11: MAMA

Murewa swayed gently on his restless horse while looking around them as sounds of wailing and tears filled the air.

Recruitment days were always the same. Mothers cried and protested as their sons were carried away to camp for the compulsory one-year service.

He and Jamal were in town, supervising the recruitment as his officers went from door to door, ushering out the young boys towards the town square.

Murewa turned up his nose as the women held on to their embarrassed sons, wailing and begging him to let them stay one more year.

Every Ore youth above eighteen is required to serve one year in the army, for training in case of war. Recruitment day was once a year and they always sent a two-month notice before the actual date so the boys could have enough time for preparation.

But whenever the actual day came, the boys would leave their houses with wide, confused eyes like they were just hearing about it for the first time.

It surprised him how they always managed to pull that off.

His horse jerked beneath him, spooked by the noise and Murewa patted the strong neck of the animal. "Calm down, boy," he whispered, both horse and rider irritated by the display around them.

Whenever they won a war and were coming back home, it was always the women who were in front to welcome them, singing victory songs and praising him and the army for their strength and dedication. But when it was time for their sons to join this same army for a year, their songs changed.

Murewa was quickly running out of patience. He pulled back the reins, ready to shout the command for his officials to turn up the heat when his eyes caught movement in a particular house that was set apart from the others.

He turned on his horse to see a tall, slim woman; her body shaking with tears as she held her son close to her.

The boy tried to pull away, but the woman held him closer. The boy complied, putting his arms around his mother again. From the corner of his eyes, Murewa saw his officials march towards the house, shouting for the woman to let her son go.

The boy was pulled from his mother's arms and as he was being led away, the Mother turned and despite the long distance, her gazes clashed with Murewa's.

In the woman's tear-streaked face, he saw his late mother and how she held on to him for what he didn't know was the last time.

His gaze remained on the woman and as he watched, she clasped her hands together and held it high, as if begging or praying for something. Murewa turned away from her and pushed his horse into a gallop towards the town square.

On getting there, he alighted from his horse and moved to stand in front of the young boys.

Jamal appeared beside him. He cleared his throat once and silence descended on the crowd.

"Census," he said to Jamal and his friend stepped forward, face harsh and voice loud.

"You are welcome. My name is Jamal, your assistant-in-chief; and this is Prince Murewa, the Chief of this army." Murewa felt all eyes on him.

Jamal continued.

"You don't need to be afraid," he said with an expression that said otherwise. "Once you follow the orders, there would be no problem. And in one year, when you are leaving this place, you would thank us for all the training and knowledge you would have acquired."

Murewa briefly wondered if he had this speech written down somewhere because he said the same thing every year.

Jamal pointed to the first boy in line. "One," he barked and the next boy quickly grasped what was going on. "Two," the boy said and the next boy picked up from there.

As the numbers went up, Murewa searched the crowd for the boy whose mother reminded him so vividly of his own. He finally found him at the back of the crowd. The census got to him and the boy said "Fifty."

He nudged Jamal beside him. "That boy, keep an eye on him."

"What boy?" Jamal looked in the direction of his gaze.

"Fifty."

Jamal nodded and stepped forward again when the census ended.

"Now, listen carefully as I won't say this again. You would be given a week to get accustomed to camp before training would officially start. During that week, you would go on a particular diet to strengthen you and get rid of the breast milk you are so used to." He paused.

"You would stick to this diet for a month after which you would return to eating whatever you like. And when I say whatever you like, I mean whatever you like. Each of you will write the list of food you want to eat for the week and submit it to the cook. But...listen!" Jamal growled when the boys began to steer in excitement.

"All the food you eat, you will work it out on the field. By next week, you would know what I am talking about. Training would start every morning by six and every evening by three, but until then, enjoy yourselves." He ended his speech and motioned for the officers to lead the boys into the camp.

"Move!"

"This way!"

"Go! Go! Go!" The men shouted and the boys moved in the direction they were being led.

Jamal waited with Murewa as the square cleared. Murewa was an awfully quiet person, but Jamal noticed he was even more quiet than usual.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked his friend as they walked to their horses.

