Yejide Kilanko

As they made their way out of the motor park, Senami tried to match his father’s pace. On the days Baba collected the proceeds from the fish he sold to Chief Ashipa, the anticipation which brightened Baba’s hooded eyes also lengthened his short limbs.

To distract himself from the pain radiating from his tailbone, Senami scrunched his eyes and recited the periodic table under his breath. Earlier in the week, his chemistry teacher told their class practice makes progress. The idea of a progressive life appealed to him.

Senami was on Polonium, atomic number 84 when the signboard for Ashipa Cold Room Enterprises came into sight. He tugged at his shirt. The thick sweat running down his back acted like glue.

Baba stopped. Senami straightened at the stern expression. “When we get there, behave yourself.”

He bobbed his head. “Yes, Sir.”

Senami counted sixty persons ahead of them on the line. He hoped the bookkeeper had enough money to pay them all. There were days when they sent them away with nothing because of what the bookkeeper called “a cash flow technicality.” It was another way of saying prepare for harder times.

He glanced at his treasured plastic watch. An hour of uncoordinated shuffling and hissing had brought them to the front of the line. They stood a few feet away from the building’s lower verandah.

As usual, the fish merchant, Chief Ashipa, sat on an upholstered chair. His white lace agbada bellowed each time the head of the silver standing fan placed beside him oscillated his way. Senami gave an internal chuckle. The chief’s agbada looked like an open parachute.

The bookkeeper waved them forward. Senami stayed behind his father.

“Your son is almost a man ke,” Chief Ashipa said to Baba.

Baba’s face lit up. “In two years, Senami will have finishing secondary school.”

Senami stood at attention as Chief Ashipa’s appraising eyes swept over him. “He looks like a bright child. I should have a job for him.”

“Senami is joining me in the family business.” Baba’s fingers painted big, round letters in the air. “Mausi and Sons Fishermen’s Limitation.”

Senami hung his head as he drew shapes in the sand with the tip of his rubber sandal. A cold room job was not going to be a part of his future. Neither was staying within the limiting boundaries of their sweltering fishing village.

He looked up at the sound of his name. Chief Ashipa dipped his hand into his sokoto pocket and handed the bookkeeper some money. The bookkeeper pointed the brand new notes in Senami’s direction. He hesitated.

“It is unwise to refuse free money,” the bookkeeper said with pursed lips.

Senami turned towards his father. The discrete double eye blink from Baba made him step forward. He pocketed the money and laid flat in the sand to express his appreciation. “E se, Sir.”

Baba also prostrated. “May your hand never touch the bottom of your pocket.”

Chief Ashipa snorted as he waved aside the effusive thanks. “My many pockets are deep.”

During the walk back to the motor park, Senami blurted out the question bubbling in his throat. “Baba, why do people like Chief Ashipa have many pockets while we have none?”

“It’s Ayanmo.”

Senami stared at his father’s face. “Who decides our destiny?”

“The gods.”

A wooden statue of Osanyin, the god of herbal medicine, lived in Baba’s room. “Can one bargain with them?”

Baba chuckled. “The gods answer to no one.”

What was the point of going to school and working hard if it would not change who he could become? “I will not accept their decision.”

“We have always been fishermen.”

“I want more.”

Baba scowled. “Why?”

He could not understand how Baba was content with so little. “Ono said she’s has walked long enough on this earth to see great men challenge their destinies. That I have the mark of greatness.”

Baba shook his head. “Your mother fills your head with foolishness. Child, a man cannot outrun his destiny. You must learn to accept yours.”

Senami looked away. One day, he too will be a big man with many pockets, and his survival would not be dependent on the mercy of any human or god.

Jaita’s phone call was a lifeline. Ara forced the words out of her mouth. “They scraped my head.”

“No! You have beautiful hair.”

Her natural curls were shoulder length. “Had.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jaita said.

Hot tears ran down Ara’s cheeks. “When I said I wasn’t going to comply with their request, they’d questioned my love for Duro.”

Jaita clucked her disapproval. “What does hair have to do with love?”

