TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE

 

By Favour Ogbor

 

 

 

Y

ou stared at Temi, but she didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and didn’t want you to know. Why was she acting like you didn’t exist? You watched her trudge through the brown sand with those cheap, black sandals you’d gotten for her before you finally accepted her offer of a breakup. It was hard, like the painkillers Mama forced down your throat when you complained of a headache. Temi hadn’t batted a wink as she informed you, but to you, you had lost everything. And that moment wasn’t something you could forget easily. 

 

What did you do wrong? You had asked Temi that question countless times, but there was never an answer. Maybe she just grew tired of you as she had grown tired of staying with her parents, and decided to come to Enugu to hustle. She was now living with Uncle Jo, one of her old uncles, who had heavy jowls that looked like ripe tomatoes. You didn’t like him, but you hadn’t told Temi that. There were lots of things you had to overlook—just so it wouldn’t cause an argument. Still, it wasn’t enough. You wondered what could ever be. 

 

As Temi sashayed down the street with her big bum which bounced every now and then, her scarf loosened, and it was caught in the biting wind. She halted for a moment, almost as if she would go after it, but she didn’t. Right then, you recalled the warning she gave you before she had stomped off: don’t come after me. But you didn’t listen, you kept going back to her, and her uncle would always frown at your persistence. It eventually dawned on you that the breakup happened. When you told Mama two weeks later, she had thrown her head back, and laughed. 

 

Your face rumpled. You wondered what was so funny, but Mama said she’d been expecting for it to happen. She added that it had been a late start for a relationship, which was why it hadn’t lasted so long. You hadn’t believed her, and you still didn’t believe her now. You just wanted to try again, for one last time. Because of that, you dressed so early in the morning in your finest clothes—a red caftan with a cap to match—and you stood at your street junction, waiting for Temi to pass to her workplace. The sun hadn’t come up yet, and the sky was a faint blue. You waited and waited till the cocks had long crowed before you spotted her, with one foot lifting in front of the other. 

She was in a hurry, clothed in the Monday usual: a black flare skirt and a blue long sleeve too tight at the front region. That should turn you off, but it only spiked your groin. You were entranced by her dusty brown cheeks and thick black hair which was matted in two rows. You called her name, but she didn’t reply to you. She just looked straight ahead like you weren’t there. Temi was doing it again, and this time, you felt disgusted. 

 

She was walking past you now; you quickly grabbed her wrist before she could slip like okra and enter a keke. The slap she gave you was out of reflex, you convinced yourself. Her mouth hung open, and it took her a moment to realize what she had done. People were staring as they went about their daily activities—you felt each stare piercing through you. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that this was the first time Temi was raising her hand to strike your face. And before you could recover from the sting, a black Toyota spider screeched to a halt in front of you. 

Temi wrung her fingers, maintaining her gaze on the ground, as if ashamed of herself. It was the first time you were seeing her flustered, all the words you wanted to say to her disappeared in thin air. The car horn blared, jolting you out of your reverie. Temi muttered some words you couldn’t decipher—possibly an apology—and she left. But before she could leave, the driver of the spider, who was obviously impatient, rolled down the tinted windows, cutting off the engine. “Come on, babe… Get in.” The voice was deep and strong, sounding strangely familiar to you. 

 

 

Temi succumbed like a meek lamb. You stare, appalled at how obedient she was to the stranger, she was never like that with you. The driver started the car, but thought better of it and instead, clambered out. Still holding your reddened cheeks, you slowly approached the other side of the automobile, pausing only when the man’s face came into view. It was his heavy jowl you took note of first, then your heart stopped beating. 

 

“Uncle Jo”.

 

 

 

 

Favour Ogbor is, at the time, a 21-year-old writer who studies Agriculture in the University of Portharcourt. She has written numerous flash fictions and stories of varying lengths—one of which won the Shuzia prose contest, with her short story titled, "The Point of Prayer." Favour serves as an admin in a writing community.