Changing fate

I had seen enough examples of people not taking charge of their lives that I, at one point imagined it impossible to do so.

That was until I met Zainab. It was hot that day, near midday. I had not eaten that morning, caught up in a rush to beat Lagos traffic. I had promised to always appear on time in the workplace and I was not going to allow Lagos traffic to make me a promise breaker. The other reason was that I did not want to lose my job. The feeling of unemployment is not something enjoyable, especially when a man is down to his last cards and has got responsibilities. The bills won't pay themselves, nor will food buy itself. So, I broke mom's first rule, not to miss breakfast and I was paying for it. Hunger came in waves, like the sea beating the reefs.

I set out to look for snacks, something to keep the worms away. It was the season of corn. I knew about the miracle of roasted corn and softened pear. I went looking for it in the streets of afternoon Lagos. The search took me a distance before I found it. I found it in the possession of a young lady, her name, Zainab. 

The very first thing I noticed about her was her conscientiousness, opening very early. She was the first person selling corn on that street and it struck me as ingenious. The business arena is one of very stiff competition and here is someone willing to stake it all to beat it, even if it was by opening earlier than her competitors. I was to be surprised even more. Her charming personality and polite nature blossomed in me an admiration. Here was a lady in the streets of Lagos, still able to dignify and respect others. It was amazing. It was a start. 

I became a loyal customer of Zainab. I returned again and again. Not really for the corn and pear, but for the person behind the corn. Our meetings stretched past my corn needs & started to focus on her person. She was a true African Lady: fierce when necessary and demure when required. I often triggered the latter and I loved it. I also loved her soft spoken jokes and charming laughter, peeking behind her fingers when she covered her mouth.

I experienced her strength when I found that she attended the university, self sponsored. Her family situation was not exciting. Her father, a retired soldier, was a very violent man. Violence that was systemized in his days in the armed forces. Violence he unleased on his family, two or three times a week. The man did not know what was troubling him, so he raged and battered and tried to drown in alcohol.

Her mother, a soft spoken, weak willed woman, beaten weekly, tried to raise her children the best she could. She was overwhelmed by the forces of poverty, but undeterred. From this, Zainab grew, alone in the hostile streets of Lagos, where her kind were choice targets of exploits from rich men in Agbada. 

One day, she called while I was working and said I should urgently come to her house. She stayed with her parents. I thought nothing of it. Although I was curious, afterall I'd only visited once and I made sure to stay out of sight. 

Their house was in the outskirts of Lagos. I had to leave work early, thank God I had a boss that understood when I said I had an emergency at home.

I searched for a bus and when I did find one, I didn't even have the strength to be discontent. It was a little rickety thing that challenged the concepts of physics and had a color so faded it might as well be non existent. It looked like it will fall apart the next moment. It was a disaster waiting to happen. It was filled past the normal holding capacity, I feared there won't be space for me. I shouldn't have. A woman had to adjust in the second row. She looked uncomfortable adjusting, but she was not to blame. She had a toddler tied behind her & two children on her laps. She was a big woman, so the very idea of shifting was enough to cause grief to her. It was also the beginning of my grief. I had to squeeze between her and the very rough, rusty side of the bus. The two hour journey was not passed in joy. I was caught between personal discomfort caused by the motion of the bus along the road filled with potholes and a growing frustration that increased with the crawling pace of the bus. Thankfully, the bus finally made it in one piece and dropped me off at the side of the main road. 

The rest of the journey was completed atop a motorcycle on a dirt road that can cause serious damages to cars, even the rickety bus I took. The bike man dropped me off at Zainabs house.

Her street was filled with old houses and carried an ancient feel. Most of the houses had brown roofs, a sign of rust. There was an air of general decay. A decay that pervaded even the front porch of Zainab's house. The metal rails had changes colour to a brown rust. The protectors suffered the same fate. I made for the door and knocked. I'd learnt that people didn't take it kindly with loud knocks, an experience synonymous with a robbery. So, my knocks were soft, but firm. The door was old, I could see its age in the cracks that marred its otherwise smooth surface.

Unexpectedly, after I knocked, the door swung inwards. It was open. It didn't make a noise, obviously having well oiled hinges. My heart seized. I replayed the conversation I had with Zainab over the phone. She didn't sound terrified or concerned. I called her name loudly, but she didn't answer nor was there a neighbour in sight, not that they'd help of they were there. 

I took a deep breath, fully pushed the door open and went inside. There was an eerie silence, not something that should happen at four in the evening. The sitting room was spartan, no decorations, no carpets. The walls were bare except a couple of spots where peeling paint could be seen. The original blue paint now faded so much that it looked bleached. The sofa was an antique, probably older than myself and filled with holes. I could see brown foam beneath its torn exterior.

I listened. There was a sound inside, something that sounded like a soft sobbing. I was alarmed. I started moving more slowly, eyes peeled, legs ready to bolt. I located a door at the side of the sitting room. It led to a short passage. There were three rooms in the passage. The passage was well lit by light from windows. I located the source of the sound. It was one of those rooms. 

I moved closer. The sounds became clearer. Definitely sobbing and it was Zainab's.

I had heard enough. With my heart pumping, I immediately flung the door open, ready to face any threats. 

The sight however froze me. It was Zainab all right in the room. She was weeping. Her back was facing me, her phone at her side her clothes ripped like she had an intense battle. In front of her however was a man. Only, he was dead. I saw his face clearly. His face was a mask of terror, forever frozen. His eyes were open, only they were not seeing. He was deader than dead. Impaled by a kitchen knife, from the looks.

The first thought that came to me was to flee. The police usually didn't listen. If I was seen standing here, I'd definitely sleep in the police station that night. But Zainab was there. 

So, I took measured steps, in a whisper said "Zainab you...you killed him?". She turned at this point, faced me and I saw it. She'd been brutalized, face bleeding, clothes torn, left in her underwear and even that was not complete. Fury seized me, "Zainab he....he tried to rape you?", I barely forced the words through gritted teeth. She flinched, looked at her feet and then raised her tear stained face to meet mine. In a barely percievable whisper, she spoke for the first time since I saw her, "Can you keep a secret?" before she burst into tears. I took her into my arms and nodded ever so slowly. It didn't matter that her head was buried in my chest, she knew I'd keep it.