Preordained #ProjectNigeria

7- Good Morning

Song: Good Morning by Brymo.

Nwanyieze's POV:

Sometimes I dream of them.

My fake parents. I call them fake because apart from the lack of biological connections, they had shown their true colours by throwing me out without looking back.

In my dreams I see Daddy, smiling down at me as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly, calling me his one and only princess and telling me how much he loved me. Then I see Mummy's angry face, hear her scalding words about how I was going to end up as an ashawo just like my real mother had probably been. A prostitute.

These dreams usually feel like I'm reliving the whole horrible experience. I don't cry anymore when I wake up, because my reservoir is empty. That part of me is numb, hiding somewhere in the recesses of my battered heart. I don't miss anyone from my past, and I have resolved to move forward no matter what.

Yes, even if I have eventually ended up as a prostitute, as Mummy had so accurately predicted.

With a hand against my head, I gulp down some anti-malaria pills. Self-medication is strongly advised against, but I have no time to stroll down to the pharmacy a few houses away for some drugs. WAIPA is the best for me so far, because it doesn't bring me to my knees like other anti-malaria medications. While it combats the parasites in my blood, I am able to move around feeling better.

Mama Uju has taken Adanna out to GET Arena, Lekki, for some fun especially quad racing as Adanna had cried about it all week, and now I'm left alone because she didn't want to disturb my sleep. I would have loved to go, but I'm also glad she didn't wake me up. The journey to Lekki is not a short one.

She, however, left me some breakfast: fresh agege (local) bread and ewa agoyin, a traditional delicacy made up of boiled beans and spicy, delicious pepper sauce topped with an assortment of beef. Overjoyed, I tuck in while listening to Asa belting out Eyo on my small portable speaker. In my opinion, she is Nigeria's biggest export, and one of the few decent musicians we have left who don't show off their naked bodies as their 'selling points'.

Look who's talking, a voice in my head says. Are you decent yourself?

By now, my anger towards Saheed Bello has reduced, but if I ever see him again-which I'll surely avoid at all costs- I'll simply act like I didn't. I realise that if not for Maduka, that extremely tall person, I may have gotten into big trouble. I wonder how I'm going to get a new phone... I'll just have to put in two night's work.

I didn't get enough opportunities to study Maduka properly; but what I saw was enough to tell me he's a good looking fellow. And despite being confident and a bit full of himself, he had wholeheartedly helped me without strings, which I rarely see these days.

Too bad, I won't see him again.

There comes a knock on the front door, and I slowly shuffle towards it, thinking that maybe Mama Uju has changed her mind about the trip, or maybe there is an emergency with Adanna. Running tummy? Fever?

What I do not expect is to see Maduka standing in front of my door, a smile on his face. He's dressed in khaki shorts and a Manchester United jersey shirt. Speechless, I just stare at him. So much for helping me without strings.

"Good morning, Nwanyieze."

In daylight, I can see him clearly. His eyes, full of amusement, are framed by thick lashes, his mouth is full and generous, and stubble covers his lower jaw. His hair, dark and coily, is in a neat crew cut. His complexion is that of coffee, and he looks so healthy standing there that I envy him.