A STORY WITHOUT A TITLE
I had just gained admission to study in the UK and as a sure Naija babe, I was ready to cut costs as much as possible because I knew in the weeks that would follow, I would receive calls and WhatsApp messages from home to ask ‘how far?’ and from the social strata, I represent back at home, I know ‘how far’ could mean more than how far. It implies literary they want to know about my well-being, if/ how I am adjusting to the new life away from comfort and most importantly, they are ensuring I remember the father of whom I am by acing my academic grades. The most important of the ‘how far’ is… “when are you sending the pounds to us?”
To cut costs, I decided to rent an apartment in a retirement home. The clause for renting was to help with house cleaning. Marilyn, my landlady, and flatmate lived in a 3-bedroom terrace apartment. Her house was central to everything. Bus stop, supermarket, and clinic. Marilyn’s teal green apartment was a representation of herself. She was In-tune with nature. Every room in the house had at least a plant. She says the plants were her friends before I came. She had a name for all of them and occasionally I would see her talking to them like they were humans. One day I heard her reprimand her cactus for not blooming the day before. I was petrified! I asked myself: “Was it the right decision to move in with an elderly woman?” When Marilyn wasn’t acting weird, she was a bubbly human in her late 80s. She is the kind of person my generation would describe as a vibe. Sadly, she was down with Alzihmers and Arthritis. She would often joke that all the sickness she had started with ‘A and not M’ It was quite hard to tell if she was 89 or 91 but she was old- “the sickness made her old” I would often soliloquize.
I never had to pay for anything at her house, she was a Veteran so Merilyn was living on huge benefits she just needed someone to be talking to and someone who could help out around the house who would get paid as a caregiver too. Imagine that? I live free of charge and get paid to live free of charge. something I did for free staying at all the uncles and aunt’s I had to beg to sponsor me. Biko I was all in I had a great time living at the home. I had made quite a few friends Marilyn had introduced me too. I was like a god. Whom they had to ask about everything happening in the world then something creepy happened this fateful night.
One quiet afternoon, Merilyn had called me aside after our Saturday house cleaning. she sighed and said: “Bee-your-lah! (that was how she could pronounce Biola without sentencing my name to death by firing squad), I think Philip is into magic- the really really bad kind.”
(Philp was our next-door neighbour. His house was right beside ours but nothing fancy to it).
In my mind I was like: so there’s good magic? because from where I come from in Nigeria, it is either Jesus or Jazz (Voodoo).
away from my thoughts, I asked: “why do you think so Ms Marilyn?”
“My girls! my flowers!”… she interposed with a dismal look on her face as if she had been waiting patiently for that question.
“the ones planted close to his side of the house have refused to bloom” she buttressed.
err.. with a smirk of laughter coming through but I knew better not to let it out, I said:
“I think it’s nothing. maybe the soil on that side is not as good as the others or the flower might be one of those biennial/perennial flowers”… trying to sound assuring.
“Nah… my gut feeling tells me so”. Marilyn responded sounding quite assertive.
“well… I uttered, time would tell” reassuring her again just so this topic would be over. unfortunately, time spoke sooner than I had anticipated.
It was an exam and essay week in school so sleeping early was not even an option. I stayed up most nights to write 5000-word essays. It’s often quieter and less distracting and awkwardly I find inspiration for my essays from Marilyn’s queen of the night flower.
On one of those essay submission nights, I, with my table facing the window which overlooks Jake’s apartment (Marilyn’s ‘weird’ neighbour who lived across the road from ours) I heard something. It sounded like someone digging out the earth in a rush. At first, I thought: “that must be Marilyn and her plants” but then again, she is never a night owl. Hence, I became terrified.
“Could it be that the neighbour she feared was up to something?” I thought. As I pushed my chair backwards, dimmed my lights and tiptoe towards the window facing Jake’s house; I stepped from chair to window in utter fear. As a Nigerian, I have heard stuff. People looking at witchcraft and running mad afterwards. Beneath my breath, I recited Psalm 91- just in case logic fails me at least, the Grand Overall Designer wouldn’t leave me hanging.
I stepped towards the window to see a big hole been dug at Marilyn’s side of the porch. I couldn’t get to see a face, but it looked like a middle-aged woman, digging up a sac tied all around. The human had a cart on standby. All by herself, she picked up the sac as she covered the hole rather meticulously before zooming off in the cart with the sac carefully dropped at the seat beside the driver.
