TERMS OF REFERENCE

Fifteen eyes or so on me as I walked in. Derrick’s are so small the two could pass for one normal one. I’d come in to larger broods before, but there was something about this one. White people can be queer.

I proceed to my desk, dropped my books, and thought about piercing the awkwardness of the moment.

            “What?” I asked the eyes that were watching me. But it seemed no one had been nominated to speak, so my question remained unanswered for a little moment.

            “You’re from Biafra aren’t you, Jude?”

            “Biafra?”

            “Yeah,” Lancelot’s large eyes fixated on me. He would be the spokesman for any group.

            “Is that the name of a place?”

            “A country actually!” Kathie quips.

I roll my eyes, and then from one face to another, I searched for where this was headed.

            “What’s your take on the vibes coming out of Nigeria?” Derrick was the oldest, but his reserved nature meant his age mates had left him behind, and everyone else in this group caught up.

            “Wait!” I search for any sense in the situation… of coming into class and finding myself in the middle of a rather tense topic of discussion.

“Is this interview academically inclined?”

            “It doesn’t have to be, mate,” Callaghan, the defacto leader, said as he rose from his chair and walked towards me. Then, placing his right hand on my left shoulder he said, “We know you love books, Jude; we know you love learning and academic milestones; but we’re all concerned about your country, and we think you should be too.”

            “You guys think I’m not?”

            “Well, if you are, feel free to discuss it,” Jane says. “Are you for Nigeria or Biafra?”

I didn’t answer, only gazed from face to face, wondering if I’d missed any news from back home. Here in the UK I was supposed to be safe from the incessant disturbances and unrests of Nigeria, but not today – it seemed.

            “If you guys must know, it’s hard to pick a side: one is a path to unnecessary bloodshed that will not achieve anything, and the other is a vote for second class citizenship and subtle marginalization. So…” I heaved and sounded like one cornered.

            “But what if bloodshed were ruled out?”

            “Wha?” I was a bit dazed there were still pursuing.

            “What if the split could occur without bloodshed? Would you be for it, or against it?”

            “I don’t know if that is possible.”

            “I’m saying… supposing it is?” Lancelot wasn’t even a Law student, but damn!

            “Well… it needs to be critically looked at. Whoever is routing for a Biafra has to be sure all constituent states can be on the same page and remain there. I mean… there are various things to look at…”

They all pulled up chairs and surrounded me.

            “Why don’t you look at them, Jude?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “You’re a research student… figure out how we mean!”

            “TO GAUGE THE PULSE OF A NATION,” Jamie worded; “May be a fitting title!” Then he shrugged.

I conceptualized what was possible, but of course presented the financial challenge. Schooling in the UK was hard enough. This bunch of guys said they’d put together a five thousand pound fund to support my ‘looking at’ what was supposed to be looked at prior to supporting or not supporting a secession.

I asked them for Terms of Reference, they said to generate one and present for comments. Fine.

I have two weeks to make necessary phone calls, and to send and receive necessary emails as I prepare the Ts of R. After I submit, it won’t take too long to reflect their comments and suggestions in the final paper. Then I’ll be ready to embark on the journey. I catch the Liverpool vs Chelsea Game at Anfield on the 26^th of December, and celebrate my birthday on transit to Nigeria the next day. With the new year will begin my ‘looking at’ the things that brought me home.

