You think he would be missing you?

Caje couldn’t find any reason why his boss had not yet shown up.

“Mum, Ike is teasing me,” his daughter, Winnie, said.

“You started it,” his son, Ike, said.

“Shush,” his wife, Adaobi, said. She squeezed her husband’s hand.

Caje wanted to smile at her, but an insect crawled on his face. He shook it off with a finger, and raised his head at the sound of footsteps.

“Good morning, Mr Caje,” the doctor said, walking in.

“Morning, doc,” Caje replied.

“How are you faring today? Better?”

“I guess I’ll survive.”

The doctor’s eyes glimmered as he turned to Adaobi. “How’re you, madam?”

“Fine,” she said.

“Hello kids!” The doctor waved a hand at the boy and the girl.

“Hi doctor,” they chorused.

“The physiotherapist called last night. He will be here before midday,” the doctor told Caje.

“Thank God,” Adaobi said with a sigh.

“That’s encouraging. I can’t wait to get out of here,” 

Caje said and then glanced at the table-clock. The A.M. News would soon begin. As he turned on the radio beside his bed, he suddenly realized that his children had grown older. They looked bigger as if they had been injected with growth hormones. They used to jump on him. Daddy! Daddy! Winnie should be six, while Ike was four then. Time seemed to have flown. He tried to work out their ages, but his wife’s statement interrupted him:

“…useless believing one is indispensable…” She sounded a little amused. And the doctor wore a smile on his boyish face. Caje began feeling laughed at; but another thought soon made him feel the doctor was flirting with his wife. He now recalled that most times the doctor had come in to take his blood pressure he spent more time chatting with her, as if she was the one who needed attention, comfort. He’d heard of doctors who took advantage of their patients, especially females. It was, however, common with young doctors, who were still burning with too much warmth in their loins. He wondered if his wife would ever fall prey to that. She was obviously older than the doctor, and was too prayerful to think of infidelity anyway. As a steadfast member of a Pentecostal church, Adaobi had been appointed as the leader of the Zion’s Daughters Committee. Her husband had attended her inauguration two years ago. Every now and then she invited her husband to service; he said he was too tied to his job to even consider spiritual matters.

He was thinking how the doctor would react if he was kicked in the groin when he heard: “… get him a wheelchair…” and his thoughts stilled. He didn’t hear the doctor add: “…only for now,” but he saw him pat Adaobi on the shoulder. A single, morbid picture came to Caje’s mind; he saw himself being driven around in a wheelchair. And his bones melted to pulp.

How could a man of your calibre be moved around from the house to the office, and back and forth, like a helpless baby in a pram?

His face furrowed as the doctor moved out of the room. The grey door strangely appeared like the corridor to darkness.

You wish you’d died in that accident on the Expressway?

Caje had gone on a tour, yet again, to appease another civil rights group that had been calling for the dismissal of his boss from the State House, who they claimed ‘pandered himself into power’. As the Press Secretary, he was always travelling within and outside the state, soliciting support, and laundering the image of his boss.

Why did you even agree to work for a man who only called your wife to inquire how soon you’d be discharged from the hospital?

The job had appeared stimulating. Caje knew he had a gift: he could easily win people over, polish up any scandal. Also, he’d empathised with the man because critics had often berated him. His boss had an ugly past. Once, he was an infamous hooligan. Thereafter, he became mysteriously rich – during the era of ritual killings. Most of the good-for-nothing in town then had become so wealthy that in parties they sprayed dollars and pounds like confetti. They bought chieftaincy titles, became knighted, wined and dined with the elite, and took as many wives as they could possess. Although people regarded him as a ritual murderer, his boss was a man of benevolence who had won the gubernatorial position of his state simply because of his donations to the president.

Presently, the Press nicknamed Caje The Launderer – since he had radiantly dressed up his boss, and transformed the felon into a gentleman.

She had once asked: “So, you’ve a mistress?”

“What?” he had answered.

“The governor – isn’t ‘she’ rather insatiable!”

He no longer spent time with their children. Now he remembered the old days when they all played Ludo or Monopoly like equals. He had gone on so many tours and yet he had not considered inviting his family once. Instead, he had used up all his time serving his boss like a valet, and accompanying him everywhere like a bodyguard. Now, bedridden for almost four days, his boss just went about his affairs as if Caje was dead.

How could you have sacrificed six of your forty years for a man who’s refused to visit you?

His shoulders drooped. Why was the damn physiotherapist taking ages to turn up? He flung off the blanket and frowned at his legs. They were numb.

It appears you might not walk again? You’d now be treated exactly as a disabled, you know?

His teeth almost bit into his lower lip, as he recalled one of his elaborate visits, with his boss, to the Disabled Citizens. This was one of the very few NGOs that benefited from his boss’s largess and hyped goodwill every year. And it was his Press Secretary, Caje, who promoted this special occasion and gave it all the needed fanfare and media coverage, as though the Head of State was visiting. Indeed, those who graced this occasion had more food and drinks than their stomachs could contain. But cash and other necessities went only to the handicapped.

Well, you’ve gained quite a lot from him. Look around you. Your family and your in-laws have benefited immensely from the exalted position you occupy in his cabinet. You’re now a man of wealth and repute. You can’t doubt that, can you?

His mind became a troubled, dark sea. Damn those files piling high on his mahogany desk, needing his attention. His wife had told him many times that it little profited a man to carry the world in his hands. He began feeling he’d pawned his soul to the devil, doubting if he would ever feel the same passion for his job again. He would sort things out with his boss as soon as he returned; re-prioritize his objectives; spend more time with his family; take them overseas for vacation.

A sigh broke out from his lips.

You really think you have relieved yourself of an unseen weight?

