Escapades of Toun: Part X

Escapades of Toun:
Part X – Love in a time of resolution

Ibiene Bidiaque

Marielle left the following Sunday. Before she did, she told Toun she was rethinking her relationship with Pai-han; the time difference was too much and it was taking a toll on the zest of their conversations. Toun told her to hold on a little longer; not everything good came easy, and she said it with the kind of wisdom that only comes from experience.

               Toun watched as father and daughter held unto each other at the airport that Sunday night, as other the latter was going off to war. Given the current challenges she was facing with her parents, the sight tugged at her heart.

               She was now living with Marques – a serious taboo; a situation she would never have imagined herself in, not in a million years. But her parents had kicked her out and she obviously could not go and live under Third Mainland Bridge.

               She counted the days as though her life depended on it: Nine Days. Marques had become nice again – soft and affectionate as she had always known him to be. They had breakfast together at the island counter in the kitchen before leaving for work in the mornings. He made breakfast while she parked their lunch in small paper bags; couscous with grilled salmon, avocado and lime salad. They had dinner in the living room; plates propped up on trays as they watched CNN, and Marques analysed and critiqued the world today along with the news anchors. After dinner, there was sex on some nights and other nights they crashed out before the thought crossed either of their minds. They were married alright.

               It was the best payback for Moses too, as he glared at Toun through the rear view mirror in the mornings on the way to work, possibly trying to figure out how someone he had maliciously worked to get rid of was still there, right in the back seat of the car he was driving; a living, breathing presence.

               As the days went by, he must have figured out Toun was sticking around. He tried to strike up conversation with her one evening as he drove her home alone; Marques was working late. In Yoruba he tried to explain to her that he had worked with Mr. Price for several years now and hadn’t gotten a raise; he had school fees and his wife’s medical bills to pay (she just had their fifth child – in this damn recession, Toun thought) and needed a raise now more than ever. Toun hadn’t said a word. She had looked out of the window at Falomo Bridge, enjoying the sights of Lagos as though she was a tourist.

---

Day Twelve.

               She called her mother; to ask how she was, to ask if the woman at all wondered where their daughter had been putting up all this while. Her calls went unanswered and her text messages unresponded to.

               Nike told her to keep trying; they couldn’t possibly throw her away just like that, not after sending her to freaking England to school at a time when a pound was over three hundred naira. Surely.

               But it felt that way. It felt as though they had disowned her completely for falling in love with a man the age of her father. What sacrilege.

               Whenever she spoke with Nike, after the usual prodding to keep reaching out to their parents and sending them text messages, Nike would wail about her unemployment; how employers either offered to peanuts or asked that she have at least five years working experience. She was going nuts and Toun knew that being alone in the house during the day and falling asleep alone on that bed at night was driving her insane. So – Day Thirteen – during dinner, Toun brought it up with Marques.

               Marques had a piece of beef in his mouth.

               “Really?” His eyes were on the television. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He licked his fingers and cleaned them on a serviette. “A good friend works at admin at the Turkish International School. You know it? The one in Mowe-Ibafo. You know it?”

               Toun didn’t know it. But she saw a light flickering at the end of the tunnel. “So will you speak to them?”

               “Absolutely.” Marques was now battling another piece of beef. “First thing tomorrow. Have her send her CV to me, alright?”

               That night, when Marques had fallen asleep and Toun told Nike he knew someone at the Turkish International School who might be able to help, Nike had screamed. Toun could almost see the tears running down her face as she cried, “Tell him, tell that your man that God will remember him for good!”

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Day Seventeen.

Toun found out Nike had gotten the job from their mother. She called in the afternoon, when Toun was at her desk, the mug of Milo Aunty Rachel still insisted on serving her every day growing cold at the edge of her desk.

‘MUMMY’ flashed on the screen of Toun’s phone and she had to do a double take, to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. She answered the phone, apprehensive.

“Hello, mummy.”

“Toun, how are you?” As though all was perfectly well.

“I’m fine. How—”

“We’ve heard the good your—he’s done. We are very grateful to him.”

Stillness.

“Daddy wants his number. Text it to me so that he can call to say thank you.”

“Okay, mu—”

The line went dead. Toun beamed. 

She left the open office and burst into the landing. She pressed the button by the lift and waited for it to arrive as she texted her mother Marques’ number. She was too excited to stand still so she walked into the stairwell and started up the stairs.

She called Nike, who didn’t pick up. She knew Nike was probably still at the interview. There was an Osunbiyi ritual, much like the limbs cradled in thighs one, where mummy ate and drank nothing all day until she heard the results of a job or visa interview, and so often times she was the first person in the family to find out the news.

Toun needed to speak to someone. As she approached the eleventh floor, she heard Marques’ voice echoing down the stairwell.

“Not a problem, sir.” He was on the phone. “I would have done the same thing if she was my daughter.”

Toun doubled up.

“Yes, Saturday works for me—us.”

She arrived on the landing, panting, just as Marques was getting off the phone. “See you then.”

He looked at her, wide eyed. “I was just coming down to see you—”

“Who was that?” Toun’s voice came out jagged.

“Your father just called me.”

She nodded, leaned against the railing to catch her breath. “Nike… got… the… job.”

Marques eyed her. “You really need to start doing some jogging. You know, these days, researchers say it’s not just about being slim. Your heart also—”

Toun waved him away. “What did he say jo?”

Marques smirked, enjoying the power he held in the moment. Toun glared at him.

“He wants us to come by the house on Saturday.” He grinned.

Toun nearly toppled him over as she crashed into his chest. 

The fight was over.

-- END --

Caveat: I really enjoyed writing this series, although sometimes I got bored of the story and wasn't sure what I wanted to do with it. Which is why I started the series, so that I would be forced to write weekly, be forced to create something because I knew people were reading it.

 I tried to tackle the other end of the 'Sugar Daddy' narrative; tried to view the story from the standpoint of a Nigerian girl who just happened to fall in love with a much older foreigner, not because of his money but just because of love. I hope I did justice to it.

Thanks a lot for being here from start to finish, and especially to those (Isi, Nyamu, Rukie) who reached out with comments, encouragement.

This may be my last post for the year and so, in case it is, have yourselves a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year!

- Ibiene