HERE ARE MY TERMS OF REFERENCE AS THEY ARE COMING TOGETHER

1.      Have there always been agitations for a Sovereign Biafra?

2.      If yes, from what quarters?

3.      Is this new agitation coming from the same source?

4.      How many states originally made up Biafra?

5.      Are elements from all states involved in this new agitation?

6.      What are the voiced and unvoiced reasons for wanting to secede?

1.      What is the current socio-economic plight of the Biafra states?

2.      What is their combined IGR?

3.      What is the size of their land mass?

4.      How much of their plight (good and bad) is caused by the Federal Government?

5.      How much by the State?

6.      Is any current governor of the states Biafra President material?

1.      Is the new Biafra agitation a reply to the Boko Haram-marred administration of a Southern President?

2.      Would this agitation exist if an Igbo man was president?

3.      How do the agitators conceptualize a return to Igboland of all Igbos?

4.      Will negotiations for property owners to retain ownership across the two countries should they separate succeed?

5.      Will an assurance of retention of ownership of property make secession easier and choicier for the rich Igbos?

6.      Are there Igbos who have been forced out of the North due to violence?

7.      Do they still retain ownership of whatever property they owned?

8.      If no, is it possible that their angst is part of the inspiration for a louder agitation?

9.      How would returnees fare at the hands of current feudal lords of the Igboland?

10.  How long before goods and services get to be determined by normal economic forces rather than by circumstance?

A LEGACY FROM MR. DITTO by Doris Cheney Whitehouse

I stood by Mr. Ditto’s bedside at the hour of his death. He looked like a small black doll against the whiteness of the pillow, his old head almost buried in its deep folds. His pulse was hardly perceptible, and I felt a strange awareness of a transformation taking place, as though by watching very closely I might be able to see his spirit soar like a newly hatched moth out of the withered husk that lay before me.

      At last I heard the faint beginning of his final breath. He did not struggle even in death, so that when it came it was gentle and easy, touched with contentment like a sigh.

      The Reverend William Howard, a Negro chaplain, sat by the bed, an open Bible resting lightly in the palm of one great hand. He closed it quietly. Then he bowed his head and whispered, “Into Thy hands, O Merciful Savior, we commend the soul of Thy servant.”

      After a moment he touched my shoulder gently as though he understood the heaviness in my heart. “Rejoice and be exceeding glad,” he said. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

      When he was done I did the things a nurse must do for a patient after death. I opened the drawer of the bedside table and began to gather together all Mr. Ditto’s belongings – a pair of ancient spectacles, hopelessly twisted; a razor with a rusted blade; a Bible worn from years of handling. And there I found the nickel that I knew had brought him so much joy. It was the total treasure of his life, and I held it in my hand for a long time, remembering . . .

      Mr. Ditto had been one of the first patients assigned to me that winter of 1947 when I took up my duties as a young nurse on the TB ward of the Veterans Administration Hospital in Louisville, Kentucky. Mr. Ditto was his real name; he was never known by any other. An American Negro born of slave parents in New Orleans at the time of the Civil War, he had been orphaned at an early age and, with the emancipation, had been cast out into the world. Except for service in the Spanish-American War, he had lived his life from day to day, doing odd jobs for anyone who would hire him, living alone in a shack provided by his former owners. Some years ago he had come to Louisville. He had been ill for a long time, and when he was admitted to the hospital he was suffering from advanced pelvic tuberculosis. A great abscess had ruptured, leaving a draining sinus.

      The dreadful stench of it rose to meet me as I entered his room that first day. I wanted to turn and run away, and perhaps I might have done so had not something in Mr. Ditto’s eyes reached out and held me. “Good morning, Mr. Ditto,” I said. “Are you ready for the morning’s activities?”

      “Ah don’ know what they is, ma’am,” he said. “But if you think Ah need ‘em, Ah’s ready.”

      I began with a bath and the changing of the sheets. The tiny body was so emaciated that it seemed almost weightless as I gently turned him on his side. His eyes bulged with pain, but he made no sound.

      I remember how my nausea rose when I removed the dressing, but a small voice saved me. “Ah don’ know how you stand it, ma’am! Ah can’t hardly stand it myself!” And he wrinkled up his face in such a comic grimace that I laughed out loud. When he heard my laughter, he laughed, too. We looked at each other helplessly, caught on a wave of preposterous mirth, and suddenly the air seemed fresher and the wound less offensive. The sight of it never bothered me again.

      When I finally drew up the clean white sheet and folded it across his chest, he said. “Ah’s feelin’ a whole heap better, and that’s the truth.” Then he reached out one bony hand, weak and trembling, and fumbled in the drawer of his bedside table. From it he extracted a shiny nickel and held it out to me.

      “It ain’t very much for all yo’ goodness,” he said. “But it’s a powerful cold day, an’ Ah just thought some good hot coffee might give you pleasure.”

      The drawer was open, and I could see a number of nickels, perhaps twenty, scattered among his personal effects. This was all the money he had in the world. I should have accepted his offering at once. Instead, I reacted in haste. “Oh no, Mr. Ditto,” I said. “I couldn’t take that! You save it for a rainy day.”

      I saw the light go out of his eyes and all the shining, as a dark shadow fell across his face. “Ain’t never gonna rain no harder’n now,” he said.

