CHAPTER NINE WHEN WRONG IS LOUD!

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

She was not in her bedroom by the time I got there.

She was in the living room.

And her brother, Martins, was there with her.

Sikemi was curled up on the sofa in a way that told me something was wrong. Her knees were drawn close to her chest, her hair slightly scattered, and her face did not have the bold confidence I had seen the day before.

The same Sikemi who had looked at me like she could swallow my senses was now looking fragile.

Or maybe that was what she wanted me to see.

Martins, on the other hand, looked excited to see me.

“Hey, Pastor Matthew,” he said, stretching the word “Pastor” like he was teasing me and greeting me at the same time. “How are you doing?”

Why the title?

Something unusual happened inside me.

I wanted to reject it.

Before, whenever people attached the “Pastor” title to my name, I saw it as a thing of honour. I felt like I was making God proud. I felt like I was representing Him well.

But now, the title sounded cringey.

Obsolete.

Embarrassing.

Like old clothes I suddenly did not want to be seen wearing.

“Matthew,” I said calmly, forcing a smile. “No need for the title.”

Martins raised his eyebrows.

“Okay,” he said, smiling. “That’s a first.”

I looked towards Sikemi.

She was looking at me, but she did not say anything. Her eyes stayed on mine in that confusing way that made me forget the ordinary things I knew how to say.

I was a church boy. I did not know how to continue a situationship conversation. Was I supposed to ask if she was okay? Was I supposed to smile? Was I supposed to mention the message from last night? Was I supposed to pretend nothing had happened?

Thankfully, or maybe dangerously, Martins cut in.

“Congratulations,” he said.

I blinked. “Congratulations?”

“Sikemi told me you people are now an item.”

An item?

“She told you?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Martins smiled wider. “Yes now. I told her you are a good choice.”

Item.

Good choice.

They had discussed me.

Me.

Matthew.

I stood there frozen in pleasurable disbelief.

I was a topic on the lips of the Alabis.

Not as the cleaner’s son.

Not as the boy who came to sweep.

But as a good choice.

Wow.

Before my head could return from the clouds, Martins spoke again.

“But your babe needs your help.”

My babe.

That one entered another part of my brain.

“Oh,” I said quickly. “What does she need?”

Honestly, I thought he was about to say I should clean her room or help arrange something.

“She needs her P,” Martins said casually, leaning back into the chair.

“Her P?” I repeated.

I did not understand.

“Yes,” he said, locking eyes with me like he was trying to force understanding into my head. “Her pills.”

“Oh!” I turned quickly to Sikemi. “Are you okay? What kind of pills? What’s the name? I can help her go and get it.”

My concern was genuine.

Very genuine.

In my mind, it was medicine. Normal medicine. Something I could pick up at a pharmacy.

Martins glanced at Sikemi, then back at me.

“She needs to be calm,” he said. “She has anxiety issues, so the pills help her.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” I said.

But inside me, one foolish thought laughed.

Rich people and strange sicknesses.

Can a poor man have anxiety?

In my area, if you told people you had anxiety, they would ask you if you had finished washing the plates. Or they would tell you hunger would cure it. I knew that was not right, but that was how my mind processed it in that moment.

“What is the name of the drug?” I asked. “And which pharmacy can I get it from?”

I should have been more sensitive.

I should have noticed the small smile that escaped from Martins’ face before he answered.

“We have a supplier,” he said.

“A supplier?”

“Yes. You just have to meet up with him.”

I frowned a little. “They don’t sell it in a regular pharmacy?”

“No,” Martins replied quickly. “It is quite expensive.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding like a fool who understood what he did not understand. “Okay.”

He gave me the details.

Then he called the person on the phone and passed it to me. The voice on the other end was sharp, low, and impatient. We agreed to meet two bus stops away.

And I went.

Like a fool.

As I walked, there was a nudge in my spirit.

A small question.

Why didn’t you ask for the name of the pill?

I slowed down for a second.

Then I waved it aside.

I wanted to be Sikemi’s saviour.

Her prince.

Her knight in shining armour.

If she needed help, I wanted to be the one to help her. If she was weak, I wanted to be the one who brought her strength. If she was troubled, I wanted to be the one she trusted.

I did not know that sometimes, when you want to be a saviour without wisdom, you can become a sacrifice.

I got to the bus stop and waited.

In my imagination, the supplier would walk up to me looking like a pharmacist. Maybe neatly dressed. Maybe carrying a small paper bag. Maybe even wearing glasses.

But nobody like that came.

Instead, a bike slowed down beside me.

The rider did not remove his helmet properly. The guy behind him had dreadlocks, rough clothes, and eyes that looked like they had not slept in days.

Before I could ask any question, he slapped a small parcel against my chest.

“That’s the package,” he said. “Keep it in your bag.”

Then the bike zoomed off.

Just like that.

I stood there, holding the parcel.

People at the bus stop looked at me strangely.

Not everybody.

But enough people.

Some of the adults had a look on their faces that made my stomach turn. It was the look of people who knew something I did not know. Or maybe something I was just beginning to know.

I still had not caught up with the program.

I had not received the memo.

I looked down at the parcel in my hand.

Then, like a flash, understanding hit me.

I had seen these kinds of packages in movies.

I had seen something similar in Sikemi’s room.

My heartbeat changed.

Wait.

Was I sent by the Alabis to collect an illegal substance for them?

For a moment, the whole bus stop became too loud and too quiet at the same time.

My hand started sweating.

The parcel suddenly felt heavier than its size.

Mark’s voice rose inside my head.

Sometimes, it is not only about what you will do or not do. Most times, it is also about what people will do or not do to you.

I swallowed hard.

Oh God.

What is in my hand? If it’s what I am thinking? What should I do?

To be continued…

DEEP THOUGHTS NOVELS
Written by Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the Creative Word

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