As Caje tried to sit up his back ached. He winced as if an arrow pierced through his arm. He would have tried again, but the radio announced: “…His Excellency, the Governor… travelled to Trinidad… attend Miss Caribbean…” and he clutched a pillow “…new Press Secretary has been…”

“No-o-o-o!” Caje screamed, smashing the radio with his fist.

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Uche Peter Umez has won awards in poetry, short story and children novel writing. He is the author of ‘Dark through the Delta’ (poems), ‘Tears in her Eyes’ (short stories) and ‘Aridity of Feelings’ (poems).

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Email: [email protected]/[email protected] 

She was the main wife because she was the one he took to church. The others—they were his wives because he was a man who was in constant pursuit of happiness.

My father met his first wife when he came to the city. He was fifteen years old; a man in search of a better life and a new identity. I don’t think he was ever referred to as a boy. No. He was never allowed to be a child. Right from when he was born he was a man. And as he lived all through his life he wanted to embody that man.

While in the city he slept in abandoned vehicles at the mechanic site where he served—learning how to fix cars and drive as well. He never once complained. A man knowing that in order for him to see the light, he had to walk through the dark—so he married her with the money he was able to save after he started working with a transportation company and living began.

She gave him four children. They had problems, and she left him and married some other man. The kids begged their father to bring back their mother and he did. When she came back, they had three more children. My father could bear a lot of things considering the way he’d lived, but one thing he couldn’t stand was an unfaithful woman. Little did he know that she’d gone back to her old ways.

The second wife joined the family portrait after the first wife left. She was already married when she came in. She’d left her husband and married my father for the little nothing he had. She also brought her two children from her last marriage along to share his silver coins with her. They had six children; four strong sons and two daughters. She also wasn’t faithful so she left him. For the second time my father lost. He would soon realize that he was never winning in this pursuit of happiness after he married his third wife.

She met him after the second wife had left him. She had a daughter from her previous marriage. She later gave my father three more children; two daughters and a son. They said she was problematic; the absolute worst. Father began to lose more weight and gaining more weight on his already tender shoulders. She always caused him trouble. The man had many issues and demons that were after him and on his  mind and all he wanted was a home where there was peace.

One afternoon, a tall beautiful woman was passing by the road side, he heard her speaking in her native dialect and he was instantly impressed and drawn to her. He was surprised to see a Tiv woman in the North where he went for a transportation course. Their meeting wasn’t all pleasant. This woman was a sassy and feisty lady. When he’d first approached her she’d insulted him. But after he’d pleaded his case and succeeded in winning a smile from her,  she told him where she lived and later that night he visited her.

That night, he allowed himself to be moved by something other than comfort. He wanted love. Was he averse to it? Was he cursed to never feel what it meant to be loved? My father in his flirtatious ways said to her, “You insulted me and called me names—no one ever insults me and call me names so now Priscilla, I must marry you.”

Six months later they got married—in a church. And a year later, I happened. My mother later gave him three other daughters. This time, he was happy.

When he lost his job with a hauling company, everything seemed to be against him again. But after six months he acquired an even better job with an oil company. We were all happy again until that afternoon when we received the call that shattered our world.

They’d sent him on his first assignment and they were on their way to Abuja when they had an accident with a vehicle that carried fuel in its tank. His body had busted into flames and nothing… nothing was left.

I guess now he’s finally at rest. He never did have a chance to settle between finding love and the many women in his life. He wasn’t even buried. We couldn’t identify him. There was no body and no funeral. A man who had lived all his life trying to be somebody couldn’t even be identified by the ones he loved the most. He was finally lost. And I was found—a man at twelve.

I remember selling soya milk and pure water along the streets while my mom sold vegetables at the market so we could survive.  We had to move out of the family house; too many of his lost children came back to claim their father’s property almost as if they’d been waiting for him to pass away. My mom who couldn’t stand to see my siblings and I suffer at the hands of the fate that the world had thrown at us gathered her papers and her pen in a bag and began schooling again.

The truth is—I don’t believe it all. I think he’s still somewhere running away for a better life and purpose. I think he’s still in search of God so he can claim back all his lost years. I would prefer he’s in the arms of another woman receiving five minutes worth of pleasure than to have him gone forever.

****

So you see Priscilla, it’s not that I don’t want to love you, or that you’re not lovable; it’s just that I can’t love you or anyone. I am not capable. So don’t ask of it from me—from a boy who never received any—from a man who should have been his first love—who doesn’t even know what love is? Or from a man who can’t even bear to have his guards and his tears down.

No. Don’t be selfish like my father’s many other wives. Because even if I slip this ring on your finger, it’s not strong enough to keep me grounded. I could turn out to be just like him. And in order to keep that man from rising back up, I have to keep running—far and far away from your kind.

Credit: Ufuoma Otebele, naijastories.com 

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Email: [email protected]/[email protected] 

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A part of her wanted to refuse.

Why should this, be her concern? She wasn’t good enough for Ade’s mum; why
should she be good enough to pray with him about something so important?

He had decided to answer the
questions.

“Yes, it is true. I do have a daughter named Bola Maxwell. I put her in an
orphanage shortly after her mother’s death. I had to, because I couldn’t cope.
Her mother died immediately after giving birth to her and I have been looking
out for her, although she is not aware.”

As for Ade, he was in a state of
confusion. His mind was racing.

Were they talking about the same Bola Maxwell?

His own Bola – a governor’s daughter?

Was it possible? How could it be?

Now, Ade looked at his mother. She
looked like she was still in shock. He would wait till her shock faded.

What would she say, then?

Would she give her blessing to their relationship?

Would she even accelerate marriage plans, knowing that Bola was the governor’s
daughter? After all, the governor had claimed Bola, publicly.

But there were also other questions
on Ade’s mind.

How was Bola feeling, right now?

What would she say?

Would she still be interested in him?