Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

15- The Bad Guy

Song: Sedated by Hozier.

Saheed:

Ibrahim.

I find myself remembering him more often these days. Most times, I keep him locked in the recesses of my mind, forever twelve years old, forever smiling- not that keeping his memories locked have ever saved me from the guilt.

If you were alive, Ibrahim, things would have been better. Baba wouldn't have to tolerate me, Ma wouldn't have to hate me, and maybe I could be living a different life.

I had looked up to Ibrahim, who was two years older than me. The difference in our personalities didn't stop me from following my brother around- he was calm and dutiful, I was playful and mischevious. I remember wanting to do everything he did, listening aptly every time he spoke. And he loved me, too. He didn't say it, but he showed it.

He loved me so much that he disobeyed Ma's orders for and with me, and got killed for it.

Heaving a sigh, I turn from my blank laptop screen, seeking a distraction from the heavy feeling in my chest. Fast asleep beneath the sheets, Ola is a welcome sight. She is sprawled on my bed, an arm outstretched as if to beckon me, her head turned towards me. Her face is relaxed, brows smooth and lips not pursed in her Ola-ish manner.

For a few moments, I watch her. Funny how she is now welcomed into my life, funny how I am now accustomed to having her this close, to the point of craving her company.

Yes, I think to myself. You were craving her company. Don't lie.

Ever since we ended up in bed, the need to have her close has intensified. I have examined these feelings and figured, they must be withdrawal symptoms from having her so close for the past two weeks. Obviously, my mind is yet to adjust to the fact that we have no ties any longer.

But why are you pleased to sit here and watch her sleep? I query myself.

A distant memory resurfaces, images of the countless times I watched Queen sleep. How my eyes had traced every contour of her body, watching the rise and fall of her chest, marvelling at how all the fire in her seemed to quench when she was still and silent, waiting under the surface of that dark skin; waiting to be rekindled by my passion.

I remember thinking desperately, Queen, love me. Love me and stop driving me mad.

Is something similar happening to me now? My past lovers before and after Queen had known from the start that it was temporary; symbiotic relationships where mutual pleasure was assured until I decided to let go. And usually, these relationships ended with no hassle-- of course, some tried to come back but I wasn't interested.

Even as a teenager, I knew I would always be this way- never getting too attached, aloof until it suited me. After Hadiza had done what she did-

Well, that is in the past now.

I find my way to the fridge to pour myself a drink. There is a half-full bottle of Hennessy in it, cold to the touch and hot on my insides when I gulp down some of it. When I return to the sleeping area, my eyes stray to Ola again, still in the same position, breathing in a slow rhythm. Ola, the estranged daughter, the independent, sarcastic, beautiful woman with a vulnerable side that left me surprised.

"I hope I don't hurt you, too," I murmur, although she cannot possibly hear me. Another gulp of the drink makes my stomach growl. I have not had lunch yet, and I can call the kitchens and order for whatever I want. But I have no interest in food at the moment.

I'm drawn to the bed by the currently oblivious woman who snores softly, her lips slightly parted. How could I have forgotten how magnetic she is? Does she know how many times I had stared at my phone, fighting the urge to call her or send her a message? Or how many times I had held my car keys, locked up in this suite, trying not to think of driving to her Ikeja apartment and knocking on her door?