Nadia

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Beautiful day?"

"Yes, yes it is."

He holds on tight to his coffee cup. It had gone cold while he was waiting for her. He is afraid to look at her; afraid she will even be more beautiful than the last time he saw her and then he would fall to pieces.

They are sitting on their bench in the park. He wonders what is going through her head. He wonders how she is doing, how she is managing.

"How is the new place?"

"It is okay. You know Brooklyn and its apartments. It took forever for it to be set up for me."

They let silence reign for a few minutes. He is not sure why she called him. He is even less sure why he came. It has been three months since she found out the truth about him and walked out the door. Three months since he looked into those beautiful eyes. 96 days since he last held her, kissed her, heard her laugh, made her breakfast. 96 sleepless nights. 

He should have know better than to come here. 

"I am sorry." She  finally says.

He hears the words but their meaning fails to register.

"I am sorry." He repeats, tasting the words and chewing on their substance.

She sighs and he finally looks at her. She is indeed more beautiful and he falls to pieces just like he knew he would.

"You should have told me about the plane crash. You lied to me instead. You took advantage of the fact that there was little or no way I could have found out."

"Chinelo..."

"Wait, wait let me finish. I was mad that you didn't trust me with your wounds and your scars. I was mad, really mad. I trusted you with everything. I still trust you with everything but you didn't trust me enough with the most determining event in your life. Those nights you broke out in a sweat and I held you. Those nights you couldn't sleep and I stayed up with you. Those nights we chose to stay awake and dream up our future instead of falling asleep to the nightmares of the past. You could have told me then." 

"I am no more mad. If anyone should understand, it should be me. People like us, people who are scarred and different, we tend to be anxious about our stories and the world's reception of our circumstances. I am sorry I got mad at you. I am sorry I left and didn't ever return your calls. I am sorry for everything." 

He wants to say it is all right and that there is nothing to be sorry about but his heart is too full.

"Tell me, tell me about today." She says after a while.

The dog licks his hand and he pats her head. He has missed her so very much. Her name Is Nadia and he thinks of the helpful, friendly puppy they had chosen together only two years back. She was why he had found it easier to stay away when Chinelo had shut him out. He knew Chinelo would come to no harm for as long as she had Nadia.

"Today; today is beautiful. Beautiful in a way that you know a storm is coming. You can smell it in the air, taste it on your tongue, feel it in your heart but there are no clouds or darkness to be seen yet. It is beautiful with expectation. Like a woman whose time has come and she anticipates the pain of childbirth with fear and joy because she knows something beautiful will come out of the agony."

He stops and reaches for her hand. Nadia licks both their hands and they laugh. 

"Will you marry me?" She asks.

He isn't shocked or surprised by her question. He had been planning on asking it anyway. 

"Yes." He answers without missing a bit. 

Yes, I will marry you. 
Yes, I will be your eyes. 
Yes, you can be my beautiful.

"Let's go home before it starts to rain." He says, folding her walking stick. She wouldn't be needing it while he was here. She takes Nadia's leash with one hand, reaches for his hand with the other and they head on home.

On their way, they walk past people who have come to the park for different things.

"That is an awfully beautiful woman. What is she doing with that ugly scarred man? He looks like half of his face was burned in a fire." One person remarks to her friend as they watch the couple and their dog.

"Love is blind, my dear." Her companion replies before returning to the New York Times feature she had been reading. It was a beautiful story, written by a man who had survived a plane crash in his home country of Nigeria and had come to New York to start a new life. There was no author's photo accompanying the feature.

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise

-William Shakespeare

I am a huge fan of Shakespeare. I have been inspired by his work more times than I can count. No one will be perfect. Life will probably have scarred them before they get to you. Choose to shut your eyes, chose your heart over your five senses. God does the same already for you.

Song of the day: Ed Sheeran- Cold Coffee

Today

Have you told the people around you how much they mean to you? Don't let another second go by.  I keep thinking of the soldier murdered in Woolwich. I keep imagining that he was thinking of his little boy on that last walk home. This world is filled with all kinds of uncertainty. You never know if you might not get another chance to tell the people you love how much they mean to you. Tell them NOW. God bless.

There were days when he thought it was impossible to feel any more pain and then his body showed him new meanings for the word ‘possible’.

