MY NAME IS ADAIBA

By the time I turned nine, everyone said I only needed a grey-speckled beard and a little walking practice to be mistaken for my father. He loomed when he walked. Tiny stars danced in Papa’s eyes at those words. On nights when the moon came out, Papa would ask Mama to roast ube, African purple pear. We would sit under the blanket of the moon’s brightness and, with our tongues and teeth, strip the pear seeds of their warm salty flesh while Papa relived his childhood escapades. Days of his expert evasion of Mr Donelly the Londoner. How he would bob his head with mad eagerness at the white man’s words: “An educated mind is an emancipated mind”. But the missionary’s advice always squeezed into Papa’s right ear, only to fly out his left; his thoughts were ever bound to his squirrel traps in the thick of the bush. Not to some white man’s slate! Of course, it took the wisdom of years for me to know; emancipated must have been too hard for my papa to grasp. On most nights, Papa ended on a happy note. But on nights as many as I can count on one hand, his voice sounded drained and distant with the same counsel.
‘The foolishness of youth never forgets the path to our future. Choose wisely, Ada’m, which roads you must take.’
Although Papa never said the words, his regret rang loud. In how he seldom sent me on errands, in the knock-off gifts he bought for me, attempting to match my former life in Auntie Amaka's house, and in the deafness he feigned when I spoke to him in a most unacceptable tone. All those gestures tolled with the words, ‘I am sorry I rejected you at birth’. But on one of our many nights under the moon’s light, Papa came close.
‘Oyili nn’ia.’
Whenever Papa called me ‘her father’s daughter’, I felt soaked in warm and sweet-smelling oils.
‘Papa?’ I answered.
‘You are growing, my child... and you are so clever. Sometimes, I wonder where it comes from.’
‘You know it’s from you, Papa.’ I liked to indulge him.
Truth? I didn’t think my parents were that bright.
‘Me and your mother did not go to school, so... how I wish I had money to send you to university. At least I─’
‘Don’t worry yourself, Papa. Money will come, don’t worry,’ I said, my voice bouncy with belief.
‘Maybe... maybe I can open a sewing shop or hair salon for you. But you must promise me one thing... make sure you marry a man that went to university. You see, men who go to university learn the correct way to treat their wives... I want you to have a happy life, Ada’m.’
At only thirteen years, I found my father’s speech most amusing. Marriage sat at the bottommost bottom of my list of things to do. But from that day, I no longer strained from the effort of accepting my papa.

As the smell of wet earth and flowers followed the dust-laced crispiness of harmattan, changes followed my teenage years. Inch by tentative inch, I leaned closer into my parents’ home. My home. Ikem and Afam, my brothers, were never around. As motor spare-parts apprentices, they lived two towns away. Learning the trade that will turn them into millionaires, Papa said.
In a corner of my heart, I continued to tend my fondness for Auntie Amaka’s family. My real family. Two holidays in a row, Nnebechi and Kosiso visited and stayed through the weekend— after I refused hundreds of invitations to their house. They couldn’t understand why I wouldn't visit. How could they? What if Udo or Theresa returned? I could tell no one.
After our visit to the pastor, Mama made me promise.
‘Shameful. It is shameful. People will call you spoiled goods,’ she had said.
Any time I remember my promise to Mama, I remember Nnamdi. I met him in my third year in the university, when he came back for his NYSC call-up letter, for service after graduation. Fleeting silly fights, phone calls that stretched far into the night; we dreamed of a future so big. So bright. Our very own kaleidoscope of possibilities. It was an affair shiny with
promise... until after seven months of dating, when I wouldn’t let him put his arms around my shoulders, let alone steal a peck from my cheek.
The rapid clapping of rain punctuated Nnamdi’s words that night. The night he made the six-hour journey to my school, to share his exciting news. An MBA at the Oxford University, London. His admission finally came through! I gave him a face-splitting smile, hopped from foot to foot, and clapped my excitement. But all Nnamdi wanted was a hug. I told him there were better ways to show joy.
‘Show me,’ he had said.
I wrung my hands, looking for other ways, besides hugging, to express my delight at the news of Nnamdi's admission. Other ways to show my distress at the distance threatening to soon separate us, but I found nothing.
‘This thing,’ Nnamdi said, making an irritated finger gesture in the space between us, ‘whatever it is we’re doing is one-sided, isn’t it? I mean nothing to you... except for a possible plan B. Or maybe even C?’
‘What do you mean?’ But I didn’t need to ask. Nnamdi’s words didn’t beg explaining.
‘Stop messing with me, Adaiba. You like the idea of our relationship but not the reality of it.’
I wanted to hold Nnamdi. To tell him how much I wanted to be with him. I wanted him to stroke my hair, hold my hand, and run around grassy fields with me. But my tongue stuck, unyielding, to the roof of my mouth.
‘Ada, say something! Please. Tell me why you can’t trust me... even a little.’
Nnamdi’s plea clutched my heart, pulled it down. He wanted me to disprove him, to tell him he was mistaken. He wanted me to tear down his theory.
I did not. Could not.
He left my room, my school, and my life.

