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You see the sign that reads "Wimpy" and tell the bikeman to stop. He hears you but goes a little further. You don't have time to abuse him so you hurriedly alight and pay, then you begin your backward trek. You dig into your bag at the gate and pull out your orange company customized face cap to match your T-shirt and don it at the same time you greet the gateman. While trying out the nicest way to tilt your cap, you swap humourless jokes with the man. You stroll by the front of the supermarket and stop at the door of the last building to the north of the compound. You push the door open and the strong smell of nicotine wafting through the cold air welcomes you. You glance at the cashier's seat by the door and notice that she is wearing a white hijab today. A cigarette hangs loosely between her lips as she stares idly at her computer screen. Her skin looks more pale than yellow but you guess it's because the room is dimly lit. Someone should have switched on the lights, you think.
"Hey Chi, switch the lights on!" You hear the manager yell in his struggling and thickly accented English. You glance furtively to the left and see that he is sitting at a table beside the wall, his curly black waves creating a sharp contrast with his skin which is almost blending with the orange wall. There are two other Lebanese men with him and they are all smoking. You wonder if they are discussing the dynamics of your difficult name or just gossiping. You frown when you realize he called you Chi yet he insists all the employees call his own full name which is a jaw breaking one. You sigh and tarry to the counter. Your colleagues have not resumed yet so there is nobody to welcome you with a smile. Quickly you switch on the lights and look round while considering the irony of it. He comes to your country and treats your name with little dignity, shortening it without permission yet you cannot return the same modicum of disrespect. You notice that three tables are occupied. The table closest to the counter has a young boy, a woman and a man. The boy reminds you of Chukwudi, your second son. You chuckle to yourself. No, he reminds you of what you want Chukwudi to look like. Chukwudi is thin and gangly. His shoes have never looked as new as this boy's own because you always buy grade 2 fairly used ones from Ogunpa market. His clothes are never fitted since he has to take hand me downs from Arinze, his 5 years old elder brother. You suddenly remember you promised to buy the children wristwatches by Saturday. You know you can't because it will eat into the money you are saving to pay house rent. A lady walks through the door.
She sits at the table in the centre of the room. You notice she isn't comfortable with the thin line making its way to her table from the cloud of smoke at the manager's table. You try to catch her eyes and gesture to her to move to the vacant table at the other side of the room. She doesn't look your way, she is watching TV. The manager yells at you to go give her the menu. You pick one and walk towards her. He yells at you again to walk fast and you want to yell back. You want to tell him to fuck out of your country or to shut his huge eyes and pretend you don't exist. You want to tell him a lot of things but you can't because you were lucky to get this job and you need it to take care of your 2 children and the growing one in your belly. You drop the menu and leave.
A man comes through the door and pauses a little. He takes in the greying room and his eyes rest on the lady. They both smile as he moves towards her. She stands to shift her chair backwards so he can pull a chair whose hinge has hooked the table. You are walking back to the table then and it becomes obvious that she has a baby bump. You unconsciously rub your hands against your stomach and wonder where your never-do-well husband went after leaving you 2 months ago. You wonder if he will ever return and if you will accept him back. The man is telling the lady this place isn't good for her. He looks in the direction of the manager's table and tells her they should leave and not jeopardize their unborn baby's health. There is one in me too! You want to scream but you know the smoke is the least of your problems. You know you still have to find time to see a doctor about your health and how you easily get tired these days. You know the children won't be happy when you can't stay at home on Sunday because you have taken a cleaning job in your bid to make ends meet. You ask the couple for their order and the man gives you a kind smile and tells you they are leaving.
1, 2, 3 ... the hours pass and it is night. You are tired and sleepy when you bid the cashier goodnight. Once outside the door, you shut your eyes and begin to walk towards the gate. You open it briefly twice before reaching the gate. It is dark outside the brightly illuminated compound. Nightlife has halted in the area and you want to get home as soon as possible so you begin to walk to the other side of the road. You do not see the car coming because you forgot to look right and left before crossing. You forgot to look until the car's full headlights yank you out of your sleepy state. You are not sure about anything you see. The headlights start to swerve to the other side but you are too close or they are moving too fast or both. Everything becomes void.
You try to open your eyes wide but the light blinds you and adds to the aches you feel so you shut them back and resort to squinting and peeping at the world around you. You think you are in a hospital, your nose can pick the pungent antiseptic smell. There are voices roaring in your head, aching and messing it up. The people in your head are jabbing your ears with needles too, slamming pain shafts here and there. Your befuddled brain is trying to remember how you got here but the occasional racing pain that grips your body doesn't make it easy. You hear them talk about internal injury around you. You try to speak with one of the white uniforms, the one in your line of sight. You don't know if it's a man or woman because you can't lift your gaze up. You don't even know if the person knows your name. You want to explain that your whole being is on fire. You want to tell your name. You want to ask about the life within you. But you realize something is wrong because you can't hear your voice. They can't hear it, too, so you try to wriggle your fingers. You realize you are motionless. You decide to turn to the almighty. You do not know which way to pray that guarantees God will listen. You were born a Christian but haven't been to church in a long time. You stopped going because you didn't have eye-catching dresses to flaunt. Your grandmother was a Muslim and you learnt all about that religion during your teenage years. You decide to just talk to God so you tell Him to spare your life because you have a lot to live for. You remind Him that your name is Chimamanda, "God never fails". You ask Him to give you another chance at life. You tell Him to prove you weren't misnamed. Then you open your mouth and gasp as you take your final breath.
Dedicated to the hard workers who left before their hard work paid.
