid, or so she thought. In her view, they worked like elephants but ate like ants. She never and would never endure such. It is why she would want to relieve herself from her present job. The salary, she had said to her friend, should be commensurate with the work. 

But looking at the nature of their job, the bus conductors, she was forced to reconsider her stand. The majority of the uneducated that engaged in physical labour hardly thought beyond their stomach. So maybe, whatever paycheck they received as long as it could afford them their three square meals and other petty concerns, they were okay.

She needn’t compare herself with these hardworking dudes who were only at the lowest rung on the social ladder—who were less motivated and less ambitious. And that could be exactly the opposite of herself. She noticed there was a deep cleavage between the poor and the elite in society and was determined to escape the common man’s predicament through every possible means.      

 A little below the second floor, she could hear some noise. This Saturday morning. Oh. Mama Bisi and her daughter, she thought. The noise was becoming louder and louder so she decided to leave her quiet mode. She liked minding her business but this morning was different.

Some kind of force— she didn’t know how to control— had descended on her, pushing her out of the bed. And she would be ready to face the stupidity of her neighbours—as she had experienced on several occasions, how they turned against her each time she came to settle some disputes between them.

She had had enough. At some point they dubbed her ‘Miss Meddler’ and that served as a deterrent to her - to stop wearing ‘Peace Apparel’, to stop making peace unnecessarily even when violence should suffice. But she couldn’t endure the cry of this girl. It was Bisi. Yes. She knew her cry and it must be her mother on her again, spanking her like pounded yam. As always. 

She yanked off her night gown and dressed in shorts with her brown top –it was a bit expository of her cleavages. She put her left foot in the footwear somewhere behind the couch and made to wear the second when her phone beeped. She saw the name of the caller. She expected it but it had come at a time she was hurrying out to save someone.

She grabbed Bisi and snatched her away from the grip of her Mum. The Mum was sweating, panting. She was not satisfied so she struggled to spank her more but Emelda had come to her rescue; she stood in between them, blocking her mother each time she raised her hands on her. She pulled her away from where she stood, seething with anger. 

By now, they were both apart from each other at a reasonable distance. It was time to ask Bisi what the problem was since mother was too angry to tell her. Or was too annoyed with her intercession. Mama Bisi wished she had not come or had gone as quickly as she had come so that she could kill Bisi with her bare hands- after all, she gave birth to her and she could take back her life if she misbehaved. 

Tears dripped down Bisi’s cheek as she explained what she did. Her mother was watching from a brief distance and screaming that she was a liar and that she had added some flavour to the story to elicit Emelda’s sympathy. 

“I am not lying” the young girl would say each time her mother shouted that she was a liar. Emelda didn’t know what or who to believe. Mum had refused to tell her own version of the story, but wouldn’t be quiet to let her daughter do the telling even if she was lying.

Her eyes had grown red-rimmed from tears, hiding the attraction of her little eyes. She had some beautiful dots on her face, which Emelda wished secretly she had too. She wore her nicely-fit skirt whose edge was an inch above her knees that it didn’t allow her to run when Mum was beating her.

Emelda looked at her hair, it was too expensive for her age. Who gave her the money? Mum could be right that she was lying. She was somewhere sixteen years, or thereabouts, even though her cry sounded like that of a baby.

“Say it clearly. Calm down. Answer me. Where did you go last night?” Emelda had asked her this three times. She had been evading the question or rather loitering around it. 

“I said I went to a vigil,” she said, still sobbing.   

“Why didn’t you tell your Mum?”

“She was not around before I left”

“And you couldn’t leave a note for her?”

“It didn’t cross my mind, Aunty. I would have” she said and looked in the direction of her Mum. She stood slanted with her left palm on her waist and each time she retorted, she did it with her right hand, pointing at her daughter in fury, and afterward would place it back on her waist. 

“She went to her boyfriend’s house,” her Mum shouted. She was coming closer now, perhaps, to start pouncing on her again but Emelda was quick to notice it; and she quickly took her away. 

“Nobody will save you. Unless you will stay there forever; unless you are not going to come back to this house. Shameless children everywhere,” Mummy Bisi said. 

Emelda had no time to spare with Bisi, so she decided to make it brief. 

“I’ll be attending a wedding this morning, when I come back, make sure you see me, Nne” Emelda said hurriedly. Bisi sat on her couch, sloped. She had wiped her tears or was it Emelda that did it for her? She looked around the living room and observed with admiration the interior designs of her apartment. Emelda studied her look and asked as cheerfully as she could “You haven’t been here before?”

“Yes, Aunty”

“You are my friend. You should be coming to greet me. Okay?”

“I am your daughter, Aunty. My mother doesn’t treat me like one. I choose you”

“Bisi, your Mum likes you. She wants you to grow in a way that your adulthood would be proud of. She wants the best for you. I could be a guardian, anyway. Just promise me you will be a good girl”

“I will,” she said and glanced through the window. It was already daybreak.  

“Okay. Make sure you see me. I must be on my way to the wedding” Emelda said but still not prepared; Bisi stood to leave. 

“Aunty, go well” she smiled at her. It seemed to Emelda that the cheerful face she had put on was her way of appreciating her for saving her from Mum’s overprotectiveness. “Please, make sure you talk to my Mum before you leave, otherwise, on your return, you would meet me dead,” it sounded more like an order to Emelda except that she added ‘please’

“I will meet her in a jiffy; I am at your back,” Emelda chuckled but Bisi tightened her brow.   

 “Do they share cakes at the wedding, Aunty?” Bisi said, turning back. She was almost opening the door when the thought hit her. 

