Mrs Cynthia Nnamdi dabbed her face with some powder, pressed her lips together again to effect the glistening of the lip gloss. Once more, she ran a comb through her hair, angling her smiling face at the mirror to see the effect.
"Ladies and their ways!"
She smiled as she recalled how her late husband used to tease her, days when she spent such a long time before the mirror.
Nnamdi was a very busy consultant at the specialist hospital, Maitama. He came as busy as doctor's get, yet swoon her into her brief blissful years of marriage. She could almost feel him place a loving hand on her shoulder, those angled jaw lines resolving in a smile with crinkling hazel eyes. There he was in the mirror, beside her, in a velvet tuxedo pocketing his hand to withdraw a pendant that he delicately placed around her neck before planting a kiss on her head. "i love you," his conjured image said, those enthralling words echoing back and forth in her ears. She smiled back, her gradually reddening eyes moistened up. "I love you too." She whispered back to the wind.
Cynthia look behind, perchance her late husband was actually standing by her, but she knew before she faced the vacuum between her and everything in the luxurious bedroom. it was just a memory, days gone by that she'd never get back.
Nnamdi died on the Nigerian 50th anniversary at the eagle square. A celebration and a life that was disrupted by a twin bomb attack, sponsored by the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND) which was in conflict with federal government over equitable distribution of oil revenue. There was no way she'd forget his shrunk mangled body wrapped in white polythene; the daggling yellow and black stripped caution line; the blood and tar drenched ground with wrecked cars in flames.
She could recall the blaring siren and her cries among the wails of bereaved mothers re-echoed in her mind. That memory will forever be fresh in her mind. Forever.
The first of October, 2010 was roughly three and a half years ago. Three and a half years that had taught her the loneliness of widowhood.
Her phone beeped. She saw the caller—Mr Bello, an actual stranger if the term applies to someone who saved her life few weeks ago, and had the effrontery to send a bouquet to her office. In a general sense, Bello had become a nice guy next door personality that had pressurized her to a accepting to go on a date with him. She hesitated but finally picked the phone.
"Hey, Bello."
"Hello, Miss Cynthia." He replied genially, Cynthia quirked her brow at his the ignorant title by which he addressed her. She made a mental note to straighten the record. She was no 'Miss'. "I was hoping you'd make it." Bello continued, he sighed, "I hope there's always another time, then?"
She tried to smile, and frame a cheerful tone, but what is the use? She asked herself. She could cancel this extravagant, almost profligate appointment. Beside, Bello was already offering her the ticket out.
"Oh, there'll be no need for a reschedule." She found herself saying, nevertheless, "Give me twenty more minutes." She reluctantly added.
"Gladly." He replied.
Cynthia half-heartedly smudged some tear soiled cast away, ran her palm delicately over her face, grabbed her purse and car keys and started for the door.
Cynthia stopped half way. She returned to the dressing mirror, pulling out an integrated drawer below the silver panel. The souvenir of the life she had, a life she was still not willing to let slide. The object was her wedding ring. The main reason she'd removed it few months ago was because of the pathetic way some women stare at her, some people who knew about Nnamdi, people who she met often, who advocate she move on with her life. They meant well though, at least anyone would guess so, but moving on is not as easy as it sounds. Cynthia knew better.
She slid the silver band on; the diamond stud glistened in the mild light. She remembered when a masculine hand had once driven her ring finger through this, on the dais of a large cathedral, in the presence of beautiful dress crowd, vast applause echoing all round.
Cynthia drove her red Toyota Camry through town, switched the gear and glided for the fast lane. Her car hummed, then took to the commanded pace. A familiar red and blue caution light of a police car reflected from her rear mirror. She slid off the fast lane, few seconds for the police car to fly off.
In less than the promised twenty minutes, her car was parked before the posh all neon light 'Kris and Joyce'. Classical music was already swelling off the building, she gave her dress a once over from the side mirror.