"Hmmm," Murewa mumbled, swinging his legs over his horse.

"What...?" Jamal started to ask but Murewa was already charging back to the Palace.

xXx

Murewa flung his bag on the bed and sat down to kick off his shoes. He was feeling a little melancholic because it was one of those days when he really missed his mother.

The door opened and he looked up to see the servant girl come in with his tray of food. She kept her head down as she placed the tray on the bed beside him.

"Good afternoon, my Prince," she greeted and paused for a second before turning to leave.

"Stay, ma," he said softly. She stopped and turned to him with shocked eyes. He looked away, as confused as she was. This girl evoked strange feelings in him. He had never felt such tender emotions towards anyone asides from his mother.

"What's wrong?" she asked gently and he looked up to see her standing dangerously close to him, her hands fluttering by her sides like she wanted to touch him. He reared back to prevent the action. He didn't want to be touched.

She watched with a frown as he tried to distance himself from her. "I don't have a contagious disease," she said and he narrowed his eyes at her, trying to get mad but failing woefully.

Had he somehow let on the fact that he had a soft spot for her? Was that why she was taking such liberties and talking back at him?

"I don't like to be touched," he answered gruffly.

"Why?"

"Do I have to explain myself to you?"

"But you held me the other day."

He wiped his hands over his face and looked at her with a frustrated expression. "Touching you is different from you touching me."

She shuffled to the side of the bed where he was and sat, making sure no part of her body was in contact with his. "You look sad," she commented, looking down at her feet.

He kept mute.

She looked up and stretched her hands towards him. "Hold my hand."

He looked down at her slim hand and back to her face. "Why would I want to do that?" he asked, his brows furrowed together.

"My brother liked to hold my hands when he felt scared or sad. He said it made him feel better."

"And how old is this brother of yours?"

"Nine," she said and stifled her laugh when he looked at her like she was retarded.

"Hold my hands," she urged.

"No." He climbed under his covers and curled up. He was acting like a baby and at that moment, Abike felt something shift inside her. She was surprised to see he could show emotions too. He was sad and needed comfort. She wanted to comfort him.

"Hold my hands," she persisted. "You said touching me is different from me touching you. This isn't me touching you now. Hold my hands."

"No, mama," he said quietly under his breath and drew the covers over his face.

Abike went to the bookshelf and picked up a book, before returning to his side. "Have you read this?" She held the book up. He peeked out from under the covers and shook his head.

"Tales by moonlight." Abike read the title. "It's a collection of many stories." She looked up to see him staring back at her, his eyes sad.

Without waiting for a prompt from him, she began to read the first story about a girl who was living with a stepmother and stepsister who maltreated her.

It started like the typical Cinderella story but deviated towards the end when the heroine's stepmother told her to go to the stream at night to fetch a bucket of water, even though the woman knew it was taboo.

Upon reaching the stream, the girl saw an old woman who asked for water. The girl obliged without complaints, and in appreciation, the old woman told the girl to pick from two pots. Of the two, one was big and the other was small.

The girl chose the small pot and the woman told her not to open the pot until she reached her home. The girl did as she was told and when she opened the pot the next morning, she found gold and cowries and thousands of naira. She shouted so loud her stepmother came into the room.

After finding out how she came about the pot, the stepmother sent out her daughter that night, with orders to pick the biggest pot when she saw the old woman.

The stepsister saw the old woman as mentioned and gave her water to drink when the old woman asked. As expected, the old woman told the girl to pick from two pots. Of the two, the stepsister picked the bigger pot, and the old woman instructed her not to open it till she got home.

On getting home, her mother was waiting patiently and they opened the pot, only to find it empty at first. In the end, snakes crawled out of the pot and bit the woman and her daughter, leading to their death.

"...and Ibidun became a very wealthy woman. She married the Prince and lived happily ever after." Abike finished and smiled up at the Prince, whose eyes were narrowed to slits. He was quiet for a while.

