Fanasiba By Sally Kenneth Dadzie (Kiss The Rain Anthology)

BLURB

“If there was any justice in the world, you two would be my favorite lovebirds, and I’d be planning your wedding right now.”

Zulu and Fana’s love story should be the stuff of romance novels. They have everything they need to be the perfect couple—mothers who are best friends, childhood homes on the same street, Christmases spent together in their hometowns that are next to each other’s, and a mutual loved one who is secretly rooting for them.

However, life enjoys playing a cruel joke, bringing them together every decade, then tearing them apart. 

Will this one rainy night in the heart of Abuja change their destiny?

ONE

You’re awestruck the first time you see her.

It is at a children’s holiday camp on a cold mountainside somewhere in Jos. Every year, Christian children from different denominations camp together during the long holiday—one week of fun, bible games, song and dance competitions, bonfires and a little hiking. 

This afternoon, you’re in a crowded hall filled with the scent of damp clothes. It is raining heavily outside, the playground is a sea of puddles, and the trees are bowing under the weight of the storm. Assembled for a talent show by your camp teachers, you’re unimpressed by the performances so far. You’re Zulu, an artistic kid with a love for all manner of art, and you’re presently obsessed with worlds that hide in the pages of comic books. Right now, your nose is buried in the latest adventure of your favorite hero.

Suddenly, a pure, unexpected sound fills the air—a girl’s sweet, clear voice. It’s as refreshing as an oasis in a desert. The tune is unfamiliar, but it captivates you. Slowly, you close your comic book and stand. She’s on stage in a white dress with red polka dots, hair in a bun with a red bow. You’ve never noticed her on camp before, but it feels like she’s singing to you, pulling you through a secret door to her world.

Riveted, you watch her as the rain outside lightens to a soft patter. Her eyes shut as she takes the final notes of her song to a climax, making everyone in the hall hold their breaths. When her voice reaches a satisfying peak, she lets it down again softly and opens her eyes. There’s a smile in there, as she looks at her mesmerizing audience as if she’s searching for something, for someone. And when that gaze lands on you, you realize with a jolt that she’s found it. 

But an intrusive hand waved in your face shatters the spell. It’s your annoying sister, Deze, who has come to bug you as usual. You slap her hand away. There’s loud applause in the hall, and you’re mad at her for missing the end of the song.

“She can sing, right?” Deze asks.

“Leave me.”

“Her name is Fanasiba.”

“And so?” You kiss your teeth, pick up your comic book and walk toward your friends. An hour later, everyone is back at the playground. You’re supposed to have outdoor games, but the rain has ruined the schedule of events. 

Fanasiba is seated on a slab alone, reading an Enid Blyton book. You know this because you’ve had your eyes on her, even though you’re with your friends, competing to see who can do the best combo of front and backflips. You’re famous for doing a run of six successive flips.

“Zulu, it’s your turn!” someone yells, bringing your attention back to the competition. As you take your usual pose, you hope she looks your way.

“Zulu!”

You dither, eyes on her still.

“Oya nau!”

Assessing the distance, you sprint and leap onto an aged tire, propelling yourself upward. You flip once with your hands, then again. A backflip follows, hand-assisted too. The fourth and fifth are seamless, but the thought of a seventh is daunting. You should stop now, yet the fear of your annoying friends making fun of you—especially the one called, TJ, with his mocking laughter—compels you to push on, ignoring the risk.

With a final spring fueled by the devilish voice in your head suggesting a flashy side flip, you leap. Predictably, you have a bad landing and end up falling on your crush’s extended left leg and tumbling into a mud puddle together. The crowd gasps, and you’re equally stunned, noticing her annoyed expression just before she shoves you away and screams shrilly.

“What’s wrong with you?!” she cries.

You’re face-down in the mud in front of her, and when you lift your head, the crowd erupts in laughter, TJ being the loudest. You feel strong arms pull you up. They belong to one of your teachers, who’s staring down at you with angry eyes.

“Everybody, back to your rooms!” he orders before freeing your arms. He looks at Fanasiba. “Are you okay?”

She nods, but when she tries to stand, her left foot gives way, and she’s back on the ground. She lets out a yelp. Your teacher lowers himself and inspects her foot. Something doesn’t seem right.

“Looks like a dislocation.”

Her foot seems normal to you, but she’s in pain, tears spilling from her eyes.

“Can you see what you’ve done, Zulu? Always rough!”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

You want to apologize to her too, but you meet her furious gaze, causing your words to stick in your throat. Your teacher quickly lifts her and rushes away, vanishing around the corner. You’re left alone, face smeared with mud, surrounded by your friends.

“What happened?” one of them, Zach, asks.

“He broke her leg nau!” TJ answers in that irritating tone he uses to show off that he knows too much.

“I didn’t break her leg,” you reply in annoyance, wiping off the mud on your face. “Teacher Meshack said it’s a discollation.”

“Discollation?” Zach asks. “What’s that?”

“Dislocation,” TJ corrects. “That means her bones broke into tiny pieces and she can never walk again.”

You sense that he’s lying, but you’re not in the mood to correct him. 

“Zulu!” Deze is running toward you. “Zulu, what happened? I went to drink water. They said you broke Fanasiba’s leg?”

“I didn’t!” you yell in frustration. Then you notice Fanasiba’s book in the mud, clean it, and ignore Deze’s questions about her whereabouts. Following a path between the hall and a library, you emerge into the parking lot just as Teacher Meshack’s Volkswagen Beetle speeds away with Fanasiba.

You don’t see her again until one cold morning in December, when your mom sends you and Deze on an errand to the neighborhood store. Just as you arrive there, you spot Fanasiba leaving the store. You’re not sure she’s the one. What would she be doing in your neighborhood? But Deze sees her too and squeals in excitement.

“Fana!”

They’re thrilled to see each other and express this in a hug that ends with girly jumps. 

“What are you doing here?” Deze asks her.

“We live here now.”

“On this our street?”

Fanasiba nods and points to her left, to the house at the end of the street you saw trucks driving toward all week. It’s the biggest house in the area, rumored to belong to a rich family.

“That big house?” Deze asks, eyes in wonder.

“Yes.”

“Oh! That’s our own there!” 

You wish she doesn’t have to point to your tiny family house that boasts of only three bedrooms. It looks like a joke, compared to Fanasiba’s.

“Can I be coming to your house to play?” Fanasiba inquires.

“Yes!”

“Yay!” They jump in excitement, then Fanasiba suddenly looks at you. “You’re the one that tried to scatter my leg.”

“Me?”

She shrugs and stares down at her foot. “But it was only a dislocation.”

Deze nudges you. “Tell her sorry.”

“Huh?”

“Apologize.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t mind him. He likes to destroy everything.”

You glare at Deze; she sticks out her tongue. 

“Let me be going,” Fanasiba announces. “I’ll come to your house tomorrow. Bye-bye!”

She waves and runs off. You have questions about her, but you don’t want Deze to know you’re crushing on her. Thankfully, Deze can’t help but be her chatty self, so she explains to you that Fanasiba is her classmate in her new school. Just like you, they had both gotten into JSS1 in September. 

“How old is she?” you ask.

“Nine.”

“Did she do Primary Six?”

“No.”

Of course, she’s just like Deze, who had moved to Secondary school from Primary Five while your dad forced you to complete Primary Six because he wants you to be a doctor in the future. Now, you’re in JSS1 while your mates are in their second year. The annoying part is that Deze and the baby of the house, Nenye, are in private schools whereas you’re stuck in a federal college where bullying is the norm. The fact that you have a big brother in JSS3 who never has your back makes your school experience even more frustrating.  

“She’s very smart,” Deze says about Fanasiba. “She came first in our class this term. If she came second, her daddy would have beat her.”

“And so?”

“Do you know that she’s the only girl? She has two brothers.”

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that information.

“Shebi you remember that village near our own that has a stream?”

“No.”

“We went there last Christmas, nau. That’s Fana’s village. Her daddy is Chief Mbakwe. You know him.”

You frown. Deze always assumes that people know what she knows. She gets all her information from your mom, then, she’d spit it out word for word, like a photocopier. 

