The rants of an antsy girl

03/02/2020

Monday

Yesterday, many men came to the house and it made the house feel too open, the feel, typical of an eatery, or a Cinema. They replaced the windows, cleared out the kitchen and repainted it. Many things made my mother cry– Her beloved gas cooker and brand new toaster. Actually, everything made her cry and as it stands, I doubt she would ever celebrate a birthday again.
It is a wonder the fire, despite it's ferocity, did not spread passed the kitchen.
My Dad keeps answering calls every now and then,
'Send me a picture of what you have. I don't know how much I'll stress it! My wife wants a white gas cooker. Four burners!'
Speaking of gas, it seemed a painful relief now that my Dad's mother, grandma, insisted they kept the cylinders outside of the house, I wonder how bad it would have been if it was still indoors.
Sometimes, I feel like my grandmother has her shriveled eyes looking out for her children and their children in the future. I am a bit thankful.
Efosa called a few times but I only ever look at my phone to check the time. Looking at my phone just reminds me of the mystery texter. It is what I call him now.
There is so much mystery about him, and quite strangely, I haven't tried telling anyone, no matter how much I feel guilty about Zita, I don't think I will tell.
They will probably not believe me.
But even the shrouds of mystery around the mystery texter cannot stop me from being sure that the fire and the texts are connected.
I want to talk, show them the three texts, but I cannot bring myself to it. This may sound messed up, but knowing this and getting some kind of suspenseful text messages, it feels special, something I don't have to earn because of my failure in JAMB. It gives me some sense and superiority and independence, like the ones I'm sure Laju has now that she's in University of Benin. The kind that made her tell me the silliest excuse not to enter her stupid hostel, the one that eventually made me fight her.
Selfish, but I won't tell. I will see Zita and make up for everything she went through, but I will never disclose it.
I feel special that somebody sends strange texts to me and not the members of my family that passed their JAMB exams.
Mr Akhere looks grim as he comes in from the lounge. He is quite lucky since my Dad is a bit late to his car whatever.
I don't get it seriously. He sells car, and so he stands outside basically for most of the time, travels and go to his smaller businesses that we are not allowed to know, and he wears suits all day? Craziness has different flavours.
He bows stiffly as he greets him, and my Dad shoots him a hard but trusting look, pays his shoulder and leaves.
Anjola comes after a while when I'm solving some problems in chemistry, and says she wants to check on Zita.
It is weird. They normally don't get along because Anjola understands us, mostly, and Zita doesn't.
Quite funnily, Anjola seems very shaken by the whole thing. She said she gave a tearful testimony at the Church, praising God. I don't see why? If God deserves all the glory, then this world is just a stupid set up. Someone almost died and people thank God? That she almost died? That she's vegetative? That people, like me, cannot unsee things from the incident even in the face of other things? I keep seeing smoke and smelling soot, even in the open. We haven't even tried to eat home-made meals– not because of the gas cooker situation– nobody is up to seeing fire.
'I heard what happened, sorry.' He said to Anjola. He doesn't sound sorry. I am infuriated.
You don't tell people sorry because of a fire, rather, if you nothing to say, silence is an appealing option.
I am biting hard on my lips, I don't want blow up. It would be disrespect to my father.
Speaking of my Dad, he has planned to visit all the guests to express his regrets. I don't think he regrets this at all because he is suspicious of all the guests, and he is angry that his name is all over local papers for negative events. He is trying to look good.
My Dad says this is a stupid failure.
'Utterly unreasonable!' He hates failure.
Anjola tells me to be careful, to lock up the doors when I leave for my mother's shop, to be very careful.
When she leaves, Mr Akhere makes me do many English exercises. He is quite good as a teacher.
What he does next is spine-chilling and I will not talk about it. It makes me feel like my brain is hurting. It makes the smell of smoke thick in my nostrils so that I cough so hard till my throat is sore.
It is a bad thing he did.
It made me feel as if something warm died inside me, not a dying kind of die, but a kind of death where the thing just freezes and everything becomes cold. Fearfully cold. On the inside.
What I will say is, he locked the door. He asked me where my father's room was.
When he was done, he told me about the Yoruba people and their beautiful messaging system. They call it Aroko. People send messages through symbolism.
Like they tie a red cloth round a stick and send it to some noble person, through a messenger and when the message reaches, they kill the messenger.
Why? Why kill the messenger. I know you are asking because I asked too. I didn't want to talk, but there is something curiosity does to you.
The message was to kill the messenger. That was what it meant.
Their culture is fascinating. The Yoruba. It feels good that the Itsekiri are most possibly Yoruba immigrants. The Itsekiri culture is fascinating too, but the Yoruba fascinates me more.