"Fuck that," he said eventually. "I would have picked the biggest pot too." Abike laughed because she felt the same way.

"I mean, it's only logical they think that way." The Prince sat up, forgetting himself for a moment. "If the small pot contained money, the bigger pot should contain more money, right?"

Abike stopped laughing, marveling at how comfortable she felt in his presence.

"Right. But I think this is just a way of teaching people not to be too greedy."

"It didn't teach me shit," he answered stubbornly.

"It's for kids. The stories in this book are mainly for kids; I think they would be more receptive to the lessons in this story."

"Really?" He frowned. "Why did you read it to me then?"

"Because I knew you would like it," she replied. "Didn't you?"

He nodded grudgingly.

"Asides from teaching kids not to be greedy, I think this book just reinforced the idea that you shouldn't help strangers or talk to them," he said forcefully. "Stay wicked."

"What?" Abike's eyes widened. "How did you deduce that from this nice story?"

"I mean, why would the old woman not tell the stepsister that the big pot contained snakes? Is that a way to repay someone for giving you water to drink?"

Abike's mouth opened and closed again. She didn't like that the Prince was somehow right. Her father had read this story to her when she was a kid and she had held it dear, up until now. But this man was making her question everything.

"Maybe because she knew the girl came because of the pots. She knew the wicked stepsister didn't care about her, she just wanted the money. Plus, she must be spiritual so she would have known the sister was wicked."

"Do you know that if the good sister had taken the big pot, she would have still ended up being bitten by a snake?"

Abike folded her arms across her chest.

"I won't read you any more stories," she said resentfully. 

"I didn't ask you to read this to me in the first place," he answered ungratefully. She stood but before she could turn away, he grabbed her wrist.

"Stay, mama."

She sat back down, liking the way he said mama. It was very endearing.

"Are you sick?" she asked and he shook his head.

"You are so quiet, compared to what everyone thinks of you," she said and his lips curled in a smile so genuinely beautiful, his left cheek dimpled. "You have a dimple," she gasped and the smile disappeared completely, leaving the blank expression she so despised.

"Why did you arrive late?" she asked quietly. He remained silent for a short moment and she was so sure she had jinxed the moment until he spoke.

"I did?"

"Yes."

"When was I supposed to arrive?" He folded his arms, looking genuinely interested in whatever her answer would be.

"About eleven. You came around two."

Why were they even having this conversation?

"Around eleven," he echoed. "And that's my usual time?" He asked again. Abike nodded slowly, unsure if he was messing with her.

"I didn't realize I had a schedule," he said finally and Abike looked away in embarrassment.

"No. It's not like that."

"How's it like?"

"Mrs. Jamila told us. She said you have training every morning from six to eleven. And then another by three."

"Wow." He shook his head. "That's very impressive. So, according to you and Jamila, I work out for about seven hours every day. I am not a machine now." He pushed the covers away from himself and climbed down from the bed.

"What's in that tray?" He walked to the other end of the bed and sat with the tray on his lap.

Abike told him before he uncovered the dish.

She sat quietly, watching him as he ate. He ate quickly and quietly, reducing the mound of food by each spoonful until the plate was empty.

After eating, he climbed back onto the bed and under the covers again, but this time far away from her.

Realizing he had once again retreated into his hard shell, Abike stood quietly and picked the tray. As she trudged to the door, she hoped he called her back. Stay, mama. But he remained quiet.

The door slid open quietly before she reached it and in came Awelewa, looking as radiant as the sun with her beautiful smile; and as sexy as a gypsy with her short, slitted gown.

She smiled at Abike and went past, her perfume lingering behind. 

Abike heard Murewa murmur, followed by Awelewa's quiet reply and against her better judgment, she turned to see Murewa talking to Awelewa who was seated close to him.

He noticed her presence and turned to her with his signature expression. "Close the door on your way out," he said, causing Awelewa to turn too.

Abike left the room, banging the door angrily. Why the hell was she upset? she asked herself as she stalked into the kitchen. Why?

She had been foolish enough to let herself be swept off her feet by him. Angrily, she slammed the tray on the sink and turned to leave. 

