by Okey Ndibe
Silence.
“You left your door open. Don’t you think you should be more careful?”
Tears rolled off the side of her face. Speechless, I watched her cry. After a few minutes she wiped the tears with the back of her hand.
“He came back,” she said.
“Isa?” I said in dread.
“He came with three men. They had daggers.”
My blood ran cold. “What happened?”
“The men pinned me to the bed. Then Isa stabbed my vagina with a dagger. I started bleeding. That’s when he entered me with his penis.”
A sensation of horror swelled inside my head. “Oh!” I cried.
“It was like the stab of the knife, but more painful.” “Despicable cretins!”
She lifted the pillow from between her legs. I flinched from the sight of wet blood.
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday, about six in the evening. I heard their knock and thought it was you. As soon as I opened the door one of them grabbed me and covered my mouth. They pushed me down on the bed and forced apart my legs. Isa brought out his dagger and said he wanted to teach my vagina a lesson.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I refused to cry or beg. But I silently begged death to come and take me away.”
“No,” I said. “It’s those bloody beasts who deserve to die.”
“Good thing you didn’t walk in. Isa said he and his men were going to cut off your penis.”
“Cowards! I wish I had run into them!”
“I have been bleeding since they left. This is the second pillow.”
She pointed to the floor beside her bed, where a pillow lay, dark-red with blood.
“You’ve lost too much blood. I must take you to a hospital.”
“No,” she said, sobbing. “I’m ready to die today. This kind of life has no meaning.”
“Iyese, this is no time to be fatalistic. Let me help you to get dressed.”
I reached for her hand and tried to help her up onto her feet, but she fell back on the bed, crying, “Let me die! Let me die today!”
In the commotion I did not hear the door open. I started when a female voice asked, “Emilia, which kind madness be this?” Turning sharply, I saw Violet.
“For two days you never come to Good Life. Everybody dey ask me, ‘Your friend, Emilia, she well so?’ So I say make I come find out. Wetin be your problem?”
Iyese kept up her wailing, calling on death to come immediately.
Violet fixed me with half-accusing eyes, seeking some explanation.
“They attacked her,” I said, not knowing what details to add.
“Who be they?” Violet asked.
“Four brutes.”
Iyese had now calmed down, sobbing quietly.
“Emilia, who attacked you?”
“Isa,” Iyese answered.
“Isa. That man again?”
“He came with three men. They beat me with a knife.” She lifted the blood-soiled pillow. Violet recoiled.
“Na blood be this?” she asked. Iyese’s tear-drenched eyes confirmed her fears.
“Forbid bad thing!” exclaimed Violet.
“I tried to persuade her to see a doctor,” I said to Violet.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “That one be my work.” She turned to Iyese and began to give instructions. “You must go to hospital quick quick. But first I must boil hot water to wash you. Then I go escort you to hospital.”
The water boiled in a short time. Violet soaked a hand towel in the hot water, squeezed off the water, then dabbed the bleeding wound while Iyese screamed. When the cleaning was done, Violet fetched a loose-fitting blouse from the closet and handed it to Iyese.
“Oya,” Violet ordered when Iyese was dressed. “Get up and make we begin go.”
Iyese tried to stand but winced. She tried again, her eyes tightly shut, teeth gritted, but again crumpled in bed. Violet and I each took one of her arms and heaved her up. Supported, she stood, her legs drawn apart, as if a wedge were lodged between them.
“It burns,” she cried, trying to throw herself back on the bed.
Violet and I held on to her. She began to walk with us, each step preceded by an agonized contortion of her face and followed by a moment of rest, to rein in the pain, to gather the strength for the next one.
At last we got her out on to the street. A taxi drove up and stopped. Iyese grimaced as we helped her into the back seat.
I directed the driver to the hospital and thanked Violet for taking Iyese. I said to Iyese that I would see her soon. The taxi zoomed off. I stood at the spot to wait for another taxi to take me to my office.
The sight and smell of Iyese’s blood stayed with me as I rode to work. I felt as if I were choking. I wound down the car’s window and shut my eyes, trying to conjure up other images. Gore infected every picture I saw in my mind’s eye. In the end, unable to escape the memory of what I had seen, I let my mind return to what it dreaded, to the sight of the pillows drenched with Iyese’s blood, her grimaces and groans, the despairing anguish in her voice when she told me what Isa and his thugs had done to her.
Beads of perspiration sprouted on my forehead. My teeth chattered. The driver, watching me through his rearview mirror, asked, “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t mind about me.”
But I was not at all sure that I really was all right. In spite of myself, I was beginning to see the situation in the light of my own interest and safety. My anger at Isa Palat Bello and his minions was becoming mixed with fear for myself, lest I, too, fall victim to their butchery. Slowly, the fear encircled the anger, nibbling away at it. In the end the outrage was in the belly of the fear, the anger was eclipsed.
Something told me that Iyese would count on me to avenge her. But how? With what tools could I stand up to her violators? A pen? Against men who had daggers? Moral indignation? Against men with guns?
