10 DAYS - Episode 7

Juliana Nkemdiri

The bath or the little after-bath confrontation had left me feeling better. My eyes still duplicated things, of course, but my legs could hold themselves well and obey the simple command of my will to move steadily. The puking sensation was completely gone but my head pounded moderately. Two tablets of Paracetamol are all it’ll take to make it quit the pounding, I told myself. I needed to get home, more out of disappointment than anger at the standoff with Edisemi. She made it easier by bringing the party to its inconclusive end, much to the dismay of the partiers who were heart-deep in the celebration. The absence of the celebrants meant nothing to them. The steady flow of booze, music and light comestibles were all that mattered, and if it meant to go on till the next day, the good Lord will always be their strength and will forever be praised for favours.

Captain didn’t take it lightly. He tried to seek explanation from Butch, Edisemi, and even Njideka whom he knew wouldn’t give him a listening audience. Edisemi gabbled incoherencies at him and was close to raining blows on him when he told her she wasn’t making any sense. Butch had simply told him they’d see later to discuss it while he rolled his luggage and himself through the door.

There was a moment before he finally exited the door when Butch and I locked eyes. In that moment, he was completely unreadable. I’d searched his face for a frown or a smile, some indication that he’d see me no more or that it’ll take some time before he gets to speak with me again. Nothing. Butch was blank as a starless night sky.

Captain came to me at last and after discovering I wouldn’t become unmuted, he elected to drive me home. A quick scan of the sitting room and the adjoining rooms with my eyes confirmed the girls had left. I felt a certain joy flow into my heart but it was cut short by the thought that Butch and I might’ve said our final goodbye just few minutes ago. I’d call him, I told myself, but not tonight.

I took Captain’s outstretched hand when we got to my house. He held it tight, gave it a squeeze and looked into my eyes. His eyes begged me not to alight. They were asking me to stay and make his night. They were the eyes of a lonely man who needed the company of a woman. It’s been years since I last acceded to the demand of those eyes. I’d been caught off guard sometimes – time’s when I’d turn to look at him and get assaulted by a kiss and some boobs and ass squeeze – but it never progressed into the real desire.

Back in school when we started, we’d agreed it’d be a smash and go affair. It’d been that way for weeks, but those weeks turned out to be incubating period for the next sex. I bet its difficult putting control on sex when you start having it as an adolescent. Some control came in when Butch accepted me. At night when the girls in the hostel discussed the guys they’d like to hit and how they’d want to be hit, I’d dream of having sex with Butch. The more I fantasized this, the lesser my urge for sex with Captain. I didn’t have sex with him for a whole term until the next term when Butch turned down my first strong sexual advance. Captain then became my run to guy whenever I got repelled by Butch.

It remained that way until I met my first university boyfriend, George, and later discovered that majority of our men are spineless rapacious bastards. 

“Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate.” I said to him.

I pulled my hands from his and opened the door. He called my name once and idled in his car until I opened the gate. Hands pressed my eyes close from behind the moment I closed the gate, and with a sinking heart I wished I’d accepted Captain’s request. Fam, it was just sex he'd demanded and not my life, and that sex is something I’d be grateful for in the end. Despair clutched my heart in a tightening grip as the strong hands turned me away from the gate.

I was opening my mouth to say that I would gladly get my ATM from the room and go get all of my cash from the bank when a voice I found strangely familiar said, “Guess who?”

It occurred to me then that my first reaction should’ve been to dig my elbow hard into the assailer’s gut and escaped through the gate or do whatever heroic deed my brain develops at the spur of the moment.

“Quit it!” I say and am marvelled at the authority in the voice. It had no trace of the fright that was strangling me just moments ago.

“I don’t know why you like to be tough.” The owner of the voice said, releasing her hands. 

I knew who it was before wheeling around, and the knowledge brought with it an anger that was an aggregation of Butch’s rejection, Edisemi’s spitefulness, and Captain’s opportunism. My body seemed to vibrate with it. I had my hands prepared for the slap that’ll rock her face, all I needed was to turn. It must be the grace of God, or some inherent strain of weakness in me that intervenes at times when I need to be savage, that prevented me from striking Pleasance when I finally turned.

“Pleasance,” I say, painstakingly tolling the name by each of its syllable. “If you don’t leave here at this moment, you’d have yourself to blame. How did you even discover my place?"

