Love Drops E-Book

by Seun Odukoya

Love Drops

  by

  seun odukoya

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  love drops

  Copyright © 2015 by seun odukoya

  Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own free copy.

  Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Well, for the most part.

 

  From a little room. In my house.

  Somewhere In Lagos.

  8th of February 2015

  1:27am

  My Dearest One,

  Yes. I mean you.

  I try to imagine your state – I mean your ambience; your feeling as you read this. If I know you well (which I tell myself I do), you’re sitting up in bed, ignoring the noisy backdrop from screaming generators – or maybe generators are reserved for engineering plants and whatnots where you are – reading this and smiling that smile; you know, the one you smile when you’re all alone in your world, away from prying and judgmental eyes. That smile that makes even you; the ‘smiler’ blush.

  Well. It tickles to think you’re smiling for me. Really.

  Do you remember how we met?

  Wait a moment. Are you sure? I’m convinced it was on Naijastories o.

  You saw a link on Twitter – or was it Facebook? Oh – someone mentioned the blog? For Days and a Night? Saving Dapo?

  Or is this our first time?

  No matter. We have a ways to go before this ends; you and I.

  I recall; I remember the first words you ever said to me – the first time you got personal with anything I’ve ever done. I cannot recreate or capture the words here, but if I was to simply sum them, they would read something along the lines of:

  You write beautifully.

  I must have stared at your tweet/comment/post for hours because I found it beguiling to say the least. What exactly do I write that would make someone like you create time and space in your heart and head for someone like me?

  That was – that is mind-bending.

  And you didn’t stop there – no. You couldn’t wait to show me off to your friends, your family – and people – whoever whenever wherever – whoever was willing to listen got an earful – or eyeful – of how amazing you think I – or my writing – is.

  I see your eyes shining with pride in me and my work.

  I cannot lie. It chokes up my throat and warms my heart. And me, a mere farm boy from Ijebu – Ode.

  And no lie; just as most every relationship, we’ve had our questionable not-so-cool moments. Like when I messed up For Days and A Night with typos. Like how I forgot to give you the sequel to Songs About AIDS – after you were patient enough to wait a whole year. Like how I still haven’t given you the rest of A Matter Of Height. Or how I didn’t send out Saving Dapo when I said I would.

  Sigh. My infidelities and insecurities as far as this relationship is concerned are endless.

  But you don’t seem to mind. You stay with me in spite of myself.

  That’s crazy.

  I have decided; however to stop worrying and wondering about whatever it was I did to make you choose me – and make you stay with me. I have decided to simply stay doing what I know best – keep getting better at being me. Giving you the best me available in any and every reality; be as the rarest and finest of wines. And maybe; just maybe – we would have found something; something that gives just a bit more shine to your smile, a little more bounce to your walk, plenty more sparks to your mind and more hope to your heart…

  And maybe we would have created our own small bubble of sanity in a world gone bonkers.

  Or maybe I’m reaching too far.

  But I know; we have now. And more often than not – ‘now’ is all that is necessary, so let us go into the next chapter of our relating.

  I hope; in spite of everything, that you still trust me enough to give me your hand.

  And if you don’t; well – I understand. I will, however be waiting on the other end, nervously hopping from foot to foot, chewing on fingernails, lips and gums, hoping I got this one right. Hoping I somehow did not mess it up like I seem to have a penchant for – and hoping; that once again I got you to smile that smile for me.

  You know the one I’m talking about right?

  Right.

  For always…

  I remain.

  Your writer.

  Seun.

  First Published in Nigeria 2015

  love drops copyright 2015

  all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without either the prior written permission of the publisher or author.

  odukoya, seun

  love drops

  love drops, the love drops logo and all related media are properties of underline media/block 20 media/blacktext publishing.