Ara continued to stroke the clumps of shaved hair in her lap. The strands held memories. Duro played with them. He would help take out her braids or weaves and spent time dividing her hair into little squares. It made it easier for him to oil the dandruff-plagued scalp. New hair will come, but it will not know her husband.

“At least they didn’t insist on you drinking the water used to clean Duro’s corpse,” Jaita said.

Ara’s stomach heaved at the thought. “They would have had to restrain me to pour it down my throat.”

A deep sigh echoed down the phone line. “We’ve lost our sense of compassion,” Jaita said. “Another girlfriend got her period while she had to remain unwashed for seven days. She sat in the blood.”

Ara’s fingers clenched. “Who made these wicked rules?”

“I don’t know. But we women sure help to enforce them.”

Your life stopped one day.

It was halted by the telephone call received in the middle of a frenzied evening.

You had just asked your rambunctious children not to throw Lego pieces at each other as you held an internal debate over what to cook for supper.

As you listened to the grave voice on the other end of the phone, you remembered the antique cuckoo clock inherited from your grandmother. Days after it landed at your home, the wooden bird was forever silenced. Its bright blue head still peeked out of the trap door.

Your journey began with lumpy breasts and shooting pain. Places you didn’t even know had muscles ached.

A barrage of tests led you to the first of many hospital beds. To this new way of being.

Trapped all you could do was listen to the clicks and beeps of the IV pump. The noise had become the soundtrack to your life.

You gave the machine a scalding look as you wished that it and the army of mutant cells which fought to conquer your body would disappear.

As the days passed, it felt as if your wishes no longer mattered.

Shuffling sounds made you turn your head.

You were not alone.

Your husband Ade stood by your bed. His sweaty palm wrapped around your fingers as he forced his lips into a shaky smile. It looked more like a cry for help.

You thought of all the days you had not kissed him goodbye. You were angry with him for the myriad of small stuff you had fused into a giant hurt.

Feeble words came through chapped lips. “I’m sorry,” you said.

Ade’s brown eyes grew puzzled. “For what?”

You pointed at the IV machine. “All this.”

Ade shook his head. “For better or worse, remember?”

You did not want to remember. “I should have said, for better and better, in health and even in more fantastic health.”

Ade sighed as he held your gaze.

You both knew it was too late to take the other words back.

The door opened. Your nurse and a phlebotomist walked into the room.

Ade moved away from your side. Face tightened in a scowl he looked out of the window as the nurse performed an oral and anal swab for super bugs.

When the search for a viable vein turned up empty, and the tip of your index finger had to be sliced and squeezed, Ade told you he had to step outside.

You knew he could not stand the sight of blood yet you were still angry with him. A sliced finger wasn’t on the scale of worse to worst.

When the workers left the room, Ade came back to your side. “I’m sorry,” he said.

A part of you knew the anger which had constricted your throat was really about the moments stolen from your lives.

Your eyes stayed on the wall.

Evening came. It always did. Long shadows filtered into the room.

Ade cleared his throat and announced his departure. Your children waited at a friend’s home.

You had decided that two hospital visits per week were enough for them. After being dry for two years, your youngest was bedwetting again.

Ade bent over and brushed his lips against yours. “I love you.”

Your eyes welled with tears. The anger in your throat receded. Not far, but far enough that you said the words without a tinge of bitterness. “I love you, too.”

You laid your head back on the damp pillow. You wanted to go home. Back to the familiarity of the chaotic life you’d wanted to escape.

“For better or for worse,” you whispered to the air after Ade walked out of the room.

 

Seated at his desk, Freddy looked up at the crackle from the PA system. He hoped it was the announcement he’d been waiting for.

Dinah’s cheery voice filled the room. “Ho Ho Ho. If you got tickets for the Extra Merry Christmas Bonanza please come down to the front meeting room. Draws start in ten minutes.”

The seats were all taken when he arrived so Freddy stood at the back and leaned against the wall. All he wanted was the 432-Piece Mechanics Tool Set.

The chattering in the room rose when Dinah moved on to the romance getaway package. “I know you guys have been waiting on this,” she said as she dipped her hand in the bucket which held the other halves of their tickets.

He swung his gaze back to the tool set displayed on the prize table. Come to Papa.

