Abby:
A kept woman. Hmm. What did that even mean at the time? I didn’t really think about it too deeply. After a few weeks of settling into the luxury Chief provided, I began convincing myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong. After all, I didn’t go after him – he came after me. Morality didn’t factor into it. I needed help, and he provided it. The price? I didn’t take the time to think about what I was paying or who I might be hurting. Selfishness ruled.
Could you blame me? The luxury flat Chief gave me was around the corner from Bourdillon Road in Ikoyi. If you know Lagos, you know that’s prime property. A two-bedroom flat, tastefully furnished. A chef and housekeeper arrived every morning to do whatever I wanted. The apartment complex had an indoor gym and a swimming pool. He gave me a Toyota Land Cruiser and a driver. As for the allowance, let’s just say, it was plenty.
And then there were the trips. Chief travelled often for business, once or twice a month, and guess who became his handbag? Me. I never went to the embassy to get a visa. My passport was picked up empty and returned with visas to multiple countries. Chief travelled on a diplomatic passport, and to most places we flew private. On the rare occasion we flew commercial, I was in first class, beside or behind him.
Looking back now, I see it. I was selfish. Self-centred. I didn’t care who I was hurting. I didn’t even think about his family. Not once.
Until one day, two years into the relationship.
That day, Chief came over to the apartment. He wasn’t his usual cheerful self. He hugged me, then slumped into a chair.
“Abby, I have something to tell you,” he said.
Just then, his phone rang, and the intercom buzzed at the same time. He asked me to open the door for the guests and to excuse him as he went into the bedroom. The solemn look on his face said it all. Something serious had happened.
I thought maybe it was a bereavement.
But I was about to find out…
Chris:
“Chris, please wake up! Wake up!”
I heard the voice, distant and fading, then closer and more urgent. Slowly, I opened my eyes. Thomas was shaking me violently. Water burned my throat and nostrils as I coughed it out.
“Thank God,” he said, relieved.
“What happened?” I asked.
“We capsized,” Thomas replied. “But the dinghy is upright now. We’re trying to get everyone back in.”
He must have seen the confusion in my face because he added, “Oh, I swam in competitions in university. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands. These life vests saved most of us.”
“Most?” I repeated, alarmed.
He nodded. “A girl and her father didn’t make it. And one guy might have spinal injuries—he can’t stop screaming.”
Two other guys appeared, and with Thomas, they pulled me into the dinghy. People were soaking wet, shivering, and some were crying silently. The trawler was long gone, just a memory, and we were back to drifting.
The sun was out now, scorching. We began to dry up, slowly. Supplies were dangerously low. Each of us received two capfuls of water and one biscuit, told to chew slowly.
A woman who I believe was a nurse gave out paracetamol and told us to lie still. As for the injured man, he lay limp at the side of the boat, screaming in agony with every jolt.
The nurse whispered, “He won’t survive this trip. And if he does, he may never walk again.”
How do you process something like that?
Later, I woke up from a restless sleep. The sun was dipping again, the dinghy racing through an endless sea. Nothing but water. Not even a shark or whale in sight. Just us, floating. Drifting. Waiting.
And maybe, somewhere up there, God watching and wondering:
What, in my name, were you all thinking?
…hmmm
