“There are no happy endings. Endings are the saddest parts. So just give me a happy middle and a very happy start.” – Shel Silverstein.

•••

Lekan watched Dayo, as he stood motionless behind the women—with a latent look of fatigue on his face and he couldn’t help but feel pity for the young author. Tiolu was taking forever to round up whatever conversation she was having with Amanda, Ife and Anjola who all encircled her as if they were miners, and she was gold.

It was Sunday morning already, and they were still on the cruise ferry but set to depart soon. A white chopper had arrived, to transport the author and his wife to the airport but it would seem Tiolu was having second thoughts on leaving for her honeymoon, or she wished the girls could tag along.

Tiolu finally concluded whatever address she was giving, and swallowed all the girls in one, big, bear hug before ejecting herself from their midst and joining her husband. The latter snaked an arm through her waist, and guided her down the ferry onto the path,  leading to the chopper.

Lekan folded his arms, and watched alongside the girls and some other well wishers who were set to leave—as the couple boarded the helicopter, and took off into the air. Even though, he and Tiolu weren’t the embodiment of twin siblings who had a close relationship and were inseparable, he knew he’d still miss not having her headache inducing energy around.

Just as he was about to take off himself, Anjola surfaced in his front with her arms folded. She had changed into a casual outfit of a green cashmere sweater, grey faded jeans and brown wedges. Her short permed hair was thick and seamless, with fluid curls that reached the crane of her neck and her bow-shaped lips were more alluring than ever, since she was pouting. He wondered what her mission was.

“Do I really have to go with you to check out the stuff at Tiolu’s house?” She sounded genuinely traumatized, and he almost caved in on his ploy of spending more time with her but he didn’t. He was going to hoard the key for as long, as it was needed.

“Yep, didn’t you hear Tiolu over dinner yesterday? It’s the trick of getting me to go and inspect stuff. So now, if you would excuse me, I need to go home and drink. My dad wants to see me tomorrow for something crucial, and I think it’s great that God has given me a  day head start to drink, and brace myself for whatever discussion we’re about to have.”

If Anjola was disgusted by his words, she did well to conceal it because all he could see on her face was saturated frustration. “Oh, you poor thing. For all we know, your dad could do something worse than what Odin did to Thor, after he disobeyed him. Come here, you need a hug in hard times like this.”

Lekan was divided about accepting Anjola’s request for a hug. It didn’t correlate with the rest of the traits imbibed in her guarded persona, but because he was a touchy feely person who had nursed multiple sexual fantasies where Anjola succumbed to his will, he stepped into the hug anyway—so he could at least get a sense of what touching her would be like in reality. Before he could savor the moment however, and let his hand explore the length of her back, she pulled away rather abruptly with a devilish smile in her eyes. It was then and there, that he knew there had been an ulterior motive behind the hug.

“What did you do?” He frowned, as he slid his hands over his body frantically as if she could have extracted an essential organ. It was when he dipped his hand into his back pocket, that he realized he had been robbed. “Ah, you took the key tract huh?”

Anjola laughed, jiggling the key in his face with her right hand—and he acted quick and lunged for it. His right hand closed over hers with force, and she yelped. Then the tug of war commenced, and when he started to feel the key slip from her grasp, she pivoted forward and slammed the heel of her shoe onto his right feet.

The pain that emanated was sudden, and although didn’t severe his hold on her hand, was enough to throw him off balance and make Anjola capitalize on it—pulling with both hands and breaking free. Before he could recover, she had vanished completely out of sight and the last he saw of her, was the blur of her sweater as she stepped into a red saloon, Honda Accord with Amanda and Ife.

Since the war was long lost, he retreated to his own car and set about leaving. As he inserted the key into the designated hole, to unlock the car—he felt a presence by his side on the curb, and he turned in the direction.

It was a bright, smiling pulchritudinous vision of a woman clad in a blue chiffon blouse, dotted with an array of spliced roses that hovered above her belly button, revealing fair, sun kissed skin underneath as a result of the helms of the shirt, being wrung together in a knot. The vision also wore black, denim bum shorts—with a leather brown belt affixed in its belt hole—and brown, leather pumps. Her beauty was of the surreal, animated type that was so untainted and void of blemish, that it was almost unreal.