Dinah held up the winning ticket. “And the fantastic Romance Getaway Package goes to Freddy Davies!”

The word was out of Freddy’s mouth before he could stop himself. “Crap!”

The next thing he heard was the noise of chair legs scrapping on the ceramic tile floor as half the room turned to look at him. Freddy lowered his head. Double crap. He’d just ruined the low profile he kept at work.

Later in the afternoon his work buddy Tom cornered him in the men’s bathroom. “What was that all about?” he asked.

He just couldn’t seem to get anything he wanted. Freddy turned on the tap. “I had my eyes on the tool set.”

“You would pick that over a free five-star resort stay?”

Since it meant he had to be in close quarters with his wife Coco, the answer was yes. Freddie forced a smile. He was a firm believer in the separation of home and office affairs. “You know I don’t get out much.”

Tom patted him on the shoulder. “Leaving home once in a while won’t hurt.”

He tore off a piece of paper towel and dried his hands. “I’ll work on it.”

At exactly five o’clock, Freddy logged out of his computer and headed home. The overcast skies complemented his mood. Even though Elm Street had a festive vibe with Christmas lights and outdoor dancing reindeer, he wanted to be somewhere else.

The new neighbours were standing on their front porch when Freddy drove by their home. He no longer bothered to wave. His friendly waves and hellos were treated with the same caution one exercised around a strange dog. The old owners must have told the newbies about the restraining order taken out against him after Coco had tried to steal their ‘for sale by owner’ lawn sign. She left him holding the bag. He was lucky that the police officer had let him off with a stern warning.

Freddy parked on the single driveway and pressed on the remote garage door opener before he stepped out of his car. In the garage, he stopped and ran his fingers across the body of the metallic gold 1958 Cadillac Sedan de Ville.

His parents bought the car the year he was born. Dad had said it was the second greatest year of his life. The first was the year he’d met Freddy’s mom.

Freddy sighed. This was why he’d wanted the tool set. His plan was to restore the car so he could take his mother on a short road trip. Time was running out.

“Freddy, is that you?” Coco asked after he had unlocked the door leading from the garage to the house and walked in.

Who else could it be? Silent, he hung his jacket on the entryway hook and walked towards the dining room.

Coco was in the middle of arranging Christmas cookie tins filled with her delicious coconut macaroons and shortbread cookies into a cardboard box. They were gifts for the staff at his mother’s nursing home. She gave him a hesitant smile. “Hey.”

Freddy dropped his keys on the table. “Hey.”

“Are we leaving now or are you going to grab something to eat first?”

They had talked about going to see his mother. After seeing the new neighbours he no longer wanted to go anywhere with her. “I’ll eat when I get back.”

“You don’t want me to come along?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s not necessary.”

Coco frowned. “Why?”

Freddy worked his jaw as he stared at Coco’s wan face. He still remembered the searing pain as the neighbour’s dog bit him in the buttock. The shame he’d felt as the news about the incident made it around Elm Street.

The plan was to sell their current home and then buy a one-level ranch they could safety-proof before moving his mother in. A robust 78-year-old, she had a rare form of Alzheimer’s disease. When the house sat on the market without any offers, he had to change their plans.

He walked past her. “I don’t feel like talking.”

“Freddy, who else do I have to talk to?”

Her soft tone stopped him. For eighteen years it’d just been the two of them, Simple Freddy and his Crazy Coco.

“You think this is easy for me? I told you to let things go. That our house would sell at the right time. But, no. Coco had to do what Coco wanted.”

Coco lowered her gaze. “I should have listened to you. I’m sorry.”

Freddy took a deep breath. The stress of the past six months had changed them. It had mellowed Coco and turned him into a man who was angry most of the time. While he could forgive the permanent scar on his buttock, he could never recoup the time he should have spent with his mother.

He turned away. “I’ll tell Mom you said hello. I’m sure you still have some baking to do.”

***

Jelena, a staff at the nursing home, greeted Freddy like a long-lost relative. She was one of those bubbly people whose smile felt like a hug.

He dropped the box of treats on her table. “My wife did some Christmas baking,” he said.

“Thanks. We love free food.”