      Hearing the dull despair in his voice, I knew instantly what I had done. I had reduced him to an old, old man with nothing left to give, with nothing left to accomplish except dying. Quickly I said, “You know, Mr. Ditto, I think you’re right. I can’t think of anything better than a cup of good hot coffee.” I took the nickel out of his hand and watched the light come back into his face.

      In the days that followed, Mr. Ditto grew steadily weaker. Every morning when I put him through the same exhausting routine he submitted patiently. Somehow we always managed a little conversation, a little fun and gentle laughter, so that I looked forward to the hour spent with him. And every morning before I left the room his old hand would grope for another nickel and he would say, “It ain’t very much for all yo’ goodness.”

      I watched the little pile of nickels slowly diminishing and prayed that Mr. Ditto would not outlive his treasure. His strength was now almost gone, but he never once forgot his gift to me, even when he could no longer lift his hand without my help.

      One day I saw that he was reaching for the very last nickel in the drawer. I guided his hand to it, fighting back the tears that had sprung to my eyes. I searched his face for any sign of realization that there were no other nickels, but he was unaware of it. He held the coin out to me, smiling the same sweet smile, mumbling the same familiar words of gratitude. Then I knew he was wrapped in that gentle half-awareness which enfolds the dying. He was conscious only of the joy of giving, and I knew with sudden gladness that he was past all keeping of accounts. Silently I put the nickel back in the corner of the drawer.

      He lived for two weeks after that. Every day when I had finished his morning care and he was lying clean and comfortable in fresh white sheets, he would murmur over and over again, “You an angel, ma’am, you just a sure ‘nough angel.” Then I would know that it was time to take his hand in mine and guide it to the corner of the drawer. Every day he gave me the nickel. And every day I put it back again.

      That last day I sent for Mr. Howard, the chaplain. He came and read softly as one might read to a child who was falling asleep, his voice moving smoothly over the lovely verses . . . “And seeing the multitudes, He went up into a mountain; and when He was set, His disciples came unto Him: And He opened His mouth, and taught them, saying, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’”

      I thought: Mr. Ditto had been, indeed, the poorest and meekest of men; he had accepted fearful suffering without complaint. But now, in the final hour of his life, he could not hear again the promise of eternal joy. Suddenly rebellion rose in my heart. Mr. Ditto. How perfectly his name described him, as though, God, having made a world of men, had paused and then said “Ditto” – and there he was. What purpose had there been in his creation? What possible meaning to his patient, futile life?

      After the chaplain had gone, I stood for a long time with the last treasured nickel in my hand. Finally I put it with the rest of Mr. Ditto’s things, tied them all together into a sad little bundle and marked them with his name. Then I took them to the office and suggested that they be turned over to Mr. Howard.

      Later that afternoon, just before it was time for me to go off duty, Mr. Howard appeared in the ward. He looked at me and smiled. “It seems that MR. Ditto left a small estate,” he said “I think he would want you to have it.” He took the nickel out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand.

      This time I accepted it instantly. For, remembering the light in Mr. Ditto’s eyes, I suddenly knew the meaning of his gift. Over and over I had received it in grief, thinking it a mark of his poverty. Now for the first time I saw it as it really was: a shining symbol of some boundless wealth which I had never dreamed existed. In that one bright moment all sorrow was dispelled, all pity vanished. My poor little Mr. Ditto had been rich beyond belief. In his vast estate were all the patience, faith, and love a human heart can hold.

      I went to the hospital canteen and bought a cup of coffee. There was a vacant table by the window, and I sat down. It was almost dark. A tiny evening star twinkled prematurely in the sky. I lifted the steaming coffee to my lips and proposed a silent toast: “To Mr. Ditto, who shall inherit the earth.” Then I drank deeply of the cup.

LABYRINTHS - TWENTY

                After dinner later that night, I announced that I was tired and wanted to retire. Abbey appeared to have no problems with that. I said good night to her and went to my room. A few minutes later I heard a knock and... how many were we in this house... of course it was her. She came in and made herself comfortable on my bed and I got the impression that she wasn’t leaving soon.

                “I want to ask you...” she started, “Would you really blame me if I didn’t tell you my medical condition?”

                “Yes... because by so doing you endangered us both.”

                “I hate to compare you to the others, but you’re toeing the exact same line they did.”

                “Obviously. Anyone would toe the same line, because toeing a different one might be disastrous.”