The only person he knew that had such beauty was his sister, but even hers had been compromised after she was involved in a mishap, last year—at the site of her previously constructed house, before it was raged to the ground in fire. The ball of gorgeous fire before him however, was folding her arms and giving him a knowing smile, as if she had let him on a secret that was to the detriment of their mutual enemies.

Lekan donned his trademark charming smile, and extended his hand before the silence veered off the comfortable region. “Lekan Keye, at your service. I’m sorry, but do you know me? Perhaps, you’re one of my clients. I can’t exactly place the face.”

“Me being your client depends on whether or not you deliver and live up to expectations.” She took his hand for a rather, lengthy handshake. The skin of her palm was so soft and tender, that it was squishy and it aroused Lekan’s senses instantly.

“I’m Naade. Naade, Adeleke.” She said in a sultry, effeminate voice. “I’m sure you remember the name. My dad and your dad, are business partners somewhat and of course, I was here for Tiolu’s wedding reception. Anyhoo, one thing led to another, one conversation to another and you ended up getting recommended by a friend of mine that had employed your real estate services while they were searching for a house. So yeah, I’m a potential client.”

“Oh,” Comprehension dawned in his eyes, and he bit his lower lip. “My gratitude to your friend, whoever he or she is. It’s quite, brain wracking when I think of how I didn’t notice you earlier on the ferry. Surely, a lot of people were invited but I’ve been told I do have an efficient knack, of noticing ravishing beauties that many fail to—in crowds.”

Naade chuckled, placing her hands over her chest. She didn’t look flustered or embarrassed, but he figured a laugh was enough for a start. “Oh, they did warn me about your sweet mouth, Lekan. Well, thank you. I’m glad you’ve noticed that about me, and I can only hope that you find a house that is just as ravishing, because I don’t think I deserve anything less right? After all, you didn’t notice me earlier on.”

She seemed experience on the flirting turf, but he already knew she wasn’t the guarded type like Anjola just from her appearance alone. Usually, he’d revel in that but for some reason he found it a tad bit distasteful. Shrugging away the thought of Anjola—he focused on the beauty before him instead.

“You know what? We have a lot to talk about ranging from your likes, dislikes and preferred location. So, why don’t we…” He trailed off, as his gaze roamed the area and landed fortuitously on the patio of what seemed to be, a fast food outlet. “That should be a restaurant, in the distance. We should definitely go there and talk. Let me just lock up here.” He turned back to his car, engaged the central lock and slammed the door shut before gesticulating that Naade lead the way. He usurped the opportunity to ogle her rear, and he was more than pleased with its sensual motion and shape.

“So, are you single or married? Is the house just for you?” Lekan asked, after he had fallen into pace with her. He had come to realize, over the course of the previous years that it was professionally wrong, to assume every young, comely lady with a sexually beckoning aura was single. As much as he had no rules regarding wooing women, and pretty much embarked on the quest whenever he found said woman attractive, he didn’t derive pleasure in breaking married homes and damaging relationships. That was his sole principle. She had to be single. Not because, he cared greatly for the heart of the wounded but because he believed strongly in Karma, and didn’t want to be barraged aggressively by it.

“I’m single. Divorced actually.” Naade replied, her luxuriant smile still glued to her face and it made Lekan draw an hypothesis, that she was one of those numerous scarred, emotionally wounded people that covered their wounds with a bubbly exterior and doctored smile. He also wondered if her marriage was her past demon. “Is that a professional question, or an unprofessional one?”

Lekan couldn’t help his smile again, she was indeed an expert. Just like he had suspected, the patio was adjoined to a fast food outlet. He led Naade to one out of many tables, on the rock padded ground, before signaling that they be attended to. He wasn’t one who fancied outdoor eating establishments, but the view this one provided was beguiling.

The asphalt of the street, arched in the distance—meeting with the gaze of the sun, and resulting in a golden, enchanting fog that engulfed the throng of buildings that lined the street, until it drifted out of sight. They were sheltered from the sun rays, by the massive umbrellas wedged into the table that spawned its apportioned space as an efficient shelter.

