***
Rapping my sore knuckles on the steaming hot gate for the umpteenth time, my mind swayed back to my previous conversation with Stella. Her assurance that everything would be fine had made something snap inside of me. I had grown tired of believing things would be fine, when in reality they only got worse.
I had been stupid to believe she could help me. No one could. After listening to me cry over losing my scholarship, she had done nothing but assure me it would be fine. And then she had given me a card of Paracetamol to ward off my fever and headache.
After moments of waiting for her to devise a plan to help me, I had finally realized the bitter truth. Cinderella lived a fairytale, and I, reality. I had no fairy godmother who would come to my aid and turn my distress to joy.
And the fierce determination I had seen in Stella's eyes in the morning? Had it all been for nothing? She no doubt found me unworthy of her help. I wouldn't feel like this if she hadn't offered to help. But she had. Had she forgotten so soon?
I never should have put faith in her promise. Once a promise is made, life finds a way to break it. I didn't want to be pessimistic, but I couldn't play dumb to the truth. Experience had taught me never to put faith in promises. Dad had made lots of promises, and although he meant to keep them, life never gave him a chance. He had told me he would always be there for me. He once told me I would never have any reason to be broken in spirit.
Mum no doubt had made promises too. An image of my pregnant mother drifted past my mind. She rubbed her baby bump, her eyes aglow with love as she promised to always be there for the child.
My stepmother had also promised. She had promised to love me as her own. And now, Stella's promise had just joined the heap of broken promises, breaking my heart over and over again.
Blinking back the tears that threatened to overcome me, I returned to knocking the gate. I needed to talk to my stepmother. It wouldn't be easy, but I had to. Maybe we could reach an agreement. Pessimism reared its ugly head, aiming to shatter my hope. Shoving it off, I tried to organize the points I would table before her.
Did I have to tell her though? Considering that I had exchanged words with the apple of her eye, it didn't sound so good an idea. I reflected back on my conversation with Cynthia. All these years I had been able to keep my cool, playing the part of a feeble girl who could not speak up for herself. Why did I have to speak up today? Today of all days.
Perhaps I could just go on with my plan without informing my stepmother. I would work overtime to meet up for school. I would do most of my chores before going to bed, and do the rest of them when I awakened. That way I would meet up.
'How come you never thought of this?' a pessimistic voice in my head asked. I rolled my eyes, hating how cynicism always sought to interfere with my life.
It had a point though. I had come up with this overtime technique in my sophomore year, but my stepmother only let it work for the two days she most likely spent plotting. On the third day, I had started to prepare for school when she approached me with a shopping list, sending me to the market. When I returned she had asked me to prepare vegetable soup just so I couldn't meet up. And the next day she had me select a ridiculously great quantity of beans. After spending three hours sat on the kitchen floor, picking beans, I had finally realized she wanted me to stop pursuing my punctuality goal.
These memories swallowed my frustration, leaving rage in its wake. I vented it out on the gate, knocking as hard as I dared. The gate trembled where it stood, and I knew I had just signed in for some extra sessions of abuse. But at this point I didn't care what they did to me. I just wanted to be home.
"Break it oooh," my stepmother yelled, her voice almost musical. "If you don't bring down that gate, shame on you."
Her footsteps advanced from the other side of the gate. Instinctively, I took a step back as though to escape what would come. But I knew the futility in seeking escape. Sucking in a deep breath to prepare myself, I undid the distance I'd just created.
My stepmother shot me a scorching look as she opened the gate. She held it open, and for a moment, I could only stare.
"Good afternoon, ma," I said.
When dad still lived, my stepmother had allowed me call her mummy. But after dad's death, she had warned me never to call her that. Sometimes the word would slip out of my mouth and I would feel the sting of a slap across my face.
I stepped in through the open gate, my focus more on my thoughts than on reality. My stepmother's palm whipped across my face, blistering my cheek. My ear rung from the impact. It felt like I had been attacked by a thousand furious ants. Barely giving me a moment to recover, she grabbed my ear and wrung like she would a damp cloth. A gasp escaped my throat as her painfully long nails dug into my skin.