                “Is that why you have been avoiding me since I told you?”

                “Hello? Avoiding you? Who ran off to work this morning in spite of my attempts to prevail on her to stay home and rest? Who just... wandered off with Isabelle now to go and gallivant about town...? Don’t speak to me about avoidance!”

                “You’re sounding like you’re jealous... But I left because I’d rather be miles away from you than to be in the same house with you and have to tolerate the... chasm you’ve created between us.”

                “I don’t get you... How can you say I created a chasm between us?”

                “You didn’t offer me soothing words to help me with the tough battle I’m facing. You don’t hold me anymore... you don’t cuddle me. You’ve not kissed me since I got back from the hospital... why? You’re treating me as if it’s AIDS I’ve got...”

                “I’m avoiding those because doing so might be injurious to your health.”

                “C’mon Iroko, don’t tell me your view on the relations of man and woman is this... limited.”

                “How do you mean?”

                “Your... philosophy... only seems to recognize relations based on... animal desire... but there’s a wide field of strong attachment where desire plays, at least, only a secondary part... There are several ways to share a good time... not just through sex!”

                “Well, much as I can’t say I understand what you mean, I’m acting the way I’m doing based on my knowledge of myself, and what I think I know of you. People who shouldn’t have sex shouldn’t kiss. And what’s more... then when I kissed you I was your shrink, but now, according to you – and a wise decision that is too – you don’t want my shrink services anymore...”

                “Look into my eyes Iroko,” she looked serious, “and tell me that all we had was just... just... work.”

I paused awhile. Then…

                “C’mon Abbey, I told you you’re special... and I wasn’t lying. Girl... I’m just scared and... confused... You know this is a new development... and a big one at that. I need time to assimilate all this. I came here with the intention of being your shrink and working with you, but right now I’m the one who’s being worked on. I need to breathe, Abbey, I need to. It is important that I do. I need to sort myself out. I need to check my feelings.”

                “Know what, I agree with you. And I got this for you.” She gave me an envelope.

I opened it and opened my mouth in shock; then I began to count the notes.

                “I don’t really know your... money... as in your currency here... but something tells me this is ten thousand Rands?”

                “That’s correct.”

                “What for?”

                “For you Iroko.”

                “For me? My money’s supposed to be just four grand... of which you’ve already given me one... so what... this is over a hundred percent excess. Don’t you know what you should do with money anymore?”

                “Trust me, I do. And one is fix my car for a start. But you would have gotten no more than four grand if all you did here was your shrink job.”

                “Did I do more... something I’m not aware of?”

                “Yes, you brought sunshine into our lives... Isabelle, Doctor Biola, Doctor Fina, Zuma... all have something beautiful to say about you. God! Even my secretary in the office says you’re nice.”

                “Okay... and it is your place, my dear girl, to reward people who are nice, huh?!”

                “Don’t see it as a reward, ‘cuz I could never reward you. See it as payment for your work. Perhaps you should begin to see yourself as more than a shrink... you sell sunshine... and I’ve bought some for all these people I just mentioned. For me, I want to keep the source – if I could. Believe me, you did much more than you can imagine in such a short time.”

                “Wow... that’s... that’s ennobling. But Abbey girl, you might want to reconsider this. When I’ll be gone it wouldn’t feel the same way... especially as there’s no guarantee that I shall return... And you’ll seem to find you fell prey to the antics of a con man who breezed by your life... Don’t do something you’ll regret later.”

                “I will never regret this past two weeks for as long as I breathe. Even if you’re the devil... I love you dearly, and I’m not ashamed to say it.”

                My rejecting the money was no pretence... my refusal was genuine, because... something like I didn’t want Abbey to commit me any further. Of course I needed the money... for Teresa, for my folks, for my sibs... for Kate; and to even hang on when I found I’d lost my job. I didn’t want to take more than I bargained for. But Abbey’s persistence was unbeatable, so I claimed the fat envelope from the bed.

I kissed her on the temple.

                “You’re magical Abbey... I’ve been asking myself a question since these days... ‘Hope these aren’t the last days of my life?’... ‘cuz if the best parts ... if being in the company of the epitome of sublime womanhood is served me this early on ... if I’ve seen what men eighty haven’t yet seen... I hope I’m still gonna live to eighty.”

                Abbey smiled. “You do have a way with words. You say the most beautiful things.”