He had stopped fighting a long time ago. Of what use was all the drugs in the world, all the prayers, all of the weapons in his armory…when the enemy was unseen. He also knew better than to hope. He chose to live each day as it came instead. The good days, he embraced and used to strengthen himself against the bad. The bad days, he succumbed knowing that to fight meant to lose.

He had not had a good day in months and he knew the end was near.

Today though, today was going to be different. He could feel it in his weary bones that it was going to be a good day. He woke up to birds singing and the pain in his body was no longer a living angry being. It was present but still, like the dying embers of a fire. Or maybe it was his body that had embraced the pain and was dying. He didn't know and he didn't care. All that mattered was the pain was not as bad as yesterday.

He left his bed unmade and got into one of the many cars that dotted his compound without waking anyone. He knew better than to wake anyone. They would worry and fawn over him. They would fall over themselves to drive him to wherever he wanted. 

Today, he was having none of it. Today was a good day.

The automatic gates opened and he let himself out. The drive was shorter than he remembered and he wondered if his mind was playing him tricks. The last time he had driven here, it had taken him at least 30 minutes. Today, 10 minutes was all it took to get to paradise. Today was a good day.

The hawkers already had their goods on display. The fishermen too, with their early morning catch. No one stared at him. No one watched his every move. No one rushed to help him, not even when he tripped over a little child that was playing in the sand.

The worst part of his bad days was the people; his family, his friends, his pastors, his doctors and nurses. The people who loved him and whom he loved. The people who refused to let him breathe. The people who suffocated him with all their help. The people who were afraid to let him out of their sight for fear that death might snatch him away when they were not looking.  The people who were always there to catch him so that he had forgotten what it meant to fall and pick himself back up. 

Today though, no one gave him a second look, so he fell and found treasure on the ground. She was smiling and her milk teeth were perfect. He picked himself and the child up and let her smile wash over him. She giggled and put her sandy hands on his face and he laughed before releasing her to her mother who scolded her for playing in the sand and thanked him for picking her up. He was always the one thanking others for picking him up. Today was a good day.

The stretch of sand that bordered the water was empty except for horses and their minders hoping to snag an early customer. He waved them off and sat down to watch the waves. They reminded him of the pain; how it washed away a little part of him every day, how it sometimes left him gasping for breath, how it sometimes drowned him. Today, all he had was the memory of the pain. Today was a good day.

He dug his feet in the sand and waited. The water was cold and tickled him. He could barely recognize his own chuckle. It sounded like the grunt of a dying man. He picked some sea shells for his daughter. Together they could work on making her a shell necklace. Just like they used to when she was a little girl and he was a much younger man. That would make her smile, he thought. It had been a while since he saw her smile. She was so good to him but sometimes he wished she would just go away and find someone else to mother. Like her teenage sons who were running untamed around Lagos. She was his first child, his introduction to fatherhood and his heart swelled with love for the amazing woman she had become. Today was a day to be a father to his daughter and help her be the mother he knew she could be. Today was a good day.

He thought about his sons and the fear in their eyes every time they looked at him. He knew that when they looked at him, instead of seeing their hero, they saw death. He wanted to hold them and tell them it was going to be okay. Just like he used to when they were children and came running to his room because the thunder had scared them. He wanted to hold them and tell them that death, just like thunder was nothing to be scared of. Maybe today was the day he would. Today was a good day.

His wife would be very worried if she knew he was out here alone. He hoped she was still asleep. The sand felt so good on his feet and he remembered their honeymoon in Barbados when they had laid on the sand and counted the stars. It had been a while since he told her she was beautiful. He was always too tired and too drugged to tell her the things he really wanted to say. He would stop by the flower shop on the way home and get her some roses. Today was a good day.

The sun was warming up and he could tell it was going to be one of those kinds of days that only Lagos could get away with. The pain was his friend now and like a good friend, it nudged him, giving him fair warning. It was time to find shade.  Today was a good day but even good days could be made better by being with the people one loved. He would put the roses by his wife’s bedside so she could wake up to them. He would call his sons and ask them to come over for breakfast. He would make pancakes for his children and grandchildren. They would laugh and eat and maybe for a little while, they would forget about dying.Today he would be a hero, a father and a husband. Life would be perfect again. Today was a good day.

He sighed and said goodbye to the ocean for the last time. He wondered if there was an ocean in heaven. He looked for the little girl he had tripped over on his way back but she was nowhere to be found. Maybe she was an angel, he thought to himself.