"Hey," someone snapped and Abike turned to see a chef, her face set in a frown and her hand buried in a bowl full of dough.

"These dirty plates won't wash themselves," she hissed and Abike rolled her eyes.

Servants were swarming about the kitchen, mostly doing nothing; and she, who just came in, was supposed to wash the plates.

"I am sorry, but the Prince told me to return as soon as possible. I have work to do," she answered sweetly and left without waiting for an answer.

She headed straight for her room.

                                     ***

Jamal swept into the Prince's room hours later, ready for the evening training.

"Ready?" He stopped when he saw the Prince and Awelewa asleep on the bed.

Though they were on opposite ends of the wide bed and in no way near enough to touch each other, Jamal still acknowledged his friend's progress.

Months ago, Murewa couldn't even sleep on the same bed or share the same space with any woman if they weren't having sex. He just couldn't bear it, no one knew why. But now, there was a girl on his bed! A whole girl!

Murewa suddenly sat up, as if sensing another person's presence. Their gazes clashed.

"Are you a voyeur now?" He asked maliciously and Jamal coughed to hide his laughter.

The Prince had been in a foul mood the last time they parted and it seemed it still hadn't left him.

"It's past three. We are late for training."

"Shit." Murewa reached across the bed to tap Awelewa awake. The girl stirred and sat up, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

"Party's over. Time to go," Murewa said, climbing down from the bed to quickly put on his clothes.

The sheets fell over Awelewa's naked body as she sat up, and Jamal turned away from her.

Murewa reached for his boots and turned to see Awelewa still stretching on the bed.

"You need to get out," he barked at her and the girl jumped down, searching the floor for her clothes.

"Here." Jamal reached for the dress lying a few feet away from him and handed it over to her. She slipped it on quietly and left the room in seconds.

"Instead of staring, why don't you just go after her?" Murewa was sitting on his bed, putting on his boots.

"Nah, one at a time is enough. I just kissed the other one goodbye."

Murewa's hand froze. "The other one? Who?"

"Tinuke," Jamal said slowly, wondering why Murewa was looking at him with worry.

"You kissed Tinuke?"

"Yes!"

Murewa shook his head and made fast work of tying the knots on his boots before standing.

"Why do you say it like that? Like it's wrong? Does Tinu have a disease?"

Murewa eyed Jamal as he reached for his bag. "No woman in my harem has a disease."

"Then why did you ask like that?" Jamal narrowed his eyes.

"You gotta have some respect for yourself man. You don't go around kissing these females." The Prince hefted the bag on his shoulder and turned to Jamal, who still looked confused.

"You don't know who they have been kissing."

"But you also sleep with these women, you don't know who they have been fucking," Jamal interrupted.

"I use protection during sex." Murewa shook his head. "Did you use protection on your mouth when kissing her?"

"All fifty of them have been sworn to only you, I am sure they wouldn't be frolicking with someone else?"

Murewa laughed. "My Father has only taught me one thing my whole life and it's that, 'Don't ever trust females. They would disappoint you. I suggest you remember that." He turned to the door. "Let's go."

Jamal followed him out of the door. "So in the five years since you started the harem, you have never kissed anyone?"

"No."

"Never?"

"No."

"Not even Awelewa? Or Tinu?"

"Not even them."

Jamal decided to hold off the conversation till later. They were in public and Murewa closed himself off in public. He was liable to get more answers when they were in private and he would surely ask. He had to get answers.

                                        ***

"Please don't do this. Think about our children. Think about us. The Balogun barely spared our lives the last time. Think about the consequences if he caught you again the second time," Queen Keji cried.

She was clinging to her husband's feet, weeping profusely for what he was about to do. The meeting room was quiet except for her cries.

King Ola tried to shake his leg free of her hold, but couldn't. She was holding on to him so strongly. He wondered why he even told her about his plans, she was a woman, how could she understand politics?

Ore had just discovered a new gold well and he was making plans to go and raid it. Especially after they carted away with their remaining gold and oil just weeks before. No, the Queen couldn't change his mind about it. It was the right thing to do.