“But they don’t like coming home for Christmas. They go to London every holiday. But this Christmas, Mommy said she’ll make them come to the village.”

“And how’s that my business?”

You enter the store and buy what you need. Returning home, you can’t help but eye the massive house at the street’s end, picturing life with wealthy parents and jet-setting to London for holidays. While not poor, your dad is a doctor with a small hospital, co-owned with a friend. He’s more affluent than he lets on, and you wish he’d flaunt it a bit. 

Fanasiba’s family moving to your neighborhood is no random event; her dad and yours are longtime childhood acquaintances from the east. Your moms quickly become friends because of the proximity, leading to shared family spaces. This means that Fanasiba becomes a constant feature in your life. If you’re not bumping into her as she leaves your sisters’ bedroom, you’re walking past her on the street.

Four years on, your teenage hormones rage, making you obsess over Fanasiba unhealthily. You masturbate frequently with thoughts of her, feeling controlled by a spell you can’t shake. So, you do the teenage thing of annoying her at every given chance, only to regret your actions afterward. 

Your mom manages to get the Mbakwes to spend three Christmases in the east, strengthening your family bond. However, in 1999, they move to Lagos, pledging to stay connected. This move brings relief to you, as you no longer have to feel weird around Fanasiba or get jealous whenever you see her talk to other boys. The best part of her relocation is that your family moves into their home, gaining neighborhood respect. The bonus for you is that it brings the attention of girls your way, especially a cute German-Nigerian girl, whom you begin dating. You soon forget about Fanasiba.

TWO

One afternoon, sometime in June 2011, as you enjoy a burger while listening to the radio in your office, your father walks in to talk about getting a wife for you.

“You will marry Professor Luka’s daughter,” he says casually, but he faces you to ensure that his words are being delivered. Dr. John Nnadi, casually dressed in a grey shirt and black pants, appears unfazed despite his financial struggles. His partner has dragged Bani Hospital in a costly lawsuit in the middle of recovering from bad investments they made together. There are rumors that Professor Luka’s larger hospital may acquire Bani Hospital, contingent on the lawsuit’s resolution. 

Settling into the visitor’s chair, your dad adds: “You’ll date her for a short while, of course. She’s a brilliant young woman with a promising future, although it would be best if you kept her away from work and at home after the wedding. This is to ensure that the formative years of your children’s lives are filled with motherly care.”

You chew your burger slowly, not sure if you caught any words the old man had just uttered.

“Chizulukeme, are you listening to me?”

You frown, recognizing the marriage proposal as a trap. Liatu, the Lukas’ wild, twenty-nine-year-old only daughter, is a single mother. Her parents hope to secure a stable partner for her with a good family name.

“Stop frowning like an ugly bat,” your dad says. “I’ve talked about your marital status a few times before. I just wasn’t certain who was perfect for you.”

“Marital status?” you mutter. “I’m only twenty-eight.”

“Tah! You’re an old man. Your brother was only twenty-five when he got married.”

“He got his girlfriend pregnant.”

Ignoring you, your dad continues, “Liatu Luka is mature enough. She’s presently in the US, on a short vacation. Once she’s done, she’ll come home. What do you think of her?”

“I… She…”

“She’s perfect.” Your dad stands and picks a fry from your lunch pack. He looks at it before he tosses it into his mouth. “You have till the end of the year to play around.”

You conclude lunch, preparing for two patients requiring specialist care. Despite your medical license, your father lacks confidence in your clinical abilities, preferring you to manage administration. Nonetheless, you attend to less complex cases that your brother, Chika, defers.

After your rounds, you attempt a quick nap on your office’s worn leather couch, only for your personal assistant to enter upon knocking.

“Sir?”

You lift the hat covering your face and peer at her. She is a woman in her fifties, old enough to be your mom. It’s your father’s perverted idea to see her take orders from a boy.

“The nursing assistants are here.”

“Nursing assistants?”

“Yes, sir.”

You stare at your watch. “At this time? Take them to admin or the matron or tell them to return in the morning.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday, sir. Your father insisted that they come in today for an official onboarding, but they got caught in traffic because of the rain.”

Looking out, you see that it’s raining. You walk to your desk and tell her to let them in; soon, two assistant nurses walk into your office.

“I thought you were three,” you say, unimpressed by the appearance of the women standing before you.

“Our colleague… I think she went to use the restroom.”

“Your names?”

“Bose.”

“Agnes.”

With nothing to say, you request they notify their colleague of your wish to meet her. They exit, and soon a firm knock echoes from the door.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and a woman enters. As she approaches your desk, you’re engrossed in a document on your laptop. You glance at her and return to your laptop.

“Good afternoon.”

Something makes you freeze and you slowly lift your eyes to give her a second look. 

“Fana?”

“Hi, Zulu.”

She smiles, and your tummy does something it hasn’t done in seven years—since that Christmas Eve when she stepped out of her family’s station wagon and you didn’t recognize her. Blossoming in curves and breasts that looked like they were borrowed from an older woman, your crush for her came alive once more. That holiday, your tummy fluttered every time you saw her. When the opportunity for a kiss in your dad’s car arose, you seized it. You remember it was drizzling as you chauffeured her home, following your mom’s instruction to get her safely to her village.

“Stop here,” Fanasiba had said to you, resting a hand on your thigh. She had chosen a shaded spot, canopied by a grove of pear trees belonging to her family. Their house, just a stone throw away, towered other houses in the area.

You parked the car, and she looked at you with a daring smile.

“You have a crush on me,” she said.

You laughed. “Says who?”

“Deze.”

“Adaeze is a constant liar. How’s she even your friend?”

“Chizulukeme,” she called your name slowly and in a purr. “Just admit it.” 

Her daring smile and knowing eyes evoked desire within you. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asked. 

You tried to speak but your voice came out in a croak. You cleared your throat. “What?”

Leaning in, she kissed you gently, her lips hinting at the palm wine she drank in your house earlier. You felt her hand crawling up your thigh, as your arousal grew.

“Fana, let’s not…”

Her second kiss silenced you, and things moved quickly. You soon found yourselves in the backseat, with her straddling you and your inexperienced hands fumbling over her body. Your erection, trapped by your shorts, throbbed against her as she ground herself on it. You were sure that evening would bring an end to your virginity, but the sight of her bare breasts after shedding her top and bra was too much. Your body failed you, and you climaxed hastily, shaking under her.

Instant shame came over you, especially after you saw the look of shock on her face.

“What just happened?” she asked. You couldn’t find the words to tell her. “Did you just cum?”

“No, I…”

“You did?”

She wasn’t trying to shame you, but you thought you saw a mocking look on her face. You became instantly annoyed and asked her to get off your body.

“Zulu, it’s not–”

“Get off nau, Fana.”

“Relax.”

“Get off!”

“Fine!” 

She moved away from you, dressed up and stepped down from the car.

“Don’t bother to drop me again,” she said in annoyance. “I can walk.”

“Fana–”

She gave you the middle finger as she walked off. 

You haven’t laid eyes on her since, until this moment. That night’s memory looms, but you’re a grown man now. Surprisingly, you still feel those old butterflies, despite thinking your crush had faded.

Fanasiba has grown taller and curvier since you last saw her, flaunting her new look in a short, flattering dress. Her beautiful dark skin is reminiscent of 1950s elegance, even with the tiny pimples that dare to settle on her cheeks. It feels like she belongs in a vintage era when women’s photos had a hazy glow around them.

“Fanasiba Mbakwe! Wow!”

She smiles again and clutches the sling of her handbag in front of her.

“You’ve grown! I can’t believe it! Come and give me a hug, jare.”

Fanasiba approaches you, and you reciprocate with a warm embrace, holding her tightly. 

An unexpected knock and a stranger’s face at your doorway interrupt you.

You break away from Fana. “Yes?”

“I’m the intern nurse.”

“Come back later,” you respond dismissively, take Fana’s hand and lead her to the couch. After she sits, you ask her, “You’re in this Abuja with me?”

“Nope. I came in from Lagos. London, actually.”