It all began the day Juliana visited my room, beaming. She was getting married right after our youth service program, and I made it into her bridal train. Time to hunt for fashion styles; her bride’s maids must dazzle.
‘These should give us inspiration,’ Juliana said, dumping four fashion magazines on my bedside desk.
Two eyes stared back at me. It couldn’t be. Chairman of Do-Best Educational Consultancy?
Udo? A full-paged advertorial. It said, “Happy fortieth birthday, Sir.”
I began a mental rewind. How many years are between twenty-five years and four years? Only then did it register; while I grew older, nobody froze in time. It really was twenty- one years ago.
‘What’s up?’ Juliana’s forehead wrinkled. As if querying why my eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets.
‘Nothing.’
‘You sure? Or did you try to use his outfit?’ She gestured her head towards the magazine with the birthday advertorial.
'What outfit?'
'You don't know? His company... his company claims to link people to schools in ''the abroad'', for masters.’
‘No. Um, he only looks like... he just looks familiar.’ So he was nineteen years at the time. My heart started to hammer against my chest.
I would have gone my way, carried on with my life. But Juliana’s next words reached deep, all the way to where I dared not visit, ripped my covered wound.
‘Thank God. That’s how many chicks have been falling prey... the he-goat chases everything in skirts. I even heard he forces himself if they resist.’
I shifted in my bed.
‘But of course, he is rich and connected, nau. So, he either pays off his victims or threatens the crap out of them and their families,’ Juliana finished, sliding the magazine to herself and flipping it over, in search of head-turning styles.
A chill snaked up my spine. I hoped, prayed even, that Juliana was mistaken. That she only echoed rumours. How hadn’t I heard?
‘Are you sure? About... about what you're saying?’ I paced my words to veil my
anguish.
‘Am I sure? The fool is infamous, nau. Those who know, know. Honestly, I’m shocked
you haven’t heard of him. Go on, do your research.’
And I did.

I rummaged the internet, I lapped at newspaper headlines, I swam under piles of gossip magazines, I followed a trail of her friends and her friends’ friends. Until, after months of spending time and resources, I dug up one. One victim. Antoinette.

The first time I met Antoinette, her stark beauty pinned my lips. Starry-eyed, flawless-skinned, dimple-cheeked. With the way she hung her head on her shoulders, a dimple seller would have been certain of being able to sell her eight more pairs of dimples. But the moment I mentioned Udo’s name, an invisible sheet of ice slid over her eyes. Her hunched shoulders straightened. Afterward, she refused to share airspace with me, melting away, like snow under the intense glare of the sun, each time I ventured near. Two months and an unhealthy degree of willpower and wheedling later, Antoinette was able to bear my presence. And although she cursed out her schoolmate from whom I learned about her, she allowed herself to relive that awful night. One more time, she said.

Antoinette had been on the dance floor with her friends when a man said in her ear, ‘My boss want’s a word with you.’
Udo wanted to talk─ but away from noise and prying eyes. Antoinette obliged; a decision she regretted the instant she entered his suite. It sat far away from all the party-bustle. An echo chamber for anyone who screamed their voice hoarse.
‘You’re a smart girl and must know I can make nice things happen, or not happen... for you,’ Udo had said afterward.
Antoinette never sought redress. When I asked her why, she said, ‘I never should have gone with him to his suite.’
From then, thoughts of stopping Udo became my oxygen.
Vengeance roused me in the morning.
Vengeance lulled me at night.
Vengeance sat with me in conversation; about how best to repay Udo with what his malevolent and morally insolvent self deserved. And Theresa? Why didn’t I hate her as much? I should.

A mild waft of Seabreeze and mint enveloped me once I entered Udo’s office. He got on his feet, and bared his teeth in a smile. They were white and even. The muffled slow shutting of the door behind me caused my stomach walls to squeeze.
‘Sit, young lady.’
Couldn’t he recognize me? Not even by my name? I obliged as he sank into his seat. A desk divided us. Udo looked even better in person than in soft copy; rich chocolate skin tone, beguiling smile, near-chiselled physique. How dare he?

