‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Good. Well, he now sits on the board of the Financial Crimes Commission. He has a troublesome son he’s looking to marry off, you know, make him into a responsible young man with a family. I’ve told him I have a brilliant daughter who’s practically done with law school and he’s very open to the idea of a union between our families. We can tidy up the wedding within the next three months. He will ensure that this case with the commission gets snuffed out, and even if your case eventually gets to the public, you’d be a respectable married woman by then, no one would dare speak ill of you, to your face at least.’ He was exultant in his brilliance, his ability to always come up with a solution.
I said nothing, stunned by the proposition.
He continued. ‘If you’re worried about this son of his, I’ve done some background checks of my own and there’s nothing about him that can’t be handled, and if it gets too bad, their family is wealthy enough to get you a separate home.’
‘You’re asking to sell me?’ I mouthed finally.
He frowned, the vein in his head started to tick. ‘What nonsense are you talking about? I’m providing a solution for the both of us and that’s the best you can say?’
I lurched to my feet.
‘Nwakaego, think of what you’re about to do. You’re my daughter, I know you’re not stupid. You have to be realistic.’
I moved towards the door and turned the handle.
‘I know you’re not stupid, and so I’ll give you till the end of next week to make up your mind. If I don’t hear from you then, consider yourself dead to me.’
In my room, I listened to the CDs Emeka had burned before it had all come crumbling down. I still refused to see him or pick up his calls. He blamed himself, I knew, though I wasn’t sure to what extent, until the first email arrived, lodged at the top of the screen on my visit to a cybercafe.
I’m so sorry, I should have been there that day. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have let you work with him. Please forgive me.
But it wasn’t his fault.
Remember all the promises we made to each other, the future we planned together. Don’t you still see it? Was our love only a passing thing for you? Did you love with the fear of losing?
I did love with fear, but with the fear of transformation, that he would one day become a man I didn’t recognise, just like my father.
The third email was brief:
Nwakaego, I still love you. Please talk to me.
Was I supposed to be grateful?
Are you afraid of what I think about you? Nothing has changed for me. I still see you the same. I’m so sorry.
But everything had changed, irrevocably so. I would never be the same person again. The last email had come with an MP3 attachment: Lighthouse Family’s ‘High’.
Emeka delivered an invitation to his mother’s birthday party. My mother spoke with him at the door.
‘I think you should speak with him,’ she said to me when he was gone. ‘You both deserve closure. He’s not his parents.’ She handed me the card. ‘You don’t have to go, but maybe it’s an apology on their part. Maybe they’re going to do the right thing now.’
Gospel music tinkled as I arrived. I’d come late, deciding at the last minute to make an appearance. Emeka’s sister answered the door. She smiled up at me.
‘Emeka went out to buy drinks, many more people came. He’ll be back soon.’
I hid behind the crowd as ‘Jesus’ was spelled out and the knife sliced through the icing. Just as the music picked up again, a familiar figure stood and clinked on a glass with a spoon.
‘Attention everyone,’ Pastor Kamsi announced. The gathering went silent. ‘I have the special permission of the celebrant to do what I’m about to do.’
The room murmured. Emeka’s mother’s eyes met mine.
Pastor Kamsi pulled Cynthia forward and dropped to a knee. Ecstatic screams engulfed the room, as Cynthia, joyous tears streaming down her face, nodded and accepted the ring he slid unto her finger.
Emeka’s mother continued to hold my eyes as understanding dawned on me: this was why I’d been invited, to witness this engagement, to put an end to my demonic ways, to see Kamsi thrive regardless. Was Emeka aware? Had he brought the card to me knowing what would happen? I couldn’t breathe.
My phone rang as I rushed towards the door. A strange number. I hesitated, thinking it was Emeka. ‘Hello, is this Nwakaego Azubuike?’ a woman asked.
‘Yes, this is she.’
‘Your attention is needed at our hospital. An unconscious patient – Zinachukwu Okafor – put your name down as her guardian.’
It was all white: white walls, white sheets, white overalls and white nurse caps. I imagined I’d taken a detour and somehow ended up on the other side. That would have been a lot better than reality.
They needed blood. Zina was low on blood and the hospital’s blood bank was down on O-negative. I flinched as the needle pricked my arm. We’d joked about this before, in secondary school after the biology teacher announced we were going to be studying blood types. For the class experiment, we pricked our fingers with lancets and placed our blood on glass slides to be studied under microscopes. ‘A, B, O,’ our teacher announced before he added the anti-Rh serums. We were the only two in class that belonged to the O-negative blood group. ‘The universal blood donor type,’ our teacher informed the classroom. ‘This blood type offers the lowest risk to other blood types and can be donated to others. However, should they need blood transfusion themselves, they can only receive from other O-negative types.’
‘Ah thank God, I have one close by. Hope you hear that Ego,’ Zina said laughing. ‘If I’m ever in an accident, you’re the only one that can save me o.’
‘Instead of you to pray that we’re not in the accident together,’ I retorted, joining in her laughter.
Now here I was, watching my blood gradually fill bag after bag held by a nurse who did not smile. She handed me a small packet of juice when she was done. ‘Take that and sit still for at least fifteen minutes. I’ll bring your friend’s belongings to you,’ she said. Then she was gone.
‘She walked in here bleeding profusely,’ the doctor had explained in his office after I rushed into the emergency ward, screaming for help. He pulled a small white bottle from his lab coat pocket and held it to me.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘It seems your friend took illegal abortion pills. Somehow she was able to find her way here when she started bleeding. If she’d come in any later, she’d be dead.’