“What are you doing in Abuja?”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she asks, “When last were in you Jos?”

“Um… Five, six years ago. After we moved here, I haven’t really visited. Why are you in town?”

“I…” She scratches her head, and you catch a dazzling diamond ring on her middle finger. “I came to see your parents, to tell them I’m getting married.”

“Oh.”

The news hits you like an invisible hand slapping your face, but you don’t show it.

“I’m also getting married here. My entire family is in Abuja now. Didn’t you know?”

“Nope. But congratulations!” you say, forcing cheer into your voice. “Who’s the guy?”

“TJ. I’m sure you remember him. We were all in Jos together when we were kids.”

TJ—asshole then, bigger asshole now. Does Fana know she’s getting married to a dog?

“Have you told Deze?”

“Me and Deze that have been in touch since? She’s my maid of honor.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Anyways, she’ll be excited because I’m moving here once I get married.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes.”

You’re temporarily distracted by her smile. You shake your head, smiling back. “Fanasiba!”

You take her to your dad to reveal her upcoming marriage. He congratulates her, hinting at your mothers’ secret matchmaking plans, despite her father’s preference for TJ. Like everything about Fanasiba that is news to you, you’re surprised to hear about this. Fanasiba seems unsettled by the matchmaking gist.

“But it’s not like you can say no to your father, can you?” your dad asks. She shakes her head. You’ve just found out that she’d do anything to please her old man.

When you’re done with your dad, you take Fanasiba to a serene restaurant in Wuse. For three hours, you indulge in food, wine, and deep talk, discovering your shared interests beyond parental friendship. Fanasiba, like her brothers, is a shareholder in their family’s food distribution business, managing the Abuja branch alongside a sibling.

She asks if you enjoy working for your dad.

“No.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

“Become a plastic surgeon and open my own hospital in Nigeria.”

“I honestly thought you’d end up being an artist, like a painter or something. You were so good with your art back then.”

“Well, Popsi said paintings don’t put food on the table, so I stuck with the sciences.”

“But do you think it’ll sell here, the plastic surgery thing? Will you get enough clients to cover the cost of running the hospital?”

“Patients, not clients. And yes, it will be a success.”

She throws in an argument for plastic surgery being unethical. You take on the challenge and explain to her why you believe it is a basic right to change something about yourself if you wish and can afford to. 

“There’s an evolutionary prejudice toward people who are attractive,” she says. “And I find it very shallow.”

“I agree, and that is why those who struggle with finding themselves in this box of attractiveness are allowed to catch up in any way they can. The rule applies in every area of life. Take wealth, for instance. The haves and have-nots. What’s so wrong in wanting to be part of the former even though you come from the latter? We all know the privileges and biases accorded to people who have. Same with education, social standing, etcetera.”

“You’re making sense.”

“Asides that, plastic surgery saves lives. Like every other part of medicine, it’s about treatment and care.”

“So, in your opinion, do you think someone like me would benefit from cosmetic surgery?”

Her question is unexpected; it makes you laugh. 

“In my assessment, you’re perfect, Fanasiba.”

“Because I have flawless dark skin? I hear that all the time, and I find it so patronizing.”

“Well…” You lean out and maintain eye contact with her. “You’re blindingly beautiful.”

“I am?” She flutters her eyelids in exaggeration. 

“Your face is a portrait, a masterpiece. The almond brown of your eyes is a perfect complement to your walnut skin tone. Then your lips are honey brown and full.”

“Too full. My friends call me Angelina Jolie.”

“They’re soft-looking too and have this thing where they curl up at the sides into a knowing smile, even when you know nothing.”

She laughs, covering her mouth.

“And your body…”

Your voice wanes as you’ve just recalled that you made a painting of her after that embarrassing night in your hometown. Uncannily, it depicted this mature version of her, not the teen who starred in your past lustful reveries.

“Zulu? You were saying?”

“I’m not going to say anything about your body. Let’s leave TJ to do all the admiration.”

You see disappointment in her eyes, but it vanishes as she says, “It’s my turn to describe you.”

You lean backwards and cross your arms. “Go ahead.”

“That attitude!” She points at you. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Me?” You free your arms. “That’s not true.”

“I like it.”

“Hmm.”

“Then, I like your height too. You’re tall, but not too tall.”

“It’s a lie, joor! You short people are too troublesome. Have you seen yourself?”

“Me, short?”

“I can literally see the center of your head when you stand in front of me.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re tall, tall.”

“What else?”

“You’re the typical light skin Igbo guy,” she states, amused at her own words. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Did you see the number of heads that turned when we walked in? Fana, I’m hot! Check me out nau! Hot lips, sexy Adam’s Apple, deep voice, fit body, dress sense on point and skin so pampered you want to lick me. Even me, I fall in love with myself every day.”

You’ve made her laugh so hard that tears line her eyes. 

“All that is left is the billions.”

She raises her glass of wine in the air. “Amen to us making it!”

“Amen!”

After you clink glasses, she turns serious. “But what’s stopping you from pursuing your dream of being a plastic surgeon?”

“Well, firstly, I don’t want to extend my education in Nigeria. I want to do it in the US, get my license there and make enough money. Then, come back and kick off here.”

“What is stopping you?” she repeats. “Your dad? You can’t go against him?”

“Well…”

“I can relate.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “Even at this my old age, I don’t know how to say no to him.”

“For me, it’s money. I need money to be on my own.”

She sighs. “Don’t we all?”

Switching topics, you avoid discussing money due to its link with your dominating father. Although he had mentioned your marriage to Liatu Luka casually, his intentions were serious. Eager to escape his control, you’re burdened with saving your family from financial ruin, making independence feel impossible.

“Let’s get out of here,” you say.

“Where to?”

“I know a place.”

You leave the restaurant and drive to a karaoke bar ten minutes away. When she sees the signage from across the street, she laughs, asking you, “Are we going there?”

“Yup! I want to hear you sing again.”

“I think the last time was during that Christmas holiday when Chika brought the karaoke machine, and we were all high on palm wine.”

You laugh. It was the same embarrassing evening that you’d rather not remember.

“I haven’t heard you sing in years,” you tell her.

“I don’t know how to sing anymore, Zulu.”

“Why?”

“Adulthood. No time for hobbies anymore. All I do is croak now.”

“Well, let’s go in and croak together.”

Obviously, she’s not telling the truth. That voice you first heard on that rainy day in 1996 is a divine gift that only God can silence. She’s still rough around the edges, yet incredibly authentic. She begins with Rihanna’s Man Down, captivating her audience with raw emotion. You watch her, sipping your drink, as she sings from the heart. The room fades, leaving only her, and you’re carried away by imaginations of what two of you can be together. You’re falling deeper for her, unchecked and vehemently. Nothing can stop you.

 Applause snaps you out of your trance when the song ends.

The DJ then requests for one more song from her, and the crowd echoes his wish.

“Well, I’m a Rihanna fan,” she says into the mic, “and her new album is out of this world. So, I’ll do Only Girl.” 

Fana sings again, captivating you anew. Despite hearing the song often since it dropped last year, it’s the first time you truly focus on the lyrics. It feels as if she’s speaking directly to you.

“Zulu!”

You’re startled by the mention of your name. You frown at the intrusion, as Deze slides in beside you.

“What did I miss?”

“Who invited you here?”

She points at Fanasiba who waves at her.

“You were not going to tell me two of you were hanging out?” Deze accuses. “You just want her all to yourself, abi?”

“And you weren’t going to tell me that she’s getting married or that she’s been in your life this whole time.”

“I…”

“Just let us have this night while you go back to your boyfriend.”

“We broke up.”

“Again? This is like the third guy this year.”

“Fourth. He said he wants to get married, and I’m like smally like me, get married? Abeg o. He then said it was the perfect age because I’m in my fertile years. I told him my fertile years are for work. I just got the best job post-NYSC, and I should become a wife?”

You’re envious of Deze’s perfect job with a hotel tycoon, which includes event planning and amazing perks like high pay, free hotel lodging, travel and celebrity connections. Despite your dad’s constant complaints about the job, Deze is stubborn and will do as she so desires because she is his weakness. What he won’t take from his other children, he would allow Deze have in excess.  

