Isimeme.

🧡the buka that held more. . .

A soft hiss finds her mouth at the sight of the space. This boys’ quarters held an old TV, large dusty louvers and a floor that seems more tiled with dirt than concrete.

She instinctively adjusts her face mask and pulls her gloves out of the bag. Yes, the same faded ‘Gucci’ bag she had gotten on her 34th, six years ago. Her client shakes his heads and bows his head in laughter, as if she had suddenly donned a clown’s wig. Madam, na because of this small dust you dey wear nose cover? Hian.

She bites back the sudden overwhelming urge to sit him down and give a 10-minute lecture on why lingering in spaces like these is tantamount to saying ‘respiratory tract infection, hey. I'd like to be your good friend’.

She ignores the man, remembering that he was the one to pay her. He carries his bulky self out, muttering something about Enugu cleaners and funny actions under his breath.

Isimeme doesn't take it to heart, she had had several episodes with clients who thought her protocols were strange, too ¹ajebutter for her menial job. She didn't mind, as long as they did the needful transfers, or cash payments.

She sets the mop bucket outside and begins sweeping with the exact efficiency of someone who had been in and out of several cluttered and sorry places, and had been transforming them for six years and one month.

🌱+🍁

She walks out the estate, back tight with exhaustion, sweat dotting her forehead in merciless trickles. She wipes the beads again with her checkered handkerchief, saying a strained “Lord thank you” while at it.

Strained not because she was forcing it or because it was a phrase uncommon to her. Strained just because her hands felt like borrowed things and she was no longer sure how far her legs could take her.

This was the thing about her kind of work. Demanding clients with high taste and unyielding pockets, stress in every possible decibel and of course, backache. It was on days like these she again fantasized about having the currency people called “husband”.

She would use him to buy herself comfort on days like today. With a quick call, she'd have him drive right here and possibly carry her into his Toyota. On days like today, she will have him stop by the road to get her suya. On days like today, she will have him massage her aching legs.

But she had left those wishes where wishes stayed. Since Charles had left her to cater to their son under the guise of travelling to Japan to “make things better for them”, she had left thinking she could have this currency.

Not after the failed dating attempts. Not after the men who thought Osahon was a moveable variable, not the 12-year-old boy whom she had raised with sweat-streaked money, loaded prayers and ogbono made with sacrificial love. No, this currency was not hers to have. She had never had it and probably never would.

🥘+ 👤

Her legs do not carry her much further. She finds a wall and leans on it for a while, thinking of calling Osahon to boil rice so she'd have something to eat with yesterday's crayfish stew once she gets home, but decides against it. The boy has done so much today already.

She walks again, taking each step a tad faster this time. She finds a ²buka to her right and stares at it for some seconds before choosing to get herself something to eat. It was the thing about doing parenting alone and with limited resources too.

You'd pause and think, then think again, before getting something as vital as eba and ogbono, even if you are about to see the twenty-four elders around God's throne. Because if you spend money on canteen food, how would you buy tomorrow's palm oil and beans?

She enters, feet still feeling like foreign things. She orders in a minute and sinks heavily into a nearby chair. She stands again to carry her tray, and finds a man at the counter. Broad shoulders, full hair, kind eyes, the same kind of eyes that spell “I’m married with at least two kids”.

She tries to forget him once she's back in her chair, but how could she when he was just eight feet away? She takes her first morsel with the speed of a hungry lion and starts eating quietly. Isimeme Delight, you're forty years and one month old, with a son who is twelve years and three months old. You have no time to bother about a dark man in a blue shirt who has full hair and kind eyes.

Her reasoning is snapped shut as the object of her thoughts takes the seat opposite her, with a strange sort of ease. “You look like you've had a long day”, he says, unwrapping his pounded yam. To that she says nothing. Of course she was recovering from a long day.

“You are like Tobiloba”, he adds after a minute, chuckling. She swallows what's left of her eba and then looks at him, because if he was going to liken her to someone after only just meeting her, then it was only fair he describe the person.

“My daughter. She's in primary four now. She has a thing for not replying strangers. Don't know where she learnt that from, seeing her dad is a talker. Her brother Tolulope is the opposite though.” She nods, absorbing the information that this man in the blue shirt thought was normal to share.

“Since my wife died two years ago, she just became withdrawn. She used to talk more. Yes she was quite the introvert, but this version of her is concerning. I really pray she finds her spark again.” Only after this statement does Isi reach out to place her palm on his. She knew what that kind of grief was.

Osahon had only begun picking up his drawing and football hobbies. After Charles left, he also became a closed-off version. ‘Keep praying for her. She will thrive.’ The man nods and asks if she lived around, and she says no. She asks if he frequented this spot, he says yes.

Their conversation remains surface-level, as should be. Complaints about the economy. Shared stories about the wild ride called parenting. Laughter about the craze of social media. She doesn't remember laughing so freely, not in years. He doesn't recall being so at ease, not in months.

💌+💛

“You are a resilient woman, Isimeme. And I hope you find someone who would treat you not like a threat, but like a present”. She nods, completely taken aback by the man who thought saying things like these to a yearning woman on a Wednesday evening was a good idea.

“We should definitely do this again. Maybe lunch, at my place. It's in Chime Avenue. You should bring Osahon”. She pauses, takes his words in and files them away softly. Who was this man and how had he managed to get her to share things she only shared after a long while?

And why doesn't she want to refuse his bizarre offer? Why is she optimistic? And why, for the life of her, is she intrigued by how he smiles? Why, why in the world is her feet hesitant to rush home so she can boil rice for Osahon?

It is these thoughts she holds like a delicate box as she walks out the buka, leaving him seated.

---

🤎 “Isimeme” is my tribute to every middle-aged or young parent doing this miraculous thing called raising a child(ren). It is my ode to the parents who have held grief on one hand and responsibility in the other. And it is my portrait of the possibility of finding ease and love in unexpected places.

I hope you loved reading as much as I enjoyed writing. (Fun fact: I was studying for an exam when the idea for this came. And I didn't continue studying till I finished it. 😂 Don't try that at home o).

🫂 Do the good stuff.

🎉 In case you didn't know, I have a women and girl centered book coming your way this July. It's called Come Here Sis! and you can pre-order it HERE

1. Polished, classy

2. A Nigerian term for canteens often at the roadside where swallows and soups(majorly), are sold.