“Of course” Emelda grinned and thought she behaved like a baby. 

“Don’t forget my share. Our share” Bisi said and closed the door behind her. 

She sat down, confused. Next thing to do? Return the call and get herself together for the reception? She was supposed to be at her abode earlier. Probably a day before the ceremony. But her boss had always been a cog in the wheel of her progress; he had succeeded in frustrating her plans.

She had wanted to leave work earlier on Friday, yesterday, so that she could freshen up, have some time with herself before dusk, then take a bike to her house in preparation for the bachelor’s night and afterwards pass a night in her house or lodge in a hotel …but her boss…her strict, stringent boss had twisted the order.

And she couldn’t do it according to her forethought. He had sent her to deliver a message to the Ministry of Communication which was supposed to last for an hour at most but the delay she encountered was appalling; the protocols she had to endure were insufferable.

She had gone back to the office without a tangible report; and from her haggard look, and subtle lines at the edge of her eyes, her colleagues could tell she was tired of working with them. 

Strolling down the street, she saw the signs of the wedding ceremony; hundreds of balloons were released to mark out the event. Together with some balls, some of which children had begun to gather around, awaiting their fall, so that they could pick them for their usual recreation.

She was amused at the thought. She did it when they were small. She could remember this one, though blurred. She had sneaked a surreptitious glance at the audience and singlehandedly pulled the rope used to tie the balloons and all of them went down. She pretended she didn’t cause it even when other children pointed at her to vindicate themselves.

This happened during a birthday celebration of some stranger in their street, in an open place, so many years ago; she smiled at this often and it always reminded her how cunning children could be and the extent they could go to achieve fun. She remembered rushing to get the balloons when she caused their fall and even how other children who accused her of the cause were the ones to rush the balloons first.

She was walking slower than she had walked from where the bus driver stopped her. The excitement she had picked had begun to dwindle and she couldn’t just understand why. She knew it wasn’t because she was not yet married or because she had attended many of her friends’ weddings but yet to be married herself.

She just didn’t know why her energy suddenly began to melt at approaching her friend’s abode. She was a few strides away, and in order not to bring any suspicion upon herself, she forced a smile and entered. 

“Hi, ladies,” she said. 

“Hi” they chorused. 

Some elders were in front of the house, on the verandah, discussing some issues of life. She greeted them with a stoop and walked past to meet the bride. But she heard some fragments of their conversation. One of the elders said women of these days should be smarter because the world had evolved but they hadn’t.

One said his daughter had brought in a riff-raff for him to bless but he wouldn’t do that. He refused blatantly. He said he wouldn’t have blessed a marriage that was not properly planned because it showed in the suitor's appearance; he looked hungry and wouldn’t feed himself sufficiently enough let alone add his daughter to the equation; moreover, he had come with one yellow-colored worn-out shirt, unfitting trousers and outdated shoes that were only in vogue in the past century.

The elders laughed and laughed but he didn’t, saying he meant everything he said. 

“I can’t give my daughter to any kind of man. I sponsored her from the cradle to higher education. She took away my sweat, blood, and tears” he paused and raised his shoulders in obvious pride and said “So the man who will be her husband must have enough to pay back all of this investment”

“As if it is a business transaction,” one of them teased. 

“Gbam; it is” he raised his staff and put it down to affirm what he said.   

Emelda could still hear faintly some of their words from inside but had decided to concentrate on her friend who was now blushing. The elders could be funny, Emelda observed; they chanted their title names with exhilaration each time they made a concrete point.

And more than twice, they had laughed in unison with nothing to laugh about. Emelda knew they were not just discussing and laughing because they had gathered, they were happy one of their daughters was being married off—their investment—as one of the elders put it. 

Three ladies gathered around the bride in her living room while she sat in the middle. One rubbed some glittering oil on her long, creamy hairs, using a comb to straighten them, and some tiny threads fell off. She often wore her hair loose which Emelda didn’t like and had one time criticized.

Another waited for her to be done with the hair before beginning to work on her lips. In a matter of minutes, she was wearing some bright red lipstick and her lips were never as attractive. And then the person who would take care of her ears had been there observing and making a suggestion on how better she would look if certain appliances were done this way or the other way.

Until it was her turn to work; Oh, she had dozed off. Emelda tugged on her shoulders and jolted her to consciousness. She wondered what she was thinking that she couldn’t hear the bride call her twice to come on. 

The room was too dull for Emelda’s liking. No conversation was going on and it seemed they had come to offer her the service as some contractors did and moved on without any iota of intimacy. They were her friends and should be more teasing and hilarious, she thought. After all, today was her friend’s happiest day and any pun would do to elevate her spirit. 

“Those pieces of jewelry on you, Maria…” Emelda started.

“Yes, what about them?” the bride asked immediately as if she had been waiting for her to speak. 

“They are just beautiful. I love them” 

“Thank you,” Maria said. 

“Thank you, Eme,” the lady fixing them said. She was more passionately appreciative of the compliment than the bride. And Emelda being somewhat fastidious, observed it. “Especially her earrings”

“How long would it take you to makeup, Maria” his father entered. “The mass would be starting by 10: a.m. Hurry up”

“We are almost done, Dad” 

“Hurry up. Hurry up,” the Dad said.

“Today’s wedding shall be exceptional,” the lady fixing her earrings said after her Dad left. 

“Why do you think so?” Maria said, bringing up her head a bit. Her left ear was sloped so that the lady would undo some unfitting earrings.  

“Your Dad can’t wait”