  all rights reserved

  love drops

  directed by seun odukoya

  blacktext publishing nigeria

  2015

  design/layout – ope aluko

  art directors – seun abioye/samuel achema/olalekan ‘lexain’ akinyele/seun odukoya

  line editor/copy director – ayokunle moore

  strategist/manager – ife olatunji

  hr/pa/associate creative director – ogechi nwobia

  cover design/love drops logo design – samuel achema

  cover photography – oluchi ozoemenam

  contents

  for you .i

  title pages .ii

  were .iii

  a killer type of love .iv

  daddy’s gehl .v

  for want of a child .vi

  remembering/my valentine .vii

  me and her .iix

  love interstate/soliloquy .ix

  on the lagoon front .x

  I dare to call her mother .xi

  what would you do/quiet storm .xii

  labels .xiii

  to be man .xiv

  absolution/brave .xv

  acknowledgments .xvi

  Were – A Madwoman and Mr. Perpetual

  We see her there all the time –on our way out in the morning and on our way back in the evening. She has become a neighborhood symbol; almost like Iya Bankuli the akara seller, or Baba Bolu, the buka man – or even SuperBuy; the neighborhood supermarket. It isn’t strange to hear someone give directions to their house thus;

  “As you turn left for that last junction, you go come sojourn straight small – till you reach another junction where you see one kain fine mad woman. Branch right there…”

  She is one mad woman, the likes of which we have never seen. For one thing, she is beautiful by any standards. Tall too, with a carriage that makes her tattered rags look royal. Her hair is matted and dirt-streaked, but the tightly-weaved endings tell a different story from what other parts of her suggest.

  Ever seen a madwoman do laundry?

  No wait. Scratch that.Ever see a madwoman have her bath?

  We have never actually seen that happen either –but she and the
small makeshift shack she lives in beside Abule-Oja junction are always clean.

  Raggedy, but clean.

  Her hands remain spotless and well-groomed – well; but for the jagged edges that adorn her nails like clear nail polish. Even the scratched bands on the fourth finger of her left hand somehow retain their dignity. Her hands are soft; so soft it is hard to imagine how she ended up the way she is.

  She had suddenly showed up one early evening, as normal as the rest of us. Even before she’d started pulling her hair and making high-pitched keening sounds, she had been the cynosure of a lot of random eyes – simply because a beautiful light-skinned woman is not one hard to look at. Not on Lagos streets anyway.

  So people had been staring at her the moment she appeared on the street, carrying nothing but a black poly-bag; one of those kinds that leave a silvery stain on your hand after use. The black bag served as color-balance for the red and yellow gown that rippled and danced as she walked. And even her walk evoked many a sigh from jealous women and hungry men.

  She was walking like someone who was headed somewhere, not hurrying, just taking a leisurely walk. People were staring – she was turning heads all the way – but she paid no attention.

  She did not notice.

  The first indication that all wasn’t right was the abrupt way she sat down on the plank that bridged the gutter in front of the vulcanizer’s stand. She sat there on the filthy plank; gown riding up her legs a little to show a well-turned ankle and the thing strip of gold that glittered therein – and she hugged her knees. And then she started to pull her freshly-braided hair and make keening “uh uhuh” noises.

  The name ‘fine gehl madwoman’ stuck.

  Of course, some folks thought she was just pretending – you know; like she was forming madness and was really in Magboro to steal children. A quick search of the nylon revealed a purse filled with new one thousand naira notes and something else; a picture that made the neighborhood residents leave her alone.

  But we never saw her as ‘one of us’. Not till that night.

  Remember that night in rained in February? No; that night it stopped blowing hot for the whole night; that night it was as though God turned on ACs from heaven? That was the night ‘fine gehl’ shocked us. Finally shocked us out of our apathy.

  How?

  There’s this large ditch in the middle of Martins Crescent; a ditch that usually is filled with water whenever it rains – a ditch that looks as if a kid pushed his finger into the unmarked surface of fresh-made pap. Unfortunately; because Martins is the only access point for several other side-streets, nights like that rainy one are usually a traffic nightmare – vehicles honking, drivers screaming at each other –

  It is indeed; a trauma-inducing picture.

  That night in February was no exception.

  The rain; if you remember – was quite vicious. It beat down on car and house roofs with the same intensity, pounding on human heads and shoulders, wresting umbrellas from cold-numbed hands. It was not the kind of night NEPA should do what they do best – but then; it was probably for the best.

  On Martins Crescent it was business as usual. Cars inched their ways through the dense curtain of rain, through the ditch – and onto their various homes. The traffic was crazy – as always – but at the end of the day, they all made it through.

  Which is why it was extra-strange, to the early risers to see the rear-end of a pink-colored SUV sticking out of the ditch on Martins Crescent the following morning. Within moments, the scene had become as populated as Oshodi on a sunny afternoon – because the car was a local celebrity.