It didn't take him too long to find out. His wife found him the next morning. The roses were still as fresh as when he brought them home.

Song of the day: Tamela Mann- Take me to the King

Team Kiah

I graduated.

Lol, sorry to disappoint all you hair people who saw the picture and were all excited; this post isn't about hair! And yes that is all my hair; and no I don't follow any regimen or do anything special with it, I was just in the right place when God was giving out nice hair. :P

I graduated. It has been a while I felt so accomplished. 

And yet I know it is time to start out again on new goals, new races, new paths. I am so excited, so thankful, so bursting with energy and love :D

A few weeks ago, I did some 'spring cleaning'. You know how you have some people in your life that you can never really count on. Those ones that claim they care about you but somehow it never rings true. Those ones whose posts on Facebook are all about their other friends and you, you are for inbox messages; somehow like they aren't proud to be associated with you. Those ones, that you are so tired of trying with, so tired of complaining to because their ears are filled with wax... 

Yup...Spring Cleaning is a very necessary ingredient in our lives. 

My classmate said to me a few days ago, "there is something about you, you can't see something wrong and let it go. It is an amazing gift in this world where the lines between wrong and right are very blurred."

I sometimes wish I didn't have this 'gift' or whatever. I would be so much better without it. I would let slights pass, I wouldn't have an headache all the time from thinking about how to save the world and solve all its problems, I would keep my mouth shut and let people get away with whatever. 

Some battles though, even this warrior can't and won't fight. I think the key is a balance; knowing which people and which battles are worth fighting for; or which ones just drag you down. 

I can confidently say I am the most blessed woman in the world. . I have this really really amazing family - not perfect but I am where I am because they are who they are. My boyfriend...and I just started smiling...my boyfriend, everything I hoped for and more. My friends; strong, real, beautiful, unafraid. God...faithful, perfect, God all by Himself.

With this team, how can I even start to go wrong?

Blessings.

Song of the day: Asa - Iba

Daytime Heroes

I wrote this a while back; well at least I started it then and only just finished today. It was inspired by a woman I am yet to meet but love and admire already. She is responsible for bringing into the world and nurturing three amazing young men, one of whom is the man who owns my heart. She, my dad and every other single parent, are the stuff heroes are made of. :)

It doesn't show up in her smile. Neither does it make an appearance in her eyes. You can look as hard as you want but you will find no giveaways or chinks in the armor of this woman.

My father called her ‘Superwoman’. I sometimes wonder what he would call her if he were here to witness this new strength she has taken on.  His brothers and sisters whisper among themselves about her supernatural abilities. They have resorted to labels- witch, murderer, husband killer…She bids us pay them no mind but it is hard. Sooner or later, cousins and playmates repeat the words of their parents.

Most mornings, she coaxes us from slumber with kisses and songs. She caresses our sleep suffused bodies and bids us awaken to a bright new day.  The songs she sings are songs of hope and love. You can listen to her melodies for the longest time and still not be able to tell of what lies beneath the pillar that is my mother.

Some other days, she rouses us from sleep with the palm of her hand. Smack! Smack!; goes her palms on our pajama clad bottoms.

‘Wake up!’ she bellows in annoyance. We are smart enough to know that these are not the days to test her patience. We hurry to the bathroom to make ready before a cane replaces her palm. Even on days such as these, it is impossible to tell of the anguish that contorts her soul. You can only assume that she has had a bad night and nothing more.

She makes breakfast while putting on her work clothes. She multitasks all day long. Praying while driving, packing lunches while listening to the ridiculous notions of children, talking on the phone to demanding bosses while dressing up a 4-year old who doesn't know what it means to sit still. To see her from afar is to admire her and her abilities. You would never be able to tell what ails her.

I have no clue what it is she does at work. I only know that when she gets home she is tired and asks for a massage. She lies on the floor and we climb on her back, our little feet ministering comfort to our mother's solid back and shoulders.

She moans and we giggle. She laughs in response to our giggles and soon we are all falling over ourselves with laughter and love.

'Tomi pushed me off the swing at school today.' The little one tells her.

He is four years old and everything that aches his tiny heart shows up every time we watch our school mates get picked up by their fathers when school is out. All we have is Mr. Sammy, the school-bus driver whom our mother has entrusted our home trips to.

'Hmmm.' Our mother responds.

'I won’t let her play with my toys when next they come here.' He assures her with the confidence a child can only have with his mother.

