Chapter 3: City Survivors and Silent Wars

After all these years hustling in this city, we have a small group of friends that meet up from time to time.

We call ourselves "City Survivors"—people from back home or university, still holding each other through thick and thin. Once every two or three months, we gather to chop and gist, sometimes at Tunde’s house, sometimes for mama Amaka’s pepper soup joint.

Today was one of those days.

Rain threatened, but our spirits dey high. Everyone carried gifts—small chops, drinks, garden egg with groundnut paste. Laughter fill the air, and somebody put old P-Square songs for speaker.

As soon as we started eating, everybody surrounded Musa, praising him for being young and promising, saying he would soon become a director.

They hailed him: "Musa, you dey make us proud o! We go soon dey call you Honourable!" The men tapped his back, the women winked at me, whispering, "Better woman, see as your husband dey climb."

Musa just smiled, calm as ever. He’s well-known at work for his writing and ability, but he always keeps people at arm’s length.

He responded with his usual soft chuckle, nodding politely. Some people say he dey form, but I know say he just dey keep himself small-small—one foot inside, one foot outside.

Baba Efe and his wife were there too.

Somebody mentioned them, and everywhere went quiet and awkward.

Baba Efe is Musa’s old friend from back home. Two years ago, he made some money as a contractor, but betting finished him—he lost everything and even landed on the blacklist for debt.

Once, he bought two cars for his side chicks, now, na Keke he dey beg to enter. His mother say na "village people" dey follow him, but everybody know say na bet9ja swallow his destiny.

Every time we meet to eat, he gets drunk, curses everybody and everything, saying life no balance. Last time, he even fought another old friend, beat am so tey the guy stay health centre for half a month.

That day, his wife dey beg and cry for people to help separate fight. The story spread, but Musa no talk—he just carry Baba Efe go house after everything.

"I was the one who invited him," Musa said, dropping his glass, his voice steady.

His tone carry weight; na so people quiet. Musa hardly invite anybody, so when he talk, people listen.

"We’ve been friends for years. Just because he’s down now, we can’t just leave him."

That is how Musa dey, loyal like old palm tree, even when e no make sense.

Once he said that, nobody argued. They just smiled awkwardly and nodded.

Nobody wanted wahala. We all acted like we agree, but people dey whisper for corner. I could feel the tension like smoke for kitchen.

I frowned—not for any other reason, but because I’m pregnant now, and Baba Efe dey smoke like chimney. If I talk, he’ll just give me that mocking look, like I’m forming.

Even during Ramadan, Baba Efe no dey respect; cigarette go still dey his hand. I dey fear for my baby, but if I talk, they go say na pregnancy dey make me oversabi.

I wanted to say something to Musa, but I noticed he kept looking towards the door, like he was waiting for someone.

His leg dey shake under table, eyes dey glance from clock to door. Something inside me start to feel somehow.

Bang.

The door burst open.

I jumped.

My heart fly enter throat, hand grip my wrapper tight. Everybody look up sharply.

Baba Efe stormed in, dey shout anyhow, voice loud like generator wey no get silencer. "They charged me twenty just to park—why dem no just carry gun rob me?"

He talk loud, scattering the air with his wahala. I notice his shirt half-buttoned, one shoe nearly off.

He pointed behind him, shouting, "Which kind woman no fit stand for her own man? You, you’re always siding with outsiders."

Na so drama dey start for these gatherings. People begin adjust chair, acting like dem no dey hear.

Behind him, a woman followed, head down, faint finger marks showing on her face.

That was Baba Efe’s wife, Amara.

She looked gentle and kind, but her luck was just too bitter—married to a man like Baba Efe.

Amara, with her soft voice and eyes dey dodge everybody, like person wey dey find where to hide for market. Sometimes I wonder wetin she see for this life wey tie her to Baba Efe.

"Why you dey shout? Behave yourself," Musa said suddenly, his voice deep and not happy at all.

Musa hardly raises voice, but when he talk like that, even stubborn people dey pause.

