There is something about people that had always left Jidechukwu daunted. Barrister Chike's story, for example, was one of those things he had not managed to wrap his head around, and even more bewildering was the fact that people credited god's hand for his demise, claiming that god wanted him to come home.

Barrister Chike was only a middle aged lawyer with cheeks burnt green by cheap bleaching products, who lived in the apartment above theirs in Onitsha where they lived temporarily after fleeing from his foster father's wrath. Barrister Chike drank much alcohol to his fill every Sunday evening. His story was short and easy to recall, and Jidechukwu rarely forgot even the most insignificant things -- 'Electric Brain,' his momma often fondly called him. One evening Barrister Chike drank so much and got into his aging Audi and then walked out of a ghastly accident minutes later almost unscathed. His miraculous escape was god's doing. About a month later, he threw a party that celebrated both his wedding anniversary and his escape from the talons of death; and while at it, he drank so much again and again, entered his car, a Toyota this time, and did not walk out alive that second time.
His story usually envoked too much emotion and sentiment and questions that were usually answered with either theology or sentiments; but Jidechukwu had a simple unsentimental view of it. His view . . . ? Barrister Chike wanted death to come, but either cared too much or was too much of a coward to do suicide the known usual ways.

He had watched Barrister Chike through the spaces between the louvres in his and his momma's room downstairs. He did that often -- watch people, study people. People were quite mesmerizing in an entertaining way and he could not, for the life of him, understand why most people would rather fixate on TV characters and films and internet media influencers when there was so much stories, real 'truth is stranger than fiction' stories going on around them, everyday, everynight. Barrister Chike, for example, was one lost soul, a character that depicted the essence of most individuals who chased success, money, marriage to beautiful wife, brilliant children, respect in the society; thinking that the summation of all those equaled happiness, but was disappointed immensely with a level of disappointment that triggered a seriously depressing sort of midlife crisis.

Jide could see his troubles at first glance, Jide could see that even the beer that once consoled him had turned tasteless in his mouth; and so it was a wonder -- why his wife, Amara, did not see it, why his momma did not see it. His fights with his wife were usually elegantly subtle, but even though most men told the Barrister that he was a lucky man, he didn't feel lucky, Jide thought he wasn't too. His wife usually insinuated that his life would be better if he had no life, that he would do everyone a favor if he just killed himself. Jide had seen the Barrister's eyes one day, and knew that he thought that his wife maybe right, and so he panicked, went to his momma and told her that he thinks that Barrister Chike would die. His momma shunned him, warning him not to utter such nonsense once more, and afterwards had left him there completely befuddled as he wondered if not uttering such nonsense prevented such nonsense from happening. A week or two later the Barrister had an 'accident,' few months after that, he had another 'accident' and died and so his momma stole nervous, scared, intrigued and freaked-out glimpses at him, fearing maybe that the people were right, that his pale dusty green eyes were not meant to see only the physical; but Jide shook his head and would not be bothered by that since his mind was currently preoccupied with trying to understand why Aunty Amara, was crying profusely in the neighbors' arms, lamenting and claiming that her husband, the barrister, was the best man she ever knew, that immediately after The Lord Jesus that her husband was the next best of fleshes who walked the earth. Jide listened keenly and stared with those probing eyes with his head tilted slightly in that way his momma told him made people uncomfortable and mad as his mind gear worked, as he tried to understand what sort of game Aunty Amara was playing. Did her husband's death make her realize that he was a great man, or was she pretending to feel the loss immensely? He suspected the latter as her wails seemed conspicuously ostentatious, but -- if he was right; why did she have to pretend, since everyone knew that half of the couples in the neighborhood wanted their spouses dead. Did this mean that he too would have to pretend like this if someone he didn't like died? He sighed, it must be really stressful and laborious since Aunty Amara had been wailing for hours.

