Chukwuebuka Ibeh
Skyline

<< continued from Part 2

He was Northern. A Muslim. She could imagine her mother saying novenas for the failure of the relationship, could picture Pastor Desmond stressing on the fact that light had nothing in common with darkness. She thought of Febaora with all that university degrees and liberal ideologies, asking "A Hausa man? But why exactly?" The thought of future rebellion and stubbornness, of intense love-making on smooth sheets, brought a coy smile to her lips. She imagined he was the kind of man that fancied the wild and unconventional, and she visualized each morning beside him suffusing her with a wholeness she could taste on her tongue. He brought to mind the word 'perfect', what with his smile, the immaculate whiteness of his eyeballs.

"I'm Zimchi", she took his outstretched palm, watching his face for the slightest flicker of reaction. There was none, or maybe it was just her. The shopping bag he was carrying sagged under its weight.

"Zimchi", he pronounced, a good try, but inaccurate all the same. She knew now why she had not earlier noticed he was Northern. He did not have the accent, the wiry, fragile looking demeanor of Northerners.

"It's actually Zimchikachim." She said. "It means 'show me a God greater than my God." Something had to be wrong with her. She did not come all this way from Iwofe to interpret her name to a complete stranger.

"Beautiful." He said, his eyes lighting up at the word. And she wasn't sure what exactly he was referring to—herself or her name. The stockfish seller was staring at them with fixed interest.

"You're quite sure you don't want me to drop you off, Zimchi? I would love to, really. At least it would afford me the opportunity to apologize properly. It's not quite civil to bump into beautiful women in crowded markets, is it?"

"No, really, thank you." She wondered if he knew how handsome he was, if he had picked up a mirror that morning before he left his house to examine the delicate contours of his face. She wondered if someone had ever told him any girl would do anything to keep him. And then she wondered what he would say if she told him that his smile made her stomach form a painful knot that became even tighter with every passing minute. She stared at the sack in his hands again. She could see the head of a stockfish sticking out unevenly, as though wary of causing trouble. She wondered what kind of a man did his own shopping.

"Are those for your mum?" She asked, referring to the sack, feeling silly at her own question.

For a moment, he seemed lost, thrown off balance by the sudden inquiry and then he chuckled awkwardly, suppressing a blush.

"No, not at all." He met her gaze squarely when he spoke again. "They belong to my wife."

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

_ _

Chukwuebuka Ibeh was born in Nigeria. He is a staff writer at Brittle Paper, and a reviewer for New England Review of Books. His short stories have appeared in New African Writing Anthology, McSweeney's, Dwartonline and other publications. He lives and writes from Port Harcourt.

>> Back to Issue 21, 2018