Three

The worst thing is my father is dying.

His room is usually the smallest but always maintains its essence. There is always a rug to carress one's feet, the bed is made for one person, a reading desk mounts by the side, the bulbs are not as bright, and curtains always shields the window.

Dad's voice comes from the ensuite. "I didn't expect you so soon."

"Well," I pick the book on his reading desk, (The Art of War) and flip through it. "I have nowhere to go or anyone here to talk to."

He laughs, "You will find, it will just take time. You have a whole life ahead of you."

A portrait which I gifted to him on his fifty ninth birthday is the only frame hanging on the cream walls cornering the room; Just like it hung in his room in Port Harcourt, one of its essence. I feel indifferent about his emotional attachment to the painting.

Hanna says Dad is a weird man. She calls him weird because she sees utter goodness in him. It is not that I don't see goodness in him but his goodness is at the detriment of my happiness; of my life.

Imagine this...

You are unclad, kissing your boyfriend, relishing the sensation of his fingers stimulating your nipple when the father you rarely see, calls and tells you to come home. Your boyfriend loves you and is happy you are happy because your father is around. He knows you love him, but also love drawing, and Apple and above all, your father. You wear a wide smile as you redress. After kissing him goodbye, you run home, to meet your father's car by the gate. He sits on the bonnet, a phone, which he hangs up as you approach, poise on his ear. After a tight hug, he tells you to enter the car and tells the driver to "drive." The juicy flesh of Apples burst in your mouth while you ask him about his escapade in Mali. He tells you about his newfound curiosity for psychotic people. "Why do they behave the way they do? Is it spiritual or can it be curable?" The excitement in his voice is more profound than anything you have ever heard. "I want to save those people. I want to find a cure."

But not here, he says and tells you,

to achieve this goal, we have to move. The car stops and you look at the driver and follow his line of sight through the tinted glass to see a madwoman on the island that separates the road. Her name is Series, Dad says. Few rubbish -cartons, plastic bottles, wigs, and Papers, are clutched in her hands. Her vague gaze is to the blue sky, as though pondering what lies beyond. She was born on February 14th, 1992, your dad continues, attended a decent primary school and led a normal life until her three hundred level in Unilag; she just tore her clothes and ran into the streets.

Why can you not do it here? Tears pinch your eyes and cloud them. You blink and it escapes through the sides. Why do we have to move? Again? You think of your boyfriend and a pang of pain pinches your heart but the sight of the partly-clad madwoman and the series of events that followed would gradually quell the pain.

His goodness at the detriment of what? I drop the book in its place before Dad steps out, cleaning his hands on a small towel, training a slight smile which makes me huff and look away. It will be perfect if I fold my hands over my chest but I will not satisfy him with that reaction.

"You should learn how to smile, it will make you age slowly." He says.

"You don't seem to age slowly."

He laughs, reaches over and ruffles my braids, then sits beside me on his one-man bed. "Sixty-five is pretty old. I have something to tell you." And with the casualty of common speech, he tells me he is dying. There is a distinct similarity with the tone one would use to talk about life

My heart stops and starts again. He sees the fear that creeps into my eyes yet he smiles and says, "The doctors might be wrong. A miracle might happen."

It does nothing to lift my spirit. I want to rewind the hands of time to a few hours ago when what made my heart race was the neighbor's raps on the door. I stood behind the door, inhaling deeply to repress my heart slamming against my ribs. I wasn't completely calm when I opened the door and saw the boy and his smiling mother.

"Hello." She was surprisingly young and clad in blue scrubs, a black and blue pen clipped on her breast pocket. "We are your neighbors," She hastily said while pointing towards the building I thought wouldn't be his. My intuition was always wrong.

"Welcome Ma," I stepped aside to create space for entrance but she remained in place. "Are your parents home?"

"Oh, no ma, my Dad went out."

"Call me Agnes. That Ma makes me feel old."

The boy smiled and shook his head.

"Are you the only one around?" she looked over my shoulder.

"Yes," I nodded. Hanna was snoring in her room.

She looked at her leather watch and sucked in air through clenched teeth. "I am late." She looked at the boy like it was his fault.

"You should keep the nice girl company." She said to the boy, then looked at me, smiling, pointing to the paper box in his hand. "He has cupcakes. And, he is a really shy one, don't let him run away." She switched her gaze from me to her son and back again before she says, "I will be off now. Tell your parents I said hi." She walked-ran to the gate.

We stared at each other and smiled again.

D E S I R E S