He shook his head, spun and walked into his apartment with an exhausted mind, evidenced by a big yawn. He entered his room, pulled his drawer open and took his big blue diary book and the pen he had kept next to it. He plopped down on the wooden chair by the drawer, and flipped through the pages he had already filled with countless thoughts and memories, saved permanently in ink. He would need another diary soon as the one he had would fill up in no time, but there was no need to worry yet; for there were still margins to fill his thoughts with in tiny words that so far made sense to him alone. He smiled and then placed the ball point on the paper, but then he froze and a chill washed through his body. At first he did not understand what was happening, but then he heard a dull plop on the page, and he looked quickly to find a small circular liquid diffusing into the paper. A tear had dropped from his eyes and unto the paper and it shocked him to realize that he was actually feeling some subconscious emotion regarding Barrister Chike's death. He did not understand why -- they were not friends; until...

A tapping on one of the louvres on the window pulled his attention and he looked up to find Ifunanya peering into the room.

"Professor Burst My Head." She teased him with that nickname that made him feel embarrassed and flattered separately but simultaneously, and so he leaped on his feet and walked to the window with a big grateful grin.

Ifunanya recoiled and squinted suspiciously at him with folded arms. "Why are you so -- happy?" She asked and Jide was caught off guard.

He stopped abruptly and began to reaccess himself. He was really happy to see her and the feeling was specifically that of gratitude, but why? She was his friend, yes, but he saw her everyday regardless of what his mother thought of her tattooed thighs. She was looking pretty in that thin comfy black dress she wore sometimes to stay at home -- and as a far more mature/older person of the opposite gender her melanin-popping body looked divinely amazing to his hormonal teenage eyes, but . . . no; that was not why he was glad to see her. It was something else, something deeper and stronger and more meaningful, and at that moment it dawned on him, and he understood even why he felt the Barrister's death.

He loved his momma, she was sweet and kind and loved him and protected him ever since she picked him up from that orphanage home, but she was from a completely different world from his. These two persons, Barrister Chike and Ifunanya were also not from his world, but they didn't belong to this present world anymore either; even before the Barrister's death, they, the three of them, were individually lost souls in their different ways; ghosts that had grown weary in the quest of figuring out the meaning of this life, that felt that they were here, in this world, but probably shouldn't be.

Another tear dropped from his eyes as he stood there at the window and just -- broke down. People like the Barrister had given him hope, made him feel like carrying on, made him feel like waking up in the morning, but . . . then he was gone; he had given up, left him and now was gone and perhaps; Ifunanya was next, she would leave him too and he would be alone -- again.

Ifunanya had noticed him breakdown, so she ran quickly around the building and entered his room, wrapping him in a warm, soft embrace. She held him and did not ask him why he was crying; and he was grateful that she didn't. She always knew the best thing to do at the best time. But she too had died few years later, but not in a suicidal act or an 'accident'. She died in a hospital bed after delivering a fatherless little girl who looked so much like her that one would not help but imagine that the little copy indeed had developed and come out of her without any sort of biological influence or contribution by any father.

Honor (Jidechukwu) had named the baby Ifunanya after her mother and a couple of years later, he stood by the road side as the sky became dark grey for the first time in the year and he reminisced about these moments of his past because, again, he was afraid of losing someone that meant something to him. Little Ifunanya had come down with a very bad cold and had been coughing nonstop since the night before. He felt terribly guilty and began to think that a nanny was probably the best thing to get for Ify, especially since he had been so busy these days with the production of his music album with Skillz. Perhaps he should contact Ebose. She had baby sat Ify once and probably would not mind a full time Job. Besides, she was cute, and a great cook and often cracked him up.

The road was clear of speeding vehicles and so he and others began to cross hurriedly. He pulled his phone from his pocket and began to dial Ebose's number.

Ifunanya coughed. "Sorry." He said, and approached the entrance of the clinic.

* * *

"You know eeh, Annabelle," Joy called her attention and knew she had it only for a moment. Annabelle pulled the ear piece out of her left ear and sighed, so Joy continued; "You have been staring at yourself for way too long. It's somehow weird." She opined as she buckled up the black boots she borrowed without permission.

