held me tighter and rubbed my back.
‘Kingsley, I’ve told you . . . everybody has their own dry season but the rain will always come. You’ll see. And you’ll remember that I said so.’
She spoke with so much conviction that I almost believed her. In the past, these words would have been tonic enough to brighten my face, push out my chest, and lift my gaze to a more auspicious future. But I had heard this same speech, on this same spot, in this same snug proximity, at least three times in the past year. It was like some sort of déjà vu.
We remained silent for a while.
‘Why don’t you go and have something to eat?’ my mother said. ‘There’s some powdered milk left in the tin but if it’s not enough, I can send Chikaodinaka out to buy some more.’
I stood up.
‘I don’t want to eat anything. I want to go and see Ola.’
‘Why don’t you—?’
‘No, I’m not eating,’ I replied, pulling off my T-shirt.
She left. I started polishing my dedicated pair of black shoes. They were my only pair. Moments later, my mother knocked and came back in.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take this and add to your transport money.’
Some naira notes were scrunched up in her palm. I shook my head.
‘No, thank you. I have enough for my transport.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Still take it.’
‘Mummy, no thank you.’
‘OK, at least use it to buy something for Ola.’
‘Mummy, don’t worry. I can manage till Daddy gives me my next pocket money.’
‘Kings, look. I know it’s just for a brief period and that things will work out for you soon. Take the money.’
Disgraceful that a twenty-five-year-old was still depending on his parents, but she smiled and looked tremendously pleased when I took the notes. Right there and then, I decided that the first thing I would do when I got a job was to buy my mother a brand new car.
Three
The 504 station wagon had a handwritten sign on the roof - UMUAHIA to OWERRI via MBAISE. The vehicle had originally been designed to carry the driver and one passenger in the front seat, three people in the middle row, two at the back. But an ingenious rascal had come up with a more lucrative agenda. Now two people were sitting beside the driver in front, four in the middle row, and three at the back. Being last to arrive, I had to squeeze myself into the back middle seat, the tightest, most unbearable position in the entire vehicle.
Wedged on my right was an abundantly bottomed lady who chomped her pungent breakfast of boiled eggs and bread with noisy gusto. On my left was a man whose eye sockets were empty, with a boy of about eight years old perched on his lap. From the ruggedness of the man’s clothes, his random chants and subservient manner, I could tell that he was a professional beggar. The boy was acting as his eyes and would not have to pay extra since, technically, they shared the same space. So we were four in the back row, sitting in a place prepared for three, which had originally been meant for two.
The combined stench of the beggar’s rags and the woman’s egg almost made my intestines jump past my teeth and onto the floor. I was eager for take-off, and hoped that as the car increased velocity, the pressure would force fresh breeze to diffuse the gas chamber at the back.
‘Bring your money!’ the driver hollered, stretching a cracked palm into the car.
I brought out my wallet from my trouser pocket. I shifted the naira notes aside and gazed at the photograph that I carried wherever I went. It was one of Ola and me with our arms completely wrapped around each other at Mr Bigg’s on Valentine’s Day two years ago. The photograph had been shot by one of those pesky, hawker photographers who hung around restaurants and occasions. At first, I was adamant about not paying, even after the photographer had stood begging for about ten minutes. But when I noticed how much Ola appeared to like the picture, I dipped into what I had reserved for cake and ice cream, and