As soon as Baba Efe saw him, his face changed—he started grinning wide.

His grin fake like politician’s promise. He drop tough man pose, try play gentle.

"Brother, sorry, sorry, na temper do me. I go punish myself with three drinks later."

He slumped into a chair, grabbed some groundnut, and started munching, ignoring his wife.

He act as if nothing happen, shelling groundnut like king. Amara stand for door, like broom dey sweep her soul.

Amara stood at the door, awkward and not knowing what to do. She quietly pulled her hair down to cover her face.

People dey do as if dem dey busy with their food, so nobody go catch her eye. Na Nigerian way—pretend not to see, so shame no go too much.

Everybody looked away, pretending not to see, so she wouldn’t feel more embarrassed.

Somebody shift chair for her, and I just dey look my phone, not wanting to meet her eyes. E pain me, but wetin I fit do?

I sighed and called out, "Amara, come sit down. Food go soon ready."

I move small plate for her, patted chair like say I dey call small pikin. My voice soft, make she feel welcome.

She gave me a grateful smile and sat beside Baba Efe.

"Thank you, sister-in-law."

Then, glancing past me at Musa, she added softly, "Thank you, brother."

Her voice nearly break. I look Musa; his jaw tighten, but e no talk.

Musa’s face tightened for a moment, but he didn’t say anything.

His eye move away quick, as if he dey dodge bullet. Only me notice that small moment.

During the meal, Baba Efe kept cursing, smoking, and drinking, his face soon as red as boiled crayfish.

He knock back gulder after gulder, shouting at Super Eagles on TV, cursing Buhari, and blaming village people for his wahala.

Amara was just peeling snail for him, pouring his drinks, hardly eating anything herself.

Her hand dey work, but her eyes dey far. Each time she give him food, she quick wipe sweat from her brow, silent like Sunday morning.

I wanted to tell her to eat more, when Musa suddenly reached out with his spoon and served a piece of fish to Uncle Tunde, the host.

It surprise me; Musa no dey do such things. I look him with one eye, wondering wetin dey worry am.

Uncle Tunde laughed, "I be host today—na me suppose dey serve una!"

People burst laugh; the tension reduce small. Tunde dey always find way to make light of situation.

"All na the same," Musa replied quietly, then got up and served a piece of goat meat to the next person.

Musa dey act like elder for village, serving food like chief for festival. People begin exchange look.

He went round the table, serving everyone a dish or soup, one by one.

His movements careful, as if each scoop mean something more. Nobody talk; everybody dey watch.

Everybody was shocked.

Somebody tap me for shoulder, whisper, "Madam, na today Musa show us say he sabi serve o!"

Nobody fit hide surprise. Someone whisper, "Abi Musa get malaria?"

"Wetin dey do Brother Musa today? Sun rise for west?"

"True o, I never see this one before!"

"E mean say sister-in-law get belle—e dey happy well well."

"Na so, that one explain am."

Laughter come back, but some people still dey look Musa with side eye. Me, I just dey watch with small smile.

I was surprised too, but as people dey talk am, it made sense.

People dey expect man go change with good news, but this one dey somehow different. I dey try fit am inside my head.

Musa is quiet, not good at showing feelings. This pregnancy is a big thing for him—and his whole family. His parents back home were even more excited than when he became a civil servant.

Mama Musa don call me that morning, voice shaking, say "God don wipe my tears." They begin prepare for naming ceremony before belle even reach four months.

I smiled, planning to tease him, but then saw him glance up, his eyes drifting—almost unconsciously—towards the front right.

He try cover am, but I catch am. Something dey go on, but I no fit place am.

I followed his gaze.

Amara was sipping soup, head down, her eyes red between loose strands of hair.

I felt my heart move small. The pain for her face deep, and only person wey dey watch well go notice.

…

Musa had just served her a bowl of pepper soup.

He place the bowl gentle, his finger touch her hand by mistake. She look up, lips trembling, then look away.