"Right on time." The masculine voice came from beside her. Cynthia jerked at the heavy bass; she felt the heat rise to her cheek as she gave a shy, almost involuntary smile.
"How long have you been standing there?" she asked Bello, who was leaning on a glistening black BMW convertible, arm folded over massive chest. He wore a slim fitted shirt that accentuated his musculature over a pair jean trouser and a brown leather boot.
"Just a few seconds." He said with a smile, "You look exceptionally beautiful, as always."
"Well then, thank you."
Bello awkwardly closed the distance between them, "May I," he asked, a hand extended.
Cynthia placed her hand, which looked smaller in his. She smiled, "You may."
He held and led her through the glass door, the interior dazzle with light and sounds; it's been a long time since she'd ever been here. Not after Nnamdi died. Bello dragged a chair for her to sit before he took his opposite a table between them.
Cynthia had to remind herself again that Mr Bello was actually a stranger. She'd admit that she barely knew enough about him to make a firm conclusion about him just yet. But fact is, Bello saved her life few weeks ago, and she had to repay the favour with this meeting. At least, that was how he put it.
"What would you like," the waiter asked, after reading the menu. Cynthia made her order for red wine and nothing more.
Bello gave her a questioning gaze, "Just that?"
"Except you want me to order water," she flatly replied.
Bello conceded, "same here," he said. Cynthia wondered if the man had not made the choice because she refused. Anyway, she satiated the urge to ask any further. "I'm delighted you agreed to come." He said, all smiles.
"You left me no choice." Cynthia candidly replied, "I owe you, remember."
"And now I do owe you too." He said, staring at her with such air of satisfaction about him.
She quirked her brow questioningly at him, deciding to swipe the amusing look of his face. "Now, tell me about you."
Gladly, the question seems to take him by surprise. He gave a double take before he finally replied, his smile resolved to a bland face as he answered, "I'm Bello Danjuma. A graduate of chemical engineering, but right now I work as a middle agent for a chemical industry in Lagos."
"Sales?"
Bello looked a little mollified, "Yeah." Cynthia observed that his breath was held through the silence, till it was obvious that she'd run out of questions. He sighed and made a pleading face. "Is the interview over?"
Cynthia chortled, "Yes."
"So, tell me about you?"
"I'm Mrs Cynthia Nnamdi" She methodically gauged his reaction at the word 'Mrs' but Bello listened to her with such rapt attention that made her doubt if he was actually listening. "A life coach."
"Wow, that wasn't new." He said, somewhat in a disappointed tone. "something else?"
"Oh, well. I hate to wear shoes except they are so necessary. That's just me."
Bello laughed, "I hate walking bare foot except it is necessary." He said. His smile waned as he added, "I hope to meet your husband soon," this time almost catching Cynthia by surprise.
Her voice faltered as she replied, "Nnamdi is dead." It sounded to her as an affirmation of a fact, an affirmation that strangely made her feel freer and vulnerable at the same time. She pulled a handkerchief to her eyes.
"I'm so sorry," said Bello, his brows furrowed over tender eyes, "I'm so sorry."
"No, it's not your fault," she hastily asserted, checking on her voice to avoid attracting attention. She made a successful attempt at a smile. Cynthia actually deals with people every day and gave professional advice. This could be as easy as an admission to a total stranger, a counsellor-counselee situation. As odd as it may sound to someone who asks the questions.
"He died in the October first bomb blast," She said, straining to keep her emotions out. "But I moved on."
"Were the perpetrators ever found?" he asked with a concerned gaze after a brief silence. Cynthia wish Bello knew how she hated being look at thus; she was not a pity partier. She is Cynthia, a fighter. But the trust is that, dealing with the untimely loss of Nnamdi was a fight she was yet to win. And she needed to.
