Preordained #ProjectNigeria

40- Still Beautiful

Nwanyieze's POV:

My dreams plague me that night. They are full of sobs, curses, of threats and declarations of love in soft voices. I feel everything in my dreams, fear and pain, love and hate, regret and guilt.

When I finally pull myself back to reality, half-blind in the darkness, my old singlet is soaked with sweat. Adanna is in her mother's room and so I'm alone; I'm grateful for that. I swing myself off the bed and walk out of my room, not bothered about the darkness because this is a familiar routine.

In three minutes I have helped myself to a glass of water, and I walk slowly back to my room. Turning on the light, I rummage inside my box for some ankara material.

Might as well get to work, then, I think to myself, knowing that sleep is a luxury I cannot afford anymore for today. As I work, my mind replays the latest events. Maduka's unfinished story, Saheed's smirk, Jide's obvious embarrassment. Saheed, from the little I know about him, can be as relentless as an assassin; it is obvious he won't let me have a moment's peace.

And what do I do now? Do I tell Maduka everything?

I try to conjure up his face, sneering at me with the knowledge of my past in his eyes. It is difficult, because all he's ever looked at me with is tenderness in his eyes, like I'm all he sees. His behaviour with me, his ease, makes it seem like he's known me forever.

How would it feel, to see him sneer at me? To hear him call me a prostitute? To even hear my name from his lips after that, my name which is the greatest irony of all?

Nwanyieze.

I scoff, then give a little, mirthless laugh.

Whoever named me was onto some secret joke.

Day breaks three hours later, and with Mama Uju and Adanna still in bed, I brush my teeth, pull on my buba, tie a scarf, and start cleaning the house. My eyes hurt, but I know I can't sleep. I work with a vengeance, sweeping, scrubbing floors, dusting and removing non-existent cobwebs. It is like I'm trying to purge myself, to cleanse myself, but deep down, I know that the stain can never be removed.

A knock at the front door startles me, and I look up from the sitting room floor I'm scrubbing to the wall clock on the wall behind the television.

9:30.

Wiping my hands on my buba, I move towards the door and ask, "Who is it?"

"Open the door."

The door flies open, and I'm suddenly breathless, my hands nervously holding handfuls of my buba at my sides. His eyes run over me, then back to my face, searching. He reaches out for me and pulls me into a hug, assailing me with the clean smell of soap and himself.

"What a surprise," I manage.

"I was worried," he murmurs. "And I had a bad dream."

"You could have called."

"Nothing bad with wanting to see you."

"What did you dream about?"

He sighs. "You-"

I hear him swallow, I feel him go tense.

"-died. And it was my fault."

I touch my lips to his briefly. He sighs, and I can see that he relaxes slowly. "I'm not dying soon. At least not 50 years from now," I joke.

"50 years by your side; not a bad idea," he chuckles.

My stomach flips over, my heart skips a beat.