“By the way, guess who is planning Fana’s wedding. Just guess!”

You don’t give her an answer.

“Moi!” She does a small dance. “Not me, per se. My boss is, but I intend to run point on it. Watch me blow!” 

Then she jumps to her feet in excitement, cheering Fanasiba, who has just finished singing.

“One more,” the DJ begs.

“What?” Fanasiba laughs. “No. I’m tired.”

“More!” Deze shouts.

“More!” the audience echoes. Fanasiba gives in, but she calls Deze to the stage. As Deze dashes toward her, you know it’s going to be a comedy show. Fanasiba tells the DJ she wants to do CeeLo Green’s Fuck You.

The song begins, she takes the lead and makes Deze her backup singer. It’s the most hilarious thing because Deze, fancying herself a Broadway performer, goes around the room, miming the song, singing off note and giving everyone the middle finger. The audience gets a good laugh, and thankfully, nobody asks for an encore once the duo is done. 

They return to you, and you praise Fanasiba’s vocal skills. She sits beside you, while Deze spots some chick she recognizes and walks to her table.

“I’m sweating.” Fanasiba fans herself. “Phew!”

“Maybe we should step out for a bit and get some fresh air?”

“Yes, please.”

You take her hand and guide her out of the packed club, but you discover that it’s raining. 

“We could sit in the car?” you suggest. She gives you a look and you both laugh. “Um… History will not repeat itself, I promise.”

She leads you to the car, you unlock it, and she gets in the back. You start the engine and turn on the air conditioner, then join her. The silence feels cozy.

“What’s wrong with history repeating itself?” she asks, facing you. 

“You have a fiancé who is my frenemy.”

“Well, I didn’t choose him.”

“Then, why do you want to do it?”

“You know how these things go, Zulu.”

“I wish you wouldn’t marry him.”

“Why? You’d take his place?”

You remember your dad’s plans for you to get married to Liatu. You’re not sure if you can say no to him. If the Lukas are going to save your family from certain ruin, you’d sell your soul to the devil to see that happen. But your pull toward Fanasiba is threatening to make you do crazy things.

“I thought as much,” Fanasiba mutters, responding to your silence. 

“I have dreams, remember?” you remind her. “I won’t be good to anyone in the next five years.”

“I understand, but it’s not like I’m asking you to fall for me.”

“Well, that’s too late,” you respond, unable to stop yourself from exposing the truth. You find her face in the dark and bring it to yours, the engine of the car idling beneath you. “I’m not asking you to do anything about it, though. I just… I want to enjoy my time with you, Fana.”

“Same.”

Your gaze lingers on her. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Her smile meets your lips in a gentle kiss, filled with a tender urgency, as if trying to convey a lifetime of emotions in a single moment. Your hand at her neck draws her closer. Her perfume and the car’s coolness stir something deep within you.

But your annoying baby sister appears from nowhere, tapping the window and peeking in.

“Seriously?” you grumble. Fanasiba pulls away, an endearing smile on her face. She loves her crazy friend.

THREE

“I cannot guarantee that she’ll want to talk to you.”

Abuja city lights twinkle like distant stars outside floor-to-ceiling windows as you stare into the night from Deze’s hotel suite. You’ve just come back from a meeting that ran late, the type that leaves your tie askew and your collar open. You’re about to do something stupid, a thing that happens only in the movies. Despite the echo of Deze’s doubt in your mind, you’re determined to push ahead.

“She’s not going to listen to you, Zulu.”

“I’ll try.”

“Try? And if she listens, you’d want her to give up everything and ride into the sunset with you? Are you thinking at all? She’s married to TJ already. Or you think the igbanku I traveled to her village for last week was a joke?”

You push your hands into your pockets in disregard to Deze’s words.

“Every room in this hotel is booked! In short, every hotel in Maitama. This is the wedding of the decade, Zulu, and you will not use your dick to spoil my work!”

“Dick? So, you think this is all about sex, that I don’t care about my happiness or Fana’s?”

Deze sighs. “I know you do.” She looks at you through the dressing mirror and shows you sympathy for a total of two seconds. “But you won’t ruin anything for her. The marriage is family business, just like the one between you and Liatu, which is coming up in January, by the way.”

It’s been three months since your dad’s proposal, and you’ve had lunch with Liatu twice. She’s not bad for a partner, and you both have chemistry, but she’s not Fana. She can never be Fana.

“I only want to talk to her.”

“And you think I’ve not tried to talk her out of it? I did, and she shook that her small stubborn head and went, ‘Daze, Daze, Daze… Stay out of it.’”

“Well, I’m not Daze, and I won’t stay out of it.”

“Zulu, no nau,” Deze pleads and continues in Igbo. “Don’t confuse her.”

“Just tell her to meet me here tomorrow.”

“Here ke? I practically live here, and you won’t desecrate it with your bodily fluids.”

“Can you stop talking about sex? Jeez!”

“Zulu…” Deze approaches you, hairbrush in hand like she wants to whack you with it. “There’s more to this thing, and I suggest that you just let it be. Let her do what her dad wants–”

“What about what she wants?”

“You won’t understand.”

“Yeah, I don’t give a fuck about understanding anything. I just want Fana.”

Deze gives up with a sigh when she notices that you’re not changing your mind. 

“Fine,” she turns away. “It’s better you hear it from her mouth.” 

You’re seated in Deze’s posh sitting room that is adorned with a series of abstract paintings, soft velvet sofas and throw pillows in various shades of gray and silver. You get the appeal of living in luxurious hotel suites, but you prefer the coziness of a home, a place where there’s family and warmth. Your sister is clearly cut from a different cloth.

Legs stretched out on a cushioned stool, you enjoy a bottle of red wine and a football match on TV. Your mom calls to know if you’d be home for dinner, as you had promised her. It’s 9:00 p.m., and Fanasiba is still a no-show, despite you waiting for her all day.

“Mom, just put my soup in the freezer.”

“Okay o. But make sure you come and take it early tomorrow morning. They said this rain is going to be nonstop. The meteorological people warned of flooding in thirty-six states, including Abuja.”

You smile. “Okay, ma.” Your mom always seems to forget that you’ve lived on your own for more than a year now.

You wait for her to end the call, but there’s a pause on her end.

“Nne?”

“What are your thoughts about Fanasiba getting married?”

“My thoughts?”

You hear your dad’s voice in the background, asking her how Fanasiba’s wedding is your business. 

“Is she not already a wife?” he adds.

Your mom sighs and bids you goodnight, ending the call. You’re unable to focus on the football game due to your restlessness. You justify Fanasiba’s non-appearance with the recent downpour, despite the rain having ceased hours before, as the sun had begun to set. 

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. You rush to the door and open it—and there she stands, causing your tummy to instantly flutter. She’s dressed gorgeously, but you know that it’s not the dress. She can be wearing rags and still look like a piece of heaven.

She walks in with a purse in one hand and stilettos in the other.

Your heart misses its rhythm as your eyes hold hers.

“Hi, Zulu.”

Her black, shimmery dress shows off her full and curved figure. Her walnut skin tone and almond-colored eyes that are framed by long, thick lashes stir the artistic side of you, which you have abandoned for years. You imagine your brushstrokes, bringing to life on a canvas, her bold and chic pixie hairstyle that emphasizes her bronzed cheekbones. But none of these appeal to you like her lips. They are still reminiscent of Angelina Jolie’s—still sinfully full, contoured, and painted in deep rouge. You want to kiss her so badly.

“How are you, Zulu?” she asks. Her voice is soft and whispery.

“I’m-I’m g-good,” you stutter. “You?”

“Great. I’m sorry I’m late. I’m from a wedding.”

“Okay.”

Just then, her phone rings. She fishes it out from her purse and stares at it.

“It’s Deze. Sorry, let me…” She clicks the answer button, turning away from you. “Hi, Daze.”

You shut the door and head toward your seat, but the mention of your name stops you.