  Everyone knew who it belonged to.

  Some of the early risers drove on, heading to work through rain-drenched streets – but others stopped to ask questions and were informed the driver of the car; a Mr. Perpetual was missing.

  He was not in the wreckage.

  Within moments, a search party had been organized. Mr. Perpetual was popular – thanks to the ghastly color of his vehicle. People came into the streets, searching the gutters and the canal for a body or at least any sign that a man had passed through those places. But it was an arduous; almost impossible task.

  People had no idea where to look.

  It was almost midday and people had started returning to their homes – some to work; despair on their faces, despair and pity for Mrs. Perpetual,Chisom, Chuka and Ike Perpetual; feet dragging reluctantly, hands scratching heads – when a shout was raised from Abule-Oja junction. People who were headed home suddenly turned about and ran towards the street – hope fueling adrenaline through their veins.

  And as they came in sight of a shack – the one shack at Abule-Oja junction – a shack that stood out from the row of houses like a sore thumb; surprise slowed their feet.

  Mr. Perpetual; disheveled-looking but alive, naked from the waist up, was sitting on the edge of the gutter, arms around himself. The white bandage that wrapped his shiny bald head stood out starkly – as did various plasters that adorned his lean torso. Beside him, crooning soothingly was someone who was to become the icon of Abule-Oja junction.

  The madwoman.

  Mr. Perpetual’s story – when he was finally able to share it sounded like something from a Nollywood movie. He had arrived Martins Crescent much later that night having stayed back at work to elude traffic – the streets were empty at that time. Due to the water-covered surface of Martins, he had assumed he was yet to get to the ditch. Suddenly he had run into it, his windscreen was smashed – and he was slowly drowning.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d passed out.

  He had woken up at some point, shaking from fever – but somehow he had been warm. All he knew was he saw a very beautiful woman in his fever; and she had cared for him.

  We didn’t have to look far for the ‘beautiful woman’.

  The story is still told in hushed tones; around Iya Bankuli the akara seller’s fire, or at Baba Bolu’s buka, at SuperBuy; the neighborhood supermarket and at Wombo’s Viewing Centre – the latest addition to our small town. It is told and laughed at – how a madwoman saved the banker’s life; but whenever the listeners and the tellers disperse from wherever the story was being told, they would walk past the shack at Abule-Oja junction, their raucous laughter hushed, their footsteps muffled, their heads bowed in respect – and they would wonder; how mad a woman who would brave a storm to save a man’s life really was.

  And Mr. Perpetual?

  He made it his life’s work to find the woman’s family – the woman’s husband and two children; the only objects in the photo she carried asides herself. Last time we checked he was still searching – he didn’t even have a name to go on – but he does not look like he is giving up anytime soon. And we all ‘oohhh’ and ‘aahhh’ and hope and pray that he finds them.

  And we thank God for His gentle reminder. And for hope.

  A Killer Type of Love – Him and Her

  I shouldn’t have left you; he mumbled quietly, mouth mashed against her sweaty chest, right hand dancing up and down her naked back slowly; like a sensual shiver.

  She shuddered. I don’t care about that. You came back, didn’t you?

  His smile was a slash of white in the almost-dark room. I didn’t have a choice, he whispered right next to her ear. She nodded and pushed against him as though trying to get through a wall.

  What do you want to do now? Is it over?

  He thought about that, ignoring the steady hum of the AC. Could he actually say that in all honesty – that it was over? His reaching fingers brushed hair away from her face, and showed clearly the worry there, as clear as the pimples that punctuated the otherwise-smooth sides of her jaw. He clenched his teeth.

  Yes, it is. Nobody saw you leave, did they?

  She closed her eyes, enjoying the cool of his fingers against her temple and thought about what he’d asked; thought about it long and carefully. She remembered the bright red Golf that had spent quite a while beside her hostel – she remembered s
eeing same Golf at the motor park.

  But she hadn’t seen it since she got here – and it had been two days. There was no need to worry him needlessly.

  No; nobody saw me leave.

  He grinned, looking all young and innocent and to her love-drenched eyes; heart-wrenchingly handsome.

  Then it is over, he said and kissed her – as they began to move, like so many nocturnal things in the darkness just outside their hotel-room door.