A female waiter—dressed in a blue crop top, with an emblem of disco lights spelling out indiscernible letters, a plaid mini skirt and black Nike sneakers—popped up by their side, with a clipboard and an exuberant smile to take their orders. They both ordered for cup of coffees. A Skinny vanilla latte for himself, and a white chocolate mocha with extra whipped cream for Naade. Their paused conversation, finally resumed after their orders had been catered to.

“So, back to your question. You want to know if my question was professional or unprofessional?” His fingers fiddled with his cup, looping round it after he had taken a sip. “Well, both actually. Professional in the sense that I need to know if the house you’re searching for, is just for you alone or for you and someone else. It’s an important criteria I need to implore in my search. And also unprofessional because, well? I don’t think I need to explain myself.” He finished with a cocky grin.

Naade’s gaze didn’t flinch, despite the intensity of his and she only broke contact when she lowered her lips to her cup, to take a sip. “Well, don’t you worry about that. I’m single, and not exactly ready to mingle. Not looking for anything serious, because I just got out of a choking, serious relationship. And at the same time, I’m not naïve to think, I don’t have urges that would die suddenly, just because I want to abstain from anything serious.”

The more she talked, the more Lekan was intrigued. “A choking, serious relationship huh? I hope you didn’t mean that in a literal capacity, as in your ex was abusive in a physical way.”

“Oh, God no.” She shook her head, with disdain. “But still, there are worse things than physical abuse. Emotional abuse is usually downplayed, as if it is nothing compared to that of physical. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying anyone should tolerate physical abuse. It is horrible, and everyone should run the opposite way, whenever it rears its head but people are always so ready to tolerate and even accept emotional abuse, as if it’s not as bad.”

“I see,” Lekan took another sip from his cup. The deserted street was picking up with life now, as people would occasionally step out from the buildings in sight, and walk out of sight or show up with keys, to let themselves into their respective workplaces. “So, yours was emotional abuse then and you made a run for it, as quick as you would with physical abuse.”

“Exactly,” Naade winked, shifting her now empty cup to the edge of the table. “He was just so imposing and restricting. Daniel, was his name by the way. He was such a dream boy, by the time I met him. Just this serious, devoted nerdy cute doctor. We met at the hospital, when I made an appointment for migraine prescriptions. He was so handsome in this aloof way, as if he were too busy and burdened to realize just how good looking he was and I never doubted, he was the one-woman-at-a-time type, because asides from the fact that it was written all over him—he was always precise about his actions and never took things too far. You could get the vibe that he didn’t woo women frequently.”

“But your assumptions were wrong, and he was a cheating bastard underneath all the act?” His curiosity piqued.

“Daniel never cheated, but of course there are things just as worse as that.” Naade said with a heavy sigh, and it was the closest thing to a gloomy action demonstrated by her. “I’m a free spirited person, and I hate being tied down. I love living and not just, staying indoors and letting time pass me by.

“Daniel’s idea of fun was staying indoors to watch movies and cuddle together. My idea of fun was going out to explore the world, trying out new things and making out at the top of the Burj Khalifa, if I could ever get to the top, or having wild sex on a deserted beach in the night. We were so different, and these differences posed its problems while we dated but I was too willing to ignore them, in the hopes that it’d all work out. I was so happy to have found an handsome, intellectual husband that wouldn’t cheat on me like my previous exes did.

“We got married, and the marriage started to crap out right from the first day. He said we didn’t have to go on a honeymoon, and it would only waste our time when we could return to our respective jobs, and still spend quality time together. Then it was the point that I hung with too many guys. I was willing to compromise, because I couldn’t bear the thought of him having many female friends also, and then it moved on to the fact that I had too many female friends and hang out late into the night. Then it was the fact that he didn’t like me clubbing, moving onto the realization that he didn’t like me making more money as a shareholder in multiple companies, while he was a doctor and was paid a measly salary by the government.”

“Wow,” Lekan swallowed.

