Song- 'Heya' by Brymo
Nwanyieze's POV~
It feels good to be back in Lagos.
"Babi gial, buy plantain chiss!" a street hawker calls to me through the window of the Danfo I'm sitting in. A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as a soft, male voice whispers the endearment in my head. I oblige the hawker, purchasing three packets of plantain chips and thinking of how Adanna will enjoy them during my next visit. She thanks me and moves onto the next vehicle.
Another hawker seizes the opportunity and moves to replace the plantain chips vendor.
"Aunty buy chilled drink for better enjoyment," he tells me, turning so I can see the carefully arranged stacks of colourful bottles in a huge bowl he carries on his head. Not minding saving a few bottles in my refrigerator for later, I purchase two bottles of Coke.
Fresh off the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) boat from Abuja, I returned to Lagos last week, rented an apartment in Yaba, and restarted my life. Already I have readjusted to living in the Centre of Excellence, immediately switching to Pidgin and the little Yoruba I know. Lagos makes one do things a bit faster than the average Nigerian: waking up earlier than normal, walking faster, even speaking faster. It's like it has a fast-paced rhythm of its own, and you automatically dance to the tempo without even knowing.
Excitement runs through me at the thought of working in Lagos, with so many events and tourist attractions, so many opportunities to create content with colourful, vibrant pictures. I have been blogging for a year and I'm working on a book I want to publish- with a pseudonym, of course. It was during my youth service that I had been inspired to blog, to share stories of my past and my everyday life. I mean, if I have to live with my pain, why don't I create something out of it while inspiring and encouraging other people?
Blogging has been lucrative for me so far because I have been dedicated. For now I run advertisements and influence brands through reviews for good amounts of money, I post stories that people send to me via email, and share tips on whatever I know- from hair and skin care, to relationship and life advise. My traffic generation is steadily rising and I'm hopeful that next year, it will get better.
Nothing had appealed to me about getting a job- it's not like they're out there in abundance, anyway. Employment rates are very low, especially among the fresh graduates. It has me wondering what the whole point of an education is if you can't get a job because you don't have a minimum of five years of working experience by age 25.
I had just wanted the luxury of having my own time to myself and working with it as I wished. And on the plus side, it didn't put me out there in a society that would more likely turn their backs on me if the knowledge of my past ever reached their ears.
Getting to my apartment, I change into more comfortable clothes and put my groceries in one place. Tonight, I have to start creating new content for my blog, and so I must ensure that I have enough food to last beyond tomorrow. Tope is also visiting, and we have a lot to talk about.
Tope and I have become close, after that horrible night at Tasha's party. She had taken me home where I'd packed a few of my belongings and followed her to her place. Tope had searched for an apartment for me at my request, helped me move, and kept in touch with me over the year.
I, in turn, had encouraged her to follow her dream by stopping prostitution and pursuing a degree in the university. She was always interested in Theatre Arts, and with my help, she had passed her Joint Admission Matriculation Board (JAMB) exams and gained admission into University of Lagos. There are times when it saddens her that she is in her twenties as a first year student, but I always encourage her that it's never too late to start something good.
It's never too early to start something good, baby girl.
I smile, but my stomach drops. I continued to keep up with news of him, but never have I looked at his personal social media pages even when the urge was overwhelming. He is doing quite well and I'm proud of the man he's become. To say I had him in my life at one point...still surprises me.
I had made a promise to myself, to keep the good memories with Maduka and pick myself up, to be a better person than I was the previous day, no matter how difficult it might seem. No matter how painful the memories from my past are, I have forged ahead to the best of my abilities. Teaching in Abuja has been a great experience, a welcome distraction from thinking too much about my past.
But thinking of Maduka never fails to fill me with sadness. It's something I'm used to, and though it might not be as painful as it was last year, I wish I had been truthful. The weight of regret still sits upon my shoulders like a wet log.
It has already happened.
This is what I keep telling myself. I also keep wondering what would happen if I ever had the chance to see Maduka again. Would he bear to look at me, knowing I ended up in Saheed's arms?
I had been at my most self-destructive state, accepting Saheed over loneliness even though I knew, deep down, that it wouldn't help. I couldn't help taking out my despair on him, even though I knew he felt guilty for playing a role in all that had happened. I didn't want his money or his gifts... I had regressed to seeking physical pleasure as a distraction, and he had been available, and I had thought, why not make him suffer a bit while you're at it?
I'm not proud of what I did.