“You want to speak to Zulu?” Fanasiba asks Deze. “To two of us? Okay, I’ll put you on speakerphone. Hold on.”

Fanasiba gives you a puzzled stare before she clicks on the speakerphone button.

“Hey, baby sis,” you say.

“Don’t baby sis me, biko. Only God knows what two of you are up to. Fana, see the time you’re going to see man that is not your husband.”

“Shut up, Deze.”

“Well, I’ll let that pass since your husband has jetted off to God-knows-where.”

Already? You look at Fanasiba. Is that how she wants to start her married life?

“Zufana!” Deze calls.

You frown, unsure that you heard Deze well. Fanasiba muffles laughter.

“Zufana, are you two hearing me?”

“Yes, ma.”

“If there was any justice in the world, you two would be my favorite lovebirds, and I’d be planning your wedding right now. But there’s no justice, especially in Nigeria. The wildest and most painful part is how you’ve been so close, yet so far away.”

Your eyes find Fanasiba again, and she looks away.

“Zulu, I knew your crush started from that first day in children’s camp. Fana, I saw you secretly grow to like him during our teenage years. I remember you crying when you told me your family was moving to Lagos. I knew you weren’t crying because you’d miss me.”

“Daze?” Fanasiba chuckles. 

“I blame our parents for the role they’re playing to keep you two apart. I should blame myself too as the wedding planner.”

“You’re not technically planning it,” Fanasiba says.

“I should be doing everything to see you together, but since I can’t do that, I have decided to plan this meeting, so that you people can scratch that itch that’s worrying you. For this one night, fuck yourselves to oblivion and forsake all others. Then, tomorrow morning, dress up and go your separate ways. Inugo? By the way, there are condoms in the parlor and in my bedroom, so that nobody will be involved in any kind of nonsense paternity fraud.”

“Oh my God, Deze!” Fana looks away in embarrassment.

“Look, I love you both. Muah!”

She hangs up, and there’s silence for a bit. 

“So…?” Fanasiba asks.

“So…can you break this wall between us and hug me like you’ve missed me for three months?” 

She drops her purse and comes to you. When her body touches yours, you melt into the embrace and hold her like she would disappear if you let go.

“God! I’ve missed you,” you tell her. She pulls away, but only to present her lips. You take them, and the kiss transports you through a time capsule of shared moments, from a distant rainy day in Jos to the present.

“Fana,” you whisper, heart heavy with emotion as your forehead rests on hers. 

“Can we talk?”

She takes a seat, and you reclaim yours, facing her.

“I want to apologize for shutting you out these past three months. I was consumed with wedding preparations and… You were going to be a distraction.”

“Distraction enough for you to change your mind?”

She sighs. “I… You know I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Fanasi, it’s not.” You move closer. “Look, we can do this.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I can’t.”

“We’re perfect for each other. Our parents are friends, our families are close–”

She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry.”

You see the hopelessness in her eyes, and you don’t want to start the night with her on this note, so you move to her seat and face her. Stroking one side of her face, you lay a kiss on her lips with utmost tenderness.

“I like how much power I have over you,” she mutters. She has a mischievous smile on. This is her way of escaping her frustration.

“Is that so?”

“You that I’ve chooked in a bottle.”

“Chineke nna!” You laugh. 

“Zulu, I have your mumu button, and I’ve been pressing it left, right and center all these years.”

“My friend, will you keep quiet?”

She goes silent, but only because she’s staring at you through warm eyes. You feel like she wants to say something, but she asks, getting on her feet, “Are you hungry?” 

“Yeah. Let’s make an order. What do you want to eat?”

“They have the best Thai fried rice here. You should try it.”

“All right.”

“I’ll go and shower.”

Pulling her back, you give a playful smack on her bum as she giggles and rushes off. You call the restaurant and make an order. Thirty minutes later, your dinner arrives, as Fanasiba, now in a bathrobe, takes care of flood-related issues affecting her family’s distribution trucks with a series of business calls.

While she does this, you go in for a shower. It begins to rain as you take off your clothes. The rain comes with aggression, rattling the windows and slamming the bathroom door.

After you’re done washing up, you come back to the bedroom, which is now dark. You don’t remember turning off the lights, but as your eyes adapt to the darkness, you find Fanasiba on the bed in a sheer robe.

“I’m not hungry for food,” she says. You switch on blue lights that give the room a demure setting. Then, your eyes get a full view of her body underneath the robe.

“I like what I see,” you say.

“Zulu, take off your towel,” she commands, her eyes traveling over your frame with an intensity that makes you shiver.

You do as you’re told, dropping your towel to the floor. You are exposed, vulnerable, and on your way to having a ravenous erection. Fanasiba watches you, her eyes never leaving yours, and you see the hunger in them.

With a flick of her finger, she gestures you to the bed. “Come,” she says, and you go. You feel the heat of her body as her hand slides around your neck, pulling toward her. You undo her robe. Her skin is a canvas of beauty and youth. You’d fallen in love with a girl, but lying before you is a woman. 

When you kiss her lips, she moans, parting her legs to make more room for you. You can’t believe you’re finally here with her.

You pause to take the moment in, adoring her with your eyes.

“Fana?”

“Mm?”

“You’re beautiful…in a way only you can be beautiful.” Your eyes travel down, following the feathery line your finger makes as it finds the way to her thigh. “And as much as I’ve waited for years for this moment, I want to love you the way you want me to. Tell me how.”

She returns your face to hers. “Don’t hold back.”

Your mouth waters as you kiss your way down her body, starting from her neck, leaving a trail of fire across her skin. Your lips and hand hungrily find her breast. Cupping it, you feel the warmth and the weight. And with a groan, you take her nipple between your teeth, sending a bolt of pleasure through her. You go for the other breast, and she gasps as you close your mouth around its nipple. You’ve found the perfect balance of pain and pleasure to keep her on the edge.

Suddenly, she grabs your hand and guides it downwards, sending it between her thighs. You slip a finger into her tight wetness. You slide in and out, matching the tempo of your tongue on her nipple. Now and then, your eyes find hers. You love that she’s daring enough to hold your stare and let you see her vulnerability. The words she whispers to you are a testament to her shamelessness, a side of her you’re just being introduced to. Fanasiba is a book you want to keep reading.

She grasps your cock as her body begins to betray her. She’s no longer in control of herself, and she shows this by gripping you tightly, causing you to close your eyes and groan. 

Her orgasm is palpable, and her moans grow louder. Her legs quiver; you smile smugly.

Then, you push another finger in, hook it just right and start to tap her G-spot. It takes less than a minute, and she cums hard, shuddering uncontrollably under your control. You don’t stop until she begs you to.

As she tries to catch her breath, you kiss her parted lips and both of you laugh. She’s soaking wet, and you can’t wait to feel her. You sit up and reach for the pack of condoms you saw earlier on the bedside drawer. She strokes your dick as you pick one and tear it open. You strap yourself, grateful for the availability of the condom, not just for the protection it offers but because it’ll make you last longer. One year of celibacy has not been easy, and you won’t disgrace yourself again with this woman.

Fanasiba guides your sheathed dick to her entrance. You slide in with deliberate slowness, savoring every inch. She’s tight, so fucking tight, as if she was made just for you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced—like the first bite of sweet watermelon on a hot day in March. Once you’re all in, you stay still for a moment because you know you’re about to lose your mind.

Then you start to move. You’re gentle and tender, but Fanasiba grabs your butt and pulls you in deeper. She meets your thrusts, matches them and ups the tempo.

You want to memorize every second with her, each body twitch, every gasp and moan. This moment must etch on your mind; in the future, it’d be a vivid replay of when Fanasiba was yours on a rainy night in September. 

You increase your pace with a passion that’s been simmering for years. Her breasts bounce with every impact, and the sight makes you lean down to catch a nipple between your teeth again. You suck the other one too, which you’ve noticed is more sensitive, and she clenches you with her walls. The more you suck, the more she holds you in. You can feel yourself getting closer, your balls tightening with every thrust. But you don’t lose steam, as you lift one of her legs up and go harder and faster, until she’s screaming your name nonstop.