                “If you go to a beautiful beach you know what it does to your senses, that you bless it unaware... if you chat with a captivating woman... you know what it does to your mind? It sets it aglow with gestures and words that attempt to sing her praise...”

                “Say no more, Iroko,” she said, “just hold me.”

I gathered her into my arms and held tight... Even I had missed this. I could feel her heartbeat, and it beat faster than mine. I hoped all was well now.

                The sensitivity of the situation endeared us further. It is true that... when love begins to set in, carnality begins to retreat to the rear. At that point when you can hug a woman and not really feel her breasts rubbing against you... and not imagine how close your crotches are and how close you are to penetration... and not run your hands all over her back down to the fleshy mounds above her legs... at that point you’ve transcended a realm; you’ve either come to really love that woman, or come to be indifferent about her femaleness.

In my case it couldn’t be indifference... the former was more likely to be the case. Abbey and I slept in my room, on my bed, till dawn. We slept in each other’s embrace... and woke up so.

This wasn’t enough, though, to be a foretaste of matrimony. It lacked the essentials of a connubial night – the talk and the sexual conjugation. The talk about the children – who had been born or who were to be; the quarrels; the fights; the coldness... Or the reconciliation; the kisses and the re-professions of love and commitment. The matrimonial bed is a drama-set infinitely more palpitating than most other aspects of life. What couples do there reverberate through history and constitute the tumultuous noise that emanates from the planet as it plots its course through space. Two people necking there in 1888 or ’89 in Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary, may have been fighting through it... to produce Hitler... who was involved, arguably, in the loudest war noises ever heard. And when the two who produced Bin Laden went in, someone should have told them to use a condom. Or maybe they should have just held each other and slept... the way Abbey and I did, for nobody ever really knows the full consequences of releasing semen into a woman’s vaginal track.

                I wanted to sneak out of bed without waking her, but how could I succeed when she lay atop my arm! She caught me and asked where I was going.

                “To say my prayers,” I said.

Then she didn’t say anything, she just got out of bed and knelt down... with sleepy eyes.

                “I didn’t want to wake you because you need this rest...” I said.

                “Let’s pray then I’ll go back to sleep.”

We did; after which I tucked her back in and went to wash up. In my mind I said those prayers I couldn’t say when we were two... as in, I spoke to God in a language only He and I understood.

LABYRINTHS - NINETEEN

                In the morning it was Abbey’s knock woke me up. I came out to see her all dressed.

                “Where are you going?” I said with sleepy eyes.

                “Where else... work of course!”

                “What do you mean work of course?”

                “Have you forgotten that I work?”

                “In case you need reminding you just came back from the hospital what... hours ago...? And now you’re going to work?”

                “Mhmm!”

                “Ever heard of the word REST?”

                “Yeah, I have; but I will rest over the weekend.”

                “No way,” I said. “You go nowhere!”

                “Oh c’mon Iroko, this is how it always goes. Rest doesn’t exactly help. Once I’m out of the hospital I resume my work like normal the very next day... I don’t feel pains or anything... And it’s not like I need to recuperate...”

                “Are you serious?”

                “Yeah. And if I miss today, means I’ve missed the entire week... because Friday’s a public holiday. And there be some folks out there who can’t wait for me to finally die so the party for them can begin.”

                “Nothing I can do to stop you?”

                “Of course you can stop me, but I’m begging you not to. I’ll take care of myself and then I’ll rest tomorrow all through to Sunday. Besides, I’ll be back earlier than usual.”

                “Okay... You go if you must.” When she tried to turn away I added, “You might wanna know that… I’ve fixed a date for my trip.”

She turned back around. “When?”

                “I start working on the papers Monday... It shouldn’t take long. As soon as it’s done... Tuesday... Maybe Wednesday.”

She hugged me tautly all of a sudden, and then ran out of the house holding back emotions.

I didn’t know what to make of that.

The next thing I heard was the ignition of the S-Class and then a heavy thud. I rushed out to look and found that she’d rammed into the gatehouse while trying to reverse. The rear chassis of the car severely dented. I told her to come back inside and stay home, that she wasn’t fit yet to drive. She said true, that she wasn’t fit to drive, and threw the car key at me and ran out of the gate... Apparently, it was to catch a cab.

Zuma and I took care of the mess as best we could.

                In the evening Isabelle came over with her sister... and, as it later appeared, with what she’d been up to at the printing press.

