I wait and wait until I forget the meaning of the word. The niqab comes off first, sweat stick to my forehead, I use it to mop my face dry and rub my palms on my knees. It feels like hours since I last saw Mike, I am not sure what to think about his disappearance but I don't want to stress my already tired self with negative thoughts. He is fine. My eyes take this opportunity to scan the room. It is smaller. Everything here is a replica of the things in the old room except for the addition of a desk propped against the wall.

The double windows are closed, or so I think until I walk towards it to push it open. A gust of air sweeps in, I suck in a sharp breath and stagger away from the window after closing it. I have always suspected we are in a tall building but I didn't expect it to be this huge or look to be falling apart. Rods stick out of the uncompleted house, we are so high up, the ground seems miles away.

Tucking my hands between my laps, my feet drum into the floor as our conversation tries to replay itself in my head. I don't want to think about him or the things he said.

He might have known Papa Nnukwu, a name the children at the orphanage liked to call daddy but it doesn't change how I feel about him. The name translates to big daddy, he was everyone's daddy, mine and apparently, Mike's. I scoff, hell will break loose before I accept that. Being raised in the orphanage doesn't automatically make my father his, he's sorely mistaken. Daddy didn't raise criminals, he raised kind, strong, independent women and men. Mike is a coward, a weakling and a spineless bastard who chose to take the route of crime.

Feeling restless I make the split decision to unlock the door at the same time the knob turns and a familiar figure walks in. My relief transforms to fear as his face lights up in an evil smile and my head starts shaking. No. I can't deal with any more surprises.

"What are you doing here?" I manage to ask, unable to tear my eyes away from him.

"Surprise, surprise," he says, edging close to me and my teeth sink into my lower lip until it starts bleeding. I wince. Dragging the only available chair by its hind legs to place in front of me, he sits on it with his chin propped on his folded arms resting on the top rail. "Boss. Are you happy to see me?"

His question takes minutes to settle in, I stare at him as if to understand this recent development. The smirk on his face irritates me, the slight tilt of his head as he watches me rise to my feet with my hand stretched out to suffocate him irks me to no end. He starts chuckling, I scoff. I want to strangle him, I want to kill him. I treated him the best I could and this is what I get in return?

Dread settles over me. "How could you?"

The gun pointed at my forehead stops me in my track, I gulp. My heart starts galloping, I can feel a panic attack coming and I try not to focus on the present. Mike is not here to guide me through this and it's obvious this psycho will love to have fun at my expense.

"Sit," he commands and my butt lowers to the bed without my eyes leaving the gun. He can put it away now. "How could I not?"

Switching positions from the chair to the desk at the corner, he crosses his legs and waves the gun at me like it doesn't have the power to end my life. I squeeze my knees, unable to wrap my head around the fact he is the one behind my predicament. My eyes open slowly, I blink and shake my head but he doesn't vanish, he keeps standing there.

What sort of ill-luck do I have? Why can't I catch a break? Where did I go wrong?

"I don't understand," I mutter. "How?"

Our eyes clash, he flashes me a grin and I look away, unable to maintain his hateful, menacing glare. We stay in awkward, suffocating silence with our thoughts for company until he decides it's time to speak.

"Let me tell you a short story," he pauses for dramatic effects and I roll my eyes. I don't care for whatever he has to say but I suppose my opinion doesn't matter, it never has. "Once upon a time in the land of Enugu, coal city state, the Governor decided it was time to do away with the local market, the poor's livelihood. He wanted something fancy, a more polished and refined market."

His eyes light up in a silent rage, he throws his head back and I hug myself. "They gave the traders evacuation notice, they didn't care that they were ruining people's lives and it was their only means of survival."

Bitterness drips from his voice, I shake my head and let out a mirthless chuckle as he subconsciously taps the gun to his knee. Why won't he be bitter when he carries this much rage, hate in his heart? Over what?

"When the time was up and people had not packed, you know what he did?" He tilts his head to the side, expecting a reply from me.

"Do. You. Know. What he did?" he shouts at me and I force out a shaky no. That reply seems good enough for him because his lips curl into a toothless smile. "He continued with the demolition, not a care in the world for the people or goods. The contractor sent his men to the market, not only them, he sent the army. They sent soldiers to protect those demolishing the market." His fingers weave through his hair, his voice is pained when he says, "To protect the killers."

