Chapter 2: Shadows and Shifts

With the curtain between us, I no fit see Tunde face well. But from him voice—no sorry, no remorse—I fit guess how e dey feel. Still that same cold, distant person, nothing dey shake am.

I hold curtain edge, finger dey tremble small. The fabric dey scratch my palm, but I no fit let go. Even if I try, my heart still dey beat kpokpo-kpokpo, fast and stubborn. Tunde just stand there, one hand for pocket, posture straight like soldier. Only time him voice crack small na when breeze push the curtain, nearly show him shadow. I hold my breath, waiting for sorry, but the words no come.

I used to think I mean something to am. Our papas na padi, we grow together. When we small, both families dey joke say maybe we go marry.

Sometimes I remember those days for Garba Kingdom compound—our parents dey play ayo under mango tree, dey call us “husband and wife.” We go run, hide under table, share suya, laugh like say nothing fit ever change. Even grandmama dey bless us sometimes, say make our friendship last reach old age. I think say na destiny, that two of us go always dey side by side. If person tell me say e go end like this, I for call am liar.

But na when Zainab land for Abuja I understand the difference between who dey close and who be outsider.

That first day Zainab enter, her soft voice and big, watery eyes draw all of us. She dress gentle, even her slippers dey quiet. Suddenly, attention shift; Tunde dey quick answer her question, carry her bag, even fetch water for am. That kind special treatment I never see before. The way she dey thank everybody, you go think na angel drop from sky. I stand for back, feeling like guest inside my own circle.

Tunde, wey no dey allow people near, go follow her reach New Yam Festival, buy her earrings, teach her city etiquette, even worry say her uncle and aunt go treat her bad, so e carry her enter Chief’s compound to care for am.

I remember the New Yam Festival that year—Tunde buy fine coral beads for her, even help fix her gele. The air full of roasted corn and drumming, but all I see na Tunde dey fix her gele. I watch as he whisper city rules to am, showing her how to greet elders and bend small, like proper Abuja girl. When Zainab complain say her uncle dey harsh, na Tunde rush to Chief’s side to beg for her case. All those things, na me dey see dem, but everybody just dey say, "Ah, Tunde na gentleman."

All because Mr. Musa, before he die, beg am to look after him only daughter.

People still dey talk about Mr. Musa’s funeral. Chief’s drummers play all night, goats and chicken full ground. Before the casket close, Mr. Musa grip Tunde hand, whisper long for him ear. Since that day, Tunde no dey joke with Zainab matter. For Garba Kingdom, when elder talk, pikin must obey. Even elders dey nod, say "e good boy." Me, I just dey watch, heart dey pound slow-slow.

For Garba Kingdom, mentor get big respect, so nobody talk bad about Tunde. In fact, people dey hail am as proper gentleman.

Even for palm-wine bar, old men dey raise cup for Tunde. "He get sense," dem go talk. Young girls for church dey eye am, hoping he go notice dem, but he no send. For our place, if you serve mentor well, your name dey ring like church bell. Tunde just dey carry himself with that silent pride, nobody fit question am.

Last harmattan, three of us go church to pray. Dust start blow anyhow. Tunde fear say dust go block road, so e carry the only umbrella, escort Zainab down the hill first. As e be, dust block everywhere, and I wait for church one full day and night before my papa come carry me.

I remember the taste of dry dust that day—how my throat scratch, how I rub my eyes until dem red. The whole congregation dey pray, but my mind dey for the road. I check outside, see Zainab and Tunde dey waka away, umbrella big like shield. I wait, leg pain me, hunger dey catch. By night, as moon rise, only my papa show to carry me go house. For my mind, I know say nobody go ever leave Zainab stranded.

During the palm-wine tasting this March, Zainab mistakenly pluck the hibiscus wey chief’s daughter like pass. Fear catch her, face just pale. Tunde quickly put the flower for my hair, talk say Zainab just come Abuja, no get family, if big people scold am, she fit no fit survive for city. Luckily, chief’s daughter and my mama be friends, so she no vex. Instead, she praise me say I get the spirit of "plucking the flower while e still dey fresh."

That day, my fingers shake as Tunde tuck the flower into my hair. Zainab stand behind, lip quivering. All the elders watch. Na my mama calm everybody, her voice gentle like evening breeze: “Children, hibiscus go grow again, no be problem.” The chief’s daughter nod, squeeze my hand, say I get courage. But my heart just dey heavy, like stone for river bottom.

I no be person wey no get temper. But anytime I vex, Tunde go always talk, “My mentor put Zainab for my hand—I no fit disobey.”

He dey talk am as if na prayer, like wetin pastor dey repeat for altar. Anytime I frown, he go just remind me. Sometimes I wonder, wetin about my own feelings? Shey I no dey this world too? But Tunde go just look me, face blank, and I go swallow all my anger like hot amala.

Those feelings I dey hide go just choke me for throat—bitter, hard to talk. I go just force myself act like big madam, treat Zainab as small sister.

I learn to fake smile, to call her “dear,” to give advice even when I want to shout. Some nights, I go squeeze my pillow, biting back tears. For kitchen, I go serve her first, just to show say I get good heart, because for our family, reputation pass money.

Prayer beads from Christ Redeemer Church, hair ornaments from Mama Kemi’s bukka, calligraphy and painting from respected families—anything she ask, I go give. But both of them just dey take my kindness for granted.

If she like my wrapper, I go give. If she wan learn my song, I go teach. Sometimes, Tunde go drop money for her on my behalf, as if na me send am. My gifts pile up for her room, but small thank you never reach my ear. I dey wonder if na because dem see me finish, or because Tunde always dey her side, dey shield am.

That day for polo field, Zainab sabi say the prize na my aunt’s keepsake, yet she still beg me to win am for her. I refuse, and she come dey look like say I bully her. People around me dey tell me make I let her have am, say she be orphan. Tunde too look me one kind, as if I no get good heart. When he see say I no gree, he just enter field by himself, determined to win the hairpin for Zainab.

I grip my mallet tight, knuckles white. The crowd dey whisper, some dey point. "Give am now!" one aunty shout, but I stand my ground. When Tunde waka pass me, his eyes sharp, jaw set like stone. In that moment, I see say e no dey on my side at all. E just dey play his role for Zainab sake. I feel alone inside crowd of hundreds. My leg still dey pain from before, but na my heart dey bleed pass.

As the pain hit me for leg, everything clear for my eye. Na Tunde Mr. Musa beg, not me. Why I go put my head for wahala?

When my leg swell, I drag myself off the field. I tell myself, "You don try." No more pretending, no more fighting for wetin no be my own. I watch as Tunde hand the prize to Zainab, her face shine like new kobo on market day. For my heart, I close one chapter and lock am, key thrown away like old charm.