When A Playboy Loves

|| 54.

Utianle

It didn't rain today. It hasn't in two days.

The sun blasted through the floor-to-ceiling window, creating a shadow on the machine. My arms screamed in protest as I hit the red button on the sewing machine, I adjusted the polyester material under the fat needle poking out and another yawn escaped me. The weight of my eyelids threatening to close should have motivated me to take a much-needed break but I couldn't. I had to finish these shirts today, before his arrival.

Sparing a glance at my hand, I stared at the lines which disappeared into the bandaid adorning the centre of my palm. I traced a path on the sticky tape, my nails brushed the edge of the brown material too light for my skin. My stomach growled, my insides knotted in rage. I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to reach for the plate, to feed. Good mothers didn't eat without their children; their baby. Yes, he would be back. Soon.

Rip it off or be gentle, would it hurt? I let the questions float in my head as I peeled the bandaid from the side. If it ended up causing more pain, good for me. Pain was a welcome change from the constant feeling of hunger I was fast getting accustomed to.

The faint aroma from the sealed stainless plate wafted into my nostrils, I pursed my lips. What could be inside this time?

He always cooked, maybe someone else did. If I bothered to get out of this room, I might have the answers to these questions. But I needed to be here on his return, he would come here after greeting Uncle Kiki, after telling him how much he missed him. Then he would shout, "Mummy," and throw his arms around my shoulders. My baby boy.

I would never let him out of my sight again.

Maybe he might report me to Uncle Kiki. I chuckled or I tried to, what did it matter? What difference did it make? After all, I never wanted us to go to the birthday party.

A sound too hollow to have been classified as laughter slipped from my lips, I rubbed my eyes which remained dry as the Sahara desert. Placing a hand over my heart that had forgotten how to function properly, I wheezed and my chest tightened with a new weight. A weight that plunged into my stomach with each passing thought of him.

Muffled voices from the bed painfully drew me out of my trance and my shoulders fell. These people would not let me be, I had no time to myself. I would have screamed but I had to reserve my energy for him. A woman could not work without their loud footsteps, incessant disturbances and daily checkups.

Have you eaten? Eat what? What was food?

Even when they were not here, their forlorn faces loomed over me like a hurricane waiting to happen. I saw it in his honey eyes but I didn't need it. Pity was for those who lost their sons, not me, he would be back. I could still hear his laughter. Oh, my boy. My eyes closed, the familiar thrumming in my head resumed and I massaged my temples.

He would be back, he promised me cake. Big cake for me and Esther, all I had to do was sit here, sew some clothes to pass the time while waiting for him. It wasn't hard.

Someone grunted behind me, once, twice. I groaned, pressing a few buttons on the wheelchair which rotated in the direction of the sound. Gliding towards the bed, at the figure curled under the sheets, twisting and turning, incoherent thoughts clouded my head like fog on a harmattan morning, I stared at the girl, trying to remember her.

Sweat coated her forehead, wet the covers even with the AC on full blast. It tugged on my heartstrings and I reached for her, only to be pulled down by the immobile part of my body. My gaze travelled down my feet.

These legs. These useless legs.

The wheelchair hit the edge of the bed but she rolled to the middle, taking the sheet along with her. I couldn't get to her, this awfully familiar girl with her frizzy braids and a face that resembled mine. My brain refused to register the face, her relevance. Maybe because she always followed him to check up on me, to know if I had eaten and practised the exercises the doctor gave me.