Broken

BROKEN

I knew the night was pregnant with secrets when I saw her – Oge - racing across the street just as I got down from the bike. She held one side of her red, chiffon flowery gown with one hand and placed the other hand on her mouth, making broken, involuntary sobs. At that moment I tried to figure out what had happened to her, why she was running and crying when apparently no one was running behind her. The coolness and quietness of the night increased the sound of her flat slippers as she slapped them hurriedly on the smooth, tarred road.

Two days earlier, Oge and her boyfriend, Usman, had celebrated Valentine’s Day at the beach with a few other friends. I knew this because Usman and I are colleagues at work and we live on the same street in Merryland estate, just a few blocks apart from each other. Usman had invited me to join them at the beach for the yearly lovers’ celebration, but I had decided against it because I knew I would probably spend the whole day gazing at Oge’s stunning beauty and wishing she was my girl, and not Usman’s.

Oge is the kind of girl I’d always dreamt of being with – smart, savvy, and sassy. I had known her since our teenage years when my family moved into the same neighbourhood where she and her family lived in. It wasn’t the coolest and most sophisticated area like the highbrow places in the city, but it had its uniqueness that made life fun, or daring, if you like. In those years, Oge and her younger siblings, who were boys, had been under the watchful eyes of their father. He was a strict disciplinarian. He never allowed them, especially the boys; play outside for long with other kids. When they got back from school he made sure they stayed indoors and read their books, with the help of an overindulgent neighbour. Madam Claro – for that was what this neighbour was called - was one of those neighbours you wished would go out to work and get busy, instead of always peeling groundnuts in front of her corridor, with eyes peering through every corner looking for whatever others were doing. Madam Claro’s full body size was already a warning to any child who would dare go near her carefully selected groundnuts, packed in transparent bottles and displayed on a wooden stool just beside the already fallen gate against the side fence of the compound. She had a commanding voice and a stare that could make a child realise their wrongdoings without a word spoken. She was nicknamed ‘Madam Everywhere’ because nothing seemed to happen in the compound without her knowledge, not even the playful act of ‘casual theft’.

One night, just after ten, the quietness in the compound was broken by the cry of Chukwuma, arguably the most eligible bachelor of his time, who had just got back from work and realised that three of his newly acquired, two-day-old jean trousers had disappeared from the rope where he had hung them to dry before leaving for work in the morning. Chukwuma was furious, and rightly so, but the expression on the face of everyone who hurriedly came out of their rooms at the sound of Chukwuma’s unusual cry showed shock.

“Na who go carry trouza wey oga Chukwuma hang for rope, eh?” One woman questioned.

“Maybe na one of those boys wey dey come see Emma for house in the afternoon”, another woman blurted.

“Mama Amaka, hope sey no be my pikin, Emma, you dey talk about o?” Emma’s mother retorted. “Hope say no be my Emma you dey talk say na im take oga Chukwuma trouza. Because I don dey watch you for dis compound and you dey use style find my trouble. E go be me and you dis night o!”

Within a few minutes, the compound had turned into a chaotic frenzy – women going head-on against each other’s words, children jumping in excitement at the prospect of another late-night fight, Chukwuma raging in disgust in search of his jean trousers, spectators from neighbouring compounds trouping in to get first-hand information of the latest drama in the neighbourhood, while others watched from the windows and balconies in their houses.

Just then, while Emma’s mother raged on, Madam Claro interjected. “But I see Emma this afternoon comot trouza for this rope. I no know whether na oga Chukwuma own but I see am with my two koro-koro eyes.”

Immediately, a chorused response bellowed from the crowd: “na oga Chukwuma own!”

Emma was quickly summoned to the ground for interrogation. He had a slightly tall figure for a thirteen-year-old boy, with small eyes and a bald head. “Emma, no be you I see this afternoon dey remove trouza for this rope? Na who get the trouza?”

Emma’s teenage voice seized and he could barely utter a word. “No be you dem dey ask!” a bare-chested man with a wrapper tied around his waist blurted.

“Na dat my friend say make we go sell am. But no be me sell am, I give am the trouza.”

Another unanimous roar echoed. The truth was finally out and this time, Emma’s mother was at the receiving end of boos and stares from the other comrades in the struggle.

***

I had always noticed how beautiful Oge was in those years and silently wished our bodies would touch each other anytime we talked. I only got to see her on Sundays at the Catholic Church in the neighbourhood where almost everyone attended. And it was just one of those brief, let’s-hook-up-under-the-mango-tree meetings. But all that was before her mother left.