Saheed loved me...sort of, but in all the wrong ways. He wanted to care for me, but he was incapable of expressing it. And I had known. I had seen it in his eyes everytime he tried to tell me something, in his movements when he would reach out, tentatively, to touch my hair, his eyes showing his uncertainty. I had felt it when his arms would seek me in the middle of the night, heard it when he would murmur my name in his sleep. He was the most peaceful when he was asleep, all traces of mischief gone from his handsome face as he breathed slowly. I would know because I had watched him while he slept, sprawled across the king-sized bed in his favourite hotel room with his arm draped over me. I had watched and wondered what his life had been like when he was younger.
What had twisted him? What experience had created this cynical, manipulative, charming and stubborn man?
When our wills clashed, it was like a tornado meeting a frozen river. Usually he got angry about my silence towards him. I refused to have conversations with him beyond a few words, refused to show gratitude for his gifts, refused to display emotional vulnerability even when he tried to show me his. And often he would lose control, trying to physically restrain me so I would focus on him, because that was the only form of control he had over me. Most times I would be held against a wall, or his bed, or to his body with his strong arms. He never raised a hand to hit me, though.
I could see his desperation, his need to pass onto me how he felt...but he never succeeded partly because I never gave him the chance. We were only on the same page in bed. After all, that was what I told him I wanted from the start of our relationship. And, surprisingly, he had agreed. So why try to get more from me?
Where is he now? I ask myself silently while slicing onions, which I put into sizzling oil.
After receiving my call-up letter for the mandatory Youth Service, I had started making arrangements without telling him. The night before leaving for camp in the Federal Capital Territory, I had gone to meet him at one of his favourite restaurants. Declining food, I had spilled my heart to him while he anxiously sat across the table, watching me intensely.
"Saheed, I'm sorry for everything. I used you as a means to dull my pain," I began, reaching out to touch his hand.
He had flinched at the truth in my words, but didn't withdraw from my touch. I hardly ever initiated physical intimacy between us.
"I'm sorry I manipulated you into all of this. I took advantage of your vulnerability," he replied. "I'm truly not as bad as you think I am."
I could see in his eyes that he desperately wanted me to believe him. I had wondered again, what had happened to him in the past.
"Saheed...we can still heal."
"Together. Another chance." His lips were already lowering to graze the back of my hand, amber eyes beseeching.
"Not together."
He froze momentarily and stared like I had just revealed that I was suffering from a terminal illness. "You're the only one I can bare myself to. I know all about you, and I still find you nothing short of worthy- I know getting here with you...I know I have wronged you so badly and I wish I could take it all back. Don't throw this away, please."
I experienced guilt, watching him plead with me when I had already made up my mind. I knew if I agreed to him, the cycle would continue. The tornado versus frozen river cycle, the one-sided arguments about a lack of intimacy, the absence of love on my part, the taunting, the anger...
I didn't know where I would find love, and I wasn't even hopeful about finding it ever again. But I knew I would never find it with Saheed.
"Saheed...I take back every mean word I ever said to you. Remember that argument we had over Maduka?"
He sighed, a clear sign that he didn't like it when I mentioned Maduka.
I continued. "When I told you nothing you could do would make me stay? I meant it. I didn't mean to sound so hateful, but I meant what I said."
"But we are good together."
"Physically, you mean. I told you, I was in need of a distraction, and that distraction was you. I knew from the beginning, we wouldn't last."
He clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he struggled for control. I watched, feeling like the scum of the earth for putting him through this. Finally I understood, that Saheed was just a man subconsciously searching for love in all the wrong places. He'd thought I would change, that I would warm towards him. He thought he'd broken me after Maduka, and that he'd fix me.
Can a broken person fix another broken person? Can an empty cup fill another empty cup?
"I want to heal. I want you to heal. We can't heal together. There's no way, because we will still go back to being toxic towards each other," I had said in my most patient voice.
We had hurt each other so much, I couldn't bear the thought of it happening again. It was like we fed off each other's pain and regrets even when we didn't converse much.
My resentment towards him had evaporated, and I was eager to be on my own, on my way to trying to find myself in a new environment, to begin a new journey alone with the past behind me. I knew I would still experience pain, but I was ready to face it. For me, healing didn't mean I would forget the bad memories and the hurt I have suffered; it meant I would learn to live with them and still have a positive outlook on life.
I needed that, even if it meant leaving behind all I had known.
