And the elevator dings, reminding me of all the places I’ll have to be that I’ll rather not be. I step out and draw in two quick breaths before releasing air from my tight chest. Rosaline, we have to see first thing tomorrow. That was the text I received from my Operations Manager yesterday. That wasn’t the only fear-inducing news I got in the space of six hours. mother called that she’d rushed father to the hospital because he’d suffered a heart attack and is currently in intensive care. This was before my OM’s message came in hours later. My plans to ask for the day off crept into the abyss.
Last night, Sam had wrapped his muscular arm around me like a blanket, cooing into my ears to calm my raging mind which had gone every which way. “What do you think my boss wants?” I’d turned to face him asking the question as if he could read my boss’s mind from the text and had the answers. He’d brushed my thick, curly hair with his fingers, and smiled into my face.
I move closer to my OM’s office, and I can see him through the transparent glass dividing his office from the shared space occupied by the junior staff. He’s pacing with both arms locked together. I give a faint smile to a male colleague saying hello, and just before I tap the door, my OM stops in front of the window and looks down at impatient pedestrians competing with moving vehicles on the busy, narrow road. Our office is on the 12th floor, and I always wonder how someone could stand by a window and want to look at what’s going on more than 6 feet below. The thought alone squeezes air out of my lungs. I take in another two quick breaths, mumble a prayer under my breath and slide the glass door open.
I step in and my OM turns around in a flash, his eyes blazing. My heart does two quick skips before I manage to gain composure. He pulls his black swivel chair and drops in it, pulling himself towards the table. He rests his elbow on the mahogany, L-shaped table. Files and documents litter the table, and in the midst of the chaos is the picture frame of his family—his two boys and estranged wife. He prints out some documents from the small, white printer sitting on the shorter side of the table.
“What’s the meaning of this, Rosaline?” He flings the warm documents at me, his voice gruff. “Do you know how much your useless mistakes can cost us?”
I scan through the document and roll my eyes, rubbing my temples with my thumb and index finger. I, as politely as I can, return the documents to him and explain why the figures are different from what he was expecting. If he read the body of the email I’d sent him, to which the file was attached, he wouldn’t have wasted his breath huffing and puffing, blowing steam when there was the need for none.
I figure out what this is about. Ever since I gave him a stern warning and a subtle threat that I was going to make a report to HR if he didn’t stop badgering me, he’d looked for every means to make work a fiery furnace for me. Someone has to give in, and it’s not me. That is his philosophy and he uses every means to achieve it. I wasn’t going to give in either.
As I excuse myself, I hear him let out a grunt and a hiss. I head to the HR department and request the day off on the basis of a family emergency. I would have asked my OM, but I knew he was going to use it as a weapon and make a meal of it.
I step out of the office complex as the elevator dings and my mind is flung to my father struggling for his life in the hospital. I pick up my phone to check the name of the hospital mother rushed him to. I text Sam and let him know where I’m headed.
I get into my black Toyota Corolla and drive out of the car park. There’s a build-up of lights and impatient honks, and I know that my journey from Ikoyi to Lekki which should take me about an hour without traffic might end up as a 3-hour mini road trip. I’m a little surprised as to why there’s much traffic at this time of day. It’s a little after 10am, and the road is usually free all things being normal, but it seems as though all the cars in Lagos are in a hurry to nowhere. My mind is having a voyage of its own, digging out worst-case scenarios and memories I do not want to remember.
The relationship between my father and me is strained on the account of Sam. Since the day I introduced Sam as my boyfriend about two years ago, my father fought our relationship. The image from that day is still fresh in my mind. My father barely acknowledged Sam’s presence with a curt nod before pulling me into his room. “What do you think you’re doing with that boy? He is not good enough for you, Rosa. Who is he? Who are his parents? What does he do? I have Chief’s son who is interested in you, not some riffraff somewhere.” It was his last statement that irked me, and I did something I’d never done to my father in my 28 years. I walked out on him, slamming the door in his face.
