SILVER LININGS (Christian Romance)

6.

They stood in the dimly lit part of the library, far from the CCTV camera and the watching eyes of the librarian. 

Jane leaned against the wall, fiddling with the fingers of Emeka, who stood in front of her. 

“Let's make a pact,” Jane said and held Emeka’s hands, so that their hands entwined, “to love and friendship. Promise me you'll never break my heart.”

He stared into her fright filled eyes, a limp smile playing on his lips.  “I will never,” he assured. 

 She did not smile, but she held on to their entwined hands. “Swear it,” she said, her eyes pleading. “Please.”

Emeka chuckled and she wondered why he would at this time. 

“You don't believe me?” he whispered into her ears, his warm breath caressed her skin. “I cross my heart and hope to die.”

****

I cross my heart and hope to die. 

It was almost one year after these words had been uttered and each time the remembrance occured to her; she saw that the reality of it was buried in falsehood or perhaps; she felt Emeka had unsaid words while he made these promises.  

I cross my heart and hope to die if I do not make your life miserable. 

Jane trudged barefooted on the muddy streets of Mile One market with an empty plate in her left hand and her one- year- old, Junoir tied with a wrapper across her back. Her strength was flagging due to the weight of her child on her back and she fought the urge to cry for every moment that she walked. 

I cross my heart and hope to die if I don't get you pregnant and deny it. 

She walked slowly and her stomach gnawed. She had not eaten for two days now because her mother had refused to give her food. It was the punishment she had to face for becoming pregnant out of wedlock and killing her husband with hypertension, her mother had said. 

I cross my heart and hope to die if I do not make you spend the rest of your life regretting the aftermath of our relationship. 

Jane approached a grocery shop and met the owner sitting outside on a plastic chair. The owner was a woman, she hissed the moment she sighted Jane and pretended to look elsewhere. 

The shop had varieties of cartons of noodles, spaghetti and tin tomatoes. It had bags of rice and on the show glass, some loaves of unsliced bread were arranged. 

Jane had draped a shawl over her head and she presumed the woman had mistaken her for an almajiri. So she removed it, nevertheless, the woman had a scowl on her face. 

“Give me little money to feed my son and I,.” Jane begged, nonetheless. 

The woman pretended not to hear. 

“Can you give me some money?” she tried again, speaking in her best English accent. That way, the woman would know she wasn't fulani. 

 “Go and work, no food for lazy men,” the woman spat. 

A tear slipped from Jane's eyes at the woman's reply. She remembered the days before her pregnancy in her father's house. Those were the days of plenty when she saw and had enough food. 

The woman looked away for a second and quickly, Jane grabbed a loaf of bread and began to run away. 

“Onye oshi!” the woman cried. “That girl has stolen my loaf of bread.”