Preordained #ProjectNigeria

62- It's Complicated

Song- 'We Don't Talk Anymore' by Charlie Puth and Selena Gomez (and any other song you think suits this).

Maduka's POV~

"Sir, it's time. The camera crew is ready."

"Thank you, Joy," I tell the young woman with a smile. She smiles back at me and leaves the office.

I adjust my tie and raise my knuckles to my eyes, sighing in satisfaction as I rub them. Lately, I haven't been sleeping normally. The effects are heavy eyes during the day, occasional head aches, and overall fatigue which I try to cover up.

I have been working hard, too hard, as my mother has complained over the phone and whenever she sees me. She isn't lying, though- with partnerships and deals to endorse, work on the farm, and now a photo shoot for my appearance in the Agric Digest magazine, I couldn't agree more. I feel satisfied with my current achievements.

Of course, you've immersed yourself in work to avoid thinking so much.

To avoid thinking of her. It's been three months, and no word from Nwanyieze. All attempts to reach her have proved futile. She has moved out of Mama Uju's flat, and Mama Uju has refused to share details of Nwanyieze's new abode. She has switched lines, leaving behind the phone I had given her- intact with all its accessories. And I had heard other things too...

It had felt like being stabbed each time Mama Uju opened her door to tell me that Nwanyieze hadn't visited since she moved out, and had warned her about giving out her contact to me.

"She is wrecked, but what can I do, Maduka? Nwanyieze refused to listen to all reason. I cannot go against her wishes, I am sorry," she had said upon my sixth visit.

Despite her attempts to forget me, I understand. I understand her shame, her fears. Something blooms in my chest, a feeling that I dislike so much, a feeling that I have worked so hard to forget.

Rejection.

I can't help but feel rejected, even though she did it for self-preservation. If I had followed her that night, maybe things would have been different...
But what could I have done, while battling with a myriad of emotions myself?

I used to be a prostitute. In modern language, I'm a hoe. The night we first met, I was supposed to hook up with Saheed.

"No," I tell myself aloud. "Not now, not today. You have a photo shoot now, and you're supposed to smile genuinely."

"Sir?"

I nearly jump out of my skin before turning to see Joy, one of my employees, standing at the door and looking puzzled.

"I'll be there right now. Sorry."

The photo shoot lasts for two hours. Shots are taken of me in my office in the reception room with me dressed in my suit. Next, dressed in overalls and rubber boots, we move over to the farms where I get my hands dirty. Through it all, I try my possible best to smile. I know I have come a long way, from the lost, orphaned boy to the proud farmer.

After the shoot, I am interviewed by Agatha Okolo, a young, budding journalist who recently joined Agric Digest. We sit on the comfortable, plush cushions in my reception room and sip orange juice for a while. After introductions and pleasantries, she begins.

"What or who influenced you to go into agriculture?"

"My father was a traditional farmer. He used to take me along to his farm, and as young as I was, I could see he really enjoyed his work. I came to love his farm, too. He always told me, that if we were good to the goddess of the earth- Ala- she would reward us with bountiful harvests."