My eyes follow his movement as he drops the gun on the table to enable him run his hands over his face as if in disbelief over the actions of the contractor. On a different day, I might have felt something akin to pity for him but I don't, all I feel is deep hate and resentment. I stare at him with the same cold, calculated look he used to announce his entrance, waiting for the end of this tale I have been subjected to. I don't know what is yet to come but he deserves every bit of it.

"They watched as Bulldozers went on a rampage, reducing people's hard work and mighty storey buildings into piles of dust." His face takes on a forlorn look. "They didn't care for the worth of the goods, thousands and millions of naira, people's sweat, their daily bread. Anyone who dared to complain was shot. They were simply following orders, destroy every building in sight."

He lets out a bitter laugh as he jumps to his feet and stalks towards me. There is a tug on my heartstrings, I sigh and look down at my bare feet, I remember the incident, it happened in Nsukka, six years ago. Two years after the governorship election, the governor decided it was time to remodel the markets. We had been on a long vacation from school, I was in Enugu with my family, eating, adding weight and visiting friends.

I used to like going home to Enugu then.

What used to be called Ogige Market is now known as Ogige Mall, a beautiful plaza with a chain of other fun, different stores to satisfy curious minds and chase boredom. Some traders complained at first but they got over it, eventually. Money was given to the market union, the unlucky ones with wrecked shops were compensated. A lot of people never visit the mall, they claim it was built on the blood of innocents. Not me, I love their cinema. The Governor gave them two months evacuation notice before the demolition, they should have listened.

"What does that have to do with me?" I hate how apathetic I sound after being forced to listen to his incomplete sob story but it doesn't stop me from adding, "Why am I here? I wasn't involved in the destruction."

Annoyance crawls its way up my body as he stalks back to the desk. Confusion mars my features as I struggle not to point out how insane he sounds saying, "You hold the key. You are the missing piece of the puzzle."

I sigh. There must be something in the air here, that madness that seems to be making a round and it has finally caught up with him. The key? I shake my head and chuckle. The only key I know about is the one to my apartment and I am not sure I will be seeing it anytime soon if this insanity continues.

"Back to the story, love," he says and I fight back the urge to throw up from being given a pet name by him. An all too familiar one.

Shivers crawl up my spine and I shudder, I choose to believe his mention of that name is simply a coincidence. I scowl, only Paul can call me that, that's if I don't gouge his eyes out first for putting me through this. He starts pacing and I am reminded me of Mike, I want to ask about him but I can't find the right words. Maybe it's the gun in his hand that has all my questions dying in my throat and my mind goes blank.

"In the process of destroying Ogige market, they killed him. You know how he died?" he asks with a bitter laugh. "He was run over by the bulldozer, we could barely recognise him. Imagine the pain that filled his little body before he was taken away from me."

"Away from us," his voice grows loud at the end and I flinch. He stops pacing to look at me as if expecting sympathy but I am still too stunned by the comment about the dead boy to know how to react. "It doesn't matter now, does it? He will pay. A life for a life."

My thoughts come crashing to an abrupt halt, I rub my eyes with the back of my hand and blink morosely. "What?"

Now that he has my attention, a smile flits to his lips. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It's only fair to take a life for a life."

The butterflies in my stomach scatter, I can't help the unnerving feeling that this has to do with Paul and his cursed political family. My family hates politics, we prefer the life of quiet and a great lot of smoke. At least daddy did, he loved his cigar as much as he loved reading the newspaper in the evenings with a cup of orange juice by the side and my head on his laps. I am not too old for cuddles when it comes to him.

I don't know why I ask, "Who is he?"

My voice comes out small as I reiterate my question. It doesn't matter what his answer will be, I want to keep the conversation going long enough to distract him from my hand which soon locates the penknife.

"Ha." Shaking his head with that sick smile back to his face, he closes the gap between us. His fingers caress my jaw, my blood runs cold. I can picture myself stabbing him over and over again until I leave a big hole in his chest. "Don't be so fast. You will have all your answers once our guest joins us."

A groan escapes me when he shoves my head backwards without notice and takes a swift turn. I scream at him, "Don't you dare leave me here." There is a tinge of authority in my voice, the same tone I use whenever we are in the office. "Come back here."

His answer doesn't come until he nears the door, it's a sadistic chuckle that me gripping the knife for strength. "Is that how you got Paul to fall in love with you?" I gulp at the mention of his name, I do miss him, I miss that idiot. He backs away from the door. "Is that how you got Mike to do your bidding?"

