Sky Don Fall [Part III]

Part I

Part II

The first time Femi came to our flat, it was a few minutes past one on a Tuesday afternoon and his garish knock on the door had woken me up from a nap, where I had fallen asleep in front of the television.

          He stood there in the hallway with a black and blue nylon bag. In his other hand was a phone, an overused Nokia 2310 with faded buttons and a screen covered in scratches.

          “Aunty, abeg I fit charge phone?” He showed me the small device.

          I opened the door wider and he stepped in. I pointed to the extension cable by the television set, where a few phone charges were plugged in, their tails spreading out like worms. He dropped the nylon bag and got on his knees by the cable, trying different plugs until he found a fit.

          I kept my eyes on the television as he stood straight and rubbed idle hands on his jeans.

          I nodded at a vacant sofa and he sat down. We glued our eyes to the television, watching a music video, where shirtless men with face caps and gold chains wasted champagne.

          “You people don’t have light in your house?” I asked.

          “Key nor dey my hand,” he said.

          And then the silence returned as we cast our attention back to the television. His phone rang and he hopped up. He answered it and spoke a cascade of loud, rugged Yoruba, too fast for my ears to decipher.

          Off the phone, he seemed agitated; he stood with his hands on his hips, legs akimbo, head raised to the ceiling.

          “Wetin happen?” I asked.

          He shook his head. “Nothing.”

          “Why you come dey look like say sky don fall?”

          He looked at me then and I saw the semblance of a knowing smile dancing at the edges of his lips.

“I need call person but I no get credit,” he said.

          I reached for my phone and handed it to him.

          He took the phone with both hands. “Thank you, Aunty.”

          “My name is not Aunty.”

          But he didn’t hear me. He was dialing a number and was again shouting Yoruba into the phone. When he was through, he handed it back to me, got his nylon bag and unplugged his phone.

          On the way out the door, he looked back and asked, “If your name nor be Aunty, wetin e come be?”

          “Anwuli,” I said.

          I was going to ask for his, but he was gone.

*

In Nigeria, no corporation will employ you without an NYSC certificate – at least not through the front door – and this was the predicament I found myself in. As I wished myself the best where my lost call-up letter was concerned and in a bid to stay out of the house as much as possible and avoid my mother’s wrath, I tried my hand at different enterprises that yielded nothing; ankara bag making, bead making, hair making, event planning, social media marketing. Nothing worked and increasingly, as I spent more and more time by myself in the flat, watching mindless television day and night like a zombie, trying and failing at online romances with foreigners in Turin, New York and Melbourne – anyone who might be kind enough to marry me and get me the hell out of Nigeria – I was being pushed to the edge of sanity. This is why I say that Femi saved me in more ways than he will ever know.

          The next time he came to the flat, I had been cutting the bitter leaf mummy wanted to make soup with in the evening. As soon as I heard the brash knock on the door, I knew it was him.

          He stood in the hallway, this time only his black and blue nylon bag in hand.

          “You want charge phone?” I asked.

          He shook his head.

          When he said nothing else, I left the door ajar and return to the kitchen. I heard him moving about in the living room – heard his nylon bag drop to the floor, heard his heavy footsteps – and then he appeared at the kitchen doorway.

          “Wetin you dey cook?” He asked.

          “Bitter leaf soup.”

          He watched me. I kept my eyes on the vegetables I was chopping.

          “Aren’t you supposed to be at the market?” I asked.

          “My uncle send me go somewhere.”

          “And you came here instead.”

          He shrugged. “You no dey go work?”

          “I don’t have a job. Yet.”

          “Why na?”

          “E consign you?”

          “Sorry. Aunty Anwuli.”

          I looked at him and saw the mischievous smile on his face.

          “What’s your name?” I asked.

          “Oluwafemi.”