Escapades of Toun: Part IX

Escapades of Toun:
Part IX – Love in a time of eviction

Ibiene Bidiaque

Toun’s parents were away at church camp the weekend before Marielle left, so the girls had decided to break the rules into many different pieces; she had spent the night at Marques’ and Nike had her boyfriend over in Gbagada.

               She lay in Marques’ bed now, watching his chest rise and fall as he slept. It was two in the morning and she couldn’t fall asleep.

               She crept into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of chapman. She then went out unto the balcony, sat on one of the cane chairs and looked out over the city.

Half way through her glass, her phone chimed with a text message from Folarin:

Its so weird am thinking abt u. Call me when u wake up, pls?

               She knew she should have ignored it, but boredom was eating at her so she responded with a Foolish boy, why aren’t u asleep and her phone buzzed with a call from him. She sighed as she answered, whispering into the phone.

               “Babe!” He sang, and she realized he was in a noisy place, possibly at a club.

               “Folarin.”

               “I… I don’t know, Toun.” He was drunk. “Since you called that night, I’ve just been thinking about you, you know, a lot.”

               “You shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t have called—”

               She heard the door slide open behind her. Her heart dropped and she cut the call. Turning her head, she saw Marques, shirtless and barefoot, eyes squinting, the edges of his boxers flapping in the wind.

               “Babe?” It was not a question. “Who’re you talking to?”

               She stood up, her hands trembled.

   “No one,” she said.

               “Oh?”

               The phone buzzed in her hand. She silenced it.

               Marques’ brows furrowed. “No one?”

               “It’s… nothing.”

               The phone buzzed again. She wanted to throw it over the balcony.

               Marques put a hand out. “Give it to me.”

               She obeyed. He looked at the screen and then looked back at her.

               “Who’s number is this?”

               “Marques, I just—”

               “Whose. Number.”

               What felt like an eternity passed by.

   “Folarin's,” she said.

               Marques’ eyes lit up. “Folarin as in your ex Folarin?”

               “I—”

               “At fucking two in the morning?”

               Toun didn’t know what else to say. She stood there, feeling like a complete fool.

               Marques chuckled. “Seriously?”

               “It’s nothing.”

               “You called him?”

               “He called me.”

               “Why?”

               “He’s drunk—”

               “You guys been talking?” Marques walked towards her now. She instinctively walked back, edging to the railing. “You guys been talking? What you talking about? Because a man doesn’t just drunk dial anybody.”

               Toun began to cry. “We don’t talk. I swear.”

               “No. Don’t do that.” He had a finger pointing in her face now. “Don’t you cry after doing a thing like this.”

               “I haven’t done anything, Marques, I swear.”

               “So why are you crying?”

               “I don’t know!”

               Her back was against the railing now. She was petrified. She could hear his breathing, could smell the remnants of his cologne and the must from off his body. She could not look into his eyes. She looked at his chest, the grey hairs lying against his skin.

               He tossed the phone on the cane chair and walked into the house.

---

Breakfast was difficult. Marielle was oblivious to anything; she was on her phone the whole time. Marques didn’t say a word to Toun. She sat at the island counter, watching his back as he fried eggs and made toast. She wanted to cry. She wanted to ask if he still loved her, if it was over, but it didn’t seem like he wanted to give her a chance to explain anything.

               They ate quickly and Marielle disappeared into her room. Although they had planned on seeing an early movie the day before, no one made mention of it now. Toun washed up and went into the living room, where Marques sat with a newspaper, the television tuned to CNN.

               After an hour of the unbearable silence, she said she was leaving. He barely looked up from his newspaper; he grunted and told her to be safe.

---

As Toun opened the gate to the compound, she saw her parents’ car parked in the driveway. She froze, blood draining out of her body.

               She crept back unto the street and dialed Nike. Nike did not answer. Toun leaned against the gate, balancing her light head. She felt sick. She peered back into the compound and called again. No answer.

               She was still on the street, working herself up to face her fate – what was the worse they could do, right? – when Nike called.

               Nike sounded frightened.

  “Mummy and daddy have come,” she whispered.

               “I know. I have been calling you. Where is Ezekiel?”

               “In the closet?”

               “Where?”

               “In the closet. Where are you?”

               “Outside the gate.”

               “Shit.” And the line went dead.

               Toun waited for long minutes and when Nike didn’t call back, she knew she was on her own.

               She walked into the compound and opened the front door. The living room was empty, but she heard the tap running in the kitchen.

               Her mother walked into the living room from the kitchen then, a napkin in her hand. Toun let out a long sigh.

               “Where are you coming from?” Her mother asked, peering at her from head to toe.

               When she did not respond, her mother rolled the napkin into a ball and threw it at her. The cloth rose and fell limply to the floor, but Toun dodged it anyway.

               “Omo alayi gboron!” Her mother yelled. “You have chosen to defy us abi? It is yourself you are doing!”