She smiled, and in that smile, I saw a lady that dies, or almost gets killed before she accepts the simple monosyllabic word, NO. This modified my resolve of kicking her all the way out to the street gate to killing her. I began to think of the best place to dispose her body.

“It's not difficult knowing where a friend lives. Being your friend offers me the right to know where you live in case of emergency, so…” She shrugged.

“This is nothing close to what I asked. So, becoming my friend gave you the guts to stalk me? Pleasance, if you know what is good for you right now, walk nobly out of that gate.”

“Or what, baby girl. We love you and you should love us back. Is that too much to ask?”

This was stretching into a conversation. It wasn’t the way I wanted it, but not responding to the stupid things she was saying made me feel a bigger fool than her. A flash image of Butch came to my mind. It was the one of the only time I tried to kiss him and he didn’t object. We'd had this slow sensual kiss that ended the moment I guided his hand to my breasts. My anger fired up like a revved engine.

“Pleasance, get the hell out of my house!”

“Baby girl, you have to think twice before raising your voice at any of us. You know, we weren’t born pussies.”

“What do you mean?” I stepped in close, breast to breast, nose to nose. We’re the same height. Her breath reeked of alcohol and smoke and I imagined mine smelling of vomit. In fact, I wished it was so. Someone needed to turn away and run in a confrontation and if smell were to be the catalyst, I should be at the stinking best.

Pleasance didn’t back away. She quit smiling and I thought, this is it; this is when we ditch words and roll right into action. I waited to be struck first so I’d double the return strike. This was a technique a bitchy chic in university taught me and all the times I’d used it, it worked like mathematics formula. Pleasance took my face in her hands and kissed me roughly. The sensation was creepy-crawly and I thought, this is how rape feels like; this is the sickening sensation you have to persevere till the end.

I bared my lips and caught her lower lips in my teeth. I bit down hard on it till I felt the metallic taste of blood fill my mouth. Pleasance kicked and punched. She punched me in the boobs, the pain was fresh and maddening. She kicked me hard in my shin, it was hard to stomach the pain that came with that. I tried to scream but ended up biting deeper into the lip. My teeth sank deep into it, yet it wouldn’t tear free. I imagined biting off a chunk of rubber felt this way. Our mouths were bloody in this death kiss. Blood trailed our chins, down our necks to our chests in long, even lines. The front of our tops was splattered with blood. I held onto the lip, thinking how cool Pleasance would look with her lower lip gone and out of the picture of her face.

She finally got me in the gut. I buckled over and sucked in air, releasing her lips from the grip of my teeth. Pleasance tried to speak but only succeeded in splattering fresh blood on my hair and face. I looked up at her, wishing the lip was gone. It wasn’t. It stretched outward and longer than the upper lip. It hung loosely, disclosing a bloody gash in the centre, and gum and teeth it no longer had business concealing. I felt good but wished more could be done. I straightened and groped for her hair.

The never-say-die expression I’d seen on Pleasance’s face was gone. An unadulterated childlike fear had replaced it. Pleasance took to her heels like a Dog at the intrusion of Coyotes, tail curved between its legs. She was at the gate in a flash. It took her seconds to unlock it and disappear through it.

“Better for you.” I said, walking into the house. I spat out blood and wiped my mouth with the back of my palm.

I stepped in and locked the door behind me and repeated, “better for you, babe.”

I’m awoken by a crash on the window screen. 

I topple off the bed and crawl to the kitchen. The clock there stands at 4.23. The brightness reflecting on the window screen tells me it’s PM and not AM. I start to calculate how long I’ve slept when I hear something crash, then, “come out here bitch. Fucking traitor!”

“Okay.” I mutter and haphazardly wash my face and mouth with water from the sink.

It was the girls for real. Fam, I told you breakup never gets down well with these folks, didn’t I? I feel better and in control unlike last night, and last night something had happened, right?

“Shit!” I slam my forehead with the heel of my palm. Not once but four times. “How could you forget to lock the gate after Pleasance left?”

But I know somehow that closing the gate wouldn’t prevent what’s happening now from happening. It would only postpone it to a more dangerous time and environment. I imagine the girls ganging up on me in a street corner or a shopping mall or even a saloon and messing me up royally. The thought causes me to shudder. Best to have them all in my abode, in my nest. I feel the way a spider must feel when it sees a host of merry flies whizzing into the dark corner where it has just spun a fresh web.