Then I pictured my colleagues on the editorial board having a laugh at my expense. Boy, you were asked to tell the story, not to taste it! The test of the story is in the doing! Exhaustive exploration of all the issues! Fellows, our friend found ways and means of probing. Now we know the meaning of in-depth reporting!
“No!”
The word escaped my mouth of its own accord. The driver looked sharply in the mirror. “No what, sir?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to think aloud.”
Once at the office I headed to see the editor. He was on the phone when I entered. He ignored me, shouting into the mouth piece as though to a deaf person. As I turned to leave, in no mood to wait, he rang off and turned to address me. “Yes?”
“I’m not doing the prostitute’s story,” I said tightly.
“Bloody nice to hear that. May I ask why you changed your mind?”
“The story is flat.”
“What do you mean flat? I recall you said there was some bloody important human angle there. To speak nothing of the prospect of getting tidbits on Stramulous. What has changed?”
“Well, I interviewed the woman. There’s nothing to her story.”
He considered this, then shrugged. “Bloody hell, if you say so. I was uncertain of the story from the beginning.”
I left his office with a heavy heart. My mouth felt gummy and sour as I pictured Iyese in her hospital bed, sewn up, still sore, her slightest movement accompanied by excruciating pain. I entered her head and glimpsed her dreams of a new life, her hopes that darkness would yield to light, that the sun was certain to break through the clouds to warm her world.
Perhaps she imagined that I could be that sun. Perhaps I was her faith: Nke iru ka. The future is vaster and greater than the past. Echi di ime. The future is pregnant. Did she nurse the hope that I woul
d help her to build a tranquil, happy life out of her ruins? That I would save her and help her to start over again?
Her dreams crushed me with their weight. Better to make her understand who I really was. That my fears outweighed her needs. That I would never take on a man with a gun. That, while I enjoyed the moments when our two bodies were fused, I was afraid of the scandal into which her name and history might drag me. That for the two of us there was no future, only a few feeble memories. That I was not her sun but something altogether damp and clammy. That the besotting power of her sex and all the shame that came with it had rendered me nerveless.
That, finally, I could not bear to see her again.
Chapter Eighteen
Night visions began to poach my peace. Unable to sleep or to rest, I would lie still in a dark made unfamiliar by demons, scared of what might bare its face if I turned on the light. Breathing hard, waiting for the figures in the dark to disappear, I would be tormented by the feeling that I had again entered Iyese’s head. Against my will I eavesdropped on her thoughts and mapped her body’s aches and pains. Was this my punishment for befriending and deserting her?
A month after I last saw Iyese, her letter arrived, the first of several she would write as each month passed. In each letter she addressed me as “Dear O.” I knew it was a play on the first letter of my name, but it still left me with a nagging uneasiness. Did she also mean “0” as in nought? “0” as cipher, zero—an allusion to my sudden absence from her life?
It’s been almost a month since I last saw you. I don’t remember offending you in any way. If you’ve decided, for reasons of your own, not to see me again, that’s fine. Not fine because I don’t care about your friendship, but because I must respect your wishes, however sad they may make me.
A lot has happened since I last saw you. Part of it is good news, but I must wait to see what tomorrow will bring.
My regards to Ashiki. He, too, has not come to Good Life for some time. Violet said they had a big quarrel, but I didn’t ask for the details.
Love,
Iyese, 12 June
This is the second month of your absence. I keep running into people who look just like you. Or sound like you. I went to Tejuosho market yesterday to shop for shoes. Among the crowd, I saw the head of a man I could have sworn was you. Dropping everything, I pushed my way through the crowd until, out of breath, I caught up with him. I tapped him on the shoulder, expecting to see your face when he turned around. Well, the man turned around, smiling, but he was a total stranger! And he was with his wife! I began to explain, but the woman’s angry eyes reduced me first to stammering, then silence. She dragged her husband off, as if he was in danger of being abducted.
Is this madness or delusion? Or is it love that makes me see you everywhere? Surely, you’re thinking of me, too?
Even if I’m going mad, I don’t care. Love is growing inside me.
Take care.
Love, Iyese, 13 July
Sometimes I cry thinking about you, but most often I smile.
Isa came by two days ago. He said he wanted to apologize for what he did. He brought money and clothes, but I refused to take anything from him. He left everything on my couch when he left. I threw the clothes out and gave the money to beggars at Oshodi bus stop. He said he is going away in a few months for a course in Pakistan. Something to do with logistics—I wasn’t listening attentively. He plans to stop over in Paris and Amsterdam on his way back and asked me what I would like him to bring me. I didn’t answer him, so he said he knows what I like. All I want is to be left alone. Sometimes in my sleep I see him and the three men who held me down the day he hurt me. Only death will make me forget the pain.
Do I burden you with my sad memories? I am actually quite happy, even though I miss you.
Iyese, 8 August
Today is the fourth month since the day you put me in a taxi and then disappeared. Is this absence forever?
I love you.
Iyese, 10 September
One afternoon I was absorbed in some research in the Monitor’s library when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing behind me. I wheeled around.
“Ashiki!” I exclaimed. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to have been dangerous, if I were an enemy.”