"Mumu." She wrung harder. I bit my lips to keep from spitting out hurtful words. "You have ears but you don't hear. How many times will I tell you not to knock like that? Or did you employ any gate keeper?"
The muscles in my ear screamed out in pain. I clenched my teeth to keep from yelping. I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing me express pain. I ignored the discomfort, reassuring myself it would not go on forever.
And it did not. A knock at the gate distracted my stepmother, giving me the chance I needed to writhe my way to safety. Holding my scalding-hot ear, I moved to open the gate.
Emotions slammed into me at the sight of Stella. On one side stood fear, on another, shock, and on yet another, hope. The dim light of hope burning within me, craving death, had been rekindled by Stella's presence.
"Hello yourself," Stella said, indifferent to my blankness.
I had never seen her dressed in a cloth other than her uniform. A black jacket enclosed her torso, giving an ash camisole a sliver of space to peek through. A pair of blue jeans hugged her legs, halting just before a black pair of sneakers.
Before me stood a perfect runway model, save for a few pounds. With such physique, and an angelic personality, I wondered why she hadn't found a husband yet. Or had she resolved to stay single?
"Do you feel better?" she asked, breaking through my thoughts.
"I...yes ..." Good lord. I could not speak to her in front of my stepmother. This didn't look good.
"Why are you still in your uniform?" she asked. "I thought you left school an hour ago. Vicky, did I not ask you to take a cold shower once you got home? It helps with fever."
Again, words eluded me. Stella stared at my face as though I had something on it. She reached out and held my jaw with two fingers, turning it sideways to thoroughly examine. Her gaze fell on my injured ear and she stared at it for a moment too long.
"What happened to your face?" she asked.
"I...I fell," I said.
Stella clicked her tongue. "This isn't the kind of wound sustained from a fall. No, these are scratches. Do you have a wildcat or something?"
Looking over my shoulder, she raised her brow at the sight of my stepmother, the wildcat. For a few unsettling moments, she just stared at her as though trying to read through her. I could tell she now knew how I had sustained those injuries.
"Good evening, Mrs. Brown," Stella said.
"And you are?" my stepmother asked.
Stella walked past me and reached out to shake my stepmother's hand. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Two men trailed after her, their overly strict faces rubbing me of my voice so I couldn't greet them.
My gaze lingered on them. The first, a bald man, clad in a black body hug T-shirt, had a slightly rounded stomach. Muscled arms strained to fit into his shirt. His facial hair, too overgrown to be called stubble, cast a dark shadow along the corners of his round face. Something about his physique told me he had a husky voice and indulged in much alcohol.
The second, most likely in his early thirties, stood a few pounds and a few feet behind his partner's solid six foot. I perceived his complexion had once been lighter, but the Nigerian sun showed no mercy, leaving him with a disgruntling tan. I would tag him a
s approachable, save for the stony expression on his bony, clean-shaved face.
"Stella Adewale," Stella said.
My stepmother stared at Stella's outstretched hand as though it were a snake ready to strike. She looked away from the hand and trailed her eyes on the men.
"I don't believe we have met," she said.
"Now we have," Stella said. "My friends and I would love to talk to you about something very important."
My stepmother sized up Stella as though trying to decipher the nature of their pending conversation. "I am all ears."
"Shall we?" Stella gestured toward the house. Following my stepmother's tentative lead, she and the men streaked into the house. I trailed behind them.
Although I ached to listen in on their conversation, I knew I did not stand a chance. My stepmother would not stand my presence. Hiding behind the wall to listen seemed like a plan, but the sight of Cynthia a few steps away sent a wave of frustration stealing me over. Defeated, I sauntered to my room and shut the door.
Arms folded, I stood there, thinking of just what I had gotten myself into. My stepmother wouldn't like this one bit. Why had Stella brought friends along with her? I had only told her about my abuse because I trusted her to keep it secret. Had I made a mistake?
