Song- Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper.
Nwanyieze's POV:
OK, fine!
I'm actually hungry. I follow him to the little building, where he stands before the row of mallams roasting suya. There's a little crowd, and so I have to elbow my way to stand beside him. The sweet smell of roasted beef and mixed spices makes my stomach grumble and my mouth water.
"What would you like?" he asks me.
"Gizzard dey?" Are gizzards available?
"Sure na." Of course.
"I'd love some gizzards and beef please. Lots of yaji and onions, too."
In ten minutes we are seated at a small table, busily chewing suya and gizzards. Maduka orders for two bottles of chilled Coca Cola.
"Look," he says, showing me his Coke bottle. "It says 'Share a Coke with Saheed.' "
I burst into laughter and I notice him watching me with interest.
"Mine says 'Share a Coke with Chief.' "
"Hey, let's exchange. Saheed is yours, not mine."
Maduka reaches for my own bottle of Coke and I snatch it away. "He's your friend, too!"
"He's more than your friend!"
I like the way he looks when he's laughing. His nose scrunches up like a baby's and his eyes grow smaller with crinkles at the corners. His lips rise up at the corners to reveal strong, white teeth. I notice a long scar above his left brow and absently reach out to touch it.
"What happened to you?"
I notice he doesn't flinch. Infact, Maduka seems to lean into my touch.
"I got it while fighting."
"You don't look like the violent type."
Suddenly his gaze seems to intensify. A corner of his mouth rises higher than the other. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. How'd you get it?"
"I can't remember why I even fought."
"I've never fought in my life."
"Despite this your sharp mouth? I'm surprised."
"I had my ways."
He tries to bite off a chunk of suya from the kebab stick, and flinches when some pepper gets into his eye.
"Shit!" he exclaims, quickly getting up and stalking outside. I grab a bottle of water from a passing waiter and run after Maduka.
"I've got water!" I exclaim.
He turns to face me, one eye closed and a hand outstretched. I help him wash his hands first, then stand by while he washes his face.
"Ndo," I tell him as he dries water from his face. Sorry.
"I meela," he replies. Thank you.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Yes, a little. Could you please check to see it there's anything left in my eye?"
Using the torchlight of my small Nokia phone, I check his eye for him. Maduka is extremely tall and has to bend to my level. I hold my breath cautiously so he won't perceive the onions on it.
"It still feels like there's something there," he says.
But I can see nothing! I think, annoyed. I'm running out of breath and my lungs are beginning to burn a bit, but I hang on, bent on making sure his eye doesn't hurt anymore. I'm still thoroughly examining his eye when he starts to shake. When I realise he's laughing, I step back, confused.
"Are you done suffocating?" he questions.
"Maduka!" I exclaim, getting the joke. He knew I was conscious about my onion breath, and so decided to waste my time! His mischief causes me to laugh, too.
"I thought you were going to faint."
"Such a smart ass," I retort before turning to go back to our little table.
We round up our meal, he pays the bills, and ushers me back to his car.
"Now I can finally take you home."
"Finally."
"Tell me one thing, though," he says after two minutes of silent driving.
"What's that?"
"How old are you?"
Why is he asking such personal questions? If I tell him my age, will it make him treat me any differently? Will he think me immature? He looks to be in his mid-twenties, from my observations.
"I'm not telling you."
"Ah, na waa oh. Are you one of those girls who don't tell guys their age and then give out their emails only to reveal something like sarah1993luvsyou@yahoo.com?"
I chuckle inwardly. That's a plain stupid thing to do.
"Soon you're going to ask me when I last had my period! You've asked so many questions. Now it's my turn."
"Fine, ask away then."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Old man."
"Hey, I'm working towards being the best sugar daddy in town."
"Don't give up on your dreams."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Where are you from?"
"Imo State."
"Oh, wow. I'm from Imo State,too."