I sneak into the sitting room but it happens that I’m not any good at sneaking.

“There’s the bitch!” 

A stick flies above my head and I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t ducked at the spur of the moment. A bottle shatters beside me and I feel a tingly pain on my hand. My mind is a whirlpool of confusion as I scurry out of the sitting room and back to my room.

What the hell happened to my front door?

Yes, the wooden door I’d locked last night before going to bed. A cloud of doubt comes. I could have imagined locking the door without actually doing so. I imagine a lot. I’ve always imagined having sex with Butch and then moaning out loud in real life.

But I’d locked that door. I can swear to it. Last month, it had crossed my mind to change that door to one of these modern security doors you find in new houses. That thought was born on one of the days I was leaving Edisemi’s place. That’s the kind of door she uses. But then I’d dismissed it, thinking: I’m Juliana and not Edisemi. 

I thank whoever had invented a burglary proof. It’s my saviour today. But again, I think the inventor hadn’t dared to think further and tapped the entirety of his massive idea. Why all the wide spaces in a proof against burglars – spaces wide enough to accommodate flying sticks and bottles – when there could be a smooth wall of steel running the whole length and width of the doorpost.

You’re talking about a steel door here, it’s quite different from a burglary proof. Keyword is proof!

Never mind that. I snatch my phone from the bed and dial a friend of my dad. He’s a Superintendent of police. It’s picked on the first ring and the man calls me by my name. It’s not a surprise to me. He probably has my number saved, and why not, when he’s a family friend that wants his son and I to get married. I tell him I need as many mean policemen as possible to come to my place and pick up some armed vandals. He says okay and asks if I’m hurt. I tell him I’m fine but might not be for long. He says his men will not take later than ten minutes, apologises and hangs up.

The police are truly your friend, if you’re their friend, of course. My stomach churns and I think it’s justifiable, only, it needs to let out some old stuff – more alcohol and brownish-yellow fluid – as well as get some stuff in. I choose to do the former first. The girls get to my room then and smash the windows. Splinters of glass spray on the tiles – good thing the bed is in the centre. I go flat on my belly and squirm my way to the guest bedroom.

“She’s on the move!” Callista screams, sighting me.

I finish emptying my bowels and properly wash my mouth with a toothbrush and toothpaste before the girls bring their destruction to the guest bedroom. I calculate the cost of the damage in my head and bless the Insurance marketer that’d brainwashed me into taking a Fire and Burglary Policy. I have everything covered, but I’m going to milk out a lot of money from these girls. I’m going to make sure their little lesbian community goes broke.

I get to the kitchen and make myself a bowl of cornflakes. I sit on the floor to have this early supper, understanding that the girls will soon get here. I look at the time and it seems like thirty minutes since I called the police. I unlock my phone and discover it’s actually twenty minutes. I search for Butch’s number, find it (the contact name is LOVE) and ring him. He doesn’t pick. I finish up my meal and ring him again. He still doesn’t pick.

The girls arrive the kitchen and glass sprays in a scream of fine shards. In all the rooms, I have the burglary proofs to be grateful to. It occurs to me that the girls have succeeded in crashing every single window screen in the house. The sound of sirens begin to rise in the air, but out of nowhere for the girls. Their frightened screams rise simultaneously with the anger of the siren's, then scatters in confusion. It begins to fade as those of the sirens grow. I pick myself from the ground and carefully go to one of the broken windows. The whole house is enclosed by a high fence with jagged shards of glass jutting out the top.

A muscular guy, no, a lady, reaches the top of the fence. I marvel at the possibility and then see five girls, the ones I know, hoisting her up. The strange lady tears a palm in the process and lets out a ladylike shriek. With all those muscles, I expect nothing more than a groan from her. I find this funny and burst into laughter.

They all face my direction with deep snarls on their faces while the strange lady falls off the fence landing badly on her side. She shrieks louder than before. They turn back to their friend, forgetting me entirely. The sirens are at their loudest now. I hear thuds on the ground as if from a stampede and one, two, three policemen, well clad with headgears like SWAT encircle the girls pointing guns at them. Three more officers surface and orders the girls to get on their knees and raise their hands. Christie, who acts the toughest of the bunch, wears back her snarl and gets to her feet. The closest officer slams the butt of his gun hard on her head and she slump to the ground. Pamela, Christie’s lover screams and another officer edges closer to her. Pleasance reaches for the dressing on her lip which has gone red and an officer points the gun at her. She pulls it off anyway and the lip lolls down in a bloody mess. The officer instinctively smacks her face with the barrel of his gun. Blood sprays.