Two years after my family moved into the neighbourhood, Oge’s mother died. The circumstances that led to her death were more shocking than anyone could have imagined. Though she had been involved in a few misunderstandings with some of the neighbours because of her fiery temper, which most times led to an exchange of abusive words and maybe, fistful confrontations, no one thought an impulsive spark of anger could result in her untimely death. Oge and her family lived in a compound with closely-packed room apartments, popularly called ‘face-me-I-face-you’ in the busy city of Lagos state, with long narrow corridors such that two persons walking together and holding hands may not go through at the same time, and where one tenant’s room was directly facing another. In such compounds, it was not easy to stay away from occasional arguments, especially among the mothers. These arguments between inter-neighbours were most times instigated innocently by children who would have been fighting over the right to be the first to fetch water from the well. One of the mothers coming back from the market would then see the children fighting outside and would immediately dash to reprimand the other child for contending with her own child.

“Why you dey beat am, eh?!” She would yell at the other child with repeated light slaps on the child’s face. “Sheybi I don warn you sey make you no near my pikin again? You no dey hear word abi?” she would bellow.

The other child would then cry back to his mother and report what had happened. In a rage, the second mother would come out wearing short knickers and a wrapper tightly wound around her waist, threatening to bring down the building if the other mother doesn’t come out and explain why she would beat her child. For the next couple of days, the news about this fight between the two mothers would be the trending topic of discussion in the compound and beyond.

And so it happened that on this day, a boy had unintentionally dropped a fetching bucket inside the well and accused one of Oge’s younger brothers of being at fault. After an argument that lasted a few minutes and being urged on by other friends around, the two boys began dragging their shirts in a premature show of strength. It was a light brawl that could have ended without causing much attention if not for the continuous roar from other boys around that alerted other tenants to the scene. Oge’s mother, who was cooking in the corridor, had run out instinctively with a kitchen spoon in her hand after hearing the increased noise. She had tried to separate the boys when, inadvertently, the hot kitchen spoon in her hand touched the skin of the other boy and he had a slight burn. And that was it. The boy’s mother had, in an instant rage, attacked Oge’s mother with a knife and pierced the weapon into her stomach. She bled profusely and didn’t make it to the hospital alive.

The news of the death of Oge’s mother sent terrifying chills through the neighbourhood. For the next couple of weeks, there was an intentional calm and everyone seemed to mind their business. In the morning, kids woke up, took their bath outside in the compound with the help of a guardian, prepared themselves and went to school. In the afternoon when the kids got back home, you’d rarely find any outside playing football or causing a nuisance. Mothers cooked in their corridors almost without saying a word to the other neighbour. Fathers got back from work and relaxed in the unusual serenity of the night. Life felt almost as new in the ever-busy neighbourhood, at least until the next big drama popped out.

***

A few years after I had graduated from school, I got a job with an oil company where I met Usman, the afro-haired, dark-looking guy who, in spite of his native-inflicted accent, seemed to get the most beautiful ladies attracted to him. Despite Usman’s affinity for the ladies, he carried a fearful demeanour like one who others may refer to as the ‘hard guy’. He was about his job and was ready to yell at a subordinate for not arranging a set of files properly. This no-nonsense, committed work attitude endeared him to the superiors, too, and Usman leapt on the promotion ladder within a short period.

For some strange reasons, however, I struggled to find that friendly bond with Usman, though we occasionally played chess together and talked about different stuff on our way back home from work. Bayo, on the other hand, was a more altruistic fellow with an eye for perfection. He got employed into the company six months after I was employed and bulldozed his way into the hearts of those who really mattered in the company. He was of average height, light-skinned, slightly chubby, and intentionally handsome. Bayo’s friendship with Usman blossomed as they worked together on the same projects, went for official meetings together, and agreed on diverse non-work related issues, except the argument of who had the most natural beauty – dark or light-skinned girls.

And so it happened on that day, after many long years, I had never thought I would see Oge in Usman’s apartment when I went over to return the DVD disc I had collected from him. In an instant, I felt a rush of hot air flowing through my body and my legs shook in shock when Usman introduced her as his girlfriend, prompting that smile on her face that always got me broken into many pieces. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t know her, but we had already exchanged long pleasantries when I got in. I wanted to go back and pretend like that day never existed, but it was already too late. So there she was, Oge, my childhood crush, head over heels in love with Usman - a guy I hardly ever knew.

****

“Oge! Oge!” I snapped out of myself and yelled. She was already thinning away into the dark when I decided to give her a chase. The loneliness of the street didn’t help do much to tilt the situation to my advantage. I took a momentary look behind again and realized that she must have run out from Usman’s gate, and possibly his apartment, which was just three blocks away from mine. Again, my mind scanned through possible reasons why she ran out. Did she catch him in bed with another woman? Did they have an argument and he said some harsh words to her? Did he get violent on her, maybe hit her?