'Hmmm...Jesus won't like that.'

'Jesus won't like her either because He said we should be nice and she isn't.’

She laughs and the heave of her shoulders remind me of the volcanoes I learned about in science class.

The four year old is done talking and it is my turn.

'Mummy!' I say as I play with her braids, straightening them out from the knots they had gotten into during the day.

'Ma!' She answers playfully as the four year old snuggles even closer to our mother's bosom.

'My teacher said I should ask you if you think you have enough money for the school trip to Ghana now. He says he can’t hold a space for me if you don’t pay this week.’

The sun is setting and the day is done. Darkness has already begun to take away from the world all that was bright and beautiful. She sighs at my question and the shoulders that were earlier buoyed by love for her children slumps. She reaches out and pulls my skinny 7 year old frame to her bosom. Our shoulders heave in harmony even though our grief is not the same. She lost a husband and I lost a father. I am my mother’s child-proud, strong, but only until dusk.

Grief only shows up at sunset, when the world is shrouded by darkness and it is easier to fall to pieces.  It holds off until the birds have gone to roost and people - uncles, aunties, neighbors are siting to dinner and finally minding their own business. It waits until the shadows fall across my father’s rocking chair before reminding his wife of how he will never again rock his children to sleep.  It stays its hand until we are under the protection of dusk.

When grief finally makes an appearance, there is no one there to view the chink in her armor or the tears in her eyes or the pain in her heart. Except for me and the four year old. But we know, better than the rest of the world, we know, that the pain never left in the first place. She is Superwoman but even heroes have the right to bleed. The only difference between them and mere humans is that heroes wait till it is dark, when no one else can see, to tend to their wounds.

Song of the day: Five For Fighting- Superman

My dreams are made of...

Today I danced to 'white people' music (as my Italian-American friend from New York called it) and  loved every bit of it.

Many things have changed about me since I packed my bags and left Lagos.

I can dance to white people's music and not feel awkward
I can see through people's bullshit a lot easier
I can be Nigerian and love it
I can talk gibberish to cute dogs and not feel weird and so alone about it
I can be comfortable in my own skin and accept my stretch marks, my baby fat, my D cups, my thick grass of hair....

Many things have stayed the same since Muritala Mohammed bade goodbye to my Burberry gym bag...

My eyes still shine 
I can still write up a storm
I am still stubborn as they come
I am always, and always will be in the corner of the underdog
I am a lover...still

The list goes on...

The weeks before graduation are some of the most hectic and emotionally draining. I have asked myself  so many times if these two years have been worth it. So many of my friends got married within these two years. So many have babies or are preggers (never mind that almost all my friends are older than I am-long story, will tell another day) So many got job promotions. So many dreams accomplished...

I tell myself this is what I wanted, that this was my dream; the chance to live and work somewhere else, the opportunity to learn Chinese and Thai and Spanish ('hello' and 'how are you' are my limits so don't start a conversation biko!) , the experience of meeting and falling in love with some of the most wonderful people ever...
I tell myself all the time that so many people would give anything to be in my shoes.
I tell myself so many things these days; all these talking to myself, it keeps me from going crazy, it does...

It however doesn't stop me from dreaming about little Kiahs who can say hello in Chinese, Thai and Spanish. Or little boys with their father's smile and his way with poetry...

Life is beautiful.

Song of the day: The Lumineers- Hey Ho

Every Time It Snows

So I am supposed to get a tax refund. Eh, the way things work in 'Amelika' still baffle me. Anyway, I hope I don't see no more snow for a while. I am ready for Spring. In fact let's just fast forward to the summer. :)


It snowed yesterday and I smiled.

Two things that never used to go together and still don't feel right.

It felt strange to smile while watching the heavens fall. It felt strange to smile knowing that snow meant you were happy somewhere without me.

It felt like trying on new shoes that don't exactly fit. It felt like your empty side of the bed, wrong but yet slowly becoming familiar. It felt like salt in my coffee instead of cane sugar.

Tade shows up every time it snows, and then some. 
She shows up, bags of food in tow, like she has a crowd of 5000 to feed and doesn't believe in miracles. But there is no crowd; it is just me. She tells me I am all skin and bones and in dire need of all the flesh I can get.

I want to tell her that food is not the answer not to heartbreak. I want to tell her Egusi will not keep me warm at night.