She loves the roughness, the claiming, the dominance. You drive deeper into her, feeling the tension coil tighter until you can’t hold on any longer. 

You cum with a groan that echoes through the room. But you don’t pull out, you ride out the wave as your cock pulses with every beat of your heart. The culmination of years of longing for her and the denial makes you emotional. You hold on to her and tell her how much you’ve wanted this, how much you’ve dreamed of being inside her.

As your breath slowly returns to normal, you hear the rain outside intensify.

“Looks like it’s going to be a long night of wetness,” you say. You kiss her hand before rising to discard the condom in the bathroom.

When you come back to the bedroom, she’s lying on her tummy, her bare ass thrust out. You’re impressed by the amazing work of art on her back, done by a skilled tattoo artist. 

“I love your tattoos.”

“Thanks.” She angles her head and smiles at you.

“Maybe, one day I’ll have the balls to get one. I hate needles.”

“And you’re a doctor?”

You dive for her and kiss each butt cheek before perfectly aligning yourself behind her.

“Are you hungry now?” you ask.

“Starving!”

As your dick begins to rise again, you cup her breast and kiss her ear and shoulder. You can stay this way forever, but her tummy grumbles and makes you laugh. 

“Food!” she whines.

“You want food?” You tickle her and she squeals like a kid.

“Chizulu, stop!” she says between laughter. 

“Oya, let’s go and get food.”

You both go to the kitchenette, heat your dinners, and bring them back to the bedroom. As you eat, you share updates on your lives. She reveals that a Bali trip last year with TJ and her brothers nearly led to her calling off the engagement due to her attraction to another man and a close call with infidelity.

“My brothers caught me and made sure I got on the next flight to Lagos. They knew TJ was cheating, but they protected him at all cost. Same as my dad. Yet, I was the devil.”

“Why did you almost sleep with a stranger?”

“Revenge sex. TJ cheated on me with the hotel receptionist the day after we landed there.”

You take a sip of wine and clear your throat, as a wild thought crosses your head. “Are you using me for revenge sex too?”

“What?” She laughs. “Why would you think such a thing, Zulu? I’m crazy about you.”

“You’re sure?”

She cups your face. “Yes. Now, can you eat and stop being silly?”

“Why are you marrying a cheat?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes concentrate on her chicken as she peels off the skin.

After dinner, you both lie on your backs in silence, listening to the rain outside. It lulls Fanasiba to sleep, so you lie on your side and pull her to your body. She fits in like a puzzle piece. You feel the tension of the day melt away, the warmth of the bed enveloping you like a cocoon, as you switch the air conditioner on and cover you both with a blanket. Seconds later, you’re taken by sleep. 

Sometime in the night, she stirs, and you give her room to lie more comfortably. But she slowly slides down until you feel the heat of her breath on your dick.

“Fana?”

“Shh.”

She sucks you until you begin to wonder where she got the skill to do such an excellent job. TJ? Other men? How many other men?

You shut the jealousy in your head by pulling her up to meet a dominating kiss from your lips. You want to claim this woman, everything about her. 

You trace your hands down her back, your middle finger gliding along the line of her spine, and she arches into your touch, her breasts pressing against your chest. 

You suddenly roll her over to her tummy, pinning her to the bed. She laughs, a wild, unbridled sound; but she immediately shuts her mouth as your lips find the heaven that’s between her legs. Your commonsense tells you that it’s silly to use a condom to ensure safe sex, then go down on her without any protection.

But you don’t care. You’re angry that she’s not yours, that you’re not man enough to have her. Screw whatever Deze thinks about paternity fraud! If you have to put a baby in her to claim her, you would. You’ll make sure she never forgets the man she’s throwing away.

 “Zulu, stop torturing me. Fuck me,” Fanasiba begs.

But you don’t listen. You continue until she gets to the edge, only then do you stop and thrust into her without warning. You stop and watch her through the floor-to-ceiling mirror as she gasps. If you thought being in her with a condom was watermelon on a hot day, feeling her bare is like swimming in an ocean of warm chocolate.

You look at her face and see absolute pleasure. You pull out… Plunge in again and pull out.

“Zulu…”

You stop her words the third time, driving yourself in deep until you can’t anymore. Then, you quickly withdraw again. 

“Zulu!” She giggles. “You’re a tease, you know that?”

But she pushes her plump, round bum into your crotch. You take the moment to appreciate what you see, the way her lips are already swollen with need. 

You enter her once last time, slamming into her from behind, her walls tight but yielding. She cries out, a mix of shock and pleasure, her nails digging into the sheets as you begin to thrust. Each stroke is fueled by the anger of lost time, the bitterness of her rejection, and the sweet victory of having her in your arms, even if it’s for a night. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by her screams and your nasty tongue talking dirty to her. You look into the mirror and catch the reflection of her face, contorted with pleasure and something that looks suspiciously like regret. Her eyes lock with yours and you hold her gaze, driving in deeper and harder, until she’s trembling and panting, unable to look away. 

Your hand slides up her breast while the other reaches around to her clit, your fingers finding the little nub and working it in circles. She’s so close, and you can feel it in the way her muscles clench around you, the way her breath catches in her throat. However, you don’t want her to cum yet, so you go gentler as she reaches the precipice. You want her to remember this, to feel every second of the power you hold over her.

But without warning, she erupts, moaning shamelessly as her body shakes with the force of her orgasm. She screams out your name, and it does something to you. 

Like a jolt, it reminds you why you’re here, why you’re doing this, that beneath everything, there’s affection—the one force that holds your heart and refuses to let go. You know that you’ll always love this woman.

So, you stop and slowly pull out, watching her in amusement as she rides the rest of the wave that still rocks her.

“Why did you stop?” she manages to ask between gasps. 

Your answer is to bring her to your body. She holds you until her breath steadies. There’s silence for a bit until you feel wetness on your chest. You move a little and find tears in her eyes.

“Did I hurt you?” you ask, concerned.

“No.”

You know why she’s in tears. She feels the same helplessness you feel.

Seven days have passed, each one a blur of rain-soaked afternoons and cozy evenings. Deze’s suite has become your sanctuary, a place where the outside world doesn’t exist. It is flooding in many parts of country, and you both use the rain as an excuse to get away. The only communication you have with the outside world are the phone calls to your mothers, assuring them that you’re safe.

Your days have been filled with laughter, passion and deep moments of affection. You’ve explored every inch of Fanasiba, and she’s done the same to you. She teaches you how to sing, but you’re just horrible at it. Every night, you watch movies together, sharing a bowl of popcorn, tickles and unbridled laughter. You play charades, truth-or-dare and other games that have you both challenging each other. Fanasiba shows you a side of her you never knew existed—a fierce competitor with a relentless aversion to losing—and this reminds you of yourself.

On the eighth day, when the sun finally breaks through the clouds, you open your eyes and find her staring at you. Your time with her is over, but you dare to hope.

“I have to go,” she barely whispers.

“You don’t have to, Fanasi. We can just…elope.”

“Elope?”

“Don’t you want to be with me?”

“Zulu…”

“And be happy for the rest of your life?”

“Zulu?”

“We belong together, Fanasi–”

“I’m already pregnant for TJ.”

There’s a look of remorse in her eyes that matches the disappointment in yours, as you slowly sit up. 

“I don’t understand. This whole time, you’ve been pregnant?”

“Yes.”

You get off the bed. “Fanasi… What if I’d hurt you? What if you miscarried?”

“I…”

“Are you for real, Fanasiba? You were carrying another man’s child and fucking me? Is that how much you respect me?”

“Zulu, this is about what we feel for each other. Don’t bring what I choose to do with my body into it. It has nothing to do with respect–”

“It has everything to do with respect!”

She covers her face.

“You used me, Fana!” You laugh painfully. “You used my dick to desecrate your pregnancy–”

“The same way you were using it to try to mark your territory!” she bites back.

“What?”

She doesn’t respond.

“I feel so stupid right now! God!”

You leave the bedroom to the sitting room for a glass of wine. She comes after you minutes later, dressed up in one of Deze’s outfits, ready to leave. 