“Yeah, wow.” Naade shook her head with a sober smile. “He got uncomfortable that I was buying stuff in the house that he couldn’t afford. I get it, as a man society expects you to be the bread winner blah, blah but he was being a bitch about it. I expect a reasonable person to whine and move on, but Daniel would go as far as smashing my stuff and throwing them out.

“I was still willing to put up with all these BS, because I really loved him and thought it was great that I got a man who cared too much that he wanted me all to himself. I had failed to recognize that it had become very toxic. The day, I lost it was when he locked me in the house and ruined my clothes, because I insisted, I had to attend the birthday party of a friend.

“After that, I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed all my stuff out back to my parents’ house and filed for a divorce. He refused to cave in and begged me for months to take him back, but my dad mounted pressure on him and threatened that he’d lose his license to operate as a doctor. That was enough and he signed the papers also. We’ve been divorced for two months now, and it wasn’t until I got out that I realized just how much I’ve not been living. I don’t know if I believe in hell after life, but a bad marriage is hell on earth. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get married again, but if I’m going to—It’s not anytime soon because I want to live for myself now. And when I do want to, I’m going to be extremely logical about it and not ignore the signs that pop up here and there.”

“You really shouldn’t.” Lekan said, as he rounded up with his own coffee. It would seem the waiter was keeping an eye on them, because she showed up by their side to do away with the cups and demand payment. After he had footed the bill, he led Naade out of the patio and back to the curb, across the street where his car was parked and then he realized there was a grey Mercedes Benz G-class 2018, parked just behind his Escalade. “This must be your car, huh?” He halted by the Mercedes, and inspected its brilliant exterior. “Yeah, I can understand why Daniel would be intimidated. His salary could probably afford a Nissan, while his wife is cruising around in a G-wagon.”

Naade laughed, her previous bleak expression – gone. “It’s not like I didn’t let him drive my cars around. Anyhoo, that’s enough Daniel talk for one day. About the house, we haven’t exactly discussed my tastes and preferences and all.”

“I know, but I need to narrow down the list of available houses or else your talk might just be in vain. So, let me first of all get around to doing that.” Lekan said, as he dipped his hand into his breast pocket and produced a square tract card. Naade held out an open palm, implying that he place it in her hand—but he closed the space between them instead, and slipped it into her breast pocket, letting his hand linger in the swell of luscious region before withdrawing his hand. Going by the dazed expression on her face, he knew his action had exerted its intended efficacy.

“Lekan, you’re playing a dangerous game.” Naade smiled, before moving to unlock her car. Before ducking low, and closing the door behind her—she planted a rather, mouthful of a peck on Lekan’s right cheek. “I’d call you.”

He stepped back from the car, and watched it turn into the road and zoom out of sight. He knew he’d be seeing Naade soon, and that they were also going to have quite the good time together. Grinning to himself, he walked back to his car and departed also.

***

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Anjola’s knuckles rapped on the door, at intermittent intervals and she waited for it to be opened. She had just returned from inspecting the newly purchased loft of Dayo and Tiolu, and had decided to annex the opportunity to check in on her dad, before retreating to the solitude of her apartment to rest for the entire day. Her dad lived in one of four, two-bedroom flats, in a one storey block of flats building, located in the middle class axis region of the area. The building was quite old, as its paintjob had mostly come off in chips—but it’s interior was still homely and conducive enough for living.

The steel paneled door, jerked open to reveal a more than familiar face, smiling from ear to ear. Anjola wasted no time, and walked off the terrace and into the embrace of her Aunt Bukunmi. Despite the fact that her aunt was in her late fifties, her chubby stature depleted the folds of skin and wrinkles that could give off her old age. The woman was wearing a green Ankara shift gown, designed with a stream of uneven stars and a net head gear, kept her black hair stained with few strands of grey hair—the only indication of her old age—in place. When Anjola was released from the hug, she met the state of the apartment as tidy and organized, as it usually was.

The wool throw pillows, were well arranged on the leather couches. The vinyl coated center table, holding a vase of rather worn out, flamboyant flowers was squeaky clean, and glimmering as if it was polished leather. The rack holding the electrical appliances, were dust free and dainty clean and radiating like sleek surfaces of mirrors. And the lone chandelier in the room, illuminated the entire room¬—spawning every nook and cranny, because it was well maintained. All as a result of his Aunt Bukunmi’s efforts. Anjola couldn’t help but wonder the sort of disarray, the house would be in if her dad lived alone.

