CHAPTER SEVEN

Dedicated to BilkisQazeem

KADUNA, NIGERIA.
21st September, 2016.
4:00am

PTSD—Post traumatic stress disorder. That is my self diagnosis since Dr Ahmad wouldn't tell and I couldn't stand not knowing; something about knowing won't do me any good crap, not that it stopped me anyway. I had done it with the aid of the internet and some psychological textbooks I had stumbled upon in my mother's library and was able to come to a single conclusion;

PTSD. I am absolutely positive.

Why?

Having PTSD in layman's language basically means having survived;
1. A traumatic experience; which leads to,
2. Inadequately equipped to deal with stress; and to my knowledge, I fit both criteria quite perfectly.

I don't like talking about it but I almost died in a car accident after a huge argument with my dad when I was fifteen. I can't remember much about that day or the argument but I know it was night and it had rained quite heavily just like it had when I met Aman. It was the same feelings all over again; the nagging emptiness, the echoing silence, the caustic anxiety. . .but it was the after I feared the most. The dreadful after. . .

. . .That niggling feeling of doom; a feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong.

It is the after I feared when I had awoken to an empty room. It is the after that had made me check my bathroom, closet, sitting room, even kitchen- everywhere after swallowing two white tablets to keep the demon at bay. It is the after that had made me go into the woods at that hour, not far, just enough to see if I could catch a glimpse of him with my flashlight, and it was the after that made me break into a run on my way back and went straight to check on my mother.

I brought home a stranger with a gunshot wound and he escaped into the dead of the night after killing my mother? That sounds incredibly filled with pretense.

There was no excuse, I realized as I stood in front of her door drowning in breathlessness and hesitation.

One. . .two. . .

I opened the door.

And there she was, praying, just as I had prayed she would be.

Crumpling to the floor as my legs buckled suddenly, I let go of a sigh of relief not wanting to even imagine what I would have done if something had happened to her.

You would have died without her.

"Reima?" She called tentatively. I forgot that I was a shadow in her doorway

"Good morning, ma," I greeted softly as I made my way to her. I laid on her legs as soon as I was close desperately wanting to bask in her strength and warmth.

"I saw your light in the woods, what's wrong?" She asked whilst patting me softly on my back.

"I went to search for the gunshot victim. He wasn't in my room when I woke up," I explained softly trying to keep my disappointment and fears away.

"He left?" It was more of a statement than a question and I found that odd, I was expecting a different reaction.

"Yes, ma. I couldn't find him." I snuggled even closer, burying my face completely on her legs inhaling her motherly fragrance which often smells of musk and love.

"That might be for the best." She shrugged, "I was having an uneasy feeling about letting him stay here."

"But ma-

She cut me off, "I didn't send him away. He left. I can't help it if that makes me feel better."

"Ma," I said with mock terror as I laid back on her legs. She wasn't one to turn away a person in need of help, but if she said Aman was bad news, I think it's better to leave things this way.

Her instincts were mostly right.

* * *

IT didn't rain that morning despite the howling wind and the rumbling thunder, and Aman didn't return.

I had a shower as soon as I left my mom, prayed and after hours of making supplications, I fell into slumberland on the prayer mat. I didn't wake until a quarter to twelve. Mum had left for work, she is a consultant in the Federal medical centre.

When I woke up, the sun shone bronze and the clouds were merely decor on the almost noon sky.

I hurriedly grabbed a breakfast of cornflakes, checked my phone for any message(s) or missed calls, took a bath, almost gone out for a walk, changed my mind, prayed Zuhr, call Jabir, call Hanan and then settle on binge watching the movie 'Gone with the Wind', because it's a perfect day and why not. Besides, I had absolutely loved the book, what could possibly go wrong?

1. Staring at the door much more than the motion picture; or,

2. Staring at my phone more than the motion picture?

It happened anyway and I blame it entirely on my active relationship with the romance genre but most especially romantic movies.

Let me make a small confession.

Personally, I like romantic movies. I don't mean the porn-like movies. More like those movies where the arrogant guy meets a simple but smart girl who wears glasses and drinks cocoa while reading through the night. They talk about books, and love, and kiss in the rain. I think I wouldn't mind if something like that really happened to me. Something magical.

And perhaps that is why I am anxious.

What happened to me seems to be made of the stuff romance is brewed. A handsome, enigmatic stranger with an unknown danger lurking around him and a damsel in distress.We had fought on our first day of meeting each other and I had stormed out only to return to a bloodied him and having my first kiss stolen by him.

And now he had ran off

Yeah...Not my kind of fairytale either.

But God, it was magic and drama.

* * *

I couldn't shake him off. Aman. I kept on wondering if he was okay, where he was and why he had ran off, and the more I did, the more the darkness in my heart twists and churns until I couldn't take the anxiety anymore and decided on getting fresh air. The air in the house was suffocating me.

I took a glance at the wall clock in my room, 5:27pm, and without wasting time, I grabbed the veil of my black jellabiya and walked out of the house.

And before I could realize what I was doing, I found myself walking down the path I had walked on a few hours ago. Not because I was hoping I'll find him in the woods or that I was having a feeling like he might be dying out there and needed my help.

It was just a simple stroll to clear my head with no innuendos.

However as I walked, I found myself wondering about a bunch of other things; mostly things I hadn't let myself wonder about.

For good reason.

I wondered where my dad really was. I wondered if people even remembered him. I wondered how my life would have turned out if he were here. And then slowly, my thoughts rolled down to me. I wonder if people ever talk about me. Or if they even notice me. I wonder if Aman wondered about me or was wondering about me as I do him. I wonder if my wondering about these things made sense. I bet it does.