"Of course, yes, there are about four suspects on trial. You know how ridiculous legal proceedings in this country can go. Adjourned today, adjourned tomorrow," her voice felt farfetched to her ears yet she rambled on, "one died in incarceration, the other sentenced to life imprisonment last year in a separate trial. Two of their big boys with gold digging mischievous lawyers had managed to prolong and frustrate trials. Who knows, they may be sentenced to life imprisonment in like ten years, or be permitted to walk free as the issue gets stale, which will never happen as long as I live. And while that goes one what about Nnamdi? 'he's dead', cops said wrong place wrong time. Not as if the court could actually bring him back." Bello was still listening attentively, "Now I'm rambling." She lastly said, feeling both relieved and overacting.
"No, you're fine." Said Bello, in the same tone a doctor or a life coach would help patients and client deal with grief. "How are you feeling?"
She laughed at the familiar question, "Now you are acting like a psychotherapist," she gave a light laugh, "Yes, I feel better." Indeed, she did.
Silence stretched on in which she felt like the subject of a pshyc eval. "So, you are Mr Bello, my mysterious saviour and friendly neighbour."
He gave a mock bow that made her laugh. The same kind of bow he gave her when they first met.
Her mind wandered back to the incident at the parking lot, the first place she met the man.
She was returning from Caleb's ward, she had just opened her car which was stationed at the low level parking lot. "Stop right there and give me your money." came the coarse voice of a stranger. She naturally was afraid at the sight of a pistol in his arm trained at him. Her hand quivered as she reached for her purse.
The next that had happened was a blur. The door of the car behind the masked man kicked outward smacking him on his back; he was thrown to Cynthia's car. She ducked only to see a man hastily emerge from the car, wring the gun out of the thieves' hand and removed the cartridge, throwing bullets off. Then he gave a mock bow.
"Well, well, where were we?" he'd asked in a confident voice, that any would consider appropriate for a date like the one she technically was on this evening. She could remember staring at him with her mouth agape.
"Ahem," Bello gave a false cough that refocused her attention. He tilted his head with a playfully grin.
"Where were we?" she jolted off the memory. "What were you doing at the hospital?" she asked.
"Oh that, a friend of mine was having some issues, he came to see a doctor and I drove him there."
"And what are you doing in Abuja?"
"There's this contract that many companies are vying for, I decided to follow the GSK interest in person, you know, a tweak here, a pull there." he shrugged, "that's the Nigerian way."
Cynthia shrugged, "I won't judge."
Cynthia wanted to ask if he was married, but she decided to voice it otherwise, "How's your wife?"
Bello seem to find the question funny, he smiled broadly, "Still single." He finally sighed, "I hope we'd have more of this," he said, wishfully, "though I quite doubt if I had not disappoint you with my questions."
"Oh no, they were..." 'Normal' was probably not the word, neither 'Appropriate', "...honest," yes, "they were honest question we should ask. Beside I know you better now. Which reminds me, when we first met—you know you kicking the bad guy and I was there looking like the lady in distress—this lady was actually under the impression that you work for the Nigerian Army. You know, the way you dressed." She could still recall his thick boot and multi pocket trouser. "Not disappointed though, that day, you were a soldier."
Bello shrugged, "if you say so." Though he tried to hide it, Cynthia was convinced that he was pleased. All men love a little bit of admiration, Nnamdi was one, and most certainly Bello was not an exception to this androgynous rule.
Few minutes later, Bello saw her off to her car. She opened the door, "thanks for the night." she said, slipping in before driving off. As she slowed off the parking lot, a man, about Bello's height but of a lesser build walked up to him. He shook hands with the man, his eyes roving around and finally settling on her retreating car. She watched as both he and the man disappeared in the car before she rounded a corner and they could no longer be seen. Somehow, she didn't need her life coach instincts to tell her that there was more to Bello that she knew, though she had no reason to doubt his honesty, she'd also learnt that sometimes, instincts do not lie and now that she was away from his presence, she had more questions to ask still. All the same, Cynthia was sure that the debt he owed him had been paid. It wasn't a bad transaction after all.