“Have you come to read?”
“Not really. I was asking around for you and somebody said you were seen heading in this direction. I have a letter for you. A very important letter, if I may say so.”
“Important letter? For me?”
Taking the envelope from him, I recognized Iyese’s handwriting. “Oh,” I said, half in relief, half in disappointment. I opened the envelope, unfolded the sheet of paper inside and read the short, two-sentence message. My face must have registered my incredulity, for when I turned Ashiki was grinning.
“Is this true?”
“I saw with my two eyes,” he said.
“Where?”
“At Good Life.”
“I thought you stopped going there?”
“Yes, for several months. But I went back last night.”
“And you saw her?”
“With my two eyes.”
“It’s hard to believe this,” I said, peering back at the note. “What did she say?”
“About what?”
“Me.”
“Oh, nothing much. Just that she hadn’t seen you in a long time.”
After Ashiki left I read the note again.
I told you in an earlier letter that love was growing inside me. Well, I’m five months pregnant!
Iyese, 9 October
I folded away the letter and left the library. Iyese pregnant! It couldn’t be true. There was only one thing to do: return that night to Good Life and see for myself.
At 7:40 that evening I stationed myself under cover of darkness across the street from Good Life. The bar’s entrance was dimly lit by two blue bulbs. I followed the flow of men and women in and out of the bar, but an hour later I had not seen Iyese. My eyes ached from all the straining and blinking. Had she slipped in during a moment when my attention had wandered? Or was this one of those rare nights when she decided not to go out?
Suddenly I felt ridiculous, lurking in the shadows like a criminal or a detective. I walked off down the street on the dark side until the sound from the bar became muted. Then I hailed a taxi and went home.
A month later:
Ashiki gave you my letter, so I know you know I’m pregnant. He told me you’re okay, just busy.
Isa came to my flat two days ago. He brought jewelry, shoes, perfume and clothes. I’m keeping them until I see somebody who needs them. He was surprised to see me pregnant. He said he hopes it’s a boy, as if that would entitle him to my baby.
There’s a favor I want to ask you, but that will be later.
I love you.
Iyese, 14 November.
If you’re counting, you will know it’s seven months since we last saw each other. Not once have you thought of writing back, or visiting. Is this who you really are? Was everything between us just a meaningless game? Why did I think there was more of a man in you? I fell in love with the human being I thought I saw inside you. Perhaps you saw only the falling, not the love. A shame!
Iyese, 9 December
I realize that the tone of my last letter was angry. But I had to be true to my feelings. The past few months have been difficult. I hardly go out these days, not even to Good Life.
And yet, apart from Violet, I have no friends to come around to my flat. I wish you were around to stroke my belly and feel the baby kick.
I know you have chosen a different path. Perhaps you throw my letters into the waste basket, unread. But I will continue to write to you for as long as I wish to.
The baby is due on 15 February, a month from today,
but seems to be in a hurry. Already, I feel cramp pains all over my belly. It’s worst at night, when it keeps me awake. Yet, I’m happy. Very happy!
Isa came by yesterday. He wanted to know how his baby was doing, he said. His baby! I have not said one word to him yet, which he takes as a sign he has not bought me enough presents for me to forget what happened.
I mentioned in an earlier letter about asking you a favor. I want some photos of you, as many as you can spare. The baby may never meet you, but it would be nice to show him or her pictures of the man who changed my life (then ran away!). I hope you will do this for me. And soon.
I may not write to you again until after the baby is born.
Iyese, 14 January
The first Saturday after the due date, I decided to visit Iyese. The night before, I sorted through my photographs and made a handsome selection. I arranged the twelve pictures in chronological order and placed them in a small polythene bag that also contained a congratulatory card and several small gifts for the baby: soaps, oils and toys—items that would do for a boy or a girl, since I did not know the baby’s sex.
The day began with sunshine, but a brisk breeze brought clouds which thickened until the sun was blotted out. As I rode in a taxi to Iyese’s flat, the firmament bulged with wetness. Lightning relumed the sky with silvery streaks and thunder grumbled overhead. Then the sky’s broken water came down in monstrous sheets. Within minutes the city’s open gutters were awash with sediment rubbish. The skins of yams, cocoyams, cassava, oranges, bananas and plantains were borne like dead bodies on the rushing stream.
The storm had not abated when I arrived at Iyese’s flat. I dashed from the taxi to her door, the bag of gifts held to my chest. Panting, I knocked on Iyese’s door, straining to pick up a response through the swish of tires on the street and the pattering sound of the rain. After a second louder knock I turned the knob. The door yielded. I took a deep breath and went in.
The room was neatly ordered, nothing out of place. I called out Iyese’s name, softly at first, then loudly. Then, my heart pounding, I drew apart the partition that led to her bedroom. Iyese was sprawled on the floor, naked, her baby clutched to her chest. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth agape; a trail of blood ran out across the floor. Paralyzed, tongue-tied, I only stared. I thought I saw her move slightly and I blurted out her name, but she remained silent, for the winking of my own eye had created the illusion.