Annabelle was sitting on the bed like a kung-fu monk, with legs folded into each other as she gazed into the life sized mirror hanging on the wall opposite her. Her tired reflection gazed back at her melancholically with dull eyes in a manner that would have invited a hug if Joy was sensitive enough to notice.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me to fresher's night?" Joy asked as she switched over to the other boot. "Kene will be there o." She teased with a suggestive smile.

Annabelle turned her head slowly to her free minded, often petty roommate that liked to dazzle. She was sitting on the chair by the table as she buckled up the high boots with multiple straps each, finishing up her dazzling outfit. Her hair had cost like over an hour to make; there was washing, there was oiling, nonstop combing, then straightening with the hot iron that gave Joy a slight burn near her left ear. That thing was not working properly anymore and often over heated, but Joy who appeared quite expensive usually found it hard to buy things she needed with her own money. If no one else figured out what she needed and got it for her, she would not get it herself. She was very light skinned so the wine red lipstick fitted her. Her wig was silver at the tips, but gradually blended into dark roots at the scalp. About her torso was a thin sleeved, calligraphed shirt that hugged her slim frame and small breasts, enlarged slightly by padded bras. Her skirt was flare and polyester and very black as well, and was so short to the extent that would have looked too provocative if her body frame and dark monochromaticity didn't give her the look of an emo Korean popstar hybrid. If she, Annabelle, dared wear such skirt with her figure, girls would crucify her and boys would stare annoyingly, but with Joy's slim thighs, she looked simply dazzling and -- well, hot.

The sky rumbled again, pulling Annabelle's attention again, and it would have pulled her right back into her reminisce if she was not talking to Joy and couldn't wait for her to leave or stop talking.

"Shebi you know that rain is going to fall?" She asked and sounded concerned.

"Rain haven't fallen since this year." Joy finished and got on her feet with a satisfied sigh. "Why do you feel so sure that this one will fall?"

Annabelle glimpsed at herself through the mirror and then turned back quickly to Joy. "I don't know," she shrugged. "I just want you to be sure you want to risk it or at least warn you so that you'd be prepared or whatever."

A big smile took over Joy's face, stretching her thin Caucasian-like lips. She did not say anything, she just stood there, staring back into Annabelle's eyes and was getting emotional.

Annabelle squinted her eyes investigatively and could not quite figure out why she was just standing there and smiling like that. "What?" She asked, and was honestly getting a little freaked out. Knowing Joy for few months, she could tell when things were about to get weird and uncomfortable.

"Aw!" Joy placed a hand on her chest and looked flushed. "You are worried about me. You don't want me getting beaten by rain." She claimed and drew closer to Annabelle. "Either that or you will miss, so you want to discourage me from leaving you and going to the party." She spoke animatedly.

Classic Joy. Annabelle thought and stole another quick glimpse at herself through the mirror. She did not exactly not-care about Joy, but at that moment she was only saying because she was worried about the boots. The rain and mud and expensive leather boots were not a could combo.

Joy drew too close, invading her aura. "You should not worry, okay? I will try to come back early."

Annabelle forced a smile just to play along. "Okay." She responded and nodded childishly.

"Good girl." Joy remarked and leaned in further. "Now give me a hug."

They hugged shortly and both patted each other's backs before Joy pulled away. "Love you, girl." Joy said and blew a kiss before sashaying away.

Annabelle sighed frustratedly and seemed to find talking laborious. "Love you too." She responded and was glad that the drama and talking was over, but Joy reached the door and stopped.

"You know," she started with her fingers around the handle and Annabelle's demeanor dimmed. "It's actually good that I go, so I will help you keep an eye on your crush and pussy-block any bitch that tries to get a taste."

"Oh my God!" Annabelle's shoulders fell exasperatedly before she breathed and said; "For the hundredth time, I'm not crushing on Kene." Her eyes popped incredulous and her mouth pulled ajar.

