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The keke’s engine coughed and died right in the middle of the road.
“Ah, not again. Jesus.”
Osaro jumped down, her wrapper threatening to slip off her waist. Cars honked behind her. A danfo driver stuck his head out and shouted, “Woman, come out for road. You want cause accident?”
Her hands were shaking as she pushed the tricycle to the side of the road. It was 6:00 p.m., and she had been riding since 5:00 a.m. Thirteen hours. Her back felt like someone had beaten it with a stick. Her arms ached. The small of her back was on fire. At 45 years old, Osaro knew what people thought when they saw her riding keke. They thought she was too old for this. They wondered where her husband was, why a woman her age was struggling like this. But she had no choice.
She had five daughters to feed, five mouths depending on her, five futures resting on her tired shoulders. What else could she do? She pushed the keke to a mechanic shop nearby. The mechanic checked the engine and shook his head. “Na fuel pump,” he said. “I go fit repair am, but e go cost you 3,000 naira.” 3,000 naira.
Osaro’s chest tightened. She had made 5,500 naira today. She needed to give the keke owner his 3,000 naira daily balance. That left only 2,500 naira. If she paid this mechanic 3,000 naira, she would have nothing. Nothing to take home to her daughters. “Please, sir,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Make we do 2,000. I beg you in the name of God.”
The man looked at her, saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the desperation, the way her whole body sagged with tiredness. “You be woman wey dey ride keke?” he asked softly. “Yes, sir. Na the only work I fit do to feed my children.” He nodded slowly, something like pity crossing his face. “Okay. 2,000. But next time no allow am spoil reach this level. You suppose dey service am.” “Thank you, sir.
God bless you plenty.” While he worked on the keke, Osaro sat on a low bench outside the shop. She knew her daughters would be waiting at home, wondering why she was late, wondering if she was okay, wondering what she would bring for them to eat tonight. And now she had no answer. The 2,500 naira she had left after paying the keke owner, it was all gone.
She would give this mechanic 2,000 naira and buy 500 naira fuel for tomorrow, which meant she would go home with nothing. Her daughters would sleep hungry tonight again. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she forced them back. She could not cry here, not in front of this mechanic who was kind enough to reduce his price for her.
As she sat there waiting, her mind drifted, drifted back to one year ago, to the day her life shattered into a million pieces. She had been at her provision shop in New Benin Market that Thursday afternoon. Business was good. She was arranging new stock, bags of rice, cartons of noodles, crates of drinks. She was smiling, humming a praise song, thinking about the new house, their house, the one she and Pascal had finally finished building after two years of hard work and sacrifice. They were supposed to move in that weekend. She had already started packing small, small. Then her neighbor,
Mama Isaac, came running to her shop, breathing hard. “Osaro, Osaro, you need to come home now.” “What happened?” “Your husband, just follow now, please.” Osaro left her shop assistant and ran all the way home. When she reached their small rented flat, the door was wide open. And inside, everything was gone.
The TV, the DVD player, the good chairs, the standing fan, the pressing iron, Pascal’s clothes, all of it gone. Only her things remained. Her clothes, her daughters’ clothes scattered on the floor. “Where is Pascal?” Osaro asked, her voice shaking. “Where is my husband?” “He moved,” Mama Isaac said quietly. “This afternoon, he packed everything with a big truck.” “Moved?
Moved where?” But Osaro already knew. Her heart already knew. She ran, took an okada, and headed to the new house they had built together, the house in the good area, the house she had sold half her shop goods to contribute money for, the house she had collected a bank loan to complete. When she reached the gate, a gateman she had never seen before was standing there. “Good evening, sir.
I want to see my husband, Mr. Pascal.” The gateman looked her up and down with something like pity. “Madam, I get order say I no supposed allow you enter.” “What?” Osaro laughed because surely this was a joke. “This is my house. I built this house with my husband. Open this gate now.” “I dey sorry, madam, but Oga said…” Osaro pushed past him and ran to the front door.
She banged on it with both fists. “Pascal, Pascal, open this door. What is happening, Pascal?” The door opened. But it was not Pascal. It was a woman. A beautiful woman in an expensive dress, her stomach round and swollen with pregnancy. She looked at Osaro the way you would look at a mad person shouting on your doorstep. “Can I help you?” the woman asked calmly.
Osaro’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She stared at this stranger standing in her house like she owned it. “I… I’m looking for Pascal,” Osaro finally managed to whisper. “Pascal is my husband,” the woman said, her hand moving protectively to her belly. “Who are you?” Before Osaro could answer, Pascal appeared behind the woman.
“Osaro,” he said coldly. “What are you doing here?” “What am I doing here?” Osaro’s voice rose to a scream. “This is my house. Our house. We built it together. Why did you pack my things? Why is this woman in my house?” “Your house?” Pascal laughed. A cruel, bitter sound. “Show me the document with your name. Show me where it says this house belongs to you.” Osaro felt the ground tilt beneath her feet.