Jigsaw

3. Kiki

We're all scared of something.

It could be something as simple as animals, insects, heights, failing exams, disappointing people, or something as massive as an epidemic outbreak, nuclear wars, death. The list goes on. I wasn't scared of any of those, though. My greatest fear was giving up. On school, on my family, my friends. My life. I used to be such an optimist, never letting anyone or anything put me down.

Optimist or not, what does one do when they wake up one day and find out their heart was slowly giving up on them?

Yeah. I didn't know what to do either. I just sat in the doctor's office holding my father's hand as the doctor talked about my condition. I was 11, and already too smart for my own good. I knew I wasn't going to be able to run around with my friends anymore. Or play hide and seek with my stepmother and sister. I wasn't sure why then, but I knew something was wrong. I knew, in that moment, that my whole life had been snatched out of my hold.

But there was hope.

I could've gotten a transplant. Everything would have been fine. But then it wasn't. I watched my father and mother drown themselves in work to pay for the donor hunt. The bags under their eyes as they gave me fake smiles, telling me it was all going to be fine. My sister trying to make me feel normal. The more they tried to pretend everything was alright, the worse it became. There was always someone who needed the donation more than I did.

Five times I got to the top of the acceptors list. Five times I was pushed back down. Five times I let my hopes rise and five times were they tossed to the dust.

And I gave up.

~••~

The sun was already peeking through the sky when I shut the door to the house behind me. I adjusted my jacket on my shoulders and steadied my hold on my bag of borrowed library books and stepped unto the side walk bustling with people eager to get somewhere.

I lived on the Lagos mainland with my family. Our house was among the numerous houses on the mainland that didn't have a driveway or anything of that sort. Open the door, and you're met with the daily human traffic, honking of lorry horns, car tires skidding across the tar and the groaning engines of the ferries on the sea not too far away.

I rubbed my palms together as I pushed throughout the barricade of hurrying people. It was really chilly today, just a small sign of the coming harmarttan. Harmattan in Lagos was usually severe, so cold winds in June wasn't a surprise to the city's residents.

My house was only a few streets away from an old library I often visited, so I didn't have to take a cab. I grinned excitedly and tried not to run as I sighted the rusty roof of the aged building, thrilled to start my day.

I had offered to help Mrs Bayo, the library's custodian, during my breaks from school. And as I stepped into the library after skipping the loose step outside, I couldn't help but smile wider. I always had this sense of belonging when I was in the library's four walls. It was like my very own cozy hideout, away from all the problems of life. I sat here with Mrs Bayo for long hours, reading books and creating fictional characters and cities in my head. It was an adventure everyday.

I set my bag down on the dusty floor beside the custodian's desk with renewed enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Mrs Bayo"

Mrs Bayo was a petite woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties. She had been the custodian here since I discovered the library, so I wasn't sure how long she'd been working here. She was here in the mornings when I came and late in the evenings when I left. I was certain she lived here but she never gave clear answers when I asked her and always found a way to change the topic.