I don't bother asking which Local Government Area, because I'm very sure he'll ask the same and since I never knew my real parents, I don't know where I'm from.
"Where in Imo are you from?" he asks the dreaded question. My stomach ties itself up in knots and I feel a flash of self anger. How many times have I told myself to get over it, to forget that I'm displaced in my own country and that no one will ever come looking for me because I belong nowhere?
"What's your favourite song?" I ask, changing the subject.
"I love almost all genres of music, so that's a difficult question."
"Me, too. From Flavour to Cynthia Morgan, Asa, then back to ABBA and Whitney Houston and Bob Marley! Heck, sometimes I enjoy K-pop."
At that moment, he turns on the radio and Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time begins to play on Cool FM.
"I love this song!" I squeal, surprising myself.
"We're soul mates, then," he tells me with a laugh.
"No, we're not."
"Is there anything wrong with what I said?"
By now we're at Jibowu, making a U-turn under the bridge.
"I don't have a soul mate," I blurt out, suddenly feeling this overwhelming sense of vulnerability from nowhere. Damn, it must be my period on its way, scattering my hormones all over my bloodstream and messing with my brain.
I haven't genuinely enjoyed anyone's company in such a long time. If I'm not at school or at home, then I'm in some hotel room underneath the sheets with a man old enough to be my father two times over (they're the ones who pay much more). I've always felt that I'm tainted, too undeserving of some of the pure pleasures life has to offer. Pleasures such as having a nice chat over good food with a friend, laughing at jokes instead of discussing sex and it's price.
No, this life isn't for me. I'm not going to find a soul mate and settle down because, obviously, no one would want someone like me. If he ever found out what I did... I can't imagine this handsome, laughing, open face scowling at me in disgust, but I know it'll hurt like hell. What would his deep voice sound like, full of stinging words and curses?
"Hey, Nwanyieze," he says, waving a hand in front of my face.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts and notice that Maduka has parked the car by the side of the road and switched on the interior car lights. He's leaning towards me, brows drawn together in concern.
"Are you okay?"
"Of course," I reply. Looking for something to do, I shrug off his jacket and twist my body to fling it onto the back seat.
"What happened to your arm?"
I touch the scar on my right arm. It's a shiny, horizontal one, darker than the surrounding skin.
"I've had it forever. It's always been there."
He looks thoughtful for only a second before running a hand over his face. "It's very late. Let me drop you so you'll have some sleep."
A strange silence hangs over us until he drops me in front of my gate. Just as I'm about to get out of the car, Maduka grabs my wrist. The contact is warm and firm, but doesn't hurt like Saheed's grip.
"When's your birthday?"
There's something about the way he asks, like it's urgent. A hint of desperation intensifies his gaze and this makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
"March ninth, 1996," I whisper.
He releases my wrist, nods, and says softly, "Good night, Nwanyieze."
I half-run away, looking back only once to see him still watching me. Across the distance, it's like his eyes are able to touch me. Giving him a small wave in the darkness, I let myself into the compound.
I hear him drive away, but not before his tyres screech wickedly on the asphalt.
I know something is amiss.
Maduka's POV:
Sister Benedicta was there in the nursery, sitting on a chair admist cots and gently brushing the baby's hair and cooing to her. I noticed a bandage over her tiny right arm.
While growing up in the orphanage, the infected wound had healed to become a scar, which she often touched and raised to show me whenever she wanted my attention.
~~
Her: "I've had it forever. It's always been there."
~~
"Will she have a birthday?"
"Ninth of March, 1996."
~~
Her: "March ninth, 1996."
~~
"She doesn't have a name, Sister Benedicta."
"Why don't you name her, love?"
"I'll name her Nwanyieze."
~~
Her: "Nwanyieze."
~~
While driving home, my hand rises to touch the scar above my brow.
I'd gotten that scar from fighting the orphanage bully because he had pushed Nwanyieze to the floor while dragging her doll from her.
My God.
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