I gulped a mouthful of nothing, aware of the prickling in my underarms, announcing the explosion of a million beads of sweat. Eyes hovering over my résumé, Udo punctuated every ten seconds with, ‘hmm’, ‘interesting’, and ‘nice’. I snatched the chance to look around.
On the wall, to my left, facing one of the two large windows in the office, hung a frame.
It bore the image of a man’s open hands, holding the globe. Beneath the image were the words, “My peace, give I unto thee.” It pulled a smirk from my lips. Another one, on the wall behind Udo’s chair, held the national symbol— the coat of arms. I liked how their oak edges matched the white walls of his office.
‘Relax, I don’t bite,’ he said, rising and walking round the table to stand behind me. My spine straightened. My shoulders squared. A new smell: burning metal mixed with vomit and rotting meat now floated unfettered, displacing the freshness
of before.
It’s blood.
Fresh blood. Was it inside the room or was it from inside me?
‘We demand maximum attention here. You ready for us?’
Udo’s hand cupped the back of my neck, kneading, stroking. The scraping sound of my chair against the wood-panelled floor as I jumped out of my seat startled even me. Now, his breath fanned my forehead. Fast. Labored. Raptorial. His eyes moved a nanosecond before my left foot did.
‘Relax.’ He reached for my shoulders.
My arms moved.
A sound, like a blend of cries from a demented cow and a horse about to birth her foal, filled the room. But my nail extensions sank deeper into Udo’s eye sockets. The smell in the room swelled as blood gushed out of his
eyes, spilling to my wrists. So warm... so soothing.
He started to shake my shoulders.
‘Stop. Please!’
I squeezed my eyes shut, and pushed deeper. I wanted to bury my arms in his skull.
‘Open your eyes, I beg you.’
I squeezed them tighter.
‘Open!’ Udo shook me harder.
I was falling. I had to open it.
Two eyeballs stared back at me. Small eyeballs. They weren’t Udo’s, they were Mama’s.
Beads of sweat slid down my brows. I had just come out of a nightmare... a daymare.
The first of many more to come.
In one of them, Udo is sprawled on the ground, begging for mercy. In the next, his bodiless head bobs about on a chopping block, his mouth spewing hoarse cries. Another time, I relish the sight of him bleating as the Army sprays bullets on his stake-strapped and quaking body. Sometimes I straddle him, drawing blood from his neck. Once, I even crushed him with a lorry. And each time, after I awake, I bask for moments in the feigned satisfaction of the realness of it all.
Of all my dreams, one reoccurred most frequently. It sent tremors down my being, each time I thought of it─ like now.

On a Lilypad, surrounded by black waters, I stand naked, my head wrapped in a white scarf.
The moon blankets me in her light, and my voice tunnels into the dark.
‘May your table become a snare, your peace a trap.
May your loins forever tremble. May indignation from every corner of the earth be poured on your head.
May punishment upon punishment, tribulation upon tribulation be your lot. And may desolation cloak and belt you all the days of your miserable life.’

Except for Juliana’s wedding and my job as a biology teacher in a secondary school, nothing exciting has happened since NYSC. Well, there was Kosiso’s wedding, two months ago, where I met the most unlikely person. Auntie Onuwa had just told me that her throat was patched, that she wanted to ‘’drink wine’’; her creative way of telling me how much she wanted to attend my own wedding. I still wonder how I marshaled my cheek muscles into a smile as I said, ‘Soon. Soon, auntie.’ My vision was blurred by a sheet of unshed tears, I turned to walk away but slammed right into a six-foot mass of maleness. Nnamdi?
‘My dad is here. He’s friends with the groom’s uncle... I came to pick him.’
Nnamdi hadn’t lost his charming reticence. I wanted to linger, to chat. Perhaps rewind time?
But Nnamdi couldn’t get away from me any faster. I imagined he nurtured a new relationship.
One rooted in trust.

Today, my legs mimic the spaghetti I ate for lunch. After a labyrinth of lobbying, I received an invite to a gala Udo would be attending. I caress the complimentary card-sized invite, and I know today will be the day. For a moment, I question my rage. If your brother slaps you on one cheek, turn the other: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. On the wings of which
admonition should I soar?
‘I have never met this your Tina.’
Lost in thought, I hadn’t heard Mama come in.
‘She’s not the visiting type.’ Not gifted with the craft of lying, I concentrate on removing an imaginary cuticle from my left big toe.
‘Where does she live again?’ Mama balances her entire bottom on the lone stool beside my bed. It creaks its discomfort.
‘Coal Camp.’
‘It is far, o. Are you sure you can come back tomorrow?’
‘Um... I will... If the wedding ends early.’
You’ve guessed it. There’s no Tina. I only created her to massage Mama’s fears.
‘Okay. This Tina must be important for you to miss your tomorrow work.’
I chuckle, now peering at the crooked heel cap of the sandals I plan to wear for the party. I must take these to Sempe for fixing.