“You do a lot of work in keeping this place in order, auntie.” Anjola commented in awe, as she strode across the room, to the lone three-seater couch. “I don’t exactly know how to thank or repay you.”

“Repay me for taking care of my own brother? I don’t think you realize, both of us were tight way before you came into the equation.” Bukunmi said, taking the seat closest to Anjola. The scent of the room, was also very pleasant—almost as if the live, forage wallpapers of daisies that covered the wall, was the source.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it, but you have more obligations now.” Anjola replied, relaxing into her seat after handing over a black plastic bag that was quite weighty. Bukunmi collected it and peeked into it, before dropping it by the base of her chair. “It’s nothing much. Just plantain, that I got on the way here. Couldn’t buy much because I don’t have cash on me, and I’m too tired to start searching for ATM machines around.”

“It’s okay, my dear. This is enough.” Bukunmi shrugged. “So how was the wedding then? It went good?”

Thoughts of the tumultuous church service streaked into her head and Anjola was almost tempted to narrate the entire horrific ordeal, but she kept her mouth sealed—seeing no point in spilling it all out. It was all in the past now.

“Yeah, it was great. More stressful than I thought, though but great.” She smiled. A genuine, nostalgic one and not a counterfeit one, manufactured to ease the worries of her aunt. “I know my wedding isn’t going to be that glamorous, because dad isn’t exactly a billionaire or something but even if its half as eventful as Tiolu’s, then I really look forward to it. Being the center attraction of all the merry and happiness in the world. It’s something no one in their right senses wouldn’t like.”

“Yeah, unfortunately some extremists today are painting marriage in a bad light and making the prospects of it, something demeaning to pursue.” Bukunmi sighed, with clasped hands and a look of regret on her face. “Now, it’s career woman and all that, that’s trending. Not like that isn’t great but really? What’s the point of conquering the entire world, when you don’t have people to call your own? No husband or wife? No kid to step into your shoes and continue in your path? No legacy to leave behind. Just nothing and an empty space.”

“Yeah, it’s because a lot of marriages crap out these days.” Anjola replied. “Men are more irresponsible and immature than ever. Women are too conflict seeking and untamable. Kids are neglected too much to stuff they should be oriented or shielded from. Less education of intellectual stuff goes on in school and the society is just crumbling into shards, gradually. They say overpopulation is the real threat, but I fear we’re all going to kill ourselves before we become too many for the earth to contain.”

“It’s the end-time. The Bible has warned us about it. All we have to do is be cautious.”

“Amen to that,” Anjola said, before rising to her feet. Bukunmi took it as her cue, to go see her dad in his bedroom and she was right.

“Your dad, right? He was sleeping a couple of minutes ago, when I checked up on him. You should definitely wake him up, if he’s still asleep when you get to his room. You can’t come all the way here and not talk to him.”

“Yes, auntie.” Anjola said, before exiting the room for the corridor that intersected with all the rooms in the house. Her dad’s room was at the farthest end, and she didn’t knock before letting herself in, because she thought the noise would be startling and could disrupt his sleep. After twisting the knob, and opening the door a fraction—she poked her neck through to confirm her aunt’s suspicion, and it was indeed true. Mofetoluwa Adeite seemed to be deep in slumber.

Anjola smiled, and let herself in—closing the door gently behind her. She settled on the edge of the bed, and watched him sleep. A comforter was thrown over his body, covering his entire body from his neck downwards but from the silk collar of his garment, she could infer he had his sleeping robe on. The right side of his face was plopped on the pillow, and his entwined fingers was just a couple of inches away from his jaw. His receding hairline was more obvious than ever, as the sun rays that beamed into the room from the window over the bed—casted light, dimmed by the curtains on him. For a man in his early sixties, he  had a lot of hair that was so evenly grey colored, as if it were dyed.