               Nike rushed into the living room then, a wrapper tied around her body. The look in Nike’s eyes reflected defeat.

               “Mummy, take it easy,” Nike said.

               “Go and pack your things and leave this house!” Their mother roared.

               Toun wasn’t sure she had heard properly.

               But the words came again. “I said go and pack your things and leave this house!”

               Their father walked into the living room from the corridor. He looked at Toun and shook his head. 

               “Is this the path you have chosen for yourself?” He asked.

               Her mother was walking towards her now. “I told you this house will be too small for the two of us!”

               Toun walked around the sofa, distancing herself.

               “Get out! Get out of this house!”

               Toun and her mother circled the sofa, round and round. Toun trembled. She was finding it difficult to breathe, to believe what she was hearing, but, as soon as her mother was far enough from the front door, she bolted.

---

Thankfully, she had about four thousand naira in her purse. She went to the Mr. Biggs by the estate gate and ordered a meat pie. She stayed there two hours, trying to think but being unable to, so she just looked out of the window at traffic passing along the highway. 

               Toun knew Nike would call when things had settled; when she had been able to get Ezekiel out of the house. It was kind of funny, if you thought about it – hiding boyfriends in closets.

               She had expected Marques to call, but he hadn’t. He was mad alright. In a way, she wanted to know if he was calling off the relationship so she knew going to Folarin’s house was always an option. At least her mother liked Folarin.

               She rebuked herself for such a fickle thought, tried to eat the meat pie but it tasted like sand in her mouth.

               Nike eventually called and fifteen minutes later, Toun watched her and a man climb out of a navy blue Toyota Venza.

               They sat down opposite her and Nike introduced the man as Ezekiel. He was more good looking than Toun had imagined he would be.

               “Have they left the house?” Toun asked.

               “They’re asleep. Give them a few days. Then you can come back.”

               “Where am I supposed to go in the meantime?”

               Nike eyed her. “Where else? Your boyfriend’s house.”

               “The same boyfriend that got me kicked out?”

               “So where do you want to go and stay? Under Third Mainland?”

               Toun knew she would end up at Marques’ doorstep, even though he may not want her anymore. He still had not called. She didn’t know what she would do if he turned her away.

               “I packed some of your things,” Nike said. “They’re in Ezekiel’s car. I have to hurry up. I need to get back before they wake up. Ezekiel will drop you.”

               Toun nodded. They left the restaurant and headed to the car. Nike gave her a hug and told her to call when she got to Marques’.

---

Toun wasn’t sure if Marques and Marielle had agreed on seeing a movie. She stood outside his front door with her bag and a small Ghana-Must-Go bag at her feet; the second door this morning she feared walking through. She breathed in and tried to collate her thoughts.

               She knocked and when there was no response, she reached for the door bell just as the door flung open.

               Marielle eyed her. “You’re back.”

               “Is Marques home?” Toun asked.

               Marielle nodded and opened the door wider. She stared the Ghana-Must-Go as Toun walked in. “He’s in his room.”

               Toun left the bags by the entrance to the corridor and, outside Marques’ door, wasn’t sure whether or not to knock.

               She walked in without knocking. He was at his desk, sitting in front of his laptop, magazines strewn all over the place.

   He looked at her, and his fingers stopped on the keyboard.

               “You’re back,” he said.

               She sat on his bed, lost for words.

               “You forget something?” He called over his shoulder.

               “Can we talk? Please?”

               A long pause. Then he stood up, stretched and walked over to the bed, sitting down.

               “I made a mistake, okay?” She said. “I called him. Two weeks ago. I was very stupid and I called him just…”

               “Because you missed him?”

               “No. I don’t miss him. I’ve never missed him. I was just… scared.”

               “Scared of what?”

               “Of this. Of us. Of what we were doing, of what I have gotten myself into.”

               Marques nodded.

               “I shouldn’t have,” Toun said. “I’m so sorry. But I was scared. I didn’t know what was real, what wasn’t real, and with my mum saying all that stuff to me…”

               Her voice cracked.

               Marques put a hand around her shoulders, pulled her close.

               “You’re either in this, or you’re out, Toun. There’s no in between.”

               She nodded.

“And… about Folarin. I never want you speaking to him again. You can’t be with me and keep looking over your shoulder.”

  She looked up at him. “Do you still trust me?”

               His eyes shifted. “You’re gonna have to earn it back. But… like I said, if you’re in, I’m willing to go all the way.” He patted her arm, rested his chin on her head. “So… You came back just to say sorry?” Mischief played his voice. “You could have called you know.”

               “Actually… my parents kicked me out.”

               He pulled her away from his body and peered into her eyes. “They what?”

               Toun began to tremble. She buried her head in his chest.

               “Why?” He asked.

  She could not speak. He wrapped her in his arms as she cried.