Chukwuebuka Ibeh
Skyline

<< continued from Part 1

She liked weekends, the slow paced, soullessness of weekends. She liked the light echo of her footsteps as she walked round the house in barefoot, running her fingers unnecessarily on window panes and reminding herself that this was a life she loved, a life she had longed for and one she was grateful she finally had; telling herself over and over again that she was here and she was safe. She liked, also, that on weekends, she could pretend—at least until Monday—that she was not sometimes struck with the irony of living in a rented apartment on St Michael's Street and had a tiresome job teaching a bunch of spoilt kids in a ridiculously expensive private school in Trans-Amadi Industrial Layout and driving a London used Honda. On Fridays after work, she lay on the floor of her veranda and allowed a serene peace overcome her. But Saturdays were the best part, when she had to do the cleaning herself since the cleaning girl was excused from cleaning on weekends, and lost herself in the euphoria of scrubbing and wiping. And of course, there was the market, the glorious Afikpo market she had come to love. Often, she thought of the traders, those resilient women struggling to make ends meet and maintaining their dignity in the face of it all. She hated to think of dignity, hated the fact that she still burst into tears at odd times when the thought of dignity came up, hated the fact that she was such a fucking coward.

After her encounter with the stockfish seller, she had arrived home stricken and strangely smitten, had thought of his face and the bewildered look in his eyes when she expressed her shock. She replayed the scene over and over again in her mind's eye, how he had flinched when she winced, and how bravely he smiled afterwards, trying too hard to cover up for her own insensitivity, and she had personally resolved to approach him the next time and over tip him after purchasing from him, as a way of apology. But the boy was no longer there the next time she visited and the new lanky boy in his place had no idea who she was talking about. She was turning to go, mildly annoyed at the futility of yet another attempt to right a wrong, when she collided with someone behind her who had moved slightly to avoid a speeding car. His sack bag fell first and then hers followed, and they stared at each other. There was a momentary halt in the movement of time, an improbable suspense thick with uncertainty. It was all her fault, they both knew, and yet he reached down to pick both bags, all the while profusely apologizing for the mistake.

"Thank you." She took her bag from him, and for a moment, she thought there was something exotic with the slight brush of his long fingers against the back of her palm, just as exotic as his rugged, wholly masculine features.

He was glancing around her, his expression thick with concern and she thought how very much she wanted to know him in ways beyond the mundane.

"I'm an idiot." He said finally, smiling to reveal even white teeth, obviously satisfied she was unhurt. "I should watch out more."

"It's alright." She wished she could return his smile. She was maneuvering stiff legs, willing them to move, and he stood there staring at her quietly. She thought how elegant he was, with the fine lines of his eyebrows, like something an artist would draw; with the parallel scar on his cheek, with his firm, rounded shortness.

"Are you leaving?" He asked. "I could drop you off."

"No, thank you." She said, a tone of finality, and yet she stood and stared.

"Ah. Well, my name is Ibrahim." He extended a palm.

>> click to read: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

>> Back to Issue 21, 2018