Well, I had to leave them in the sitting room; Abbey and Isabelle had some making up to do, and Lillian was silent and I thought I shouldn’t bother her.

                “You guys have some making up to do,” I said and left for my room.

                Much later I heard a knock; opening, I saw both women beaming. Isabelle handed me a tiny card – Invitation to Abbey’s Survival Party at Isabelle’s Place.

                “Come to think of it, we’ve never seen you boogie!” Isabelle said.

I laughed. “Was this a surprise to you, Abbey?” I asked her.

                “Yes, it was. I told you this girl is so... improvising.” She hit Isabelle on the arm playfully.

                “Isn’t a party... excitement? Doesn’t it put you at risk?” I asked.

                “It couldn’t... I party... nothing happens. Nothing can get into me and stir me to... ecstasy.”

I cast a look at Isabelle... to let her know I’d heard about Abbey’s disease. If, perhaps, there was something more...

                “It’s tomorrow?” I asked.

                “Yes.”

                “Of course I’ll be there.”

                “Great!” Isabelle screamed. And both girls hugged me gleefully, and dashed back to the sitting room to continue strategizing for the event. I sensed oozing from their high spirits the bliss of fresh reconciliation... of girl friends who had missed each other.

Later both girls said they were going out to see some things... that they’d be right back. They went in Isabelle’s Honda Accord, leaving the sadist behind. After I watched the happy duo leave, I went and sat in the sitting room, reckoning it would be uncouth to leave Lillian all alone. But I resolved not to say the first word. That was probably her game too. Nay, that was her way – her life. We just sat there, far apart, not saying anything to each other.

She then stood up and walked to the kitchen. I felt she knew her way so I didn’t say anything to her. And it was good riddance to bad rubbish, anyway. I just sat wondering what she was doing there... if she was hungry or something. I was too. Fixing lunch had been up to me, because Abbey couldn’t wait to leave the house in the morning that she made no meal arrangements as usual. I’d passed up lunch. And now, it wasn’t quite time for dinner; and with Abbey gallivanting around town with Isabelle, she mightn’t even remember we needed to eat in this house. If Lillian was up to preparing some food I didn’t mind; I just hoped she’d be kind enough to share. Remembering the fried rice at their place I knew that, in the kitchen, she had the Midas touch. I heard some sounds... the refrigerator door opening, and then slamming, moving utensils, clicking glasses... and then I heard the shattering of glass and a loud scream. I rushed. Poor Miss Lillian had filled two glasses with juice – perhaps for her and Zuma – and had spilled one. Now the kitchen floor was smeared with a funny mixture of colours: glass particles like diamonds here and there in the yellow juice, and Lillian’s blood... looking like more blood than juice spilled. The poor girl was crouched in a corner feigning strength.

                “What happened?” I asked with visible concern as I went to lift her up.

When I touched her she cringed and I left her a little distance from the ground and she slammed her pretty butt on the tiled floor. I went to get a mop to clean up the mess. I got her some tissue paper to wrap the bleeding finger with; and offered her as many sorries as I could. But I wasn’t going to touch her again. She slowly dabbed the finger with the tissue and, from where I stood, I saw that the cut was quite deep.

I brought the salt shake and gave it to her to sprinkle some salt on the surface but she turned it down.

She stood up and walked out of the kitchen.

I thought... I’d never seen a human being like this before. I continued to mop the floor, and when I finished I went back to my seat in the living room. Then she emerged from the utility room with a First Aid Box and came and sat on the rug in front of me, still mute. She opened the box and brought out a bottle of Milton and handed it to me with, somewhat, trembling hands, and she was looking softly into my eyes. I took the bottle, and got some cotton wool too and readied to get to work.

                “If I hadn’t heard you speak before, Lily, I’d think you’re dumb.”

I dabbed the finger with the spirit and she shrieked in pain, with the concomitant grimace – and she was still extremely beautiful.

                “Sorry girl... But I’m glad you’re aware it’s for your own good.”

After sterilizing the cut with the spirit, I wrapped the finger with a plaster and said,

                “To make it heal quicker...” I was lifting the finger up to my mouth to kiss it when she pulled it away.

The look on her face confused me. It was the countenance of a scared girl.

“Well, you’re all fixed girlie!” I announced.

I put everything back in the box and she covered it and took it away.