"That's cute. You're not crushing and yet for the first week we moved in to this lodge you kept insisting on cooking and taking food to him -- to his room, even late at night."

"He wasn't always around in the day." Annabelle retorted defensively and then tilted her head backwards as her eyes gazed at the ceiling calling unto the most high God to deliver her. "He was nice and helpful -- to us." Her voice rose with emphasis on 'helpful'. She continued; "He helped us find each other when the both of us needed to find roommates;" she counted his deeds one by one on her fingers. "he helped us move our stuffs, especially the heavy ones; he fixed the wiring issue we had, he installed the cable, he fixed the ceiling fan; he -- nailed the curtain rod hangers, he showed us the way to the market; toured us around the school and gave useful orientation; and at the end he refused to get paid or receive any sort of reward. We had to do something to show appreciation." She stated.

"Is that it?" Joy asked smugly.

"Yes!"

"Pfft!"

"What?"

"I can't seriously take you serious. You can't tell me you're that -- unsophisticated."

Annabelle's jaw dropped and she just sat there with incredulity, despite the rage burning in her core.

"We are in the twenty first century, okay? Guys are scum. Okay? You have to get that into your head and begin to realize that guys should feel lucky that we let them do stuff for us?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. If Kene had brain in that big head of his, he should have thanked us for being very -- hospitable and then buy us food or whatever everyday for at least -- a week." She claimed authoritatively.

"Oh -- my -- God!" Annabelle's eyes popped seriously and her mind overworked trying to make sense of this thing -- this life people lived and such idiosyncracy that drove them. Joy was not joking, anyone who knew her could tell.

"Yes, girl." Joy sounded more compassionate, but in that manner that was condescending like a mother scolding her toddler compassionately. "You have to understand that the tables have turned now. We are queens now and that's the 2018 system, babe." She said, leaving Annabelle in absolute disbelief. "Don't mess up the system. We, women, worked really -- really hard to come this far."

"Wow!"

"Yes -- wow."

Annabelle was going to say something and Joy paused to listen, but Annabelle's vigor left her and she felt exhausted beyond usual instantaneously. So she sighed and just allowed herself to fall back on the bed. She pulled the sheets that smelled like Joy's strong perfume over herself and curled up under it, facing the wall.

"What?" Joy asked with a yell.

Annabelle sighed heavily and her breath was audible. She shook her head weakly and said; "nothing."

For a moment, silence followed and then Annabelle heard the door swing open, then close, and then she began to feel that she could actually breathe. She squirmed and turned so that she faced the mirror again. Few metres away was her reflection lying weakly with weight pressing into the mattress. The rumpled, wavy sheets blocked her right eye, so only the left could see over the waves of the sheet.

She took her ear piece to block her ear, to blot out the world, but before she did that she queried her reflection.

'How long will you actually stay here and take this? You have like -- sixty more years to go and that's a lot of time to be stuck with people like that in this world. You could even end up with a husband like that or dumb kids like that and you will have to deal with that forever.'

'Shut up, Anastasia. Just because you're dead doesn't mean you're suddenly omniscient and understand how I feel. You know nothing; you will never understand. You've always had luck on your side.'

'I suppose you also count dying from cancer as a teen as lucky.'

'Shut up!'

Annabelle turned over again and, again, faced the wall again. She needed her dead sister to stop talking in her head, but the sky rumbled again and a series of lightning flashes found their ways into the room, taking her back to years ago when she was only fifteen. She shut her eyes, and her sister became not only a voice from a reflection, but alive in her head.

"I don't know what you're forming," Anastasia, the very identical twin sister of hers that mirrored her physical appearance, said to her, holding out two Gala sausages. "You know you're very hungry."

"I don't want." Annabelle replied in annoyance. "Is it by force to eat?"

Anastasia shook her head. "No wahala.  If you want be looking like stockfish, I will keep shining enough for the both of us."

"Okay o, Just shut the hell up."