You look at her and shake your head. “Just like that, Fanasi?”

“I’m sorry, Zulu. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m sorry.”

Despite your anger, you still care about her future, and you believe that marrying TJ just because she’s pregnant is a huge mistake.

“Don’t let this baby tie you to him, Fana. He’s a hoe. Is that what you want for yourself? For your child? A man who can’t respect you? You’re smarter than that.”

“It’s the cross I choose to bear.”

You’re stunned at her words. You don’t want to believe that she’s walking into this marriage willingly. There must be something she’s hiding.

“I can’t change your mind?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

You stay silent for a bit, staring at the blank wall before you. She comes to you, delivering a long speech about how she must make her father happy, despite her feelings for you. But you’re not listening to her; you’re slowly hardening your heart because you just realized that it’s going to break in a way it has never done before. You wish you hadn’t hoped, that you hadn’t walked down this path with her. 

“Zulu?”

Her touch on your arm is soft but not comforting. You look at her, at the tears bathing her makeup-free face, at the helplessness in her eyes—and you realize that her heart is breaking too.

Both of you can heal each other and find all the happiness in the world. But instead of telling her that, you turn away and walk to the window, staring out. Life has resumed in Abuja after taking on a zombie apocalyptic state for seven days. The movement of cars and people on the streets reminds you that outside this beautiful cocoon you and Fanasiba have built for one week, reality is waiting for you, and it’s going to slap so hard.

“There’s nothing more for me to say, Fana,” you mutter, slicing your heart in bits. “I wish you and TJ…and the baby a happy life.”

It had taken you three agonizing months to get here, to accept that she’s the one you want. But Deze is right. At what cost? 

“Chizulukeme?” Fanasiba hugs you from behind, resting her head on your back. Feeling her tears on your skin breaks your heart. You turn her around, and pull her to your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats. 

Your chin rests on her head. “Me too, Fana. But this moment doesn’t belong to us.”

You let her cry it out, and she takes her time as you hold her, so afraid to let go. 

“I have to go,” she whispers. 

“I’ll miss you.”

She tries on a smile. “Well, we’re in this Abuja together. It’s not like I’m running away.”

You don’t respond to that because you’ve already decided to stay away from her. It’s best for you both. 

“Take care,” you say, and with one last kiss, you both end what could have been. As she leaves the hotel suite, you can’t help but feel like you’re watching a piece of your soul being taken away. 

The door closes, and you stay back, consuming two bottles of wine. When you’re done, you drive tipsy to Liatu’s apartment.

“Zulu?” She opens the door and lets you in. The first thing you do is kiss her. 

“You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy.” You kiss her again and tell her things you plan to do to her body. Before you finish speaking, her nightshirt is on the floor, eyes wild with desire. 

But it’s not her you see when you take her lips one more time.

FOUR

2024. 

It’s your fortieth birthday, and your mom has invited some of your friends for dinner in the family house. You’re not in a celebratory mood because the family is still mourning the loss of your dad, who was buried a month ago. But your grieving mom’s argument is that no one is promised tomorrow, and every milestone in life must be celebrated. She had spoken to your dad on the morning of his death before he left the house for his routine morning walk, asking him what he wanted for breakfast. Not more than twenty minutes later, he was tragically knocked down by a speeding vehicle. 

Last night, when you made a complaint about the party, she’d placed her frail hands on your chest. “Chizu’m,” she had called softly, “it’s God that gives birthdays. Celebrate every single one of them, especially this one.”

She’s right. You should be celebrating a major win today. After an eternity as a resident doctor and practicing medicine in the USA, you feel like you’ve lived five different lifetimes.

“Blow your candles!” your baby sister, Nenye, urges you.

“Make a wish first!” her little daughter, who sits on your lap, adds. You smile, make a silent wish and blow out your candles.

Friends and family applaud, bringing the house its first cheer since your dad’s passing. You’re happy to provide respite.

“Dad!” You look at your son, who calls your attention above the cheer of family. He comes to you with your phone. “It’s Mom.”

Taking the phone from him and handing his little cousin to his care, you find a quiet place to answer Liatu’s call.

“Happy birthday,” she says.

“Thanks, Lia.”

“Do I need to wish you all the wonderful things in life, seeing as you’re now a successful man?”

You laugh. She’s referring to your hospital, which opens to the public in December. It’s the pinnacle of your enduring determination and years of hard work. It had taken her generosity to get you to this place, although she’s also a silent partner and hopes to make more profit from your dreams. Still, you’re forever indebted to her, even though you’re no longer together. Her father had passed, just four years into your long-distance marriage. A month after he was buried, she told you she wanted a divorce. She didn’t need to explain why you two weren’t well-suited outside sexual intimacy. She had never been a wife material; for you, it was freedom at last. Your father tried to get you remarried, but you were finally a man of your own, and you put him in his place.

“So, tell me your wish, dear ex-husband,” she inquires.

Fanasiba flashes in your mind, and you’re annoyed that you’re still thinking about her after all these years.

“I want nothing, Lia.”

There’s a pause on her end. You know she knows that you’re thinking of Fanasiba.

“And here I was, hoping it would be something money can buy.”

You laugh again.

“Tell that son of yours not to stay up late.”

“Sure thing.”

You hang up and glance at friends and family with a smile on your face. You finally have everything you need, except for one thing.

“Zulu!” Deze shows up from nowhere. “Happy birthday, big head!”

“Leave me, abeg. Look at the time you’re coming.”

“I’m sorry.” She hugs you. “I told you about this event I was handling nau. My hands were full. I had to tear myself away from there to be here.” She thrusts a gift bag in front of you. “I hope this makes up for my lateness.”

“Thanks.” You take the bag and look around. “Where’s your latest boyfriend?”

Deze hisses, you give her a reprimanding stare. 

“Abeg, abeg. I’m mourning the only man in my life.” She glances at your dad’s portrait and swallows a lump.

“Hey, don’t. It’s my birthday, and no one is allowed to cry.”

She nods, bringing back her smile. “What I meant to say was, I don’t have time for men right now.”

“I stan a consistent woman.” 

You’re proud of her for sticking to her dreams, just like you did. She’s worked hard to become the woman she is today, running a thriving events management business and a real estate company, like her ex-boss did. A man in her life right now would derail her from her goals. You’re somewhat like her, having refused to make yourself available in the dating scene since your divorce. You’ve used your job to stay away from relationships that threaten to go deeper than sex.

“Zulu…” Deze clears her throat. “Fanasiba…”

You frown.

“You know she’s finally divorced, right?”

“So?”

“So… You two can get back together.”

You kiss your teeth but smile as one of your cousins presents a cake slice on a saucer.

“Thank you.” Taking the saucer, you face Deze again. “Adaeze, I moved on a long time ago.”

This is the truth. You had pined for Fanasiba for a while, until you realized that she had lied to you about the pregnancy. You didn’t know what had hurt more—the fact that she broke your heart, or that she had done it so deceptively. Living in Ohio where you extended your education didn’t help lessen the pain. But that spell was broken at the birth of your son. Liatu had flown in for the delivery, and you’d been privileged to witness the miracle of life. Holding his frail form in your arms, you found a love that was higher than what you felt for Fanasiba. That night, you quenched the fire in you that burned for her.

But as time passed, you learned that to love was one thing; to forget was another. Fanasiba remained in your heart, in a place you refused to accept existed. Whenever you saw something or met someone that reminded you of her, you shut the door hard. Over the years, you tried to date other women, but none of them were good enough. You were looking for that magic that would awaken the part of you that you had long buried.

Fanasiba, on her end, began to reach out to you a few years ago, crawling into your life through phone calls and messages you refused to answer. Then, she settled for communicating through Deze and social media. Sometimes you’d wake up to a notification of her liking your post on Instagram or dropping an emoji. During your birthdays, she always left a simple ‘Happy Birthday!’ message. Even today, you’d woken up to a DM from her, a shared prayer post, celebrating you.

“She wants to see you,” Deze informs you now, taking a bite of your cake.

“Deze, I saw her the other day.”

