Unexpected Love

A single dim light bulb dangled feebly on the cracked wall of Mr. Ajayi's flat in Garki Area 7. It flickered slightly, casting long shadows that made the once-bright painting of the house appear even more faded. The overgrown bushes out front, half-heartedly trimmed now and then by Jumoke, only added to the building's weary look, like an old man trying to keep up appearances. It was past midnight. The silence in the area was thick, almost sinister, broken only by the occasional whoosh of passing cars zooming by, like ghosts in flight. The air was thin, deadly quiet, and carried an unease that made one hold their breath. But the silence was not what the neighbours complained about the most. It was the constant, grinding cry of Jumoke’s sewing machine that broke through the night like a stubborn headache. It rattled on every night like a dying engine, unyielding and unforgiving, keeping many of the tenants up in what had become an involuntary solidarity vigil. Even Emeka, known in the compound for being more sympathetic to Jumoke than most, had finally voiced his frustration. “I no fit close eye again,” he grumbled one morning, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. But everyone knew why she kept at it. The girl was fighting to stay afloat, trying to carve a name for herself. So, most chose to suffer with her in silence. Inside Jumoke’s cramped room, the air was colder and heavier than outside. Piles of fabric, thread, and worn-out clothes occupied every available space, each heap a story of sweat and struggle. The clothes weren’t hers. Half of them belonged to Mama Tinu, her stepmother, and the other half, to Atinuke. Only a few scattered pieces came from actual customers, people who still dared to give her work, believing in her talent. If she hadn't spent so much time sewing for Mama Tinu and her entitled daughter, she would’ve made decent money by now. But Jumoke was stuck. Maybe she knew it. Maybe she didn’t. She sat hunched over her machine, eyes wide open, kept alive not by coffee or sleep, but by sheer resolve. She had to meet her target. If she missed it, she’d be tagged lazy, again. There was a time Mama Tinu gave her and Atinuke a near-impossible task. It was a big wedding contract, ten bridesmaid gowns due in just two days. Seven were dumped on Jumoke. Three went to Atinuke, the golden child. As usual, Jumoke still had to do all the cooking, cleaning, and every other chore in the house. When the deadline approached, Jumoke had completed six gowns and was frantically working on the seventh. Curious, she checked Atinuke’s progress. The girl had barely finished one! Without blinking, Mama Tinu added the remaining two to Jumoke’s pile. And when she couldn’t meet the new deadline, she was torn apart, verbally and emotionally. “You’re just like your useless mother. Empty head. Oyinbo failure!” Mama Tinu spat, hurling both insult and spit in her direction. Jumoke didn’t cry. Not outwardly. But something always cracked inside her. The more her stepmother compared her to her late mother, the more Atinuke hated hearing the woman’s name. To Atinuke, that name had become synonymous with shame and failure. And for Jumoke, the pain was worse. Every accusation made her heart pound faster, like it wanted to escape her chest. Back then, she was just 18. Now, at 22, she was still trapped in the same cycle, chasing approval from a woman who had already written her off. Under her wobbly bed, its broken leg tilted like a drunk, was her greatest treasure: a large hardcover sketchbook. It contained her soul on paper. Her real designs. Her future. Half the book was filled with patterns she dreamt of bringing to life someday. The other half held pieces already turned into clothes, some stolen by Mama Tinu, others claimed by Atinuke. But the rest... the rest were hers. Suddenly, a new design flashed in her mind like lightning. She had to draw it now, immediately, or it would vanish. She had lost a great design once by waiting till daybreak. Not even meditation could bring it back. She reached under the bed to grab her sketchbook. As she did, her hand slipped off the edge of the sewing machine, and she nearly toppled over. Cursing under her breath, she steadied herself, then snatched the book. Her fingers trembled. The lines started to form almost on their own, a bridal dress with an African twist. Ankara fused with