Sunshine

Sunshine — it was the name he always called her, even on the day he sent her to her grave.  

He would creep up on her in the kitchen while she cooked his favourite yam porridge, and wrap his arms around her waist, before whispering in her ear: “What sunshine is to flowers is what you are to me.” And when he leaned in for a kiss, he could smell the seasoning lingering on her skin, making it harder for him to resist her—his sunshine.

She believed him. Why wouldn't she? He was the one who took a bullet for her on a baleful night armed robbers invaded their apartment in Dolphins. He was the one who suggested and provided the funds for her to begin the make-up business that turned her into the world-famous Lady M. Many nights she thought of what her life would look like if she had stayed back in Oyo, helping grandma Ibadan with frying her renowned 'Mummy chin-chin'. Every day, towering over large pans of sizzling oil, the constant hissing would be her life's soundtrack. She wondered what would have happened if Akah did not stop to pick her on the day she arrived in Lagos, looking for a job. Word had been on the street that maids were paid properly in Lagos, and village girls were preferred because they did not steal their madams' husbands.

She owed him everything, down to the air she breathed, and so every day, she lived like a debtor; every action of hers, in honour of him. She ate very little so that he did not think she was a glutton, chose her words carefully so that he did not say her make up business gave her wings to talk smack at him. Not that he would complain anyway, but she did everything to perfection.  Perfect little miss sunshine, until the rains pattered on her verandah on a cold night.

Who asked Kelechi to come over? She did not remember, but he was sprawled out on her husband's floor, eating fried meat from her kitchen and sipping on a bottle of Maltina. He had come to watch the Chelsea vs Man-U match, but the sound of thundering sent the cable haywire — stuck on a weak attempt to restore the connection.

It was only a matter of time before NEPA took out the electricity. An eerie silence took over the room, save for the drumming of the rain as it hit the roof. The tension in the darkness was unreal and yet, palpable. It was not a mistake, and no, she was not drunk when she was climbing his body and loosening up the buttons on his shirt. One slow motion at a time, she realized that this was one thing she could do unreservedly and allowed herself to remember what it was like to be free again. It was not the act; it was the aftertaste of rebellion that lingered on her tongue, on her lips, leaving her biting her index finger in anticipation of more, even after Akah returned from his trip.

It was not meant to end like this: blood gushing out from her sides as she lay quietly on the floor, steam from the yam porridge flushing out a peppery aroma into the kitchen. Kelechi was squirming in the corner of the room as he held his trousers in front of him. He did not mean to sleep with his neighbours' wife. First, she came to him, and then he came to her, then they came together. He was stuttering. His heart in his mouth, he would do anything now to rewind to three months ago, when even in the darkness and under the rain, he would not stay back but hurry off to his wife instead. It was too late now. If Akah could kill his sunshine, there was no hope for him.

He began to mop up the blood, as ordered by Akah. He did not even know that blood from a human being could blend easily with water and be absorbed by a mop. Shouldn’t the blood be powerful enough to reject the water? Shouldn't the food have burnt? Shouldn't the police be here by now? Kelechi was going bonkers along with his thoughts.  

"Okay, now, I'm going to press record." Akah began to say, his voice still as calm as it was when he walked into the house and found both of them on his Italian rug, the one his favourite client had gifted him. "Sunshine, why?" was all he asked before the house came crumbling. A vase was crashing into the wall, the standing fan falling into the glass centre table, a knife cutting through the air until it met someone's back.

"You are going to say that you killed her, but I know it wasn't our fault," Akah scoffed.

Kelechi began to shit in his pants. At home, his wife was frying puff-puff to celebrate his birthday. If he had known, he would have stayed in his house — a two-bedroom apartment housing his family of four. But Money pass money, and he loved the affiliation with wealth that was levels higher than his; If only he too could get a taste of it.  

This was not the delicacy he asked for.

"Smile for the camera. I need to get you and sunshine in the picture together." Akah continued.

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