Yes, Fanasiba had shown up for your dad’s funeral in the village; but you had barely seen her before she disappeared.

“Just lunch or dinner,” Deze insists. You dither, she searches your face. “I’m not going to stop until you say yes.”

“Fine. Arrange something.”

“Good.”

Your son returns, greets Deze and tells you that your mom wants to see you in the kitchen. As you follow him to see the old woman, you get a message from your bank. It’s a transfer of funds from Liatu, a birthday gift. You’re not shocked at her generosity anymore. She had financed your dream to becoming a plastic surgeon, making sure you had gotten all you needed in school. Life would have been a little stressful without her.

Entering the kitchen, you dial her number to thank her for her present.

FIVE

“Seven days of rain.” Deze shakes her head as she eases her car into the parking spot of a popular restaurant. It has just begun to rain, and from the look of things, it’s going to come down in sheets. “We’ve not had this in a few years.”

You’re half-listening, preoccupied with the thought of seeing Fanasiba soon. You’re looking forward to it, but you’re not sure if you have the mental capacity to woo a woman, even Fanasiba. Hence, you want Deze to have dinner with you guys, to keep it strictly platonic.

“So, my former boss owns this place,” Deze tells you. “It has a restaurant and a lounge.”

“What does Fana want, really?” you ask, almost cutting her off. She looks at you with a sigh.

“Zulu–”

“I hope it’s just friendship. And not the serious type. The type that happens only when we come across each other.”

“Can you be honest with yourself? You and Fana can never be just friends. Stop fighting it, Zulu. I’m tired of your stubbornness.”

You shrug.

“You love her. Forget the past–”

“Let me stop you right there. The past is the reason I’m not with her today. She chose TJ over me.”

“You chose Lia too.”

“Only after she stuck with him.”

“God! You’re forty and still this immature! Still holding a grudge? Fine! I’ll tell you something I shouldn’t because it’s not supposed to be my story to tell! But your coconut head has to know.”

“What is it?”

“Fana’s dad was a brute. He used to beat her, her brothers, and her mom. The first time I found out about it was one early morning, when we were still in Jos. You and Chika were in boarding school then. Aunty Fausti came to the house, bleeding from her mouth and nose, her head swollen. She looked like she had just had an accident. That wicked man had beaten her blue-black, and she was scared to go back. It was Daddy that attended to her at the hospital. He was so mad at him, and I think it strained their relationship from then on.

“Fast-forward to 2011. Mommy and Aunty Fausti were making plans to get you and Fana together behind their husbands’ backs. But Daddy found out, and he was against it because he was not on talking terms with Fana’s dad. Why? The man was still beating Aunty Fausti.”

“What?”

“In fact, it was through him Daddy found out what Mommy and Aunty Fausti were planning. For daring to do such behind his back, he almost put Aunty Fausti in a coma.”

“Tell me you’re lying.”

“Fana had no choice. She feared the man and was scared of what he’d do to her mom if she didn’t marry TJ.”

Deze’s words have left you stunned. You unhook your seatbelt, unease taking over. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Because she didn’t want you to do anything stupid, like trying to be a hero or something.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because she begged me not to. She wanted you to pursue your dreams. That was why she came up with that pregnancy lie.”

“My God!” you mutter.

“Thankfully, TJ was not a brute, just a dirty, cheating hoe. And thank goodness, she refused to get pregnant for him. It took years for him to find out, and it was partly what broke their marriage. Fana was in therapy for a the whole time, and it’s been a long journey to become the woman she is today. Oh, and she gave her dad a piece of her mind when he started threatening to do shit to her mom if she left TJ. In fact, she threatened to arrange boys to beat him.” Deze laughed. “I was there. Proudest moment of my life as a friend who had begged her for years to show the wicked man pepper! That same night, she convinced her mom to leave the fool.”

“I…don’t even know what to say.” You exhale loudly. “The tattoos on her back, are they just art or–?”

“To cover the scars from the abuse.”

You’re quiet, beating yourself for not noticing the signs, for being mad at the woman you loved when she didn’t choose you.

“Like I said, this was not my story to tell. So, I don’t want you going in there and feeling sorry for her. She’s not the abused, little girl she was. Fana is happy, fulfilled and in a good place. She also got her mom into therapy with the help of Mommy.”

“I’m so sorry, Daze.”

“Naa! Don’t be. You have a wonderful heart that’s bursting with love. Fana needs that love.”

You exhale again. “I can’t wait to see her.”

“That’s the spirit, nwanne’m!” 

You chuckle. “Let’s go in.”

Fanasiba is not in the restaurant when you and Deze walk in, but Deze knows where she is. She leads you through an open passageway that is flanked by glass walls, bringing you to a dimly-lit lounge that welcomes you with the soothing sound of a familiar voice.

“It’s karaoke night,” Deze announces, but your attention is already on Fanasiba who is up on stage, singing Bryan Adams’ Inside Out. She looks breathtaking in a hot pink jumpsuit that doesn’t hide how the years have given her a more rounded figure. When you and Deze find a table and settle in, you direct your gaze at her. She catches your stare and smiles.

“She sings here every Thursday,” Deze explains. “I told her that she should just do an album, let’s make money.”

You listen to Fanasiba like someone under a spell. Her voice has finally found its soul, having become refined over the years.

She ends the song on a soft note, but the applause from her audience is loud and hearty. When the cheer dies down, she looks your way.

“Before I pass the mic to the next person, I want to do one more song for someone very special in my life. He’s meant so much to me over the years. I hope he understands how much I’ve longed to be with him.”

The opening notes of Adele’s Hello begin to play, and you’re engrossed even before she starts singing. You listen to every word she belts out in a voice that is polished and achingly personal. As the chorus hits, her voice soars with a pain so palpable it feels like it’s reaching into your chest. You’re not the only one affected; the room falls into a hush, even the clinks of glasses pause in respect. She’s not just singing to you, but to everyone who’s ever felt the sting of not being with the one they love.

Your throat tightens as the memories flood back to that one week you spent together—the way she laughed at your terrible jokes, the warmth of her body pressed against yours on those quiet nights, the moments you caught her staring at you in absolute adoration. 

The feelings threaten to overwhelm you, but you still your heart until she hits the final notes.

The room erupts in applause, and as usual, Deze is her most adoring fan. As she takes a bow, you get on your feet and wait for her. When she comes to you, you grab her hand and lead her out of the lounge. But you stop in the passageway that leads back to the restaurant, your heart bursting with emotions you can hardly contain. You have so much to say, but the words can’t make it out. She doesn’t say a word either, just wraps her arms around your neck and brings her face to yours, as if she’s not sure if she should hug or kiss you.

You choose for her, taking her lips in the most affectionate kiss you two have ever shared. She tastes the same, yet new and different. You want to spend the entire night kissing her, but you have to stop now and give her that hug she so needs.

She adores you with her eyes when you finally let go. “Gosh! You’re so yummy, Zulu. And…you finally got tattoos!” she says, eyes admiring the work of art on your arms and neck.

“I did.” You pull her closer and she wraps her arms around your waist.

You breathe in the scent of her hair, chin resting on hers. “Let’s get out of here,” you say.

Both of you walk down the passageway, through the restaurant, and into the rain.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sally Kenneth Dadzie is an author and screenwriter, living in Abuja and Lagos, Nigeria. Her writing career began as a hobby on her blog to pass time, but she soon became popular with her intriguing web series. This opened her to jobs, which she did for a while, until she found the courage to become a full-time author. She picked one of her web series and put them together in her first novel, Fish Bran Clan. She has gone on to write thirteen more books. Sally’s Little Black Book, one of the leading YouTube series in Nigeria, earned her an AMVCA nomination. She has twice been named one of the most influential writers under 40 and bagged the award for Fiction Writer of The Year in 2017 by the Nigerian Writers Awards. 

You can find her on www.moskedapages.com 

BOOKS BY SALLY KENNETH DADZIE

Stranger In Lagos

The Fourth Finger

It’s Another Saturday

In The Name of Papa

To Tame A Virgin

Novocaine Knights

His Little Black Book

No Heart Feelings