"Look Keji, it's because of my son I thought about this. In this state, there is nothing left in Amu for him to rule over. Look at the village, it's almost empty. There is no food. People cry every day because of hunger and their lost ones. They send me messages every day. If I remain idle like this, they would plan a coup and overthrow me. I have to do this."

"No, you don't have to. Please. Please. Dele and his brother should remain alive than die fighting for the throne. Please. I don't want to lose any of you. And that's what would happen if you go through with this."

"You see, that's where you are wrong." He tried to shake his leg free of her again but failed.

"It's not like before where we were raiding blindly without help. Now, we have an Ore royal on our side. Help from the top. From the highest hierarchy, the mover and the shaker of the Ore dynasty. And at the end of the day, they would deliver the Balogun into our hands and we would kill him."

Queen Keji's cries intensified. Prince Murewa could not be killed. If he was that easy to be killed, his people would have killed him off a long time ago. She decided to try one last time.

"Ola mi, why not do it the easy way? Ore Dynasty has never turned its back on us. They are generous with their supply even down to all the seven lines. Your father never raided Ore, instead, he asked for help whenever he needed it."

"Shut your mouth, woman, before I shut it up for you." King Ola stood and shook her off his leg with force. She fell to the floor, still crying; but he was too livid to care.

These past few weeks, that was the only thing he got. Comparisons. From his people, from his Chiefs, and now his wife. He wouldn't be surprised if his fifteen-year-old son did the same.

"Your father always did it this way."

"Do it like your father."

His Father was dead. His rule was gone. Now it was up to him to do it the way he wanted to do it.

"Sanmi!" He shouted and the guard appeared by the door and bowed.

"My King."

"Call the Chiefs. We have a meeting in an hour."

The guard bowed again and disappeared.

Queen Keji stood slowly and wiped her tears.

"I pity you, Ola. You are even worse than you used to be. Greed has taken over you and I hope you don't lose everything because of this," she snapped and stalked out of the room.

                                 ***

Murewa wasn't feeling better hours later. He was consumed by emotions he thought he had buried a long time ago.

He had always kept his mother close to his heart, but it was a long time since he was completely invested in the very events of that unfortunate day eighteen years ago.

This downward spiral started when he saw that woman with her son this morning, but then the enzyme was that servant girl who was awaking a variety of feelings in him. Feelings he had promised his mother he wouldn't feel for someone else.

He had failed to protect her on that day, was he going to go back on his promises now eighteen years after?

Holding on to those promises alleviated some of the guilt he felt for having left his mother that day without a fight, but then these feelings of tenderness he felt for the servant girl, didn't he deserve it? After all his years of loneliness, didn't he deserve this peace?

His mother had told him he could be free after his Baba died. His Baba died years ago so why wasn't he free?

"I have been talking for about two minutes." Jamal nudged him lightly and he shied away. They had already finished their evening training and were on their way back to the palace.

"Don't touch me, Jamal. What's up?"

"You seem a little bit off today. What's the matter?" Jamal asked, kicking a stone in his path.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? You weren't paying attention. Got your men confused during training."

"They are grown men, Jamal. They know what to do without me having to shout orders all the time." Murewa eyed Jamal.

"But something is off. Come on. Is it about the Amu Kingdom?"

Murewa acknowledged the greetings of the armed security men at the back gates as he crossed into the Palace before turning to his friend.

"I already washed my hands off anything relating to Amu. For real."

"Okay," Jamal replied and kept mute. Murewa had never had any difficulties sharing his problems with him for the past eight years, so if he didn't want to share now, he must have enough reason.

It was better to let him be.

They crossed the hallway towards the staircase leading up to his quarters and Murewa almost faltered in his steps.

The servant girl was standing just off to the side, talking and laughing with a boy, oblivious to everything that was going on around her.

Taking the steps two at a time, Murewa watched her. He lost sight of her when he made a turn and walked into the hallway leading to his room.

"...later?" He caught the last part of Jamal's sentence and nodded.