Freddy grinned. “How’s my mom?”

“Fine. She’s in her apartment. Our volunteer beautician treated her to a makeover day.”

The words warmed his heart. “I’ll see you on my way out.”

Jelena nodded. “Sounds good.”

As Freddy walked down the empty hallway he remembered the day they brought Mom to the home. She’d begged him not to leave her there. Desperate, he’d lied that it was just a temporary stay. She would could home after a couple of weeks. The lie haunted him every time he visited.

After several unanswered knocks, Freddy unlocked the door with his key and walked into a mini studio apartment with dandelion-yellow walls. He was grateful when the management allowed him to re-paint the room in Mom’s favourite colour. With the limited space, she had to leave so many things behind.

The only sound in the room came from the stereo player on Mom’s nightstand. She always had the radio on. The music kept her calm.

Mom was asleep. Freddy took short steps as he approached the bed. Dressed in a floral house gown, her coiffed grey hair looked as if it was held in place by some sort of sparkly gel. Her eyeshadow and nail polish were done in shades of purple and maroon, the colours of his father’s university football team.

He took in the gentle rise and fall of her chest. When she was awake, it was hard to predict her mood. There were no-filter days when she said the most shocking things, times when she hid things from the staff or periods when she just cried for no reason.

Freddy stood by the bed and tapped her arm. “Mom.”

Her burgundy-coloured lips curved into a smile before she opened her eyes. “Freddy.”

The sound of his name brought tears to his eyes. On some days she didn’t know who he was. And when he tried to hold her, she would stiffen her body as if she couldn’t understand why a strange man held on to her as if his life depended on it.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

Mom gave him a coy look. “Why, thank you, young man.”

He helped her off the bed and they sat on her one couch. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” She peered at his face. “You look so much like your father.”

His new moustache had increased the similarity. “These dark brown eyes are all yours,” he said.

Mom looked around. “Where is your father? Was he able to get us a turkey at the Power Supermarket Meat Sale?”

Freddy swallowed hard. The sole fatality in a massive sinkhole incident at the shopping mall, Dad had been gone seven years.

Pat Davies was a bargain hunter. He and Mom had often laughed about how his Dad would waste a tank of gas as he drove around town in a quest to save ten cents. “You know he always takes his time at the shops.”

Mom nodded. “A penny saved is a penny earned,” she said.

Freddy held her hand between his palms. Mom was a time traveller. While her life was often stuck in the past, the world had continued to turn. She wouldn’t know that the penny had been phased out of circulation.

As he started at her face, a cherished memory came to Freddy’s mind. He must have been around nine or ten years old when the old Power Supermarket on Toronto’s Danforth Avenue had a giant Butterball turkey sale. Determined not to go home empty-handed, Dad had used his broad linebacker shoulders to push his way to the front of the line. Freddy watched with an opened mouth as he grabbed the frozen turkey and threw. The bird had sailed over Freddy’s head and landed in his mother’s cupped arms. After Mom held it up in a victory pose, she spliced it into the shopping cart and yelled touch down. His parents had looked at each other and laughed like they were the only two people on the frozen meat aisle.

Mom glanced at her wall clock. “It’s getting late. When is your father coming home?”

Words were no longer enough to jog his mother’s memory. She needed images. Every time he shared his father’s funeral pictures, she went pale from the weight of her fresh grief. It was agonizing to watch her stroke the picture the photographer took as she stood alone by her husband’s casket. Left to him, he wouldn’t remind her. But the nursing home staff were adamant that she deserved to know. Even if it was for another fleeting moment.

He glanced at his wristwatch. “Well…”

“Your father isn’t coming home?”

Mom seemed to have a rare look of clarity in her eyes. As if she knew the truth but needed someone else to say the words. “No, he isn’t.”

For a moment, her chin quavered as she stared at his face. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“We had a good life,” she said in a factual tone.

Freddy had never doubted their love for him. “You gave me one, too.”

Mom squeezed his hand. “We had to or the government would have taken you away,” she said.

He shook his head. “Oh, Mom.”

She turned towards the radio when  Whitney Houston’s “My Love Is Your Love” began playing. “Freddy, that’s your song.”

