Burnt Clay (A Nigerian Muslimah)

Chapter 18

I am mad. I am so mad that I'm
surprised I haven't chocked on my oesophagus and died.

The heat on my face makes me want to check whether volcanic larva is flowing out of my ears.

Just when things were beginning to take shape, he had to ruin it.

Somehow, I just knew. The moment he said my name, I knew he knew all along. He knew that I was Claygirl and Sab the tiger. I don't care if he knew yesterday or all this while, he should have told me.

I feel like I'm part of a chess game just that instead of being the player, I am being played purely for the convenience of one person who never wants to lose at any game he is playing. One thing is for sure, I don't like being played!!!.

I am a right-thinking realistic independent female who wants to be financialy secure as much as possible and not depend on her husband for everything even as meagre as a cube of maggi and if I am not mistaking, I'd call myself to be more on the bright side of the brains. I am not a pushover and no one, not even a person I love can push me. Not that I love him.

It's all coming back when he persuaded me and I must acknowledge quite cunningly to give 'that cousin' a chance. He must have known he was the cousin I was referring to. So he used his leverage to induce me to consider him as a potential without me knowing it is him. Very sly. Very wrong.

I want to call him and pour my mind but then I feel like strangling his neck until he withers away from my life like a broken tarantula

Far-strange, Farouq. Umar Farouq. I hit my forehead. Of course. Every Umar is a Farouq just like every William is Bill. It never occured to me.

I pace my room, occassionally pausing to check my phone. I don't even know what I'm checking for.
After what feels like a decade, I decide that the onlyway to calm myself is to do something that requires calmness.

I head to the study and lock myself.

The study looks more like a mini library. There are rows and rows of shelves with books of all genre and purposes.

Only one wall is unoccupied by a shelve, my table and chair rests their.

I flip though the book and pick up my pencil whose lid is as sharp as a pin. The process requires me to sharpen the pencil and that requires calm because I will break it otherwise.

I use a razor and blade and scrape the end until it is if possible, sharper than a needle.

I breath deeply and start drawing, i pour out all my emotions whether dull or bright into drawing. It's like I draw my feelings out with lead and pen on paper but instead of using words, I use flowers.

I calmly swirl and curve my fingers in perfect symphony. I am not calm, far from it but the raging emotions inside of me get somehow metamorphosed into beautiful colours and shapes in my mind and my hand works along to draw them down.

I drop my pencil and let out a huge sigh.

The rose bush I just drew stares back at me. It looks just like I saw it. The strokes and shades are perfect. I sign my name on it.
Mama said everything if mine is clumsy except for my drawings, they are neat.

A day after we had settled things, Umar had called me and I had said something about loving arts. He had asked wether I draw and I had answered in the affirmative.

He asked if I wanted to maybe do it on a larger scale and I'd told him that I wanted to open the first ever International Henna Tattoo Art Centre. I had held my breath and waited for him to laugh and dismiss it as a part of my lack of seriousness but he didn't. He sounded amazed that I had thought of that, come to think of it there isn't anything like that and its demand is growing. He then commented how brilliant I was and a warmth of pleasure spreaded all over my body I had to throw the covers off.