Sara

Chapter Seven

I woke up slowly, to my head pounding

The first thing I felt was warmth. It wasn't the harsh heat of the Lagos sun type of warmth I was used to. It's the gentle kind that seemed to seep into my aching muscles and help loosen the knots. The second was the smell. Kerosene from the stove, yes, but also something else. Hot water and… wait, was that menthol?

I opened my eyes. The ceiling above me was not the cracked, unpainted cement of my old room. This ceiling had paint on it, pale cream in color, with a single line of dirt running along one edge where water must have leaked during the last rainy season.

This is Chioma's ceiling... Chioma's room. I was lying on the mattress, but someone had propped my head up with a rolled wrapper, and there was a heavy blanket covering my body even though the room was already warm.

I turned my head, and the movement sent another spike of pain through my neck and down into my ribs. I sucked in a breath through my teeth, and I turned and saw her.

Chioma was sitting on a small wooden stool beside the mattress, with her body bent forward, her head resting on her arms which were folded on the edge of my mattress. She was fast asleep. And in her right hand, still loosely gripped, was the edge of a small towel. The towel was damp, and I realized that the warmth I was feeling was from the hot water compresses. She must have been massaging my body while I was unconscious.

I stared at her for a moment. She looked exhausted. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed with worry. Her afro was flattened on one side where she'd been pressing it against her arm. Her bright yellow top was rumpled, and there was a stain on the shoulder, it's the clothes she wore from the day before. She hadn't changed her clothes. She hadn't left my side.

I felt a painful swell in my chest. I had been so stupid and stubborn. I had sat out in the rain like a fool, refusing to ask for her help because I didn't want to be a burden. And all the while, this girl, this incredible girl who had nothing, but was ready to give me everything.

I reached out with my hand, that didn't feel like it had been run over by a bus, I touched her arm and called her name.

"Chioma."

She jerked awake instantly. Her eyes flew open, they're red-rimmed and puffy, and for some second , she just blinked at me as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"Sara? Sara! You're awake!"

Before I could respond, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace. The force of it sent a fresh wave of pain through my battered ribs, making me I let out a sharp cry.

"Ah! Chioma, my ribs! My ribs!"

She let go immediately, scrambling backward so fast she nearly fell off the stool. Her face was a mess of panic and guilt.

"Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry! I forgot! Oh God, I'm so sorry. Where is it paining you? Is it your ribs? Your back? Your head? Talk to me, Sara. Are you alright? Do you need anything? Should I go and call the chemist?"

She was on her feet now, hovering over me, her hands fluttering uselessly as if she wanted to touch me but was afraid of touching me.

"Chioma," I said, my voice still hoarse but stronger than before.

"Calm down. I'm okay. Just… just sore."

"Okay? You're okay?" She stared at me like I'd just announced that I have two head5.

"Sara, you were unconscious. You were lying in the dirt like a dead person. I thought… I thought you were gone. Oh my God! I thought I'd lost you."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and I saw her eyes well up with the tears that she was fighting hard to hold back.

"I'm still here, right?" I said quietly. "Thanks to you."

"Don't do that again," she said, and her voice was fierce now, the tears giving way to anger.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again. You hear me? Please never again. I'm serious, Sara. If you ever do that to me again, I'll… I'll kill you myself."

I almost laughed, but the look on her face told me she was not joking.

"I hear you Chioma." I said.

She stared at me for another moment, as if to make sure I really meant it, and then she nodded and turned away. I watched her cross the room to the kerosene stove, where she busied herself with a small pot. The smell of tea filled the air, and my stomach let out a loud growl that made her glance back at me.

"You're hungry," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I don't remember the last time I ate," I admitted.

She shook her head, muttering something under her breath that suspiciously sounds like "stubborn goat," and then she was by my side again, helping me sit up against the wall. Even though every movement hurt, she was gentle while propping me up with the rolled wrapper and adjusting the blanket over my legs.

"Don't move," she commanded. "I'll be right back."

She rushed out of the room before I could ask where she was going. I sat there, listening to the sounds of the noise coming from the compound.

The neighbor's radio playing Fuji music. A woman shouting at her children. And the distant honk of a danfo bus. It all felt strangely normal, like the world had kept moving while I was floating in the darkness.

Chioma returned less than ten minutes later, and slightly out of breath, carrying a small black polythene bag with a tray with two cups of tea. She set the tea down on the stool and began emptying the bag, a packet of painkillers, some capsules and a bottle of syrup.

"The chemist said you need to take these with food," she said, lining up the pills on the floor.

"So first we eat, then medicine. Okay?"

"Chioma, how did you pay for all this?"

"That's not your concern."

"Chioma..."

"I said it's not your concern, Sara." Her voice was firm, but her eyes soft.

"Just eat Sara."

She handed me a cup of tea and a piece of bread. It was the soft kind, and I'm sure that it cost a little extra. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten bread that wasn't the hard, stale kind that's sold at a discount price at the end of the day.

I ate slowly, my stomach clenching at the sudden influx of food. Chioma sat on the stool and watched me like a hawk, her eyes tracking every bite, and swallow.

Every few seconds, she would ask a question.

"Is the tea too hot? Is your head paining you? Do you need more sugar? How is your back feeling? Are you sure you are breathe properly? Are you sure you're alright?"

"Chioma," I said, after the fifth or sixth round of questions.

"You know, maybe I should get beaten like this more often. So that I can get all this attention always."

I meant it as a joke though. I even smiled a little, expecting her to laugh along or at least even roll her eyes.

But she didn't laugh.

Her face crumpled, and the tears she'd been holding back finally spilled over, running down her cheeks. She wiped at them angrily with the back of her hand, but they kept coming.

"That's not funny," she said, her voice thick and trembling.

"It's not funny, Sara. I nearly lost you. Do you understand that? I carried you on my back. You were limp like… like a dead body Sara. And I kept thinking, what if she doesn't wake up? What if the last thing I said to her was nothing? And she dies thinking that I was still angry at her?"

The bread turned to tasteless in my mouth. I put the cup down.

"Chioma…"

"I was so angry at you," she continued, the words pouring out now like a flood.

"For not coming to my place. For sleeping outside like you don't have anybody who cares about you. I was so angry and I wanted to stay angry. And for you to feel bad. But then I came back home and you weren't there, and I went looking, and I found you lying in the dirt unconscious. And I thought… oh God, I thought it was too late. I'd never get to tell you I was sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," I said. "I was the one who was stupid not to come to you. I should have come to you."

"Yes, you should have." She sniffed hard, wiping her nose.

"But I should have also talked to you. I gave you silence when you needed words. That was wrong Sara. I was wrong."

We sat there for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened and every words we let out, pressing down on us. And then, very carefully, I opened my arms.

"Come here," I said. "But gently. My ribs are still on fire."

She let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob, and then she leaned in and wrapped her arms gently around me. I rested my chin on her shoulder, and we stayed like that for a long time, two broken girls holding each other together.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"I'm sorry too," she whispered back.