She will probably just ignore me. She does that a lot these days; puttering around the house and cleaning up even though I tell her not to bother, handling the laundry even when she knows I can't stand it when someone else goes through my things, showing up at the house even when I just told her over the phone that I am not receiving visitors...

She is as smart as a whip too. She took care of my taxes this year, just in case you are wondering how come you got your share of refunds so early.

Sometimes she brings the twins. They are as smart as their mother and growing up so fast. The first week after you left, the girl asked me 'Did your wife leave you because you smell bad?' I never thought I would laugh like that again or have a bath for that matter. I was ready to die a smelly old man till that question.

I still remember when they were born and we had gone to visit them in the hospital. You had taken one look at the wrinkled babies and sworn you would never let your precious body be invaded by aliens. Tade had laughed and thrown me a worried look at the same time; the girl I had grown up with on the streets of Festac knew I wanted to be a father some day.


The days when the twins are here, those are my best days. Those are the days I forget to miss you.

Have I told you how much I miss you?

The way we would tear off each others' clothes when we had run out of words that could hurt? The way I would take you on the floor, up against the wall. The way your nails would rake across my back and my teeth would bite your lips, each one of us trying to draw first blood...

Do you remember our last fight? The one that finally brought this house of cards tumbling down? It snowed while we hurled words at each other; pieces of the sky fell while we fought over things I cannot now remember.

We didn't know it until much later when you tried to walk out the door, running from us as you always were. I still remember the look on your face as you opened the door and the words that tumbled out of your mouth as you shut it behind you to face me.

'If I stay here, I will miss out on life. I will miss out the things that make me happy. I will miss out on snow...' You said as you crumbled to the floor.

So we waited till the snow was melted and we couldn't tell the watery ice from our tears, before saying goodbye.

Divorce is so much harder than I thought it would be. Tade says it gets better. I want to ask her how she knows this seeing as there is still a sadness in her eyes even though she left Joe 3 years back.

I have started to notice little things about her. The swing of her 'African hips' as you jealously referred to them. The hollow of her back and how my palm would fit perfectly in it if we danced. The way she smells; like a mother, like a wife, like a friend, like everything you were not.

I miss you but when it snowed yesterday, I smiled. Snow means Tade will be here today.

Song of the day: Bruno Mars- When I was your Man

Heaven’s Children

Happy Easter people...I am in love with this story like I haven't been in love with any story in a long time. I hope it makes you smile, more importantly, I hope it makes you hope...

A few minutes ago he had kissed her goodbye.

A few minutes ago, she had gotten into her car and pretended she was headed to work. He had done the same.

A few minutes ago...
Yet here they were, parked in front of a famous crèche in Ikeja.

She couldn't see him but he could, her. She wasn't trying to hide or be discreet about any of it.

Last week, Bode's colleague had casually mentioned seeing Imoke near the crèche his three year old son went. Bode had brushed it off until yesterday evening at church when someone else had mentioned the creche and Imoke in the same sentence.

It was one of the best known crèches  in town. Many people they both knew brought their kids there.

He could see why she chose to come here. It was peaceful despite the blaring of horns, the chattering of kids on their way to school, the yelling of harried parents hoping to drop off their wards on time…

It wasn't too hard to understand why she would come here. It wasn't too hard to understand why she stayed until the last child was safely cocooned in their classroom.

He was going to be late for work, He had foreseen that and so he called in sick. He wondered what excuse she gave her boss every morning for showing up late. Knowing Imoke and how highly regarded she was at work, he doubted that her tardiness mattered much.

He waited till the traffic of the parents and their children had thinned out before he got out of the car. It was June and yet it hadn’t rained in weeks. Bode wasn’t sure if it was the rain he missed or the woman who loved to stare out of their bedroom window and make up stories about the rain.

‘Maybe an angel is washing?’

‘Can you just come back to bed? Where in the Bible have you read that angels wash?’

‘How come their clothes are always pure white then?’

He would laugh then because he couldn't argue with that.

‘Maybe these are the tears of all the babies in heaven that can’t wait to be born.’

He would stop laughing and get out of bed to hold her.

‘Maybe it is just rain and God is telling you to stay home today, in bed with me.’

‘You wish…’

He knocked on the car window, startling her.

‘Open the door.’ He said when she wound down.

‘What are you doing here?‘ She asked as he made himself comfortable on the seat beside her.

‘I could ask you the same thing but I won’t.’ He answered.