The situation worsened when my father found out he was not Yoruba. My father merely tolerated him the whole time, but the fact that Sam was an Edo boy infuriated him. One would have thought my father had a fight with their Oba. “He’s not pure blood, Rosa. There are many well-to-do Yoruba boys in town. Edo. Omo Edo. See Chief’s son. Well-cultured Yoruba boy. Omo ibile.” My father had remarked. He’d said that if I still wanted to enjoy the privileges of being his daughter, I’d have to pick between Sam and him.
I reminded him how I’d followed every of his instruction and done every of his bidding, but with Sam, he wouldn’t have his way. I was willing to damn the consequences to be with Sam even if it meant my father cutting me off. He was reluctant to attend our wedding 6 months ago. He said I’d defied him and he wasn’t going to honour the event. Mother intervened. She told him to consider the image he was going to portray. If for nothing, but the protection of his own name before members of the family. And that was exactly what he did. Preserve and stroke his ceramic ego.
The traffic eases a bit and I move freely before I am stuck again at Landmark Beach. I’m too caught up in my thoughts, I don’t notice when a straggly man in a blue singlet and a grey sun-beaten baseball cap walks up to my car, tapping the window with his blackened fingers, shoving his display of wristwatches in my face. I wave him off but he stands there looking at me with pleading eyes. I turn my face away and hit the play button on my car stereo and Asa’s voice fills the car. Her V album has been on repeat for the past few days. Show Me Off is playing and I bob my head, tapping my steering wheel as I move the car in a snail-like motion. I allow myself think of Sam and how he fits into the lyrics of the song.
I finally drive into the compound of St. Nicholas hospital a few minutes before 1pm. I pull up behind a black highlander and hurry to the reception. I give them my name and whom I have come to see and a fair-complexioned nurse whose head is a bit above my elbow when she stands beside me leads me to the room my father has been transferred to. She points to the door and smiles as she walks away. I push the door open, as softly as I can. Mother buries her face in my neck and I feel her hot tears. I grip her back and hold on to her, breathing in her jasmine scent. I pull away and look into her eyes, and I could read the fear and dread scribbled in them.
I walk to my father’s bedside and place a light kiss on his forehead. A gesture I wouldn’t have thought of if he was awake. I sit on the chair next to him and brush his knuckles with my thumb. Mother holds my free hand and gives it a gentle squeeze as she tells me the diagnosis. I choke on the lump that immediately forms in my throat. I draw in a deep breath and let it out in a sharp burst. I squeeze my mother’s hands tighter and wipe her tears with the back of my free palm.
The drive home is longer, drearier, slower. My mind is as clogged as my nostrils. I keep thinking about my father, how helpless he looks, a shadow of what I know him to be. My mother’s face looked whiter than wool, her eyes redder than crimson. I struggle to keep my focus on the road and I almost hit a bike man. He hurls insults like a stone, but I could barely hear him. I get home and drag myself out of the car. Sam is back. His car is in its spot. The door opens before I get to it and I see Sam standing in the way. He reads my mood as I push past him into our living room. The yellow lights from the chandelier hanging down from the coffered ceiling illuminates the room. I sink into the floor at the door and let it all out, the tears, a flowing stream. Sam sits next to me and cups my trembling body into his broad chest. We remain like that before Sam asks if I want to talk about it.
I pull away from him and he wraps my hand in his. “Father has a stroke, and it’s fatal,” I say snuggling again into his embrace. He says nothing and strokes my hair, his lips warm against the side of my head. “He was so full of life the last time I asked mother about him. This is so sudden and…” I shudder and fall silent.
I feel a bit of relief and I manage a weak smile into Sam’s face and ask about his day. He gives a brief answer and returns the focus to me. I sit at the dining table and allow my head to fall limply on it as I watch Sam set the table. He brings out a steaming bowl of yam porridge from the microwave and dishes out two serving spoons on the white plates. We eat in silence, his hands over mine squeezing them lightly. I nibble at my food and take a few spoons before I push the plate away.
“I’ll turn in for the night,” I say. “I want to sleep it away and just pretend like today never happened.” I kiss his lips and pick up my bag as I plod to the room. I take a shower, wear my red flannel pyjamas, and bury myself under the blue fluffy blanket, my heavy head sinking into the memory foam pillow. Sam walks in and kneels by my side of the bed, and breathes a word of prayer into my ears as I drift with the tide of sleep.