One, two, three, four aides, all stand aloof, giving their boss his space. I find a seat in a corner of the hall, hoping I stick out enough. There’s another aide prowling, scanning the room for his boss’s fancy. Five aides. I imagine why anyone would need this much protection. The wicked runs when nobody pursues. Aide number five, the prowler, towers over most people in the room, his muscles nearly bursting through his long-sleeved white shirt. Why do people wear dark sunshades at night?
Nearly everyone is paired. Prowler has approached three girls so far. No luck. Yet. I pin my gaze on him, willing him to come my way.
No, no, not you. What’s this pot-bellied fool doing? A man, about sixty, ambles towards me.
His white shorts hug his thighs, hanging four offensive inches above his knees. I can’t tell if sweat or spilled drink drew the map on his white tee shirt. From the slight droop of his eyes, he must already be tipsy. Prowler is coming towards me at the same time, and I fear he’ll assume I’m already occupied. Potbelly heaves himself into the chair beside mine, expels a loud burp. Yuck.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’
‘Good evening, Sir.’
He lets out a long giggle. His cheeks dimple.
Prowler is now about five feet away. His eyes dart from me to Pot belly, back to me and then away. I trail him as he walks to the bar to order a drink.
‘I’m Taiwo Raymonds, but T.R will do. You?’
The last person I want around me is anybody who isn’t Prowler. I shift in my chair.
‘If you refuse to tell me your name, I’ll simply go with Gorgeous,’ he says, flashing a smile.
T.R’s smile pulls a smirk from my mouth. His eyes light up.
‘My name is Anabelle.’ My lie is smooth on my tongue.
‘Anabelle! How’bout, we get on the dance floor and shake it off? ‘
‘Don’t you think I am a bit young for you? I mean, you may be the same age as my father.’
T.R recoils. But only for a moment.
‘I may be old enough to be your father, but this dude right here,’ T.R pauses for effect, pointing his thumbs at his chest, ‘swims two laps in his pool every morning and beats younger boys in golf. In fact, I—’
‘Sorry, Mr Tayo Raymonds, I’m here with someone my age.’ I get up and slow-walk to the bar.
Prowler glances at me, runs a deliberate tongue over his lower lip.
‘Oga aristo not much company, eh?’
‘I prefer people my age.’
‘Wanna meet my boss? He is younger. You’ll like him,’ he says.
‘Who is your boss?’
‘Udo Dikeofia... the sexiest dude in Naija.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I say in my best impression of a purr.

When Udo snakes his arm around my waist, I’m certain a drum of live maggots have been emptied on my head. He says something. What? The stench of skunk and rotting fruits melds with body odour and hangs in the air. Spit fills my mouth. My eyelids sag. What’s wrong with me? Once, I even thought Udo’s canines hung like fangs. The aides have melted into
the crowd. I search for Prowler, but he is nowhere. Warm spotlights in the room now dimmer, techno beat turned a notch higher; everything has become louder and darker.
‘Let’s go to my suite,’ Udo shouts, squeezing my bottom. The maggots are now crawling all over my back. I follow. Through the mesh of dancers, up the elevator to the sixth floor and down the hallway to suite 612b. An aide by the door fixes his eyes on the wall opposite him, swipes the white card on the door panel. 612b is ordinary. A six-foot bed in  neat white sheets. Brown drapes run from the ceiling to kiss the rug. It’s brown too.
Udo peels off his ring and wristwatch, places them on the study desk by the bed, kicks off his shoes and cranks his toes.
‘Relax. Drink?”
‘No, thank you.’ I want to keep my just-reclaimed focus. I sit on the room’s only couch.
Udo covers the short space between us. My heart is racing. Whirling sounds fill my ears at his next words. And when he says them again, the walls begin to move towards me.
‘Common, give daddy a massage.’
The taste of metal, salt, and ash coats my tongue. My breath, hot like steam, my feet, clammy with sweat, I follow him to the bed. He pulls off his red T-shirt, flings it to the floor.
‘You should take that drink. You know, to ease you up a bit,’ he says.
Udo lies on his torso. I suck my lower lip, trap it between my teeth, tasting my own blood as I bestride him. His wristwatch is ticking a cheer-leading symphony as my fingers start to knead his hairless head. There’s a chunk of flesh at his nape, where his scalp begins.
Udo yawns, my eyes slam shut. His breathing slows. Mine climbs faster and faster. With my left hand, I trace a line down his spine. And with my right, I reach towards my thigh; for the steel jaggedness of my Karambit.

'Adaora' Chinwe I. Ogunniyi is the author of two fiction novels, Waves Aligning and The Steel Gavel. Particularly drawn to cultural narratives and how they impact, or are influenced by, the people who experience them, her passion for fiction writing is also fuelled by a distinct love for travelling. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Biochemistry from NAU, Nigeria, a certificate in creative writing from the University of Oxford, and is currently completing a Masters degree in creative writing at the University of Hull in the United Kingdom.