When she returned home, Grace was resting on the sofa as she watched a favourite show. The soul's sisters show. She roused as Cynthia entered the living room with a wide grin on her face. Cynthia shrieked as she gave her cousin a crushing hug. Grace felt thinner than she'd known, "It's great to have you back. How was your first assignment?"
"Not bad, but it's not the best of times," she replied, she released herself from Cynthia's grasp as she gave her a once over. "Now don't tell me, you had a girl's night out?"
Cynthia gave a small laugh, "indeed." She said, "by the way, have you taken some food. I left some in the kitchen, did you see it? Did Martha_"
"Of course I did. God, I miss your cooking." She said, hastily rattling out the words. She stopped, taking a breath, "Now tell me who the lucky guy is."
Cynthia looked away from her quizzical gaze, then back again. Grace made it sound like she had the right to know, which was ridiculous. "Seriously? I don't think it's right for an adult like me to tell..." she paused to consider her cousin sister, Grace was far from being a child anymore, "...well a younger adult like you any such thing?"
Grace swiped through empty space with her palm, "Oh please, sister, ignore that darn African morality philosophy. I'm dying to hear about where you've been." She said, hoping excitedly like a five year old asking mother for brownies, or permission to go for a friend's birthday party.
"All right, you can at least give me some time to undress." Knowing Grace, there was no way she'd give the issue a rest. "And this high heel is killing me!" Cynthia exclaimed as she ran upstairs.
"That's the reason why you should wear it often!" her cousin shouted after her with a delirious laugh. Cynthia could tell that she was glad to be back.
Few minutes later, both sat over popcorn and ice-cream, watching the evening news.
Grace was on a leave after her first assignment in the Nigerian armed force to Lokoja, in the paramilitary. Cynthia had learnt some few thing from her during the conversation. At least she'd learnt what it felt like to visit the part of the world where two great rivers meet. And the tanning of Grace's skin was evidence enough, though she couldn't attribute her loss of weight to geographical factors.
"About two hundred girls abducted last night are still missing..." the news presenter began another report, Grace tuned the volume of the speaker with the remote control pad. "...few of the girls that escape and eyewitnesses accounted that the girls were forcefully loaded into Hilux trucks and carted away in the middle of the night. The current location of the girls remains unknown and no terrorist group had claim responsibility..." the news went on to tell how the Nigerian forces are working round the clock to bring them back, how they are still trying to ascertain the number of girls missing, the details went on.
"It's such a pity." Cynthia said as she watched the display of the burnt school and the weeping faces of some relatives of the girls. News like this must have gone viral; she would be surprised if Grace knew nothing of it.
"Indeed, it is. To just be carted away by strange men without any opposition of any kind? Makes me wonder if the story is even true." Grace piped in, taking another scoop of the vanilla flavoured ice-cream.
"That's quite tall! I'm of the opinion that stuffs like this cannot be made up, not with so much number. To what end?"
"Politics." Was Grace's bumptious reply, "this will cast further crimson on the already staining reputation of the present government and the Nigerian military. In the end, the opposition party wraps it all up as incompetence on the part of the ruling party, further pushing out their conspiracy theory on ignorant fellows. So it goes."
"I still like to think that it's incompetence then."
"If it actually happened, yes, I agree. Incompetence." Grace mumbled, nodding her head, she swallowed, "But who is it to blame? These insurgences in question are more equipped than the police force in this country put together. What to do if you are in the officer's shoes? Run for it and stay safe for your children. It's every man for himself in this case, and not many would risk their life for country if that life is not properly insured."
"What of the Nigerian army? I thought they littered everywhere in Borno state. If a newspaper I read this morning was not exaggerating, that is?"
Grace will always have a reply, "The same military had the word 'retreat' in their dictionary. What choice do they have? Little wonder why the Nigerian army is not pelting through Sambisa as we speak?"