She kept quiet then and they stayed that way for a while, both of them looking into the distance, into a future that might be devoid of the noise of children.

‘Did you see the little girl with the Power Puff school bag and pink ribbons?’ She finally said.

‘Yes. Like anyone could have missed her with that massive tantrum she was throwing? Her mother looked like she was just about ready to abandon her for good.’

They both laughed and he reached for her hand. Somewhere in the distance it thundered.

‘It is going to rain soon. We should get out of here.’

‘Yeah, I hope the kids aren’t frightened of thunder.’

‘Our kids won’t be.’ He said.

She didn’t reply.

‘We can adopt, we can do the whole surrogate mother route… Dammit we are Christians, Imoke, we believe in God, just because the doctors have said no doesn't mean God has said no.’

‘I know, Bode. It is why I come here every day before work. To imagine what it would be like when I have to drop them off. I come here in faith. I come here to remind God that I can do everything these mothers do and much more. I come here and I pray, promising Him, that even if our little girl has a twisted fashion sense and wants to wear Power Puff branded clothes to school, I will be nice and indulge her. I won’t force her to be anything she doesn't want to be. I will take good care of His children. I will be the best mother ever.’

The thunder was closer than before but there was still no sign of rain, except in their eyes. He wiped away her tears with his hand and she returned the favor.

‘I will race you home.’ He said.

‘Last one is a chicken and has to do dishes for one week.’

‘Deal. But you don’t get to start your car till I am in mine.’

‘I love you.’ She said.

‘More than words.’ He replied.          

They made it home before the babies in heaven, that were waiting to be born started to 
cry.



Song of the day: Donnie McClurkin- I 'll Trust You

Lucky

So there is this boy...

He is different from all the other boys
He is kinder than anyone else I know
He is smart
He is humble
He is patient, so annoyingly patient
He has the sweetest smile in the world

When he smiles, the pieces of my heart find their place in this puzzle that is me.

Sometimes I wake up and lie in bed, wondering how this happened.
I have taken love for granted before. Probably because it happened so easily the first time. And then I got burned, burned so badly I never thought I could heal. 

But here I am...all healed. Yes the scars are still here but they no longer serve to remind me of the pain, only of all I have to be grateful for.

He is my brother, my friend, my biggest fan, my biggest critic (yesterday he told me my story was ordinary!!!), my prayer partner, my lover, my hero,...

The Bible tells me God loves me; preachers preach it from their podiums; yet no time am I more sure of God's love than when someone created in His image shows it to me. I sincerely believe that is why God made more than one person- so when we doubt Him or His love for us, we can look into our neighbors' eyes and see His love reflected.

I tease him all the time about how very lucky he is to have me. The truth is I am the lucky one. I only have to look beside me and see God's love for me reflected in eyes more beautiful than the sunrise.

Song of the day: Donnie McClurkin- I'll trust You

The Laundromat

He was waiting at the Laundromat again today. Just like Annette knew he would be. Just like he was last Thursday; and the Thursday before that.

Thursdays were the only day Annette could do laundry. Her weekends were taken up by the rowdy children she looked after for the extra bit of cash their parents paid her. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday nights, she had to work, massaging Miss Lydia's pale limbs, limbs that had done nothing but be appendages to the rest of her body these past 50 something years.

Sometimes during the nights Annette had to work, Miss Lydia would ask her to read to her. Annette did it even though she knew that the 20 dollars she was paid per hour didn't cover this task. But she had always loved books. Even as a child in Ogwashi-uku, while her age mates ran around playing tag and other games, Annette had preferred to read the worn books the Priest gave her after Sunday Mass.

Back then, her name wasn't Annette. Everyone called her 'Ebele'. Only the Priest ever seemed to remember her baptismal name ‘Anne'. One time he had told about the saint she was named after. It had made Annette smile to know she shared a name with someone so important. ‘Ebele’ was so ordinary. No one important was ever named Ebele. Anne was the kind of name the authors she wanted to be like bore; Anne Frank, Anne Rice…

After hearing the story, she had gone around the village insisting everyone called her ‘Anne’. Her parents had laughed and acquiesced; her friends laughed too but went on calling her ‘Ebele’. When she had come to America, the agency that had helped her with papers and settling down had insisted on a 'more exotic name' and ‘Annette’ was the only one of the numerous names they plied her with that she could identify with. ’Annette’ could pass for an author, better than ‘Ebele’ or ‘Lakisha’ ever could.