pure white silk, blending culture with elegance. As her pencil danced across the page, her breathing steadied. For the first time all day, she smiled. Not just a stretch of the lips, but one of those smiles that rise from the soul. Then, like a bolt from nowhere, the door to her veranda creaked open sharply. Reflexes honed by years of fear kicked in. She shoved the sketchbook under her sewing chair and straightened up like a soldier. It was Mama Tinu. “What happened? The silence woke me up,” she asked, eyes scanning the room like a security guard looking for contraband. “Nothing, ma. I was just resting a bit. I’m ready to continue now,” Jumoke replied, placing the flap of a dress on the machine to fake activity. “Stop that,” Mama Tinu’s voice cut through the air like a machete. “Let me see what you’ve done.” She walked in, face twisted with suspicion. Jumoke quickly stopped the machine, cut the thread, and handed the gown to her. Mama Tinu examined it closely. The stitches were firm. The lines were straight. It was better than anything Atinuke had done. In fact, it was so good it stopped her mid-criticism. Her mouth began to twitch, a reluctant smile fighting to break through. “This... This is what I’m talking about. You keep this up and maybe you won’t be like your oyinbo mother after all,” she muttered, more to herself than to Jumoke. “You might actually make this family proud.” “Thank you, ma. I won’t disappoint you,” Jumoke said, almost believing it. As Mama Tinu turned to leave, she chuckled under her breath. A dark, mocking laugh. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish you were never born, she thought. Jumoke held the finished gown gently, almost reverently, and began stitching again, this time with renewed energy. But as the dress neared perfection, a strange sorrow washed over her. The better her work, the deeper her ache. She glanced at her sketchbook. Carefully, she opened it again and flipped through the pages. Tears slid down her cheeks like slow rivers. She clutched the book tightly to her chest. Her sketches were the only proof that she existed beyond Mama Tinu’s abuse. Tomorrow was the fashion showcase. But instead of excitement, dread hung over her like a wet cloth. If only tomorrow never comes, she thought. “Jumoke, are you done?” came the familiar bark from Mama Tinu’s room. Jumoke wiped her face, shoved the book back, and called out, “Almost, ma. Just doing the finishing touches with the hand needle. Would you like to see it?” “No need. I’ll see it tomorrow.” “Okay, ma. Good morning.” She stood up and tiptoed into Atinuke’s room. The blue bulb in the corner cast a soft glow. Atinuke lay sprawled across the bed like a fallen warrior, her face calm, mouth slightly open. She looked peaceful. Jumoke lingered in the doorway, watching her stepsister sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she slept that peacefully. Maybe it was back when her father was still alive. He’d wrap her in his arms like a blanket, and she’d drift off without a care. Suddenly, the fan whirred to a stop. Darkness swallowed the room. PHCN had struck again. It was 3:00 a.m. “Ah!” she groaned. She still had to iron the dress. And the next power rotation wouldn't come for another 24 hours. Charcoal iron, then. No choice. But she paused, her eyes adjusting to the moonlight that slipped through the window. She looked at Atinuke again and whispered, “I should be this free.” She closed the door and returned to her room. As she stepped in, the disorder of her space hit her like a slap. Compared to Atinuke’s, hers looked like a marketplace after closing hours. “Is this a house or a dump?” she muttered. She threw the gown onto the sewing machine but hesitated before falling onto her bed. Remembering the broken leg, she gently lowered herself instead. Lying there, she stared into the darkness. Her heart beat slowly, painfully. Like it wasn’t sure whether to keep going. By 4:00 a.m., she finally drifted off. Her snores filled the room. Loud, ragged, almost in defiance. It was the only sound loud enough to rival the sewing machine. Even Emeka didn't dare to quarrel her over this. He knew why. He is very passionate and understanding. But Labake did tease her occasionally before when Jumoke would doze off sometimes while sewing and snore loudly. She hardly slept, but despite knowing that, Labake found friendly pleasure in teasing her.