Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

11- Cheers.

"Luxury's Finest, nko?" he asks, bringing the tips of his fingers together underneath his chin.

"Flourishing, Baba. Flourishing."

"That's what I wanted to hear."

I settle on one of the overstuffed couches in the sitting area of Baba's office and cross my legs.

Bello and Sons-- note the fact that I have been an only son for almost two decades-- is located on the twelfth floor of Exotic Plaza, a twenty-storey building at the Lagos Marina. Although we have numerous experts at our beck and call to handle half of the work, I come here a few times a week to keep my father updated on most of our projects.

The central air conditioning cools the heat beneath the surface of my skin. Today, Baba is wearing a kaftan, the stylishly cut deep blue material giving him a touch of royalty. Growing up, I was awestruck at the mere sight of him. Ibrahim, his heir, had been closer to Baba because he was being groomed to take the reins... Until his death.

Baba seems cheerful today, not like the man I had nearly fought with almost a fortnight ago, the man whose face had gone as smooth and cold as marble, whose mouth had formed the words, "It shouldn't have been Ibrahim."

And I had backed away like a wounded dog, wracked with guilt so forceful, it felt like a blow to the gut. The words he didn't say had been there between us: It should have been you. If the car had hit you instead, I wouldn't be going through this.

" Amina sends her greetings. You did not pick her calls last night."

"I will call her later today."

My only sister, Amina, has been trying to set up meetings between my mother and I. I have been elusive, warning her that any dreams she has of a reunion is a fallacy. They have been meeting secretly over the years, and our father has pretended to not know about it.

"You do know she-" Baba starts.

"I know."

Baba nods stiffly, his eyes going cold.

Growing up, I knew how much he loved my mother. They used to be like two peas in a pod, until Ibrahim died and Ma started acting strange, and our family was broken by the secrets that had struggled to surface despite our efforts to conceal them...

For half an hour, Baba and I discuss our latest multi-billion Naira project: the fifty-storey skyscraper our company was contracted to build. It is our toughest challenge yet, and we plan to see this through to perfection. Already, Bello and Sons has a formidable reputation in the construction world. Upon completion, it will be the tallest building in Nigeria.

"You don't like showing up on site," Baba states, his eyes fixed on mine.

It is like I'm looking at myself, clear-eyed and coiled like a sitting cobra, ready to strike.

"You are the boss. I just work in the background."

"And you are my heir."

"A role I didn't sign up for," I remind him.

Unfortunately, the statement is like a double-edged sword, slashing him and myself; reminding both of us of Ibrahim, responsible, dutiful Ibrahim, forever frozen in our minds as a smiling twelve-year-old with gapped upper incisors and calm eyes, eyes the colour of our mother's--brown.

Ibrahim is six feet below, a pile of bones by now, and the fact that these thoughts cross my mind makes me feel ashamed of myself. It feels like I am violating his memory, reducing him from the healthy boy to dust.

"I should be going. I will send you the updated blueprints, Baba."

I get to my feet, feeling like every muscle in my body is tightly strung, waiting for an attack that will never come physically, an attack against which my flesh will prove useless and powerless, unable to to save my mind.