Murewa didn't hear a word of what Jamal said, but if he told his friend to repeat the question, he would be opening a pathway for a plethora of questions he wasn't willing to answer, so he just let it go.

Jamal continued up the hall, while he slipped into the room and sat on the bed, his head in his hands.

He felt his hands shaking and his breath coming in short gasps. He was having that attack again. He didn't know what it was, but it had started that year he lost his mother and as always, his Grandfather had helped him get over it.

"It's okay," his Grandfather had told his scared twelve-year-old self the very first day he arrived at camp in the big city.

"It's happening because you are anxious and scared. Stop thinking about your mother, for now, boy, she's gone. I know you love and miss her, I love and miss her too. She was my daughter. The only family I had left."

The man had comforted and told him how to control the attack whenever it came.

"Whenever you feel anxious and scared again and your hands start to shake like this, or you have difficulty breathing and your vision gets blurry; try to flex your fingers like this to relax your muscles..." he showed him how it was done.

"Then try to close your eyes and imagine your happy place. Stop thinking about your mom, it won't help you heal. That's why I brought you here, you are safe with me. I would prepare you"

Murewa dragged the bag off his shoulder and flung it across the room. He wasn't prepared. He wasn't. His Grandfather had prepared him for a lot of things, but not for this. Not for when he felt this way towards someone else.

"Mom...is it okay?" He cried in a broken voice.

"It's been eighteen years...should I feel this? Would it be okay?"

He was a twelve-year-old again, back in his Father's quarters; holding his mom who was sitting on the bed, crying.

Baba, his paternal grandfather, was outside the room with his Father to give him a little time with his sick Mom.

He remembered every detail. From the humid heat in the room due to the shut windows, to how frail his mother looked, to the dirty tiles and the smell of vomit. He remembered every detail.

His mother had held on to him like a lifeline and he remembered wondering why she was whispering.

"Why are you whispering, Mother?" he asked while wiping her tears. "And why are you crying? You cry all the time now," he had complained, hurt by the sadness he was constantly seeing in her eyes for the six months of her sickness.

"Shh!" She pulled him even closer. "I want to tell you some things," she said into his ear and he wanted to laugh at how ticklish it felt. But the seriousness in her eyes stopped him.

"I want you to stay close to your Father," she had said. "You are all he has left."

"But he made you cry...the other day under the stairway. I saw you both. He is always shouting at you."

"It's Baba. You need to stay away from Baba," she had said very intensely, her hold on him tightening.

Murewa didn't understand why. His Baba was so nice and caring. Always taking care of him, all through the time his Mother was sick.

"Your Baba caused all of this. And he might come for you too. Your Father...he..." she stopped, her gaze on the door. "Do you love your Mother?" She asked.

"Yes, yes. I love you, mother."

"Then promise me." She turned intense eyes on him. "Promise me you won't get any woman pregnant with your child until your Baba is gone. Promise me! Especially if it's a woman you love! Until your Baba is out of your life for good! Promise me you won't love any woman until your Baba is gone for good!"

She looked at him so passionately, and he was so eager to please her.

"Yes mother, yes. But I am still too young to get anyone pregnant." He had giggled and when she looked so serious, he stopped laughing and tried to reassure her.

"I would never get any woman pregnant until Baba is gone. I promise. I even promise not to love any other woman besides you. Even after Baba is gone, it's going to be only you, Mama."

"You are just twelve, Olumurewa and you are so handsome. Just like your Father. You would fall in love one day and I wish you all the happiness in life and hope she doesn't go through a lot as I did. Love is so beautiful and I want you to experience it, but make sure your Baba is gone. If he isn't gone when you are old enough, kill him!"

The door had opened before she could say anything else and his Baba came to take him away. He remembered how she had sobbed and tried to hold on to him, but his Baba didn't let him stay.

For months after that, he was confused as to why his Baba would show him so much love and still go ahead to hurt his mother. And he was mad because his Father allowed it.