Adam was different from the other men Annette had met in the city. For one, he did laundry every week. And he always folded his clothes after they were dry. His nails were always well groomed and he smelled clean all the time.

When Annette had first come to America, the only place she could find work was in a college town. She had gotten used to college male students with their long untidy hair and dirty jeans. They always seemed lost; like branches uprooted from their mother tree and grafted into a place that would never be home; no matter how many new friends they made or how many cans of beer they consumed to drown the pain.

The first time she noticed Adam was when Miss Lydia let her borrow Pride and Prejudice. She had been reading the book while waiting for her clothes to dry when she noticed the man that kept giving her furtive looks. Fear had gripped Annette’s heart as she looked around and realized she was alone with him. What if he was a serial killer; just like the ones she had read about in all those Dean Koontz and Harlan Coben books.

She had gotten up to fold her dry clothes when she heard him behind her. His accent was different from all those college boys that thought they could score with the pretty African girl that cleaned their dorms. He opened his mouth and Annette knew she would never need to fear this one.

‘My mother made me read all of Jane Austen’s books.’ He said and that had been the beginning.

He told her his name the next Thursday. He had never asked hers and she had never volunteered. His accent was different because he had grown up in Canada, he told her. They talked about books and their dreams. His was to travel the world. He was tired of visiting famous places only through his books. Hers was to write a book someday. She told him about Cyprian Ekwensi, how his books always seemed real to her, like things that really happened, like people that really existed. She told him about the characters in Jaguar Nana and he asked if these people were her friends, she spoke about them so lovingly, he said. Annette had laughed long and hard at that.

Thursdays were the only days she really laughed.

Today, he was wearing a red shirt. She smiled at him. He smiled back and without saying anything took her basket and emptied it into the machine. A few minutes later, they were deep in conversation about the book he had lent her last Thursday, John Irving’s The Water Method Man.

He waited for her while she folded her things. His clothes were already folded.

'I brought you something.' He said, looking at her with those eyes that reminded her of the blue skies of her childhood.

'Another book? ‘She asked smiling, 'I haven't even finished the one you gave me last week.'

He smiled shyly and quickly bent his head to look at something that had suddenly caught his interest on the white tiled floor of the Laundromat. Annette stopped folding her clothes. Something told her that this had less to do with any book that was already written and more with the pages of the book that Annette dreamed she would write someday.

He reached for his laundry basket and lifted out a wrapped box he had carefully hidden in the clothes.
She took the box from his soft hands and opened it. She had to sit down then because she knew that if she continued standing she might fall.

'Oh Adam.' she whispered as she stared at what lay in her laps.
'You don't like it?'
'You didn't have to…' She said, ‘Thank you, thank you so much…’

It has been a while since anyone had given her anything. He waited till she had blown her nose and then they both started to laugh like children caught in an act.

'Thank you Adam. Daalu O...'

‘Daalu…’ He said and she laughed at his intonation.

Annette knew then that this man would become a major character in the book she would start to write that very night. She could write about him and the empty pages of the book he had just given her would fill up fast. Brown hair that was the same color as her skin; pale hands that would cup her breasts so perfectly, eyes that were indigo pools she could drown her dark fears in…

He held the door for her as they left the Laundromat. He was walking to his car when he heard her yell out to him. He turned around and started walking towards her, one hand cupped around his ear to catch the words the wind threatened to steal away from her lips.

'What did you say?' He yelled back at her.

She hesitated for one spilt second but then there was no need to yell anymore, he was standing right in front of her.

'Ebele, my name is Ebele.' She said again, this time without yelling.

‘Ebele..?’ He asked.

‘Ebele’ She answered.

‘Ebele, Ebele, Ebele…’ He said, testing every syllable till it sounded right.

He laughed then and waved goodbye. Adam and Ebele, he thought to himself as he walked back, a beginning as good as any. He couldn’t wait to read her first chapter.

Song of the day: Shola Allyson- Imoore

Rapunzel

When everything you know changes

When even the sun refuses to shine for you

And the rain falls on every other person but you

When the people you love...

Yes, those ones you grow your hair for

Tell you love is nothing but a fairytale

No different from tales of godmothers, tooth fairies and Rapunzel

They tell you,

That there is no need to let down your hair

There is no one waiting at the bottom of the tower that is your prison.