The scene just got scary, I move away from the window to the sitting room. I ought to thank the officers for showing up to contain the situation. I wonder if Christie is dead. I pray she isn’t. She needs to stay alive and watch me empty their little community's bank.

I dial Butch’s number before I get to the entrance of the sitting room and unlock the burglary proof. The day is turning into a lovely one. If only he’d pick my call to complete it.

Buchi Agwu

The phone rings again. I watch it ring till the end.

I lift my face when it finishes ringing to meet the sad, questioning eyes of Njideka and her mom. 

“Buchi, you’re going to tell me what’s happening here.” She meant it to be a question.

I exhale and feel a huge part of me leave with it. I wish at this moment to be in my bed listening to something from Lana Del Rey or Ellie Goulding. Something to make my heart feel quiet and light. But here I am and there's no sitting on the lid of this situation anymore. I'd tried to keep what I like to refer to as my issue to myself and the few friends I have in my life, but what touches the lives of individuals certainly rubs off on their families. 

Now, looking at the sad face of a woman who’s spent most of her adult life being a good mother and being as cheerful and playful as she can to life's messy situations but who's gotten an exponentially large insult in return, I feel guilty. I search for an easy way to explain that the woman I'd be getting married to is endowed with a huge well of nastiness which she fetches in bucketful and sprays when a joke is directed her way.

“Edisemi is my fiancée.” I say.

“Explains much.” Mrs Ime says. “But is she always this way?”

Now there’s the problem. Had I the slightest hint that Edisemi could say the things she said this afternoon, and to an elderly woman? No. But I’d been doubtful about a lot of things bordering her personality. I’d only started this show to get probable confirmation and see how they can be remedied if there arouse the need. The need is here and urgent, but I think there’s still a lot to discover about Edisemi. I feel like I’ve known only the planes and ridges of Edisemi's body for three years without knowing the person that wears the body.

“Mommy, this is an entirely new behaviour to me.”

“Same here.” Njideka concurs. “But she’s heartbroken. Buchi, she said you cheated on her with Julie.”

“She said that?”

“Yes, and more.”

“Did you cheat on her?” Mrs Ime asks, her face stern once again.

“What exactly is the definition of---”

My phone buzzes to life. I glance down at it. It’s a call. The name on the screen is Julie Nkem. The picture underlaying the name and call icons is of the both of us smiling cheerfully, hands around our necks. It's a picture we took at Olumo rock a year before I met Edisemi. Julie, Captain and I had decided to have a little reunion as Julie had just returned from the states. I glance back up at Njideka and her mom.

“Pick the call.” Mrs Ime instructs.

“But... I didn’t cheat with Julie. I’ll never do that.”

“So why don’t you pick her call and stop acting guilty.”

I slide a thumb on my screen and place the phone on my ear. Njideka takes her mom by the arm and intends to give me some privacy. I signal them to stay.

“Julie can you do me a favour?”

Of course Julie would do anything I ask of her except to stay away from me.

“I’m at Njideka’s house. I need you to meet me here. It’s quite urgent. Please.”

There’s reservation in Julie’s tone, and befuddlement on the other women’s faces. There’s a question hanging on Mrs Ime’s lips. I know it in its exact wordings.

“Thank you, Julie. You’re always a darling. I’ll text the house address to you now.”

Julie asks if I’m still angry with her; she pleads that she’s sorry; she asks if she can apologise properly with anything; she requests that I smile at her all the while she’s with me at Njideka’s place; she says she can’t stand...

“Julie, allow me to send you the address nau.”

She says okay, and that she loves me, then ends the call. I didn’t want to be the one to end the call so as not to stamp a wrong impression on Julie. I’d have ended it the moment she agreed to come over. I need her to understand that I’m not in any way angry with her.

I slide the phone into my pocket and Mrs Ime opens her mouth to speak.

“Was that necessary?” I say along with her.

“Yes, mommy.” I reply. “She’s the only witness to what happened last night...”

...and I really want to see her face again.


©Storyestate


Image credit:
Danay Suarez @ intelatin.blogspot.com;
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