Flawed by Peace Habila
He just didn’t show up, no, he didn’t make it to his own wedding. This plan was perfected without sparing a thought for me, the supposed bride.
habila
Twisted Fate by Peace Habila
When I joined the firm, he was one of the few people I got attracted to without really double-checking my hormones
Man Up by Peace Habila
The day Nkem died; the earth stood still for a moment. It happened within the twinkle of an eye. I watched helplessly as her life began to ebb. She fought hard. She gave it her best shot, but the labor pangs overshadowed her when she had just dilated 10 centimeters. The image of her lifeless body with our stillborn baby dangling in between her thighs still sends cold shivers down my spine and had kept me awake most nights. The thoughts of the events that culminated in her eternal end forces me to think that if only we had done somethings differently, she wouldn’t have gone through that painful death. I wish I had the antidote for death. That Saturday morning, everything seemed normal. She pushed her protruded stomach around our small apartment with a pinch of pride, the type typical of self-assured pretty damsels. She had rocked the Duduke crooner that morning in preparation for her EDD which was in two weeks’ time. We had no premonition that death was lurking in the neighborhood. She was full to the brim with life and smiles. In fact, she had a bowl of her usual spicy snail and mushroom soup that looked very irritating. She relished each bite to my astonishment. I stood there wondering why a sane person would enjoy such. Well, pregnancy cravings can make one devour with pride the unthinkable meals of unfamiliar climes. Hours later, she complained of a sharp pain around her pelvic and it grew with the minutes. I knew she had gone into labor. I grabbed few items from the house, dragged her to the car, and rushed to the hospital. She was examined and two hours later, we were on our way to the labor room. The pangs behaved like an elastic band; at some points, she had few moments to smile and tease my fear- plastered- face, at other times, the pain got her screaming the roof down. The nurses kept urging and instructing her to push. With each command came her hands clinging to mine as if they were yearning for my veins. It climaxed when we saw the head of the baby. I cheered her on, rubbed her head, endeared her, and gave her all the love I had left in me. Soon, her face dropped. She instinctively redirected her gaze towards me. I lovingly turned towards her, rested my shoulder on the edge of the bed, and gave her a piercing look, eyeballs to eyeballs. The connection was deep, real, and somewhat magical with a level of pain rays shining forth. Within a flashlight, she shot a weak smile which grew faint almost immediately; then, it happened. Her eyes suddenly froze after she had given me the faintest smile. It happened so fast that I had to replay that moment over and over to convince myself that I was not dreaming. They knew it was a stillbirth, but none of them warned or alerted us. They wanted her to birth it, a task she could not complete. I stood there in shock as they performed the medical ritual of trying to resuscitate her. I knew she was gone. I felt it in my bones. The tall nurse walked towards me and led me away to allow the doctor, who just arrived, intensify the ritual. I stood in the vestibule pinching myself and hoping to wake up from the nightmare. I could not just process it. I soon went blank even of the basic things caused by adrenaline. Then the doctor appeared. ‘I’m sorry, we lost them’, he said. I sank deep into his arms the way I would sink into Nkem’s arms after a bad day at work. I was about to launch a scream when a hand touched me from behind. The hand was accompanied by the familiar words- ‘be a man, man up! The elderly man who said those words had monitored the whole event from onset. He stood before me with a disposition that says ‘I have all things under control’. His non- verbal cues complemented his words perfectly and made me appear stupid for wanting to wail. Truth be told, those words changed my life. It first took me back to my childhood where we were taught that boys don’t cry. We were forced to hide our pains in our esophagus. We were taught that tears meant weakness and was not a good characteristic of a strong man. I knew it was time ‘to be strong’. So, I sorrowed as expected by society. I needed society to validate me as a strong man. I was hoping that act would also impress her in the great beyond. But deep within, I was dying. I was in dire need of a little petting in a subtle but reassuring voice. At the funeral, hot painful tears welled up in my eyes but, again, I quickly dismissed them. I kept a strong face, a boiling heart, and shut the boy in me seeking to wail to escape the excruciating pain. Well, no one gave me a broad shoulder to cry on. Their supposed words of comfort were mere melancholic demands of the impossible. I was expected to suck up my pains like chilled coke racing down my thirsty throat. I was still being a man when I slid into depression. I was manning up when suicidal thoughts started creeping in. I was trying to man up when I attempted suicide. I was only trying to man up when I lost my sanity. I was still manning up when I woke up in the psychiatric ward at Yaba. Peace Habila, a resident of Jos, Plateau state is passionate about creative writing. She wrote in via peacehaila2017@gmail.com
Shamefacedness by Peace Habila.
