CHIBOK (COMPLETED)

CHAPTER FOUR

Mrs Cynthia Nnamdi dabbed her face with some powder, pressed her lips together again to effect the glistening of the lip gloss. Once more, she ran a comb through her hair, angling her smiling face at the mirror to see the effect.

"Ladies and their ways!"

She smiled as she recalled how her late husband used to tease her, days when she spent such a long time before the mirror.

Nnamdi was a very busy consultant at the specialist hospital, Maitama. He came as busy as doctor's get, yet swoon her into her brief blissful years of marriage. She could almost feel him place a loving hand on her shoulder, those angled jaw lines resolving in a smile with crinkling hazel eyes. There he was in the mirror, beside her, in a velvet tuxedo pocketing his hand to withdraw a pendant that he delicately placed around her neck before planting a kiss on her head. "i love you," his conjured image said, those enthralling words echoing back and forth in her ears. She smiled back, her gradually reddening eyes moistened up. "I love you too." She whispered back to the wind.

Cynthia look behind, perchance her late husband was actually standing by her, but she knew before she faced the vacuum between her and everything in the luxurious bedroom. it was just a memory, days gone by that she'd never get back.

Nnamdi died on the Nigerian 50th anniversary at the eagle square. A celebration and a life that was disrupted by a twin bomb attack, sponsored by the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND) which was in conflict with federal government over equitable distribution of oil revenue. There was no way she'd forget his shrunk mangled body wrapped in white polythene; the daggling yellow and black stripped caution line; the blood and tar drenched ground with wrecked cars in flames.

She could recall the blaring siren and her cries among the wails of bereaved mothers re-echoed in her mind. That memory will forever be fresh in her mind. Forever.

The first of October, 2010 was roughly three and a half years ago. Three and a half years that had taught her the loneliness of widowhood.

Her phone beeped. She saw the caller—Mr Bello, an actual stranger if the term applies to someone who saved her life few weeks ago, and had the effrontery to send a bouquet to her office. In a general sense, Bello had become a nice guy next door personality that had pressurized her to a accepting to go on a date with him. She hesitated but finally picked the phone.

"Hey, Bello."

"Hello, Miss Cynthia." He replied genially, Cynthia quirked her brow at his the ignorant title by which he addressed her. She made a mental note to straighten the record. She was no 'Miss'. "I was hoping you'd make it." Bello continued, he sighed, "I hope there's always another time, then?"

She tried to smile, and frame a cheerful tone, but what is the use? She asked herself. She could cancel this extravagant, almost profligate appointment. Beside, Bello was already offering her the ticket out.

"Oh, there'll be no need for a reschedule." She found herself saying, nevertheless, "Give me twenty more minutes." She reluctantly added.

"Gladly." He replied.

Cynthia half-heartedly smudged some tear soiled cast away, ran her palm delicately over her face, grabbed her purse and car keys and started for the door.

Cynthia stopped half way. She returned to the dressing mirror, pulling out an integrated drawer below the silver panel. The souvenir of the life she had, a life she was still not willing to let slide. The object was her wedding ring. The main reason she'd removed it few months ago was because of the pathetic way some women stare at her, some people who knew about Nnamdi, people who she met often, who advocate she move on with her life. They meant well though, at least anyone would guess so, but moving on is not as easy as it sounds. Cynthia knew better.