Saheed looked resigned. He had lowered his lips to the back of my hand again, looked me in the eye and said in a clear voice, "You were never a distraction. I fought for you to the detriment of my own conscience, and now I can't keep you. I guess this is karma's own way of paying me back, Queen."
"Don't speak like that."
He scoffed. "My success in the engineering and business world, are my only winnings. Relationships have always gone sour. My father, my...I thought I could get it right this time..."
I didn't want to ask him what could have happened between him and his father, because from his expression, it had cut him deep. But I was curious.
"I have had bad experiences, too. They shaped me into what I am today."
"You're not what you think you are. You are beautiful, you are intelligent, and you are strong. That was what pulled me to you. Your strength. You yelled threats at me the first night we met. I am sorry I misjudged you. I wish I could take it all back. "
It occurs to me that maybe, if I opened up to him, he would feel more at ease and reciprocate. "I survived sexual abuse. That experience has influenced me in so many ways."
Realisation dawned in his eyes. It was like he suddenly understood more about my actions and inactions. And with that realisation came shame.
"Your Dad," he whispered. "You said I reminded you of him."
I nodded.
"Dads. Protectors, providers, mentors," he'd said, his voice full of contempt. "I am sorry."
I had shrugged. "It's already happened. I can't change the past. But I believe I can influence my future. You, too."
His mouth had twisted into a wry smile.
"I'll be going now. Clearly, none of us can keep food down tonight." I picked my purse and got to my feet hastily.
"Let me walk you out, at least," he insisted.
Outside, while I waited for my taxi near the gates of the resturant, Saheed had taken me by surprise with a gentle kiss. He caught himself when our lips touched and pulled back, but held onto my shoulders, his forehead on mine. I didn't move away, and I can't explain why. Maybe it was because I was suddenly filled with pity for him.
"Stay," he had murmured.
"I can't," I had replied. "I'm not the one."
Sighing, he released me and backed away slowly. "If you need anything..."
"I won't," I replied, understanding that he was still leaving the door open, that he still had hopes. Sincerely, I added, "I wish you well, Saheed."
"I'm sorry," he had said for the last time before turning his back on me and walking back towards the building.
That was the last time I ever saw him. I was surprised by how well he took it all. No fuss, he didn't create a scene, and he didn't threaten me.
Maybe he knows the truth deep down, I had thought during the taxi drive to Ikorodu, tears running down my cheeks. Maybe he knew all along, but feared uncertainty.
The next day, I had delivered all his expensive gifts to his apartment on the island via courier before catching an evening flight to Abuja, leaving Lagos, but not my sorrows, behind.
The smell of burning onion brings me back to the present, and I discard the blackened slices before slicing another batch. It takes me an hour and a half to finish my cooking. By the time I'm done, my small apartment is filled with the aroma of chicken jollof rice and curry leaves. The aroma takes me back to the nights Maduka and I spent cooking in his kitchen while laughing and stealing kisses and soft touches. The memories are welcomed ones, which make me smile. With a pang in my chest, I remember the nights we had spent in each other's arms in his village, and how he had panicked when I had almost been poisoned.
That seemed like a lifetime ago.
While letting my food cool, I boot my laptop in my sitting room to check for notifications on my blog. Comments on my latest post are nearing a hundred. I had posted about my sexual abuse experience two days ago. Momentarily forgetting my food, I settle down on my bed to read the comments and plan my replies:
"Lost Treasure, thank you for telling us this story. I can totally relate to you. Please seek counselling as soon as possible."
"Lost Treasure, why does it feel like I know you personally?"
"Lost Treasure, tears were rolling down my eyes as I read this. I was sexually assaulted last week, and couldn't speak because I felt my family would blame me..."
"Lost Treasure, fancy lunch sometime?"
"Lost Treasure, you remind me of someone I used to know..."
"LT you keep inspiring people, even though you might not know it. I am happy you came out strong and I hope you seek help to enable you to heal. Sending love and light your way."
"LT, I can't believe the man you trusted the most did such a thing to you! Please report the fool immediately!"
By the time I'm done with replying the numerous comments, evening has fallen and my food is in need of reheating. Satisfied, I temporarily shut down my device, connect my portable bluetooth speaker to my phone, and move to the kitchen to feed myself while singing along to Brymo's Heya.
With a smile on my face, I decide what I'm going to write about for my next post.
Memoirs of the men who loved me.
A/N- Been a minute, lovely people! I have absolutely missed you guys. Thanks a million for your support!You guys are too good abeg. Jeez, I'm bursting to write a story on Saheed. I'm excited! Anticipate.