Emeka's clothes look like pleas; they hang helpless from the clothesline. His red shorts have bled into his white T-shirt, a splash of crimson blooming at the side before thinning into delicate streaks down the sleeve. The rain falls in a lazy, slanted drizzle, a quiet denouement after a roaring climax. Emeka makes his way inside, the sodden bundle clutched to his middle.
Abigail is asleep. The pot of fried rice—the one Emeka missed three lectures to cook—sits on the blue rug. There is nothing beneath it. It is empty, save for a few chewed bones. Four spoons and two soiled dishes beside it. One holds diced liver. Abigail's friends have been here. Onyinye. Amara. Possibly Chekwube. The diced liver is from Amara's portion; she is wary of things she cannot afford.
Once, she'd invited herself over when Abigail had a show. Emeka's hands shook as he set down peanuts and a bottle of Coke before her. She'd snatched his wrist and turned his palm over.
'What happened to you here?' she'd asked.
'An accident. When I was little,' he'd said, trying to pull away.
She'd held on tighter. 'Easy, easy.' Then she'd released him and burst into laughter. Emeka had gone outside and stayed there until Abigail returned.
After dinner, when Abigail was well-rested, Emeka picked his words slowly, carefully, as he had to.
'I should kicked her on the head,' Abigail had said.
'What?'
'If someone's curious about your boyfriend's scar, they should get their head kicked.'
'Abigail—'
'Men's paranoia is cliché. Aspire to originality, for goodness' sake.'
Emeka wrings the rainwater from his clothes and hangs them in the bathroom. Then he clears the dishes. The rug is stained from the bottom of the pot. He picks at the black mark with a wet napkin and directs the standing fan toward the spot. He warms leftover beans.
He is working on an assignment at the reading table when Abigail taps him on the shoulder and yawns. 'Emeka? I want to write.'
Emeka transfers his books to the floor and sinks down beside them. If he goes on the bed, he must dress it first, and Abigail hates that—she says it makes her feel judged.
'What's there to eat?' Abigail asks as she sits.
'There's fruit salad in the fridge.'
She retrieves it. Minutes later, she bends over Emeka. 'Aren't you hungry?'
'No.'
'I am.'
'You just ate.'
'Fruit salad is just sweet, colourful water.'
Emeka says nothing.
'Go and buy fries for us, nau.'
'This assignment is due tomorrow.'
'Fine, I'll go,' Abigail says. She shuffles into her slippers and opens the door. 'It's just… the other day, the fries woman asked why I hadn't graduated yet. I felt small, you know? There were lots of people there. I felt so small.'
Seconds pass. 'You're the real jagaban, nau,' she says. 'You can't be moved.'
'It's 10pm. The cult girls smoke weed and rob people around College Road. That accountancy guy got assaulted there two weeks ago. You told me the story.'
'I did. But why would they harass you?' Abigail chuckles.
Emeka straightens. In the quiet room, the clock is a loud, invasive thing.
'I was just kidding,' Abigail says, shucking off her slippers and returning to the chair. The door remains open. 'State the real problem. I haven't given you food money in weeks. Here.' She reaches for her jeans on the bed, fishes in the pockets, and throws three thousand naira onto the floor beside his foot. 'I want akara, 200. Yam, like 300. With a lot of sauce. You can have whatever you want. I am generous like that.'
She chuckles and gets back to her writing.
This is the first story in the Tales of Uneven Love series.
Juliet is a Nigerian writer and storyteller drawn to the unseen narratives of everyday life. Her series explore the profound moments hidden in ordinary relationships.
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