                “By the way, Lillian, the lucky glass of juice’s still waiting for you... Were you gonna drink two glasses?”

She ignored me and proceeded to replace the box from where she took it. I refocused on the TV, and then I saw her pass to the kitchen. In a short while she emerged with two glasses of juice in a tray, walking with exaggerated care. She dropped the tray on the centre table and brought me a glass. I felt that meant I had to take it, so I took it from her and just watched. She took the other one and went and sat down and began to sip.

I reckoned all wasn’t well with this girl... this intriguing damsel... Too much beauty for one woman alone! A question wanted to push my lips apart and jump out, but a hunch told me to calculate... to think before I spoke. Now I decided I’d say the exact opposites of what impulse nudged me to say. Like... the first thing I wanted to say was ‘Are you alright Lillian?’ but instead I said,

                “This is quite thoughtful of you, miss. Thanks a bunch...”

I saw a ray of smile flicker across her face and knew my improvised strategy wrought wonders. So, now, where I wanted to say ‘Don’t you talk?’ I said,

                “...And I’m fascinated by your silent goodness... your silent thoughtfulness... Without being told, without a dialogue, you read the mind and know what to do. That’s amazing. But I wish you could share with me ... the beauty of your voice.”

She didn’t conceal the smile now. She let me see it – all of it – the beauty and glow of it. She let it intoxicate me like Abbey’s champagne yesterday.

                Zuma had to get the gate, because a Honda Accord wanted to come in. Lillian had already cleared our juice glasses. And the silence seemed like we’d been waiting for Abbey and Isabelle to come and rescue us from the boredom of each other. They came in conversing animatedly, probably about what they’d gone out to see. They argued for a while about colour choices, and then it was time for the sisters to go home. Then the final hush hush wishes and kisses of parting friends ensued after which both girls left.

Lillian spoke to Abbey... and to her sister... why wouldn’t she speak to me?

 I wondered.

LABYRINTHS - EIGHTEEN

                I called Isabelle and she said she was at a printing press trying to produce copies of something she designed on her lap top.

                “Belle, is that more important than that your friend is back from the hospital? Don’t you have a heart?”

                “I told you I will see her. I will. Why don’t you just trust me!”

                “You know what?”

                “What?”

                “If you ask me to trust you I will.”

                “Really, honey?”

                “Yup!”

                “Then trust me.”

                “Then I do. I do trust you... I only hope you know what you’re doing.” I cut the call.

One more call before I hand the phone back to the owner. I hid the number and I dialled Nigeria.

The call connected and I looked at the door of my room to confirm that it was securely closed... and that no one could hear.

                “Hello?” came the voice from Nigeria.

                “Hi Sister, it’s Jude.”

                “I know it’s you... Did you run away?”

                “How can you ask me that... why would I want to run away... run away from what... for what?”

She paused to take it all in. “To escape your responsibilities, of course!”

                “Sister there’s no need for you to talk to me that way.”

                “Sure ‘bout that? Jude are you sure about that! I’ve been trying to reach you for God knows how long now. I’ve borne all these troubles all alone and you tell me that I have no right to talk to you this way?” She sounded hurt.

                “I didn’t say you have no right to talk to me... I said there was no need...”

                “Where have you been?” she cut me.

I dared not say I was out of the country.

                “At work.”

                “At work? That you couldn’t keep in touch... when you know your number is switched off?”

                “Teresa... I’m terribly sorry... but... but... you know I’m working hard so everything will be alright. I just can never thank you enough for having been there for me all these years.”

We both started to cry.

                “Jude?”

                “Yes?”

Silence...

                “When I tried to call some weeks back and couldn’t reach you it wasn’t to ask you for money. I realized that I’ve never told you how brave you’ve been... how strong... and how so very proud of you I am. I realized I’ve never really commended your being there all these years...”

                “C’mon Teres... don’t talk like I’m any better than you... like I’m as good as you are even. Of course this is my responsibility, but you, you have nothing to do with this... you could easily walk away now and no one will blame you; you will even be commended for holding on for five years; five long, hard years. Teres... your personality is... sublime, your humanity enchanting. I could never thank you enough, never...”

