As I was going back home, I saw Zainab and ignored her. Her eyes followed me as if expecting me to say something, all of a sudden, she was like,
“Chike, my husband!”
Shocked, I was like, “Ehn? What did you say?”
She smiled and came near me and I quickly checked if she was carrying her stick. “My husband.” She said again.
I threw my face to one side and quickly smiled to my satisfaction before I turned to frown at her again. “Don’t call me your husband o…” I quickly formed vexing. “Me, I’m not doing again. Did you see the way you almost scattered my head?” I pointed at my head.
“Ehn… Sorry na…” She placed a hand on my head and rubbed it and my head seemed to swell small. I composed myself. Zainab may be mad but she was still a wonderful girl. She was 15 years and had a very long hair which had tangled. That day, my love for Zainab increased.
Whenever my mother cooked, I would steal her share from the pot and take it to her. When I was idle, I would simply sit with her under a tree and watch her go about her business. Many people who wouldn’t mind their businesses went to report me to my parents, but I didn’t care. Zainab was my Queen.
When I came home one evening, my mother called me all sort of names. “You this stupid boy, you want to disgrace our family, abi? You keep following that mad girl up and down like a moron, instead of you to stay back home and help me with the chores, you prefer to go and sit with her ehn? Chike? Is there no other girl in this country? Why that girl? We don’t even know where she came from? Do you know if she’s cursed? I know you didn’t inherit this nonsense attitude from me, it must be your father!”
When she was done, I simply said, “Mama, you don’t understand love. This love is shacking me.”
To be continued…
© Angela Okoduwa