It was. He and Coco had danced to the song at the lavish wedding reception paid for by their parents. Coco was a huge Whitney fan. “I did everything I could not to trip over Coco’s shoes,” he said.

Mom chuckled. “She was smart enough to stay out of your way when you did those rapper dance moves.”

A few relatives had asked him if he was drunk. Freddie was a few months away from his fortieth birthday when Coco happened to him. It was the best way he could describe the way she came into his life and literally turned it upside down. She brought the excitement he needed.

“Why didn’t Coco come with you?” Mom asked.

Coco and his mother could spend hours talking about nothing. “She had to do some baking for her Christmas dessert orders.”

Mom had a faraway look in her eyes. “The day after you met Coco you came home and told me you’ve found the perfect girl for you. When I told your father the news he’d shouted Hallelujah.”

Dad was glad because it meant Freddie had to move out of the family home. “It’s funny the things you still remember,” he said.

“I’m just grateful my bad memories get stolen, too,” Mom said with a soft smile.

Freddy stared at their intertwined fingers. Gratitude. He had not thought about it that way. Yes, things had not gone as planned. But he still had the two most important people in his life. Coco was far from perfect. So was he. Quality time at the five-star resort might be the fresh start they needed.

He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her dry forehead. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Pat.”

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kxZD0VQvfqU?rel=0&controls=0&w=560&h=315]

 

Enjoyed reading? There is a part one to this story at https://yejidekilanko.com/real-estate-wars/   Part three, the final installment, is available here https://yejidekilanko.com/five-star-loving/

 

Like he did on most mornings, Dipo stood by the gate and waited for the friendly bread seller. Spying her in the distance he opened his mouth, “Omo oni bread!”

The young woman waited for a lull in traffic before she ran across the two-lane road. “My better customer, good morning,” she said as he helped set down the wooden tray balanced on her head.

“Good morning.” Dipo’s mouth watered as he surveyed the freshly baked loaves.

“Which size you want today?” she asked.

After he’d pointed at a medium-sized loaf, Dipo brought out crumpled Naira notes from his trouser pocket. “Butter dey?” he asked.

She brought out a container of Blue Band butter and a knife from the bag slung across her chest. “Na just yesterday I buy am,” she assured him in her sing-song voice.

Dipo tore his loaf in half and watched as she applied a partially melted coat of butter on both halves. “Haba. That one small. Add more now.”

She smiled as she added another coat. “E don do.”

Dipo put the buttered pieces together to make a large sandwich. He would wash it down with a cup of cold water. “Thank you.”

While she bent over to rearrange her loaves of bread, Dipo’s eyes roamed the bread seller’s body. Her Ankara print shift dress was molded to a curvy figure.

“Sisi Orobo, your dress fine o,” Dipo said in a low voice as he leaned towards her. “After all these days, you no gree tell me your name.”

Her big eyes sparkled as she gave him a coy look. “Na only bread and butter I dey sell,” she said.

Dipo raised his free hand. “Abeg, no put me for yawa. I no talk say you dey sell another thing o.”

They shared a laugh before he lifted the wooden tray and placed it on her head cushion. “Thank you, my brother.”

Dipo stood by the gate and watched her backside roll. His gut tightened. Bread couldn’t satisfy this kind of hunger. “Sisi Orobo, e get as e dey do me o,” he said in a raised voice.

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. He took in a deep breath and puffed out his chest. “You wan make I die on top your matter?”

“My name na Fali,” she said with a giggle.

Before he could say another word Fali hurried across the road.

The name rolled off his tongue. Fali. Falilatu. Fali Baby. It was a name he could get used to whispering in the middle of the night.

Dipo scratched his head. A man living from one loaf of bread to the other really had no business dreaming about beautiful eyes and flexible waists. Even if he was fortunate enough to win Fali’s heart, how would he take good care of her?

They could always eat the loaves of bread Fali was unable to sell. He chuckled at the thought. “Dipo, you don dey craze,” he said aloud.

After a final look at Fali’s receding figure, Dipo walked back into his oga’s compound and locked the pedestrian gate.

© 2015 Yejide Kilanko