                “Stop it Jude. Don’t count me out like that. Don’t push me away... don’t exclude me like that. I’m here because I want to be, and I’m as much an intrinsic part of this as you are. It’s in giving meaning to this that I give meaning to myself... my existence. Doing this fulfils me... And many times I think that I want to do this for as long as I may live. To do this with you... together... in an enabling environment... “

                “Teres!” I wanted to speak....

                “Don’t shout me down, for I blaspheme not!” she yelled. “I’m only just confiding in you what thoughts invade the sincerity of my mind. I have no evil intentions, but at a workshop a long time ago when I started out on this journey, we watched The Sound of Music and were enjoined to search our souls to determine what our true callings may be. In the face of a cruel world it’s easy to wake up and decide that you want to live a celibate life forever, but when you see the best and brightest radiance of humanity on display in one man against... the… the… dome of darkness of the masses, you may re-think your decision. Without a man like you in this world I wouldn’t even be thinking these thoughts. But I know God has a purpose for everything, perhaps, even for the trying circumstances under which we met. I’m neither saying nor suggesting anything to you, Jude, I just thought I might... applaud your beautiful commitment to your responsibilities. I hope you know that men like you, if they exist, are so rare...

But don’t let what I’ve said add to your present worries, okay. It’s all your call; it’s always been and will always be. And I know you’re wise... I know you’ll choose what’s best for you both... I just thought I might bring this to your notice though, before you start thinking who the mother of your children might be. I want to make sure you consider all the options open to you.”

                “Teres... I’m short of words.” I really was. “I appreciate everything you’ve said... everything you’ve done... you’re just... magical. And I will always thank you no matter what you say...” I paused for a while, then “How is he?”

                “Like I said, when I tried last time to reach you it was to tell you all these. But now I need to tell you that we need money. He’s in the hospital...”

                “What?! What’s wrong with him?”

                “Please calm down. It’s probably simple malaria or something... but we need money to know for certain... and to treat it.”

                “Know what, Teres, just try and do what you can please... aight. I’ll come down next week with some money...”

                “Can’t you send through the bank... as usual?”

                “I’m afraid, no.”

                “Why? You’re broke?”

                “Um... I’m not in the country right now.”

                “What... you’re not... where are you?”

                “I’m in South Africa... Look, work brought me here, but I’ll come down to Enugu next week to see you guys. I can’t go sending money from a bank here because my visa’s already expired.”

                “...Means you’ve been there for long?”

                “Erm... two months... roughly.”

                “You’ve been away for two months, and you never bothered to...”

                “Teresa please, I beg you, don’t start. Please. I beg you in the name of God. I’m sorry but I’ll explain everything to you when I come. Please.”

Teresa could be really impulsive.

                “Okay. But, tell me, what kinda work are you doing in South Africa?”

                “Erm... erm... I came here to volunteer... to volunteer for the World Cup...”

                “Volunteer for the World Cup?” Sounded like she didn’t believe me.

                “Yes Teres... I promise to tell you all about it when I return.”

                “Okay...” She mellowed acquiescingly.

                “Will you do what you can for him until I return?”

                “You know I will. Always.”

                “Thank you so much, Teres... May God Almighty never cease to bless you.”

                “Amen. And you too.”

                “I gotta go now, please give him my regards. And tell Sister Adaora that I said hi.”

                “Alright, I will. Jude?”       

                “Yeah?”

                “Take care of yourself, okay!”

                “I will. Bye!”

                “Bye dear.” She cut the call.

                ???

                I edited the call register deleting all my calls. Then I went to meet Abbey in her room and told her of all the people that called when she was... incommunicado.

I gave her back her phone... and her wallet, and told her that whatever money was missing was fuel money for all the hospital runs. And that was the truth. She’d probably brought that money for me, but I didn’t need to take it without being given.

I stayed for a while and we talked, and then I went out for a walk.

                At the gate I said to Zuma,

                “I told her how helpful you were, and she really appreciates. I’m sure she’ll tell you that herself or... or show you. Meanwhile, have this... for all your help.”

I squared the guy some... reasonable Rands. He was appreciative of the gesture, in a way that he couldn’t speak perhaps. Or maybe he didn’t completely understand me.

I walked through the gate. I needed the walk and air like an addict needs drugs. I needed to think about everything... put them all in perspective and knock them off one after the other. The conversation with Sister Teresa was a new development, but I couldn’t say it was strange. I hoped I was still going to live up to seventy... or eighty, because I wondered why the whole events of my life wanted to take place right now – as if there was no time.