And She Lived Happily Ever After

“Don’t go out in the rain.” Those were her grandmother’s last words.

Insignificant as they might seem to an outsider, they were very significant to Bisi. They meant: don’t run into the rain to save plants, because there would be no one waiting at the door for her when she got back anymore.

Grandma Dumebi had been her granddaughter’s rock. A rock that shouted when the work was not being done fast enough, a rock that screamed when she felt she was not being taken care of. Bisi knew her grandmother had been afraid that her little granddaughter would pack up and leave her one day. She must have dreaded the day Bisi would come home, dragging a young man along and calling him her fiancé.

All these unfounded fears were defeated one day when she fell down the three short stairs at the front of the house.

“What? Did you think I would die of old age? Who dies of old age around here?” her grandmother had croaked in pain when Bisi managed to get her onto the bed. Yet it was obvious that she too was shocked at the sudden turn of events. An 85-year-old woman falling from a considerable height was no small thing.

When the doctor arrived, her grandmother was singing old songs and telling him she felt just fine and young, and that if he wanted a wife, he could ask for her hand right there and then.

Doctor Tunde laughed at her antics, throwing pitying looks over his shoulder at Bisi as she paced the length of the two-room house. For once, her grandmother didn’t scream at her to stop pacing and go get some work done. She didn’t say, “Stop pacing, silly girl, you’re making a ruckus in my head,” and that silence scared her.

After the examination, Doctor Tunde took off his gloves and beckoned for Bisi to follow him outside.

“Your grandmother is very weak. Don’t mind her singing or her sharp tongue,” he said with a wry smile. Bisi nodded. She knew very well the old woman was just putting up a front. When she had picked her up from the floor, she had been gasping for breath in the most horrendous way.

Bisi looked up at the doctor, his brown face framed by a soft black beard. He was looking off to the right, towards the farm.

“Nice corn you have there,” he said.

“Thank you,” Bisi replied.

“I have placed the drugs she needs on the table. Make sure she takes them,” he said. Then he shook her hand and walked away.

“Hey, Bisi,” he called. Bisi turned around to see him standing near his bicycle. “Take care of yourself,” he said. His face was serious. Bisi looked at him but did not answer. She opened the door and went back inside to her grandmother.

That was a year ago.

Since then, Bisi had lived alone in this house. After her grandmother died, she sewed the old woman’s blanket to hers so she could sleep every night feeling she was still close. Farming continued as smoothly as ever, only that she could no longer farm late into the evening. She preferred to finish in the late afternoon and return home early for safety.

It was October, and the rain poured angrily outside the house. Bisi cuddled into her straw blanket, worrying about the corn that were being beaten down in the fields. The young corn shoots were still green and safe, not yet tall enough for the rain to notice them.

Her thoughts drifted away from the farm. She could hear a rat chewing noisily under her bed.

It sounded so much like her grandmother chewing on her stick that she drifted easily back to sleep.

***

Amaka puts down her pen and stares out of the window at the blue sky and the sun on the hibiscus flowers lining the walls near the gate. When she rented this place, the landlady had been surprised that she chose the cheapest and least comfortable room in the house.

She couldn’t tell her that she loved its view of the gate. How it helped her feel less tied down, made her feel at ease because whenever she felt caged, she could look at the gate, touch the key she always left within reach on her writing table, and feel better.

Her stomach rumbles and she closes the book, walking towards the shared kitchen. The problem with writing is that it makes you lose track of time and even forget basic things like food.

“Good afternoon, ma,” she greets her landlady. The old woman is busy chopping vegetables for a pot of soup. Amaka quickly turns away so she doesn’t embarrass herself by staring too long at the food. She opens her cupboard, takes out two eggs from the rack, and a loaf of bread.

“Don’t you eat anything other than bread?” the old woman asks.

“OK then,” the landlady replies and goes back to cooking. Amaka shakes her head slightly. She had hoped the woman would invite her to join in the soup, but there is no luck. She decides she will write that into her story, a kind innkeeper inviting Bisi to dinner. A nice twist, but then again, Bisi would have to leave her house… and everyone knows how hard that is.

