Dear God, Are You There? It’s Me Again
I felt tears coming to my eyes. I made an effort to hold them back. My effort seemed successful, but I shouldn’t talk, or else my voice might betray me.
It was a few minutes to 7 a.m. I had to be at work by 8 a.m., but I was still here. I was at home in Zuba. I should have left for Gwagwalada the day before, but I’d put it off so I could spend one more night with my family.
My father was sitting at his favorite place in the parlour. I told him that I wanted to leave now.
—Are you leaving now? he asked as if he didn’t know that I had to leave today.
—Go well, then. Stay safe.
He said everything would be all right, that I shouldn’t worry.
—God will go before you, he added.
I knew why he was saying that.
Throughout the Christmas holiday, uncertainty hung around me like a shadow.
Maybe my father had noticed this: one minute I’d be talking and laughing with my siblings; the next minute, I’d be in the bedroom, in bed, lying still, musing on the things in my head. Maybe he’d noticed that, sometimes, I got lost in thought while washing clothes or eating.
The day I arrived home for the holiday, we talked. I’d told him about the job I’d started. I’d told him about the meager pay, that I’d been paid less than half of the salary in December. And how, because of that, my plans of getting accommodation in January had been botched.
It wasn’t that I wanted him to help me out; I needed to let him know what was happening to me.
We’d talked about what I’d been up to. And, even though I loath to hear him talk about it, I’d asked about his health. I’d noticed that he’d lost some weight, and it had saddened me. He’d seemed to have grown older and leaner since the last time I’d seen him. I dreaded hearing things about his health, but he’d told me everything — and I’d listened.
His health had been a subject of concern to me. Sometimes I caught myself worrying about it. Sometimes I prayed. I thought about it more often than I should. When we talked over the phone, I always asked him about it, and as usual, he never hid anything: his chest burned when he took his medication, his eyes didn’t see as they used to, etc.
This morning, I was moody. Sad. On the verge of tears. It was the way my father said God would go before me. It was the way he seemed reluctant to let me leave, reluctant to say goodbye. It was something else that I couldn’t pin down.
I didn’t understand what was happening. I had to leave, yet I didn’t want to. Saying goodbye, for me, had never been hard, but it was now.
My siblings were all around. Except for my youngest brother, who was also sitting in the parlour, they were all in their rooms. Earlier this morning, before I woke up from sleep, my elder sister had heated the water I’d used for my bath. She’d warmed some stew, too, and had put it in a plastic takeaway plate for me. It was what my mother would’ve done, but she’d left for Gwagwalada on the evening of New Year’s Day. So my sister did it. How easy it was for her to step into my mother’s role.
Wrapped in many layers of polythene bags, and the mouth tied, I held the takeaway plate of stew in my hand.
I was not going to another end of the country; I was only going to Gwagwalada. It wasn’t more than 30 minutes away from here. Why the reluctance to leave?
I hoisted my backpack and told my father that I wanted to leave. I was careful to keep the tears in check.
He produced a 1000-naira note to give me. I declined to accept it. I told him to keep it — I should be giving him money, not the other way around.
My elder sister was in the backyard. I called out her name and told her I was about to leave. She bade me farewell from where she was.
My twin sisters were in their room. I didn’t say anything to them. I didn’t want to say goodbye to them; I just wanted to slink out of the house and leave, because I was scared of letting out tears. They heard me say goodbye to my elder sister and they came out to bid me farewell. I managed to reply while keeping my lips tight. If they noticed my strange demeanour, they didn’t say anything about it.
I went out of the parlour and walked to the gate. I didn’t know how well I’d concealed the tears from my family, but as soon as I closed the gate behind me, I let them out. As they flowed, I wiped them so people wouldn’t notice. The more I wiped, the more they careened down my cheeks.
It felt like I’d been thrown into a muddy pool, and I was floundering, floundering, because I couldn’t swim. And in any case, you don’t swim in a quagmire.
2024 was that pool. I felt uncertain about it, and I was groping in that uncertainty. Gwagwalada was that pool also. It was an abusive spouse. A toxic workplace. Everything about the town repelled it from me. I’d once loved the town, but now I didn’t. At least at this moment, I hated it. I didn’t want to go back there.
This was 2024. I was not mentally ready for it. I was sad. I was afraid. But I had to face the year. I had to be at work by 8 a.m. I had to figure out what to do about getting accommodation soon without financial assistance. And I had to quit worrying about my father, or my mother for that matter. I had to face my fears. I had to face the year.
I walked to the road and flagged down a motorcycle. After negotiating the price, I jumped on it. The bike man drove me to the motor park close to a bridge.
A phalanx of motor park boys accosted me when I alighted from the bike.
—Where you dey go?
—Na Lagos?
—Na Lokoja?
—Okene?
—Oga, talk na!
They scrambled for my backpack. I shrugged them off.
I kept mute. I felt my hip pocket for my phone. It was intact. I was not in the mood to say anything to anyone. I managed a “No” or a shake of my head to all of the boys’ questions.
One of the motor park boys got offended by my silence. He started talking about avoiding wahala this new year. He placed “O” at the end of his sentences as if warning a stubborn child to behave. He raised his voice; I remained quiet as I walked away.
Close to the bridge, I got into a Gwagwalada-bound car. The sound of tears rang in my head. I thought: No one knows me here, so maybe I should just cry.
But I didn’t cry.
My face felt a little dry when the car took off. There was mucus in my nose and throat. Although I no longer felt Harmattan — it seemed to have gone on a break — the wind that blew in through the window reminded me of it. The wind blew against my face and got into my nose.
I watched the passing scenery through the window — travellers lugging their luggage; motor park touts scouring for the right passengers, frantically; people going to work; hawkers peddling their wares, some of them shoving wristwatches, power banks, phone chargers, belts, toothbrushes, and other goods into people’s faces, imploring them to buy.
The holiday was over. Everyone had picked up their drab life from where they had left off.
How easily people don and disrobe their garments of festivity. I’d donned mine, but now taking it off was hard for me. I could use a little help pulling it off. I thought: Dear God, are you there? It’s me again.
The driver increased his speed as the road started to clear. If he didn’t make too many stops, I’d be in Gwagwalada in 15 minutes.