"Your anger is sexy," he mutters with a wink that has me bringing my legs up to my chin. "But it will only work on weak men."

Producing handcuffs from the inner pocket of his suit, I almost spit in contempt at the contrast between his evil heart and his good looks. Evil men should be the ugliest of all, the least punishment they can bear for the atrocities they commit. If Patrick is the devil, this guy right here is his godfather. A sick, deluded bastard who has hate in him.

The handcuffs drop to the foot of the bed, his eyes run over my body, I avert my gaze and pull down the shirt to my ankles. I will kill myself before I let him touch me with those wretched hands. "Cuff yourself."

My fingers brush the tip of the blade and a thousand and one scenarios run through my head. All of them ends with me dead, except for the only time I manage to outrun a bullet but I am smart enough to know that the possibility of that miracle applying to my reality is zero to none. He will end me without thinking twice, he is not Mike.

Boredom laces his words when he repeats, "Cuff yourself." I hesitate until he points his gun at my forehead, forcing me to cuff one of my hands to the bedpost with a speed that has him applauding me. Devil's spawn. "Good girl, you do know how to listen."

Since my wild imagination is all I am left with, the only part of me still in my control, I subject him to the worst punishment I can imagine, torture him with the most painful weapons I have seen on crime documentary shows. I sigh. It doesn't leave me satisfied but it keeps me from lunging at him or doing something stupid to hasten my death.

"Mike," I start. The thought of that criminal betraying me fleets through my mind, he is a thug and I don't expect him to change that about himself soon. "Where's he?"

The door opens, he smiles. His gaze lingers on me longer than it should have and that feeling of dread returns. "With your father."

One. Two. Three.

A gasp escapes me at the realisation of his words, my shoulders sag and the flames of hope Mike's support had managed to keep awake die off. This is the end. My conversation with Mike comes back to taunt me, my curt replies and mean responses gnaw at my insides and I shudder at the flood of memories that washes over me.

Daddy was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was in final year, no one thought to tell me. I sniff. In their defence, they wanted me to pay attention to my studies and final exams as an undergraduate even if it meant missing out on some of his last moments. Tears trail down my cheeks, I don't bother to wipe them. They knew he had only six months left and they didn't think to say anything until it was only a few weeks. God.

Sometimes, I think it is one of the reasons I moved here. I should have been allowed to make a choice myself. Mma, Paul, everyone always thinks they know what's best for me and they act on that assumption without consulting me. I wipe the tears pouring out in torrents and sigh, I miss him. I miss sitting on his laps in the evenings. Trying and failing to pull out the cigar from his lips while he reads out the newspaper headlines to me knowing full well I don't care for it.

Mma always tried to talk him out of his bad habit, she hated it when he smoked so he only did it in the balcony. She would make serious jokes about him quitting, remind him of the dangers of that thick, brown cigar he loved so much and he would reply with a comment about his father. How his fathers before him were heavy smokers and lived until one hundred, then he would turn to me with a promise of walking me and Awele down the aisle. I let out a bitter laugh, he didn't live up to the age of sixty.

Stubborn man. He refused treatment, was so insistent that it was his time to meet his maker. We begged him, I promised to name my first son after him and all he did was beg us in return to release him, to let him go. I place a hand over my chest, thinking of it now makes my heart ache. Try as I might to remember only the happy times, those awful memories have a way of sneaking up on me. But I am glad I spent those last moments with him, however short it was.

Mike is dead and it's all my fault.

The impact of his words finally settles in, I shiver. My throat constricts, my chest rises and falls as my breath comes out in short gasps. He is dead. The blue-green eyed albino who tried to help me is dead. I let out a loud wail, my shoulders tremble and my eyes refuse to stop leaking. He tried to help me and it cost him his life. Tears cloud my vision as my gaze lowers to the niqab and shirt he offered me and I try to rid myself of them. This is all because of me; I killed him.

**********

This chapter was motivated by the Owerri market demolition where the soldiers killed a young boy of age 10 in a bid to scare the traders away, his name was Somtochukwu Ibeanusi.

The army spokesperson insisted that the soldiers were only deployed to ensure the protection of those demolishing the market and there were no shootings.

Question: Guess who came into the room?
Hint: He's also a staff.

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