SOLOMON'S BRIDGE {Part I}

QUEEN OF THE NIGHT *20*

PRESENT DAY
Idara

"What's happening, between you and Fanny Duke, Idara?"

While taking her morning walk, Inyang Maye Hatta ran into Ms. Duke coming out of the SSS Headquarters. She tried to offer condolences, but Fanny's attitude towards her seemed rather cold, almost hostile. Inyang Maye Hatta hates being given a cold shoulder.

"This city is becoming more dangerous by the day! I have heard all kinds of things on the news and now, in the market, it's all about Fanny Duke, are you even a little bit concerned about her? And- did you return her Jeep as you were supposed to?"

Your mother's sharp remarks give you an instant headache as rude flashes from Friday strike across your line of vision. Your 'tonight at nine,' news summary for Basement Fm, suddenly becomes the shock on Mallam Idris's face, when he sees you holding a dead Chris Bassman's hand, taking aim, and pressing the trigger on that Glock, one, two, three times. Friday. It sounds like a title to a middle chapter, like the beginning of the end.

Every other chapter from here is going to reference the fact that you didn't have to return that Jeep, you didn't have to be there that day, you could have said no to Fanny, but you didn't. You. Agreed. Volunteered. And those three bullets dotting his hairline? When did you learn how to shoot a gun? How to clean off bloody finger traces? A satchet of hydrogen peroxide is in your bag, a bottle of the stuff is on the kitchen sink, in the car boot, in your office desk drawer, it's everywhere. When did your life become so bleachfully complicated?

"Yes, I did, and of course I'm concerned... a-about Fanny," it's a half hearted murmur, added as an afterthought. In a sweetly scented rose bush, far away from the granite, unforgiving road, you might have kept her there, safe from Chris Bassman. But you saw it. That tiny crack in the vineer. There is something so horribly wrong about Fanny. She would contaminate the roses. In the rose bush. Your eyes lift to see your mother's thundercloud gaze, trying to explain. You are concerned, but she's not buying it,

"She's not calling you; you're not by her side; and mummy wasn't born yesterday!"

You can't recall everything...
But, when did you become so forgetful? Three shots. Close range. Perfect aim. Blood is everywhere. Then what? Did Chris Bassman say that 'they,' didn't tell him, you were the one... coming? Was he...? Where you...? You ignore her comments, her irksome and inquisitive nature. Not too long ago, roles were reversed with you being thoroughly ignored. Mummy, where's my daddy? Won't you tell me? Are you vengeful, for that little girl you used to be? No. She is better off, in the rose bush. You, are on the road... Always, always on the road!

"Idara, I'm talking to you," she steps closer to your table, peering at your 'tonight at nine' news summary, "-this is serious, please," she adds, nodding at your work and implying it isn't,

"-Fanny is your only friend! Have you spoilt another good relationship, again?! What is wrong, with you? And, this reminds me, when are you going to bring a husband home, Idara?"

A husband. You're still stuck in the past, looking for your father. Did she try using her silence, to shield you from some obnoxious reality? But now, your reality is pretty revolting isn't it... should you keep silent... A husband! Of course, she isn't deaf to the malicious whispers of people neither is she blind to your increasing tummy folds. You feel like a little girl again...

Your mother, isn't just the diabetic epileptic patient who sometimes needs help in going to the bathroom, she's a woman with very high expectations. She's also a mother who knows next to nothing about her daughter, besides the fact that you're still unmarried... "It's not easy, mum..." You're trying to say it, trying to explain, but it gets stuck in your throat. It was the same pain as the night of the gang rape, after creeping back into her small substandard one-bedroom flat, when she caught you packing up all your stuff into empty brown cartons. You couldn't say it then, and you can't say it now. You think of things less heartbreaking, of stories with happy endings.