I know I hardly say anything about my dad and I should probably say why, but I really don't know if I can. I know I have to talk to someone about it, but no one I know will ever talk about it with me. It's just something they don't talk about. It's not something bad or anything, it's just they are all scared they might hurt me, not that I blamed them but I still think about him. All the time. Most especially on all my birthdays, it's all I think about ... deep down. It is the one thing that makes me very sad, deep within my soul.

I wish I can say who or even when it actually happened, it's still a mystery. I will just say that my dad was murdered when I was fifteen. They found his body a week later just lying by the roadside. A policeman had come to our door. I can still remember that day vividly, it had rained very hard.

Like yesterday when I had met Aman. Bad things seem to happen to me on rainy days.

It was done by someone who knew him personally the police report had said, because the last call he answered and begged to be excused, was from a familiar person.

They never caught the criminal and at some point, we stopped hoping they would either. It was too painful living with that much of guilt, fearing we had somehow failed him.

It was a devastating experience for me and couldn't speak for days but mum was worse. I don't really know what happened during that time, and I never really asked. I don't remember how long I was kept out of school either. It was a long time. I know that much. All I remember was, after the mourning period passed, mum became obsessed with work. She went to work at hospital all the time, almost like a second home. I guess she was working tirelessly in the hospital so that it could help her forget or figure things out enough to try and make things seem somewhat normal.

She started losing weight like someone on a diet. Making her look almost like a ghost, with her sunken and washed eyes. She took care of me, but almost in a possessive-like way and would hardly let me out of her sight. I had tolerated that. She was my mum and I loved her. I say so all the time. But her silence made me grow up much faster than I had wanted to and had made me this person I was today, a person scared of commitments.

Some days I wish my dad was still here, other days I don't even know what I would really have wanted—It was that same day I had met the boy with the kind eyes and the sweet smile, some days I wish I had never gone out that day—maybe if I hadn't my dad would probably still be here. But on some days, very rare days, I'm glad we met. But for years, I couldn't go to into the woods. It had somehow became for me a place of blood, a place that smell of death. And yet today here I was, in the woods, for the second time and there was no blood.

But still, I can't stop thinking about what I want to be the truth; that my dad hadn't died. I want to believe that my dad would still be alive today if I was home that day. He would be alive if I hadn't been with a stranger all through that day and I would do anything to make it all become a bad dream. I miss him very much.

Funny how the events of that day seem to rush back. Things I had once thought were forgotten are suddenly crashing on the gates of my memories and things I thought I remembered were becoming inconsequential. I had once feared confronting these memories, but today they don't seem intimidating anymore.

And so I went back to our spot; mine and dad's. It was in the middle of the woods or so my dad had said. It was meant to signify a journey; being half way through things was supposed to make you see things clearer and better. It was the first time I had confronted this fear of going there alone without him. And that's why I made it a special time; for me and my dad.

I told him all about my life; about Mum and our new pet, a cat, Princess, about my best friends, Hanna and Jabir, and about my writings. I told him about how nobody had read my story yet and that I would read it to him sometime. I told him about my love for Irrfan and how one day I''ll tell him our story. I told him about my joblessness and my fears. I told him how much mom had cried when she thinks I wasn't looking. I told him about the books I read, my favourite song and my all-time movie. I told him about the boy I had met with the kind eyes and sweet smile. And finally, I told him about Aman.

I thought I would start crying or breakdown when I finished laying bare my soul but the tears didn't come. Instead I felt relieved, happy even. It was as if a weight had been lifted from my chest. And so I made him a promise to forgive myself and allow myself to be happy. I needed to heal, and I needed to move on. I know that was what he would have wanted and hence, I am going to try.

And that was when the tears came, and like the rains, I let them fall.

* * *

It's now 8 o'clock, and tonight, I felt like watching a movie with my mum. I just want to spend some time with her, doing something she wants to do, but without her realising only to realise soon after the movie began that I didn't even want to watch the movie after all. It was too much emotions in one day. So I decided to go to my room and read. Truth was, I was feeling very sad.

The book turned out to be magic and exactly what I needed.

Hanna had gifted the book to me on my last birthday. It's Things fall apart by Chinua Achebe. It was meant to be a lift to my dwindling feelings, but I know Hanna hadn't bother reading the book. If she had, she wouldn't had given me the book. But she was right when she had said it was the kind of book I would enjoy reading. For I really did.

I kept on reading and hardly took note of time, until ma had asked me whether I wasn't going to sleep. I had glanced at the clock, 1:21am.

Reluctantly, I closed the book; I had read the book completely and was on page twenty in my second read. I like reading books more than once, I always felt they feel better the second time.

I really liked Okonkwo. I think he is an outstanding man. And I really liked the way he wanted to save his community from what he saw to be its downfall. But life doesn't quite work out that way. They saw his obstinacy as an inability to embrace change and that made him sad that he ended up killing himself. He was brave and unfortunately for them, he was right. Not all changes were good.

Yes, not all changes are good. Look at me. Look at how my worries had changed overnight even though it was clearly for the wrong reasons.

That night, I lay on my bed for hours staring through the window at the darkness veiling the world and imagined how Okonkwo must have felt at the end, when he had finally realized that if he didn't leave, his life would never be his; it would be theirs.

He wasn't wrong but he wasn't right either, and yet strangely, his decision to end it all makes sense.

It was probably the best ending.