Months after his Mother's death, he would sit alone in his room and not come out. The easy friendship between him, his Dad, and his Baba died with his mother. Even though they hadn't used a sword or knife, they had killed his mother indirectly.

When the Grandfather —his mother's father, came to take him away from the Palace five months later, he went with open arms, eager to leave the suffocating Kingdom and its woes behind.

In army camp, his Grandfather had taught him everything. From fighting to archery, to swordsmanship, to marksmanship. Then he had taken him to a Chinese master where he learned Kung fu.

Asides from the physical skills, his Grandfather had lent emotional support. Always there when he was overwhelmed with thoughts of his mother and father, just talking to him, being there whenever he cried about being abandoned by his Father.

He spent ten years in the camp until it was time to finally return home. For years in the camp, the only thing he thought about was going back to the Kingdom to kill Baba, but news of the old geezer's death came to him five years before his return and he remembered crying out of anger, thinking he had failed his mother. However, his Grandfather had told him to let it go. He did, but cursed be the man's memory.

His mother had told him to stay close to his Father, but fuck that. He could never look that man in the eyes and not blame him for everything.

The door swung open and the object of his misfortune came in, bearing his tray of food.

"Good evening, my Prince," she said with a soft smile and he couldn't bear to look at her. She was the very last person he wanted to see.

She approached the bed quickly, oblivious to the turmoil within him. "I am sorry the food came late," she was saying. "The chefs had some minor difficulties in the kitchen." She set down the tray and bowed.

"You were down the hall frolicking with some idiot and you come here to tell me the chefs had some difficulties." He picked up the tray and flung it to the ground. "Liar."

Abike jumped back reflexively as the plates and the tumbler of water shattered on impact, spattering shards in different directions. His childish attitude was beginning to piss her off, she thought, eyeing the mess on the floor.

"Get away from me," he snapped but there was something in his voice. Something so raw she took one step towards him.

His hands were shaking and his breath was coming in short gasps. Was it an asthmatic attack or an anxiety attack? She picked her way towards him, careful to step around the shards of glass on the floor. What's the worse that could happen if she touched him now?

His head was hanging low as he tried to breathe and upon nearing him, she realized it was an anxiety attack. She nudged his thighs apart and stood in between, wanting to comfort him, but scared to touch him.

"Take a deep breath." She summoned enough courage and held his face, tilting his head up. His eyes were closed.

"Deep breath," she said again and he took in a large gulp of air, his arms coming around her to hold her waist. Abike almost melted from his touch.

"Hold it in...now let it out," she said and his chest heaved as he let out his breath.

"Deep breath," she said again, stroking his cheeks and he complied. "Hold it in...now let it out." 

They performed the exercise a few more times until he regained his breath and his hands stopped shaking. They remained quiet and in that position until Abike let go of him and stepped back.

His eyes flew open and he instinctively pushed away from her. "Stay away from me."

Abike stumbled back.

"I told you not to touch me," he growled.

"What is wrong with you? You are so complicated."

In a flash, he was in front of her, his long fingers curling around her neck. "What did you say?" he whispered. Abike couldn't answer. He was too close.

"I thought so. Because I want to wring your little neck right now." He applied more pressure.

"Do it," Abike snapped back at him. "You do whatever you want, right? Do it then." She pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge.

"From destroying my village to crippling my friend and now you want to kill me. Do it!"

He pressed harder on her neck and suddenly she couldn't breathe anymore. Her life flashed before her eyes and she didn't know she was crying until a droplet touched her lips.

"You are scared," he said like it was the last thing he expected. "I told you not to touch me," he growled and stepped away from her. "Get out." He pointed to the door.

Abike didn't need to be told twice. She fled the room. It wasn't his fault. It was hers. What was she thinking? What? She ran down the hallway and into her room, trying to hold back her tears.

She had read to him and he had smiled at her. Didn't that mean anything to him?

She flung herself on her bed and curled up, trying so hard not to think of him. She thought of Teju. She had seen him this evening and he had told again of their plan to escape. He had said the plan was still very much alive and the time was getting close. Could she dare to hope?