Though no one was eager to place blame on any group, but who could have pulled that stunt yesternight in Borno state, if not the dreaded 'BH' militant group—Boko Haram? Cynthia was sure that just as Grace was quick to mention their hideout and link that with their activities, everyone in the country was thinking along that line. And they must be right.
"That's a question. Shouldn't the ministry of defence ensure that its personnel are properly equipped?" she asked.
"From the little I know, there's heavy corruption in the military. Should the government release such fund, it may end up siphoned into the account of a fat officer on chair. Beside, haven't you wonder how this group come to gain power all of a sudden? Or how they get their arms smuggled into the country when we have immigration service workers on patrol?"
"That's plausible too." Cynthia agreed, "What are you driving at?"
"Simply put, the worm that destroys the nut, lives within it. This terrorism is partly religious and partly political and the country is heavily divided by these two forces." Grace said in her usual know-it-all manner.
"Come to think of the way you talk in riddles, makes me wonder who is older."
They both laughed.
As much as Cynthia agreed with some of her cousin's logic, she wondered if the abducted girls could wait for the country to resolve its corruption challenge before coming to their rescue. Would there be so much delay and uncertainty if one of the girls was the daughter of a state governor? Then why the claim that lives are safe in the country. If Dr. Nnamdi could leave for the independence celebration, never to return; and the girls could sleep in the dorm one night then in the midst of nowhere the next. What in the country is there to put faith in?
"Caleb is such a big boy now," said Grace yawning, "He grew so fast."
Cynthia took another sip of water, "you can say that."
It was already 10pm when she retired to her room. She brought out her personal computer and switched it on. An idea struck her; she rummage through some piles of doodah at the lowest draw and withdrew a modem.
The connection was quite rapid; she got online and went straight for facebook. On the search box, she typed 'Bello Danjuma', there were many result for the query. She finally zeroed on a profile that she was quite convinced must belong to him. His details were all hidden, except his name and place of work, which read, GlaxoSmithKlin, Yaba, Lagos. There was no photograph, no wall paper, no update. She sent a friend request, reconsidered her attempt and cancelled it.
It was quite suspicious that such a man with manners looks and all would not be properly represented on facebook, a sales agent for that matter. "That's spooky," she told herself. Well, who would say that a sale personnel capable of disarming a robber in split seconds was not weird—for lack of better term?
She turned the lid over, wedged her feet through a pair of slippers and walked downstairs.
Grace was still in the living room, watching a telenovela. She must have missed those. Without any intention of disturbing her, she skirted to Caleb's room which on the other wing of the ground floor. Caleb was already asleep; a car toy lay by his side. She grabbed some tissue paper to wipe some mucus making its way to clog his nostrils.
Cynthia scooped him in her arms, and carried him to her own bed. The boy, oblivious of the transition, gave a sigh and snuggled close to him. She smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek. For thirty minutes or so, she watched his face in the suave darkness of a lava lamp. Its pure bliss, still to remember that she had a life to care for, most of all, someone who Nnamdi's name could live on.
She drifted to sleep, recalling some of the tedious bureaucracy they had to contend with before they could adopt the boy as theirs.
******
She'd sat by the corner for the past few minutes, her countless sniff and sobs piercing the silent stagnant air.
Juliet was awake when the girl staggered in, she'd watch her silhouette dissolve in the dark corners of the cold tent. The way she was carried away by the man still ionized terror to her.
The tent flap was thrown open as Sulia limped in about half an hour later, she whimpered, wincing with every step she took. She hobbled over few girls then over Juliet; Sulia settled back to the spot where she'd been dragged from and then curl on the floor, hugging her trembling knees.
Juliet wished she had the courage to console her, but she knew little to be afraid of the truth she might hear. No! She mused, this cannot be happening, but it was, and they were all in the midst it. In the silence, Juliet wondered who will be next, and why their lives had ever deserved such treatment.
Two chapters (3 and 4) in a single day!
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