Kabir was at the verge of losing his mind over the graduation celebration ritual. He just could not keep his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth or his lips firmly sealed. ‘How on earth would full-grown fellows be forced to contribute kobo, shi –shi, and widow’s mites to buy bottles of wine only to waste them and then come up with a convenient name(wine popping) to justify the foolish act’, he nagged and stammered as we negotiated the bend close to the footpath leading to the hostel. Unknown to K-guy, as he was fondly called, most of his rants and raves fell on deaf ears. My mind was exhausted by the conversation we had a night before our final exams. The broad grin on my face was just a decoy to steady his resolve that he was making absolute sense even when I did not hear Jack. I was quick to grasp his lamentation about the wine that was popped in class that morning because it was said amidst gesticulation that included his thick, snow-white, unadulterated saliva droplets landing on my face. It caught me off guard. The ‘wawu’ that found its way out of my mouth was necessitated by the impact and mild irritation the saliva had on me. I was not entirely surprised at his exaggerated expressions or the saliva; I had endured those for four years. Our larger-than-life campus friendship was a product of love at first sight. We met on our matriculation day. Halfway into the event, it began to rain. The wind that accompanied the rain rolled off the canopy that shielded us from the showers; even though it did not save us from the cold. Without thinking twice, we ran towards the building opposite us. Unanimously, we rested our backs against the wall and used our hands to wipe off the remaining droplets on our eyelashes. Guess what? Without consulting one another, we slid our folders into our worn-out shirts. At that moment, we knew we had something in common- which was poverty. We connected instantly and grew inseparably almost throughout our stay in the university. We were known for throwing banters at each other to the admiration of others. A day to our final paper, K-guy became restless. His restlessness got me restless too. It saw both of us tossing from one side of the bed to the other with an awkward silence hovering over us. We were like newly wedded couple going through their first nuptial incongruity. When I had had enough of it, I decided to prod, one more time. Boom! It worked. ‘My guy, I will not graduate this year’, he said beneath his breath with half of the words jerking through his heavy tongue. ‘God forbid’, I chanted swaying my hand over my head to assure him that I meant each word. ‘But I have not paid my tuition for the last two sessions’, he continued. K-guy knew his onions; natural intelligence had roots in the fiber of his brain. He was too gifted to be allowed to waste. That night, I started contemplating loaning out my sister’s savings to save K-guy. She had been saving (for three years) in my account to get a sewing machine after completing her training at the fashion school. I shared the idea with K-guy which brought smiles glazed with tears to his face. He promised to find a way to pay back even if that would involve doing odd jobs. Few days after our exams, we strolled to the bank on campus, withdrew the money, cleared his outstanding tuition, and went back to being jolly-good fellows. We decided to stay back (in a single room off campus) for our convocation which was in four months’ time. We took odds jobs to ease the waiting process. Few days to our convocation, I got wind of the information that K-guy had emerged the best graduating student with a jaw-breaking CGPA. Such feats had always attracted awesome awards and prizes. That rumor brought some sort of relief to my troubled soul. I was certain that with the cash prize, we would be able clear the mind-boggling debt howling our names. When his name was called that day, my joy knew no bounds. Finally, I would be able to sleep with my eyes closed and my heart beating at a normal rate. Before walking to the podium, he leaned his head towards me and whispered, ‘we made it, bro’. Immediately, a shade of pride that signals accomplishment engulfed my entire being. It felt like the win was for the two of us. #200,000 was graciously willed in his favor. The gigantic cheque covered his chest but spared his face, enough to show the broad smile on his face. For strange reasons, we did not return to the room together. I spent half the time bragging to our friends that K-guy gave all of us a run for our money. I went as far as teasing Jacob, the fashion icon of our set: ‘it’s not by wearing fine clothes o. With our one pair of trouser and three shirts we still beat wuna.’ Jacob had bullied us, especially k-guy, and I felt it was my job, as a good friend, to pay him in his own coin. When I got to the room, K-guy and his belongings were nowhere to be found. He was gone. Neighbors confirmed that he left in a great haste and pleaded with them not to say a word of it to me. It took me days to convince myself that I had been a fool all along. The money was gone; so was our friendship. The thought of it left a sickly feeling in my stomach. Then my sister called. I sold all my belongings to raise half of the money- #17,500. I spate all forms of lies known to man and demons to cover up for my irresponsible and dastardly act until I was able to cough out
Regrets By Peace Habila.