***

The day dawns bright and fair. The night rain leaves everything fresh and new. Bisi puts on her long-sleeved shirt and rubber boots and walks toward the farm.

The corn stalks are bowed low, heavy from the rain. Only a few stand tall by some small miracle. Even her vegetable patch has been attacked. The scent leaf and green vegetables lie flat, as if waiting for the sun to tell them it is time to stand again.

There is nothing Bisi can do but wait with them.

The small shelters she normally builds for them during rain are lying near the shed. Before her grandmother died, that was her job: running to the farm and quickly putting the shelters together to protect the crops.

Now she cannot do that anymore.

Her grandmother’s words still stay with her.

“Don’t go out in the rain.”

Since then, Bisi has the whole farm to herself, its corn, its vegetables, its air, its sounds. But the house feels different now. Not like death exactly, but like loss. As if it knows someone important is gone.

Bisi sits on the soft soil and begins to pull out the small weeds around the plants.

When she is done, she picks tomatoes and peppers and heads home.

As she approaches the house, she sees Doctor Tunde sitting by her doorstep, holding a small parcel.

“Hello, doctor,” she greets as she gets closer.

“Bisi, call me Tunde,” he says again, like always.

Bisi ignores it and walks inside. She does not like the way he says her name, as if it belongs to him.

She takes the parcel from him and opens it. Rolls of powdered milk fall out. The gift surprises her. Maybe he is not as careless as she thought.

“What are we having for dinner?” he asks suddenly. Bisi stares at him, confused. Before she can respond, he takes her basket of vegetables.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I am hungry,” he says simply, already washing his hands.

“No, no! You don’t have to do that,” she protests, trying to stop him.

But he only smiles and continues preparing the vegetables. They cook together. Yam and vegetable sauce fills the room with a warm smell. Bisi has to admit it: he cooks well.

“The food is delicious,” she says quietly.

He suddenly taps her lips lightly.

“Don’t talk while eating,” he says, smiling.

It annoys her. Like he is correcting her, like she is a child. But she keeps eating anyway. The food is too good to stop. After dinner, he washes his hands, picks up his bag, and leaves. Bisi watches him walk through the gate until he disappears.

Then silence returns.

She sits down slowly, thoughts rising in her mind. Why is the doctor suddenly so interested in her? Does he pity her? Or is he something worse, someone who sees a lonely orphan and wants to take advantage of her vulnerability?

***

Amaka drops her pen and scratches behind her ear. The moon is already shining outside at this time. She gets up, puts on her slippers, and walks into the moonlight, idly playing with the idea of Bisi falling helplessly into the arms of the young doctor. What would it be like to place her in the same canvas with so many other young women characters who seem to live only to use men as emotional crutches and wheelchairs?

The house door behind her opens and her next-door neighbor walks out shirtless.

“Amaka, good evening o,” he greets.

“Festus, how you dey now?” she asks him.

“Heat wan finish me o!” he replies. She notices he is holding a cup of water, which he pours over his very muscular, smooth body.

Amaka stares appreciatively at the display of masculinity. Then she thinks how indecent it would have been if she were the one standing outside shirtless, and how completely unaware he is of the effect his state of undress is having on her.

“Hey Amaka,” Mr. hot body calls, and she turns to him. “How about we hang out tomorrow?” He smiles encouragingly, his eyes almost forcing her to say yes.

“No, I’m sorry. I have too much to do,” she tells him. She waves and goes back into her room, her hand itching to hold her pen.

***

The next morning, all her fears are confirmed.

Bright and early, she hears a knock at her door. She quietly slips off her bed and tiptoes to the window. The same young man is standing there in green overalls, a hoe slung over his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?!” she asks, her heart beating fast. She knows too well how a hoe can be used as a weapon, so she is not taking any chances. The wood she holds behind the door feels heavy in her hand.

“Good morning to you too,” he says brightly. “Can I come in?”

