She, Unnamed
- weren't let in by the tiny window to her left. A blue silky pashmina draped around her neck. She lay without a care, or seemed to be.
- Her right hand twirled her white smartphone around, pushing the next encounter a little away with each cycle. She was the only one, in the conclave
- She opened the text. How far away is she? Seriously? Like she has an internal navigation system to know where she's right now. Good to know.
- someone cared. She pushes herself into the seat. "Get home now" She received the day before. Followed by a notice that her father's
- company's mini was waiting for her. Hush hush, hurry, hurry. She couldn't get anymore. What was happening seems high risk enough to bundle
- into the mini but low enough that she didn’t need to know the emergency itself. Truth be told, she did plan to visit this summer. Sometimes,
- you get so busy, you realize two years later that you haven’t been home for two years. She had met her father a couple times. They hung out
- days before and after his conference in Texas. They also had a two days stop-by in Brussel for another goddamn conference. This summer, 10
- glorious week of doing nothing was supposed to be it. She still didn’t have it planned. Which was the allure, you know. Just living, nothing
- planned. She squeezed her phone and closed her eyes. Sleep, sleep, sleep, chant enough and you get it.
- The mini dropped down to the tarmac. It slowed to a still pace. The doors opened. She got out, the sun blasted her arrival. Like I didn't
- know I was back home. Yeah, nice weather. She stepped down. To see Mr. Balogun standing. She descended. "So, you'll tell me what's wrong?"
- She widens her eyes and arches them. "Seriously, did someone die? Like, I would know whoever it is anyways." She finally got to him.
- "Good afternoon, evening, everything." She said as she approached. He just stood there. He turned to walk away but turned, like he hesitated.
- Something was up. He stopped and stared at her. "We need to go see your father immediately," he said. "Okay." She angled her eyes,
- narrowed them. "Okay. Let's go meet him." She started to walk, then stopped. "But everything is alright, right," she said. "Uhn, uhn."
- So, they walked out the tarmac, out of the airport, to the car. They drove away. The car rolled into a white-washed building, it
- proclaimed what it housed, who did what there, who came in there. It looked it. It smelled like it. She got down of the car, eyes moist.
- She didn't bother to hide them behind the aviators perched on her head. You can hide many ways than behind a dark sunshade. She looked at
- building, at the words that proclaimed it for what it was in case you didn't catch it non-verbal cues. As if it were any fun coming to this
- building or anyone like it. She turned to Mr. Balogun who stood behind her, like he knew she needed a minute. Maybe, he needed a minute.
- "Would you take me to him now?" She said. He navigated around her and walked into the building. He kept the door open for her. "Thank you,"
- she said as she stepped into it. They walked to the front desk, women and men in white uniform, guardians of the building. Like it needed
- guarding. Who was it keeping out or in? Mr. Balogun walked around the desk. She followed him, followed him to a door which he opened. He
- went in. She stared at the door as it closed. The bang didn't jar her. She touched the door and pushed in. She stepped into the room. Mr.
- Balogun sat on the chair. The TV was off. The room was quite, somewhat. There was a steady ticking. She saw the bed. Her father in it.
- Asleep. No, not awake. "Dad-di!" as she approached. She came to stand above him, looking down at the bed. "Dad-di," a whisper.
- "He's asleep," Mr. Balogun said. "I see that. I see that," she said as she looked around for an empty chair. None. So, she sat on the bed,
- by the tiny spot not utilized by her sleeping father, dying too. She faced Mr. Balogun. "So, what now? Do I meet the doctor? Not that I
- need a cliff note or extended version of our talk earlier. In fact, on another thought, I'll rather not, if you don't mind. Shit. Crap."
- Mr. Balogun stood up. "I need to go check on on something. You can have the chair. If you father wakes up, do let him know I'll be back."
- She nodded. He walked out without a glance. She got out of the bed, without disturbing her sleeping father and walked to the chair.
- She sank her frame into it, the back protesting the intrusion. But, she inched her body deeper. She stared at the man, at the drip, at the
- bed till she fell asleep.
- She opened her eyes to see him, his head propped on a pillow, his back up. He flipped through papers on his bed, the part that usually held
- food. "You look healthy." She said as she brought up her frame. "Morning, Daddy."
- He shuffled up the papers and turned. "I do look like life," he said. He put the papers away and patted a spot by his side. She got up from
- the chair, came to him, and climbed on the bed, an expert. She stretched her leg, tucked them together, straight, space between her and him.