She didn’t want to wake him up, because he looked so well rested and at ease in his sleep but at the same time, she didn’t want to come all the way here and not get a chance to talk to him. It had been a while they had had, a face to face conversation. Hesitating, she reached out to his forehead in a bid to check his temperature and confirmed it was quite moderate and not high—if anything, it was unusually low. Panic zinged in her chest, but she wrestled its legitimacy, interpreting it as nothing but paranoia.

“Dad?” She whispered gently, edging closer to his left ear, facing up. He didn’t budge or flinch, in the smallest way and it made another current of panic to course through her veins. All was well, right? She wanted to believe he was nothing but immersed in deep sleep, but the man was showing virtually no signs of life. That would explain his low temperature? Her heart started to pound in her chest, and she could feel the wave of tears rising and piling up, about to burst free in rivers. She latched on to his arms, and shook harder. “Dad? C’mon, wake up.”

His body remained motionless, moving not of its own accord but as a result of Anjola’s furious shaking. A wave of sweat broke over her forehead, and a tear escaped her left eyelid. No, it wasn’t going to end like this. Her dad wasn’t going to pass away, just like that—without a fight, without a shred of resistance from her. This wasn’t going to be the tale of how she lost him. She tightened her grip on his hands, and shook even harder. “Dad, wake up!”

And he did wake up, but with a deep, coarse cackle on his lips as he sat up. The ice in Anjola’s chest, broke and she could finally breathe once again. Dissolving her grip on him, she cradled her pounding head in her head and attempted to steady it’s reeling waves of aftershocks. Mofe’s laughter on the other hand, was gradually dying out—the catalyst of it’s death, being her perplexed state probably, when he realized he had almost killed her in the act of playing dead.

“Dad, that really isn’t funny.” Anjola said in a flat, dry voice after she lifted her face from her hands. She was wrong. Mofe didn’t feel remorse, as she could still glints of amusement in his eyes. He had sat up now, with his feet on the floor and the comforter thrown over the bed. “At your age? Should you really still be doing stunts like that?”

“Why are you saying it like I did a backflip or something,” Mofe shrugged, and then stretched his hands out to yawn. His veins bulged out, making Anjola take cognizance of his frail, feeble body and the fact, that every day for him, was a step closer to his death. “A lot of people come in here with sad, gloomy faces all the time, and it really isn’t fun. I really felt like pranking someone, but I couldn’t try it with my relatives or your aunt either. Most of them are old like me, and could have heart attacks. You on the other hand, I figured you’d be able to handle it.”

“I’d be able to handle it? Really?” Anjola resisted the urge to roll her eyes, because she knew it’d be an act of disrespect—so she only scoffed and bit her lower lip. “You overestimate my pain threshold, dad.”

“And you underestimate yours,” Mofe replied, edging closer to her with clasped hands. A despondent expression, fell over his face and Anjola could detect that their next topic of discussion was something sensitive. “When your mom died, on your high school graduation day—you handled it better than anyone, despite the fact that it was your day of celebration and you had every right to crash down and faint—”

“A lot of people were there, I couldn’t exactly—”

“Nobody knew that a great tragedy had befallen you, at the start of the day and you managed to remain stable all through the event, without breaking down. Even afterwards, when you finally got the chance to rush down to my side, by your mom’s death bed and you saw me crying, you didn’t cry. Not that, you weren’t pained or devastated. But because, you knew, deep down that I didn’t need you, being as heartbroken as I was at the moment, because I couldn’t mend myself.

“So you put up a strong act for me, and hugged me while I cried. In the following week, while we had the family over doing stuff for me, because I couldn’t find my bearings, you made sure to keep that act on and never cried around me. Because you knew, It’d be easier on me to process the pain of my wife, if I knew my daughter was okay and I wasn’t being a bad person by neglecting her.

“I was almost worried you weren’t processing your pain at all, which was a bad thing until I sneaked to your door one night and listened as closely as I could, and then heard you crying after all. You have no idea how proud I was, that you had appeared strong for me just so you could process your pain in private, and not letting it seep into other facets of your life, that it turned you into something you weren’t.