They stand there staring at each other for a while before she finally exhales and steps aside.

After breakfast, which he insists on preparing, they go out to the farm. It is the first time in twenty years since her parents died that she is going to the farm in the company of someone other than her grandmother.

“It is beautiful,” he says as they stand under the shed and watch the sun draw moisture from the leaves.

“I work here every day,” Bisi replies, claiming the land and its beauty for herself. Even she knows trust will come late for her, and it will take time to learn that sometimes it is alright to share things with someone else.

***

Amaka stands by her window, watching the dawn, another day where she is forced to confront the fiction that is her life.

Her thoughts travel to her husband, a thousand miles away, who, tired of her comings and goings, once told her that if she ever left, she must not leave as his wife.

Yet what hurt her most was leaving her children behind and seeing her husband’s satisfied smirk that said, “yes, you will not be taking anything with you.”

The cruel man. She cannot fully blame him for his hostility, and she cannot fully blame herself for wanting to be alone either. How would a child have survived in this life?

She touches her flat belly, feeling its emptiness, realizing she barely ate anything yesterday except her daily ration of white bread. She stares at her brown skin and almost feels it yearning for the sun, starved of warmth from long days spent cooped up in a corner, bent over her writing table.

What do you gain from this finally? her husband had once asked in a rare moment of calm.

That day, like today, she had no clear answer.

When they met in university, he had told her she was blessed. That God had been generous to her, giving her so much of everything.

Ten years later, he was singing a different song. He hated that she always chose writing over him and wanted her to quit.

Amaka didn’t know what to do.

So she ran away.

***

Bisi ran a hand over the gate as she closed it. The iron was cold to her touch, and moisture clung to her fingers. Tunde stood behind her, waiting. He was in his smart doctor’s coat because he had come straight from work the day before to have dinner with her.

“Have you ever thought of leaving this place?” he asked her.

“Yes, many times,” she said, dropping her fork and staring out of the window.

“When will you leave?” he asked.

She turned to him sharply. “I don’t know!”

“Let us leave tomorrow,” he said earnestly, reaching for her hand. “We don’t have to go far. It is not as if we are disappearing.”

“I don’t know.”

Throughout the night, she thought about his words as she listened to his heavy breathing on the other side of the house. It was true that the only things keeping her tied to the house and the farm were fear and heartbreak.

She felt that leaving would be like betraying her grandmother and her parents. Even the corn would miss her, and the vegetables too. Who would cover them when it rained? Besides, she had very little money. How would she survive? And yet, he said she did not have to leave for long.

The inn was a squat house painted brown and yellow. When she stepped inside, the warmth of the place swallowed her.

“Hello darling,” an old woman greeted from behind the counter.

“Good evening, ma,” Amaka replied, and the old woman’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Come on, join me in the kitchen,” the old woman said, walking inside. Amaka followed at a cautious distance.

In the kitchen, a pot of soup bubbled on the stove. The atmosphere was warm and inviting. As the soup simmered, the women turned fufu in another pot.

Later, Amaka sat at the table with the old woman and a young man. The young man reminded her of Tunde. She wondered what he would be doing now, maybe turning off the lights in her little house and preparing to sleep.

In her heart, she thanked him for staying back to take care of the house and farm for her. Then she focused on her food and continued eating her fufu.

***

Amaka holds her pen poised over the paper. She considers continuing the story or stopping here and just writing: …and she lived happily ever after. Then she looks around her room: the unmade bed, dirty clothes littering the floor, dirty cups in the corner; and she realizes it would be hard for her to give someone else a happy ever after while she lives in such depression and squalor.

A knock sounds at the door and she gets up to answer it, knocking down the book in her haste.

“Can I join you?” Mr. hot body asks at the door. He is carrying a plate of something that smells so nice, so she quickly opens the door for him to step in. Once inside, he hands her the plate of food and walks towards her writing space.

“What are you writing about?” he asks, bending to pick up the open book from the floor.

“A happy ever after,” she replies, licking off the yam pottage coating her fingers.

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