The alarm clock must have sounded like a wounded lion roaring in regal
garrulity into my ears. I had a mundane routine of obeying my alarm's
chiming call every 5:00am, but I let it snooze severally today.
Afterall, I'm the boss here, not the clock. I felt some heat well up on
my chest. No, not the sultry air of the room. It rather was oozing
exothermically and post coitally from my wife's head. Cupid heat. I had
my arms wrapped securely around my Aminat as if a wannabe abductor was
lurking in the dark shades of the room, waiting to whisk my woman away.
Bizarre morning thoughts. Not therapeutic for my nerves.
Nasir and Fareedah ran into the room, an air of freedom and
surrealism encapsulating their every move. "Allah be blessed," I
muttered beneath my breath. These kids meant too much to me. I couldn't
bare to sight any stifling suffering for them. Just as much as the cold
thought was not appealing vis-a-vis my sweet Aminat. My wife. Or wasn't
she?
"Good morning, daddy," the kids chorused sweetly. "Good morning
jewels. Hope you guys dreamt of dad and mum." Aminat woke with a yawny
start, grinning at our kids as she sat up. She planted a sweet good
morning kiss on my lips. "Today is Saturday. Thank God it is. You guys
hang around while I go fix us breakfast."
I watched her fair, slender figure wrapped in a bodice retreat into
the terrace adjoining the master bedroom. Her beauty was primal. Even
after the twins were born, she still looked very beautiful. Damn that
ill theory of women-get-fatter-after-delivery. Even if it was a widely
accepted postulate, my wife only got slimmer (not thinner, so you don't
start thinking she went on excursion to a concentration camp) and more
gorgeous. Beautiful woman, beautiful wife, beautiful mum, beautiful
Just as the kids began to flirt in their habitual way with my thick hair, the phone rang. Tunmise.
Ha! May God bless the gem of a man. A rare one. His story is one fat
one. For the gods, you might like to pun. He took me in when I came to
Ibadan from my native Zaria. My exodus from that town was what I
considered my key to freedom. Just like the Israelites when they were
led away from their long term captors by prophet Musa. I had company
though. My Aminat. We eloped based on a sole advice I got from my friend
and confidant in Zaria: Charity. The only Christian friend I had there,
and the only good one. I recall clearly her enthusiasm and vista about
Aminat and I. "Please, run away with Aminat and come back years later
with a baby. I'm sure your uncle will understand . . ." All for love. I
held the bull by the horn and made for its eye.
A few nairas frugally stored away in my petty, long term pocket had
stacked up to quite a handful. All that mattered was Aminat's consent to
elope with me, and that wasn't an issue at all. She sowed the seed in
the first instance. If she was willing to be a stubborn Hauwa to her
rich dad, I was more than prepared to be her Adamu. And off we went.
Southwest bound.
I informed Tunmise of my brazen plans. I could feel his frigidity
over the phone. His voice echoed his fears of my possible fainaigue, but
left to me, I couldn't see the responsibility I had to an uncle who
exorcised me like I was an Egyptian plague, nor to my in-laws who bore a
chasm with me and thought me psychopathic. My responsibility was rather
geared towards my nuclear fam. Even though we were worlds apart, I knew
she loved me, and I loved her too. All of this I voiced to my Yoruba
pal.
"You can come over to IB then," he had ruled finally. "I understand
your stance and I promise I'll do the best I can to help." My happiness
knew no fences. And the rest, like they say, is history. HIS story. The
man who loved and found love. A man whose charity began outside, not at
home. A man who found friends' love in outliers. In an Igbo friend in
Zaria. In a Yoruba friend in Ibadan. In a lady who defied her quotidian
comfort in preference of a pauper.
Tunmise's call on this Saturday had a new direction it would
spearhead. "Man, I think you should go back to Zaria with your wife and
kids. Your Uncle Bada needs you. Your in-laws do too. Things have to be
properly and sensibly done, you know. Don't throw away the baby
alongside the bath water. . ." In a flash, I recapped what Charity said
years back, the fullness of her suggestion too. ". . . And come back
years later with a baby. . ." Funny, there were two now. Twins. No
wonder I had been feeling uneasy and insecure. I had managed to build an
empire of wealth, comfort and love with Aminat in a faraway land,
across hills and seas of ill interference. Still I failed to feel free.
The reason wasn't so ambiguous anymore. The sequitur was obvious.
"Kabir, are you there?" His voice jerked me back to consciousness.
"Sorry, Tunmi. Can we meet? We need to talk about what you said now. I'm
in a fix. Wistful me."
Ara 'deinde
©October 2014
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