And through the rest of the night, you argued and laughed. Her's was a richer contralto anyways, almost seismic and it was infectious. Sometimes, you laughed only because she laughed.
The electric bulb still flickered irregularly, dampening the shade that shawled the room, giving it this frolic glow, illuminations like a discotheque.
You saved this memory. It was stowed somewhere only you could reach. Hidden alongside other valuable reminiscences; like the first time your father brought another woman into the house or the clothes your mother wore the night she died. Today would never happen again. And although you successfully parried all her probes, you knew that this charade, this serenade, this coerced lullaby, this warm moment of tingling melody and blushing bellies was going to be your happiest for a very long time.


6

-

Your voice was tenuous at first, whispers rather than melody. But as the seconds trickled, her stillness urged you on. And you willed the lyrics into your vocal cords and into a cadence of sweet tenor augmented by a steady tempo.
"Why did you stop?" She quibbled.
"Because I don't know the rest of the song."
"It's a lie!"
You give a guiltless smirk. She was right. You stopped because you had gotten a sudden hold of yourself and that singing to women clothe in hospital scrubs was not in your repertoire of activities. Like Adam, you had discovered that you were naked and you have slid back quickly into old loincloth.
"Sing another one Adewunmi?"
"No! My throat is dried up and besides, I don't know any other song."
"You lying prick!" She claws at you
"It's true!" You laugh in arousing objection.
" It's a lie..."
It's true..."
" It's a lie... "


5

-

"How did you know it was grey?"
She was giggling softly now. "I just know"
There was brief silence. As though reticence had slithered through the roof and had been sifted softly over the atmosphere.
"Sing for me?"
You ignore her words, faking a snore, but then, she shoves you from behind with her elbow."
"Hey!" You call out in protest.
"Sing for me please?" The words are stretched thin by her fawning accent. And you would have refused, insistent on sparing yourself the embarrassment but something about tonight jostles your lungs and flushes the melody into your sternum. Peharps it was dread. The fear that what is today may be gone tommorow. That someday sooner than later, the sealed bottles of soft drinks would be replaced with sealed bouquets of consolation and the ward would be replaced by an headstone and sand. This thought prompted your next words. If it is was song she needed to stay warm for another night, then you would sing her all the songs in your head.
"If to say I get-ti super power...
I for come meet you where you dey."


4

-

"Don 't you feel cold? See what you're wearing?"
"Remind me never to borrow strangers my Cardigan next time."
She laughs, "I'm not a stranger. Blockhead."
You sit beside her and you feel the warmth of her skin rub off against yours. You notice the tiny veins that run across her long neck and for a minute you feel resentful.
"Why are you here again? Stomach ache?"
" It's more serious this time. I've been vomiting and I feel dizzy."
" What did the doctors say?"
" That I need to rest, eat and take my medicine"
" Is that what you really need?"
" I just want all this to be over. I don't want to sleep at home one night and in the hospital another night. I am just tired."
You were surprised at her emotional outburst but your discomfort was belied beneath a smile. And then you reached out to hold her hands, squeezing them gently, wanting to pass over whatever little strength you could.
"Your hands are very cold," she whispered.
" Says the stranger who stole my Cardigan"
"Duuuh!" She guffawed. "I'm not a stranger and I didn't steal your grey sweater."


3

-

Your thoughts travel through time and you think about concrete alleyways, flickering lamplights, and about her. Those days when you'd stroll pass yellow buildings and green lawns, making your way through huddled spaces. When the chill would crawl over your skin and tickle short shivers into your armpits and your neck. You would push your hands into your pants and squeeze them gently in your pockets till the cold air relapses.
When you get to the hospital, the smell from streets would hastily morph into the familiar scent of antiseptics. You would stroll beside the usual paraphernalia of wheelchairs and bustling men over to her ward. She would see you and smile affectionately and you would smile too. As you saunter towards her bedside, invading her personal space, you'd notice the left over food packs and the sealed soft drinks, sweating in condensation. You'd notice her dotted balaclava and her disheveled hair. You still have problems starting conversations even though you've known her for almost a year so you'd let the smile linger until she asks,


2

-

The time is half-past three and the weather is surprisingly chilly considering the huge heat wave that swept Akure for the past three months.
You are on the top floor of a garishly painted duplex and from here you can see the shapes of the clouds clearer than the vehicles that strut by fleetingly. You have been counting; something you often do pass time, counting the number of black vehicles that squirted by this past minute, and then you give up and start counting the blue and after another ostentatious minute, you start counting the grey. You don't count the "okadas". Those ones glide past every half-second, paddling after vehicle's like barnacles that cannot be scraped of. It makes you wonder how fickle life is. Today, a vehicle is blue and the next minute, it is red. Today, all the happiness in the world is confined in the fleshy compartments of your belly and tommorow you're drowning in forlorness, burrowing desperately into decripit memory vaults, digging to find drosses, blobs of chortles , liquid sketches of what used to be. There are also days you're just ambivalent. Not happy, not sad, just settled like coffee that hasn't been stirred in a while.


1

-

Can you not leave tonight?
Wait till i embalm our memories Abiku.
It will be my haiku.

-

You'd empty your bosom so that it doesn't flow when mother drives you to school, when you see her swollen arms and bruised lips, when tears trickle unashamedly over her face despite being masked by shawls and tinted shades. And that was when you understood that pain was like graffiti, fresh plaster splattered over a wall, and that was the love was the painter.

-

You were fourteen years old when your Father died. He had been sick for three months and when he finally passed, you were unguilty relieved. Your Parents had a marriage outsiders envied. On Sunday mornings, when the pastor called for family donations, they would stroll side by side to the altar, holding hands with an exagerated mushiness, and would wave almost simultaneously when he announced their considerable benevolence. As they strolled back to the pew, you'd hear affectionate whispers, proportioned admiration and pride would start to sizzle within you.
On Monday mornings however, all hell breaks loose. The congregation dissipates. No applause, no encomium. Father becomes a corporately dressed pugilist and mother becomes his punching bag. You would haul yourself to your bedroom and sink your face into the matress, squeezing it's pillow tightly over your ears. Still her screams would somehow slither through and like a bullied school girl, you'll cry; stifled, quiet sobs although? Tears nevertheless.

-

..Sometimes I selfishly blame you. You could have run to me instead of run away. I would never understand what it really means to loose a brother but I wouldn't stop holding you either. You could have cried on my shoulders and asked me the difficult questions; why Etienno? Why does bad things happen to good people? I might not have brought Etienno back but I'd have waited for your until you healed, no matter how long it took.
And most of the time, I blame myself. I should have said those words long before the phone call. I should have said them on the Wednesday night we ate roasted plantain and groundnut and laughed so much at the old, tattered man that promised to fly you to America in exchange for your number. I should have said it the Sunday evening after church when you nearly cried after we watched "The fault in our stars" and I laughed at you for being a "softie". Even still, I should have said it that morning. When for a safe moment your eyes were locked into mine and nothing else seemed to matter; not the wasps that flitted around recklessly, not the gentle creaking of the bench when you adjusted your legs and definitely not the peeking glances of the early Saturday sun.

-