“Two weeks later, you’d leave for school when most of your mates could use that excuse to be absent for the entire semester because they’re processing their pain. Not that, it’s an immature thing to do but you were able to see that the past is the past, no matter how tragic and sad, cannot be changed and all that’s left is to move on. More so, missing school wasn’t logical in a neutral mind. You did all of these, without consulting anyone or anything.”

“I did sorta consult Aunt Bukunmi, though.” It wasn’t until Anjola spoke, that she realized she was shivering in tears and her voice was trembling in pain. All that pent up pain and trauma, surfacing again was something she realized was suicidal to handle, despite the fact that she thought it had deteriorated totally, over the past few years. It made her wonder, just how deep an abyss, she’d plunge into when Mofe died.

“You made the decision at the end of the day, Anjola.” Mofe replied, reaching out to hold her tear soaked hands, as she sobbed profusely. “This might sound selfish, but I’m happy you’d be able to move on just fine without me.”

“You’re wrong, you’re very wrong.” Her voice came out in a squeak, and she coughed hard to erase its stiffness but it was futile. “What kept me going the other time, is the fact that I still have family. But if you go, I have no one. And I mean no one. I mean, it’s unfortunate enough that I never got any sibling, then my mom has to die when I became a young adult. Now my dad, before I even get a chance to make any reasonable impact in life. Why me? I’m just so fucking unlucky.”

“You still have family,” Mofe said, brushing his knuckles over her tear ridden face. Anjola almost questioned his love for her, because he sounded so unfazed, so neutral—almost as if her pain wasn’t justified. But she knew the reason why his emotions were inhibited and concealed. He was doing exactly what she had done for him, many years back. Conceal his pain, so she could process hers.

“Blood isn’t always family. That’s a rather short sighted way to see things. Your best friend Tiolu is family, and your close friends at work are family also. You might not share the same blood, but blood has never been the primary definition of family. It hasn’t prevented brothers from stabbing each other in the back. Sisters from exploiting one another, you know the stories, I don’t exactly need to recount them. Just don’t make the mistake of throwing your family away, in the guise of you not having one. You do have one, and they all love you.”

A couple of minutes later, after her tears had subsided and she had bid Mofe farewell—Bukunmi escorted Anjola out of the premises and onto the road, where she intended to flag a cab down. Whilst they waited on the pavement, Bukunmi sought the reason as to why she looked zapped of all energy, and almost lifeless like a hologram.

“Dad and I had this conversation,” Anjola sniffled, wiping her brows with the back of her palm—her gaze fixated on the street, scanty in terms of activity. “On what happened after mom’s death, blah blah. I don’t want to revisit it, because I might break down again. I just…” She inhaled, and blinked back her stubborn tears. “I just need solitude, right now.”

Fortunately her aunt understood, and didn’t press for more details.

“I don’t know what I’d do with myself, if he dies. I don’t think I can handle it.” She said, in a small voice.

“Mofe seems to think otherwise.” Bukunmi replied, as she ran a soothing hand over Anjola’s shoulders.

“What do you think?” She asked, facing her.

“I don’t know about handling it, but I know you’d survive and become even stronger.” Her aunt replied. “You know, I’m not an expert at the sorrows of these days, and depression and all that. But I like to believe that God didn’t give anyone more pain, than they can handle. So, yes I think you will be just fine.”

Anjola swallowed. “What about the ones that commit suicide? Is it because they weren’t strong enough or what?”

“Not exactly,” She shook her head. “The world is complicated, my dear child. Just because they took their lives, doesn’t mean they weren’t strong enough to face their problems. Perhaps, they didn’t want to face it because they didn’t have a will to live, and nothing worth fighting for. That’s all I can say, as regards this aspect. Nothing is definite.” Bukunmi paused to meet her gaze, with a smile. “And that’s why I know you’d survive, because you do have a strong will to live. So much to live for. I hope you don’t forget that.”

Right at that moment, a cab pulled over and Anjola hugged her aunt in an affectionate, crushing hug before boarding the vehicle. She didn’t know how much she trusted her own willpower and endurance, but she did know her will to live was sturdy and impregnable, like the defense lines of a formidable troop.

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