Chapter 6: Rain and Raw Truths

I no allow driver carry us.

I tell driver, "Oya, go buy petrol for generator." Then waka garage, pick key, check if anybody dey watch.

Instead, I find one of Ifeanyi’s cars for garage.

Black Corolla, nothing flashy. Easy to blend. I unlock door, start engine, AC blast my face.

At first, Halima no gree enter.

She stand for rain, biting finger, pride dey fight with need. Wrapper soak, but she no mind.

She ask, “You know where Ifeanyi go?”

Voice weak, hope still dey.

After I marry Ifeanyi, she block am everywhere. My birthday na the last time they talk, and even that one na through his assistant phone.

Her pride dey strong. She fit starve before she beg. I respect am for that.

For some things, she stubborn and proud.

She mutter under breath, "Allah, kada ka kunyata ni yau." (God, abeg, no shame me today.)

I wind down, face hard. “He no fit come back now.”

I blunt, but I mean well. No want make she waste time.

“If you come find am, e mean say the thing serious. If he fit do am, I fit do am too. Enter, I go help you.”

I open passenger door, pat seat. Voice soft, but serious.

“If you no wan, no wahala.”

I no go force her. I fit only help who wan help.

After I finish, Halima look me deep, then enter.

She wipe face, close door. Rain dey beat roof, but inside car warm.

She give hospital address.

She whisper am, as if dey beg God make help show.

I no waste time, just drive go.

Leg heavy for pedal, but I no show am. Mind dey race, face calm.

When we reach, I help with admission, pay, call my friend for best doctor.

I rush up and down—form, cash, buy malt for Halima, break biscuit for nylon, press her hand small—Naija woman to woman. My friend help us skip queue. Everything sharp.

After all done, I go stand for operating room door, na there I see Ifeanyi.

He arrive last-last. Maybe them call am, maybe spirit lead am. Shirt rumple, hair rough, eyes full of worry.

Across corridor, he look tired, squat small, dey comfort girl wey him love.

I see am kneel, whisper for her ear. He no see me, but I see am.

He wipe her tears, remove jacket, put for her shoulder.

His shirt wet, he no care. The love dey obvious, no need talk am twice.

He tell her, “I dey here for you.”

Voice low, steady. You go know say the words deep.

Halima nod, eyes red. “Okay.”

She hold hand tight, like say if she loose, life go end.

I think say, my work for here don finish.

Na so I waka comot, silent, like spirit wey finish assignment.

I leave hospital, open Ifeanyi chat, just tell am everything wey happen.

I drop message—short, honest.

Then I go house, baff, dey wait for reply.

I soak hot water, close eye, try wash pain comot. But ache still dey chest.

Around 1am, he reply.

Phone buzz, two messages pop. Heart race.

Just two sentences:

[Okay.]

[Thank you.]

I hold phone tight, wish say text fit heal wound for chest.