The Kweku Chronicles

CHAPTER 8: DEPARTURES

‎“That’s a wrap!”

‎The director’s shout cracked across the courtyard like a starter pistol. For a beat there was stunned silence, as if no one trusted the words. Then the set erupted. People screamed, clapped, grabbed one another. Someone banged a metal water drum with a stick. Phone cameras flashed. The boom operator spun his pole like a baton. Felicia launched herself at Simi and wrapped both arms around her neck. “Babes, we survived film hell,” she said into Simi’s ear. “If I patch one more ripped cuff in hostile humidity I will relocate to Iceland.”. Simi laughed, the sound coming out thin but real. Sweat had dried salt-white at the crook of her elbows. Gold thread clung to her fingers. The last costume change had gone on without a tear. Victory. Across the yard, Kweku stood near Video Village shaking hands with the director. Ama hovered close, laughing at something one of the producers said, her hand resting on the back of Kweku’s chair like she had always belonged there. Simi’s stomach pinched. She looked away and began folding the faded ankara wrapper she had mended for the final shot. Felicia followed her line of sight.“You're going to say bye?” “There is no bye to say.” Simi smoothed the fabric with her palm. “Work is over. Everyone goes home". Felicia squinted at her. “Hmm.” she never really understood the statement. The celebration swelled. Speeches, badly tuned guitar, group photos under a string of work lights. Extras in raffia skirts posed with makeup brushes like trophies. A production assistant cried because it was her first feature. Somebody passed out bottles of malt and lukewarm beer. The generator hiccupped, caught again, and the lights steadied. “Simi!” a voice called from the gate. She turned, Tasha was jogging in, breathless, cornrows neat under a visor cap, jeans rolled at the ankle like she had dressed in a hurry. She slammed into Simi with a hug that smelled of danfo fumes and floral body spray.

‎“What are you doing here?” Simi asked. “You said you were buried under edits in Surulere.” “I left them,” Tasha said. She pulled back, eyes searching Simi’s face. The joy in the yard did not touch her expression. “You have not been picking your Dad’s calls.” Simi’s spine stiffened. “We already talked. He knows why.” Tasha shook her head. “Simi, he is sick. Not malaria-sick. Scared-sick. My mum said he has been in and out of clinic since Monday. He asked for you.” The noise of the celebration blurred. Heat drained from Simi’s face to her feet. She heard her father’s last hard words like he was there beside her. Fashion is hobby. Law feeds you. Stop disgracing your mother’s name. She had ended the call, blocked him, and sworn she was done. She had not answered him since. “Did something happen?” she asked softly. “Tests,” Tasha said. “Breathing. Blood pressure. His chest. I do not even understand the medical thing. Mum just said come. Please go. You can fight later. Just go.”Simi stared at the wrapper in her hands until the pattern blurred. “I will go to Abuja tomorrow.” Tasha exhaled like she had been holding her breath all day. “Good. I came because I knew you would pretend not to hear if I only called. I will crash with a friend tonight, then go back to my edits tomorrow. Simi nodded. “Text me.” Tasha squeezed her arm and left as fast as she had come, cutting through lighting stands and coils of cable like a courier. Felicia slid back in, eyes wide. “Everything ok?” “My dad is sick,” Simi said. The words felt strange. Heavy. “I am flying home tomorrow.” Felicia’s face softened. “I am sorry, babe. You want me to help you pack?”. “Yes, Please". They moved through strike-down in a blur. Wardrobe tags pulled. Garments sorted by production code. Borrowed beads counted. A cracked leather belt noted for replacement. Simi should have been in her element. Instead every hanger clack sounded like a clock. Near midnight, when most of the crew had drifted toward the after-wrap drinks, Simi caught sight of Kweku alone beside a stack of flight cases, phone to his ear. His back was to her. The moon lit the line of his neck. She did not mean to listen but his voice carried. “…I know. I said I would come. Next week. Tell Uncle to wait, please. I will finish here and fly. No, do not start dividing things before I reach. I want to hear it from him. Yes. I know what the land is worth. I know. Ok. Later.” He ended the call and stood still for several seconds, head bowed. Ama appeared from the shadows with two plastic cups. “Everything alright?” He gave a small tired smile. “Home stuff“. Ghana?” she asked. He nodded. “I am heading back too,” Ama said, voice soft. “Maybe we will catch the same flight. It will be nice to talk without cameras". Kweku did not answer. He took the cup, tasted whatever was in it, and looked out over the dark yard where people were still laughing. Simi turned away before he saw her watching. Back in wardrobe, she sat on an overturned equipment crate and booked a 7:40 a.m. flight to Abuja for the next morning. Confirmation pinged. Non-refundable. Good. No turning back.She texted Tasha: Ticket booked.