- "You scared me." She said. "I scared me too." He said. He picked up the papers and placed them on her lap. "I need you to sign these." He held
- out a pen, a magician perfect at his game. "What are this?" she said as she skimmed through the papers. "Some papers," he said. "Just sign
- them," he said. Tiny sticky notes in a dozen place it seems. After the fourth, she stopped counting. Not worth bothering, you see. For what
- is the point of reading contractual papers. She gave up on those a while back. You sign one too many and they'll all begin to look alike.
- a building bought in her name, something something about tax, a moral clause paper before boarding school, her field trip, her apartment.
- They'll look the same. All mired with words you're not supposed to understand, juxtaposed with plain words to confuse you simple folks.
- Only initiates understand. Only initiates are meant to understand. So why bother? Except they're from someone other than you, other than
- your family. Sometimes, even your family is suspect. But, when it's from your father, no suspect. Even as she skimmed through the papers,
- she didn't read them. What's the worst that could happen? Perhaps, she was thinking about her father lying in this wretched hospital, the
- stupid phone call, the flight she would have preferred not to take, the not silent trip here, the uncomfortable shut eye. She handed the
- papers back to him. He said "I'm tired now. I must sleep. You should go home. I'll still be here when you get here." She needed no cajoling
- for she would have made that suggestion herself.
- Her father said the truth you know. She met him there when she came back. He never said anything about being alive nor did he quantify what
- "there" means. His room, the hospital, in a fridge that wasn't a fridge but yet is called one. He never lied to her. He omitted things but
- never lied, you see. 6:04, they deemed her an orphan. 7:30, she accused jet lag and Lagos traffic for the delay, she found out her status.
- How? Not important at the moment. For it's not important to her.
- The funeral went as a whiff, when you gorge your eyes out with sweating eyeballs, lock yourself up, disallow yourself visitors, drink some and more.
- She stood by his grave. Staring at his tombstone and the epitaph. The day of his birth and his last day etched right beneath his name.
- She stared, without agency, for what shall we go on more? "Hey, I was told I would find you here," a voice said as it laggard behind. She
- didn't turn to face it. The voice and its owner slid right next to her.
- "Accept my condolences," Ifeoluwa, the owner of the voice said. "Please, don't complete nor say more. I'm pretty sure I've heard it all,"
- she said as she turned to Ifeoluwa standing next to her. She returns her gaze to the tomb. "Funny isn't it? He just lies there." She scans
- cemetery. "I should get a get a bench here sometimes. What wouldn't I give to be sited down right now?" "Are you okay, though?" Ifeoluwa
- said. She shrugged, not breaking her concentration. "What are you doing here?" "You haven't picked my calls nor would you see anyone,"
- Ifeoluwa said. "It's been a couple months. This isolation is worse than usual. I'm concerned." She turned and proceeded to walk away. "We
- haven't seen each other in years. Yet, you're concerned? Seriously, Ife?" she said. Ifeoluwa followed her, navigating around plots marked
- and occupied. "Your reclusiveness once was a charm. But, it did cost you relationships. Now, it's just unhealthy. You're mourning. You need
- friends." They reached their cars. She opened her door, stopped and faced Ifeoluwa. "Greet Ise for me, would you? It was nice seeing you,"
- she said. Ifeoluwa approached, in her hands a tiny box. She outstretched it. "This is for you. It's why I have been trying to get
- across to you." Ifeoluwa said. She stopped and received the box. She opened it to reveal a golden key wrapped in white tape. "Well, thank
- you, but I'm not sure I have a lock it can open," she said. Ifeoluwa laughed, angled her neck to the right. "It's an invitation. Do you
- accept?" Ifeoluwa said. "Accept what?" She arched her brows and shook the box. "Friendship. You inherited your father's worth. You're
- young enough. We're basically a group of young women. We help each other out. Right now, we're three. You would be the fourth." She dipped
- into her purse and brought out a bound invitation card, kinda like a wedding invite. "All you need to know is in here. I hope to see you
- soon." Ifeoluwa said and walked to her car. She got into her car. She dumped the key on the seat besides her and drove away. That day,
- she gained three friends she didn't look for. Her name, by the way, is Florence Okoje, CEO of OJ Oil and Investment, worth a $1 billion
- according to Forbes, but we all know how that's subjective and them say. Fathers, they love us unconditionally while alive. Dead, they still
- provide from beyond even when poisoned by sources unknown. Who cares if your father handed you the reigns to his world under the promise
- you would unmask his killer, finish what he started. The vultures don't care, only circling in to devour. Why would they anyways? They
- didn't read the letter. She, 26, Florence, drove away with the key, victory, a step at a time.
oluwa-is-involved 
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