My bed called to me, but it seemed far off. I didn't want to stand. I didn't want to sit either. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be in the living room, listening to whatever conversation now ensued.
Suspense taking the best of me, I walked to and fro. My heart thumped like a beating drum. Sick of standing, I finally decided to answer my bed's call. Just when I lowered myself toward the bed, the door swung open. I bolted upright to face Cynthia.
"What do they want?" Her voice had a heated edge to it with a dash of panic. "Cat got your tongue?"
Disgust settled in Cynthia's gaze as she sized me up. "If you get my mum and I in trouble, I swear you won't live to regret it. Whatever you told those people, better think of a way to rip it off their minds."
"What's wrong, Barbie doll?" I asked. "Scared?"
Wrinkling her nose, she cast me a glance that could slice through rock. I paid no heed to her and disappeared into the bathroom for a quick shower. I hugged myself as icy water met my scalding hot skin, hitting home. Even forever wouldn't be enough to acclimatize to the merciless temperature.
At this point I couldn't tell whether I shivered from fever or from the cold enveloping me. Thoughts of the ongoing conversation in the living room littered my mind, making me almost oblivious of the cold.
Done showering, I stepped into my room to find Cynthia gone. I heaved a sigh of relief and clad myself in a yellow polo and a pair of faded blue jeans. A knock too gentle to be Cynthia's or her mother's, brought my attention to the door.
"Vicky?" Stella's voice sailed in from behind the door.
I dashed to the door and yanked it open, too eager to know the details of their conversation. Stella's blank face greeted me. What news had she come to deliver? News of hope or news of my death?
"Vicky," she said, taking my hands in hers.
"What happened?" I squeezed out the words through a clenched throat.
"Your presence is needed," she said. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I nodded, willing her to go on. "Please, don't feel intimidated. This is your chance to break free from all her evil advances."
"I don't understand. What's this about?"
"Helping you." She smoothed down my hair. "Those men are my friends. They will help you. But you have to do one thing for us. For me. For yourself."
This didn't sound good. "What?"
"We need you to tell the truth. Tell it and tell it all. Leave out nothing. Can you do this for me, Vicky?"
I reflected back on one of the lectures I had received from dad. After telling Cynthia and I a bedtime story, he had asked us to tell him the morals we learnt. The girl in the story had lied to save her family....
"I don't understand why you chose this story," an eight-year-old me said. "Every story you tell has moral lessons. But in this story, I don't see any."
"You also see none?" Dad asked Cynthia. She snored in response.
Stifling a yawn, I rubbed my eyes to oppress sleep and perhaps chase it for a while, but it seemed to be gaining in on me.
Studying me for a moment too long, dad said, "You shouldn't fight it. Go to bed. Tomorrow is only a few hours away." He made to stand, but I threw my arms around him. Work had kept him away all day. Now that I had him, I wouldn't let go till sleep finally stole me over.
"The story, dad," I said, half-yawning. "She didn't speak the truth."
"What is truth?"
"Truth is...the opposite of lie?" I cowered inwardly, hating my vague answer.
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Truth is a word you must define for yourself," dad said. "It is much more than the opposite of lie, my sweet. Much more. Defining it like that confines the word 'truth' to just that context, and it would be unfair, for truth is a great word, covering a multitude of sins, just like love."
I waited for a definition of truth but it never came. Dad obviously needed me to speak before he went on.
"What is truth?' I asked.
Dad smiled at me. "You know now. You are my smartie. Link the story to what I've just told you."
He stared at me, giving me a moment to arrange my thoughts. "Now let's hear your definition of truth."
Ijeoma had lied to save her mother from King Edochie's wrath. And according to dad, truth covered a multitude of sins. Truth covered her mother's sin. It kept their family together. I summed up these details. "Truth is any statement made to build up one's family."
Proud to have a definition that sounded good in my ears, a smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
"That, my sweet, is truth," dad said.
Tightening my arms around him, I said, "Love you, dad."
"Love you too, my fairy princess."