[ Read Previous Parts here>> THE SCREAMING AND THE DARKNESS PART1 ]
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I get the telephone and dial a number. When I hear a lively "hey you" from the flip side, I say in a tranquil voice that will get to be imposing in a moment "Would you say you are home? Would I be able to come?" He says beyond any doubt and I go out. I hail a bicycle and mount it. All of a sudden I endure a sharp consciousness of my surroundings. I see the lanes as I have never seen them, in stark help. The poor people, the peddlers, minute points of interest such as the tear in the right sleeve of a cop's uniform and the way he appears to be indeterminate regardless of whether the battle between two agberos (gangsters) close-by falls inside of the extent of his obligations.
I look as he shrugs and dismisses his face and I think about whether maybe he has a wife why should about let him know she is pregnant. Be that as it may, he shows up excessively youthful, making it impossible to have a wife so I choose it is a sweetheart then. I am cheered by this thought he may have a sweetheart who will shake his life today with the news of an undesirable infant. I like the thought that another person in this world will have infant dramatization staring them in the face. I am so charmed by this photo that I snicker and the okada man turns and says "Madam, any issue?" however I overlook him, imagine his voice has been passed up the wind cruising past our ears. The garbage, strewn on the bank where Mayne Avenue braches off from Goldie Street, stands out enough to be noticed. I envision the individual who more likely than not crawled here at first light, subtly looked left and right and dumped the waste, moving ceaselessly and disassociating herself from the wreckage. I understand belatedly that I have accepted it is a lady. I battle with the picture. I incline toward the thought that it is a man however by one means or another, an a portion of my mind demands that it is a lady and I essentially don't have the vitality to battle so I let it go, acknowledge the sexual orientation generalization.
As the bicycle moves toward Akin's road, it jumps out at me that I have not thoroughly considered my strategy, the accurate words I will use to state my not as much as welcome declaration. I land and cross the street to the next side. A lady selling bread and akara (bean-cake) on a plate grins at me and I ask why. Do I as of now have the celebrated around the world pregnancy shine? I take a gander at my skin and it appears to be identical, dull, cocoa. I shrug and enter the olive green, fenced two-story building through the walker door which is swinging half open. I go by the side of the fundamental building, smoothing myself between a white V-Boot Mercedes Benz and the side of the building. I ask why individuals park like that and what might happen if one of the neighbors was honored with liberal extents?
Behind the fundamental house is somewhat independent, additionally olive green, kind of like an expansion of the primary house. The front entryway is likewise half open and I thump apathetically, pondering what the fact of the matter is. Without a doubt an open entryway inferred that any meandering outsider was welcome. I had addressed Akin about this however he'd said "Haba, you stress excessively. Calabar is sheltered" then included energetically "one would think you were the Lagosian and I the omo Igbo". Omo Igbo was said in an energetic way. He was receiving the irritating loose supposition of individuals from the west, who either assumed that everybody from east of the Niger, even as far down as the south-south were Igbos, or just couldn't be tried to make the refinement. It bothered, this spur of the moment and apathetic lumping together of a rich assortment of, and exceptionally various individuals and there was an insight of vainglory in this. The term likewise had a disdainful subtlety to it that just individuals from the east and further down flanking the Atlantic could recognize.
Associated answers my thump from profound inside, the kitchen maybe, and I twist to loosen and uproot my shoes, open the screen. I venture into the room and my feet sink into the rich, red heap floor covering. I regularly joke that when Akin leaves after his administration year, comes back to Lagos, I would keep the floor covering. He would counter with an imagine hurt expression "you are more inspired by keeping the floor covering than me abi?" To which I would say "you will stay on the off chance that you need to. You should be continued?", sectioning the word kept in quote by holding my hands up, bowing them at the elbows and positioning my forefingers in a signal that copied the quote.
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Look OUT FOR PART 3...
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