At this point. I was beyond puzzled. “Who could it be? What has this person got to do with Marilyn? What was in the bag?”
6:40 am. It felt like the morning was never going to come. I could barely bat an eyelid. my thoughts were consumed with questions. I needed answers-fast. once I saw it was daybreak, I jumped out of bed like I was been pursued from sleep to real life. I knew I was not dreaming.
As I tiptoed towards the door, I lifted the brown wooden door of my room with every muscle I had- the goal was not to wake Marilyn. I walked past Marilyns room which was adjacent to mine but like every other day, she is often dead asleep till 9 am. I tiptoed through the stairs to the entrance, opened the door blandly and saw the freshly dug area as I looked right. it wasn’t a dream nor a Deja vu after all. The flower was placed as nothing happened but my moments of watching NCIS were worthwhile this morning. I could see marks of freshly dug soil.
As I stepped out to the veranda. I saw Jake. He wasn’t my favourite person in the neighbourhood. Either because he wasn’t a fan of an African living in the same area code as him or he just got intimidated by me. I said hi and continued my investigation but this morning, my enemy became an ally. He seemed to have known something too. As he sat puzzled in front of his porch. He had the look of suspicion but he knew better than to ask me.
I needed answers he was the first suspect. I walked over to his to satisfy my curiosity. At first, he gave me the look of ‘black girl trespassing’ but this morning- I was ready for him.
“Hey Jake, I said sternly. I’ll just cut to the chase. you seem to know something I need to know. so… spill.”
with his hardcore British accent he said: “Beeyourlah, I don’t know the F*** what you talking about. you mind your business I mind mine and he mumbled a lot of other things I didn’t hear because I am still trying to understand this their accent.
“Jake!” I shouted but not enough to wake the neighbours: “tell me what I want to hear.”
At this point, he knew I was serious. like the heart attack, he had two months ago. then he started:
“ I saw an old lady pull up in a cart, she didn’t seem like she was hiding or stealing anything. I saw her from my window. she just went straight for the flower pot, dug a bag out and left.”
“So who is she?” I interjected because I knew all that story. I just needed what I didn’t know.
“How the F*** do you want me to know? I don’t live in your house?”
At this point he was cussing too much I began to have a headache. so I turned to leave. then he said: “ Ask Marilyn, she would know something, she dropped something in the post box too.”
That was my cue.
“Thanks”: I said hurriedly, as I dashed straight to the postal box. There it was. A letter in a teal envelope.
My dear Marilyn,
Thank you for being a great friend and helping to keep my lottery money all these years. The doctors told me cancer came back and this time, it’s a Lymphoma. they said I have a few weeks maybe months to live so I have decided to spend the rest of the days I probably still have to live life, travel, live in an expensive hotel, eat at a fancy restaurant, maybe go sky diving but I am spending this £300,000 on me. the other 100,000, I made it out to you as a cheque. just to say thank you.
I hope you get to enjoy life too.
Love,
Amoy.
I couldn’t wait for 9 am, I went for Marilyn’s door. forgetting I had an essay to conclude on that morning, I knocked and said: Ms Marilyn, there’s something important I have to show you.
Marilyn jumped out of fear to open the door.
I said: “not so serious but I saw this letter at the door and the flower- the one you always said was not blooming was dugout.”
“Ah! she came”. Marilyn said as she sighed.
“Who came?” I interrogated.
“Amoy. My friend from the Army. She had won a lottery 2 years ago and she kept the money at mine because she knew her sons were going to fight for it soon. She was recently diagnosed again with cancer and wasn’t sure how much longer she had to live. Amoy decided she was going to spend the rest of her life splurging on her lottery.”
“Well, I guess now we know why the plant did not grow.” I gave her the letter and the cheque dropped out of it. it was true. there was a made out cheque to Marilyn.
“Marilyn don hammer!” I said to myself
Passed it over to her and she said: “oh no, she didn’t have to do that. no. I have to return it to her. she is dying. I can’t take money from a dying woman! no!”
“Ehn! why? but she gave you?” I asked puzzled
“Yes. but I don’t want it.”
“BeeYourLah! would you keep it? I can’t keep it. I would not forgive myself if I keep it.” tears flooded her eyes. In an instant. my mind flashed as to what and how my life would change with 100k Pounds sterling.
but I tried to act melancholic and said: “Ok. If you insist”
“Yes. yes. I insist!” she wailed as she fell to my shoulder and wept for her friend.