...

When I'm not talking, I actually realize that Efosa is talkative, not in a talkative way, but in an urgent way, like the way Anjola talks, like the words will run away.
I get distracted sometimes. I get distracted because Suby, one of our security guys, was talking to someone today, at the gate. They talked silently and whispered furtively. When I came out of the lounge and walked towards the gate, they saw me and the other person drew the hood of his sweater and bowed so low.
I wanted to yank up that hood, but he is bigger and taller, and it would be rude.
There was a subtle hint of unease in Suby, but he introduced the guy as his friend– one Damian. He said it was a bit personal and if I wanted to know because I had a right to, because my Dad is my father, that this Damian guy has embarrassing scars.
It seems out of place though. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he walked about like that. That would be sad.
And that was that. But anxiety hugs me unrelentlessly, so that I keep asking Efosa to come again.
Finally he starts talking about Rugby, it catches my attention a bit.
'Do you watch it?' He is asking.
I watched Rugby once or twice with my Dad, it was too violent and full of anger. At least, wrestlers wrestle for a revered belt and actually act everything out, but Rugby players do all that hitting and running real. Like real.
'I did once. With my father.'
'You really sound sad. If Rugby doesn't cheer you up, I don't know what will.'
I smile and ask him to tell me about Rugby. I will understand. Because I failed JAMB twice doesn't mean I will not understand. I will.
'Well, I don't know much about it though, I don't like it. But I have friends who play Rugby. Not the Rugby kind of Rugby... An Africanized version!'
'African Rugby? That's weird.'
'I know. But it's weirder when I say it is more interesting to watch. They have a plan to make it an official game. You know?... Have championships and that kind of stuff. But it's the guys I like the most.' He says excitedly.
'I actually read once that one has to feel somehow when a guy says he likes a guy...'
'That's Sexist! I don't feel somehow if you say you like a girl.'
'I know. I said I read it. It was a book about how guys relate with guys and girls relate with girls. The book was overwhelming. But I enjoyed reading it more than I did reading ‘sweet sixteen’'
'That JAMB book?'
'Its just worst! I don't know, maybe it's because I never expected such thing from JAMB.' I sound so disappointed.
'I know right? From great books like Potter's wheel and purple hibiscus... even Independence was good! And that other one, what is it called now–'
'Last days at forcados something something?'
'Exactly. I like that it was sort of teen romance kinda stuff but nobody ended up with anybody.' He says wistfully.
'You are joking right? It's bad that Efua and Jimi did not end up happily ever after... No,  it's not bad, it's evil of the writer!'
He laughs. 'I understand that writer. He hates cliches, he had another point to prove, he made people like me have a great time. Above all, he understands friendship.'
'God! Your so pious, I mean unpure piousness.'
We laugh. It feels good to laugh but it turns sour when a Hausa man that has some semblance to Mr Akhere, in terms of brows and hair, passes by the shop. He is just a man, pushing a barrow of fat onions, but I am disgusted by him.
' Unpure is not a word.'
'But it is. It makes sense doesn't it?'
He looks amused in an exaggerated way.
'No it doesn't! You could have just said impure!'
He begins to talk about African Rugby again. He must really like it. I tell him this.
'I don't really like it. It's just, I feel so good when I go to watch them,'
'You don't play?'
'No o! I'm a soft guy. I like softing.' I laugh again at this. He does like to soft.
'So why do you feel good?'
'Because, I feel... I want to say this but that damn book must have told you to feel somehow when guys say like and love.'
I chuckle, 'Say it!'
'I love them. I love the strong feeling of Unity there. How I feel so young again when I get there.'
An awkward silence flows, then it eases into a delicious still.
'How I feel His smile.' he adds again in a whisper.
'His who?' Eighty percent of the time I feel confused, I don't like it.
'Come with me to African Rugby tommorow?'
'I – don't think I can.' his face fell.
Then I add quickly. 'I will see. I'll send you a reply on WhatsApp. Hopefully it will be positive and possible.'
'Positive!' he says back.
When lie on my back, in my bed, it is so soft I forget the smell of smoke that I seem very used to these few hours.