“No way”, I thought to myself. “If Usman dared lay a hand on Oge, I’d break him myself!” I increased my speed to catch up on her.

Suddenly, as I drew closer, I noticed she had stopped in a corner and sat on the floor just beside a car. I slowed down my pace and gradually came up to her. She was crying bitterly.

“Oge, what’s wrong? What happened?” I questioned without thinking. She placed her left hand across her forehead and shook her head repeatedly as if to give strong disapproval on something. Then she muttered the words “no…no…no”, with an increased tone.

“Calm down Ogechukwu. Please, tell me what happened.” I said, putting an arm around her shoulder, a promising attempt to console her. It was a cold night and I felt her body shaking under the naked weather.

“Come, let me take you to my apartment and make some tea for you. You’re shivering.” She held my hand as support and got up, and we walked slowly down the street; down to my apartment.

***

“He took it from me…he took it from me,” she started, sitting on a sofa while holding her cup of tea.

“What did he take from you, Oge?” I leaned forward as though I could read the words in her eyes.

“He took it from me, two days ago - my virginity. And today, I saw him cuddling and kissing a…” She paused briefly, and I noticed the tight grip of her fingers as though trying to squeeze the mug in her hand. The tears in her eyes dropped slowly on her lap, one after another, like tiny droplets of water that might eventually make an ocean.

“Oge, it’s okay. I know how much it hurts to see your man with another woman. It could…”

“No! You don’t know how much it hurts to have your boyfriend take your virginity just two days before you catch him kissing another man. You don’t!” She flared up as she threw the cup of tea in her hand. My eyes almost popped out of their sockets in utter disbelief.

“He lied to me, lured me with all the promises in the world, while he’s busy licking the lips of another man. The bastard!”

For a moment as I sat at the edge of the table in my sitting room, staring pitifully at Oge, I felt a burning rage of fire in my bones. I wanted to strangle Usman with my bare hands, not for his s****l choices, but for hurting Oge so much. I wanted to tell him that I hated him, not because of his skin colour or his afro-styled hair, but for stealing the heart of the only woman I had ever loved and turned her to shreds. I wanted to make him pay for his sin, to watch him writhe in pain as I rip off his masculine organ from his body. A drop of tear came down my cheek as I closed my eyes and grind my teeth in anger. I pushed forward and knelt in front of Oge, raising her chin slightly to see her eyes. They were already soaked in a pool of tears.

“It’s okay Oge, don’t cry.” I wiped her face with my hand. “Tomorrow, we shall get your pound of flesh. I promise you.”

***

It wasn’t the kind of night I had planned to have as I left the office that evening after the day’s work. Normally, on days when I feel absolutely fagged out from work, all I imagine on my way home is the feeling of my soft, cosy mattress on my skin; the warmth and pleasantness it gives. So when I get into my bold two-bedroom apartment, I drop my bag containing my laptop on the sofa and head straight to my room to have a warm bath. Fixing dinner on such nights may seem like an overwhelming task. And so the haunting thought of being unmarried surfaces, escorting my wearing body to bed.

On this night, however, as I watched Oge lay down on my sofa, her legs folded against her body like a snail recoiled in its shell, my mind flashed back to how she looked a few years back when all I imagined was her. She was a daring example of a swarthy, fairy-tale princess living in a castle. Her long, dark hair sat neatly behind her neck, especially on days when she decides to pack them with her favourite pink ribbon, accentuating her flawlessly curved face. She had brown, solar eyes that sometimes stole the show on cloudy days and a smile that broadened the beauty of her teeth. She was thin with slightly broad shoulders and quite tall for a girl her age. Her footsteps explained why I thought she must have learned the art of walking like a queen with angels, even though sometimes, I thought she was a little higher than angels. Such intense, crazy affection! Everything about Oge at that time felt like the taste of chocolate melting on my tongue. She was simply my teenage crush and I silently always wished we would get married.

I took out a light blanket from a drawer and laid it over her body as she slept. Looking at Oge again, I wondered if she was still the enthusiastic, budding actress and singer I used to know in church. In those days, Oge was the voice that brought the church choir to life each time they sang. She always had the congregation in her grip with her well-blended sonorous voice whenever she took a solo verse. On days the church drama group decides to minister in drama, my excited senses would hover around, waiting for Oge to appear on stage. Maybe it wasn’t just some teenage affection playing with my emotions. Maybe, just maybe, Oge and I had an invisible connection together, somehow.