Somehow, I feel ruined. The stench from my indecisions wrapped in complacency now choke every glimmer of hope in me. I thought I was being a good girl; ‘the yes, ma’ kind of good girl. I never knew I was pilling the debris of my own lynch-party. No one cautioned me. No one asked what I wanted. I practically joined in the chanting of my own dirge. I sang the cheerful dirge at my own “funeral”. How unfortunate! I have been tagged privileged because I was born with a silver spoon forced down my throat. I was tenaciously moulded into the lady I am today. I was compelled to learn how to blend pride with poise, arrogance with charms, and beauty with emptiness. At least, that was my interpretation and “prescription” of royalty. My tutor who beamed with unnecessary and endless smiles was confident that I would make an amazing princess at that pace. My life was programmed and rolled out before me. I swallowed everything I was taught with pride. It made a lot of sense at that time. I enjoyed the attention I received. I was called beautiful but, somehow, I never felt beautiful. That was the life I knew and had to live. My 18th birthday came with a rude surprise. The birthday package included a journey to study Medicine abroad. His Royal Highness, my father, made the revelation amidst jubilation by excited servants and guests. I was surprised and also confused as to why I was surprised in the first place. ‘it’s in the plan’, I told my self. That gave me the courage to conceal my empty and overwhelmed heart with a broad smile. Later that night, I realised I was excited about the idea of leaving the palace even though I was not excited about the choice of course. I occasionally caught myself smiling about the thought of freedom as congratulatory messages flooded my ears. When it was time to leave home, I was lectured on how to represent my home town, how to make them proud, and so on. I got the details. They were familiar, after all. And It was indeed well received. “Make your father proud” his Royal Highness said. “Yes, your majesty”, I replied. Those were the only words I could reel out of my mind. My new found freedom was thrilling. I had an apartment to myself, the air wasn’t choking with the presence of servants chanting “Do you need anything, my lady?” The first few months were pure bliss in ecstasy. No stiff routines to follow. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t accountable to anyone but myself. It felt so good. This freedom was, however, short lived. It opened my eyes to realize that I couldn’t live with myself. I couldn’t find a balance between peace and passion. I couldn’t find the balance between happiness and the nagging expectations of others (even when no one expected anything of me). It was difficult to walk around without (unconsciously) raising my shoulders high like ‘an exalted unicorn’. I just couldn’t fit in. I was twice removed from normalcy and reality. Loneliness started creeping in like a thief in the early hours of the day. I was mostly conscious yet unconscious occasioned by absentmindedness and nostalgia. I was gradually slipping into depression when my Knight in shiny armour showed up. I was walking down the dry patched lane lost in thought about my near empty room and how I had become extra lazy, no , how I just realised that I had been a lazy spoilt child. So lazy that I would occasionally utter the words “ get me my towel” into the empty space. On those occasions, I end up beating myself for building my life around core dependence on others to do everything for me. “Hello, I noticed you in Prof’s class. You must be Nigerian…,”he said. Without blinking my eyes, the words vomit found its way out of my mouth- “ address me as my lady or My princess” . He couldn’t help his laughter, the echo of which gave my senses an urgent CPR which brought shame to my face. “I’m sorry”, I said. I was hoping the earth would open up and swallow me that moment. His face registered a shade of disgust, yet he offered to walk with me to the bus station. He didn’t say a word after that heart wretching laugh. I wish he did. He was strangely different. He was simple yet elegant. I couldn’t get the mysterious aura around him off my mind throughout that night. Then we met again. This time he didn’t forget to add “my princess” to his salutation to my utter embarrassment. I was forced to apologize again. He felt I was too serious about life. “How?”, I asked. Your shoulders, for instance, are raised like that of “ an exalted unicorn. You need to relax”, he said. No one had ever spoken to me in that manner. It felt like an insult but sounded like some deep truth. He went further to tell me his name – a strange sounding name: “Nandom”. “ Which part of Nigeria are you from?”, I asked. Jos, Plateau”, he replied. I later gathered he was on government scholarship and so he had to work at two jobs to support himself and send some money home to his parents. He reminded me of all the things I have and all the things I lacked. He is confident, self assured, and above all HAPPY. I was surrounded by folks who laughed at my jokes dutifully not that they found them funny. I got compliments not that I deserved them but it was part of the package. I was cloned into a demi- god. I was feared not loved. Praises from maidservants took humanity from me till I became cold at heart. I was served right from birth and was never taught how to serve others. If I had learnt how to give from a genuine heart of love maybe, I would have found fulfilment. If I was given the opportunity to make mistakes and learn from them, maybe, finding my path through life won’t be an issue. If I was given the opportunity to mix and share my heart with my maids. I would have learnt to how to smile genuinely. I am now a stranger on earth trying to find my roots from miles away. I am learning how to be human through love, sacrifice, and service. With this heart full of love, I shall navigate life till I find fulfilment and happiness. I have tasted the unshed tears of yesterday and I dislike the blank taste it left in my mouth. In Nandom’s light I see my light and I hope to follow diligently. Peace Habila wrote in via peacehaila2017@gmail.com