‎She texted an assistant: Please drive the costume van to my place in Surulere at 10. Keys with front desk. She typed a message to Kweku, stared at it, deleted it. Her chest felt full and hollow at the same time. Felicia leaned against the rack and watched her. “If you want to cry, cry,” she said quietly. “I am fine,” Simi said. Felicia nodded like she believed her and handed over a bottle of water. Sleep did not come. When she finally lay down in her room her eyes stayed open, tracing cracks in the ceiling paint. She thought of the first day she met Kweku, shirt rolled to the elbow, camera on his shoulder, saying she looked like her shoulders carried the weight of the world. She thought of his laugh, of the scar near his wrist, of the night he had stood too close while she pinned a collar and neither of them moved away. She thought of Ama’s easy hand on his arm. She thought of her father coughing into a phone she had not picked up. At 5:00 a.m. she gave up pretending to sleep. She washed her face in cold water, tied her braids back, and pulled on jeans and a plain black tee. Suitcase. Backpack. Garment roll. She checked the envelope of cash she had set aside for home. She triple checked her booking code. By 5:30 the generator hum was low and steady. Dawn blue seeped into the sky. Roosters shouted from somewhere beyond the compound wall. A sleepy production assistant arrived to collect the costume van keys and swore he would deliver everything to Surulere. “No worry, aunty, I go reach,” he said. (Do not worry, ma’am, I will get there.) She pressed money into his palm and thanked him. Her ride idled at the gate. She dragged her suitcase toward it. Footsteps behind. “Simi.” She stopped. Turned. Kweku stood a few paces away, breath showing faint in the morning chill. A black tee, cargo pants, lanyard still around his neck like he had not taken off work. His eyes were dark with something close to panic. “You are leaving.” Not a question. “Yes.” Your cousin told me your dad is unwell. I am sorry.” He shifted his weight, searching her face. “I wanted to talk before you go. About Ama. About what has been happening. It is not what it looks like.” Her grip tightened on the suitcase handle. “Kweku, you do not owe me an explanation.”, she breathed out. “But I want to explain,” he said. “We dated. It ended before I moved. She is… she pushes. I should have set clearer boundaries. I did not want you to think…” He stopped. Exhaled. “I do not feel that way about her. Not now.” Simi’s throat burned. “Please.” He stepped closer. “Can we talk when you get back? Just talk. I am flying to Ghana next week. Family things. Property. My uncle says there is something I need to hear. I do not want to leave with this between us.” “There is nothing between us,” she said, and the words hurt her as they left her mouth. “We are colleagues. We flirted. That is all. You never asked me for anything. I never said I was yours. So there is nothing to fix". He looked as if she had hit him. “That is not how it felt...." he trailed. “It is how it was,” she cut him. “I have to go.” The driver leaned out the window. “Madam, time dey go o,” he called. (Ma’am, time is going.) Kweku swallowed. “Safe flight.” He reached like he might touch her arm, thought better of it, let his hand fall. She turned and hauled her suitcase to the car. She did not look back. Inside the Uber, the seats smelled of synthetic leather and menthol air freshener. Lagos morning opened in streaks of light and puddles from last night’s failed rain. Hawkers balanced loaves of bread. A child in uniform chased a chicken across a sandy verge. Simi pressed her forehead to the glass and held herself still until the gate of the lodge disappeared. Tears came without warning. She wiped them fast but more followed. The driver glanced in the rearview, said nothing for several kilometres, then spoke gently. “Madam, make you no worry. God dey.” (Ma’am, do not worry. God is present.) She let out a small broken laugh. “Amen,” she whispered. Traffic built at a junction. Danfos argued with private cars. A woman sold sachet water through cracked windows. Simi scrolled through her phone to distract herself. Missed calls from her father. A voice note from Tasha she had not opened. A photo Felicia had sent of them both covered in glitter from yesterday’s costume test. A number saved under Kweku, no message. She opened the text field. Closed it. Opened it again. Typed: Boarding soon. Take care. Deleted it. Put the phone face down in her lap and watched the city roll by. At the airport drop-off she paid in cash and told the driver to keep the change. Her hands shook as she lifted her suitcase. Lagos air hit her in a warm wave scented with jet fuel and frying akara. She joined the line for security and wiped her cheeks before anyone noticed. While she shuffled forward she let herself think of her father. His laugh when she was small. His disappointment when she chose fabric over law. The way he stopped talking about her mother because it made him too sad. Maybe he had been too harsh. Maybe she had been too stubborn. Maybe both were true. She decided then that she would see him without anger, let him speak first. Decide later

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