She, Unnamed

  1. She lounged, no reclined, pranced like a lazy cat, the chair pushed into a semi bed, the dark aviators shielding her eyes from rays which
  2. 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.
  3. 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
  4. minus the pilot, his door open. Her phone beeps. She brings it to her eyes. 33 freaking missed calls. Bo freaking who. The mail sign pops.
  5. 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.
  6. someone cared. She pushes herself into the seat. "Get home now" She received the day before. Followed by a notice that her father's
  7. 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
  8. 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,
  9. 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
  10. 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
  11. 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
  12. planned. She squeezed her phone and closed her eyes. Sleep, sleep, sleep, chant enough and you get it.
  13. 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
  14. 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?"
  15. She widens her eyes and arches them. "Seriously, did someone die? Like, I would know whoever it is anyways." She finally got to him.
  16. "Good afternoon, evening, everything." She said as she approached. He just stood there. He turned to walk away but turned, like he hesitated.
  17. Something was up. He stopped and stared at her. "We need to go see your father immediately," he said. "Okay." She angled her eyes,
  18. narrowed them. "Okay. Let's go meet him." She started to walk, then stopped. "But everything is alright, right," she said. "Uhn, uhn."
  19. 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
  20. 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.
  21. 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
  22. 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
  23. 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.
  24. "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,"
  25. 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
  26. 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
  27. 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.
  28. 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.
  29. Asleep. No, not awake. "Dad-di!" as she approached. She came to stand above him, looking down at the bed. "Dad-di," a whisper.
  30. "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,
  31. 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
  32. 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."
  33. 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."
  34. She nodded. He walked out without a glance. She got out of the bed, without disturbing her sleeping father and walked to the chair.
  35. 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
  36. 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
  37. food. "You look healthy." She said as she brought up her frame. "Morning, Daddy."
  38. 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
  39. 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.
  40. "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
  41. 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
  42. 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
  43. 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.
  44. a building bought in her name, something something about tax, a moral clause paper before boarding school, her field trip, her apartment.
  45. They'll look the same. All mired with words you're not supposed to understand, juxtaposed with plain words to confuse you simple folks.
  46. Only initiates understand. Only initiates are meant to understand. So why bother? Except they're from someone other than you, other than
  47. your family. Sometimes, even your family is suspect. But, when it's from your father, no suspect. Even as she skimmed through the papers,
  48. 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
  49. stupid phone call, the flight she would have preferred not to take, the not silent trip here, the uncomfortable shut eye. She handed the
  50. 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
  51. for she would have made that suggestion herself.
  52. 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
  53. "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
  54. 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.
  55. How? Not important at the moment. For it's not important to her.
  56. 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.
  57. 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.
  58. 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
  59. didn't turn to face it. The voice and its owner slid right next to her.
  60. "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,"
  61. 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
  62. 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
  63. said. She shrugged, not breaking her concentration. "What are you doing here?" "You haven't picked my calls nor would you see anyone,"
  64. 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
  65. haven't seen each other in years. Yet, you're concerned? Seriously, Ife?" she said. Ifeoluwa followed her, navigating around plots marked
  66. and occupied. "Your reclusiveness once was a charm. But, it did cost you relationships. Now, it's just unhealthy. You're mourning. You need
  67. friends." They reached their cars. She opened her door, stopped and faced Ifeoluwa. "Greet Ise for me, would you? It was nice seeing you,"
  68. 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
  69. 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
  70. 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
  71. accept?" Ifeoluwa said. "Accept what?" She arched her brows and shook the box. "Friendship. You inherited your father's worth. You're
  72. 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
  73. 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
  74. 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,
  75. 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
  76. according to Forbes, but we all know how that's subjective and them say. Fathers, they love us unconditionally while alive. Dead, they still
  77. provide from beyond even when poisoned by sources unknown. Who cares if your father handed you the reigns to his world under the promise
  78. you would unmask his killer, finish what he started. The vultures don't care, only circling in to devour. Why would they anyways? They
  79. didn't read the letter. She, 26, Florence, drove away with the key, victory, a step at a time.

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